[SNEAK PEAK] members only— sinners.
pairing
vampire! elias “stack” moore x black! reader.
synopsis
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.
