#Geechee Land

[indigokra]

RESIST antiblackness

REVOLT against empire

REMATRIATE the land

This Juneteenth I wanted to explore what African-American liberation would look like on Turtle Island beyond reparations. I took inspiration from my Gullah-Geechee ancestors who maintained their indigenous African lifeways and culture in the face of chattel slavery and cultural genocide.

This painting includes a character of mine who I lovingly refer to as Sister Liberation. She represents a continuum of Black women’s militant resistance against misogynoir and colonialism outside of motherhood. I call her Sister Liberation because she “ain’t nobody’s mama”.

Pictured here is Sister Liberation adorned with cowrie shell jewelry and her signature rifle (adorned with the Akan Adinkra symbols for justice, freedom, and wisdom from the past). In her left hand, she holds stalks of wild rice. In front of her, a Gullah-Geechee sweetgrass basket is adorned with Aya, the Adinkra symbol for survival and endurance. The basket is filled with indigo leaves and okra.

Prints and posters of this piece are now available on my redbubble!

[ausetkmt]

The McIntosh County Commission passed a controversial zoning ordinance amendment Tuesday that residents of the last remaining Geechee community in Georgia say could push them out of the ancestral home.

The amendment changed a nearly 30-year-old rule that limited the size of dwellings in the Hogg Hummock, also called Hog Hammock, community to 1,400 square feet of heated and cooled space to allow homes as large as 3,000 square feet of enclosed, interior space. The existing ordinance was unenforceable, commissioners said, because people would leave unfinished space to get a certificate of occupancy and then go back and finish off a house to make it larger than the ordinance allowed.

Commissioner Roger Lotson, who represents Sapelo Island on the county commission, spoke for the vocal opposition at the meeting and said allowing houses that large in the community once owned exclusively by descendants of formerly enslaved people will lead to higher property values and higher property taxes and push people out of their ancestral homes. That will ruin the cultural and historic uniqueness of the community, he said.

“Mostly, we need to do what we said we would do,” Lotson said, referring to a comprehensive plan for the county that includes preserving history and cultural heritage. “We talked the talk, now it’s time to walk the walk.”

Opponents have said they were not included in the process of writing the ordinance amendment and that they were not given enough time to make their feelings known about it. A public hearing was held Thursday at which dozens of people spoke in opposition to the amendment, saying that it would lead to the erasure of the Geechee community on Sapelo Island and destroy a long and proud heritage.

Lotson said he had not spoken to one person who was in favor of the new zoning rules.

He implored his fellow commissioners to vote against passing the amendment and made a motion to bring down the maximum square footage further, to 2,180 square feet. That motion failed.

Commissioner Davis Poole then made a motion to pass the amendment with the 3,000-square-foot rule in place. Commissioner Katie Karwacki seconded the motion. She and Poole voted for the amendment to pass. Lotson and Commissioner William Harrell voted against it. Commission Chairman David Stevens cast the tie breaking vote.

Poole said after the motion passed that he took an oath to treat everyone equally as a county commissioner and that this amendment was a reasonable compromise. It will prevent mansions being built in Hogg Hummock while also allowing for larger homes than currently exist.

“This change will not destroy the culture of Gullah-Geechee on the island,” he said. “… We need to work together to move forward to collaborate on ways to economically empower the island residents.”

Stevens refuted claims by people who said they did not have enough time to provide input on the amendment. He said groups had sought input for more than a year with the purpose of influencing the amendment’s final version.

He also refuted the claim that the new rule is a money grab for property taxes or to allow wealthy people to take over the historically Black community.

“It was never my personal attempt or intent to allow 15,000 or 20,000 square foot homes to be built on Sapelo Island,” Stevens said. “I would not have supported it if that was the case.”

Stevens and Poole both noted that all the property in Hogg Hummock was once owned only by Geechee descendants who now have sold off roughly 50 percent of the lots. The best way to stop unwanted new homes or outsiders into the community is to stop selling the land, Stevens said.

He named numerous prominent people from Sapelo Island who he has known and said the island is special to him as it is to many others.

Josiah “Jazz” Watts, a justice strategist for the environmental group 100 Miles, said 3,000 square feet is too large and will ruin the historic character of Hogg Hummock.

It will also threaten the natural and ecological beauty and uniqueness of the island.

“We’re here now because the county failed to do its job,” Watts said of enforcing the 1,400-square-foot rule.

He said simply removing the heated-and-cooled square footage language would have made the ordinance enforceable.

“That’s like saying the speed limit is 50, but people go 75, so we’ll make the speed limit 100,” Watts said.

He said the community will mobilize and look at all legal options moving forward.

“We’re going to fight this,” Watts said

[reasoningdaily]

Igbo Landing ||| The Gullah War

[yourapple56-blog]

This is how greedy business go after ppl!

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Six

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Beaufort County, South Carolina–1912

They called her Lula-Bee when she was little.

It was her grandmother’s name for her, soft as the low country wind. Said she was born with honey on her tongue and bees in her blood. That name stuck to Violet’s skin like sugar. When her grandmother, Mama Bee, said it, it sounded like a blessing. When her mother said it, it sounded like a burden.

Violet’s earliest memories were of being wrapped in lavender-scented arms, cradled in a world of old songs and sea wind, her grandmother’s voice crooning prayers that weren’t written down but lived in bones. She remembered sitting in a wooden wash tub under the sun, bees landing on her knees without fear. She’d giggle and Mama Bee would say…

“They know you sweet, Lula-Bee. They ain’t here to sting. Just to listen.”

The Ribbon

When Violet was born, her grandmother tied a lavender ribbon around her wrist—satin, worn soft from Mama Bee’s sewing basket, stitched with thread dipped in honey and salt. She whispered over it:

“Let her walk this world safe. Let her sweetness stay sweet. Let her roots run deep and her dreams stay open.”

That ribbon moved with Violet as she grew. Around her wrist, then her throat, then hidden beneath dresses. It became a part of her. She never took it off—not even when she bathed. Not even when she cried.

Her Mother, Ruth

Ruth Elanora James was born into Gullah tradition but never embraced it. She called it “backward,” and claimed Christ the way other women clung to their pearls. She married a man from the coast—a quiet fisherman named Thaddeus James, who smelled of brine and tobacco and loved the sea more than land.

Thaddeus died when Violet was five. His boat never came back. No body. No grave. Just the hush of waves and a silence that settled over Ruth like damp linen.

After that, Ruth hardened. She told Violet to stop whispering to bees. To stop drawing circles in the dirt. When Mama Bee spoke in Gullah, Ruth snapped.

“Don’t teach her that.”

“She already knows,” Mama Bee said calmly, “She was born remembering.”

The Death of Mama Bee–1920

When Violet was thirteen, Mama Bee died in her sleep.

She had lit a lavender candle the night before. The next morning, bees were pressed to the windows—hundreds of them, silent and still. Violet found her, hands folded, lips parted slightly like she’d been humming in her last breath.

No funeral songs. No mourning rituals. Ruth refused them.

“She’s gone. Let the dead stay dead.”

But Violet knew better.

That night, she tied the lavender ribbon tight at her throat and whispered her grandmother’s prayer through tears.

The bees came again. This time, they landed on her windowsill. One stayed until dawn.

The Years That Followed

Her home became a hollow shell.

Ruth remarried. A church deacon with mean hands and hard eyes. He didn’t like the way Violet moved. Said she was “too quiet, too dreamy, too soft in the face.” He scolded her for humming. Once slapped the ribbon from her neck and told her…

“That ain’t faith. That’s witch-stuff.”

Violet picked it up. Washed it. Retied it.

And from that day on, she stopped speaking unless she had to.

The dreams never stopped. She’d see Mama Bee in candlelight. Hear bees humming lullabies. Smell salt and honey before rain.

But she said nothing. She learned how to be still.

The Dream–Age 21

On the cusp of her twenty-second birthday, Violet had a dream that split her wide open.

She stood barefoot in a field of black dahlias, her grandmother waiting beneath a crooked cypress, barefoot and young again. Bees curled around her wrists.

“You don’t belong here no more, Lula-Bee,” she said, voice soft as sugar cane snapping, “Go where the light bends strange. Go where sweetness don’t spoil.”

Behind her, the bees formed a doorway.

Violet stepped forward. When she woke, she was crying—but calm.

She packed her ribbon. Her journal. A few coins. No note for Ruth. Just silence.

The Blackline

She boarded a train west with nothing but the hum of the dream guiding her.

In Little Rock, Arkansas, she wandered aimless for two days until she ended up behind a beauty shop, ribbon loose, body tired, breath short.

That’s where a strange woman with a silver eye and a split lip found her.

“You look like a girl who’s been carrying a name too long,” the woman said, “Go on down to The Blackline. They’ll take you in. Tell ‘em Lula-Bee sent you.”

“But my name’s—”

“It’s yours. Don’t mean you gotta wear it.”

And so she went.

Now she sweeps floors and folds linens, moves like smoke through the hallways of the place, and tries not to let anyone see too much.

But the sweetness is waking again.

The ache low in her belly is not fear—it’s longing.

The ribbon around her throat is no longer a shield.

It’s a signal.

And she’s starting to look men in the eye—especially the quiet one with the hands like fire and the eyes that call her by name even when he says nothing at all.

Present Day–1929

The dream begins in stillness.

She is standing barefoot in a warm orchard at twilight. The trees are heavy with peaches and figs, so ripe they split at the seams. The air is thick with bees—but they do not sting. They hum low and golden around her, tracing lazy circles around her thighs, her neck, her mouth.

Her lavender ribbon is tied at her wrist now, not her throat. Loose. Soft. Her skin glows like honey in the light. She looks down and sees that she is not clothed, but not ashamed either. Her body feels like truth—weightless and known.

A breeze brushes her bare shoulders, carrying the scent of cedar smoke and crushed velvet. It makes her ache deep in her belly.

And then she hears it.

A man’s voice—low, velvet-rich, and ancient like the river.

“You’re not a child anymore, Lula-Bee.”

She turns, but the figure in the trees never fully steps forward. He’s shadow and shape, familiar in silence. But she feels no fear. Only knowing.

“You’ve kept the door closed. That was wise. But now it’s blooming.”

She looks down. There is a garden gate in front of her, overgrown with honeysuckle and bramble. Bees cluster at the edges—not guarding, just watching. Waiting.

The ribbon unties itself from her wrist. It floats gently to the gate and wraps itself around the latch. It glows lavender and silver in the dying light.

“When you open it, do it because the soil is soft. Because the sun feels right. Because you’re ready to be picked and not plucked.”

Violet reaches for the gate with trembling fingers.

It opens not with a creak, but with a sigh.

Inside, there’s a bed of wildflowers. A satin sheet. The scent of him.

She doesn’t lie down.

Not yet.

But she steps inside.

She chooses.

When She Wakes

Her thighs are damp. Her heart is full—not with fear, but with clarity.

She presses her fingers to the pulse at her neck, where the ribbon usually sits.

Then she whispers to the empty room…

I’m ready.

Violet sits on the edge of her bed, brushing her fingers over her ribbon. It lies across her lap like a sleeping thing—not tied, not tense, not guarding. She smooths the ends once. Twice. Then lays it beside her, picking up the small notebook she keeps hidden in her drawer.

She writes the dream down slowly, not for memory’s sake—she won’t forget—but as a kind of offering. A way of honoring what she knows now.

The door bloomed. The bees watched. I opened it with my own hand. Not because he asked. Because I was ready.

She signs it with her grandmother’s name for her.

Lula-Bee

Then closes the journal and presses it to her chest.

Her body still feels warm, still humming faintly with lavender and want.

She isn’t rushing.

But she is no longer afraid.

The soft morning light filters through linen curtains, casting a gentle warmth across Violet’s bed. Her journal lies closed beside her, ribbon tucked between the pages like a pressed petal. The room is hushed, safe. She rises, her body humming still from the dream, and makes her way down the hall to the bathing room with a fresh slip tucked under her arm.

The air inside is thick with steam and the soft perfume of rosewater soap. She pours the hot water herself, watches it swirl with a few drops of lavender oil until the scent coils upward like a memory. She undresses slowly, folding each piece of her sleepwear neatly as if in ritual.

When she slips into the bath, the water hugs her like silk. She exhales.

For a while, she just floats—arms spread, belly bare beneath the surface, the ribbon still tied at her throat like a vow she hasn’t quite spoken aloud. Her fingers drift to her lower stomach, gently resting over the ache that now feels familiar. The ache from the dream. From Smoke’s eyes. From her own breath catching in her throat when he waves at her and she waves back.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispers, voice barely above the water, “I want it. I want him.”

She doesn’t mean she’s ready to call him tonight. No.

But soon.

She wants to choose the hour. She wants to be touched when the moon is high and the world is still.

She closes her eyes and imagines his hands, not rough but worshipful—tracing her hips like something sacred. She wonders how it’ll feel, the moment his body finds hers. The weight. The breath. The stretch. She presses her thighs together beneath the water, cheeks warming.

And then the flame of that thought softens, not into shame, but into something brighter. A smile. A knowing.

After the bath, Violet dries herself slowly, like she’s learning herself all over again. The towel is warm against her skin. She wraps it high across her chest, tucks it firm. The mirror is fogged from the heat, but she swipes it with the edge of her hand and looks at herself—really looks. Her cheeks are flushed. Her collarbones glisten. Her skin gleams like poured honey in the morning light. She tilts her head slightly and runs a hand over her belly, then up along her side, pausing at the soft curve of her breast.

I’m a woman.

The words land in her chest like truth.

And for the first time, she smiles at her reflection.

Knock knock

A soft tap at the door.

“Violet?” A voice, warm as peach cobbler, “You decent, baby?”

Violet’s breath hitches, but she smiles again.

“Yes,” she calls, adjusting the towel slightly, “You can come in.”

The door creaks, and Minnie peeks her head around, curls tucked in a cinnamon wrap, skin glowing like golden syrup.

“Just checkin’. You been movin’ like moonlight lately! quiet and sweet. Thought I’d come say good morning.”

She steps in before Violet can reply, her bangles chiming softly as she moves. Minnie pauses behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Both of them. Side by side.

“Mmm,” she hums, eyes traveling Violet’s frame, “You see that? That’s a woman standin’ right there. Don’t matter how soft your voice is, baby. Your body’s speakin’ loud.”

Violet blushes, glancing down.

“I don’t know…I—”

“You don’t need to know,” Minnie interrupts gently, “You feel it, don’t you? That pull? That bloom in your belly when he looks at you?”

Violet nods.

“That’s your fire wakin’ up. Ain’t no shame in it.”

Minnie lifts her hand and tucks a curl behind Violet’s ear. Then she leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Violet’s cheek.

“You beautiful, baby. Own your sexy. Don’t wait for nobody to give you permission. Not even him.”

Violet’s eyes mist, but she doesn’t cry.

She smiles.

Minnie grins and pats her arm.

“Come find me if you want help pickin’ a dress for later. I got one that’s soft as sin.”

And just like that, she’s gone—leaving behind a breeze of gardenia, brown butter, and warmth that lingers in the doorway.

Violet turns back to her reflection.

The fog’s gone now.

And so is her doubt.

The afternoon stretches slow. The house smells faintly of wood polish, cigar smoke, and something sweet baking downstairs. Violet is walking back from the linen room when she hears voices—low, familiar, rough-edged but calm.

The office door is cracked.

She pauses.

Inside, Smoke is standing near Stack, one hand braced on the edge of the desk. His sleeves are rolled up. The muscles in his forearms flex as he gestures toward a map laid out in front of them. He’s focused, but not tense. He looks…at home.

His voice is gravel and syrupy.

“We ain’t runnin’ numbers through Vaughn’s side no more. He can bark, but he don’t bite unless we hand him a throat.”

Stack mutters something in return, sharp like flint. Smoke gives a half-smile.

Violet doesn’t step inside. She just watches—quiet, still, ribbon tied at her throat like a secret. Her eyes soften. Her stomach flutters.

Then…

Smoke turns.

He must feel her. Maybe he always does.

His gaze lands on her and doesn’t flinch.

He gives her a gentle smile—not cocky, not coaxing. Just steady warmth. Then he lifts his hand and gives a lazy two-finger wave, like he already knows what she’s thinking.

She smiles back.

Small. Timid. But she doesn’t look away.

For the first time, she lets herself want.

She just watches.

Watches the strength in his hands.

The set of his jaw.

The way the gold in his eyes glints when he glances up and sees her there.

She feels heat rise in her chest—not embarrassment, but hunger.

Because two nights ago, when the house was asleep and the halls quiet, Smoke had slipped into her room, finding her with her ribbon still tied, her breath held like a secret.

He voiced his hunger. How he felt an ache in his dick to be touched. Freed. He sat in a chair at the foot of her bed and talked to her pussy. Filthy. The heat in his eyes made her melt. All while seated at the edge of the bed, eyes dark and patient, waiting for what she’d do.

“I can…I can help?”

She’d reached for him—shy, trembling, but curious—and he’d groaned the second her fingers wrapped around his dick.

Hot. Heavy. Silken over steel.

Thick enough her hand didn’t close all the way.

He’d whispered her name like a prayer between gasps.

“Violet—sweetheart—don’t stop. Please, baby…don’t stop…I’m so fuckin’ hard…”

She remembered the way his hips stuttered, the way his voice cracked, the way his eyes burned into hers as he spilled over her fingers, slick and hot and desperate.

“Lula Bee…”

She’d stared at her hand after—wet, trembling—and without fully knowing why, she’d lifted her fingers to her lips and tasted him.

Salt. Smoke. Something masculine and faintly bitter.

She didn’t flinch. She liked it.

The memory made her legs tighten now.

She steps just a little closer to the cracked door, eyes still fixed on him. Stack is saying something now, but Smoke’s gaze flicks back toward her like he feels her looking.

She wonders—what would he sound like if she used her mouth next time?

She remembers a moment from the washroom just the day before.

Odessa and another girl, Clarisse, were sitting at the edge of the soaking tub, towels loose around their waists, sharing secrets in the steam.

Odessa’s voice had been sharp as always, but Clarisse’s was dreamy.

“Girl, I sucked that man dry, I swear. Had him speakin’ in tongues. Said I was better than church and whiskey.”

Odessa laughed, “He say that ‘cause you gag too easy. Men love a little drama.”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t know how deep I can go,” Clarisse purred, licking her finger like it was a sin.

Violet hadn’t said a word. Just turned her face away, eyes lowered. But the words had burrowed into her chest like warm breath.

Now, outside the office, her eyes drop to Smoke’s mouth.

His hands.

His belt.

She wonders how he’d taste if she took him slow.

On her knees.

Ribbon still tied.

Eyes locked on his.

Would he moan?

Would he beg?

Would he touch her cheek like he did that night—tender, almost devout.

I want that, Violet thinks, I want him like that again. I want to give him more.

Not because she’s trying to earn something.

Not to be like Clarisse or Odessa.

But because she wants to.

Because the ache in her belly is hers now. Not shame. Not fear.

Desire.

Smoke glances at her one last time. His smile lingers.

Then he says something to Stack and nods once—like he’s filing her away in his chest, for later.

Violet walks away, quiet as ever.

But this time, her thighs are pressed just a little tighter.

And her smile—her secret, private smile—burns like a flame behind her lips.

Some time had gone by, and the kitchen was warm with the scent of rising bread and grease snapping in a cast iron skillet. Violet had only meant to pass through, but she slowed near the long butcher block table where Minnie and a new girl—Tallulah Rae—stood shoulder-to-shoulder, elbows floured, hands deep in dough.

Tallulah Rae was one of the older girls at The Blackline, all curves and carved cheekbones, with a velvet-soft voice that could charm a preacher into backsliding. She wasn’t loud, but when she did speak, her words always dripped with just enough suggestion to make you lean in.

“He kissed me so deep last night, I damn near forgot my own name,” Tallulah spoke with a slow grin. “Right up against the pantry door.”

Minnie laughed, “Chile, if a man ever makes me forget mine, he better be ready to carve it back into me letter by letter.”

The two cracked up, flour flying from Minnie’s hands like holy dust.

Violet paused at the edge of the room, pretending to adjust her basket of towels.

“You ever get so worked up,” Tallulah Rae continued, “you gotta help your own self out? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with knowin’ how to tend your garden before lettin’ somebody else plant seeds.”

“Tend it?” Minnie cackled, “I damn near plowed mine with a cucumber last summer. Coolest thing in the whole house.”

Tallulah whistled low, “A cucumber?”

“Long as my arm, thick as my wrist. Didn’t ask no questions, didn’t make no mess. Just did what needed doin’.”

They burst into more laughter, the kind that rippled up the walls and lingered in the rafters like cinnamon smoke.

Violet felt her cheeks flush hot.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just tucked the image into the ache blooming low in her belly.

A cucumber. Cool. Quiet. Easy.

She slipped out before they noticed her, the air outside bright and blinding after the kitchen’s golden haze. Down by the stable, Smoke was working—sleeves rolled, shirt half-open, hands slick with engine grease as he leaned under the hood of the truck.

Violet froze in the shade of the porch.

She hadn’t meant to stop. She just couldn’t help it.

His muscles pulled tight as he twisted something with a wrench. His brow furrowed, lips parted slightly, jaw flexing. A streak of grease ran across his forearm like a promise.

She watched his hand slide down his stomach to tuck in his shirt—and he paused.

Fingers spread low over the flat of his abdomen. Then they dipped lower.

Just slightly.

Adjusting himself.

Like he knew.

Like he felt her eyes.

And then—he looked up.

Right at her.

No words.

No smile.

Just that golden gaze, heavy and hungry, sliding over her body like a slow drag of whiskey.

Violet’s breath caught.

Her thighs pressed together beneath her dress.

She turned. Walked away. Quickly.

But not in shame.

She was smiling now. Small. Secret.

And as she crossed the porch toward the garden, her fingers brushed the edge of her ribbon.

The garden was quiet, save for the buzz of bees and the warm hum of Aunt Pearl singing low while plucking collards in her apron. Violet stood near the cucumbers, fingers twisting around the vine. She looked back once, no one watching, then gently plucked one of the larger ones and tucked it beneath her arm.

Her cheeks burned. Her heart fluttered.

He’s been so tense. So tight across the jaw. He needs relief. I want to please him…

She didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

But she wanted to learn.

So she grabbed the cucumber, slipped back through the side porch, and made her way inside toward the washroom to rinse it.

That’s when she heard—

“Now what exactly do you think you doin’ with that?”

Cordelia’s voice, sweet and sticky as molasses.

Violet froze.

The cucumber was still under the spigot, her fingers wrapped around it like it had already betrayed her.

She turned slowly.

Cordelia and Peaches stood at the end of the hallway—both barefoot, both dressed in house slips, and both wearing the kind of knowing grins that only came from watching a girl caught mid-sin.

“Don’t play innocent, sugar,” Peaches said, strolling forward, “You don’t even eat cucumbers unless they pickled.”

Violet blushed deep. She tried to tuck it behind her back.

“It’s for…I was just…”

“Just what, baby?” Cordelia purred, tilting her head, “You cleanin’ it up for some salad?”

Peaches laughed, “Mm-hmm. That salad named Smoke, maybe.”

Cordelia’s eyes sparkled, “You plannin’ on practicin’?”

Violet looked down, biting her lip.

Didn’t answer.

“Lord have mercy,” Peaches muttered, grinning, “This girl ain’t just sweet—she curious.”

Cordelia stepped closer, tugging gently on Violet’s wrist.

“Come on, now. Don’t go hidein’ away. We ain’t gonna tell on you…”

“We just wanna help you do it right.” Peaches said.

Violet blinked, unsure.

Peaches raised a brow.

“Unless you wanna go up to his room and choke on it without learnin’ how to breathe first…”

“Let’s go,” Cordelia said, already guiding her by the hand, “We’ll show you. Ain’t no shame in wantin’ to please your man.”

Violet held the cucumber tight, heart racing, unsure whether to laugh or hide.

But she followed them anyway.

Because deep down, she wanted to know.

And these women?

They weren’t judging.

They were initiating.

The door to Cordelia’s room shut behind them with a click.

Curtains drawn.

Sunlight bleeding soft through red silk, casting the room in a low, warm glow.

Violet stood awkwardly, cucumber still in hand, unsure where to put her eyes. Cordelia sank onto the edge of her velvet chaise, crossing her long legs slow and lazy. Peaches flopped beside her with a grin and took the cucumber from Violet’s hand like it was a baton in a relay.

“Now,” Peaches said, holding it up, “This here? It ain’t perfect. But it’ll teach you how not to gag and tear up like a schoolgirl.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes with a smile.

“You’re scarin’ her.”

“I’m bein’ honest.”

Violet fidgeted, “I just…I want to make him feel good. I don’t wanna mess up.”

Cordelia leaned forward, voice softening.

“Baby, if he likes you—and he do—he already loves the way you touch him. But if you wanna learn how to make him forget his own damn name, well…that’s a different lesson.”

Cordelia patted the cushion beside her.

Violet sat.

Peaches held up the cucumber again and started to demonstrate—slow, exaggerated licks, then letting her lips slide down the length with practiced rhythm. Violet watched, transfixed, while Cordelia giggled beside her, cheering Peaches on.

“It ain’t about how deep you go,” she said, “It’s about pressure…pace…and lettin’ him see how much you like it.”

Cordelia smiled, curling her fingers in Violet’s curls, pinning them back softly.

“Men like Smoke…they pay attention. You moan around him just a little, or look up at him while he’s deep in your throat? That man gon’ lose his damn mind.”

Violet swallowed, “Can I try?”

“Hell yes, baby girl,” Peaches said, handing it over, “Take your time.”

Violet leaned in, unsure at first—but she followed the rhythm Peaches showed her. She tried taking it slow. Using her lips. Her tongue. Watching their reactions. Cordelia gently guided her hand lower on the base. Violet continued, testing her gag reflex, receiving pointers from Cordelia and Peaches to go slow. To breathe. To take your time.

“It’s an art, baby! And art deserve to be worshipped! Don’t get all showy with it!” Cordelia said.

Peaches clapped once.

“Look at you!”

Violet laughed, blush rising high on her cheeks.

But it wasn’t shy anymore.

It was excited.

Cordelia nudged her, “Now imagine him under you. Hands in your hair. Sayin’ your name with that low voice of his…”

“Mm,” Peaches grinned, “I’d do a lot more than imagine it if I were you.”

Violet smiled, eyes shining, breathless and flushed.

“Thank you…I think I’m ready now.”

Cordelia kissed her cheek, “You more than ready, sugar. He ain’t gonna know what hit him.”

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is thick with the scent of lily perfume, cigarette smoke, and powdered talc. The door is open just a sliver, enough for light and voices to spill out.

Violet pauses mid-step—linens folded in her arms, breath catching in her throat. She didn’t mean to listen. She should keep walking.

But then she hears her name.

“Violet.”

That syrupy drawl, half-rasp, half-perfume. Odessa.

Inside the room, Odessa Mae Moreau is perched on a velvet stool, one leg crossed over the other. She’s in a silk slip the color of blood oranges, cool and dramatic against her skin. She leans forward to apply candy-red polish to her toes with slow, theatrical strokes, lips pursed in concentration. A small hand fan flicks the air near her ankles, propped on a box of costume jewelry.

Across from her, seated on a tufted settee, is a woman Violet doesn’t know well—Clarisse. Soft eyes, full laugh, hair wrapped in a printed scarf. She isn’t saying much—just small, agreeable sounds every now and then.

“Mhm.”

“Girl.”

“You think so?”

Odessa keeps talking. And talking.

“She floats around this place like a little ghost with honey in her hair. Don’t speak. Don’t sweat. Just watches Smoke like she’s praying with her thighs.”

Clarisse hums, neutral.

“I mean, she’s pretty. But sweet don’t last in a place like this. That kinda softness? Men ruin it, then get bored.”

Odessa finishes her last toe and leans back with a satisfied sigh, fanning harder.

“She ain’t built for a man like Smoke. That’s a man who needs a woman. Not a little blossom scared of her own hips.”

“Mhm.” Clarisse nodded.

“Let her have her pretty ribbon and candle eyes. Ain’t no real heat under all that hush.”

Clarisse doesn’t answer this time.

Odessa doesn’t care. She’s not talking for agreement—she’s talking to hear herself echo.

“You watch. He’ll get tired of petting that thing. Men like him always come back to fire. They always come back to me.”

She doesn’t need to hear more.

Violet steps back silently, smooth as vapor, her slippers barely whispering against the wood. She walks down the hallway with her linens pressed against her chest and a smile tugging at her lips—not shy, not sweet. Satisfied.

Because the truth is, Odessa doesn’t sound bored.

She sounds afraid.

And Violet?

She’s never felt more like a woman at that moment.

She walks away holding that moment like a secret—Odessa’s voice dripping with sharp perfume, her confidence cracking at the edges. And Smoke, somewhere behind a door, smiling at her.

Violet will keep that smile.

She’ll keep the ache in her belly.

And she’ll keep that truth Odessa can’t seem to swallow.

That the softness she carries is not weakness. It’s what men burn for.

And when Violet does open the door one night and let Smoke into her bed?

She won’t be giving him what Odessa thinks he wants.

She’ll be giving him what he’s already been falling into since the first time she looked at him and didn’t flinch.

The linens in her arms are soft, still warm from the press. She lays them down gently, smoothing the corners with instinct more than thought. The scent of cotton and lavender clings to her wrists. The house is quiet again. The voices from the office have faded into floorboards and dust. But his smile lingers, warm against her skin like sunlight through lace.

She sits at the edge of her bed. The ribbon still tied at her throat—not tight, but certain. Her palms rest in her lap, but her fingers twitch. A hush settles in her chest.

She exhales slowly, “I’m ready.”

Not just for touch. Not just for Smoke.

Ready to choose this body. This bloom. This ache.

Her fingers trail to her lower belly. She presses softly—where the heat lives now, a tender pulse low in her womb, not sharp or frightening, but full. A hum waiting to be sung. She remembers what her grandmother once told her, when she was barely old enough to understand the weight of the words.

“That part of you? That sweetness below your navel? It ain’t for shame or barter. It’s for blooming, when the season’s right. You’ll know, child. It’ll ache, and you’ll still say yes.”

Tears gather behind her eyes.

She blinks them back, but one spills down her cheek anyway. She lets it fall.

Then reaches for the small thing Smoke left her. h

His lighter.

Silver, worn. A dent at the edge where it must’ve been dropped. She turns it over in her palm—the weight of it grounding. Masculine. Familiar. The scent of his fingers still clings to it—cigarettes, spice, and the faintest edge of sweat and cedar.

She flicks it open.

The flame catches with a soft chhhk.

Orange and gold flickers dance, reflecting in her eyes.

She stares into it—not to burn, but to remember.

To claim something.

To her, the lighter is more than Smoke.

It’s heat without force. Fire without fear.

It’s the promise that something can spark and not destroy. That she can be touched and not devoured.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispers, “Not of this.”

She closes the lighter slowly, presses it to her heart.

Then lies back against the bed, ribbon at her throat, one hand still resting over her lower belly where the ache has grown sweet.

She closes her eyes and breathes.

Outskirts of Crossett – Abandoned freight yard, after dusk

The air was thick with swamp heat and the stink of rusted metal. Smoke crouched low beside Clyde behind a stack of crates, eyes narrowed on the loading dock across the yard. Moonlight sliced through the trees in slivers, but the rest was cloaked in shadow. Just the way they liked it.

“They been runnin’ numbers through here every Thursday,” Clyde whispered, wiping sweat from his brow, “But this time…they came with more muscle.”

“Felix’s?” Smoke asked.

“Two of ‘em. Recognized the tall one. Quiet. Always quiet. Mean eyes.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Just reached for the revolver holstered at his side and checked it without looking.

Across the yard, headlights flashed once—a signal. Four men emerged from a black truck, two carrying crates, the other two armed and watchful.

“That’s them,” Clyde said, breath tightening, “The weight ain’t in what they carry—it’s what they plan to move next.”

Smoke’s voice was low, clipped.

“They ain’t walkin’ out if they see us.”

“What’s the call?”

“Wait for the handoff.”

The handoff never came.

Because one of the guards turned too soon—eyes catching the glint of steel in Clyde’s belt.

He shouted.

Gunfire lit the night.

Smoke moved like water on fire.

Fast. Precise. Violent.

He shot the first one through the throat, caught the second’s shoulder and charged before the man hit the ground. Clyde ducked behind a support beam, firing into the chaos, taking one in the leg.

Another came at Smoke with a blade.

Too close.

Too fast.

Smoke took it in the side—but twisted, elbowed the man’s jaw hard enough to hear the crack—then stabbed him with his own knife. The blade sunk in smooth, fast, like the silence that followed.

Only one man crawled away—blood trailing behind him, breath rattling.

Smoke walked up slow.

Put a boot on his back.

“Tell Felix…” He leaned close, voice like gravel wrapped in heat, “If he sends more dogs, I’ll send fire.”

He knelt down, pressed the barrel of his gun to the man’s hand—and pulled the trigger.

The man screamed.

“And tell him—Booker died a traitor’s death.”

Smoke stood.

Clyde limped over, blood staining his pant leg.

“We need to get gone.”

Smoke gave one last look at the yard.

“Burn it.”

Clyde and Smoke disappeared into the night fast with tires screeching. Smoke clutched his side as he drove while Clyde created a makeshift tourniquet to stop the overflow of blood.

They made it back to The Blackline.

No need to use the secret knock or whisper the password.

The front door creaked open.

No announcement.

No warning.

Just the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and blood curling into the velvet hush of the main hall.

Smoke stepped in—shirt torn at the ribs, dark with dried blood. One side of his waist glistened faint where the blade had kissed him. His knuckles were raw, one brow split and crusted, a smear of someone else’s blood across his cheek.

But his eyes?

Clear. Cold. Focused.

Peaches was at the bar when he walked through.

She started to speak, but froze mid-sentence. Her lips parted.

Then she just stepped aside.

“He’s in the office,” she whispered.

Smoke didn’t nod.

Didn’t slow.

Just walked.

Boots heavy on the hardwood, tracking dust and blood across the polished grain.

Stack was pouring whiskey when the door opened. He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“It didn’t go quiet, did it?”

Smoke closed the door behind him, dropped into the armchair with a grunt. He peeled his ruined shirt up, checked the blade graze at his side—flesh split but shallow.

“Wasn’t meant to be quiet,” he said, “They spotted us. Drew first.”

Stack slid him the glass.

“All of ‘em down?”

“One crawled off with a message.”

“Good.”

He watched his brother for a long moment.

“You get cut?”

Smoke grumbled, “Nicked. Took care of it.”

“And Booker?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“No sign of him. Felix must be keepin’ him locked up so I won’t find him and kill him myslef. Shoulda’ finished the job.”

The silence stretched.

Stack leaned back in his chair, “You think Felix sent ‘em to test us? Them goons?”

“I think he sent ‘em hopin’ we’d be too cautious to shoot first.”

“He forgot who the hell we are.” Stack said.

Smoke raised the glass to his lips.

“Then let’s remind him.”

The whiskey burned down Smoke’s throat, but it didn’t touch the heat in his blood. Stack lit a cigar, leaned back, and watched him like you’d watch a live wire.

“We still goin’ to Chicago?” Smoke asked.

Stack exhaled smoke through his nose, slow.

“That was the plan.”

“Still the plan?” Smoke pressed.

Stack tapped ash into the tray, gave a single nod.

“Still the plan. But the shipment’s delayed. That friend of Vincenzo’s? Got held up in Milwaukee. Might not be in the city ‘til week’s end.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

“That puts us at what—two days before Velvet and Vice?”

“If that.”

“Too damn close,” Smoke stood abruptly, pushing back from the desk with a scrape of wood, “We need more weapons. Not less. Felix is heatin’ up, Stack. And we still don’t know what that woman is.”

His voice dropped low—but it was the kind of low that trembled with fury.

“She ain’t just some lookout.”

“No, she ain’t,” Stack agreed, quiet.

“And Mercy?” Smoke asked, eyes narrowed, “She got anything else?”

Stack shook his head once.

“Said she’s still diggin’. Nothin’ solid yet.”

Smoke slammed the heel of his palm against the desk.

“Dammit.” He growled with a snarl.

He snatched the half-empty glass beside him and hurled it against the wall. It shattered—crystal shrapnel raining like teeth.

The sound echoed.

Stack didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Just waited.

Then said, calm as ever, “You get like this every time it’s someone we can’t figure. You remember that? Ain’t the first shadow we had to drag into the light.”

Smoke braced both hands on the desk, his breath thick through his nose.

“Yeah. But this one? She ain’t movin’ like a shadow. She movin’ like a storm.”

Stack stood, crossed to his brother and put a firm hand on Smoke’s shoulder.

“Then we be the lightning rod. Not the fire.”

Meanwhile, Odessa lingered by the corner, half-shrouded in the shadows of the hallway. She’d heard the crash. The bite in Smoke’s voice. The way Stack was the only thing keeping the room from splintering open. She smoothed her hands over her sides and knocked, once.

“What?”

Stack opened the door, brows tight. The edge of tension clung to his jawline, though he masked it well.

Odessa blinked.

Her voice was soft.

“Everything alright?”

Stack’s eyes dragged over her—down and back up, slow.

“Just business.”

“Sounded more like war.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He was still inside, gathering breath.

Odessa’s gaze cut toward him and then back to Stack.

“If y’all need anything…” she said gently, “I’m around.”

Stack gave her a faint, sharp nod.

“Appreciate it.”

He shut the door again without another word.

The hallway outside Stack’s office was dim, lit only by a flickering wall sconce and the low amber light bleeding out from beneath the office door. Odessa stood leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed beneath her bust, leg cocked just slightly—like she’d been waiting.

And she had.

Smoke stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him, jaw tight, a fresh streak of blood soaking through the wrap beneath his shirt. He winced as he adjusted the fabric around his side, still tender from the blade earlier that night.

She watched him like a cat watches something small and wounded.

“Y’bleedin’,” Odessa said finally, voice sweet but sharp. Her gaze dragged down his chest, lingered at the cut, “Didn’t think anything could get close enough to touch you.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He reached into his coat pocket, tugging out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. His fingers, still stained faintly red, shook just enough to be noticed. He pulled one out, placed it between his lips.

Fumbled the matches.

Odessa was already beside him.

She struck a match with ease and brought it to his cigarette, fingers brushing his chin deliberately, holding the flame a second too long.

“There,” she said, voice like honey, “Better?”

Smoke exhaled smoke through his nose, unimpressed, “Appreciate it.”

He made to move past her.

Odessa blocked his path. Her perfume was thick—too thick—and her eyes gleamed with something more than flirtation now.

“You don’t even look at me,” she said, voice no longer soft, “All that heat you carry—yet you keep it for her.”

Smoke raised a brow.

“This ‘bout Violet?” he said slowly.

Odessa’s jaw clenched, “Yeah. Violet. That little whisper of a girl. Quiet. Soft. Barely says a word unless you drag it outta her. She walks around here in your damn shirt and suddenly she’s got your eyes, your hands, your everything.”

He said nothing, his smoke curling upward like a slow, rising ghost between them.

Odessa’s voice sharpened, “I been here. I been lookin’ at you since the day I walked through them doors, Smoke. You ever ask yourself what makes her so special? What she got that I don’t?”

Smoke looked her over—not in desire, but in cold assessment. His voice was calm, low.

“She kind,” he said, “Don’t push for what ain’t hers. She listens. Moves gentle through a room without makin’ it about her. Got softness you can feel across the damn floor. Don’t gotta perform, don’t gotta force it.”

He stepped forward. Odessa didn’t back away, but her eyes flickered.

“And when she look at me,” he said, voice quieter now, roughened with truth, “it’s like she see past all this— past the money, the blood, the name. She see me. And I ain’t lettin’ go of that.”

Odessa’s throat bobbed. For a second, her face cracked—not just with jealousy, but hurt. Then she snapped her jaw shut, huffed, and turned on her heel.

“You’ll see,” she muttered, heels clicking hard as she stormed down the hall, “Girls like that don’t last in a place like this.”

Smoke stood still for a beat, watching her go.

Then he brought the cigarette back to his lips and exhaled.

“Don’t need her to last,” he spoke to himself, “Just need her to stay mine.”

Smoke sat alone in his office, the door half-closed, light from the desk lamp casting a warm gold over the wood grain and worn papers. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the cotton pushed back as he studied the fresh cut across his side — a shallow knife wound, but clean. Angry red beneath drying blood. He exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulder, testing it.

The office was quiet save for the distant murmur of laughter and music below. His jaw clenched as he reached for a bottle of whiskey, not to drink — just to press the cool glass briefly to the ache in his ribs.

A soft knock barely registered.

Then came the turn of the doorknob.

Smoke glanced up, eyes flicking toward the figure slipping in.

It was Violet.

She peeked through, hesitating, her fingers tight around the edge of the door as if she might lose nerve and turn back. She hadn’t seen him since before the stakeout, and she’d been aching with it. Ache in her chest. Ache between her thighs. Ache in the quiet moments when his absence felt like missing breath.

When she saw his bare skin, the line of the wound, she stilled.

His gaze found hers and softened. That weight in his shoulders didn’t ease—but his eyes did.

“Hey,” she whispered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She leaned back against it for a second, hands clasped in front of her, uncertain, “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You ain’t botherin’ me,” he said low, voice rough from smoke and strain, “You came lookin’ for me?”

Violet nodded, “Been…missing you.”

Smoke smiled softly, “missed you too, baby. Sorry I been tied up,” Smoke drags a hand down his face.

Violet fidgets, but then she slowly drags her eyes up to meet his again, with confidence.

“How much you miss me?” She spoke with the faintest voice.

He let the silence answer that before rising slowly from the desk. She could see now how stiffly he moved, the way his muscles bunched as he approached. His shirt hung open, and the light hit the sweat-slick edge of his chest, the trail of hair down his stomach, the faint bruising near the bandage. When he got close, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers—slow, careful, like an apology he didn’t have the words for.

She kissed him back, hands slipping up to his chest, “Are you okay?”

His brows twitched faintly. He paused, staring at her mouth.

“No,” he said honestly, “Not really.”

Violet’s breath hitched.

“Business is goin’ to shit,” he added, “Things movin’ too fast. Too many players. And I ain’t got what I need to hold the line.” He pulled back just slightly, “But that ain’t your worry.”

Her hand ghosted near his ribs, “Is that from tonight?”

Smoke didn’t answer. He looked away, then gently took her hand and kissed her fingers. Without speaking, he led her to the desk and lifted her—easy, steady, like his body hadn’t just been cut open, setting her gently on the polished surface.

She gasped just a little at the suddenness of it, her thighs spreading instinctively as she settled. Smoke dropped down into his chair, eyes level with her knees, then drifting up slowly. His palms settled on the outside of her thighs. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world that didn’t need fixing.

Violet swallowed hard, her fingers twisting into his open shirt.

Smoke leaned in, resting his forehead against her sternum. Her hands came up and stroked over his hair, brushing the nape of his neck.

“Just needed to see you,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” she said softly, “You’ve got me.”

His breath slowed as her touch steadied him.

“I know,” he said, voice thick, “That’s the only thing keepin’ me from goin’ off the edge.”

The office was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the desk lamp behind him. Smoke sat back in his chair, sleeves rolled, collar loose, the weight of the day heavy in his shoulders. The bourbon glass beside him had gone untouched. His eyes weren’t on the work splayed out on his desk anymore—they were on her.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Not at first.

It was a comfortable silence between them. Tender touches. Soft caresses. She was still perched right on the edge of his desk, legs swinging just slightly, her soft thighs brushing the wood. The hem of her ivory slip dress flirted with the tops of her knees, and her ribbon—always her ribbon—was tied snug at her throat, catching the lamplight like a whispered secret. Her curls were wild tonight, haloing her face with shadow and moonshine.

Smoke reached out, slow, his fingers brushing the inside of her knee. Her breath hitched. That tiny sound—just for him—made his jaw flex.

“Come here, baby.”

Violet slipped off the desk and into his lap like silk slipping off a shoulder. Her knees bent and thighs opened as she straddled him, bare legs bracketing his hips, her body fitting into his like honey poured over warm bread. Her hands cupped his face, tentative at first, thumbs brushing the line of his jaw. He leaned in, letting her.

Their lips met—soft, searching, sensual.

Then again, deeper. His hand curved up the back of her neck, cradling her, angling her mouth just right so he could kiss her proper. He tasted the sweetness on her tongue, the breath she stole in between, and the way she gave it all back like she needed it. Smoke let out a low sound against her lips, something almost like a groan. His hands drifted down, slow, possessive, from her waist to the swell of her backside. He squeezed, just enough to make her gasp, and kissed her through it.

She rocked once against him. Just once. His dick already hard from the moment she stepped in the room, strained beneath his slacks, thick and aching. Violet shifted, and her hand slid down between them, small fingers brushing his thigh. Smoke pulled back just enough to watch her.

Then—there it was.

She reached down and cupped him through the fabric. The pressure made him grunt, hips twitching up instinctively.

“Baby,” he breathed, grabbing her wrist gently, “You ain’t gotta do that. Not unless you want to.”

Violet’s eyes lifted to his. Wide. Warm. A little scared—but glowing with intent.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, “I want to.”

Smoke studied her—really studied her. That ribbon. That mouth. That soft, trembling girl in his lap. His voice dropped.

“You sure?”

Violet nodded. Then, quietly, her fingers tracing him again, she said, “I remember…that night. How you came to me with it hard. I remember how it looked. How it felt.” Her lashes fluttered, “I want to take care of you.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. He leaned forward, kissed her slow again, hand tangled in her curls. Violet continued to grip him through his slacks. The pulse in her wrist fluttered with nervous thrill.

“You sayin’ that with that little voice…” he growled against her mouth, plush lips feather soft, “Gon’ make me lose my mind.”

Her hand stayed where it was, gently palming him, feeling how thick he was, how warm. He exhaled through his nose, heavy, one hand gripping her thigh, the other cupping the back of her head.

“You touchin’ me like that…gon’ make me do things I can’t take back, baby girl.”

“…I want you to,” she whispered.

He looked up at her like a man at his breaking point.

And then he kissed her again—hotter, deeper, his tongue teasing hers, his hands locked around her hips as she moved just barely in his lap. That desk, that lamp, that tally book—they were forgotten. All Smoke could see, all he could feel, was the soft, willing weight of her on him, and the promise in her trembling hands.

Smoke was breathing harder now. Violet still straddled his lap, her small hand cupping him through the fine wool of his slacks. The weight of her, the heat of her breath, the look in her eyes—it was all unraveling him by the second.

Then she shifted.

Without breaking eye contact, Violet slid off his lap. Down to her knees. Slow. Deliberate. Her hands braced against his thighs as she settled on the floor in front of him.

Smoke’s breath caught in his chest.

“Baby girl…” His voice was thick, warning, wanting.

Violet looked up at him from between his legs, those doe eyes soft but full of something new—hunger, need, maybe even power.Her hand stroked him again, firmer this time. She dragged her palm up the long length of him, watching his jaw clench.

“I want to give more,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned back in his chair like it took everything in him not to reach for her.

“Speak it, Violet,” he said roughly, “Ain’t no shame in wanting. Tell me.”

She hesitated for only a breath.

“Please…I want to put my mouth on you.”

The words didn’t tremble—they glowed.

Something primal flickered in Smoke’s eyes. He nodded once, slow, barely.

“Go on then, baby. Take what you want.”

With trembling fingers, Violet undid his belt, unfastened his slacks. His dick sprang free, thick, flushed dark, already weeping for her. She stared at it like she remembered it from dreams—remembered the weight of it against her thigh, the way it had pressed into her belly when he kissed her hard.

She wrapped her hand around him again, tighter this time, watching his stomach tense. Then she lowered her mouth, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of arousal at the tip. Smoke cursed under his breath, one hand gripping the armrest, the other curling into a fist on the desk.

Violet kissed along the length of him first—soft, wet, delicate. Then her lips parted wider, and she took him in, slow and deep, her mouth tight and warm around him.

“Shit…” Smoke gritted, hips rocking just slightly as her lips slid down, then back up, leaving a wet sheen along his shaft. She found a rhythm, delicate and filthy—stroking what her mouth couldn’t take, tongue swirling around the crown. She moaned softly against him, and the vibration made his whole body jerk.

Smoke looked down, watching her. Her cheeks hollowing. Her fingers digging into his thighs for balance. The ribbon at her throat still perfectly tied as she sucked him like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

“Just like that,” he growled, “Fuck, Violet…you takin’ it so pretty…”

She blinked up at him, tears starting to touch the corners of her lashes from the effort, and he nearly lost it then and there. He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, eyes locked on hers.

“You keep goin’ like that, sugar…I’m gon’ fill that pretty little mouth.”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t break her stare.

And Smoke—tight-jawed, wild-eyed, shaking from the restraint—could only hold on and let her ruin him slow.

Smoke’s breathing turned ragged, sharp bursts pushing through gritted teeth as Violet worked him. Her mouth, her hand, the soft sound of her lips sliding wet over his length—it was all too much. Her tongue slick with saliva. Her tiny gasps whenever his tip jumped as she licked. The way those brown eyes would blink up at him all innocent and sweet while doing something so sinful.

Smoke had to grip the arms of his chair.

“Goddamn, girl…”

His head fell back against the chair, muscles taut like wire beneath his shirt. She had him on the edge—closer than she realized, or maybe she did know. Maybe that was the point. Her fingers squeezed just right at the base, her tongue teasing the underside with practiced, instinctive grace. When she moaned again around him, a filthy little hum of approval, it was over.

Smoke’s hand shot out, grabbing the back of her head—not to force, but to hold. His hips jerked, thick dick pulsing as he came, hot and heavy, into her mouth.

“Fuck, Violet—just like that—take it—take all of it.”

She did.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She swallowed everything, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment like she could feel it inside her, like it warmed her.

He watched her the whole time, dazed, undone, his body slowly easing back into the chair as his climax faded. She licked him clean, soft and unhurried, like she wanted to savor him. Then she wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him. Still on her knees. Still glowing with that strange mix of innocence and filth that drove him mad.

Smoke reached down and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her damp bottom lip.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gravel and heat.

She nodded, “Mmhm.”

“You sure?” he pressed, softer now.

Violet leaned into his touch, her ribboned throat still bare to him, her lips kiss-bruised and glistening.

“I wanted to,” she whispered, “I like it when you cum for me.”

That tore something open in him.

Smoke stood abruptly, pulling her up off the floor like she weighed nothing. He sat her back on the desk, cupping the back of her head as he kissed her. Deep, slow, claiming. Like he didn’t care that her mouth had just swallowed every drop of him.

Because he didn’t.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

She lifted her hips, and he slid the silk up and over, revealing bare thighs, soft skin he already knew like the lines on his own palm. He pressed a kiss there—right above her knee—then again, higher. His hands gripped her hips.

When he looked up at her, she was already flushed. Already wanting.

“Spread for me, baby,” he said, kneeling between her legs.

Violet obeyed—shy but open, knees falling wide apart as she planted her hands behind her on the desk for balance.

Smoke exhaled softly. Hungry.

“There she is,” he whispered, “Look at this little pussy. Already glistenin’. You been sittin’ up here waitin’ for my mouth, huh?”

She whimpered.

“I ain’t rushin’ this,” he said, kissing the inside of her thigh, “Not after the way you sucked my damn dick.”

Her breath hitched.

“That mouth was made to ruin me. But this—” He kissed higher, “this was made for tongue…my lips…this dick…you like knowing that, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“How much you like it?”

“So much…please, Smoke…”

He dipped his head and licked her slow, a long, flat stroke that made her cry out softly, hips twitching.

Smoke chuckled into her skin.

“Yeah, baby…that’s what I like. Let her speak to me.”

He took his time. No teasing. No playing. Just worship. His tongue moved with purpose—slow circles, deep licks, careful pressure. He sucked her clit gently into his mouth, then backed off, then returned, never frantic, never greedy.

Only sure.

Only hers.

Violet’s head fell back.

“Oh my God…Smoke—”

“That’s it. Tell me.”

She gasped, fingers curling around the edge of the desk. “You feel so good…I swear I still feel your tongue hours after.”

That made him growl—low and possessive.

“You do?” he asked, licking her again, deeper, “You walkin’ ‘round all day drippin’, still feelin’ me up in here?”

She nodded, breathless, “Yes—God, yes—like I’m still open for you…”

He sucked her again, this time with more pressure.

“You taste like heaven when you beg,” he spoke, his voice thick with hunger, “So pretty and swollen…all this for me.”

She sobbed, breath catching.

“Please,” she whispered, “Please make me cum, sir.”

Smoke groaned and wrapped his arms beneath her thighs, holding her in place as his mouth devoured her—tongue working her clit in tight circles, lips sucking slow, his name tumbling from her mouth with every gasp.

“Elijah…Elijah…Elijah…”

“You gonna give it to me?” he whispered, “Let her flood my fuckin’ mouth?”

“Y-Yes—yes, I’m—Smoke—”

“Cum, baby. Let me taste what you saved for me.”

She came with a sharp cry, body shuddering against the desk, thighs locked around his shoulders. Smoke stayed there, letting her ride his mouth through the aftershocks—licking her slow and sweet, soft groans humming against her skin.

When he finally pulled back, lips wet, he looked up at her with a gaze that burned low and bright.

“You feel her now?” he whispered, kissing her thigh, “You’ll still feel her tomorrow.”

Violet trembled, voice shaking, “I never forget.”

Violet was still gasping softly, her thighs trembling where Smoke had left them parted on the edge of his desk. Her skin glowed under the warm office light, her mouth open slightly, hair wild around her face.

Smoke exhaled, still kneeling, chest rising with each breath, lips slick from her, jaw rough with stubble. He hadn’t moved to stand yet.

Didn’t need to.

He liked being there—beneath her. For her.

But Violet reached for him, fingers trembling slightly, and curled them under his jaw.

“Come here,” she whispered.

He let her guide him, rising slowly from his knees, towering over her again, his hands on either side of the desk, bracketing her body. His mouth hovered just above hers, his breath warm, tasting of her.

“Still got you all over my face.”

“I know,” she whispered, “I want to taste me on you.”

That lit something in him.

Before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed him.

Soft. Deep. Needy.

Their mouths met with slow fire, her lips parting beneath his, tongue slipping into his mouth, tasting what he gave her. She moaned, low in her throat, as she kissed him harder, pulling him closer, nails pressing into his arms where he held the desk.

Smoke groaned against her mouth, his tongue claiming hers, hand rising to the back of her neck to steady her.

She kissed like she wanted to melt into him.

Like she’d never get full.

When they finally broke apart, panting, lips swollen and wet, Smoke stared down at her, dark eyes searching.

“You like how you taste on my mouth, baby?” he rasped.

She nodded, flushed and dizzy, “You make me taste better.”

He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then just below her ear.

“You kiss me like you want me inside you already,” he whispered.

Her whole body shivered at that.

“Maybe I do,” she said quietly.

Smoke pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. What he saw there—the trust, the fire, the surrender—it nearly broke him in the best way.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he said, “You kissin’ me like you proud of what I just did to you.”

“I am,” she whispered, “You made me feel beautiful.”

He smiled—slow, crooked, dark with promise.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Violet’s breath caught.

He smirked, devil-sweet, brushing his nose along hers.

“Now,” he added, tucking himself back in and adjusting his slacks, “you sittin’ pretty up on my desk like that—lookin’ like somethin’ I dreamed—I suggest you stay right there ‘til I get a rag and make sure you good.”

She smiled, small and warm, legs swinging again, “Yes, sir.”

Smoke paused mid-step.

Then turned back, grabbed her chin with two fingers, and kissed her again—messy this time. Possessive.

“Don’t say it like that unless you mean it, baby girl,” he warned, “That sir gon’ get you fucked right here, right now.”

Her cheeks flushed. But her eyes held.

“I mean it.”

Smoke groaned low in his throat.

And just like that—he knew he was hers.

Smoke returned with a warm, damp cloth and a towel slung over his shoulder. He moved slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving her. Violet still sat on his desk, quiet now, hands curled in her lap like she wasn’t sure what came next.

He touched her knee first—gentle.

“Lay back for me, sugar.”

She did, her curls spilling across the polished wood. Smoke knelt slightly, easing her thighs apart with both hands, pressing reverent kisses to the soft skin there before tending to her.

He cleaned her with care.

No rush. No shame. Just slow, quiet devotion. The kind that came from a man raised by women who taught him to respect softness without ever fearing it. When he was done, he dried her gently and helped her sit up again.

“You alright?�� he asked, voice low.

Violet nodded, biting her lip, “Did I do okay?”

Smoke huffed a small laugh, leaning forward until his mouth brushed her ear.

“You did so fuckin’ good, baby. Had me sittin’ there starin’ like a fool, tryin’ not to beg.”

She giggled—soft, shy.

Then her arms circled his shoulders, and he gathered her close, hands splayed on the small of her back, mouth pressing to the hollow of her throat just above the ribbon. They stayed like that for a beat. Maybe two. Breathing each other in.

Then—

A sound.

Barely audible.

The creak of a floorboard outside the office.

Smoke stiffened instantly.

He turned toward the door just as it opened.

Stack.

The light from the hallway caught his brother’s face just right—and that was all it took.

Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he saw it.

In Stack’s eyes. That glassy flash of cold, coiled readiness. Something was off. Something was coming.

They didn’t need words.

Smoke stood slowly, stepping between Violet and the door with a protective instinct that didn’t need thinking. His body shifted—loose but lethal, every inch of him now alert beneath his still-rolled sleeves and open collar.

Stack just nodded once. Tight. Barely.

That was enough.

Smoke turned back to Violet, cupping her cheek, the kiss he gave her now softer than all the ones before.

“I gotta go,” he said quietly.

Her brows drew together, worry blooming.

“Smoke?”

“I’ll be back, baby,” He kissed her again. “You stay right here, alright? Don’t open this door for nobody ‘less it’s me or Stack.”

Violet nodded, gripping the edge of the desk like it might anchor her.

Smoke gave her one last look—torn between wanting to shield her and needing to move.

Then he turned to Stack.

And whatever softness had been in him seconds ago burned clean away.

Mercy returned just before midnight.

She didn’t come dressed in lace or veils this time—just a long coat, boots, and a quiet tension clinging to her like fog. Her usual silk gloves were gone. Her rings were gone too. She looked like someone preparing for war, or a funeral.

Smoke opened the office door before she knocked.

Stack was already pouring a drink.

“I got somethin’,” she said, stepping inside.

“Booker?” Stack asked.

“Gone,” she said flatly, “Real gone. No funeral. No whispers. Just…vanished.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed.

“And the woman?”

Mercy paused. Took the glass from Stack and drank before answering.

“Séraphine,” she said, “That’s her name. Least, that’s the one I’ve heard before.”

She set the glass down.

“I didn’t meet her myself. But someone close to me did.”

She pulled a folded letter from her coat pocket. The edges were frayed. The handwriting inside was tight, frantic.

“My oldest girl—Ree. She ran with me before I ever opened Swansong. Back when I was still dancin’. She got caught up with a man in Plaquemine Parish—rich, mean, and fascinated with the dead.”

“A rootworker?” Smoke asked.

“No,” Mercy said, “Worse. A collector. Had bones in glass cases. Women’s hair tied in braids hung over his desk. Ree said he brought home a woman one night who wasn’t like the others.”

She tapped the letter.

“Said the woman didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just sat in front of a mirror and talked to it like it talked back.”

“Séraphine?” Stack asked.

“I believe so.”

Mercy leaned forward.

Her voice dropped low.

“She said one night, the whole damn house caught fire. No lanterns. No storm. Just lit from the inside. The man burned alive. So did Ree’s cousin. But that woman?”

Mercy’s eyes met Smoke’s.

“She walked out the front door. Didn’t even smell of smoke.”

A long pause.

Then—

“Ree ain’t been right since. Can’t speak above a whisper. Can’t sleep if there’s a mirror in the room.”

“So what is she?” Stack asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Mercy’s voice didn’t waver.

“She’s old. She’s wrong. And she don’t bleed easy.”

“You still think she’s mortal?” Smoke asked.

“I think she was,” Mercy said, “A long time ago.”

She stood.

“You boys need to stop thinkin’ like this is a turf war.”

“What is it then?” Stack asked.

Mercy looked between them both.

“It’s a haunting. You just ain’t dead yet.”

A sugarcane field just past the riverbend. Dusk.

Booker was already broken when Felix brought him out there.

The finger was gone—clean slice, done by Smoke with surgical grace—but it wasn’t the bleeding that made him shake.

It was the knowing.

That whatever chance he had left…wasn’t standing in front of him.

It was walking behind him.

Barefoot. Silent. Wearing black.

Séraphine.

Felix didn’t say much.

Just lit a cigarette with calm hands and said,

“You should’ve stayed loyal, Booker. You gave us up.”

Booker dropped to his knees in the dirt, voice trembling, face slick with sweat and desperation.

“I swear I ain’t mean no harm. I didn’t know the crate was marked, I didn’t know they was gonna come after me—”

Felix looked past him, toward Séraphine.

And nodded once.

That was all.

She stepped forward.

No words. No threats.

Just the soft drag of her veil brushing against cane leaves.

Booker scrambled back, crab-crawling in the dirt.

“Wait—wait, please—who the hell even is she?!”

Séraphine didn’t answer.

She crouched near him.

Laid one hand gently against his cheek.

And Booker started to scream.

He saw it before it touched him.

Rats. Dozens. Hundreds. Not real—but they crawled up his thighs, down his spine, into his mouth. Their squealing filled his ears. His own breath vanished. Every sound warped and slowed. He was suffocating on a memory that wasn’t his—but felt real enough to choke on.

Then his mother’s voice.

Calling him home.

But she’d been dead twenty years.

He clawed at his eyes and fell to his side.

Convulsed.

His voice cracked from shouting names no one knew.

Séraphine stood over him, her face calm as glass, and whispered something in Creole no one else understood.

Booker’s heart gave out in silence.

Mouth open.

Eyes wide.

Still trying to crawl out of whatever illusion she had poured into his head.

Felix took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the dirt.

“Have someone bury him deep. Salt the earth.”

He turned to Séraphine, who was brushing off her hands.

“What’d he see?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled.

“Enough.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[kumkaniudaku]

At Last: Part One

Summary: Patrice returns home to celebrate a birthday and a new beginning.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: None

In a little corner of Wilmington, NC, tucked behind towering Spanish moss trees and sprawling acres of lush green grass, the Habersham family were monarchs on ancestral turf. 

Enslaved Sierra Leonean men and women had tilled this land long before Patrice was a twinkle in her mother and father’s eyes. They hoped, prayed, and danced for a future where babies far down their lineage could have a place to visit for a connection to their love and guidance beyond the physical realm. According to some, their spirits still roamed the fields once holding them captive in great triumph.

Long-held West African customs preserved and passed down over time had transformed into the uniquely rich Gullah culture that still governed the eldest generation of Habershams and their children. While much of the language patterns had been lost, Sybil Habersham-Lewis and her baby sister, Rosalyn, worked tirelessly to keep the family home tidy and traditions alive. 

They never hesitated to tell stories of how their great-grandfather rebuilt the big house with his bare hands to rid his offspring of a torrid legacy from a man he reluctantly called father. They sometimes laughed about how he, a fair-skinned man with green eyes and a mean streak, met and married a slender songstress with blue-black skin within six months of laying eyes on her. Paul and Efua produced eight children in that home. Those eight children created a line of movers and shakers that stretched far and wide. 

One of those movers and shakers stared out of the passenger side window with eyes wide as saucers and a smile that rivaled the sun, watching trees donning brown, red, and orange leaves whiz past on the way to her favorite place in the world. Patrice was itching to get out of the car and kick her shoes off to feel the soft tickle of damp Bermuda grass between her toes. She longed to see her uncle’s horses, eat fresh seafood until her stomach ached, and recap moments in her girlhood with her cousins. She couldn’t wait to kiss Nana's face 95 times for her 95th birthday. She needed to smell the blue hydrangeas in her auntie’s garden. She needed to be home.

Terry stole glances at Patrice, finding joy in her enthusiasm. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before or in the nearly two-hour ride from Fayetteville. He knew she’d tucker out eventually, but seeing her brimming with unbridled happiness made his heart swell. 

“God, I hope my auntie made okra. Oooh and crab cakes. I haven’t had any in so long!”

Terry listened to the way her accent slurred and shortened words in rapid succession with a smile. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to understand you by the end of the weekend.” 

“You’ll be lucky to keep up past tonight.” she laughed. "My granny ‘dem Geechee tuh de bone."

“Y’all make everything sound like music. I like it.” 

“If you tell Moon Pie that, she might try to take you from me.” 

“You gon’ let her?” 

“Hell nah. I’ll whoop her ass. She ain’t crazy.” 

The thought of having to put hands on her cousin behind her man made Patrice scowl while Terry let off a loud, shoulder-shaking cackle. Though she was serious as a heart attack, she laughed along with him to release the tension building in her muscles. 

Terry reached across the center console to gently rub her arm before playfully caressing her chin to pull a smile from her lips. 

“No way I’d let you fight as pretty as you are. Plus, we’re celebrating all weekend. If you aren’t smiling from tonight ‘til Sunday, I didn’t do my job.” 

Patrice’s mouth twisted into a suspicious smirk. “And what’s your job? You know, if someone were to ask for a friend.”

“Keeping you happy.” His cheeky quip made her eyes roll as she kissed her teeth. 

For over a week Terry had been tight lipped about something Patrice couldn’t put her finger on. She’d tried to catch him in a fib or make him slip up and share whatever details existed behind hushed calls and unmarked deliveries. But, Terry was notorious for keeping secrets under lock and key. Whatever he was planning would sneak up on her like a thief in the night. 

“You nervous to meet everyone?” Patrice questioned to change the subject.

“Nah, I’m good.” He cut his eyes in Patrice’s direction and smiled when he found her already eying him skeptically. “Think I’m lying?” 

“Yeah, I think you’re full of shit. Either that or you’re truly unaware of how crazy my folks are. No way you aren’t a little concerned.” 

He shrugged. “I’m not too worried. I love you, so I know I’ll love them. We’ll figure out the parts in the middle.” 

Everything Terry knew about Patrice, in his mind, was a beautiful amalgamation of those who had a hand in raising her into the woman she’d grown into. He knew her mother and how the two shared the same heart for community service. From her father, she’d inherited an uncanny ability to stop a whole room from speaking with only a raised eyebrow. Though he’d only heard stories of her grandmother, he could tell that her independent nature was a founding feature. And, if those things could make his heart turn flips with one look across a crowded room, he’d have no trouble making space for his bonus family. 

Patrice tried to formulate a counterpunch to Terry’s levelheaded assessment of the situation but had a change of heart as smooth asphalt transitioned into the familiar crunch of gravel beneath her car’s tires. 

Black iron gates adorned with an ornate H were pulled open, giving anyone casually walking by a peak into an almost mythical land. Terry’s eyes darted from place to place, lingering on the hanging moss trees lining their path, then on the children gleefully chasing each other through fallen leaves around a small white gazebo, before landing on a magnificent wrap-around porch serving as a gathering spot for elder men taking inventory of fishing equipment for an early morning trip to catch the evening’s meal. The Big House, as Patrice affectionately called it, was a modern marvel, an oasis for every hue of black man, woman, and child with Habersham blood in their veins to feel like they were somebody in an otherwise cruel world. 

“Beautiful, ain’t it? Auntie did her thing with the last renovation.” Patrice asked, beaming as she started to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“Incredible. Is this al-” 

Whatever was left of Terry’s awe-inspired sentence was swept into the wind as Patrice hopped from the passenger seat and onto the concrete driveway before the car could come to a full stop. 

Like a child finally released from the confines of their classroom onto the playground for 30 minutes of recess freedom, she hit the ground in a slight jog to greet a woman about her age skipping down the porch steps to meet her halfway. 

“Imani,” Patrice hollered, her arms already outstretched in anticipation of a hug. 

Imani called her name back with equal excitement until the two women were joined in a tight embrace. Terry watched from afar, a warm smile tugging his lips to one side as he shut off the engine and exited the vehicle. 

The two women rocked side to side until they’d had their fill of one another. Imani pulled away first to get a look at her favorite baby cousin. 

“My girlfrieeend,” she sang, imitating the theme song from the only show they watched for a full summer in their teens. “You look so good. The skin, the hair, the body! It’s all working right now.” 

“Me? Look at you! I know for a fact this caftan is from like Paris or Bali or somewhere crazy.” 

“Oh you know, just a little somethin’ custom from London. Not too much, not too much.” 

“How you stand it there with that nasty looking food is beyond me, girl.” 

Imani laughed. “That’s for them other folks. People that look like us know where to get a good meal. You oughta come see me sometime. Book a flight and let me worry about the rest.” 

“Next summer?” 

“I’ll throw it on my calendar. Bring Mister Man, too.” 

Patrice didn’t need to turn around to know that Terry had made his presence known. She could feel the warmth of his hand on her lower back as he joined her side. 

If he hadn’t known her for nearly two decades, Terry would have easily gotten Patrice and Imani confused. Both women wore glowing deep dark skin like a badge of honor, soaking up rays of sun and reflecting them in the way that only ethereal beings could. Wide noses and plump, pink and brown lips complimented impossibly high cheekbones. Beauty marks at the corners of opposite eyes might possibly be a tell-tale sign if one could fight being lulled into a trance by the sheer grace they both possessed. The only difference was Imani’s slight height advantage and low, ash blonde haircut.

“Wow,” he whispered, the words catching him by surprise. He shook his head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just - y’all are damn near twins.” 

“Don’t I know it,” they spoke in unison. 

Patrice took over after a chuckle. “They used to call us Frick and Frack. Mostly because they couldn’t always tell who was who.”

“Which Petey over here never wanted to use to our advantage.” 

“Petey?” Terry questioned. 

“Wait, she never told you her nic-” 

“And, that’s enough,” Patrice hollered, purposely eclipsing Imani’s voice to keep her cousin from going further. “Terrence, this Imani. Imani this is Terrence, my man.” 

Terry could feel a bolt of lightning surge through his body as he reached out to shake Imani’s hand. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what Patrice might call him in a simple introduction. He’d always given her a treasure trove of titles - his lady, the love of his life, maybe his wife one day if the Lord willed it so. He’d introduced her so much that they never explored how the inverse would work. But hearing himself be proudly referred to as her’s was a shock to the system that he hadn’t prepared for but welcomed all the same. 

Imani waved his outstretched hand away and pulled him in for a hug. “Boy, we family. Come here and get this squeeze.”

Like an old friend, Imani pulled Terry into a welcoming hug. Patrice looked on with a silent thanks to God. If what she knew of her cousin still held weight, they’d be fast friends and thick as thieves by the end of the weekend. 

Pulling away, she lightly tapped his chest and looked at Patrice. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet Terry Richmond in person. You’re basically her Nelly!” she laughed, recalling Patrice’s near obsession with St. Louis and their hometown hero after Hot in Herre debuted. Patrice rolled her eyes while Terry and Imani held on to each other through loud laughter.

“Got damn, Moanie, hold ‘em hostage why don’t you! You ain’t the only person they know ‘round here.” 

“Hey, Daddy!” 

“Hey, Baby Girl!”

The perfectly timed distraction took Patrice’s attention away long enough for the newest tandem to exchange hushed conversation.

“Yeah, but I’m the best!” Imani hollered back before winking at Terry and Patrice. “Go on. I’ll have the boys get y’all’s stuff. Make sure you get to the kitchen. Think Mama’s got some pound cake cut for you.”

The mention of other family members awaiting their arrival was a quick reminder that Terry had barely scratched the surface of new faces and connections. Every direction he turned presented another opportunity to be pulled into a spirited handshake or warm hug. 

With the men in her life, he was immediately received with masculine equivalents of praise for his physical form.

“Son, you look like ya 'bout tuh buss out dat shirt 'round ya arms. Petey, you don’t have to worry ‘bout no protection, huh?” was Uncle PJ’s way of saying he was confident in Terry’s ability to keep Patrice safe. 

“You comin’ out fishin’? Country boy like you probably catch catfish with your bare hands!” 

“Where you from?”

“Where your people from?” 

“They white? How you get them green eyes?”

“You got kids? You sure?” 

“You know you got some ears on you, don’t ya!”

Patrice’s father, Leon, interjected to save Terry from an increasingly invasive dive into his personal history. “Don’t answer none of that. But I would like you to come out on the water with us. Have a beer or two so we can finish that conversation from the other week.” 

“Y’all talking about me behind my back?” 

“Hell, I do,” Junior laughed. “She aggravating, bruh. You can say it. Go ‘head.”

“You better not.” 

Patrice playfully poked a perfectly manicured finger into Terry’s chest to force his silence, earning a chaste kiss on the forehead. Junior scoffed and sipped from his half-empty bottle of water.

“T, you grown now. Your big ass don’t have to let her boss you no more.” 

“That’s my favorite part,” Terry answered, finally speaking up for himself. “She sweet when she wanna be.”

“I ain’t seen it.”

“Because I don’t like you, Junior. How many times do we have to go over this?”

Terry tried to contain his wide grin from watching the siblings bicker like old times. He’d been in the middle of many a verbal tussle between them, always stepping in as the voice of reason. He still held the role of peacemaker all these years later. 

“She loves you, man. Still keeps your room up and everything.” 

Leon shook his head at his children’s antics. “Good thing you here. I couldn’t take that shit this weekend.” He pointed at the passenger seat of his truck and the open lunch box resting in it. “So, you comin’. Got food for you if you wanna ride.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Terry started before looking toward the house at the small audience of women crowding at the kitchen window. They scattered when he caught their gaze, making him laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. “Give us a few minutes. I think there’s some people inside I gotta meet first.” 

“Good luck, man. I would say you got five minutes but we both know that ain’t happening. We’ll wait a bit.”

With one trial by fire ending, another began. In their short walk to the front porch, Patrice had given Terry opportunities to gracefully bow out of the incoming circus and take her father’s invitation as a get out of hell free card. He’d refused every effort with a kind smile and unfounded reassurance that everything would be okay. In his mind, he’d hug a few necks, kiss a few cheeks, and be out of dodge before anyone could hold him long. 

Stepping into the home’s foyer felt like being in a museum. Photos of Habersham descendants living and passed on to Glory lined the hallway as a reminder of their history on this land. Eyes that carried an array of stories looked back at him, leaving goosebumps across his arms. Especially once he landed on a young woman with a familiar half-smile encased behind an antique picture frame. 

Patrice noticed him stop short to give the photo his full attention. 

“My great-great-great grandma,” she informed, adding extra emphasis on the final ‘great’. “Efua. Nana says she was barely bigger than the kids but ran this place with an iron fist. I believe it. She look like she don’t play.” 

“She looks kinda like you and Imani.” 

Patrice tilted her head to get a better look. “Hm. I guess you’re right.”

Clamoring in the kitchen pulled them away from Efua’s watchful eye and around the corner for their grand entrance. 

Women of every age, size, and shape filled the room from wall to wall, each one participating in the cooking process. On one side, a small group of teenagers huddled to inspect bushels of greens for bugs and cut them in preparation for a proper wash. On the other, small girls shelled black-eyed peas and giggled amongst themselves over TikTok videos. But in the center of the room, where spices and fresh ingredients intermingled for an almost intoxicating aroma and conversation was the loudest, all of the cornerstones of the family gathered to share gossip and wisdom alike. 

Terry’s appearance, tall and muscled with a winning smile to match, sent a hush over even the loudest woman present. 

“Oh God,” Patrice mumbled to herself, preemptively embarrassed by the storm she knew was sure to follow. 

Someone whistled. Then came a low “mm-mm-mm” from an auntie fighting hard to contain herself. Terry let every sound and look fuel his ego for just a few seconds before speaking. 

“Hey, ladies.” 

“Hey, Terry.” 

Every voice greeted him in unison like the Angels speaking to Charlie over that old speakerphone. Patrice screwed her face and pinched his shoulder. He’d been given strict instructions the night before, but being in the moment called for an audible that immediately made him a shiny new toy to be paraded.

Before he could have any say so, Patrice’s mother was ushering him around for every aunt and cousin to say a personal hello. He charmed each woman who met his acquaintance like a seasoned politician. If nothing else, they could all hang on to the memory of meeting the long-fabled Terrence Richmond. 

But, for all the pomp and circumstance, every breath hitched once Rosalyn led Terry to matriarch. 

She wore 95 years on Earth well. Chestnut skin covered in beauty marks crinkled around her eyes as she smiled back at him. Even as she sat in her wheelchair more slight and fragile than Patrice remembered, Terry could see her inner strength shining through.

Patrice watched her mother lean down and speak something into her grandmother’s ear before directing Terry to crouch down to eye level. He did as he was told, gingerly capturing her much smaller hands in his. 

“Hi, Ms. Ida. I’m so happy to finally meet you. My name is Terrence.” 

The softness in his voice ignited a chorus of heartwarming sentiments from every corner. Patrice had become so enraptured in the meeting she never thought would happen that she nearly missed her mother directing her to join Terry’s side. 

Ida didn’t say much back to him. Instead, she slid her hand from his grasp and traced her fingertips along the perimeter of his face. She examined him from all angles with a nostalgic look in her gaze. Terry tried not to let confusion come through in his expression, but Rosalyn caught the sliver of uncertainty. 

“You remind her of somebody close, that’s all. Same eyes.” 

He’d inadvertently sent her back to her childhood, bringing back memories so deep in her mind she thought she might never get them back. Even with slightly darker skin and broader features than Paul could boast back then, Ida still saw him clear as day. And that, all those years later, made her feel more alive than ever on her 95th birthday.

Ida tapped his jaw lightly and laughed. “Mhm. Petey, this him?” 

Finally joining Terry’s side, Patrice mimicked him and knelt by her grandmother’s feet. 

“Yes ma’am. He wanted to be here for your birthday.” 

“Nice looking boy, ain’t he?” 

Patrice giggled. “He cute, I guess. I heard he got you a gift for tonight, but he won’t tell me what it is. Can you believe it?”

“Well, hell, this all the gift I need. Give me anything else and I might not make it to 96!” 

“Mama!” 

Sybil hated when her mother made jokes about death, but Terry couldn’t help but laugh. He wanted to joke with her, see what else she might say knowing that no one in the house could tell her what to do, but the loud blast of a car horn in the front yard reminded him that he’d made a prior commitment. 

Gently, he squeezed her knee and spoke loud enough for her to hear. “Now, I go gotta go catch you somethin’ for tonight. You gon’ be here when I’m back?” 

“Oh yeah,” she answered, reinvigorated and saucy like her younger self. “I’ll be dressed up real nice too. Might leave here with two gals on your arm.” 

“You know I never been the sharing type, Nana.” 

Ida smiled at Patrice, nodding in approval. “That’s my girl. Keep that up.”

A second and longer beep let Terry know that time was running out. He quickly bid the group farewell, ending on Patrice with a simple kiss on the cheek and a promise to be back soon. 

While she became swept up in a whirlwind of who, what, when, and where, Rosalyn and Sybil slipped away to speak with Terry on his way out of the door. He’d become the center of attention, even long after his scent had faded. 

“Is he the one from high school?” 

“What’s he like?” 

“Is he always this nice?” 

“Y’all shackin’ up?” 

“When y’all getting married? What about kids?”

More questions, more prying, more assumptions than she could handle. Short, vague answers weren’t enough for them. They wanted the full scoop from the young lady they once knew as a shy girl who only focused on her studies. 

Patrice answered every question with enough detail to satiate their curiosity and maintain some level of privacy in her relationship. For a moment, that was enough. They’d unveiled the mystery of Petey’s other life and could move on to more pressing matters.

They quickly shifted to discussions of other people’s business. Who’d had a baby? Who was divorcing? Who’s kids were raising hell in the community? They took a winding road filled with chats about celebrity news and politics, nonsense about music, and, Patrice’s personal favorite, the old days. 

Those chats, full of lore and laughter, always took place in Nana’s parlor. A room covered in powder pink wallpaper and situated in the corner of the home where natural sunlight welcomed any guests that had the privilege of visiting. 

The older women sat side by side, crammed on expensive armchairs and soft couches, to convene at their leisure. Patrice stood by her favorite spot beside the window with Imani sitting on her right and her grandmother positioned in front of her. On her left stood a small table holding hair grease, a fine-toothed comb, and duck bill clips to help her pincurl Ida’s shoulder length silver hair. Her favorite pastime. 

“Everyone of y’all was bad,” Sybil laughed, referring to the crop of children that came up with Patrice. “Y’all came here every summer acting a damn fool.” 

“Not me and Petey!”

“Especially you and Petey. The worst of the bunch. Just sneaky and sassy!” 

“I don’t know what you talkin’ about. All I did was read and sit up under Nana.” 

Patrice’s highly inaccurate recollection of her time in the country every year made Ida laugh in her wheelchair. “Don’t let ‘em lie on you. I never saw my baby gettin’ in no trouble.” 

“Oh yeah right!” Sybil exclaimed. “Ros, wasn’t you there when these two let all the chickens out and had us chasin’ them ‘round out back.” 

“Sure was. They had all the grown folk out there huffin’, puffin’, and ‘bout to blow the house down!” 

The room fell into laughter watching Sybil imitate the group of adults fighting to capture livestock. Patrice remembered that afternoon and tried to defend their actions. 

“Okay, that is true, but I remember that being your daughter’s idea. I was only helping my sis.” 

Imani shrugged and sat back in her seat. “You raised an activist. Those animals were in captivity.” 

“Moanie, you eat meat,” Moon Pie commented. 

“I never said they didn’t taste good. I said we were holding them captive. The circle of life is different. Now let’s talk about how Moon had us sittin’ at the eating table all night because she wouldn’t finish her Frogmore stew thinkin’ there were real frogs in it.”

“Heaven forbid a girl need proof!” 

More laughter. The kind of laughter that healed deep emotional wounds. The kind that seeped into the walls, keeping the home full of love and light. The kind that made Patrice happy to not only be home but to share a piece of her heart with the man she loved. 

While she wished he could hear the silly stories and witness the exaggerated retellings, Terry was fidgeting with his fingers as he waited for Patrice’s father to meet him at the back of his truck. 

Across the way, the other men sat in small clusters, chatting their way through a midafternoon lunch break. As much as he wanted to talk shop with them about the fate of the Carolina Panthers, there was a more meaningful matter on the table. 

Leon grunted as he closed the driver’s side door and rounded the truck’s cab. “Let that down, will you?”

Terry sprung into action quicker than he meant to, nervousness making him move at hyperspeed. Leon laughed and lifted himself onto the truck bed before handing over a small cooler. 

“Grab whatever you like. We got plenty.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Just Leon. Kinda weird to call your father-in-law sir, ain’t it? Plus that’s that fool’s name over there and he ain’t worth a damn. Lazy sumbitch.” 

“I got you. Won’t happen again,” Terry chuckled as he pulled a piece off of his turkey sandwich and popped it into his mouth. They sat in silence for a few moments to enjoy the sound of nature around them until he reignited the conversation. “I appreciate y’all agreeing to all this. Especially so quickly. I hope things don’t feel rushed.”

“You ain’t doin’ nothin’ I wouldn’t want for my girl. She need somebody willing to go above and beyond for her. I know you always have and I don’t see you slowin’ down no time soon.” 

Terry nodded, smiling. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

“I know. Moanie got the ring, right?” 

“Yeah. We worked it all out a couple weeks ago. She’s hiding it for me and keeping Treece distracted. You know she’s nosey.”

“Her mama said to call it inquisitive.” 

“Hm. Inquisitive, huh?”

They looked at each other and spoke at the same time. “Nosey.”

“That’s her,” Leon remarked. “Time’s flyin’, ain’t it? I remember when it looked like you was drowning in your clothes. Now look at you. Big as a damn tank. What they feed y’all in the Corps?” 

“Shit, nothing but slop and a hard time seasoned with a dash of casual racism from some crazy white boy outta one of the Dakotas every once in a while.”

Their shared laughter disturbed a cluster of nearby birds, making the rest of the men look in their direction. Sir threw his hands up in the air. 

“Well, damn, Leon. Gone ‘head and fuck up the catch!” 

“Or I can fuck you up instead.” He looked over at Terry struggling to keep his face neutral and shook his head. “I can’t stand his ass. Or his daughter. Or his wife. All of ‘em get on my nerves. C’mon, so we can finish up.”

As high noon gave way to early evening and the sleepiness of fall pushed the sun into the west earlier than usual, Imani and Patrice sat alone in one of the guest rooms engrossed in conversation. 

Imani was the only sister Patrice had ever known. It didn’t matter what portion of the world they occupied or how long it’d been since they last talked, they always picked up right where they left off when they were reunited. 

Patrice focused on the vanity mirror to examine Imani’s careful twists and twirls to place her thick natural hair into bantu knots.

“You think I can grow my hair out like this by January? I’m going to Ghana and I wanna switch it up a little bit.” 

“Of course. Manifest it, my sister!” 

Imani laughed as she parted out another section. “If I ever need somebody to follow up my foolishness, I know I can count on you.” 

“What Whitney said on the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack?” 

Together, they broke into song, harmonizing to breathe life into the final track from one of their favorite movie soundtracks. Imani hugged her cousin from behind and kissed her cheek. 

“I love you, girl. I miss you so much. It gets so lonely being away from home all the time.” 

“I love you, too. Life be life-ing, don’t it?” 

“All the time. I gotta make my way out to Fayetteville and spend more time with y’all. Maybe learn some more about Mister Man.” Patrice tried to hide her bashful smile, making Imani squeal behind her. “So…tell me about Terry. I know you said something downstairs but I wanna know the real scoop.” 

Patrice sighed at the mere thought of their romance. “The way I love that man, girl, I can’t even explain it. I feel like I’m going crazy.” 

“Oooooh! Swept you clean off your feet, huh?” 

“Threw me over his shoulder and hasn’t put me down since. Never in a million years did I expect to end up here with him. I mean I hoped for it, but to be here is mind-blowing. He’s so sweet, Moanie. So, gentle. Kind. More affectionate than I think I was ready for. I don’t know. I’m just in love. I’m happy.” 

“It’s all over you. I see the glow.” 

“Well, that’s from other things,” she added, a cheeky grin spreading across her face.

“Not the choir boy!” 

“Please, don’t let him fool you. Can’t keep him off me or keep his mouth closed when he gets to talking.”

Their shared laughter spilling out into the hallway became a beacon of their location for Terry as he dragged his tired legs up the stairs in search of Patrice.

His knuckles rapping against the closed bedroom door halted the private conversation until they gave him permission to enter. He slowly pushed the door open before poking his head into the room. 

“Everybody decent?” 

“Mhmm. Come on in.” Imani invited over her shoulder. She looked back at Patrice through the mirror as her cousin adjusted her clothing and sat up a little straighter in anticipation of Terry’s avalanche of affection. 

His eyes seemed to close beyond seeing clearly from the sheer force of his smile. 

“Hey, pretty.” 

“Hey, love. You have fun?” 

Terry released a dry chuckle. “Yeah. A real hoot.” 

Imani watched the young couple flirt back and forth, her hand outstretched to pass a small black velvet box from a drawer in her vanity to Terry while he kept Patrice occupied with short kisses. He secured it in one of his cargo pockets before pulling away. 

“You stink,” Patriced joked, half lying.

“I know. I still have some set-up work to do, so I’ll bring your stuff. Don’t want you to get behind on account of me.” 

“Thank you, baby. You’re so sweet.” 

Patrice captured his chin with her fingers and pulled him closer for another kiss. 

Terry lifted an eyebrow in concern. “You sick?” 

“No. I just love you.”

“I love you, too.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way she softened her gaze to scan his face. The way the gloss on her lips caught the sun. The way every one of her perfect features was on display with her hair pulled up and away from her face. He’d never been more confident in a decision in his life and, if not for the promise he’d made to half of her immediate family, he would’ve done what he drove all the way out to Wilmington for right then and there.

Knowing time was of the essence, Imani cleared her throat and gave Terry a look to urge him along behind Patrice’s back. 

“Well, Terry, think you oughta get down there and set up a table or something, right!”

Snapping out of his trance, Terry stood to his full height to look down at Patrice. “Yeah, you're right. See you a little later?” 

“It’s a date.”

He wanted to give her one more kiss to take with him, but a final reminder for him to scram was the catalyst to push Terry out of the room and leave the ladies to readying for the evening. 

She was all he could think about as he toiled away setting up tents and placing tables exactly how Rosalyn wanted them, sometimes several times over. Even as he casually sipped strong moonshine with Junior and the younger men under lantern light, all dressed in his most pristine white to fit strict instructions, he thought about Patrice and what might look like in the dress she’d chosen. He needed to see her.

His hands were sweating inside of his pockets. He casually caressed the velvet of that small black box, occasionally flipping it open to touch the cold metal inside. Time moved painfully slow. Hunger gnawed at his empty stomach. His mother’s constant phone calls for updates and reassurance didn’t help. Nervousness made his chest hot with anxiety. 

“You gon’ be alright,” Rosalyn assured while adjusting his collar on one of her many trips around the backyard to adjust the tablescape. “Breathe. Won’t be too much longer.”

He thanked her for her kindness and prayed she was right. Or he prayed for the dream he’d written down on a random Tuesday in his creative writing journal to come true. He wasn’t sure anymore. But, when he opened his eyes and lifted his head to check that sliding glass door for the umpteenth time, there she stood amongst the Habersham women as they escorted the guest of honor arm in arm. 

Angelic was the only way he could describe her. Cosmically beautifully and capable of bringing the strongest man to his knees just by batting those long lashes. A toothy grin helped him bare each one of his teeth as he watched her saunter down the decorated pathway to the event tent with Imani in tow. 

“Happy Birthday to you,” the group sang once Ida and all her ladies had made it to the long communal table packed to the brim with food and decorations. 

They serenaded the woman responsible for much of their existence until their faces ached from the singing. She bobbed her head along to the song with a smile on her face then quieted their loud applause with a simple wave of her hand. 

“Ninety-five of those and you’d think I’d be used to it by now,” she laughed. “Thank you. Each of y’all are beautiful. Young and strong. Blood of my blood and I’m glad to have you here with me. Even the ones who just came along to spend some time with an old lady. I love you. Eat, drink, and dance ‘til you bust out your clothes. That’s alright with me! We got a lot to celebrate.”

Teary-eyed and full of gratitude, Patrice reunited with Terry at the dinner table as soon as she ensured her grandmother was comfortable. He worldlessly dabbed at her waterline with his thumb and kissed the top of her head. 

“You okay? Need to step inside for a second?” 

“No,” she answered, laughing at herself for her dramatics. “I’m just really happy. C’mon. Let’s eat.”

Eat, drink, and be merry had a whole new meaning under the soft, warm light wrapping variations of black skin in its embrace. Loud pockets of conversation and laughter made for a melodious cacophony of sounds while music played in the background. 

Patrice clung to Terry the entire time, always staying connected by a hand on his thigh or their fingers laced together beneath the table. Every once in a while, they’d break from separate conversations and catch each other’s eye and smile like schoolyard crushes sitting at the lunch table together. 

The romance in the air between them was palpable enough for Imani to pull out her phone and covertly shoot Terry a quick text. 

Dessert’s out. Do it now or they’re gonna start dancing. 

Now?

NOW!

Terry eyed Imani across the table. She urged him to do something with a sideways nod. He chewed his lip and fiddled with the box in his pocket. The music was starting to pick up as a few small children hit the dancefloor. Imani gave Rosalyn the signal to make a video call.

Now or never. 

He nervously clinked his knife against his wineglass and cleared his throat. 

“Nigga, you gone break it! That’s Big Mama good crystal.”

“Shut the hell up, Sir! You ain’t pay for none of this.” Rosalyn’s reprimand came with visual daggers sent to her baby brother at the far end of the table that only softened when she looked back at Terry. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” 

Terry stood to look at every confused face in the vicinity while he waited for one of the teenagers to turn the music down. 

“Sorry, y’all. I just had a few words to say. I won’t be before you long. In the real way, not the pastor way.” His attempt at a joke fell flat. Patrice tried to keep him motivated with a smile, but her eyes begged him for answers that he couldn’t provide. “Um, I know I’m the odd man out around here. Y’all have been incredibly kind and welcoming. I really appreciate it because you didn’t have to. Especially you, Ms. Ida. Happy Birthday, again. You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you, baby.” 

He nodded his appreciation and continued. “I also wanna thank Ms. Ida and everybody else who gave me permission to ask a question of somebody really important to me. Because I know being here with all of y’all is really important to her. Can you stand up for me, Treece?”

Patrice allowed Terry to help her to her feet before whispering through her teeth. “What are you doing?” 

“Something I’ve been wanting to do since I met you.” 

There wasn’t time for Patrice to process his statement. Terry slowly dropped to one knee, not caring about the dust below him. He kept his focus on her the entire time, even as quiet whispers turned into fervent murmurs. 

“When we were kids you told tell me that, if you ever got proposed to, you didn’t want a big speech or any of the stuff they did in movies. So, I promise not to do that. What I will do is tell you how much I love you. And I’ll do that today, tomorrow, and every day after that if you allow me the privilege of being your husband.” 

“Terrence,” Patrice huffed out as she tried to contain her mess of emotions. He reached up to grip her hand. "Don't make me cry in front of my people."

��Too late. Patrice, I’m askin’ you scared as hell in front of all these people, will you marry me?”

Everyone watched as Terry presented Patrice with an open ring box and a sparkling diamond illuminated by the small light tucked into the inside.

“I knew it,” Patrice whispered, losing the battle against the happy tears pouring from her waterline. 

“No, you didn’t, girl! We got you. Answer that man,” Imani hollered.

Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears. The cheering from her family began to muffle. Her body temperature skyrocketed. She felt faint. The people were waiting. What would she say? 

Just as reality began to slip away, Terry’s eyes looking back at her quieted the external and internal noise. 

Driven by pure love, Patrice met Terry in a squat and grabbed his face with both of her hands. 

“What you doing tomorrow?” 

“Hopefully saying a couple vows to this pretty girl I know from way back. I brought a tux with me just in case she wasn’t too busy.” 

“From way back, huh? I think I talked to her and she has a little time on her books.” She took another look at the ring before plucking it from its box and placing it on her left ring finger. She examined it for a bit then leaned forward to kiss her betrothed with enough passion to send the crowd into a frenzy. Pulling away, she smiled and wiped gloss from Terry’s lips. 

“Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

----

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @hrlzy @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl

[ptseti]

The Gullah people are descendants of African slaves who live primarily on the Sea Islands and coastal regions of South Carolina, Georgia, and parts of Florida and North Carolina. Brought to the region from West Africa in the 18th century for their agricultural expertise, especially in rice cultivation, they developed a unique culture influenced by their African heritage and isolation from the mainland due to the region's geography.

Their language, also called Gullah, is a Creole blend of English and various West African languages. It serves as both a functional means of communication and a cultural link to their African roots. Gullah culture is renowned for its vibrant traditions, including storytelling, spiritual practices, cuisine, and folk arts like basket weaving, which have been preserved over generations.

The Gullah culinary tradition—characterized by ingredients like rice, seafood, and okra—is a foundation of Southern soul food. Additionally, Gullah music, spirituals, and dance have significantly influenced broader African American culture.

Today, the Gullah/Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor, established by Congress, protects and promotes Gullah heritage. Despite pressures from land development, the Gullah people continue to celebrate and preserve their history, representing a profound connection between African and American cultures.

[afrotumble]

Speech and his wife spent time in Gullah land, South Carolina, the ancestral home of the Gullah Geechee people. Their culture, born from strength and survival, lives on through language, music, food, and deep community roots.

Courtesy of Arrested Development (Facebook)

[bossymarmalade]

https://hyperallergic.com/1005520/climate-protesters-target-nyc-iconic-charging-bull-in-earth-day-protest/

Aliyah Graves, a hybrid office worker who was on her way to work with an iced coffee in hand, told Hyperallergic that while she was not familiar with the climate emergency group, she immediately understood their message.

“I think a lot of people are fed up with how things are going,” Graves said. Referencing her own Gullah Geechee heritage, she pointed out the amplified impact of climate change on Indigenous communities and groups with cultural practices rooted in land stewardship.

“I think lawful disobedience is needed in a society, that’s what makes a democracy great,” Graves.

[blackwoolncrown]

The other really aggravating thing about the reception of that AC post and the way ppl are space jam reaching OVER the valid critiques to reduce it to eco fascism…

Is that the reason I posted it as a focus on central AC’s relationship to capitalism was that at the same time I was posting about the desecration of southern environments.

An example that kicked it off was someone from the Gullah Geechee coastal preservation project talking about how originally no one wanted to be on the swampy, marshy coasts, so the Gullah folks could just live their lives.

Then, when AC came, white landowners came. White tourists came. Capitalism came and rushed to turn marsh into real estate, wrecking the biome.

And that’s the history of the fucking south!! Whiten people wanted very little to do with it aside from slavery which was no better. Then AC came and made it palatable! They considered it wild and hostile and miserable which was just fine for the Natives but once AC came it was reason to *exponentially* expand white real estate at the cost of environmental damage and displacement of Native and Indigenous people.

Because to turn marsh and swamp into real estate requires clearing land, draining water etc.

And NOW as the earth responds to all the various forms of bullshit, swampy places like FL and NY are threatening to sink every time a storm comes.

Bc they’re supposed to be HOT SWAMPS and they still would have been!

And again, I get that this is an uncomfortable truth and I’m not suggesting anyone suffer at this point but just pointing out how capitalism and colonialism have backed us into environmental corners:

A non-zero amount of abled but otherwise heat intolerant people in historically hot parts of the US are only here bc of AC bc they come from much cooler parts of Europe. This land was *never* comfortable for your lineage and you still haven’t adjusted and now it may be too late. But to accommodate Europeans we invented central AC and it actually sucks a lot.

There’s a reason there’s fewer heat deaths per capita in considerably hotter countries than in the US.

And that just is what it is.

[fishrpg]

2024-12-26: South Carolina (Hex 26)

Cramped roads are surrounded by marshy forests, the trees draped in Spanish moss that give the limbs a bearded appearance.

Settlement: The Town of Erasmus

Erasmus is a community in a remote part of coastal South Carolina that has long been under the care of Gullah Geechee people. The Gullah Geechee are descendants of chattel slavery who lived on isolated plantations and managed to carve out a distinctive culture that incorporated many of the African traditions of their elders.

Nearly the entire population of Erasmus is Black, and most of the remainder being indigenous people from the Edisto nation/tribe (though it would be 1970 before they officially adopted the Edisto name). The community is defined by outsiders for its arts like basket weaving and textiles, as well as its delicious food.

Few people come this way because of how isolated it is, though more people are stopping by as awareness spreads of how reliably the settlement can be found on The Routes. Most of the travelers through these parts are people of color, though white folks are allowed as long as they don't try to start anything.

Many of the buildings are painted in bright colors, often with murals or patterns. Houses are on the small side (by modern sensibilities), and much of the infrastructure is forced to be simple, sparse, or improvised to cope with a prejudiced lack of investment by moneyed individuals from outside the community (and that's on top of the extra expenses that inevitably pop up when trying to complete any large project so far out in the boonies).

Hidden: The Developer Holdout

A modest house at the end of a long dirt road is the location of a place where the old traditions, stories, and history of the Gullah Geechee are taught. The house is owned by Thursday Molengo, and it is located on land that a developer is looking to acquire. So far Thursday has refused the developer's offers to buy the land, publicly stating that history and traditions matter more than money. Privately, he's willing to sell if the offer is high enough.

Unfortunately for Thursday, no more offers are coming. The developer has struck a sweetheart deal with seize the land through eminent domain. A team of bulldozers are arriving soon to demolish the house, and Thursday would like the party to help hold off the bulldozers for a day or two so that a lawyer friend of his who specializes in fighting government land seizures that take land away from non-white communities. He will arrive in 1d3+1 days, because he is not terribly familiar with The Routes.

Encounter: The Surveyors

A team of three surveyors (Patrick Hughes, Glenn Wilson, and Roy Evans) from the Bureau of Transportation Standardization and Consistency is in the middle of an expedition to document some of the more dangerous sections of The Routes and ran out of food some time ago and are starving from their time being lost. Their car was abandoned some time back when they ran out of fuel. They have money to pay for food, but Patrick will refuse any food offered by or touched by a person of color.

Service Station: Singing Oak Fuel & General Store

In addition to providing gas and diesel to travelers, the Singing Oak is a convenient place for locals to get many of the supplies for daily life. Most of the locals come by on foot because it's so close, so there always seem to be many more people shopping and chatting in the store than there are cars outside. The main building is an older structure probably built during the Great Depression with several bottle trees (shrub-like sculptures with glass bottles covering the branches) guarding the perimeter to ward off malevolent spirits like the Plat-Eye (there are a bunch of different conflicting stories about the Plat-Eye, and I can't find my book of lowcountry ghost stories, so just pick a version that resonates with you and makes sense for your table).

The interior of the shop is lit by several bare bulbs that alternately cover the wares in bright light and deep shadow. The floor is wooden and extremely sturdy despite its age. A grandfather clock that no longer works is afforded a place of honor along one of the walls. Legend says that the clock stopped working the moment the local plantation owner died of old age.

For folks traveling by car, lost objects have a tendency to appear here. There is a 10% chance that a missing object appears in the glove box each time a car visits the store, though the object must be small enough to fit there.

Author's Note: I decided to name this community Erasmus in honor of the group behind Lowcountry Crawl, who have done a wonderful job of condensing the real history and folklore of this part of South Carolina into something that is both informative and fun to play. Although LC is set considerably earlier than 1966, much of the history and folklore still shows up in these rural areas (I speak from experience because much of my childhood was spent in the Lowcountry and the vibes of LC are spot on).

If you are curious about some of the historical Gullah Geechee communities that still exist, look up Hogg Hummock. Another note is about how names for people were chosen: Gullah Geechee names often reflect West African traditions like being named after the day day of the week when a child was born, or giving a child two names (a government name and a "basket name" or "house name" that was known only to family and friends).

[ausetkmt]

Ga. islanders vow to keep fighting change favoring rich buyers

DARIEN, Ga. - Descendants of enslaved people living on a Georgia island vowed to keep fighting after county commissioners voted to double the maximum size of homes allowed in their tiny enclave.

Residents fear the move will accelerate the decline of one of the South’s few surviving Gullah-Geechee communities.

An aspect of the ordinance that residents take issue with is the fact that it erases a clause about protecting the island’s indigenous history.

During public meetings leading up to the vote, the zoning board proposed changes to the ordinance of lowering the newly allowed home size and removing talk of golf courses being added to the island.

Black residents of the Hogg Hummock community on Sapelo Island and their supporters packed a meeting of McIntosh County’s elected commissioners to oppose zoning changes that residents say favor wealthy buyers and will lead to tax increases that could pressure them to sell their land.

ISLAND’S HERITAGE

Gullah-Geechee communities like Hogg Hummock are scattered along the Southeast coast from North Carolina to Florida, where they have endured since their enslaved ancestors were freed by the Civil War. Scholars say these people long separated from the mainland retained much of their African heritage, from their unique dialect to skills and crafts such as cast-net fishing and weaving baskets.

Regardless, commissioners voted 3-2 to weaken zoning restrictions the county adopted nearly three decades ago with the stated intent to help Hogg Hummock’s 30 to 50 residents hold on to their land.

Yolanda Grovner, 54, of Atlanta said she has long planned to retire on land her father, an island native, owns in Hogg Hummock. She left the county courthouse Tuesday night wondering if that will ever happen.

“It’s going to be very, very difficult,” Grovner said. She added: “I think this is their way of pushing residents off the island.”

Hogg Hummock is one of just a few surviving communities in the South of people known as Gullah, or Geechee, in Georgia, whose ancestors worked island slave plantations.

MORE | Mom in Grovetown calls cops on U.S. energy secretary’s staff

Fights with the local government are nothing new to residents and landowners. Dozens successfully appealed staggering property tax hikes in 2012, and residents spent years fighting the county in federal court for basic services such as firefighting equipment and trash collection before county officials settled last year.

“We’re still fighting all the time,” said Maurice Bailey, a Hogg Hummock native whose mother, Cornelia Bailey, was a celebrated storyteller and one of Sapelo Island’s most prominent voices before her death in 2017. “They’re not going to stop. The people moving in don’t respect us as people. They love our food, they love our culture. But they don’t love us.”

Merden Hall, who asked not to be on camera, has lived on Sapelo his whole life. He says he’s worried about the sizes of homes now allowed on the island.

“I’m not comfortable with this. They approved the 3,000 square feet, that’s the only thing I disapprove of, because that’s going to raise property taxes,” he said.

Hogg Hummock’s population has been shrinking in recent decades, and some families have sold their land to outsiders who built vacation homes. New construction has caused tension over how large those homes can be.

Commissioners on Tuesday raised the maximum size of a home in Hogg Hummock to 3,000 square feet of total enclosed space. The previous limit was 1,400 square feet of heated and air-conditioned space.

Commissioner Davis Poole, who supported loosening the size restriction, said it would allow “a modest home enabling a whole family to stay under one roof.”

“The commissioners are not out to destroy the Gullah-Geechee culture or erase the history of Sapelo,” Poole said. “We’re not out to make more money for the county.”

Commission Chairman David Stevens, who said he’s been visiting Sapelo Island since the 1980s, blamed Hogg Hummock’s changing landscape on native owners who sold their land.

“I don’t need anybody to lecture me on the culture of Sapelo Island,” Stevens said, adding: “If you don’t want these outsiders, if you don’t want these new homes being built ... don’t sell your land.”

County officials have argued that size restrictions based on heated and cooled spaced proved impossible to enforce. County attorney Adam Poppell said more than a dozen homes in Hogg Hummock appeared to violate the limits, and in some cases homeowners refused to open their doors to inspectors.

Hogg Hummock landowner Richard Banks equated that to the county letting lawbreakers make the rules.

“If everybody wants to exceed the speed limit, should we increase the speed limits for all the speeders?” Banks said.

Hogg Hummock residents said they were blindsided when the county unveiled its proposed zoning changes on Aug. 16. Commissioners in July had approved sweeping zoning changes throughout McIntosh County, but had left Hogg Hummock alone.

Commissioner Roger Lotson, the only Black member of the county commission, voted against the changes and warned his colleagues that he fears they will end up back in court for rushing them.

Two attorneys from the Southern Poverty Law Center sat in the front row. Attorney Anjana Joshi said they had “due process and equal protection concerns” about the way the zoning ordinance was amended.

“In our view, this was not done correctly,” said Joshi, who added: “We’re just getting started.”

Located about 60 miles south of Savannah, Sapelo Island remains separated from the mainland and reachable only by boat. Since 1976, the state of Georgia has owned most of its 30 square miles of largely unspoiled wilderness. Hogg Hummock, also known as Hog Hammock, sits on less than a square mile.

Hogg Hummock earned a place in 1996 on the National Register of Historic Places, the official list of the United States’ treasured historic sites. But for protections to preserve the community, residents depend on the local government in McIntosh County, where 65% of the 11,100 residents are white.

[harrelltut]

1968-michaelharrelljr.com passed Baron Samedi's Shadowy Gates of Immortal Death [I.D.] on Earth [Qi]... Again... since Eye 1698 TUTANKHAMÚN [E.T.] Living [EL] behind My Father's Extremely Wealthy [FEW] Gated Death Communities [D.C.] in Mother's [DMS] Old 1698-2223 America [Mu Atlantis]

WELCOME BACK HOME IMMORTAL [HIM] U.S. MILITARY KING SOLOMON-MICHAEL HARRELL, JR.™

i.b.monk [ibm.com] mode [i’m] tech [IT] steelecartel.com @ quantumharrelltech.ca.gov

1st eye of tutankhamún [e.t.] ain't dead!!!

Death is the real [Dr] 9 ether life [el] realm on earth?!?!?!

eye back from life [death] on parallel earth [qi] of death [life]!!!... back 2 life back 2 reality

SEE?!?!?!

1968-michaelharrelljr.com Incarnated as Extremely Wealthy TUTANKHAMÚN... Died Contractually [D.C.] Wealthy on Earth [WE]... only 2 come back on Earth [Qi] Wealthier than before

we already see everything before it happens on earth [qi]

We still here... Immortal Souls never die

Eye Scriptural 9 Ether Job from Mother's Ægiptian [ME = MENES] Bible of Gullah Geechee's Extreme Wealth [GEW = JEW] DYNASTIES?!?!?!

FOUND IT!!!... wait... how many gated wealth estates [we] do we own?!?!?! 144,000?!?!?!... Chile, please!!!

1968-michaelharrelljr.com in a cult... or occult from okc?!?!? ANCIENT 9 ETHER OKCULT SKY ILLUMINATI of BLACK WALL STREET... IN CALIFORNIA?!?!?!

u still [u.s.] lost in 2023?!?!?!... STILL?!?!?!... OMFGOD MICHAEL [OM]!!!

go find your ancient 9 ether dna/rna geological land patents in father's predynastic ægipt of mother's old america [mu atlantis]!!!

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© 1698-2223 quantumharrelltech.com - ALL The_Octagon_(Egypt) DotCom [D.C.] defense.gov Department Domain Communication [D.C.] Rights Reserved @ quantumharrelltech.ca.gov

[androgynealienfemme]

I’m sorry but this is soooo fucking funny. You are American. Tu eres un americano blanquito. What are YOU doing to resist your states violence? Why aren’t YOU blowing up military personnel or the pipelines being built on indigenous land? Where is your direct action regarding Hawai’i or Puerto Rico? What have you done to support the Gullah Geechee people in the Carolina’s and Georgia who’s land rights are being removed? Or is it that you think you aren’t REALLY a descendant of settler colonialists like the Israelis?

And I want to be clear, this post isn’t about not supporting the Palestinian struggle (May Palestinians be free in our lifetime), this post is about how absolutely irritating the hypocrisy of white Christian descendant Americans are when it comes to colonialism. It’s so easy to point your fingers at some other community across the world you see as colonialists and go “LEAVE LEAVE YOU ARE WORTHY OF NO SYMPATHY WHEN VIOLENCE IS DONE AGAINST YOU AND ALSO WHY ARENT YOU FIGHTING HARDER” while sitting in your own home, your own colonial state, and doing absolutely NOTHING of what you expect the others to do. You are a hypocrite. You are not helping. You are not an activist, you’re only doing this to feed your own ego and to appease your inner guilt about the fact that you yourself are a colonialist descendant continuing to profit off of the colonial state your ancestors helped build. You aren’t actually helping Palestinians. And you are not actually doing anything to end the colonialism occurring on your own soil. Worse than useless.

[gullahheritage]

10 Things You Didn’t Know About Gullah Geechee Culture

The Gullah Geechee culture is one of the most unique and well-preserved African-rooted cultures in the U.S. If you've only heard about it through TV or travel guides, there's a lot more beneath the surface—especially when explored through authentic experiences like those offered at GullahHeritage.com.

Click Here To Read More About Gullah Geechee culture

Here are ten eye-opening facts that will deepen your understanding—and maybe inspire your next Gullah Heritage Tour.

1. It Began on the Sea Islands

The culture developed on isolated Sea Islands along the coasts of South Carolina, Georgia, and northern Florida.

Geographic separation helped preserve African traditions after slavery.

Hilton Head Island remains a living hub of Gullah Geechee life.

2. Gullah Is a Living Language

Gullah is a Creole language blending English with various African tongues.

It evolved as enslaved Africans found ways to communicate.

Many Gullah elders on Hilton Head still speak it fluently today.

3. The Cuisine Is the Foundation of Lowcountry Food

Gullah dishes like shrimp and grits, gumbo, and okra stew influenced Southern cooking.

Ingredients are often local—seafood, rice, and seasonal vegetables.

Traditional meals are still served during Gullah Heritage Tours.

4. Storytelling Is a Cultural Tradition

Oral storytelling is used to pass down history and values.

Tales often feature clever animals and hidden messages.

Some stories are told during Gullah events and live performances.

5. Sweetgrass Basket Weaving Is an Heirloom Skill

Basket weaving came from West African coastal traditions.

Sweetgrass, palmetto, and pine needles are used to make each piece.

Baskets are both functional and highly collectible art.

6. Spiritual Beliefs Blend Christianity and African Traditions

Many Gullah Geechee people are devout Christians with deep spiritual roots.

Practices include rhythmic praise, rootwork, and sacred songs.

Faith remains central to family and community life.

7. Gullah Music Influenced American Genres

Spirituals and work songs were used to cope with hardship and preserve culture.

Call-and-response singing shaped gospel, blues, and early jazz.

Drumming and body percussion continue in some ceremonies today.

8. Gullah Soldiers Fought for the Union in the Civil War

Many Gullah men enlisted in the U.S. Colored Troops.

Their local knowledge helped the Union win battles in the South.

Their courage contributed to freedom and land protection.

9. The Gullah Geechee Corridor Is Federally Recognized

Congress designated the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor in 2006.

It spans from North Carolina to Florida, including Hilton Head Island.

GullahHeritage.com provides valuable insights on the corridor's significance.

10. You Can Experience It Firsthand on Hilton Head

Gullah Heritage Tours are led by native Gullah descendants.

Tours include family land, churches, and historical sites.

It’s one of the top things to do in Hilton Head for cultural travelers.

🧠 FAQs About Gullah Geechee Culture

What is the Gullah Geechee culture known for?

The Gullah Geechee culture is known for preserving African language, food, crafts, spirituality, and oral traditions passed down from enslaved West Africans. It’s one of the most intact African-rooted cultures in the U.S.

Where can I learn more about Gullah Geechee history?

A great place to start is GullahHeritage.com, which offers in-depth cultural information and guided tour options. You can also visit the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor and take a Gullah Heritage Tour in Hilton Head.

Is the Gullah language still spoken today?

Yes. Gullah is still spoken by some elders and community members, especially on Hilton Head Island and other Sea Islands. Many Gullah families are working to preserve and pass on the language to younger generations.

Are Gullah Heritage Tours suitable for families?

Absolutely. Gullah Heritage Tours are family-friendly, educational, and deeply moving experiences. They’re a great way to introduce kids and adults alike to authentic African American history during a Hilton Head vacation.

Ready to Explore Gullah Geechee Heritage?

You don’t need to rely on textbooks to learn this living history. Through stories, food, music, and art, the Gullah Geechee culture continues to thrive—especially on Hilton Head Island.

Book your visit with Gullah Heritage Tours today, and experience one of the most meaningful Hilton Head activities available.

Learn more at GullahHeritage.com and be part of preserving this powerful legacy.