ShaNiece swayed her hips to the newest TLC track, wine cooler in hand, curves dipping low with every beat. She was in her element. Vibing. Glowing. Free.
Her mama had finally caved and agreed to watch Shanaye for the night. Fifteen or not, that little girl had more energy than most grown folks, and ShaNiece—thirty, fine, and flying solo—needed a break.
Sure, she’d made what Big Mama still called “the biggest mistake of her life” at eighteen. But that baby saved her. Made her sharper. Wiser. Stronger. She went to college, graduated top of her class, and broke into finance like a storm in heels. In a world full of men trying to “rescue” her from single motherhood, she was already saving herself—six figures deep, child in tow.
She was good. Or so she thought.
“Damn, Niecy! Slow down on them drinks, girl!” Belinda—BeBe to the crew—called out, passing her a murky shot of something strong.
ShaNiece laughed, tossing it back without hesitation. The burn kissed the back of her throat and lit her chest with fire. “Girl, I don’t get out like this often. Let me shake this ass in peace!”
The bass dropped, and the house party roared to life. BeBe kept the shots flowing, and ShaNiece kept dancing like the night owed her joy.
Then he came.
He didn’t ask. He just stepped behind her like he’d been invited by the rhythm itself. He’d been watching, she could feel it. His body slid into place behind hers, close but not too close, letting the music guide them. He wanted to catch what she was throwing—and baby, she threw it well.
When the next beat hit, she paused, teasing, until his breath brushed her ear.
“You scared now?”
His voice was smooth, deep and sure. Her hips responded before she could. Fueled by liquor and laughter, she rolled her ass back into him like it was their song playing—and it damn sure was. He matched her every move, gripping her waist, hips meeting hers with intention. A few heads turned. Let them watch.
“That’s it, lil’ mama,” he murmured, before spinning her to face him.
ShaNiece caught her breath. His golds flashed when he smiled. Coogi sweater. Baggy jeans. Mustache thick and neat. Skin the color of sweet caramel. His eyes were hidden behind shades, but she didn’t need to see them to know he was fine. Real fine.
“You tryna fuck me on the dance floor?” she teased, snapping her fingers in his face. “Helloooo?”
“You always got an attitude like that?” he asked, raising one brow as he pushed his shades higher.
She smirked. “Only when men act brand new after grinding on me for four songs straight. What’s your name?”
“You can call me Stack.” He lifted his hand to show a gold-plated ring spelling it across three fingers. “Yours?” He already knew it. He’d heard her friend call her name throughout the night.
“I’m sure that ain’t what your mama named you,” she said, popping her gum and patting her finger waves. “But I feel you.” Her gold earrings swung with flair—Niecey etched on both. “My friends call me Niecey”
“So we friends now?” he asked, grinning.
“We danced, didn’t we? That counts.” She winked, stepping back into the crowd. “Later, Stack.”
“Hol’ up,” he said, catching her wrist.
A jolt shot through both of them. He dropped her hand like it burned and shook his head like he forgot what he meant to say. “Uh… take my number.”
She smirked as he scribbled digits in her palm before they vanished in opposite directions.
⸻
It was close to 2 a.m. when they stumbled out, trying to make the one-block walk to BeBe’s apartment.
“Biiitch, I’m drunk,” BeBe groaned, hunched over a fence. It was their third stop in a five-minute walk that was now dragging into twenty.
“You ain’t lyin’,” ShaNiece muttered, pulling tissues from her fanny pack to dab the sweat from BeBe’s face and spit from her mouth. “Here. Drink.”
BeBe slumped to the grass. “Go without me!”
“You dramatic.” Still, ShaNiece knew they weren’t making it home like this.
She pulled BeBe’s cell from her jeans and called the number in her palm. A shot in the dark.
“Hello?”
That voice. Smooth, like that dark brown liquor she’d been downing all night.
“Niecey?” His tone softened her name like he already missed her.
“Yeah, um… it’s me. I know it’s late but—”
“Where are you?”
She gave him the corner.
BeBe gagged. “I hope this nigga ain’t no murderer! What you know about him?”
“I know he’s giving us a ride. Hush!” ShaNiece palmed her blade, just in case.
Stack pulled up minutes later. The ride was quiet except for the radio—and his humming. She joined in softly, their voices finding a rhythm even without the music.
When they reached the building, he tapped her thigh. “Take your girl in. Come holla at me.”
She paused. “Or… you could come in.”
She wasn’t the one-night stand type. But something about Stack made her brave.
They carried BeBe to bed. ShaNiece made sure she was okay before returning to the living room, kicking off her Reeboks and tugging her earrings off with a chuckle. “We might’ve gone too hard tonight.”
Stack kicked off his sneakers and sank into the couch beside her. “This every weekend?”
She shook her head. “Not even. Between work and my daughter, I’m booked and busy.”
“Then let’s not waste this rare time.”
He leaned in. Kissed her neck. Hands roaming. Mouth hungry.
By the time their lips met, she was pulling him into the spare room.
Clothes hit the floor in rhythm. His Coogi sweater. Her button-down jersey. Her lace bra fell away and he growled, mouth on her chest. Her shorts slid down and she took him in—his strong chest, curved girth springing free. She reached for his glasses.
He pulled away. “No”
“What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. Just kissed her deeper.
ShaNiece gently reached again, this time with both hands, easing the glasses off.
His eyes were unreal—shifting hues of shimmering silver, and something old. They sparkled like a curse and a promise all in one.
She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to.
“Damn,” she whispered. ShaNiece kissed his lips to reassure him before leaning back.
She stroked her clit watching him take over. He kissed her down to her center, tongue working slow, fingers thick and skilled. She shook beneath him, whimpering, reaching for him.
“I need you,” she moaned, staring into those eyes. “Please.”
He slid into her slowly, possessively. With every stroke, he seemed to pull lightning from her bones.
“Yeees, Stack!” she cried out.
He zoned in on her neck.
Just a taste, he thought hearing her blood pulsating. Calling out for him.
“You like that, baby?” he whispered in her ear. “I’mma keep fucking you until I’m the only thing you think about.” He growled into her ear licking the tip of it.
She screamed his name, eyes wet with pleasure. He flipped her, stroked her deeper. She climbed on top, riding him backwards. He couldn’t resist that pulsating force.
When he bit her neck, she gasped. The bite—sharp, precise.
Pain bloomed, bright and quick, but it unraveled into something else. Heat. Wetness. A pull so deep it made her knees buckle.
She felt the suction of his mouth, the way he fed—not ravenous, but sensual. Worshipful.
Her breath caught, then spilled out in a moan. Her body trembled against his, hips arching, thighs clenching. It was as if he were drinking more than blood—like he was pulling memories, want, soul from her skin.
She was floating. Melting.
And Stack groaned against her, one hand sliding to pinch her chocolate perky nipple.
“You look so fuckin’ delicious,” he moaned, licking the blood. “Had to taste.” His eyes sparkled more.
She turned to kiss him, tasting herself and him and whatever magic sparked between them.
“You’re mine now, baby,” he whispered against her lips. “Whatever you had before—dead that.”
She stared, expecting a laugh. None came.
Their bodies slapped in time, her bangles rattling like wind chimes. She gave him everything—and he took it, pushed her further, until the world fell away.
When they were done, tangled and sweaty, he whispered, “You’re beautiful,” against her frizzy finger waves.
She laid there, one hand on his chest, circling gently.
He meant every word.
She told herself it was just the drinks talking. Tomorrow, he’d be a faded memory.
But tonight?
Tonight, he was everything.
⸻
Atlanta, 1992
Elias “Stack” Moore POV
He should’ve never touched her.
The moment her ass backed up into him on that dance floor, something in his chest cracked open. He hadn’t felt that kind of pull in decades—not since Mary. But this? This was different. This woman wasn’t casting a spell. She was the spell.
ShaNiece. Niecey. That name settled on his tongue like honey and heat.
When she called him later, voice soft and a little slurred, asking for a favor—he didn’t hesitate. He was halfway to her before she dropped the cross street. It wasn’t just lust pulling him. It was instinct. Fate. Hunger.
He helped carry her friend inside, eyes flicking to every corner. He didn’t sense any other presence. No one watching. No threats.
Except the one inside himself.
When she invited him in, he knew he should’ve said no. He had rules. Boundaries. Protocol. Fallon would curse his whole bloodline if she knew he was entertaining a mortal woman this drunk, this vulnerable.
But she wasn’t vulnerable. She was vivid. Fully alive. That rare kind of woman who knew who she was and didn’t apologize for it. And that laugh? It had weight.
He couldn’t explain it. Didn’t want to.
So he followed her into the back room, watching as she stripped with casual grace, like she’d done this dance a thousand times for no one but herself.
Then she reached for his shades.
“No,” he said too fast, too sharp.
She blinked but didn’t flinch. Just eased her hands back. “What’s wrong?”
But he saw it in her eyes—curiosity. Maybe a little hurt.
He couldn’t let her see. Not yet. Not until he knew what the hell was happening between them.
Because something was happening.
And it scared the hell out of him.
When she touched herself, moaning his name, his resolve cracked. She smelled like warm rain and vanilla and the faintest trace of something familiar. Not perfume. Not lotion.
Bloodline.
The first time he tasted her, tongue pressed to that aching pulse between her legs, it was electric. Tense. She trembled like her body already knew him—like her soul was calling out something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
Then she begged for him.
“Please.”
He gave in. Sank into her slow, controlled, trying to keep the beast leashed. But the moment her nails dug into his back and her cries filled the room, he felt it rise The thirst.
He pressed his mouth to her neck and just breathed, trying to ground himself. She smelled divine. Real. Unfiltered. Not the sterile, synthetic blood bags he forced on himself. This woman carried something pure—unspoiled by darkness.
Just a taste, he told himself. Just enough to remember who he used to be.
When he bit down, she gasped. He moaned against her skin.
The blood hit him like a lightning strike. A rush of her hit him—heat and copper, sun-drenched laughter, a child’s cry, an old gospel hum from a porch swing on a Sunday afternoon. Her blood poured over his tongue like silk, thick with grief and joy, survival and sweetness. It wasn’t just sustenance. It was a story.
He gripped her tighter as her body bucked beneath him, her moans hitching on the edge of pain and pleasure. Her heartbeat pounded in his ears, steady and brave. She didn’t scream. She gasped. Then melted.
“Damn, you look so fuckin’ delicious,” he groaned, licking the wound gently, sealing it with his tongue.
The moment he did, her body arched again. Her orgasm hit with tremors—shaking both of them. The taste of her climax still clung to his lips when she turned to kiss him, like she needed to taste what he’d taken.
She kissed him like she knew something.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. She turned and kissed him like she knew. Like she wanted him still.
He wanted to stop.
But he needed to finish.
So he fucked her like he’d been waiting lifetimes.
Because maybe… he had.
She came apart in his arms, all curses and moans and fingernails, and he held her through it, burying his face in her hair like a man at prayer.
Afterward, she curled against him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes fluttered closed.
He stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
Not from the sex. Not even from the bite.
But from the knowing.
ShaNiece wasn’t just some fling. She wasn’t random.
He’d felt this before—decades ago, in shadows and dreams. Every couple of years or so, someone would spark that flicker, but it always faded.
This? This burned.
He looked down at her, sleeping like she trusted him.
He didn’t deserve it.
He’d tasted her blood—and buried in it, something simmered beneath the surface. Not just sweetness. Not just warmth.
Something immortal.
Something dangerous.
And for the first time in a long time, Elias “Stack” Moore felt something close to fear.
Because he didn’t know if he’d been sent to protect this woman… or destroy her.
Atlanta, 1992- The Next Day
Elias “Stack” Moore POV
The sky was still painted indigo when he walked into the back office of the club. The city wasn’t fully awake yet—but Fallon was.
Of course she was.
She leaned against the desk, arms crossed, in a black turtleneck and gold hoops. Her eyes—that sharp hazel gold—tracked him like prey.
“Where the fuck were you last night?”
Elias didn’t answer right away. He took off his sweater, dumping it to the side. Peeled off the rest of his clothes one item at a time down to his boxers. He needed to shower.
Fallon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“You didn’t check in,” she said, voice low and flat. “And you didn’t feed yesterday.”
He looked up then, jaw tight. “I fed.”
“You fed,” she echoed, nostrils flaring. “Not from a bag.”
He didn’t answer. Just walked past her to the small bar and poured two shots of bourbon. It burned going down, but not enough. He still tasted her.
“I told you,” she said, stepping closer, “the girl from the party. She’s not clean.”
His hand stilled on the glass.
“I didn’t say she was dirty. I meant she’s… special. Like she’s different or something.”
“You think I didn’t feel that?” he muttered, turning toward her.
Fallon’s eyes narrowed.
“So you did see her?”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t have to.
Fallon’s jaw locked. “You bit her.”
He stayed silent.
“You fucking bit her?” Her voice dropped, but it hit like a punch. “Jesus, Elias. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“She was already in it,” he said quietly. “Before I touched her. Before I knew her name.”
“Don’t give me that ‘destiny’ bullshit,” she snapped. “You felt a pull? Great. You know what that means.”
He looked at her then, really looked. Her face was tight with fear—not anger. That scared him more than anything.
“She didn’t scream,” he said. “Didn’t push me away. When I bit her, she leaned in.”
Fallon shook her head. “You don’t get it. That’s worse. That means she already in trouble.”
He stilled. “What?”
Fallon lowered her voice. “Mary.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then she whispered, “The Juke, Elias.”
“Don’t” he growled.
“They died, Stack. And it tore a hole in you big enough to crawl through. Don’t pretend like this ain’t déjà vu.”
He turned away, gripping the edge of the desk until the wood creaked.
Fallon stepped closer, softer now. “You said she was the only one who ever made you feel like this until she didn’t”
“She broke me on purpose.” He thought of her and the curse she forged in him.
“But this one,” Fallon pressed, “ShaNiece. She’s making you feel again.”
He nodded once. Slow. Painful.
Fallon’s voice trembled. “Then we got a problem. Because if you felt that bond, Stack, if you took ShaNiece’s blood because it called you—you know what comes next.”
He closed his eyes. “Mary.”
Fallon nodded. “She always knows when you give yourself away.”
My name ain’t important. But people call me Smoke. They say I’m the quiet one. That’s fine. The ones who whisper are always the ones who know the most. I don’t talk unless I need to. Don’t show unless I’m already three steps ahead. And I don’t touch what I ain’t ready to own.
That’s the rule. Because when I touch?
I keep…
The road to his house doesn’t show up on maps.
It snakes through pine and magnolia, then dips into shadow. Gravel crunches beneath the wheels of his blacked-out Charger—every inch of it matte, low-slung, and muscled like the man behind the wheel. The gate doesn’t creak. It opens on command, coded, unseen. He keeps it that way. Cameras blink red from the trees, tucked where eyes don’t wander unless they’ve got something to hide.
The house itself rises like a secret: matte black siding, obsidian wood, steel-lined corners. No porch chairs. No flowers. Just trimmed grass, smoke in the air, and a pitbull named Whisper chained to stillness.
Inside, it’s cooler than expected. Not cold, but still. The air smells like cedarwood and firewood and cigar smoke that’s clung to the walls like memory. The lights are low—always low. Just enough to see, never enough to expose.
Velvet blackout curtains hang heavy over the windows, drowning daylight before it ever touches his skin. A single speaker hums from somewhere hidden—Bobby Womack, gravel-sweet and haunted, drifting slow over concrete floors polished to obsidian shine.
This isn’t a home. This is a den.
Smoke moves through it like he was born here, though he wasn’t. His bare feet land soft on a dark rug that stretches like a shadow across the hallway. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, hangs it on a hook beside a single packed duffel bag—always ready. His gun is already inside. His backup phone, too. He never unpacks it.
He doesn’t need to. He’s never off the clock.
A row of jackets—bomber, black denim, hooded zip-up—hang beside the door like armor. Beneath them, only three pairs of shoes on the metal rack: gym sneakers, black Timbs, and a pair of Nike slides worn smooth from repetition. No guests. No women’s heels. No mess.
Just him.
In the kitchen, everything’s matte black. Cabinets. Appliances. The fridge hums low. A bottle of Uncle Nearest 1856 Premium Whiskey rests beside a French press, untouched but ready. Inside the freezer, glass-clear cubes sit waiting like polished ice bullets. A drawer on the left holds cast iron pans, perfectly seasoned. The drawer to the right?
Blunts, grinder, silver lighter, pre-rolls. A tin of soft baby wipes.
He doesn’t label anything. He just knows where it is.
The living room dips into silence, sunken leather couch spread wide, built to take a body—his or hers or both. A turntable gleams under a focused spotlight, with vinyls stacked like scripture: D’Angelo. Marvin. The Isley Brothers. Mama’s Gun.
There’s one piece of art on the wall—black-and-white, large, and centered: the back of a nude Black woman, faceless and arched, shoulder blades rising like wings. Strong. Tender. Untouched.
No one knows who she is.
Smoke does.
But he’ll never say.
His office is darker than the rest. A command center. Monitors line the wall—four curved screens, all powered down for now. The curtains in here never open. The candle on the desk burns cedar and oud, slow and expensive.
Only three things ever rest on the glass surface:
A sleek silver laptop.
An encrypted phone.
A Glock 19 in the drawer, matte and cold, waiting.
The room smells like concentration. Like tension. Like thoughts too heavy to say out loud. The wall behind him is lined with books: Baldwin. bell hooks. Morrison. Code manuals. Erotica. Street poetry. A collection of things that say exactly who he is—but only if you look long enough.
This is where he watches her.
His bedroom is soft in a way he doesn’t explain.
The walls are oxblood, rich and close. The bed is king-sized with a matte leather headboard and cotton sheets so smooth they whisper when he moves. The comforter is heavy. Smells like him—smoke, oud, and skin.
On the left nightstand:
A silver watch.
An ashtray.
A small pistol.
Black Tahitian Vanilla & Bourbon Oil, unopened.
On the right:
Two paperbacks.
A glass of water, half full.
A pack of incense with one stick gone.
Unused condoms, placed but not touched.
The mirror across from the bed is quiet. Not showy. It just sees.
Underneath the bed: a black lockbox.
No one’s ever opened it.
Not even him lately.
The bathroom is steam and slate, dim and clean.
The black tile drinks light. The rainfall shower hisses from above, built with a bench tucked in shadow. The towels are black and thick, folded exact. On the counter: beard oil, Tom Ford cologne, silver clippers, a sleek lighter.
One hidden drawer holds things that don’t get used often:
Silk blindfold. Rope. Lube. A card he never gave her.
He opens it. Closes it. Stares at himself in the mirror.
He presses lotion into his palms—a dark amber oil, thick and rich with spice and wood. Slow. Methodical. Fingertips to knuckles to the soft inside of the wrist. He smooths it into his chest, the sheen of it catching light like warm lacquer poured over muscle. Not a flaw in sight. Skin kissed bronze, taut across his shoulders, tattoo crawling over his ribs. Precision.
He doesn’t smile in the mirror.
Just watches. Still.
Like a man already mourning his self-control.
Not yet.
He moves back into the hall. Everything muffled.
Whisper pads beside him—black pitbull, silent, trained to obey. The dog doesn’t bark. Just watches. Just waits.
Smoke moves through the house the way wind moves through trees—felt more than seen. He doesn’t turn on lights. Doesn’t need to. His body already knows the layout. His mind’s already thinking ahead.
“Discipline’s everything.”
He tells himself that before every set in the gym.
He tells himself that before every job.
He tells himself that when he watches her—face glowing from the screen, soft and tired, whispering things she doesn’t mean but he believes anyway.
She doesn’t know he exists.
Not yet.
But this house? This silence? This den?
It’s already hers.
The alarm doesn’t sound.
It vibrates.
A soft hum beneath his pillow, enough to pull him from sleep without shattering it. The house stays dark. The clock reads 5:27 AM.
He doesn’t linger.
Smoke moves like a man built from ritual.
Before his feet hit the floor, he’s already cataloging the day, the weather, his muscle ache, the silent pulse of the security feed running through his mind. There’s no rush. No chaos. Just structure.
He stretches, bones clicking, the weight of the night sliding from his shoulders. His sheets smell faintly of oud and clean cotton. The dog is still asleep by the door, one ear raised, waiting.
The floor is cool beneath his feet. Concrete polished smooth, almost black. He crosses the room, pulls the blackout curtain back just enough to let a single blade of dawn light cut through the red of the walls. Outside, fog hangs low over the trees. The driveway disappears into it.
Silence. Always silence.
The Ritual
By 5:35, he’s in the kitchen.
A single mug. Black ceramic. No design. No color.
He pours his coffee from a French press, slow, careful— no sugar, no cream. His silver rings clink against the mug. The faint sound echoes through the house.
He stands by the counter, half-shadowed, half-awake, watching the steam rise. The smell of dark roast mixes with cedar and last night’s cigar smoke. His jaw is still rough from sleep.
He doesn’t check his phone yet. That comes later.
For now, the music.
He taps the Sonos panel and lets Al Green fill the room —warm, scratchy vinyl from the record player in the living room. “Simply Beautiful.” It hums low under the hum of the refrigerator.
His eyes close for a second. Breath in. Breath out.
Routine anchors him. Keeps him from unraveling.
The Gym Discipline
By 5:50, he’s gone.
The Charger purrs down the empty road—black on black, no headlights until he hits the main road.
The gym isn’t a franchise. It’s one of those industrial spaces on the city’s south side—concrete floors, iron racks, bare bulbs. No Wi-Fi. No posing mirrors.
The regulars know him, but no one talks to him.
He nods at the man behind the counter, scans his tag, and goes straight to the back where the weight benches are.
His rhythm is precise—pull, exhale, control, reset.
When the weight strains his shoulders, his breath doesn’t break.
He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t flex for anyone. Just keeps pushing, veins rising in his arms, sweat beading along his hairline.
There’s power in repetition. Power in silence.
The music fades into his pulse.
Every rep is an act of prayer.
Every breath, an exorcism.
The Return
By 7:05, the fog’s burned off the yard.
He strips in the bathroom—drops the hoodie, the joggers, the compression tee. His reflection waits in the mirror: six feet of muscle, broad shoulders, dark skin slick with sweat.
His tattoos are barely visible in the dim light.
The thin black circuit design on his left bicep glints faintly, the scorpion behind his ear hidden under the fade. He traces none of them. He knows what they mean.
Cold water hits his skin like a blade.
He doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head back, lets the chill cut through the heat.
Steam rises, curling against the slate tiles.
He scrubs his beard with slow precision. Oils his skin after. The scent of oud wood and smoke clings to him —masculine, rich, unmistakable.
By 7:30, he’s dressed: black joggers, gray thermal, silver chain with the onyx charm. His watch. His rings.
He reads while he eats. Always reads.
A Baldwin paperback cracked open on the counter. Notes in the margins. Pen between his fingers.
His breakfast is clean—oats, fruit, protein, coffee refill.
The house hums around him.
It’s a rhythm now—the quiet before the day starts to test him.
He checks his phone finally.
One encrypted alert from the office.
Three client messages.
And a bookmark he doesn’t touch yet—the one leading back to her.
He’ll get there.
After he’s earned it.
After the work is done.
Discipline first. Desire later.
That’s what he tells himself.
Even when both start to feel like the same thing.
The Charger eases onto the street like it belongs there —windows tinted black, the engine tuned low. It’s not the loudest thing on the block. Just the one that gets remembered.
Smoke doesn’t speed. He doesn’t weave. He glides.
Through West End. Past the muraled walls and stoops with plastic chairs and ashtrays full of rainwater. Down boulevards lined with tired convenience stores and corner churches, liquor stores with iron gates, and streets named after saints and presidents.
He sees everything.
But nothing sees him.
The Barbershop Above the City
He parks in East Point.
Not on the main strip—never too close. Three blocks down from a quiet corner where nobody minds their business, but everybody knows not to speak it.
The barbershop looks like any other from the outside— sun-faded posters of old-school fades, grillz, and celebrity cuts taped crooked in the window. Inside, it hums: clippers buzzing, chairs spinning, old heads debating boxing and politics over the whine of a portable fan.
But Smoke doesn’t sit in a chair.
He nods once to the man behind the register—heavyset, beard dyed red, eyes sharp—and slips through the side door, up the narrow staircase past chipped paint and burnt incense.
Upstairs, the air changes.
The music cuts out.
The walls are thicker.
Here, above the noise, there’s a hallway of private rooms—rooms that “rent by the hour” to men who need silence, not a shave.
Room 3 is his.
Unmarked. Unnamed. Just a matte black door with a brass number and a biometric lock. Inside:
A desk. Heavy, unadorned, built low.
Two chairs—one for him, one never used.
A wall safe behind an ink-black painting.
Locked drawers full of backup drives, burner phones, old IDs, USB tools, and gloves.
He doesn’t stay long.
Checks the feed. Encrypts a message. Scrolls through accounts under names that aren’t his. Then he’s gone.
He never stays longer than 12 minutes.
Discipline. Always.
Errands in the City’s Blind Spots
Gas station off Cleveland Ave.
He doesn’t fill up. Just tops off. Always enough to leave. Never enough to stay.
He watches the parking lot reflections in the glass.
Laundromat off Pryor Street.
He drops a sealed envelope inside a half-broken dryer.
A kid with no socks will come pick it up in two hours. The washer next to it is rigged with a second envelope. The cycle always spins clean.
Restaurant stop—Slim & Husky’s
He don’t eat inside. Never does. Orders light: lemon pepper flatbread, side of greens, a cold Jamaican ginger.
Tips big. Says nothing. Makes the cashier blush anyway.
His eyes? Always scanning. Not twitchy. Just trained.
Mirrors. Shadows. Cars parked too long in one spot.
People underestimate how much you can learn from the shape of a man’s shoulders as he walks away.
Or a woman’s eyes when she’s trying not to look.
The Stakeout Begins (But No One Knows Yet)
He parks two blocks down from a daycare in South Fulton.
Windows cracked.
Phone dark.
Seat leaned just enough.
He’s not hunting.
Not yet.
Just watching.
Just making sure.
He doesn’t know her name yet.
But he knows the car.
The walk.
The worn tires and the cracked taillight.
The time she always runs late—6:12 PM.
Sometimes her son’s got a little plastic bag of goldfish. Sometimes a blue hoodie, slipping off one shoulder. Sometimes a light green baby backpack on her arm like she forgot she’s too tired to carry anything else.
He watches her from behind glass.
Not with hunger.
With claim.
Something about her moved inside him when he first found her on that screen. But this? This is real.
This is what her face looks like when she ain’t selling softness.
When she’s just trying to make it to the next moment without unraveling.
And that…that’s what unraveled him.
He doesn’t follow her home.
Not the first time.
He watches her pull off.
Waits ten minutes.
Then leaves.
The rhythm is set.
Routine.
Observation.
Obsession.
But on paper? It’s just another errand run.
Another quiet day.
Another man nobody sees until it’s far too late.
Night folds itself over the trees that ring Smoke’s house until even the air goes black.
Back At His Den
Inside the office the only light comes from four curved monitors and one candle that burns low, its smoke curling against the wall like slow breath. The room is sealed tight: curtains drawn, vents hushed, the hum of his machines filling the quiet.
He sits back in his chair, silver rings clicking once against the armrest. The glow from the main screen turns his skin the color of midnight chrome. His eyes—flat, patient, too dark to read—catch the reflection of movement on the screen.
Account active: camera0ff.
No messages. No emojis. No noise.
He never types a word. He never needs to.
Her stream opens in silence first: pixels sharpening, color blooming from gray into warmth. She’s there in the little rectangle—LaceyBlaze69—framed by soft amber light. The background shifts each night: sometimes lavender, sometimes gold. Tonight it’s dim rose, the color of dusk held too long.
She isn’t talking yet. Just setting up. Adjusting a candle on her desk, the flicker catching the side of her cheek. Her hair’s pulled up loosely, a few curls sliding down near her ear. She looks tired—but the kind of tired that reads real. That’s what keeps him here. The authenticity of exhaustion. The quiet before she becomes whoever they think she is.
Her shirt is off‑shoulder, gray cotton. Not a costume tonight. Casual. Intimate. Smoke notes that instantly; she dresses down when rent’s close. Her eyes dart to the corner of the chat—she’s watching the tip count climb. Her smile flickers and fades.
He leans closer. The cursor of light travels across his cheekbone. Every motion on her side registers as a shift in his own breathing.
She’s talking now, low and husky, greeting the chat. Names flood the sidebar—handles he’s catalogued in his head like case files. He recognizes most of them. He’s seen the rhythms of their tipping, their favorite phrases, the way their hunger leaks through keystrokes.
He watches her eyes skim the usernames. Watches her lips part when she spots camera0ff.
That’s the moment the first tip lands.
Five thousand tokens.
No message.
Just the sound effect—a tiny chime that breaks the hush.
She exhales. Softly. Her fingers pause on the keyboard.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
The light of her screen glazes his face, every micro‑expression tightening then relaxing. He knows this room too well—the way the shadows bunch behind her curtain, the cheap tripod reflection in her mirror, the small plant that’s starting to brown in the corner. Details most viewers skip past. He collects them all, arranging her life in the dark like a puzzle he’s almost solved.
Another tip. Smaller this time. Then stillness.
He waits. She shifts. Laughs lightly at something someone else wrote, the sound traveling through his speakers and into the soft air around him.
Smoke’s hand hovers near the mouse but never clicks. The muscles in his jaw jump once, then settle. He’s studying, not participating. Every gesture, every glance, filed away.
She leans forward to adjust her camera; for a heartbeat the lens fills with her eyes—brown, bright, unguarded.
It hits him like a slow‑building ache, right under the ribs.
That’s the part that gets him. Not the performance. The in‑between.
He sits there long after she signs off, the screen gone dark except for his reflection staring back.
In that reflection, his expression doesn’t change, but his pulse does. A quiet metronome against the silence.
He kills the light. The monitors fade to black.
The house holds its breath with him.
He doesn’t know it yet, but this—this watching, this quiet cataloging of her world—has already rewritten his own.
Smoke doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
Still sitting in his chair like he’s mid-breath and hasn’t decided whether to finish it.
That’s the thing about obsession.
It doesn’t roar at first.
It creeps.
Soft as a sigh.
Outside, the trees rustle in their hush. Inside, his office feels colder with the light gone, like the candle knows she left the room. The flame gutters, long and thin.
He pushes back slowly, the leather chair groaning beneath him. One long breath slides out of his nose, and he reaches for the candle. Snuffs it with a whisper of two fingers. Smoke curls in the air, gray on gray.
Only then does he rise.
Bare feet on hardwood. Heavy steps. Still shirtless, still in his slacks, the silver chain around his neck catching moonlight from the slivered gap in the curtain.
He moves quiet. Like he’s done this before. Because he has.
Down the hall, past the second bedroom nobody sleeps in, past the mirror he doesn’t look into right now, into the kitchen. He doesn’t turn the light on.
Just opens the fridge by muscle memory and pulls out the tall bottle of water. Drinks half of it without stopping. The cold hits his chest like something holy. A distraction. A reset.
But it doesn’t work.
Not tonight.
Because tonight, she looked straight into the camera—just once—and it felt like she knew. Like she knew who she was talking to, even if she didn’t understand how she knew it. And that look? It branded itself behind his eyes.
He opens a drawer. Pulls out a blunt. Lights it at the stovetop flame. Leans against the counter, back tense, shoulder muscles flexing beneath his skin. Smoke curls out his mouth slow. Slower than usual. He doesn’t pace. He never paces. He just stands still and thinks—but that’s the problem now.
He’s thinking too much.
Her real name still presses under his tongue like a secret he hasn’t earned.
But he knows it.
He knows now.
And that changes everything.
He flicks ash into the sink. Stares at nothing. Imagines the soft pink light behind her in that room, the way she leaned into the lens. The tiredness in her eyes beneath the showgirl smile.
It wasn’t a performance tonight. Not really.
It was a woman trying to hold it together.
And something about that—about her—cut him somewhere old.
Back in his bedroom, the bed’s still unmade from the night before. He never makes it. He just lays down like a man laying down with a full mind.
He leaves the blunt in a tray on the nightstand, still burning.
On the dresser across from the bed, one of his monitors is still on sleep mode. The faint outline of the streaming site’s logo floats across it. He watches it drift. Watches it vanish and return again.
He’s not tired. But his body lays still.
One arm across his chest. Fingers touching his chain.
She doesn’t know he’s here.
Not yet.
But Smoke knows himself.
And he knows that this—this quiet spiral, this tight ache in the gut, this unnameable possession curling under his ribs doesn’t go away.
Not until he gets closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Obsession don’t start big. It starts with a flicker. A voice. A laugh. A look too long.
Then it spreads.
She showed up on my screen one night, slow-rolling her hips to some trap soul beat I used to fuck to. The kind of girl with quiet fire behind the eyes. A mouth too smart. A body too soft. I told myself it was curiosity. Research.
Just a burner account. Just a scroll.
But that little red light hit the corner of the frame and I ain’t been the same since.
A man like him didn’t chase ghosts. But her? She’d crept into his bloodstream. Her voice. Her face. Her fucking mouth. That window flicker was all he needed. The cam show lights that blinked to life upstairs like a neon confession. He knew it then. She was real.
And if she was real, she had roots.
He wasn’t looking for a name. He was looking for the break. The tell. The weak stitch in the digital mask. Smoke pulled a still frame from the last stream. Paused her mid-turn. Her eyes were half-lidded, mouth parted, lit pink-blue from the LED glow of her setup. He ran a reverse image scan—not through commercial indexes, but through a bastardized cross-network search engine he’d written himself. Something between AI triangulation and metadata scraping. Slow. Dirty. Deep.
At first, nothing but a wall of dummies.
The usernames were throwaway. ‘LaceyBlaze69’ ran back to a fan site, but he knew that was dead-end skin bait. IPs pinged from proxies. Standard camgirl obfuscation. She was smart.
But not smarter than him.
He followed the soft trails: an old wishlist from 2021 under a defunct handle. A comment someone left under a tub oil listing— “you smell like melted sugar, Blaze.” That same username had retweeted a Reddit thread a year ago. “Blaze got that creamy real head energy. Y’all asleep.”
That username? Burned. Deleted. But it didn’t vanish from his logs. Smoke leaned in. The M. Brooks. He opened another pane. Scraped the backend of the wishlist history and peeled the address metadata that had once been linked. It was partial. A city, not a street. Atlanta.
He switched scripts.
Ran the burner ID through Venmo dumps, Cashapp transfers. Found a single connection. A name tied to a sister’s payment ID. Someone who used to tag “for diapers 🍼💙” in her notes. The baby’s name wasn’t listed.
But hers was. Malaya Nicole Brooks.
Smoke didn’t blink. Just inhaled once, deep through his nose, chest expanding slow as he sat back and let the name soak in.
Malaya. It sounded right.
He opened another pane and fed the name through a social archive. Pulled cached results. Image tags. Scraped anything not sealed behind a private wall.
There. Buried.
An old baby registry. Archived. Still cached.
Malaya Nicole Brooks. Age at the time: 24. Expected due date listed as January 5th. Registered in Atlanta. And below that, two saved items: a grey bassinet and a small wooden name puzzle. The kind you custom-order.
He copied the name. Dropped it into a final search. One last hit blinked into life. A private Instagram. No posts since last year. Profile picture barely visible through the blur. But when he clicked? There she was. No filters. No gloss. Just her and her boy. She was on a blanket, cheeks bare of makeup, curls pulled back, eyes squinting into the sunlight. That same mouth. That same skin. Her face leaned against her son’s, their noses touching like a secret between them.
Smoke sat still.
Every tendon in his jaw locked tight. His fingers hovered over the mouse but didn’t click. He didn’t need to see more. He saw enough. His chest rose once, sharp. Then the words left his mouth quiet, like a verdict…
“Got you now.”
Smoke didn’t save much—not in the way other men did. No messy folders labeled Favorites or SheBadAF, no collections of porn cluttering his hard drive. He didn’t hoard. He curated.
He archived.
In the deep, encrypted section of his personal server—beneath firewalls laced with custom scripts and backdoor diversions—sat a folder marked only by a black glyph: 𖤐. Hidden in plain sight. Inside, each file had no name. Only dates. Timestamps. Noted by show duration, lighting setup, outfit color.
He knew her schedule by now.
Mondays, she usually didn’t cam.
Tuesdays were slow—sometimes quiet shows with half her face in shadow.
Fridays, though? That’s when she danced. Put on lipstick. Wore silver hoops that glinted when she bounced.
He had ten clips from Fridays alone.
Smoke sat back in his office chair, barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips. One hand on the trackpad. The other resting between his thighs—not jerking off. Just there. Holding the ache.
He hit play.
There she was—centered in her frame, back arched, thighs slick with oil.
No face. No name.
But he knew her now. The way she twitched when she came. The slow drag of her middle finger. The hush in her voice when she whispered fuck like it meant something real.
He paused on a frame.
Zoomed in.
The blanket behind her was creased different that night. In the corner, just behind her shoulder, a sliver of shadow—the curve of a framed photo nearly cropped out. Blink and you’d miss it.
Smoke didn’t blink. He logged the image.
Tagged it: Possible family photo
Then closed the window, jaw tight. He wasn’t watching for porn anymore. He was watching her. And he was getting close. He wasn’t supposed to know her name. That was the rule. The unspoken barrier between watcher and watched. Keep it fantasy. Keep it clean. But Smoke never played by rules he didn’t write. The night he saw the daycare magnet on her fridge, cropped into the corner of a low-angle shot where she bent over too far—he screenshotted it. Enhanced. Zoomed. Ran a reverse image search on the phone number.
Found it.
A daycare center off Hollowell Parkway. Low-income zip code. Five-star reviews from desperate working moms who called the director Miss Tasha like she was the second coming. Two more clicks, a scraped parent roster uploaded to the county site, and he had it.
Brooks, Malaya N.
Emergency contact listed: Antwan Riggins.
Co-parent. Address listed in East Point. Smoke already had eyes on that house.
From there, the rest unraveled.
📌 Driver’s license (active, Georgia—updated with her current address six months ago; Smoke accessed it through a database sweep he’s not supposed to have)
📌 County court record (small claims—back rent dispute, dropped due to non-payment)
📌 Instagram (private)
📌 Facebook (ghosted, but not deleted)
📌 Venmo history (a tip-off—emoji trails that matched her cam patterns)
📌 Amazon wishlist (cross-referenced—same lip gloss, same LED light strips she used one Thursday)
Her name tasted real in his mouth now.
Malaya.
He closed his laptop. Sat in the dark. Let the name settle on his chest like heat. And once he said it out loud in the quiet of his office—just once—there was no going back. He closed his laptop. Sat in the dark. Let the name settle on his chest like heat.
This wasn’t just curiosity. This was hunger.
The pink light came on at 10:27.
And Smoke stopped breathing.
The Charger sat tucked beneath a dying streetlamp on the far side of the alley. Engine off. Lights off. Tinted windows holding the dark in place. From this angle, he could see the second floor of the duplex across the street. Just enough of it to count. She lived on the left unit, mirror of the one beside it. Second floor. Front window. Curtains drawn just loose enough to leak color when the ring light flicked on. He knew the schedule by now. Not just her cam shows. Her life.
6:45 AM—blinds crack open. She’s up. Messiah’s cereal bowl hits the counter by 7.
8:12 AM—she locks the door behind her, diaper bag and small hand in tow.
5:37 PM—they’re back. Groceries or nothing at all.
10:27 PM—the show begins.
Tonight? He was already there. Smoke didn’t light a blunt. Didn’t lean back. Didn’t blink much. He just sat. Elbows on thighs. Hands folded. Eyes fixed. The porch light on her side of the duplex was dead. No motion light in the shared yard. The grass between units hadn’t been cut in weeks. Weeds curled around the bottom step like they were listening too. That second-floor window? A soft flicker. Then a burst of blush pink.
The string lights.
Same ones he’d seen reflecting off her skin when she played shy for the camera.
She was up there.
Live.
Not just a username now. Not a tab on his browser. Not a fantasy spread across pixels and playback. A woman in a duplex. A mother. A body he could almost smell.
Smoke’s jaw flexed.
He clocked the shadow of her shape pass behind the curtain. A curved silhouette. Slender up top, thick at the thighs. Moving like she was multitasking, setting things down, pulling something from a tote, checking the baby monitor.
The light shifted again.
She’d turned the harsh overhead off. Just the ring light and the string lights now. She was on. And so was he. But not in the way she thought. He didn’t watch her show from the car. Didn’t need to. Already had Camera0ff queued up on his phone, notifications silenced, screen dimmed. Just in case. But this? This was different. This wasn’t about jerking off or tipping under burners.
This was…territorial.
That was his girl.
She just didn’t know it yet. The curtain fluttered once. Just a corner, like maybe it caught a breeze. But there was no wind. Smoke’s stomach tightened. He sat still. Stone-still. And then, a shape moved behind the thin fabric again. She was adjusting the ring light. Bending over slightly. His mouth went dry. Not with lust. With need. Real, physical need. The kind of need that doesn’t live in your dick. The kind that lives in your blood.
This is where it changes, he thought, This is the threshold.
She’s no longer just something he watches. She’s someone he knows. Someone he plans for. Someone he’s willing to protect. Even if that protection looks a lot like possession.
The elevator doors slid open with a low chime, spilling a wash of amber light over Smoke’s boots as he stepped out onto the rooftop.
Midnight had draped itself like velvet across the Atlanta skyline—sharp angles of steel and glass glittering under the watch of a low-hanging moon. The rooftop was lit in layers: bronze up-lighting against obsidian stone planters, strings of warm Edison bulbs crisscrossing overhead, and hidden spotlights that threw low shadows across honey-toned wooden decking.
Clusters of high-top tables and plush black lounges carved the space into intimate pockets—one corner edged with tall palms in matte black pots, another with a fire pit surrounded by curved seating upholstered in wine-colored velvet. A crystal hookah sat on the ledge, glowing blue.
The scent of sweet tobacco, expensive perfume, and something floral—jasmine, maybe—drifted through the air, thickened by laughter and bass. A DJ spun something deep and sultry—Kaytranada on the turntable, rolling waves of rhythm that made the ice in whiskey glasses clink in time.
Women in floor-length silk and glittering mesh slinked through the crowd. Legs and lace. Red lips and diamond necklaces. The Black elite in their prime—rappers-turned-investors, sons of Southern oil magnates, HBCU legacy kids dipped in quiet generational wealth. Escorts too, most likely. Models, no doubt. No one here wore anything by accident.
Smoke moved through it like shadow—combat boots silent on the wood, black pants molded to powerful legs, the charcoal grey waffle-knit Henley hugging his frame like a second skin. His sleeves were pushed to his forearms, showing ink and muscle. Silver rings gleamed on his fingers—some engraved with runes, one wide and flat with a wolf etched across the band. A thick silver chain sat against his collarbone, catching the lowlight, and a single hoop hugged his left ear. Still. Calm. The kind of man that didn’t need to speak to be noticed.
He didn’t belong in this world of curated extravagance. But his brother did.
And sure enough, Stack stood across the rooftop like a man born into royalty.
Elias “Stack” Moore wore a double-breasted suit the color of night wine—dark maroon, rich as velvet, tailored like sin. No tie. Collar unbuttoned low enough to show his smooth chest and the tip of a tattoo peeking out. His loafers were black crocodile. He wore a single ruby pinky ring, a watch that cost more than rent in Buckhead, and a gold tooth that flashed when he smiled.
Stack wasn’t just holding court—he was the court. People leaned in when he talked. Laughed when he laughed. Two women had already touched his chest just since Smoke had stepped in. A server handed him a glass of something top shelf, and Stack raised it without breaking eye contact from across the space.
Smoke gave him a slight nod.
[COMM EARPIECE ACTIVE]
STACK: “’Bout damn time. You blendin’ in with the furniture in that greyscale, bruh.
SMOKE: “Somebody’s gotta make sure your ass don’t get shot.”
Stack chuckled softly through the comm. He was already walking. Smooth, unhurried, weaving through the crowd with predator ease. When he reached his brother, they dapped up—tight, brief, real.
STACK: “You see that lens in the palm frond planter behind the DJ booth?”
SMOKE: (gruff) “I installed it.”
STACK: “I know. Wanted to make sure you remembered this my party.”
Smoke gave a slow, amused shake of his head.
A woman passed by wearing nothing but silver chains and a sheer catsuit. Stack didn’t even look. Not because he wasn’t tempted—he was just looking at someone else.
Over by the bar.
A woman in a deep red dress.
Backless. Low neckline. Diamond body chain glittering between the slope of her breasts. French roll tight and elegant, but a few free strands framed her sharp, hypnotic face.
Fine.
And she was sipping her drink slow. Watching him.
Stack didn’t smile. Just lifted his glass. Their eyes met.
Held.
She blinked slow. Didn’t look away.
SMOKE: “You know her?”
STACK: “Not yet.”
The DJ switched up the track—slid into a flipped mix of Sade and Larry June, and the crowd swayed deeper into the beat. Stack leaned in, adjusting Smoke’s collar like an older twin by seconds.
STACK: “I got a meet in ten. Someone dirty wants something rare. I want you on that feed, just in case.”
SMOKE: “They comin’ armed?”
STACK: “Ain’t they always?”
Stack stepped back and smoothed the front of his jacket, eyes flickering back to red dress as she turned on her heel, slow like a cat, and disappeared behind the velvet curtain leading to the private section.
Stack’s grin was lazy. Dangerous.
STACK: “She movin’ like she trouble.”
SMOKE: “So’s this party.”
STACK: “Ain’t that why we throw it?”
Smoke just exhaled once through his nose and walked toward the far end of the rooftop—where his portable console sat, disguised as a small humidor case in a corner near the server station. He pulled a cord from his back pocket and jacked in, eyes flicking across the infrared feed—heat signatures, security patches, wireless grid clean.
No signs of tampering.
Not yet.
And somewhere behind velvet and shadows, Stack was walking into the kind of deal that got men rich. Or killed.
But that’s why he had a brother in the dark.
The velvet curtain swayed gently as Stack stepped through, leaving the beat of the rooftop party behind like a memory.
Inside, the room was cooler—lit by flickering wall sconces and a low, amber chandelier shaped like a blown-glass bloom. The walls were matte black, hung with gold-framed photos of Atlanta landmarks twisted into surreal art. A cigar case rested on a mirrored bar cart, untouched. A single white orchid bloomed in a jet-black vase on a glass table. Every detail had been Stack-approved.
Three men sat waiting.
They weren’t from here.
No silk, no ease. Cheap suits trying to look expensive. Diamond earrings that screamed insecurity. Two of them were broad-shouldered and stiff, barely speaking. The third—thinner, meaner, older—sat in the center, legs crossed, fingers adorned with rings that didn’t match. His eyes tracked Stack like a hunting dog.
Stack adjusted his cufflinks and smiled just enough to disarm.
“Apologies. Good taste takes time.”
He strolled to the table like he owned it and poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter—Louis XIII, of course. He didn’t offer them any.
“So.” He sipped, slow, “You boys come all this way for what, exactly?”
The thin one leaned forward, voice low and cracked.
“We’re lookin’ for a piece. Old. Rare. From the Cairo haul.”
Stack didn’t flinch, but he clocked it.
Stolen antiquities.
Messy.
“That’s specific. Most folks just want crypto art, or a Picasso from somebody’s dead mistress.”
“We’re not most folks.”
“Clearly.”
He leaned back in his chair, legs wide, one arm draped over the back. Slow blink. Calm breath.
“And you think I have what you’re looking for?”
“No.” The man smirked, “We think your ghost brother does.”
Stack’s jaw ticked, barely.
He tilted his head.
“That supposed to be funny?”
The man smiled wider.
“The Moore Twins. Everyone’s heard of you. One walks into the fire. The other rewires the building while it burns.”
Behind the scenes, Smoke’s voice crackled in Stack’s earpiece.
SMOKE: “He’s carrying. Right hip. Glock. The one on the left’s got a knife in his boot. Front guy’s pacemaker is wireless—could kill him in ten seconds.”
STACK: “Not yet.”
SMOKE: “Say the word.”
STACK: “We good.”
Stack tapped a silver ring against his glass, slow.
“Let’s skip the poetry. What do you want?”
“We want access. To your broker. The one who makes files disappear. The one who scrubs names, rewrites surveillance, fakes biometrics. The Ghost.”
“You want my brother.”
“We want to pay him. Handsomely.”
Stack smiled. This time, it touched his eyes.
“That’s the problem. You think my brother need money.” He stood, “This meeting’s over.”
One of the bodyguards twitched. A half-step forward. Stack didn’t move—he just stared. And smiled slower.
“Do that again, and I’ll send your heart home in a champagne flute.”
The room went quiet.
Thick with tension.
Stack turned his back on them—casually. Poured another drink. His voice was calm, but cold.
“You brought Cairo business to my city without clearance.
You insulted my blood.
And you walked into my party with bad breath and cheap linen.”
He swirled the drink.
“Go home.”
The thin man stood, slow. Jaw tight.
“This isn’t over.”
Stack finally looked back. Eyes hard now. Smile gone.
“You right.”
Behind the mirrored bar cart, the hidden lens above the orchid blinked red once.
Transmission logged. Faces captured.
Grid reset.
SMOKE (through comm): “Feed’s scrubbed. You clean.”
Stack adjusted his jacket, smoothed his hand down the lapel.
“Tell your boss: next time he wants the ghost, he better pray the ghost don’t want him.”
The men left without a word.
Stack finished his drink.
Behind him, the orchid kept blooming.
Untouched.
But not unnoticed.
The night had stretched deeper since the meet—wind curling low around the rooftop like it was listening. The DJ was still spinning, but the tempo had slowed, dripping into a syrupy blend of old Southern soul and modern trap drums. Most of the crowd had migrated toward the fire pit, glowing orange and gold against the silhouette of swaying palms.
Smoke stood at the edge of it all.
One hand wrapped around a lowball glass he hadn’t sipped.
The other tucked in his pocket, thumb grazing the lining like a silent metronome.
He was watching Stack move through the afterglow of the party like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just threatened to send someone’s heart back in crystal. Laughing low with a woman in black feathers. Nodding at some young investment bro who clearly wanted to be him. Still looking like the most dangerous man in a room full of rich ones.
But Smoke had seen the shift. The twitch. The jaw tick.
And he didn’t like what he saw.
“Yo.”
Stack turned mid-pour, one brow arched, bottle of cognac suspended mid-air.
“That your version of ‘hello’ now?”
“Why’d you let ‘em walk?”
The bottle clinked softly as Stack set it down.
“Straight to business, huh?”
Smoke didn’t smile. He stepped in closer, boots heavy on the deck. The shadows curved around him. Even with the noise of the party behind them, this space between the brothers felt…still.
“I had eyes. Ears. One word from you and I could’ve dropped two of ‘em where they sat. The third wouldn’t’ve made it to the stairs.”
“I know.”
“So again—why’d you let them walk?”
Stack leaned against the bar, one hand on the counter, the other casually adjusting the cuffs of his wine-colored suit. Still calm. Still cool. But his gaze flickered sharp for a moment.
“Because they weren’t here for blood, Smoke. They were here for access. They’re desperate, not dangerous.”
“Desperate gets people killed.”
“So does ego.”
Smoke exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight.
“You can’t keep assuming your name’s enough to stop a bullet.”
Stack’s eyes softened. Just a little.
“And you can’t keep tryna solve every problem with kill-switches and code.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
The silence between them always held weight—history, war, blood, loyalty. A language no one else understood.
“They knew who you were,” Smoke muttered, “Said your name. Knew mine.”
“Everybody’s watching something.”
“Yeah. But not everybody lives to watch twice.”
That earned the ghost of a smile from Stack.
“Damn, you sound just like Mama.”
Smoke finally took a sip. The liquor hit like truth. He stayed silent. Stack pushed off the bar and stepped in close, lowering his voice.
“Look—I knew what they wanted. I let ‘em talk. Let ‘em sweat. Let ‘em walk out thinkin’ they might have a shot, because people like that? They move loud when they think they’ve won. That’s when they make mistakes. That’s when you catch ‘em.”
“You baitin’ ‘em.”
“I’m always baitin’ ‘em.”
Smoke stared at him hard, then finally nodded once.
“Next time, tell me the play before you toss the line.”
“Next time, bring better whiskey.”
They shared the briefest smile—tight and tired, but real. A bond forged in twin fire, tempered by shadow. And just as they turned to part, Stack’s eyes drifted sideways—back to the bar, where the woman in the red dress was laughing with someone, a slow swirl of her drink catching the chandelier light.
Smoke didn’t answer. Just tapped the side of his glass once and disappeared back into the darker edges of the party.
Smoke stood off to the side of the rooftop, away from the crowd, the glow from his smartwatch throwing ghost-light across his skin. He checked it again. Then again.
01:42 AM.
No alerts.
No pings.
Still, his jaw was tight—muscle ticking near his temple. Something in him was humming too loud to ignore. He brought his fingers to the small device clipped discreetly to the inside of his belt—looked like a fashion detail, but when tapped twice, it activated the portable sweep.
A quiet pulse rippled across the rooftop space.
No wireless interruptions.
No new heat signatures.
No anomalies in signal drop.
Stack was still safe.
Smoke exhaled, but it wasn’t relief. It was protocol.
His eyes flicked back toward his brother, who now leaned solo against the bar, swirling dark liquor in a crystal glass. Laughter floated from the fire pit behind them. The DJ had shifted into something darker—Brent Faiyaz on a slowed reverb, dragging smoke and sin through every beat.
Stack was calm. Too calm.
Smoke started walking over, but Stack turned his head first—felt him coming. He always did.
“You bouncin’?” Stack asked, voice smooth, almost lazy.
“You good?”
“I’m always good.”
“You sure?”
Stack tapped a knuckle against his glass.
“You swept?”
“Just did.”
“Then I’m good.”
Smoke nodded once. But his eyes kept moving—just for a second—searching corners, exits, rooftops across the skyline. Not paranoid. Just trained.
That’s when Stack frowned, glancing toward the bar again.
“She gone.”
Smoke paused mid-step, “Who?”
“Red Dress. The one with the eyes and the attitude. Backless. Slick. Mysterious. She was watchin’ me all night. Then poof.”
Smoke looked toward the bar. Empty glass, lipstick mark. No trace. She was gone.
“You talk to her?”
Stack shook his head, more amused than disappointed, “Nah. Just watched her watch me.”
“Thought she’d circle back.”
Smoke’s gaze narrowed just slightly.
“Maybe she will.”
Stack didn’t answer, just gave a low whistle under his breath and glanced down at the empty spot one last time.
“Guess the ghost gets ghosts now.”
Smoke turned, eyes still sweeping.
“Keep your eyes open.”
“I always do.”
They clasped hands—tight, no words—and Smoke leaned in close, voice low, just for Stack:
“If anything feels off, don’t wait. Text the string.”
“I got it.”
“You better.”
Stack grinned.
“Damn, you leavin’ like I’m goin’ to war.”
Smoke’s eyes stayed locked a moment longer before he finally turned, boots heavy on the deck as he walked toward the elevator.
The city swallowed him up as the doors closed.
And Stack stayed where he was, still holding that half-empty glass, still staring at the ghost of a woman who moved like she’d been born in smoke.
The gate whispered open to the gravel of Smoke’s long driveway, then shut with a mechanical click that echoed down the trees like a secret.
Whisper—the black pitbull—lifted her head from the porch but didn’t move. She knew the rhythm of his truck. The way the engine growled then fell silent.
Smoke stepped out into the still night.
The weight of the party rolled off his shoulders with each step up the porch. Boots heavy. Posture tighter than usual.
He keyed in the code.
The house welcomed him with silence.
Inside, the cool air met his skin. The scent of cedarwood, clove, and cigar memory wrapped around him like ritual. Everything in place. Floors clean. Music low—an instrumental loop of D’Angelo’s “Send It On” weaving through the walls like smoke trails.
But he didn’t take off his boots.
Didn’t drop his keys.
Didn’t even pass through the kitchen.
He needed to see her.
Straight to the office—his war room.
Where obsession lived.
The blackout curtains stayed drawn.
Four curved monitors. All sleeping.
A single candle flickered on the glass desk—cedar & oud —burning low.
He sat in the matte black chair and tapped the command key. He enters a long password, masked in dots. Camera0ff. His private handle. The one that never speaks, never tips on-screen. Just watches.
Smoke stares.
Hard.
The room lit up.
Not white, not blue. Red.
Her stream was already live.
LACEYBLAZE69 —FRIDAY NIGHT: POV + REQUESTS
And there she was.
Malaya.
Oiled. Naked. Red light bleeding across her deep, golden-brown skin. Long rope twist braids falling to her thick ass, swaying with every curve of her body.
Heels still on. Legs spread, slowly twisting at the waist.
Biting her bottom lip.
Licking it.
Giggling—soft. Feminine. Tipsy. There was no baby monitor in the background tonight. No sippy cup tucked behind a ring light. Just her. Uncaged.
She was dancing slow to DVSN. “Too Deep” was playing low. Almost muffled.
One hand cupped a breast, thumb brushing a slick nipple. The other hand dragged oil across her belly. She turned her back to the camera, rolled her hips in a figure-eight. Ass shaking soft. Teasing. Deliberate.
Only half her face was in frame.
Eyes low.
Mouth parted.
Never blinking.
And Smoke…
He sat back slowly, legs spreading wider.
Combat boots still on the floor.
One hand gripped the leather armrest.
The other drifted to his crotch—not touching, just resting. Fingers curled. Twitching.
His dick was already thickening, swelling slow behind the fabric of his pants.
He didn’t breathe right.
Shallow.
Unsteady.
The screen reflected red across his face, cutting a clean line over his sharp jaw and under his cheekbones like war paint.
His thumb grazed his bottom lip.
Then he dragged it across the stubble of his jaw. Slow. Like he was feeling something warm rise up from beneath the surface.
She laughed again. High, soft. Whispering something to no one in particular, “I’m feelin’ good tonight…might let y’all watch me touch it. Y’all want that?”
She leaned in, pushed her breasts together, licked a line between them, tongue slow like syrup.
He caught the glint of a stretch mark there. Gold and delicate, like lightning trapped beneath her skin.
Another curved under her hip.
The soft ripple at her belly when she arched.
Smoke watched it all.
Watched her body with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things.
Every flaw? Mark of survival.
Every curve? A place to hold her down.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t touch himself.
Not yet.
But his eyes tracked her like a sniper.
From the curl of her toes to the shine on her lips to the subtle shift in her breath when her fingers danced lower.
And then…he opened a second screen.
The one synced to a different identity.
🕶️ YungCipher has entered the room.
He didn’t chat.
Didn’t speak.
But the moment her hand brushed her inner thigh, a tip appeared.
Malaya didn’t react at first.
But Smoke knew she felt it.
She always did.
She was still dancing—oiled, glowing, red-lit and loose—but the second her hand brushed the inner curve of her thigh, her eyes fluttered like something passed over her skin.
A pause.
Just one beat.
Then—
+1,111 tokens — from YungCipher
The tip landed like a hand on her thigh.
She gasped—small, involuntary.
Not for show.
“Mmm…there you go…”
Her voice was soft, wine-sweet.
She shifted back on her knees, spreading wider.
Heels dragging slow on the floor beneath her.
The camera caught everything:
Her lips parted.
The gleam on her chest.
That subtle dip in her lower belly where a baby once lived.
Her breasts full, mouth wet, thighs trembling now.
She reached for herself—delicate at first—fingers grazing over her mound. She dipped between, pulled back slick.
Smoke watched it all, unmoving.
One elbow on his thigh.
The other hand still resting on his dick—hard now, heavy behind the fabric of his pants.
Not stroking.
Just…present.
His thumb grazed his bottom lip.
Eyes half-lidded.
Tracking her with surgical hunger.
“It’s like you feel me…like you inside my head…”
She whispered it soft—like a spell.
Not to anyone specific.
But Smoke felt it land.
Direct. Possessive. Personal.
She moaned again, slipping two fingers down and in, arching back—
+6,969 tokens —from YungCipher
The sound she made wasn’t pretty.
It was real.
Raw.
“Ah—f-fuck…”
Her hand stuttered.
Eyes fluttered closed—
Then opened again, slower this time.
She locked on the lens like it was someone’s eyes.
Like his.
“YungCipher…you’re nasty. And I like that.”
Smoke’s chest rose—finally.
A slow inhale.
A low, controlled exhale through his nostrils.
She wasn’t even faking anymore.
She was talking to him.
And he hadn’t said a single word.
Still, she moved for him now—legs wide, hand coated, lips parted.
Not putting on a show.
Offering herself.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
Just watched the arch of her foot.
The twitch of her jaw.
The way her body carried the truth of motherhood—softened in some places, scarred in others. And still? The sexiest thing he’d ever fucking seen.
He opened his wallet.
Selected the pattern.
Waited for the moment when her breath caught—
+1,111 tokens
(half-second delay)
+1,111 tokens
(another beat)
+1,111 tokens
Her eyes fluttered shut again.
Her legs jerked wider.
Her other hand gripped the sheets out of frame.
“Mmm…this one’s for you, baby…”
Smoke leaned back then.
Finally.
Still not touching.
Still holding himself like a promise.
And on screen, she began to unravel—
All for him.
The red light spilled across his face like blood on silk.
And for the first time all night…he exhaled.
He wasn’t supposed to do this.
Not yet.
Not like this.
But something about tonight…something about the way she was laid out for them—for him—just knocked the air from his lungs and left him burning.
Her name lit the screen in neon pink: LaceyBlaze69 is Live.
Her camera opened with that slow, sultry rhythm she always used. Red light. Low angle. Jazz spilling from the laptop speaker, soft and slow like smoke. Her thighs were already parted when she leaned back, fingers slipping lower, glistening from the very first touch.
And Smoke didn’t even mean to at first.
Just let his palm rest heavy over the thick length rising against his pants, fingertips grazing the outline, then curling slightly. Gripping. Flexing.
His breathing had already changed. Shallow. Slow.
He hadn’t even touched skin yet and still he felt close to crumbling.
She was the reason.
His reason.
Because that pussy?
That pussy was insane.
She had a fat pussy—fat in the way it sat like a pillow between her thighs, even when closed. Thick, plush outer lips you could see from across the room. Soft-looking. Parted just enough that her inner lips peeked through—slick, shiny, a deep flushed brown that darkened the wetter she got. Her clit was swollen, plump and twitching just beneath her middle finger. And the way she played with herself? Slow at first—petting her folds like she was shy about it, even after all this time. Then deeper. Wetter. Cream pooling when she spread herself wide with two fingers and circled lazy over the top.
Smoke’s grip tightened.
Still over his pants.
Still fighting it.
🕶️ YungCipher: “Tilt the cam. Let daddy see how creamy it is.”
She read it. Paused.
Bit her bottom lip, then dragged the camera closer—slow, knowing. The frame shifted, tightening like a close-up on a dream. Now her pussy filled the screen. Every glistening inch.
🕶️ YungCipher: “That’s it. Show me that fuckin mess.”
She obeyed. She always did.
Fingers spreading those thick lips wide till her inner folds were dripping. Creamy and fluttering like she needed to be touched—really touched. She rubbed slow and shallow, then dipped deep—two fingers curling in and pulling out glistening white, strings of it clinging between her knuckles.
Smoke groaned.
Finally gave in.
He shoved his pants down, no ceremony.
Briefs too. Everything in one motion.
And that dick?
It came out vicious.
Big. Heavy. Slapping against his thigh with a weight that made him hiss. Girthy, dark brown shaft with thick veins that throbbed up the side, his skin flushed with heat and tension. The tip was fat, flushed deep plum with a slit that glistened, wet with pre-cum. His balls hung low, heavy, drawn tight and aching. No trimming—he’d let the hair grow back, thick and coarse above the base like he liked it, like he knew she’d like it when she finally got a taste of it.
He wrapped his hand around the base and held.
Didn’t stroke yet.
Just gripped.
🕶️ YungCipher: “You got me grippin my shit, mama. You proud of that?”
She moaned aloud. Just from the text.
Her breath hitched.
She circled her clit faster.
🕶️ YungCipher: “Tell me what that pussy smell like. Bet it’s sweet. Bet it taste like peaches and cream.”
She gasped, her hips rocking up toward the camera.
“YungCipher, I—fuck—” she breathed, “It’s drippin. My pussy’s fuckin drippin. It’s sticky, I can feel it on my thighs…”
Smoke spat in his palm.
Rubbed the head.
Shivered.
His stroking had a rhythm. Always did.
Long, firm drags from base to tip.
Then a twist. A squeeze.
Thumb rolling over the head.
And when the pre-cum leaked thick and warm, he moaned low, eyes locked on her creamy folds twitching around her fingers.
🕶️ YungCipher: “I’d eat that pussy till you cried. And then keep eatin. Wouldn’t stop. Not till you begged. Not till you came on my fuckin face.”
She whimpered.
Her other hand slipped beneath her, rubbing just beneath the lips—lower, slower—then back up to her clit.
Her fingers glistened. Her thighs trembled.
Smoke’s eyes darkened.
His chest rose.
Fist pumping now, slow and filthy, dragging that fat dick up and down while his balls bounced lightly beneath, wet with sweat and lust.
🕶️ YungCipher: “Play with it messier. I wanna see that cream.”
She obeyed.
“Y-yes, daddy,” she whispered.
She dipped two fingers deep and pulled them out—slick. shiny. obscene.
🕶️ YungCipher: “Look at that shit.”
🕶️ YungCipher: “Put it in your mouth. Taste yourself.”
And she did.
Slow.
Tongue curling around her fingertips, licking up her own cream with a soft, shuddering moan.
That’s when Smoke really lost it.
His head tipped back.
His mouth opened.
His hand never stopped.
Fisting. Stroking. Balls clenching.
Breath hitched and voice caught in his throat like a man possessed.
This wasn’t just pleasure.
It was possession.
It was filth.
It was her.
He whispered it to the empty room—low, ragged, primal:
“…mine.”
The room was alive now.
Her camera was so close Smoke could count the glisten on every inch of that swollen, creamy pussy. The red glow of her LED strips made her skin shimmer like it was bathed in heat. Her thighs were trembling. Fingers soaked. Clit twitching under each pass.
And all around her?
The sounds.
Chime.
Chime.
Ting—ting-ting.
WHRR-click. (A DM.)
Ping. (Another tip.)
Tokens were flying like rain. Her screen lit up with usernames stacking fast.
🔥 NothinButNecks tipped 33 tokens.
“Zoom on your neck. Please. Please. Please. I need it.”
🍯 JustForTheTaste sent a rose.
“That little dab of gloss makin me crave you, mama. Say ‘sticky’ for me?”
She smiled faintly.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Smoke saw the flicker in her eyes. The one she always gave when she saw something she liked. But then she dipped those fingers lower. Spread wider. Brought the camera so close the focus shifted for a moment—went soft—then re-locked on that thick, sticky shine between her folds.
Chime.
Chime.
Chime.
💸 BILLS4U tipped 400 tokens.
“What’s your cash app, babygirl? I got a light bill to pay.”
Smoke froze. That name. That fucking name again. It always made his jaw clench. Always made his hand slow just enough to feel the burn of control slipping through his grip.
She giggled at the tip. Real. Sweet. Then looked into the lens and said:
Smoke’s eyes dropped to the corner of the chat. Watched the timestamp match the moment he tipped earlier. Timing too tight. Too aligned.
BILLS4U wasn’t him.
But the look in her eyes wondered. And the fact that she wondered? Made his dick throb in his palm. He stroked again. Slow. Twisting his wrist at the top. Watching that thick head gleam.
🕶️ YungCipher: “Pull it open for me. Both hands. Show me that drip.”
She saw it. Smiled.
Obeyed.
Both hands slid down, fingers spreading those fat outer lips wide, tugging until her inner folds stretched, juicy and pink and dripping. A soft strand of cream fell between her legs. Camera still locked in. The red glow made it shine like lacquered candy.
“Mm…you like that?” she asked, voice soft and messy, “That good good?”
🕶️ YungCipher: “That’s the prettiest pussy I ever seen.”
🕶️ YungCipher: “I’d suck on that clit till you couldn’t see straight.”
🕶️ YungCipher: “Stick my tongue in and lap that cream right outta you.”
🌴 SwampKing has entered the room.
“Ain’t no tongue like a Southern one. You still taste like peaches, babydoll?”
Smoke stopped. Just for a second. That name. That fucking creep. The one she blocked. The one she told the chat she banned after he sent that voice note. Saw someone who looked like you near that daycare. She hadn’t gone live for a week after that. Had changed the nameplate on her door. Stopped walking to the corner store. Smoke’s breathing turned cold. His fist paused around his dick. Grip tight. Knuckles flexed.
She didn’t respond to SwampKing. Didn’t read the comment aloud.But he watched her expression shift. Just for a second. A flicker. She scooted back slightly. Shoulders stiffened.
Chime.
Ting.
WHRR-click. (Another tip. Another message.)
🕶️ YungCipher: “Ignore that. Focus on me.”
🕶️ YungCipher: “Tilt back. Show daddy what’s mine.”
And she did.
Like she knew.
The camera tilted. Legs lifted. Her pussy filled the screen again—fat and messy, folds slicked in a wet halo of cream. Her clit throbbed under the red light, twitching with each breath.
“I gotchu, daddy,” she whispered.
And just like that—Smoke lost the last thread of restraint. He added more oil again in his hand.
Jerked rough now.
Fast.
Muscles flexed. Shoulders shaking.
“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, watching her rub herself harder, messier, the sound of slick fingers loud as hell through his headphones.
Squelch. Squelch. Moan.
Chime.
WHRR-click.
She whimpered. Called his name. Not his real name. But the only one that mattered right now.
“YungCipher…”
His stroke was brutal now. No finesse. No mercy. Just the wet sound of his fist gliding over thick, leaking skin—slick with spit and pre-cum—pumping from root to tip in a rhythm made just for her. Muscles in his forearm jumping. Jaw clenched. Throat dry.
The way she looked? Spread wide. Fingers working both holes. Cream dripping down to her ass. Pussy throbbing with every moan. She was right there—
And so was he.
🕶️ YungCipher: “Keep fuckin’ playin in it till you squirt, baby.”
🕶️ YungCipher: “Show me how you lose it.”
🕶️ YungCipher: “Make that mess. I’ll fuckin drink it.”
She gasped.
Tilted her hips higher.
“Ohhh shit—yes, yes—daddy, I’m—”
SPLASH.
A loud, sudden squelch of her soaking the cam mat. She squirted hard, body bucking.
Camera shook.
She moaned loud and real, breathless, nearly sobbing through the aftershocks.
Smoke grunted.
Low.
Rough.
Then—
“Fuck—fuck—fuck—”
He came.
Hot, thick ropes spilled through his stroking hand, across his abdomen, some of it painting the flat of his chest. His abs tensed, back arched, muscles quaking through release.
He sat there.
Panting.
Breathing heavy in the dark, cum slick across his stomach and fingers, screen still glowing in front of him.
And then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She froze. Not a moan. Not a giggle. Not a “hold on, baby.” Just full-body stillness. She looked toward the off-screen hallway.
Eyes wide.
Alert.
Then she reached fast—clicked something on her laptop—
“Sorry y’all, that’s my time for tonight. I’ll—I’ll be back tomorrow…”
Click.
Cam offline.
Smoke’s whole body stiffened.
No goodbye. No wink. No countdown or cash-out.
That wasn’t planned.
He wiped a hand across his stomach, sticky with release, and stared at the blank screen in silence.
But his focus had already shifted. Who the fuck was at that door? He couldn’t shake it. Showered in silence. Didn’t touch his phone again. Didn’t clean the mess off his keyboard. Didn’t even hang the towel after drying off—just threw on black jeans, black hoodie, black fitted cap.
Grabbed his keys.
Glove compartment: loaded. Just in case.
His Charger roared to life like a low growl from the dark.
He peeled off into the night.
1:14 a.m.
East Decatur.
Parked two houses down from hers. Engine off.
He’d been here before, weeks ago—just to know.
To see.
To study her routines.
Now he sat there in the dark, a shadow in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other twitching with tension.
Upstairs.
Second floor window.
There.
Her light was on.
He leaned forward, slowly, adjusting the rearview just so.
She was in view now. Baby on her hip. Face flushed. Talking fast. No…arguing.
Smoke squinted.
The figure in front of her—a man. He couldn’t quite make him out. Low haircut. Tan hoodie. He moved like he had history in that space. Like he’d been there before. The baby was awake, clinging to her.
Smoke’s fists curled.
Jaw ticked.
One vein in his neck throbbed with pressure.
He didn’t like this.
Didn’t like the way the man stepped too close. Didn’t like the way she turned her face, like she didn’t want to be looked at. Didn’t like that she had to explain herself when just twenty minutes ago she was soaked and shining for him.
Not him.
Smoke.
Camera0ff. YungCipher.
Her only real one.
He leaned back in his seat, shadows swallowing his expression. Let the darkness breathe around him. But in his head? He was already playing out every scenario.
What if that man touched her? What if the baby wasn’t just visiting? What if this whole time…she was his?
Smoke’s fingers tapped the steering wheel. His jaw popped from how tight it clenched. His pupils were wide. Voice low. Breath calm.
But inside? Inside he was ready.
“Touch her wrong,” he whispered, staring through the windshield, “See what the fuck happen.”
some men don’t knock—they monitor
The Charger sat like a beast in wait, all matte black and breathless in the shadows across the street. Engine quiet. Headlights off. Smoke leaned low in the driver’s seat, one hand resting against the wheel, the other curled tight around the edge of the window.
Then: a baby’s cry. Thin. Hungry.
Then her voice.
Malaya.
Sharp. Tired. Cutting through the humid air like something wounded trying to sound strong. Smoke didn’t blink. Just reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a flat matte-black case, flipped the latch with a thumb. Inside: a thin rigged tablet, a directional receiver, and a stacked audio card wired to a portable power cell. It wasn’t a bug—he’d never crossed that line.
Didn’t have to.
The surveillance kit was tuned to a custom parabolic mic. It drank sound from distance—bounced it, filtered it, cleaned the air of wind and gap. A tool from his old days. Government ghostwork. Private contract work. Quiet work.
He slid the earpiece in.
At first: a whisper of static. Then came the voices, faint but sharpened under his tech.
“—told you, Twan, I can’t keep waitin’ on you. Messiah need diapers, wipes—”
“Man, don’t start that rent talk again.”
Smoke’s eyes narrowed. The voice was casual. Lazy. Too loud for the space he occupied.
Antwan. That’s the name. The sperm donor.
“You know I been lookin’ for work.”
“You said that last month.”
“Why you actin’ brand new? You the one out here gettin’ slick money. Where that come from, huh? Some dude slidin’ through while the baby sleep?”
A pause.
Then Malaya—soft. Measured. Cold enough to cut a man’s ego down to the bone, “You don’t get to ask me anything no more.”
A breath. A shift. A door slams.
Smoke’s jaw flexed.
No words. Just that low hum of violence in his chest.
He tapped the screen, rewound the audio, saved the clip, then ran the visual playback from the lens tucked near the upstairs eaves. The man leaving was easy to track—caught by the backlight, hoodie pulled low but face visible long enough.
Smoke isolated the still. Zoomed in. Ran it through one of his burner search suites.
Known Associates: Shanice Collier (girlfriend), three children, two confirmed baby mothers, one currently filed for restraining order
Smoke scrolled down slow. Saw a photo—Twan on a porch with a blunt in one hand and a red solo cup in the other, posing next to a grill. Caption: “Real daddies cook.”
He stared at it for a long second.
Real daddies show the fuck up.
He closed the tab. Shut the case. Set it aside like a tool he might use again.
Malaya’s upstairs light went off. Her window dimmed to black. The house quieted, but Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t drive off. He just sat. Watching. Memorizing.
The way the curtain in Messiah’s room had a small rip in the corner. The metal alignment of the fire escape. The fact her porch light flickered twice before cutting off. He noted it all. Logged it in the part of his mind that catalogued threats, exits, patterns. This wasn’t just curiosity anymore. Wasn’t even just obsession. This was claim.
She was his now.
He didn’t say it out loud—but it rang through him, loud as gunfire in a hallway. When he finally turned the key, just before the sun thought about showing its face, he said it in a low voice only the Charger could hear:
“Ain’t nobody knockin’ on that door again…unless it’s me.”
You see…people think dominance is loud.
But real control? It’s quiet.
It’s knowing she’s walking around with a little piece of you inside her, and she ain’t even realize it yet. It’s waiting. Patient. Focused.
It’s watching her live her life like she still got choices.
As much as I hate to say this, I have been seeing that a lot of black content creators have been getting hacked into or removed by Tumblr. If that ever becomes an issue on my blog, please follow my Wattpad at @sunseeker7. I will be uploading all the chapters of “Chasing” and all the Sinners short stories on there by the end of this week hopefully.
Black content creators, I urge you to save all you work! Your work is needed for a lot of people. Your stories let us see ourselves, our lives, and our experiences in ways that are often missing somewhere else. Please do not be discouraged by what’s going on. You have a boatload of people who are here to support you!
If any of you need anything please don’t hesitate to ask me. If it’s a reblog, post, etc., I’m here willing to support and be there for you every step of the way.
I will still be posting on here as well, but if you have a Wattpad account, please follow because that will be my backup.
COMMUNITY MASTERLIST FOR @nahimjustfeelingit-writes
Hey y'all,
I'm sure most everybody knows by now, but tumblr has removed @eye-raq 's main account indefinitely. While she sees about getting the account recovered, i've started a google doc that everyone can add to with links to the reblogs of all her stories.
Because if you didn't know, the fics ARE still available via reblogs on Safari and in online browsers like chrome, edge, etc! In the tumblr mobile app, they are accessible on reblogs as well but only if you follow this navigation:
"notes" in bottom left corner > 🔁 (reblogs) > "View post" on the bottom of a reblog.
I thought it may be helpful if we try to put everything in one place for convenience in the meantime.
Here's what I have so far:
Please DM me or comment for the link. If you see something you can add and can take time out of your day to add it, please do so!! Anything helps. Let's get this going y'all!
We on the same page cause I already started compiling a huge masterlist. I am going to share the link for it so people can just at to it at their own will. I hope I'm not overstepping by sharing, but I would hate for us to be duplicating our efforts!
The GREEN links have been recovered. ORANGE just means I haven't been able to find them. RED means I think the links are broken, due to the "read more" feature. IF YOU FIND A LINK, ADD THE TITLE, AND THEN LINK THE TITLE.
Here is the link: Nahimjustfeelingit-writes masterlist recovery
ShaNiece swayed her hips to the newest TLC track, wine cooler in hand, curves dipping low with every beat. She was in her element. Vibing. Glowing. Free.
Her mama had finally caved and agreed to watch Shanaye for the night. Fifteen or not, that little girl had more energy than most grown folks, and ShaNiece—thirty, fine, and flying solo—needed a break.
Sure, she’d made what Big Mama still called “the biggest mistake of her life” at eighteen. But that baby saved her. Made her sharper. Wiser. Stronger. She went to college, graduated top of her class, and broke into finance like a storm in heels. In a world full of men trying to “rescue” her from single motherhood, she was already saving herself—six figures deep, child in tow.
She was good. Or so she thought.
“Damn, Niecy! Slow down on them drinks, girl!” Belinda—BeBe to the crew—called out, passing her a murky shot of something strong.
ShaNiece laughed, tossing it back without hesitation. The burn kissed the back of her throat and lit her chest with fire. “Girl, I don’t get out like this often. Let me shake this ass in peace!”
The bass dropped, and the house party roared to life. BeBe kept the shots flowing, and ShaNiece kept dancing like the night owed her joy.
Then he came.
He didn’t ask. He just stepped behind her like he’d been invited by the rhythm itself. He’d been watching, she could feel it. His body slid into place behind hers, close but not too close, letting the music guide them. He wanted to catch what she was throwing—and baby, she threw it well.
When the next beat hit, she paused, teasing, until his breath brushed her ear.
“You scared now?”
His voice was smooth, deep and sure. Her hips responded before she could. Fueled by liquor and laughter, she rolled her ass back into him like it was their song playing—and it damn sure was. He matched her every move, gripping her waist, hips meeting hers with intention. A few heads turned. Let them watch.
“That’s it, lil’ mama,” he murmured, before spinning her to face him.
ShaNiece caught her breath. His golds flashed when he smiled. Coogi sweater. Baggy jeans. Mustache thick and neat. Skin the color of sweet caramel. His eyes were hidden behind shades, but she didn’t need to see them to know he was fine. Real fine.
“You tryna fuck me on the dance floor?” she teased, snapping her fingers in his face. “Helloooo?”
“You always got an attitude like that?” he asked, raising one brow as he pushed his shades higher.
She smirked. “Only when men act brand new after grinding on me for four songs straight. What’s your name?”
“You can call me Stack.” He lifted his hand to show a gold-plated ring spelling it across three fingers. “Yours?” He already knew it. He’d heard her friend call her name throughout the night.
“I’m sure that ain’t what your mama named you,” she said, popping her gum and patting her finger waves. “But I feel you.” Her gold earrings swung with flair—Niecey etched on both. “My friends call me Niecey”
“So we friends now?” he asked, grinning.
“We danced, didn’t we? That counts.” She winked, stepping back into the crowd. “Later, Stack.”
“Hol’ up,” he said, catching her wrist.
A jolt shot through both of them. He dropped her hand like it burned and shook his head like he forgot what he meant to say. “Uh… take my number.”
She smirked as he scribbled digits in her palm before they vanished in opposite directions.
⸻
It was close to 2 a.m. when they stumbled out, trying to make the one-block walk to BeBe’s apartment.
“Biiitch, I’m drunk,” BeBe groaned, hunched over a fence. It was their third stop in a five-minute walk that was now dragging into twenty.
“You ain’t lyin’,” ShaNiece muttered, pulling tissues from her fanny pack to dab the sweat from BeBe’s face and spit from her mouth. “Here. Drink.”
BeBe slumped to the grass. “Go without me!”
“You dramatic.” Still, ShaNiece knew they weren’t making it home like this.
She pulled BeBe’s cell from her jeans and called the number in her palm. A shot in the dark.
“Hello?”
That voice. Smooth, like that dark brown liquor she’d been downing all night.
“Niecey?” His tone softened her name like he already missed her.
“Yeah, um… it’s me. I know it’s late but—”
“Where are you?”
She gave him the corner.
BeBe gagged. “I hope this nigga ain’t no murderer! What you know about him?”
“I know he’s giving us a ride. Hush!” ShaNiece palmed her blade, just in case.
Stack pulled up minutes later. The ride was quiet except for the radio—and his humming. She joined in softly, their voices finding a rhythm even without the music.
When they reached the building, he tapped her thigh. “Take your girl in. Come holla at me.”
She paused. “Or… you could come in.”
She wasn’t the one-night stand type. But something about Stack made her brave.
They carried BeBe to bed. ShaNiece made sure she was okay before returning to the living room, kicking off her Reeboks and tugging her earrings off with a chuckle. “We might’ve gone too hard tonight.”
Stack kicked off his sneakers and sank into the couch beside her. “This every weekend?”
She shook her head. “Not even. Between work and my daughter, I’m booked and busy.”
“Then let’s not waste this rare time.”
He leaned in. Kissed her neck. Hands roaming. Mouth hungry.
By the time their lips met, she was pulling him into the spare room.
Clothes hit the floor in rhythm. His Coogi sweater. Her button-down jersey. Her lace bra fell away and he growled, mouth on her chest. Her shorts slid down and she took him in—his strong chest, curved girth springing free. She reached for his glasses.
He pulled away. “No”
“What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. Just kissed her deeper.
ShaNiece gently reached again, this time with both hands, easing the glasses off.
His eyes were unreal—shifting hues of shimmering silver, and something old. They sparkled like a curse and a promise all in one.
She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to.
“Damn,” she whispered. ShaNiece kissed his lips to reassure him before leaning back.
She stroked her clit watching him take over. He kissed her down to her center, tongue working slow, fingers thick and skilled. She shook beneath him, whimpering, reaching for him.
“I need you,” she moaned, staring into those eyes. “Please.”
He slid into her slowly, possessively. With every stroke, he seemed to pull lightning from her bones.
“Yeees, Stack!” she cried out.
He zoned in on her neck.
Just a taste, he thought hearing her blood pulsating. Calling out for him.
“You like that, baby?” he whispered in her ear. “I’mma keep fucking you until I’m the only thing you think about.” He growled into her ear licking the tip of it.
She screamed his name, eyes wet with pleasure. He flipped her, stroked her deeper. She climbed on top, riding him backwards. He couldn’t resist that pulsating force.
When he bit her neck, she gasped. The bite—sharp, precise.
Pain bloomed, bright and quick, but it unraveled into something else. Heat. Wetness. A pull so deep it made her knees buckle.
She felt the suction of his mouth, the way he fed—not ravenous, but sensual. Worshipful.
Her breath caught, then spilled out in a moan. Her body trembled against his, hips arching, thighs clenching. It was as if he were drinking more than blood—like he was pulling memories, want, soul from her skin.
She was floating. Melting.
And Stack groaned against her, one hand sliding to pinch her chocolate perky nipple.
“You look so fuckin’ delicious,” he moaned, licking the blood. “Had to taste.” His eyes sparkled more.
She turned to kiss him, tasting herself and him and whatever magic sparked between them.
“You’re mine now, baby,” he whispered against her lips. “Whatever you had before—dead that.”
She stared, expecting a laugh. None came.
Their bodies slapped in time, her bangles rattling like wind chimes. She gave him everything—and he took it, pushed her further, until the world fell away.
When they were done, tangled and sweaty, he whispered, “You’re beautiful,” against her frizzy finger waves.
She laid there, one hand on his chest, circling gently.
He meant every word.
She told herself it was just the drinks talking. Tomorrow, he’d be a faded memory.
But tonight?
Tonight, he was everything.
⸻
Atlanta, 1992
Elias “Stack” Moore POV
He should’ve never touched her.
The moment her ass backed up into him on that dance floor, something in his chest cracked open. He hadn’t felt that kind of pull in decades—not since Mary. But this? This was different. This woman wasn’t casting a spell. She was the spell.
ShaNiece. Niecey. That name settled on his tongue like honey and heat.
When she called him later, voice soft and a little slurred, asking for a favor—he didn’t hesitate. He was halfway to her before she dropped the cross street. It wasn’t just lust pulling him. It was instinct. Fate. Hunger.
He helped carry her friend inside, eyes flicking to every corner. He didn’t sense any other presence. No one watching. No threats.
Except the one inside himself.
When she invited him in, he knew he should’ve said no. He had rules. Boundaries. Protocol. Fallon would curse his whole bloodline if she knew he was entertaining a mortal woman this drunk, this vulnerable.
But she wasn’t vulnerable. She was vivid. Fully alive. That rare kind of woman who knew who she was and didn’t apologize for it. And that laugh? It had weight.
He couldn’t explain it. Didn’t want to.
So he followed her into the back room, watching as she stripped with casual grace, like she’d done this dance a thousand times for no one but herself.
Then she reached for his shades.
“No,” he said too fast, too sharp.
She blinked but didn’t flinch. Just eased her hands back. “What’s wrong?”
But he saw it in her eyes—curiosity. Maybe a little hurt.
He couldn’t let her see. Not yet. Not until he knew what the hell was happening between them.
Because something was happening.
And it scared the hell out of him.
When she touched herself, moaning his name, his resolve cracked. She smelled like warm rain and vanilla and the faintest trace of something familiar. Not perfume. Not lotion.
Bloodline.
The first time he tasted her, tongue pressed to that aching pulse between her legs, it was electric. Tense. She trembled like her body already knew him—like her soul was calling out something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
Then she begged for him.
“Please.”
He gave in. Sank into her slow, controlled, trying to keep the beast leashed. But the moment her nails dug into his back and her cries filled the room, he felt it rise The thirst.
He pressed his mouth to her neck and just breathed, trying to ground himself. She smelled divine. Real. Unfiltered. Not the sterile, synthetic blood bags he forced on himself. This woman carried something pure—unspoiled by darkness.
Just a taste, he told himself. Just enough to remember who he used to be.
When he bit down, she gasped. He moaned against her skin.
The blood hit him like a lightning strike. A rush of her hit him—heat and copper, sun-drenched laughter, a child’s cry, an old gospel hum from a porch swing on a Sunday afternoon. Her blood poured over his tongue like silk, thick with grief and joy, survival and sweetness. It wasn’t just sustenance. It was a story.
He gripped her tighter as her body bucked beneath him, her moans hitching on the edge of pain and pleasure. Her heartbeat pounded in his ears, steady and brave. She didn’t scream. She gasped. Then melted.
“Damn, you look so fuckin’ delicious,” he groaned, licking the wound gently, sealing it with his tongue.
The moment he did, her body arched again. Her orgasm hit with tremors—shaking both of them. The taste of her climax still clung to his lips when she turned to kiss him, like she needed to taste what he’d taken.
She kissed him like she knew something.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. She turned and kissed him like she knew. Like she wanted him still.
He wanted to stop.
But he needed to finish.
So he fucked her like he’d been waiting lifetimes.
Because maybe… he had.
She came apart in his arms, all curses and moans and fingernails, and he held her through it, burying his face in her hair like a man at prayer.
Afterward, she curled against him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. Her breathing slowed. Her eyes fluttered closed.
He stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
Not from the sex. Not even from the bite.
But from the knowing.
ShaNiece wasn’t just some fling. She wasn’t random.
He’d felt this before—decades ago, in shadows and dreams. Every couple of years or so, someone would spark that flicker, but it always faded.
This? This burned.
He looked down at her, sleeping like she trusted him.
He didn’t deserve it.
He’d tasted her blood—and buried in it, something simmered beneath the surface. Not just sweetness. Not just warmth.
Something immortal.
Something dangerous.
And for the first time in a long time, Elias “Stack” Moore felt something close to fear.
Because he didn’t know if he’d been sent to protect this woman… or destroy her.
Atlanta, 1992- The Next Day
Elias “Stack” Moore POV
The sky was still painted indigo when he walked into the back office of the club. The city wasn’t fully awake yet—but Fallon was.
Of course she was.
She leaned against the desk, arms crossed, in a black turtleneck and gold hoops. Her eyes—that sharp hazel gold—tracked him like prey.
“Where the fuck were you last night?”
Elias didn’t answer right away. He took off his sweater, dumping it to the side. Peeled off the rest of his clothes one item at a time down to his boxers. He needed to shower.
Fallon didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“You didn’t check in,” she said, voice low and flat. “And you didn’t feed yesterday.”
He looked up then, jaw tight. “I fed.”
“You fed,” she echoed, nostrils flaring. “Not from a bag.”
He didn’t answer. Just walked past her to the small bar and poured two shots of bourbon. It burned going down, but not enough. He still tasted her.
“I told you,” she said, stepping closer, “the girl from the party. She’s not clean.”
His hand stilled on the glass.
“I didn’t say she was dirty. I meant she’s… special. Like she’s different or something.”
“You think I didn’t feel that?” he muttered, turning toward her.
Fallon’s eyes narrowed.
“So you did see her?”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t have to.
Fallon’s jaw locked. “You bit her.”
He stayed silent.
“You fucking bit her?” Her voice dropped, but it hit like a punch. “Jesus, Elias. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“She was already in it,” he said quietly. “Before I touched her. Before I knew her name.”
“Don’t give me that ‘destiny’ bullshit,” she snapped. “You felt a pull? Great. You know what that means.”
He looked at her then, really looked. Her face was tight with fear—not anger. That scared him more than anything.
“She didn’t scream,” he said. “Didn’t push me away. When I bit her, she leaned in.”
Fallon shook her head. “You don’t get it. That’s worse. That means she already in trouble.”
He stilled. “What?”
Fallon lowered her voice. “Mary.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then she whispered, “The Juke, Elias.”
“Don’t” he growled.
“They died, Stack. And it tore a hole in you big enough to crawl through. Don’t pretend like this ain’t déjà vu.”
He turned away, gripping the edge of the desk until the wood creaked.
Fallon stepped closer, softer now. “You said she was the only one who ever made you feel like this until she didn’t”
“She broke me on purpose.” He thought of her and the curse she forged in him.
“But this one,” Fallon pressed, “ShaNiece. She’s making you feel again.”
He nodded once. Slow. Painful.
Fallon’s voice trembled. “Then we got a problem. Because if you felt that bond, Stack, if you took ShaNiece’s blood because it called you—you know what comes next.”
He closed his eyes. “Mary.”
Fallon nodded. “She always knows when you give yourself away.”
Pairing: Erik “Killmonger” Stevens × Laila “Sunshine” Greene (Black!OC)
Featuring: Baby Kori, toxic baby daddy drama, a protective man who loves out loud
Summary: Laila’s built a quiet life for her daughter, Kori — and Erik has been her peace through every storm. But peace don’t mean silence, and when her ex continues using co-parenting as a way to disrespect her and disrupt their relationship, Erik has one response: step in and stay ready.
He’s not jealous. He’s not insecure. He’s just done watching the woman he loves shrink herself for the sake of someone who never deserved her. And when Dre pushes too far, Erik reminds Laila exactly who she chose — and why he’s not going anywhere.
Warnings: Co-parenting with a toxic ex, emotional tension, light verbal threats (from Erik to baby daddy), cursing, creampie, deep emotional bonding, soft crying during sex, mentions of past emotional abuse, protective themes, found family, soft aftercare.
The smell of brown sugar and cinnamon drifted through the kitchen like gospel. Soft and slow, just like the playlist spilling from the Bluetooth speaker tucked behind the spice rack. SZA humming over Al Green, some old-school beat Erik didn’t even bother to skip. He was busy flipping pancakes with one hand, pouring Kori’s juice with the other, and humming like he didn’t have a single enemy in the world.
But Laila knew better. She always did.
She leaned in the doorway, robe tied low on her hips, coffee warming her palms. Her curls were still a mess, face bare, lips full and untouched by gloss or morning kisses — but Erik’s eyes still dragged over her like sin.
“Staring,” she muttered into her mug.
“Admiring,” he corrected, flipping the pancake like he’d done it a hundred times.
“You only cook when you tryin’ to distract yourself.”
“I cook when I wanna feed my family.”
Laila arched a brow. “And when you’re trying to keep from cussing somebody out?”
Erik didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Kori giggled from her booster seat at the island, little hands smacking the tray while her baby curls bounced. “I want nanners in mine!”
“You already got ‘em, pumpkin,” Erik said, grabbing a fork and sliding a fresh slice onto her plate. “Daddy E hooked you up.”
“Thank you, Daddy E,” she sang out, syrup already smeared across her cheeks.
Laila’s heart pinched. Soft. Sharp. That complicated middle ground.
She moved to wipe Kori’s face, but Erik beat her to it, crouching with a paper towel and pressing a kiss to the girl’s sticky temple.
“Messy little queen,” he said, voice dipped in reverence. “You gon’ run the world one day, huh?”
Kori nodded, proud and sugar-high. “Like Mommy.”
Erik looked up, and his gaze found Laila’s again — softer this time. Full.
That was the thing about him. He didn’t just love loudly; he loved all the way through. No halfway, no parts of her, no conditions. When Erik Stevens showed up, he stayed. And when he claimed you, he didn’t flinch at what came with you — even when that part had a last name he wanted to erase from the planet.
Kori’s last name. Dre’s name.
The name that still sat on her birth certificate like a damn bruise.
Laila swallowed hard and stepped back toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go change.”
“You sure you up for today?” Erik called after her. “We can switch it up. He don’t gotta see you.”
Laila paused. Fingers clenched around the coffee mug tighter than they needed to be.
“I’m good,” she lied.
Erik’s jaw ticked, but he nodded once. “I’ll drive.”
Of course he would. He always did.
Laila took her time dressing, not because she was trying to look good, but because she didn’t want to think too long about what today meant. Every drop-off was the same: tension bubbling just under the surface, Dre trying to twist the knife with slick comments and hollow charm. He didn’t want her back — not really. He just hated that she moved on without lookin’ back.
And he especially hated Erik.
She smoothed her jeans, tugged her sweater down, and slipped on her gold hoops — the ones Erik liked. He called them her “quiet armor.”
By the time she came back down, Kori had syrup in her curls and Erik had her wrapped in a towel, swaying to the music while he cleaned her up like it was second nature. Like he’d been hers since the beginning.
Laila just stood there, quiet.
Watching the man she loved, holding the daughter she made without him, and loving them both like they were stitched from the same bone.
He glanced up. “You good, Sunshine?”
She nodded. “You sure you wanna come?”
His brow lifted.
“Let me say that again,” she backtracked. “You sure you wanna deal with his mouth?”
Erik didn’t blink.
“I deal with worse in my sleep. He don’t scare me.”
“I’m not worried about him scaring you. I’m worried about you… reacting.”
“I always react,” he said simply. “But only when it’s called for.”
He pulled the towel off Kori’s curls and kissed her forehead. “Go get your jacket, shorty. We got a mission.”
Kori squealed and ran off.
Laila turned to Erik, voice quiet. “You know he’s gonna hate seeing you again.”
“I hope he does.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It ain’t supposed to be.”
He stepped closer, hands sliding to her waist. She smelled like warmth and sleep and that cocoa butter he kept stealing off her shelf.
“Far as I’m concerned, he can hate me all he wants — long as he knows you ain’t his to bother no more. Neither of y’all are.”
Laila exhaled. “You know I don’t need saving, right?”
Erik kissed her, slow and soft, just once. “I know. But I’m still gonna do it anyway.”
The ride was quiet.
Not the strained kind, but the kind where the tension sat in the cupholders and the rearview mirror, taking up more space than Kori’s car seat.
The soft hum of the radio played beneath Kori’s tiny voice in the back, singing off-key to a commercial jingle like she was headlining a stadium tour. Laila half-smiled and adjusted her sunglasses, trying to shake the weight pressing down on her shoulders.
Erik drove one-handed, the other resting casually on Laila’s thigh. Not rubbing, not squeezing—just there. Solid. Warm. Present.
“I should’ve picked a different sweater,” she murmured after a few blocks.
Erik didn’t take his eyes off the road. “You look fine, Sunshine.”
“It’s tight.”
“Still fine.”
She sighed. “It’s just—I don’t want him thinking I’m dressed for him.”
Now Erik did look over, slow and calm. “Ain’t nobody thinkin’ that but you.”
His tone wasn’t sharp, but it cut just the same.
Laila didn’t argue. She just looked out the window, watched the way the sunlight curved around the edges of passing trees. The street signs started to feel familiar, like unwelcome memories clawing back up her spine.
When they turned into the old gas station lot—neutral ground, public and unavoidable—Kori squealed, “Daddy car!”
Erik’s hand tightened just slightly on the wheel.
The silver Dodge Charger sat crooked in the lot like it owned the place. The windows were tinted too dark, the music too loud. Same as always. And just like always, Dre stepped out dressed like he was late to a photoshoot nobody asked for—gold chain, designer belt, and the same cocky little smirk that never reached his eyes.
Laila turned to check on Kori, but Erik was already climbing out.
“E—” she started.
“I got it.”
The door shut behind him before she could finish the sentence.
Erik stood tall beside the car, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Dre clocked him with a grin. “Aw, hell. Thought I might get a break this time.”
“You didn’t.”
Dre rolled his neck, cracking his knuckles like he was bored. “You ain’t tired of playin’ stepdaddy yet?”
“I ain’t playin’ at all,” Erik said evenly.
Laila stepped out with Kori just in time to hear it. She kept her daughter close, letting the toddler walk while she held her hand.
Dre’s eyes dragged over Laila for a second too long.
“That the sweater I bought you?”
Laila didn’t answer.
Erik took a step forward.
Dre grinned. “I’m just askin’. Damn. Can’t compliment the mother of my child?”
“Watch your mouth,” Erik said.
“I ain’t say nothin’ disrespectful—”
“You breathed. That was enough.”
Laila’s pulse jumped. “Okay, that’s enough—Kori, baby, go give your daddy a hug.”
Kori jogged up and wrapped her little arms around Dre’s leg. He bent down, scooped her up, and kissed her cheek.
“Hey, babygirl. You been good?”
“She made pancakes with Daddy E!” Kori beamed.
Dre’s smile cracked for half a second. “Did she now?”
“Yup. And we watched Moana and he braided my dolly’s hair.”
Erik didn’t flinch. Just stood there, jaw set, letting Kori speak freely.
Dre kissed her again and set her in the car seat in the back of his car. Then he straightened and turned to Laila with that smug little lean in his stance.
“You let her call him that now? ‘Daddy E?’ You cool with that?”
Laila held his stare. “I’m cool with her being loved.”
Dre scoffed. “You cool with him tryna replace me?”
“Nobody’s trying to replace you,” she said, voice tight. “But you damn sure ain’t about to disrespect the man who shows up for her every day.”
Erik stepped in. Voice low. Dead calm.
“You ever use Kori to come at her mama again, I’ll make sure you regret it. You hear me?”
Dre laughed like it didn’t rattle him, but his eyes said otherwise. “She still yours? Or you just babysittin’ what I left behind?”
That was it.
Erik moved so fast Dre didn’t flinch in time. One step, chest to chest. No raised voice. No threats. Just that quiet violence in his stare.
“She ain’t yours. Not anymore. Not her, and sure as hell not Laila. So if you wanna keep showing up here walking and breathing, you better act like you got some sense in front of both of ‘em.”
“E,” Laila warned softly.
He didn’t move. Just stared.
Dre took a step back, mouth twisting like he wanted to spit words that wouldn’t come.
Erik finally turned. Walked back to the car. Opened the door for Laila like nothing happened.
She slid in silently, heart hammering. When the door shut and Erik started the engine, she didn’t look at him.
But her voice was small. Shaky.
“Thank you.”
Erik stared ahead. “You don’t ever have to thank me for protecting what’s mine.”
The ride back was even quieter than the ride there.
Not peaceful.
Heavy.
Like the weight of everything unsaid was pressing down on the roof of the car, threatening to cave it in.
Laila stared out the window again, this time not watching anything in particular. Just letting the blur of storefronts and streetlights smear into her vision like watercolors left in the rain. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her jaw clenched. She hadn’t even taken off her sunglasses, even though the sun was slipping lower.
Erik’s hand rested on the gear shift. Knuckles tight. He didn’t say a word. He hadn’t since the gas station.
But she could feel it. The restraint. The rage folded into that calm like a grenade in velvet.
“E…” she started, voice low.
He didn’t look over.
“You know you can’t do that every time.”
“Do what?” His voice was flat. Controlled. A whisper of smoke under pressure.
“Step in like that. You can’t let him get under your skin.”
“He don’t get under my skin,” Erik said, still not looking at her. “He disrespects you. And I don’t tolerate that. Not from him. Not from anybody.”
Laila sighed, head tipping back against the seat. “But you can’t just… threaten him.”
“I didn’t threaten him.”
She looked over, sunglasses finally sliding down her nose. “Erik—”
“I warned him. That’s different.”
She didn’t respond. Just stared, lips pressing into a thin line.
Erik finally glanced over, eyes unreadable.
“You mad at me?”
“No.”
“Disappointed?”
She hesitated.
“…Scared.”
That word sat between them like broken glass. Erik’s hand flexed once. Then again.
“You scared of me?” he asked, voice suddenly fragile.
Laila turned toward him fully, sliding her glasses off.
“No,” she said firmly. “Never you. I’m scared of what happens if he pushes you far enough to do something you can’t come back from.”
Erik’s jaw worked. A beat passed. Then two.
“Sunshine…” His voice cracked just slightly. “He uses that little girl to come for you. To twist you up. I see it every time.”
Laila looked away.
“And I know you don’t wanna make it worse by pushing back. You don’t wanna start nothin’. You just wanna hand Kori off, keep the peace, and come home. But that man don’t know what peace is. He don’t want it. He wants control.And every time you don’t respond, every time you brush it off—he thinks he’s still got it.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Because they were true. And hearing them out loud hurt like hell.
Laila blinked, trying to clear the sting in her eyes.
“I just… I hate that this is our reality,” she whispered. “That I even have to see him. That I can’t just move on without dragging that shadow behind me.”
Erik reached for her hand. Held it tight.
“You’re not dragging anything,” he said. “You survived something. And now you’re rebuilding. And that little girl? She’s light, Laila. She’s yours. She’s mine. She’s not his tool.”
Her lip trembled. She bit it hard.
“I feel like I’m always bracing for the next comment. The next jab. He don’t want me, E. He just wants to remind me he could’ve had me still if I didn’t grow up. If I didn’t choose better.”
“You did choose better,” Erik said quietly. “You chose me.”
Laila swallowed.
“And I ain’t never gonna make you regret that.”
By the time they pulled into the driveway, dusk had started to paint the sky in warm streaks of honey and smoke. Erik cut the engine, but didn’t move.
Laila sat still too, hands still locked in his.
“I don’t want you to be the one always fighting my old battles,” she said softly.
“I’m not.”
She looked at him.
“I’m fighting ours.”
Inside, the house was too quiet.
Kori wasn’t there to fill the space with questions and cartoon theme songs. It was just the two of them now, and the tension had nowhere else to go.
Laila kicked off her shoes, dropped her purse on the kitchen counter, and stood in the middle of the floor like she forgot how her own home worked.
Erik came up behind her slow. Wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his chest.
Her body melted into his like muscle memory.
“I hate how small he still makes me feel,” she whispered.
Erik kissed the back of her neck. “Then let me remind you who the fuck you are.”
She turned in his arms, eyes glassy, lips parted.
“I’m not asking you to fix it.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Loving you through it.”
That was all it took.
The first tear slipped before she could stop it. And Erik was already there — thumb brushing it away, lips on her temple, arms wrapping tighter like he could absorb the pain through contact.
She buried her face in his chest, and for the first time all day, exhaled like she meant it.
The bedroom was dim. Just the last burn of golden-hour light slipping through the blinds and kissing the bedspread like a secret. The kind of light that made skin look like silk and made shadows stretch longer than they should.
Laila sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders low, sweater half-off one shoulder, like even her clothes were tired.
Erik stood in front of her.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her—really looked. The kind of look a man gives when he’s trying to memorize the moment before he breaks it open. His chest rose slow, steady, like he was holding back everything that wanted to spill out.
“You still with me, Sunshine?” he asked, voice low.
Laila nodded. “Barely.”
He stepped forward. “Then let me carry the rest.”
His hands moved to her sweater. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… present. He peeled it over her shoulders like it was something sacred, like she might break if he moved too fast.
And she did break—a little.
Right there under the weight of his touch. Under the silence. Under the way he was still standing when everyone else would’ve backed off.
“I feel like I’m made of glass today,” she whispered.
Erik leaned down, kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her collarbone. “Then I’ll be soft with you.”
He sank to his knees in front of her, palms resting on her thighs.
“You been strong all day,” he murmured, “so now you let me be the strong one.”
Laila’s breath caught. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the tight coils there.
“E…”
“I got you,” he said against her skin. “Always.”
Erik kisses down her stomach slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire, each touch deliberate and possessive. His fingers hook into her waistband, a gentle but firm grip as he eases her pants and underwear down in one fluid motion, revealing her completely. She lifts her hips, offering silent permission, her body already responding to his touch, her breath hitching in anticipation. He spreads her thighs, his hands warm and sure, his touch a promise of pleasure to come. He kisses the inside of one knee, a soft, lingering press of his lips, a tease, a promise. Then he moves to the other, his lips just as gentle, just as possessive. And then, with a reverence that leaves her breathless, he buries his face between her thighs, his tongue exploring, tasting, worshiping, as if she is the most precious thing in the world.
Laila gasped, back arching off the bed.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t tease.
He just loved her through it—with his mouth, his hands, his voice humming against her until her thighs shook and her fingers clawed into his shoulders.
Erik holds her down gently, his strong hands firm but tender, anchoring her as she tries to pull away, her body overwhelmed, trembling with the intensity of her pleasure. He presses deeper, his tongue moving with a deliberate, slow rhythm, licking her through the comedown, drawing out waves of sensation that leave her gasping, shuddering. His voice is a low, soothing murmur against her most intimate place, a promise, a comfort. “You’re safe, Sunshine. Let go. I got you.” His words are a balm, a reminder that she is cherished, protected, loved, even in the midst of her vulnerability, her surrender.
She came twice before he even took his shirt off.
When he finally stood, his eyes were glassy too. But not from emotion—from restraint.
“I ain’t done,” he told her.
“You don’t have to—”
“I need to.”
He stripped for her slowly, letting her see the weight he carried in his body, in his presence. His dick was already hard, thick and heavy, bobbing slightly as he stepped out of his boxers. But he didn’t make a move until she reached for him.
That touch—her touch—snapped the last thread of his control.
Erik lays her down gently, his movements careful and reverent, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He slides in slow, his dick filling her inch by inch, a deliberate, possessive invasion that leaves them both breathless. Her gasp is soft and broken. His is deep and reverent, a sound of awe. He holds her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently against her cheeks, his eyes locked with hers as he begins to stroke in, his hips moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His voice is a low, intense whisper, a promise. “I love you. I love you. I got you.” Each word is a caress, a promise, a truth that needs no further explanation, no further elaboration.
Laila’s legs wrapped around him like instinct. Her hands cupped his jaw. Her eyes stayed locked to his like she was trying to see the exact moment his soul cracked open.
He fucks her deep, slow, steady. Every stroke a message. Every kiss a promise. He talks to her between thrusts—low, raspy, affirming
“You’re not his mistake. You’re my miracle.”
“You gave life. Let me give you something.”
“You mine, Sunshine. Say it.”
She did.
Over and over, between moans and sobs and yes, yes, yes.
When they finally shattered together, it was quiet. Like the air had paused to listen.
Like the world understood that something holy had just happened.
They didn’t move for a long time.
Erik stayed inside her, forehead resting against hers, hand pressed to the space between her ribs.
“Still made of glass?” he murmured.
“No,” Laila whispered, eyes closed.
“You feel whole again?”
“I feel held.”
He kissed her, soft and long. “That’s all I ever want for you.”
The bedroom smelled like honey and heat. Her perfume still clung to the sheets, but underneath it—him. His skin, his sweat, the burn of cinnamon and cedar he wore like armor and home at once.
Laila lay draped across Erik’s chest, her fingers tracing lazy, absentminded patterns along the tattoos inked down his ribs. He hadn’t pulled out yet. Didn’t want to. She hadn’t asked him to.
It was quiet. Safe. The first time all day she hadn’t been bracing for something.
Erik’s thumb stroked her back, slow and aimless, like he didn’t want to break the silence either.
“You ever think about running?” she asked, voice muffled by his chest.
He blinked down at her. “From what?”
“Everything.”
He gave it a beat. Then shook his head. “Not once.”
“Not even when you found out I had a daughter?”
Erik didn’t answer right away. He just let the question sit there, heavy but honest.
Then: “Sunshine… when I saw Kori sitting on that floor the first night I came over? Holding that busted-ass Barbie and smiling like she ain’t know what broken looked like?” He exhaled. “That was it for me.”
Laila’s throat tightened.
“She called me ‘the man from the pancakes’ the next morning,” she whispered, a small laugh breaking the tension. “Like I was supposed to know what that meant.”
“You did,” Erik murmured. “You always knew.”
Laila shifted slightly, resting her chin on his chest now, eyes searching his.
“Why do you love us the way you do?”
He didn’t blink.
“‘Cause you’re mine.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s everything.”
He smoothed a hand over her curls, gaze soft.
“You didn’t need saving. But I needed purpose. And you—you and that baby girl—you gave me somewhere to put the love I’ve been carrying too long with no place to pour it.”
Laila pressed a kiss to his chest, slow and silent.
“I worry sometimes,” she whispered. “That he’s gonna do something stupid. Try to mess with custody. Try to drag us into some court drama. Use her to hurt me again.”
“If he does,” Erik said, voice steel wrapped in velvet, “he gon’ learn what happens when you come for what I love.”
Laila smiled. “You always this dramatic?”
He grinned. “You always this worth it?”
They stayed like that a while longer. Quiet. Twined together like the bones in a shared body.
Then she sat up slightly, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
“You wanna know something wild?”
“Always.”
“I had a dream last week that you were carrying Kori on your shoulders through a crowd. And I couldn’t see either of y’all. But I could hear you—laughing. Like belly-deep laughing. And I remember thinking… ‘She’s safe.’ Like… even in the dream, I knew.”
Erik didn’t respond at first. Just pulled her down into his arms again, pressing her close.
“I’m not her father by blood,” he said quietly. “But I’ll be what he never was.”
Laila closed her eyes.
“You already are.”
Outside, the streetlights buzzed on one by one. The world kept moving. But inside that room, inside that bed, inside that man’s arms—Laila and Kori had everything they needed.
Smoke, the founder of SmokeStack Records, has built a legacy on instinct and soul. But after the recent loss of his wife Annie, the fire behind the music begins to fade. As the label’s rhythm falters, a few of his artists start to notice the shift. One evening, in a quiet lounge far from the spotlight, Smoke hears a voice that cuts through the noise—Hazel, a part-time waitress with a sound that feels both new and familiar. Drawn in, Smoke finds himself at a crossroads between the past he can’t let go of and a future he’s not sure he’s ready for. As their paths intertwine, the question lingers: can one voice help him find his way back to the music—and maybe something more?
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:
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.
Note: I am considering publishing this story and would appreciate your feedback. Please COMMENT!!!
Chapter One: Daisy in the Bayou
New Orleans, Louisiana — 1942
The sun spilled over New Orleans like warm molasses, golden and slow, casting long shadows across the sleepy streets. Morning light filtered through the oaks draped in Spanish moss, gilding everything in a glow that felt like a hush—like a secret only the South knew how to keep.
Daisy Belle Rousseau walked the gravel path toward the schoolhouse, her every step steady, graceful. Her kitten heels clicked softly against the ground. Her skirt—navy blue and pressed crisp—swayed just below her knees. A white blouse clung to her frame, perfectly starched, and a leather satchel bumped rhythmically against her hip, full of arithmetic papers and a dog-eared copy of W.E.B. Du Bois.
“Mornin’, Miss Rousseau!” old Mr. Langston called from his porch, waving his cane.
“Morning, Mr. Langston,” she smiled back. “Ain’t it a pretty one?”
“Prettier now that you done walked by!”
She chuckled and shook her head. “Flatterin’ this early in the mornin’ should be a crime.”
New Orleans was small—too small for someone like Daisy, who had dreams as big as Lake Pontchartrain. But she loved it anyway. The moss-draped oaks, the sound of gospel humming through open windows on Sunday mornings, and the children’s laughter spilling from every dusty corner—it was home.
Daisy stepped into her classroom, sunlight filtered through tall windows, warming the wooden desks lined in neat rows. The scent of chalk and ink clung to the walls, and the quiet moment before her students arrived gave Daisy pause. Her students would arrive soon, but for now, she took a quiet moment, running her hand along the edge of her desk. A stack of neatly written arithmetic papers waited for grading, but her mind drifted elsewhere.
To music.
To dancing.
To something... more.
That evening, Daisy sat before her vanity, pressing small gold hoops into her ears. Her roommate and closest friend, Eloise, peeked her head in.
“You ready, sugar? The juke joint don’t stay open forever.”
Daisy looked at herself in the mirror, then back to Eloise. “Do you think this dress is too much?”
“It’s just enough,” Eloise grinned. “Besides, we need a little joy these days. Let’s get out this house.”
It was a Thursday night in the spring of 1942, New Orleans breathed like a living thing. The air was thick with magnolia blossoms and trumpet smoke. Somewhere near Oak Street, the sound of a saxophone kissed the evening wind.
The Rusty Note, the town’s only Black juke joint, pulsed with life. Laughter spilled out the door, smoke curled from cigars, and blues music danced through the thick Louisiana air.
Inside, Daisy swayed in rhythm, surrounded by her friends, sipping on a glass of sweet tea doctored with a little something extra. She tried not to think about the headlines in the Bayou Sentinel—about war, about Hitler, about Black men being called to serve a country that barely saw them as human.
No, tonight was for dancing.
Her dress hugged her waist and flared at the hips, her curls pinned just so, skin kissed with cocoa powder. She sat at a small table, watching, listening, heart half-hoping for nothing and something all at once.
“You gonna sit here all night lookin’ like a painting,” Eloise said beside her, “or are you gone get up and dance?”
Daisy smirked. “I’m fine right here. Ain’t no crime in restin’ my feet.”
“You work them feet hard all week with them children,” Eloise said. “Let ‘em have some fun.”
Daisy’s eyes wandered. “Fun got a price.”
Just then, the club’s door creaked open, and a soft hush moved through the crowd like someone had dimmed the room.
In stepped a man.
A slow guitar riff slid into a melody, and the crowd shifted. That’s when Daisy saw him.
He was standing near the bar, tall and solid, with a deep brown complexion that gleamed under the amber lights. His eyes were soft, curious—watchful. He wore suspenders over a pressed white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. Just clean lines in a brown suit, polished shoes, and dark eyes that moved slowly—like he was soaking everything in. He had the stillness of someone who’d seen storms and learned how to wait them out.
Daisy’s breath caught. She looked away quickly, cheeks warming beneath the dim glow of the hanging lanterns.
She noticed him noticing her.
Something fluttered in her chest—annoying and unfamiliar.
“Lord, have mercy,” Eloise whispered, fanning herself. “Who is that?”
“I don’t know,” Daisy murmured and quickly looked away.
Behind her, Eloise nudged her side. “Go on, Daisy. Talk to him. Ain’t nothing to be scared of.”
Daisy shook her head, trying to steady her nerves. “I’m here for the music, not trouble,” she whispered back.
Here’s the final part to my Smoke x Annie Wedding series — the reception/ wedding night!!!
This one’s for all you Smut lovers out there 😏
TW/CW - use of the N word, cursing, unprotected sex, oral sex, mild bondage, mild choking, dominate vs. submissive, fluff, f!ingering
OG time period with modern influence; Smoke and Annie 1st person POV — Inspired by the song So Beautiful by Music Soulchild
***********************************************
“As the best man, y’all know I’m obligated to make a speech…” Stack started, interrupting the roaring chatter of guests in Delray’s — the intimate, local juke joint Annie and I were holding our reception at.
“…So why don’t y'all sit ya’ll happy asses down and let a real playa speak to you for a minute.” He continued, clinking his glass.
It was visibly clear that Stack was feeling a little tipsy — his goofy ass pacing around the stage as he waited for everyone to take their seats —but he was still holding onto his usual suave composure tightly.
“Oh lord, here he go.” Annie said, chuckling softly; hand covering her face.
This nigga betta not embarrass me… I whisper to myself, taking a seat beside Annie at a circular table toward the front of the Juke.
Taking a swig of my Italian wine — courtesy of a connect I made while up in New York — I turn my attention toward Stack, mentally preparing for whatever shit he was about to say on the mic.
“Anybody who knows the SmokeStack twins, knows that I inherited all the swag, and Smoke inherited all the sense…” Stack began, already getting a few chuckles from the crowd.
“I mean, if it wasn’t for me the nigga would probably wear a wife beata and khakis every damn day!” He added, eliciting more laughter from the audience as if he were a comedian testing out a new set.
“Not to mention, he has no game — The looks and some more help from me saved him in that area…“
“Alright nigga, not too much! ” I interrupted, with a light chuckle, taking another swig of wine.
Annie laughed, rubbing a gentle hand along my arm in an attempt to defuse any ill feelings that tried to arise at the mention of Stack’s arrogant but well-intentioned comments.
“Don’t worry chief, I’m getting to a point.” Stack laughed , tilting his glass toward me.
“Even though I helped Smoke become the sharp looking pimp we see here today, he’s helped me in more ways than I can count; far more important than looks and sweet talk…” he started up again, his tone shifting from playful to sincere.
“Growing up, Smoke was the closest thing I had to a dad.” He continued, tensing up a bit at the thought of our deceased deadbeat father. “He taught me how to shave, how to fight, how to drive — the list goes on. We’ve developed a system; a bond that not many understand. It takes a lot for people to get close to us and infiltrate that system. And on the off chance they do, they’re usually too intimidated to stay. But Annie… Annie you different.” Stack said, turning his attention directly to the woman next to me.
“I knew from the moment we met that Annie would steam roll her ass between us and stay.”
I turned to look at Annie who was laughing heartily, her bright smile lighting up the room. I sat there staring for a moment, admiring her beauty as Stack proceeded to speak.
“In all my 25 years of living, I ain’t never seen Smoke care about a woman the way he cares about you Annie. Hell, I’ve rarely seen him talk to or think about a woman longer than a few days before you come along.” He stated, throwing in another joke for good measure.
“That man right there...” Stack pointed at me.“would lay down his life for you and then some. And knowing the kind of woman you are, I know you’d do the same for him.”
“And would!” Annie shouted boldly, placing a reassuring hand on the back of my neck.
“So imma end with this: I ain’t much of a praying man but I hope the powered that be give you both everything you want and more. Love y’all to life; Now drink up mothafuckas!” Stack finished, chugging the last of his drink and tipping his glass toward me and Annie. The crowd erupted into applause as Stack exited the stage to make his way over to us.
“That was beautiful Stack, thank you!” Annie said, embracing him and placing a soft kiss on his cheek.
“Not gon lie you had me in the first half nigga, but I appreciate you. Much love bro!” I said, dabbing him up.
“ You know I gotta keep you on your toes G.” Stack teased before returning to his seat at the table behind us.
For the next 30 minutes or so, friends and family went up to the mic, recounting stories and saying their congratulations to me and Annie. There was of course little Mary, Annie’s grandmother and cousins, Delta Slim— who was like an Uncle to me, my homies Bo Chow and Corn Bread; hell even little Sammie got up and said a few words.
After all was said and done, it was time to party.
With the moon high and dry, those with young kids said their goodbyes, while those grown enough to stay coupled up and took to the dance floor to do what they do best — bump and grind.
Finishing off my drink, I could see Annie looking at me from my peripheral, a glint in her eyes.
“How you feeling?” She asked me, her voice soft like the supple skin on her radiant body.
“Full.” I said, turning my attention to meet her gaze. I meant that in every sense of the word as I took in the beauty of my newly wedded wife and the moment surrounding us once more.
“You?” I asked in return.
“Like I’m on cloud 9.” She smiled with that big ol’ smile of hers. “Dance with me Elijah.” She demanded, standing from her seat and grabbing me by the hand to follow.
The room filled with sensual rhythm and blues as me and Annie made our way to the dance floor. Like second nature, her arms wrapped around my neck, as I snaked mine around her waist, resting at them at the small of her back.
Like two pieces of a puzzle, our legs intertwined as we began slow grinding to the melodies swirling around us. It was like we were the only two people in the room.
“Mrs. Moore, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I said, voice thick with awe.
“You’re not so bad yourself Mr. Moore.” She said, placing her head on my chest. Even though I was fully clothed, the contact made my skin sting with desire.
“You don’t know what you do to me.” I whisper in her ear, hunger lacing my tongue. “Drives me crazy…”
I could feel Annie’s body shiver against me as I began peppering kisses along her neck.
“Elijah —“ she warned, lifting her head to look me in the eyes. I cut her off with a deep kiss, no longer in the mood for talking.
“Respectfully, Annie…” I started, pulling away from our kiss to remove my jacket and place it on a nearby chair. “ The only words I want to hear come out of that pretty little mouth of yours for the rest of the night are: “more”, “right there”, and “yes”. “ I said pulling her body against me, tighter than before.
Though bashful, I could see the lust-filled excitement dancing around in Annie’s eyes.
“Whatever you say Elijah.” She whispered, biting her lip. Our lips reconnected with more intensity than before — tongues swirling around, as carnal need coursed through our veins.
“I’m gonna make you feel so good Annie. Not just tonight, but for the rest of your life. So long as I’m by your side, you won’t have to worry about nothing.” I said between kisses, promise infused in every word.
“Show me.” Annie said, eyes dark and daring.
***
Smoke grabbed my hand, leading me carefully through the crowd of dancing bodies until we reached a room on the second floor of the hole in the wall Juke.
Opening the door, I could see a small bed on one side of the room and a closet and dresser —- dawned with candles — on the other. Fragrant rose petals scattered the floor, as the moonlight peaked in through the cracks of a small window to the left of the bed.
“I had a buddy of mine fix the room up for us.” Smoke explained, closing the door behind him and locking it. I took a moment to revel at the intention put in by the man beside me.
“You are too sweet Elijah Moore.” I said, my gratitude evident.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that baby.” He said menacingly, undoing his tie. “Sit.” he commanded, ushering me toward the edge of the bed.
“You remember what I said downstairs right? Those words I want you to say?” Smoke questioned, lust dripping from his lips with every word.
“Y-yes.” I answered, voice catching in my throat. I could feel myself already getting aroused at his dominance.
“Good girl. Now lay down and scooch up.” He smirked, a devilish sparkle in his eyes.
Oh this man is on demon time tonight I thought to myself as I silently obeyed his command. I watched carefully as my husband made his way toward me, his undone tie draped in hand.
“Put your arms above your head for me baby.” I do as I’m told. Without warning Smoke pulls my arms together, preparing to tie them to the headboard above me.
“Let me know if this gets too tight.” He said, tying a firm knot around my wrists. I could feel my adrenaline rush through my body as I began to fantasize about the things this man was about to do to me. Whatever he had planned, I knew it was going to be good
Pleased with his work, Smoke trailed a hand down my arm and placed it gently on my neck, giving it a squeeze. I clinched at the sensation of asphyxiation mixed with the warmth of his lips as he leaned down to plant a long sensual kiss on my lips.
Smoke pulled away slowly, a teasing smirk on his lips. He turned to unbutton his shirt and remove his shoes. My body twitched at the sight of his chiseled muscles flexing in the moonlight, as he threw the discarded clothes in the corner.
God took his time on this man I thought, watching intently.
Rather than making his way back to my lips, Smoke moved toward the edge of the bed, kneeling at in front of me as if he was praying at an altar. Removing the heels from my feet, he began to rub my sore ankles and toes, causing a soft moan to escape my lips.
“Feel good baby?” Smoke asked, his sexy voice piercing the air.
“Mhmm” I moaned again with a sigh of relief.
“Good.” He replied softly, placing a gentle kiss to my ankle.
As Smoke continued to massage my feet, ankles, and calves with his strong, heavenly hands, I could feel him start to leave soft kisses up and down my legs.
“Elijah—“ I whispered breathily, heating up at the sensation of his lips on my skin.
“Shh mamas. Let me take care of you.” He said between kisses.
Shifting positions, Smoke rose to hover over my lower half — one hand anchored on the bed, the other on my thigh. Lifting my dress for further access, he placed warm wet kisses along my thighs. As he got closer to my sex, I could feel my pussy throb in anticipation; legs tensing up in response.
“You gon open up for me mama?” Smoke joked teasingly as he looked me square in the eyes, mouth inches away from heat. His warm breath sent goosebumps throughout my body.
“Yes.” I exhaled, slowly opening my legs.
“Thats a good girl.” He said before placing firm kisses against my clothed pussy. I could feel my breath hitch as Smoke moved my panties to the side, taking a long thick finger and sliding it down my swollen wet core.
“Look at that pretty pussy already warmed up for me.” Smoke said proudly, before sticking his tongue deep into my folds and swirling it around.
Not being able to use my hands, I squirmed and whimpered under his touch.
“Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want. I’m all yours.” He said assertively, backing away slightly from my now aching center.
“Please Elijah, make me cum.” I said looking down desperately at the beautiful man peaking between my legs.
“ My pleasure.” Smoke replied smugly, immediately going to work.
He inserted two thick fingers into my pussy, instantly moving them in and out — slowly at first, then picking up steam. My hips bucked wildly. A frenzy of moans filled the air; signaling him that I wanted more. Digging deeper, he began slurping up my juices with his tongue.
“God damn baby, you taste so good.” Smoke moaned into my heat, the vibrations of his voice sending me into overdrive.
“Shittt” I moaned out; my skin on fire from the overwhelming, addictive pleasure I was receiving. “ Right there Elijah. Just like that.”
I could feel myself getting close, as Smoke inserted a third finger, curving his digits and circling his tongue around my clit.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m gonna cum, Elijah. I’m gonna cum.” I cried out, chest heaving and sweat dripping from my brow.
“Let loose baby.” Smoke said, mouth never leaving my heat. He placed a firm hand on my stomach, the pressure sending me over the edge.
Engulfed with pleasure, I cried out, unraveling as Smoke continued to eat and finger me through my release.
After a minute or so, I finished — post orgasm waves surging periodically through my tired body. I breathlessly watched as Smoke removed his face from between my legs, licking his lips like he had just finished the last supper.
Using his dry hand, he wiped my excess orgasm from his beard. As if he couldn’t get enough of the taste, he began sucking on one of his wet fingers.
“Want some?” He asked, looking deep into my eyes. Matching his fiery gaze, I nod my head yes. He moves to stand beside me, towering over my disheveled figure.
“Open.” Smoke ordered.
Obeying his command, I open my mouth wide — making sure to look him dead in the eyes — as he placed two of his slick fingers in my mouth.
***
“Shit.” I whispered through gritted teeth as I watched Annie suck her sweet nectar from my fingers.
She looks so sexy with my fingers in her mouth. Imagine how good she’d look with my d— I cut off the tempting thought, feeling my dick twitch in my pants. As much as I loved the idea of getting head right now, tonight was about Annie.
“You like how sweet you taste mamas?” I asked, shoving my fingers a little deeper down her throat.
“Mmhmm” Annie nods, the vibration from her throat sending electricity down my spine. Slowly, I remove my cleaned fingers from her mouth.
“What else do you want to do tonight?” I probed, reminding Annie that I was here to take care of her needs. “Let me hear you say it baby.”
“I want you inside of me Smoke.” she whispered darkly, her voice hoarse. Even though she was still reeling from her last orgasm, Annie wanted all that Smoke had to offer.
That’s my girl I thought, a small smile creeping on my lips. I lean in to give her kiss before making my way back down to the edge of the bed.
“Lift.” I requested, urging her to raise her hips.
Pulling down her soaked panties, I throw them to the corner of the room with the rest of my clothes. Wanting to take in the full view of her body, I roll up her dress even more so that it sat just above her chest.
“Can I remove this, baby?” I asked, looking down at her laced white bra. Annie, completely submissive in the moment, lazily nodded her head yes. She lifts up a bit so that I can unclasp and remove the binding cloth from her chest. I turn to throw it in the pile with the rest of our clothes.
“Mmm…” I moaned, returning to take in the sight of my wife’s ample bare breasts. I could tell she was feeling a little shy from my scanning eyes as her body started to tense.
“Mrs. Moore…” I started, softly caressing the skin on her cheek “you are truly a work of art.” I affirm, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead. I could feel her body ease under my touch.
That’s more like it, I thought. Standing, I move back toward the edge of the bed to admire the fullness of Annie’s body.
“How you want it ma?” I ask, unbuckling my pants; ready to please my woman in any way that she needs.
“Deep and slow.” Annie said seductively; fully embracing the power of just being able to lay back and give commands. Her teasing eyes caused my dick to stiffen.
Dropping my pants, I began to roll my thick shaft in my hands. Annie watched with lustful dark eyes — lip tucked between teeth — as I twisted and tugged. Moving to hover over her, I position myself so that I perfectly aligned with her center.
Kissing up her stomach and chest slowly, I land on one of her swollen breasts. Cupping it in my hand, I take her nipple in my mouth, sucking on the warm chocolate mound. I could hear Annie hiss at the sensation, as I began swirling and flicking it with my tongue.
“S-Stop teasing me Smoke.” She whispered, her voice stinging with need as her eyes fluttered close.
Not breaking away from her chest, I reach my free hand toward her ankle and lift her leg so that it’s now propped over my shoulder.
“You said you wanted it slow baby, remember?” I teased before readjusting myself at the entrance of her peak.
“You ready?” I asked, searching Annie’s twisted face for confirmation.
“Yes.” She replied hungrily.
Slowly, I slide my dick into her wet folds, cursing instantly at how tight she was.
“Fuck Annie…” I exclaimed, letting myself get used to the pressure of her warm pussy around my hard cock.
Getting fully acclimated, I began bucking my hips to the slow, steady rhythm of the music that’s been playing throughout the Juke.
“Ohhh yes, just like that baby.” Annie exhaled, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. As I continued grinding my hips into hers, I made sure to place gentle kisses along her stomach and legs.
“Fuck you take me so good Annie. You look so beautiful taking me like this.” I praised her, marveling at the woman beneath me.
As I went deeper with every stroke, wild moans continued to escape Annie’s plump lips; mouth agape. Her cries, mixed with the music from the band below, created the most beautiful symphony.
Man I could listen to this shit for the rest of my life I thought to myself, no intentions of stopping anytime soon.
What Beyonce say? “Fan me off I’m hot, hot, hot….” Cause SAME sis.
The wayyyyy I’d turn Smoke every way but loose if he told me he’d do whatever I asked him to. I’m talking round after rounddd!!!!
ANYWAYS, yall I hope you enjoyed this series! I had so much fun writing about Smoke x Annie’s marriage story — especially with it being in 1st person. Let me know what you thought about the shifting POV’s, speeches, or literally anything else, in the comments 😊
Reader hitting stack with that “so basically..” line during an argument.
“So basically, I’m annoying and you hate me. Bet.”
“Yn really? I’m literally just tired.”
“Okay excuse me for wanting some attention from my man.” You said attitude dripping from your voice. In all honesty, you just missed him. It’s been a long day of both of you being busy and you just wanted to show some love and get some back.
God forbid a girl misses her boo.
“Baby..not today.”
“Well lemme book an appointment whenever you’re available so I can love on you.”
Stack just stood there blinking at you. Nothing he could say in this moment would be received the way he meant it. He knows you’re acting up because you missed him. So he’s not even going to entertain you right now. Just place a kiss on your forehead and ask you to grant him 30 minutes.
He misses you too. Just wants a few minutes to wind down after the long day he’s had. Sue him.
Honestly? I don’t want them writing fanfics about Black characters. They do a shitty job of it anyway. I don’t want them describing Black bodies; I don’t want them describing our skin and hair. Keep Black folks out of your bullshit. Write about Remmick and stfu.
This isn’t “Just a movie.” There’s historical, ancestral, and cultural context involved. My grandmother was born in 1932. Her mother was born in 1910. This movie means something to those of us who are descendants of chattel slavery especially.
Just like I said in another post: Y’all ARE your ancestors. You’re proving that shit every single day in these tags/fandom.
