supaflyyy

[supaflyyy]

babysittin’

sammie “preacher boy” moore x farmer’s daughter! black! fem! reader

your parents going out tonight means your alone with your rowdy siblings, but also your favorite preacher boy.

fluff. 30’s in south. written in southern tone. slight cussing.

after sayin’ goodbye to your parents, who trudge down the dusty dirt road toward the car, you brace yourself for another long day of wranglin’ your younger siblings. lawrence and june can be handfuls, and you're always the one stuck dealin’ with ‘em. as you close the door behind you, a soft thud echoes, followed by a foot wedgin’ in to stop it.

"hey now," sammie pushes the door open, steppin’ inside with that familiar confidence. his voice is smooth, playful. he flashes that boyish grin, the kind that always makes your stomach do that little twist—like he knows somethin’ you don’t. "good afternoon, ma’am. heard you was babysittin’?"

you raise an eyebrow, tryin’ to keep it cool despite the way his grin tugs at somethin’ deep inside. "yes, sir."

he steps in, glancin’ ‘round the small front room. you’ve lived in this house all your life—wooden floors, hand made furniture, and the faint smell of fried food in the air. it's nothin’ special, but it’s yours. he sets his guitar down carefully by the door, then slips off his worn shoes without a word, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

you hear the scamper of little feet upstairs, followed by a loud thud and a high-pitched squeal. lawrence, informally known as larry, no doubt, testin’ his limits.

"so, preacher boy, how you been?" you ask, leanin’ against the counter, arms crossed. his tall frame, lean and wiry in a worn shirt and jeans with suspenders, gives off a quiet energy—like he's always half-listenin’ to somethin’ only he can hear.

he shrugs, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "the usual. filling out my quota, getting disappointed looks from my pops whenever i even think about playing my guitar."

you chuckle softly, rollin’ your eyes. "figured."

"how 'bout you?" he asks, his voice quieter now, the teasin’ edge replaced by somethin’ more genuine.

"same ol’, same ol’," you reply, the words flowin’ easily, but there's a shift in your tone as you let ‘em hang in the air. "farm stuff, makin’ sure bo and grace pick up the produce, watchin’ these brats upstairs." you glance toward the ceiling, hearing the thumping and stomping. you don’t hesitate to yell.

"shut your asses up!"

sammie raises an eyebrow, eyes wide, half-amused and half-impressed.

"hungry?" you ask, nodding toward the stove. "got some fried chicken. fresh," you add, a teasing smirk curling at your lips.

he gives you a knowing glance as you lead him to the table. it’s nothin’ fancy—just a worn wooden table with mismatched chairs—but it’s familiar, home. larry and junebug are practically bouncing in their seats, peppering sammie with a rapid-fire barrage of questions, their excited chatter filling the room.

the warmth of the meal and the laughter of your siblings cut through the heavy, humid air.

you try to get a word in, but the two of ‘em don't let up, their wide eyes fixed on sammie as they bombard him with questions. you roll your eyes, givin’ up for the moment. eventually, you herd ‘em outside to burn off some of that energy.

"go play," you say, pointing toward the backyard. "get outta here ‘fore i throw you in the creek."

they scramble out, slamming the door behind ‘em, leaving you and sammie alone for a moment, including greasy plates and empty cups, which you and sammie did wash. after that— what now?

"so..." you start, your voice trailin’ off as you stand, unsure of what to say next. somethin’ about the quiet after the chaos makes you feel a little off-kilter.

sammie grabs his guitar, strummin’ a few chords to fill the space between you. "let’s take a walk," he suggests, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. the guitar strap rests over his shoulder, but it’s more like an extension of him. he secures it around his back and takes a few long strides to follow you out.

you nod, leading him out of the house and past the fields stretching out to the horizon. the late afternoon sun bathes the land in a soft, amber glow, painting the rows of crops and the nearby trees in hues of green and gold. the air is thick with the smell of earth, fresh hay, and distant dust. it feels like home—familiar and comfortin’. birds call overhead, the leaves rustle underfoot, and the hum of insects keeps the rhythm of your walk.

"so," he breaks the silence, his voice carrying over the soft sounds of the farm. "how’s the farm been treatin’ ya?"

"you know," you start, turning toward him, "it’s a lot of work, but it’s mine. it’s the family’s. every inch of dirt." you keep your eyes ahead, but something in the way you say it— makes you realize how much the land has shaped you, how much of it is tied to your family’s struggles and pride.

the two of you stroll past the rows of corn and the garden, the vegetables still in the early stages of growth. even so, it’s enough to show there’s something live here, something that’ll grow if you tend to it right.

as you reach the horse stables, the sound of hooves cloppin’ against the dirt breaks the rhythm of the walk.

inside, the horses are calm, content in their pens, but you spot belle near the gate. she’s older now, her coat graying slightly, but she’s still strong, proud, with eyes that still carry the fire of youth. the fading sunlight catches her sleek coat, makin’ her shine like some ethereal creature from another time.

sammie grins when he sees her, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. "i remember her," he says, his voice filled with fondness as he steps closer. he reaches out toward her, as though expecting the same familiarity.

belle’s ears twitch at the sound of his voice. she looks up, her brown eyes locking onto him, and with a soft snort, she trots over to him, her head tilting in his direction. it’s like she’s remembering something from long ago—like she’s always known him, the way the two of ‘em connected so easily before.

sammie laughs softly, reaching out to scratch the spot between her ears.

"i didn’t forget you either, girl," he says, his fingers pressin’ into her coat, coaxing her to relax. belle leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, as though the world has slowed down just for ‘em. it’s like a little reunion between the two of ‘em, warm and unspoken.

you stay back for a moment, watching ‘em—sammie, with his dark eyes and easy smile, his hair slightly mussed from the walk, and belle, sturdy and regal as always. it's a peaceful moment, but it doesn't last long. the sound of bickering from inside the house pulls you back to the present.

damn, they loud as hell!

"i want it!" june whines, clutching the toy in both hands, eyes wide with that determined look only she could pull off.

"no, i want it!" lawrence counters, his voice rising as he reaches for it.

"i’m older!" june huffs, a pout forming on her face.

"i’m taller!" lawrence shoots back, standing up on his tiptoes to seem even taller than he already is.

you watch the squabble unfold for a moment, leaning against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow. then, casually, you step in.

"i think i’ll take it, because i am the oldest and tallest," you say, crossing your arms.

lawrence stops, eyes wide. "actually, n/n, that belongs to ronnie."

"ronnie ain’t here, though. ain’t he?" you retort, raising a brow.

your younger brother mutters something under his breath—too quiet for you to catch, but enough to catch june’s attention.

"yeah, knew better than to let me hear that," you say, your voice smooth but firm, before plucking the toy out of lawrence’s hand and handing it to june.

"hey!" lawrence frowns, crossing his arms and stomping his foot.

"that’s for being smart," you say, giving him a playful look before turning to sammie, who’s been standing by quietly, watching the chaos unfold.

he tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. "hey, how is he, by the way?"

"hm?" you glance over at him, trying to piece together what he’s asking.

"ronnie," sammie clarifies, his voice low, careful. "how’s he doin’?"

"oh," you nod, a small sigh escaping your lips. "from what i heard, he’s just fine. still up in chicago, doin' god knows what. he always says it’s for his 'new job' or 'work stuff you don’t need to worry about.' but i don’t believe him." you frown, the uncertainty in your voice barely noticeable, but it’s there—like a knot in your stomach that’s never really gone away.

sammie hums in response, the sound a little distant. "you know, i got family up in chicago too."

"you do, huh?" you ask, glancing over at him with renewed curiosity. then it clicked: "what’s they names—oh! elias and elijah?"

he nods, a flicker of something in his eyes. "yeah, they left a couple years back. haven’t heard from or of them since."

"shiit," you mutter, an idea sparking in your mind. "maybe they with ronnie."

sammie gives a half-hearted chuckle, though there’s something uncertain behind his smile. "let’s hope so."

| ⟡ ˙🌳 ̟

you stroll past the fields, the dirt crunching beneath your leather boots. the sun is dipping low, casting long shadows over the land. you and sammie walk side by side in comfortable silence, the rhythmic sounds of the farm settling around you—birds in the distance, the rustling of the leaves, the faint hum of insects.

as you reach the old live oak near the edge of the field, you stop, nodding toward its gnarled branches that stretch out like old hands reaching for the sky. the moss hangs thick, swaying gently in the breeze like a curtain draped from an ancient window. "this is where i come to get some peace and quiet."

sammie looks up at the tree, the golden light filtering through the long strands of Spanish moss, casting a soft, ethereal glow over everything. "seems like a good spot," he says, his voice quiet, thoughtful.

he shifts the guitar on his back, the strap adjusting over his shoulder, then finally pulls it off and sits down on the grass beneath the tree. you follow his lead, taking a seat a little ways off, watching the way he handles the guitar like it’s an extension of him.

he runs his fingers over the strings, testing a few notes, before his hands settle into a gentle rhythm. the sound of his playing fills the air, simple and smooth, a quiet melody that blends with the soft breeze.

you lean back against the live oak, closing your eyes for a moment, just letting the music wash over you. the notes feel familiar, like they belong here.

after a few minutes, he glances up at you, his fingers still moving over the strings.

you look out over the fields, your eyes catching the movement of the crops swaying gently in the wind. the soft creak of the tree above you adds to the peaceful hum of the evening.

after a pause, you turn your head slightly, catching his eyes. "you think your father’ll ever let you play for real?"

he stops playing, fingers resting on the strings for a beat, his eyes meeting yours. "maybe," he says, quieter than before. "maybe one day."

you nod, the silence stretching between you, but it’s comfortable, not awkward. you let the sound of his guitar fill the space, feeling something shift in the air—like the music’s pulled you both a little closer, without either of you saying a word.

| ⟡ ˙🫙 ̟

the night’s heavy with that fresh, earthy smell after the sun’s gone down. the air’s still warm, but the breeze got a cool edge to it. you and sammie came up with an activity for the kids— catchin’ fireflies.

"you think they gonna catch any of ‘em?" sammie asks, leanin’ up against the porch rail. he’s got that guitar slung across his back, the weight of it like he’s used to havin’ it there.

"they’ll catch somethin’ if they keep runnin’ like that," you say, smirking as june trips over her own feet, squealing with excitement.

sammie laughs, the sound of it warm against the night. "guess they got a lotta energy."

"yeah, and i’m the one who gotta deal with it," you say, rolling your eyes, though you ain’t really mad. june runs around, screaming like she just caught the biggest treasure ever.

sammie glances at you with that look, that easy grin on his face. "maybe i’ll join ‘em, see if i can catch me one."

"not without a jar, preacher boy," you tease, feelin’ that playful edge creep into your voice.

sammie smirks, grabbin’ his guitar from his back. he strums out a few chords, slow and smooth, the notes mixin’ with the buzzin’ of fireflies and the distant sounds of the farm.

you close your eyes for a second, lettin’ the music wash over you. it feels familiar, like this is how things are meant to be.

"maybe we can make a race of it," he says after a while, glancin’ over at you.

"you on," you reply, standing up, feeling lighter just by being around him.

| ⟡ ˙🫧 ̟

the kids are practically bouncing off the walls as you usher them inside. june’s got her usual look of mischief, and lawrence’s giggles echo through the house like he’s trying to start a riot. but you know your siblings, this is the last of their energy before they crash.

you glance at sammie, who’s lingering by the door. "you can wait outside, or living room, or whatever— if you want," you say, your voice casual, but there’s a bit of a tired edge to it. "i gotta get these two cleaned up before bedtime."

sammie just nods, a lazy grin on his face. "sounds like fun."

"yeah, fun," you mutter, shooting him a look. "while i scrub dirt out they hair."

you hear june and lawrence already bickering in the other room, no surprise there. you roll your eyes before heading toward the bathroom, beckoning them to follow.

you’re already halfway to the bathroom when you hear the creak of the front door again, and then the sound of sammie walking outside. you peek out to see him heading for the tire swing in the yard.

"don’t go fallin’ asleep out there!" you shout after him, though it’s more teasing than serious.

he flashes you a lazy wave as he sits on the swing, strapping his guitar back onto his shoulder. "don’t worry, i won’t," he calls back with a laugh.

you shake your head, smiling despite yourself, then focus back on the chaos that is your younger siblings.

it’s always the same routine—june complaining about the water being too hot, lawrence trying to splash you every chance he gets. the whole process feels like it takes forever, but you manage to get them both washed and dressed, distracting your brother with some toys so he doesn’t mess with his sister while you braid her dark coils. the time you finally finish, your arms are sore, and your patience is hanging by a thread.

"alright, you two, bedtime," you say, ushering them into their room. "no more fighting, no more crying, or i’m takin’ away that damn toy."

once they’re settled into bed with a soft goodnight kiss on the forehead, you walk back into the living room, finding sammie still sitting on the tire swing, guitar in hand, his fingers strumming the strings lazily. the quiet sound of the music drifts through the open window, filling the space between you two.

you watch him for a moment, the soft light from the house casting a glow on his face. there’s something peaceful about the way he plays, like he’s not even thinking about it, just letting the music flow from him.

"you done?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

he glances up at you, flashing that boyish grin. "nah, just getting started." his teeth sparkle like gems in the night, shines brighter than the stars.

you can’t help but chuckle, stepping outside to join him. "if you play that long enough, you’ll have the whole house asleep."

he gives a half-smile, his fingers moving more fluidly over the guitar now, the music turning a little sweeter. "maybe that’s the idea."

you stand there for a while, leaning against the porch railing, watching him play. there’s something comforting about the way the evening settles in around you both—the quiet hum of the farm, the distant rustle of the trees, and the soft, melodic strumming filling the air.

it’s peaceful.

for now, anyway.

sooo sorry for the wait !! hope u enjoyed xx

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated

[supaflyyy]

🏹⁀➴ ♡ “cupid, draw back your bow, and let your arrow go, straight to lover’s heart, for me.”

“ you sweeter than honey ! ” - sammie moore

“ i’m always here for you, sammie. ” - sammie moore

“ babysittin’ ” - sammie moore

[supaflyyy]

“ i’m always here for you, sammie. ”

sammie “preacher boy” moore x black! fem! reader

sammie runnin’ away for the afternoon to play the blues for someone who actually cares.

fluff. 30s in the south. written in southern tone.

the heavy thud of the front door closin’ echoed through the yard like a warning bell. sammie could almost hear his father’s voice again, hard and steady as a drumbeat: “if you keep dancing with the devil, one day he’s gonna follow you home.”

those words were a constant, like the old hymn his father hummed every sunday— a rhythm that filled his bones but never quite comforted him. his daddy's bible was always open, its pages turnin’ but never lettin’ him be free. sammie tried— tried to follow the lord's way, but the blues... the blues called to him like the river calls to the thirsty soul, impossible to resist.

sammie moved through the thick, humid air, the sun hangin’ low, castin’ a golden haze over the cotton fields. the world outside felt heavy, like a hot iron pressin’ down on his chest. but when he reached that spot, everythin’ else seemed to fade away. the cotton fields stretched out behind him, a sea of white that seemed to suffocate the horizon. the wooden houses, weathered and tired from years of struggle, stood like silent witnesses. but under the big magnolia tree, none of that mattered. the sweet, rich scent of the blossoms filled the air, thick as molasses on a hot summer day. the petals, soft and pink, drifted down like little pieces of heaven scattered across the overgrown grass, paintin’ the earth with somethin’ pure amidst all the chaos.

it wasn't just the shade of the tree that made the world feel quieter, softer— it was you. there you were, sittin’ under the magnolia, as if the whole sky had opened up to bless him with your presence. your skin caught the light just right, glowin’ like moonlight on dark water, and sammie couldn't help but think you were somethin’ sent straight from heaven itself— an angel with wild curls/coils that framed your face like they were meant to. you looked at him with those eyes, soft but intense, as if you were reading his soul with every glance.

the two of you didn't need to say anything to greet each other. there was somethin’ in the way ya'lls eyes met, somethin’ familiar and unspoken that made words unnecessary. it was just always like that between ya'll— easy, like breathin’.

"see you brought 'ol boy with ya," you said, your voice teasin’, with just the right hint of mischief.

you glanced over at sammie, who had settled beside you under the shade of the old magnolia tree, guitar resting in his lap. your curly/coily hair, wild and full, shifted with the wind, strands of it catchin’ the golden light of the late afternoon sun. you wore a simple white blouse tucked into a skirt that brushed just above your ankles, the fabric light enough to catch the breeze, and scuffed boots that spoke of long walks through fields and dust.

"figured i'd play you a lil somethin’" he shrugged, tryin’ to play it cool, but anyone who knew sammie well could see through the front.

his eyes gleamed with excitement, his fingers itchin’ to strum the guitar like it was callin’ him. his clothes were worn— a faded shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, roughened by years of work. his trousers were a bit loose around the waist, held up by suspenders that hung carelessly over his shoulders. there was a worn-in charm to the way he dressed, like everythin’ had its place on him, as if the fabric had been stitched together by time and the music itself.

"you know i'd love more than that," you said, your plush lips curlin’ into a smile that could melt the hardest of hearts. the way you looked at him— like he was the only thing in the world— made his heart race in a way he couldn't quite explain.

"aye i can't be greedy ‘na," he chuckled, his voice low and full of warmth, and you couldn't help but laugh right along with him. the shared laughter was light, like a song that needed no words.

"wait—" you interrupted, shiftin’ on the grass with a playful glint in your eye.

you maneuvered in front of him, lettin’ yourself fall forward onto the ground with an ease that was all your own. her boots kicked up the dust, swinging back and forth as your elbows dug into the earth. your head rested in your palms, and your eyes, half-lidded with anticipation, locked onto him as if you wasn't the only one there, "i wanna get a front row seat."

he laughed softly, his gaze lingering on you. he loved the way you looked, sprawled out in front of him like that, and how easy it was to just be with you. you had a way of makin’ everything feel right. slipping the bottle neck onto his ring finger, he adjusted it carefully, the smooth glass fittin’ snug against his skin. the guitar was in his hands now, and with it, he was ready to share a piece of himself.

he strummed a few slow notes, letting the sound hang in the air before looking at your pretty face, as if asking for permission. she didn't need to say a word. your smile said it all.

he plays his guitar, the sound rolling out like the softest breeze. every note feels like it's pulling the sky closer, like heaven's coming down a little early just for you. his voice? smoother than honey, sweeter than molasses, it wraps itself around you, touches a part of your soul you didn't even know was aching. it scratches that itch in your brain, the one that only a song like this could reach. the strings hum beneath his calloused fingers, each strum just right, like the guitar was made for him and him alone.

he closes his eyes, and you can tell he's lost in it— putting his whole heart into the music, letting it bleed out into the air around him. you can feel how much he loves this, how much it means to him. he leans forward, then back, rocking with the rhythm, movin’ like the music is pulling him in every direction. you smile the whole time, unable to look away, eyes locked on him. just him. and that guitar. nothin’ else matters.

"you got a real gift, sammie," you said as the song came to a closure, your voice soft, but sure. you adjusted your skirt, smoothin’ it down over your knees. every word you spoke felt like it came straight from the heart.

he ran a hand over his face, a quiet sigh slippin’ from his lips. "not like i can go out an' show it, though. ain't no place for a man like me to stand up, not with this music. most folks wouldn't even spare a second to listen. too busy with they own lives to care 'bout what i gots to say."

you leaned forward, eyes meetin’ his with an intensity that made his chest tighten. "well, maybe the praise and standin’ ovations'll come to you someday," you said, your voice low, almost like a prayer. "but you don't have to chase after 'em. just play. the right people'll come to ya."

he looked at you then, as if he could see somethin’ in your eyes that gave him the courage he never had before. he nodded, a slow, thoughtful gesture. "good advice."

sammie's gaze softened, his voice barely more than a whisper. "you too good for me, you know that? too good to be true. I'm scared... scared you might slip away like the wind."

your heart ached at the thought, but you reached over, pullin’ yourself closer, the warmth of his body a comfort against your own. "i'm always here for you, sammie," you said, each word full of a promise. you slid over next to him, leanin’ into him like he was the only solid thing in a world of shiftin’ shadows.

the only thing he managed to say was, "likewise," his lips curlin’ into that boyish grin you adore. he was afraid that if he said anything more, a swarm of butterflies would escape his mouth, given how many were already flutterin’ in his stomach.

your head rested on his shoulder, and in that moment, everythin’ felt right. "now, play me that song you wrote for yo daddy."

another sammie fic, hope ya’ll like this one !!

[supaflyyy]

“ you sweeter than honey ! ”

sammie “preacher boy” moore x farmer’s daughter! black! fem! reader

showin’ your favorite preacher boy ‘round the farm

fluff. 30s in the south. written in southern tone. mentions of racism. slight cussing.

the sun hung low, slow and lazy like molasses drippin’ off a spoon. the air smelled of dry earth and the faint sweetness of wild honeysuckle, thick with dust that floated in long golden rays. you sat easy in the saddle of belle, your old mare with a mane tangled like summer vines and eyes steady as the fading light. horses out here weren’t just animals—they were partners, pullin’ wagons, haulin’ shit tons of wood, carryin’ you through the sticky southern heat when roads turned to mud.

your curls/coils were are wild and free, like summer vines climbing a fence. mama always said, “they perfect just the way god made ‘em.” you wore a soft, faded-colored dress— maybe a sunwashed blue or faded rose— and sturdy boots you’ve stomped in a million fields.

down the dirt lane, the rumble of a worn-out car broke the quiet. dust kicked up behind it like a restless ghost, swirling lazy and red in the fading sun. the car was battered and dusty, no polish or shine to hide the miles it’d traveled, but it carried who you’d been waitin’ on.

you slid down from belle’s back, boots crunchin’ on dry straw, and stepped toward the porch where sammie’s folks stood. his mama’s eyes softened behind tired smiles, and his papa’s face was weathered but kind. you wiped dust off your hands on your faded dress and tipped your head in greeting.

“good afternoon, mr. moore, mrs. moore,” you said gentle, voice carrying just enough warmth to settle in the evening air. “glad y’all made it safe.”

mrs. moore nodded, “thank you, miss.” mr. moore gave a slow, steady nod that felt like a promise.

you stepped back, catching sammie’s brown eyes from across the yard. he was leaning against the porch, that easy grin tugging at his lips already.

“look who’s showin’ up all fancy,” you teased, voice soft and teasing like a breeze through the magnolia leaves. “preacher boy.”

he cocked his head, eyes bright, slow and smooth as molasses syrup. “n/n,” he said, copying you.

you tilted your head, eyes twinkling, “still got that damn guitar?”

he smirked, steppin’ a little closer, “still got that damn goat piss on your dress.”

you laughed easy, the sound warm and bright, and before you knew it, he was pulling you in close. the hug wrapped around you like a worn quilt — familiar, steady, and safe.

“reckon if you keep ol’ boy out the house too long, he gon’ get dirty,” you said, nodding toward the guitar case resting by the porch.

after a moment, you pulled back, eyes gleaming. “come on, i wanna show you somethin’.”

| ⟡ ˙🐎 ̟

you led sammie into the barn where the smell of hay and horses settled like a warm blanket. belle stood patiently, her big brown eyes watching you both with quiet trust. a horse whinnied nearby, the sound carryin’ soft and sure in the evenin’ air.

“this here’s belle,” you said, voice steady. “she’s stubborn as a mule but she pulls her weight. we use her to haul the wagon, carry wood, and when the roads get slick, she’s the only way to town.”

sammie reached out, fingers brushing’ through belle’s mane, a slow smile playing on his lips. “she’s got fire in her, like you.”

you laughed, “wait till you meet old blue — he’s got a mind all his own. but, i’ll save that interaction for later.”

the horses stood quiet as the sun dipped low, the orange rays bleeding into the large, open windows and cracks through the wood.

you reached for the stiff-bristled brush hangin’ on a hook and handed it to sammie. “here,” you said, voice soft, “this one’s for takin’ the dust off. gotta brush in the same direction as their hair, slow and steady.”

sammie took the brush, fingers unsure but eager, and you guided his hand gently down belle’s neck. the mare shivered, leaning into the touch like she knew she was in good hands.

“see?” you smiled, “she likes that. horses don’t take kindly to rough hands.”

he laughed, a little embarrassed, but careful, brushin’ with slow, gentle strokes. “like with people, huh?”

you nodded, heart flutterin’. “yep. gotta be real patient and kind, or they’ll let ‘cha know real quick.”

as he brushed, you slid close, finger’s brushin’ ‘gainst his face to straighten up his hat.

“you doin’ just fine, preacher boy,” you teased, voice low and warm.

he grinned, eyes meetin’ yours, the world shrinkin’ to the quiet barn, the scent of hay, and the simple rhythm of two hearts gettin’ to know each other.

| ⟡ ˙🌿 ̟

you started walking back, boots crunchin’ over dry straw and dirt. voices drifted from nearby, your daddy and sammie’s papa deep in talk.

“yeah man,” your daddy said, wipin’ sweat from his brow, “them white folks—no mercy. we got the best crops in the south, yet they always turn away.”

“aye man,” sammie’s papa said slow, placin’ a hand on your daddy’s shoulder, “they don’t deserve it. you have an abundance of goods, and when god...”

“here he go,” sammie muttered low beside you, makin’ you chuckle softly.

“heard through the grapevine that you been lazin’ on them bible verses?” you teased him, elbow nudgin’ his ribs.

“cause,” he spread his arms wide, “the blues. it’s callin’ me.”

you turned the conversation light again, talking about the chow family’s grocery stores.

“yup, we one the reasons they still in business,” you said, boots crunching over dry straw, “but,” you dropped your voice, “they don’t be telling folks where they get the produce from, ‘specially white folks.”

“why don’t they tell us?” he asked, eyes catching how your hands and head moved as you talked.

“news spreads like wildfire. you tell somebody, then they tell somebody else—’round an’ ’round it goes.”

| ⟡ ˙🐓 ̟

later, you both bent low in the henhouse, picking eggs nestled safe in straw. hens clucked and shuffled nearby.

you crouched low by the henhouse, the wooden slats rough against your palms, the smell of straw and feathers thick in the air. soft clucks and gentle fluttering surrounded you as hens shuffled around, scratching at the dirt with their little feet. nestled in the corner, eggs sat safe in nests of golden hay — some smooth and white, others speckled like they’d been kissed by the sun itself.

sammie eased down beside you, eyes wide and curious, like a boy seeing something new for the first time. “you scared a chicken gon’ nip at ya?” you teased, nudgin’ him playfully with your elbow.

“no!” he said quick, voice a little too loud, cheeks flushing like a summer rose.

you laughed, that easy, warm sound you loved to hear. “you sweeter than honey!” you kee-kee’d, brushing a stray feather from his collar. “they ain’t gon’ do nothin’.”

a plump hen clucked nearby, peckin’ at the dirt right by your boot, making sammie jump back and chuckle, eyes crinklin’ with amusement.

“here,” you whispered, holdin’ out an egg you’d just gathered, smooth and warm in your hand. “look how delicate it is, but still holds so much life.”

sammie reached out, fingers just barely brushin’ yours as he took the egg, careful not to crack it. “like you,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours, soft and steady.

your heart stumbled, caught in that quiet moment where the world seemed to slow just for the two of you.

“reckon i like this part,” he said, voice low. “feels... simple, good.”

you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “me too.”

for a moment, all the weight of the world outside that henhouse faded away, and there was just you, sammie, and the soft rhythm of life around you — warm, gentle, and full of promise.

| ⟡ ˙🐄 ̟

then came the milkin’.

you showed sammie how to kneel beside the old cow, its breath warm and heavy, the pail set steady beneath. your fingers worked slow and gentle, squeezin’ just right till the milk splashed white and cool.

his fingers brushed yours, a spark in the fading light, and he laughed at the awkwardness of the first try.

later, the goat. smaller, quicker, and feistier. she nuzzled your hands, sometimes nipping playful.

“reckon she’s testin’ who’s boss,” you said, grinning.

sammie grinned back, more confident now, as the two of you worked together, hands wet and warm in the soft southern dusk.

after the last splash of milk settled in the pail, you wiped your hands on your dress, the cool evening breeze catching stray curls around your face. sammie watched you with that quiet smile that made your heart beat just a little faster, like a soft rhythm beneath the southern sky.

“reckon you did good,” you said, nudging him gently with your elbow.

“not near as good as you,” he said, eyes shinin’.

you laughed, the sound light as the wind through the tall grass.

“come on,” you said, reachin’ down to grab the basket sitting by the barn door— handwoven from sweetgrass and pine needles, the work of you and your mama’s patient hands. the basket was sturdy but delicate, the kind that smelled faintly of earth and sunshine, perfect for holdin’ the treasures of the land.

you led sammie down the path where wild blackberry brambles tangled thick, their deep purple fruit heavy and ripe against the thorny branches.

“these here berries,” you said, kneelin’ low and showin’ him how to pick gentle so the berries didn’t squish, “they’re sweet like honey but need careful hands.”

sammie crouched beside you, fingers fumblin’ but eager as he reached out to pluck a berry, holdin’ it up like a rare jewel.

“like you,” he said (again) softly, eyes catchin’ yours again.

you smiled, heart bloomin’ like the wildflowers nearby.

“bet mama’s got a pie bakin’ when we get back,” you whispered, your tongue flickin’ over your lips.

“hungry ass,” he teased before getting tapped upside the head. sammie laughed it off, the sound warm and easy. together you filled the basket with the summer’s bounty — dark jewels against the green, catching the last light like tiny promises of sweetness and hope.

and all around, the world was heavy with history, with struggle, but also quiet hope—like the soft hum of a blues guitar on a summer night, raw and real, but full of somethin’ that could carry you through.

hey hope ya’ll enjoyed !! second time ever publishing a fic so lemme know what ya’ll think of this one xx