peace, love, & lucyy.

"wow, that Lucy sure is smart, but damn, she's mean af" Miss Lucy's Master List buy me a kofi

[woahitslucyylu]

Miss Lucy’s Master List

Written work may contain sexual themes and/or violence. Work is meant for 18+ and is NSFW. I do not give permission for my work to be posted or published anywhere else.

Peaky Blinders 

Mayans MC

Rio (Good Girls)

Jerking Off on FaceTime 

Angel Reyes’s Birthday Celebration

Snowfall

Choose Your Daddy

Marvel

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslucyfierce/works

[bxunyx]

𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞

Pairing-ModernAU-Smoke&Stack x Black reader

Summary-You are the twins sugar baby

A/N-Ive never wrote anything like this before so bare with me hun

One twin? Maybe. You’ve dealt with bold men before — men who liked pretty things on their arms, who flashed cash and promises like candy. Stack seemed like another one of those: flashy, cocky, dipped in gold and danger. All mouth, all muscle, all that swagger that made girls stupid.

But two?

Two was asking for trouble. The kind that you don’t just flirt with. The kind that drags you in by the throat and makes you say thank you.

Now you’re sitting pretty in the back of a black Escalade with tinted windows and heated leather seats. Stack’s hand is on your thigh, thumb tracing circles higher than it should while he scrolls through his phone. Smoke’s behind the wheel — silent, always — but you can feel his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, watching. Measuring.

You shift just slightly, tug at the hem of your silk skirt.

And Stack smirks like he knows exactly what you’re doing. Like he’s already planning to ruin it later.

Trouble? Yeah. You’re drowning in it.

But trouble comes with a black card, a diamond tennis bracelet, and your name engraved on the inside of a Louis Vuitton bag.

⸻

Stack spoils you loud.

He’s the type to drag you through the most expensive store in the city and dare the clerk to ask about a limit. Neon signs, loud music, top-floor penthouse parties — he wants you to be seen. Wants people to know who you belong to. “Pick what you want, baby. Matter of fact, pick two. I like you in options.”

He drives too fast. Tips too much. Kisses you like he’s claiming you with every bite.

And when he’s not around? Smoke is.

⸻

Smoke spoils you quiet.

He sends the money before you can ask. The rent’s paid. Your tuition? Covered. Your account balance rises in silence, like a tide — consistent, steady, impossible to ignore. One morning you woke up to a car in your driveway. Not flashy — matte, black, sleek. Clean. Practical. With a note tucked into the cupholder:

“No excuses now. Be on time.”

You remembered telling Smoke how you're always late for the bus

He doesn’t text much. Just enough.

Be home by ten.

Wear the black dress.

Leave the door unlocked.

And you follow every instruction.

Every time.

⸻

You float between them, somewhere in that sweet spot between indulgence and obsession. Draped in designer. Laced in perfumes you can’t pronounce. Lipstick shades picked out by Stack, lingerie sets folded neatly by Smoke.

Marked by both.

Your lips are bruised from one. Your thighs tremble from the other. You wake up with one name in your mouth and fall asleep with the other still on your skin.

They don’t fight. They don’t ask.

Because they both know the answer.

Everyone in the city whispers when you walk into a room. From the street girls to the CEOs — they see the watch on your wrist and the curve of that smirk you always wear, and they know.

Whose girl is she?

The answer’s simple.

Theirs.

⸻

Your phone buzzes at 11:01PM.

Two notifications.

Transfer received: $10,000 — “For being pretty.”

Transfer received: $10,000 — “Because you listened.”

You smile, curl deeper into the plush hotel bedding, and take another sip of wine that cost more than your rent used to.

Then you press Add to savings.

You were never the good girl. Never the quiet one. But somehow, being a little bad never paid so good.

And with both Moore twins wrapped around your finger?

You’re just getting started.

[carouselshotgun]

michael b. jordan behind the scenes of SINNERS (2025)

[pimpcessing]

another brat!reader post ?? 👀👀

[woahitslucyylu]

Always.

[empty-sigh]

jerk me off while I whimper and struggle to tell you how my day went

[woahitslucyylu]

*jerk him off

[bxunyx]

𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐚

Pairing-Elijah*Smoke*Moore x Black reader

Summary- you’ve finally met your match

A/N- I wanted there to be a part two but I don’t think it needs one

I think I wanna do an instagram post thing I’ve seen mutuals doing it and I think it’s cool

He wasn’t the man your mama warned you about.

He was the man your mama prayed you never met.

Dark-skinned, tatted, six-foot-something with a gold smile that matched the bullets in his clip. Drove a matte black AMG like he owned the pavement. Talked slick, walked smoother, smelled like Dior and gunpowder.

A trappin’-ass, country-ass, never-switch-up-on-the-gang-ass nigga.

Exactly the kind you swore you’d never fall for.

And you? You weren’t soft. You had your own bag, your own attitude, your own reasons for not trusting anybody. People called you stuck-up, unbothered, hard to impress. And you were.

Until he came through.

It was late, the city hot with summer, the music too loud, the club too packed. You sat in your section surrounded by girls who talked too much and men who couldn’t afford to look your way. You were halfway done with your drink when you felt it—that stare.

Head turned. Eyes met. And there he was.

Smoke.

Leaning on the wall like he had nowhere to be and everyone owed him something. Chains glinting, jaw tight, eyes on you like he’d been waiting for the moment all night.

“You keep starin’, ma. Might as well come sit on somethin’.”

You rolled your eyes—but you moved.

Always did when it came to him.

He pulled you onto his lap like you weighed nothing, palms spreading across your thigh, voice low in your ear.

“Heard you like ‘em with motion. I am the motion.”

That night turned into weeks.

Late night pull-ups. Cash on the dresser. Your name in his mouth while you rode him in backrooms of strip clubs he lowkey owned. You ain’t post each other—but everybody knew.

He made sure of it.

Whispers in the city: Smoke got a girl now. The baddest one. Don’t even look her way unless you ready to die.

He took care of you without askin’.

Hair, nails, rent, tuition—you ain’t lift a finger unless it was to count the stacks he left on your dresser.

And the sex?

Ruthless.

He picked you up when he fucked you. Spoke in tongues against your skin. Pressed his gun into your back like a reminder: this ain’t no regular nigga.

You weren’t supposed to fall.

But you did. Hard. Quiet. Deep.

In love with a man who talked more with his hands than his mouth.

A man who kissed you like it might be the last time every time.

A man who never said I love you but always showed up when the world went quiet.

So when he looked you in the eyes, his voice barely a whisper as he said—

“You mine now. Act like it.”

you didn’t argue.

You smiled.

Took his Glock.

And rode shotgun.

Because when Smoke said something, he meant it.

A man of few words but heavy presence. He didn’t do all that back and forth—he moved with purpose. When he said you his, it wasn’t a question or a compliment. It was law.

You weren’t his girlfriend.

You were his partner.

His peace and his pressure.

Days with him were quiet—money being counted, plays being made. Nights? Loud. Wild. Fast cars, red lights, clubs, and chaos. You two were a walking contradiction: savage and softness. He’d kiss you like you were his lifeline, then cock his gun without blinking.

He never told you where he was going, but he never left without holding your face and tapping your chin with a soft “Be good.”

Sometimes he came back bloodied.

Sometimes he came back distant.

But he always came back.

And when he did, you didn’t press him.

You just lit his blunt, pulled him between your legs, and let him breathe.

You became the girl the other girls hated in silence.

The one who had the respect without having to post a man for clout.

The one who he actually answered the phone for, no matter who was in the room.

“I’m in a meeting.”

“She call? I’ll call y’all back.”

Yeah. That type of loyalty.

And he earned yours too.

You weren’t just pretty. You were real.

You didn’t nag him about the streets; you helped him stay smart.

Checked the cameras when he was gone.

Cleaned the blood off his rings without flinching.

Burned evidence if you had to.

Once, he came home, pacing, silent, clearly rattled.

You ain’t say much. You poured him a drink, sat on the counter, and watched him work through it.

When he finally exhaled, he walked up to you and said, “If anything happen to me, you got the numbers. You know who to trust.”

You nodded. You didn’t cry.

You just pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “Ain’t nothin’ happenin’ to you. You make it outta everything.”

And deep down, that was true.

He wasn’t supposed to make it out of this life.

But somehow, every time they tried to bury him, he came back breathing harder. Stronger. Smarter.

Maybe that’s what made you fall.

Not just the sex.

Not the gifts.

But the way he survived everything, and still had something left to give you.

You learned his rhythms.

When he was about to dip.

When he needed to feel your hands on his chest.

When to talk.

When to ride in silence.

And he learned yours.

The way you needed to be kissed when you got in your moods.

The way your voice dropped when you were pissed.

How to calm you down with just a look.

You weren’t playing house—you were building an empire.

Brick by bloody brick.

Pillow talk with pistols under them.

Plans scribbled on the backs of receipts.

Your loyalty louder than any vow.

And the city knew.

You weren’t the one to mess with.

Because Smoke ain’t just love you—he’d burn this whole bitch down behind you.

So when you stepped out together—him in all black, you in heels, lip gloss shining, Glock in your purse like a wallet—heads turned. Every single time.

He never held your hand.

But he always kept you close.

“Anybody ever touch you wrong, I’m blowin’ the whole block down. Don’t care who there.”

You believed him.

Because he already had.

Love with Smoke wasn’t gentle.

It was sharp. Loud. Loyal.

It was dangerous.

But it was the safest place you’d ever known.

And if this world took him from you?

You’d burn it down yourself.

Because if you had to die behind a nigga, it was gon’ be him.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭- @jessiabrown55 @christinabae @honestmarie @prettygirl2800 @maugustiee @spicypiscesssss @galleryofgabriella @kksmush

[mintmatcha]

is a man trying not to cum the second he enters you hot or not

[allo-frouto]

the hottest

[nat111love]

SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

[the2daily4scoop]

"do he bite?"

Smoke, barely holding back a feral Stack: "naw, he don't bite me."

[talesfromthecrypts]

We was never gonna be free. We've been running around everywhere looking for freedom. You know damn well you was never gonna find it. Until this.

Sinners (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

[cafeluvs-deactivated20250720]

thinking about negotiating back and forth with smoke... 18+ (suggestive/language).... modern era! au…lowercase intended.....

luvrs note: thx for the luv on my first sinners drabble... this has a lil more plot, and a cliffhanger... sorryyyyy!!! still getting used to this as it is new to me..... feedback is appreciated <3

the usual sound of the printer roused you out of your current lulled-out state. you'd been ogling at the application that had been faxed in, brow furrowed while reading through the fine print. The addressee had wanted some sort of shared ownership for a lot available for rent - to place some local bar in the middle of town. your eyes rolled at the signature on the final page, etched in dark blue ink.

elijah moore.

he was trouble, often referred to as 'smoke'. An enforcer in his own right; one wrong move would often render anyone destabilized long term. you, however wasn't just anyone.

your role was to investigate the applicants before granting a key to a property, ensuring no foul play was being done for the sake of profits. the issue was that smoke, and his twin brother, elias - stack, were top negotiators.

as in, they'd negotiate with anyone until smoke decided to yank out one of his barrels, armed and at the ready.

most people would let them claim ownership of properties without a fuss.

nothing worth dying over.

you read the application again, slapping an 'under review' sticky note onto it and forwarded him an email.

received. interrogation will be on friday. 8pm sharp.

smoke didn't notice the response until much later — he’d decided to go to the meeting for the sake of carrying out his duties; get the land, build a new bar and increase the big profits he and stack were already making.

what you didn’t know — smoke had carefully handpicked you as the investigator he wanted to meet. wrote a convincing letter to one of your managers; and who could blame him. you were the lead enforcer, having the best success rate while also ensuring these ventures weren’t done for the sake of taking advantage of the investor group.

he knew your silhouette like the back of his hand. the more observant, almost too observant of the twins, smoke was notorious for finding a target. most times it was to fend off a simple business rival, but you…

you enthralled him. prim and proper, you were perfect in his eyes, and dare it be said that very few things impressed such a man.

friday night would be more than back and forth negotiations — he intended to leave more than a signature behind on the dotted line when he was done.

nighttime rolled around much quicker than you’d expected on friday. the clock read quarter to 8pm, meaning there were fifteen minutes left of sanity to hold onto.

sure, you’d seen smoke from time to time downtown, often with a low brimmed hat or beanie, fists shoved in his pocket, one wrapped around his wallet, filled selfishly to the brim with cheques promising stacks of cash. besides the imposing nature he had, he was intriguing.

unlike stack, he was often seen in blue — nothing bright like the sky, but rather that of a softened denim, worn out by calloused hands and smudges from a couple fights. but beneath all of that, he was strong-willed, dominant… but with the right person convincing him, he could fold.

you’d opted for blue yourself, in a manner invisible to the eye, unless he chose to negotiate with you, layer by layer until nothing remained. on the surface, a simple black form-fitting dress. the day had been long, and at this point, slippers were most appropriate to calm your achy feet.

knowing smoke, he wouldn’t care what you wore. all he wanted was his money and to be on his way….

that is, until 8pm rolled around.

the slightly heavy pounding of a fist at the door nearly stole your breath, but you weren’t easily deterred. with a manicured hand, you twisted the doorknob, and his lip curled up immediately.

sure, you’d waited for him. yet you had no idea he’d been longing for you.

“evenin’ ma’am… let’s keep this simple, aight?” he said, walking into your workspace, shutting the door behind him. he lingered behind you, the scent of his heady cologne inebriating your senses almost instantly.

“that’s not how it works, elijah.”

“you gon’ call me smoke, first of all. just because you a whole investigator don’t mean i can’t have my preferred method of negotiation.” he scoffed immediately, taking a seat at your desk.

your gaze hardened, both in annoyance and a slight flutter in your stomach. his gruff drawl could have easily made you fold, but you had your duties to fulfil. not to mention, the black jeans paired with a white tank were not in any way appropriate for a business meeting.

then again, you were the one who’d suggested meeting him after hours.

“you want a drink?”

“gimme somethin’ strong, mama. we got plenty to chat about,” he said, a brief grin on his face only for it to fade. “they said you was the best one at investin’ — m’tryna put my money where yo’ mouth is.”

“understood… gon’ head and get comfortable.”

it took a while to decide, but you’d ultimately decided on some fancy irish lager you’d seen in the office pantry. handing him a bottle, you stood across from him, separated by a desk. he looked up at you, while you studied him.

it was brief, but the tension — palpable, hot.

you could taste it without saying a word.

the initial revision of the document was simple enough — smoke confirmed the fine print, asked his questions, and when he did, his eyes often followed the path being traced out by a manicured finger each time.

it had been a breeze.

until it wasn’t.

“I want my deposit, and half of the commission from yo’ earnings sent to me… clear?” you said, dark eyes narrowed as he snarled up at the offer.

he didn’t like sharing. and who could blame him? the only person he ever relied on was his brother.

he shook his head, letting the offer sit. “you’ll get the deposit… but half the commission? that’s theft in broad daylight.”

as he spoke, he took a swig of the lager, and sighed deeply. he could be patient, yes. but the two of you had been bickering for at least an hour.

“you don’t take my deal, you can see yourself off, smoke.”

just as he’s about to drag out a cigarette to ease his nerves, you instinctively snatch it out of his hand. you have the upper hand for a split second, only to be tugged onto his lap, the rolled paper sitting nearly between your thumb and index.

“you don’t think i ain’t seeing what you’re doin’, huh? you think because you a top performer, you just run shit now?”

you unintentionally shifted on his lap, and he hissed in turn. he’d always found you pretty, though he kept his distance to avoid situations such as this one. his hands rested comfortably on your waist, bringing you close enough that he could feel his belt buckle brush up against your thighs, now exposed due to the compromising posit

“you want some money, or not?” you chided, and his eyes narrowed.

“that ain’t how to negotiate, baby.” he murmured, snatching up the cig from your dainty fingers. “you should know better…”

you should have known — he’d figured out your strategy; an attempt to throw him off gone wrong.

he shifted beneath you, and that’s when you felt him. thick, heavy, and hard despite the denim being in the way. the former stubborn expression on your face was replaced with that of an open jaw and widened eyes.

“we gon’ start again, aight? I’ll sign yo’ shit so you can keep yo’ job… but m’gon show you how to negotiate properly.”

the grit in his voice had you shuddering, and you gripped onto his shoulder with one hand. the stable breath you had moments earlier had been turned into nothing but pretty gasps - pleas to learn negotiating his way.

"there she is - see, you can listen. and you gon' listen well." he chastised, letting your little black dress sit right up on your hips, revealing blue lace, a sliver of wetness peeking through the fabric.

imitation was indeed, the highest form of flattery.

"we not doin' this, smoke." you could barely get the words out, knowing how bad you wanted him to do this. the evidence was clear - he had you in the palm of his hand.

"uh, uh... that ain't how we negotiate, baby," he crooned, thrusting slightly up against the lace. you knew deep down that if all the clothed barriers were shed, you'd be split open in a way you'd never experienced.

"gimme a price, doll. how much is this shit worth to you?"

"s'worth a lot, elijah."

"then make your case, otherwise you don't get a thing from me and i take my business elsewhere."

the involuntary buck of your hips set him off, and he met you halfway, a wet puddle beginning to form on the apex of his jeans. his eyes locked on yours as you suggested a few price options, and it wasn't until you settled on a hushed '$15,000', that he stopped his ministrations to shed his jeans and briefs.

your body felt hot - boiling a mile a minute at the sight of him.

"i'll take that price, but i will not allow for the half commission earning...y'got anything else to offer me, doll?" he quipped curtly, snapping you out of your daze by slapping his fat tip up against the lace, now a shade darker given how soaked you were.

"'b-bout a quarter of the earnings, s-smoke?"

the tremor in your voice - you poor thing. once a confident and unabashed investigator to now a pliant, needy bargainer in the palm of smoke's hand. but you earned your reward at the sound of his voice.

"deal... you jus' gotta sing for me now, mama."

________________________

tags: @prettyfilmz @cremeful @zillasvilla @clubsoft @babynueva @charmed-dreamssss @cyberdejos2 @4milly @trippinsorrows @kenshisluvrgirl @sheaabuttaababyy @mselenalovebug @sayyestoheav3nn @shantinextdoor @minsingular @whowrotethenote @that-90s-girllll @harmshake @empressdede @usoinked @szatears @spiicii @punksyeet @luna-thecreator @tribalhoochie @tojisteddy

[eyanyra]

SINNERS…

Ever since the movie came out I feel like I’ve been on the hunt. There’s so many Remmick x reader, so many modern au and don’t get me wrong write what tickles you fancy BUT I need more Stack x READER and Smoke x READER set in the 1930s. Please I’m begging y’all! Also if your fic is x oc please don’t tag it x reader, imma partial narcissist, i like to be included in the fic😭

[pimpcessing]

brat!reader x countryboyfriend!smoke … he gets a fresh fade..

🧁 @prettyfilmz , @hallucinagin , @woahitslucyylu , @queenofklonnie22 , @cafeluvs , @earthreturn , @bl3ssyn , @michifilmz , @tonichildsdaughterduh , @thebumbqueen , @tojisteddy , @nahimjustfeelingit-writes, @christinabae, @ami-s-k

[butterflypeaflowertea]

it’s so nice being fond of people on here :-) like yeah maybe we only know each other in a very limited way but i care abt you guys & hearing abt your lives makes me happy & i like listening to the things u have to say & i really truly wish the best for you all!!! sending my love from a couple states, countries, oceans away

[theethighpriestess]

Chapter 1 - The First Bite

A/N: First off, I wanna thank @nahimjustfeelingit-writes for coming up with this dope ass idea & @anaiyaflys143 for suggesting I write it. I hope I do you both justice. I think I want this to have multiple parts, but I need life to cooperate. Hope y'all enjoy!

*All character images created by me ☺️*

Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Eden Taylor (OC)

Warning(s): 18+, Adult Language, Supernatural Elements, Typical Vampire Shit, Vampire Kink, Explicit Sex (Not yet, but it's coming)

Summary: Eden’s broke. Her rent’s late, her car sounds like it’s choking, and her dreams of making it as a singer in New Orleans are getting harder to hold onto. So when she sees a sketchy little ad offering big cash to be a “discreet donor,” she answers it. She tells herself it’s just money. Just blood. Just once. But the contract’s signed, the room is breathing, and Eden? She might’ve just stepped into something deeper than debt.

Word Count: 5.5K

New Orleans, 2005

Eden stared blankly at the digits on the weathered ATM.

$14.26.

All the money she had left from her work-study check that wouldn’t replenish for another week. Between rent, paying for studio time, and outfits for her upcoming shows, Eden had left herself broke and destitute yet again.

“Who told you to take the term ‘starving artist’ so literally?” she muttered to herself, tucking the receipt into the pocket of her tattered jean jacket.

She hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days. Just a gas station honey bun, half a bottle of warm Sprite, and whatever sleep could trick her body into thinking it was full. Her rust-colored Honda ran on a quarter tank and prayer, the engine coughing every time she turned the key. The inside smelled like jasmine body spray, fried hair, and quiet panic.

Fishing her Motorola Razr from the depths of her tote, she scrolled to the contact labeled “Pops.” She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, before finally pressing CALL.

Three rings. A click.

“Yo,” came the gravelly voice on the other end. Always detached. Always mid-something more important.

“Hey,” Eden said, trying not to sound too pitiful. “You got like…twenty dollars I could borrow?”

A long pause. She could practically hear him blinking.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’m all tapped out.”

She knew it was a lie. He always said that. She could hear a game show buzzing faintly in the background, followed by the sound of beer cracking open. But she didn’t press it.

“It’s cool, Pops.” She cleared her throat, pushing down the lump forming there. “I’ll make something shake. I saw an ad for a babysitting gig in the Garden District, so I’ll try that.”

“Good,” he said, voice already drifting. “See? You ain’t gotta always be runnin’ after those stage lights. Just find somethin’ steady.”

She didn’t respond. Just hung up and slid the phone back into her purse like it was a loaded gun.

Back at her tiny studio apartment in Mid-City, Eden sat cross-legged on her futon, her open planner in her lap. A flyer for an open mic night at Tipitina’s was pinned above her bed with a pink glitter pushpin. She had two weeks to come up with a new track and scrape together the $80 she owed her producer for the beat she was using.

She opened her laptop, praying it would connect to the neighbor’s spotty Wi-Fi. While it loaded, she scribbled in the margins of her notebook:

“I ain’t tryna sing for scraps, I want velvet on my mic stand Moët in my vocal booth, not noodles from the nightstand…”

Cute. Maybe.

She clicked over to Craigslist. Typing “cash gigs” in the search bar had become second nature.

Dog walking. House cleaning. Foot modeling?

But then, something new. Something far from anything she’d seen listed before.

“DONOR OPPORTUNITY – NIGHT WORK. DISCREET. HIGH COMPENSATION. 21+ ONLY. Must be comfortable with blood. Text 504-9VAMPYR.”

Eden raised an eyebrow. 

“Blood?”

She clicked anyway.

The ad was vague but intriguing. It promised “stress-free, safe work” for “exclusive clientele.” It also mentioned “consent-based feeding arrangements,” which sounded... weirdly medical. Or criminal.

She almost exited the tab—but her mouse hovered over the last line:

“Neck: $300/hr. Wrist: $400/hr. Inner thigh: $550/hr. Discretion required.”

She burst out laughing, sharp and alone in her little apartment. “Yeah, okay. That’s definitely a scam. Probably run by some dude named Clarence with a fake fang kink.”

But something about it stuck. Along with her passion for music, she also had a passion for all things occult: vampires, black magic, and everything in between. She was the bayou bruja stereotype personified, save the fact that she didn’t actually know any spells.

Eden wasn’t sure what it was about this ad that had her so curious. Maybe it was the dollar signs flashing in her mind. Perhaps it was the way her stomach twisted with nerves and low-grade hunger. Or maybe it was the fact that being bitten on the thigh for rent money somehow felt less soul-crushing than waitressing at a chain diner where the manager hit on her.

She grabbed her phone and typed quickly.

Eden T. | Type O- | Available Nights

Then she added, like a joke she hoped the universe would get:

“I sing too, in case that’s relevant.”

She snickered to herself until the number responded, almost immediately.

504-9VAMPYR:

“Voice matters more than you know. You’re expected tonight. Come dressed in black. No perfume. Bring ID.”

Attached was a pin drop to an address in the Warehouse District. The kind of place that always looked abandoned from the outside but was crawling with secrets beneath the surface.

Eden stared at the screen. Then at her closet.

She had a mesh crop top, a fake leather skirt, and her beat-up Doc Martens. Close enough to black. She pulled them out with a sigh and laid them across her unmade bed. Her hands lingered on the hem of the skirt, suddenly wondering if she should shave. Then she laughed out loud, dry and humorless.

“Girl, if he’s a vampire, you think he cares about some stubble?” she mused, glancing down at her untamed bikini line.

She peeled off her hoodie and leggings and tugged on the outfit with practiced ease. The crop top rode up a little too high, showing off the silver belly ring she got impulsively after a poetry night and three Hennessy shots. She tightened the straps on her Docs and pulled her curls into a high puff, fluffing it just enough to look intentional.

Eyeliner came next. Heavy, winged, and slightly uneven, like it had been applied in a moving car or in the middle of a breakdown. She smudged a bit of charcoal shadow beneath her lower lashes for good measure, giving her eyes that soft, smoky bruised look, like she hadn’t slept in days but might still stab you if you stared too long.

A dusting of translucent powder dimmed the natural shine of her skin, but she let her freckles peek through. She dabbed a hint of burgundy gloss on her lips and pressed highlighter onto the high points of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Just enough to glow under bad lighting.

She looked like something out of a Southern ghost story. Part beauty queen, part grieving widow. Like the kind of girl you'd see barefoot on a sagging porch in the heat of July, black veil over her eyes, sipping sweet tea that might just kill you.

She stepped back from the mirror and tilted her chin to the left.

She didn’t look like someone about to audition for a vampire sugar daddy.

She looked like someone who had nothing left to lose.

But that was the thing about having nothing. It made you bold. Eden didn’t feel fear. Not yet. What she felt was unavailable. Numb, on the edge of something primal. Like her instincts were holding their breath, waiting to see if she was about to step into a miracle… or a casket.

She grabbed the rose water mist from her nightstand, hesitated, then spritzed a light veil of it over her curls instead of her neck. Just a whisper of hydration and a ghost of a scent that faded almost instantly. The text had said no perfume, and she wasn’t trying to test boundaries with creatures who drank life juice for breakfast.

She grabbed her keys, slipped her phone into her bra, and stared down at her chipped black nail polish before muttering, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Then she locked the door behind her.

The drive to the Warehouse District felt longer than it was. The rust-colored Honda coughed once at a red light and stuttered like it was nervous, too. Eden slapped the dash like she was coaxing a stubborn mule.

“Not tonight, baby, c’mon…”

She turned up the radio, some old Destiny’s Child track with a beat strong enough to drown her thoughts. She sang along half-heartedly, mouthing the lyrics more than meaning them, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel like she was trying to tap the fear out of her bloodstream.

Her mind didn’t cooperate.

What if it’s a cult? What if they drain you and leave you in a ditch behind a daiquiri shop? What if it’s real?

She wasn’t sure which possibility scared her more.

She pulled up to the address just after midnight. The building loomed like it had been waiting for her. It was tall, industrial, and built from bones and bad decisions. The kind of place that still smelled faintly of sweat, rust, and prohibition. Like someone had converted a cotton mill into a nightclub and then forgotten to put up a sign.

All the windows were blacked out. No buzz of neon. No music. No movement. Just that single red light above the steel door, blinking slow and steady like a pulse. Or a warning.

Eden sat there for a second longer than she meant to, the engine idling as her hand hovered near the key. Her stomach flipped, hard and sudden. It was that same twist she felt before going on stage, before she opened her mouth and let the world judge her voice, her dream, her want.

That anticipatory ache. That leap of faith you had to take before a mic, a man, or a monster.

Then she got out.

The air hit her like a wet rag, thick with humidity, heavy with something else. Something older than the pavement beneath her boots. The breeze curled around her ankles and crept up her spine, stirring the hem of her skirt and making the back of her neck prickle.

There was a scent in the air, faint but unmistakable. Jasmine. Smoke. No, ash. Burnt incense. Like the end of a ritual.

She stepped forward, gravel crunching beneath her boots, the only sound in the stillness. No music. No voices. Just her breath and that red light, blinking above her like a slow countdown.

When she reached the door, it opened before she could knock.

Not with a creak. Not with a dramatic hiss. Just a smooth, effortless glide, like whoever or whatever was on the other side had been expecting her the whole time.

Eden paused in the threshold, heart thudding against her ribs like a warning bell. She glanced once over her shoulder, back at her Honda parked under the flickering streetlamp, its paint dull and flaking like old blood.

She could leave. She could run.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders, tucked her gloss-smudged lips into a tight line, and stepped into the dark.

A man stood just inside. Pale. No older than thirty, if you could even put an age on someone like that. His black dress shirt was perfectly pressed, tucked into tailored pants that caught the low light like water. Silver chains shimmered across his collarbone, subtle and cold. White gloves on both hands, like he was either about to serve a five-course meal or prep a body for burial.

His eyes swept over her. Not sexual, not even curious. More like he was measuring her for something. A scan. Efficient, impersonal. She might as well have been a barcode.

“You’re Eden,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” she replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

“Follow me.”

So she did.

The hallway was long and narrow, padded in deep red velvet that brushed against her shoulders every few steps. The walls breathed warmth, but the air stayed cool, scented faintly with clove, old paper, and something floral that had long since dried out. Dim amber sconces flickered along the path, casting warped shadows that stretched and curled with her movements. It didn’t feel like walking into a building. It felt like being swallowed.

Each step took her further from reality. Her dad’s voice in the car, still ringing with disappointment. The zeroes in her bank account. The half-finished demo she couldn’t afford to master. All of it fell away, like static detaching from a radio dial. She wasn’t sure if she was floating or sinking.

The man said nothing, just led her deeper.

Eventually, they reached a door. It looked ancient, carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. Something that felt older than language, older than the city itself. They pulsed faintly under the glow of the hallway lights, as if alive beneath the grain of the wood.

The man knocked once. A dull, heavy sound.

Then he turned the handle and pushed the door open. He didn’t go in. Just stepped aside and motioned for her to enter.

Eden hesitated. Only for a second. Long enough to feel her heart rise in her throat, thick and loud. Then she stepped over the threshold.

And the world changed.

The air inside was cooler, denser, but it didn’t chill her. It settled around her skin like silk. Everything glowed in shades of wine and shadow. Low lights glinting off crystal, velvet drapes billowing near tall windows sealed shut. Music played somewhere far away, too soft to follow but rich enough to taste.

It wasn’t a room. It was a scene. A set. A spell.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn toward the figure seated at the far end.

And that was when she saw him.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn to the figure at the far end of the room.

He sat like he owned more than just the building. Like he owned the hour, the tension, even the breath in her lungs. Leaning back in a high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers resting loosely on the armrest, he looked every bit the gentleman devil.

He wore a deep burgundy suit that soaked up the light like velvet. It was tailored so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. Gold embroidery traced the lapels in delicate patterns, only catching the light when he moved. Serpents, maybe, or ivy, curling like secrets. A thick gold Cuban link chain sat heavy against his chest, and a matching pinky ring caught the lamplight when he lifted his hand to his jaw.

His skin was smooth, the kind of smooth that didn’t come from skincare, but from time. A warm brown, almost bronze, like whiskey left out in the sun. He looked like he could be in his late twenties, but Eden could feel the weight behind the stillness. The kind of quiet you feel in old houses or graveyards.

Then there were his eyes.

They held a faint glow, not glaring or artificial, but soft and strange, like candlelight burning behind thick purple glass. The color wasn’t the unsettling part; it was the depth. If she stared too long, she’d probably see everything he’d done and everything he wanted from her now.

And when he smiled—

It wasn’t wide. Just a small curl of his mouth, more on the left side, like he was letting her in on a secret she didn’t deserve to hear yet. That’s when she saw it. A gold open-faced grill on one of his fangs, subtle and gleaming. Not flashy or loud, just intentional. The kind of accessory that told you he’d been rich for longer than you’d been alive and had nothing left to prove.

Eden’s breath caught before she could stop it. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or fascination. Probably both.

He didn’t stand.

He didn’t need to.

His voice rolled out, low and velvet-smooth, the kind that made people lean in without realizing.

“Eden,” he said, her name sitting on his tongue like something rare and expensive.

She nodded once. “That’s me.”

His gaze flicked downward, taking in her boots, her skirt, the smudge of eyeliner she hadn’t meant to look perfect. He wasn’t judging her. He was gathering details, building a file in his mind.

“Pretty name,” he said. “Pretty girl.”

Her jaw tightened at the compliment. She’d heard it too many times before from broke boys and drunk strangers. But from him, it didn’t feel cheap. It felt like a warning.

“Thanks,” she replied, her voice quieter now.

Stack tilted his head just enough to shift the mood. Not much. Just enough to make her uneasy.

“I’m Elias Moore,” he said. “But folks around here call me Stack.”

“Stack,” she repeated.

He gave her that same half-smile.

“I like a girl who listens.”

Then he rose from his chair.

Not quickly. Not slow either. Just smoothly, like he didn’t have to try. He was taller than she expected, and his frame filled the room like music you couldn’t turn down. He moved with purpose, not just confidence, but certainty, like the floor had always been waiting for his footsteps.

When he stopped in front of her, close enough for her to feel the stillness coming off him, she realized he didn’t wear cologne. The flyer had warned against perfume, and he clearly followed the same rule. But still, there was a scent. Faint and warm, like sandalwood, old leather, maybe even dried jasmine crushed into parchment.

He raised a gloved hand.

“You can leave anytime you want,” he said. “But if you take one more step, you’re choosing not to.”

She looked at his hand. Elegant. Dead. Gold ring catching the light.

Her heart kicked hard in her chest.

She didn’t take his hand.

But she didn’t move away either.

His hand hovered in the space between them for another second before he let it fall.

Stack nodded toward a low velvet chair across from his own. “Sit if you want. Or stand. Some people feel safer that way.”

Eden moved without thinking, sliding into the seat like her knees might give out otherwise. Her palms were sweating, but she kept them in her lap. He didn’t look like the type who’d offer napkins.

The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt full of decisions. Stack poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass from a decanter by his elbow, then slid it across the table toward her. He didn’t pour himself one.

Eden stared at it. “Is it safe?”

Stack grinned, just a flash of gold and teeth. “Safer than most things you’ve done to chase a dream, I’d bet.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared down at the drink and finally lifted it, more out of pride than thirst. It burned, but not bad. Smooth like molasses with a bite at the end, like it knew you had secrets and didn’t mind.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Let’s talk about the job.”

Eden sat straighter. “Alright.”

“You know the basics,” Stack said. “You let someone feed. You get paid. How far you want to go is up to you.”

He tapped a long finger against the table, slow, like a metronome counting down something important.

“Neck’s three hundred an hour. Wrist’s fourhundred, thigh’s five-fifty. Shoulder anywhere else, we can negotiate. You can sign on as a regular, or keep it casual. We also offer exclusive arrangements. More private. More lucrative. More dangerous.”

Eden pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded, pretending she wasn’t halfway to hyperventilating. Her mouth felt like cotton and her stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering. But her voice held steady.

“What’s the risk?”

Stack shrugged. “Some vampires don’t know when to stop. Some donors fall in love. Some folks just aren’t built for it. We vet both sides, but accidents happen. That’s why we sign oaths. Confidentiality. Consent. Boundaries.”

She stared at him for a moment. “And you? What do you do here? Besides sit in velvet and look... like that.”

He smiled again, but slower this time, like he appreciated the jab. “I run this place. I built it. I make sure the hungry don’t get sloppy, and the desperate don’t disappear. That’s my job.”

“And if I disappear anyway?”

Stack’s smile faded, not into anger, but into something quieter. He looked at her in that same scanning way from before. Like he was looking past the makeup, past the attitude, down into the parts of her she didn’t let people touch.

“You got people who’d come looking for you?”

Eden thought of her dad. His voice on the phone, always clipped when she brought up music or asked for help. She thought of her name on the caller ID and the way he probably paused before letting it go to voicemail.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Stack didn’t look surprised. “Then you’re the kind of girl this place was made for.”

The room settled into stillness again, thick as gumbo. The only sound was the soft buzz of something electrical and the faint thump of music far beneath them. Eden’s thoughts were running in circles, dragging every old warning and new curiosity with them.

She thought about her bank account. About the way her car shuddered when she turned the key. About the silk dress she wanted to wear for her next show that still sat in the consignment window with a tag she couldn’t afford.

She thought about her voice. That gift she was chasing like it owed her something. Every sacrifice. Every studio hour. Every burnt-out candle and scribbled lyric.

And then she thought about this room. This man. This offer that felt like it came from a door she didn’t know she’d already opened.

“What happens if I say yes?” she asked.

Stack’s eyes didn’t blink. “Then I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you’re fed, rested, paid. Protected. You give me your time and a little of your blood. I give you everything else.”

“And if I want more?” she asked, softer now. “Not just money. I want freedom. A little power of my own.”

For the first time, something shifted in his face. Not surprise, but interest. Real interest.

“You’d be surprised what blood can buy,” he said. “Especially when it’s yours.”

Eden exhaled slow. She didn’t know if she believed him, but she wanted to. That scared her more than anything.

She looked down at her chipped nail polish, at the ring she kept on her pinky for good luck, then back up at him.

“I’ll try it,” she said. “Once.”

Stack nodded like he already knew. He stood again and reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. Not paper. Parchment. The kind that smelled like it belonged in a museum. He laid it on the table with a small, weighted pen.

“Name, date, initials here and here. Once you sign, the room changes.”

Eden raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Stack’s purple eyes gleamed. “You’ll see.”

She stared at the parchment. Her heart thumped a little faster now, but she didn’t hesitate.

She signed.

And the room breathed.

Not literally, but that’s how it felt. The wallpaper shifted, shadows deepened. Something behind her spine tingled, as if the walls were watching now.

Stack watched her, too. “You hungry?”

Eden blinked. “A little.”

He extended a hand. This time, she took it.

His hand was cool. Not cold like death, just cooler than it should’ve been. Like he hadn’t been touched by sun or sweat in years. Eden followed him through a second doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She could’ve sworn that wall was solid when she walked in. Now it opened like a secret.

The new room was quieter. Darker, too, but not in a threatening way. It felt... sacred. The lighting came from candles tucked into glass sconces, their flames barely flickering. The walls were painted a deep garnet that made the space feel like it had been dipped in wine. Heavy curtains hung in the corners like they were hiding more than windows.

At the center of the room sat a low velvet couch and a wide leather chair shaped like a throne, but not gaudy. Worn in. Like someone had loved it for a long time. The air smelled faintly of clove and something richer, something warm. It wrapped around her like a robe.

“Sit wherever you’re comfortable,” Stack said, his voice lower now, closer to a whisper.

Eden moved to the couch. Her legs didn’t feel like her own anymore. The velvet was soft under her fingers, like the kind of fabric rich people bought without checking the price tag. She leaned back and took a breath.

Stack remained standing. He didn’t hover, didn’t crowd her. Just watched.

“I’m going to ask again,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

Eden nodded. “Yeah.”

He smiled, slower this time. Less show. More meaning.

“Good. Then we’ll make it clean.”

He walked over to a cabinet near the back of the room and pulled out a shallow silver bowl, etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. Then he lit a bundle of dried herbs and let the smoke curl into the corners. It didn’t choke the air, just warmed it, changed it. Eden felt something loosen in her chest. The fear didn’t vanish, but it dulled.

“This is how we start,” he said. “No one touches without consent. You say stop, I stop. You say no, we’re done. Say the word mercy if anything feels wrong.”

She nodded. “Mercy.”

“Good girl.”

The words should’ve felt patronizing. But they didn’t. They felt like a key turning in a door.

He set the bowl on a low table beside the couch, then took off his gloves. His hands were ringed in gold and the veins under his skin looked faintly violet, like there was something strange running through him.

“Where?”

Eden’s throat went dry.

She remembered the ad. Neck. Thigh. Wrist. Options like a damn menu. It sounded transactional until it was real. Until you had to say it out loud to someone who would actually do it.

She tilted her head, just slightly, exposing her throat.

“Neck,” she said. “Just there.”

Stack moved slowly, no rush in him. He came to sit beside her, close but careful, like she was a page in a holy book he wasn’t sure he had permission to read. He didn’t touch her at first. Just looked.

His eyes had that same violet glow, soft and low like candlelight. There was no hunger in them, not the way she’d imagined. No animal in the shadows. Just need, steady and patient.

He brushed her curls back with a single finger. His touch was deliberate. Reverent.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he said. “Then warmth.”

She nodded, even though her heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear her own breath.

He leaned in.

His mouth was cool against her skin, not open at first. Just resting there. Then she felt it. A brief, sharp ache, like a pinprick from a needle that knew where to go. Not pain exactly. More like being opened.

Then came the warmth. A slow pull that tugged at her chest and her belly and somewhere deeper. It was dizzying. She gripped the couch cushion beside her and let her eyes fall shut.

She thought it would feel like something being taken from her. But it didn’t. It felt like something shared. Something circular. Like her blood was telling a story and he was just listening, slow and careful, taking only what he needed.

When he pulled back, he let out a slow breath against her skin.

“That’s enough.”

Eden blinked her eyes open. Her limbs felt light, her mind foggy but soft, like she’d just come out of a warm bath.

He pressed a cool cloth to her neck, then leaned back to give her space.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She had to think about it. Then she smiled.

“Like I just got kissed by something dangerous.”

Stack chuckled, low and pleased. “That’s because you did.”

He stood and reached for a small black envelope on the side table. Inside was a stack of crisp bills. Cash. The real kind. Eden took it with fingers that still tingled.

“This is yours,” he said. “For tonight.”

She didn’t count it. She didn’t need to.

Stack looked down at her, head slightly tilted. “You ever want more, you know where to find me.”

Eden stood, a little shakier than she expected. She gathered her purse, her keys, her thoughts. Her neck still throbbed gently, but not in a bad way.

“Thank you,” she said, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And Eden?”

She turned.

His eyes were glowing again, soft but unreadable.

“You were made for this.”

She didn’t answer. She just walked out into the night, heart pounding, mouth dry, and mind racing. The street outside was the same as when she’d arrived. But she wasn’t.

Not anymore.

The rust-colored Honda didn’t shudder this time. It purred like it was just as stunned as she was.

Eden drove with the windows down, letting the thick New Orleans night wrap around her like a wet velvet shawl. The air was rich with honeysuckle, oil, and the ghost of a second line that had long since moved on. Her neck still buzzed, not with pain, but with presence. A lingering echo of fangs and breath and a moment that felt like it cracked something open inside her.

She rolled past the neon flicker of corner stores and daiquiri shops, the cracked sidewalks of uptown giving way to potholes and porch lights. Her thoughts moved as slowly as her car did. Heavy, syrupy things that stuck to the edges of her brain and refused to form full sentences.

She’d sold her blood. Just handed it over like a receipt. Signed her name on a scroll older than any contract she’d ever seen. Sat inches from a man with glowing eyes and a golden fang and said yes.

And yet… she didn’t feel wrong.

Her heartbeat was steady now, settled. Her limbs were loose and lazy, like her body knew something she didn’t. Like it had crossed a threshold and didn’t see a reason to go back.

At a red light, she glanced at the cash in her passenger seat. Real money. More than she’d made in a month of folding sweaters at the campus bookstore. Her fingers twitched with the urge to count it, to be sure, but something in her resisted. That wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was how she felt. And for once, it wasn’t desperate.

It was dangerous.

She parked outside her apartment just after two a.m., the same flickering streetlamp buzzing above her like always. Normally, she would’ve slumped inside, peeled off her shoes, microwaved something sad, and stared at her ceiling until sleep came to find her. But tonight she sat still in the car, engine off, listening to the sound of cicadas and the low rumble of the city that never really slept.

She touched her neck. There was no bandage. Just skin. Tender, yes, but smooth.

Like he’d never been there.

But he had. And her body remembered.

When she finally made it inside, Eden didn’t bother undressing. She collapsed onto her bed face-up, curls fanned across the pillow, clothes still sticking to her from the sweat of the night. She meant to scroll her phone, maybe check her email. Instead, sleep came hard and fast.

And with it, the dream.

She was back in the velvet room, but everything was softer. Louder. Redder. The walls pulsed like they had a heartbeat. Candles melted into puddles on the floor, filling the air with the smell of blood-orange and clove.

Stack stood across from her, suit jacket off now. The sleeves of his burgundy shirt rolled to the elbows. The gold on his wrist glinted in the candlelight, and his grill caught her eye when he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not cold.

This smile was hot and low and deliberate.

He crossed the room without a word, steps soundless, until his hands were on her waist. His touch wasn’t demanding. It was magnetic. Her body leaned in before her mind caught up.

“Still not scared?” he murmured.

His voice brushed her skin like silk and sin.

“No,” she said, or maybe just thought it. In dreams, it didn’t matter.

He pressed his forehead to hers, just long enough for her to feel the thrum of something ancient behind his skin. Then his lips traced the spot on her neck he’d bitten. Not kissing. Not quite.

Tasting.

She gasped.

And woke up breathless.

Her bedroom was dark and quiet. The fan whirred above her, and outside someone’s dog barked once, then stopped. Her skin was slick with sweat, but she didn’t feel hot.

She felt hollow. Wired. A little drunk on something that hadn’t happened.

She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, and reached for her phone.

The screen lit her face in blue, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize herself. Her eyes were too sharp. Her lips too calm. She looked like someone with secrets. The kind of girl you warned people about.

Eden opened her messages and scrolled to the last number in her phone.

504-9VAMPYR.

She stared at it for a long minute, thumb hovering. Then she typed three words.

When’s the next?

She hit send. No emoji. No punctuation. Just intent.

The message delivered with a quiet chime.

And Eden leaned back in her bed, the dream still clinging to her skin like smoke.

She didn’t know what came next.

But she knew she wanted more.

Her phone buzzed again.

Tomorrow. Midnight. Same place. Wear red.

Tag List: @whoaitslucyylu @omgffs @healanette @secret89sblog @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @soufcakmistress @thickemadame @blackpantherismyish @kumkaniudaku @youreadthatright @post-woke @chaneajoyyy @kissmyafropuff @empressdede @melodyofmbaku @blktinkerbell @turbulentvoids @writerbee-ffs @jasssdee1 @cerya @hearteyes-for-killmonger @theegoldenchild @theogbadbitch @honggihwa @dashhoney25 @jackierose902109 @hotcommodityyy @browngirldominion @j0ysyndr0m3

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Sinners Masterlist

All things Elias ‘Stack’ Moore and Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

Smut, Fluff, Angst, Violence, Mentions of blood, 18+ Content

ELIJAH ‘SMOKE’ MOORE FICS:

I Put A Spell On You Part One

I Put A Spell On You Part Two

I Put A Spell On You Part Three

I Put A Spell On You Part Four (coming soon)

It Should Have Been You *one-shot*

ELIAS ‘STACK’ MOORE FICS:

Route 666 Part One

Route 666 Part Two

Route 666 Part Three

Route 666 Part Four (coming soon)

I Need You *one-shot*

Headcannon: FIELD B*TCHES?!

ANNIE X ELIJAH MOORE FICS (ft. ELIAS MOORE AND OTHER CHARACTERS):

Hoodoo Apprentice Part One

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Two

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Three

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Four

Hoodoo Apprentice Part Five (coming soon)

FIC SUMMARIES TO COME:

The Roaring Thief [Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore]

Charleston Dance [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Pandora Moore [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Summer of ‘72 [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Back Water Blues [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Petting Party [Elias ‘Stack’ Moore]

Tragedy & Comedy [Smoke x Stack x other characters]

Black Star Line [Smoke x Stack x OC]

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Thought of another Elias ‘Stack’ Moore idea…

Imagine the OC is a college student (or whatever) in the early 2000s looking for a way to make some money. It’s set in the South (Atlanta, Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas) wherever and while searching online she comes across an add to become a donor and make some fast cash…

She applied and finds out that this donor job is to allow a vampire to feed from you for money. Also, you can go a step further and become the vampire’s personal ‘fang banger’ or ‘casket thumper’ signing oath to keep things secret 👀 supernatural stuff aren’t known to many, so doing this is risky in itself.

Earnings also depend on where you want to be bitten and how fare to take it…example (neck: $300 an hour. Inner thigh: $550 an hour)

I’m not writing this but imagine how that would go?!