Ditzy!reader has such a praise kïnk like omg girl we get it😭😭
Smoke knows you have that confidence in you, you just need a little reassuring! Sometimes he’ll give you a good pep talk before going into a place, lift your chin up and fix something about your outfit he saw wasn’t right. He’ll say something like “Don’t overwork that pretty mind ‘f yers. Ain’t shit you can’t handle.” Or he’s giving acaress of his hand on your cheek, or giving your thigh a squeeze. And after you say what you need to properly your eyes are immediately looking at Smokes for approval. He doesn’t mind though, give you a little curt but pleased nod that makes you wanna fall on top of him and roll around in his warmth while you giggle.
Or when he’s drilling his meaty length inside your sopping walls, your head pulled to the side with hearts in your eyes. Salvating at the sweat dripping down the side of his face that you want to lick up, you’re mewling out, “Is good ‘Lijah, it’s hck- it’s good?”
He lets out a grumble of curses, damned at how sexy you look all fucked out and needy. Pretty pussy clamping down on him like your aching for his cum, his lips fall to your neck, your chin, leaving sloppy kisses on your lips while he gives you slow sledgehammer into your heat. Crown of his head pressing that special spot you love so much.
“Course it is darlin- fuuuuck me, yer wonderful princess.”
It only makes you moan louder, creaming his length as he holds you close, letting your nails claw down his back as he doesn’t stop railing you, only fucking your through it. Pushing your curls back as he’s got your head inbetween his bicep.
He groans, thrusting his cock into you faster, dirtier, “Shit, you can take this baby, can’t you? You’re my good girl, aintchu? Don’tcha wanna make yer husband cum?”
Summary: Raven’s due date is getting closer, the nursery is almost ready, and the house is overflowing with pillows, baby books, snacks, and nervous excitement. Between overprotective rules, name debates, and last-minute nesting chaos, Raven, Stack, and Elijah try to enjoy one more quiet day before everything changes.
Warnings: pregnancy, polyamorous relationship, domestic fluff, nervous new dads, mild panic, strong language, family intimacy, soft chaos, and overwhelming parenthood emotions.
The morning arrived quietly, easing into the house through the thin slivers of sunlight peeking around the heavy curtains. The morning light stretched lazily across the dark hardwood floors, climbing the polished legs of the coffee table before settling over what had once been their living room. Now, it belonged almost entirely to Raven.
The couch had long since become decoration. Somewhere over the last few weeks, Elias and Elijah had quietly surrendered the room to her without ever saying the words aloud. It had happened one extra pillow at a time. Another blanket, another body pillow, another snack basket, another charger stretched across the floor until there was barely any evidence the room had once been arranged differently. The transformation had been so gradual that Raven hadn't fully realized how completely they'd given her the space until she woke up one morning surrounded by her things and realized their belongings had migrated to other rooms.
Right in the middle of it all sat what Stack proudly called Raven's Nest.
It wasn't really a nest anymore.
It was a fortress.
A queen-sized pallet covered nearly the entire center of the room, layered with thick comforters and soft quilts, making it look more like a luxury cloud than a place where a person should reasonably sleep. Seven oversized pillows surrounded her in a loose circle, each serving a different purpose that only Raven seemed capable of remembering. One supported her back, another rested beneath her knees, two more cradled either side of her stomach whenever she rolled over, and the remaining pillows existed simply because Stack insisted she "might need 'em."
Three blankets were scattered across the pallet despite it being warm inside the house. Raven had insisted on keeping them nearby even in July, explaining that her body temperature ran hotter than ever now, but she still got chilled easily. The twins had stopped questioning her peculiar pregnancy requests weeks ago, simply nodding and fulfilling whatever strange craving or comfort measure she requested.
A woven basket overflowed with pregnancy snacks. Granola bars, fruit gummies, dried mango slices, peanut butter crackers, applesauce pouches, and the family-sized bag of spicy chips she'd been obsessed with for the last month were all within arm's reach. The chips were a particular obsession – something about the combination of heat and crunch seemed to satisfy some deep primal craving that had emerged around month six.
Several bottles of water stood like little soldiers beside the pallet, each one opened to a different level because, according to Elijah, hydration was now everyone's full-time job. He'd read somewhere that dehydration could trigger early labor, and now he monitored her water intake with the intensity of a scientist conducting a critical experiment.
Baby name books lay open across the blankets, pages marked with colorful sticky notes sticking out in every direction. Raven had been methodically going through name options for weeks, crossing out possibilities, adding new ones, and occasionally waking up in the middle of the night with a sudden inspiration that had to be written down immediately.
A tablet rested face down beside her, its screen dark but ready to provide distraction during the sleepless nights when pregnancy insomnia kept her awake while the rest of the house slept.
Three phone chargers somehow managed to tangle themselves together despite never moving, a mystery of physics that Raven had given up trying to solve.
Raven lay comfortably in the middle of the organized chaos, one hand resting beneath her head while the other absently rubbed slow circles over the enormous curve of her stomach. Her dark skin seemed to glow in the morning light, stretched tight over the life growing within. At thirty-seven weeks, she was enormous – carrying quadruplets would do that to anyone – but somehow she still found herself beautiful when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face was fuller, her breasts heavy and dark, and there was a certain power in knowing she was creating life, four lives, all at once.
Thirty-seven weeks.
She could still hardly believe it.
The babies shifted beneath her skin with sleepy little movements that rippled visibly beneath her oversized T-shirt – one of Stack's that barely covered her stomach now. One tiny foot—or maybe a knee—pressed firmly against her side before disappearing again, earning a quiet smile. The movements had become more deliberate lately, less random fluttering and more purposeful shifting, as if they were getting ready for their grand entrance.
"Good morning to y'all too," she murmured, rubbing the spot affectionately. "No karate practice today, please. Mommy's got enough going on."
Across the room, tucked neatly into the corner nearest the fireplace, sat a large unopened cardboard box with "Birth Pool in a Box" printed across the side in bold blue letters. It had been delivered almost two weeks earlier, and Stack had wanted to inflate it the same day. Elijah had talked him out of it after reminding him they still needed somewhere to walk through the living room. Even so, the unopened box had become a quiet reminder that everything was getting very real.
Every time Raven looked at it, she found herself imagining what the room would look like soon. The birth pool inflated near the windows, soft music playing, the lights turned low, the nursery upstairs waiting, four newborn cries filling the house for the first time. The thought made her chest tighten in the best possible way – equal parts excitement and terror, but mostly excitement.
From somewhere upstairs came the muffled sound of a drill, followed by Stack's voice shouting, "Babe!"
Raven smiled before he even finished the sentence. She knew this routine by heart.
"What?" she called back, her voice carrying easily in the quiet morning.
"Don't move!"
She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, a gesture she knew he couldn't see but felt necessary anyway. "I'm literally laying down."
"Good!"
Another burst of drilling echoed overhead, followed by what sounded like something heavy being dropped.
The nursery had become the twins' latest obsession. For the last week, they'd practically moved upstairs, refusing to let Raven help with anything heavier than folding tiny socks. Every morning started exactly the same – Stack found another project, Elijah quietly fixed whatever Stack accidentally measured wrong, then they both came downstairs every twenty minutes to check on Raven as if she'd somehow forgotten how to exist without supervision.
As if summoned by her thoughts, heavy footsteps thundered down the staircase. Elias rounded the corner carrying an empty cardboard box under one arm, his fresh fade still perfectly crisp despite already working all morning. His T-shirt clung lightly across his broad shoulders, a few flecks of sawdust dusting the front. He stopped the moment he saw Raven beginning to shift against the mountain of pillows, his expression immediately shifting to one of concern.
She planted both hands beside herself, preparing to push up. At this point in her pregnancy, even simple movements required strategic planning and execution.
Pushed once.
Then again.
The second her hips lifted off the pallet—
"Sit down."
She looked up slowly, her eyes meeting his. "Elias."
"What?"
"I'm literally getting water."
"Water can wait."
She stared at him, not breaking eye contact. "No, it can't."
"It absolutely can."
"I'm thirsty."
"I'll survive."
"I'm not talking about you."
Before Stack could answer, Elijah appeared behind him, carrying a small toolbox tucked beneath one arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing muscular arms dusted with sawdust, and a pencil was tucked behind one ear. His expression was calmer than Stack's, but no less concerned.
"I'll get it," he said simply, already moving toward the kitchen.
Raven threw both hands into the air in frustration. "I have two perfectly good legs."
"And four babies," Elijah reminded her, disappearing into the kitchen.
"They're still inside!"
"Exactly!"
She huffed dramatically before easing herself back against the mountain of pillows, the movement requiring more effort than she wanted to admit. "Y'all are treating me like glass."
Stack shook his head immediately, setting down the box and moving closer to her pallet. "No."
He paused just long enough for Raven to narrow her eyes.
"...Like expensive china."
The pillow left Raven's hands before she consciously decided to throw it. It flew through the air with surprising accuracy for someone her size.
Stack caught it cleanly against his chest with a grin that spread from ear to ear, showing off his perfect white teeth against his dark skin. "There she is," he laughed. "Aim's still good."
"Oh, you're hilarious."
"I know."
Elijah returned a moment later with one of the already-opened water bottles, unscrewed the cap for her without saying a word, and placed it gently into her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, warm and calloused from his work.
She accepted it with exaggerated annoyance. "I could've done that."
"I know," Elijah said, smiling as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. His lips were warm against her skin.
Raven looked from Elijah to Stack, then around the living room that no longer looked anything like it had months ago. To the birth pool box waiting patiently in the corner. To the baby books scattered across the blankets. To the tiny pair of newborn socks someone had accidentally left on the coffee table. To the two men who had turned the house upside down, making sure she never had to lift more than a bottle of water.
The nursery upstairs was almost finished. Only a few finishing touches remained. Downstairs, though, surrounded by pillows, laughter, and the quiet certainty that she was deeply loved, Raven realized something that made her smile to herself.
The house wasn't waiting for the babies anymore.
It was already becoming their home.
"Are you hungry?" Stack asked, already moving toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer. "I can make those pancakes you like."
"The ones with blueberries?" Raven called after him.
"And chocolate chips," he confirmed from the kitchen. "And whipped cream. And that maple syrup you like."
Elijah sat down on the edge of her pallet, careful not to disturb her arrangement of pillows. He reached out and placed his hand against her stomach, feeling the babies shift beneath his touch. "How are they today?"
"Active," she said, covering his hand with hers. "They had a party around 3 AM. I don't think I slept more than an hour straight."
"Did you try the music?" Elijah asked, his thumb stroking circles over her skin.
"Yeah, it helped for a little while," she said. "Then they decided the lullabies were boring and started doing gymnastics again."
Stack returned from the kitchen with a plate of pancakes that smelled heavenly, topped with exactly what he'd promised. He set it down on the low table beside her pallet along with a fork and napkin.
"You didn't make any for yourself?" Raven asked, already reaching for a piece.
"I'll eat after you," Stack said, sitting on her other side. "Make sure it's good first."
Raven took a bite and closed her eyes in pleasure. "It's perfect," she said around a mouthful of pancake. "As always."
The three of them sat there for a while, Raven eating while the twins watched her with identical expressions of contentment. Sometimes it still amazed her how two people could be so different in personality yet so similar in their devotion to her. Stack was loud and expressive, his love showing in grand gestures and constant attention. Elijah was quieter, his love manifesting in thoughtful gestures and unwavering support. Together, they created a balance that had become her foundation.
When she finished eating, Stack took the plate without being asked and disappeared into the kitchen again. Elijah stayed, his hand still resting on her stomach.
They continued like that for a while, the three of them laughing and talking about the future, occasionally stopping when one of the babies made a particularly strong movement that could be felt by all of them. Outside, the sun climbed higher in the sky, filling the room with warmth and light. The birth pool box seemed to glow in the corner, a silent promise of the changes to come.
Later that afternoon, when the twins went back upstairs to finish the nursery, Raven lay in her nest, surrounded by the evidence of their love. She closed her eyes and placed both hands on her stomach, feeling the four lives moving within her. The house was quiet now, except for the distant sounds of construction overhead and the soft beating of her own heart.
In a few weeks – maybe less – the living room would be transformed again. The birth pool would be inflated, the pillows rearranged to accommodate not just her but the midwives and doulas who would help her through labor. The snacks would be replaced with healing foods for the postpartum period. The baby name books would be put away, their purpose served.
But for now, Raven rested in the center of her fortress, surrounded by love, and felt gratitude so profound it brought tears to her eyes. She had never expected this life, never imagined she could be so happy, so fulfilled, so completely at peace. The babies shifted inside her, a gentle reminder that everything was about to change again.
And she couldn't wait.
The smell of fresh sawdust lingered throughout the upstairs hallway, a scent that had become the unofficial perfume of their home for the past month. It clung to the walls, mixing with the faint, clean scent of baby detergent drifting from the nursery where freshly washed blankets, swaddles, and impossibly tiny onesies had already found their place inside neatly organized drawers. The rhythmic scrape of wooden drawers opening and closing echoed softly through the room as Elijah checked each one for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
"Top drawer is diapers," he murmured mostly to himself, his dark fingers tracing the neat stacks. "Second is sleepers. Third is swaddles. Fourth is socks, sorted by color and size."
Stack leaned against one of the finished cribs with his arms folded across his chest, watching Elijah reorganize a drawer that already looked perfect. The crib creaked slightly under his weight, a sound that made them both smile. These cribs, solid as oaks, would hopefully withstand four babies over the next couple of years.
"You've folded them three times," Stack said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "They're not getting any more folded than they already are."
"They weren't right," Elijah replied without looking up, adjusting the sleeve of a tiny blue sleeper. "The seams weren't facing outward."
"They looked right."
"They looked acceptable," Elijah corrected, finally sliding the drawer shut with quiet satisfaction before looking around the nursery one more time.
Stack snorted. "See… this is why I don't let you organize the pantry. We'd have cans facing north-south by the time you were done."
"You don't let me?" Elijah raised an eyebrow, turning to face his twin brother.
"You heard what I said," Stack grinned.
Elijah simply smiled, a gesture that always seemed to soften his features. The nursery was almost finished. The walls, painted a warm cream weeks earlier, glowed beneath the morning sunlight spilling through the large window. Four matching cribs stood proudly along opposite walls, each one already dressed with fitted sheets and waiting for the tiny people they'd soon hold. Above them, wooden shelves displayed children's books, stuffed animals, and framed ultrasound pictures that seemed almost unreal now—four tiny beings floating in black and white space, already so real to them.
The rocking chair sat beside the window with a folded knit blanket draped over one arm, a gift from Raven's mother. A small basket of diapers rested beside it, fully stocked. The changing table was organized with military precision—everything within arm's reach but nothing cluttered. The nightlight had already been tested three separate times because Stack insisted every brightness setting felt "different" and wanted to make sure they had options for late-night diaper changes.
Now only the smallest details remained. A few decorative baskets. The mobiles that would hang above each crib. A picture frame waiting for four newborn footprints. And four names.
The twins looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them as it so often did. After all these years, they could communicate volumes with just a glance.
Almost simultaneously, they spoke.
"…Let's go ask Mama."
Downstairs, Raven had abandoned the couch entirely. She now sat in the middle of her pallet, surrounded by what looked less like a collection of baby books and more like the aftermath of an academic research project. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun. The oversized T-shirt she wore—one of Stack's—was stretched over her enormous belly, the fabric thinning in places as if threatening to give up the ghost entirely.
Name books lay open in every direction, pages marked with colorful sticky notes. Loose notebook paper covered in crossed-out names was scattered around her like autumn leaves. Colored pens, highlighters, and more sticky notes formed a chaotic rainbow around her. At the center of it all sat a yellow legal pad with columns labeled Boy One, Boy Two, Boy Three, and Baby Girl. Half the pages had little hearts beside names she'd liked yesterday and aggressively crossed out sometime during the night when pregnancy insomnia had struck with a vengeance.
Pregnancy had made naming four children feel like negotiating an international peace treaty, with Raven as the exhausted mediator between two very opinionated superpowers.
She looked up just as the twins appeared at the bottom of the stairs, their faces hopeful and expectant. "There y'all are," she said, attempting to shift to a more comfortable position and failing miserably.
Stack looked down at the explosion of paper surrounding her. "…Looks like the IRS came and did an audit on your imagination."
Raven picked up the nearest baby book, brandishing it like a weapon. "I'll throw this."
"You probably should," he nodded seriously. "Might improve your aim."
"I definitely will," she grumbled, though they all knew she wouldn't.
Elijah laughed quietly before lowering himself beside her on the pallet, taking care not to disturb her carefully arranged chaos. "You ready?"
She sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her stomach where one of the babies was currently practicing what felt like martial arts. "As ready as I'll ever be. Which is to say, not ready at all, but we're doing it anyway."
Stack plopped down on the opposite side, immediately grabbing one of the books and flipping through pages with purpose. "Alright," he rubbed his hands together. "Today…" He paused for effect. "…we finish this."
Raven laughed, the sound warm and familiar in their living room. "You've been saying that for three weeks."
"This time I mean it," he insisted, his expression earnest.
"You said that last Tuesday."
"I was emotionally unprepared," Stack explained. "Naming is a sacred responsibility. It requires proper mental preparation."
Elijah reached for the legal pad, reading over the current list. "So…" He uncapped a pen. "What do we have?"
Raven pointed toward the top of the page. "Blaze." She smiled, her fingers tracing the letters. "I still love Blaze."
Stack grinned proudly. "Knew you would. Strong name. Fire element. Can't go wrong with fire."
Elijah nodded. "Blaze stays." He drew a perfect circle around the name, his handwriting neat and precise. "Onyx."
Raven laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach, the movement causing the babies to shift inside her. "Oh, my God."
"They're gonna love it," Stack continued, warming to his theme. "Imagine the roll call on the first day of school. 'Blaze, Onyx, Khalil, and Hurricane!' No one's gonna forget them."
"They're gonna resent you," Elijah replied. "And possibly us by association."
Stack pointed toward Blaze. "Tell me Blaze and Storm don't sound hard."
"They sound like an energy drink," Elijah said without missing a beat.
"Blaze and Thunder?"
"A monster truck rally."
"Onyx and Rain?"
"A luxury candle collection."
Raven buried her face in one of the pillows, laughing until tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Once the laughter finally settled, Elijah reached for another notebook. "Let's actually do this." He drew four neat columns. "No interruptions."
Stack raised one finger. "I object."
"Denied."
"We're voting now?"
"We've always been voting."
"I thought I had executive authority." Stack looked genuinely confused.
"You've never had executive authority," Elijah explained patiently.
Raven watched them bicker back and forth, smiling to herself. This had become their rhythm over the past months. Stack throwing ideas into the air just to see what stuck. Elijah quietly grounding every conversation before it spiraled too far. And her… somewhere in the middle, exactly where she belonged.
For the next hour, names filled the page. Amari. Micah. Noah. Sage. Ezra. Zion. Raine. Kairo. Miles. Julian. One by one they were discussed, circled, questioned, crossed out, rewritten. Every name came with a story. Someone they'd known. Someone they'd admired. A meaning they liked. A sound they didn't. Stack vetoed anything that sounded "too soft," while Elijah rejected names that were "too trendy." Raven served as the tie-breaker, her intuition guiding them toward names that felt right.
Eventually, only one boy's name remained untouched. Khalil.
Raven looked at it, her finger tracing the letters. "So…" She glanced between both men. "I think that's him."
Stack nodded before Elijah even answered. "It feels like him."
Without another word, Raven drew one slow circle around Khalil. Three names. Blaze. Onyx. Khalil. Only one space remained on the page. Baby Girl.
Silence settled over the living room, heavier this time. Naming their daughter felt different—more final somehow.
Stack looked at Raven. "So…" He smiled hopefully. "…Rain?"
Raven threw a sticky note at him. He caught it with reflexes that still surprised her sometimes. "I had to try."
Elijah shook his head, laughing. "You are nothing if not committed."
"I've been committed for months," Stack replied. "Emotionally, mentally, and now financially to these tiny humans."
"You've been delusional for months."
"That's rude."
"It's accurate."
The laughter slowly faded again. Raven lowered her eyes to the blank space beneath Baby Girl. She didn't speak. She simply picked up her pen. The room grew unexpectedly still. Neither twin interrupted. Neither asked what she was thinking. The only sound was the quiet scratch of ink against paper.
Slowly…
Carefully…
She wrote one name.
Shiloh.
She stared at it for several seconds, testing the sound of it in her mind. Then quietly slid the notebook toward them.
Neither man spoke immediately.
Elias looked at the name. Then at Elijah. Elijah looked back at him. Both of them smiled at exactly the same time. Not because they had finally settled the debate. Because something about it felt unmistakable. It didn't need explaining. It didn't need defending. It simply belonged.
Stack reached over and rested his hand on top of Raven's. "I think…" His voice was quieter than it had been all morning. "…that's our little girl."
Elijah nodded, his eyes lingering on the name one last time before drawing a careful circle around it. No arguments. No debate. No vote. Just certainty.
For the first time in months, every space on the page was filled.
Blaze.
Onyx.
Khalil.
Shiloh.
Raven rested both hands over her stomach, smiling as four tiny kicks answered from within, almost as if the babies had been listening all along and approved of their choices.
Stack's eyes widened. "You think they approve?"
Raven laughed softly. "I think they were tired of waiting on us to make up our minds."
Elijah leaned over and kissed her forehead before looking back down at the page. Four names. Four babies. For the first time, they weren't talking about the babies anymore. They were talking about Blaze, Onyx, Khalil, and Shiloh.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the living room, bathing Raven's fortress in a warm, golden light that made everything seem softer, more dreamlike. The smell of pancakes still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of the wood polish Stack had used on the nursery furniture that morning. Three empty plates sat on the coffee table, along with three glasses, each bearing different lip prints from where they'd all been sharing Stack's experimental mango smoothie.
Raven lay propped against her mountain of pillows, her feet elevated on a smaller cushion Stack had insisted she needed for "proper blood circulation." The television played some mindless reality show none of them were actually watching, its colorful characters moving silently across the screen while the three of them talked about nothing and everything at once.
"You know," Stack said, stretching his long legs out on the floor beside her pallet, "if we're having four kids, we're gonna need a bigger car."
"We have an SUV," Elijah replied from his spot on the couch, where he was meticulously folding one of the baby blankets for what had to be the tenth time that day.
"An SUV that's gonna smell like spit-up and have crushed goldfish crackers in every crevice within the first month," Stack countered. "We need like… a van. One of those big ones with the TV screens and the individual climate zones."
Raven laughed, shifting slightly to relieve the pressure on her lower back. "So we went from 'expensive china' to 'a minivan'?"
"You're upgrading from china to crystal, baby," Stack grinned, reaching over to rub her stomach. "Only the best for my queen."
The babies shifted under his touch, a ripple of movement visible through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. "They agree," Stack announced seriously. "I can feel their approval. Especially Blaze. He's already planning his road trip playlist."
"Blaze is going to be two weeks old," Elijah reminded him, setting the perfectly folded blanket aside. "He doesn't need a road trip playlist."
"Never too early to start them on good music," Stack argued. "None of that baby shark nonsense. We're starting them on real hip-hop. Old school. Biggie, Tupac, maybe a little Nas for the more sophisticated moments."
Raven smiled, watching them bicker back and forth. The nursery upstairs was ready. The birth pool still sat waiting in its corner. Their lives were about to change in ways they couldn't fully comprehend, and yet here they were, arguing about whether it was appropriate to play explicit rap music around infants.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, one of the babies—Khalil, maybe—pressed firmly against her ribs, a steady pressure that made her catch her breath. She shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was getting harder these days. At thirty-seven weeks with quadruplets, comfort had become a theoretical concept rather than an achievable reality.
"You okay?" Elijah asked immediately, his attention shifting from the blanket to her face.
"Fine," she reassured him. "Just someone practicing their ninja moves in there."
Stack's hand returned to her stomach, his expression softening as he felt the movements. "They're getting restless," he said quietly. "Getting ready to come out and meet us."
The thought sent a strange mixture of excitement and terror through Raven. For months, she had been counting down to this moment—reading every book, watching every documentary, preparing herself mentally and physically for bringing four children into the world. But now that it was actually getting close, the reality of it was settling in. Four babies. Four tiny humans who would depend on her for everything. Four lives she was responsible for nurturing and protecting.
"Hey," Stack said softly, noticing the shift in her expression. "We've got this. All of us."
Elijah nodded in agreement, moving from the couch to sit beside her pallet. "We're a team. Always have been."
Raven looked between them, at the identical expressions of determination on their faces. They had been her rock throughout this pregnancy—through the morning sickness that had lasted well into the second trimester, through the doctor's appointments where they'd learned they were having not just twins or triplets but quadruplets, through the moments when she'd looked at her expanding body and wondered how she would possibly survive the next few months, let alone the next few years.
And they had been there through it all—Stack with his boundless optimism and constant reassurance that everything would be fine, Elijah with his quiet strength and practical solutions to every problem that arose. They had transformed their entire lives to accommodate her and the babies, rearranging their home, their schedules, their priorities without a single complaint.
"I know," she said, reaching out to take both of their hands. "I just... sometimes it feels so big, you know? Four babies. How are we going to do this?"
"One day at a time," Stack answered immediately. "And with a lot of coffee. And possibly a minivan."
"And help," Elijah added. "Your mom and dad already offered to come stay for the first month. We're not doing this alone."
The television continued to play in the background, its bright colors flickering across their faces as they sat there in the quiet afternoon, hands joined, hearts connected. Outside, the world went on—cars passing by, neighbors returning home from work, life continuing its steady rhythm. But here in their living room, time seemed to slow, stretching into something precious and fragile.
Raven felt a sudden surge of love for these two men who had become her everything. They hadn't planned this, hadn't expected to become fathers so soon, hadn't anticipated the chaos that was about to descend upon their lives. And yet, here they were, ready and willing to embrace it all because of her, because of the four tiny lives growing inside her.
"Thank you," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion.
"For what?" Stack asked, confused.
"For everything," she replied, her gaze moving between them. "For being you. For being here. For..."
She paused as another sensation rippled through her body—different this time, deeper and more purposeful than the usual movements. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but it demanded her attention in a way that nothing had before.
"What?" Elijah asked immediately, his expression shifting to concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she started to say, but then it happened again—a strange internal pop followed by a sudden warmth that spread quickly through her lower body.
She froze.
The television continued to play, the reality show's dramatic music swelling as if on cue. Stack and Elijah watched her, waiting for an explanation she wasn't sure she could provide.
"Raven?" Elijah prompted gently.
She looked down at herself, at the dark fabric of her T-shirt where it stretched over her stomach, then back up at them. Her mind raced, trying to process what had just happened, to connect the sensation with the reality she'd been reading about for months.
"I think…" she began, her voice barely above a whisper.
Beat.
"My water broke."
Silence.
The television seemed to grow louder, the reality show's contestants arguing about something that suddenly seemed utterly trivial. The late afternoon sunlight continued to stream through the windows, casting everything in that same golden glow as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
Then—
Absolute chaos.
Stack shot up from the floor so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet. "Now? Like right now? Are you sure?"
Elijah was already moving, his expression calm but his movements purposeful. "When did it happen? Are you having contractions? How far apart are they?"
"I don't know!" Raven answered, her voice rising with panic. "It just happened! Like five seconds ago!"
"The bag!" Stack shouted, already running toward the kitchen. "Where's the go bag? We packed the go bag, right? Elijah, we packed the go bag?"
"We have four go bags," Elijah replied calmly, already pulling out his phone. "One for each baby, one for Raven, and one for us. They're all in the hall closet."
"The birth pool!" Stack continued, his voice echoing through the house. "We need to inflate the birth pool! Where's the pump? Did we buy a pump?"
"It's in the box with the pool," Elijah said, dialing the midwife. "I'll get it after I call Sarah."
"Sarah!" Stack repeated, running back into the living room. "We need to call Sarah! And your mom! And my mom! And your dad! And—"
"Stack," Elijah said, his voice cutting through the panic. "Breathe."
But Stack couldn't breathe. He was already pacing the length of the living room, his long legs eating up the space as he muttered to himself about towels and heating pads and whether they had enough snacks for the midwives.
Raven watched him, a strange mixture of amusement and terror warring within her. This was it—the moment they'd been preparing for, the moment that would change everything. And somehow, it was both exactly as she'd imagined and completely different.
"Hey," she said, her voice cutting through Stack's frantic pacing. He stopped immediately, turning to face her.
"It's okay," she said, holding out a hand to him. "We're okay."
He crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees beside her pallet and taking her hand. "Are you sure? Are you really sure your water broke? Like, are you positive positive?"
"Pretty positive positive," she replied with a small smile. "I don't usually experience spontaneous warming sensations in that particular area."
Elijah ended his call and rejoined them, his expression calm and reassuring. "Sarah's on her way. She said to try to stay calm, that it could still be a while before things really get going. She wants us to start timing the contractions if they start."
"Contractions," Stack repeated, his eyes widening. "Right. Contractions. We need to time them. Does anyone have a watch? Or a timer? Or—"
"I've got it," Elijah said, already pulling up an app on his phone. "Just breathe, 'Lias. We've got this."
Raven looked between them—at Stack's panicked energy and Elijah's calm determination—and felt a surge of confidence wash over her. They were ready. They had been ready for months, even if it didn't always feel like it. The nursery was finished, the birth pool was waiting, and most importantly, they had each other.
"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."
Stack's expression shifted from panic to determination in an instant. "Yeah," he nodded. "Let's do this. Let's inflate that pool. Let's get this show on the road. Blaze, Onyx, Khalil, and Shiloh are about to meet the world."
As if on cue, another sensation rippled through Raven's body—this one stronger, more insistent, undeniably a contraction. She gasped slightly, her fingers tightening around Stack's hand.
"Was that one?" Stack asked, his eyes wide with excitement and fear.
"Timer started," Elijah replied, his gaze fixed on his phone.
Raven nodded, breathing through the sensation as she'd practiced in the birthing classes they'd all attended together. "Yeah," she said, her voice steady despite the intensity building within her. "That was definitely one."
The television continued to play in the background, its colorful characters moving silently across the screen. But the three of them were no longer watching. Their world had narrowed to this room, to this moment, to the journey that was just beginning.
The birth pool waited in the corner, a silent promise of the work ahead. The nursery upstairs stood ready, four empty cribs waiting to be filled. And in the center of it all, Raven lay surrounded by the two men who had become her family, her lovers, her everything, ready to bring four new lives into the world.
It wasn't how she'd imagined it would happen—not this sudden, this chaotic, this real. But as another contraction rippled through her body, she knew with certainty that it was exactly how it was supposed to be.
Their babies were coming.
The moment the word "contractions" left Elijah's mouth, Stack's brain short-circuited.
It wasn't a gradual decline into panic. It was a sudden, catastrophic system failure, like a power line snapping in a storm. One minute he was kneeling beside Raven, holding her hand with the confident swagger of a man who had read all the books and attended all the classes. The next, he was on his feet, his eyes wide with the kind of terror usually reserved for horror movie protagonists.
"Shoes," he announced to the room at large, his voice cracking slightly. "I need shoes. Where are my shoes?"
Raven, who was breathing through another wave of tightening in her belly, managed to crack a smile. "Babe, you're wearing shoes."
Stack looked down at his bare feet, then back up at her, his expression utterly bewildered. "No, not these shoes. My hospital shoes. The comfortable ones. Where are they?"
"They're in the closet," Elijah said calmly, not looking up from his phone where he was already opening the contraction timer app. "With the rest of your shoes."
"The closet!" Stack snapped his fingers, already moving. "Right. Okay. Phone. I need my phone."
Raven watched him pat his pockets frantically, a genuine laugh bubbling up between contractions. "Stack, honey."
"I can't find it," he muttered, already tearing apart the couch cushions. "I had it like five seconds ago. I think I lost it."
"Stack," she tried again, her voice strained as another contraction built. "Look at your hand."
He glanced down, where his phone was clutched in a white-knuckled grip. "Oh. Right. Okay. Good. Phone's accounted for." His eyes darted around the room. "The go bags! We need the go bags! Elijah, did you grab the go bags?"
"I'm on it," Elijah replied, already heading for the hall closet. "You need to stay calm, 'Lias. Panicking isn't going to help."
"I'm not panicking!" Stack shouted, his voice echoing through the house. "I'm being proactive! I'm preparing! Where's the birth playlist? I spent three weeks curating that playlist! It's got the perfect mix of hip-hop and R&B for delivery and some softer stuff for after!"
"It's on your phone," Raven managed, squeezing her eyes shut as the contraction peaked. "The one you're holding."
"Right!" He tapped frantically at the screen. "Okay. Birth playlist... located. Keys! We need the car keys! Where are the keys?"
"On the hook by the door," Elijah called out, emerging with two of the go bags. "Where they always are."
"The hook!" Stack nodded, already moving toward the door. "Right. Okay. Keys, shoes, phone, playlist, bags... what else? What am I forgetting?"
Raven opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by another contraction, this one stronger than the last. "Oh, shit," she breathed, her fingers digging into the pillow beneath her.
That was all it took for Elijah's focus to sharpen. His calm demeanor shifted into something else—laser-focused, precise, the controlled force they all knew him for. "Okay," he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that always made everyone listen. "New plan. Stack, breathe. Raven, breathe with me. In through the nose, out through the mouth."
He was already moving, pulling out his phone again. "I'm calling Sarah again," he said, already dialing. "Then I'll call the birth assistant. Stack, I need you to get the towels from the linen closet. The dark blue ones. And then start filling the birth pool."
"On it," Stack nodded, his movements jerky and frantic as he headed for the linen closet.
Raven watched them, a strange mixture of pain and amusement warring within her. Here she was, in active labor, and her life had become a comedy routine.
"Sarah's on her way," Elijah said, ending the call. "She said to try to relax as much as possible between contractions. She wants us to keep timing them and let her know if they get closer than five minutes." He was already moving again, checking the supplies they had laid out weeks ago—gloves, gauze, scissors, bulb syringes, all arranged neatly on a tray beside the birth pool box.
"Pool's filling!" Stack called from the corner, where he was wrestling with the pump hose. "This thing is more complicated than it looks! Why does it have so many attachments?"
"Read the instructions," Elijah replied without missing a beat, already pulling out the diffuser and adding lavender oil. "Raven, do you want some water? You need to stay hydrated."
She nodded, unable to speak as another contraction washed over her. Elijah was there immediately, holding the bottle to her lips, his free hand rubbing her back in slow, steady circles.
"That's it," he murmured. "Just breathe through it. You're doing great."
By the time the contraction subsided, Stack had managed to get the pool partially inflated and was now checking the water temperature with a thermometer he'd found God knows where. "Ninety-eight degrees," he announced proudly. "Perfect for birthing."
"Good," Elijah nodded, already on his next task. "I'm calling the birth assistant. Stack, once the pool is filled, I need you to bring Raven some snacks. Nothing too heavy, maybe some of those dried mango slices she likes."
"On it," Stack saluted in a cringy nervous way, his movements still frantic but somehow more purposeful now. "Mango slices. Got it."
Raven watched them move around the room, a machine of panic and precision. Stack was all nervous energy, his movements sharp and jerky as he bounced between tasks, while Elijah was the calm center of the storm, his actions controlled and on point. Together, they were somehow keeping everything from falling apart.
The doorbell rang twenty minutes later, and both men froze.
"That's Sarah," Elijah said, already moving toward the door. "Stack, stay with Raven. I'll let her in."
Raven looked up as the door opened, revealing a tall, imposing woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense expression. Sarah took in the scene with a single sweeping glance—Raven on the pallet, Stack hovering beside her with a look of pure terror, Elijah moving to greet her with an air of calm efficiency.
"Alright," Sarah said, her voice warm but firm. "Let's see what we've got here." She stepped inside, setting her bag down beside the door. "Who's panicking?"
Stack's hand shot up before he even thought about it.
Sarah's lips twitched with a smile. "Alright, Stack. You're on official panic duty. That means you get to be my special helper. Your first job is to take deep breaths whenever you feel yourself starting to spiral. Can you do that for me?"
He nodded, looking slightly ashamed. "Yeah. I can do that."
"Good," she nodded, already moving toward Raven. "Now let's see how our mama is doing."
Raven smiled up at her, grateful for the steady presence. "I'm okay," she said, just as another contraction began to build. "Or I will be. Eventually."
Sarah knelt beside her, placing a cool hand on her forehead. "That's it," she said softly. "Just breathe through it. You're doing amazing." She glanced over at Elijah, who was already taking notes on his phone. "How far apart are they?"
"About six minutes now," Elijah replied. "They started around fifteen minutes apart, but they've been getting closer."
"Good," Sarah nodded. "That's exactly what we want to see. Stack, how's that pool coming?"
"Almost ready!" he called from the corner, where he was struggling with the final inflation. "Just need to top it off and check the temperature again!"
"Perfect," Sarah smiled. "Elijah, I need you to bring me the birth stool and the kneeling pad. And then I want you to make Raven some tea—raspberry leaf, if we have it. It'll help with uterine tone."
"On it," Elijah nodded, already moving toward the kitchen.
Raven watched them all, her heart swelling with a love so intense it almost hurt.
"You're all crazy," she said, her voice thick with emotion as the contraction subsided.
"We're your crazy," Sarah replied, smoothing back her hair. "And we wouldn't have it any other way."
The doorbell rang again, and Elijah went to let in the birth assistant—a cheerful woman named Maria who immediately took over the task of finishing the pool setup while Sarah continued to assess Raven's progress.
By the time the sun began to set, casting the room in a warm, orange glow, the birth pool was ready, the diffuser was filling the air with calming lavender, and Raven was surrounded by her team—her chaotic, loving, perfectly imperfect team.
Stack had somehow managed to pull himself together, his panic replaced by a fierce determination as he held her hand through each contraction, his voice steady as he coached her breathing. Elijah moved between tasks with quiet efficiency, always seeming to know what was needed before anyone even asked. Sarah and Maria worked together seamlessly, their presence both reassuring and empowering.
"Okay," she said, her voice firm as the contraction peaked. "I think it's time to get in the water."
Sarah nodded, already moving to help her up. "I think you're right."
And as they helped her into the warm, welcoming water of the pool, Raven felt a sense of peace wash over her. The chaos had settled into a rhythm, the panic had transformed into purpose, and the love that had brought them all to this moment was stronger than ever.
The babies were coming.
The water was exactly the temperature Raven had imagined—warm enough to soothe but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. It enveloped her body, supporting her weight in a way that nothing else had for months. Behind her, Elijah's chest was a solid wall of muscle, his arms wrapped securely around her middle, his hands resting on the swell of her belly. In front of her, Stack knelt by the edge of the pool, his fingers laced through hers, his dark eyes never leaving her face.
No rushing. That's what Sarah had said. This was their baby's journey, and they would let it unfold at its own pace.
Hours passed.
The first hour was almost peaceful, the contractions still manageable enough that Raven could talk through them. Stack kept up a steady stream of commentary, pointing out which songs from his carefully curated playlist were coming on, making jokes about how the babies were definitely going to have excellent taste in music thanks to his influence.
"They're gonna come out rapping Biggie," he declared, squeezing her hand as a contraction built. "I can feel it. Blaze is already practicing his flow in there."
Raven laughed, the sound breathless but genuine. "Blaze is going to be a newborn, Stack. He's not going to be rapping anything."
"Never too early to start," he insisted. "We'll have him freestyling by kindergarten. Onyx can be his hype man."
Elijah's chuckle vibrated against her back. "Let's focus on getting them out first before we start planning their entertainment careers."
The second hour brought stronger contractions, waves of intensity that stole Raven's breath and left her clinging to Stack's hand. The music shifted from Stack's hip-hop playlist to something softer, more ambient, the change so natural that Raven didn't even notice until she found herself swaying to the gentle rhythm between contractions.
"Look at you," Elijah murmured against her ear, his hands rubbing slow circles over her lower back. "You're amazing. Just feeling what your body needs to do and letting it happen."
"I'm trying," she gasped as another contraction peaked, her body arching against his chest. "Oh, God, this is intense."
"You're doing great, mama," Stack reassured her, his voice steady as he pressed her hand to his lips. "Just breathe with me. In... and out. That's it. You're so strong, baby. So fucking strong."
The lighting in the room changed as the afternoon sun began to set, Sarah adjusting the lamps until the living room was bathed in a soft, golden glow that made everything feel dreamlike and intimate. The birth pool had become the center of their world, the focal point around which everything else revolved. The nursery waited upstairs, four empty cribs standing ready, but here in the living room, life was being made.
By the third hour, Raven was in another world entirely. The contractions came like tidal waves, building slowly, cresting with an intensity that bordered on pain, then receding just enough for her to catch her breath before the next one began. She was no longer laughing. She was crying sometimes, tears of exhaustion and emotion streaming down her face as she rode out each wave.
"Fuck," she sobbed against Stack's shoulder as a particularly strong contraction gripped her. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"I deserve that," Stack said immediately, his voice gentle as he wiped her tears with his thumb. "I deserve every curse word you've got. Keep 'em coming if it helps."
"So do I," Elijah added from behind her, his hands never ceasing their steady massage. "We put you in this position. You can blame us all you want."
The fourth hour brought darkness outside, the moon rising in the sky as their intimate world inside continued to unfold. The twins never left Raven's side. Ever. One always behind her, supporting her weight, massaging her back, whispering encouragement in her ear. One always in front, holding her hand, helping her breathe, reminding her how strong she was, how loved she was.
Sometimes she was laughing, especially when Stack started making ridiculous faces to distract her during the peaks of contractions. Sometimes she was crying, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations and the emotions coursing through her. Sometimes she was cursing both of them, her vocabulary expanding in ways she didn't know was possible as she rode out each wave.
"I hate you," she snarled at Elijah during one particularly intense contraction, her fingers digging into his arm where it wrapped around her middle. "I hate both of you so much right now."
"I know," he replied, his voice calm and steady. "And we love you more than you can imagine. Just a little longer, baby. You're doing so well."
The doula coached everyone from her position by the side of the pool, her voice a quiet presence that guided them through the process. "That's it, Raven. Let your body do what it knows how to do. Don't fight it. Just breathe with it."
Sarah moved around them, checking Raven's progress, adjusting the water temperature, making sure everyone had what they needed. Maria, the birth assistant, was a constant reassuring presence, offering cool cloths, sips of water, quiet words of encouragement.
"You're almost there, baby," Elijah murmured against her ear as another contraction gripped her. "I can feel you changing. Our babies are getting ready to meet us."
Raven nodded, too exhausted to speak, her head resting against his chest as she focused on breathing through the intensity. Stack kissed her hand, his eyes never leaving her face.
"We're right here," he said softly. "We're not going anywhere. We've got you, always."
It was during the fifth hour that Elijah pulled out his phone, his expression thoughtful as he looked at Raven. "I want to call your parents," he said quietly. "I think they should be here for this."
Raven's eyes widened. "Here? As in... here here?"
"Just on FaceTime," he reassured her. "They don't have to see everything if you don't want them to. But I think they should be able to see you bringing their grandchildren into the world."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay," she breathed, just as another contraction began to build. "But don't tell them... you know."
"They're in for a surprise either way," Stack grinned, already adjusting his position to give her more support. "Let's make it a big one."
Elijah dialed, his expression calm as he waited for them to pick up. Raven took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself for this conversation while riding out another wave of intensity.
"Hello?" Her mother's face appeared on the screen, her expression curious. "Elijah? Is everything okay?"
"Everything's more than okay," Elijah replied, turning the phone so Raven's face was visible. "Raven's in labor."
"What?" Her father's face appeared beside her mother's, his eyes wide. "Now? Like right now?"
"Like right now," Raven managed, her voice strained as the contraction peaked. "Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad."
"Oh, baby," her mother breathed, her hands covering her mouth. "Are you okay? How far along are you?"
"Pretty far along," Stack answered for her, his voice gentle. "She's doing amazing. Really strong."
"Can we... can we see?" her father asked, his voice thick with emotion.
Elijah looked at Raven, who nodded slowly. He adjusted the camera, giving them a view of her face and upper body, careful to keep the water level and anything too private out of frame.
"There," Elijah said softly. "Can you see her?"
"Oh, honey," her mother whispered, tears already streaming down her face. "You look so beautiful."
"We're so proud of you," her father added, his voice thick with emotion. "Just breathe, baby. You're doing great."
The next contraction hit hard, and Raven cried out, her body arching against Elijah's chest. "I can't," she sobbed. "I can't do this anymore."
"Yes, you can," Stack said immediately, his voice firm but gentle. "You're doing it right now. Look at you. You're the strongest person I've ever known."
"You're almost there, baby," Elijah murmured against her ear. "Our babies are getting ready to meet us. And their grandparents."
Raven looked at the phone, at her parents' tear-streaked faces watching her with expressions of love and pride. She took a deep breath, letting their strength flow through her, giving her the resolve to keep going.
"Okay," she breathed, as the contraction began to subside. "Okay. I can do this."
The next hour was a blur of intensity and emotion. Raven moved from her side to her hands and knees, leaning against Elijah as Stack rubbed her back, his hands steady and sure. The contractions came one after another now, barely giving her time to catch her breath between them.
"I feel like I need to push," she panted, her body bearing down instinctively. "Oh, God, I need to push."
Sarah was immediately beside her, her voice calm and reassuring. "Listen to your body, Raven. If you need to push, push. But let's do it gently. Let our babies come down in their own time."
Raven nodded, her eyes closing as the next contraction gripped her. She bore down, her body working with a wisdom all its own, opening and releasing in ancient rhythm.
"That's it," Elijah encouraged, his hands supporting her weight. "Just like that. You're doing it. You're bringing our babies into the world."
Stack kissed her shoulder, his lips warm against her skin. On the phone, her parents watched in silence, their faces a mixture of awe and emotion as they witnessed their daughter bringing new life into the world.
"I can see the head!" Sarah announced excitedly. "Raven, you're doing it! Our first baby is almost here!"
Raven cried out, a sound of effort and emotion as she pushed with everything she had. And then, suddenly, there was a release, a moment of emptiness followed by the first cry.
"It's a boy!" Sarah announced, lifting a tiny, wriggling body from the water. "Blaze is here!"
Raven turned, her eyes wide as she saw their first child for the first time—a dark, perfect little being, already crying his indignation at being born into the world.
"Oh, God," she breathed, tears streaming down her face. "He's beautiful. He's so beautiful."
Elijah kissed her forehead, his own eyes wet with emotion. "He's perfect. Just like his mother."
Stack was already reaching for the baby, his hands gentle as he took him from Sarah. "Hey there, little man," he murmured, holding the tiny body close. "Welcome to the world. We've been waiting for you."
On the phone, Raven's parents were crying openly, their faces alight with joy and wonder. "Oh, honey," her mother sobbed. "He's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful."
But there was no time to rest. Already, another contraction was building, Raven's body already working to bring their next child into the world.
"Here we go again," she breathed, leaning back against Elijah's chest. "Okay. I'm ready."
The second baby came more quickly than the first, Raven's body already knowing what to do, opening and releasing with practiced efficiency.
"And another boy!" Sarah announced as the second baby emerged into the water. "Onyx is here!"
Raven laughed through her tears as Stack passed Blaze to Elijah so he could hold their second son. "Two boys," she breathed, her heart overflowing with love and wonder. "We have two boys."
"We have two sons," Elijah corrected, his voice thick with emotion as he held both babies, his expression one of pure awe. "Our sons."
But still, Raven's body wasn't finished. Another contraction gripped her, and she bore down again, her strength already waning but her determination stronger than ever.
"Come on, baby," Stack encouraged, his hand rubbing her back in steady circles. "You've got this. Just one more push."
"One more," she panted, her body working with a will of its own. "One more."
The third baby emerged with a rush of water, another cry joining the chorus as Sarah announced, "Another boy! Khalil is here!"
"Three boys," Raven breathed, her body trembling with exhaustion and emotion. "Oh, God, three boys."
Stack was already reaching for their third son, his hands gentle as he took him from Sarah. "Hey there, little man," he murmured, kissing the tiny forehead. "Welcome to the family. You've got a lot of brothers to keep up with."
On the phone, her parents were speechless, their faces a mixture of shock and joy as they tried to process what they were witnessing. "Three?" her father managed, his voice thick with disbelief. "You're having three?"
Raven started to laugh, but it was cut short by another contraction, stronger than all the others.
"There's another one," she gasped, her eyes wide with surprise. "Oh, God, there's another one."
"What?" her mother shrieked on the phone. "Another one? Raven, what's going on?"
"Surprise," Stack grinned, even as his expression turned serious. "You might want to sit down for this one."
Raven bore down with everything she had left, her body screaming in protest but her spirit pushing forward, determined to meet their final child.
"And a girl!" Sarah announced triumphantly as the fourth baby emerged into the water. "Shiloh is here! You have a daughter!"
Raven cried out, a sound of pure joy and relief as their final child joined their family. "A girl," she breathed, tears streaming down her face. "We have a girl."
Stack was already reaching for their daughter, his hands gentle as he took her from Sarah. "Hey there, princess," he murmured, holding her close. "Welcome to the world. Your brothers have been waiting for you."
On the phone, her parents were completely speechless, their faces a mixture of shock, joy, and disbelief as they tried to process what they were witnessing.
"Four?" her father finally managed, his voice thick with awe. "You're having four babies?"
"Four," Raven confirmed, her body trembling with exhaustion but her heart overflowing with love. "We have four babies."
Elijah carefully passed Blaze and Onyx to Maria, then reached for Khalil and Shiloh, his arms full as he held their two newest children. "We have a family," he breathed, his eyes wet with emotion as he looked at Raven. "We have everything."
Raven leaned over the side of the pool, her body exhausted but her spirit soaring as she looked at the four tiny beings who had changed everything. Four perfect, beautiful babies who had made their family complete.
"We have everything," she agreed, her voice thick with emotion as Stack kissed her, his lips gentle against hers. "We have everything."
you’re going to love again, find a job again, create art again, do what you love again, feel powerful again. you’re going to be back on track. i don’t know when, but you are going to feel like yourself again, eventually. this isn’t the end. hang in there.
a very long note: guys, GUYS. normally i stopped reading celebrity fanfiction since it kind of icks me now. however with my regrowing infatuation with michael, i would like to pay an homage to the 16 year old me. so here it is in all its glory. please don’t get annoyed that there is not much smut though. i don’t really get along with that in this particular case. i want to go back and cuddle him so most of them are just fluff, comfort and angst (duh, who am i without that type of anguish) enjoy!
SERIES- MULTI CHAPTERS
past exposure • michael jackson x time traveller!reader
↳ by @thedailymichael (multiple eras, time travelling au)
the jackson chronicles • michael jackson x spouse!reader
↳ by @imhandicapableofmath (so domestic, married!michael, suggestive, fluff)
desire, interrupted | desire, reclaimed • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @urbanfunkchild (dangerous/history era, smut, angst, soft fluff)
you knock me off my feet | part two | part three • michael jackson x newrisintvocalist!reader
↳ by @comoquesoybambi (bad era, michael is basically obsessed)
my little reporter | part two • michael jackson x journalist!reader
↳ by @/am3sss (bad era, fluff)
again | part two | michael jackson x dancer!reader
↳ by @tpwkyarely (angst, hurt/comfort)
beautiful stranger | part two • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @mjuniverse (pre thriller era, slow burn, yearning, very angsty, right person, wrong time, soft!michael)
gone by morning | part two • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @startingsomethin (thriller-bad era, angst, cheating, smut, fluff)
spotlight • michael jackson x popstar!reader
↳ by @hcwait (thriller era, slow burn)
making of an it girl | part two • michael jackson x tourdancer!reader
↳ by @intelligenthottie
baby be mine | thrill you tonight • michael jackson x girlnextdoor!reader
↳ by @iceemochaa (post otw-pre thriller era, fluff, slightly suggestive)
stargirl | part two • michael jackson x singer !reader
↳ by @ytrhbz (thriller era, whipped!michael, fluff)
remember the time | part two | part three • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @chmpngekisses (thriller-bad era, angst)
his new obsession | part two • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @luvvreader (yearning, slow burn)
by your side | part two • michael jackson x actress!reader
↳ by @svnnywrites (thriller era, hurt/comfort)
ONE-SHOTS-BLURBS-HC’S
baby be mine • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @angelfacediary (otw-bad era, angst, fluff)
nine months of home videos • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @angelfacediary (pregnant!reader, so so so fluffy)
out of time • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @urelliee (bad era, angst, heartbreak, very bittersweet)
pretty young thing • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @tpwkyarely (angst, comfort, tw: dv)
through his lens • thriller!michael jackson x reader
↳ by @neverlandzangel (thriller era, married!michael, fluff, domestic bliss)
arrow through the heart • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @startingsomethin (dangerous era, oh so angsty)
excuse me that’s my wife • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @mvsticmoony (jealous!michael, fluff)
where is my husband! • michael jackson x singer!reader
↳ by @mvsticmoony (fluff)
love caught on tape • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @mvsticmoony (invincible era, flashbacks, married life fluff)
a love letter to june • michael jackson x fan!reader
↳ by @hcwait (dangerous era, very fluffy)
in sickness and in health • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @king-mila (bad era, protective!michael, sick!reader, fluff, hurt/comfort)
america’s sweetest bunny • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @michaeldiary (dangerous era, playboymodel!reader, sooo fluffy, slightly suggestive)
little pieces of her • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @brownsugarletters (thriller era, fluff)
young hearts, run free • michael jackson x guitarist!reader
↳ by @shakinghamster (thriller era, fluff, workplace romance, cheating)
unforgettable • michael jackson x fan!reader
↳ by @ytrhbz (history era, fluff, reader is that girl)
cause if it’s aching, you have to rub it • michael jackson x fem!black!reader
↳ by @serenebows (thriller era, shy!reader, fluff)
all over, all over, all over • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @hon3yarchives (dangerous era, fluff, suggestive)
sign the girls • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @michaelpilled (thriller era, suggestive, flirting)
a memory to look back on • michael jackson x pregnant!reader
↳ by @lovecherishly (bad era, soo fluffy)
sweet tooth • michael jackson x sweet!reader
↳ by @carmaloves (bad era, so very fluffy)
stuck in the elevator • michael jackson x reader
↳ by @londynham (romance, fluff, angst)
working overtime • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @urbanfunkchild (pre bad era, kind of smutty, possessive!michael)
love never felt so good • michael jackson x fem!black!reader
↳ by @proseandj (invincible era, fluff)
like a stradivarius • michael jackson x gn!spouse!reader
↳ by @imhandicapableofmath (married!michael, domestic fluff, humour, suggestive)
“she thinks you smell like cinnamon” • michael jackson x gn!spouse!reader
↳ by @imhandicapableofmath (married!michael, fanfiction meta, emotional comfort, teasing, fluff)
#1 loverboy • michael jackson x gn!reader
↳ by @invincibledc (bad era, fluff)
read my lips • michael jackson x deaf!black!reader
↳ by @invincibledc (protective!michael, fluff)
home movies • michael jackson x pregnant!reader
↳ by @ktrsis (bad-invincible era, flashbacks, soo fluffy)
the lady in my life • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @cupcakeprincezz (thriller era, fluff)
surprise visit • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @cupcakeprincezz (bad era, very fluffy)
secret touch • michael jackson x fem!singer!reader
↳ by @invinor (dangerous era, fluff)
inspiration • michael jackson x singer!reader
↳ by @liyahhsnuckhere (pre bad era, sooooo fluffy, suggestive)
the chateau • michael jackson x younger!fem!reader
↳ by @elleist (dangerous era, fluff, very cute)
imagine sitting on his lap
↳ by @humannatures (fem!reader, fluff)
tabloid junkie • michael jackson x fem!reader
↳ by @moonlitjane (protective!reader, fluff, suggestive)
hidden in the spotlight • superstar!michael jackson x costumedesigner!fem!reader
↳ by @gh0ulxxc (dangerous era, angst, fluff, romance, slow burn)
This show had some of the most insane, important scenes pro women, I've seen in fiction. It took me by surprise, specially considering this is a 90's tv show. And yeah, I know nowadays this would be the bare minimum but you have to understand the thing that were peak romance and boy x girl friendships around the time was stuff like F.R.I.E.N.D.S where the boys were seemingly good friends with the girls but nothing like this scene ever happened or we had a Ross 'toxic boyfriend' Geller as the main couple with Rachel Green, who's biggest love flex was quitting her dream job for him.
Seeing this made me realize that was the reason why Living Single was as huge as other shows, but it also made me a fan.
Pairing: Déjà (Black Female OC) / Elias “Stack” / Elijah “Smoke”
Summary: Three years after a devastating betrayal shattered her relationship and fractured her family, Déjà returns to the Mississippi Delta for a Sunday dinner she never thought she’d attend again. The Moore family still welcomes her with open arms, refusing to let old wounds erase the place she once held in their lives. But while Déjà tries to navigate old memories, lingering hurt, and a man who can’t seem to let go of what he destroyed, an unexpected connection begins to form with the last person she should be looking at. What starts as anger, pride, and revenge quickly becomes something far more dangerous.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, infidelity, cheating, revenge sex, emotional manipulation, jealousy, family drama, toxic relationships, messy romance, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief over lost relationships, emotional infidelity themes, morally gray characters, complicated family dynamics, unresolved trauma.
Three Years Earlier
The air in the hallway of their shared home always smelled of turpentine and linseed oil, a scent Déjà had come to associate with peace. It was the smell of her livelihood, of her soul spilled across canvases in the sun-drenched spare room she’d claimed as her studio. Tonight, the scent was sharper, cutting through the thick, cloying sweetness of the Delta summer that seeped through the window screens. It was a Wednesday, close to midnight. Elijah should have been at the club, ‘The Low Bottom,’ handling the Wednesday night rush, leaving her to the quiet company of her unfinished portrait of a magnolia blossom, its creamy petals captured in thick, impasto strokes.
She’d been wrestling with the painting for a week, trying to capture the way the moonlight seemed to bleach the flower’s edges, giving it an ethereal, almost holy glow. It was a feeling she knew well, the feeling of being seen by him. Five years. Five years since Elijah Moore, with his quiet authority and eyes like old whiskey, had walked into her little booth at the town’s annual arts festival. He’d bought her first-ever sale, a small watercolor of the cypress swamp, and then he’d bought her a beer. He’d been running the club with his brother for two years then, a smooth, dangerous operation that was the heartbeat of their small town’s nightlife. He was Smoke, the calm in the chaos, the one who saw everything and said little. And he’d seen her.
Her bare feet were silent on the cool hardwood floor as she padded down the hall, a smear of cadmium yellow on her cheek like a war paint she didn’t know she wore. She was just going to the kitchen for a glass of sweet tea, a small break before she tackled the stubborn white highlights again. But as she passed their bedroom door, she heard it. A sound that didn't belong. A high, breathy giggle that wasn't hers.
It was her sister’s giggle. Kiera’s.
Déjà froze, her hand hovering over the light switch in the hall. The sound was like a shard of ice in her veins. Kiera was supposed to be in Jackson, finishing up her junior year at Millsaps. She wasn’t due home for another two weeks. Déjà’s mind, a painter’s mind, immediately tried to frame the scene, to find a logical composition. Kiera must have come home early as a surprise. Maybe she was on the phone, her laughter echoing in the empty house. But then she heard another sound. A low, familiar groan. Elijah’s groan.
The turpentine and magnolia-scented peace she’d been cultivating for five years evaporated, leaving behind a toxic vacuum. Her hand, trembling now, left a smear of yellow on the pristine white doorframe as she pushed it open.
The scene that hit her eyes was a masterpiece of betrayal, painted in the lurid glow of a single bedside lamp. Their bed, the one they’d bought together from a flea market in Natchez, the one they’d spent hours sanding and restaining, was a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. Elijah’s back was to her, the powerful muscles she knew so well, the ones that held her at night, flexing as he moved. His dark skin, usually a source of comfort and warmth, was now just the landscape of her ruin. And beneath him, her head thrown back against the pillows Elijah had meticulously fluffed for Déjà every morning, was Kiera. Her sister. Her baby sister, whose face was a mask of ecstasy that twisted into shock when her eyes landed on Déjà standing in the doorway.
For a beat, nobody moved. The world was a silent film. Déjà could see the details with horrifying clarity: the way Elijah’s hand gripped Kiera’s thigh, the same way he gripped Déjà’s when he was deep inside her. The small, heart-shaped birthmark on Kiera’s shoulder, a mark that Déjà had teased her about since they were children. The way the cheap gold chain Elijah was wearing—a gift from Déjà for their last anniversary—swayed between them, catching the light.
It was the sight of that chain that broke the spell.
A sound tore from Déjà’s throat, was a wounded animal’s cry. It wasn’t a word. It was pain.
Elijah froze, his body going rigid. He turned his head slowly, his face, when he saw her, a canvas of pure horror. The cool control he wore like a second skin evaporated, replaced by a naked, boyish panic. "Déjà," he breathed, his voice a ragged thing. "Baby, no—"
But she was already moving. The painter, the lover, the woman who built a world with this man, was gone. All that was left was a sister. A daughter of the Delta, whose blood ran hot and whose temper was legendary.
She launched herself at the bed, not at Elijah, but at Kiera. Her hands, usually stained with paint and gentle with a brush, became claws. She grabbed a fistful of Kiera’s weave, the expensive, silky stuff Déjà had helped her pay for last Christmas, and yanked. Kiera screamed, a high, thin sound of shock and pain as she was dragged sideways across the sheets.
"You!" Déjà’s voice was a raw, ragged shriek. "In my bed! In my fucking house!" Her fist connected with Kiera’s jaw, a sickening, solid thud that sent shockwaves up her own arm. She didn't feel it. All she felt was the fire, the righteous, burning fury of a bloodline betrayed.
"Dej, stop! Get off her!" Elijah was trying to pull her off, his hands on her arms, but she was a whirlwind. She twisted, her elbow catching him hard in the ribs. He grunted, his grip loosening for a second, and she used it. She shoved Kiera back against the headboard, her sister’s face a mess of shock and dawning fear.
"I trusted you!" Déjà screamed, her vision blurred by tears of rage. "I loved you! You were supposed to be my blood!"
Kiera was sobbing now, trying to cover her face. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Déjà!"
"Sorry?" The word was a laugh, bitter and broken. "Sorry don't fix this!"
Elijah finally managed to wrap his arms around her waist, lifting her off the bed. She kicked and thrashed, her bare feet connecting with the wooden bedframe. "Déjà, calm down! Calm down!" His voice was desperate, the voice of a man who knew he’d just detonated his entire world.
Calm down. The words were an insult. She stopped fighting, her body going limp for a moment, and Elijah, fool that he was, thought he’d won. He loosened his hold, and she used that split second to spin around in his arms. Her hand, still trembling with adrenaline, drew back and then swung forward with all the force her body could muster.
Her palm connected with his face. It wasn't a slap. It was a punch. A solid, satisfying crunch of knuckle against bone. His head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his eye.
"You don't get to tell me to calm down," she seethed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You don't get to touch me. You don't get to breathe my air."
He looked at her, his good eye wide with disbelief, a dark, purple bruise already beginning to form around the other. He saw it then. He saw the finality in her eyes. He saw that the woman he loved had just died in that doorway, and he was standing over her corpse.
She didn’t wait for another word. She didn’t look at Kiera, sobbing in their bed. She turned and walked out of the room. She didn't slam the door. She didn't scream again. She walked through the small house that was supposed to be their forever home, her steps steady and sure. She grabbed her keys from the hook by the door, her purse from the chair. She didn't pack a bag. There was nothing in that house she wanted anymore.
She walked out into the thick, humid Mississippi night, the chirping of the cicadas a deafening roar in her ears. The air was heavy, smelling of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. She got into her old beat-up Honda, the one Elijah had helped her fix last month, and she drove. She didn't know where she was going. She just drove away from the turpentine, away from the magnolias, away from the man with the whiskey eyes and the heart full of lies. She drove until the town was just a pair of distant, fading lights in her rearview mirror, and she didn't look back.
Present
The Mississippi heat in June was a living thing. It didn’t just warm you; it pressed down on your shoulders, seeped into your bones, and made the air feel thick enough to swim in. For three years, Déjà had let it press down on her from a distance. But today, as she turned her rented sedan onto the gravel drive of the Moore family home, the heat felt like a welcome, an old, familiar adversary. The air, heavy and sweet, carried the scent of her past: fried chicken crackling in hot oil, collard greens simmering with a ham hock, and the faint, promising sweetness of cornbread cooling on a windowsill. It was the scent of Sunday, of sanctuary. It was also the scent of a battlefield she’d sworn she’d never revisit.
The phone call had been a week ago. The name on her screen had sent a jolt through her, a Pavlovian response she thought she’d trained out of herself. Mama Moore. She’d let it ring twice, her thumb hovering over the decline button, before a wave of something stronger than her own pride, a residual love for the woman who’d been a second mother to her, made her answer.
“Déjà, baby.” Mrs. Moore’s voice was a warm, low hum, unchanged by the three years of silence between them. “How you doing?”
“I’m good, Mama Moore. Just working.” Déjà had kept her own voice neutral, polite.
A heavy sigh on the other end. “Listen, baby. I know things been… strained. But Elijah don’t own this family. He don’t own this Sunday dinner. We miss you. Pearline’s asking for you. We’re having a little cookout. Just family. We invited you.”
Déjà’s heart had hammered against her ribs. She knew what that meant. He would be there. Smoke. Elijah. The man whose face still haunted the edges of her dreams, sometimes in anger, sometimes in longing. She’d spent three years building a life in Jackson, a life of gallery shows, new friends, and a quiet apartment that smelled of fresh coffee and acrylic paint, not betrayal. Going back felt like chipping away at the foundation of her peace.
But then Mrs. Moore had said the magic words, the ones that bypassed all logic and self-preservation. “Baby, you are still my girl. You always will be.”
So she’d agreed. And now, here she was, parking her car between a dusty pickup truck and Elias’s ridiculously pristine, candy-apple red ‘72 Chevelle. She took a deep breath, the humid air filling her lungs, and got out.
The moment her feet touched the gravel, the back screen door flew open.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!”
It was Aunt Carol, a woman built like a linebacker with a laugh that could shake the rafters. Before Déjà could even formulate a greeting, she was engulfed in a hug that smelled of Chanel No. 5 and fried okra. More bodies poured from the house. Mrs. Moore, her face softening with a genuine, unadulterated joy that made Déjà’s chest ache. Granny Moore, her silver hair in neat cornrows, took Déjà’s face in her soft, wrinkled hands and kissed her forehead. They were a whirlwind of affection, pulling her toward the house, their voices a symphony of welcomes.
“Look at you, girl! Still too skinny! You need to eat!”
“Ooh, I love that dress on you! That color is everything!”
“Don’t just stand there, come on in the kitchen. I got some lemonade that’s so sweet it’ll make your teeth hurt.”
Déjà let herself be swept along, a smile plastered on her face that felt surprisingly real. In the kitchen, the chaos was beautiful. Pots bubbled on the stove, counters were covered in bowls and cutting boards, and the radio was playing a low, bluesy tune. This was the heart of the Moore home, the place she’d spent countless hours. This was where she’d learned to make Mrs. Moore’s famous mac and cheese, where she’d sat with a crying Pearline after a bad breakup, where she’d helped decorate for a dozen birthdays. When Elijah had thrown her away, she hadn’t just lost a boyfriend; she’d been exiled from this. This vibrant, messy, loving world.
They fussed over her, shoving a plate of still-warm cornbread into her hands and a glass of that deadly sweet lemonade. They asked about her job as a junior curator at a small but respected gallery in Jackson, about her paintings, about her life. They listened with an intensity that made her feel seen, cherished. And through it all, they pointedly, masterfully, ignored the one person who was supposed to be the center of it all.
Elijah was sitting at the massive oak table on the screened-in porch, a bottle of beer in front of him. He was a statue carved from shadow and cold fury. He’d always had a presence, a quiet authority that commanded a room without him ever having to raise his voice. Now, that presence was a black hole, sucking all the warmth and light toward him and leaving only ice in its wake. He was darker than she remembered, his jaw sharper, the faint lines around his deep brown eyes etched with a permanent scowl. The bruise she’d given him that night was long gone, but the memory of it hung between them, a ghost at the feast.
He watched her, his gaze a physical weight. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just watched, his eyes tracking her every move as she was pulled from one hug to the next.
“Déjà, baby, you remember my cousin Tyree? He just moved back from Atlanta,” Aunt Carol said, introducing a lanky man with a kind smile.
“Nice to meet you,” Déjà said, shaking his hand.
“Elijah, pass your cousin the salt, baby,” Mrs. Moore called from the stove, not even looking at him.
The salt shaker was right beside Déjà’s plate. She reached for it, but Elijah’s hand shot out, snatching it. He leaned across the table, his movements stiff, and handed it to Tyree. “Here,” he grunted, his voice a low growl, the smoke-and-whiskey tone she once loved now just gravel.
The small act of petty cruelty hung in the air. A hush fell over the women in the kitchen. Tyree looked confused, taking the salt with a mumbled thanks. Déjà didn’t flinch. She simply turned back to her conversation with Pearline, who was now filling her in on her latest drama, her calm indifference a weapon more powerful than any retaliation she could have mustered. She could feel the frustration rolling off Elijah in waves. He wanted her to shrink, to feel unwelcome, to be the one who was out of place. But she wasn’t. She was home. And that was driving him insane.
Throughout the afternoon, the slick comments kept coming, little darts thrown with the hope of drawing blood.
“Didn’t know you were still in touch with everybody,” he said when she was laughing with his grandma.
“Still painting those little pictures?” he asked, his tone dismissive, when his mama praised her latest gallery show.
Each time, she met his gaze with a placid smile, never giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. But with every comment, with every possessive glare he shot her way when another male relative paid her a compliment, a new understanding began to dawn on her, sharp and ugly.
He didn’t want her back. He didn’t miss her. He just didn’t want anyone else to have her. He didn’t want her to fit here, without him. He was like a child who throws away a favorite toy, only to get angry when another child picks it up to play with. The hypocrisy of it all settled in her chest, not as sadness, but as a cold, hard anger. He had cheated on her with her sister, in their bed, and destroyed their entire world. And now he had the audacity to be angry that the world he’d destroyed had continued to spin without him at its center.
It was then that she felt another gaze, one entirely different. From the far end of the porch, sprawled in a rocking chair that looked too delicate for his large frame, was Elias. Stack. The younger twin, the unfiltered, chaotic yin to Elijah’s controlled yang. He was a walking temptation, all raw energy and easy confidence. He wore a fitted white t-shirt that strained against his broad chest and a pair of black dickie pants that were artfully worn. He watched the entire tableau with an amused, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
He saw everything. He saw the tension in Elijah’s face, the expertly hidden hurt in Déjà’s eyes that she thought no one could see, and the pathetic way his brother was trying to assert a dominance he no longer had any claim to. Their eyes met across the porch, over the heads of their family. Elias didn’t look away. He just took a slow sip of his beer, his smirk widening into a slow, knowing grin. It was a silent acknowledgment. I see you, his eyes said. I see him. And I see the game.
Later, as the sun began to dip lower, painting the sky in strokes of orange and purple, Déjà found herself on the porch steps, peeling shrimp with Mrs. Moore. They were laughing about a memory from years ago, a story involving a failed attempt at making gumbo and a very confused fire department.
“I swear, that boy of mine has been a mess in the kitchen since you left,” Mrs. Moore said, her voice softening. “He burned the rice last week. How you burn rice?”
Déjà laughed, a genuine, light sound that felt foreign and good. “Some people just don’t have the touch, Mama Moore.”
The screen door creaked open, and Elijah stepped out onto the porch. He stopped when he saw them, his eyes landing on Déjà’s face, alight with a laughter he hadn’t put there. He saw the easy way she was sitting next to his mother, the way his mother looked at her with a love that hadn’t dimmed one bit. He saw her, in their space, fitting perfectly into the groove she’d left behind.
The irritation that had been simmering in him all day boiled over. It wasn’t just anger; it was a profound, gut-wrenching sense of loss. He had ruined this. He had thrown this woman, this beautiful, vibrant woman who loved his family as much as he did, away for a cheap, meaningless fling. And seeing her here, happy and whole without him, was a punishment more fitting than any she could have devised.
He turned away, walking to the opposite end of the porch and staring out into the sprawling yard, his back a rigid line of defeat. And from his chair, Elias watched his brother, then looked back at Déjà, a slow fire lighting up his eyes.
The sun had bled out, leaving the sky a deep, bruised purple. The air, thick with the day's heat and the remnants of a feast, was now punctuated by the rhythmic chirp of crickets and the low, lazy hum of the porch light. The family had migrated from the yard to the long dining table inside, the space now filled with the clatter of plates and the low murmur of conversation that settled over a Moore family gathering like a comfortable blanket. Déjà found herself wedged between Pearline and Aunt Carol, a strategic placement that felt both protective and suffocating. She was part of the fold, but every nerve ending was attuned to the silent, brooding presence at the other end of the table.
Elijah hadn't spoken to her directly since his petty salt-shaker power play. He’d engaged with everyone else, his voice a low rumble of forced civility, but when he looked at her, his eyes were flat, devoid of any warmth. He was treating her like a ghost, a disruptive spirit in his sacred family space, and his family, in turn, was treating him like the intruder. The dynamic was a delicate, vicious dance, and Déjà was beginning to enjoy the music.
Granny Moore emerged from the kitchen with a triumphant smile, carrying a tray of her famous sweet potato pies. The crusts were a perfect golden brown, the filling a glossy, burnt-orange river that promised pure, unadulterated bliss. She placed a generous slice in front of everyone, saving Déjà for last.
“There you go, baby,” she said, setting the plate down with a wink. “I know how you love my pie. Made it extra sweet just for you.”
“Thank you, Granny,” Déjà said, her smile genuine. The old woman’s kindness was a balm, a reminder of everything good that had been tangled up with the bad.
Déjà picked up her fork, but as she went to cut into the pie, the flaky crust gave way under the pressure, and a perfect dollop of the molten filling oozed onto her thumb. It was an innocent mistake, a common occurrence with Granny’s pies. Before she could even reach for her napkin, a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, sharp and laced with disdain.
“Still eating with your hands, I see.”
It was Elijah. He wasn't looking at her, but at his own plate, as if the comment were a casual, throwaway observation. But it wasn't. It was a poisoned dart, dipped in the history of their relationship. It was an inside joke, one of a thousand. He used to tease her about her messy, enthusiastic way of eating, calling it his favorite thing about her, a sign of her unapologetic enjoyment of life. He’d kiss the sauce from the corner of her mouth, the chocolate from her lips, and call it his dessert. Now, he’d twisted it into an insult, a public indictment of her supposed lack of class.
A hush fell over the table. Pearline’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Mrs. Moore shot her son a look that could curdle milk.
Déjà didn't flinch. She didn't wipe her thumb on a napkin. She didn't blush with embarrassment. Instead, she slowly, deliberately, lifted her thumb to her lips. Her eyes locked with Elijah’s, her gaze unflinching. She held his stare as she stuck out her tongue and licked the sweet, spiced filling from her skin, the movement slow, sensual, and utterly deliberate. A soft, wet sound in the sudden silence.
She lowered her hand, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Some things are just too good to waste, Elijah,” she said, her voice clear and calm.
The use of his full name was the final twist of the knife. Elijah was for the world, for business, for authority. Eli was for her. Elijah was a formal distance she was now enforcing.
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. His eyes, for the first time all day, flashed with something other than cold fury. It was fury, the kind that came from being publicly checkmated. He had no response. He had been disarmed, and he knew it.
Déjà held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned away, dismissing him completely. She turned her body, her attention, her entire energy, toward the man sitting on Elijah’s other side.
Elias.
He’d been watching the entire exchange, his fork paused midway to his own mouth. Now, as Déjà’s focus landed on him, a slow grin spread across his face. He didn't even try to hide his amusement. He was enjoying the show immensely.
“So, Stack,” Déjà began, her voice lighter now, infused with a new purpose. “Pearline was telling me you finally got that garage up and running. How’s that going?”
Elias leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders relaxing. He was all loose-limbed confidence, the opposite of his brother’s rigid tension. “It’s going, for real. Got a ’69 Chevelle in there right now, trying to bring her back from the dead. It’s a money pit, but what else is new?”
He launched into a story about the engine, about sourcing a rare carburetor, his hands gesturing expressively as he spoke. Déjà laughed at all the right places, her head tilting back, the sound a little louder than it had been before. She leaned in, her elbow on the table, her chin propped in her hand, hanging on his every word. She was giving him a performance, and he was a receptive audience.
“…and the dude who sold it to me swore the transmission was solid,” Elias was saying, his voice a low, engaging rumble. “Lying-ass nigga. I had to drop the whole damn thing.”
As he laughed, a deep, throaty sound, Déjà reached for her napkin. It had slid just off the edge of the table, near his leg. Her hand, moving with a dancer’s grace, brushed against his thigh. It was no accident. The touch was light, fleeting, but it was electric. She felt the hard muscle of his leg through the thin fabric of his pants, and she let her fingers linger for a fraction of a second too long before pulling back with the napkin.
Elias’s voice faltered for just a moment. His eyes, dark and glittering, met hers. The amusement was gone, replaced by something hotter, more intense. He saw exactly what she was doing. And he was all in.
“Damn, Dej,” he said, his voice dropping a register, turning it into something private meant only for her. “You ever come by the garage, I’ll show you how to handle a carburetor. Hands-on and everything.”
The double entendre hung in the air between them, thick and promising. Déjà felt a thrill go through her, a dangerous, heady rush. This was power. Not the quiet, possessive control Elijah used to wield over her, but a sharp, glittering, weaponized power of her own making.
Later, as the plates were being cleared and the conversation shifted to football, Elijah pushed his chair back with a scrape. “I’m getting more tea,” he muttered, standing up and stalking toward the kitchen.
Elias watched him go, then caught Déjà’s eye. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod before getting up himself. “I’ll help.”
The kitchen was the only room in the house that wasn’t laughing.
Through the door, Déjà’s laugh drifted through the kitchen, Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
It hit Elijah like a knife every damn time.
The scent of sweet tea and lemon pound cake hung heavy in the air. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, doing little to stir the thick, humid atmosphere. Somebody’s auntie had left gospel music playing low from a speaker on the counter, a mournful, hopeful sound that only seemed to mock the tension coiled in Elijah’s gut.
It should’ve felt like home.
Instead, Elijah felt trapped.
He stood at the refrigerator with his back to the door, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. He could feel the weight of his family’s judgment, the warmth of their affection for Déjà, a physical force pushing him out, making him an intruder in his own childhood home.
The second he heard the door swing shut behind him, he knew who it was. He didn’t have to turn around. He could feel his brother’s energy, a chaotic, unfiltered counterpoint to his own rigid fury.
“Elias.”
His voice came out rough.
Warning.
Not greeting.
“Don’t.”
Elias snorted, a sound of disbelief.
“Shit.”
The refrigerator door opened, flooding a corner of the room with cold, white light. Ice rattled in a dispenser. A pitcher scraped against glass as it was lifted from the shelf.
“You ain’t even asked what I’m doing yet,” Elias said, his voice deceptively calm.
“I know what you’re doing,” Elijah seethed, the words barely contained.
Elias poured himself a glass of tea.
Slow.
Patient.
Like he had all the time in the world.
Like he wasn’t standing in the middle of a minefield of his brother’s making.
“No,” he said quietly, setting the pitcher down with a soft click. “You know what I’m doing with her.”
The room went still. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken history. Elijah finally turned, his movements sharp and aggressive. Their eyes met. For a second, they looked exactly alike—the same broad shoulders, the same dark skin, the same Moore features carved by their father’s genes. Then Elias’s mouth twisted, a bitter, knowing smirk.
Because they weren’t alike at all.
“What the hell you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than Elijah intended, laced with a raw, ugly possessiveness that he couldn’t disguise. And judging by the look on Elias’s face, he heard it too.
For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Elias laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because he genuinely couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Me?” He pointed a thumb at his own chest, his grin widening. “Me?”
“Elias—”
“Nigga, you cheated.”
The room became quiet.
Heavy.
Elijah’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek. His eyes darkened, a storm gathering. “That ain’t what this is about.”
“The fuck it ain’t.” Elias’s voice rose, the casual facade dropping away to reveal the anger beneath. He slammed the pitcher down on the counter, the sound cracking like a whip. “You wanna know why I’m pissed?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He took a step forward, his presence filling the small space. “What kills me is that you’re standing here acting like somebody stole something from you. Like somebody took something that belonged to you.” Another step. “But ain’t nobody took shit.”
Elijah’s shoulders squared, a defensive posture Elias knew all too well. “Elias.”
“No.” For the first time all evening, real anger cracked through Stack’s voice. Not playful. Not teasing. Anger. “You wanna know why I’m really doing this? Because she still shows up. After everything. After what you did. She still calls Mama on birthdays. She still checks on Grandma. She still remembers Pearline’s graduation. She still sends Christmas cards.” Every sentence hit harder, every word a hammer blow to the wall Elijah had built around his guilt. “She loved this family, Eli. She loved us.”
Elias shook his head, his expression a mixture of disbelief and disgust, and he took another step closer, invading his brother’s space completely. “And your dumb ass threw that away. For her sister. For what? For a few cheap fucks? And now you’re sitting in here acting all possessive and pissed off, like you have any right to be mad that she’s breathing the same air as us. You don’t. You lost that right.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, venomous whisper that was somehow more cutting than his shout. “Look at me, Eli. I’m the last nigga on earth who should be giving this speech. I fuck. I bounce. I leave women’s numbers on napkins and don’t think twice. I’ve had more ass than a public toilet seat, and I plan on having more. But I’m not blind. I’m not stupid. I know a good woman when I see one. And Déjà… that wasn’t just a good woman. That was the kind of woman you build a whole universe around. The kind that makes a man want to be better than he is. The kind that looks at this loud, messy, all-up-in-your-business family and doesn’t run. She digs in. She loves harder. She stays. You don’t find that. You don’t just get that. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime hand, and you folded it like a fucking coward.”
“You know nothing,” Elijah seethed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Stay away from her.”
“Or what?” Elias challenged, stepping into his brother’s space until they were chest to chest. They were identical, but in that moment, they were miles apart. Elijah was all cold fury and wounded pride; Elias was a blaze of righteous anger. “You gonna fight me? You gonna try and tell me what to do? You had a queen, Elijah. A queen. And you traded her for a damn jester. Don’t you dare stand there and get mad at me for admiring the crown you so willingly threw on the floor.”
Elijah looked away, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop himself. Elias saw it. Saw the hesitation. The guilt. The truth. His laugh this time was bitter.
“There it is,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, cruel whisper. “I think that’s what really got you fucked up. You thought she’d always be waiting. You thought no matter what happened… she’d still belong to you.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Because Elijah couldn’t immediately deny it.
And that told them both everything.
“Yeah,” Elias said, a slow, sad nod. “Thought so.” He pointed toward the dining room, toward the sound of her laughing with Grandma. “That’s why you mad. Not because she came. Not because she’s sitting at the table. Because she looks happy. Because she isn’t hurting loudly enough for your comfort. Because she’s moving on, she moved on. And you hate it.” He leaned in closer, his voice almost a caress, which made it hurt more. “You don’t miss having her. You miss knowing she wanted you.”
The words almost made Eljah bend over in pain.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
But Elias caught it.
And his face hardened.
“Yeah. Thought so.”
The room fell silent. Only the hum of the refrigerator remained. Only the distant sound of laughter outside. Only the ghost of everything Elijah had destroyed. Finally, very quietly, Elijah spoke again, his voice a broken plea. “Stay away from her.”
Elias stared at him, his eyes cold. He grabbed the two glasses of tea. He stared his brother down, his eyes burning with a fury that was as much for Elijah’s stupidity as it was for the hurt he had caused.
“She ain’t yours no more,” Elias said, his voice dropping back to a low, dangerous rumble, a final, absolute sentence. “Not your woman. Not your problem. Not your future.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then delivered the killing blow. “You had your chance.” He turned toward the doorway, then stopped. Without looking back, he said, “And if somebody else sees her worth now? That’s your punishment. Not mine.”
Then he walked out, leaving Elijah standing alone in the suffocating silence, the weight of his brother’s words—and the terrible, undeniable truth in them—crushing him.
The night settled over the Moore house like a shroud. The laughter died down to a low murmur, the clatter of plates replaced by the gentle hum of crickets and the distant drone of a lone cicada. Dinner was over. The energy had shifted from boisterous reunion to the quiet, heavy pull of an ending. Déjà found herself on the porch swing, a thin wool blanket draped over her legs, sipping the last of her lemonade. Beside her, Granny Moore dozed in her rocking chair, her head tilted to the side, her breathing soft and even.
Elijah had disappeared. One minute, he was a brooding statue on the porch; the next he was simply gone. Déjà had felt his absence like a change in barometric pressure, the storm finally breaking and leaving behind a strange, hollow calm. He hadn’t said goodbye. He hadn’t looked at her. He had just retreated into the house, defeated, a wounded animal crawling back to its den to lick its wounds.
It was over. She had done it. She had faced him, faced them, and she hadn’t broken. She had walked through the fire and come out the other side, not singed, but forged. A part of her felt a surge of triumph, a clean, sharp victory. But another part, a quieter, more honest part, felt the profound exhaustion of a long-fought war. She was tired.
“Alright, baby,” Granny Moore murmured, her eyes fluttering open. “Time for this old lady to get to bed before she turns into a pumpkin.” She patted Déjà’s knee, her hand frail but warm. “You drive safe now, you hear? Call me when you get home.”
“I will, Granny,” Déjà promised, leaning over to kiss the soft, wrinkled cheek.
She said her goodbyes, a round of hugs, and whispered promises to visit again soon. Mrs. Moore held her a little too long, her embrace a silent apology for her son’s behavior. “He’ll come around to his senses one day,” she whispered into Déjà’s hair.
Déjà didn’t answer. She just hugged her back, knowing that some senses were lost forever.
She stood on the front lawn, the cool grass damp beneath her sandals, and looked at her rented sedan. It was a sensible, boring car, a silver Toyota that smelled of air freshener and anonymity. The thought of driving it through the dark, winding Delta roads, alone with her thoughts, was suddenly unbearable. The adrenaline of the evening was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. She hated driving at night, a fear Elijah used to tease her about, always taking the keys without a second thought.
“Need a ride?”
The voice was a low, familiar rumble, cutting through her hesitation. She turned to see Elias leaning against the fender of his Chevelle, his arms crossed over his chest. The car was a beast, gleaming under the porch light, a testament to his patience and skill. He looked like part of it, all sharp lines and raw power.
“I have a rental,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
He pushed off the car, a slow, easy movement. “I know. But it’s late. And you look tired.” He wasn’t asking. He was stating a fact, offering a solution. “Come on. Let me take you to your hotel.”
She hesitated for only a second. It was a terrible idea. A dangerous one. But she was so damn tired of being sensible. She nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion.
The ride was thick with unspoken tension. The engine was a deep, throaty purr that vibrated through the leather seats and into her bones. The radio was on, a low, oldie station that filled the silence but didn’t break it. He didn’t talk. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, his fingers tapping out a silent rhythm. He drove with an easy confidence, taking the winding roads with a practiced skill that was both thrilling and comforting.
Déjà stared out the window, watching the dark, silhouetted trees rush past. The moon was high and full, casting a silver sheen on the swamps and fields. It was beautiful, but it was a lonely beauty. She could feel Elias’s presence beside her, a solid, magnetic force. He wasn’t looking at her, but she could feel his awareness of her, a palpable energy that filled the small space of the car.
He didn’t drive toward the small, chain hotel on the edge of town where she was staying. Instead, he turned off the main road, following a winding path that led up a small hill. He pulled the Chevelle into an empty parking lot at the edge of a local park, the place teenagers went to make out and escape the prying eyes of the town. Across the lake, the lights of the small city spread out like a carpet of scattered jewels.
He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was absolute. He didn’t turn to her right away. He just stared out the windshield, giving her space, letting the moment settle.
“He’s a fool,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from the car itself. “Always has been.”
He wasn’t just talking about the dinner. He was talking about three years ago. About all of it.
Déjà let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “He is.”
He turned to her then, his face half-shadowed, his eyes glittering in the dim light from the dashboard. “You know why you’re here, right?”
The question was direct. No games. No pretense. He was calling her out, not with judgment, but with a shared, understanding clarity.
Déjà met his gaze, her own heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t try to deny it. She didn’t try to play coy. “I’m tired of being the bigger person,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I want to be the storm for once.”
A slow grin spread across his face. It wasn’t a smirk. It was a look of appreciation. “Well,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl. “It’s about to rain.”
And then he was on her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was a collision. He leaned across the console, his hand cupping the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, and he kissed her. It was a kiss of teeth and tongue, of years of unresolved anger and betrayal. It was raw and desperate and hungry. He tasted of moonshine and weed, and something wild and untamed. She kissed him back with equal force, her hands fisting in the front of his t-shirt, pulling him closer. It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about tenderness. It was about catharsis. It was about claiming and being claimed.
The windows began to steam up, blurring the city lights outside until they were just hazy, indistinct smears of color. The air inside the car grew thick and hot, smelling of his cologne, the rich scent of leather, and the sharp, electric tang of their shared desire.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. His eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only person in the world. “You gonna make him feel this?” he asked, his voice a rough, velvet rasp.
Déjà’s lips were swollen, her pulse racing. “Every time he looks at me.”
“Good.” A feral grin. “Show me what he threw away.”
His words were a lit match to gasoline. She didn’t need to be told twice. She climbed over the console, straddling his lap, the awkwardness of the position forgotten in the surge of adrenaline. The center console dug into her thigh, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was the hard, solid feel of him beneath her, the way his hands immediately came to rest on her hips, gripping her.
He was vocal, and she loved it. “Damn, Dej,” he groaned as she grinded against him, the friction sending shocks to her core.
His hands were everywhere, sliding up her back, tangling in her hair, gripping her ass. He was worshiping her with his touch, praising her with his body. “He’s a fool,” he breathed against her neck, his teeth scraping her sensitive skin. “A goddamn fool.”
She fumbled with the button of his pants, her fingers trembling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. The sound of his belt buckle coming undone was loud in the confines of the car, a sharp, metallic click that signaled a point of no return. He lifted his hips, helping her push his jeans down just enough.
The act itself was raw, a little desperate, but powerful. It was Déjà taking back control, using her body as a weapon, a balm, a celebration. She was riding him, her back arched, her head thrown back, the city lights painting her skin in a kaleidoscope of colors. She wasn’t thinking about Elijah, not consciously. But in the back of her mind, she knew. This was for him. Every roll of her hips, every gasp that escaped her lips, every time she cried out Elias’s name, it was a message. A final, brutal, beautiful fuck you.
Elias was an eager, more-than-willing participant in her revenge, but he was also genuinely into her, seeing the woman his brother was too stupid to keep. He met her thrust for thrust, his hands guiding her, his mouth praising her, his eyes never leaving hers. He saw the fire in her, the strength, the resilience, and it turned him on in a way he hadn’t expected.
As she rode Elias’s dick, every moan, every time he gripped her tighter, she thought about the night Elijah had her sister in their bed, her walking in on them fucking, and with every thought she fucked Elias harder. The image of Elijah’s back, the muscles she knew so well flexing over her sister, flashed behind her eyelids. She dug her nails into Elias’s shoulders, the sharp sting grounding her, and she slammed her hips down, taking him deeper, a punishing rhythm that was as much for her as it was for the ghost watching from the shadows of her memory. Elias groaned, his head falling back against the seat, his hands gripping her ass so tight it would leave bruises. "Fuck, Déjà," he gritted out, his voice strained with pleasure. "Just like that." She heard Kiera’s giggle, that high, breathy sound, and she clenched around Elias, her body a vice, a silent scream. She leaned forward, her mouth against his ear, her breath hot and ragged. "You feel that?" she whispered, her voice a raw, broken thing. "That's what he threw away." And she rode him harder, faster, chasing a release that wasn't just pleasure, but obliteration.
“Take it,” he urged, his voice strained. “Take what you need.”
And she did. She took everything he was giving her, and in doing so, she took back a piece of herself she thought she’d lost forever. She was the storm. And the storm was glorious.
The second time was slower, but no less punishing.
It wasn’t the frantic, desperate clash from the night before. This was a deliberate, drawn-out reclaiming. The morning sun was just beginning to bleed through the cheap blinds of Elias’s bedroom, painting the room in stripes of hazy gold. The air was thick with the scent of their exertion, sweat, and something deeper, more primal. Déjà was on her stomach, her face turned to the side, her cheek pressed into a pillow that smelled of him. Elias was behind her, his weight a solid, grounding presence, one hand braced on the headboard, the other gripping her hip as he moved inside her with a deep, rhythmic stroke that stole the air from her lungs.
Each thrust was a statement. Each ragged breath a confirmation. He wasn’t just fucking her; he was erasing his brother. With every roll of his hips, he was rewriting the narrative, carving his own name into a story Elijah had tried to burn to the ground. She pushed back against him, meeting him, taking everything he gave, her own release building not as a peak of pleasure, but as a tidal wave of catharsis. When she came, it was a silent, shuddering thing, a full-body tremor that left her boneless and spent.
He collapsed against her, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his breathing harsh and uneven. For a long moment, they just lay there, a tangle of limbs in the harsh morning light. Then he shifted, pressing a soft, surprisingly tender kiss to the damp skin of her back before rolling off her.
Déjà lay there, tangled in sheets that smelled like him—leather, weed, and something uniquely Elias. The sun was brutal now, its rays cutting through the blinds to spotlight the dust motes dancing in the air. Her body ached in a satisfying, visceral way, a pleasant soreness between her thighs, a dull throb in her muscles. For a moment, there was peace. A quiet, settled peace she hadn’t felt in three years. The storm had passed, and in its wake was a strange, beautiful calm.
His arm around her waist tightened instinctively. The peace was shattered, replaced by a jolt of adrenaline. This wasn't just revenge anymore. Revenge was a fire you set and walked away from. This... this felt like she’d been standing too close to the flames and now her clothes were smoldering. She had meant to use him, to be the storm, but the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d praised her body like he was discovering a new continent—it had felt too real. She hadn't just slept with his brother; she'd let him see the hurt his brother caused.
Moments later, the bedroom door creaked open.
The sound was small, insignificant, but it landed in the room like a thunderclap. Déjà didn’t have to look. She could feel him. The air in the room changed, growing heavy, charged with the kind of history that suffocates.
Elijah was standing there, framed in the doorway. He was in the same clothes from last night, his t-shirt wrinkled, his jeans stained with the dust and dew of a night spent outside, or in his car, or wherever he went to lick his wounds. His face was a ruin. The cool, composed mask he wore like a second skin was completely gone, shattered into a million pieces. All she saw was the man she’d loved, the man she’d built a world with, looking at her like she’d just reached into his chest and carved out his heart with a rusty spoon.
His eyes were hollow, sunken, ringed with the dark circles of a sleepless night. They tracked from her face, down the tangled sheets, to the tattooed arm slung possessively over her bare hip. The sound he made was something between a sob and a snarl, an animal’s cry of agony and disbelief. It was the sound of a man breaking.
Déjà froze, the peace of moments before turning to ash in her mouth. She felt Elias stir behind her, his body waking slowly. He blinked, his eyes focusing, and then he saw him. He saw his twin brother standing in the doorway, his face a mask of devastation.
And a lazy smirk spread across Elias’s face.
He didn’t move to cover her. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he tightened his grip on Déjà, pulling her flush against his naked body, a blatant, unapologetic act of ownership. He pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to her shoulder, his eyes never leaving Elijah’s.
Elijah’s voice was a broken whisper, a ghost of a sound. “How could you?”
Elias chuckled, a low, dark rumble that vibrated through Déjà’s back. He nuzzled her neck, his voice a loud, clear mockery meant only for his brother. “Nah, nigga. He paused, letting the silence hang, thick and suffocating. He lifted his head, looked his twin dead in the eye, and delivered the killing blow.
“You acting like I took something from you.”
A pause.
“Can’t steal what a man already threw away.”
The finality of that line hung in the air. It was a complete reversal of their history. It was the ultimate insult, the most profound violation of their bond. In this moment, Déjà was the main event, the one worth keeping, the one worth waking up to. And Elijah was nothing more than the pathetic, lingering memory, the cheap prelude to the main act. It was messy, cruel, and irrevocably shattered their world.
tell your black friends you love them. donate to mutual aid causes that will have direct impact for black folks. show black peers in fandom some love for their creative works. 💗
Warnings: Smut + Age Gap (Smoke is 35 and Divine is 23)! Rm: Don't read if that makes you uncomfortable! 🫶🏾
Lawd, I didn't expect y'all to be so interested in these two! 😭 I hope this ending lives up to the hype...*posts and scurries back to my lair*
Between the soothing sounds of the rain pattering against the wall to wall windows of his bedroom and the moans of the gorgeous woman on top of him, this is the most relaxed Smoke’s been in a while.
He just returned to Chicago from a week long business trip to New Orleans, and in his desperation to shed the stress of his and his brother's affairs, he called one of his "girlfriends", Malia, to be waiting at his door as soon as he got back.
The back of Smoke’s head sunk further into his pillows, and his eyes fluttered closed. His chest heaved along with his heavy breaths, the feeling of Malia, wet and warm around his length, sending his teeth sinking into his plump, bottom lip.
When she picked up the pace, pulling herself closer and closer to her peak with her head thrown back in ecstasy, Smoke's hands flew to her toned waist, gripping tight.
"Mm, Fuck, Di." Smoke groaned out without thinking.
The room went completely silent and still.
"Shit!" Was all Smoke's brain could come up with. It's been well over five months since he slept with Divine. Their relationship literally went right back to normal, after. Why the fuck is he slipping up and saying her name, right now, of all times?
"You just called me “Di”." Malia said softly, trying to catch her breath. Smoke remained neutral, attempting to gaslight himself out of the hole he just dug for himself.
"No, I didn't."
"Smoke, don't fucking play with me. I'm not stupid!" Malia spat, her angry eyes flicking over his calm and collected features. Smoke gave up the act, releasing a deep sigh while rubbing his hand over his face. "Di? Divine across the hall?You told me you wasn't fucking that girl!"
"I'm not."
"Oh, so you’re just thinking 'bout fucking her?" Malia both asked and implied at the same time.
"Not at the moment." Smoke honestly spoke, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “C’mere. Let’s just—.” He started, grabbing her arms softly and pulling her closer.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Malia spat, snatching away from him and scrambling out of the bed, fuming. "Do you hear yourself?!" Malia yelled, the rise in her tone instantly making him cringe and close his eyes in attempt to combat the rising irritation in his spirit. "You're making zero fucking sense! I'm already overlooking the two other bitches, then here you go fucking one you wanna keep under wraps for some reason!"
"I fucked her one time, Malia." Smoke attempted to tiredly explain. "I ain't touch her since."
"You expect me to believe you, Smoke?!"
"What I gotta lie to you fa?" Smoke asked, face twisting up to show his confusion. "I promise, if I was still fuckin' her, you'd know 'cause I don't care 'bout you knowin', Malia.”
"You know what?" Malia scoffed, shaking her head as she jumped into her sweats. "I should've been done with your sneaky, conniving bullshit. You're just like Stack's trifling ass, and I'm a fucking dumbass for convincing myself that you any different."
"Is dissin' my brudda really necessary?" Smoke grumbled in response, watching her finish getting dressed in silence with an attitude so potent that he can practically feel it radiating off of her. "My bad." He spoke once she was done, testing the waters to see just how pissed she is.
"Fuck you!" Malia sneered, snatching her purse from his nightstand. "Fuck your lil girlfriend, too!" She barked out behind her, storming out of his room.
"Aye, watch yo’ mouth! She ain’t my girlfriend, either!" Smoke loudly snapped, staring in the direction she went in, irritated.
The sound of his door slamming shut made his jaw tighten, and his eyes squeeze shut. After taking in a deep breath and releasing it, in attempt to calm his nerves, he shook his head and rolled out of the bed.
After trudging to his bathroom in defeat, Smoke snatched the barely used condom off of his softening dick and tossed it into the trash before looking at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t help but to laugh humorlessly at his luck before deciding to prepare for a long, hot shower.
Smoke scrubbed off Malia and the disappointment from him missing his opportunity to catch a nut, did the rest of his usual nighttime routine, slipped on a pair of black sweat-shorts and black Nike slides, and slinked across the hall with a shirt he got in New Orleans for Divine tight in his grip.
It didn't take Divine long to open the door after hearing his signature knock, the younger beaming uncontrollably at his presence.
Smoke's eyes raked her body that's clad in a pink cropped tube top and blue cotton panties, signaling that she's either getting ready for bed, or was already in bed.
"Hey, Elijah!" Divine greeted, pulling him in as he smiled at her excitement. "You just got back?" She asked, closing and locking the door.
"Like an hour ago." Smoke muttered, stepping closer and trapping her against the wall of the short hallway leading up to the door. "What you doing up, pretty?"
"Nigga, it's not that late." Divine chuckled, "Who slammed the fuck out your door earlier?"
"Man, you heard that bullshit?” Smoke scoffed. “Don't worry 'bout that." He grumbled, shaking his head as he recalled the verbal tussle between him and Malia. "Here go the shirt you asked fa." He held it up to show her the design.
"Oooh!" Divine grinned, snatching it and holding it against her body. After comparing it to her body, she checked the size and smacked her lips. "Smoke, you know damn well I don't wear a fucking large ." She gritted, hitting him in the face with it.
"Damn, girl!" Smoke laughed, "My bad.”
"Whatever." Divine rolled her eyes, smiling softly. "I can work with it." She shrugged, tossing the purple shirt over her shoulder. "You need to be putting this bitch on your damn self." She fussed, pushing him back with a firm nudge to his bare chest and sashaying off.
"You just wanted to cop a feel." Smoke teased, smirking at the natural switch of her hips as he followed her.
"Oh, get over yourself, Elijah Moore." Divine muttered, face heating up. "You're really not gonna tell me who slammed your door?"
"If I tell you, you'll drop it?" Smoke asked, leaning against the doorframe of her dimly lit room that's illuminated by her soft, warm floor lamp in the corner of her room.
"Probably not." Divine mumbled, glancing at him and shrugging as she brought a few of her anime plushies from her bed to her closet in attempt to make more room for Smoke.
"You know what? I admire yo' honesty." Smoke chuckled, walking over to her bed and making himself comfortable on the unoccupied side of it—propping himself up against the headboard with one leg hanging off the side of the mattress. "C'mere."
Divine closed the door of her closet, before rushing over to her designated side of the bed, cozying up beside Smoke.
"Tell me." Divine urged, excited to know what she's been wondering for the past hour.
"Malia."
"Why?" Divine pried, leaning closer. "Wait, don't tell me, yet. We're talking about the one with the short red hair, right?"
"Yes, Divine. That's her." Smoke chuckled, pulling her leg on his lap and rubbing her ankle.
"I called her over, we started fuckin', and while she was ridin' me, I called her “Di”."
"Oh my God." Divine grimaced, horrified. "Why in the hell would you do that?"
"I have no idea." Smoke muttered, the back of his head hitting the headboard. "I guess that's what happens when you got somebody in yo' face every damn day."
"Nigga, you was gone for a whole week with no contact." Divine sassed, "You had seven fucking days to reboot your mind and get rid of me, while you tryna get smart. What Stack had you doing down there at them ports, any-damn-way? Don't even try to lie, 'cause I still got your location from when I was making sure you was at the right place to pick up my food, a few weeks ago."
"Thank you for remindin' me that you still got my location, so I cut that bullshit off, nosey ass lil girl." Smoke pointed, slitting his eyes as she smirked proudly. "Stack ain't have me doin' shit." He couldn't help but to chuckle at his brother catching his second stray of the night. "I went down there to handle shit for the both of us."
"Drugs." Divine simply implied, rolling her eyes and making Smoke quirk a brow in amusement. "Anyways, you got that woman thinking I'm hopping on your dick every other night!"
"What's wrong wit’ that?" Smoke asked, biting back a smile while him and Divine held a brief stare-off. "I'm just askin'." He held his hand up in surrender when he saw she wasn't backing down.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you." Divine accused, tilting her head.
"You know what..." Divine trailed off, making a spectacle of turning on her side and fluffing her pillow with an uncontrollable smile on her face. "I'm going to bed." She turned her lamp down two more levels with the remote that was on her nightstand. "I suggest you do the same." She grumbled, making sure her scarf is secure around the sides and edges of her high, voluminous puff.
"I knew you liked our lil sleepovers."
"I just know when you bring your ass over here this late, it ain’t no getting rid of you." Divine bit back, giggling as she made herself comfortable under her covers. "Get under here and go to bed. You get irritating as fuck when you sleepy. Childish, too."
"I’m nowhere near sleepy." Smoke lied.
Sure enough, Smoke was knocked out within three minutes, and Divine quickly followed. Around the 3:22 mark in the night, Smoke continued to sleep soundly, but the thunder from a storm that stirred up while they slumbered startled Divine awake.
"Shit!" Divine gasped, clutching her chest and sitting up to look out her window at the heavy rain that's picking up by the second. As she settled down her heart rate, she noticed that Smoke's soft snoring ceased.
"You good?" Smoke rasped, not even bothering to open his eyes.
"Yeah, I just—." Divine started, chuckling nervously, "That scared the shit outta me. I don't like sleeping when the weather gets bad like this." She confessed, trembling softly.
"C'mere."
Divine wasted no time moving closer, allowing Smoke to hold her against him with a secure hold around her waist. She began playing with his chain and listening to his breathing to distract herself.
"When it stormed coming up, Stack used to do the same shit." Smoke muttered, chuckling at the thought. "I used to be dead asleep, and wake up to him climbing in my bed talkin' bout he scared. I never made him feel bad for doing it, but shit, it pissed me off most nights."
"How long he did that for?" Divine asked softly, giggling at the thought of her big, charismatic boss looking to his brother for comfort. Not to tease, but to show how adorable she found the confession.
"I think 'til he was like sixteen." Smoke replied, smiling softly as Divine pressed her forehead against his lips. "One night, he just slept through it. Another came, and he did it again. I eventually asked him 'bout it and he cussed me out, so I guess he just grew out of it."
"I hope I grow out of it, too." Divine expressed under her breath, pressing a kiss onto Smoke's cheek. "Thank you for making me feel better."
"That wasn't exactly the goal, but I guess you welcome." Smoke joked, chuckling when she kicked at one of his legs that's tangled in hers.
"I'm surprised you ain't run him out, knowing you."
"I'm not as mean as you make me out to be."
"Oh, yes you are, nigga!" Divine countered, giggling when he barked out a laugh. "Ok, I'm lying. You have your rare sweet moments."
"Exactly." Smoke chuckled. "Stop tryna downplay 'em. Especially since one of them rare ass moments was lettin' you talk me into fuckin' you."
"Oh, please. You were being overly dramatic, anyway." Divine sassed, lightheartedly rolling her eyes. "Guess what, we did it and left it alone. You were so convinced that I was gon' get attached, and I ended up playing it cordial with your ass for damn near six fucking months!" She got loud and in Smoke's face towards the end of her statement, making the man smack his lips and turn his head while trying to hide the smile that's fighting to make an appearance on his face.
"Whatever, man."
"Just loud and wrong." Divine teased, tilting her head and smirking. "You didn't expect me to "get down to business, then go 'bout my day", huh?"
"I know damn well you didn’t just quote me."
"I did." Divine calmly retorted. "Just as much as I loved you fuckin' the shit outta me, I loved proving you wrong even more."
"I know." Divine cockily remarked. "Now that we established that I won, can you please eat my pussy?" She pleaded, dropping the "tough guy" act and softening her eyes in attempt to convince him.
Fortunately for Divine, Smoke didn't need much convincing. Hell, he actually didn't need any.
Divine's ragged breathing filled the air as Smoke pinned her down by her inner thighs—her legs spread so wide that the position is giving his insatiable mouth plenty of access to every single inch of her pussy.
Divine's chest heaved and she cupped her fleshy breasts that she freed from the top that's now bunched around her waist and completely disregarded.
The feeling of Smoke's tongue whipping against her clit in tandem with his ring and middle fingers sinking in and out of her slick slit pulled a loud gasp from her entire being, her hips jerking harshly.
The pleasurable frown on her face intensified when she felt the thick digits twist inside of her and the pads of them start to massage the spongy upper wall of her pussy while sucking at her soaked, swollen clit sloppily.
"Oh my God, Smoke." Divine moaned out in awe, stars bursting behind her eyelids.
Smoke hummed in response, his free hand moving up her body and gripping her breast roughly. The roughness of his warm hand added extra stimulation to her aching nipple and before she knew it, she was gripping his wrist and bucking her hips against the rhythm of his tongue and fingers.
The sloshing between her legs intensified along with the maddening pace of Smoke's fingers. That paired with his skilled tongue roughly swirling against her clit had her writhing like crazy.
"Just like that, Elijaaah!" Divine cried, toes curling and muscles tightening as an abrupt orgasm threatened to crash down on her with sheer force. "Oh my G—!" She breathed, shuddering hard and biting her bottom lip for dear life when it finally made impact.
When Smoke didn't let up, still pressing his fingers against the soft surface and sucking her clit tenderly, Divine choked on a sob, clamping her legs shut around his fingers and twisting her body with her hands gripping her pillows above her head.
Smoke chuckled at her current state, placing open mouth kisses on her soft, plump ass cheek and upper thigh with his fingers still buried inside of her.
Smoke opened her legs back up after she finally regained all her senses, and nestled himself between them. He cupped her face, staring into her dilated eyes as he removed his soiled fingers from her pulsing center and brought them up to her lips. Divine wasted no time opening her mouth to clean them—her tongue outstretched and ready.
"Good fuckin' girl." Smoke grunted, dick twitching at the sight of her sucking his fingers into her mouth and swirling her tongue around them as if they were his dick. "You want som' else in this pretty ass mouth, huh?"
"Mmhm." Divine hummed, looking at him from under her lashes.
Divine practically wrestled him onto the bed, the two eagerly swapping places. She excitedly tugged off his shorts and pulled the bunched up material from around her waist before settling between his legs and taking his dick into her hand.
Divine smiled with excitement and determination, her mouth already watering at the hot and heavy length of him in her grip. She bit down on her bottom lip as she got into a comfortable position on her stomach.
"Wait." Smoke muttered, brows furrowing. "You know what you doing?"
"Well, I never had any complaints, so...I think so." Divine uttered under breath, shrugging.
She’s engaged with oral sex with both of her “boyfriends”, but they weren't as big as Smoke. Even the dildo that she practiced on in the past wasn't as big as Smoke. With that being said, Divine don't know how in the hell this is going to turn out, but she’s somewhat confident in her abilities.
"Nah, you sound too unsure for me." Smoke remarked, looking down at her skeptically. "Don't bite my fucking dick off, Divine, or I—."
"Hush!" Divine whined. "You're making me nervous, and if I get nervous—! I don’t fucking know what I’ll do!" She stammered.
Smoke closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to resist the urge to laugh at her being overwhelmed in this very serious, but unserious situation.
“Just relax, and take yo’ time.” Smoke encouraged, attempting to calm her down. “Don’t rush, and…watch yo’ teeth, please.”
"I’m not stupid. All I need you to do is just tell me when or if something feels off or unpleasant." Divine told him, eyes flicking up to meet his after observing every inch of him. "I think I can take care of you, though, Smoke." She muttered, more so to herself as she tightened the grip on his shaft.
Divine dragged her warm, wet tongue along the underside of his dick, even pivoting it a little to trace a vein she encountered on her path. Smoke watched her intensely as she traced his tip that's slick with his pre-cum, her eyes fixed on him and surveying his facial expressions.
From analyzing the way Smoke gave her head during her first time, she concocted a routine by relating what was pleasurable to her to what she’s researched on blowjobs in general: focus on the tip, suck as much as you can, make it sloppy (but not too sloppy), stroke what you can't, and if you're feeling bold—try to deep throat him.
When she acted out the routine on her two "boyfriends", they seemed to love it. The only thing that she had to tweak was giving the balls attention. The first one told her to during the act, and when she tested it on the second without him having to, he had zero additional notes. Divine felt like she cracked the code!
Unfortunately, it didn't dawn on her at the time that there's some men with ridiculous sized dicks, Smoke being one of them. For some reason, she definitely didn’t anticipate having to suck Smoke’s down the line, anyway (despite literally fantasizing about doing so).
When Divine sucked him into her mouth, she lowered her head, drooled, and focused on relaxing and adjusting her jaws to his size. When she brought her head back up, hollowing her cheeks for gentle suction, her tongue dragged against the velvety skin, making Smoke release a heavy breath that definitely went straight to her head.
The friction grew almost nonexistent, Smoke's dick glistening with saliva, and Divine's head bobbing up and down his shaft with ease despite her jaws already starting to ache. It probably would’ve bothered her if Smoke didn’t sound so sexy moaning and groaning in her ear. While gripping the base firmly with one hand and twisting in short turns, she fondled his balls tenderly with the other.
"Gahdamn, Divine." Smoke moaned deeply, the sound sending a jolt right to her clit and prompting her to press her thighs together tighter to relieve the pressure between them. When her eyes fluttered closed, Smoke gripped her hair—gentle, but firm. "Nah, look at me." He breathed, chest heaving with his eyes locked on hers. “You so fuckin’ sexy, Di. What the Fuck?”
The sight of his gorgeous, dazed face led Divine to feel bold, therefore, she stuffed as much of his dick into her mouth that she could handle. When his tip hit the back of Divine's throat, his eyes rolled back into his skull.
"Fu—uuck." Smoke brokenly moaned, his stomach caving in as Divine gagged lightly. She retracted her head and spat on his dick before slurping it up from all sides of his length breathlessly.
When she began stroking the soppy tip while licking and sucking on his drenched balls with a soft, teasing moan, his hips began to rise from the bed.
"Uh uh. Bring yo’ ass here." He growled, practically yanking her up his body.
Divine giggled at his urgency, straddling him as he smashed his lips onto hers in pure desperation. She moaned into his mouth, raising her hips and reaching beneath her to grab his dick. She guided it along her slit, pressing the tip against her drooling center. Divine lowered her body and the second it breached her slit, she whimpered and Smoke's teeth sunk into her bottom lip gently.
Smoke held her close, grumbling a groan into her cheek. His hands roughly kneaded the flesh of her ass as his tongue traced her jawline and settled on the skin just beneath it.
When he began sucking the area, Divine shakily gasped at the descending warmth down her spine colliding with the stretch and fullness that's currently being inflicted on her pussy the more she struggled to fully seat him inside of her.
Once she was so stuffed with him that she felt she could barely breathe, she rolled her hips in a futile attempt to adjust. Her head and upper body fell back as she tried to focus on loosening her body completely while also trying not to cum from the intense heat sitting inside of her fluttering walls.
Smoke lapped at one of her sensitive peaks before sucking it softly, causing Divine to release a shaky gasp and dig her fingers into his pillowy coils. She panted pathetically, her hands moving to Smoke’s shoulders when he began to slowly guide her hips towards a slow, sinful rhythm while giving her other nipple the same treatment. The dull ache mixed with that all too familiar itch being relieved made her shiver and claw at his skin, moaning helplessly.
“There you go.” Smoke drawled, relaxing his upper body against the headboard when Divine picked up where he left off, all on her own. “Just like that, pretty. My good fuckin’ girl.” He whispered, licking his lips and admiring the sight of her on top of him from beneath his lowered eyelids.
Divine’s richly toned skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, and her voluptuous breasts appears to be making an effort of putting on a show just for him—bouncing beautifully to her messy, yet efficient rhythm.
“Y-You feel s’good inside of me, ‘Lijah.” Divine shakily whined, gripping his forearms for dear life as tears streamed down her face.
When the tip of his dick began to feel too damn good against her sensitive cervix, she reached back and placed her hands on his knees with her mouth parted, opening her legs and bouncing harder.
“Yeah.” Smoke breathed, gripping under her thighs and humming in approval at the sight of her painting, and slicking his dick with her milky arousal. “Ride the fuck out yo’ dick, Di.” He encouraged, biting back a moan as his eyes flicked back up to her blissed out face.
Divine moaned pathetically in response, sucking her shaky bottom lip between her teeth when it dawned on her that she’s really fucking close. Smoke feels it. The tightening of her thigh muscles paired with the pulses of her greedy walls around his stiff length.
“E-Elijah, I—.” Divine stuttered, not even knowing what she was about to say, legs shaking harshly.
Smoke shushed her and pulled her soft body against him while scooting down and bending his knees. He began to hungrily thrust up into her from below, releasing a deep moan into her neck as she clawed at his arms with a muffled sob.
“Yes! God, yes!” She cried into his neck, tears and drool hitting his shoulder as her toes curled.
“You cummin’ fa me, pretty?”
“Yes, baby!” Divine mewled, lifting her head and nodding feverishly with her eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck me, daddy! Please, make my pussy cum!”
Smoke grunted roughly at her plea, grabbing the nape of her neck and kissing her passionately. Divine’s muffled moans grew louder and more high pitched as she struggled to keep up with the wild, messy lip lock.
Before she knew it, an intense wave of euphoric pleasure washed over her, prompting her to disconnect her swollen lips from Smoke’s. Divine shuddered hard against Smoke’s solid frame, her forehead rolling against his with a guttural moan. Her pussy pulsed and leaked pathetically, the feeling making Smoke’s brows bunch and a soft, breathy “fuck” leave his lips.
“Keep going, baby. Don’t fucking stop.” Divine breathlessly pleaded, locking her leg around Smoke’s waist when he flipped them both on their side. Smoke hummed deeply, driving his dick in and out of her blissfully sore cavern without abandon, gripping the back of her hair. “Mmm, cum all in my fucking pussy, Elijah.” She slurred, damn near delirious.
“Shit, Di.” Smoke moaned deeply, pressing his head against hers. He used his free hand to lift her leg from his waist and hold it up for better access, tightly gripping her ankle. “You want it?” He grunted, his control slipping by the second as his his dick throbbed readily.
“So fucking bad, daddy. I dream about it. I need it.” Divine panted, her breathing intensifying and eyes rolling back into her skull with each rough, sloppy rut. “Uhh! Elijah!” She squealed, her leg flexing in Smoke’s strong hold. She reached back and gripped hard, tugging the sheet of her bed from the corner while bucking through another body shattering orgasm. “Elijah!” She sobbed, issuing the final blow to Smoke’s composure.
Smoke released an animalistic grunt into her neck, bringing his hand down on her ass and pulling her lower half flush to him. He moaned in euphoric relief, teeth sinking into the flushed skin as Divine purred at the feeling of the hot spurts of cum filling her to the brim.
“Damn, that feels—.” Divine breathed out, a lazy grin spreading across her face as she began grinding down on his dick that’s still twitching angrily inside of her along with his muscles. “Fuck, Elijah.” She cooed, gripping her breast roughly and slithering her tongue into his mouth when he placed his on hers, gripping the back of her neck.
“You goin’ to sleep in here?” Smoke asked lowly when he noticed the silence that filled the room, leaning up to get a view of Divine’s face from where she’s sitting between his legs, just to see her looking right back at him.
The water in the expansive tub that was once boiling hot (per Divine’s request) has since reached a barely enjoyable warmth as an indicator of the amount of time that’s passed with them in it.
“Nah, I just noticed the heartbeat you left in my pussy’s almost nonexistent.” Divine muttered, smiling softly when Smoke snickered at her realization.
“You be takin’ this muhfucka.” Smoke gave her props, smirking proudly. “It’s just the aftermath that do yo’ ass in. Shit, you asked for it, though. Remember that?” He asked in her ear, laughing when she swatted at his face.
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Divine blushed, shaking her head and giggling. “I don’t even wanna think about it, right now.”
“You need to be thinkin’ ‘bout how we never use a condom ‘fore God make an example outta us.” Smoke lightheartedly fussed, making Divine roll her head against his chest with a loud groan. “This the second time, Di.”
“I didn’t expect to get fucked, tonight!” Divine defended. “I promise, I’m usually prepared. I don’t get down and dirty without one.” She assured him, making Smoke hum. “Where’s your accountability? You usually wear ‘em, right?”
“Oh course.” Smoke said in a “duh” tone, chuckling. “You thought I was fuckin’ three different women raw, all this time?”
“Well….”
“Divine, yo’ concept of me is so fucked up.” Smoke grumbled, shaking his head. Divine laughed at the disappointment in his tone. “I ain’t even laughin’.”
“I was just playing, Elijah.” Divine groaned, looking back at him and cupping his face with a smile. “I wouldn’t even be fucking you if I actually thought you were sexually irresponsible.”
“Don’t play wit’ me like that.”
“Man, shut up, crybaby.” Divine smacked her lips, giggling when he wrapped his hand around the front of her throat. Smoke smiled softly when her hands flew to his wrist, pinching at it.
A comfortable silence engulfed the room after their playful banter died down. Divine gazed straight ahead, loss in thought as Smoke’s hands caressed her thighs mindlessly under the water.
“You think we’re gonna end up doing this again, Smoke?” Divine asked softly, reaching under the water and finding his hand—pleasantly surprised when he wasted no time locking their fingers.
“Yep.”
“Wanna make a deal?”
“Depends on the terms.” Smoke teased, smirking and tapping his forehead against the back of her head. “Talk to me.”
“We use protection with everyone, except for each other.” Divine offered. “Like, it can be our little secret, you know?” She went on, looking up at him and smiling softly. “You’re gonna have to stop being selfish and pull out though ‘cause I’m not fucking messing with any form of birth control.”
“Hol on, you was begging me to nut in you.” Smoke laughed at her trying to rewrite the script.
“Yeah, and you were too damn ready to do it.” Divine sassed, chuckling. “Ok, we can indulge like two times a month.”
“Hell no.” Smoke scoffed. “Four.”
“Three.”
“Three, then.” Smoke grumbled, smirking softly at his next suggestion. “Shit, If we going down that road, we might as well cut out our third parties altogether.”
“You don’t do attachments, remember.” Divine reminded him, looking up at him with a quirked brow. “That sounds pretty damn close to an attachment, Elijah. Just me and you? No one else?” She went on, grinning when he smacked his lips and narrowed his eyes at her. "You attached, Elijah?"
“Look, I agree to the deal, but only wit’ my negotiations.” Smoke stated, dodging her question and shrugging to indicate finality. “We doin’ this, or not?”
“You know what? Fuck it.” Divine blurted, throwing her hands up in surrender after giving it minimal thought. “I’ll do it for the plot. Let’s lock it in.” She held her hand over her shoulder for him to shake.
“Yeah, let’s do that.” Smoke muttered, disregarding her hand and tilting her face up to meet his.
The pair shared a slow, tantalizing kiss that sent chills down both of their spines. Once their tongues became intertwined, and Smoke’s touch grew to be outright pornographic, Divine moaned and quickly broke the kiss, shaking her head with a beaming smile.
“What?” Smoke asked, grinning innocently as if he wasn’t trying to get Divine stirred back up.
“Elijah, I’m fucking tired.” Divine stressed, giggling as she attempted to stand up on her wobbly legs. Meanwhile, Smoke’s eyes are dragging down her frame, admiring the way the soapy water is cascading down her luscious curves while biting back a smile. “Come help me with this shower, so we can take both our horny asses to bed.”
Smoke laughed and followed her out a few feet to the glass shower. After grabbing two washcloths from her shelf and making sure the water was to her liking, he walked her in with a tight grip around her waist, her arms around his neck, and their legs tangled together.
After Smoke slid the glass door closed behind them, Divine collapsed against him again, her face pressed to his damp chest.
“You’re a good neighbor, Smoke.” Divine murmured, hugging his waist tightly. “A good ass friend, too.”
Smoke cracked a soft smile at the praise, wrapping his arm around her neck and kissing her head to show his own usual, wordless appreciation in return.
A Good Neighbor, indeed…
And they live Happily Ever After (as FWB)! Yay! 🥰😭
If you're reading this, thank you so much for being here! ❤️
Pairing: Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Sierra x Elias “Stack” Moore
Summary: Five soft, chaotic moments where Smoke and Stack prove that beneath all that intensity, they’re just two clingy, overprotective golden retrievers hopelessly devoted to Sierra.
Warnings: Established poly relationship, Black female OC, domestic fluff, sibling banter, possessive but soft boyfriends, explicit language, use of the N-word, overprotective behavior, physical affection
The Grocery Store Incident
Sierra should've known better. That was the first thought that crossed her mind when she looked down at her phone and saw the twenty-third text message in under forty minutes.
Stack: Baby do we need regular eggs or cage free eggs?
Thirty seconds later:
Stack: Actually nvm they all came from cages at some point.
Then:
Smoke: Ignore him. Which tea did you want?
Stack: Why this nigga acting like HE ain't standing here confused too.
Then a picture. Smoke standing in the tea aisle with his reading glasses on. Reading glasses. Sierra nearly dropped her phone laughing.
Three hours earlier, Sierra stood in the kitchen, pointing her finger between the twins. "Don't buy extra shit." Stack had the audacity to look offended. "Why you lookin' at me?" "Because every time I send y'all to the store, you come back with enough groceries to survive a natural disaster." "It be lookin' useful." "It don't be useful, Elias." Smoke sat at the counter sipping coffee. Silent. Which was worse. Because Sierra knew that look. That was the look Elijah got when he was pretending to be reasonable. "You ain't innocent either," she accused. Smoke blinked. Slow. "What I do?" "You enable him." "That's not true." Stack immediately pointed. "That's exactly what he do." Smoke looked over. "Nigga shut up." "See?" Sierra threw her hands in the air. "Tea. Bread. Eggs. Coffee creamer." She held up the list. "That's it." The twins nodded. Serious. Focused. Like soldiers receiving mission orders. "We got it." "Easy." "No extra stuff." Smoke nodded. "Understood." Sierra narrowed her eyes. "I don't trust y'all."
Forty-five minutes later, the mission was already compromised. The grocery store's automatic doors slid open. Stack stopped walking immediately. Smoke sighed. Already. "What?" Stack pointed. Flowers. Big display. Bright yellow sunflowers. The exact kind Sierra liked. Smoke followed his gaze. The two brothers stood there silently. Thinking. Calculating. Failing. Stack looked at him. Smoke looked at Stack. Neither spoke. Then simultaneously—"We should get those." "Damn it."
Twenty minutes later, the cart was already getting ridiculous. Sunflowers. Vanilla candles. Three different snack cakes. Two bags of Sierra's favorite chips. A throw blanket. Tea. The actual groceries. And somehow—a stuffed cow. Smoke stared at it. "Why is there a cow in the cart?" Stack looked genuinely confused. "Cause she said them little TikTok cows cute." "She said that six months ago." "So?" "Nigga." "So?" Smoke rubbed his forehead.
Then they reached the slipper aisle. And that's where things completely fell apart. Stack held up fuzzy brown slippers. Smoke held up cream-colored ones. "She'd wear these." "Nah." "She literally owns this color." "These softer." "You touched both?" "Obviously." They stood there feeling slippers like two old ladies shopping for curtains. An elderly woman pushed her cart past. Watched them. Watched the pile of nonsense in their cart. Then smiled. "Shopping for your wife?" Both brothers answered immediately. "Our." "Our Wife." The woman laughed. "Oh." Then looked at the cart. Then looked back at them. "Y'all are gone." Smoke sighed. "Yeah." Stack nodded. "Bad."
Meanwhile, back home, Sierra was trying very hard not to laugh herself to death. Another text.
Smoke: What's that coffee creamer called?
Sierra: French Vanilla.
Stack: They got seventeen French Vanillas.
Smoke: He's not exaggerating.
Picture attached. An entire refrigerated wall.
Then another text.
Stack: Call me.
She answered. Immediately heard arguing. "That ain't French Vanilla." "Then what the fuck it say?" "It say Vanilla Bean." "That's basically French." "It ain't." "How vanilla got a nationality anyway?" Sierra snorted. "Put Elijah on the phone." "See?" Stack sounded offended. "See how she always ask for you?" "Cause you're difficult." "Nigga I'm delightful."
By the time they finally got home, the sun was setting. Sierra heard the truck before she saw it. Then the front door burst open. Stack appeared first. Holding flowers. Big grin. Proud as hell. Smoke followed, carrying half the grocery store. "Baby!" Sierra crossed her arms immediately. "What did y'all do?" "Nothing." "Nothing." Way too fast. Way too synchronized. Red flag. Huge red flag. The bags started hitting the counter. Then another bag. Then another. Then another. And another. Sierra's eyes widened. "Why are there so many bags?" Nobody answered.
Then she found the cow. She held it up. Slowly. "Explain." Stack looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Stack. Traitor. "That was your idea." "Fuck you." "It was." "It reminded me of her." Sierra tried to stay mad. Tried. Failed. The stupid cow was actually adorable.
Then she found the blanket. Then the candles. Then the snacks. Then the slippers. Then the flowers. By the time she reached the bottom of the bags, her heart felt embarrassingly full. "Y'all are ridiculous." Stack immediately wrapped his arms around her from behind. "No." "Yes." "No." His chin dropped onto her shoulder. Smoke appeared beside her a second later. Like he physically couldn't resist. One hand sliding around her waist. The other was taking the bags from her hands. "You mentioned wanting a new blanket." "Three months ago." Smoke shrugged. "So?" Sierra stared at him. Then laughed. Because apparently, both brothers suffered from the same disease. Remembering every tiny thing she'd ever said.
The kitchen settled into warm evening noise. Groceries are getting put away. Cabinets opening. Brothers arguing. Sierra is sitting on the counter, watching and being watched right back. Smoke passed by and squeezed her knee. Stack stole a quick kiss from her cheek. Smoke adjusted her sock because it was halfway off. Stack handed her a snack cake because she looked hungry. Nobody even thought about it. It was automatic. Constant. Like breathing. Like touching her was how they navigated the world.
Later that night, the flowers sat in a vase. The blanket covered Sierra's legs. The cow was tucked under her arm. And both twins were stretched out on either side of her on the couch. Stack's head in her lap. Smoke's arm draped over her shoulders. Movie playing. Nobody is paying attention. "You know," Sierra said quietly. "Hm?" Smoke murmured. "I sent y'all for four things." Stack lifted his head. Grinning. "Yeah?" "You spent two hundred dollars." Smoke didn't even look ashamed. "Three hundred and twelve." Sierra stared. Stack nodded proudly. "Worth every penny." Smoke kissed her temple. Stack squeezed her thigh. And somehow, neither one realized they had completely proven her point. Golden retrievers. Both of them.
—
Sick Day Security Detail
Sierra knew she was sick the second she woke up. Her throat felt like somebody had dragged sandpaper across it, raw and burning with every shallow breath she took. Her head was pounding, a deep, rhythmic throb behind her eyes that made the morning light filtering through their bedroom curtains feel like shards of glass. Every joint in her body ached, and the simple act of opening her eyes felt like a personal attack, the weight of her own eyelids suddenly too heavy to bear. She groaned and buried herself deeper beneath the blankets, the fabric cool against her feverish skin. Absolutely not. Whatever this was could wait until tomorrow.
A large hand immediately settled on her forehead, palm warm and calloused against her burning skin. Sierra cracked one eye open. Elijah. Of course. The man had somehow developed a sixth sense specifically for detecting when she wasn't feeling good, his brow furrowed with that concerned intensity that made her stomach flutter even through the misery. "You warm." Sierra groaned, the sound scraping her throat. "I'm fine." "You sound like a ninety-year-old chain smoker." "I'm literally talking normal." "Babe." She pulled the blanket over her face, the darkness a welcome reprieve. "No."
A second later, the blanket disappeared, pulled away with a soft whoosh of displaced air. Stack stood on the other side of the bed staring down at her like she had personally betrayed him, his expression a mixture of horror and accusation. "Oh hell naw." Sierra immediately regretted opening her eyes. Because now she had both of them staring at her, their combined attention making her feel like a specimen under examination. "What's wrong?" Stack demanded, his voice already rising with alarm. "Nothing." "You look sick." "I am sick."
The room went silent. Then Stack whipped around toward Elijah, pointing dramatically. "You got her sick." Elijah blinked, his calm composure unshaken. "What?" "You heard me." "Elias." "You got my girl sick." "OUR girl." "Our girl. Whatever. You brought home that little cough two weeks ago." "It was allergies." "It wasn't allergies." "It was allergies." Stack pointed dramatically, his gesture so exaggerated it almost made her laugh despite the pain. "See? This how diseases spread. Niggas start lying."
Sierra let out a miserable laugh before immediately coughing herself into another coughing fit, each hack rattling her chest and making her head throb worse. Both men snapped their attention back to her, the argument ending instantly. Elijah was already moving, his movements fluid and purposeful as he stood from the bed. "You stay in bed." Stack pointed at her like she was under arrest, his finger wagging with mock seriousness. "Don't move." "I'm literally sick." "Exactly." She stared at him, her eyes narrowed. "You think I was gonna run a marathon?" "You never know." "Baby." "You got attitude. Fever got you delirious." Sierra grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head. He caught it effortlessly, a grin spreading across his face as he threw it right back, the pillow landing softly beside her.
Then Elijah appeared beside the bed holding a thermometer, the silver glinting in the morning light. Sierra sighed dramatically, the sound barely more than a puff of air. "No." "Yes." "I'm grown." "Open your mouth." She narrowed her eyes, trying to summon the strength to resist. Elijah stared right back, his expression unyielding, a battle of wills. She lost after approximately three seconds, her mouth opening reluctantly. The thermometer slid under her tongue, cool and foreign against her fevered flesh. Stack folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. "See? Being difficult." Sierra flipped him off, her middle finger raised weakly. He looked delighted, his smile widening.
A few moments later, the thermometer beeped, a shrill sound in the quiet room. Elijah looked at it, his expression immediately shifting from calm to concerned. Stack leaned over, trying to see the digital display. "What?" "Ninety-nine point eight." Stack gasped, like genuinely gasped, his hand flying to his chest in theatrical horror. "Nigga." Elijah rubbed his forehead, already feeling the headache coming on. "It ain't that serious." "She got a fever!" "It's barely a fever." "FEVER IS FEVER." Sierra started laughing, which immediately turned into coughing, which somehow made Stack even more concerned. "Oh my God." "Elias." "She dying." "I have a cold." "Today a cold. Tomorrow pneumonia." Sierra buried her face in her hands, the warmth of her palms soothing against her burning cheeks. "This man is ridiculous."
The next six hours became the most aggressively cared-for she'd ever been in her life. Elijah transformed into a one-man medical staff, his movements precise and methodical as he established a medicine schedule, hydration schedule, soup schedule, and temperature checks. He had reminders set on his phone, written notes on the kitchen counter, and actual charts tracking her symptoms. At one point, Sierra watched him writing down the exact time she'd taken cold medicine, his pen scratching against the paper with intense concentration. "Baby." "Hm?" "You making a chart?" "Yes." "For a cold?" "Yes." She stared, her head feeling fuzzy and disconnected. He stared back, completely serious. "You're insane." "Maybe." Then he handed her water, the glass cool against her feverish hands. "Drink."
Meanwhile, Stack was somehow worse. The man couldn't stop touching her forehead, his palm pressing against her skin every ten minutes, sometimes every five. She'd be sitting on the couch, wrapped in blankets, and suddenly—hand. Forehead. Checking. Again. And again. And again. By the seventh forehead inspection, Sierra slapped his hand away, her movements weak but determined. "Elias." "What?" "You checked thirty seconds ago." "I'm monitoring." "You not monitoring shit." "I am." "You don't even know what you're looking for." "I know hot." She couldn't even argue with that; her forehead indeed felt hot beneath his touch.
Later that afternoon, she found herself curled against Elijah's side on the couch, her head resting on his shoulder as his steady breathing calmed her racing thoughts. Soup balanced on her lap, the steam warming her face as she spooned the broth into her mouth. A mountain of blankets covered her legs, the weight comforting and secure. Elijah sat beside her, reading while absently rubbing circles into her shoulder, his touch grounding and constant. Stack was stretched across the opposite end of the couch with his feet practically in Elijah's lap, his body a long line of tension as he watched her every move. The television played quietly in the background, the sound a distant murmur. For once the house was peaceful.
Then Sierra sneezed, the sound sudden and sharp. Stack sat upright so quickly he nearly fell off the couch. "That's a new symptom." "It is not." "It sound different." "It was a sneeze." Elijah sighed, not even looking up from his book. "Elias." "I'm just saying." "A sneeze ain't evolution." Stack looked genuinely offended, his brow furrowed in wounded disbelief. "Why you always against me?" "Because you dramatic." "I'm passionate." "You dramatic." Sierra laughed weakly into her soup, the broth sloshing slightly in the bowl. The twins immediately looked at her, their expressions softening with concern. And for a moment, the chaos disappeared. Elijah reached over and tucked a blanket more securely around her shoulders, his movements gentle and careful. Stack leaned over the back of the couch just to press a kiss against her forehead, his lips warm against her feverish skin. Neither of them seemed aware they were doing it, the touches happening automatically, like breathing, like instinct, like loving her.
By evening, Sierra was feeling a little better. Not good. But better. The medicine had finally kicked in, the soup had helped, and the constant attention probably helped too, though she'd never admit that out loud. She was half asleep, her mind drifting in and out of consciousness, when she felt Elijah lifting her into his arms, his strength effortless as he cradled her against his chest. "Bed." She mumbled something incoherent, her words slurred with exhaustion. His chest rumbled with a quiet laugh, the vibration soothing against her cheek. Stack followed behind, carrying her water bottle, medicine, charger, blanket, and approximately seventeen other unnecessary items, his arms laden with supplies. "Why you got all that?" Elijah asked, his voice low and calm. "In case she need something." "She ain't gonna need all that." "You don't know that." "She sleeping." "She might wake up." They continued bickering all the way to the bedroom, their familiar argument a comforting backdrop to her misery.
Sierra smiled against Elijah's chest, the effort making her face ache. Even exhausted, even miserable, she felt safe, loved, protected, cocooned in their care. Elijah settled her carefully beneath the blankets, the sheets cool against her feverish skin. Stack immediately checked her forehead again, his palm warm and familiar. Sierra grabbed his wrist, her grip weak but determined. "Elias." "What?" "If you touch my forehead one more time I'm fighting you." His eyes widened in mock horror. Then he looked at Elijah, his expression wounded. "See? She threatening violence." "You been harassing her all day." "I'm showing concern." "You annoying." "I'm loving." "Annoying." "Loving." "Annoying." "Loving." Sierra groaned, the sound barely more than a whisper. "Both y'all shut up."
Silence. The twins exchanged a look over her head, their communication unspoken. Then immediately climbed into bed beside her, Elijah on one side, Stack on the other, like guard dogs assuming their posts. A hand settled on her back, warm and steady. Another tangled with hers beneath the blanket, fingers intertwined. Warm. Steady. Comforting. As sleep finally started pulling her under, she heard Stack's voice in the darkness, soft and serious. "If she cough again, we taking her to urgent care." "It's a cold." "You don't know that." "It's literally a cold." "Still." A pause. Then quieter: "Need her healthy." The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling in the darkness. Sierra squeezed their hands, her fingers weak but determined. And despite the headache, despite the congestion, despite feeling like absolute hell, she drifted off smiling while her two overprotective golden retrievers kept watch, their presence a fortress against the world.
—
Date Night, But They’re Embarrassing
Sierra should've known tonight was going to be a disaster the moment she walked out of the bedroom and found both twins staring at her like they'd collectively forgotten how to breathe. The apartment went dead silent, the soft 90s R&B playing from the speakers suddenly seeming too loud in the stillness. Elijah, who had been adjusting the cuff of his watch, froze mid-motion, the metal glinting in the warm lamplight. Stack, who had been halfway through taking a sip of his whiskey, nearly choked, the liquid catching in his throat as his eyes widened.
Sierra stopped in the hallway, one hand still on the doorframe. "...What?" Nothing. Just two grown-ass men—forty-year-old men, mind you—staring like they'd seen a ghost. She looked down at herself. The dress wasn't even that serious. A fitted black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, gold jewelry that caught the light with every movement, matching heels that added inches to her five-foot-six frame, and her hair straightened with a part down the middle, perfectly framed her face. Simple. Cute. Date night. Nothing dramatic. Apparently, the twins disagreed.
"Goddamn." Stack said it so softly she almost missed it, the word a reverent whisper that seemed to hang in the air. Elijah closed his eyes, like he was praying for strength, his jaw working as he swallowed hard. Sierra immediately started laughing, the sound bright and musical in the quiet apartment. "Oh my God." "Baby." Stack set his glass down carefully, the crystal making a soft click against the coaster. "No, hold on." "Elias—" "Nah." He stood up slowly, ran both hands down his face, then pointed at her like she'd committed a crime. "What possessed you to come out here lookin' like that?"
Sierra burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up from her chest. "What does that even mean?" "It means we supposed to be goin' to dinner." "And?" "You look like temptation." "Oh, brother." Elijah finally pushed himself off the couch, his movements slow and steady despite the tension in his shoulders. His eyes traveled over her once, then again, then immediately snapped back to her face like he was actively trying to behave. "You look beautiful." The sincerity in his voice hit harder than any pickup line ever could, deep and resonant and meant only for her. Her smile softened, the laughter fading into something warmer. "Thank you."
Stack groaned, the sound dramatic and wounded. "See? This why Smoke always win." Elijah frowned, his brow furrowing. "What?" "He be sayin' sweet shit." "You could say sweet shit too." "I did." "You called her temptation." "That's romantic." "It ain't." "It is." "It ain't." Sierra shook her head, amused despite herself. The banter continued all the way to the car, their familiar back-and-forth a comforting soundtrack to the evening.
By the time they arrived at the restaurant, both men were somehow worse. The second Sierra stepped out onto the sidewalk, Elijah appeared beside her, holding out his hand with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Stack was already moving toward the restaurant door, racing—actually racing—a forty-year-old man sprinting across a sidewalk just to open a door. He yanked it open dramatically, then looked incredibly pleased with himself, puffing out his chest slightly as he gestured her inside.
Sierra stared, one eyebrow raised. "You ran." "Had to beat Smoke." "You were competing?" "Absolutely." Elijah sighed, the sound long-suffering. "Childish." "You mad I won?" "Not particularly." "You sound mad." "I'm not." "You sound mad." "I'm not." Stack grinned, triumphant. Elijah looked annoyed, which only made Stack happier. The hostess struggled not to laugh as the twins escorted Sierra inside like she was royalty, their combined presence drawing attention from every corner of the restaurant.
A few moments later, they reached their table. Before Sierra could even touch her chair, both men grabbed it. At the same time. Immediately. The chair stopped moving, caught between their competing efforts. Stack looked at Elijah. Elijah looked at Stack. Neither let go. The hostess quietly disappeared, wisely deciding to leave them to their domestic dispute. Sierra pinched the bridge of her nose, already feeling a headache coming on. "Oh my God." "I got it." "No, I got it." "You always yank it too hard." "You ain't never complained before." "Because I usually beat you to it." "Not tonight."
The staring contest lasted three full seconds, their eyes locked in silent battle. Then Elijah released the chair, his expression unreadable. Stack grinned triumphantly, like he'd just won the Super Bowl. "Thank you." Sierra sat down, smoothing her dress beneath her. Stack practically glowed with victory, his chest puffed out like a proud peacock.
The evening only got worse. Or better. Depending on who you asked. Because the twins couldn't stop complimenting her. Every five minutes. Like clockwork. "Your hair look nice." "Baby, your makeup pretty." "I like that necklace." "That color looks good on you." "You smell good." "Your smile cute." "Your laugh cute." "The way you hold your fork cute."
Sierra finally lowered her menu, her patience wearing thin. "How is my fork cute?" Stack shrugged, completely unbothered. "Just is." Elijah nodded, serious as a heart attack. "Agreed." She stared at both of them, her expression incredulous. Neither appeared embarrassed. At all. Meanwhile, every other woman in the restaurant was looking at Sierra like she'd won the lottery. Which, honestly... maybe she had.
Then came the photos. Lord, have mercy. The photos. Stack wanted one before the appetizers. One after the appetizers. One with drinks. One by the wall. One outside. One because the lighting changed. One because Sierra laughed. One because Elijah was smiling. One because "the vibes felt right." By photo number seventeen, Sierra threatened violence. "Elias." "What?" "Put the damn phone down." "But you look pretty." "You already got seventeen pictures." "Eighteen." "Elias." "Nineteen." Sierra lunged for the phone, her movements quick and determined. Stack cackled, actually cackled, dodging her grasp with the agility of a man half his age. Elijah shook his head, but even he was smiling, his lips curved in a rare, genuine grin.
Then things took a turn. Because Sierra noticed it first. A man. Across the restaurant. Looking. Not unusual. She was used to it. But unfortunately... the twins noticed too. The atmosphere shifted immediately. Subtly. Dangerously. Stack's smile disappeared, his expression hardening as he tracked the man's gaze. Elijah's jaw tightened, the muscles in his face becoming rigid as stone. The poor man had no idea he'd become public enemy number one.
"He been lookin' over here." Stack took a sip of his drink, still smiling. Which somehow made it worse. Elijah didn't even look; his attention was fixed on Sierra. "I know." "You see him?" "I saw him." The man glanced over again. Mistake. Huge mistake. Because both twins looked up simultaneously. Direct eye contact. Immediate. Relentless. The man nearly choked on his drink, then very suddenly became interested in his menu, his eyes fixed on the words as if they contained the secrets to life itself.
Stack looked pleased, his expression smug. Elijah returned to eating, his movements calm and measured as if nothing had happened. Problem solved. Sierra kicked them both under the table, her heel connecting with their shins. "Y'all are ridiculous." "He was starin'." "So?" "So you're my woman." "Our woman." "Our woman." Sierra rolled her eyes, the gesture fond despite her exasperation. Lord. Two giant puppies. Dangerous puppies. But puppies nonetheless.
The rest of the night passed in laughter. Good food. Endless teasing. Stolen kisses. Constant touching. A hand on her thigh. A hand on her back. Fingers tangled together beneath the table. Neither twin seemed capable of going more than thirty seconds without touching her somehow. And honestly? She loved it.
By the time they left the restaurant, the city streets glowed beneath warm golden lights, the pavement slick with the evening's earlier rain. Sierra walked between them, one hand holding Elijah's, the other holding Stack's. The night air was cool, comfortable, perfect. Then Stack showed her another photo he'd secretly taken, his thumb swiping across the screen to reveal the image. Sierra groaned. "Elias." "What?" "Delete that." "Never." "I look goofy." "You look cute." "I look cross-eyed." "You look cute cross-eyed."
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. Elijah looked down at her, that soft look appearing in his eyes again. The one that always made her heart squeeze, the one reserved only for her. And suddenly, Sierra couldn't help herself. She stopped walking. Both men immediately stopped too, their attention shifting to her instantly. "What?" Stack asked, his brow furrowed with concern. Sierra smiled, then reached up and grabbed their faces, one in each hand. "My babies."
Silence. Instant silence. The effect was immediate. Devastating. Stack completely melted. Gone. Finished. Done. "Oh Lord." Elijah actually looked away, a rare occurrence. His ears turning red. Sierra gasped, delighted. "No way." Stack pointed immediately, his expression triumphant. "He blushin'." "I am not." "You blushin'." "I am not." "Look at this nigga." Sierra started laughing so hard she nearly doubled over, the sound echoing down the street. Because Elijah Moore—the calm one, the composed one, the responsible one—was absolutely blushing. And Stack? Stack looked like she'd personally handed him the moon. "My babies," he repeated quietly, a stupid grin stretched across his face.
Sierra kissed his cheek, then Elijah's. And just like that both men looked ready to fight God for her, their expressions shifting from soft to fiercely protective in an instant. The walk to the car became even worse afterward, because now every few minutes one of them would randomly grin and say: "My babies." Which immediately restarted the teasing. And by the time they got home, Sierra found herself sandwiched between two giant, affectionate "babies" on the couch, listening to them argue over who got more kisses, while secretly smiling to herself. Because for all their size, for all their intimidating presence, for all the growling and glaring and overprotective nonsense, Smoke and Stack were just golden retrievers in expensive clothes—fierce, loyal, and completely devoted to the woman who'd tamed them.
—
Wash Day Worship
The bathroom was warm, steam curling around the mirror in soft wisps as the scent of coconut and peppermint filled the air. Sierra sat on a towel-draped stool, her arms already aching as she worked through the fourth section of her hair, fingers cramping from the precise parting and careful detangling. The shower had been running for twenty minutes, the water cascading down her back as she'd pre-pooed and shampooed, but now—now came the real work. She sighed, rotating her shoulders to ease the tension, the muscles protesting after weeks of neglecting her wash day routine.
"You need help."
Elijah's voice was low and calm from the doorway, his presence filling the small space without overwhelming it. Sierra looked up, catching his reflection in the foggy mirror. He stood there in a simple black t-shirt and sweats, his arms crossed as he watched her with that intense focus he reserved for things that mattered—things like her.
"I'm good," she said, though the strain in her voice betrayed her. "Just got one more section to—"
"Your hands shaking."
Stack appeared behind Elijah, his energy a stark contrast to his brother's quiet intensity. "Baby, you look like you about to arm wrestle the devil and lose. Let us help."
Sierra laughed, the sound tired but genuine. "Y'all don't know what you're doing."
"We know how to follow directions," Elijah countered, already moving into the bathroom. He washed his hands at the sink."Show me what you need."
And just like that, wash day became a team effort.
Elijah took over the sectioning, his brow furrowed with concentration as he carefully parted her hair with the end of a rat-tail comb. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers working with a surgeon's precision as he created four neat sections, twisting each into a loose coil to keep them separate. Sierra watched him in the mirror, amazed at how seriously he took this simple task, his expression as focused as if he were disarming a bomb.
Meanwhile, Stack had propped his phone against the soap dish, a YouTube tutorial playing at full volume as a cheerful influencer explained the importance of proper detangling technique. "See? She say you gotta start from the ends and work your way up. Can't just rip through it like you trying to start a lawnmower."
"I am not ripping through it," Elijah muttered, though he adjusted his grip on the comb, his movements becoming even more deliberate. "I'm being methodical."
"Methodical ain't gonna get the knots out," Stack countered, leaning over Elijah's shoulder to get a better view. "You gotta be firm but gentle. Like with lovemaking. Too much force and you break something. Too little and you ain't making progress."
Sierra snorted. "Did you just compare detangling my hair to sex?"
"It's a valid analogy," Stack said, completely serious. "Both require patience, proper technique, and appreciation for the art form."
Elijah shot his brother a look. "Shut up and hand me the leave-in conditioner."
For the next hour, the bathroom transformed into a makeshift salon. Elijah worked in silence, his movements precise as he applied product to each section, his fingers massaging her scalp with a pressure that made Sierra's eyes roll back in pleasure. Stack, meanwhile, provided running commentary, pausing the tutorial every few minutes to offer advice that was occasionally helpful but mostly entertaining.
"No, no, no—you gotta smooth that down more. Look how she do it. See that technique? That's the secret right there."
"I am smoothing it down."
"You smoothing it like you tryna put out a fire. Be gentle with my girl's hair."
"It's my girl's hair too."
"Our girl's hair."
"Our girl's hair."
Sierra closed her eyes, letting their familiar bicker wash over her as Elijah's strong fingers worked magic on her scalp. She could feel the tension leaving her shoulders, replaced by a warm, contented buzz that had nothing to do with the products they were using.
"Okay, now for the twists," Stack announced, suddenly taking charge. "I watched this tutorial yesterday. I'm prepared."
Elijah raised an eyebrow but stepped aside, allowing his brother to take over. Sierra watched with amusement as Stack positioned himself directly in front of her, his expression serious as he picked up a section of her hair.
"First, you gotta get the right tension," he explained, his fingers fumbling slightly as he tried to separate a smaller strand. "Not too tight, not too loose. Like Goldilocks, but with hair."
"Goldilocks didn't have locs," Elijah pointed out, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
"It's a metaphor, Elijah. Keep up."
Stack's first attempt was... ambitious. The twist started off promising but quickly became a tangled mess halfway down, the hair wrapping around itself in a way that was definitely not part of the tutorial.
"Hold on, hold on," he muttered, trying to undo the damage. "I think I went the wrong direction."
"You went three directions," Elijah observed dryly. "And one of them was into another dimension."
"Let me fix it," Stack insisted, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I just need to—"
"Stop," Sierra said gently, reaching up to place her hand over his. "It's okay. Let Elijah try."
Stack looked genuinely disappointed, his shoulders slumping as he stepped aside. "I was so close."
"You were so far," Elijah corrected, taking his brother's place. His hands moved with practiced ease, the twist forming smoothly and neatly as he worked his way down the strand. "See? You start at the root, maintain consistent tension, and rotate in the same direction the entire time. It's not complicated."
"It's complicated when you're doing it for the first time," Stack grumbled, though he watched his brother's technique with genuine interest. "You make it look easy."
"Because I'm not overthinking it," Elijah replied, finishing the twist with a neat coil at the end. "I'm just focusing on the hair."
They fell into a rhythm after that—Elijah twisting with methodical precision, Stack handing him products and occasionally attempting a twist of his own (with varying degrees of success). By the time they finished, the sun was setting outside the bathroom window, casting a golden glow through the frosted glass.
"All done," Elijah announced, stepping back to admire his work. "How does it feel?"
Sierra ran her fingers over the neat twists, her scalp tingling with the residual sensation of their touch. "It feels amazing. Thank you."
Stack wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder as he looked at their reflection in the mirror. "See? Teamwork makes the dream work."
Elijah came to stand on her other side, his hand resting possessively on her hip. "You look beautiful."
Sierra looked at their reflection—at the three of them, crowded together in the small bathroom, her hair freshly twisted and styled, their faces illuminated by the warm light. She saw the love in their eyes, the devotion in their touches, the way they looked at her like she was something precious, something to be cherished.
"You're both ridiculous," she said, but her voice was soft, filled with affection.
"We're devoted," Stack corrected, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "There's a difference."
Elijah's fingers traced the line of her jaw, his touch gentle but firm. "Let us help you more often."
"I will," she promised, turning to wrap her arms around both of them. "If you promise to stop comparing hair care to lovemaking."
Stack grinned. "No promises."
Elijah smiled, that rare, genuine smile that always made Sierra's heart skip a beat. "We'll try."
Later that evening, wrapped in a plush robe with her hair still slightly damp from the products, Sierra sat between them on the couch as they watched a movie. But she wasn't really watching—she was too busy basking in their attention, in the way they kept touching her hair, admiring their handiwork with the pride of artists who had created something beautiful.
"You did good," Stack whispered, his fingers gently tracing one of the twists. "Real good."
Elijah's hand rested on her thigh, his thumb stroking her skin in a slow, rhythmic pattern. "Beautiful."
Sierra leaned her head back against the couch, closing her eyes as she let their words wash over her. For all their differences, for all their bickering and competing, when it came to her, they were united in their devotion—two men who had found their person and would do anything to take care of her, even if it meant learning how to twist hair and sit through hours of tutorials.
—
She Falls Asleep First
The living room was cast in the eerie blue glow of the television, shadows dancing across the walls as the opening credits of The Conjuring began to roll. Sierra was sandwiched between the twins on their oversized couch, a fortress of plush cushions and throw blankets arranged just so. Elijah sat rigid on her left, his forearm tensed where it rested along the back of the sofa behind her shoulders. Stack was sprawled on her right, looking entirely too relaxed for a horror movie, his arm thrown casually over her legs, fingers drumming against her thigh in time with the ominous score.
"You sure about this, baby?" Elijah's voice was low, a cautious rumble that vibrated through her side. His dark eyes were fixed on the screen, already narrowed with suspicion as the establishing shots of the haunted house filled the room.
"What? You scared?" Stack grinned, all teeth and mischief, not bothering to lower his voice. "This ain't even the scary part yet, nigga. Wait 'til they start talking about some damn haunted doll."
"I'm not scared," Elijah corrected, though his posture suggested otherwise. "I'm appropriately cautious. Unlike some people who treat demonic possession like a comedy special."
Sierra laughed, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. "It's just a movie, Eli. Remember? You're the one who wanted to watch something 'thrilling' tonight."
"That was before I knew we were watching a documentary about some white family that should've moved the first time a ghost started rearranging their furniture," he muttered, his hand unconsciously tightening on her shoulder.
The movie progressed, the tension building as the Perron family moved into their new home, strange occurrences beginning almost immediately. Each creak of the floorboards, each mysterious draft, had Elijah tensing further beside her, his body becoming a statue of apprehension. Stack, meanwhile, remained infuriatingly calm, occasionally offering loud commentary that made Elijah flinch.
"See? Now why would you go into a basement that smells like death? That's just asking for trouble," Stack announced, his voice booming in the quiet room. Elijah shot him a look that could curdle milk.
"Shut up," he hissed. "You're gonna miss the foreshadowing."
"The only thing I'm 'foreshadowing' is that you're gonna be sleeping with the lights on tonight," Stack shot back, grinning as he reached for the popcorn bowl on Sierra's lap. "Pass the butter, baby."
Sierra passed him the bowl, her fingers brushing against his in the dim light. She could feel the dichotomy between them—Elijah's protective tension, Stack's playful bravado. It was their dynamic in a nutshell, two sides of the same coin, both devoted to her in their own ways.
As the movie progressed to the first truly terrifying sequence—the night where Carolyn is awakened by someone clapping—Elijah jumped so violently he nearly knocked Sierra sideways. His hand flew to her arm, gripping it tightly as his eyes remained locked on the screen, wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed, the words barely audible. "Who the hell claps in the middle of the night?"
"A ghost, Elijah. A ghost," Stack whispered loudly, then laughed when Elijah flinched again. "You ain't gonna make it through this movie, Eli."
"I'm fine," Elijah insisted. He gripped the sofa cushion. "It's just... unexpected."
The movie continued, each scare more intense than the last. The scene with the music box playing by itself, the appearance of Annabelle the doll, the supernatural investigators arriving at the house—each moment had Elijah reacting viscerally, his body tensing, his breath catching, his hand occasionally squeezing Sierra's arm as if to ground himself in reality.
Sierra, meanwhile, found herself growing increasingly tired. The day had been long, the combination of work errands and their constant attention wearing her down in the best way possible. Her eyelids grew heavy, the dialogue becoming fuzzy as she drifted somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, cocooned between their warmth.
The next truly terrifying scene—the one where the youngest daughter, Cindy, sleepwalks into the wardrobe and vanishes into a secret passage—had Elijah nearly climbing out of his skin. He jumped so hard he jostled Sierra, who murmured something unintelligible and shifted to rest her head more firmly against his shoulder.
"Shit," he breathed, his heart racing as he glanced down at her. "You okay, baby?"
But she was already gone, her breathing soft and even against his neck, her body lax with sleep.
Stack noticed immediately. "Our girl tapped out."
"Shut up," Elijah whispered, his voice barely audible as he carefully adjusted his position to accommodate her sleeping form. "You'll wake her up."
"Me? You're the one who damn near sent her flying into the end table with your horror movie reflexes," Stack countered, though he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She looks cute when she's sleeping, though."
Elijah didn't respond; his attention focused on the sleeping woman curled against him. He reached over with his free hand, carefully pulling the throw blanket higher to cover her shoulders, his movements deliberate and gentle. The movie continued to play in the background, but his attention had shifted entirely to Sierra, to the soft rise and fall of her chest, to the way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks in the flickering light.
"You think she's really asleep?" Stack asked after a moment, his voice still low but filled with mischief. "Or is she just pretending so she can get out of watching the rest?"
"She's asleep," Elijah said with certainty. "She gets like this when she's really tired. All soft and pliant."
"Soft and pliant," Stack repeated, a grin spreading across his face. "I like that. Mind if I..."
"No," Elijah said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Let her sleep."
"I wasn't gonna do nothing," Stack protested, though his expression suggested otherwise. "I was just gonna... adjust."
"Adjust what?"
"The blanket. It's crooked."
Elijah shot him a look but didn't respond, instead turning his attention back to the movie, though his hand remained resting protectively on Sierra's shoulder. The film continued to unfold on screen, each scare more intense than the last, but Elijah found himself less affected now, his focus divided between the supernatural terror on screen and the very real warmth of the woman sleeping beside him.
As the climax approached—the exorcism sequence where Carolyn is possessed and levitates—Elijah found himself unconsciously pulling Sierra closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulders as if to shield her from the horror on screen. He was so absorbed in both the movie and the woman beside him that he almost didn't notice when Stack shifted positions, his movements careful and deliberate as he slid closer to Sierra on her other side.
"What are you doing?" Elijah whispered, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"Getting comfortable," Stack replied, his voice innocent. "This couch is big enough for three."
"It was big enough for three before you started encroaching on her space," Elijah countered, his arm tightening slightly around Sierra's shoulders.
"I'm not encroaching," Stack protested, though he continued to inch closer until his thigh was pressed firmly against Sierra's. "I'm just... optimizing."
"Optimizing what?"
"Our viewing experience," Stack said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She's in the middle. We're on either side. It's balanced. Symmetrical. Good feng shui."
Elijah stared at him, his expression unreadable. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm strategic," Stack corrected, grinning as he carefully draped his arm over Sierra's legs. "See? Perfect."
The movie reached its terrifying conclusion, the final exorcism scene playing out on screen with all its supernatural horror. But Elijah found himself barely watching, his attention divided between the film and the two people flanking him—Sierra, sleeping peacefully against his shoulder, and Stack, whose presence was a constant, comforting warmth on her other side.
As the credits rolled, the room fell silent except for the sound of Sierra's soft breathing. Stack reached for the remote, lowering the volume until the music was barely audible, then turned to look at his brother.
"So," he whispered, a grin playing at his lips. "Who do you think she cuddled first?"
Elijah sighed, the sound long-suffering but fond. "She fell asleep on my shoulder."
"Technicality," Stack countered, his voice still low but filled with mischief. "She was leaning my way before she conked out. I saw it."
"You saw what you wanted to see," Elijah replied, though there was no real heat in his words. "She was tired. She fell asleep. End of story."
"Not end of story," Stack insisted, his grin widening. "I'm claiming partial custody of this cuddle session. At least forty percent."
"You get forty percent of nothing," Elijah said, though he carefully shifted his position, adjusting Sierra's weight so she rested more comfortably against them both. "She's sleeping. Let her be."
"I am letting her be," Stack protested, though he made no move to shift away. "I'm just... appreciating the moment."
Elijah watched him for a moment, then shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "You're impossible."
"And you're whipped," Stack shot back, his voice soft but teasing. "Now shut up and let me enjoy this before she wakes up and starts complaining about how we let her sleep through the end of the movie."
Elijah didn't respond, just leaned his head back against the couch cushions, his arm still wrapped securely around Sierra's shoulders. The room was quiet now, the television's glow casting soft shadows across their faces, the three of them tangled together in the dim light. For all their bickering and competing, for all their differences and disagreements, moments like these—quiet, domestic, theirs—were what mattered most.
"She's beautiful when she sleeps," Elijah said after a moment, his voice barely audible in the stillness.
Stack's grin softened, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the woman between them. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice matching his brother's in volume and intensity. "She is."
And there they stayed, caught between the horror movie they'd barely watched and the woman they'd both fallen for, two golden retrievers guarding their sleeping princess, content to let the night stretch on forever.
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
andulkaphoto
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