Girlie! Hi!! The frank langdon obsession…continues. I had a thought on my hot girl walk for a potential mood board- what if the Pitt crew is out to drinks after work. There’s some mutual pining between you and Langdon, but nothing established yet. Some guy at the bar is hitting on you, but you’re not interested - he sends a drink to your table or something.
Thinking Langdon gets either huffy/jealous OR he puts his arm around you to “help you out” and pretend you’re together.
Feels very romcom coded 🤷🏻♀️🤷🏻♀️ thoughts?!?
"That guy's been making eyes at you all night," Cassie murmurs, leaning in as her gaze darts towards the bar.
"Not my type." You hardly glance up, but you don't have to. Your type is sitting right next to you, nursing a beer and chatting to Ellis. His thigh is pressed against yours, and you can't tell if the contact or the alcohol is making you feel dizzy.
Unfortunately, the glance seems to be enough for the man across the room, and he gets up. "Shit," you curse.
"Everything okay?" Frank's attention is back on you, notch between his brow.
"That guy over there is coming over to hit on her," Cassie interjects helpfully, and you've never wanted the ground to swallow you whole more.
You're expecting Frank to crack a joke, or maybe encourage the flirting, but instead his voice drops to a whisper. "Want me to get rid of him?"
Not trusting your voice to hold up, you nod. Almost immediately, an arm is slung around your shoulder, and any gap between you both is closed.
"Drop your face into my neck, and laugh like I said something funny," He instructs.
The laugh comes easy - this entire situation is absurd. But you do what he says anyway, freezing entirely when you feel his lips skim at your hairline. His fingers are warm against your bare skin, and it's definitely not the alcohol anymore.
When you finally tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze, the world slows to a complete halt. His eyes flick down to your lips for the briefest second, before he swallows.
"Uh, guys?" Cassie's voice breaks you out of your haze. "Dude's gone. You can stop looking like you want to eat each other alive."
author's note: p*rn no plot, Frank Langdon you have bewitched me body and soul I want you all over me.
Contains: soft dom bf!Frank x afab!reader, allusion to established relationship, mentions of p in v, allusions to unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, squirting, lots of praise, pet names (baby, honey, babygirl, good girl, etc.), mild teasing bc he just can’t help it he’s so mean :)
2.8k words (im so sorry)
"That's it baby, isn't it?" Frank's voice slithers through your ears and into the dreamy fog that is your mind at this moment. "Yes… oh Frank, p-please don't st-stop…" you feel his chest jump as a chuckle huffs out of him, "I'd never baby," he presses a kiss to your temple from behind you, "I would never."
Your bodies are slotted together, your back against Frank's broad and warm front. He has one leg pinning one of yours open for him, while his arms encircle you, one acting as a comfortably warm weight against your writhing abdomen, while the other plays between your legs. His fingers are soaked with you, working you open, while his palm cups and grinds into your clit so deliciously. The squelches coming from between your legs are obscene. If you weren't so far away and fuzzy in your head, you'd have the forethought to be embarrassed. But you're too lost in it all to care, while Frank wants to drown in the sound. His heart is pounding in his chest, the relentless beat thrumming in his ears at the sight of you, all pliant and near-fucked out in his arms. But his exterior is calm and focused on his task at hand, determined to make you come for a third time tonight.
The first time was with his mouth. Kneeling before you on the bed after you came out of the shower and rested on your side to apply your lotion. He was reading in bed as he waited on you, content to have a quiet, restful evening. But when you came out of the steamy shower, smelling like coconut and vanilla and sugar, when there was only a towel separating him from your body slicked up in your lotions and oils, he hadn't seen you nearly all day... how could he resist plying you with sweet kisses to your neck till you opened your legs for him, “smell so good baby, so soft and pretty…" he says more to himself than you as he settles you down on your pillows, leaving a trail of wet, deep kisses from your neck to your breasts to your tummy, over the soft mound of your pussy, until he’s sucking your pulsing bud into his mouth, grinding the flat of his tongue against it with an expression on his face like he could truly eat you, consume you.
The second time was with his cock while you were on your hands and knees in front of him on the bed. Warm, wet, velvety feeling of you aside, he thoroughly enjoyed the sight of your messy wet hair buried into the pillow in front of you. And the way your supple, freshly-moisturized skin shimmered in the amber light of your bedroom as he drove into you from behind, heavy balls slapping against your clit with each thrust and the tip of him hotly kissing your cervix every time he plunged back in.
But this round was too fast, too quick. Already being so riled up from the first one, the second orgasm nearly snuck up on you, ass in the air and clenching around him as he laid his torso over your back, covering your body with his almost protectively, “that’s my sweet girl…” he praised into your ear, kissing your cheeks and neck while his hands moved from gripping your hips to holding your belly, feeling you jolt and jerk in the aftershocks of your second release. When he started to move in you again, chasing his own orgasm, you felt a deep urge to return the favor, to be the one to fuck him this time.
Raising up on your knees you reached for him behind you, pulling him into a searing kiss as he throbbed inside of your still fluttering walls. Moving off of him, he pitifully groaned at the unwanted removal until your hand wrapped around his cock and began to stroke him using your own slick as lube. One hand worked his cock as you got him to back up and lay down against the pillows and headboard, while the other carded through his now messy hair as you kissed him, drinking down his moans like wine, inhaling his scent like oxygen. Breaking away, you pause your stroking and still the hand in his hair, opting to grasp the back of his neck as he blinked up at you with heavy lids and a wanting gaze. “Your turn,” you explain, then mount him and gratefully ride him toward his own glorious release beneath you, his chest heaving and abs tightening as he moans and praises you.
But he still wants more, needs more. Needs to make sure you are properly fucked out before you drift off in his arms later - it's the least he can do for how good you just bounced on his cock. How happy you looked swallowing up all of his length in your sweet little hole with every stroke, how you sank yourself down onto him and ground into his hips until he was panting:
Oh baby… Oh fuck… Fuck I'm gonna cum… Yeah just like that pretty girl… My pretty girl… The prettiest girl… Gonna make me cum… Fuck… Fuck, gonna cum in this pretty pussy… My pretty pussy… Oh f-fuck. Fuck I'm coming. God yes… God yes, oh baby it's so much… keep going… bounce on my cock… keep bouncing… oh fuck… Oh fuck, yes just like that… Yesyesyes…
And now here you are, spread open in his lap, lost to the world around you other than him, his cum still weeping from your entrance. Your cheeks are flushed, a light sheen of sweat coating your skin, already needing another shower it seems. You've been teetering on the edge of an orgasm for a few moments now, approaching overstimulation but trying to it hold off so Frank can keep working you, so this won't have to end. But the more his fingers move, the sweeter he whispers in your ear, the more his tongue laves against your own tongue, your lips, your neck, you feel it building. You feel the pressure creating a delicious swell deep within you. “That’s it baby, I feel you, so close,” his voice, the earnest desire present within it to make you feel good, it nearly makes you shake. You almost gave way to a delightful fall over the precipice of an orgasm with his soothing praise if it weren't for the small spurt of fluid you feel Frank's fingers actually press out of you.
Your eyes fly open, your own hands rushing to cover his, as if he wasn’t inside you right now, coated in you. As if he could forget the gorgeous display he has in front of him, the pretty mess he just coaxed you into making. But he stalls his ministrations, mesmerized but half chucking at your sudden shyness, “move your hands honey… wanna see you…"
This had only happened to you once or twice before. And only with your own hand holding a vibrator against your clit in just the right spot. You knew the pleasurable sting of that gush of liquid, knew it made goosebumps fly up your spine and through your extremities until it pushed all thought out of your mind and left you a whimpering mess. Your cheeks ran hot anyway, but he wanted you to do it again. Wanted to watch you lose control and give yourself over completely to the pleasure he was making you feel. He grins softly against your hair when you can only barely mewl in protest of moving your hands away, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple before tilting your chin up with his other hand. You're so overwhelmed, near-frantic. You can't meet his gaze, chest heaving and mind trying to reorient the world around you as the pleasure threatened to pick you apart piece by piece.
“Look at me,” he softly commands, his piercing gaze searching longingly for your eyes while he removed his fingers from you, opting instead to rub over your swollen cunt with gentle, calming passes. You reluctantly flick your eyes up through your lashes to meet his. And when you do, you see how he looks at you. There was lust, want, need, desire, something akin to hunger. But there was also reassurance there, his features softening in a way that says It’s okay, I want you to let go with me, I want this. You see how badly he wants to make you feel good, wants to find every way he can to make your eyes roll back in your head. Wants to show you what kind of pleasure he can wring out of you over and over and over again if you’ll let him - if you’ll let yourself.
Trying to calm your frenzy, he continues his gentle circling with the pads of his fingers while he asks you sincerely in a soft, sweet tone, "Did that feel good?" Somehow this moment feels even more intimate than before when you were drenching his hand in your own fluids. You loll your head against his chest and can barely bring yourself to shake out a nod, but somehow manage to get out, “Mmmh, so good.” Finally catching your breath, you lose the resolve of your bashfulness and start moving your hands away from between your legs. His eyes follow the movement at first, but then his attention is on the creamy slick now coating your puffy lips and inner thighs, and then at the small wet spot on the sheet that you just made. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight but he asks you in between gentle kisses to your forehead, “Want me to keep going? Is it too much?” You vehemently shake your head at that, “no, p-please keep going,” and he nods in response, your eagerness blooming a warmth within his chest. He relents with the fervor of your consent, “okay, here, lay down for me baby."
You feel him move behind you and start to help you sit up, it was completely involuntary, but a whine escaped your parted lips at the loss of his enveloping warmth. “I know, I know honey," he soothes, "wanna make you more comfortable though, wanna look at you, wanna see your pretty face.”
He shifts his position so he’s now laying next to you on his side, while you hurriedly nestle back into his body and lay on your back next to him. Even laying down, he still feels so big and broad against you that you feel so small in comparison. You feel yourself begin to calm and recenter in this position, where you can see him watching you as he nearly cages your body with his on the bed. One arm propping himself up on the bed, his other hand comes up to gently hold the side of your face, “still with me?” His eyes search yours for any hesitation, he finds none. You nod, “mhm, please.” The last word leaves your lips just as his own fall upon them, and he smiles against your mouth. “Please what babygirl?” Before you can respond, his lips are on yours again and his tongue plunges deeply into your mouth, claiming you, making sure you know what you want before you speak again when he deigns to break away, “please keep going.”
“Keep going where honey, here?” His hand moves deftly from your cheek down to your breast, taking a gently possessive squeeze before you shake your head no. His touches flood your lower belly with warmth, but it’s not enough stimulation. “Keep going, here?” He rolls your nipple between his thumb, and first two fingers, pebbling the skin and sending a bolt of pleasure directly through your belly to your core, walls now clenching around nothing, missing his hand even more desperately. But, despite yourself, when you moan and arch into the touch he takes the opportunity to dip his head and latch his lips around your nipple, flicking against it with his tongue. You nearly squeak at the unexpected warmth and wetness of his mouth against your sensitive skin, and then whine at the loss of contact when he removes his lips just as quickly as they arrived. “Not there?” “Mmmpf, Frank please!” You nearly cry, needing to feel that tension and swell coming back to your middle. He kisses back up your chest and neck, to your lips again, apologetic this time. “Okay, okay pretty girl, I know, I know…” he soothes between kisses. He looks down to watch himself cup his hand over your pussy and begins slowly circling his fingers on you again. “This what you need? Right here?” He meets your eyes again and you nod desperately, “yes yes yes, please, please… wanna cum, p-please.” Another kiss. “I know baby, I know, here, let me help you.” His fingers spread you open, gather the slick pooling at your entrance, and slide back in to your sweet, swollen little hole.
The sound that the movement rips from you was near-guttural. “Oh god, thank you, thankyou thankyou thankyou.” Finally, he was right back where you both needed him to be, brushing up against that spot inside you that made your vision flash white and your nerve endings alight with electricity. You jerk forward on his hand when he does that, and he asks, “It’s that spot right there isn’t it baby?” He knows it is from the way you’re writhing for more already, but you confirm anyway, “Yes, yesyesyesyesyes,” it was beginning to not sound like a word anymore the way you chanted it into his mouth between deep, claiming kisses.
His fingers pumped in and out of you while his thumb circled your swollen clit, making you jerk and shake with every torturous stroke. Your hand that wasn’t gripping the hair at the nape of his neck went to hold on to the arm that worked you open, not to control him or try to move it back in hesitation, but to feel it moving his fingers in and out of you, feel his muscles shift and work, touch his heated veins and feel his pulse beating wildly through them. It was everything, it was too much, the smell of him and sex in the air, the feel of his hot skin and just how hard his cock felt again, now nearly leaking on your hip. He couldn't stop watching the sight of your sweet pussy taking his fingers so well, how you were so wet your inner thighs and lower belly were shimmering with your slick, so wet he could fucking hear it. He'd have to get his mouth on you after this, taste you while cleaning up his mess, can't let all of this go to waste. Next time, he thought, he'd make you ride his face so he could drink it all down. But for now, knowing you were so close, he coaxed you, "Come on babygirl, give it to me, let it go, let it all go for me."
And with his words you were cumming, the tension in your abdomen snapping, shaking and moaning as your release coated his hand, barely registering the sound of the wet squelches but feeling the warmth of it flood against your inner thighs, his hand, up his arm. “Thaaat’s it, good girl, that’s my good girl, fuck…” He can’t make his fingers stop pumping the fluid out of you, he can’t stop watching it. It just keeps coming, gushing from you in hot, lingering bursts as your walls convulsed and fluttered around his fingers, still buried deep within you. “F-fuck,” you pant and whine over and over again as your orgasm rips through you. “Breathe for me baby, come on honey,” he pleads but never stops the movement of his fingers. You do as you’re told and gasp a breath, followed by exhausted little pants as you try to catch your body back up to where your soul seems to have floated above you.
The last quakes of the climax pulse through you, and your release begins to subside, spurts lessening with each last lingering pump of his fingers. “Good girl, that’s it, there you go…” he catches your attention with a kiss, capturing your mouth with his as his fingers begin to slow and his thumb stops circling your clit as the bud still pulsed and quivered. When he’s satisfied that you’ve come down enough, his fingers still and his hand retreats from between your legs, laying gently on your still shaking stomach as he brings you back down to earth with his mouth. When you’re taking breaths in time with his, nice and slow and deep, he breaks from your lips and rests his forehead against your own, murmuring sweet praises as you come back to your body. “My good girl, you did so good honey, so, so good for me… just for me…” “just for you,” he laughs at that a little, not expecting to hear your small, now hoarse voice, but still so eager to be good when you’re coming down from such a physical high. “All for me…” He kisses your forehead, then each of your cheeks as you drowsily confirm, “all for you…”
yeah all my posts actually have hundreds of notes you just can't see them. people are laughing and calling me so funny and pretty and smart in the tags but you just cant see it. but it's happening i promise
SUMMARY: Dealing with the fallout of a mass casualty is intense enough as it is. But, when a disgruntled patient fires at you, the department has to fight desperately to keep you alive even in the midst of chaos.
NOTES: Pittfest-based, accidental shooting, GSW and blood, medical settings (ICU), angst, established relationship.
REQUESTED BY: @maxinebxrnes
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The sirens outside the Pitt had long since ceased to sound like individual vehicles, blending instead into a continuous, howling wall of noise that vibrated through the very soles of your sneakers. It was just past seven in the evening, but the concept of time had completely fractured three hours earlier when the first alerts of a mass shooting at Pittfest started flashing across the emergency department monitors.
The hospital wasn't just overrun. It was drowning in a deluge of torn flesh, muddy festival gear, and the raw, piercing panic of the young and the terrified.
You had been moving on pure adrenaline, your nursing scrubs already stained with a patchwork of fluids from half a dozen different patients, your hands working in a flawless, unspoken synchronicity with Frank. That was the thing about the two of you, even in the middle of a literal war zone, with the entire department tearing itself apart at the seams, Frank Langdon was your anchor. An established rhythm existed between you.
Right now, that rhythm was being tested to its absolute limit on a patient crammed into the makeshift overflow area near the ambulance bay. The man on the gurney was large, aggressive, and reeked of cheap bourbon and woodsmoke, his upper thigh torn open by a jagged piece of shrapnel or a ricochet from the festival grounds. He was thrashing, his eyes rolling back in his head as he roared obscenities, fighting the very hands trying to save his life.
Frank was leaning over him, his broad shoulders tensed as he applied heavy, two-handed pressure to the femoral artery, his face a mask of fierce, locked-in concentration. You were positioned just opposite him, your fingers deftly trying to establish a secondary IV in the man’s uninjured arm while the chaos of the ER swirled madly around you.
Just a few feet away, Dr. Abbot was shouting orders, his voice cracked with exhaustion as he directed a trauma team toward a crashing teenager. Dana was somewhere down the corridor, her authoritative tone echoing as she managed the triage nightmare at the front doors. Everyone was stretched to their absolute breaking point, operating on instinct and sheer willpower.
"I need that line running now!" Frank barked, not out of anger toward you, but to be heard over the deafening noise of a nearby heart monitor screaming and the desperate sobbing of a girl two bays down. "He's losing his pressure. We don't have time for him to be fighting us."
You nodded quickly, your voice calm and steady as you spoke to the thrashing man. You told him he was safe, told him that he was at the hospital and that Frank was going to fix his leg, but the words didn't seem to penetrate the thick fog of his intoxication and terror. The man gave a sudden, violent heave, his free arm flailing out wildly. His fingers clawed frantically at the heavy tactical waistband of his cargo trousers, diving beneath the blood-stained fabric of his shirt.
It happened in a terrifying, fragmented blur that defied the frantic speed of the room. You saw the dark glint of steel before your brain fully processed what it was, a compact handgun snagging on his belt as he yanked it free in a blind, paranoid reflex.
"Gun! He’s got a gun!" someone screamed from the corridor. It sounded like Robby, his voice cracking with a raw, primal panic that instantly silenced the immediate vicinity.
Time seemed to violently liquefy. Frank’s eyes widened, a sudden, horrifying comprehension dawning on his features as he instantly let go of the wound, lunging across the gurney in a desperate, instinctive attempt to smother the weapon or shield you. The patient fired blindly into the air, the deafening roar of the gunshot exploding inside the enclosed space, shattering a nearby fluorescent light fixture in a shower of sparks and white dust.
From down the hall, the immediate, instinctual response was instantaneous; voices shouted to get down, and a chorus of bodies hit the linoleum floor as medical staff and ambulatory patients dropped to seek whatever cover the flimsy privacy curtains and stainless-steel carts could provide.
But the man’s wrist snapped sideways as he recoiled, the weapon discharging a second time before Frank could pin his arm to the mattress.
There was no grand explosion of pain, just a sudden, violent impact against your ribs that felt like being struck full-force by a swinging baseball bat, knocking the breath entirely out of your lungs. The momentum threw you backward, your feet tangling in the stool behind you, and you went down hard against the cold, hard floor, the bag of saline you had been holding bursting against the metal leg of the gurney.
For a second, the world went completely silent, the ringing in your ears drowning out the screams, the shouting, and the heavy thud of security guards finally tackling the gunman to the ground just inches away from where you lay. You stared up at the cracked ceiling tiles, wondering vaguely why the air felt so thick, why it was suddenly so incredibly difficult to draw a single breath.
Then the silence shattered, and the world rushed back in with a terrifying, agonizing roar. Frank was on his knees beside you before you could even register that you were on the floor, his hands trembling in a way you had never seen before as they hovered over your chest. His face was entirely drained of colour, his lips parted in a silent gasp of horror that quickly transformed into a frantic, breathless plea. "No, no, no, please, God, no," he muttered, his voice stripped of all its usual authority, sounding entirely small and broken.
His palms came down hard against the left side of your upper abdomen, just beneath your ribs, and the sudden, searing agony that ripped through your torso made your back arch off the floor, a choked, ragged scream tearing from your throat. The fabric of your scrubs was already turning a deep, heavy crimson, the warmth of your own blood soaking through his fingers as he pressed down with everything he had.
The immediate area exploded into a frenzied, chaotic scrum of activity, but this time, the emergency was you. Robby was there in an instant, his face pale and eyes wide with shock as he dropped to his knees on your other side, "I’ve got the back, Frank, I’ve got the exit wound, keep pressing!" Robby yelled, his voice shaking as he tried to stabilize your writhing frame.
Jack appeared above you, his authoritative calm momentarily cracking as he took in the sight of one of his own nurses bleeding out on the floor. "Get a gurney over here now! Someone get me a chest tube tray and two units of O-negative!" Jack roared, his commands snapping the stunned onlookers into motion.
Samira was right behind him, her hands steady despite the visible tremor in her jaw as she ripped open a pack of trauma dressings, quickly tucking them under Frank’s straining hands. Dana was on the radio, her voice cutting through the hospital page with a sharp, trembling urgency, calling for an immediate surgical consult and clearing a path straight to the operating theatres.
You tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet, shallow gasp and the sound of it seemed to fracture something deep within him. "Stay with me, do you hear me? Look at me, sweetheart," he begged, leaning down so close that his sweat-dampened hair brushed against your forehead. His eyes were wild, swimming with tears that he refused to let fall. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You breathe for me, come on, just keep breathing."
The vulnerability in his voice was terrifying; this was a man who stared down death every single day without flinching, but looking at you, he looked utterly defeated, stripped entirely of his medical armor.
With a coordinated heave, Frank, Robby, and Jack lifted you off the blood-slicked floor and onto a clearing gurney, the sudden movement causing the agony in your chest to flare into a blinding, white-hot sheet of pain that threatened to turn the world completely black.
You gasped, your fingers clawing blindly at the air, and Frank instantly caught your hand in his own, his grip incredibly tight, almost crushing, yet it was the most comforting thing you had ever felt. He didn't let go, not even as Jack began cutting away the remnants of your ruined scrubs, exposing the neat, horrific puncture wound where the bullet had torn through your muscle and bone.
“Shit, this doesn’t sound good," Jack muttered, his stethoscope pressed firmly against your skin, his expression grim. "Dr. Mohan, give me that scalpel, we need to drop a tube now before they arrest."
"Frank," you whimpered, the word barely a whisper, your vision beginning to tunnel, the bright fluorescent lights of the ER fading into a hazy, shimmering blur.
"I'm right here, I’m not leaving you, I swear to God I’m right here," Frank cried, his voice breaking completely as he used his free hand to wipe the blood from your lip, his thumb caressing your cheek. He looked up at Jack, his eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and fury. "Do it fast, Jack, please, just do it fast."
You felt the sharp, sudden sting of the local anesthetic, followed almost immediately by the heavy, suffocating pressure of the chest tube being inserted between your ribs. It was an invasive, brutal sensation, a choked sob tearing from your throat as you tried to pull away from the pain.
Frank held you steady, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders to keep you pinned to the mattress, his face pressed against the side of your neck as he whispered frantic, broken promises into your skin. "You're okay, you're doing so well, just hold onto me, sweetheart. I've got you."
As the tube found its mark, a dark, heavy rush of blood and trapped air hissed into the collection chamber, and suddenly, a massive, cooling relief washed through your lungs. You could breathe again, the suffocating weight lifted from your chest, even as the profound exhaustion of blood loss began to pull you down into the dark.
The gurney was suddenly in motion, rattling violently as it was pushed out of the trauma bay and down the long corridor toward the elevators. Dana was there at the doors, holding them open, her face pale as she reached out to briefly touch your leg, her voice fierce as she looked at the surgical team waiting for you. "Take care of them," she ordered, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
Frank walked alongside the moving bed, his hand still locked in yours, his eyes on you, his thumb tracing endless, soothing circles against the back of your hand.
When they finally reached the double doors of the surgical suite, the anesthesia resident stepped in front of him, gently but firmly placing a hand on Frank's chest. "Frank, you need to stay here. We've got them, we're going to take care of them, I promise."
Frank stopped, his sneakers skidding slightly on the polished floor, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to push past the man. He looked down at you, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a profound, terrifying helplessness, his grip loosening only when the momentum of the gurney forced your fingers to slide apart.
"I'll be right here," he called out, his voice echoing down the sterile hallway as the heavy doors began to swing shut, separating you from his sight. "Right here when you wake up. I love you, do you hear me? I love you!"
As the darkness finally took you, the smell of antiseptic and the bright, shadowless lights of the operating room fading into nothingness, the last thing you felt was the lingering warmth of his hand against your skin, and the steady, unbreakable promise of his voice.
Everything felt incredibly heavy, as though your limbs had been poured full of wet sand, and your throat was dry and parched, tasting of stale plastic from the oxygen cannula resting beneath your nose. For a long moment, you simply drifted in that twilight space, aware of a dull, throbbing ache radiating across the entire left side of your chest, a deep-seated soreness that flared into a sharp pinch every time you tried to take a deep breath.
But beneath that pain, and the overwhelming exhaustion pulling at your eyelids, there was a profound, grounding warmth enveloping your right hand.
Slowly, with an effort that felt almost monumental, you forced your eyes open. The harsh, chaotic glare of the emergency department was gone, replaced by the soft, dimmed shadows of a private recovery room in the intensive care unit. The blinds were drawn against the morning light, casting long, quiet bars of grey across the linoleum floor. And sitting right beside your mattress, his frame uncomfortably curled into a stiff hospital armchair, was Frank.
He looked entirely shattered. He was still wearing his scrub trousers, though he had swapped his blood-stained top for a faded, oversized grey university sweatshirt that looked as though it had been pulled from the bottom of his locker. His elbows were resting on the edge of your mattress, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his fingers tightly, desperately interlaced with yours.
As you shifted your weight slightly, trying to ease the pressure on your chest tube site, a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips. The sound was barely audible, but it acted like an electric shock to Frank. His head snapped up instantly, his eyes bloodshot, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath them. For a fraction of a second, his expression was blank with a raw, lingering terror, but as his gaze focused on your open eyes, his face cracked, a look of profound, overwhelming relief washing over his features.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice incredibly thick and hoarse, rough from hours of silence and unshed tears. He shifted instantly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache for reasons completely unrelated to the bullet wound. "Hey, beautiful. Don't try to move too much, alright? You're okay. You're safe."
"Frank," you croaked, the word catching in your throat, sounding small and entirely broken.
"I'm here. I'm right here," he murmured, his touch lingering against your skin as if he needed the physical contact to completely convince himself that you were truly alive. He reached for a small plastic cup on the bedside table, dipping a pink foam swab into some ice water before gently pressing it against your cracked lips. "Just a little bit, sweetheart. Your throat's going to be sore from the ventilator, just let it sit there."
The cool moisture was an absolute blessing, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the relief wash over you. When you opened them again, you looked down at the heavy, white dressings taping the chest tube firmly to your ribs. The memory of the gunshot, the sudden, violent impact, and the terrifying sight of Frank kneeling over you in a pool of your own blood came rushing back with a vividness that caused your heart rate to spike on the monitor.
Frank noticed the rhythmic acceleration of the beeping instantly. "Hey, look at me, honey," he commanded softly, squeezing your hand a little tighter. "The guy's gone. Security took him down, police have him. The hospital is secure. You are out of danger, I promise you."
"You... you look terrible," you managed to whisper, a faint, weak attempt at a smile touching the corners of your lips.
A ragged, wet laugh spilled from his chest, his shoulders dropping as he leaned his forehead gently against your shoulder, his breathing heavy and uneven. "I have never been so terrified in my entire life," he confessed into the fabric of your hospital gown, his voice trembling in a way that made your throat tighten. "I’ve seen a lot of things in that department. A lot of blood, a lot of close calls. But when you went down... when I saw what that bastard did... I froze. My brain just stopped working because the only thing that mattered was that it was you."
You squeezed his hand back with what little strength you had, your heart swelling at the raw vulnerability in his tone. "You didn't freeze," you murmured softly. "You caught me. You held me."
"Because I couldn't let you go," he said, pulling back to look down at you, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down the rugged line of his jaw. "Robby, Jack, Samira... they all practically had to drag me out of the operating theatre doors. Dana sat with me in the hallway for four hours while you were under. She kept telling me to go home, to wash the blood off my clothes, but I couldn't leave this building knowing you were in there. Collins kept checking the surgical log every fifteen minutes just to give me updates. Everyone's been by, sweetheart. They’re all terrified for you, but they're all waiting to see you."
"Tell them thank you," you whispered, the exhaustion beginning to pull at your consciousness again, your eyelids growing heavier by the second as the hospital pain medication kept you drifting.
"I will. I'll tell them all," Frank murmured. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "You just rest now. I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you wake up again, and I’ll be here when we finally get to go home. I love you so much."
As the darkness drifted back in to claim you, softer this time, devoid of the terror and the pain of the ER, you let yourself sink into the mattress, completely enveloped by the steady, protective warmth of his presence and the quiet, reassuring beat of his heart right beside you.
summary – in which frank langdon comes home from a god awfully long day, but you’re there, so maybe it’s okay. and, he so graciously makes it up to you in the morning.
pairing – frank langdon x fem!reader
genre – smut (18+ mdni)
tags – oral (m receiving). fingering. oral (f receiving). slight s/d dynamics. softdom!frank. praise. #fingersinmouth!
word count – 3k
a/n – hello da pittblr my name is lia im 5’4 based in redacted city this is my audition to be apart of your community i rlly hope i get the role ❤️ p.s. new fic format yay!
There’s envy in Frank Langdon’s chest as he trudges through the lobby of his apartment building, backpack slung across his shoulders with an almost unbearable weight. Despite, funnily enough, being significantly lighter than it had been that morning, now that his water bottle and lunch containers were empty.
Sixteen hours since he left home, and he’s sure he’s aged ten years in that time. The envy in his chest, only there because he knows there’s people out there that work less than him—less hours, less effort—but still make the same amount of money, if not more. Those people have everything, he thinks. He’d kill for a job that didn’t drain both the energy and the life out of him.
He runs his hands down his face, index fingers poking into his eyes until stars and flashes of colourful streaks paint his brain, as the elevator ascends past floors. Having an apartment on a high level is great in theory, and great when you’re on your first year of residency and aren’t the one mentoring everybody else. Now, as numbers tick away in the elevator screen, Frank’s wishing he could be any closer to the ground.
It dings, and he’s brought out from his trance, feet dragging on the floor with the irritating shuffle sound. At least at ten p.m., there’s hardly any people littered around the hallways to see him in such a state.
His keys rattle as he puts them in the keyhole, and he’s acutely aware of how loud the sound is in the otherwise silent hallway. Maybe, if he were any less dead to the world, he’d care enough to be considerate.
Then, it swings open, and he’s hit in the face by an air conditioned warmth, the smell of lasagna, and the yellow glow of the living room lamps still switched on. Among them sits your silhouette, head bowed, no doubt so lost in a book you didn’t hear him come in.
He smiles only to himself, as all sixteen hours of dread and worry melt away with just your figure presented before him. Reminded, immediately, that he too has everything
The door clicking shut behind him alerts you, and your head pokes up from the couch. You brighten, instantly, and he drops his bag down to the floor with a heavy sigh.
“When you said you were gonna be late, I didn’t think you meant this late,” you say as he makes his way over to you, arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind the couch, burying his face into your neck.
“Me neither. I’m sorry,” he mumbles, lips tickling your skin with the movement.
“There’s lasagna in the fridge,” you hum, kissing his forearm just before he loosens his hold and leans back.
His head turns to glance at the aforementioned fridge, “Yeah, I can smell it. I gotta have a shower first.”
You peer up at him through your head tilted back over the couch edge, and when he returns his gaze from the kitchen to you, he laughs, seeing you bat your eyelashes so subtly.
“Do you want something?” he braces his arms beside your head, lowering his face down.
“Do you?”
“I could use the company.”
You jump up in victory (narrowly missing colliding heads with him), racing around the couch. He lets you drag him towards the bathroom, allowing you to exert all the effort into getting the two of you there. Tiredly, he watches you. Your pyjamas—for lack of a better word, really they were his blank navy t-shirt covering some loose shorts—hang off your body, and your hair is still slightly damp, so he knows you’re only joining him in the shower for more time with him, instead of practicality.
You looked so excited, though. To spend time with him. Never mind the suggestiveness behind your fluttering lashes and smug smile.
“Do I have to do everything?” you grumble, and his mind returns to his body as his skin tingles from your fingertips brushing his waist.
“It never goes unappreciated,” he tilts his head, before letting you lift his shirt over his head.
“It will, because you’re tired, and kind of grumpy, so I’m gonna be doing all the work,” you huff, rambling to yourself, really. A string of complaints he knows if he tried to rebut, you’d defend instantly.
He helps you out by taking the bottom half of his clothes off, so you can focus on removing your own articles of clothing—again, technically, they’re his—before he loops his arms around your waist, dropping his lips down to your jawline. “I will make it up to you tomorrow morning, I promise.”
“Ohh, I am holding you to that one, Dr. Langdon,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again. You drop your hands back by your side after that, jerking your head towards the shower. “In, before I change my freaking mind.”
“Yes ma’am,” he obeys instantly, stepping beneath the shower head.
He takes one for the team, at least, and turns it on, copping the fallout of ice cold water before it begins to heat up to a reasonable temperature.
You get what needs to be done out of the way. Granted, he has to duck down so you can reach your hands up to lather the shampoo against his scalp. It’s a welcome massage that almost makes him forget about how long and unkind this day has been to him.
If he were any less attuned to everything about you, perhaps he’d not catch the art of your hands dancing across his skin suggestively when you brought body soap into the routine. However, he did. Your fingers lingering a little longer than necessary on his thighs, and your eyes spending a bit too much time looking down. Telltale signs of what you were about to do, and yet his breath hitched when you lowered to your knees anyways.
One shift straight from the deepest, darkest depths of hell itself, all drowned out by the sound of the water hitting the shower floor right behind him, and forgotten about immediately from the way you peer up at him.
You were so pretty. A perverse thought to have when you’re on your knees in front of him, though he believes you always look pretty. It’s just, he’s had a really bad day, and you’re confidently leading the mission of distracting him. Brain fried from too many clinical mishaps and body aching from too much running around, he thinks he deserves to tilt his head back and let how pretty you are right now overwhelm his focus.
“Fuck,” he breathes out when you let your lips make contact with his cock, dragging your tongue up the underside of it.
With keen interest, you watch him. The way his face contorts when you take him into your mouth, and the way he has to brace a hand onto the shower wall when you use your hand to cover what you couldn’t fit. Grunting when you set a steady pace, one his exhausted brain couldn’t quite keep up with.
You were inexplicably good at this, and it has always been his kryptonite. Sometimes, you would play this card when you were arguing over meaningless things. Like what to have for dinner, or what movie to watch, and you are effectively able to turn him into putty within your hands.
So, that, on top of how much slower his braincells were moving, he is just forced to entangle a hand in your hair to keep himself upright. Pure selfish need, and not at all to hear the way you mewl in surprise at the feeling of his fingers dragging along your scalp. Entire body on fire with need because you are, at the end of the day, pleasurable by giving.
“Yeah,” he rocks to the side to hold his head against the wet tiles, fluttering his eyes shut as you work his cock expertly. “Fuck, baby. You’re so good at this, you know?”
You hum in content, and he lazily smiles, staring down at you through half-lidded eyes. You were partial to praise, he knew that, and so he focussed on decorating the air with them. Instead of—perhaps the more pressing matter—not coming.
“Prettiest thing in the world—shit—look at you,” he lets his hand glide down from your scalp to your face, cupping your cheek and holding your head, gently. His other hand, still supporting his weight against the wall, clenches into a fist when you lose eye contact with him to take him further into your mouth. He curses, a little louder this time. “You need to—fuck—baby, I need you to stop, or slow down, or—or something, otherwise this is gonna be over real soon.”
You don’t listen. In fact, you hum again, the note vibrating around his cock and making him moan. You follow that by quickening the pace you were going, and it’s what finally breaks him.
He tries to warn you. Stammering out a string of, “Hey—hey, okay, you can—oh my God—stop, honey. Pull back. I’m going to—” that is ultimately cut off by his orgasm. One you don’t back down from, and one that leaves his chest heaving.
Leaning back on your heels, you stare up at him, and he falters upon seeing your throat bob with a swallow. A lopsided grin stretching across your face as you stand from the shower floor, saying nothing as you reach behind him and turn the shower off.
Plunged into quiet, with the only sounds being both of your breathing, you stare at him until he cracks first, laughing and hanging his head, wet hair falling in front of his face.
“My knees hurt,” you sigh, taking slow steps out of the shower, finding a towel to wrap around your body.
“Do they?” he asks, following close behind you. When you nod, he places his hands on your waist, giving you half a second of a warning before he’s lifting you to perch you up on the bathroom counter. “Let me see.”
Moving the towel out of the way, he crouches down so he can look at your knees, clicking his tongue when he runs his fingers over the skin, and your face distorts in discomfort.
“Happens when you kneel on a hard surface,” he points out, and you glance down at him, annoyed.
“Really? I’m appalled. I knew I should’ve brought a pillow into the shower.”
“That would’ve gone well,” he muses, standing back up, using his palms to rub circles onto your kneecaps. “I think staying off of the shower floor and some rest will fix you right up.”
“Thank you, Doctor. What would I do without you?”
“Have perpetually sore knees, I’m sure,” he says, ducking down to kiss your lips when you open them to protest with something along the lines of, ‘I wouldn’t have sore knees without you’, probably.
You drag him to bed soon after, the post orgasmic haze wearing off and leaving him jellylike in the bathroom. You have to force him through the doorway and into bed, at which he hits the mattress with such force you’re surprised it didn’t collapse the floor beneath it.
“Goodnight to you too,” you huff, leaving the room for only a short second to switch off all the lights.
Once you’ve returned, he’s staring at the doorway expectantly. Foolishly, you fall for the wanting look in his eyes, and climb right into his arms without the hint of a second thought.
“I am sorry you had a bad shift,” you murmur, drawing circles onto his chest with your fingers.
“Only up from here,” he sighs, and though you know that perhaps for tomorrow that may be true, there’s a hundred more shifts just like today waiting for him to live through. It’s a thought that keeps you antsy at night.
“Only up from here,” you agree with a nod.
When Frank wakes up the next morning, his alarm isn’t going off. There’s no sun peeking through the curtains, however the time on his phone reads 04:18, so at least it isn’t the middle of the night. Not at all a reasonable time to wake you up, he knows, but he’s got forty-two minutes until his alarm starts blaring, and he really has to get up. Plus, he promised to make it up to you, and he thinks this waking up before his alarm thing is for a reason.
Slowly untangling your arms from his, he rolls you onto your back, pausing when you stir, then placing his lips against yours.
He trails kisses from your mouth down your jawline, hands running up the sides of your body, until you begin to rouse.
“What time is it?” you mumble, voice coated in that sleep-induced husk that makes him smile.
“Early,” he whispers, nipping your jawline. “You can go back to sleep after, I promise.”
“After what?” you frown, confused.
“I make it up to you.”
You’re still too half-asleep to make the connection in his words, all up until he’s kissed his entire way down your body, stopping short of where your pyjama shirt ends, and your thighs begin. Then, you remember, and you let your limbs sink into the mattress.
“Yeah, okay,” you agree. It sounds halfhearted, but your legs part on instinct, so he continues with hooking his fingers into your pyjama shorts’ waistband and pulling them down your legs.
His breath is warm against your skin, his fingers parting your folds and making you squirm.
He jolts you awake with one long stripe of his tongue, emitting a moan from you almost instantly. Letting the sensation settle into your bones until you’re painfully on edge and waiting for whatever he does next. Then, he does it again.
“This is being mean, not making it up to me,” you scold, quietly, head lulling to one side and keeping your eyes transfixed on him.
“Just wanna take my time with you,” he replies, calmly, dragging a finger up, through your slit, gathering both the wetness from his saliva, and from you naturally, before he brings it back down to help push a finger into you.
“Oh,” you gasp, eyes darting up to the ceiling in an attempt to focus on something other than him. Frank, who is between your legs, hair falling in front of his face, and staring at you with piqued interest.
Piqued interest like he has to figure you out, as if he doesn’t already know every single thing that makes you come. If he really wanted to, he could have you convulsing in two minutes. He has.
He twists his finger around until he hears you involuntarily whine, and so he makes true to his promise to make it up to you, and leans forwards, attaching his lips to your clit.
You moan, the added assault on your already sleepy body doing nothing for helping you remain composed. He circles his tongue around your clit, index finger creating a steady pace of movement.
“Frank,” you whimper.
“Yeah, baby?” he lifts his head, looking up at you, removing the stimulation on your clit, but keeping his fingers at their same rhythm.
“Hi,” you simply smile at him, and he laughs.
“Hey,” he rests his cheek on your thigh, waiting a few seconds before he adds a second finger in, a shudder rolling down your spine at the stretch. “Feel good?” When you nod, he slows his thrusts right down, “Words, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, Frank,” you nod, eyes fluttering shut, “feels good.”
He hums in content, and takes that opportunity to lean forwards again and reattach his mouth to your core.
Flicking his tongue over your clit rather quickly, causing your body to jolt from the unexpected sensation. Then, he does it again, and again, and again, until you’re reckoning with a tightening knot in your stomach, and stumbling over incoherent ‘please’s and curse words.
He pulls back just at the last second, replacing his tongue with his thumb, for no reason other than to commentate. Asshole.
“Yeah, there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs, palm outstretched on your abdomen to keep your hips firmly on the mattress as you come. “Look at you.”
Your chest heaves, and you stare at the ceiling to recollect yourself, before your eyes divert back to him. He pulls his fingers out at that moment, bringing them to your lips. Instinctively, you part them, and he pushes them into your mouth, where you refuse to break eye contact. It’s a power play that doesn’t really work, because he drags his fingers back out soon after, and lifts himself back up to peck your lips.
“I have to go get ready now,” he informs you, quietly, and you let out a disgruntled moan. “I know, but I do.”
“Or, you could call in sick.”
“Not happening, stop being a bad influence,” he gently bites the corner of your mouth.
You frown when he steps off the bed, leaving you tangled within sheets. Alone. You hope your wide, desperate eyes are enough to get him to get back into bed and forget about his important job that the two of you know he does actually have to go to.
They aren’t, so instead you call, “Come back to say goodbye?” when he heads towards the bathroom. You catch his nod.
However, that’s the last thing you catch.
When six o’clock rolls around, and Frank heads back into the bedroom to stay true to his word, he finds you fast asleep. Head on his pillow, curled up and holding the duvet between your arms. Early morning sun only just peeking through the gaps in the curtains, thin beams of light decorating what skin on you he could see.
So as to not disturb you, he stands there for a minute with a smile on his lips, before slowly, and softly, closing the door.
18+ mdni ♡ A/N: faux-oblivous friends-to-lovers and foothumping w Langdon...Does this make me a foot guy? Am I a certified Rick James freak now?
Thinking about hanging out in Langdon's newly-minted bachelor pad. He invited you over after a shift, all casual, insisting that it was just an excuse not to be alone. Now you're sitting in his living room, watching shitty movies and just barely managing to keep your eyes open. It's the middle of a sweltering summer and you're sprawled out on his couch, your legs in his lap.
You aren't sure when it starts and he doesn't even mean to do it but at some point, Langdon just starts fidgeting. He straightens his posture, he slumps; he just can't sit still. The whole time, he keeps one hand firmly around your ankles, held pointedly away from his crotch. Pointedly away, you realise, from the slowly growing bulge in his sweatpants.
When you stretch for the first time, it's innocent, you swear. The second time, though, where you point your toes and shift them ever so slightly upwards, so they graze his hard-on? That one might be intentional. It happens again and again, his fidgeting and your stretching, just to gently tease the outline of his shaft with your toes. To measure the length of him, biting your lip when he's a little bigger than you expect.
CGI explosions and car chases rage on in the background, and gradually, Langdon loses all composure, gripping your ankle to grind against the pads of your feet as barely-stifled, stunned, gasping moans slip out of his mouth. He gets whinier as he gets more worked up, though he tries desperately to shut himself up, which only results in more tortured, choked back sounds that make you clench around nothing.
Before he even realises how close he is, he's shooting warm spurts of cum all over his boxers. The action on screen lulls for a moment and you turn to him, all casual, stretching out even further in his lap.
“Should we order a pizza?”
And he knows that tonight, you're going to do far more than watch shitty movies.
summary: you tried to help frank through his addiction, but he never wanted your help. you eventually chose to divorce him, settling with an agreement easily and without qualms because neither of you wanted to hurt each other. but one year later, he's knocking at the door of the house you once shared, and you can't help but to let him stay.
tags: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, divorced! frank and reader, discussion of substance abuse and addiction (benzodiazepines), discussion of divorce, crying, reunion sex, making love, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie
a/n: inspired by this fic by @flowersforbucky bc of the angstiness and the langdon of it all and the divorcedness... of it all ♡♡
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Frank doesn't know why he's here.
You two are divorced. Have been for about a year now. It ended civilly- no yelling, no arguing, no screaming matches. Just a civil agreement and a lot of tears cried in your marital bed on your final night together, the bed where you used to laugh and talk for hours, fantasise about your future and kids and growing old together. It all just ended one night. He came home late, you were already in bed. It had been building up for a long time and it definitely wasn't an impulsive decision. He knew it was coming too. Could feel it in the air. Knew you hadn't talked, or touched, or even fought in far too long.
You were both too tired to put in the effort needed to fix things. Had tried and tried and couldn't bring yourselves to do it anymore. Not when Frank was struggling with an addiction that he refused to admit to, even to you. Not when you had so much more life to live, and it felt like Frank was beginning to weigh you down. He was defensive, yelled, insisted he didn't have a problem. Until you just stopped fighting for him in the moment that he needed you to the most.
You were his wife. And you knew he needed you. But you couldn't do it. You knew he didn't want to change; couldn't change. It left you heartbroken, and yet you knew you had to leave. So you did.
And he knew that letting you go was the most selfless, most loving, thing he could do.
So he doesn't know why he's back here. The house you once shared. The one you decorated together, down to every trinket. Where you loved, learned, grew. Where your marriage began and where it ultimately ended.
He rings the doorbell, lets it play it's familiar little tune. Hears the metal of the peephole slide across, feels your eye looking through it and right at him, before the lock of the door clicks and it's opening wide to reveal you.
You look cosy wearing the pajamas he used to love you in, and he instantly remembers how he'd come home from work to you in those clothes, cuddled up on the couch. How he'd kiss you, and hug you, and tell you how much he missed you. How he used to tell you every detail of his day. Now he just comes home to silence and microwaveable meals. He used to love to cook, but what's the point when there's no one to share it with?
"Frank," you say. It's soft, gentle, like you're scared that he'll break and he thinks he actually might. The sight of you hurts too badly. The last time he saw you was in a blazer, drafting up the agreement for your divorce.
"What are you doing here, Frank?" you ask, but there's no malice in it. You're confused. And he hopes that you're even a little happy to see him.
He wrings his hands, they're suddenly far too clammy. Wipes them on his jeans. Plays with the brim of his hat. He feels dumb.
"I- I honestly don't know," he finally says, chuckling mirthlessly. "I don't know. I-I'm sorry. I'll just go, I don't know why I came, I'm so stupid-"
"Stay," you whisper, barely audible enough for him to hear.
"What?" he replies, heart squeezing at the thought that any part of you still wants to be near him.
"Stay. Just for a while. Have a cup of tea or something? I'm watching Love Island."
Your show. The one you used to watch together on most nights, wrapped up under blankets. Warm skin on skin, your head on his shoulder. Constant commentary and laughs that he used to pull out of you so easily. Kisses in between scenes and hands in places they probably didn't need to be. He hadn't watched it with you for months before you even asked for a divorce, and it was one of those silly things he missed so much.
"Okay," is all he can manage.
In your living room, on your sofa, he feels awkward. It's changed in small ways, but he used to know this place like the back of his hand- and so much is gone. Particularly, the way he used to leave his clothes on the backs of random chairs. His books, his things, his stethoscope that he used to hang up behind the door after work so he wouldn't lose it. His keys next to yours. A space for you two forced to become a house for one.
The TV buzzes in the background, a low hum. He hears the kettle finish boiling in the kitchen not too far away, hears a spoon clinking in a ceramic mug. Listens to your steps as you walk towards him. He straightens in his seat. You place the mug down in front of him and he looks up in surprise. You pretend you don't see.
It was his mug. The one he used every morning. The one you used to fill up with coffee while he showered so it was ready by the time he got out. The one you used to make hot chocolate in, with cream and marshmallows, every Christmas when you two would watch reruns of Home Alone and Elf. He's surprised you have it, and he's surprised you kept it. He searched for it in every box after he moved into his new apartment, wanted the memories that came with it. Had you been using it every morning? Thinking of him like he had been thinking of you in every waking moment of his new life?
He takes a slow sip. Sighs with his eyes closed. You always did know exactly how to make his tea, and it never tasted the same when he tried to make it himself.
"So," you start, holding your own cup to your chest, blanket around your legs. You're sat across the room from him, different from the way you used to huddle close on that very couch, and it makes him feel strange. "How have you been, Frank?"
"I'm fine. I'm doing... better." He gives you a tight-lipped smile. Choosing his words carefully.
"That's good."
"I went to rehab."
You're surprised. He can tell. He knows you like the back of his hand. You don't want to scare him off, make him feel pressured. "How did it go?"
"It was..." he pauses. Decides to tell you the truth. Open up to you the way you begged him to when you were still married and he was still in denial about his addiction. "It was horrible. It was so hard. Every second was painful. You know, with my back, it was agony. I didn't know if I'd get through it."
You sit, stiffly, but he can see the way your eyes glisten. The way your breathing deepens and your face goes all red the way it does when you're about to cry.
"Robby caught me," he continues. Wants to be honest with you even if it's embarassing. Even if his pride takes a massive hit. Wants another chance, desperately. "Robby caught me stealing from the ER. I was taking benzos to help me with the withdrawal symptoms from the opioids. The pain was too much, and it was the only thing that helped. Especially with how hectic it gets in the ER, I couldn't handle it. Robby caught me. He fired me."
"Oh."
"And that's why I went to rehab. I realised what I had done. The rift I caused between you and me. The way I hurt you because I couldn't tell you the truth."
You're tight lipped. Haven't said a thing since he started except for hums of agreement or question.
"I want you to know that I'm better. I'm trying. I'm back at work. I-I'm having random drug tests. I'm not taking anything. I-I had a patient who I stole drugs from and I admitted it to him, and he died, but I-I was honest. I've done my best. I'm 186 days clean. Today was my first day back, and I did a closed blind reduction of a cervical spine dislocation. I'm still good at what I do, and I'm proud of myself for it. I'm still shaking."
He holds his hands out, shows you the way his hands are quivering. Nervous. And your eyes catch on something gold still on his left ring finger. You bring a hand up to your mouth.
"Frank," is all you can muster, softly. Eyes brimming with tears. He follows your line of vision to his pathetic ring finger, where he still pathetically wears his wedding ring. His pathetic promise to you to love you till death do you apart. And he hasn't broken that. He hides his hand immediately.
"Fuck, I didn't mean for you to see that. I promise."
"Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?"
"I," he starts, but no words come out. "I don't know, baby. I mean, fuck, I don't know. I'm sorry-"
"It's okay, Frank." you sigh, voice breaking in a way that breaks his heart in two. "I'm really proud of you. I'm really happy for you. You've done so well for yourself."
"Thank you, I-"
"But I think you should go."
Frank can't do anything but nod. You're right. He doesn't even know what he's doing here with you, why he came to bother you. What he's doing in the house where you fell apart, with the person he hurt. The person who hurt him right back.
He gets up, picks up his things, and walks himself to the door. You follow behind him.
He turns around just to get one final look at you, in what was once his house too, "thank you."
"For what?"
"For the tea."
You just nod and watch him open the front door. But your heart hangs heavy with the weight of watching him walk away.
"Frank," you squeak, voice cracking along with your heart.
He turns immediately, hoping and begging that you'll ask him to stay again.
"Frank, I-" you can't finish the sentence. It all comes out at once. Relief that he's doing well, that he's working hard to overcome his addiction. That he's been clean for 186 days. Devastation that you had to let go of your relationship because he refused to get help, refused to take yours, just for him to end up doing the work anyway, merely months after your divorce. A sudden, useless, spark of hope that you two could be together again, because you still love him. More than you should. You just loved yourself more, and you couldn't handle the effects of his addiction and his denial.
You're choking through tears before you know it, hot cheeks and burning eyelids. He can't handle it. Hates seeing you like this, and because of him no less. He should never have come. Never should have rehashed the pain of your past.
But he's dropping his things on the floor anyway, scooping you up in his arms because he's wanted to hold you since you opened the door. He's warm, you feel protected, loved, you feel like you're finally home after a year. Pathetically, he's still your home. All you've ever wanted.
He strokes your hair and shushes you, rocking you back and forth while you heave and cry into him. He's blinking back the tears in his eyes himself. To finally feel you close to him, the only thing he's ever craved in his life. He can't help but to press a kiss into your hair, inhale the scent of your shampoo that he's missed so fucking much.
"It's okay, honey." he soothes. "It'll all be okay."
There's a million other things he wants to say. Wants to tell you that he's thought of you every single day since he moved out of your home together. That he still loves you; can't see himself with anyone else, refuses to even entertain the idea of a date with someone else. That it stings when he thinks of you being with anyone other than him- that the sight of you walking down the aisle again, beautiful as ever, giving another person the happy, teary, smile you gave him on your wedding day haunts him in his worst nightmares. That when everything hurt, when rehab felt like torture, you were the only thing that kept him going. And going home to an empty apartment, without your things, without your scent, without you, made him want to die.
"It's not okay, Frank. It'll never be okay. How can it be okay when you're not with me?"
Had you felt the same way as him all this time? Had you missed him like he missed you? Begged the universe, hoped for the stars to align, to give you two another chance?
He stares at you. Breathing heavily. He used to know exactly how to comfort you. Would listen to you talk for hours, holding you, never letting go. And when you had gotten everything out, there were no more words or tears to spill, you would ask him to help you feel better. Take it all away with his lips, his fingers, his tongue. His cock.
He doesn't know how to help you now. After almost a year apart, he's lost. Watching you like an idiot who doesn't know what boundaries he can or can't cross. If he can hold your hand, if he can kiss you.
But when you look up at him with those eyes, lips parted. When you take his hands in yours and guide it up to cup your face. He knows.
"Will you kiss me, Frank?" you say, quietly, embarassed. Exactly how you used to when you used to go to him with every problem, every inconvenience. When he was your rock. "Take the hurt away?"
He holds you. Rubs his thumb over your cheeks. Looks you in your eyes with a thousand thoughts and feelings swirling in his head, in his heart. Wondering what you're thinking. Is this really the best thing to do? Is this even really happening? Because it feels like a dream.
"Are you sure?" he asks, scared speaking too loudly will jostle him awake, that you'll get so startled that you'll dissipate into thin air.
"Yes," you nod. Press your face into the calloused, worked hands.
He licks his lips. Stares at yours. And slowly, giving you a chance to move away, to change your mind, he leans in, brushing his nose against yours like he always used to. You used to giggle every time. He moves at a snail's pace until his mouth is against yours. Soft, smooth, everything you've been missing and wanting, thinking you'd never have him like this again.
He kisses you hard, soft, tries to tell you all of the words he can't get out with every movement of his lips, every stroke of his tongue. Holds you tight because he knows this may be the last time, and fuck, he doesn't want to waste this opportunity to love you again.
The kiss deepens in time, rougher, harder, sloppier. You're breathing hard through your nose between wanton moans while Frank's hands wander everywhere, all over your body. The cup of his hands against your breasts remind you of how much he used to love them. Burying his face in them, nipping at them, sucking at your nipples. The feel of your hands in his hair, tugging between fingertips, the sting delicious against his scalp. He fucking loves it.
It's not long before you're pulling your shirt off, tugging at his too until he follows suite. You're desperate to feel him as close to you as possible- skin to skin, chest to chest. Heart to heart.
Both of your pants come off too, unbuckled, unbuttoned, thrown to the ground and forgotten as you lead him to the bedroom you once shared. Let him set you down in the middle of the bed in between your side and what used to be his, let him press kisses on your face, your neck, your décolletage. In between and all over those breasts he always loved. Down to your clothed pussy where he pulls aside your panties to lick and taste your juices again. You taste as fucking good as he remembers, and he can't help but to eat you out with more vigour. Hungry.
"Frank," you moan, hands tangled in his hair as he licks and sucks at your clit, palming himself through fabric. "I need you. I need to feel you now."
So he obeys. Pulls your sticky panties down to your ankles and off, then strips out of his own boxers. Comes back up to kiss you tenderly, grinding himself in between your legs to get you wet, though you don't really need it.
"Are you ready?" he asks when the feeling of you so close drives him so crazy that all he wants to do is plunge into your heat.
"Please," is all you can reply.
Frank pushes in slowly. Wants to savour the stretch of your pussy, the way it adapts to his size, wrapping around him. You haven't been with anyone since your divorce, so the stretch of a dick pushing inside of you feels foreign, and so fucking good. The same goes for Frank who's missed the wet, warm hug of your walls. The way you suck him in.
When he's fully seated inside of you, he starts to move. Thrusting slowly and languidly, savouring the moment of feeling you all against him. Kissing him, touching him, scratching at his skin.
"I've missed you," he whispers into the crook of your neck. Soothing the skin with a gentle kiss. "I've missed us."
You break down again, sob ugly and uninhibited as you pull him closer into you, hugging around his neck.
"Fuck, I missed you too."
He stops when he realises that you're cryinf, holds you, starts to pull himself out, "Fuck, baby, did I do something wrong-"
But you interrupt him, "Don't. Keep going, please."
So he does. With you still wrapped around him, skin to skin, chest to chest, heart to heart. He keeps thrusting into you, feeling every part of you until his skin feels like he's on fire. Tears wet his cheeks too as he lays with you for the first time in too long, listening to your sobs that mix with the obscene noises from the place you two connect, and choked out moans from how good he feels inside of you.
"Not gonna last much longer, baby." Frank admits when he feels his orgasm coming closer and closer. "Will you cum with me?"
You nod into his neck, press kisses to his face. Push your hips up against him to meet his thrusts, and wrap your legs around him. He's suddenly impossibly deep inside you, and each thrust has his tip rubbing against that spongy spot inside of you, until your orgasm takes over. And watching you only leads to his orgasm too, one that leaves the two of you shaking and moaning against one another. Holding each other like you always used to, as the aftershocks burst through you. Hoping your bodies and your mouths can speak for your hearts.
There's too much history. There's too much pain. A year apart, and for good reason too, and neither of you knows what the next step is. Can you two really be together again, the way you used to be?
But it's a question you ignore for now. Just for tonight, you're just you. Mr. and Mrs. Langdon. You're just two people who fell in love and loved, and grew together, and wanted, want, a future together. You're just two people, choosing to hold one another, kiss one another, relish in the warmth of the person you love more than anything in the world.
oh my heart, this was so painfully beautiful 😭❤️ stunningly written, it pulled at my heartstrings just right. her keeping the mug. frank still wearing his wedding ring even though it had been a year. and accidentally, instinctively calling her baby. ugh it’s just the right amount of angst and fluff and longing and 👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻
thank you for tagging me! i’m so happy my fic gave you the inspo to write this 🥰🥰
my queen angel, tysm for reading, i was so excited to write frank angst after reading ur fic !!! and YES HE'S A PATHETIC BOY but he's my pathetic boy with his wedding ring 😭😭 i'm so honoured by ur reblog and comments! ♡♡♡
billy tries to hide that he’s sick because he considers even having a cold, a weakness. but once you find out and start taking care of him… he turns into a big baby.
Summary: In the heat of the Mississippi Delta, some loves don’t burn out — they smolder.
You wear respectability like armor — the wife of a church-going man with a cruel grip and a reputation to uphold. But when Elias “Stack” Moore walks back into your life, all fire and memory, the past you buried comes roaring back.
He was once your secret, your first love, your wildest mistake. Now, he’s the only man willing to fight for your freedom.
As tensions rise, and your world threatens to come undone, you must choose: the quiet ruin of staying, or the dangerous promise of a life where you finally belong — in your own skin, in his arms, and on your own terms.
Warnings: Period-Typical Misogyny and Sexism, Religious and Societal Judgment/Shaming, Infidelity, Physical Violence, Domestic Abuse, Light Smut at Some Points (MDNI 18+)
Word Count: 31.6k
A/N: So, clearly your girl has been VERY busy. I never anticipated this fic reaching over 30k words. But I'm super proud of it and I think the story turned out beautifully. I'm really excited to be sharing this passion project of mine and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Chapter 1: Ain’t Nothin' Here But Temptation and Trouble
After seven years in Chicago, the SmokeStack twins return home and open their own juke joint on the edge of town. One stolen night of freedom leads you straight to Stack Moore — and the wildfire between you still burns just as hot. But small towns have long memories, and some ghosts don’t stay buried when the music starts playing.
Chapter 2: A Whisper That Won't Let Go
When Stack reappears on your land, the past comes crashing back with him — unspoken things still smoldering beneath the surface. You remember the truth of your situation and why Stack’s shadow still lingers like a whisper you can’t forget.
Chapter 3: The House Is Quiet, But Not Kind
Stack wrestles with the weight of unfinished promises, while you endure another day beneath the smothering roof of a man who only knows how to control, not love. A quiet act of defiance brews within you and by nightfall, you make your decision.
Chapter 4: You Don't Breathe Right Nowhere Else
Drawn by memory, music, and the ache you've tried to bury, you find yourself at the juke joint and face-to-face with Stack. The heat between you is year deep, but what unfolds isn't just desire — it’s reclamation.
Chapter 5: You Said It With Your Mouth (Coming Soon: August 28, 2025)
You and Stack cross a line that can’t be uncrossed — a night soaked in heat, hunger, and confessions neither of you can take back. But as dawn breaks, so does the illusion of safety, and you're forced to return to a house that’s never felt like home, carrying the weight of a love that won't stay buried.
Modern AU, Elias "Stack" Moore x VirginChurchGirl Reader
Note: Thank you so much for all the love shown to part one! It means so much to me and I'm so happy you all enjoyed the story. Let me know how you feel about this second installment!
P.S. I'm thinking about putting together a playlist for this story, is that something ya'll would be interested in?
So far, I have Heaven Ain't Hard 2 Find by 2Pac. I just feel like that's the perfect dynamic for Stack and Reader.
Hope you love it.
~ Muah
Trigger Warnings: Religious abuse
You woke up in a borrowed bonnet with the sun in your face and a tenderness between your thighs. Your foggy eyes came to rest on a dark curtain gently rolling in the breeze from the cracked window. You rolled over, searching for warmth and meeting it when you rolled right into the body beside you. Your eyes lingered over the broad plane of Stack’s back, watching him breathe, your body smoothed over, your chest still in a tangle. Memories from the night before came filtering back piece by piece. The dancing, which rolled into the time spent in the office. All the things he’d said to you come back in a hot flush.
Say ‘yes Daddy Stack’
You ain’t never been her girl, always been my Suga’ sweet.
A thud of leftover pleasure moved through you in a shudder. You remembered sitting in the backseat with him while Smoke and Annie were in the front. The pile of your clothes and belongings charred and smoldering on the curb. If not for Stack’s arm around your waist, you might have fallen to your knees to sift through the mess for something salvageable. With him there, you resolved not to let your momma lower you to your knees. Not on the very same night you’d gotten your wish.
You remember Jorna emerging from around back with a box in her arms. It was strange seeing her out in the small hours in the morning. Had she snuck out? You hadn’t thought she knew how to do that. But there she was, stepping through the grass along the side of the house to come and meet you on the sidewalk.
“Grabbed whatever fell outta her arms while she was draggin stuff out.”
In the box she handed you was some underwear, a few photos, a tube of lipstick, a dress, and a pair of shoes. You stared at the last of your belongings, too tired to cry.
“Thanks.”
She sighed, shaking her head.
“Why’d you have to go and do that?”
A lump formed in your throat and Stack took in an agitated breath.
“I’m grown, Jorna.”
She gave you and Stack a hard look, your mother’s look.
“Yeah? And what am I supposed to do?”
Guilt spread sour in your stomach and you looked down into the box.
“You ain't got much school left. Just don’t make my mistake, you gotta leave the minute you hit eighteen.”
“Says the one who already had her college paid for.”
You took her hand while she wiped her eyes with the other.
“All I know is, the longer you stay, the longer she owns you. Everything she do for you feels like you owe her back for it."
Jorna wiped her eyes, and you wanted to hug her, tell her everything would be alright, mother her like your momma couldn’t, but she left without another word. Stack took the box from your arms, and you followed him into the car.
The next morning, box sat beside the bed, and you rolled over to examine the dress, a wave of pink linen. It wasn’t your favorite; that one was gone, but this one had been a gift from your dad. Pink and modest, and falling to your ankles. You stared at it awhile, wondering what he'd had done while momma set about burning his daughter out of their lives.
You muddled over the question until movement broke you out of it. Stack’s arms came around your torso and pulled you into his warm chest.
“Whatchu doin’?” He mumbled, his voice rumbling and tired, transferring bass right into your back. He wrapped your arms up in his, and it made your eyes close.
“Pickin’ over the bones,” you said.
You kissed his forearms. His lips met your neck and your head clouded over again. His hand massaged over your chest, finding your nipple between his fingers, sending a warm buzz between your legs. You sighed, curling further into him.
His other arm snaked around from under you, and his hand found its way to your panties. The heat of his palm brought heavy sighs from your lips, and he started nibbling to your neck as he was rolling you in his hand.
“Betta shit to do on a Sunday,” he mumbled, his teeth in your skin.
A moan rose soft and high from your throat, and your mind stumbled over his words, nearly missing the day until it looped and announced itself in bold letters–Sunday!
“Oh no, oh Christ,” You pulled yourself away and grabbed the dress from the box. Stack sat up, irritation clear on his face.
“Tell me you ain’t rushin’ to no church.”
“I’ve never missed a Sunday, Stack. I can’t start missin’ Sundays.”
Your heart was pounding, stomach falling. He sucked his teeth as you rushed to the bathroom. You ran toothpaste over your teeth with a finger and sprinkled water on yourself, saying quick prayers asking God for forgiveness. When you came back into the room, Stack was sitting on the edge of the bed, rolling on the tray in his lap. He gave you a skeptical look you couldn’t stand.
“I just–I’m still the woman I was, ya know? These people are family. One of us is gone, the rest don’t feel whole.”
Stack stretched and then sat admiring the blunt he’d finished. You put your fingers in his goatee and kissed him when he looked up. A deep kiss unfit for the Lord’s day.
“Thank you,” you whispered, “For everything.”
You put on your heels from the night before, your purse was empty and your phone was dead but you grabbed them both and rushed out the door.
You were sweating by the time you made it to the church and stood just outside the chapel doors in the little velvet-carpeted atrium. You leaned with your hands on your knees, trying to breathe. The door opened behind you, and you shot up, pretending you weren’t dying from exhaustion. Inside the chapel, you could hear reverend Moore leading the congregation in prayer. You couldn’t interrupt.
You peeked at the people who’d just come in and found it was the Carmichael family. Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael and their young sons. Mrs. Carmichael and your momma were friends, and usually when she saw you, she pulled you into one of her famous hugs. Today, when you smiled at her, her eyes stayed cold. She turned her face away and shielded her sons like you were about to snatch them from her side. Mr. Carmichael only shook his head. Your smile faded, and her coldness sank into you.
The prayer ended, and you went into the warm, damp space, the door groaning as you pulled it open. Eyes turned to you and flicked away amid a wash of whispering. There were shaking heads and downturned mouths and rolling eyes. As you moved along the pews, you tried to smile at every face, to find a little recognition in these people who’d known you since you were a baby. These people who had welcomed you as their church family and vowed to stand beside you through trials and tribulations. Your spiritual backbone.
No eye would linger. No one offered a smile. You found yourself coasting, a hollow smile stuck to your lips, your heart hidden behind your ribs, eyes burning. Then, from the other side of the isle, Saleema Oberland’s gloved hand shot up.
Saleema and her daughter, Dee had lived two doors down from you for years. Saleema was always in church on Sundays but, for some reason, your momma never warmed up to her the way others did. Now, she waved and smiled like she hadn’t seen you in years. You circled the chapel to reach her, and once you did she pulled you into a hug and had you sit beside her. She gave you her handkerchief and you wiped your eyes with the soft little item, and then she pointed at the words embroidered on it:
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
The words drew tears. Saleema rubbed your back and let you cry them. After the service, Saleema stayed back to talk and you went downstairs to see if you could catch your momma. You found her in the office talking to Doreen and approached with a timid knock on the door. Doreen’s face gave away that it was you in the door, so, without even turning around, your mother spoke with her back a stern wall.
“What is it?”
Your throat tightened.
“Good morning, momma.” The words had none of the anger you felt, because the truth was you were scared at the moment. Terrified that she really was done with you. “You need something from the office?”
“I don’t see what business that is of yours,” she turned then, her brows arched and severe, her lips pursed. “You don’t work here no more.”
Your weak smile wilted.
“I…”
“So you think you can disobey me, run the streets, and come back here?” she shook her head, “No…no, that’s not how it works–”
“What did you want me to do?” you asked, Doreen snuck by you, then, her eyes lowered and closed the door behind herself. “What hadn’t I given you?” You asked, “You wanted my whole life? Every decision I made needed to be yours, is that it?”
“You had your life and it was a good one. I didn’t want you to throw it away on some low-down pimpin’ criminal.”
“You don’t get to judge, momma.”
“Oh I don’t? You think they doing something good for the world? Selling women? What you think you look like to them? Another piece of meat to turn out.”
“If you don’t give people a chance to change, they never can.”
“Oh,” She laughed, “he got you. I see that, now. The devil sends his best soldiers, but your corruption ends with you, I won’t have it in my house.”
You stood, shaking your head.
“You’re the most hateful person I know.”
“Count yourself lucky. There’s people in this world who would hang their daughters if they stayed out all night with some man and came crawling into church the next day with his stank still in they hair.” She was shaking her head like you were despicable. “You used to be a good girl, Y/N.”
“I’m still good.”
She pointed a firm finger.
“Don’t you lie in the Lord’s house. That I won’t stand.”
You couldn’t help the trembling of your lip.
“Momma…” all your words left your mind. There had been something grand you wanted to say to her, some reality check you wanted to deliver, but suddenly it felt like you were standing way out in the middle of the ocean and the boat that’d brought you there was nowhere to be found. You didn’t remember why it was so important to get to that island anymore. “I’ll stay with a friend for a few days, alright? Maybe we can talk later.”
Her eyes remained cold.
“You thought I was playing when I said don’t come back?”
You didn’t let the question settle. You sniffled and wiped the tears which had fallen to your chin and you tried to smile. Tried to build a bridge off that island.
“I’m gonna go see about findin work somewhere else. But I’ll see you, Momma. That’s a lovely dress.”
You’d never been afraid of the members of your church before. Even on those occasions when your mom was upset with something you’d done and those other church women became clones of her, ready to punish you in her place, you’d never hidden yourself from their eyes the way you did that Sunday. For the first time in your life, leaving the scope of the church parking lot felt like being released from a firm grip.
As you made your way into town, you saw here and there, people you’d seen at the club the night before. You saw them leaving the post office or going into the grocery store. They sat outside at restaurants and lived their lives as normal. Nothing was falling apart for them.
Annie answered the door when you got back to the twins’ apartment. You stood in the air-conditioned hall feeling silly for showing up back there like a lost puppy.
“Hey, Annie,” you said.
She scanned you top to bottom.
“Not welcome in the holy house?” She said with a smirk.
You shook your head, and she stepped aside to let you in.
“I’ve never had them look at me like that,” you said, slinking into the foyer.
“You mean the way they look at other folks?”
Annie passed you, making her way into the kitchen where she was prepping something for an early dinner. Your heart sank remembering all the things your mother had ever said about her.
“I never believed anything they said about you,” You said. She raised her eyes from her work, “For what it's worth.”
“Well, for what it's worth, I never believed what they said about you, either.”
You perked up.
“What they say?”
Annie laughed, her fingers coated in flour from the chicken.
“I'm just messin with you, girl. Shit, it's yo momma people don't like.”
You couldn't help laughing.
“That I can believe.” You looked around the living room. “Where the twins?”
“Went to see a man about a dog.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“That's what they told you?”
“Nah, that's what Stack told me. Smoke said they had some business they needed to check on.” She shook her head. “Ain't been a week and I'm just about through askin’”
What you think you look like to them? Your mom’s words came back loud and painful. You bit your lip, hating that she was stuck in your head. You sat on a stood and tried to think of something else, but you found yourself speaking out of the anxiety she gave you.
“You ever worry about what they get up to?”
Annie looked at you.
“Worry’s the most unproductive emotion there is.”
Your leg started bouncing. You got up and started chopping onions to give yourself something to think about. Still, your mom's words come back. You keep your mouth shut and rubbed your burning eyes with a napkin.
“They got good hearts,” you said, “I always knew that, no matter what I heard.”
“We all heard things bout the twins.”
“Right.”
“So what changed?”
You shook your head, turning back to chopping.
Annie sighed and put the flour-covered chicken back on the plate.
“Look,” she wiped her hands on her apron. “Somethin’ I wanna ask you.”
You looked at her, and she leaned against the counter with her arms folded.
“Go on,” you said.
“You said people can't change unless you give em a chance.”
You look at her in surprise.
“How'd you know that?”
“Stack told me.”
Heat filled your cheeks.
“He did?”
Annie chuckled.
“Girl, he used to tell that story all the time. Talkin bout that sweet lil church girl. Used to drive Mary up the wall.” You feel a mix of emotions, but the largest of them is relief. You get back to the onions. “My question is, what were you hoping would change about them?”
You’re taken aback by the question and look at her for a long moment.
“Well, at the time it was just something I told Officer Daniels cause I thought it sounded good.” Annie considered that. “I never thought they needed to change. Seem to me like they Daddy needed to change, or the world. They was just boys. And they always had good hearts, like I said.”
“So, like I said, what changed with you?”
Annie’s question caught in your throat. You were back in your momma’s house all of a sudden. Then you were younger, peeling yourself away from Stack so you could receive your punishment for speaking to someone momma didn’t deem worthy. Annie was rubbing your back before you realized you were crying.
“That shame she put in you,” she purred, “It’s a poison. Make you an enemy to yourself. But ain’t nothing dirty bout you and Stack. As far as what they done, oh, I know some of it ugly and bloody as anything. But you just gon have to decide what you can live with. Now…” She took the knife from your hand. “You done cut enough onions to make these black eyes peas three times over.”
You laughed at yourself, sniffling as she gave you that motherly smile of hers.
“My momma got in my head today.” You said, “But after I left her I kept seeing people who was at the club last night and they looked so happy. It was like…”
“Like you ain’t fallen from grace?”
“Like my happiness ain’t evil,” you laughed.
She squeezed your shoulders, shaking you.
“That's what I'm sayin!”
The two of you shared a laugh and a hug, and you were finally able to shake off the shitty mood the morning had put on you. You shuddered, like an old heavy coat was falling off.
“God, I need a shower. Feel like I been dipped in dirt.”
Annie laughed again, getting back to the food.
“You smell like it, too.”
“Hush!”
You let yourself feel peace while she filled the kitchen with laughter and the smell of hot herbs.
You hoped Stack wouldn't mind you borrowing some of his clothes. You found a 2Pac T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and slipped into them. You'd never been a TomBoy, but the outfit felt comfortable and the clothes smelled like him. It felt good to be clean again, with your hair taken care of and food on the table.
You were just setting down the pan of cornbread you made when the keys rattled in the door, and your heart jumped into your throat. The twins came in and you tried not to look too excited to see him, but the minute Stack saw all the food he was cheering, and you were grinning.
“Oooooh, yes ma'am! Yes ma'am it's good to come home to women, ain't it good, Smoke?”
Stack wrapped his arms around you from behind, all in your ear, kissing your cheek and telling you how good you smelled, how nice you looked wearing his clothes. His mustache tickled your neck but that's not the only reason you were giggling. You were happy to have him wrapped around you, again. Happy as a pig in shit.
“Alright, alright, now. Before the food gets cold,” Annie chided.
Stack wouldn't take his hands off you, guiding you to a chair he pulled out for you, and settling beside you with his hand on your knee. You asked what the twins had been out taking care of, but they dodged the question and Annie gave you a little conspiratorial grin.
After dinner, you settled in Stack’s room. The space was cloudy with cologne and Warren G while he got ready for the club. You watched him fresh from the shower, only a towel around his waist, water dripping. You sat on the bed with your phone open to job listings, but when he came in you suddenly couldn’t focus.
You tried to pretend you weren’t staring, tried to keep your eyes on your phone, but he was looking way too good. You bit your nail while he got himself lotioned and dressed. He caught your eyes in the mirror while he did his tie.
“Help me get this straight, Shug.”
His tone seemed innocent enough but his smirk said otherwise. You crossed to the dresser, and as soon as you were within reach his hands were on you again. On your hips and palming your behind while you straightened the tie. Being so close, the look in his eyes had your stomach falling.
“Seem like you ain’t you in ya head,” he said, his voice low and smooth. You let his eyes unmoore you, and truth slipped from your mouth all slick and easy.
“Turns out they didn’t miss me. My momma, least of all. Got me all twisted up about everything.”
“Wha’s everything?”
You hesitated, his hands holding your hips against him, your lips so close to his.
“You,” you said. “She had me wonderin what was real.”
“You don’t know?”
You dropped your eyes and he lifted your face so you’d bring them back to his.
“If you could say it once…I know it’s early…”
He shook his head.
“It ain’t early, Shug. Been since we was kids.”
He took your face into his hands and kissed you, and you breathed into it like it had been the last piece of a difficult puzzle.
“We here,” he said, “You wit me and I’m wit you.”
You stared.
“That’s it?”
“Das it, das all. You spoken for, Sweet.”
Your smile was wide and soft, the relief so light and sweet it made you laugh. Your breath suddenly coming in easy waves.
“She works so hard to get to me,” You said, “I think she hates me, Stack.”
“Aye, come on, Shug. She don’t hate you. She don’t mean it.”
“You wouldn’t stick up for her if you knew what she said about you.”
“I ain’t stickin’ up for her. I’m stickin’ up for you. She can’t hate you. Don’t you know dat?”
You saw certainty in his eyes.
“That how you felt?” You asked.
“I know my daddy ain’t mean what he did,” he boasted, “Just feelin’ something he couldn’t take, and he put it on me. Das all. Same wit yo momma. I know damn well you ain’t nothing nobody can hate.”
You soften.
“That's the sweetest thing I ever heard.”
He's looking at you with the most sincere eyes. The way he was last night just after he'd finished. He looked at you like the whole world had boiled down to the rounds of your eyes.
“You da sweetest thing I eva seen.”
He said it low, like a private thing, and his eyes dropped to your lips a second before he pulled you in. His kiss was like you remembered, his tongue just as nimble and inviting. Your mouths moved together, which started a rushing in your head, and stirring the desire you'd been holding in that secret place below your naval. You put your hand on his as he held your face, and as the world around you began to fade, a soft sigh sounded in your throat.
Stack responded with a deeper, quicker kiss. His hand moved to your chest and then slid down your stomach. You were breathing harder, then. When his hand nestled in between your legs he pulled back and looked you in the eye while he rubbed. Embarrassment made you turn your eyes.
“Uh uh, look at me.” You did. “Lay down. I'll be back when ya eyes open.”
You nodded.
“Okay.”
“What you say?”
His hand was feeling good rolling over you and heat rushed into your cheeks.
“Yes, Daddy Stack.”
He smiled and kissed you goodbye. Left you missing his hand.
You felt him before you heard him. A swell of buttery pressure between your legs and his heat enclosing you from behind. His strong arm was warm under your hand and you held on as you rode the first swell of pleasure rolling through your cunt. He caught your moan under his other hand, muffling your sounds so they wouldn’t reach out into the rest of the apartment.
“Sound so sweet,” he murmured warm liquor and cologne into your ear. He took the lobe into his mouth and pinched it between his teeth. He massaged your pussy, fingers gliding across the wetness, pressing you back so your hips rolled against the hard curve of him. The pleasure charging under his hand kept growing, your breath shuddering in your throat as you whined into his palm.
He started sucking and biting your neck, adding to the rush sparkling in your clit. Stack brought his middle finger to your mouth and you accepted it onto your tongue, sucking and swirling your tongue around it. A sigh rolled out of him while he deepened the pressure on your neck and the sweetness enveloping your pussy.
“You know you had me thinkin’ bout it all night?” He spoke into your neck. “Thinkin’ bout all the ways I was gone get ma suga’ sweet sweatin’ and cussin’ wit ma dick up in her.”
A rush of pressure forced your mouth open and you moaned around his fingers. Your mind went blank and your body turned loose as you came, moaning into his palm while you held the arm doing the work, still anchored across your body. Still rubbing the mess, making the sweet melting last. You felt the fall keep going, a well getting deeper and deeper. You were shuddering, your mouth hanging open as he moved his hand to gently hold your throat.
“Stack,” you whined.
He kept going, kept drawing out that hurting twist of pleasure until you were pushing against his wrist, trying to escape. It was no use. His arm was firmly locked in place.
“You ain't done,” his voice was heavy and close, “Keep fightin’ me you gone get yourself in trouble.”
You surrendered, whining, trying to breathe and choking on too much sensation gnawing into you. Finally, Stack pulled away and you were left panting into the pillow. You didn’t have a moment to think before he pulled off your shirt and the sweatpants were tossed aside.
“You gone learn to ride tonight, Suga sweet.” Stack arranged himself on the bed, blue moonlight shining beautifully across his chest as he lay stroking himself. He had you straddle him and a lump came to your throat.
“You gone…tell me how?”
He smiled, showing off his gold while his hand moved up to play with your nipple.
“Nah, I ain’t gone say a thang.” He laughed at the look of panic on your face and pulled you down to kiss you long and deep. You felt him move against your entrance and pulled back to look in his eyes, which were serious again. “Raise up a lil, don’t take much, den come down on it slow.”
You raised up, felt him there, and started lowering yourself. Stack took in air, closing his eyes, his hands resting on your hips. The stretch didn’t feel quite so brand new as it had the night before, but you couldn’t take much before stopping to breathe. Stack kissed your cheek, moving his hands up to rub your back.
He let you take it slow, let you pause, and you were so grateful. By the time he was all the way inside you were in awe with yourself, resting against his chest while his hips rolled gently, pushing himself that much deeper in.
You looked at him with a proud little smile.
“I did it.”
He smirked and chuckled to himself.
“So cute,” he licked his lips, “Get up on ya feet, Shug.”
You were confused, but he helped you rearrange until you were sitting on your feet with him so deep inside it wiped the smile off your face. He put your hands on his biceps and pushed his palms underneath you.
“Bet you know what to do, don’t you?”
Your face was hot, but in a general sense, you did know what to do. Had overheard it being described by some men outside the post office once. When she's on top, bouncing.
“Yes, Daddy Stack.”
He smirked.
“Gone den.”
He helped you as you started to raise back up. The slide of his length caressing you as you rose to the tip, filling you again as you lowered down. You took him inch my inch with a shaky breath leaving your body. He had you so full it took effort to come all the way back down each time. Stack helped, lifting you and letting you sink back down. You watched the pulsing veins in his arms as he lifted and lowered you on his shaft, air hissing out between his teeth.
“Dat shit good, Shug. Damn it's good.”
A blush of pride made you ignore the pain and suddenly all you wanted was to hear more of how you were making him feel. You moved a little faster, letting yourself whimper every time you came down.
“Yeah, shit, dats my suga baby.”
You were taking all of him with every rush, letting a little smack sound each time you landed while his face etched into such serious focus. Your thighs started to burn, distracting from the discomfort inside you, or maybe they were melding into one.
“Look,” Stack said, and you followed his gaze to where his dick was meeting your lips.
There was a ring of glossy wetness around the base of him, slicking his pubic hair. You watched the length of his shaft appear and disappear in and out of you. Your mouth fell open, and the corresponding feeling of him stuffing you made your tongue slick. He was in there, all the way in there. You raised your eyes and found he was looking at you. Fuck. He was looking at you. A moan slipped out, and he smiled.
You slapped a hand over your mouth. You hadn’t meant to make that sound, but it couldn’t be stopped. It hadn’t asked for your permission. Your whole body shivered and the shiver squeezed a sound from you, too. Your body was doing things on its own. The glide of his dick became a rhythm and your bouncing had fallen into habit. Something you weren't really thinking about anymore, just doing, feeling like when you stretch just the right way and something deep in your body feels like honey.
Something thick moved in the muscles wrapped around his dick and you knew the pain had eased. Your heart was racing in your throat, thighs still burning, but inside you were going soft. You felt another shudder and had to brace yourself with both hands against his chest again.
“Show me dem eyes.”
Stack’s voice was heavy, and when you looked at him, it felt like he was working some kind of magic on you. Knowing he was watching you while you took him inside only weakened you further. His smile spread.
“Daddy in there, ain’t he?”
You nodded dumbly. Something sweet and tight started tingling inside, and it seemed like every time you came down on Stack the feeling got brighter and closer and harder. Your legs were shaking. There was a whine in your throat and you bit your lip, trying to keep quiet.
You needed to tell Stack that something was wrong. Something was rushing up inside you and it couldn’t be right, it was too big, and you knew if it got ahold of you it would break you. You sank your nails into the muscle of his chest and tried to gather words, but they scattered in your mouth before they could get out. All you could do was say his name with that tragic, terrified look on your face.
“Stack,” you whined. He let you get back on your knees and folded you against his chest, letting you put your face in his neck.
“Stay right there,” He said.
That’s when the real torture began. Stack started fucking up into you faster than you could’ve and you gasped. You covered your mouth but the sounds came, anyway. A stream of moans crumbling against the rhythm of his pumping hips, knocking your mind loose. Stealing all sense of yourself until you were rolling into a pit with no bottom.
“Stack,” you whined, “Shit.”
He was rushing up into you, his hands gripping on your cheeks while you squeezed his firm shoulder. The hand that had been muffling your moans had gone limp and you were right in his ear as a horrible, consuming wave of heat ran through you. Stack let out a bevy of low groans your body shivered and your moans came out all helpless and soft.
“Yeah, Shug,” his voice was low in your ear, “cum on dat shit.”
The waves kept coming, and like the man you knew he was, Stack didn’t stop until you were begging for mercy. But ‘please’ wasn’t good enough. He made you get back on your feet and keep riding until you said it right.
“Please, Daddy Stack.”
He was gazing up at you with a lazy, teasing smile, his gold gleaming in the moonlight.
“What?” He teased, “Daddy still feels good, don’t he?”
There was no question that he felt good. He felt thick and smooth, and the soreness inside you had faded to an afterthought. You nodded, your mind hazy.
“Then what you wanna stop for?”
Pressure was building again and the truth was you were scared as hell to feel that rush again. You were certain it would kill you. Unfortunately you couldn’t put those words together, so you moved on to the other truth weighing on you.
“My legs hurt,” you sobbed.
He sat up, tucking your knees in by his sides, finally relieving the strain in your thighs.
“Why ain’t you say dat?”
He was still grinning, still amused by the drunken anguish you were going through. He put your arms around his shoulders and told you to move your hips against him. You whimpered and started moving, grinding gently in little rolls of your hips, moving him deep inside. You tucked your face into his neck as the thickening mound of warmth came pressing into you.
Wrapped in his arms, your mind miles away, your body descended again. Your clit melted where it was rubbing warm and wet against his pelvis, and his hands helped your hips scrub against him. He was moving so deep in you then, you felt bottomless. Your mouth fell open and once again you were calling his name and cursing, just like he’d wanted. This time, you felt him cum, too, warm and slick inside you while he gripped your hips.
You cherished his moans with your cheek pressed against his, deliriously happy. Delirious in general, as you returned for the final time back to the present moment. Stack held you tight, both of you breathing hard in the relative quiet of the room. You rested on his shoulder, trying to ease into your breathing while he hugged you close. You sat nested together, and outside, the sound of rain came in a hush.
“Thought I was dyin’” you whispered and the two of you shared a little laugh.
“Yeah, you almost took me out, too,” he chuckled, kissing your neck, “got some magic in you, sweet.”
You hid a bashful smile behind your hand, but he caught it, and laughing he tried to pull your hand away from your mouth.
“Uh uh, don't hide now,” he teased.
By the time the two of you had cleaned up and returned to bed the sky was lightening, and you were both half asleep. He dragged you in close and you laid with your head on his chest, his hand resting on your hip.
“Me and Smoke goin to the bank, handle some business in the mornin.” His voice was soft and you hummed. Your eyes were closed, and you wouldn't even bother asking what business the twins were tending. Stack played with the fabric of the T-shirt you were wearing. “Figure after we done, I'd take you downtown, get you somethin nice to put on.”
It took a moment for the words to set in. Then, your eyes opened and you looked up at him, ready to ask if he was serious, just to find he was asleep. He looked so peaceful resting there. With a gentle finger, you traced the places you loved most. The apple of his cheek, the plush of his lips, the arch of his brows. You pulled your hand away and stared. There he was. The man you'd been holding in the privacy of your heart since you were a kid.
He was right when he said this wasn't sudden in that sense. But you stared and you couldn't believe you were there. You'd taken one step off the predetermined path you'd been walking and it led you right there. You remembered then why you came to your island. What you'd wanted when you told your momma you'd be back by morning, was to be free.
His eyes opened and you quickly looked away, your face hot with embarrassment. He chuckled, lifted your chin, and kissed you to sleep.
Fake holy rollers, typical behavior smh. Saleema and Annie were the only ones who showed kindness. Her mom needs to get over herself and seek counseling. She needed that lesson after the day she had 👏🏾.
Modern AU, Elias "Stack" Moore x VirginChurchGirl Reader
Note: We're finally here! Thank you so much for your patience in getting this last part finished, I wanted to make it extra long and the move didn't help the process lol
Thanks again for the love shown to the first two parts, let me know what you think of this ending. I'm considering continuing with this paring in one-shots just to explore certain topics.
Hope you love it.
~ Muah
Trigger Warnings: Toxic mother, Stack being a freak
On a normal Monday morning you’d head to the church to count tithings and check the congregation’s progress toward the fundraiser of the month. If a Monday happened to fall on the 1st, you drew up a budget for that month’s hot meals, checked on Grant applications, and paid utility bills. Once a month on Mondays, the carpet cleaners came to roll up the velvet runners and lay down fresh ones. They always wanted their check up front and you were always there to hand it over.
Then there was Kevin. Repairing the roof of the foster home he lived in had been one of the church’s fundraisers of the month. Since then, you paid him 15 dollars every Monday to pick up trash from the corner lot where leaves wedged against the cellar door, and teenagers gathered at night to bullshit and wind themselves up. What would that boy do for lunch money without you there?
What would you do on an aimless Monday?
Stack left you early, though not without long, lingering kisses and a promise to be back soon. You were tired and sore, helping you ignore the empty minutes passing. Your shower was long and hot which helped you ignore putting on the same dress you wore a day ago. You stepped out into the living room where Annie was in the kitchen, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. She glanced up at the sound of your steps, and her grin instantly make your face heat up.
“Hey miss thing,” She said.
“I wasn’t so loud, was I?”
Annie laughed.
“Nah, couldn’t hear nothing until juuust at the end.”
You groaned, covering your face which only made Annie laugh more.
“Oh girl, stop. Didn’t bother us.”
“Still-”
“Hush.”
Books and vials covered the counters around her. The countertop was crowded with herbs and flowers, plus some crystals and stones. Still more of the little items were things you’d never seen, stones with symbols carved into them and little pots of fine powders. You lingered over the open pages of a book, staring at the markings. Annie’s hand moved into your field of vision, pointing at the curling symbol on the page.
“For peace,” she said, then moved her finger to the next page, “Guidance.”
You hummed, your spirit coming to ease, though you hadn’t realized how alarmed you’d been. How the sight of the candles and unfamiliar visuals had unsettled you. Annie picked up one of the crystals, a dense, shiny green. Jagged and caged in silver wire.
“Malachite,” she said, handing it to you, “helps you take your power back, live life the way you decide to.”
You turned it over in your hand, waiting to hear some bright angel song telling you this stone was the thing you needed. There was no such song, but it was pretty. You looked at Annie’s pleased expression.
“I can have this?”
“I got it out for you.”
Your warmth had nothing to do with embarrassment now.
“Annie, you don’t have to be so nice to me, I can’t even pay it back right now.”
She looked offended.
“Who said anything about payin it back? This what people supposed to do for each other. You just take that crystal and keep it close. Do what you gotta do and don’t listen to yo wack ass momma.”
After your laughter died down, you asked what she’d be doing for the rest of the day.
“You know that black arts festival going on next month?”
You did.
“I need about 200 of these by then,” she held up one of the bottles of oil with herbs floating in it. You jumped, clutching pearls that weren't there.
“Jesus, Annie, girl let me help you!”
“You can't. I gotta make every single one, keeps my spirit in it, now what you can do, if you must-”
“Anything.”
She softened, taken aback a bit by your willingness. A soft smile graced her face. She put down the pestle and wiped her hands. She led you to the other side of the living room, into the room she shared with Smoke. The room was vastly different from Stack’s. Stack’s room was designed like something out of a magazine. The walls painted black, the bed covered in lush red silk and stylish slipcovers on the pillows. The walls were crowded with album covers framed in gold, and the mahogany bedframe balanced it all. Smoke's room was simple and clean. The walls were a deep navy blue, and dark, complicated works of art were framed in panels above the high bed.
You hesitated at the door as Annie crossed to a vanity in the corner, she looked back and waved you in. The room smelled like jasmine and a rich, earthy perfume. Annie had you sit on a stool beside the vanity while she gathered three satchels from the drawer.
“Few people expectin’ these today and I don't have time like I thought I would.” She placed the satchels into your hand and their contents shifted, uneven in shape and weight. Each had a name on a little tag tied to their tops. “They know how much they owe me.”
You nodded, staring at the bags. You didn't want to feel nervous, but you did. Twenty-three years of your mother telling you anything not expressly Christian was not of God and not to be associated with, wouldn't go away overnight. Annie touched your hand and you looked at her.
“You ain't gotta do this,” she said, “you don't owe me.”
You smiled.
“I wanna do it,” you said, “I don't like bein unemployed, I need something to do.” You looked down at the velvet satchels. “Besides…you and the twins have shown me nothing but kindness. Never, not once have I been made to feel out of place here and…like you said, this is what people supposed to do for each other.”
Annie's smile grew as she watched you talk, and when you were done she only smiled.
“Alright, then. You have my gratitude.”
You gathered yourself to leave.
“Imma go now so I'm done before the twins come home.”
“Big plans?”
You peeked shyly at her.
“Just a lil shoppin’” you demurred with a shrug but Annie saw right through you. Stack was about to spoil you the way men with money love to do, and you could hardly hide your smile.
The first order was for an elderly woman named Etta. You found her in the salon in the back of the beauty supply, the women cackling as you walked in. The hair hung heavy with the smell of singed hair and grease, taking you back to Saturday nights with your mom and the hot comb. You waited for a break in the laughter to ask for Etta. The woman you asked called back into the noise of the salon.
“Etta!” She called out, "They found you!”
Laughter erupted again and you shielded your smile. Your mom used to gather you and your sisters in the kitchen, playing gospel and washing hair in the sink.
Etta was under the dryer and needed to be tapped on the shoulder before she turned, her gray hair in curlers, her glasses fogged as she looked around, curious as to why the whole room was trying to get her attention. You crossed to her, not wanting her to have to get up.
“Hi Ms. Etta, This is from Annie,” you said, holding out the satchel to her.
“Who?” The woman asked, calling laughter from the others.
“Annie,” you raised your voice, “it's from Annie!”
One of the stylists raised the hood of the dryer as Etta reached for the bag. She took it into her fingers delicately, letting it sag into her palm.
“Ooh, this is just what I needed.”
It took a few minutes for her to request her purse from one of the other women and retrieve the money.
“You workin for the conjure woman?” Etta laughed.
“Just running errands.” You smiled.
You found the next customer behind the counter at the diner on the corner, right where Annie told you he'd be.
“Winston?” The man behind the counter frowned, his brows pulled tightly together, “ain't no Winston works here.”
You shifted to let a waitress grab a plate from the service window.
“He should be here. Annie sent me.”
“Sent ya to the wrong spot, don't know no Winston. Aye Crisscross, you know a Winston?”
Another man appeared looking you up and down.
“Who wanna know?”
“Annie.”
The man looked skeptical, then, slowly, a smile came across his face as he looked you up and down. You could see him putting something together and he leaned onto the counter, licked his lips.
“You know Annie, muss mean you know da twins.”
You nodded, holding out the satchel, hoping he’d take it so you could leave. He only smiled.
“You dat church girl, aint you?” He asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Hell yeah, I remember. Stack's lil church girl.”
You flustered a little and cleared your throat, shaking the satchel toward him again.
“Annie sent this for you.”
Finally, he took it off your hands, but he took his time paying you for it. Meanwhile, news travelled around the kitchen from those who knew of the SmokeStack twins and those who didn’t, and then, by extension, by who you were. You left quickly, headed for your final customer. You held the satchel’s tag up and paused halfway out the door. Saleema Oberland.
Your heart was pounding as you approached Ms. Oberland’s house. You glanced further down the street to where your mother’s house stood and you stared for a moment. It seemed like something from a dream, seeing it like a stranger would. It was just passed noon. Momma would be cleaning while your dad was at the church, no doubt talking with Reverend Moore about who they’d get to replace you. Jorna was in school, surely. You stared, and your eyes travelled the length of the road, trying to find the spot where just two nights before your belongings had sat burning in a pile.
The door opened and you jolted.
“Y/n,” Saleema laughed, “girl, I wondered who was loitering on my porch. You comin in?”
Saleema’s wide smile calmed you. You took in her eyes and the deep plum lipstick she wore and you nodded. Ms. Oberland’s kitchen was like a garden overflowing. Garlic and peppers hung in garlands and bowls spilled over with apples and plums. There were hanging baskets of curling greens and tomatoes clustered in the corners of the granite countertops. She had jars of peaches and wildflower honey and strawberry jam. You’d never been inside her house before, and now that you were, you couldn’t help but wonder why. Saleema and her daughter Dee were nothing but nice when you passed them at the grocery store. They were in church on Sundays just like you and your family. Yet your mom never spoke to Saleema.
You sat on a stool in Saleem’s kitchen while she brought out tall, slim glasses with lemons printed on them.
“Saw your momma after you left yesterday,”
You looked at her.
“Did you?” you didn’t want to ask if she’d said anything about you. Ashamed of caring. Saleema grinned.
“Oh she ain’t say much,” Saleema answered as if reading your mind. She poured the sweet tea from a chilled pitcher. You thanked her, then looked down into the ice cubes and swirls of sugar. You assumed already that the congregation knew about you and Stack, a shudder of the embarrassment came back, but you feel bad for being embarrassed. It’s like Annie said, ain’t nothing dirty about the two of you. Your face was warm so you drank a little and keep an ice chip on your tongue.
Saleema sat beside you and you looked up at her.
“You in love, then?” She asked it and smiled like she knew the answer. You smiled, too. You felt like a kid with a crush and in a way it made sense. Afterall, it was the same crush from back then.
“I’ve felt somethin for him for years. Just, been sittin’ on it for so long-”
“Ya ass got hot.” She cackled, and your embarrassment made you swat at her arm as she laughed with a sway in her body. “Oh girl,” she sighed, “It’s good to see you finally step outta your momma’s shadow. Always hoped you would.”
You smiled for a moment, unsure how to feel.
“She’s always been tough to talk to,” You said, “Now I just, I don’t know if I can be around her. When I saw her yesterday, it was like she twisted me up, made me wonder if I’d been wrong. Took all day to undo it.”
Saleema sat there nodding like she understood.
“When you going your own way, you can’t be around the same things, you know? Winos don’t go to bars.”
You nodded, even though the thought of your mom as something to be avoided triggered a flash of betrayal. On her part and on yours. You pulled out the last satchel from Annie.
“Annie sent this for you.”
You held it out to Saleema and she smiled again as she took it gently into her hands. From the bag she retrieved a vial full of flower petals and herbs, she smiled at it and turned the pretty thing in her hand.
“What is it?” You asked.
“Divination.” She looked at you and smiled. “I asked Annie to give me whatever she felt was right, and this,” She held the vial up, “Is healing.”
“You sick?” You felt worry rise in your throat.
“No. Kind of healing I need, is the forgiving kind. The kind where they didn’t apologize and maybe they never will, but I gotta feel okay, somehow.”
Your mind went to your mom. Did you need to forgive her? Stack was always giving leniency to his dad, but your anger for that man never lessened, and the anger you felt for your mom was strong, too. It was unfair, the way they’d treated their own children.
“And what if they don’t deserve your forgiveness?”
Saleema looked at you a moment. She got up and left the room for a while before returning with a large purse. Your heart leapt as you recognized it as the bag you kept your knitting in. Saleema sat beside you.
“Your momma gave me this yesterday. Can’t imagine why she didn’t just give it to you.”
You took the bag onto your lap, and inside you found your knitting and your favorite dress wrapped around a few more pairs of underwear. There was a framed picture of your family all together on your youngest niece’s first birthday. Then, wedged at the bottom was an envelope thick with money. Your eyes were full of tears, and when Saleema took your hands, the envelope dropped into your lap, the contents spilled out in a fan of hundreds.
“Listen to me,” She said, “If there’s one thing I want you to know, it’s that you ain't gotta forgive nobody.” Your heart was racing as you stared at your dress, the money, the picture.
“Why couldn’t she just listen to me?” Your throat was thick, and Saleema pulled you into a hug.
“We ain’t gotta forgive people that hurt us, but we gotta forgive those hard things in our lives. Forgive that they happened even though we ain’t deserve it.”
For the second time in two days, Saleema let you cry on her shoulder. Then, you gathered up the things your mother gave you and sat wiping your eyes and drinking tea until the burn of your sadness faded. You looked to the future, and just as hope for the rest of the afternoon was rising, your phone rang. Stack was calling.
Your favorite dress was blue, but not just one shade, it shifted like crosshatched brushstrokes from neckline to hem. A limewash of baby blue, topaz, and midnight blue. Blue like moonlight, and blue like robin eggs. The shoulders were little triangles of chiffon, and the whole thing felt so light you rarely sweat in it. You felt beautiful, and the way Stack looked at you when you got home (dropping his words mid-sentence and staring) confirmed that you did. Stack stood from the couch, smiling and leaving his brother annoyed by the interruption.
“Well, well,” he took your hand, holding it aloft while you slowly spun for him, and he whistled softly. “Miss. Suga’ Sweet.”
You covered your smile and he pulled your hand away, now holding both your hands in his. Gently, like lilies on a pond.
“Turns out my momma didn’t burn everything.”
You looked down at yourself, smoothing your hands over the delicate fabric.
“It’d be a sin to burn that,” Annie said from the armchair by the window where she was tying ribbons around the necks of her vials.
You smiled, shaking your head.
“She gave it back,” you said, tears in your eyes. “She wouldn’t even talk to me, but she…I don’t understand her.”
Stack was still looking you up and down, as if mystified by the shape of you. He seemed calm in a way you hadn’t been in days, maybe never. Maybe you’d never felt so optimistic and joyful because all this time you’d been living the way your momma decided you should. The road you were on now was new and gravelly, and with every step your foot found something it had never felt before and didn’t know how to navigate. Yet Stack stood there resolutely positive. Looking down at you.
“Y’aint gotta understand,” He said, “Aint for us to know.”
You wondered for a moment what he meant by ‘us’, but then you realized he meant us grown children of difficult people. Its not our job to understand our hurtful parents, just survive and then live as best you can as far from them as you can get. You didn’t wanna cry, so you turned your mind to the contents of the beg resting in the bend of your arm.
“C’mon,” You said, “Gotta show you somthin’.”
You set off for Stack’s room with him trailing behind, his eyes drifting down to watch the way your hips switched. He shut the door behind himself as you set the purse on the bed and eagerly dug out the envelope. You turned to show him, a grin on your face.
“Look.”
The envelope weighed heavily in his hand and his mood switched, becoming more serious as he flipped his thumb through the bills. He looked at you in confusion.
“Was dis?”
“Ma mommy gave it to me. Well, passed through a neighbor to give to me.”
“Shiiet. Yo momma stealin’ in church?”
You chuckled.
“It’s my pay, plus extra, obviously. Call it severance.”
“Whole lotta severance.”
“But it’s mine! I got my own money now! You ain't gotta pay my way all the time.”
He looked at you, his brows pulling together.
“Pay yo way?”
Your smile was softened by confusion.
“What? What’s wrong wit me havin’ money?”
“Aint nothin’ wrong wit it, Shug, but I ain’t payin’ yo way. That’s what you do for a friend when he down on his luck, you feel me? You pay ya homegirl’s way at the club when she come up short.” He handed the money back to you, stepping closer. “I’m yo man, Shug. What I do ain’t payin’ yo way, it’s what I’m ‘sposed to do.”
Heat rushed your face in a heavy wave, flipping your stomach as he came closer. His eyes were penetrating, as was the sentiment of his words. You swallowed.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
He glanced at your hands, then back at your eyes.
“What you wanna do?”
You glanced around, searching for a spark. In the past, you’d divided your money into the budget your dad wrote up for you. A percentage to the household bills, a percentage to a rainy day fund. You bought your own food and clothes but any purchases too extravagant left you subject to your momma’s scrutiny. You didn’t bother with jewelry and didn’t hope for a nice car. You didn’t allow yourself to want too much. So, what did you want?
Kevin was there in the church parking lot, about to mount his bike.
“Das him?” Stack asked, you said it was and he pulled up next to the boy before he could take off. Stack called to him, and you could see the kid’s eyes widen when he got a look at who it was.
He dropped his bike and approached the car. The kid looked smaller every time you saw him and you worried he was only eating at school.
“Daaang, this yo car?”
Stack swirled a toothpick in his teeth.
“Nah, I’m keepin’ it warm.”
The boy was too excited to catch the sarcasm, shaking his head at the fancy car. He was so enthralled he didn’t notice you get out and come around to his side until you were standing right beside him. His eyes brightened.
“Where you been at?” He asked.
“I don’t work here no more, Kevin. You alright?”
He shrugged, like he always did. He never talked about his foster family and it worried you.
“You don’t work here, so I can’t pick up like always?”
Your shoulders sagged seeing the worry in his face.
“Listen, I want you to have this.”
You tuck sixty dollars into his palm in a tight fold and then close your hands around his.
“Don’t count it till you in your room with the door locked, you hear me?” He nodded. “Hide it somewhere nobody gon look.” He nodded again, and when you took your hands away he only gently peeked at the money before stuffing it in his pocket.
“Where you work at now?” He said, softly.
You glanced at Stack, who merely shrugged, tugging gently on his sole patch.
“Right now I’m figuring it out. But make that money last till I do, alright? Don’t blow it on nothin’ stupid.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He hugged you, and you stood a moment hugging him back before you said you had to go.
Seemed like Stack was having more fun than you. He took you to store after store, had you try on so many clothes you feel like a model at fashion week just flipping through looks. Of course, you loved it, too. From Stack’s praises to his playful attempts to join you in the dressing room, hours melted by and you couln’t stop laughing. There are so many clothes, so many styles to try. He wanted to get you another going-out dress, so you tried on spaghetti straps and halter tops and dresses with plunging necklines.
You stepped out of the dressing room with your hand over the exposed skin of your chest.
“Stack, dis too much,” Stack turned from the sales clerk to shake his head at you, looking you up and down in the red dress.
“Neva too much, neva too much, neva too much!” He sang and you laughed and then he was kissing you.
Slip dresses and wrap dresses and one brown form-fitting dress that made him get this look in his eyes like he was gonna take you right in the Neiman Marcus, scandalizing all the white folks. After the new dress you moved on to casual wear. There were too many styles to choose from, even picking a top was a question. Casual blouses and t-shirts and tank tops, tube tops, crop tops, baby tees. There was so much it got to be overwhelming.
Finally, you begged for it to end and left with a few pairs of jeans and some tops the sales woman called “simple but elegant” which struck you as kinda wholesome.
He bought you earrings and necklaces. Then, he picked out a silver ankle bracelet with a diamond-studded S dangling from it. He knelt down in the showroom to fasten it around your ankle.
“For Stack?” You asked with a little smile. There was gentle accusation in your tone but he grinned up at you like a man with plausible deniability.
“For Shug” he said, his gold peeking through.
Then came shoes. A second pair of heels, slip on tennis shoes for everyday, sandals for the heat, fluffy UGG house shoes for fun.
Finally, he led you to the next store with your hand in his and your other hand over your eyes.
“Come on, one mo step, right dis way.”
You giggled. Your heart full of light, bags heavy in the crease of your elbow.
“Stack, come on, now.”
“Come on.” He took you in front of him, his hands on your waist, his warmth on your back. “Aight,” his voice was warm against your ear, “open.”
The mannequin was lit like an angel, the delicate curve of her thin hips and torso accentuated by the lacy pink corset and panties, her breasts resting in lacy, flowered cups. You covered your mouth as a gasp escaped you. All around the frilly, perfumed store were tables full of lacy panties and lingerie. Thongs no bigger than floss.
“Stack,” you said, but he wouldn’t let you move away, with his arms caging you, he lifted a lacy thong up in front of you. It was pink and red, little silk roses dotting the points where the straps would rest at the upper corners of your pubic area, framing your mons in a little triangle of lace. It looked sweet, like it was icing piped onto a cake.
“See? Aint so bad,” he whispered, “Bet you look good in em, too.” his voice in your ear made you weak, heat rising in your face, “Bet you taste good in em.”
“You wanted something fresh, that what it was?”
The voice was close and familiar, making you jolt and fill with embarrassment. Mary stood with her arms crossed, glaring at Stack who was immediately angered. You’d never disliked Mary, and you were embarrassed to be caught looking at thongs, so your natural instinct was to smooth things over.
“Hi Mary,” you said, forcing a smile, “that’s a lovely dress.”
Stack was seething.
“You followin’ me?”
Mary scoffed.
“This ain’t the club, I ain’t gotta explain what I’m doin’ here.”
“But you do needa take yo ass from round me.”
“Stack,” you said, looping your arm around his, you noticed a few eyes picking up on the argument and you knew how it looked. How white Mary looked, “You ain't gotta be nasty.”
Mary shook her head.
“Nah. That's just how he is when he done using you. No matter how many times he says he loves you. No matter how good he fucks you. Don't mean shit. When he's done, he's done.”
More eyes, more people stopping to listen and put the story together however they wanted. The way Stack was staring at Mary like he was about ready to cuss her out had you nervous. You spoke to her in a stern, low voice. Your mother’s voice.
“You know what you doin’ ain’t right, Mary. You got your feelings hurt and it's fine to be mad but here? Like this?”
She looked at you, incredulous as tears started forming in her eyes. Lord, you thought don’t let this woman start cryin in here. Luckily, she only shook her head and stormed off. A saleswoman asking her if she was okay as she left. A few people cast wayward glances at you and Stack before the moment passed and they went back to their shopping. Your nerves finally eased.
Laughter filled the apartment as Stack told Annie and Smoke about Mary’s appearance.
“Maaan, I mean crackas was circling like vultures, man, they was ready to pounce on ma black ass, Shug bein’ so sweet and here she go, start cryin I said ‘aw shit, white woman tears’.”
You were trying to catch your breath while Annie was leaning on you as she lost herself in laughter. Smoke was just shaking his head, but you could almost see a smirk as Stack cut up.
“Dat makes twice you saved his ass, you know dat, right?” Smoke said, looking at you.
You leaned back, finally catching your breath.
“Hell, I was scared, too.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Felt kinda bad, actually. If it hadn't been in public maybe we coulda talked with her.”
Stack let out an incredulous sound.
“Ain't no talkin’ wit Mary. She get deaf n dumb when she upset, can't tell her shit.”
You studied Stack for a moment, watching the way he fiddled with his fork and for the first time you wondered about him and Mary. Would she keep popping up like she had today? What if next time she caused a bigger scene and you couldn't smooth it over? What if you aren't there?
The danger Mary put Stack in was so real the thought made your throat tighten. Her crying in public was bad enough but what if she was angry enough to take it further? What if she lied on him? As a matter of fact, what if she told the truth? She was with them in Chicago for a time, you were certain she knew some of what they got up to. What if she was hurt enough to tell?
Later, you were putting away your new clothes fresh from the dryer, your mind still on Mary, your heart still full of worry over Stack's safety.
Stack himself seemed unbothered. He lounged with a blunt in his mouth, nodding his head to Big Poppa with his eyes closed, blowing clouds. His joy made you smile, as it always had, and a pang of love only made your worry run steeper. Your smile fell as you gathered the last things from the laundry basket. The underwear.
After Mary left, Stack had resumed the thong conversation. He'd encouraged you to pick out a few matching sets of panties and bras, then picked out something himself. The sweet pair he’d shown you first. You held up the thong that looked like pink and red frosting with the little roses and smiled to yourself. Heat rose in your cheeks as you imagined how Stack might look at you while you wore it.
You imagined the little triangle of lace on your body, Stack's brown eyes looking up at you from between your legs while he kissed them. His tongue warm and wet against your lips. You wanted the heat of his palms on your hips and his undivided attention. The attention he so readily gave, often without you even asking. You glanced at him again and saw now stood over his record player flipping through vinyls. You held the panties in your hand and stared, thoughts of his body swarming your mind, words crowding your mouth. How did people manage to do this? Just come out and ask for sex?
Your face was warm and he was standing there shirtless, his back to you. You tried clearing your throat but the timing was wrong as the bouncing beat of Respect began at the same moment. Stack was bouncing his head, his body full of that rhythm he seemed to have been born with. The rhythm that allowed his body to sync perfectly with yours, like when you first danced. The memory sparked something in you, and you found yourself crossing the room to lay your hand on his shoulder. He turned his attention to you, his bloody eyes looked you over and you feel like he could see it—your every desire.
“Wassup?”
His voice grumbled, and he didn’t wait for your answer before his mouth is on yours, clouding your mind. He was close so his eyes were all you can see.
His hands were on your hips and you started swaying to the music, trying to communicate with your body the way you had that night at the club. He seemed to understand.
“Whatchu thinkin’, Shug?”
You wanted to say just what you were thinking about. His lips, his hips, his hands, but your words got lost on the tide of flattery and arousal. He kissed you and you tasted tobacco and the sweet, stale musk of weed on his tongue. His hands eased into the back of your shorts, palming your ass and undressing you at the same time. That’s when he found the panties in your hands and a little smirk told you he guessed when you’d been thinking about.
“Put em on.”
You let your shorts fall around your ankles and then carefully stepped into the panties. When you stood, his hands rose with you, lifting his T-shirt up and over your head, leaving your chest exposed. He fell down to kiss your pelvis, feeling up your ass at the same time. You moaned at the feel of his hot mouth over your clit. He hummed and turned up the energy of his tongue, wetting the panties and making your knees buckle.
He gripped your hips, keeping you upright. He turned you and made you lean back against the low desk the record player sat on. The record skipped (Mad - Mad tricks up the sleeve..) as he pulled your panties to the side. His hot wet tongue had you gasping as he took you into his mouth, swirling your clit on his tongue and sucking softly. You moaned, your hand moved to his head like you were afraid he’d stop. It seemed like everytime his mouth found you again the feeling was more and more perfect, like over the last two nights, he’d learning just what you wanted and giving it to you.
A spark of sweetness fired in your clit and your head fell back, your mouth falling open.
You sighed heavily, then covered your mouth, remembering that you wanted to be quieter for Smoke and Annie. Stack’s tongue wasn’t helping that, though. He was doing something that had your moans coming out, whether you wanted them to or not. The best you could do was cover your mouth, but even then the sound was escaping. You felt yourself moving against his tongue, eager, wanting him, and before you could think you were coming in his mouth, your head bumping up against the wall, your hand failing to cover up your moans. Stack responded with a swirl of his neck, prolonging your orgasm. You squirmed, overwhelmed and desperate.
“Stack,” you pleaded, lifting your foot to the top of the desk. Stack wouldn’t stop. It was like he was fixated and he stayed locked in on your pussy, his brows pushed in, eyes closed, like this all there was in the world. You were squirming and whining when he finally stood, leaning over you, his fingers swirling around the wetness between your lips. He crowded in over you and kissed you deep while his fingers pushed inside you and you shuddered at the subtle stretch.
“Yeah,” He spoke against your lips, his eyes were close and he could be nothing other than sincere in his state. “Tell me how dat feel, Shug.”
You nodded, gathering the words while his fingers worked inside you.
“Feels good.”
He caught your mouth in a hungry kiss while his fingers did their work and you got lost in the feeling of him. All your worries were muted under the weight of the pleasure between the two of you. For the moment, there was nothing but the two of you in the entire world. His name, his hand, his body. When you came this time, it was with his hand up under your chin to make sure your eyes were locked on each other’s while you writhed and moaned, your mind on only him, your body shuddering, your mouth declaring that yes, you were his. You were his baby.
Your arms were wrapped tightly around him, catching your breath. He pushed the fingers he'd had inside you onto your tongue and you were met with the taste of yourself. He watched you take it in, watched you taste what he tasted. You wanted him suddenly, in a way that broke your heart and defies your ability to describe.
You took his face in your hands and kissed him hard, with insistence and he met your energy with the same. He lifted you by the hips and carried you to the bed, where you were plopped down. He freed himself from his boxers, taking his hardness into his hand. You lay there tingling and exposed, watching him as he watched you, his muscled stomach contracting with his breath.
You spread your legs, exhilarated to see his eyes drop to the panties. You could tell he liked what he saw and it made you feel bold. You slowly reached down, your fingers sliding across your stomach and down to your pelvis until you bumped against your clit. You paused and swirled the pads of your fingers over it, sighing at the tingle. Stack licked and bit his bottom lip.
“Bein’ nasty tonight, Shug?”
You nodded, still a little too shy to speak. He started directing you, telling you how to touch yourself and how fast. He had you use your other hand to play with your tits and swirl your nipples between your fingers. He wanted you to watch him stroke himself while he watched you.
By the time he climbed on top of you your clit was buzzing. You wrapped your legs around him, eager and impatient.
“Ms. Suga’ sweet wanting me bad tonight, ain't she?”
Your hand snaked up his toned chest, enjoying the feeling of his smooth skin until it was resting on his clavicle and then his neck. You nodded, ignoring the embarrassment of the honesty. Your thumb caressed along his jaw.
“Been wantin’ you a while. Not sure how to say it but I can’t help it no more.”
He brought his face close to yours, kissed you.
“You ain't scared to say what you want, is you? Not to me.”
You sighed.
“It’s hard, Stack. I’ve been taught one way, and when I’m with you I feel the opposite. It’s hard not to feel like I’m wrong sometimes…but when we together….I don’t know…it don’t feel wrong when I’m here with you.”
He kissed you and the record reached its end, relative quiet rushing in along with the rolling static.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, the smell of weed made you lightheaded, like you were buzzing, too. Meanwhile he's pushing his hardness against you, prodding and urging the wetness to slick over his tip. You soften.
“I want Mary to never speak to you again.”
A laugh rolled out of him and he smiled as he leaned down to kiss you.
“Aw Shug,” his lips move against yours, “you ain't gotta worry, baby.”
He pushed again, slipping up against your clit and more sweet pressure surged into your tender flesh. A soft whine urges him on and he's rubbing into you hard and slow.
“Look at me,” he said and you did. You met his hazy eyes.
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
Embarrassment flushed your face. You imagined his arms when he helped you ride, the sounds he made when he fucked your throat. You wanted all of that and more, all of him.
“I want you so deep in me I can't think.”
He let out a low moan, his brows pushing together as he rolled his hips against you again, watching the way it made your eyelids flutter.
“Keep goin’” he said. A low sigh pressed from your chest, along with more words you hadn't planned on speaking. Your hands travel up his arms, massaging the muscles of them.
“I wanna feel soft. The way I do when you're inside and all I feel is you,” you whispered, heat pressing your cheeks while he watched you intently, another swell of sweetness in your clit made you moan as your eyes rolled gently closed and you raised your hips to the meeting of his. He lowered the heat of his body down onto you, taking your earlobe into his mouth to suck and nibble on, making you whine. “I wanna make you cum,” you said, “I wanna be slick inside.”
He moaned, the sound of it rolling in his chest as he lay against yours. The two of you writhed and pressed against each other. One of his hands moved down to press your ass, lifting you even more firmly against the firm curve of his erection.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your voice filling the hollow of his neck.
“I want your name inside my body,” you whispered and felt a shudder roll down his spine. You felt an urgency coil inside him and there was only a moment's pause between him releasing your hips and his length pressing heavy into you. You drew in a sharp breath, and eased it out. How different it is now from the first time. That tight stretch and ache had been so intense that night in the club. Even the second time had been worse and this. This time it's a familiar ache. The stretch is like uncoiling a sore muscle, immediately welcome, deep and satisfying to the body. He moves inside you with a rock of his hips, pushing and pulling and gliding, tapping your clit with his pelvis, kissing your jaw, and whispering your name.
“Shug,” he sighed, "Lil Suga sweet.”
He pushed in to his base, deep enough to touch a sensitive place inside. You placed a begging hand on his hip which he immediately removed. He rolled his hips, working his tip against your cervix so that your leg drew up and you whined, your lip trembling. He did it like a thing needing to be done and without any meanness or disregard for the pain. Like cleaning out a wound, the hurting was part of it. After a while of moving slow against you, he went back to pumping. He took care to pause and press against your plexuses, the pain easing in time with the softening of your muscles. When the pinch had lessened to a palatable tenderness, and you were purring in his ear again, he leaned back to check your eyes.
What he found was the sweetest face he'd ever seen. Your eyelashes were dotted with melted sugar, your brows drawn, your mouth in a sweet pout. He would've sworn at any given moment that you were the finest woman God made, but right then it felt like such an irrefutable fact that he was lost in the power of it. He kept his hips moving but he was stuck staring at those eyes, stuck watching the soft quivering of your lip as you tried to speak.
“Daddy,” you moaned, “feels so good.”
It could've been the weed, but Stack was enamoured.
He started doing things just to watch the change in your face. Playing with your nipples and grinding his pelvis against your clit forced your eyes closed and your whines grew more intense. Your pussy was hot and hugging like a fist full of honey. He sat up, groaning at the sight and feel of you.
“Can’t go easy on ya tonight, Shug,” he said, his eyes focused on your pussy swallowing him, “Shit’s too good.”
You were alarmed by the notion that up until then he'd apparently been ‘going easy’ on you. He hooked his hands into the hinges of your hips, yanking you closer as he picked up speed. Your moans picked up, too, slipping from your throat one after another. You covered your mouth but Stack only pulled your hand away.
“Hold ya legs back,” he said, licking his lips as he watched you obey, holding your legs behind the knees you spread yourself and he leaned over, pressing his fists into the bed at the hinges of your hips. He was slapping into you, then, his eyes hazy but his intention clear as the rhythm of his hips cut the desperate whines and gasps leaking from your throat. Every thrust set off another hot rush of nerves buzzing in your walls, fogging your brain. Stack watched your eyes and his focus made your stomach drop.
You moaned again, then tried again to cover your mouth and this time, Stack took your hand and laced his fingers with your, pressing it to the pillow beside your head.
“I aint gon warn you again,” He said, “understand?”
He leaned down further, his pelvis rubbing your clit with every pulse of his hips, making your voice weak. You didn’t know how much you could take, but he didn’t seem close to stopping.
“Yes, Daddy Stack,” you whined.
He gave you a smirk, a little peak of his gold before you were plunged into the depths. A flush of tight pleasure made you whine again. He took you behind the neck and sat back, making you watch his dick sliding in and out as he gave you slow strokes. There was a puddle of thick gloss around his base, smearing onto your lips, wet strands stretching between your slick bodies.
“Look at dat,” he murmured, “makin’ a mess on me, Shug.”
Heat ticked up into your cheeks.
“S-sorry,” you stammered.
“Aw Shug,” he chuckled, his abs rippling, “You too damn sweet. Y’aint gotta be sorry, girl. I like dat shit.”
He let your head rest on the pillow while he pushed your thighs down to your sides and picked up speed again. You were falling quick, your moaning taking you over, your body overwhelmed. You felt a tingle between your toes and realised Stack was eagerly sucking them. You gasped, watching him alternate between using his tongue to loop around and between them, and sucking them into his hot, wet mouth.
You watched, your mind and body too consumed in your pleasure to form a thought about it. When you came it was with your legs quivering, moaning as your fingers dug into the silk sheets. You weren’t even finished when he flipped you on your stomach and rushed back in, forcing a yell out of you. Your legs were pushed together and he was fucking down into you, hitting a spot that made it impossible for you to keep composure. You were whining and moaning into the pillow, and everytime he asked you a question you obediently answered.
“Whose pussy is dis?”
“Yours, Daddy Stack.”
“You like how I’m fuckin’ it?”
“Yes, Daddy Stack.”
Over and over until his name was dripping from your tongue. Your mouth hung ajar, your eyes barely open, your pussy slick and pulsing. He bent down over you, taking you up under the chin and kissing you deep while he fucked you deeper. Inside, your muscles were still twitching from the last orgasm and he kept slamming into that spot so hard you were sobbing into his mouth. He was rocking your whole body with his, your vision a blur from the motion, your head swimming, your body surging. He was gripping your hips hard and fucking you when you were touched with the edges of your next orgasm and the power of it was already too strong.
“Stack,” there was pleading in your voice, a desperate plea for shelter from what was building inside you.
“You alright,” he said, his voice half drunk, “you alright, Shug.”
“Stack,” you whined again, using the only word you could say. He hushed you, kissing your cheek.
“You can take it, Shug,” he spoke low, his lips against your ear, “be good n take what Daddy give you.”
Your tears finally came. At first you couldn’t make a sound, then a long moan came strangled out of you. You shuddered, melting and aching as the enormous push of the orgasm rolled deep and heavy.
“Yes,” you whined, “Yes, Daddy.”
Stack was churning inside you now, kissing your cheek and nibbling your neck. He grabbed your hands and held them in front of your chest, the heat of his body thick on your back, and still he was moving against you, pushing inside you. You laid your head down, face in the pillow, surrendering to his body, to his dick. You were lost for a while in this place. Your mind blissfully blank. Your chest was still ringing with sound but you had no idea what you were saying.
The next thing you knew Stack was sitting up, lowering you onto his dick again. This time you started whining the second you felt him inside. Your head rolled back as he started grinding your hips against him and you braced yourself, squeezing his shoulders.
“Doin’ so good, sweet.” He murmured, his words broken through with a thick groan he couldn’t hold back. It flushed you with a sweet flash of pride.
You swallowed hard, pulling yourself together enough to lean your hands back on his knees and roll your hips the way he was telling you. Your body was shaking and the whimpers wouldn’t stop, but you kept grinding on him, messaging his dick against your walls and grinding your buttery clit into his pelvis. This time, when Stack took over scrubbing your hips against him and your orgasm swept up to take you, the force of it struck quiet, dumb and foggy eyed. It was his groans filling your ears, along with his slick words of praise.
You were in his arms when you opened your eyes. Laying down with his lips pecking your forehead. You turned your gaze up to him and he wiped at your tears with his thumb. Your body felt like warm silk, and he held you close enough to be cradled under the shelter of his chin. His chest was warm and still gently fragranced with his cologne. For a long time, neither of you spoke or moved, you just lay there with his hand rubbing your arm. After a while you shuddered from cold and he pulled the blanket up over you, nestling you into a cocoon with him. His hands smoothed over your back and down to gently squeeze your hip.
The two of you spent long minutes falling in and out of sleep until you each finally got up for the bathroom. When you crawled back into bed together, he took you right back into his arms. Like you belonged there. You found yourself snuggling into his warmth, enjoying the space you occupied by his side.
How had you gotten so lucky as to end up in this place where so many women wished they were?
No matter how many times he says he loves you. No matter how good he fucks you. Don't mean shit. When he's done, he's done
When you opened your eyes again, it was still dark and Mary’s words were in your head. Stack was still asleep, wrapped around you, and you were still safe in his arms. Everything was fine. Still, you worried. You lay there replaying the events in the shop with Mary.
Although your night with Stack had reassured you in some ways, it had left you vulnerable in others. Besides the worry that Mary posed a threat to Stack's safety, you couldn't help but wonder about their relationship. How had it ended? How recently and on what terms? You weren't a jealous woman, but these seemed like important things to know going forward.
Stack stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
“Shug? You up?”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
He pulled you in closer.
“Why you ain't sleep?”
You hesitated.
“What are you gonna do if you run into Mary again? I mean…if I'm not there.”
He chuckled.
“I mean it, Stack.” You moved in tighter, “I don't want…she could get you in trouble…”
He woke a little more. Able to meet your eyes.
“Shug I told you not to worry.”
“I know you don't want me to worry but I do. You being safe means something to me.”
He looked at you, his eyes roaming your face.
“You watchin ma back?”
“Of course,” you said, “Sargeant Shug.”
He smiled.
“I mean it, though. Don't say anything if she pops up again. Please? Just ignore her and walk away.”
He chuckled softly, on the verge of dozing off.
“Now she givin' me orders,” he mumbled “ma lil Suga' sweet.”
Then he was asleep again. You smiled up at his soft, relaxed expression, and after a few moments, found you couldn't get back to sleep. Rain had started outside, softly pattering against the window. You carefully peeled yourself from his arms and slipped into your T-shirt and a clean pair of shorts. You then tiptoed from the bedroom.
In the living room, you thought you were alone for a moment, before a flash of lightning illuminated the room at the same moment Smoke was striking a lighter. His stern face was lit in the orange flow of the flame while he pulled on the bone. He sat near the window, open just a crack. He leaned in the leather armchair, his eyes fixed outside. You started at the sight of him, but quickly settled.
“Oh,” you said, “hope we didn't wake you.” You said, trying to retroactively calculate how loud you’d been..
He shook his head, his mouth turned down, his eyes still outside. You hesitated a moment, unsure if you should go back to the bedroom though you were certain you couldn't sleep.
“Mind if I…?”
You gestured to the couch and Smoke moved his eyes to you for the first time. He pulled on his cigarette and took his time letting out the exhale.
“Ya live here.”
You sat down, pulling the thick throw blanket around yourself. Long silent stretches wound down between you and Smoke, with him pulling on his cigarette and then just staring out the window. You leaned your head back against the couch, your body exhausted, your head in torment. Finally, you collected yourself enough to inquire about him.
“Couldn't sleep?” you asked.
“Can't sleep,” he said “ain't been sleepin’ through the night since I’s 16.”
You knew from town gossip that 16 was the year Mr. Moore died his mysterious death. You swallowed spit and cuddled deeper into the blanket. The thunderstorm built slowly, low rumbles of thunder climbing over the hills, a heavy push of rain drumming down on the building. On any other night it would be relaxing. Now, at best, it was a fitting backdrop for your inner turmoil.
Your fear sat heavy on your chest, and with more than a little trepidation, you ventured to broach the subject with Smoke.
“I'm worried about him,” you said, your voice softened, “and he tells me I shouldn't be…but we all know what could've happened if things had gone another way with Mary.”
For a moment, Smoke just sat there in the glow of the night, the butt of his cigarette burning red as he finished it. He billowed smoke towards the window and then ground the butt in a crystal ashtray on the table beside him.
“Tha day when we was 15. You went in the store and I told Stack hold it down while I went and took a piss. Come to find out dis nigga was daydreamin, talkin’ bout the woman he’s gone marry one day, how she was the sweetest thing this side of the Mississippi, and what nice white dress she was gone wear at the weddin’, and the big ole rock on her hand, ya’ll was gone have four, five kids–I mean dis nigga was going on and on. So he was dreaming, and here come Officer Daniels. Not one of em saw a thing till he was right on top of em.” Smoke shook his head.
The thought that Stack had been picturing a life with you since so long ago made you feel light and beautiful. You find yourself smiling hard. You thought that day had only been special to you.
Since you kept ma black ass outta jail.
Your smile refreshed. It was true. He'd been thinking of you just like you'd been thinking of him. With that came another wash of anxiety.
“I never thought I'd get here, Smoke.” You say, “and now that I am, I just can't have nothin’ take him away. Not Mary, not my momma and her ways…I wanna keep him safe.”
Thunder rolled in again and you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. Smoke stood, looking out at the storm in deep contemplation.
“I can count on one hand the people I trust to look after ma brother. You one. I'm another.” He looked at you, serious as ever, and you knew he believed his own words, “‘tween us, it'd take a lot more than any one person's schemin’ to take em away.”
Smoke looked at you, considering you as if for the first time.
“Mary gon fall away,” he said “she ain't got no place in the future he envisioned. You do.”
He dipped his head before leaving the room, disappearing into the bedroom he shared with Annie. You hid your happy tears until he was gone. As much as you trusted Smoke, you weren't satisfied to leave Mary up to chance. If only you could talk to her, you could make it clear how much danger she put him in by harassing him. If she really cared about him, she'd understand. She had to.
You looked to the window to find the sky was lightning. The blue fading from navy to pale, like your favorite dress. You crossed to the window, and you saw what Smoke had seen in the view. The lush green of the trees and the tall grass, the streets slick with rain. Between the water and the rising sun, you were mesmerized. Stack's bedroom door opened, catching you by surprise. You cleared your tears quickly and saw him wiping his eyes.
“Aye Shug…watchu doin?” You smiled at the sight of him.
“Couldn't sleep.” You said.
He leaned in behind you, his arm around you as you both stood there a moment watching the rain. Then, he ushered you back into the bedroom, his arms around you from the back as he walked with you in step. He dipped to kiss your cheek as he closed the door behind you. You were at peace in his arms, under his kiss, and when he left you to move to his record player, you sat on the edge of the bed right behind him, watching. Mildly curious. He put something on and came to sit beside you. He pulled your legs over across his lap and tucked your head in against his neck, your cheek against his warm skin.
You recognized the music when it started, though not by name. It was so quiet and soft.
“Who is this?”
Stack was watching the record player, a calm, half asleep expression on his face.
“Debussy.”
You sat up and looked at him.
“You like classical music?”
He gave you a look.
“Surprised?”
You didn't want to admit that you were, but his tone let you know he was teasing, anyway. You leaned on his shoulder again. Stack held you in the sunrise and the rising piano of Rêverie, L. 68. He told you about the various jazz musicians who were influenced by Debussy–the way his compositions shaped generations of music. You listened and while you listened you dreamed of the days to come. Then the months.
Then the years.
This story was so fun to write, I'm glad people enjoyed it and I hope this was a satisfying ending. Like I said in the opening notes, I might give this pair some one-shots because there are a few stand alone scenes I'm curious about, for instance:
Shug eventually talking to her mom again, talking to her sister again.
The confrontation with Mary.
Shug and Stack's first fight.
Stack slowly introducing the freaky shit he's into (getting Shug to slap him, spit in his mouth, etc.)
Also maybe some cheesy stuff like Shug gets caught in the crosshairs with some mob shit and the twins have to get her out of it.
The first time they say “I love you”
What kind of work Shug finds for herself.
Let me know if any of these ideas sound interesting, I love and appreciate every single like, share, comment. Love ya'll.
