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theethighpriestess · 1 month ago

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Chapter 2 - Sweet Aftertaste

A/N: Annnnnd we're back! Thank all of you for reading and enjoying these two the same way I do writing them. Y'all's reviews have been EVERYTHING and really helped in motivating me to write more. I hope y'all enjoy!

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

Warning(s): 18+, Adult language, Blood & vampirism, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Kink, Explicit Sex

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

Word Count: 5.7K

Eden woke up with glitter on her collarbone and an ache in her throat that wasn’t from singing.

The apartment was quiet except for the whir of the box fan in the window, pushing humid air around like it owed her something. Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand. A text from the DJ at Q93. He said he might spin her song again this weekend “if the vibes are right.” Eden didn’t bother replying. The first time was a favor. The second would cost her, and she didn’t have anything left to barter but herself. She was desperate, but not that desperate.

At least not for him.

She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, fingers brushing her neck out of habit. No bite marks. Not anymore. Just skin and memory. But she swore she could still feel the echo of it, warm and deep, like the ghost of a kiss pressed just below her jaw.

It had been a month since that night in the velvet hallway. Since Stack. Since the contract.

In that time, she’d won two open mic nights and damn near shut down the room last Friday with a cover of Aretha Franklin’s I Never Loved a Man that left one of the judges wiping his eyes. She could still see the way the spotlight kissed her cheekbones and danced off her new gold hoops, gleaming like they belonged on someone destined to be seen. There was something different in her voice now. Like smoke curling through velvet, deeper, richer. Folks kept asking what changed. What she was doing differently.

She told them honey and lemon. But that wasn’t the truth.

The truth was her reflection didn’t look the same anymore. Her skin had taken on this soft, sun-kissed glow that didn’t wash away, even when she hadn’t seen daylight in two days. Her curls held more definition, as if they remembered something her fingers didn’t. And her eyes—her eyes had gone a shade darker at the edges. Like she’d been let in on something sinful and couldn’t quite shake the knowledge of it.

She’d started leaning into the change, too. Wore deeper lipstick now. Plums and wines. Smoked out her liner like a girl who dreamed in noir. Last night, she’d hit the stage in high-waisted black pants and a vintage bustier that shimmered under the lights like oil on water. The crowd had eaten it up.

And when they cheered, when they clapped, when they lined up afterwards to tell her she had "it", all she could think about was the taste of iron and incense on her tongue. The heat that spread through her limbs when Stack fed. The way her body had gone quiet and alive at the same time, like every wire had finally connected.

She closed her eyes again. Let herself feel it. Just for a second.

Then she reached for her phone and scrolled through her messages until she landed on the one labeled simply:

STACK

She'd saved it once he confirmed that it was indeed his direct number and not some dial-up vampire hotline.

Her fingers hovered.

Then typed.

u free tonight?

She hit send.

The message delivered. No reply. Just stillness.

Eden tossed the phone onto her nightstand and sat up, rubbing her arms as a chill crept across her skin. It was too early in the morning to be this on edge. Too early to be this distracted over a job. This was supposed to be simple. A transaction. Something she could compartmentalize.

She swung her legs over the bed and grabbed her notebook from the milk crate beside her mattress. It was soft with wear, pages curling at the edges and speckled with glitter and pen smudges. She flipped to a clean page, clicked her pen, and wrote the date in the corner like she always did. Then she sat there for a moment, the air thick around her.

“Write something,” she told herself. Anything.

Her pen moved before she could think. Like it had been possessed by the spirit of a lust-filled siren.

"You pull the heat from my veins like summer I breathe slow, don’t even stutter Touch me like you own the thunder—"

She blinked. Paused. Stared at the words like they didn’t belong to her.

She turned the page and tried again.

"Bitten, but not broken Sipped slow, like devotion I come undone in motion—"

She let out a frustrated breath and dropped the notebook into her lap.

Everything she wrote lately came out sounding... intimate. Like a confession. The kind of lyrics you whisper against someone’s throat in a too-warm room. They didn’t sound like radio hits. They sounded like diary entries soaked in red wine and candle wax.

She’d never written like this before. Not until that night. Not until Stack.

She could still feel the weight of his eyes on her skin, even now. The slow, deliberate pressure of his hand guiding her wrist to sign. The way the room changed when he fed. How it breathed with her, or maybe through her.

She was supposed to feel used. Hollow. Ashamed.

Instead, she felt tuned.

Like he’d struck some chord in her, and it hadn’t stopped humming since.

Her phone buzzed again.

She grabbed it quick, heart jerking in her chest.

But it wasn’t him.

Just a missed call from a number she didn’t know, probably the collection agency again. They always called around this time, as if they knew she was weakest in the morning.

She slumped back against the pillows, notebook still open on her thighs. Her pen hung loose in her hand, ink staining the crease of her thumb.

This wasn’t normal.

None of this was normal.

But she didn’t want normal anymore.

She wanted more.

She shut the notebook and slid it under her bed like it was something dirty. Her fingers brushed against an old sock and a flyer from her first open mic night. She pulled the flyer out and stared at it. The ink was faded, but her name still glowed under the crinkled lamination. “Live Soul Sessions,” it read, with a blurry photo of her holding the mic too close to her face. Back then, she’d been nervous and hungry and certain she’d die if nobody clapped.

She still felt hungry. Just not in the same way.

Eden pushed herself off the bed and moved into the kitchenette, letting the cracked tile floor cool her feet. She grabbed a mug, rinsed it quick, and poured the last of her coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter, but it gave her something to do with her hands. Something human.

The dishes from last night sat in the sink, crusted over with the memory of boxed mac and cheese and too much hot sauce. She turned on the faucet, ran water over them, and scrubbed like the plates had done something to her. Her hands moved fast, furious almost, like if she cleaned hard enough, she could scrape off whatever had attached itself to her since that night.

But even in the silence, she felt it. That shimmer of heat behind her ears. The hum in her chest. Like something inside her had been rewired and she was too stubborn to admit it.

She checked her phone again.

Still nothing.

So she put on a record instead. One of her mom’s old Anita Baker joints, crackling under the needle just the way she liked it. The apartment filled with that low, honeyed voice, and for a moment, Eden let herself melt into the comfort of it. She swayed a little in front of the sink, mug in one hand, dish towel in the other. It was soft, like remembering something without having to name it.

But her reflection in the microwave door caught her off guard.

The girl looking back wasn’t the same one from that open mic flyer.

Her features had sharpened somehow. Or maybe deepened. Like someone had turned the contrast up on her soul. Her lips looked darker. Her collarbone more pronounced. Her eyes carried that slow, dangerous glint she used to envy in older women who wore perfume names like Poison and Opium.

She blinked and looked away.

The coffee had gone cold in her hand.

She dumped it and grabbed her keys.

Outside, the heat hit her like a quilt straight from the dryer. Thick, slow, and familiar. New Orleans in July never did anything quietly. Even the air had a personality.

She climbed into her Honda, cursed at the seatbelt, and turned the key. The car gave her a little fight, but it started. Barely. She turned the radio up and told herself she’d go to the store. Buy something cheap but filling. She’d light a candle. She’d clean the bathroom. She’d write something upbeat. She’d call her cousin back. She’d remember who she was before all this.

She made it all the way to the corner store before turning the car around.

The sun was dropping low by then, fat and gold against the skyline. The kind of light that made everything look too beautiful to last. Her hands trembled a little on the wheel as she passed the same intersections, the same cracked sidewalks, the same bus stop where someone was always asleep.

She didn’t know why she turned around. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the ache behind her ribs that hadn’t left since that night. Or maybe it was just the silence.

Stack never texted back.

Not that night. Not the next day. Not even the day after that.

A week passed. Seven long days where the air clung to her like regret. She washed her sheets, saged her room, even deleted the text thread so she wouldn’t keep checking. But her body remembered him in ways she couldn’t erase.

The dreams came first.

She would wake up tangled in her covers, mouth dry, thighs damp, breath sharp and shallow. In one dream, she sat across from him in that velvet room, and he fed from her wrist while jazz poured from an invisible speaker. In another, she walked barefoot through a hallway made entirely of blood, the floor warm and alive beneath her. Sometimes, she didn’t dream at all. Just jolted awake with the taste of copper on her tongue and the echo of his voice in her ear.

“Sweet girl.”

She hated how her stomach fluttered when she remembered that.

She tried to write through it. Picked up her notebook and her pink gel pen and forced out a few verses. Nothing worked. The lyrics came out wrong. Wet. Sticky. More moan than melody. She scribbled them out and started over. And again. And again.

By Thursday, she had a pile of ripped pages and still no rent money.

That morning, she stood in the kitchen staring down a box of pasta and half a jar of marinara. She boiled the noodles, burnt the garlic, and sat cross-legged on the couch eating out of the pot. Halfway through, her phone lit up with a call from her landlord.

She didn’t answer. He left a voicemail.

Her rent was three weeks past due. He was giving her until the fifteenth. After that, she was out.

She played the message three times, then deleted it.

That night, she curled up under the box fan and turned the radio to Q93. The DJ she met at her last open mic promised he’d spin her single again. He’d said it with a grin and two fingers on his heart, like he meant it.

She waited through five commercials and three back-to-back tracks.

Then he played someone else in the artist showcase.

Some local rapper with a cousin in Baton Rouge who handled promotion. Eden just sat there, frozen in the glow of the dial, hands limp in her lap, voice trapped behind her teeth.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She got up, brushed her teeth, and poured the rest of her wine down the sink. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looked paler than usual. Not sick, just dimmed. Like someone had pulled a layer of color out of her.

Back in bed, she stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Then reached for her phone.

Her fingers hovered over Stack’s name, still saved in her contacts even after she deleted the thread. She told herself she was being stupid. That she didn’t need him or his money. That she could figure this out on her own.

But she didn’t believe it.

Not really.

She opened a new message.

At first, she wrote nothing. Just stared at the blinking cursor like it might write itself.

Then, slowly, she typed:

Still hungry?

She hit send before she could change her mind.

The message marked “Delivered.”

She turned off the screen.

This time, she didn’t wait.

She got up and cleaned the apartment. Not because she expected company, but because the movement helped. She washed dishes, changed her sheets, swept the floor, and lit one of her emergency candles.

It smelled like fake vanilla and ambition.

The radio stayed off.

At 10:00, her phone buzzed.

One new message.

Always. Midnight. Same place. Wear red. I like you in red.

Her knees almost gave out.

She stared at the message so long the screen dimmed.

When she finally looked up, she didn’t feel like herself. Or maybe she felt like too much of herself. Like the version of Eden that had been buried beneath good manners and unpaid bills had finally clawed her way up.

She moved through the room with purpose now.

No hesitation.

She peeled off her tank top and stepped into the red slip dress she’d been saving for a different kind of night. The fabric was cool against her skin, soft as breath. She added a pair of gold hoops, pressed highlighter along her cheekbones, and smudged a little kohl under her eyes. Just enough to keep the softness from feeling sweet.

No perfume.

Just rose water and heat.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Not pretty. Not delicate.

Powerful.

Or maybe dangerous.

She didn’t smile.

She grabbed her keys and left.

Outside, the heat was thicker than it had been all day. The streets shimmered with steam, and the air smelled like wet stone and magnolia. Her car started on the first try, a small miracle.

She didn’t play music.

Didn’t think about the past week or the rent or the DJ or the way her body still ached in places she hadn’t touched.

All she thought about was the building. The velvet room. The sound of Stack’s voice and the weight of his hands.

And how this time, she would be ready.

Eden’s knuckles stayed white on the wheel for most of the drive. The sky had already gone dark, that inky New Orleans kind of dark where the clouds hung low and the streetlights flickered like they weren’t sure if they should stay on. The hum of the city softened into something less human the deeper she got into the Warehouse District. No jazz. No bounce music. Just the distant rattle of a passing streetcar and the heavy hush of a place that remembered too much.

She rolled the windows down halfway. The air smelled like hot pavement and something metallic. Her curls danced in the breeze, sticking to the sweat on her temple. Her signature hoops caught the light from a passing gas station and sent it scattering across her rearview.

She didn’t rush.

She wasn’t sure if it was nerves or knowing he would already be there, waiting, like before. Either way, she let the drive stretch. Let it press against her ribs until her chest felt tight enough to crack. She passed two closed daiquiri shops and a guy pushing a shopping cart full of clothes hangers. The familiar mess of the city she called home comforted her in a strange way. The way the broken things still moved.

She parked two streets down again. Her usual spot. The building didn’t look any different. Still tall, still quiet, still pretending to be nothing but old brick and dust. No red light above the door this time. No strange hum in the air. But the feeling was the same. Like walking into a secret you weren’t supposed to say out loud.

Eden stepped out of the car and let her heels click against the concrete like punctuation marks. Her dress clung to her in the breeze. It was sleeveless and just short enough to make her feel like she had something to barter with. Her skin looked richer in the moonlight, bronzed and kissed with shimmer. Her eyes, lined dark, held a weight she hadn’t had before.

This wasn’t the girl from a month ago.

This was someone who knew what it meant to let herself be touched by something unholy and come out aching for more.

The front door creaked open before she could knock. Of course it did.

She stepped inside, letting the velvet hush of the hallway wrap around her. The amber lights pulsed low along the floorboards, and her breath slowed to match their rhythm. This place didn’t just trap sound. It swallowed it. The click of her heels dulled as she moved, her hand brushing against the walls like muscle memory.

No maître d’.

No instructions.

Only the door at the end, carved and waiting.

She reached it and paused for the briefest moment, hand on the handle.

Then she opened it.

Stack was seated where he always seemed to be, lounging in that deep leather chair like it had grown from the floor just for him. Tonight, he wore slate, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal the gleam of a gold watch. The chain at his throat caught the lamplight, and the glow in his eyes burned low and violet.

He looked like desire bottled. Not wild, not soft, but controlled. Dangerous in the way that silk can be dangerous when it tightens.

“You came,” he said.

She stepped into the room fully and let the door shut behind her. “You responded this time.”

His eyes lingered on her, then dropped to her hands. She wasn’t holding anything, but somehow he still looked like he expected more. Or maybe less.

“You reached out before,” he said slowly. “I didn’t answer.”

“I noticed,” she said, voice cooler than she expected it to be.

A pause settled between them, long enough to mean something.

“Why?” she asked.

He stood then, not abruptly, just with the sort of grace that made every movement look deliberate. His shoes didn’t make a sound against the polished wood.

“I didn’t answer,” he said, “because you weren’t asking the right thing.”

“I was hungry,” she said.

“But not for me,” he replied.

That hit somewhere in her chest. She swallowed hard. “How would you know?”

Stack moved closer. His presence filled the room like incense. Not smoke. Something heavier. The scent of dark spices, old wood, and something that reminded her of fresh-turned earth after rain.

“I know the taste of someone who doesn’t know what they want yet,” he said softly.

“I wanted to feel good again,” she said. “That night… I felt more alive than I ever have.”

Stack studied her. “Alive is easy to fake. What about after? When the music ends. When the lights come back on.”

She didn’t answer. She looked away, suddenly ashamed of how much she had wanted this. Not just the feeding, but the attention. The hush of the room. The way her name sounded in his mouth.

He moved closer still. Now just a foot away. “What brought you back tonight?”

Eden didn’t speak for a long time. Then finally, she said, “My song didn’t play.”

Stack raised an eyebrow. “What song?”

“The one the DJ promised to spin. I stayed up and waited. Got dressed like a fool. Told my friends to tune in.” Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. “He played someone else.”

Stack nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

“And my landlord’s threatening to evict me,” she added. “So yeah, maybe I’m not here for the right reasons.”

“You’re here,” he said. “That’s enough.”

She felt something stir in her again. Not fear. Not hope.

Need.

“Will it feel the same?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “It’ll feel worse.”

Eden looked up at him. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

His smile was slow and private. “No. It’s supposed to prepare you.”

He stepped aside and gestured toward the chaise near the back of the room, where the velvet shadows seemed to lean in closer.

“Come,” he said.

Eden didn’t move right away.

Then she stepped forward, the weight in her chest matching the weight in her hips, her breath, her thoughts. Each step felt heavier, not in dread, but in knowing. This time, she wasn’t walking into the unknown.

She was choosing it.

And for the first time in weeks, the static in her chest began to clear.

The chaise waited in the corner of the room like a dare. All wine-colored velvet and low gold trim, as if it had been plucked from the parlor of some ghost-haunted mansion and set here just for her. The light above it was dim and warm, like it had been filtered through honey. Eden stepped closer, but didn’t sit.

Stack stayed beside her, close enough that she could feel the pull of him without touching. Like gravity had chosen a new center.

“I remember how you tasted,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Bright with fear at first. Then smooth. Lingering. Like blood-orange soaked in red wine, left to bloom.”

Eden blinked once, then turned her face toward him. “That sounds… expensive.”

“It was,” he said. “But fear only feeds once.”

He walked slowly in front of her, not circling exactly, just shifting her axis. Watching. Waiting.

“I’m not scared tonight,” she said.

Stack nodded. “Then tell me where you want it.”

It wasn’t crude, the way he asked. Wasn’t even suggestive. But her breath still hitched at the question.

She looked down at her hands, then at her bare thighs, brown and smooth beneath the edge of her dress. She had rubbed coconut oil into them before leaving, like instinct. Not to be touched, but to be seen.

“I need more than last time,” she said. “Money-wise.”

His gaze didn’t change, but she could feel it wrap around her. Not greedy. Not impatient. Just... focused.

“So I want both thighs,” she said, lifting her chin.

Stack’s eyes narrowed, not in disapproval but in curiosity. “Ambitious.”

“Desperate,” she corrected.

A silence settled again, and Eden hated the part of her that liked it. The part that wanted to stretch this moment just to see how long she could stand inside it.

His voice softened. “You know it won’t be like the neck.”

“I know.”

“The thigh is slower. Deeper.”

“I can take it.”

Stack’s smile was faint and mildly seductive. “I don’t doubt that.”

He stepped back slightly and reached for a thin gold tray on the table. It was old, maybe antique, with a mirrored bottom and ornate handles. On it rested the same ink-dark parchment from last time, but with new lines.

New terms.

She scanned the top of the page. It read: Donor Consent — Dual Feeding Site.

The payout sat at the bottom, circled in crimson ink.

Eleven hundred dollars.

Eden’s throat tightened. That would cover rent. Groceries. Maybe even leave enough for a few hours of studio time or that silk dress she kept eyeing in the window of that little boutique on Magazine Street. Something that felt like a win.

She took the pen without hesitation and signed.

The ink bled smooth across the paper. As soon as she finished the last loop in her name, the lights shifted again. Not brighter. Just sharper, as if the room had taken a breath and was now holding it.

Stack stepped closer. “Do you want help undressing?”

The question wasn’t vulgar. It didn’t feel like a come-on. If anything, it felt... reverent. Like asking permission to enter a chapel.

“No,” Eden said, voice quieter now. “I got it.”

She slipped her fingers under the hem of her dress and pulled it up, bunching it at her hips as she lowered herself onto the velvet chaise. The fabric kissed her thighs with warmth. She adjusted until her knees parted slightly, one leg draped over the edge. She didn’t bother tugging the dress down. There wasn’t much point.

Her skin was already buzzing.

Stack knelt beside the chaise. He didn’t touch her yet. Just looked.

Eden’s breath caught in her throat.

The anticipation licked up her spine, hot and sweet.

Then her mind began to wander.

She saw his mouth on her thigh. Imagined the weight of his hand bracing her hip. The press of his breath before his fangs sank in. Her eyes fluttered closed, and suddenly she wasn’t in the room anymore.

She was somewhere darker.

Somewhere slower.

Stack was on his knees in the red-lit hallway of her dream, one hand sliding up the inside of her thigh while her blood painted his lips. She felt her back arch. Felt the way her pulse throbbed against his mouth. She wanted to call his name, but her tongue felt too thick. Her hands found the sharp lines of his taper, fingers brushing the neat part on the left side of his head, and she—

“Eden.”

Her eyes flew open.

Stack was watching her.

She blinked quickly, mouth parted, chest heaving slightly.

“Where were you just now?” he asked.

“I-I don’t know,” she said, voice shaky.

“Yes, you do,” he sneered.

Eden licked her lips. “I was daydreaming. Or maybe imagining.”

Stack leaned in, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed her knee.

“Try not to drift this time,” he said. “Stay here with me.”

She nodded, heart pounding.

He brought his face close to her right thigh and pressed a single, deliberate kiss just above the curve of her knee. His lips were cool, not cold. Silken. The kind of kiss that made her toes curl against the velvet.

“I will warn you only once,” he murmured.

Eden tilted her head, watching him. “About what?”

His purple eyes lifted to meet hers.

“This is going to change you.”

Stack didn’t ask her if she was ready. He didn’t have to.

Eden laid back against the curve of the velvet chaise, the soft fabric pressing into her spine while the heavy air settled over her like a second skin. The room had grown impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to pulse at the edges. She could hear the sound of her own breath, shallow and slow, feel the rush of blood as it moved beneath her skin.

Stack remained grounded at her center, calm and unshaken. His expression stayed unreadable, though his eyes seemed to catch more light now, the violet gleam deepening like dusk settling over water. There was no greed in his gaze, no flicker of desire or pity—only focus. A quiet, almost ritual stillness that made the space around them feel heavier, as if something holy or forbidden was about to unfold.

He reached into the folds of his jacket and pulled out a small knife. It was a gold WWI trench blade, worn but well-kept, with a handle shaped like brass knuckles, dulled from years of use. Along the spine, the name “Moore” was etched in delicate script, nearly swallowed by the patina. It wasn’t flashy, but it carried weight. The kind of heirloom that didn’t need to explain itself to be respected.

Eden’s breath caught.

He saw it.

“I don’t always bite,” he said quietly, as if he were offering a lesson. “Some sites bleed better when they’re opened slowly.”

Eden didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat had gone dry, but not from fear. From something closer to want. Not just the physical kind. This was deeper. Thicker. The same sensation she felt when her favorite melody hit just right, when a note trembled in her throat like it belonged there.

Stack set the blade aside and looked up at her. “May I?”

She nodded.

He began with her left thigh.

His hands slipped beneath her thigh, lifting it with quiet care. His touch was cool, steady, exacting. Not possessive or hesitant, just deliberate. He studied her skin like it was something rare, the kind of surface you didn’t just look at, but read. Every inch seemed to speak, and he listened.

Then he leaned in.

His lips brushed the inside of her thigh, feather-light. Her breath hitched again, but she stayed silent. His mouth found the spot where the vein pulsed strongest, and he pressed a kiss there, soft and steady. Then another, just above it.

Eden’s hands gripped the edge of the chaise.

She wasn’t expecting the gentleness. Or how it made her ache.

Stack’s tongue slid across her skin, cool and slow. He opened his mouth, and she felt the faint graze of a fang. Not a cut, not yet. Just the threat of it. Then came the sting.

The blade.

A thin line of fire, quick and sharp, bloomed across her thigh. She gasped through her teeth, not from pain, but from the sudden, vivid heat of it. Her blood responded immediately, rushing to meet the edge of the wound.

Stack’s mouth closed over it.

He drank.

It was nothing like last time.

This wasn’t a sip at the neck, casual and restrained. This was deeper. More intimate. His tongue moved with slow care, collecting every drop. The suction was soft but insistent, pulling her open from the inside out. Her breath grew ragged. Her thighs trembled slightly beneath his hands.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t look up.

He just drank, and the sound of it: soft, wet, rhythmic, sank into her bones.

Eden’s eyes fluttered shut.

In her mind, the room blurred. She felt heat bloom behind her eyelids. Her skin prickled. Her fingers dug into the velvet. Her hips shifted just slightly, chasing the pulse of his mouth without meaning to.

Then, just as her head began to tilt back, he stopped.

He moved to the other side.

The air between her thighs felt cool now, slick and exposed. She swallowed hard and opened her eyes. Stack caught her gaze just as he leaned toward her right leg.

He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

He knew.

He kissed the skin first, then licked, then bit.

This time, there was no blade.

His fangs pierced her slowly, deliberately. She moaned, louder than she meant to, and he steadied her with one hand at her hip. His grip wasn’t tight, just grounding.

The pull of his mouth returned, firmer now.

Eden tried to stay still, but her whole body had started to hum. A low vibration that pulsed in her belly and crawled up her throat. She bit the inside of her lip to stay quiet. Her vision swam with color. Not just red, but rose and plum and gold. Heat licked at the backs of her knees and wrapped itself around her spine.

Her head lolled to the side.

She felt weightless.

There was no room, no chair, no velvet.

Just his mouth, her skin, the sharp ache of being taken, and the strange bloom of pleasure it left behind.

Then it ended.

He pulled back slowly, lips wet, eyes half-lidded.

He wiped the corners of his mouth with the linen cloth, folding it once and tucking it away. His hands lingered at her thighs, gentle, grounding.

“You’re still with me?” he asked.

Eden nodded, barely. Her voice wouldn’t work.

Stack pressed both hands to her thighs, firm but tender, sealing the wounds with the pressure of his palms. The burn softened into something warm. Something molten. Her skin pulsed beneath his touch.

He didn’t say anything else.

Neither did she.

Not yet.

The only sound was her breath, and the way it didn’t quite belong to her anymore.

Her legs still tingled by the time she slipped the dress back down. The velvet chaise creaked softly beneath her as she rose, unsteady at first, then steadier with each breath. She felt loose. Warm in all the wrong places. Like her nerves had been unraveled and carefully strung back together in a different order.

Stack didn’t follow her to the door this time. He stood near the table, arms folded, watching her with that same quiet intensity. His mouth was clean, no trace of blood. Before she turned to leave, he nodded toward the envelope resting neatly on the corner of the table. Thick with cash. No words. No gesture. Just a silent exchange that said everything. The air between them felt heavier now.

Eden didn’t trust herself to speak.

She gave him a nod, the kind that felt too small for everything that had just passed between them. He nodded back.

The hallway out felt longer. Or maybe her body just moved slower now, unsure of itself. Every step echoed down the velvet-lined walls, each one tethered to the phantom heat of his mouth.

When the cool night air hit her skin, it brought a shiver that didn’t belong to the temperature. The city still moved around her; drunk laughter on the sidewalk, the distant thump of bass from a passing car. But everything felt far away. Like she was still halfway in the room.

She climbed into the Honda and sank into the driver’s seat with a sigh. Her hands hovered on the wheel for a moment, fingers flexing. The engine coughed to life. She didn’t bother with the radio this time. Silence felt more honest.

The drive home was a blur of traffic lights and hazy streetlamps. Her thighs still pulsed faintly beneath her dress, not with pain, but with memory. Her whole body felt like a secret. Like she’d been cracked open and tasted, and now something inside her was lit.

She parked outside her building and sat for a while, the engine ticking softly as it cooled. She touched her lips without realizing it, then dragged her hand down to rest at the top of her thigh.

It wasn’t love, but something heavier. Slower. It curled low in her belly and didn’t care if it made sense.

She thought about how still he had been. How he moved with purpose, but never rushed. How he looked at her. Not like prey, not like a plaything, but like someone who already knew her limits better than she did.

Her phone buzzed in the passenger seat.

She jumped, heart lurching. For a moment, she didn’t want to look.

Then she did.

STACK:

“You taste different when you’re turned on.”

Eden stared at the screen.

Her breath caught.

No symbols. No small talk. Just the truth, tucked between two lines like a hand brushing the nape of her neck.

Her whole body warmed again, slow and thick. She didn’t respond right away. She just let it sit there, heavy in her palm, like proof.

He knew.

He felt it too.

And now, the game had changed.

Tag List: @whoaitslucyylu @omgffs @healanette @secret89sblog @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @soufcakmistress @thickemadame @blackpantherismyish @kumkaniudaku @youreadthatright @post-woke @chaneajoyyy @kissmyafropuff @empressdede @melodyofmbaku @blktinkerbell @turbulentvoids @writerbee-ffs @jasssdee1 @cerya @hearteyes-for-killmonger @theegoldenchild @theogbadbitch @honggihwa @dashhoney25 @jackierose902109 @hotcommodityyy @browngirldominion @j0ysyndr0m3 @marley1773 @theegyal @wabi-sabi1090 @thevelvetwhispers @thinking1bee @lizbehave @queenofklonnie22 @kcundercover0 @erikaintdead @underated345-blog @dameshamonique @chrisevansmentee @wakandamama

#my shit #thee thigh priestess writes #sinners #sinners fanfiction #elias moore #elias stack moore #vampire!stack #stack x black oc

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tio-trile · 2 months ago

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Something something vampires have no reflection so he can't even try to see his brother's face anymore when he looks into the mirror

#my art #sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners movie #sinners spoilers #michael b jordan #sinners stack #smokestack twins #kind of referenced from uhhh Adobe stock by fran_kie 😂#Anyways I was thinking about that one quote by Junot Diaz about how vampires have no reflection because they're monsters #and to deny a person of any representation is to make them into a monster #And how Sinners a movie about vampires did so well with representation #......and then I just drew this instead 😂

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mileenaxyz · 2 months ago

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🤦🏽‍♀️🤦🏽‍♀️🤦🏽‍♀️

#elias stack moore #stack sinners #louis de pointe du lac #sinners movie #sinners #interview with the vampire #iwtv #for real tho

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femcel-yonce · 3 months ago

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They shipping Loustack on twt and I lowkey need it badly

#sinners 2025 #louis de pointe du lac #interview with the vampire #They’re highkey both milkmaids but they would hit it off idk #stack sinners

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itsaaudraw · 3 months ago

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we’re all sinners

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lukkdev · 1 month ago

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#remmick #sinners #vampire #remmick sinners #forgive me father for i have sinned #gothic #alt #michael b jordan #hailee steinfeld #jack o'connell #husband #love him #lol #smoke stack twins #moviegifs #gothic movies #tw blood #remmick x reader #remmick x you

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leatherfaceologist · 2 months ago

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One, two, three, four, five. Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road, and all the way to Dublin. Whack-follol-le-dah!

#back in the gif game baybeeeee can you believe?#remmick #sinners #jack o'connell #michael b jordan #hailee steinfeld #omar benson miller #sinners movie #remmick sinners #stack moore #vampires #classichorrorblog #horroredit #horrorfilmgifs #junkfooddaily #horror #my gifs #stack

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drusclues · 18 days ago

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One of my favourite things about Sinners is the use of colour to symbolize belonging and home vs assimilation or separation from self and the environment.

When Annie is in her home, connected to her ancestors by practicing Hoodoo and speaking Yoruba to the man she loves , her skin tone blends into the earthy, natural tones of her home. Who she is, is not at odds with her environment . She even wears the same deep blue as Smoke

When Sammie is singing the blues, filled with passion and surrounded by the love and joy of his community, his shirt matches the warm yellow glow of the lights in the Juke Joint. He fits in perfectly and effortlessly

Delta Slim is the embodiment of The Blues, every part of him is harmonious with the dark brown walls of the Juke Joint

In contrast, the church walls and the clothing of the congregation reflect the assimilating influence of whiteness to the land and people, the false binary of black and white. The pop of green of the wild, natural world beyond the stark walls stands out as a symbol of freedom and untamed passion. There is no warmth or vibrancy in this place that demands Sammie give up his music, his voice, his culture.

And this split dividing the twins is interesting to me. Stack shown with the open air behind him, foreshadowing his eventual escape and freedom from the Jim Crow South. His red hat, tie and car reflecting the blood spilled and his vampirism as the only means he has for leaving this world of division.

Then Smoke on the right is shown contained within the Juke Joint, his home and his metaphorical casket as this will be his final resting place with Annie. His blue hat and shirt are symbolic of the sky/spirit world where he will spend eternity, unnaturally separated from his brother

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melancholymetropolis · 3 months ago

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“Stop pretending that you hate me,” Stack said with a smug grin.

“I’m not pretending.”

I let the words fall upon his ears like a cracked glass on the floor. His face dropped. The smile was long gone and a look of pain flashed across it. Stack looked as though I shot him in the chest. A shaky breath fell from his lips as he flicked the cigarette bud from his fingertips. He closed the distance between us in three long strides. My back was pressed against the brick wall of the shop before I could blink. The pain on his face morphed into anger so hot it made his skin burn.

“You don’t mean that,” he spat, looking me dead in the eye.

Stack tried to make himself bigger, more intimidating. A lackluster attempt to scare me, but it hadn’t worked. Not only were we a few inches shy of the same height, but I could see right through him. I knew Stack before he was Stack.

When he was just Elias.

“Y/N,” his voice was a warning. Danger in his tone, but it didn’t phase me. “Tell me you don’t mean that.”

“Get out of my way, Stack,” I said, in a low tone. A desperate attempt to hide the pain in my voice. The stitches of an old wound was beginning to reopen. “I have work to do.”

His eyes poured into me just used to. Filling my head with stupid assumptions that only left me heartbroken in the end. I thought about how he set my dislocated shoulder in place; it must've meant he liked me. How he acted as my left hand for weeks until the pain went away; that must've meant he cared about me. The way he hunted down the man who did it and made him pay… must've meant he loved me. Only me.

But, that wasn't the whole truth.

“So that's why you never replied to my letters,” Stack replied, eyes still searching my face. “Still angry about Mary, huh?”

I dared to stare back at him. My gaze like cold rain to his heated gaze. I refused to slip the mask and embarrass myself in public like she did. He wasn't worth that. Not anymore. Not after seven years.

I was better than that.

“Not really,” I said with an air of indifference. “I was a little preoccupied to hold a grudge.”

As if summoned, a squeaky little voice cut through the tension. Making Stack freeze on impact. Something he hardly does.

“Mommy?”

My sweet baby girl tilted her little head up at us to assess the situation. Her deep brown eyes searched the potentially dangerous stranger before flicking back over to me, in a caged position. A look of irritation, or disgust briefly graced her face. She narrowed her eyes at Stack and crossed her arms against her chest. Madeline was not afraid of anything. She was always the kind of child to look danger in the eye and laugh.

"Is that ugly man bothering you?" She said, staring directly at Stack. "Should I call daddy?"

An orchestra of emotion appeared on Stack's face. He seem to be both deep in thought and confused at the same time. Like he working out something profound. It took him several seconds before he came to.

"How old are you?" He asked Madeline, jumping right into the conversation.

"I don't talk to strangers," she tilted her in defiance, earning a smile from me.

Good Girl.

Stack, then, turned back to me. A desperate look in his eye; silently asking me the same question. Though he couldn't bring himself to the vocalize it. A look a true fear and hope on his face.

I used his trembling expression to my advantage and slipped from his arms. I took Maddie's hand and steered her away him.

His eyes drilled into my back, but he didn't dare move a muscle. He couldn't. He didn't to make a scene, or worse, alert everyone else of an open secret.

My baby survived, while my cousin's, Annie, didn't.

-----------------------------

a/n: watched sinners and I had to whip something up. let me know if you would like a part two! drop a comment if you would like to be on the taglist, if this becomes a series.

@lov4gor3 @daniiwrites

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Part II Masterlist

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uzumaki-rebellion · 3 months ago

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"Stack's Lesson" Teaser...

Stack's Lesson by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Ruby Evers (Teenaged Black OC), and Mary.

Warning(s): Mentions of Hoodoo, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Death, The Usual Vampire Shit, and Angst. Post-Sinners movie.

Summary: Fourteen-year-old Ruby Evers's parents haven't come home from Club Juke. Left to fend for herself and her two younger siblings, she investigates what happened to them and the other missing sharecroppers who partied the night before. As dusk looms, Ruby discovers two dangerous predators hidden inside her family's chicken coop.

Author's Note: Ruby is the young girl Smoke met at the beginning of Sinners.

youtube

"Black leaves on the Mississippi river

Black leaves in the Mississippi fire

Black leaves in the Mississippi choir

Black leaves on the Mississippi land

And we've got God and cotton

We've got sons and daughters

We've got grit and glory

We've got mama's stories

We've got strength like towers

We've got hope and power"

Kirby – "Black Leaves"

Mama didn't come home.

Poppa neither.

Fourteen-year-old Ruby Evers waited by the bedroom window early Sunday morning, as her younger brother and sister slept near her feet, piled onto one old mattress on the floor. She scratched her leg, irritating a spider bite that appeared fiery red on her tawny skin.

The window faced the path her parents would take to get home from the old sawmill. Poppa carried mama off in their horse and cart looking so handsome. He even wore his tan church vest and matching bow tie. Mama fixed her hair up, uncovering it from the pale blue and white gingham cloth she usually tied her thick braids up with. She took the braids down and added some purple pansies to look fancy for the night. They were so nervous when Ruby came home with her aunt from town and she told them about Smoke Moore paying her cash money to watch his liquor truck. He ended up giving her five whole dollars for doing a good job. She would always remember his lesson about knowing her worth in the world.

Word spread about the men who tried to thief them in broad daylight, but their concern soon shifted with excitement once they heard a new juke was opening that same day. They still had cotton quotas to fill, but the temptation to hear good music from the preacher's son was too delicious to pass up. Tongues also wagged about Pastor Moore's notorious cousins sweeping into town with money to buy the old sawmill outright from an old peckerwood like Hogwood. They wanted to see the transformation of the place themselves.

Glancing at her siblings, she wondered what to fix for them if mama didn't come home.

John-John, her nine-year-old middle brother, mumbled in his sleep. Her seven-year-old baby sister, Mae, stirred under a threadbare blanket. Ruby left the window and padded barefoot into their kitchen area where she piled wood into the iron stove. She struck a match and lit some kindling to boil water for grits. There were a few leftover biscuits from their supper the day before, but they'd gone hard. They would eat them anyway along with some day old boiled eggs, and then do their chores until their parents returned.

Worry poked at Ruby's belly. Her parents had never been gone overnight before together. She wandered over to their sleeping room to check the bed again. It hadn't been slept in all night.

Mae ambled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and looking around.

"Where's Mama and Poppa?"

"I dunno. Go put on your clothes and get John-John up."

"I'm already up," John-John said, pulling on his overalls.

Ruby rubbed on his puffy hair and tugged on her sister's two braids.

"Y'all go feed the chickens, and I'll clean up in here. When the grits are ready, I'll call ya."

The children nodded and scampered out the front door. Ruby dressed quickly, made up their bedding, swept the floors clean, and checked on the water. She stirred in the grits and set out plates on the kitchen table. Once the cooked grains were at the right consistency, she whipped a spoon with butter through them, and then pulled the pot off the fire.

"Ruby! Ruby! Midnight is running around out here by hisself!" John-John hollered.

Ruby wiped her hands on her dress and dashed outside.

Midnight, their coal black gelding, ran in an agitated circle near their small tenement garden.

"Whoa, Midnight…easy boy," Ruby said, raising her hands to get him to calm down.

Where was the cart and their parents?

Midnight had broken his harness away from the cart. Maybe the wheels hit a rock, and the cart fell over, injuring her parents. Ruby led the horse to his enclosure and closed the gate tight. She ran down the path the horse would've come from and didn't see the cart or anyone else in the distance. Hoofing it back to their home, she gestured to her siblings.

"Come on in here and eat," Ruby said.

"Where's Mama and Poppa? How come they not here with Midnight?" Mae asked.

Ruby hustled them into the house and scooped the grits on their plates with the biscuits and unshelled eggs.

"Eat," she said.

She ate with them, trying to look at ease, but her heart rate elevated and tension strained her shoulders. After the children cleaned their plates of every single grit and biscuit crumb, she herded the younger ones over to Miss Emmie's home. The elderly woman often cared for younger children while the teens and adults worked the fields.

Miss Emmie stood at her clothesline. She beat rugs of dust early before the temperature rose.

"Miss Emmie, can you watch John-John and Mae today?" she asked, holding up one dollar of the money she earned from Smoke.

"Where you get that money from?"

Miss Emmie took the dollar and turned it over in her hand, making sure it was actually cash and not plantation scrip.

"I earned it. They ate breakfast already. I'll be back later today. Can you feed them again before I get back?"

"Where you goin'?"

"Mama and Poppa didn't come back last night. Midnight came back without the cart. I think somethin' happened to 'em."

"They went to that juke?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Emmie sucked the teeth she still had left in her mouth.

"Maybe I should go get Ben to go look for you."

"That's alright Miss Emmie, I can do it myself. No need to bother Ben on his day off."

"You shouldn't be around no juke joint."

"Yes ma'am, but I'm worried."

"Oh, Lord. Ben!"

Emmie shouted toward her ramshackle cabin. A six foot tall scrawny man with a lazy eye trudged outside.

"Momma?"

"Ben…carry Ruby over to that old sawmill. She's looking for her parents. You can pick up a pound of rice and a pound of pinto beans for me on the way there. Get six chicken tamales for our lunch later. And some penny candy for John-John and Mae. I'm gonna watch them while you help Ruby look for Alice and Roy. Can you remember all that?"

She handed him the dollar Ruby gave her.

"I'll remember."

Ben spit into the dirt and pocketed the money in his trousers. He tucked in his faded shirt and headed back into the house.

"Lemme get my shoes on," he called out to them.

"John-John…Mae…y'all go on inside," Emmie said.

Ruby hugged her brother and sister.

"Be good and I'll be back as soon as I can."

The children nodded and headed indoors.

Ben stepped back out and pulled a straw hat over his head.

"C'mon, Ruby," he said.

She followed him around the side and watched him hitch an old mule to a wagon. He helped her climb onto the front seat and he joined her, holding the reins. He whistled, and the mule began pulling them on their way.

Ben didn't talk, and Ruby didn't engage in any type of conversation. Her mind cleaved onto anything her parents might have said that may have indicated not coming home before they departed. There was no mention of giving other folks a ride or stopping off anywhere. If Poppa was too drunk to guide the cart himself, Mama would've left him behind and come home alone to check on them. The pit of her stomach ached.

In town, Ben pulled up to the Chow's Grocery store on the colored side and tied his mule. Ruby jumped down and sat on a small bench in front of the store to wait. She noticed Lisa Chow pacing the front of an unopened business. Lisa's face appeared blotchy and pink, streaked with tears. Roughly a dozen Chinese adults surrounded her, their expressions fretful. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying hysterically.

"I don't know where they are!" Lisa shrieked. "They didn't come home from that juke joint!"

Ruby's heart lurched in her chest. Another set of missing parents who went to the juke. The pain in Ruby's belly nearly bowled her over as she started breaking into a profuse sweat. Something bad happened.

Ben called over another man they both knew who worked on a riverboat. Calvin was a fisherman and knew everyone in town.

"Cal, what's goin' on?" Ben asked.

Calvin scratched his shaggy head and sighed.

"I don't quite know. I was supposed to drop off a new load of catfish, but the Chows ain't showed up to pay me. I've been waiting out here since eight. Lisa out here sayin' they never came home last night."

"Did you go to the juke?"

"For about an hour after they opened, and then I left early. Had to get up and check my traps at five this morning."

A cloud of dust kicked up in the street as the town sheriff sped off past them. Several other vehicles followed him.

"Something is up," Ben said. "C'mon Ruby, let's get over to that juke."

He helped her up into the wagon again, and they followed the dust of the sheriff's car.

His mouth ached.

Moving his jaw a bit, Stack licked the inside of his gums, searching for residual blood. He didn't like the taste of it hours later, nor did he delight in the pieces of flesh caught between his teeth where he ripped apart Annie's throat.

He opened his eyes.

Annie.

She had been the key he needed to get his twin to join the hive. Smoke chose to kill her instead.

Yet spared him.

He rolled over in the dense straw that covered him and Mary.

The woman who turned him into a lost soul slumbered in a deep, trance-like state, looking like a corpse in need of a casket. Blood smeared the lower half of her face. She didn't seem to mind the traces of slaughter they committed against innocent people. Her rabid mouth had been gluttonous, as if a bloodlust frenzy was second nature to her. He looked at her closely. She slept like a sated baby.

Stack's eyes longed to close. His body floated just under lucidness. He fought it as an internal alarm system kicked in. Two things he became aware of: the warmth of humans and the scent of their blood.

A young boy and girl had stepped into the chicken coop, their chatter bringing his consciousness to the surface. Mary stayed asleep.

Chickens clucked, and the children tossed feed all over the floor, some of it striking the thick straw covering Stack and Mary. Luckily, a large tree kept the coop shaded from the sun piercing through the wood slats. Stack kept still and listened. The young ones ran out quickly, and he heard the fearful neighing of a horse. After that. Silence.

"Are they gone?"

Mary opened her eyes. The sickly paleness of her skin covered in blood told him how his life would be from now on.

Still hiding in the shadows with her.

Always killing.

Never satisfied. Never truly free.

The rest soon come....!!!

#sinners fanfiction #Vampire!Stack #stack moore #remmick #mary #stack fanfiction #Uzumaki Rebellion #Stack's Lesson Teaser

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fckwritersblock · 3 months ago

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I Never Told You (part 1 )

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x black reader

Description: ( unedited af ) You and Stack have been in love for what feels like forever, but neither of you has had the courage to speak up. Stack is convinced that your heart belongs to Smoke, and as for Smoke? He’s exhausted from trying to show you both that the love you seek is right in front of you.

Word count.: 3,852

A/n: this was originally one part, but I thought it’s a break it up into two because when I tell you, it’s getting a longer and longer 😭 I don’t wanna rush the way I want it to end but the way I’m craving these Sinners fic and I know some of y’all are too. I thought it would be nice to drop it now. Couldn’t contain my own excitement 😂

Part 2 - What I Should’ve Said

Enjoy ! 🩷

As soon as you stepped off the train, a smile broke across your face. The familiar sights and sounds of home wrapped around you like a warm embrace. You were excited to finally be back, but a flutter of nerves danced in your stomach at the thought of seeing your sister for the first time in ages. Yes, you guys had written to each other, and she had tore your ass a new one in a few of them letters back home bout to running off with the twins without a word. Nevertheless, you knew regardless of how upset she may be with you, she’d always welcome you home with open arms. You missed your sister. You also missed the twins, who you were eager to reunite with. It had been almost a year since you’d all been together, and just thinkin' about Stack made your pulse quicken.

Steppin' aside so other boarding the train would have access to the front door, you made your way toward the center of the station, your eyes scanning the crowd. You were sure Stack knew you was comin' at this time, so you had a feelin' he’d be lurkin' around here somewhere. Just then, you heard it—a voice that sent a thrill of nostalgia through you. You turned around, curiosity piqued, and there he was, front and center.

But your heart sank a little when you noticed the woman standin’ in front of him. Fair-skinned and confident, she had that undeniable charm—Mary. Of course she would find him, you thought bitterly.

You watched as Stack’s gaze followed her, a solemn look crossing his face as she walked away. You should’ve known he’d seek her out the moment he arrived. You’d bet money he could find her in a crowed room, without fail.

You loathed Mary.

It wasn’t a secret. You couldn’t stand her presence and that gnawed at you deep down. It wasn’t just jealousy; it was that gut-wrenching belief that Stack cared for her more than he did for you. He looked out for her in a way that was different from how he looked out for you. The attention he gave her was the kind you had secretly longed for, and judging by the way he stood there, it seemed nothin' had changed.

Oh, how wrong you were.

“Old habits die hard, huh, Stack?” you snarked from behind him, the playful edge in your voice barely masking the hurt you felt.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes in resignation. He knew he was caught.

He didn’t even have to turn around to know it was you. Stack could tell by the sound of your voice that you was pissed, especially with the faux sugary sweet smile you wore when he finally faced you. That, and when you were at him, it was the only time you called him Stack and not Elias.

Turning around to face you he could barely contain the smile that wanted to break out.

It had been a year since the two of you had seen each other, but for him, it felt like a lifetime. For six years, y’all had traveled the world together. You had taken care of him and Smoke, watchin' their backs, makin' sure he stayed outta trouble. You had put up with his antics for so long, and he’d never understood why you stuck by his side. That was until you decided it was time to carve out your own path, to prove you could stand on your own.

So you left them. You left him. You promised to return within a year or come runnin' if he called.

But Stack didn’t call.

He figured you didn’t want him to. Not really. A part of him was upset with you for abandoning him. He knew Smoke had written to you a few times, and he tried not to let the green-eyed monster show. Smoke would tell him when he received a letter, sometimes even havin' one for him too. Stack never wrote back, but he always read the ones you sent for him. Several times in fact. He wanted to know how you were, what you had been up to, even if he fronted like he didn’t care. You were miles away and all he wanted was you near..

And now you were back, standing right in front of him, looking as breathtaking as ever. The sun-kissed brown skin of yours practically glowed in the light. The apples of your cheeks rounded as you smiled, dimples showing, and the curves of your hips called out to him as he admired your frame in the flowy yellow dress you wore. It reminded him of your favorite flower, magnolias, and coincidentally, yellow was his favorite color on you too.

You were home for him, and you didn’t even know it.

“It wasn’t even like that, Bam,” he said, tryin' to brush off the tension and butter you up with the nickname he gave you.

“It never is, is it, Stack?” you shot back, crossin' your arms, though a smile tugged at your lips.

“Come on now, after all this time, that’s the mood you wanna get off on?” He hand taken a few steps toward you and grabbed your hand.

“A brotha can’t get no love first?” He flashed you a smile he knew you couldn’t resist.

Despite yourself, your smile grew bigger as you felt the warmth of his presence pulling you in. You wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking into the comfort of his embrace.

“I missed you,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper as you melted against him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he replied, his words a gentle way of sayin', 'I missed you too.'

“Who’s this?” you asked, eyeing the guitar-totin' boy standin' next to them after you two finally pulled apart.

“The boy,” Stack replied, nodding in his direction.

“The boy—Little Sammie, is that you?!” you exclaimed, shocked.

“Miss Y/n?” he said, his eyes wide with disbelief.

You laughed, pulling him into a warm hug. God, he was all grown up. You used to help his ma look after him and his siblings sometimes, and you even sang in his daddy’s church for a while. That was until you started hangin' out with Smoke and Stack more and stopped goin' to church. You didn’t want to hear no sermons about how the devil had his hands on you and how you needed to come back to the Lord.

It was a bittersweet feeling, thinking about how much you missed them and how much Sammie had grown. You could see he still had to get his head on straight, but it warmed your heart that he was still playing the guitar Stack had given him.

“Well then, there will be plenty of time to catch up later. You boys finish up here. I’ll be in the car,” you announced a beat after pullin' away. You knew they was up to no good.

“Little Sammie, help Stack with my bags, will ya?” You pinched one of his cheeks playfully before giving the other a quick kiss, treating him like the youngin' he still was in your eyes.

“Oh and drop the ‘Miss’.” He stared after you, bewildered, as you walked past Stack, givin' him a wink while you patted his chest slowly, draggin' your hand away.

“That’s really Y/n,” Sammie said, still in disbelief, causing Stack to chuckle.

He hadn’t seen you since he was a boy, and he couldn’t believe how different you were now. You were just a teen girl girl in his eyes back then, but now you were a grown woman—an extremely attractive one, at that.

“She’s—”

“Way too much woman for you to handle, lil nigga,” Stack stated matter-of-factly, a smirk playin' on his lips.

Not too much for me, though, he thought to himself, wordlessly pickin' up both suitcases and handing his little cousin one. You would probably fit real pretty in the front seat of his ride right about now, knowin' you and those pretty pick pocketing hands of yours had already snatched the keys from his coat pocket.

“Well, are you?” Sammie quizzed.

“Am I what?” Stack frowned slightly.

“Handling it?” The corner of Preacher Boy’s mouth twitched just a little, and Stack knew the younger man could tell you were vexed with him, and he wasn’t handling shit.

“Bring yo ass on, smart ass.”

As a result of those endless hours of travel, you were exhausted. You hadn’t gotten much sleep on the train, not wantin' to doze off around strange white folks. Your father had raised you and your sister to always be aware of your surroundings. After hearin' Delta’s wild stories about the men he knew from the side of the road, you needed a moment to decompress. So, you let the sounds of Sammie’s guitar and the rhythm of the car rockin' gently lull you into a well-deserved rest.

You weren’t sure how long you had been asleep, but soon you felt somethin' soft brush against the side of your face.

“Bam,” you heard softly as you began to stir.

“Bam.” This time you felt a poke to your cheek.

With a soft groan, you opened your eyes to see Stack standin' outside of the car, looking at you with that soft smile that always made your heart race.

“There’s my girl.” He smiled down at you.

“What you want, Elias?” You tried not to blush at his words.

“We made it. Come on.” He extended his hand for you to take.

You took it, pullin' yourself up to stand. Prepared to jump over, he surprised you by lifting you up in the air out of the back of the car.

You squealed, caught off guard as he held you slightly above him. You looked down at him for a minute, and he slowly set you back down, your body sliding against his.

“Thank you,” you said bashfully, pretendin' to fix your hair in the mirror.

He stood directly behind you, just close enough for you to catch a glimpse of his smirk in the car mirror.

“Anytime.”

“I—” you began, but were cut off by another car pullin' ahead. Once you noticed it was the truck Stack had said Smoke was in, you started walking quickly toward it. Stack told you the two of them had to split the work and that Smoke had a few stops and you knew it wouldn’t be anywhere else, but to see Annie. It was one thing for Smoke to be gone; of course then, he and Annie couldn’t be together. But while he was home, he wouldnt go anywhere without her.

“Annie!” You called as soon as your older sister came into view.

“Y/n?” Annie couldn’t believe her eyes as you ran toward her the biggest smile on your face.

“Surprise.” You spoke tearfully, as you slowed down taking the last few steps before crashing' into your big sister. You embraced her tightly, the two of you holding onto one another as if the other would disappear if you let go.

“Look at you.” She ran her hand up and around your face, cuppin' it affectionately.

“Look at you.” You repeated, mesmerized by your sister’s loving eyes.

Eyes that always looked at you with understanding, compassion, love, and support. Annie didn’t always agree with the choices you made, but she always supported you in choosin' your own destiny.

“Don’t you ever leave me like that again,” she fussed, swattin' lightly at your butt.

“Stop, girl, I’m grown,” you laughed, spinning around in a circle to dodge her playful swats.

“Girl, I don’t give a damn.” Annie fixed you with a stern look. “You’re still my baby sister. You don’t just run off and leave me without notice like that. You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. It’s not that I wanted to; I just—” you paused, searchin' for the right words.

After a moment, you realized you didn’t need to say much. Annie would understand.

“Mine doesn’t have a mojo bag; he just has me,” you said, your voice wavering, knowin' she would know you was referring to the more reckless twin.

She smiled and nodded in understanding. You stood there for a little while longer, embracing each other, tryin' to wipe the tears from each other’s eyes, gigglin' like school girls as you did so.

“We’ll take more later ya hear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pullin' away, you angled your body a little more to the left to finally get a good look at Smoke.

“My girl!” he said with a small smile of his own, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey Smoke.” The two of you wrapped your arms around one another.

You missed the way Stack’s jaw clenched as you embraced Smoke. The latter didn’t as he grinned at his twin. It was an asshole thing to do, but he couldn’t help it. He had been watching the two of you pine after one another for years. If Smoke had a dime for every time he tried to convince his brother that you felt the same way about him that he felt about you—or to get Stack to confess his feelings for you—boy, he’d be rich.

It was your last night in town, and the three of you went out. You were currently dancin' with some random nigga from round the way. Stack watched you like a hawk, grillin' the hell outta the man who had your attention. Smoke couldn’t do anything but laugh at his brother’s expense.

“Nigga you got it bad,” he said with a chuckle.

“Shut up, bitch. You got it just as bad for her sister,” Stack shot back.

“Sho’ll fuck do. Don’t give a fuck who knows either.” Smoke shrugged blowing a cloud in Stack’s direction.

“Yeah, whatever.” Stack muttered, takin' a sip of his beer.

“Mmhmm, whatever shit, nigga. Could be you out there dancin' with her, tryna cop a feel. Instead, you’re here,” Smoke teased.

“It ain’t like that with us, Smoke.” He denied.

For the life of him, Smoke couldn’t understand why Stack was in denial about you. It was like he was purposely standing in his own way, unwilling to accept a good thing.

“Have I ever been wrong about a woman tryna throw her pussy at you?”

“Nah,” Stack grumbled, his defenses slowly crumbling.

“Aight then, nigga. Listen for once.” Smoke said, playfully mushing the side of Stack’s head as he stood up to head to the bar.

“Aye, watch out.”

“Girl follows you around the world, and you still questionin' shit,” Smoke called over his shoulder.

He could only shake his head at the memory. Smoke swore dealin' with y’all shit was gonna put him in an early grave.

Once the two of you released one another from the hug, you walked back toward your sibling, and Smoke did the same.

“You good, man?” Smoke asked, knowing full well he wasn’t. He just wanted to see if he was ready to be honest with himself.

“Yeah, uh, I’m good.” Stack cleared his throat before repeatin', “I’m good.”

“Good.” He patted his brother on the back. “Now let’s get to work.”

Now, you knew you was comin' to work, but you ain't expectin' to be put through the wringer! As much as y’all got on each other’s last nerves during the setup, it was all part of the charm. Smoke being the bossy one, always puffin’ up his chest like everybody ain’t already know he ran the place; Cornbread, with his big ass, ain’t stop complainin' 'bout how heavy them boxes was; Delta always droppin' “back in my day” stories like they was gospel every five minutes. And Stack? He was slick, finessin' Preacher Boy into doin' part of his work in the name of “respectin' your elders.”

Not to mention you, Grace, and Annie, makin' one little complaint 'bout the heat, which led to Bo shakin’ up a bottle of beer and lettin' it spray all over y’all like a makeshift sprinkler system to “cool y’all off.” But this? This was the stuff you cherished. These were the moments you missed. After hours of busting your backs, the grand opening was here, and the party was in full swing.

You found yourself wrapped up in Stack’s arms, your back pressed against his solid front. The sweet sound of southern blues wrapped around you like a warm embrace. Ain’t nothing like live music from home, and tonight, the air was thick with rhythm. Effortlessly, your body flowed with the beat, swayin' in a circle until you found yourself once again meetin' Stack's chest. One of his arms hung loosely around your waist, his fingers barely grazing your skin, followin' the pace of your movements like it was second nature.

“So, this is new,” you teased, glancing back at him.

“What’s that?” Stack’s voice was low, his eyes glued to the way your hips moved, like he was tryin' to memorize every curve.

Stack thought you was downright gorgeous, and it drove him crazy. He wished he could tell you every single day how beautiful you were. Your body? It made his heart race. Big hips, thick thighs, and those legs that seemed to go on for days. That dress you wore? It gave him a perfect view of your curves, and he found himself lost in thoughts he shouldn’t be havin’.

“You dancin' with me,” you said louder, breakin' him outta his daydream.

“I’ve danced with you before,” he replied, a hint of challenge in his tone.

You leaned your head back further, givin' him a smirk. “Not like this.”

Stack’s grip around your waist tightened, the two of you still swayin’ to the music. “What’s this?” His breath brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine that you tried your best to ignore.

“Like you tryna work your way into my drawls,” you shot back, playful but with a hint of seriousness.

“And if I am?” he shot back, spinning you around so you faced him, his gaze intense.

You were momentarily stunned, your eyes searchin’ his for any signs of this bein' a joke, you arms now loosely around his shoulders.

“Smoke told you.” you said, his words heavy like a weight on your chest, but it felt more like a statement than a question.

You knew Smoke couldn’t keep his mouth shut when it came to his brother. Stack had ditched you and Smoke for the night to run off with some floozy and you were hurting bad. Especially after the way he had been flirting with you day after day. After an attempt at drowning your feeling in a bottle of whiskey, you had confessed your undying love for Elias Moore to his other half after the world became a bit too blurry. The truth came spillin' out like vomit, then afterwards, literal vomit. You could curse the ground Smoke walked on for lettin' it slip.

Stack watched as the gears turned in your head, his eyes dropping to your bottom lip, which you had pulled between your teeth. He chuckled softly, still swayin' with you, but the tension was thick.

“Smoke been tryna tell me for years,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting yours again.

He wasn’t sure if he was talkin' 'bout Smoke tryin' to get him to accept his own feelings or the ones you held for him.

It was the way you cared for him. In every way. You checked on his well being constantly. The effects of the war on smoke were clear. He had his issues and one of them Stack always took care of. Rolling his cigarettes, making certain shit easier for Smoke every chance he got. Stack was the suffer in silence type. No I didn’t know the trauma he had suffered. He preferred everybody think he was OK. But you saw right through him. You seem to be able to tell every time something took him back there the lifeline you’d reach out of your hand, holding his gentle caresses to the top of his hand, which is the tiniest of squeezes that will bring him back and remind him that he was here and safe and with you. Stack was the type to suffer in silence, keepin' his struggles close to his chest. But you? You saw right through him. You could tell when something haunted him, and each time, you’d reach out, holdin' his hand, givin' him that gentle squeeze to remind him he was safe with you.

You were everything to Stack.

The air between you two shifted, thickening with unspoken words and feelings.

“When did it click?” Your heart raced, the world around you fading away.

Y’all had stopped movin’, probably the only two still in the crowd of people dancing and signing having a time.

“The one you left.” Stack admitted, feeling a bit guilty for only realizing how deep his feelings and love for you really were.

Speechless you pulled away from him completely, mouth opening and closing as you stuttered trying to find the right words to say. Overwhelmed with emotion and not quite sure what to do with yourself you turned around to scurry away when he grabbed your hand and pulled you back to him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on now. Why you runnin'?” He was holding you again, bobbing his head around trying to catch you eye as you avoided his.

“Elias, you drunk,” you said, your voice shaky.

“Baby, I ain’t had a sip of liquor,” he replied, his grip on your chin gentle, forcing you to look at him.

Big brown eyes searched yours, filled with a truth that made your heart swell with love.

“Y/n,” he started, but just then—

“Stack!” Smoke’s voice cut through the moment like a hot knife through butter.

You two pulled apart at the sound of his brother calling.

“Let me holla at you for a minute,” Smoke beckoned, clearly oblivious to the tension hangin' in the air.

You could see Stack was ready to protest, but you stopped him, gently cupping the side of his face in your hands. Stack might not have been running off liquid courage, but you had dug deep for some courage and found enough bravery to push through.

You pressed a soft kiss to the side of his cheek, and then another right next to the corner of his mouth, lettin' your lips linger just a moment longer.

“Go. We’ll talk later,” you assured him, pulling away with a grin as you turned to find a seat at the bar y’all had been swayin’ next to.

It wasn’t long before Stack's arms wrapped around you from behind.

“Count on it,” he whispered, kissing the side of your neck, sending warmth flooding through you.

You flushed at the feeling of his lips on your skin, that deep baritone voice igniting a fire you didn’t know you had.

You couldn’t wait until later. But unfortunately, later never came.

2K notes · View notes

theethighpriestess · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 1 - The First Bite

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

*All character images created by me ☺️*

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

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

Word Count: 5.5K

New Orleans, 2005

Eden stared blankly at the digits on the weathered ATM.

$14.26.

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

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

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

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

Three rings. A click.

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

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

A long pause. She could practically hear him blinking.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’m all tapped out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cute. Maybe.

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

Dog walking. House cleaning. Foot modeling?

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

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

Eden raised an eyebrow.

“Blood?”

She clicked anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grabbed her phone and typed quickly.

Eden T. | Type O- | Available Nights

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

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

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

504-9VAMPYR:

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

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

Eden stared at the screen. Then at her closet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked like someone who had nothing left to lose.

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

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

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

Then she locked the door behind her.

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

“Not tonight, baby, c’mon…”

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

Her mind didn’t cooperate.

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

She wasn’t sure which possibility scared her more.

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

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

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

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

Then she got out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She could leave. She could run.

But she didn’t.

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

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

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

“You’re Eden,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

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

“Follow me.”

So she did.

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

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

The man said nothing, just led her deeper.

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

The man knocked once. A dull, heavy sound.

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

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

And the world changed.

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

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

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

And that was when she saw him.

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

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

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

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

Then there were his eyes.

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

And when he smiled—

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

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

He didn’t stand.

He didn’t need to.

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

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

She nodded once. “That’s me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stack,” she repeated.

He gave her that same half-smile.

“I like a girl who listens.”

Then he rose from his chair.

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

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

He raised a gloved hand.

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

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

Her heart kicked hard in her chest.

She didn’t take his hand.

But she didn’t move away either.

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

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

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

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

Eden stared at it. “Is it safe?”

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

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

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

Eden sat straighter. “Alright.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s the risk?”

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

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

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

“And if I disappear anyway?”

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

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

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

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll try it,” she said. “Once.”

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

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

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

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

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

She signed.

And the room breathed.

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

Stack watched her, too. “You hungry?”

Eden blinked. “A little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eden nodded. “Yeah.”

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

“Good. Then we’ll make it clean.”

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

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

She nodded. “Mercy.”

“Good girl.”

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

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

“Where?”

Eden’s throat went dry.

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

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

“Neck,” she said. “Just there.”

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned in.

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

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

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

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

“That’s enough.”

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

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

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She had to think about it. Then she smiled.

“Like I just got kissed by something dangerous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned.

His eyes were glowing again, soft but unreadable.

“You were made for this.”

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

Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

And yet… she didn’t feel wrong.

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

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

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

It was dangerous.

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

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

Like he’d never been there.

But he had. And her body remembered.

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

And with it, the dream.

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

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

Not a smirk. Not cold.

This smile was hot and low and deliberate.

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

“Still not scared?” he murmured.

His voice brushed her skin like silk and sin.

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

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

Tasting.

She gasped.

And woke up breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

504-9VAMPYR.

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

When’s the next?

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

The message delivered with a quiet chime.

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

She didn’t know what came next.

But she knew she wanted more.

Her phone buzzed again.

Tomorrow. Midnight. Same place. Wear red.

#my shit #thee thigh priestess writes #sinners #sinners fanfiction #elias moore #elias stack moore #vampire!stack #stack x black oc