this author is delighted to deliver the latest scandalous tidbits to you, along with a curated collection of intrigue. gather round, for the season’s finest masterpiece awaits.
each tale and morsel of gossip compiled here has been carefully selected by the queen, herself. making this masterlist a featured tale of passion, clandestine meetings, and the occasional faux pas that even a bridgerton would blush to hear.
from the roguish rake to the diamond of the season, and all the well-to-do matchmakers, spinsters, and scandal-ridden rakes in between, this collection serves as your very own high-society library, ready to be devoured.
this author shall be watching closely, dear readers, for one can never tell where love, mischief, or misdeeds may arise next.
ever so watchful, lady whistledown
other account(s):
starliis is my main tumblr account, inspired by bridgerton and my advocacy of poc! + black! readers, writers, voices, and fanfics. this one, simillia, is my secondary, general tumblr for neutral audiences and anime, manga, webtoon, video games, fanfics, etc.
request(s):
are now open. fill free to send in some ideas you’re looking to see written. be aware of the ground rules and understand that topics that make me uncomfortable (e.g., incest, rape, etc.) will be declined.
• will write for anime, movies, and television series.
keynote(s)
(m); mature, (s); smut, (f); fluff, (a); angst.
MOVIES 🍿
sinners
(m) milk & honey — elias "stack" moore & elijah "smoke" moore x black! reader.
one | two (s)
(m) honeysuckle — elias "stack" moore x black! virgin! reader.
the paper carried news of southern mississippi becoming home to one of the largest missing persons cases on a single night. word traveled north to chicago—where seeing his name among the vanished, shattered you. that is, until he began appearing at your home near gold coast, night after night. except this time he wasn’t the same. there was something otherworldly in his eyes, in the way he lingered in shadows. even at the lounge where you danced, he would come, demanding members-only access, as though nothing, not even death, could keep him from you.
warnings
afab!reader, sexual content, in other words smut, mature content, consensual sex. fleeting lovers, vampire!stack, some angst + pining, soft obsession, possessive tenderness, romance, african american reader; black representation, reader smoke cigarettes, violence warning; guns are used. takes place in the 1930s, language heavy; cursing. written regularly, with dialogue in a southern tone.
October 31, 1932 — Chicago Defender
MASS VANISHING IN MISSISSIPPI: FOUR DOZEN BLACK CIVILIANS GONE, SAWMILL SOAKED IN BLOOD.
Authorities are baffled as ‘mill party ends in slaughter and mystery.
The night erupted in horror as a vast gathering of Southern Mississippi residents disappeared without a trace. What remained was a sawmill soaked in blood, with bodies of white men strewn across the grounds. The sole suspect, identified as Elijah Moore, was himself found dead at the scene. Authorities released a list of names believed to have attended the gathering, which has been formally broadcast over the radio and printed in local newspapers, for none of the missing have yet been found or recovered.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────
Smoke curled from the cigarette that dangled between your lips, rising into the evening air like mist. It's slow burn reminded you of your exhaustion. An ache not only of the body but of the heart, even the soul. A fatigue that burrowed deep into your bones and clung with maddening persistence. On the table, a lone candle guttered, its flame quivering against the shadows as you stared at the ceiling. If it weren't illegal to buy wine, you would already have a glass in hand-anything to dull the weight pressing down, to soften the pain of loss, and to ease the sharper ache of not knowing whether you would ever receive the grace of goodbye.
Then came a low, almost shallow knock that was loud enough to be heard but careful not to be mistaken for anything else.
The reverberating sound sent a shiver down your spine. Who, in their right mind, would come here at half past midnight on a weekday? The cigarette burned to its end between your fingers, ash scattering across the floorboards as the candle flickered eerily. All of it—classic bad omens. Signs your mother had once taught you to heed, steeped in the hoodoo she carried long before she migrated north.
Another knock followed, and with that, you rose, heart caught between dread and defiance. Before stepping toward the door, you reached for the small .32 Smith & Wesson Revolver that had been tucked away. It had been the only gun your daddy made sure you knew how to handle before he passed. In this day and age, anything could happen, and you had learned better than to be caught unprepared.
Slowly, you cracked the door open. Not expecting to come face-to-face with the devil itself. A man stood there, framed by the night. The dim porch light washed across his face, all shadow and sharpness, with a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth like he knew he shouldn't be here and didn't care.
"Stack," you whispered in disbelief, fingers tightening around the doorframe, while the other hand instinctively gripped over the handle of the gun.
"Now I'll admit, I didn't expect ya' t' open up. Figured' you'd leave me out here all night, just waitin' on ya""
"I-I don' understand," you continue as if he didn't just speak. "Your name was in this mornin' paper."
"Was it now? An' what way's that?"
"It was on the list," you admit softly. "As one o' them missin' persons."
Stack chuckles low, the sound rattling your ribs more than the gun in your hand ever could. "Missin' ain't the same as gone, darlin. Least, not when it comes t' me."
Something wasn't adding up. His demeanor didn't match that of a man who'd just lost his brother or lived through a tragedy. You let your gaze roam over him, taking in the fitted vest worn without a shirt, the kind of choice that left nothing to the imagination. Every ridge and contour of his torso stood out in sharp relief, muscles defined as though carved from stone. There was a magnetic, predatory quality in the way he carried himself, something that made your pulse falter-amplified by the sharp, canine glint of his teeth when he smiled, or when that smile threatened to turn into a snarl. The grills caught the dim porch light, flashing with a dangerous, otherworldly gleam. He didn't simply stand on your doorstep; he commanded it, radiating confidence, menace, and an intoxicating allure that was impossible to look away from.
In that moment, nothing he could say would ease the gnawing unease in your chest. Something about him felt off, though you couldn't yet put a finger on it. The only way to uncover the truth was by asking the right questions, so you weighed your thoughts carefully before finally voicing one aloud.
"Where's your brother?"
"Handlin' business, 'per usual."
"Wit'out you?"
"He don't need me for everythin’. 'Sides, I got me a few things t' tend t' over here in Chicago—,” he pauses, locking eyes with you, an otherworldly gleam flickering within them. His next words strike like a blade, heavy with a meaning that lands squarely in your gut. "More specifically, Gold Coast."
The only person he knew in this area was you. That is why he added it, to make clear that it was you who inspired him to come here.
"What business you done got wit' me?"
"Nothin' crazy, baby. Jus' wanted t' lay eyes on ya"," he admits easily, letting the words roll off like whiskey. "So why don'tcha go on and let me in? Hell, we got a whole ‘lotta time t' make up f’r."
Without warning, you raise the gun, leveling it at his head. He only lifts his hands in mock surrender, leaning lazy against the doorframe like he owns the place. The wood groans under his weight, but his stance stays loose and unbothered. His steady eyes never leave yours, carrying that same dangerous calm that makes your finger twitch against the trigger.
"Now," he hums. "Mind yo' aim."
"I'll mind it when you start makin' sense," you snap. “Cause none a' the shit you spillin' is addin' up."
"These city niggas done got ya’ sold on some make-believe shit. Go on an' put that down 'fore I gotta handle yo' ass myself."
"You ain't handle'n' shit, but since you wanna keep playin' wit' me," your words trail away as an idea comes to mind. Without breaking eye contact, you snatch the paper off the door, side-table and toss it at him. It smacks his chest, falling open at his shoes. "Why don't you go on an' read that. Then tell me I'm crazy again."
Stack stoops and picks up the paper. His eyes scanning through the print. For the first time, tonight, that familiar grin of his fades completely. His jaw tightens, muscles flexing with emotion, and when he lifts his gaze, a shadow lingers in his eyes.
"Smoke dead?"
"What? You mean t' tell me you ain't heard?"
He doesn't answer, which leaves you to believe maybe he didn't. The silence crawls thick through the space, heavier than the barrel still aimed at his skull.
"What the fuck's goin' on, Stack? What're you doin' here? What happened t' Smoke... what happened t' you? What the fuck went down in Mississippi?"
"I'll answer all yo' questions later," Stack leans back slightly, running a hand over his face, eyes dark but controlled. "But I got some shit t' handle first, he looks at you, at the gun in your hand and the robe on your shoulders before slipping away from the door. "I'll be back fo' you, [Name]. Jus' like I promised."
Then, he slipped back into the shadows, his body vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared. With a quick motion, you shut the door and sank to the floor, still gripping the gun. Had it all been a figment of your imagination? Was he really missing—or was it something far worse? Heart racing, you grabbed your keys and bolted for your mother's house. If anyone might know something, it would be her.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────── coming soon.
authors’ ending note: always got ideas for these men. and i’m coming hard for the month of october, this’ll be mix well with spooky season, heavy smut, and is a bit of a longer read but hopefully it’ll be one for the books.
can somebody write this sinners idea for me? pretty please, with a cherry on top?
pairing: smoke x reader.
synopsis (idea); smoke comes back from chicago, with stack. when they go they separate ways, he runs into (the reader) at the market; she is taking care of a toddler, who he assumes is her baby — he comes over, doesn’t greet her traditionally or nothing just asks if that was her baby. mind you, they have a past together— they were in a relationship and tried hard for a baby but the reader had some type of infertility issue of something. so you can imagine his jealousy, anger, and whatever other appropriate emotion when he sees her mothering this child (who he knows ain’t his).
maybe she keeps it vague, out of resentment for him leaving high and dry. or maybe she milks it, doesn’t really answer the question and redirects. anyway, [insert annie] and he finds out that the baby isn’t hers. maybe she leaves after he invites her to they juke joint. she shows face at the juke, they have a moment and then maybe they go into a room together and try for a baby again. this time it takes.
— this idea has been haunting me for weeks, but work has been kicking my ass lately; so might not be able to write it.
if someone decides to pick up this random idea, make it yours; you don’t have to follow it bar for bar (unless you want to) it doesn’t have to be smut, it can imply or stay sweet. and tag me in the comments or something cause i’d love to read it forreal. if nobody writes it, i’ll find time (maybe) 😅 PLEASE HELP.
@dollzstrology thank you for picking this up — it was a beautiful piece; everyone read this here.
⋆.ೃ࿔ 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 ᝰ It’s 1932. Seven years after Smoke ran to Chicago. He returns to the Delta, knowing he’ll have to face what he left behind. He expected to see you around town, just not with a baby girl on your hip. Jealousy simmers, bitterness rises, and the memories of every failed attempt at a family. At first, there are only sharp words and heated exchanges—but as you break down each other’s walls, the fire between you reignites, and you resume right where you left off all those years ago, trying for a baby.
𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮… Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore
𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻… SFW & NSFW ᝰ All Genres [fluff, angst, smut, hurt/comfort], non-canon/canon, fem!reader, envisioned as black!reader while writing, established relationship [not specified], infertility issues, emotional, crying, vulnerability, second chances, misinterpretations [Smoke pov], arguing, cursing, pregnancy, soft!Smoke… sexual intercourse [p in v, oral, and handjob], missionary, kissing, heavy dirty talk, implied breeding kink, sub/dom undertones… southern/country dialect used. implied southern/country accent. 1930’s time period.
𝑫𝑼𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵… 12.6k words
𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑶𝑴 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹… This fic is inspired and taken from this idea by @starliis [click post & read to get more details about the story below! Spoilers are included so beware!] I had a really good time writing this story because this is my first time writing a oneshot this emotionally complex, using all genres, and with a word count this large. @starliis when I read the post I loved the idea so I really hope you like my interpretation of it!
As always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions! I hope you guys enjoy!!
The sun is beating down on the Delta like it’s holding a grudge against the south. High noon on a Saturday in Clarksdale means the heat is scorching, children are running around sticky with ice cream from the downtown ice cream shop, and the market is swarming with folks trading gossip faster than groceries.
Smoke hasn’t been back in the Delta for a full day. Chicago is still clinging to him, you can see it in the way he dresses but he still has that southern twang to him that couldn’t leave him if he tried.
He split off from Stack a while back, saying they could get more done if they parted ways. Now he’s on the way downtown to see Bo Chow, needing to talk to him about some business he needs taken care of before tonight.
He knew that coming back here would bring up some past memories, hurt, things he tried to forget when he ran up north, but he thought he at least had a few days before those things made an appearance, he didn’t expect things to crumble in less than twenty-four hours.
When he gets out his truck and starts walking down the market strip to Bo’s store, his eyes land on you, standing near a produce stand, dressed in a faded yellow dress that’s hugging your curves just like he remembers.
Smoke hasn’t seen you since he left for Chicago. He didn’t expect to see you here but since the opportunity to talk to you has introduced itself, he’s going to take it.
Right when he’s about to make his presence known, greet you in a respectful manner, one that would make it seem like he’s happy to see you, you turn in another direction, giving him a full view of yourself.
There’s a baby girl on your hip, can’t be any older than two years old. She has big, bright eyes, curls wild across her head, and she’s gnawing on some candy like she didn’t eat breakfast this morning.
Smoke stops walking. He doesn’t say a word. He can’t even blink because then he’ll feel like his eyes are playing tricks on him. He just stands there, like his whole body has forgotten how to move.
You’re digging through a crate full of plums, slow and careful, talking soft to the baby. Something about the sweetness of the fruit and how you have to smell the bottom to know if it was ripe.
You look around, glancing at your surroundings and that’s when your eyes lock with Smoke’s, making your heart skip beat. Time doesn’t just slow down, for you it completely stops. You never thought you would see Smoke again, not after how he left you high and dry, not even leaving you any type of letter or explanation for his sudden disappearance.
Your lips part, like you want to say his name but no words come out. After staring each other down, Smoke finally approaches you but not the way a gentleman should. He just stares at the child, then at you with a face expression cold as ice. “That baby yours?”
Your arms tense around the girl, adjusting her on your hip before acknowledging Smoke’s presence. You blink at him once, tilting your head to the side, your attitude coming to the forefront while your lips curl with bitterness. “You ain’t seen me in almost a decade and that’s how you approach me? Don’t even ask how I been?”
Smoke’s jaw flexes, his hand twitching where it hangs by his side. He glances back at the little girl, eyes narrowing just enough to show the storm brewing behind them. “Is she yours?” he asks again, completely ignoring what your previous words, voice much sharper than before, like he ain’t got time for you to give him the run around.
You press your lips together, not answering him right away. Instead, you sway the baby gently, rubbing her back like you didn’t feel his question hit you in the gut.
You wipe the sweat from your brows with the crook of your arm, letting his question hang in the air like smoke from a low-burning fire. “She eat like she mine. Sleep like she mine. Cry like she mine.” you say with an annoyed tone, looking at him as if he’s asking the dumbest question on Earth. “Now, what that tell ya’?”
Smoke let out a breath through his nose, sharp and quick, trying to push down the smart remark that’s burning his throat, not wanting to get smart with you. “She looks too young to be yours… sure as hell ain’t mine.” He mutters, averting his eyes from you and looking at the little girl who’s resting her head on your shoulder, ready for her afternoon nap. “So whose is she?”
“Ain’t none of your concern, Smoke.”
“The hell it ain’t.”
“I ain’t yo’ woman no more, not since you left. You don’t get to ask me questions like that.” Your walls are up, that much is clear. Smoke’s looking right into your pretty brown eyes but he can only see a coldness in them, he doesn’t see that shimmer you always carried inside them before he left.
“Whatchu want with me, Smoke? Why did you come ova’ here?” You ask, tired of standing in this smoldering heat talking to him when the only thing he cares about is if this child was your daughter, not even asking about your well being since he ran off in the middle of the night for Chicago.
Smoke doesn’t immediately respond, he just stands there, jaw so tight it looks like he’s gonna break it. His eyes flicker from the baby to your face, trying to piece together parts of your life that aren't none of his business anymore.
He knows he doesn’t deserve to ask you things like this anymore, doesn’t deserve to know what's transpired in the last seven years since he left but that doesn't end his curiosity, it doesn’t make him not care about you.
He shifts his weight, looking down before taking off his blue scalley cap, his eyes becoming a tad bit softer than before, looking as if your previous words hit a nerve. “Me and Stack openin’ up a juke joint. Down at the old sawmill.”
You don’t say anything. Just raise an eyebrow, bouncing the girl on your hip slowly, still swaying like the heat itself is keeping time with your movements. You hum softly, clearly unimpressed by this voluntary piece of information. “And you tellin’ me this ‘cause…?”
“Figured you’d wanna come, check out the place.”
You let out a breathy laugh, one with no joy in it, one that’s not in the mood to dance or drink in the same room with Smoke and act as if everything is alright between the two of you. “Well, you figured wrong.”
A silence between you and him, both of you just looking into each other’s eyes before Smoke breaks the quietness. “I ain’t know if I’d see ya’ again. Thought you woulda left the Delta by now.”
“Well, you done seen me. Reckon you can go on ‘bout your business now.” The little girl shifts against your shoulder, her candy-sticky fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. You stroke her back soothingly, but your eyes don’t leave his. You want him to see what he ran from and how you haven’t let it break you.
Smoke swallows hard, not trying to be vulnerable in such a public place but not wanting you to think he’s just stone walling you. You can see him struggling, like he has a million things he wants to say but can’t find the right words. “Jus’ come by.” he murmurs. “That’s all I’m askin’. Nothin’ mo’.”
You stare at him a moment longer, letting out a puff of air before nodding once, not giving him a definitive answer. “We’ll see. Ain’t makin’ no promises.”
You don’t give him a goodbye, just turn on your heels and walk away, the hem of your dress swishing behind you, dust curling around your ankles. Smoke watches you go, not saying anything to try and keep you here, his hand still gripping the brim of his hat, heart caught somewhere in the hollow space behind his ribs.
He doesn’t know if you’re going to show up tonight and if he’ll ever have the chance to apologize but he wants to make things right with you, even if you're going to chew him up in the process.
—
The juke is currently thriving and alive. Sweat dripping down walls and everyone’s backs. Men clapping dominoes on tables, Sammie’s guitar slicing through the cigarette haze, Delta Slim playing the hell out of the piano and Pearline sings a song that has the crowd dancing across the wooden floor.
Smoke’s leaned up against the wall, cigarette between his lips, watching the door like a soldier watching the tree line. He’s been eyeing the door ever since they opened, hoping that he’ll see you walking inside. He’s been trying to keep hope alive, but it’s been a few hours and he hasn’t seen you yet, making him agitated.
“She comin’?” Stack asks, sliding beside his brother, making sure he’s alright. Smoke doesn’t answer at first. He just takes a slow pull, eyes trained on the open door like if he stares hard enough, he might conjure you up outta thin air.
Stack follows his gaze, then huffs a little, shaking his head. “Man, we got a whole club full’a pretty women and you worried about her. Ones that ain’t cussin’ yo’ ass out in the middle of the market, too.” Stack jokes, elbowing him lightly, trying to make Smoke feel better but it ain’t working. Smoke gives him a look, stone cold and sharp, one that speaks for him, a look that says ‘don’t play with me right now’.
“Aight, Aight.” Stack mutters, hands raised in surrender, not wanting to make his brother feel any worse than he already does. “Just sayin’. Don’t burn a hole in the floor waitin’ on somebody who might not show, ‘specially after you fucked up.”
Smoke doesn’t respond, he just sucks his teeth and turns back toward the door, lips pressed tight, taking another puff, trying to keep himself from wringing someone’s neck… and deep down trying to hold himself together.
He doesn't care about other women, never did, even when he was in Chicago. Not when his mind still played memories of the time he’s spent with you. Memories of you laughing in the kitchen barefoot without a care in the world, or riding with him around town, hugged up in each other's arms, acting as if the world revolves around the other.
Seeing that baby on your hip today really shook him, even if he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. He's been standing around wondering if your her mother, if you were able to finally conceive a baby without him. Just the thought of it makes a pain strike his chest. It makes him feel sick to his stomach because that baby should be his, not some other man.
Smoke has gotten to the point where he’s ready to give up, to leave his post and make sure Club Juke is running smoothly, thinking that his little brother is right, but right when he’s about to go and find Stack, that’s when it happens.
The door creaks open, loud enough to cut through the swell of music. There you are, standing in the doorway, talking to Cornbread at the door, looking like heaven on Earth. You’re in a soft colored satin dress, clinging to your figure like a second skin, lips painted a soft berry shade, hair done up real pretty, with your earrings catching the low light as you scan the room, assessing the scenery.
As your eyes dance around the room, that’s when you find Smoke, standing a few feet from the bar. You take a few steps inside, slow and deliberate, hips swaying easily beneath the satin material, like you aren't in a rush, like you know he’s been watching the door all night just hoping you’d show. Cornbread tips his hat at you as you pass, and a couple heads turn too, the men whistling as you pass by but you ain’t paying them no mind.
Smoke straightens off the wall, putting out his cigarette in a nearby ash tray, while his eyes boring into you like a wolf watching if it’s prey is brave enough to run. He doesn't move toward you right away, doesn’t want to seem too eager, but he damn sure ain’t letting you walk in without sparking up a conversation.
You cut across the room slow, graceful, while Smoke is already making an effort to meet you halfway, the heat between y’all thick as molasses. Folks move out the way without even thinking about it, sensing something in the air, like some drama is stirring up.
Once Smoke is in front of you he takes in a small whiff of your scent, the smell of gardenias and honey filling his nostrils, making his heart settle at the familiarity of it. His eyes drag over your face, pausing at your lips, then finally settling in your eyes. “Ain’t think you was gon’ come.”
“Ain’t think I was either, but my sister convinced me to show my face. Thought it would be good fuh’ me.”
You both stand there a moment, just taking in each other's presence, both of you secretly happy to see the other, even if your trying not to show it. “You look good,” his voice comes out rough like sandpaper but soft at the edges, his eyes gazing over each curve of your hips and the deep cut in your dress, accentuating the plumpness of your breasts. “Real good.”
You hum, trying to repress the smile that’s trying to creep onto your lips from the compliment, not wanting to let him off the hook so easily. “Ain’t gotta butter me up, Elijah. I’m here now but me showin’ up doesn't mean I forgot how we got here in the first place, how you jus’ up and left.”
His jaw ticks at the sound of his birth name in your mouth again, he ain’t heard it sound that pretty in years. And hearing it now, even with the sharpness behind it, it still makes his heart flutter.
A flash of frustration passes through his eyes, he already can tell where this conversation is headed. You showed up looking like sin wrapped in silk, just to remind him of all the ways he failed you and your relationship and ready to rip him a new one.
He doesn’t wanna do this down here, not with all these nosy folks watching and trying to catch a whisper of y’all business, wanting to have something they can gossip about come tomorrow morning. He steps in closer, close enough that his voice dips into something just above a growl. “Come upstairs.” It’s not in the form of a question or a plea, just a demand.
And you blink, slightly taken aback since you haven’t heard him use that tone with you in years, the one that’s sprinkled with dominance. It’s the boldness, that edge in his voice, it’s what cuts through your self proclaimed armor.
Still, you aren’t about to make it easy for Smoke, not after what he’s put you through. You tilt your chin up, squaring your shoulders like you’re thinking about telling him no, wanting him to sweat a little bit. You just nod slightly, lips parting as you murmur, “Lead the way.”
He doesn’t respond, just turns and walks, weaving through the crowd without looking back, knowing you’re going to trail right behind him. While you’re walking you feel holes burning into your skull, knowing people are watching. You just ignore the eyes that follow y’all path, ignoring the hum of whispers and curious glances. Folks always did love a good reunion, especially a messy one like this.
You follow him up the creaky stairs, heart hammering louder with every step. The music fades behind you, replaced by the low thump of your own pulse and the sound of your heels clicking against the old wood. The second-floor hallway is dim and hot, lit only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.
He leads you down the hall and opens the door to a small room. It’s private, clean, and it’s far enough away so your voices won’t be heard downstairs. The room is just a table, chair by the window, a trunk full of the twins' guns and ammo, and a safe for their valuables. A fan clicks lazily overhead, doing little to fight off the heat but it does help.
Once you both are inside, he shuts the door and leans against it for a beat, while you stand in the middle of the room, arms crossed tight over your chest. He watches you. Watches the way you shift your weight from one hip to the other, your expression trying to stay hard but your fingers twitching like you aren’t as composed as you pretend to be. “Why now, Elijah?” you ask softly, wanting some answers from him. “Why you come back here, after all this time?”
Smoke’s never been the type to show much emotion. But right now, the weight behind his eyes is heavier than you’ve ever seen it. When you talk to him in that tone, look at him with those hypnotizing eyes, he can’t help but become vulnerable, allowing you to break down his walls and get him to open up. “I ain’t know how to stay,” he says, pushing off the door and coming towards you. “I ain’t know how to look at you every night, wantin’ somethin’ I couldn’t give you.”
“You think leavin’ fixed that?” you ask, voice cracking in the process. “You think disappearin’ made the ache go away?”
“I ain’t know how to handle it. Felt like I failed you. Watchin’ you in that bed cryin’ and couldn’t do nothin’ but hold your hand. I felt like shit, like I was less of a man.”
The time y’all were together before he left for Chicago, your days were filled with doctor visits, herbs, prayers, and tears soaked into your cotton sheets. You cried yourself hoarse each time you found out you weren’t pregnant.
You and him were trying to conceive for a long time, trying to fill your womb with a child, wanting to bring a life into the world that was a mixture of you and him, but for some reason it never happened.
Any method you learned about in books or from talking to the neighborhood midwives who delivered more babies than you can count, you and Smoke tried and yet you could never become pregnant. You and Smoke tried to keep each other lifted up, tried to keep hope alive but after months turned into years it started weighing on both of you.
You both were at your breaking point so when Smoke had the opportunity to leave for Chicago, he was gone on the first train smoking, leaving you to deal with the pain of not being able to conceive alone.
“You was my man, Elijah.” you snap, your voice sharp and trembling, not being able to hold back the storm of emotions that been brewing inside you all these years. “I never wanted perfect. I never wanted you to fix the problem, I wanted you but you ran. Like it was easier to vanish than stay and hurt wit’ me.”
Smoke swallows thick, chest rising with a breath, like he doesn't know how to hold right. “I didn’t know how to sit in that pain, not with you lookin’ at me with that hurt in your eyes. I felt useless to ya’.”
“You think I felt useful?” you spit, stepping toward him now, eyes flashing with anger. “Every month, bleedin’, gettin’ another reminder that I ain’t having your baby. Every time somebody else in town got pregnant and I had to smile like it didn’t feel like I was dyin’ inside? Having to see my friends take care of their kids and pretend I wasn’t jealous. All those times I needed you here, not runnin’ around Chicago like you ain’t got a woman at home.”
The silence between you crackles, heavy with grief, fury, and years of love stretched too thin because of sorrow. You’re both breathing hard now, standing in the middle of the room like two hurricanes about to collide. He doesn’t speak, not because he doesn’t have anything to say, it’s because you’re right.
After watching Smoke just stand there in silence, seeing the hurt in his eyes and feeling the sting of his actions in your own heart, that’s when you break.
You try not to, try to stay hard and proud, but the pain rips through you anyway. “You left me with nothin’ but an empty bed. You ain’t send me a letter, try to get a call to me, nothin’. I ain’t hear from you in seven years, Smoke. Seven damn years.” you whisper, voice raw and tired, tears starting to spill freely down your cheeks. “I hated you for it. I hated you so much, but I couldn’t stop lovin’ you either.”
At this point in your life, your tired of crying over Smoke, tired of the pain you just can’t shake no matter how much you try, but that’s what happens when you truly love someone. No matter how hard you try, you just can’t let them go, even if what they did is unforgivable.
He doesn’t ask permission, just crosses the room in large strides and pulls you into his chest like he’s been dying to touch you since the moment he saw you at the market. His arms wrap around you tight, and your fists beat against his chest once, then twice, then a third.
You try to fight his embrace, not wanting to weaken under his touch but after a few moments your arms fall limp, clutching his vest, resting your head against his shoulder while your tears soak his clothing.
Silence stretches like wire strung too tight before your voice cracks just enough to show the emotional bruise on your heart, showing the true wound that’s been hurting you for years, the thought that’s been plaguing your mind since he left. “I thought I wasn’t enough for you anymore. That without being able to give you a baby I was less of a woman, that I couldn’t make you happy anymore.”
Smoke’s breath stutters against your temple, your words splitting him clean down the middle. His voice is so low you barely catch it over the creak of the fan above but you catch every single word. “Don’t you ever say that, aight? You always been enough fuh’ me.”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, tilting your head up at him and then pressing his fingers into your waist like he’s trying to make you feel every word before it even can leaves his lips. “You the only thang in this world that makes me feel whole. I left ‘cause I felt like I wasn’t enough for you, not ‘cause you ain’t.”
“Then why you aint jus’ say that? Why you ain’t tell me you was hurtin’ too?”
His jaw flexes again, and you can see it, shame, writing all over his face. It rolls off him in waves, thick as Mississippi fog. You can tell he’s ashamed of how he left things, how he practically abandoned you just because things were overwhelming. “I ain’t know how,” he confesses, his voice soft and vulnerable, a side of him you don’t see often but when you do it makes butterflies flutter around your stomach.
His way of being open, honest, and raw has always had that affect on you, even when you were kids. “Wasn’t raised to talk ‘bout no feelings. Wasn’t raised to sit in pain. All I know is how to survive, and I thought leavin’ was survivin’, tryin’ to find another way to provide for us. Tryin’ to forget the pain.”
And that’s when your breath catches, because you can tell he means every word. You can see it in his eyes. All the self-loathing, all the love, wrapped up in one tortured look. Your lips part, but nothing comes out, lost for words at the moment.
He lowers his forehead against yours, the heat of his breath brushing your face, making your skin prickle. And for a second, it’s just the two of you, truly seeing each other past the masks you put on for other people. You see the pain brewing inside, the hurt of your past, and the ache of your love, weighing on both of you like a stone.
For a while Smoke just holds you. His arms don’t shake, no tremble in his hands, but his breath does, hitching in his chest as he leans into you, a single tear rolling down his cheek, another expression of his vulnerability and how apologetic he is about the whole situation, filling in the gaps where his words couldn’t.
The fan creaks overhead, spinning slow and lazy, the outside noise muffled through thick walls and heavy heat, but none of it matters. In this room, it’s just him and you, buried under years of silence and heartbreak, finally getting things off your chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice full of conviction and thick with regret. “sorry fuh’ how I left ya’. I’m sorry I made you carry all that weight alone. I ain’t never stop lovin’ you. I ain’t askin’ for your forgiveness ‘cause I don't deserve it. But I wanna make things right, get back in your good graces.”
You stare at him, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. You’re quiet for a moment, like you’re testing the truth of his words by the rhythm of his breath. It’s clear to you that he means what he says, that he isn’t just telling you what he assumes you want to hear so you decide to give him some truth as well.
You pull back to look him in the eye, telling him the thing that’s been burning him up inside since he first saw you. “That baby you saw me with earlier…” you begin softly, brushing a tear from your cheek before wiping the one that’s cascading down his. “She ain’t mine. She’s my sister’s little girl.” you explain. “I was jus’ babysittin’ her cause she had to run some errands, is all.”
You didn’t tell him your true connection to the baby at the market because you wanted to see him hurt, wanted him to think you could just move on and sleep with another man, wanted his blood to run hot with jealousy. You had to give him a reality check, make him realize that the world doesn’t revolve around Smoke, that what he does hurts people, hurts you.
Smoke blinks slowly, shoulders drop in the kind of relief that’s so heavy it almost knocks the wind out of him. “Shit,” he murmurs, running his hand down his face, wiping the beads of sweat that’s surrounding his brows. “I thought—” he shakes his head, letting out a thankful sigh. “thought you moved on. Thought I came back too late.”
You shake your head, lips curling into something too tender to call a smile, followed by a bitter laugh coming from your lips. “I ain’t moved on, Elijah. Been stuck right where you left me.” Your voice cracks just a little, but this time with something softer. “I tried to forget you but no matter what I did, I still wanted you. Still do, even with all we been through.”
That does something to him. Smoke’s whole frame seems to shift, like his heart just lifted back into place within his chest. His jaw unclenches, his brow eases, and the way he’s looking at you now, like he would fall to his knees and beg for your forgiveness if you asked.
He cups your face with one calloused hand, thumb dragging slow across your cheek, wiping away the last wet trace of tears staining your skin. “I was a damn fool.” he says quietly, voice thick with grief, his tone apologetic. “But I ain’t finna be one no more. I’m gon’ spend every day tryin’ to prove to you that I still know how to love you right. That I’m worthy enough to be with ya’.”
You exhale softly, the heat in the room no longer stemming from the Mississippi heat or from Club Juke being packed from wall to wall with people. It’s the air between you, charged with years of everything unsaid, thick with all the thirst and longing for the others touch. Your fingers tighten around the front of his shirt, playing with the buttons of his shirt. “Then show me, ‘lijah. Prove that you mean what you say.”
You barely finish the sentence before his lips are pressed against yours. It’s not gentle, at least not at first. It’s desperate, seven years of silence, hurt, desire, and love pouring out into a single kiss. His mouth claims yours like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers again if he waits too long, and you don’t resist. You part your lips leaning into him like your body remembers this rhythm, this man, the one it’s been waiting on all this time.
His other hand slips around your waist, pulling you flush against him, allowing you to feel the bulge growing in his slacks. The second your mouth parts and your tongue brushes his, everything changes. The kiss grows hotter, deeper, like you both just realized how much you missed this. You break the kiss long enough to whisper against his lips, “Lock the door.”
Smoke’s already two steps ahead of you. He pulls you backwards with him and he reaches behind blindly and turns the lock, the soft click making your pulse stutter with anticipation. Once it’s locked he’s back on your body, kissing you like he’s been starving for years, because he in fact has.
You start taking off his vest, taking loose the few buttons before taking it off him and starting the whole process over with his dress shirt. After fidgeting with one that’s giving you trouble, you just rip the shirt open and throw it on the floor once his arms are free, along with his gun holster.
Smoke doesn’t even flinch when you rip open his shirt, he doesn’t care about the buttons scattering across the floor like dice, he just lets it happen and allows you to take the lead.
You pull up his white t-shirt, breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over his head, and once you see his body glistening before you, a small smirk curls at your lips.
His body is just as you remember, broad chest, taut muscles beneath his brown skin, a few faded scars and wounds carved into his skin, a reminder of everything he’s endured over his thirty-ish years of walking this Earth. You press your palms flat against his pecs, like you’re trying to memorize the feeling of him again after all this time.
You trace your fingers down the slope of his shoulder, down to the scar that runs over his ribs, a scar you remember from the fight with some hotheads back in 1923, a fight he got into because the men were catcalling you, saying some filthy things he ain’t appreciate being spoken about you.
Smoke watches your hand move, eyes half-lidded with heat and memory, like the feel of your fingers on his skin brings him back to every piece of who he used to be when he was with you. Your touch is gentle but there’s a certain fire behind it, a look in your eye that tells him you want to swallow him alive.
“Ain’t nothin’ changed,” you murmur, dragging your hand back up to his jaw, tracing the stubble that has grown thick and rough around his lip and chin. Your hands trail down his chest, fingers grazing the faint trail of hair leading into his slacks.
His breath hitches when you reach the waistband, your nails scraping against his skin, sending a shiver across his skin. “I still know every inch of you.” you whisper, lips trailing his neck, moving up his to his ear and swirling your tongue around his lobe, making him close his eyes and let out a groan.
“Goddamn.” Smoke’s eyes flutter closed for just a second, jaw tightening as your tongue teases his ear, that sweet, warm breath of yours sending a bolt straight down his spine. He lets out a low grunt, deep, guttural, the kind of sound that vibrates from somewhere low in his belly, a sound he hasn’t let out in years, a sound only you can pull out of him.
Your fingers keep tracing slow paths across his skin, like you’re relearning him, mapping out all the places you used to kiss, used to bite, used to hold when the nights got too heavy. His breath hitches with every pass of your hands, his body coiled tight like a live wire, like he’s only hanging on by a thread.
You pull back just a little, your lips still brushing his throat, your voice coming out sounding like honey but your tone stern like you mean business. Asking him a question that’s been burning a hole in your mind since you heard through the grapevine he was living it up with Al Capone. “You let any women touch you while you was up there in Chicago?”
Smoke opens his eyes slow, looking down at you, holding your gaze steady like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. “No.” He says smooth as butter, without a stutter or crack in his voice. “Ain’t nobody touched me but myself. Ain’t want nobody else.”
You stare at him for a second with a raised brow before allowing a pleased smile to dance across your lips. “Good,” you mutter, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach again, teasing the waistband of his pants before pulling the loops out of his belt. “’Cause if you did, I woulda cut yo’ ass too thin to fry.”
That pulls a small smirk out of him, half amusement, half awe, but full of lust. “Shit, I believe ya’.” he murmurs, voice thick with heat, eyeing your full hips and pretty physique, licking his lips while he looks you up and down, feeling you pull his belt from around his waist and opening his fly, leaving only one more step before you see the part of him you missed the most.
In one swift motion, he grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you without warning, walking over and laying you down flat on the wooden table towards the back of the room.
Your breath leaves your lungs in a soft gasp, the wood cool against your back, your dress bunched up around your hips, thighs parted just enough for his body to slide between them. His hands slide down your waist, rough palms catching on the satin of your dress.
You slip the straps of your dress off your shoulders, letting them fall before pulling the dress over your head, with some assistance from Smoke, helping you avoid messing up your hair even though he’s about to sweat it out.
Your body is now on full display, your full breasts sitting pretty in your brassiere, plump and full against your chest while your sex is being covered by your cotton panties, keeping the part of you Smoke desires the most hidden.
Smoke takes his time admiring your body, especially since he hasn’t seen it in years. His eyes move slowly, as if he’s savoring the moment, like every inch of you is a hymn he forgot the words to but still knows the rhythm of. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, chest rising and falling with something too heavy to simply be called desire.
What Smoke currently feels is hunger. Not the kind that lives in his stomach, but the kind that’s rooted in his veins. The kind that started the moment he walked away all them years ago and never died. Just sat there. Festering. Waiting for this very moment.
He leans over you, big hands dragging up your thighs, prying them open as he lowers his mouth to your belly, pressing slow and purposeful kisses against your skin. One kiss. Then another. Then one more just above the waistband of your panties. “You still the prettiest thang I eva’ seen.” he murmurs against your skin, voice raspy and raw, like it burns his throat as the words pass through.
Your breath hitches as you feel his hand reach up, thumb grazing the swell of your breasts, his lips trailing higher, brushing the valley between them. He doesn’t unclasp your bra just yet, he cusps them like he’s trying to mold a piece of clay, reminding himself what it’s like to have his hands on a woman’s body after having no intimacy for seven years.
You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look in your pretty eyes. “Then come get what’s yours.” And those words are all it takes for Smoke to finally unclasp your bra and toss it to the floor with all the other clothing that no longer matters.
Your nipples harden under the air and his harsh gaze, and he leans down to wrap his lips around one, sucking slow and precise, his tongue swirling while his hand kneads the other, making you moan softly as your back arches off the desk. “Missed this mouth.” you whimper, running your hands along his arms, gripping onto his muscular arms.
He hums against your breast, switching his attention to the other side without missing a beat. “Missed you.” He mumbles while his hand slides down your belly, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and dragging them down your thick thighs, the same thighs he loves putting his head between whenever he gets the opportunity.
He watches your body the whole way down like it’s some kind of sacred text he’s not worthy of reading but refuses to look away from. He lets out a sharp breath when he sees you bare.
When his eyes fall into your wet core, seeing how your is slick smeared across your sex and how it makes your puffy folds glisten in the warm lighting, he can’t help but curse. “Damn, this pussy sexy.”
You grin through your blush, biting your lip while looking at him with darkened eyes, enjoying the feeling of having him worshiping your body again like the way he used to but also missing the feeling of his lips wrapped around your clitoris until you see stars. “Stop starin’ at it an’ do somethin’ then.”
And that he does. Smoke sinks to his knees, spreading your legs wider and planting wet kisses to the inside of your thigh that makes your breath stutter. Within a few minutes his mouth is attached to your pussy, tongue moving meticulously, licking long, lazy stripes up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking it soft and steady.
Your fingers run across his coarse hair as your head falls back, a whimper escaping your throat. His hands grip your thighs tight, keeping you in place while he eats you like he’s been starving for years, and in a way, he has. He moans into your heat, like tasting you is the first time he’s been able to breathe since crossed state lines out of Mississippi.
You grind your hips up into his face, one hand tugging his hair, and the other gripping the edge of the table, your chest heaving as your mind starts to become fuzzy. “Shit, Elijah…” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
“Baby, I wasn’t plannin’ on it.” He says as he comes up for air before diving back into your heat. He sucks harder, tongue circling and flicking your shining pearl until your thighs begin to twitch. His nose presses into the mound of your pussy, his warm breath causing your skin to prickle.
The more he devours your sex, the more your whimpers and moans bounce off the wooden walls of the room. Smoke wants to warm you up as best as possible for what’s to come, so he places his fingers at your folds, scissoring them open and allowing your slick to collect on his digits and once there’s a good amount he slowly pushes them into your pussy, making you gasp from the sudden insertion.
You arch off the table, thighs tightening around his head like your body’s trying to trap him there, and honestly? He doesn’t mind one bit. You could be suffocating him and he would still be happy, knowing that he has the opportunity to taste your sweetness on his tongue.
Smoke grunts low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your wetness as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, slow at first, but picking up rhythm with every moan that spills from your lips.
His mouth never stops showing your clit attention, tongue flicking simultaneously with the curl of his fingers, still remembering how you like your body caressed and touched after all these years you’ve been apart.
You’re singing for him now: soft gasps, whispered curses, the kind of sounds that echo with the ghost of every lonely night you spent wishing his mouth was between your legs instead of your own fingers.
Your voice comes out broken, barely hanging on, like the coil in your stomach is only a few moments, or a few kitten licks from snapping.“I’m so close, baby…”
That “baby” unravels something in Smoke. It makes him groan deep and double down in your heat, making a sharp gasp spill from your lips. He adds a third finger, stretching you nice and wide, thumb rubbing circles where his mouth used to be so he can look into your pretty eyes while you fall apart from his touch.
“That’s it, baby.” he murmurs, looking down at you with those deep brown eyes that always make you buckle and listen to his every command when he speaks. “Gon’ ‘head and give it to me, mama. Let me see that pretty face when you cum.”
And you do just that. Your back bows off the table, legs quivering as they rest on his shoulders, a cry ripping from your throat so sharp it could make a mirror shatter. Your pussy clenches around his fingers like it’s trying to keep him inside, slick gushing down his hand and past his wrist as your orgasm rolls through you like a Delta heatwave.
Smoke doesn’t stop massaging the sweet spot inside you until your body jerks from the sensitivity, until your hand weakly pushes at his head, telling him you can’t take it anymore. He obeys this time, deciding not to push you past your limit just yet.
He pulls away, pulling his fingers out of you slowly, making you whimper once you feel him exit. “Tastes better than I remembered.” He states, his voice thick with heat while he licks your juices off his digits. “Sweeter, too.” His lips curl into a soft smile, something he doesn’t flash often but when he does it warms your heart… and your pussy.
You blink up at him, chest still heaving, a lazy smile spreading across your lips. “That’s ‘cause I been waitin’ on you.”
Smoke’s gaze lingers on your face, soft now, as he leans over you, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your lips, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue, making your toes curl at the sensation. “I ain’t ever gon’ make you wait like that no mo’.” he murmurs against your mouth.
“You better not, not after all this time.” you breathe, placing your hands around the base of his neck.
He chuckles low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. “You gon’ punish me if I do?” Smoke has never been the type of man who would openly admit he likes a woman who’ll dominate him, but there've been multiple moments in your relationship where you had Smoke right under your finger, submitting to your every move so you punishing him sounds like music to his ears.
You smirk, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Damn right I will.” Your hands move down his body, running down his chiseled frame until you reach his slacks, pulling them down towards the floor, removing the last piece of clothing keeping him from being close to you as humanly possible.
Once his pants are at his ankles, you take him in your hand, watching his brows knit when your palm wraps around his heavy length. His breath catches, head tilting back as you stroke him slow, feeling his thick, aching dick throb against your palm as his pre-cum leaks down your fingers.
He was already painfully hard from eating your pussy but feeling your hands wrapped around him, he’s hard as concrete. “Told you I ain’t let nobody else touch me,” he says,. “Ain’t want nobody else, ‘cause nobody else makes me this goddamn hard.”
You grin at that, slow and satisfied, eyes flicking up to meet his while your hand keeps moving in smooth, steady strokes. “Good,” you murmur, voice thick with pride that your soul ties so deeply to Smoke that he can’t even look at another woman sexually or romantically. “’Cause I ain’t lettin’ you go now that you back.” You grab him by the chin and pull him closer to you, putting your lips right against his ear, wanting him to hear every word. “ I’m gon’ keep ya’ so deep in this pussy, that you won’t ever wanna leave the Delta again.”
Smoke bites his lip and feeling your fingertips glide over his protruding veins, making him groan. Your words hit him just as hard as your precious touch. He watches you like he’s starving, like every inch of you is something he’s been fighting to survive without.
Smoke’s eyes darken, the sound of you talking filthy tightens something in his gut. He places one hand behind your neck, the other stroking your cheek, his thumb dragging down to rest on your lip. “I’m gon’ fuck this pretty pussy so deep yo’ body ain’t never gon’ forget me, no matter how long I’m gone.”
As he mutters his last words, he takes his dick out of your hands and guides himself to your entrance, the tip of his dick dragging slowly through your slick-covered folds, making you moan at the feeling.
He doesn’t rush. He teases, rubs, and takes in the way your pussy flutters and twitches for him, how it’s so wet and open, begging for his dick stretch you out.
You whine, nails digging into his arms, tired of him playing around when he sees how much you’re aching for him. “Smoke, don’t play with me—”
He cuts you off with a roll of his hips, pushing into you slowly, creating a delicious burn to spread through your core. Your mouth falls open, back arching as you feel every inch of his cock fill you up. “Oh, fuck!” you exclaim, holding onto him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
The stretch burns at first, just like it always did but especially now since it’s been almost a decade since a man has been inside you. But it’s a welcomed pain, one you’ve missed more than you’re willing to admit. Your walls flutter around him, greedy and wet, clinging to every inch as he slowly thrusts inside you.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, brows furrowed, hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “You feel so fuckin’ good.” As he thrusts his dick into your pussy, trying to reach that sweet spot before really doing some damage, he gets a moment of Deja Vu.
The feeling of your walls tightening around him each time kisses your skin or mutters out compliments that are dripping in pure filth, he remembers when you and him were just teenagers, pressing your bodies against each other for the first time, trying to express your love for each other in the best way possible.
Smoke presses his forehead to yours, his chest heaving as he pushes deeper into your warmth. The sound of your breath catching, the way your mouth hangs open, and the way your walls squeeze around him like you want to stay connected like this forever, edges him closer to his orgasm.
“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this every fuckin’ night since I left.” He grits through a moan, starting to move once he bottoms out, slow at first, dragging his hips back just enough to feel some resistance, then pushing in deeply, making your breath hitch. “Ain’t just ‘cause I missed yo’ pussy… I missed how you sound. Missed how you smelled. Missed everythang ‘bout you.”
You whimper beneath him, legs trembling from the deep drag of his thrusts. One of your hands moves to cradle the back of his head while the other claws lightly down his back, leaving faint trails on his skin, one of your methods to claim him as yours. “Missed you too,” you breathe out, voice catching on a moan as he rocks into you again, deeper this time. “Missed feelin’ you like this...”
“Yeah?” he asks in a growl, jaw tight as he sinks deeper into you, giving you one long hard thrust, while the heat of you squeezing around him like a vice floods his veins. “Missed this dick fillin’ you up?” He presses against your lower body, hand against the bulge his cock makes each time he thrusts inside. “Missed feelin’ me reach yo’ stomach?”
“Yes, missed it so much!” You yell out before crying out his name, tightening your grasp around the back of his neck, holding onto him for dear life as he starts thrusting into you at an agonizing pace.
Smoke grits his teeth at the way you cry out, like your moans and cries are chipping away at his self restraint, like your body is begging him to release all seven years of pent up sexual energy into this very moment.
His mouth presses against your throat, licking and kissing and sucking your soft and supple skin while his hips grind into you deep and slow, thick strokes dragging every sound you can make right out your mouth.
Even through the lust-fueled heat and haze of endorphins, there’s a softness in the way he holds you, a type of gentleness that only comes from your souls being tied to one another. “You want me to stay?” he pants, his voice low and husky in your ears. “Huh? Want me to stay right here… keep ya’ full’a this fat dick?”
You answer him right away, nodding frantically while a fire starts spreading through your body, throwing your legs around his torso, locking him in place, wanting him to stay deep inside. “Yes, Smoke—don’t stop, please—fuck—you strechin’ me out!”
The back and forth between you and him continues, your bodies locked in a rhythm older than memory. You and Smoke match each other in every way: body, rhythm, desire. Smoke touches you like a man who’s been lost, finally made his way back home, and hoping what comes next will make up for the time lost.
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your legs tremble harshly around his waist. “Damn, girl,” he pants in your ear. “You takin’ me so good… like this pussy know exactly who it belong to.”
“It belong to you,” you whimper, leaning more into his body, wrapping your arms around his back to hold him even closer, like you can pull him into your soul, like if you hold him close he’ll become fused with your body. “Always did.”
Hearing that makes his eyes flutter closed for a second. You feel the tremble in his arms, the way he slows his pace just enough to look at you again, to really look into the windows of your soul. He can see everything your feeling, even the things you haven’t voiced yet.
He can feel a yearning in your spirit, not for him, but something else, something you’ve wanted for years, even since you were a little girl and honestly what he’s been wanting since the day he met you.
Smoke opens his mouth and speaks low, almost like it’s a secret between just you, him, and the wet sounds of your bodies colliding. “Still want that baby?” Smoke asks softly, like he’s scared of what your answer will be, like he’s in some type of uncharted territory.
He knows he’s been gone for years, and he knows that trying to have a child is one of things that put a strain on your relationship but he can’t stop thinking about bringing a beautiful baby into the world with you.
The question makes your breath hitch, makes your eyes snap open at the mention of a baby. Even in the midst of his thick dick continuously pushing against your womb, sweat dripping down your skin, and insides being rearranged, the question still lands heavily in your mind.
It takes you by surprise for sure, you weren’t expecting this conversation so soon, let alone in the middle of sex but you aren’t opposed to talking about it since you know it’s one that has to be discussed.
You blink up at him, eyes glassy with tears you refuse to shed, overwhelmed by the feeling of finally having him in your arms again and what could be if you become pregnant. Your hands cup his face as you repress a moan, your voice a little breathy from all the physical activity but still clear as day. “You still wanna give me a baby? You… you still want that wit’ me after everything?”
Smoke’s eyes searched yours, raw and honest in the dim light, holding every ounce of hope and fear tangled inside the pit of his stomach. “‘Course I do.” he whispers with a strong tone, gliding his thumb across your skin and whiping the tear you finally allowed to roll down your cheek. “I still want that baby. I want our baby. Never wanted anything else.”
You swallow hard, the weight of his words pressing against your chest, flooding you with a mix of longing and cautious hope. You’ve dreamed of this moment many times, but hearing it spoken from his lips and not your imagination makes your heart swell in a way you hadn’t expected.
“I want it too, Elijah. I always did. Ain’t never stopped wantin’ a baby with you.” Your fingers trace slow, delicate circles on his cheek, feeling the roughness of his facial hair beneath your touch. “I wanna get round with yo’ baby. Carryin’ somethin’ of us both inside me.”
Smoke’s eyes soften even more, like a weight lifts off his shoulders once he hears that you and him are on the same page. He leans in, pressing his lips against yours, breath and saliva mingling with yours. Smoke starts thrusting again but this time his hips jerk into you a little harder than before.
“Then I’ma give ya’ one. Gon’ make you a mama jus’ like you want.” he promises, voice shaking as he starts to lose control, his need of wanting to breed you taking over. “Gon’ make sure my seed sittin’ deep. You gon’ walk outta here wit’ it drippin’ out of ya’.”
Before responding to him vocally, you place your hands on the sides of his face, pulling him in for a kiss, sliding your tongue so far down his throat you can taste a mixture of yourself and the beer he was drinking earlier.
The kiss is full of fire, passion, love, and all the above.
In the beginning, this escapade was just full of hot passion but now, talking about trying to make a baby, it quickly turns intimate, making both you and him soften up.
Your lips part from his, swollen and slick from the kiss, and you keep your forehead pressed to his, eyes fluttering shut as your hands rest on his shoulders. His weight, his warmth, it’s all wrapped around you, and for the first time in years, it feels like you can finally breathe again.
Smoke rolls his hips into you at a delicious pace, each thrust deeper than the last, but not rushed. It’s slow and sensual, something both of you have been craving since you and him were apart.
His hands slide under your back, holding you delicately like the diamond you are. Your arms wrap around his neck, pressing his body against yours, clinging to him like a lifeline. Your bodies move together in a perfect rhythm, the kind born from years of loving each other, of knowing every scar, every mole, and every inch of skin by heart.
“God, I missed you.” you whisper into the crook of his neck, your voice breaking as you feel the tip of his dick pressing against your cervix.
Smoke groans low, the sound vibrating from deep in his chest. “Missed you too, baby. Gon’ stay right in the Delta with you. I swea’.”
He buries his face into your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin like intoxicates him every time he inhales. His breath is shaky, warm against your throat, causing your skin to prickle. The gentle rocking of his hips turns more deliberate and forceful, and you can feel the difference almost instantly.
Every stroke is intense, every moan and whimper he pulls from you feels like a prayer. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and his arms tighten around you like he is trying to mold your body to his.
You whisper against his ear, voice trembling as your words become vocal, “So deep, baby… feel so full.” He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweat glistening along his brow, jaw tight from the effort of holding back, not wanting to completely wear you out. “I love you,” he says in between kisses against various areas of your body. “And this pussy.”
Your eyes fill again, tears catching in your lashes, but you don’t blink them away. You allow him to see it, see how much he still moves you. How much you still love him. He brushes a kiss over each cheek, then your lips, then your chin. His mouth lingers everywhere and each place his lips touch leaves a trail of fire behind.
Soon he starts to tremble. Hips stuttering, breath going ragged, while you feel your own release stirring inside you, slow and consuming your body and soul. It wraps around your spine, makes your toes curl and your walls tighten around him. “I’m close,”
“Me too,” he grits through another surge of pleasure, hands slipping down to hold your hips steady. “ Let it happen, baby. Come wit’ me.” His speed doesn’t lessen, it only rapidly increases, making it feel like his dick is reaching the depths of your soul.
Every drag of his hips feels like he’s trying to make up for every night you cried and every moment you thought he forgot you. And with every moan you make, arch to meet his movements, and whispers of praise, you let him know that never stopped wanting him.
Your second orgasm hits hard: tighter, deeper, it makes your body quiver as your walls convulse around him. Your mouth parts in a moan that sounds like his name, your legs trembling around his waist, as your juices splash against his pelvis and your cream surrounds the rim of his dick.
And that’s all it takes for Smoke to follow, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep, groaning into your neck as he spills his seed into the depths of your womb, not wanting a drop of it to escape because every droplet counts when trying to have a baby.
Once he releases he doesn't pull out right away. He just stays buried inside you, allowing his seed to travel inside you to its rightful place. Both of you are breathing hard, bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat, and your hearts pounding in sync. He runs his fingers along your jaw and gently kisses you, like a man who’s finally at peace.
You run your fingers along the strong line of his back, the soft curve of his nape, eyes closed and body humming with the aftershock. “I hope it took.” you whisper, gliding your hand against the back of his head.
Smoke doesn’t respond right away, first he kisses the curve of your shoulder, then soft of your cheek, and lastly he looks in your eyes. “That baby already on the way,” He mumbles, reassuring you while moving a few strands of your hair out of your face. “I can feel it.” He places his hand on your stomach, rubbing your skin like he already feels something growing there.
You laugh softly, feeling a flutter in your chest when you feel him acting as if you’re full of his child already. “Don’t play. Once you get me pregnant, you stuck with me fuh’ good.”
Smoke lifts his head, eyes locked on yours with a serious expression on his face. “Wanna be stuck. Wanna have a house full of kids,” he murmurs while his hands still linger against your skin. “Want all of ‘em lookin’ jus’ like you.” You smile when you hear him say that, Smoke has always had a way of saying the words that make you feel all mushy inside.
You pull him in for another kiss, allowing your lips to linger against his before pulling away. After you and him take a few moments to gather yourselves, you find yourself tangled together once again but this time you're on top, you can’t let have Smoke have all the fun of being in control.
For the rest of the night it's just you and him in the little office. Rekindling your love, fucking each other senseless, while the scent of sweat and love lingers in air. For the first time in a long time, both of you are right where you want to be, in each other’s arms.
—
ONE MONTH LATER….
The morning started slow, like most have lately. You’re sitting at the small wooden kitchen table, sunlight slipping through the curtains and beaming on the tablecloth your mama gifted you years ago. The smell of frying pork fat still hung in the air, and the biscuits you made sits half-eaten between you and Smoke.
You’re wearing one your many nightgowns, cotton thin and soft against your skin, while your feet are propped on the edge of his chair, knees bent. He’s eating quietly, calm as always, big hands steady as he sopped up syrup with a piece of biscuit.
He doesn’t seem to have a care in the world but your mind has been running wild all week. Something in your body has been feeling off. You’ve been nauseous almost every morning, tired all the time, snapping at Smoke for no good reason, and your breasts have started to ache.
There’s a weight to you now that wasn’t there before. A stretch behind your ribs, a mysterious heat low in your belly. You’ve been trying to brush it off. Tell yourself it’s too early to get your hopes up, reminding yourself it will take a while before your in the family way. But this morning you can’t hold it in anymore. “Elijah?”
He glances up, chewing slow, then wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Hm?”
You hesitate at first, fidgeting with the food on your plate, pushing the scrambled eggs around with a fork, before speaking. “I… I think somethin’ goin’ on wit’ me.”
His brow crease as he straightens up in his seat. “What kinda somethin’?”
“I don’t know. I jus’ feel different. Been tired, sick in the mornin’, and my body been achin’. I think i’m comin’ down with somethin’.”
You look up at him for the first time since sitting across from him, searching for any sign of emotion in his face. At first Smoke doesn’t blink. He just stares for a beat, then his face softens just a little, making your heart flutter. “I been watchin’ you.” he says, voice low and still filled with sleep.
Smoke is an attentive man, his eyes are always on you no matter what. So when he noticed you moving slower, how you could no longer stomach certain foods, and how your emotions have been all over the place, his mind started to spin with his own ideas of what could be going on. “Baby, ion think you sick.” He looks down at your belly, then back at you. “I think you pregnant.”
Your heart clenches at the mention of a baby possibly forming in your womb. You set down the fork and rest your hand on your stomach, feeling your nerves begin to get the best of you. “You think so?”
He nods, standing firm in his statement. “Don’t jus’ think it. I feel it.”
“I ain’t wanna get my hopes up. Not after all we been through…” You express to Smoke. Everything you and him went through years ago, all the emotions it brings out of you and the strain it can cause on your relationship, you don’t want to go through that again. You know you won’t be able to handle it a second time and Smoke knows that too.
“I know.” Smoke says as he takes a deep breath, reaching across the table and lays his palm over your hand that’s tapping nervously against the wood. “But this time feels different. You feel different.”
You sigh sharply, feeling yourself calm down just a little when you see how confident Smoke is about you being pregnant even though there’s a nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you it’s impossible after you’ve only been trying for a month plus all the prior failed attempts. “You think Annie would come by? Check me out?”
“She’ll come,” Smoke reassuringly tightens your hand before standing up, reaching for his tweed jacket thats hanging off the back of his chair. “I’ll go get her myself.” Before he walks out the door, he places a kiss on your temple, making a soft smile come across your lips.
After almost thirty minutes, Smoke shows up with Annie trailing behind him inside the house, basket in hand with all of the supplies she needs for a full exam, her haint blue dress hugging her full figure. Annie is your closest friend, and you trust her to guide you through this journey more than any backwoods doctor or neighborhood midwife.
She’s caught babies all across the county and laid hands on sick folks so long, folks say her touch can pull a fever right out the skin. Her first love is hoodoo but her second is bringing new life into the world. She sets her basket down with a thud and gives you a look, letting you know that something sassy is about to roll off her tongue. “You gon’ make me dig around or you gon’ tell me what’s goin’ on first?"
“I’m late,” you say quietly, fidgeting with the lace pattern along your dress that you changed into before she arrived. “Been sick, tired. I jus’ wanna see if I’m...”
Annie knows how hard it has been for you and Smoke to conceive, and how long you’ve yearned to become a mother so she understands the weight of this moment, and how its hard for you to allow the word “pregnant” to slip through your lips until you know for sure. She flashes you a soft smile and gives you a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Alright then. Let’s see what’s goin’ on.”
You lead her to the back of your home where your bedroom resides and you lie down on your bed, with Smoke right by your side. Most men don’t want to be around for exams like this, thinking it’s just “womanly work” or gross but Smoke is far from that mindset, he wants to be included in every phase. Plus, you don’t want him far. You’ve separated from each other for far too long and you need him right by your side holding your hand, whether it’s good or bad news.
Annie’s touch is gentle as she presses and prods your body, asking you a series of questions, humming under her breath while her eyes are half-closed like she’s feeling more with her spirit than her fingers. She uses a series of instruments, including a Pinard Horn, searching for a fetal heartbeat to fill her eardrums.
After what feels like hours of long silence and tension so thick it can be sliced with a knife, she completes her routine exam. When she first looks up at you and Smoke, her face is neutral, not really showing any sign of emotion until she flashes a smile. “Honey, you with child.”
Your throat closes and it feels like you can’t breathe for a second. The air leaves your lungs in a rush, chest heaving while tears immediately fill your eyes. You cover your mouth with your hand, trembling all over. “Really? I’m… I’m pregnant?” The word finally emerges from your throat, your tone sounding like you barely believe what Annie despite her many years of expertise.
Annie nods, her smile growing even wider. “Yes, y/n. You pregnant. Belly’s already startin’ to swell. You ain’t too far along. Maybe five, six weeks, but it’s a baby in there, no doubt.” She says, rubbing your belly softly. “Baby strong too. I heard that heartbeat clear as day.”
The tears fall freely now, spilling down your cheeks as you turn your face into Smoke’s shoulder. He’s already there, leaning down, wrapping you up in his arms before you have the opportunity to fall apart. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs against your temple, voice calm despite his own brewing excitement, soothing you in the moment. “You hear that? You carryin’. We gon’ have a baby.”
“I can’t believe it,” you say, fingers clutching at his jacket, holding on like you might drown in your own of tears and waves of emotion. “we tried for so long. I thought— I thought it would never—”
Smoke tilts your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wet too, though he hasn’t allowed a single tear to fall. He just looks at you with his usual brooding intensity, but much softer now. “Believe it. I told you. I felt it. From the night I put it in ya’, I knew.”
You choke on a laugh, even through the tears, not believing he said that right in front Annie without a care. “You so sure of yo’self.”
Annie clears her throat gently, gathering up her things, wanting to give you and him some time alone to reflect on the joyful news. “I’ma leave y’all to it. Let her rest, Smoke. Don’t you let her lift nothin’ heavy, and make sure she eat good.” She gives you a wink, letting you know that you and her will be talking later, before slipping out the door, leaving the two of you wrapped in silence.
When she’s gone, you lie back against the pillows, still trembling, your hands covering your belly as if you could already feel something moving inside. Smoke gets in the bed with you, pulling you close to him until your skin presses against his own.
His hand rests on yours, circling his thumb against your very slightly swollen belly while a warmth spreads through him that he’s never felt before. Since that night in Club Juke he believed you would become pregnant, he just didn’t know exactly when but now that the day has come he is the happiest man on Earth.
He can now become a “Papa” to little boy or girl. “Thank you,” he whispers with a vulnerability you haven't heard from him since that long talk you and him in his office. “Thank you for givin’ me a second chance. For givin’ me this baby.”
You run your fingers through his hair, caressing the strong line of his nape, then smoothing over the crown of his head, something you know he loves, something that always makes him melt a little no matter how hard he tries to hide it.
Smoke’s hand never leaves your belly, he just rubs gently against your skin in a way that calms your soul. His head dips towards you, his full lips pressing against your temple, your damp cheek, and then the curve of your jaw. Your tears quickly turn into sniffles, chest still hitching as you let out a trembling laugh while Smoke’s lips continuously press against your skin. “You gon’ smother me, Smoke.”
“I ain’t smotherin’ you. I’m lovin’ on you.” he corrects, wrapping both of his arms around you while giving you one last kiss. “You, me, and this little one. We gon’ be alright.” Despite Smoke’s seven year absence, he’s a good man, you know that. One thing he’s always been is devoted to you, even hundreds of miles away.
Now that Smoke is going to be a family man, his devotion and love for you will only grow stronger, he’ll never cross over state lines without you by his side.
One thing Smoke loves about you is how nurturing and loving you are, how strong you care for the people you love. In his eyes, you have all the qualities to be a perfect mother to your baby boy or girl. “You gon’ be a good mama.”
“And I already know you gon’ be the best papa.” When he hears that he can’t help but smile. With all the trauma he experienced with his own father, he’s always vowed that once he had children he would treat his children with love, kindness, and most of all respect.
He leans down and kisses for the millionth time, slow and sweet, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than by your side. “We gon’ have a house full of babies. Jus’ like I told you.” The words run off Smoke’s tongue so easily, like he’s already planning future pregnancies before you can even complete your first trimester.
You giggle softly, shaking your head at the seriousness in his tone. “One thing at a time, Smoke. Lemme give birth to this one first before we talk about havin’ more.”
In this moment, with Smoke’s warmth around you and the spark of new life growing inside your womb, you feel like all the trials and tribulations that you and Smoke went through in your relationship is worth it.
Everything you’ve ever wanted in life has now fallen into place. Smoke has come back into your life, your womb has been filled with a child, and your relationship couldn’t be better. In the end, all the pain, crying, longing, and tearing was worth it. Your heart is now complete.
elias "stack" Moore x Virgin! black! reader? Pleasee pookieeeeeeeeeeeeee?
🥺🥺
-🦒
honeysuckle ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ elias “stack” moore
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warnings
implied sexual content, but no explicit smut, still mature. childhood lovers, mentions of virginity; being a virgin. moments of longing + pining, soft obsession, possessive tenderness, romance, african american reader; black representation— reader is actually kind of sweet with a little bit of bite. takes place in the 1930s, language heavy; cursing. written in a southern tone.
authors’ note
wasn’t sure if this was to be a smut or not, almost made it into one. it took everything in me to stop writing just in case this was supposed to be a more pg-13 request. but let me know if you’d like a part-two continuation, smut or regular. this was actually a very cute idea. otherwise here you are. and hope you like — starliis 🐣.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────
Silk draped across skin like a secret, catchin’ the honeyed light of dusk—as if it, too, was in love with the way it moved. There was music playin’, smooth like buttermilk biscuits but still so delicate, a sound so tender that it made the soul sway without askin’, like it’d been waitin’ a lifetime for that one tune. This feeling was something only the blues could give, as it gathered folks to the old saw mill soon as the sun kissed the lake— rakin’ the sky in colors not quite of this world.
It was an end to over a thousand beginnin’s.
One of which started tonight.
From the very moment you stepped into openings of that juke joint, oozin’ confidence, glowin’ with an innocence that reminded folks of honeysuckle berries—pretty as a picture, sweet to the scent, but not meant for just any mouth to taste. People whispered, wonderin’ how someone like you was still walkin’ this world unclaimed— unmarried, yet untouchable in a way that didn’t ask for walls, just carried its own hush of reverence. It wasn’t ‘cause you wanted to be alone, but ‘cause your heart hadn’t found the right hands to open for. It’d take a certain kind of man— the kind who could hold fire without flinchin’, who’d see the softness in your strength and know not to take it for granted.
And that man lingered just past the doorway, deep in the hum of the ‘mill, waitin’, watchin’— without even knowin’ what for.
Adjustin’ the shawl sittin’ just right ‘cross the slope of your shoulders, you stepped through the threshold with blessings straight from Cornbread himself. That man—Lord, he was a trip. Let out a holler of a laugh, deep and rich from his belly, soon as he laid eyes on you. Tipped his hat gentle-like, as if his sweet wife ain’t just hosted you for supper the night before. Still, he stepped aside all proud and beamin’, holdin’ that door open wide like he ain’t seen you step out in years.
The lights was low, castin’ a soft, golden hush ‘cross the room like honey poured slow. Folks was gathered tight—dancin’, playin’ cards, laughin’ loud, flirtin’ louder. The air smelt of battered fish and temptation, fried crisp in old grease and sweet talk. It was a sight, no doubt. A joint made just for y’all—your kinfolk, your people; brothers, sisters, cousins by blood or by bond.
Since this mornin’, there had been rumors running ‘round town— just some hush talk ‘bout how the Smokestack Twins rolled back into Southern Mississippi, pockets heavy, strings pulled tight like fiddle wire. They’d been spewing something ‘bout bringing a place like this to life. Them boys brought it to life, alright. Though, it hurt havin’ to find out from a friend instead of them, themselves. But that’s just the lay of the land, ain’t it? Smoke probably ran off to scoop up Annie first chance he got, and Stack—well, who even knew where that man drifted off to.
But it was never Smoke you itched to see.
It was always Elias Moore—though the whole neighborhood knew him in the streets as Stack—that your heart leaned toward.
That man was born for trouble, carved from it, even. And you’d known him near half your life. Him and his twin, both wild as a brushfire with a bottle of moonshine. And you? You were the still water they never could settle on. Didn’t make sense to folks, but y’all fit like dusk slippin’ over a quiet lake. Still, truth be told—your feelin’s for the feistier twin ran deeper than any friendship had a right to. He was all fire and fury, that one. All restless hands and reckless love. And Lord help you, you loved every damn flicker of it. The way he burned for life, for loyalty, for his people—it pulled at somethin’ deep in you. Made your chest ache in a way that felt more like a hymn than hurt. But he was untouchable. And if we bein’ honest? So were you.
Two souls built up like fortresses, darlin’. And nobody ever figured how to climb ‘em. Not that it mattered, in the end. On a summer so hot the air felt like molasses, they up and vanished. Gone. Just like that. It’s been six, maybe seven years now. Not a letter. Not a whisper. Just silence and longing because of course you missed him. But you understood. And now—he’s back.
Glancing ‘round the room slow, you take it all in, then make your way to the bar. A smile pulls at your lips soon as you see Annie behind it, servin’ up drinks with that sweet-as-peach-pie grin.
“Care to tell me why your fine ass is slavin’ behind that counter ‘stead of two-steppin’ with me out on the floor?” Your voice cut through the music, teasing warm and easy, as you leaned your elbow on the bar.
The lights caught the gloss of Annie’s smile before she let out a laugh—rich, familiar, and just what your heart needed. She wiped her hands on a towel, tossin’ it to the side before steppin’ ‘round the counter and pullin’ you into a long, bone-deep hug. Now this woman right here—was the perfect picture of beauty, grace, sugar and strength wrapped up in soft curves and a quiet fire. Y’all had history, marked by years of walks that lasted through different points in life. She was family, at this point, in every way that mattered.
She sighed against your shoulder, voice tinged with affection and just a lil’ irritation.
“Mm. You know how Smoke is—,” she drawled, rollin’ her eyes as she stepped back. “That man could talk me into doin’ just ‘bout anything.”
“Well, he’d better find someone to cover your shift in the next hour or so. I need my dance partner—,” you give her a subtle wink, that was playful and bright.
She gave you a look then—one of those deep, sister-to-sister kind of looks that went right past the surface.
“Now you know damn well you ain’t here for me.”
Lifting a brow, your lips part into a real lazy grin. It was a habit you’d had since forever—an innocent lil’ signal, sugar-slick and practiced, that let her know you were ‘bout to steer the ship elsewhere. You’d lean in just so, flash that warm smile, and ask somethin’ simple with just enough charm to muddy the waters.
It was your tell.
Annie knew it well.
And bless it, you’d perfected it over the years—not with malice, no—but in that sweet, syrupy way of yours. A master manipulator dressed in Sunday best, all honeyed tone and doe eyes. You never lied, not outright; just tucked the truth beneath pretty words and well-timed distractions.
“And who am I here for, then?”
That’s when she gave you the look. The kind that went diggin’ deep, tryin’ to pull the truth right up outta your chest ‘fore you even had the chance to swallow it back down. A look that didn’t ask—it told. Told you to quit runnin’, quit pretendin’, quit actin’ like your heart wasn’t sittin’ up in flames every time his name floated through the air. She knew your tricks ‘cause she had a few of her own. Annie wasn’t the type to stir a pot unless it needed stirrin’, but when she did, it was hot.
“Elijah’s crazy-ass brother—,” she said, voice soft but firm, steady like gospel. “You can’t run from him in his own damn joint. So you must be plannin’ to see ‘em.”
Turnin’ your gaze away, your jaw tightenin’ just a little like it always did when the truth tried to edge past your teeth. “I’m not actively checkin’ for him, if that’s what you’re sayin’.”
“[Name]—,” her voice dipped low, heavy with the weight of things that never quite made it out loud.
She knew.
Knew how your heart beat different for Elias “Stack” Moore. Knew how you’d kept yourself still while he moved like a storm—takin’ what he needed from the world and from women who weren’t you. She saw how you carried that ache quiet-like, like it was holy. Savin’ yourself for a man who ain’t never been good at sittin’ still long enough to love right. Maskin’ the whole damn thing behind a false comfort of companionship—safe, easy, pretendin’. And she hated it. Hated seein’ the tension live in your bones.
But maybe—just maybe—you weren’t ready yet.
So you cleared your throat, choked back the ache that clawed at your chest, and threw on that sweet-as-sugar smile like armor.
“Now—,” you said, leanin’ in with that familiar sparkle, the one that always meant a subject was slippin’ away, “Which one of these beers you recommend for a girl like me? Somethin’ cold, somethin’ sweet. Maybe even a little somethin’ bold.”
Before Annie could answer, a voice smooth as bourbon and twice as dangerous curled into your ear from just behind.
“Ain’t a beer in this world bold ‘nough for you, baby,” came that deep, smirkin’ drawl, warm with amusement. It was a voice you’d know from anywhere. “But an Irish whiskey—” he added, with a chuckle so hot it near scorched skin. “Oughta do.”
Emergin’ from behind the counter was a dangerously charmin’ man, drippin’ with the kind of presence that could melt the buttons off a blouse. He walked like he owned every inch of the path beneath him—bold, unbothered, and burnin’ with that slow, magnetic energy women whispered about behind hand fans.
His skin, rich as dark honey, caught the light just right—chocolate brown with a warm glow that made his sharp eyes look even sweeter. Those eyes, same shade, cut clean through the hush of the room. His lips were soft lookin’, full and kissable, sittin’ beneath a foxy grin that flashed gold with every sly smile. Dressed in a fitted black and maroon suit that barely held back the muscle stretchin’ underneath, he looked like he belonged in this juke joint or in someone’s wicked dreams. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he tugged his fedora off and dipped his head toward you in quiet respect, though the look on his face was somethin’ you couldn’t quite place—teasin’, maybe. Or yearnin’. And Lord, was he achin’ to be closer.
Quickly, you looked toward Annie, eyes wide and beggin’—screamin’ help me, please without sayin’ a word. But that woman? She just smiled, real slow and real pretty, like she’d been waitin’ on this moment all night. She didn’t say nothin’. Just slid that open Irish Whiskey across the counter with a grace that almost felt cruel, the glass catchin’ the light like it knew somethin’ you didn’t. Then she turned, hips swayin’, and went on to tend to the next group with that same sweet charm—leavin’ you sittin’ there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and that fire-burnin’ voice still lingerin’ behind you.
“Stack.”
The name fell from your lips like a stone in still water—sharp, sudden, and heavy with meaning. It rolled up from the back of your throat, hangin’ somewhere between heartache, heat, and pure anger. Just layin’ eyes on the curve of his mouth made the air shift—like time hadn’t moved at all since he left. Like he hadn’t just set fire to your peace by walkin’ in and breathin’ easy. This man definitely holds weight with women.
“Darlin’,” he drawled low, eyes trailin’ the curve of your body, takin’ in how the silk of your dress clung to the swell of your hips, your breast. He looked at you like he was entitled to every inch—and maybe he was.
“Thought ya’ll be gone for good.”
Stack let out a low chuckle, one of them deep rumbles that started somewhere in his chest and rolled up like thunder on a warm night. The toothpick in his mouth tilted with the movement, slow ‘nd steady, like he had all the time in the damn world.
“Yeah. Well—,” he let his eyes narrow. “We back now.”
“Was you ever plannin’ on tellin’ me ’bout all this?”
“Didn’t figure you’d care t’know,” he drawled, eyes half-lidded, voice slick as river mud. Ain’t a man alive could talk slicker than him. That mouth of his? Sharp as a whip—smart-assed and silver-tongued, made damn near perfect for dealin’ with women who had fire in their chest and bite in their words.
With a scoff, you looked away, jaw twitchin’ hard enough to crack.
“Why is you playin’ with me right now, Stack? Actin’ like you ain’t just leave me hangin’, missin’ you like a damn fool.”
He stepped in closer—slow, sure. He is a man who ain’t never needed permission. Close enough for his scent to catch you off guard—cedarwood, salt, and straight-up sin. That same smell used to haunt your sheets, when he spent the night, long after he was gone. Those days were different—felt slower, softer somehow. Y’all spent so much time together, just time. Nothin’ more than that. No sex, no touchin’ in ways that meant somethin’. Just a couple kisses here and there, and one damn near breath-stealin’ make-out that almost had him takin’ your virginity… ‘til he pulled back, jaw tight like it hurt him to stop.
The both of you knew what it was—what it coulda’ been. But y’all were too damn stubborn to call it by its name.
“Lower your fuckin’ voice,” he said, slow and flat, a warning dressed in velvet.
“M’not lowerin’ shit,” you snapped, breath catchin’, your voice tremblin’ beneath all that salt you been carryin’. “I waited. I cried. You ain’t write. Ain’t call. One day you here, the next you gone. And now you show up like nothin’ happened.“
Stack tilted his head just a hair, eyes dark and unreadable.
“You done?” he asked, voice slick as oil and warm as hellfire.
The audacity of this nigga.
“Fuck you—,” your hand flew for the bottle sittin’ right on the edge of the counter, glass catchin’ that soft kitchen light. Then you turned, ready to walk.
But Stack wasn’t lettin’ you.
He pulled you back with one hand—quick but careful, like he’d done it before in a dream he hadn’t told nobody about. His gaze dropped to your lips, slow, draggin’ down the shape of them like he was memorizing every word you’d ever dared throw at him. Then his hand moved—fingers curlin’ ’round your neck, not harsh, but firm enough to shut the whole damn world up. His other hand slid down your back, palm pressin’ to your spine, bringin’ you up against him ’til nothin’ stood between you but heat, history, and a tension that could knock the wind outta’ the devil himself.
“You gon’ watch how the fuck you talk to me, swee’heart,” he said low, breath fannin’ your cheek. “I ain’t one of these soft-ass niggas lettin’ you bark and bite just ‘cause you miss me.”
“You talkin’—,” you swallowed hard, chest tight, tears burnin’ the back of your throat. “But at least them ‘soft-ass niggas’ give me what I want.”
His jaw locked.
“The fuck is you—,” he paused, grip tightenin’ just enough to make your breath catch again, not from pain but from pressure; power. Then it hit him, and his whole body stilled. “You went ’n gave this pussy to some other nigga?”
“What would it matter to you?”
“I step out the picture for one damn minute—,” he growled, voice low and rough as gravel, “and you go ’n let some other man take what was ‘posed to be mine… in the bed I built for you?”
Your thighs pressed together without meanin’ to.
He saw. Of course he fuckin’ saw.
“You know I didn’t—,” you whispered, finally. “But I’m tired, Elias. I’m tired of actin’ like I’m cool with you layin’ with whoever, while I’m sittin’ here waitin’. I ain’t touched nobody—not one man. But I feel it. This… want in me. And I don’t know what to do with it. I just wanna know what it feels like to be held. Touched. Loved like I mean somethin’.”
Stack just stared at you, jaw tight, breath shallow.
“M’tryin’ to be patient,” he finally said, voice low, edged in steel. “But don’t play yourself, baby. You mine. Always been. I just ain’t touched you yet.”
“I don’t want you to be patient,” you said, voice quiverin’. “I want you to stop runnin’ and be with me.”
His eyes flared. The air went still. It’s been seven years. Seven long, quiet years. And still, your heart’s been reachin’ for him—soft and stubborn, never quite have learned how to let go. You done loved that man from a distance, like he was somethin’ sacred you couldn’t touch no more… only feel when the nights got too still and your chest got too full.
“You don’t know what you askin’ for,” he rasped, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keepin’ him from doin’ somethin’ reckless.
“I do know,” you shot back, eyes gleamin’ wit’ fire; attitude coming back. “I wouldn’t’ve said it if I ain’t know.”
His fingers twitched. His thumb brushed under your jaw, tender, but heavy with the weight of every look he’d ever thrown your way. His other hand didn’t leave your back—it pressed in harder, pullin’ you tighter, like he could make you part of him if he just held you close enough.
“That mouth gon’ get you in trouble,” he whispered, voice honeyed with heat. “’Cause I swear ‘fore God, I’ll fuck the attitude straight outta’ you.”
“Take too long and M’gone find someone else.”
His eyes darkened, nostrils flarin’.
“Don’t go gettin’ a nigga killed bein’ petty,” he warned, voice low, almost lazy—but there was heat in it, simmerin’ just beneath. Then he leaned in—as if he had all the time in the world. His lips hovered over yours, not kissin’, just breathin’ you in—a promise and a threat wrapped up in one shaky breath.
“But that day’s comin’,” he murmured, deep and sure. His hand slid down to your waist, firm and possessive. “And when it do—,” he paused—eyes locked on yours, jaw tight. “You gon’ take every inch of me.”
can somebody write this sinners idea for me? pretty please, with a cherry on top?
pairing: smoke x reader.
synopsis (idea); smoke comes back from chicago, with stack. when they go they separate ways, he runs into (the reader) at the market; she is taking care of a toddler, who he assumes is her baby — he comes over, doesn’t greet her traditionally or nothing just asks if that was her baby. mind you, they have a past together— they were in a relationship and tried hard for a baby but the reader had some type of infertility issue of something. so you can imagine his jealousy, anger, and whatever other appropriate emotion when he sees her mothering this child (who he knows ain’t his).
maybe she keeps it vague, out of resentment for him leaving high and dry. or maybe she milks it, doesn’t really answer the question and redirects. anyway, [insert annie] and he finds out that the baby isn’t hers. maybe she leaves after he invites her to they juke joint. she shows face at the juke, they have a moment and then maybe they go into a room together and try for a baby again. this time it takes.
— this idea has been haunting me for weeks, but work has been kicking my ass lately; so might not be able to write it.
if someone decides to pick up this random idea, make it yours; you don’t have to follow it bar for bar (unless you want to) it doesn’t have to be smut, it can imply or stay sweet. and tag me in the comments or something cause i’d love to read it forreal. if nobody writes it, i’ll find time (maybe) 😅 PLEASE HELP.
@dollzstrology thank you for picking this up — it was a beautiful piece; everyone read this here.
elias "stack" moore & elijah "smoke" moore x black! reader.
synopsis
one knew better than to look twice at the smoke-stack twins. but ain’t nobody ever said that once they set their eyes on you, it would already be too late. between their rough hands and honeyed lies, you learned real quick— it ain’t no sin if you ain’t plannin’ to repent. you belonged to them now. and they weren’t the kind to truly ever let go.
warnings
sexual content, in other words smut, childhood lovers, mentions of possessiveness, some pining, romance, infatuation. african american reader; black representation. rooted in the 1930s, language heavy; cursing. written in a southern tone.
• part one of milk & honey.
Their lips felt like honey—so rich with delicate temptation, soft, but burnin’ with passion.
In the thick of the moment, their hands started roamin', greedy and sure—like they was tryna memorize every inch of you. They always had them big ol' hands, the kind that gripped your thighs like nothin', pushin' your body around like it weighed air. Feelin' their lips on your skin, slidin' over the silk, then findin' yours—it had you moanin' soft, breath catchin' in your throat. The feel of it all was too damn familiar.
"Hol' on," Smoke muttered, glancin' 'round like he was scannin' the treeline. "Not out here."
"Why? You scared, nigga?" Stack let out a low, rough chuckle, that devilish grin stretchin’ across his face as his mouth kept workin’ that sweet, sensitive spot on your neck—slow an’ sinful, like he knew just what he was doin’. He tugged you in closer, strong hands findin’ your waist as he leaned back against the hood of the car, real casual-like. The metal was warm from the engine, but it was nothin’ compared to the heat rollin’ off him—an’ Lord, you could feel that pressure buildin’ in his slacks, plain as day. Firm, thick, and waitin’.
“Don’t need nobody layin’ eyes on her. I don’t play ‘bout what’s mine—an’ you damn well know that.”
"Nigga, we ain't playin' when it come to her—,” Stack shot back, smooth as whiskey, eyes never leavin' you. “I’d beat a muhfucka down, no talkin’. Easy.”
Lettin' out a low laugh, you start draggin' a finger slow down your thigh, eyes bouncin' between the two of 'em.
“Y’all talkin’ like I ain’t standin’ right here,” you purred, voice syrupy sweet as molasses. You slipped from their grip, slow and deliberate, pullin’ the shawl from your shoulders and lettin’ it fall to the dirt like it ain’t cost a damn thing. “If they dumb ‘nough to be out here watchin’, then we oughta’ give ’em a lil’ show.”
With a soft grin, you slid the straps of your silk dress down, lettin’ it fall around your ankles, leavin’ you standin’ there in nothin’ but your underthings. Both of ‘em froze. That look in their eyes? Pure trouble. Jaws tight, muscles flexin’, like they were fightin’ every urge not to tear into you right then and there.
“Damn,” Stack pushed off the car, his voice thick when he muttered, “Pretty lil’ thing.”
He swept you up without missin’ a beat, landin’ a sharp smack on your behind that made you let out a startled laugh. He set you down on the hood of the car, the metal still warm beneath your thighs. Then his lips found your skin—trailin’ slow and sure down your front. His mouth was hot, even through the thin fabric, makin’ you shiver where you sat, half-laid out on that shiny, elegant hood like a gift waitin’ to be unwrapped. He nuzzled lower, breath warm, lips pressin’ through the cloth restin’ over your chest. His tongue flicked just enough to pull a gasp from your lips, your hips jerkin’ up toward his mouth like you didn’t have no shame.
Smoke let out a low breath, tension easin’ from his broad shoulders. He stood close, watchin’—dark eyes locked on yours—as his hand reached for yours, thumb drawin’ slow, lazy circles over your skin while he licked his lips like he was starvin’.
Breathless, your head fell back, eyes on the rustin’ roof beams of that old sawmill, breath comin’ shallow and quick. The cicadas screeched louder now, like the world was tryin’ its damnedest to drown y’all out. But it couldn’t. Not over the sounds you were makin’. Not over the feel of their hands on you.
Stack glanced up, eyes dark and heavy, full of heat. “You want this, baby?”
‘Course you nodded—barely though. Couldn’t even find your voice. Your fingers cradled the back of his neck, tuggin’ gentle, but firm enough to tell him yes. That’s when Stack leaned down again, kissin’ a slow trail up your belly, toward your thighs.
“Ain’t no goin’ back now—,” he drawled against your skin, shootin’ one last grin up at you. He hooked the tips of his fingers ’round the edge of your panties, draggin’ ‘em down nice and slow, ‘fore settlin’ in like a man on a mission. “We gon’ ruin ya’ good.”
And Lord, you wanted 'em to.
His dark eyes glazed over at the sight of your glistenin’, pulsin’ little button, soaked and achin’ for attention. He slung one of your legs over his shoulder, then sank right in—tongue teasin’ them folds before slidin’ up to your clit, lickin’ like he’d been starvin’ for you. Every stroke was intense, unhurried, and filled with a kind of reverence that made your breath hitch and a moan slip loose from your lips.
Stack had them strong, calloused hands grippin’ your thighs firm, keepin’ you open for him. That brown skin of yours was soft as sin against his palms, and he groaned low in his throat, mouth still workin’ you like his favorite meal. Ever since the first time, he knew he was addicted—couldn’t get enough of your thighs, couldn’t stay away from bein’ buried between ’em.
A hum rumbled deep in his chest when he felt you rub on his head, your hips twitchin’ as he devoured you, slow and greedy. He loved watchin’ you fall apart—loved the way your pretty little moans echoed off the walls like a hymn. You tasted so damn sweet on his tongue, he was damn near dizzy with it.
“Fuck. Elias.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he hummed, refusin’ to come up for air. Didn’t mean he wasn’t watchin’ you though— both of ‘em watchin’ the way your face twisted up in pure pleasure. See, Stack was a student of your body, and he’d learned every little thing that made you melt. Smoke, grew impatient, he leaned against the hood and took a perked nipple in his mouth. Suckin’ and addin’ to your buildin’ pleasure.
Takin’ it like a prayer, chest risin’ with every shaky breath as he slid his middle and index fingers along your slick entrance. And when he worked ’em inside, it was like the world faded out—all that existed was sensation. You arched back, gaspin’ like you were drownin’ in him, beggin’ without words for more.
And Lord, he gave it.
He gave until your thighs were tremblin’, until his chin was glistenin’ with that holy nectar only you could give. He didn’t speak—just looked up at you with them deep eyes full of care and heat. Even with all that hunger, all that want, he still held you like you were precious.
But still, that sober mind of yours couldn’t help but feel a little shy, a little overwhelmed at how easy it was to come undone beneath him. Like he’d seen parts of you too tender, too raw. Like he was worshipin’ you—chastin’ you with every stroke of that tongue.
Smoke had moved in—quiet, steady, his eyes never leavin’ you.
“That’s ‘nough,” he said low, voice smooth like aged bourbon, but firm as steel. “Ya’ got her all warmed up. Now move on ‘long.”
Stack backed off with a smug little smirk, tongue runnin’ over his bottom lip. “Don’t take too long. She already tremblin’.”
And you were. Smug muthafucka. Your thighs, your hands, your breath—all of it flutterin’ like a moth to flame. He was a certified eater, somethin’ different.
Smoke stepped between your legs, thumb draggin’ across your cheek before his fingers slid into your hair, tiltin’ your head just how he wanted it. His gaze searched your face, slow and intense.
“I missed you, Silk.”
That sweetness caught you off guard.
He usually kept his feelin’s locked up tight, like he was scared to let too much show. Sure, he had his vulnerable moments—but this? The way he said it? It weren’t just words. It was low and honest, full of weight. Like it crawled straight outta his soul. You felt it in your chest, breath hitchin’, heart knockin’ hard against your ribs like it recognized somethin’ in him. Like it’d been waitin’ on that exact moment.
He was lookin’ at you different now. Eyes a bit softer. Jaw relaxed. Like he’d finally dropped whatever wall he’d been hidin’ behind. You swallowed the lump in your throat, blinkin’ back a tear you didn’t even know was there.
“I missed ya’ too,” you whispered, pullin’ closer till your chest brushed his. Your hands reached for his face, thumbs grazin’ along his jaw, tender. “So fuckin’ much.”
His arms came around you then—strong, warm, familiar. And for a second, the whole world got quiet. None but him breathin’ into your neck, and you holdin’ him like he might slip away again if you didn’t.
“You trust me?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Maybe.”
“Nah, baby—,” he murmured, leanin’ in so close you could feel the heat of his mouth brushin’ yours. “You gone have to say it.”
“I trust ya’,” you whispered, and that was all he needed.
He kissed you then—deep, claimin’, the kind that made your toes curl. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other slidin’ down your back to press you closer, chest to chest. His mouth moved like he knew every part of you already, like he’d dreamed it a hundred times over and now he was finally starvin’ no more.
When he pulled back, your lips felt swollen, dazed, and he just looked at you for a second, real quiet, like he was tryin’ to memorize this moment before he ruined it.“Lay back f’r me—,” he drawled, voice thick as sin and twice as temptin’.
With even hesitatin’, you leaned back, stretchin’ out across that car hood like you belonged there. Moonlight slid over your skin, kissin’ it like silver fire—makin’ you shine just for him.
And Smoke? He got to work quick, fingers unbucklin’ his belt with practiced ease.
“Told ya’, Silk,” he muttered, hand slidin’ down to free himself, his voice low and hungry. “I don’t play ‘bout what’s mine—now lay real still and let me show ya’ just what that means.”
Lawd, it was a sight. Both them men. Built like sin dipped in honey. Shoulders broad, arms carved from hard work, and bodies that knew nothin’ but sweat and fight. Ain’t no fluff on ’em—just muscle, power, and pure heat. But it was what sat between his hips that had you strugglin’ to breathe. Long, thick, and pretty—veins standin’ proud like they was waitin’ for your touch. It pulsed like it remembered you, just as much as your body remembered him.
It’d been a minute since you laid eyes on it, let alone felt it. But your body didn’t care nothin’ ’bout time. Nah, it answered him loud and clear—heat rushin’ through you, thighs shiftin’, breath catchin’. You was embarrassed by how fast your want rose up, but damn if you could help it. You wanted him.
Eager. Desperate. Drenched in need.
And the worst part? He knew. They knew.
Stack was watchin’, strokin’ himself to the sight of you.
He was leaned back against the car, one hand workin’ slow, eyes locked on where Smoke had you laid out like a feast. Lips parted, breath shallow, dick heavy in his grip—he looked damn near feral, but patient. Like he was savorin’ every second before it was his turn.
His eyes traced every curve of you, glintin’ like heat lightning in the dark. “Look at our girl—,” he muttered under his breath, voice hoarse with want. “Laid out like a blessin’.”
Smoke, then stepped in between your legs, slow and sure, like a man approachin’ his altar. He gripped your thighs, thumbs pressin’ soft circles into your skin, and leaned down—mouth ghostin’ over your lips before he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d missed it. Like he’d been thinkin’ ’bout nothin’ but you since the last time you let him in.
“Ain’t nothin’ else in this world I need more than this right here,” he murmured against your mouth, voice all thick molasses and heat.
Then he slid in—slow, deep, heavy. A groan rumbled out his chest, rollin’ over your skin like thunder as your body stretched around him, pullin’ him in tight. He moved with that Southern patience, like he had all night. Every stroke hit deep, tender and steady, makin’ you whimper, makin’ your eyes roll back.
“Elijah,” you whine softly.
“Mmm-hmm,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours, filled with that soft fire. “There she go,” one hand came up to cradle your jaw as he rocked into you. “Look at me, [Name]. Let me see ya’ fall ‘part.”
And you did.
Bitin’ your lip, body tremblin’, you let go beneath him. Let him love you how only Smoke could—full of control, full of reverence. When you clenched ‘round him, cryin’ his name like a prayer, he dipped his forehead to yours, ridin’ it out with you, stayin’ buried deep until every bit of his need poured into you slow and warm.
He pulled back, breathin’ hard, eyes heavy-lidded with affection and heat. But before the sweat even cooled on your skin—
“Move over, nigga,” came Stack’s voice, low and wild with a grin on his lips and sin in his eyes.
Barely catchin’ your breath, this crazy-ass boy went and hooked your leg up high, steppin’ between them thighs like he owned the whole damn place. Stack didn’t ask—he never did. He just took, like the firecracker he was. Picked you up like you weighed nothin’, holdin’ you flush against him, muscles flexin’ under your hands.
He’d always been the wild one—reckless, hungry for life, always lookin’ for the next thrill. And this? This position he had you in? Had you clingin’ to him like a lifeline. Arms wrapped tight ‘round his shoulders, legs locked at his waist, breath hitchin’ as his mouth got busy on your neck—kissin’, suckin’, bitin’ like he was claimin’ you all over again.
His hand slid down, rough and eager, guidin’ that thick wood into your heat—feelin’ every bit of what Smoke had left behind. And Lord, he growled, deep in his throat.
“Damn, ya’ messy,” he laughed, but there was nothin’ but hunger in his voice. “Been thinkin’ ’bout this all damn day.”
He didn’t ease in like Smoke. Nah—Stack hit like fire.
He filled you up with one smooth, greedy thrust, and you damn near lost your mind right then and there.
“Shit,” Stack hissed, head droppin’ to your shoulder as he held you up like nothin’. “You so tight ‘round me—clenchin’ like you missed it.”
And truth be told, you did.
His hands gripped under your thighs, holdin’ you steady while he started movin’—hips rollin’ like waves, not just slammin’ into you, but grindin’, hittin’ deep, hittin’ home. He wasn’t just tryin’ to fuck—he was tryin’ to make you feel it in your bones.
“Shit. Yes,” you moan ‘loud.
“Look at ya’,” he drawled, kissin’ your jaw, your ear, voice thick with pride. “Already shakin’ f’r me, baby. Damn. I ain’t even got started yet.”
He walked you to the side of the car, settin’ your back flat on the hood while his body hovered over yours—all heat and hunger. The stars above flickered like they was watchin’ in awe. Stack ran his tongue down your chest, takin’ his time, suckin’ at every dip of skin like he was memorizing it all over again.
“You know I love ya’, right?” he murmured against your breast, voice crackin’ soft like a secret. “Love how ya’ moan, how ya’ take me, how ya’ let me go wild wit’ it.”
Then he buried himself again, this time rougher—hips smackin’ against you as he let go of all that restraint. His hand reached down to circle your clit, thumb movin’ in perfect rhythm with each thrust, and your back arched clean off the car.
Cryin’ out his name, and he laughed—boyish and breathless.
“That’s right, baby. Say my name, say it loud. Let Smoke hear it too.”
Then you came hard, legs lockin’ around him, body shudderin’ while he kept drivin’ into you like a storm rollin’ through the bayou. Voice gone, body wrecked from one man and bein’ broken in by the next—but you loved it. Loved them. The way they touched you different, but held you the same. Like you were somethin’ precious. Somethin’ theirs.
And Stack? He didn’t stop ‘til he gave you every last drop he had—spillin’ into you like it was his God-given right. Chest to chest, skin sticky with sweat, he collapsed on top of you with a low groan.
“Damn near saw the Lord just now,” he muttered against your collarbone, laughin’ breathlessly.
Smoke came up behind y’all, kissin’ your temple, that slow smile on his lips.
“You good, baby?” he asked, hand slidin’ over your stomach, down to where the mess of love and sweat clung between your thighs.
All you could do was nod, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, heart poundin’.
Because between the two of them—you ain’t never known a love so wild, so deep, so Southern. Your body was still tremblin’, nerves hummin’ from bein’ stretched and filled by the both of ‘em. Sweat clung to your skin, coolin’ in the soft night breeze, and your breath came out in shaky little puffs like you’d just outrun a storm.
Stack was the first to move—he always was. Still catchin’ his breath, he lifted off you careful-like, like he didn’t wanna let go but knew you needed space to come back to yourself. His palm slid over your side, reverent, his touch whisper-light.
“Aight now, c’mon baby,” he said softly, voice deep and syrupy. “Let’s get ya’ cleaned up, yeah?”
He reached into the backseat, grabbin’ one of them soft flannel shirts he always kept around, and gently wiped between your thighs—tender, like you were made of glass. You winced a little, and he stilled.
“I got ya’,” he whispered, kissin’ your knee, your hip, your stomach like he was sayin’ sorry without the words. “I ain’t mean to go so rough—just… damn, I missed ya’.”
Reachin’ down, your hand tanglin’ in his beard, thumb brushin’ his skin.
“I know, baby. Me too,” you murmured.
Smoke came round next, eyes darker now, but soft. He crouched beside the car hood, layin’ a gentle hand on your cheek. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, then your jaw, eyes studyin’ you like you were his favorite book.
“You good, Silk?” he asked, voice quiet, almost boyish. “Need some water? Somethin’ sweet?”
Shakin’ your head slow, still dazed, eyes glossy with love, you answer him softly. “I don’t need nothin’ else. Just y’all. I love y’all.”
Stack came back, slidin’ his strong arms under you like he’d done it a thousand times. Lifted you like you didn’t weigh more’n a breeze, settin’ you gentle in his lap on the old blanket stretched out in the back of the car seats. Your back rested warm against his chest, his heartbeat steady behind you.
Smoke slid in close beside you, stretchin’ out with a little grunt as he curled up at your side. His palm found your thigh, drawin’ slow, soothing circles like he was tryin’ to anchor you right there with him.
Above y’all, the stars were shinin’ like spilled sugar across black velvet—bright, scattered, holy. The cicadas had gone quiet, leavin’ behind nothin’ but the hush of wind and the thump of three hearts beatin’ close.
“We love you too,” Smoke said low, his voice thick like molasses on a warm biscuit. “An’ we gon’ keep on lovin’ you like this… ‘til lonely ain’t nothin’ but a memory.”
Stack leaned down, pressin’ a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, arms still wrapped tight ‘round your waist.
“Our girl,” he murmured against your skin. “Always have been. Always will be.”
And you—tired, full, wrapped in their warmth like a lullaby—just smiled. Sunk deeper into the cradle of their bodies, heart settled, soul quiet. Let yourself drift, safe and loved, right there in the arms of two men who’d burn the whole damn South down for you.
elias "stack" moore & elijah "smoke" moore x black! reader.
synopsis
one knew better than to look twice at the smoke-stack twins. but ain’t nobody ever said that once they set their eyes on you, it would already be too late. between their rough hands and honeyed lies, you learned real quick— it ain’t no sin if you ain’t plannin’ to repent. you belonged to them now. and they weren’t the kind to truly ever let go.
warnings
some sexual content, in other words the implication of sex, childhood lovers, mentions of alcohol, moments of envy; jealousy, some angst + pining, romance, infatuation. african american reader; black representation. takes place in the 1930s, language heavy; cursing. written in a southern tone.
• part two of milk & honey.
Trouble don't always come loud and stompin'.
Sometimes it just smiles— real slow, tips its hat, and waits. That's how it felt the first time you ever laid eyes on 'em.
The twins—
Smoke and Stack.
Standin' there in the swelterin' heat like bad omens dressed in bruises and Sunday shoes. Grinnin' from ear to ear, like they knew all your secrets—and were fixin' to ruin you for 'em. Whenever you looked at 'em, it was like starin' straight into the faces of killers— past lovers, present heartbreak, and future mistakes; all bottled into two walkin’ contradictions, with fists that still bleed from the night before.
And yet, even standin’ side by side—one made of fire, the other of ice—they’re bound by a brilliance that’s all their own. A beauty so sharp, it hurt to look at for too long. ‘Cause, as your momma once said, a sin can't be undone, only forgiven. And for some reason, they were much more than just that. They were a glance held a little too long, a touch that lingered, and sometimes even a thought that should've been buried, but got watered instead. By the time you’d realize what's been done, it was already bloomin' wild inside you.
Too far gone to pull up by the root.
Until they left, that is.
Leavin’ without so much as a warning or a goodbye. Leavin’ after memorizin’ your body the way they always did—strong hands, gentle kisses, intimate but passionate love makin’—all for you. And for a moment, you thought only for you. But that? That was the greatest lie. Years had come and gone, and you ain’t received so much as a letter. Not even a word that they was still breathin’. At some point, you grieved ’em like they was dead—ghosts from a past you still, ’til this very day, fought to forget.
‘Cause even the rootworkers say, ghosts only come ’round when you call ’em. But you reckon that’s a lie too. This time, they came lookin’ for you first.
⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────
Southern Mississippi had few, to none, hidden juke joints for just colored folk— there had only been 'bout one that made good profit; a sin-soaked buildin' where all the hard-workin' men spent the last of their well-earned dollars on drinks, while women sang to the blues all night long. That’s where you danced for a livin', outside of bein' a sharecropper. It was a side gig— non’ special. Just a lil’ somethin’ to put a few extra coins in your purse, keepin’ you afloat for whenever you fell behind on your quota.
Though this ain't the life you truly dreamt of, it was the closest you ever got to it.
For just a few hours every night, you'd listen to Delta Slim perform the blues—his tunes pourin' out slow, like molasses, a river of achin' guitars and wailin' brass, where every note dragged its feet through the dust of lost dreams. It was a sound born of broken backs and stubborn hope, of hearts too heavy to fly, yet too proud to bow. Each chord cracked open the air, lettin' sorrow breathe, lettin' joy slip through its fingers like a prayer whispered into the twilight.
And from there, you danced— with fire in your hips and storms in your eyes, movin' through the thick, breathin' heat. The only silk dress you owned clinging to you like a second skin, damp with sweat and sweet with the smell of tobacco, gin, and longin'. The floorboards shivered under the stomp of your heeled feet, the hem of your skirt twirlin' like smoke from a dyin' cigarette. You danced like the world had wronged you— and you forgave it, one sway, one roll, one wild, laughin' spin at a time. The music wrapped itself 'round you like a lover's arm, pullin' you deeper into the pulse of somethin' too old, too sacred, to name.
When the night ended, you were coverin' yourself in a shawl and walkin' out the front doors with a smile on your face—pleased with the earnings, and filled with a sense of somethin' close to enlightenment.
As all you ever wanted to do was dance.
"Do make sho' to bring your fine ass back here next week, Miss [Name],” hollered a drunk regular from the doorway, tippin' his hat and raisin' a metal goblet high.
"You's foolish," you laughed, wavin' him off. "I'll see y'all."
Walkin' down the dirt pathway, you ain't pay no mind to the low rumblin' of an engine, figurin' it belonged to some motor car. It rang out soft and lazy into the night.
That's when you saw 'em.
Two big, strong men. Leaned up against a big black Packard like they owned the night itself. Cigarettes burnin' slow between their fingers, suits pressed finer than any preacher's Sunday best. You knew who they was. But standin' there starin' at 'em felt like lookin' dead into the eyes of ghosts—skeletons dug up from a past you done already tried to bury. And truth be told, if they was gon' stay gone that long, they shoulda stayed buried.
"Miss [Name]," Smoke greets—deep voice, slow like syrup, always the calm, collected one. "It's a bit late for you to be walkin' home. Why don'tcha hop in the car, let us give ya' a ride?"
Smoke was dressed in deep blue—a color so rich, it looked like the midnight sky had been stitched right into his suit. He stood with his shoulders squared, eyes half-lidded, draggin' on his cigarette like he had all the time in the world, his whole body hummin' with a stillness that made your skin itch somethin' fierce.
"I'm good," you said, curt. "Thanks."
"Now that wasn't no suggestion, swee’heart."
Beside him, Stack stood in a suit bold as sin—deep red, reckless, alive. His coat flashed under the moonlight as he tipped his hat to you, grinnin' like he could split the Mississippi clean in two. Stack was all flash and fire; even standin' still, he was movin', talkin' with his hands, his shoulders, that damn devil's smile.
"It still don't change the fact I said no—," you shot back, cold.
Stack pushed off the car, swaggerin' toward you like a man ain't never been told no and sure as hell wasn't gonna start tonight. "Mind who you talkin' to—," he said, voice low but sharp. "We came all the way out here for ya'. Show some damn respect."
"Respect?" you scoffed, feelin' the old anger rise up in your chest like a bad storm. "Tell that bullshit to all them letters y'all never answered."
Smoke didn't say a word—just watched you from under the heavy brim of his hat, cigarette smoke curlin' up slow between you like a bug he ain't in no hurry to chase off.
"C'mon baby," Stack drawled, flickin' the stub of his cigarette into the dirt. "Let that shit go. Ain't no use holdin' on to it."
Tightening the shawl 'round your shoulders, your jaw was set hard as stone. With a sharp nod, you turned your back on both of 'em and started walkin'. "I did—," you said over your shoulder, voice calm, cold, and sure. "And I buried it right next to y'all."
Smoke, always so calculated and quick on his feet, found his way in front of you, "Stop playin' wit' me, Silk. You ain't walkin' home in the dark by yourself."
He sure did love callin’ you by that damned nickname—it stuck with ya’ ever since you was just a lil’ thing. Reckon it’s ‘cause he always went soft when you wore one’a them silk dresses.
"Why? You scared somethin' gone happen to me?"
He ain't say nothin'. Just stood there, them eyes of his shinin' in the dark. Reminded you of the way he always looked when some other fella stared at you too long. Always been so damn protective, like it was his God-given duty to keep you safe. But him standin' there quiet, not sayin' a word, not showin' no feelin' — that's what made you start thinkin' maybe he ain't care near as much as he used to.
"Thought so. Least out there, if somethin' did happen, it'll save y'all a funeral to go to."
"Aight, 'nough of that sad-ass shit you talkin' 'bout. Let somethin' happen to ya', let a nigga touch ya', and they gone get buried in that cotton field out back," Stack spoke, voice low and serious. "That's the way it always been. So go sit ya' pretty ass in that damn car and don't make me say the shit twice."
"Then we can talk 'bout what you really mad 'bout," Smoke added, watchin' you with them heavy-lidded eyes. He knew what you needed; hell, he always did.
Exhaling loud enough to shake the trees, you stomped to the car. It was somethin' real pretty, like nothin' you'd seen 'fore. Brand spankin' new, all dressed up with them fancy interiors. Made you wonder what kinda deal they had to cut to get their hands on a babe like this. Then again, you ain't have to wonder too hard. Folks 'round here knew better than to ask questions. Smoke gave you a hand up and you slid into the back seat. He took the driver's spot, leanin' back like he owned the night. Instead of sittin' shotgun, Stack brought his black ass to the back too, ploppin' down beside you. He got close enough for you to catch a whiff of his cologne—dark, smoky, expensive.
"Y'all takin' me straight home?" You asked, eyein' both of 'em suspiciously. These some pre-meditatin’ ass liars, sho’ ‘nough. You knew that for damn sure. Both of ‘em could talk a woman clean outta her drawls, make a brotha do they dirty work too—and all of it’d be for the sake of business. No strings attached.
"Yeah. 'Course we is," Stack smirked. But it didn't sound too convincin'. He kept inchin' closer, like you was somethin' sweet he couldn't resist.
“Then why yo’ black ass keep scootin’ so damn close to me? M’not gone disappear,” you snapped, cuttin’ your pretty eyes up and down him, full of fire. You was gettin’ real tired of him crowdin’ you, his whole presence gettin’ under your skin somethin’ awful.
"You might."
There was a bite in his words that only stoked the fire burnin’ in your chest. Hard to stay calm when they struttin’ ‘round like they ain’t done nothin’ wrong, like you wasn’t left behind to pick up all the pieces. You clenched your jaw, words spillin’ out low under your breath. “It ain’t me you oughta be worried ’bout—,” you muttered, barely louder than the hum of the tires on the dirt road.
Stack caught it, though. He let out a low chuckle, deep and dry like gravel, “Nah, baby. You grown. Speak up.”
Snappin’ your head toward him, your eyes flashed, “I said it ain’t me you oughta be worried ‘bout.”
Smoke’s hand tightened ‘round the wheel. He cut his eyes at you through the rearview, a slow, sharp glance that made the tension crackle.
“What the hell that ‘posed to mean?” He asked, voice low and dangerous.
Leanin’ back in the seat, you fold your arms tight across your chest, heart hammerin’. “Means I’m sittin’ here starin’ at two strangers. I don’t even know who ya’ll are no more.”
The car got real quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavier than any yellin’ ever could.
“[Name], you knew we was headin’ off to the war,” Smoke finally said, like that explained every damn thing.
“Yeah, I knew—,” you snapped back, voice tremblin’ with all the hurt you tried to swallow. “But I ain’t know leavin’ meant disappearin’. I ain’t know I was never gone hear from y’all again.”
"We had business to handle," Smoke said.
"Right. M’bad, Elijah— you was always 'bout yo' business. No matter who it hurt in the process—," you scoffed, your words hittin' hard enough to bruise all three of you.
"What you want us to say, baby? We sorry?" Stack asked, voice dry.
“Not if you don’t mean the shit,” you muttered, a bitter little laugh scratchin’ its way up your throat. Wasn’t nothin’ funny ‘bout it, but hell—sometimes you had to laugh just to keep from breakin’. Bein’ here with them, after all this time, hurt you in ways you couldn’t even name no more. Pain boiled up inside you, hot and heavy, like thick molasses turned sour; all them nights you laid awake, cryin’ into your pillow, feelin’ like a damn fool for lovin’ two devils who knew how to kiss like angels and lie like snakes.
Even a strong woman like you—hard-headed, proud, tougher than leather—got cracks in her armor. Always did. Tears pricked at your eyes before you could blink ’em back, and you scooted over, puttin’ as much distance between you and them as the seat would allow.
Stack let out a low chuckle, dry as a corn husk. “Careful, girl. Any further and you gon’ roll right out the damn car.”
“Don’t act like you care now,” you snapped, voice low and sharp, cuttin’ through the thick silence that settled. You stared out the window, jaw tight. “Just—,” you breathe. “Just get me the hell home. Please.”
Smoke sighed, shiftin’ in his seat like the weight of what you said sat heavy on his chest. “You mad—,” he started, his voice rough but steady. “We get it, Silk. But what you ain’t gon’ do is sit here and act like we ain’t give a damn ’bout you. ’Cause we did. Still do.”
"I hear you.”
“But you don’t believe me,” Smoke said, his voice low, almost tired.
“Sho’ don’t,” you shot back without missin’ a lick. “If you gave one damn ’bout me, y’all wouldn’t’ve laid with me, then left me sittin’ all by my lonesome like yesterday’s newspaper.”
The car rumbled to a stop, kickin’ up dirt and hushin’ the crickets for just a second.
“You right,” Smoke admitted, his hand grippin’ the wheel like it hurt to say it. “We ain’t stand by you the way we was s’posed to. For that, we apologize. But we here now, ain’t we? Let that mean somethin’, girl.”
‘Course you didn’t answer. Ain’t even look at him. Your stomach twisted up tight as you stared out the window. This wasn’t your little white cottage with the porch swing and the climbin’ roses. This was the old saw mill—deep in the woods, where the trees grew thick and the night air smelled like damp earth and old memories.
“Y’all said y’all was takin’ me home,” you said, brows knittin’ together, voice low and brittle.
“This don’t remind you of home?” Stack asked from the back, his tone half-playful, half-hopin’. Like maybe he could pull at somethin’ you buried long ago. Hell, he knew you remembered. Could see it all over your face—the weight of it, heavy and hurtin’.
Stack helped you out the car, and you looked around, a ghost of a smile flickerin' across your face. Back then, when y'all was a bit younger, this was the spot. The old abandoned mill by the pond—the first place y'all ever met. The memory was 'bout as clear as day. Just you, sittin' under an old pecan tree, a book too heavy for your little hands. Dreamin' about places you'd never seen, with your Sunday dress hitched up 'round your knees, dirt smudgin' your bare ankles. Readin' like it could save you. Like it might carry you somewhere better.
They spotted you 'fore you even knew they was there — struttin' over with easy smiles and slick mouths, smellin' like sweat, gunpowder, and cheap whiskey. You was shy back then, a little soft 'round the edges, but never dumb. You ain't take neither one too serious. Not yet. Not 'til they made you fall in love. Not 'til they touched you like you was made of glass, fucked you like breathin', kissed you like every day might be the last. They made you feel untouchable. Made the whole damn town know you wasn't a girl to mess with. 'Cause you belonged to them.
And they belonged to you.
They taught you how to fight. Hardened you up. 'Til no bitch — not Mary, not Annie — could look at you wrong without catchin' a beatdown. Those boys that once made you laugh 'til you cried, danced barefoot behind the mill, were the same ones who left you bawlin' alone, spillin' tears into the dirt.
And now, they was tryin’ to drag you back to it.
"Why's we here?" you asked, voice crackin' under the weight of memory.
“Business,” Smoke said low, like it oughta explain everything.
Stack struck a match, lit up another cigarette, and took a long, slow drag ‘fore passin’ it off to his twin. “See that ol’ mill? We buyin’ it from a cracker first thing in the mornin’. Gonna turn it into a Juke Joint — a real one, for our folks. A place they can dance, drink, breathe easy without worryin’ ‘bout no white folks breathin’ down they necks.”
Once again you stared at ‘em hard, suspicion risin’ up heavy in your chest like a summer storm. How they got the money for somethin’ like that, you didn’t know. Truth be told, you wasn’t sure you wanted to know. Ain’t nothin’ in this world free, especially not for men like them. Especially not down here.
“And what the hell that got to do with me?” you asked, voice steady, even though your hands itched to fold over your chest.
Smoke leaned back, one hand fidgetin’ with the silver ring on his index finger — a tell he had since y’all was kids. He only did it when somethin’ was sittin’ heavy on his mind. “We need the finest dancer in town to bring that floor alive—,” he said. “Need somebody who make folks spend they last damn dollar just to watch ‘em move. And we payin’, make no mistake.”
Lookin’ between ‘em, you met each of they dark, familiar eyes, and made damn sure your words came out clear. “I don’t want money wit’ blood on it.”
They didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink.
That was one thing ‘bout Stack and Smoke—they could take you at your hardest, your meanest. Could stand up to the fire you threw without backin’ down. But you knew deep in your bones, no matter how tough they acted, those boys was always weak when it came to you; to them big, pretty eyes they swore could bring a man to his knees.
Stack’s patience snapped first, just like always. He shifted, tossin’ the burnt-out cigarette down and crushin’ it under his bootheel.
“Well, what the fuck do you want, then?” he barked, voice sharp with frustration. Always the hothead, always the one to talk ‘fore thinkin’. Never the type to hold his tongue or watch his own damn back.
"To go home, Elias. Care to indulge me?"
"Nah, baby. I don't, actually—," he said without missin' a beat. He was a smart-mouthed fool too, flashin’ that grin full’a them shiny-ass gems every time he opened his mouth.
“What y’all want with me? What y’all really drag me all the way out here for?” you demanded, voice tight like a stretched-out clothesline.
“Done told ya already, girl—,” Smoke said, cool as a winter creek. “Ain’t gone say it again.”
“This a town full’a dancers, Elijah. Ya’ll don’t need me.”
Stack, leanin’ back against the car like he had all the time in the world, just shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. But we want you.”
Smoke stepped in closer, his voice a low rumble under the heavy night air, "We told you we was gone give you a stage'a your own. Make you a star like you always dreamed ‘bout. 'Member?"
Damn them. You remembered every bit of it. You done tried buryin’ it deep, stuffin’ it down like old letters in a dusty chest — but all it ever did was ache. Your throat burned up like a bad fever, your eyes startin’ to sting, chest tight enough you thought it might split clean open.
“Y’all full of shit,” you muttered, but it come out softer than you meant, breakin’ right down the middle.
“We ain’t,” Smoke said, steppin’ even closer now, til you could smell the tobacco on his breath, the heat rollin’ off his skin. He reached out, catchin’ your chin between two fingers, touchin’ you like you might break if he held too hard. “We bled for that dream, same as you, Silk. Fought for it ‘til we damn near lost ourselves.”
With your hands curlin’ into fists at your sides, you was fightin’ the tremble workin’ its way through you.
“Why now, huh?” you snapped, voice crackin’ like a whip. “Why the hell now? After y’all acted like I ain’t mean nothin’? I want the truth this time. None of that sweet-talkin’ bullshit you good for.”
Stack, who usually had a smart mouth ready for anything, went real still. Real quiet. He pulled his hat clean off his head, runnin’ a hand over his hair, lookin’ like he ain’t had a single slick thing left to say. Chicago did ‘em good, cut a line in the side real fresh.
“Why else? We love you,” he finally said, voice rough like gravel. “Always did. Ain’t never stopped.”
Smoke leaned in real slow, close enough you could feel the heat of his breath brushin’ across your face. His presence wrapped ‘round you like a heavy blanket in the dead heat of July. You braced a hand against his chest, feelin’ the steady thud of his heart — and under that, a tremble, like he was holdin’ back somethin’ deep, somethin’ old and wounded, tryin’ its damnedest not to break wide open.
“But one thing for sure, two things for certain,” Smoke said, his voice low and rough as gravel, catchin’ on every word like it hurt to say ’em. “We wasn’t bred to be with a woman as good as you.”
Stack, leanin’ nearby with that bitter smirk of his, let out a humorless chuckle, “Still ain’t.”
The words hit you harder than a blow. Your throat tightened up, and you shoved at Smoke’s chest, hard, but it was like pushin’ against a brick wall—he didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, lettin’ you take out all that hurt and anger without sayin’ a damn word.
“So you thought leavin’ me was better?” you choked out, voice crackin’, the betrayal sharp in every syllable.
"Nah," he said. "We thought it was the only way to keep you clean. Safe. Smilin', even if we had to stay gone for a while."
"But as it turns out—," Stack added, steppin' in behind you, his chest brushing your back, caging you between 'em. "We can't stay away for too long."
Their hands found you at the same time — Smoke's rough fingers liftin' your jaw, Stack's palms slidin' down your arms, steadin' you even as your knees wobbled.
“You ours,” Smoke murmured, voice low and rough, his lips ghostin’ right over yours, not quite kissin’, just teasin’ — like he wanted to savor the moment you gave in. “Always been.”
“That wasn’t ever gon’ change,” Stack rumbled against your ear, mouth grazin’ your neck in slow, temptin’ bites that made your knees damn near buckle again.
The anger, the pain — all that hurt you been bottlin’ up for six long, lonely years — it started boilin’ over, hot and wild, mixin’ with a hunger you tried so hard to kill. It cracked you wide open now, floodin’ every inch of you like a busted dam, no holdin’ it back.
“Don’t put me through this again,” you begged, voice tremblin’, breathless, your body already betrayin’ you, rememberin’ the way they touched you, the way they loved you, like it never forgot. “Don’t come back just to leave me worse off than ‘fore.”
Smoke’s hand slid around your waist, pullin’ you flush against him, his chest hard and hot under your palms.
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere this time, baby,” Stack growled low, a promise buried in every word. “And we gone make damn sho’ this sweet lil’ pussy remembers exactly who it belongs to.”
“It knows,” you whispered back, your hand driftin’ down without thinkin’, findin’ the thick heat straining against the front of Smoke’s slacks. He shuddered under your touch, deep and real, like he was barely holdin’ on. “Just like y’all know ya’ll belong here, with me.”
Smoke's mouth crushed yours before the last word even finished leavin' your lips, kissin' you like he was starvin', like he needed you to breathe.
Stack's hands roamed lower, greedy, sure, gatherin' your dress up in his fists as he pressed hot kisses to the side of your neck, beard scratchin’ soft as his lips dragged over your skin, teeth sinkin’ in just enough to make you gasp.
Their hands—rough, calloused—claimed you in the sticky heat of the Mississippi night, under the shadow of that old mill, with the hum of crickets and the whisper of the river nearby. They kissed and touched like they was tryin' to make up for all the empty years in one night, and Lord, you let 'em.
‘Cause no matter how bad it hurt, you still wanted ‘em. Needed ‘em, somethin’ fierce.
a diamond is precious precisely because it is rare.
💎 est. 07.25.25
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