so many creative choices in tvl make sense when you realize the goal of this season wasn't telling lestat's story or adapting tvl the book but using the premise of "adapting tvl" as the justification for a whitecentric rebrand and lowkey reboot of the whole show, as part of amc and rolin's effort to distance themselves from the "black queer show" image and black viewership of s1-s2 in order to pursue the "mainstream" (whiter, straighter) audience they always wanted. this is why most of the major arcs, especially the material given to jacob, delainey and assad, feel like retreads of the arcs they already had in s2, meant to cover plot beats from s1-s2 and overwrite how they were initially depicted in a way that's both more palatable for white viewers. in many ways tvl feels like 7 episodes of a "previously on..." sequence that flits through brief flashbacks and tells, not shows the audience essential information to get them caught up before the real story begins, and that's intentional- tvl isn't meant to be a story that stands on its own as much as a staging point to establish the new trajectory of the show, the new tone and narrative priorities, and invite the audience amc wants onboard and jettison the melanated s1-s2 audience amc thinks it no longer needs before the real story rolin wants to tell begins in s4.
the narrative seems not only spiteful and uncompassionate to its own established characters and audience but almost apologetic for having demanded that viewers hold empathy for black leads during s1-s2, for asking them to center black characters as protagonists and care about their interiority- the brutalization and humiliation of jacob and delainey's characters isn't just the nonblack writers engaging in a gratuitous fantasy of torturing black bodies and "humbling" black characters who've reached too far above their station, but also a way to restore the status quo that asserts the "proper" role of blackness is to be a site of inherent pain and mortification. racist viewers who rejected the show when jacob was cast in 2021 or at any point during s1-s2 bc the idea of getting invested in messy black leads put them off can now comfortably tune back in, assured that the show will never ask them to care about a black person more than a white person or think a black person's material suffering could matter more than a nonblack person's feelings and reputation ever again. the cruelty is the point, in many ways.
it's valid to criticize tvl for claiming to be an adaptation of the tvl book and failing at that on every level, from tone to sincerity to the fact that like. 80% of the book just wasn't adapted, but once you see through the marketing claims and realize the real purpose of this season was just amc's effort to do a soft reboot and relaunch their vampire show as a cynical whitecentric dramedy without drawing the ire of straight-up canceling iwtv, you realize so many of their choices aren't just writerly incompetence but a deliberate creative and network whitelash on multiple levels of production.
(tags via @leblogestunmonstre) right like when you look at the roles jacob, delainey and assad are playing, they aren't continuations of where their arcs left off at the end of s2 as much as the show trying to redo the same character beats in s2 in a way that asks less empathy for black characters from the audience and is a lot blunter and more flanderized.
s2- louis is consumed by grief for claudia while being gaslit by armand in the present day, as armand destabilizes louis' perception of reality and what happened in paris to conceal his true involvement in the trial. claudia enters armand's employ as an actress while unaware of the true danger of the paris coven and armand's own capacity for antiblack violence. near the end of the season, louis and claudia are lynched in a humiliating public spectacle that it's later revealed armand directed.
s3- louis is consumed by grief for claudia while being gaslit by armand in the present day- except this time armand just gloats about how much he was gaslighting louis. regina enters armand's employ offscreen as part of armand's elaborate scheme to fuck with louis' head while unaware of armand's capacity for antiblack violence. near the end of the season, louis and regina are lynched in a humiliating public spectacle where armand just straight-up personally tortures them this time.
and even the main "original" plot of the season, present-day gabistat, is just a structural copy of the same way they added loumand to the present day in s1-s2-
in the book, the main narrator (louis in iwtv, lestat in tvl) talks about his story alone, after he's already parted ways with a past companion who only shows up in flashbacks (armand in iwtv, gabrielle in tvl). in the show, this companion is an active part of the present-day story, has the 2nd most screentime of the season and is portrayed as more of a sinister antagonist who has the material power in their relationship with the main narrator and manipulates him and his effort to tell his story (louis' interview, lestat's tour) for their own ends. in the final episode of the season, the main narrator realizes their companion is evil(tm) and rejects them.
rolin's been talking about iwtv s1-s2 with total contempt but he's literally just redoing inferior versions of s2 plots for most of the cast, and most of the material that's truly unique to the season (the live concerts, the songs, the band and tour concept) have gone over with a resounding "it's ok i guess" to "eh it's mid" with most of the general audience. anything actually of substance is a photocopy of what they already did in s2, bc rolin has no new ideas of substance and always wanted to prioritize shallow spectacle and shock value over like. character development and emotional sincerity
omg i was rereading all of your fices while waiting for updates, and I just noticed they became hidden. Is everything okay. I was genuinely gagged after I clocked off work to read
Yeah, I took them down indefinitely. Bluntly put: when I write and edit my stories with the intent to share and interact with a fandom, I don't expect to constantly get this in return.
I was gaslit and harassed for trying to handle this privately earlier this year, and seeing how it's apparently still happening, I'm not wasting my time arguing, I'm just over it đ¤ˇđžââď¸
Sharing was fun, but I don't want my works stolen and used as this girl's personal story/scene prompts whenever she can't think of something herself. So yeah, for now I'm keeping my writing private.
And they strip people's writings into AI. Get called out..change Face Claims, the passages of said story because of the call out
Sneakily delete their witch hunt posts after trying to play victim. Got folks sending anons. Or if they came from her weird ass to the person they stole from.
Change the chapters again and then save and or download stories to continue to STRIP AND PROMPT THEM INTO HER OWN STORY.
All because HER WACK ASS, NO STORYLINE HAVING ASS, WRITING SUCKS DICK.
Because instead of doing the work. She just copies and still can't fucking write.
Like how you got the answer sheet and still blow at describing smut scenes and flushing out characters???? That pay subscription to chat gbt is not doing her any favors.
Fandom Grifters aren't here for the love of the game. They are here for stats and nothing more. Then wonder why they chapters and stories don't do the numbers, there is no sense of community, and no one is leaving them meaningful comments.
When her hobby got her desperate and lacking integrity. Clearly she need to find something better to do. Cause if she the writer like she says it is then be about it. Read all those other stories and find that self confidence again. Cause wtf.
Any artist that got actual sense and morals would not do that or use Ai. đ¤¨
She like a few I've seen taking space in other black fandoms are of the big reason why shit dies in fandoms and why actual real artists just leave.
Its always fuck AI around here but I cant stop folks from using it. Thats your business. Its the blatant THEFT that yall let slide is what astounds me.
Ya'll can recognize it when its verbatim and from someone random but show no sympathy when your favorite writer does it to someone else. Theft has to stop somewhere.
Like mentioned above, Fandom Grifters dont belong here. And the more yall let obvious theft slide, the harder it is for actual writers to create and share.
The list of crimes is too many, but at the very least we have:
Stealing from a Black woman during Black History Month
Thowing accusations and then deleting posts to play victim
Feeding another author's work into a machine they are vehemently against
Cherry picking scenes, plot beats, and character dynamics across multiple fics and creating a Frankenstein of slop regurgitating that same author's work
Accused before of stealing someone's work
Is this the tumblr yall want to belong to? Over robotic, repetitive non-sensical smut? đ¤
Theft is never okay. Theft is never tolerated round here. And definitely never over fictional dick, hello???
You stay silent and you are part of the problem. Tumblr could be so much more, it could be ours, and it can thrive. But not if you choke off every root that tries to grow. We love to say Black isnt a monolith until it goes against your definition. Theres room for every Black writer's story. Including the ones YOU dont like. WE do. And WE deserve to read it.
But not if you continue to treat this place like tiktok. We are not celebrities. We are not influencers. This is a hobby on an ANON website and stealing for a hobby is WEIRD. Its objectively WEIRD.
We are bloggers. The world treats Black women like shit..so why are yall doing it to each other???
i love the phrase 'i dont go here but...' like you're so in awe of my work you have decided to trespass into a fandom you dont belong to just to appreciate it. i love everyone who doesn't go here
anti blackness is also the reason for the rampant colorism that exists worldwide, even in countries with an absence of large black communities. your proximity to blackness and whiteness is what decides where you fit in the systemic tiers of racism and classism literally WORLDWIDE. no form of oppression exists in a vacuum.
The amount of disbelief Iâm willing to suspend is directly proportional to how entertaining the show is. If a show is barely able to hold my attention and has betrayed my trust before, fuck you, thatâs not how cutting someoneâs head off works.
If Iâm glued to my seat every week and canât stop watching, then yes, absolutely, the professional athlete in a blond wig is indistinguishable from the 17 year old lead actress.
POV: You are a new curator and you working after hours with your work bestie and co curator, Anita. As you show her the crime history exhibit, something catches y'all eye.
A/N: This idea was inspired by a post from the amazing @livingmybestfakelife .
Warning: This is going to be a two part "one shot". This will have fluff and comedy. Part two will be out tomorrow.
Word Count: 5152
Pairing: Anita X Black Female Reader (Nickname: Cherry) X Elijah "Smoke" Moore X Elias "Stack" Moore
It was supposed to be just another evening at the Museum of Mississippi Historyâthough for Y/N âCherryâ Johnson and Anita âNiNiâ Lewis, it marked their very first night shift together. Partners in crime as much as curators, the two had been inseparable since the day they both started, their friendship sealed in quick laughter and shared late-night talks.
Their heelsâfour inches of pure defiance against a twelve-hour workdayâclicked against the polished concrete as they drifted through the quiet hush of the music exhibit. Rows of instruments and portraits seemed to watch them pass like silent witnesses.
âLord have mercy, Cherry, today was long as hell,â Anita groaned, tugging at the waistband of her charcoal pencil skirt, identical to Cherryâs.
Cherry smirked, raising her wrist to check the slim gold watch that gleamed under the overhead lights. âHang in there, girl. OnlyâŚâ She squinted, tapping the glass face. ââŚsix more hours.â
At that, Anita collapsed into Cherryâs arms with theatrical flair. âTake me now, Lawd! I canât go no further. All I want is to go home, strip down butt naked, and stretch out in bed with my little puss up in the air.â She fanned herself as though she might faint, dragging out the last word for effect.
Cherry burst into laughter, shaking her head. âYou so damn dramatic. Donât act like I wouldnât love to be at home tooâlayin' my naked ass across my silk sheets, eatinâ good, drinkinâ wine. But hey, at least weâre off tomorrow. And Sunday. Small mercies, NiNi.â
âI mean, I guess,â Anita muttered, twisting her box braids back into a low bun. âBut stillâwhy the hell we stuck here âtil six in the damn morning, when this place shuts down at ten?â
âBecause these niggas are too cheap to pay for full-time security, so we gotta do it. I mean, at least, we ainât gotta deal with the white folks tryinâ wash they sins away by lookinâ at the black history.â
âOr them snot-nosed bad-ass kids climbinâ all over the displays,â Anita added, nudging Cherry with her elbow.
Cherry let out a laugh. âOr the muthafuckas talkinâ over you, tryinâ to show off âcause they ainât got no damn life.â
The two women snickered, their heels clicking as they wandered into the crime history wing. Anitaâs eyes landed on a fresh sign posted by the entrance: Enjoy the NEW Moore Twins Display.
She straightened, curiosity sparking. âThe Moore Twins? Donât tell me we finally got their figures?â
Cherry gave a slow nod, smirking. âMhm. No more of them raggedy-ass mannequins in hand-me-down clothes tryinâ to pass for the real thing.â
âHave you seen it?â Anitaâs voice dropped lower as she stepped inside, her heels tapping softly on the museumâs dark floor. Y/N followed close behind, their footsteps echoing in the quiet space, the low hum of the night air settling around them.
âNah, not yet,â Cherry replied, glancing around as they made their way to the back of the exhibit. âBut we can check it out. I know it just got put up before we started.â
The womenâs heels clicked rhythmically, breaking the stillness as they passed each display. The usual history came to life in muted tonesâold photographs, rusted artifacts, and soft spotlights on familiar faces. But there was something about this section that felt different. The air seemed a little heavier, a little colder.
When they reached the back, the sight before them made the hairs on their necks prickle. Dark violet curtains cascaded from a tall platform, the deep color absorbing the light. It was stark, almost out of place in the otherwise quiet room, as if the display had been cloaked in mystery.
Cherryâs eyes moved slowly toward the reading standâa gleaming gold against the dim lighting. It caught the light like it had its own heartbeat.
âThe Moore Brothers must be a huge deal,â Anita whispered, her fingers gently brushing over the rich fabric of the curtains, as if she could feel the weight of whatever secrets they might hold. âThey get a gold stand while the rest of this stuff is stuck in cheap-ass wood?â
Y/Nâs eyes narrowed, a soft laugh escaping her as she rolled her eyes. But her voice faltered for a moment as she read the plaque, her fingers trailing the edge of the card. âYeah, âbig damn dealâ for sureâŚâ She paused, the words on the plaque catching her attention, sending a strange shiver down her spine.
âThe Moore Twins: A Legacy of Crime and Chaos. On display today are the infamous Moore Twinsâ Elias âStackâ and Elijah âSmookeâ Mooreâtwo of the most feared figures in modern criminal history. From the streets of urban sprawl to the dark corners of international drug cartels, the twins' legacy is one of violence, intelligence, and ruthlessness. Their story serves as a chilling reminder of the power and danger that can emerge when criminal minds unite in a common causeâ, Cherry read and then Anita joined after. Â
âThe Moore Twins operated with a meticulous precision that set them apart from ordinary criminals. Known for their high-profile robberies, drug trafficking operations, and violent enforcements, Stack and Smooke's criminal empire spanned multiple continents. They were as brilliant as they were brutal, using intelligence, manipulation, and fear to maintain control over their territoriesâ, Anita read, bent over like Cherry as they read. Cherry read again, after looking over the curtains. âThe twins became infamous for their daring bank and armored car heists, leaving behind a trail of chaos and millions in stolen cash. Their precision and planning made them legends in the world of organized crime. Damn, they really handled shit back then.â NiNi laughed and said âhell yeah, I remember my grandpa told me stories about them. Apparently, he was the reason his daddy had a limp. Rumor has it, that he was tryna steal one of their trucks and Smoke shot him in the ass.â
Cherry tried to stifle her laugh as Anita slapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles.
âGirl, it ainât funny,â Anita muttered, eyes still crinkled in amusement, âbut shit, Iâd do the same thing.â
Cherry chuckled, her laughter slipping out anyway. âI mean, same. Iâd definitely peek if I were you.â She winked before both women turned back to the dark, velvet curtains.
âMy granny always said they was fine as hell,â Cherry mused, her voice soft, almost reverent. âBut there ainât no real proof of what they looked like. Just rumors, you know?â
Anita's smirk was almost audible as she leaned in closer. âWell, there is now,â she teased, fluttering her lashes as she waved one corner of the curtain at Cherry. âMight as well take a look, right?â
Y/N couldnât help but smile at her friendâs antics. She sighed, giving in. âFine, fine. Youâre right. Letâs see what all the hypeâs about.â
They both stepped up to the curtain, standing side by side. Without a second thought, their fingers grasped the fabric, pulling it back in one swift motion. They counted, the tension building between them, their voices a quiet hum in the otherwise silent room.
âOne⌠two⌠threeâŚâ
The moment they revealed what was hidden behind the veil, both women froze. What they saw was nothing like they expected. The Moore Twinsâ wax figures stood on display, but it wasnât just the figures. Surrounding them were models of weapons, stacks of fake bills, and the kind of chaotic, flashy excess that screamed of their infamous reputation- Stack wore his small charming grin while Smokeâs face was stone.
âWow, now this is a display,â Cherry said, her voice filled with awe as she took in the models surrounding the wax figures.
Anita shot her a look, grinning. âYeah, and your granny wasnât wrong. They fine as hell. Which oneâs which, though?â
Cherryâs eyes followed Anitaâs gaze as she looked down at the nameplates.
âStackâs on the left. Smoke, the older one, is on our right,â Anita answered, glancing over at Cherry with a raised brow as they both stood back to take it all in.
Y/N had to admit, these men were striking. Broad shoulders, dark skin, dashing in a way that felt timeless. The kind of handsome that made her heart skip a beat.
âThey donât make âem like this anymore,â Cherry murmured, shaking her head in disbelief as she exchanged a quick dap with Anita.
âYou ainât lyinâ.â Anita laughed, her voice dropping into a playful, almost wistful tone. âIf I was around in the â30s, shoot, Iâd have a train runninâ in my room every damn night.â
"You are a mess."
"Am I lyin'? Shoot, I feel like if the men looked like this, we was born in the wrong time period. I wouldn't mind being a hostage of these two."
Y/N smacked her arm playfully, both of them laughing at the absurdity of the thought. But as the sound of their laughter died down, Y/N found herself glancing back at Stack. Her stomach flipped, her heart beating a little faster, because for a brief momentâjust a split secondâshe couldâve sworn his eyes were locked onto hers.
Y/N stepped closer to the display, her head tilting as she studied the twins. There was something almost lifelike about them, like they were too real for comfort.
Anita, leaning beside her, smirked. âGirl, you look like that one bad-ass kid trying to figure out if the paintings are following them.â
Cherry shot her a look, a flicker of unease in her eyes. âYou ainât see Stackâs eyes, though. They wereââ She paused, trying to find the words. âIt was like he was lookinâ into my soul.â
Anita snorted, her shoulders shaking with laughter. âBitch, you must be high. Theyâre just wax, girl. Wax donât look at you.â She stood on the platform annd Cherry said "girl get ya ass down, the cameras can see you." Anita rolled her eyes and said "I can just make it look like I'm fixin' their clothes." Anita looked into Stack's face, waving her hand in his view but nothing. "See, girl, nothing. But I must admit", she paused and caressed the figure's chest. Anita looked at Cherry and said "oh, they did their thing. I wonder..." She began tracing his chest with her finger as Cherry watched.
"Anita, get ya ass down. You look like a perv feelin' on that statue". Anita looked at her friend and stepped from the platform. "Fine, but I will say his body felt real nice", Anita said, giggling Cherry didnât laugh, her gaze still fixed on Stackâs figure. But as Anita glanced up at the display, something made her stop mid-snicker. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at Smokeâs waxy eyesâdirectly on her.
Her heart skipped. She blinked once, twice, and the illusion was gone. The twins were staring ahead once more, as still and lifeless as before.
Anita let out a shaky laugh, rubbing her arms as if to shake off the chill crawling over her skin. âOkay⌠now Iâm seeinâ shit. Câmon, I need a break.â She tugged the heavy curtains closed and grabbed Y/Nâs hand, pulling her out of the room before she could protest.
What neither of them noticed was the faint stir behind the velvet drapesâsomething that would come back to haunt them later.
Nearly an hour had slipped by in the curatorâs office. The desk was cluttered with half-empty coffee cups and scattered papers, the only sound the steady hum of the vents above. Yet Y/Nâs mind refused to settle. It kept drifting back to the crime displayâto Stackâs eyes. The way they seemed fixed on her, dark and unblinking, too alive for wax.
She shook herself and focused on her computer, scrolling through the brothersâ history, when suddenly the screen flickered once and went black.
âFuck, not right now,â she muttered, shoving her chair back. With a sigh, she swept her kinky-straight hair into a claw clip, then dropped to her knees to check the router. The green lights blinked steadily, working just fine.
Y/N rose, smoothing her skirt with her palms. Thatâs when her gaze drifted to the monitorâs blank screen. Her breath caught in her throat.
Reflected in the dark glass were two figuresâthe Moore twinsâstanding right behind her.
Her whole body spun in an instant, heart hammering. The office was empty.
She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to steady her breath, then reached up to fix her curtain bangs with trembling fingers. Sliding back into her chair, she sank low, the silence suddenly louder than ever. Maybe she was losing her mind⌠but she couldnât shake the feeling she wasnât alone
While Y/N sat in the curatorâs office, lost in her thoughts, Anita was tucked away in the bathroom, JLab Tone earbuds in, vibing to her 90s playlist. Can We by SWV pulsed in her ears as she scrolled through Instagram, shoulders bouncing to the beat even as she sat on the toilet.
The overhead lights flickered once, twice. Anita glanced up, frowning, but then shrugged it off and kept scrolling.
When she finished, she tossed some tissue into the bowl, pulled herself together, and moved to the sink. The water ran cool over her hands as she watched her reflection in the mirror. Thatâs when she heard itâsomething shifting behind her. A faint sound, like movement.
Her eyes darted to the row of stalls, the reflection showing one door rocking gently back and forth.
She pulled out one earbud. âCherry, stop playinâ, bitch.â
Her voice was firm, but her steps werenât. She moved slowly, inching toward the far-right stall where the door kept swinging. Her pulse quickened as she whispered a quick prayer under her breath.
Reaching out, she pushed the door open with one hand.
Nothing.
The stall was empty, silent, still.Anitaâs chest rose and fell, her laugh nervous and thin. Girl, youâre trippinâ. She shook her head, shoved her earbud back in, and took a deep breath before leaving the bathroom behind.
Anita hummed along to Luv U Better by LL Cool J as it pulsed through her earbuds, her voice barely above a whisper. She strutted casually down the hall, her heels clicking in rhythm with the beat. Every display she passed felt ordinaryâglass cases of artifacts, dim spotlights, the faint smell of polish and old wood.
She was only a few steps from the curatorâs office when something tugged at the edge of her vision. A flicker. A shift. Like someone moving in the shadows.
Her song trailed off mid-lyric, her feet slowing as her head turned toward the Crime section. The doorway yawned open, the violet curtains at the far end barely visible from where she stood.
Anita frowned, her chest rising and falling quicker than before. She told herself it was nothingâthe air conditioning, the way shadows liked to play tricks at night. Still, she leaned a little closer, just enough to peek around the corner.
What she saw made her breath catch. It wasnât right. Something about the scene was wrong, out of place.
Her skin prickled as if someone had run ice down her spine. She blinked hard, hoping it was just her eyes playing games. But noâthe sight didnât vanish.
Her hand shot up, yanking one earbud out. âOh, fuck no,â Anita whispered, her voice tight and trembling.
Without another look, she spun on her heel and sprinted for the office, her heartbeat racing faster than the bass still thumping faintly in her other ear.
Meanwhile, Y/N sat in the office, finally finding her rhythm again. Her earbuds played You Are Everything by The Stylistics, the smooth melody humming softly in her ears as she typed away at the keyboard. For the first time that night, she felt calm, focused, almost at ease.
Until that feeling shifted.
The air thickened around her, heavy and strange, and a chill crept up her spine. She froze, her fingers hovering above the keys as the unmistakable sensation washed over herâlike someone was standing behind her, close enough to breathe down her neck.
Her throat tightened. She told herself she was imagining things. But thenâ
Hands. Firm, sudden, clamping down on her shoulders.
Y/N shot up from her chair with a sharp scream, her earbuds flying loose. She spun aroundâ
âand NiNi screamed right back, clutching her chest from the startle.
âNiNi, what the fuck?!â Y/N gasped, her hand pressed against her racing heart. âDonât be sneakinâ up on me like that!â
But Anita wasnât laughing. Her eyes were wide, wild with panic as she fought for breath. âCherryâŚâ she stammered, her voice trembling. âTheyâre missinâ.â
Cherry stood up straight, staring into her friendâs panicked face. âHuh? Who?â
Anita didnât bother answering. She grabbed Cherryâs arm, and the two of them tore down the hall toward the Crime section. Their heels thundered against the floor, echoing through the empty museum. Anita nearly lost her footing when they skidded to a stop, but Cherry caught her before she could fall.
Y/Nâs breath hitched the second her eyes landed on the display.
The heavy curtains had been yanked open. The spotlight still glared down, bright as everâbut now it lit nothing but bare wood. The platform was empty.
âAnita,â Y/N said slowly, her voice trembling with anger, âif this is some kind of fuckinâ prank, I swear Iâma kill you where you stand.â
âThis isnât a prank, bitch!â Anita shot back, pacing across the floor with frantic steps. âI came from the bathroom, peeked in here, and they were gone! Vanished! Are we the only ones in the building?â
âYes,â Y/N said firmly, planting her hands on her hips. âThe cleaning crew left hours ago. Weâre the only ones on schedule tonight.â
Anita froze, a thought dawning on her face. âWaitâwhat if itâs Frank? The security guard. When I worked nights with him, heâd pull dumb pranks all the time. And heâs big as hell, strong enough to moveââ
âNiNi.â Cherry cut her off, already stepping away from the platform, her voice low and steady. âFrankâs on vacation. Thatâs why weâre here.â
âDamn,â Anita muttered, hurrying to keep pace with Cherry.
âWe can just check the cameras, figure out what the hell happened,â Cherry said. They were almost at the door when a voice drifted from behind them, deep and drawling:
âAinât no use, doll. The cameras donât work no more.â
Both women froze mid-step. Slowly, they turned their heads, eyes cutting sideways at each other.
âDid you hear that?â Anita whispered.
Cherry gave a stiff nod, her face pale. âBitch⌠weâre not alone.â She squeezed Anitaâs hand tight.
Together they crept back toward the Crime section, steps feather-light, as though even the air might betray them.
âGirl, we Black,â Anita hissed, nerves spilling into humor. âYou know damn well we donât investigate when shit pops off.â
âShut up,â Y/N snapped, voice low but sharp. âIf we donât, we could get fuckinâ fired.â
They edged closer to the platform. The spotlight glared down on the empty stageâstill bare, still wrong.
Then it came: low, rolling chuckles, two voices tangled together. Laughter that didnât belong in the room.
âAight, now, this ainât funny,â Anita snapped, her voice sharp but threaded with nerves. âWho are youâand what the hell did you do with the Moore figures?â
The room seemed to hold its breath. Then, from the shadows, the voice slithered back, colder this time, every word dragging across their spines:
âTheyâre closer than you think, love.â
The sound chilled them to the bone. And thenâfootsteps. Heavy, measured, echoing across the marble floor. Thud⌠thud⌠thud. The rhythm filled the air, surrounding them, as the overhead lights sputtered and began to strobe in frantic burstsâwhite, black, white, blackâthrowing the room into a jagged nightmare.
Cherry clutched Anita tighter, her own fear betrayed in the quiver of her breath. Anita pressed closer, eyes darting, locked on the empty platform like it might spring to life at any second.
They staggered back, step by cautious step, hearts pounding in sync with the footsteps that grew louder, closerâinescapable.
Then their shoulders collided with something. Hard. Solid. Unmoving.
The women froze, every muscle seizing. Slowly, their eyes widened as the realization sank inâwhatever they had backed into wasnât the wall.
When the girls turned, their breath caught. Towering above them stood a man in a charcoal suit and maroon hat, the brim shadowing sharp, handsome features. He grinned down at them, flashing two silver caps on his teeth.
âAnn. Lennore,â he drawled, his voice smooth but heavy with something ancient. âLong time, no see.â
Cherry and Anita froze, still clinging to one another like children under the coversâuntil survival kicked in.
âAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!â
Their screams tore through the museum as they bolted, heels clacking in a desperate sprint toward the exit. For one dizzying moment, freedom seemed closeâuntil a second figure slid in front of them, blocking the way. He was taller, broader, dressed in a wool suit and navy hat, arms opening wide like a trap.
Both women slammed into his chest, eyes screwed shut, smacking wildly at him with open palms.
âElias!â the navy blue-hatted man barked, his grin widening. âBring ya ass and come help me, boy!â
The one called Elias chuckled, stepping forward without hurry. He bent low and scooped Anita into his arms with terrifying ease, her fists still swinging at air. Cherry shrieked as the man in the blue hat hooked an arm around her waist, dragging her back against him despite her frantic kicks.
âCalm down, sweetheart,â the man murmured, his tone smooth as velvet. But Cherry wasnât listeningâshe clawed, twisted, anything to break free.
The women were carried like ragdolls back toward the platform and set down roughly on the cold floor. They clutched one another instantly, shaking, breaths ragged and shallow.
The maroon-hatted man leaned casually against the stand, watching with interest. âHm,â he said with a sly grin, âI never had a woman run from me before.â
His brother rolled his eyes but couldnât keep the amusement out of his voice. âWe ainât gonna hurt yâall. Especially not with yâall lookinâ that pretty.â
Cherry dared a glance upwardâand her blood ran cold. The suits, the faces, the sharpness of their eyes. She knew them.
They werenât just men.
They were the Moore Twins. Stack and Smoke.
âNiNi, look,â Cherry said, nudging her friend.
Anita turned slowly, curiosity lighting her face⌠until it flipped to irritation.
âAh, hell na,â she muttered, standing up abruptly. âBitch, we getting robbed by cosplayers?!â
Cherry stayed at her side, trying not to laugh, but Anita wasnât finished.
âVery funny, ya fuckinâ nerds. Now bring back the models, or my size 8.5 is going so far up yâall asses, yâall gonna be sneezing leather!â
Stack chuckled, flashing that silver-capped grin. âThat was a good one. She funny⌠just like Lennore.â
Stackâs grin widened, but there was a strange softness in his gaze. âShe was my wife. The love of my life. Funny, feisty, a damn good cook⌠and the voice of an angel. Lennore Carter. She died long before I did. And this oneââhe nodded toward Anita, his fingers brushing gently against a stray box braid that had escaped her bunââreminds me of her.â
Smoke stepped out from behind his brother, walking slowly up to Cherry. His eyes scanned her face like he was memorizing every detail. âAnd you⌠you look just like Annie. Your skin, the way you smiled earlier⌠even the way you walk.â
He leaned in just slightly, inhaling. âCherry and vanilla. You smell just like her.â
Anita leaned against Cherry, eyebrows raised, whispering under her breath, âThese cosplayers are really good.â
Cherryâs eyes locked on the brothersâ faces, her voice low and cautious. âGirl⌠I donât think theyâre playing.â
Anita followed her gaze, then glanced back at Stack, whose stare seemed to linger on her a moment too long. Y/N felt a strange pull, like she was caught in a trance, but she forced herself to blink, to break free.
âWell⌠we should get back to work,â Cherry said, exhaling slowly. She reached for Anitaâs hand, squeezing it gently. âCome on, letâs go.â
The two women moved carefully, steps quiet, hearts still racing, as they slowly retreated from the platform and the unnervingly calm twins.
âLadies, wait,â Smokeâs voice carried low and steady, halting them mid-step.
The women turned, still holding onto each other. Stack lifted a hand, his silver-capped grin softened. âWe know yâall ainât Anne and Lennore, butââ
Smoke cut him off, his gaze steady on Y/N. âWe heard what yâall said. About how good we look. And we gotta admit⌠yâall are the best women weâve seen in a long time.â
Cherry straightened her suit jacket, still clutching Anitaâs hand. Her voice was cautious, but curiosity edged through. âSo⌠do we really look like your wives?â
Stackâs expression grew wistful as he pressed a hand to his chest. âVery. We know you ainât, but⌠if I only had one more night with my DollâŚâ
Smoke nodded slowly, his tone heavy with longing. âI feel the same about my Sweetheart. Annie was the best woman I ever knewâpatient, kind⌠I miss her every damn day. We ainât sayinâ yâall are them, but itâs hard to shake the feelinâ. You look too much like âem.â
For a beat, the room softened. Y/N and Anita exchanged a look, a flicker of sympathy passing between them before they found themselves moving closer, step by cautious step, until they stood face-to-face with the men.
âSo⌠what else did yâall hear?â Anita asked, tilting her head, her voice caught between challenge and curiosity.
Stackâs lips curved into a slow, knowing grin, silver teeth catching the light. He leaned in just close enough for his breath to graze her ear. âI mostly remember when you stood on that stage with us⌠runninâ your hand down my chest like you owned me.â
Anitaâs breath hitched, a flush creeping across her cheeks. âTh-that was just a joke,â she stammered, her laugh unsteady, betraying the way his words lingered.
Stack chuckled low, the sound warm and dangerous all at once. âMm. Didnât feel like no joke to me, doll.â
Before Cherry could jump in to save her friend, Smokeâs deep voice rumbled from just over her shoulder. âAnd youâŚâ
She turned slowly, finding him much closer than before, his height casting her in his shadow. His eyes flicked over her face, down to her lips, then back to her eyes like he was taking his time memorizing every feature.
âI remember you starinâ a little too hard at me,â he murmured, his tone velvet and edged with heat. âYour eyes were sayinâ all the things your mouth was too shy to admit.â
Cherryâs lips parted, but no words came. She swallowed hard, pulse hammering. âI-I wasnâtââ
Smoke leaned in, close enough that the faint scent of tobacco and musk curled around her. He tilted his head, whispering, âDonât lie now, Sweetheart. You were undressinâ me with them pretty eyes.â
Cherryâs knees threatened to buckle, and she gripped Anitaâs hand tighter.
The twins exchanged a look over their heads, sharing a low, amused laugh like predators enjoying the chase.
Cherryâs breath caught, and she tugged Anitaâs hand like an anchor, trying to keep her balance. The room felt smaller, warmer, like the air itself was thickening around them.
âOkay,â Anita said quickly, her voice cracking but fierce. âYâall done proved your point. Real cute, real smooth. But itâs time for yâall toââ
âLeave?â Stack finished for her, his grin widening. âDarlinâ, we just got here.â
Smoke reached out, brushing his knuckles across Cherryâs jaw, feather-light but enough to make her flinch. âAinât nobody tryinâ to hurt you. We just wanna⌠enjoy the company.â
The lights above them flickered again, dimming to a low, amber glow that seemed to bend toward the twins. Their shadows stretched across the floor, impossibly long, like the museum itself bowed to them.
Cherry forced herself to speak, though her voice shook. âWhat⌠what are yâall?â
For the first time, the brothers didnât answer right away. Stack tilted his head, eyes narrowing with a spark of amusement. âYouâll find out soon enough.â
Anita pulled Cherry back a step, her heart in her throat. âNope. I donât like that answer. Not one damn bit.â
The twins chuckled in unison, the sound low and rich, vibrating through the room. And as they laughed, the exit doors at the far end of the hall slammed shut on their own with a deafening bang.
The women jumped. Trapped.
Stack tipped his hat, silver teeth gleaming in the half-light. âLooks like yâall ainât goinâ nowhere.â
