Under Their Roof | Five
POV: You are a young lady in the 1930's who was hired by the Moore family to help around the house and be a nanny...but to your surprise, you may have to do more.
A/N: Okaaaaay, so this was gonna to be a small series that was inspired by a dream I had BUT this maybe a tad bit longer than planned.
Warning: Blood, HEAVY Smut.
Word Count: 3636
Pairing: Elijah 'Smoke" Moore X Annie X Black Female Reader (feat. Elias "Stack" Moore)
Y/N stood at the sink, scrubbing the dishes like they’d done her wrong, the soapy water splashing against her wrists. Each harsh scrape of the sponge was less about grease and more about trying to scrub away the lingering heat from what happened at the dinner table. No matter how hard she worked, the memory clung stubbornly—his touch, his glance—playing over in her mind like a song she couldn’t turn off.
Moments Ago…
She glanced toward Stack, certain it was his hand despite him being caught up in laughter with Slim. But the gentle touch on her leg moved—sliding slowly upward, past her knee—and she realized it wasn’t his. Her eyes shifted to the right side of the table, where Smoke’s left hand was nowhere to be seen, tucked casually beneath the surface as if idle. When her gaze met his, she caught something unfamiliar—a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, a sly, almost teasing smile as he stole a quick, deliberate glance her way.
Y/N forced herself to keep her composure, careful not to draw any eyes her way. She focused on her plate, chewing slower, willing her expression to stay neutral. Across the table, Annie chatted easily with Sammie, though Y/N caught her watching now and then.
Then she felt it—Smoke’s hand, steady and deliberate, sliding up her leg. Her lashes fluttered before she could stop them. The ease with which his fingers slipped under her dress, like he’d done it a hundred times, sent a rush straight through her. His palm cupped her thigh, broad and warm, before his fingers began their slow climb, brushing the edge of her underwear.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, shoveling another forkful into her mouth to mask the small sound that threatened to escape. Her eyes widened, heat curling in her belly.
“Angel, you okay over there?” Slim asked, glancing her way.
She swallowed hard, forcing a nod. “Mhm,” she managed, her voice low and steady, even if her pulse wasn’t.
“I’m good. Just—” she forced a faint smile, “the gumbo reminds me of my family back home. I just miss them.”
Slim’s gaze softened. “Well, I understand, suga. I understand.” He gave her a nod before turning back to Stack, picking their conversation right back up.
It was perfect timing—because that’s when she felt it. Smoke’s fingers, slow and sure, pressed against the fabric covering her. His middle and ring fingers moved in a lazy, deliberate rhythm, massaging her through her underwear like he had all the time in the world.
A quiet shiver ran through her, her left hand slipping beneath the edge of the table to catch his wrist, as if she could anchor herself—or stop him.
When her eyes found his, he was already looking at her, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“You better not stop me, Miss Carter,” he mouthed, the silent dare landing like a spark between them.
Y/N tried to keep a straight face, but then had to hide it by looking out the window after feeling him yank her right thigh more apart, making him slip his fingers rubbing her exposed clitoris even more.
Annie noticed the couple as she ate her food and asked, “Elijah, sweetheart. How is your food?” Everyone’s eyes were now on them, and Y/N began to stuff her face to calm herself. Smoke met eyes with his wife, saying, “It is very good. It’s nice…” That’s when he slipped his thick fingers inside of her, making her heart stop as they slowly began to stroke her. Smoke looked into Y/N’s eyes and said, “and warm. I can go for seconds.” Y/N’s mind was a storm—every nerve ending on high alert, every thought tangled in the danger of the moment. Inside, she was screaming, but on the outside, she kept her composure, fork lifting to her mouth in a slow, steady rhythm.
Then Smoke’s fingers quickened, his movements still subtle enough to stay hidden under the table. The change in pace sent a jolt through her, and she gripped the edge of her chair, nails biting into the wood. Heat curled low in her belly, building fast, too fast.
She turned her head, hiding her face by staring out the window just past Smoke’s shoulder. Her eyes fluttered, breath catching in her chest, and for a split second her vision blurred—edges going soft, her gaze threatening to cross from the intensity.
But the sharp weight of another presence cut through her haze.
They weren’t alone. Someone else’s eyes were on them. Watching.
Stack’s gaze wandered across the table and landed on her. He caught it instantly—the subtle bite of her bottom lip in the reflection of the window, the slow, shallow rise of her chest, and the faraway look in her eyes that wasn’t meant for anyone here to see. He had to think of something to stop the moment.
“I could go for dessert,” his voice slid in low, smooth, but carrying weight. “Miss Doll… mind gettin’ me a pretty ol’ slice?”
Her head turned toward him, eyes blinking fast as if yanked out of a trance. The legs of her chair whispered against the floor as she pushed back. She smoothed her dress down with deliberate care, palms pressing to fabric that still held the ghost of his brother’s touch.
“Who else would like some cake? I also made ice cream earlier. Vanilla,” she asked, voice light and even—but the faint tremor beneath it didn’t go unnoticed.
One by one, they all answered, laughter and chatter filling the room again. But her gaze snagged on Smoke before she turned, a flicker of heat and warning passing between them in silence.
Stack didn’t look away. He watched her retreat toward the kitchen, plates balanced in her hands, posture straighter than usual as if holding herself together. His eyes shifted to his brother just in time to catch it—the way Smoke, lazy as sin, drew his fingers to his mouth, the tip of his tongue dragging slowly over each one as though savoring. He didn’t hurry. Didn’t hide. Only when he was done did he reach for his napkin, wiping his hands clean like it was nothing at all.
Stack’s jaw flexed.
Y/N had her sleeves rolled up, forearms damp from the last of the dishwater, the kitchen smelling faintly of gumbo and sugar. She stacked the last of the leftovers in neat rows, then pressed her palms to the counter, taking a deep breath to quiet her racing thoughts.
Footsteps padded in behind her—measured, unhurried. The weight of them didn’t feel familiar, but the scent did. That warm, clean blend of tobacco, whiskey, and cedar.
“Hello, Stack. Are you headin’ out soon?” she asked without turning, still focused on the towel in her hands.
“Mhm,” came his low hum. “I wanted to make sure I said g’night… and to thank you for dinner and dessert. I enjoyed it very much, Miss Doll.”
When she finally looked over, he was leaning on the far side of the counter, elbows planted, eyes steady on hers like he had all the time in the world.
He looked as though he had something else on his tongue, but instead just smiled. “Miss Doll, are you excited to start work at the juke joint next week?”
“Yes,” she said, her lips curling slightly. “Yes, I am.”
“Good. I can’t wait to see you around more often.” His grin deepened. “I hope you got some party wear tucked away somewhere. The dresses you wear now are to die fuh, but at the juke joint… you gotta look the part.”
“I think I can find somethin’.” She dried a plate carefully, but her hands fumbled slightly, betraying her composure.
Stack noticed. Without asking, he stepped around the counter, close enough for her to catch the heat from him, but leaving space between them. He took the plate from her hands and reached up to place it in the cupboard. She watched the easy way his broad shoulders moved, the casual flex of his forearms as he worked alongside her.
When he looked down again, his gaze caught hers. “Miss Doll… you have some big ol’ eyes.”
Her brows lifted. “Are you making fun?”
His grin was lazy, certain. “No, not at all. They’re the most beautiful big ol’ eyes I have ever seen.”
Her mouth tilted into a smile she couldn’t hide. He reached up, slow and deliberate, pushing a loose curl back behind her ear. The brush of his fingertips left a trail of warmth across her skin.
For a moment, they simply stood there—breath mingling, neither one willing to break the stillness—until a voice called from the other room.
“Stack Boy, you ready to head on out?”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Stack answered, eyes never leaving hers.
“Got damn it, I’m ready for bed—”
“Nigga, fuck you and that bed. Take ya black ass to the car, wait for me, and kindly shut the fuck up,” Stack shot back without even glancing toward the door. Slim stared, muttered under his breath, and shoved his hat on before tipping it toward her.
“Good night, Angel Face.”
“Good night, Slim,” she replied softly, watching him leave.
Her attention drifted back to Stack, who was still standing in the warm lamplight, hat in hand. “If you need anything,” he said, his tone quieter now, “don’t be afraid to give me a call. My number’s in the telephone book in the living room, Elias Moore.”
He set his hat on, tipping it toward her before turning for the door. She followed him to the porch, lingering in the frame as he stepped into his car.
Before he drove off, his voice rolled out into the night. “G’night, sweet, beautiful Doll.”
“Good night… Elias Moore”, she said in a soft voice making him grin to himself.
She felt her lips curve as she lifted her hand in a small wave. Only when the taillights disappeared down the street did she close the door, the scent of him still faint in the air.
It was the morning after breakfast, and the Moores had gone for the day. Y/N was sweeping the front porch, the bristles whispering against the wood while the sun warmed her shoulders. The scent of magnolia drifted lazily on the breeze, mixing with the faint tang of dust she was chasing off the boards. She hummed a tune too familiar to her heart, letting the notes wrap around her like an old quilt.
“Sure do recall that tune,” a voice called from behind.
She jumped, hugging the broom to her chest like it was a shield. Sammie stood there, grinning wide, holding back a laugh that tugged at his dimples.
“Lord, Sammie, you near scared the life outta me.” She hurried down the steps and gave his arm a pinch sharp enough to make him yelp.
“Now, now… for a gal so young and easy on the eyes, you sure pinch like one o’ them old church matrons,” he teased, rubbing the spot.
She swatted him, more playful than mad. “What you doin’ here buggin’ me? Ain’t you supposed to be off with Mr. Moore and ’nem?”
“Not until two,” he said, holding up a pair of trousers in his left hand like a peace offering. “I wanted to see if you can fix something for me. I’ll pay you.”
She eyed the tear running along the outseam, then glanced up at the puppy-dog look he was giving her. She rolled her eyes. “Let me get my sewing kit. C’mon in.”
Sammie trailed after her into the living room, that spring in his step making him look younger than his years. She returned with her sewing kit, settling beside him on the settee.
“The ladies at the juke love me,” he said with a careless shrug as she inspected the tear.
“Then why they ain’t fixin’ your pants for you?” she asked, threading her needle.
“Because I wanna spend time with my best friend.”
Her hands paused mid-stitch, and she gave him a sidelong look. His smile was the same one he had when he was a boy—wide and earnest, the kind that could tug you right out of a sour mood. Y/N and Sammie had been five years apart, but she’d babysat him more times than she could count. They’d been a pair ever since—church choir, long walks, whispered secrets in the pews. She loved him like a brother, and he’d sworn when they were younger that he’d always be around to look out for her.
“What was that song you were singin’ out there?” he asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“‘Sugar in My Tea,’” she murmured, eyes on her needlework.
“Mm. I remember that. You still got a real pretty voice. Least, from what I recall. Maybe we could get on stage together sometime.”
She looked up just long enough to catch the hope in his eyes. “Sammie… I don’t think I can.”
“Why not? I know folks would love you. Some of them already do.”
“I don’t sing anymore.” Her voice softened, the words heavy. “Haven’t sung since baby girl got sick and started losin’ her voice.”
The air between them shifted. The sound of the ticking mantel clock suddenly felt louder.
Faith Carter—sixteen, stubborn as she was sweet. Born with the odds against her, the doctors saying she’d be lucky to see her first birthday. But Faith had proved them wrong for years, right up until the illness caught up with her. In and out of the hospital, voice fading to a whisper… Y/N’s throat tightened just thinking of it.
Sammie noticed the way her shoulders drew in, like she was bracing herself. He cleared his throat, trying to nudge them back into lighter waters. “Y’know, I missed you as a babysitter. My folks tried to find someone like you, but they couldn’t.”
Y/N glanced up, smiling despite herself. “Who did they end up with?”
“Plenty tried. But there was one gal… obsessed with Stack. I mean crazy. She’d sneak into his room at night, try to fight other girls over him—hell, I think she even kissed him once. Or maybe more’n once.”
“I think Stack told me about her. Do you remember her name?”
“Somethin’ with an M. Marjorie… Michelle… no, Madison… Maybelle… Margaret—”
“Alright, alright, best stop ’fore that brain o’ yours works itself into a fit.” She chuckled, giving his knee a gentle tap.
But Sammie didn’t lean back this time. Instead, he scooted a little closer, his gaze holding hers in a way that felt… different.
“So, will you do it?” Sammie asked, leaning in with that boyish persistence that made it hard to tell if he was twenty or twelve.
“Do what?” she asked, brows drawing together though she kept her eyes on the stitch.
“Sing with me at the Juke Joint. Please, Y/N.”
“Sammie, I said—”
“Pleeeeeeeeease,” he dragged it out until his voice cracked like a child begging for penny candy.
Y/N’s hands moved quicker over the tear in his trousers, needle flashing in the light, as if speed alone could shut him up. “Fine,” she said finally, sighing through her nose. “I will think about it, Sammie. Think.” She made sure to hit that last word with enough weight to warn him not to push it.
Too late.
All at once, Sammie let out a triumphant holler and wrapped his arms tight around her shoulders, nearly knocking the sewing kit from her lap. He peppered her cheek with rapid-fire kisses, loud and smacking, like he was determined to make up for all the hugs he’d missed since childhood.
“Boy!” she gasped, swatting at him with one hand while trying to protect her stitches with the other. “You act like I done agreed to marry you!”
He just grinned against her cheek, refusing to let go, and she could feel his laughter rumble against her shoulder. She could only imagine the circus he’d make if she actually told him yes.
The door creaked open.
Annie stepped in, one hand on her hip, brows arched so high they nearly vanished under her headscarf. Her gaze flicked from Y/N’s flushed face to Sammie’s arms wrapped around her like a lovesick octopus.
“Well…” Annie drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “Ain’t this somethin’.”
Sammie froze, lips still half-puckered like he’d been caught stealing candy from a jar. Y/N shoved at his chest, heat flooding her cheeks under Annie’s stare.
“It ain’t what it look like,” Y/N said quickly.
“Mhm.” Annie leaned on the doorframe, clearly enjoying herself. “That’s exactly what folks say when it’s exactly what it look like.”
Sammie grinned, unbothered. “Evenin’, Annie. You want a hug too?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “Boy, the day you catch me lettin’ you kiss on me is the day I give up coffee.”
He finally let Y/N go—though not without one last squeeze that earned him a swat. Annie strolled in, still smirking.
“I step out five minutes and come back to y’all carryin’ on like folks can’t walk in here,” she teased.
“I was just fixin’ Sammie’s trousers,” Y/N said flatly, holding up her sewing needle.
Annie’s gaze slid down to Sammie’s waistband and back. “Mm-hmm… is that what they call it now?”
Sammie laughed so hard he had to lean on the chair. “See? This is why I can’t be around you, Annie—always twistin’ things ‘round.”
“Twistin’?” Annie gasped in mock offense. “I didn’t twist a thing. I just walked in and saw you two close together, her with a needle, you grinnin’ like the cat that caught the canary.”
Y/N pressed her lips together, but the corners still curled upward. “It was literally a loose stitch, Annie.”
“Oh, sugar, I believe you,” Annie said sweetly. “I just don’t think anybody else will.”
Sammie clutched his chest. “See? Now she’s ruined my good name.”
“Good name?” Annie chuckled. “Baby, you ain’t had one since you was born.”
Y/N giggled, hiding behind the pants, but Sammie snatched them away. “If y’all ladies are done, I gotta meet the men at the joint. I’ll see y’all later.”
After his goodbyes, Annie lingered, watching Y/N clean up. “Miss Carter, when were you gonna let me know you sew?”
“Oh, I thought Sammie would’ve mentioned it.”
Annie stepped closer. “Could’ve been comin’ to you this whole time instead of leavin’ the house. You think you can alter a dress? Lost a little weight, now I’m swimmin’ in it.”
“Of course. I’m done with chores, and Angelina’s sleepin’.”
“Perfect. Let’s get started—need it for tonight.”
Annie let Y/N pull her upstairs, sewing kit in hand.
An Hour Later
Fabric gathered under Y/N’s fingertips, the sewing machine whirring in steady rhythm. Annie paced, eyes fixed on the woman bent over her work, tongue peeking out in concentration. Something stirred in Annie’s chest, but she waited for her moment.
“So, darlin’,” Annie began, voice casual. “Why’s a pretty thing like you not hitched yet?”
“Just been busy takin’ care of my family. Haven’t had the time.”
“How’s it feel bein’ back in Mississippi? No regrets?”
“Oh, not at all. It’s nice bein’ back where I learned everything. Folks have been real kind—Bo, Cornbread, Slim—”
“And Elias,” Annie cut in.
Y/N paused, glancing over her shoulder to see Annie still lounging in her robe. She went back to work. “Yes, he’s been nice.”
“Darlin’… he’s nice to all the pretty new girls. Smooth talker. Slick. I love my brother-in-law, but you best be careful—he’s the type to butter you up, get what he wants, then toss you out like yesterday’s paper.”
The front door creaked open downstairs. Y/N barely registered it, mind spinning on Annie’s words—until her finger slipped.
“Ah!” She jerked back, clutching the sore spot.
Annie crossed to her, calm as water. “Stay still. Close your eyes. Deep breath in… now let it out.”
Y/N obeyed—and felt lips close around her fingertip. Her eyes flew open to find Annie, gaze locked and intense, sucking gently at the wounded skin.
Shock. Confusion. Heat. All tangled together.
Annie kissed along her fingers, up her wrist, her lips warm against bare skin. Y/N’s breath hitched. The machine sat silent as Annie’s mouth found her arm, inching upward.
Their eyes met—Y/N’s half-lidded, Annie’s hungry. “I see why everyone’s so nice to you,” Annie murmured. “It’s those eyes.”
Then her mouth crashed onto Y/N’s, tongue sliding in, taking control. Y/N’s instinct to resist melted into the rhythm of the kiss. Neither noticed the figure stepping into the room.
Annie’s hands slid to Y/N’s back, tugging her closer, fingers finding the zipper. The sound of it sliding down was nearly drowned by a low, familiar grunt.
Y/N pulled away, breathless. “Mr. Moore—this isn’t— I was just helping Miss Ann with her dress—”
But Elijah stepped forward, jacket gone, pants half-unbuttoned, eyes dark with intent.
Annie’s hand found Y/N’s lower back again, her voice a low whisper in her ear. “Darlin’… looks like we’ve got company.”
-Sweet Babies-
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