In the bustling charm of the 1930s, a young woman takes a job with the Moore family as a house helper and nanny—only to discover that her duties may reach far beyond what she ever expected.
ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN | SEVEN.2 | EIGHT | NINE | TEN | ELEVEN | ELEVEN.TWO | TWELVE | THIRTEEN | FINALE
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: Okaaaay, I know I haven't wrote any fanfics in a while or just anything on Tumblr but I watched Sinners last night before bed and let's just say...my dream was very vivid. If this goes well, then I will make this a mini series.
Word Count: 3797
Pairing: ...
It was 1934 when young Y/N Carter stepped down from the train, the metal steps warm beneath her shoes from the relentless Mississippi sun. The air was thick with heat and the mingled scents of coal smoke, dust, and the faint sweetness of boiled peanuts from a vendor nearby.
She paused on the platform, eyes sweeping over the crowd — faces of every hue and shade moving with purpose, laughter mingling with the distant whistle of another train. Her hand smoothed the wrinkles from her maroon calf-length dress, the fabric clinging slightly in the damp air.
The worn handle of her suitcase pressed into her palm as she walked slowly forward, gaze darting left and right, searching. She was looking for someone in particular, though the sea of strangers offered no sign of them.
Then — a sharp pinch at her shoulder.
She turned quickly, startled, and her expression softened into a smile the moment her eyes found him.
“Little Sammie,” she breathed. The preacher’s son.
Only he wasn’t so little anymore.
The boy she remembered — all elbows and scraped knees — now stood tall, shoulders broad beneath a crisp white shirt that clung in the heat. His hair was neatly parted, though a few strands curled rebelliously at his forehead.
“Y/N Carter,” Sammie said with a grin, his voice deeper now but still carrying that easy warmth she remembered. “Ain’t thought I’d see you back here in my lifetime.”
She let out a quiet laugh. “Guess the Lord had other plans.”
Around them, the station platform swirled with noise — porters calling out, wagon wheels rattling over the boards, the faint hum of a blues tune drifting from somewhere down the street.
“You look different,” she said, studying him with a mix of surprise and nostalgia.
“And you look the same,” he replied, though his gaze lingered a little longer than polite.
Before she could speak, he reached for her suitcase. “Let me get that for you. Can’t have the preacher’s son lettin’ a lady carry her own burden.”
She hesitated only a moment before handing it over, her fingers brushing against his — a fleeting touch, but it sent a ripple of familiarity and something else… something unspoken between them.
“C’mon,” Sammie said, tilting his head toward the road. “Town ain’t changed much, but I reckon you have.”
And with that, they stepped off the platform together, the summer heat wrapping around them like an old secret.
Y/N and Sammie had grown up together in the warm, creaky pews of his father’s church, whispering during sermons and sneaking molasses candy under the hymnals. When her family moved to New York City, she’d cried herself to sleep for weeks, missing her old friend dearly. Letters kept them tethered over the years, though miles of rail tracks and city streets stretched between them.
Just last week, her world had tilted — the shop she worked at closed its doors for good, and she’d been left scrambling for a way to keep food on the table for her father and baby sister. Coming back to Clarksdale hadn’t been part of the plan, but desperation had a way of steering a person home.
As they crossed the dusty lot beside the station, Sammie kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. When they stopped, she followed his gaze to the gleaming automobile waiting there — polished deep black, chrome catching the sunlight like jewelry.
Her breath caught. Stenciled along the side in fine lettering: C.R. Patterson & Sons, The PG Automobile. She’d seen cars in New York, but nothing like this here in Clarksdale.
“Now, Sammie,” she drawled, narrowing her eyes at him, “who car you done stole?”
That laugh of his — warm and a little mischievous — bubbled up as he swung her suitcase into the backseat. “I ain’t stole nothin’. I borrowed it.”
“Borrowed?” she echoed, raising a brow.
Sammie just grinned wider, stepping around to open the passenger door with a little bow. “Ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she took his offered hand and climbed in. The seat was smooth beneath her fingers, smelling faintly of leather and motor oil. He closed the door firmly before hurrying around to the driver’s side, the sun flashing briefly in his dark eyes.
The car rumbled steadily down the dusty road leading into town, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the cracked wooden storefronts. Sammie kept one hand steady on the wheel, glancing over at Y/N as they rolled past familiar sights — the old cotton gin, Mrs. Beasley’s general store, and the faded church steeple rising in the distance.
“So,” Sammie began, his voice easy but carrying a quiet weight, “how’s your pa doin’? And that baby sister of yours?”
Y/N’s eyes softened as she shifted in her seat. “They’re fine, thank the Lord. Pa’s still workin’ the fields when he can, and my sister’s just growin’ like a weed.”
She glanced at him, the smile fading a little. “How’s your ma and pa?”
Sammie’s hand tightened on the wheel for a moment before he answered, “My pa… he only talks to me on Sundays.”
Y/N’s breath caught. “Only Sundays?”
“Yeah,” Sammie nodded slowly, eyes on the road. “Pa don’t approve of the path I chose.”
She frowned, concern knitting her brows. “Why’s that?”
He shrugged, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. “I took to the guitar, playin’ what folks call the devil’s music.”
Y/N shook her head, regret flashing across her face. “I’m sorry, Sammie.”
“Don’t be,” he said, voice firm. “I made the right choice.”
Curious, she leaned closer. “How’s that?”
Sammie smiled, a slow, proud grin. “I’m workin’ at the juke joint now. Ten dollars a night.”
Y/N blinked, surprised. “Ten dollars… a night?”
He gave a quick nod, eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and grit.
They rolled into the heart of town, the car’s tires crunching on the packed dirt streets. As Y/N looked out the window, she noticed the town’s quiet but unmistakable division — on one side, a row of modest shops with hand-painted signs advertising goods for “Colored” customers, and just down the street, a separate stretch of storefronts marked “For Whites Only.”
Sammie quickly hopped out and opened Y/N’s door, his easy smile returning as he offered her a steady hand to help her out.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you around.”
They stepped toward the grocery store, its faded sign creaking softly overhead. Inside, Y/N’s eyes caught sight of a young Asian teen behind the counter, neatly dressed and focused as she scribbled on a notepad.
Sammie waved her over with a friendly nod.
“Y/N, this here’s Lisa,” Sammie said, turning to introduce them.
Lisa glanced up, offering a shy smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Y/N replied warmly.
Sammie leaned in a bit and asked, “Hey Lisa, is your pa around?”
Before long, a man appeared from the back — the same man from earlier, stepping forward with arms wide open and a welcoming grin.
“Well, well, well. Sammie done brung someone new around,” he said warmly, nodding toward Y/N.
Y/N returned the smile, feeling the warmth despite the hardships etched into the man’s weathered face.
Bo wiped his palms on his apron and came forward, the grin quick and practiced. Y/N offered her hand and he took it, his eyes flicking over her like a man cataloguing a fine thing — wide hips, a slim-thick frame, cocoa skin that caught the light from the front window. For a beat he was plainly taken aback.
Sammie followed his look and laughed, low. “Pretty, ain’t she?”
Bo cleared his throat, setting the handshake into a businesslike nod. “Yes, sir. She’s a fine-lookin’ lady.” He blinked, then slid back into seller-mode. “What can I do for you, Sammie?”
Sammie leaned on the counter, rattling off the reason. “I’m here for the juke joint order — you said you had that ready to drop off.” He glanced at Y/N, then added, “And I gotta pick up some groceries for my cousins — Smoke and Annie.”
“Right,” Bo said, hand already moving toward a ledger behind the counter like he’d expected the question. “I got it all boxed up up back, ready to go.” He gave a quick, warm smile. “Look around while I fetch it — I’ll give y’all a discount, too.”
They thanked him and turned away, moving toward the shelves to spare him the bustle behind the counter. From the corner of his eye, Bo watched Y/N with something like appreciation, his expression softening. He didn’t notice at first the way Lisa had gone still behind the counter, brow lifted, lips pressed as if to say something without the voice.
When Bo met his daughter’s look, something like a quick shame — or at least awareness — crossed his face. He set the ledger down and stepped toward the back of the store, hands busy now with crates and boxes, keeping his gaze deliberately to the work.
Y/N picked at the edge of a sack of flour, curiosity getting the better of her. “Who’s Smoke and Annie, then?” she asked, looking up at Sammie.
Sammie shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets as if the names were as ordinary as the dust on his shoes. “Smoke’s my older. Real name’s Elijah, but everybody calls him Smoke. Annie’s his wife.”
Y/N nodded, letting the names settle. Sammie’s mouth tipped in a crooked smile. “Smoke and his twin, Stack, they own the juke joint — runnin’ the nights down on Third. Good money if you can stand the hours.”
“And Annie?” Y/N prompted.
He hesitated a second, then answered quieter. “Annie’s… into folk work. Folks round here call it voodoo — charms, herbs, things like that. She keeps people right when they need it, an’ some say she don’t just stop at poultices.”
Y/N blinked, half-surprised, half-intrigued. “Voodoo?” she repeated, tasting the word like something both foreign and familiar.
Sammie shrugged again, a little defensive and a little proud. “Don’t mean nothin’ bad by it. Annie knows what she’s doin’. Folks come to her for prayin’ and for fixin’ bad luck. She makes a decent livin’, same as anybody.”
Lisa hovered nearby with a small stack of tins, listening with that quiet attention that made Y/N think she was taking all of Clarksdale in like a book. Y/N gave a small laugh, folding her hands over her knees. “Well. This town keeps its secrets, don’t it?”
Sammie nodded, eyes bright. “That it does.”
They moved toward the counter as Bo appeared with a crate already labeled for the juke joint, his easy smile back in place. The afternoon hummed around them — gossip and music and dust — and as Sammie settled the groceries into the back of the car, Y/N felt the town’s particular kind of gravity pulling at her: some things were worn on shirtsleeves, others tucked into pockets and whispered about after dark.
They climbed back into the car, the leather seat warm where the sun had pressed on it. Sammie slid behind the wheel and eased the engine to life; the little town hummed around them — a guitar wailing somewhere off in the distance, children playing stickball, the steady slap of a screen door down the block.
“So — the job?” Y/N asked before the silence could settle. “You said you got me somethin’. Is it at the juke joint?”
Sammie’s hand stilled on the wheel for a heartbeat. He shook his head, slow and deliberate, and a hush dropped between them that wasn’t quite comfortable and not quite secretive either. Dust motes spun in a stream of sunlight through the windshield.
Y/N leaned her head back against the seat and let the question roll around in her like a stone in a tin cup. She watched Sammie from the corner of her eye as he watched the road, his mouth quirking into a private smile that didn’t reach his eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased for her, proud of himself, or hiding something that would make her laugh or make her worry. For the moment, the answer stayed with him, folded into the soft rumble of the motor and the slow crawl of town outside.
They rolled down the narrow drive and the house unfolded before them — a two-story colonial, white paint sun-washed to a soft cream, a broad porch wrapped in shadow and supported by tall columns. Live oaks dotted the yard, their limbs knotted and patient, and a scatter of azaleas flanked the walk. The place sat on an acre like it owned the afternoon.
Sammie killed the engine. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the low hum of the motor and the whistle of a distant train. Y/N stayed seated a moment longer, the sight of all that space making something small and hungry in her chest beat faster. She stepped out of the car and ambled, fingers trailing the warm metal of the fender as if tracing a map. Sammie watched her go with a soft smile, then ducked back to the rear to grab her suitcase.
Y/N looked up at the home watching curtains blow out the open window, in her train of thought, until the sound of a loud horn made her turn around. Sammie was laughing at her as she rolled her eyes until the sound of the house door swung open. “Hey, what if the baby’s catchin’ some shut-eye? You know Smoke’ll have us both dangling if he gets wise,” said a tall black man walking out in a dress shirt, pin stripe trousers, and dress shoes. His eyes landed on the cocoa-skinned woman in front of him, tracing her entire frame- he smirked as he played with the toothpick that hung between his lips. He shaded his eyes with one hand, then took a proper look at Y/N, slow as a man reading a good line in a book.
His gaze ran over her — the hips, the slim-thick curve of her waist, the warm cocoa of her skin — and a smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. Sammie shifted a step forward, hand protective at his side. “This here’s Y/N Carter,” he said. “She just come back into town.”
The tall man cocked an eyebrow, nodding like he’d expected better or worse and found something in between. “Name’s Stack,” he offered, extending a big, work-worn hand. When Y/N took it, his grip was firm but not unkind. “Pleasure.”
Y/N lifted her chin and smiled, returning the handshake with the same steady politeness she’d learned sitting through long church visits. “Miss Carter,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. —”
“Stack’s fine.” He tucked the toothpick back between his teeth and tipped his head toward the house. “Now, Miss Carter. What a pretty young thing like you doin' with us folks this afternoon.” His voice held the easy challenge of a man who’d seen a lot and liked testing new things to see how they’d hold up.
Sammie came up beside them, breath a little winded from the trunk, and gave the short version. “She’s come to help ‘round the place. Figured she’d fit right in.” Y/N kept looking—at the yard, the wide porch, the way light fell through the oaks—but Stack had already tuned everything out except the sight of her. He’d been to Chicago and back, seen plenty, but something about Y/N stopped him mid-thought. He straightened his tie like a man adjusting a picture to the perfect angle, eyes still tracking her.
“Sammie, get that car unloaded,” Stack said, voice smooth as oiled leather. He took a half-step closer to Y/N and allowed himself the kind of grin that said he liked what he saw. “I’mma show Miss Carter ’round the place. You cool with that, Miss Doll?”
“I don’t mind at all. That’d be real nice, but I oughta help my friend, see?”
“Aw, nonsense, doll,” Stack added before Sammie could answer, already sliding into the role he liked best. “Sammie Boy’s on the job. A sweet thing like you shouldn’t be liftin’ a finger, no ways, doll.” Y/N glanced back toward Sammie, who was bent over the trunk, hands working but eyes never leaving them. He watched them like a steer ready to jump, a friend’s caution woven with something sharper.
Before she could step away, Stack’s hand came to rest at the small of her back, guiding more than directing. “Hey, I don’t bite, doll,” he said with a chuckle that brushed against the air between them. “Stick with me and I’ll keep you wrapped up tight—like you’re royalty.” Y/N smoothed the fold of her dress, finding her composure, and turned to follow where his finger pointed.
Stack fell into step a pace behind her, giving the impression he was leading while still treating her as something to admire. Sammie kept unloading, shoulders tense but patient, and Y/N moved forward with that careful mix of politeness and guarded curiosity—aware of the attention, aware of the promise of safety in Stack’s words, and aware, too, of Sammie’s watchful presence.
They wandered out into the backyard, the sunlight slanting through the oaks and catching on beds of blooms. Y/N drifted close to a row of bright zinnias and hollyhocks, fingers hovering over the petals as if she could memorize their scent by touch. Stack fell in beside her, voice low. “Those there’s Annie’s flowers. She’s got a green thumb now and then — that’s why the yard stays lookin’ so sharp.”
“They’re lovely,” Y/N said, turning to him. “If you don’t mind me askin’ — what’s your connection to Sammie and Smoke?”
He filled the space between them without ceremony, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. “I’m his baby brother, see? And Sammie — he’s my cousin.” His words landed easy, casual, but there was an edge to the way he watched her when he spoke.
She caught the scent of his cologne — a clean, smoky note with something sweet underneath — and took a quick step back to reclaim air and space. “Oh. So you’re in on the juke joint too, huh?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
“Sure do,” Stack said, looping slowly around her as if studying a painting. His eyes traveled the length of her, unhidden and unhurried. “You got any idea what I’ll be doin’ for work, then?”
Before he could answer, a familiar honk rolled over from the drive. Stack smiled, like the sound belonged to him. “I’d rather your boss tell you themselves, doll.” He offered his arm with the soft arrogance of a man who liked leading the way and watched Y/N’s hips sway in the breeze as she followed.
At the back door he eased it open for her. Inside, the house breathed a quieter life — framed photographs clustered on the mantel and side tables: babies with downy curls, a woman with dark, glowing skin and a laughing mouth, captured in every image as beautiful and fierce. Y/N let her gaze linger on the pictures, the faces folding into the place she’d come to know.
She watched Sammie unload the groceries until a deep cough startled her. Her eyes drifted toward the living room, where smoke curled lazily around someone’s head. The man sat in a blue armchair, facing them. When he stood, he adjusted his gray vest and looked directly at the pair. That’s when Y/N noticed—Stack and Smoke were twins, but she could easily tell them apart. Stack wore a warm, charming smile and was naturally talkative. Smoke, on the other hand, was colder, more serious, never once cracking a smile.
Miss Carter straightened up just as Smoke spoke. “You’re Y/N Carter, Sammie’s friend. I’m Elijah Moore,” he said, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on her face.
“Yes, Mr. Moore. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replied politely. “I hope I’m not being rude, but Sammie never mentioned the job, unfortunately.”
Smoke nodded slowly. “Good—that means he knows how to follow orders. Come on, while my wife’s out, we’ll go to the study.”
Smoke left Stack and Y/N alone, their eyes meeting for a moment before following him inside. Stack led the way, and Y/N saw the brothers settle side by side at a rectangular table—Smoke at the head, Stack to his left. She lingered at the opposite end, scanning the chairs. When she reached for the seat opposite Smoke, she caught his raised brow. Clearing her throat, she gently pushed the chair back and paused, noticing his steady gaze. If this was a test, she thought, she was already failing.
Stack stood and motioned to his own seat, silently inviting her to take it. Smiling, she thanked him and slid into the chair. As she settled in, Stack carefully pushed her chair in and took his place behind his twin.
Smoke placed his cigarette carefully into the ashtray beside him before fixing his gaze on Y/N’s face.
“Miss Carter, Sammie tells us you’ve got experience with children. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you’re able to cook and handle the household duties?”
Y/N glanced at Sammie, who stood silently in the doorway. Then she turned back to the twins and nodded. Before she could say anything, Smoke interrupted sharply, “Speak up, Miss Carter. We ain’t gonna get nowhere if you keep quiet. Understand?”
Taking a deep breath and folding her hands in her lap, she met his eyes. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Very good, Miss Carter. Now, Annie and I want to hire someone we can trust to watch the house while we’re gone. That means cookin’, cleanin’, runnin’ errands—but most important, watchin’ our ten-month-old upstairs, Angelina.”
Y/N sat straighter, stealing a quick glance at Sammie. This was the opportunity he’d promised. Being a “nanny” was just a polite way to say help around the house, but it was a chance. She thought briefly of her family back in New York and how much this could mean. Then Smoke spoke again, “We wanna offer ten dollars a week.”
The offer stunned her. Ten dollars back then was nearly two hundred now. She was about to respond when a cough came from behind Smoke. Stack gave a subtle thumbs-up, silently urging a higher offer. Y/N placed her hands flat on the table and said firmly, “Twenty.”
Stack smirked to himself.
Smoke raised an eyebrow, leaned back, and studied her face. She was serious. Her eyes searched his, unwavering. Quietly, he admitted to himself there was something about her that reminded him of something .
“Fifteen.”
She shrugged, tilting her head, “Twenty.”
“Seventeen.”
“Twenty.”
“Eighteen.”
Slowly, Smoke rose, standing close enough that their faces nearly touched. He didn’t expect Miss Carter to lean in as well.
“Twenty.”
Smoke clicked his teeth, his face unreadable, but if she had to guess, she thought she caught a slight smirk.
“Alright, Miss Carter. Twenty dollars a week it is. You’ll handle the cookin’, cleanin’, yard work, and watch over Angelina. Sammie’ll get you settled in your room,” Smoke said, nodding to Sammie.
Sammie gestured down the hall, and Y/N followed without hesitation, feeling Smoke’s eyes on her back as she left the room. Stack watched every curve disappear out of sight.
“She sure is a looker,” Stack said quietly. “You reckon she’s up to handle everything??”
Smoke’s gaze remained fixed on the hallway, as if she was still there. He was already thinking.
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: Jealousy & Suspense, Tear Jerkers, ROMANTIC SMUT AND FLUFF
Word Count: 12K
Song Recommendation: Seance by James Black (Sinners Soundtrack)
Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black Female Reader
After her prayer session, Y/N hurried through making a simple breakfast. Just as she sat down, the phone began to ring and before she could say anything, she heard “afternoon, Doll. Hope I ain’t disturbin’ ya none—but truth be told, a vision like you’s worth the interruption.” She grinned and said “hello, Mr. Stack. How can I help you today?”
“Well, Miss Doll, the men and I could use a hand. Do you mind comin’ down to the club?” Stack’s voice carried that easy smile of his, the kind that made her heart skip in spite of herself.
Y/N glanced at the clock on the wall—it was already close to one. “Is everything alright?” she asked, brows pinching slightly.
“Yeah, nothin’ wrong,” Stack assured, his tone almost playful. “We just need your help, Doll. Cornbread’s on his way to pick you up with Theresa and the twins. Make sure you wear somethin’ comfortable.”
She hesitated a beat, still unsure what they’d want with her. “Uh… sure. I can come.”
“Good. Very good. We’ll see you soon,” he replied, and she could practically hear the grin in his voice before the line went quiet.
When she set the receiver down, Y/N realized her cheeks were warm. She shook her head at herself, still confused, but hurried upstairs to change.
Not long after, the sound of a car horn drifted in from outside. Before leaving, she slipped into the nursery and leaned over the crib, pressing a gentle kiss to Angelina’s soft forehead. “I’ll be right back, sweet girl. Your papa needs me.” The baby cooed and curled her tiny fingers around Y/N’s hand, and the gesture made her chest tighten with a fond smile. Carefully, she tucked the blanket back around her before easing out.
Downstairs, Y/N adjusted the straps of her dark denim overalls over a crisp white blouse. Her sturdy boots clicked against the wood as she pinned the last of her hair into a loose bun. She looked practical, ready for work, though she still carried her quiet grace.
Stepping out the front door, she spotted Theresa approaching with the twins in tow. “Hello, Miss Thomas. Hello, sweet peas,” Y/N greeted warmly. “Angelina’s had her breakfast and lunch. She had a little accident earlier, so I bathed her. She’s all clean and resting now.”
Theresa smiled, the twins offering a cheerful wave, and Y/N shared one last look with them before heading toward the car where Cornbread waited. With a small breath, she climbed in, still wondering what Stack and the others had up their sleeve.
The ride didn’t take long, and before she knew it, Cornbread was pulling the truck up to the front of the club. Y/N’s eyes widened the moment she stepped out—there were pickup trucks lined along the dirt lot, men hauling in crates, carrying tools, shouting to one another as they worked. The air smelled of sawdust, oil, and fresh-cut lumber, the promise of change hanging heavy all around.
As she walked beside Cornbread toward the entrance, her boots crunching against gravel, she glanced around in quiet awe. Inside, the place was alive with transformation. Booths now hugged the perimeter of the club, their cushions crisp and new. The wood—oak, she guessed—gleamed in the glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the windows, polished smooth like it had never been touched by years of wear.
Her gaze drifted to the bar, wider and sturdier than before, the oak top catching light like honey. Even the balcony above—once rickety and in danger of collapse—now looked solid and dependable, its railings firm and safe.
She let her eyes trace upward, and then froze.
Three men stood together at the balcony rail, watching her. Bo, Smoke, and Stack.
For a flicker of a second, she was back in her dream—the one that had unsettled her so badly. The sight made her throat tighten.
Smoke shifted first, his gaze cutting toward his brother. But Stack… Stack never looked away from her. His eyes were steady, locked, the corners of his mouth tugging just slightly as though he already knew what she was thinking.
“Miss Carter,” Stack called, voice smooth as molasses, “do us a kindness, Doll, and come on up here. We’re in need of your sweet assistance.”
Her stomach dropped. Oh, dear Lord… Her dream was unfolding before her very eyes.
For a moment she glanced at Cornbread, almost as if asking him silently what she ought to do. He only gave a small nod of encouragement.
Drawing in a breath, Y/N smoothed her blouse with a trembling hand and lifted her chin. Then, with her heart thundering in her chest, she set her boots to the staircase and began the slow climb toward the men waiting above.
When Y/N finally reached the top of the steps, she smoothed her palms against her overalls and tried to steady her breath. Bo was the first to greet her, tipping his head with an easy smile, the kind of smile that always seemed to linger a second too long. Smoke gave a curt nod, his expression carved from stone, while Stack’s eyes lingered just a little softer—warmer, though no less intense.
“Follow us, Miss Carter,” Smoke said, his voice carrying that low command that left little room for questions. Without waiting for her reply, he turned and started down the hall, his coat shifting with his stride.
Bo and Stack fell in behind her, leaving her to walk between them. Y/N felt the weight of their eyes—one measured and cautious, the other shamelessly curious.
Stack’s jaw ticked. He slowed his steps, just enough to glance sideways at his twin’s friend. He caught the way Bo’s gaze was trailing over Y/N’s figure, lingering in a way that set his blood to a slow boil.
Stack’s arm lifted suddenly, the back of his hand pressing against Bo’s chest, stopping him cold. Bo frowned, about to protest, until he saw the look in his brother’s eyes.
Stack’s voice was low, meant only for him. “If you don’t stop lookin’ at Miss Doll like that,” he said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass, “I’ll slit your throat clean and have Grace wonder where the hell you wandered off to.”
Bo’s eyes widened, a laugh slipping up his throat as though he thought Stack was bluffing. But then he caught the gleam in Stack’s gaze—dark, unflinching, dead serious. His smile faltered.
“Okay, okay. Sorry, Stack,” Bo muttered quickly, lifting his hands in surrender.
Stack let his smirk curve, dangerous and knowing, before dropping his hand. He started walking again, his boots heavy against the polished wood. Bo exhaled hard, shaking his head before hurrying to catch up.
By the time the two men rejoined them, Smoke hadn’t even glanced back, but Y/N could feel the weight of something unspoken hanging in the air.
They walked down a narrow hall she could’ve sworn hadn’t existed a week ago. The air was cooler there, heavy, and Y/N felt her stomach tighten with every step. Stack, close behind her, noticed the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her blouse as they followed Smoke and Bo’s lead.
At the end of the corridor stood five closed doors, identical and waiting. “Miss Carter,” Smoke said, turning to her with steel in his eyes, “we need your help gettin’ these rooms in shape before we open. These are gon’ be the money-makers. But they need a woman’s touch. Whatever you need, we’ll fetch it.”
He opened the first door, and inside sat only a bare bedframe with a thin mattress. Y/N let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her chest loosening with relief. At least it wasn’t… that.
Still, her brow pinched. Since when had she become their decorator? And why, of all things, did a hall like this even exist now?
“You needed me for this?” Y/N raised her brow, watching Smoke look her up and down before she folded her hands neatly behind her back.
Y/N stepped into the room first, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She paused, looking around at the plain walls, the lone bed, the bare window that poured in too much daylight. Her brow lifted ever so slightly as she turned back toward the men.
“We need some curtains,” she said finally, scanning the room again. “The window’s a good size, but without coverings, ain’t nothin’ private. Sheets too—somethin’ that don’t trap sweat. Maybe a few candles or dimmed lamps. A rug would tie it all together… deep, red-wine color. Set the mood.”
She crossed over and pressed her palm into the mattress before easing down to test it. The bed creaked beneath her. “Beds could stand to be softer, but… it’ll do for now.” She leaned back on her elbows, hair falling a little loose as she looked up at them.
Stack tilted his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “So, Miss Doll, think we can get that all done in a few hours?”
Her gaze lingered on him through her lashes, heavy and quiet with meaning. It was that same look she’d given him once before—in the stockroom, when the air between them had turned sharp and dangerous. His heart skipped, dimples cutting deep as he smiled back. She sat up more and said “I think we can do it. Don’t you, Mr. Stack?”
“Bo, go in town and get everything Doll here wants, and add a bunch of roses too. Gotta make sure the room makes people do unholy thangs in front of the Lord,” Stack said, voice low and easy, his eyes refusing to leave her.
Bo cut a glance at Smoke, waiting for permission. Smoke’s sharp nod sent him on his way. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving only the three of them in that dim, unfinished room. Y/N smoothed her hands over the front of her blouse, pretending to busy herself as she looked around. Her gaze traced the bare window, the empty floor, and the lonely bed pressed against the wall. Already, she could imagine how curtains, soft sheets, and a splash of color could make it warmer—less like a trap, more like a place to disappear in.
She didn’t have to look at Stack to feel him watching her. His stare clung to her like heat, and the longer she kept her eyes on the walls, the more her skin tingled as though he were already touching her.
Then came the sharp clearing of a throat. Smoke’s voice, hard as iron, cut through the charged silence.
“Stack. Hallway. Now,” he muttered.
Stack’s jaw worked, irritation flashing across his features as he finally pulled his eyes off her. He nodded toward Y/N, a silent goodbye, before heading to the door. But just as he was about to step out, he leaned against the frame and glanced back. His dimples showed in a sly grin.
“You look real good there, doll.”
She rolled her eyes playfully and turned her back to him, hiding the warm berry of her cheeks. The moment the door closed, the air in the hallway shifted. Smoke was already waiting, arms folded across his chest. His eyes cut to his younger brother with a weight that made the narrow space feel smaller.
“You lettin’ your eyes talk too much, little brother,” Smoke said, voice measured but lined with warning.
Stack stopped in his tracks, his head tilting, hands slipping into his pockets like he had all the time in the world. “So what? Folks gon’ think what they think, anyways. Don’t matter to me none.” He leaned back against the wall, casual, but the glint in his eyes told Smoke he was pushing on purpose. “I like her, Smoke. Ain’t no crime in that. We both ain’t hitched or tied to anyone so why in the hell I gotta hide it?”
“You know the life we live. You drag her into it, you’ll break her. She don’t deserve that kind of trouble.” Stack side eyed his brother and stepped closer to him. “Smoke, we haven’t lived that life ever since you started to do right by Ann. I like the damn girl, alright” he explained and Smoke looked him up and down. “She ain’t like the others, Stack. She got respect, carries herself different. You start treatin’ her like some side-play, you’ll ruin that. Don’t do that to her”, Smoke said and all Stack can do was roll his neck.
“For a nappy nigga that ‘pposed to be my fuckin’ blood, you sure don’t fuckin’ no me”, Stack said making his brother stand straight up. "That ain’t what this is, Smoke," Stack said, his voice low but steady, carrying a weight his brother wasn’t used to hearing. "You know me. I don’t chase every skirt that walks by smilin’. I’ve had my fun, sure, but I ain’t blind, and I sure as hell ain’t foolish. I know the difference between a woman you laugh with for a night, and a woman who makes you stop in your tracks without even tryin’. Doll ain’t like the rest. She carries herself with a kind of grace I don’t see often in this world. She looks a man in the eye and makes him feel like he gotta be better just to stand there. Don’t go confusin’ me for some fool that can’t tell respect when he see it, ‘cause what I see in her… it ain’t cheap, and it damn sure ain’t a fling.”
Stack paused, jaw tight, as if weighing whether he’d already said too much. His eyes softened, almost against his will. “Truth is, Smoke… she makes me think about things I ain’t never let myself want before. And if I slip sometimes—if it shows on my face—maybe that’s ‘cause for once in my life, I don’t wanna play it cool. I just… I like her. More than I probably should.”
Smoke didn’t answer right away. He just stared at his brother, eyes unreadable but sharp enough to cut. The muscles in his jaw ticked once, twice, like he was grinding down something he wanted to say but knew better than to voice. His hands flexed against his sides, fists that never quite closed.
Finally, he let out a short breath through his nose, more of a scoff than a sigh. “You talk too much, Stack,” he muttered, voice even but lined with heat. “Best keep your head straight. We got work to do—more important than daydreams.”
He turned then, shoulders stiff as stone, but not before Stack caught the flicker in his brother’s eyes—the kind of look a man gives when something precious is slipping out of his grip.
Stack watched him go, lips quirking in the faintest smirk. He’d pushed Smoke without even trying, and that told him everything he needed to know.
Soon, Bo arrived with everything needed, arms full and a couple of handymen trailing behind him with boxes and tools. Y/N stepped aside as they filed in, her eyes darting from the heavy rolls of fabric to the bundles of roses and the shiny brass rods meant for hanging curtains. The room that had been bare moments ago suddenly came alive with the noise of hammers, men’s voices overlapping, and the scent of sawdust and roses mingling in the air.
Y/N folded her arms, leaning against the wall as she watched. The transformation gave her a strange sense of pride, as though this space—though meant for something she didn’t fully approve of—was becoming hers too.
Bo carried the flowers in first, setting the buckets of roses on the floor near the bed. “Miss Carter, you sure ‘bout all this red? Feels like a sin just walkin’ through the door.”
Before she could answer, Stack bent down, plucked one of the roses out of the bucket, and turned to her with that charming grin of his. He held it out, the thorny stem balanced carefully between his fingers. “That’s the point, Bo. Folks comin’ in here ain’t lookin’ to pray.” Then, softer, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s, “To show how much they care about on anotha.”
The room seemed to go still. Y/N hesitated before taking it, her fingertips brushing against his as she did. She twirled it once, lips pressing together as though trying to hide the smile tugging at her mouth.
Stack’s grin softened into something genuine. “See? Already makes the place look better. Especially with that pretty smile of yours.”
Y/N shook her head lightly, amused despite herself. “Ain’t gotta spell it out, Stack. I know what these rooms are for”, Bo said but Stack only watched Y/N as she tapped the rose against her palm, eyes flicking toward the window. “And if it’s gon’ be done, it should be done right. No sense makin’ it look cheap”, she said, smooth like honey.
Stack leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “And you the only one who can make it right.”
Before Y/N could respond, the door creaked again. Smoke appeared in the frame, his shadow stretching into the room. His eyes swept over the men working, then settled on Stack… before landing on Y/N and the rose in her hand.
Her breath caught. Without a word, she set the flower back down on the table near the bed, as if it burned to keep holding it.
The workers exchanged uneasy looks, their tools suddenly sounding louder in the heavy silence. Bo cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… uh, reckon we’ll start with the curtains.” He motioned to the men, and they quickly busied themselves again, pretending not to notice the unspoken tension.
Stack’s smile faltered, but he didn’t look away from his brother. He noticed the way Smoke’s jaw twitched. “Somethin’ wrong, brother?” he asked, voice steady.
Smoke held his gaze for a long moment, unreadable, then simply turned his head and looked out into the hall. He didn’t answer, just stepped back into the shadows and disappeared.
Y/N exhaled, as if she’d been holding her breath. She smoothed her shirt and busied herself with pointing at the window. “Make sure they hang high enough so it covers the whole frame,” she told the handymen, her voice carefully even. “Don’t want nothin’ peekin’ through.”
Stack watched her a moment longer, dimples tugging faintly at his cheeks, before stepping closer to her side. “Whatever Doll says, we do,” he murmured, loud enough for the others to hear.
By the end of the afternoon, the rooms were finished. The handymen had packed up and gone, leaving behind only the faint smell of polish and the sweet perfume of roses.
Y/N stood near the window, brushing her palms against the front of her blouse as she looked around. The curtains hung just right, the rug softened the floor beneath her boots, and the candles and flowers warmed the space. A small, proud smile tugged at her lips — it actually looked like something she had put herself into.
The door eased open, and when she turned, Smoke stepped inside. He shut it behind him, the sound of the latch falling into place echoing in the quiet room.
“It looks good in here,” he asked, his voice carrying that slow, heavy tone.
Y/N smoothed her trousers and nodded, her smile still polite. “Thank you, sir. You said it needed a woman’s touch. I tried to make it comfortable, but not too soft. Just enough for folks to feel at ease.”
Smoke’s eyes wandered over the curtains, the rug, the roses, and then finally settled back on her. “Didn’t figure you’d put this much into it.”
She gave a small laugh and shrugged. “Well, if you’re gonna have me do a thing, I like to do it right. Place like this oughta feel worth the money people spend.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His jaw shifted like he was holding something back, his stare locked on her a little too long. Y/N tilted her head slightly and added, gentle as ever, “I hope it’s to your liking, Mr. Moore.”
There was a pause, then his voice came rough and low. “Yeah… you got good taste.”
Y/N smiled at that, warm and unguarded. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
He stepped further into the room, slow and steady, his boots dragging slightly against the rug she’d picked out. Y/N only turned back toward the bedspread, smoothing the fabric with her hand. “I think the red sets the mood without being too loud. It pulls everything together, don’t you think?” she asked, glancing back with an open expression.
Smoke was closer now, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the roses. His gaze was heavy, but Y/N met it kindly, no guard in her eyes. She had no reason to put one up — her niceness came natural.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his jaw twitching again. “It does pull everything together.” His words weren’t just about the room, and for a second his chest ached with it.
Y/N chuckled softly, brushing her blouse flat again, unaware of the weight in his stare. “I’m glad you like it. That’s all I wanted.”
Her voice was simple, sweet, and Smoke swallowed hard, wondering if she even knew what she was doing to him just by being herself.
Y/N stepped into the hallway, smoothing down her blouse, her boots clicking steady against the polished floor. She exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and began walking toward the front.
Stack was leaning against the wall a few steps down, arms folded across his chest, watching her with that easy grin that always made her cheeks warm. He pushed off the wall as soon as her eyes met his.
“Well, doll,” he drawled, dimples cutting deep as his gaze lingered on her face, “looks like you done worked your magic in there. Place damn near glows with you touchin’ it.”
Y/N chuckled softly, shaking her head as she walked closer. “Don’t flatter me, Mr. Elias. Just curtains, candles, and a little bit of thought. Anybody could’ve done it.”
“Mm,” Stack tilted his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “Anybody maybe, but not like you.”
Her breath hitched, and before she could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps followed her out. Smoke emerged from the room, his broad frame filling the doorway. His eyes fell instantly on Stack and Y/N standing close in the hallway.
That twitch came at his jaw again, sharp and quick, before his gaze cut away. Stack noticed it. He always did.
“Everythin’ okay, twin?” Stack asked, his voice smooth but edged, daring.
Smoke didn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing just enough to speak for him. Finally, with a low breath through his nose, he muttered, “I’m good, little brother.”
But Y/N felt it — the weight pressing between the two men, thick as smoke itself. She glanced between them, lips parting, unsure if she should break the tension or walk away.
Y/N cleared her throat, the sound small in the quiet hallway. “Mr. Moore, what time should I be back tonight?” Her voice was polite, careful, but there was an undercurrent of nervousness that she couldn’t quite hide.
Smoke’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto hers. It was sharp, unyielding, and she felt it like a physical weight pressing against her chest. “You’ll be ridin’ with us,” he said, each word deliberate, carrying a command she knew she couldn’t argue with.
“I… I don’t think I’ll be ready in time. Maybe I could ride along with Sammie and—” Y/N started, her hands flexing at her sides, but Smoke’s eyes darkened like storm clouds. His presence was sudden, suffocating, and the air between them thickened.
“You will be ridin’ with me and Annie. You have an hour to get ready. Need to be back here to rehearse with Sammie and the boys,” he said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. There was no room for negotiation.
“But sir, it would be easier just to—” Y/N tried again, her voice faltering slightly, the tension in her chest tightening. Smoke’s jaw flexed, his expression hardening, and the faintest shadow of warning passed through his eyes. She swallowed and fell silent, her words trapped in her throat.
He stepped aside, a silent, unspoken sign for her to move. Y/N hesitated, glancing toward Stack, who stood a few steps away. She offered a small wave, a nervous, almost apologetic smile. Stack’s eyes flicked to hers, his expression softening into a faint, encouraging nod. But his gaze quickly shifted as he caught the way Smoke’s dark eyes lingered on him, sharp and unblinking.
Stack’s jaw tightened. He straightened his shoulders, heart racing with a mixture of frustration and desire. He had to figure out how to tell this woman—this woman who had his heart—that it was time for her to step out of the nanny role, step into something permanent, something that included him. He clenched his fists briefly, his mind turning over possibilities even as Y/N moved away, obedient but unaware of the storm of thoughts she left in her wake.
Every step she took echoed in Stack’s chest like a warning bell, reminding him that if he didn’t act soon, he might lose the chance to have her entirely.
The Packard eased down the narrow road, the evening sun cutting long shadows across the windshield. Smoke’s hand was steady on the wheel, his face unreadable as always, eyes fixed forward. Annie rode in the passenger seat, humming softly under her breath, one arm resting out the open window, her bracelets clinking as she tapped her fingers against the door.
In the back, Y/N sat upright, her hands folded in her lap. The leather seat was cool against her back, but the air between the three of them carried its own kind of heat—silent, pressing, unspoken. She glanced out the window, trying to keep her thoughts on the scenery rather than the two in front of her.
After a stretch of quiet, Annie turned her head just enough to look over her shoulder, her eyes sweeping over Y/N’s pressed blouse and pinned-up hair. “You look different, doll. Not like the girl that showed up on day one.”
Y/N gave a polite smile, unsure if Annie meant it as a compliment or not. “Guess I’m learnin’ my way around.”
Smoke’s fingers flexed once on the wheel, but he said nothing. His jaw shifted, tightening as if he wanted to say something but chose not to.
Annie let out a low laugh, flicking her hair back. “Mm. World’s full of folks learnin’ their way around. Some get lost faster than others.”
The comment hung sharp in the air, and Y/N caught herself straightening her back, her smile fading. She looked toward Smoke, almost expecting him to cut in, but he kept his eyes on the road, expression carved from stone.
Finally, Y/N spoke, voice quiet but steady. “Mr. Moore… why couldn’t I just ride with Sammie? We’re rehearsing with the boys anyway.”
Smoke’s eyes slid to the rearview mirror, meeting hers. For a heartbeat, it looked like he’d speak plain, maybe even soften. But then he looked away, back to the road. “You’ll be ridin’ with me and Annie. That’s how it’s goin’.”
The rest of the ride carried the weight of words unsaid.
Once the trio made it home, Annie watched the bathroom door click shut upstairs before turning back to her husband. Smoke stood in the living room with his pipe between his teeth, shoulders squared, eyes following the curl of smoke like he was avoiding her gaze. Annie leaned against the post, arms folded, studying him the way only a wife could.
“I ain’t stupid, Elijah,” she said, her voice calm but edged, stepping off the post and into the room.
Smoke finally looked her way, but before he could answer, Annie pressed on. “Why won’t you let Stack be with Y/N? They’re both good souls. It’s plain as day they got feelin’s for one another. So why stop them from even tryin’?”
Smoke’s jaw flexed as he drew on his pipe, exhaling slow. “Ann, baby… I know my twin better than any man breathin’. Stack loses his head when he’s smitten. He stops thinkin’ sharp, starts actin’ reckless. We can’t afford that — not with everything ridin’ on the club, on this family. Y/N around him like that? He’ll lose focus.” He shifted his weight, tone firming. “And if it goes bad between ‘em, it ain’t just heartbreak. It’s bad blood right in this house. I won’t risk it.”
Annie strode up and plucked the pipe clean out of his mouth. Smoke’s eyes cut hard at her, but she met them without a flinch. “Life’s already messy, Elijah. You think playin’ gatekeeper’s gonna keep trouble out? No, it’ll just leave both of ‘em hatin’ you for standin’ in their way. And that, my love, is its own kind of poison.” Her voice softened just a touch. “Sometimes risk is worth it — especially when it means someone we care about gets to be happy.”
Smoke sucked his teeth, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his whole frame humming with a stubbornness Annie knew too well.
“Elijah,” she said, planting her hands on her hips, eyes pinning him where he stood. “Let them be happy. You can see it same as I do — the way they look at each other.”
His arms crossed over his chest, cutting a hard figure, but his reply came quieter. “Baby… looks can be deceivin’.”
That was when she caught it — the flicker behind his eyes, a shadow of something more than excuses. Annie tilted her head, the faintest smirk pulling at her mouth. She set the pipe down on the mantle with a deliberate hand, then turned for the stairs.
“Sure are,” she murmured over her shoulder, leaving him in the smoke.
Soon, Smoke stood in an all black suit with a matching hat and Annie walked down the steps in her black gown to match her husband, taking her place beside him.
They waited another fifteen minutes before the sound of her heels tapped softly against the hardwood. Then she appeared — a glow in the dim hall, radiant as though she carried her own light.
Y/N wore an ivory-cream satin gown that skimmed her calves, the fabric gliding with every step. A tasteful slit traced up her right leg, offering just enough glimpse to make the dress daring without losing its grace. She paired it with delicate heels of the same satin, a shawl draped loose around her arms, and her grandmother’s gold-and-pearl set — earrings that caught the light, a modest necklace that rested perfectly against her collarbone. Her curls had been coaxed into a deep side part, tucked neatly behind her ear, framing her face in soft, luminous detail.
Annie’s breath caught before a smile broke across her face. She clasped her hands together in delight, eyes brimming with pride. For a moment, she was so swept away she didn’t even notice the change in her husband’s stance.
Smoke looked up — and for once, the stony mask faltered. His gaze traced Y/N slowly, reverently, though he didn’t dare move a muscle. His shoulders had eased, his chest paused mid-breath, and for the faintest instant, his heart skipped against his ribs.
“Darlin’, you look beautiful,” Annie said warmly, pulling her into a hug. “That dress was made for you… and you’re so brave to wear white.”
Y/N flushed, cheeks blooming pink as she murmured her thanks. Annie pulled back, still smiling, and finally cast her glance toward Smoke. His eyes had not left Y/N, steady and unyielding in a way Annie knew too well. That look — the kind that slipped through his armor — told her everything.
She cleared her throat, sharp enough to snap him out of the trance. He blinked once, jaw tightening back into place, and finally moved.
“Ladies,” he said flatly, holding the door open for them.
Y/N stepped past him first, the faint scent of her perfume brushing against him as she passed. Annie followed after, but not without one last look at her husband. His face was stone again, but Annie’s eyes caught the truth lingering in his — and she tucked the knowledge away, silent and knowing.
They soon arrived at the juke joint, the car tires crunching against the gravel as the headlights cut through the night. Annie was the first to step out, her wrist flicking gracefully as she reached back to help Y/N from the car. The two women linked arms, laughter soft between them, while Smoke trailed a few paces behind, pipe smoke curling faintly in the air as he exhaled.
Cornbread stood out front in a sharp black suit, his posture tall, eyes scanning the horizon like a watchman. At the sight of the ladies, his face cracked into a grin wide as sunrise.
“Well, well,” Cornbread boomed, his voice warm as molasses. Annie and Smoke nodded as they passed him, but Cornbread’s gaze lingered on Y/N. With a wink and a low chuckle rolling from his belly, he said, “Miss Carter, you look divine in that dress. I know someone who’d lose his damn mind seein’ you in that, suga.”
Y/N’s cheeks flushed as she gave him a polite thank-you before stepping inside, heels clicking against the wood. The room was quiet still — the band setting up, waiters sliding tables into place, and faint notes from instruments tuning in the background.
On stage, Pearline spotted her and gasped, her eyes lighting up. “Well, well! Look at this angel of a woman,” she called, her voice carrying over the band. “You came just in time, Y/N. We gotta rehearse your number.”
Before Y/N could answer, Pearline bounded down, took her hand, and whisked her toward the stage with the kind of excitement that brooked no refusal. Y/N stumbled at first, laughing nervously, but quickly fell into step as Pearline pulled her beneath the lights. Slim gave a sharp whistle of approval, and Sammie just shook his head, grinning from ear to ear.
Meanwhile, at the back of the club, Smoke was speaking low and sharp to one of the guards. Stack had just come around the corner, rolling his sleeves.
“A’ight, listen close,” Smoke said, jabbing his finger at the man’s chest. “Ain’t nobody usin’ them rooms upstairs unless they paid, and I mean paid in full. You slip up, you answer to me — and trust, boy, you don’t want that smoke.”
“Yes, sir—” the man started, but his words cut off as his eyes drifted toward the stage.
“Who is that?” he asked, pointing.
Stack turned, half curious — then froze.
There she was.
Y/N stood at center stage, Pearline and two other women guiding her through the sway of hips and roll of shoulders. Her fingers traced up the microphone stand as she loosened, laughter spilling out of her like music itself. For a moment, the club’s dim lights seemed made for her alone.
Stack’s grin broke slow, unguarded, his eyes softening until they looked nothing like his usual sharp-edged smirk. His chest tightened, the air sticking in his throat as if she’d stolen it clean away.
“My future wife,” he whispered, the words tumbling out before he even thought them.
The club was soon open and folks began to pour in. The ladies and Y/N sang back up for Pearline for a few songs before the last song was done. Bo was being whispered to by Smoke before he looked to the stage and nodded. Right when Y/N and the girls were done, Bo was by the stage. “Miss Carter, Smoke said you have to work the bar until your number is up”, he said and she thought of why but decided to just not ask. Bo gave her hand to take but she just nodded and began walking to the bar. As she approached the bar, Annie looked in confusion. “Darlin’, you supposed to be with Sammie right now. Why you over here wit is”, Annie asked and Y/N replied “Bo came on got me. Said Mr. Moore needed me here until I sang.”
Annie looked towards the stage to see her husband talking to a guest and turned to Y/N as she waited on people with a smile.
“Y/N, darlin’, come with me. We need to talk”, Annie said and soon, Y/N and Annie were in the stockroom, door locked. Y/N stood there as Annie smiled and asked “Y/N, how do you feel about Elias?” Y/N had her hands folded feeling shy and timid but Annie approached her. Annie lifted her head to look at her and held her hands. “Y/N, you are safe here. I won’t tell a soul. I see how you look at Elias. How you blush and smile whenever he looks at you or talks to you. So, sugar, be honest with ya friend, Annie.”
Y/N look in Annie’s she felt her shoulders relax before turning her back and speaking as she paced the floor. “You ever feel like you been wanderin’ your whole life, Annie? Like no matter where you stand, you don’t quite belong? That’s been me. Movin’, bendin’, shapin’ myself to fit a world that never once felt like mine. But when Stack’s near… Lord, it feels different. It’s like walkin’ through the front door after a long journey—you breathe easier, your bones settle, your chest don’t feel so heavy. He don’t even gotta try, Annie. Just his presence makes me feel… home. And I didn’t think I’d ever find that in a person, let alone in him. It scares me, ‘cause once you know what home feels like, losin’ it… that’s a hurt you don’t ever heal from”, she turned to Annie and she saw Y/N’s eyes go glassy.
Annie held Y/N in her arms to comfort her and said “h, honey. You just told me right now without sayin’ the word—you found your heart in that man. And if bein’ with him makes you feel like you belong, then baby, that’s worth fightin’ for. Don’t let fear or promises keep you from what your soul’s already reachin’ toward.” Y/N felt Annie dab her tears away making her smile, then Y/N spoke more, holding her cry.
“Annie… I can’t. Even if every part of me… aches for him, I can’t let myself. You know the deal we made—me, you, Smoke. My family’s future is sittin’ right on the edge, and I can’t do nothin’ to tip it. One wrong move, one selfish slip, and everything I’ve been holdin’ together falls apart.
If I reach for Stack—if I let myself want him out loud—what happens if it all goes wrong? What happens if Smoke pulls his word back? My folks… they’ll be left with nothin’. No home. No safety. Just more of the same pain we’ve been runnin’ from.
And Lord help me, Annie… the thought of losin’ them terrifies me more than losin’ him. So I swallow it down. I smile when he looks at me, but I lock it all up inside. ‘Cause wantin’ him feels like playin’ with fire, and if I get burned, it won’t just be me who pays the price—it’ll be everyone I love.”
“Oh, baby girl…” she reached over, cupping Y/N’s hands in hers, voice soft but steady “…you don’t have to carry that kind of weight alone. You think lovin’ him makes you reckless, but it don’t—it makes you alive. You’ve been sacrificin’ yourself for everybody else for so long, you forgot you got a right to happiness too.
And listen—whatever happens with that deal, whatever happens with Stack—you won’t face it alone. I’m standin’ right beside you. Always. Don’t you ever doubt that.” Annie nodded at her and hugged her tightly knowing what she had to do. “Y/N, do me favor. Wipe ya face clean, and pretend we ain’t spoke, Just go the bar and I will make sure you are well taken care of”, Annie told her before she looked around the room, grabbing lemons and placing them in Y/N’s hand. “Go ‘head now”, Annie unlocked the door and smacked Y’N’s butt to make her start walking. Annie closed to the door behind her and knew it was time for her to start her mission.
She went ahead out and saw how crowded the club was, she noticed that Pearline and the girls were heading back to stage and signaled for Y/N to go up with a wink. She looked over at her husband and noticed that his eyes were on Y/N. The announcer stood on stage, ready for the song to end. “Well now, wasn’t that a swell number, folks? A real treat for the ears. But don’t go anywhere—’cause we’ve got somethin’ mighty special lined up. Let’s put our hands together and welcome back the lovely Miss Y/N Carter, bringin’ us another classic I know you all are gonna take a shine to.” The crowd cheered for her and that’s when Annie heard a whistle. She looked up to see Stack at the balcony watching over as he clapped and she hurried up the stairs. Y/N smiled as the man stood aside and off stage before she spoke into the microphone.
“Evenin’, everybody. Last week, I shared a song my parents wrote years ago. But tonight… tonight’s different. This one’s mine. It’s about love, about passion, and findin’ that one person who feels like they were meant for you. I hope y’all enjoy it.” She looked back at the girls, Sammie and Slim with the full band who all nodded and began. Slim caresses the piano’s keys, the heart of the arrangement. Upright bass, softly walked in quarter notes, very round and woody. The drums, a slow shuffle beat, whispery, almost like brushing sandpaper. Sammie on his guitar, foot tapping, played soft chord stabs on the backbeat or little bluesy fills and the sax… moaning gently.
The singers swayed as Y/N did with soft smiles as the music played for a bit. Y/N looked around the crowd, seeing everyone grab their loved one, even Bo and Grace. But her eyes were actually searching for his face. Meanwhile, Stack was swaying gently as Annie stood next to him. “Hey, sis. I saw you runnin’ up them steps. Everythin’ okay”, Stack asked looking at her as she placed her hands behind her. “Yes, Elias. I just wanted to ask you somethin’ before… y’know who gets in the way. While he is distracted”, Annie said as she nodded towards the stage, making them both watch Y/N.
Hooold me, baby… don’tcha turn me looose tonight 🎵
Mmm, hooold me, sugar… don’tcha turn me looose tonight 🎵
The moon’s up there grinnin’… an’ your eyes shinin’ soft an’ briiiiight🎵
“Elias, I want you to be honest with me”, Annie started, “how do you feel about Y/N?” Stack’s eyes flickered before they looked at his sister in law. Stack leaned against the railing, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the bar, eyes fixed somewhere past Annie as if the words were too heavy to hold in. “Ann… I… I don’t even know how to say it right. Y/N… she—she’s like… like sunlight, Ann. Not just ‘cause she shines, but… she makes things feel alive again. When she’s around, I… I don’t feel restless. I don’t feel… like I’m always tryin’ to outrun myself. I just… I can breathe. And I… I want that, with her, all the time.”
When ya hand’s in mine, honey, it’s like a gentle rain 🎵
Ohhh, when ya hand’s in mine, darlin’, it’s like a gentle rain 🎵
Ev’ry heartbeat I’m hearin’… it’s whisperin’ your naaaame
He swallowed hard, the raw honesty cracking his voice. “I ain’t never cared like this. I ain’t never… wanted someone the way I want her. And it ain’t just want, it’s… it’s need, but not in a way that’s selfish. It’s… like she completes the pieces I didn’t even know were missin’.” The ladies joined into the chorus softly.
Ohhh, baby, I’m yo’s, body an’ sooooul 🎵
You’s my fire in the night, you make me whole 🎵
Don’tcha slip away, sugar, don’tcha make me cry 🎵
Hooold me, darlin’… till the morning sky 🎵
Annie stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. Her eyes softened as she let him feel her calm. “Stack… baby… you can’t keep that locked up inside. You feel it so deep because it’s real. Y/N… she’s your heart calling you home. Don’t push it away. Don’t let fear take what’s yours. You both deserve to feel this—honestly, completely.”
Band’s playin’ low… piano hums like a lullaby 🎵
Mmm, band’s playin’ low… piano hums like a lullaby 🎵
I’ll sing for you, baby… till them stars fall from the sky
Stack’s jaw loosened, a breath he didn’t know he was holding slipping out. “I just… I’m scared, Ann. Scared that I’ll mess it up, scared that… anything could take it away from me.”
Ohhh, baby, I’m yo’s, body an’ sooooul 🎵
You’s my sugar in the dark, the one I hold 🎵
Don’tcha slip away, sugar… stay right heeere with me 🎵
Hooold me, darlin’… for all eterrrnity 🎵
Annie squeezed his arm gently, a small, reassuring smile tugging at her lips. “Then don’t wait. Don’t let the fear win. You tell her, Stack. Show her. Let her know what she means. Life’s too short for hesitation, baby. You got this. And also, I think she feels the same way.” Annie’s eyes landed on the stage, Stack’s gaze followed and he noticed that her eyes softly met his as she still sang.
Mmm… that’s right, baby… just you an’ me…
Stack nodded towards her and whispered, “Ann, I need a favor.” Annie smirked and looked up at him. “I’m listening, suga.”
The singing swelled again, filling the club with warmth and rhythm. Annie stood close to Smoke, her smile soft but mischievous. “Honey, may I have this dance?” she asked, extending her hand toward him. Smoke’s lips tugged into a rare smile as he took it, guiding her onto the floor where couples swayed in the glow of the stage lights.
As he kept his eyes on his wife, Annie’s hand slipped behind his back. Two fingers lifted in the air—a silent signal only Stack would understand.
Stack straightened his dress shirt and vest, heart pounding steady but eyes sharp as they tracked Y/N. He moved through the crowd with quiet purpose, the room around him fading until only she remained.
Y/N’s voice trailed off with the last line of her verse, and instinctively her gaze flicked upward to the balcony—but Stack wasn’t there. He caught Pearline’s eye and leaned in, whispering something quick. She grinned wide, winking as she cupped her mic. Sliding over to Sammie, she passed the message. A laugh rumbled from him before he nodded at Slim. A single glance was exchanged, then the band’s tune shifted.
The music melted into a playful, jazzy swing. The joint came alive, feet stomping, heads bobbing, laughter spilling into the air. Y/N blinked in surprise, her brow furrowing—until her eyes locked on Stack. He stood at the edge of the stage, hand outstretched, gaze unwavering.
Pearline leaned toward her ear, whispering with a sly grin, “Go on, girl. We’ll cover you.”
Y/N’s chest tightened. Her heart thudded fast, and before she could think twice, she moved toward him. “Stack, what is happenin’?” she whispered breathlessly, but his only answer was the steady grip of his hand guiding her away.
“Stack, what if—HEY!” she squeaked as he swept her off her feet, cradling her in his arms like she weighed nothing. Laughter bubbled in the crowd as he strode for the back hall with unshaken confidence.
Cornbread, leaning against a doorframe, let out a hearty chuckle. “One room for two,” he said, swinging the door wide.
The door clicked shut behind them. The sudden hush made Y/N’s pulse louder in her ears. Stack set her down gently on the bed, but before her words could form, he drew her back up to stand, his hand warm at the small of her back.
For a breath, he just looked at her—his eyes tracing every line of her face, soft with something unspoken yet undeniable. His thumb brushed her cheek, tender, reverent, as if he were memorizing the shape of her.
Then he leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was slow, certain, and impossibly sweet. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t stolen—it was a confession, poured into her mouth without a single word. The world seemed to still, the muffled swing of the band outside fading away.
Her knees weakened as his other hand cupped the back of her neck, holding her steady, secure, cherished. The kiss deepened, not with hunger but with warmth—each movement deliberate, carrying the weight of all the longing they’d held back.
Y/N melted against him, her fingers curling into his vest as though afraid he’d slip away. But he didn’t. He held her close, the kiss lingering like a promise, like home, like the truth he could no longer hide.
Their lips drifted away from one another, making them look into each other’s eyes. He cupped her face in his hands and smiled softly. “Hey, Doll”. She smiled back. “Hello, Stack.” Stack tucked her hair behind ear and said “y’know, you look awfully good in white.” She smiled at his remark before asking “is that why you pulled me in here, baby. His face softened even more, look into her face. His voice was low at first, trembling just enough to show the weight of his heart. “Y/N… I ain’t never been good with fancy words, but I gotta tell you somethin’. I can’t keep it in no more. I’ve tried. I told myself I could be quiet, play it cool, but every time I see you, every time you laugh, every time you look at me… it’s like my chest gonna burst. I ain’t never felt like this before, not for anyone. Not like this.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving hers, and his hands flexed at his sides. “You… you make me want to be better. You make me see things I never noticed before, feel things I thought I’d never feel. And I… I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. Not when I wake up, not when I sleep, not when I’m with anyone else. You’re always there. Always.”
His voice grew steadier, more urgent. “I don’t want no games. I don’t want no maybe’s or if’s. I want you—me and you, honest and real. I want the moments, the fights, the laughs, the quiet nights. I want it all. Y/N, I love you. Ain’t no other way to say it. Ain’t no hiding it. I love you. And if you let me… I’ll spend the rest of my life showin’ you what that means.”
He reached out slowly, almost afraid she might vanish, and whispered, “You’re my home, Y/N. You always been my home.”
Y/N’s breath caught, and her hands trembled slightly at her sides. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest, matching the rhythm of his words. She wanted to speak, to say something, anything—but the weight of what he’d just confessed pinned her tongue.
Her mind raced. He… he loves me? He really loves me? She thought of all the stolen glances, the brief touches, the way he’d been there in moments she couldn’t even admit she needed someone. Every moment made sense now, like a puzzle finally falling into place.
“I… I…” she started, her voice soft and shaky. Her hands found themselves clutching the hem of her blouse, twisting it as if grounding herself. “Stack… I don’t know what to say. I… I’ve felt it too, you know. Every time you’re near… it’s like my chest can’t hold it all. But…” Her gaze dropped to the floor, her shoulders tightening. “There’s so much… I can’t just… I want to be with you so bad, baby. I want us to be happy, not hiding anymore. Not yet. Not without—without making sure everything else is safe first. My family… they gotta come home first. And the deal… it’s still hanging over us.”
Her eyes met his again, shimmering with unshed tears, and she gave a small, almost painful smile. “But… hearing you say that? Stack… hearing you say you love me like that… it’s everything I’ve wanted to hear. And I… I don’t want to run from it. I still have the deal with ya brother and Annie. I still haven’t found house yet for my family and then my daddy would be outta job-”
Stack’s hands tightened gently around hers, his voice low but steady, every word weighted with resolve.
“Y/N… I know what’s weighin’ on you. I know you’re carryin’ everybody on your back—your daddy, little Faith, all of it. But listen to me. You ain’t gotta do it alone no more. I’ll help your daddy find work, I swear it. I know folks, I can make sure he’s set, same as any man that’s worked his whole life deserves to be. And Faith… I’ll get her the care she needs, the best there is. Whatever it takes, I’ll see to it. She won’t go without, not while I’m breathin’.”
He brought her hand to his chest, pressing it against the steady thrum of his heart.
“As for Smoke?” He shook his head, jaw firm. “He’ll huff, he’ll puff, but he’ll get over it. He always does. But me? I can’t get over you. I can’t keep standin’ by watchin’ you give your whole self to everybody but me. I’ve waited long enough, and my heart—darlin’, it’s yours whether I speak it or not.”
His thumb brushed along her knuckles, tender against his rough hand.
“You ain’t meant to spend your days raisin’ somebody else’s young ones and bein’ my brother’s ‘reliever’. You’re meant to be happy, to sing, to laugh, to live. Quit this nanny work, Y/N. Let me be the one to carry that load for you. Let me take care of you, of your family. I’ll put food on the table, roof over your heads, shoes on Faith’s feet. I don’t want your daddy worryin’ about a job, I don’t want Faith sufferin’, and I don’t want you wastin’ your life takin’ care of everybody else but yourself.”
He leaned closer, his voice breaking just enough to show the depth of it. “I want you. All of you. And I’ll move mountains if that’s what it takes to prove it. Lemme prove it, baby.”
Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came. Her heart thudded against her ribs so loud it drowned out the muffled music leaking through the walls. For a moment, she just stared at him, every promise he spoke lingering in the air like something sacred. Her hands trembled, and Stack caught them, his palms warm and calloused as they swallowed hers. He didn’t grip tight—just steady, just enough for her to feel she was safe.
He lifted her knuckles to his mouth, pressing a kiss there, slow and reverent, like she was something to be worshiped. “I mean it, Doll,” he whispered against her skin, his voice low, ragged with truth. “Ain’t nothin’ I said just words. I’ll do it all, and more, if you just let me.”
Her eyes stung, tears she didn’t mean to show brimming as she searched his face for even a flicker of doubt. There wasn’t any. He looked at her like a man who’d already made up his mind, like she was his home, his reason.
Slowly, Y/N stepped forward, closing the small space between them. She let go of the air she’d been holding and rested her forehead against his chest, her hands sliding up to clutch at the fabric of his vest. She could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath her cheek, steady and sure. “Stack…” she whispered, voice trembling, “I don’t know how to do this…”
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him like he’d been waiting a lifetime. One hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling gently in her curls, the other splayed wide across her back as though anchoring her to him. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, lingering there, his voice rumbling against her hair.
“You don’t gotta know how. Just trust me. Trust us.”
Her body softened, her breath shuddering as she melted into his hold. And for the first time in a long while, Y/N allowed herself to believe she didn’t have to carry everything alone—that maybe, just maybe, Stack meant every word with his whole soul.
Her body softened, her breath shuddering as she melted into his hold. And for the first time in a long while, Y/N allowed herself to believe she didn’t have to carry everything alone—that maybe, just maybe, Stack meant every word with his whole soul.
She lifted her head, eyes glistening, her fingers still clutching his vest like letting go might break the spell. Her gaze searched his, looking for cracks, for any sign that this was a dream she’d regret. But all she found was the raw steadiness in his eyes—unflinching, patient, burning for her and only her.
Her breath caught. She let go of his vest and instead placed her hand flat against his chest, feeling the weight of his heartbeat beneath her palm. “Stack,” she whispered, voice trembling, “if I give you all of me… there ain’t no turnin’ back.”
He leaned down, his forehead brushing hers, his lips so close she could taste the promise in his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “’Cause I don’t want no half of you, Doll. I want every piece. Every scar, every fear, every damn dream you carry.”
The tears slipped free then, but she didn’t shy away. Instead, she tilted her face up and kissed him. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate—it was slow, soft, certain. The kind of kiss that spoke of trust more than passion, of surrender more than heat. Her lips lingered on his, trembling at first until she felt him kiss her back with the same gentleness, like he was cradling her heart between them.
Stack cupped her jaw in one hand, his thumb brushing away a tear as it slid down her cheek. The kiss deepened just slightly, enough to tell her he meant forever, but not so much that it demanded anything she wasn’t ready to give. When they finally pulled apart, their breaths tangled in the hush of the room, his forehead rested against hers again.
“You see?” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers. “That right there… that’s all I ever wanted. You trustin’ me. Us.”
And for the first time in years, Y/N felt her chest ease, the weight she’d carried lifting just enough to let love settle in its place.
She leaned into his lips again, their kiss deepening with a sweetness that made her whole body hum. Her fingers moved with care, slowly unbuttoning his vest as if savoring each second, while his hand slid along the curve of her back, gently finding the zipper of her gown and easing it down. They paused, lips hovering, eyes locked—breathless but certain.
“You can have all of me, baby,” she whispered, her voice trembling with both fear and freedom.
A smile curved across his lips, soft but sure, and when she mirrored it, it felt like a promise passing between them. He lowered his head, pressing tender kisses along her shoulder as he slipped her strap down, every touch patient, reverent. She eased him out of his vest, letting it fall forgotten to the floor, her hands lingering on him as though reassuring herself he was real.
He caught her gaze again, never looking away as he eased both straps from her arms. The fabric slid down her body, pooling at her feet in silence that felt sacred. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones with the kind of trust that made his chest ache.
Stack’s answer came not in words but in the strength of his embrace—his right arm curling around her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. She let out a soft gasp as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her arms tightening around his shoulders, holding him close. His mouth found hers once more, slower this time, deliberate, every kiss telling her what he couldn’t stop saying in his heart: that she was his, fully, and always.
As they made their way to the bed, Stack lowered her down with a gentleness that stole her breath. She sank into the sheets, her hair fanning against the pillow, and looked up at him through heavy lashes, her gaze soft, almost shy.
His eyes never left her. It was as if by keeping her in sight, he could keep her from slipping away, from being anything less than his in that moment. Slowly, he began to undress, taking his time as though he wanted her to see every part of him—not just his body, but his sincerity. His shirt slid from his shoulders, followed by his undershirt, both discarded carelessly on the floor.
He bent, sliding off his shoes, his hands never faltering, his gaze still tethered to hers. He moved to his belt next, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss before he let it drop beside the rest of his clothes. The sound made her laugh unexpectedly, a sweet, unguarded sound that slipped into a little snort.
Stack froze, surprised, before the corner of his mouth tugged up into a grin. That sound—so natural, so her—broke whatever tension lingered in the air. His chest shook with a quiet chuckle, and he shook his head, his voice low, warm.
“God, Doll… even now, you still find a way to make me laugh.”
She bit her lip, smiling as he unzipped his pants, and what she saw shocked her. Nine inches, thick, veiny, and cut. She began to think that he was really the baby and if they were even twins. She slowly began to crawl up to him, eyes on his partner in crime and pleasure. When she reached him, she began kissing it from the tip and noticed how it jumped. She smiled as she looked up to him, noticing how soft his was. She kissed from his V-cut down the shaft and began to kiss it until she reached his tip. She looked up at him again, swallowing his dick and making him wince in pleasure. As she began to please him with her mouth, he noticed how her back began to slowly arch, the most perfect arch he had ever seen. He sucked his ring and middle finger to lubricate them and reached behind her, massaging her clit, making her moan softly with his dick in her mouth still. He can feel how quick she had gotten and, boy, wasn’t he tempted.
They met eyes, still pleasing one another, and he said, “Baby, the things you do to me, you have no idea. I’m a patient man, the Lord knows I am, but I gotta feel how that pretty pussy is. C’mere.” He gently removed himself from her mouth and pulled her up, laying her back against the bed, and he crawled up her body, kissing it then her lips. “Let me know if you need some time. No rules, lemme know how I make you feel”, Stack said, his tip teasing her messy clit. Then she felt it as she grabbed the bed sheets. He slid into her easily and he groaned, feeling how tight she was. “My looooooooord, Doll. That pretty pussy is grippin’ me already”, Stack said, slowly stroking her. Y/N felt her nipples hardened, her body shuddering, and a tingling sensation going up her spine.
Stack looked into her face, eyes searching hers. “Mmm, baby, you feel so damn good. This is what heaven must be like”, Stack said, making her smile before kissing one another. The way he kissed her skin made her feel safe. The way he slowly stroked her was so gentle yet so dominating. “How I make you feel, baby?”
“Real good, baby”, she moaned as she held his face, and that’s when she felt it. His pace started to pick up, making the bed scrape against the wooden floor. “I feel you comin’, doll. Are you gonna come for me, baby”, he asked, as he groaned and grunted.
On the other side of the door, Cornbread sat there smiling to himself, knowing his good friend was going to make that girl fall in love with him and vice versa. Stack and Y/N kissed, moaning into each other’s mouths. Y/N feeling him stretch her and her pulling him in more, showing how much they really wanted this. She felt that familiar knot in her stomach, and her breathing became heavy; her fingernails began to claw his back.
“Go ‘head. Come for me. I can feel it. Give it to daddy, baby”, Stack said, before biting into skin. Her eyes began to cross, and she felt herself coming around him. “Ahhhhhhhh shiiiiiiit”, she moaned, making him smile and bite his own lip. Her body started to shake from the orgasm, but calmed as she felt Stack’s arms around her waist, still inside her, and sitting with her in his lap. She began to slowly move against his body as his hand slid up to her neck softly. “There you go, doll. I know you have more in you.” She started to bounce on him in a nice rhythm; he followed, and he looked over the side mirror. “Damn, we sho look togetha, doll. Look at you takin’ that dick. Is daddy dick good baby?”
What he saw almost made him come early. The fire in her eyes, burning into his soul, and her voice almost did it for him. “Yes, baby.”
“Yes, what? Tell daddy, doll. Use your words, baby.”
“Daddy’s dick feel so good.”
“Yeah, baby? I wanna hear you say it again.”
“Daddy’s dick is so fuckin’ good.”
“Then show me how good daddy’s dick is, baby”, Stack said as he felt himself getting his back to the bed. Y/N placed her left hand on his chest, his hands on her hips, and her riding him like she did in her dream. “Shit, the prettiest damn cowgirl I’ve seen. Ah fuck.” Y/N moved her hips in circles as she bounced on him as she was moaning, music to his ears.
His hands went up to her full, slightly sagging breasts and massaged her hard nipples, making him cream on his dick. “Ahhhh, shit. Look at you. Pretty pussy just gushin’, ain’t it doll? Give me all of it. Don’t hold back now.” Her moans began to echo through the room along with his groaning. “C’mere.”
Meanwhile, downstairs, the club was still thumping with life. The band kept the floor hot, folks laughing, dancing, glasses clinking. Smoke leaned back at the bar with Annie by his side, but something tugged at him—something off. His eyes drifted up to the stage. Empty.
Y/N was gone.
He frowned, scanning the room. The crowd was thick, but he caught sight of Grace pouring drinks, a couple of other girls running trays. No Y/N.
“Where the hell she at?” he muttered under his breath, low but sharp enough for Annie to catch. She followed the way his eyes darted, saw the tension building in his jaw.
Smoke pushed off the bar, cutting through the crowd until he reached Sammie and Pearline near the side. He grabbed Sammie by the arm, pulling him close, his voice tight.
“Where’s Miss Carter?”
Sammie’s face twitched, caught off guard. “I—I ain’t sure, Smoke. Think she might’ve gone to the bathroom.”
Before Smoke could press, Pearline slid in quick, a too-bright smile on her lips. “Mm, no, I think I saw her headin’ toward the stock room.”
Annie stepped up beside her, folding her arms, steady but watchful. “Slim told me she slipped out back a minute ago.”
Smoke’s eyes cut between the three of them—Sammie’s nervous swallow, Pearline’s quick grin, Annie’s cool mask. He didn’t like it. Not one damn bit.
Without another word, he shoved past, marching toward the back, the weight of his suspicion heavy in every step. The three of them trailed behind, exchanging glances, each praying Stack had already moved Y/N far enough out of reach.
Meanwhile, upstairs, Stack had Y/N in a deep arch, them both looking in the mirror as he pounded into her. “Doll, you just don’t know what you do to me, woman”, Stack groaned, smacking her ass repeatedly. “I don’t know what sounds better, ya laugh, your voice, you singin’ or how you sound when I make you come over and over again.” He pulled her arms back to make her body raise up, kissing her neck and making moan and grin. Y/N was about to come and he looked at her face in the mirror, eyes on one another and Stack said "go 'head, baby. Everythin' gon' be all right now."
Smoke stormed down the hall, boots heavy against the floor, and flung open the bathroom door without hesitation. The harsh swing of it smacked against the wall.
“Miss Carter,” he barked, his voice echoing off the tile.
Silence.
His nostrils flared. He grabbed Sammie by the arm and shoved him inside. “Look under every stall.”
Sammie froze, blinking. “Smoke, I—”
Before he could finish, Annie’s sharp shake of her head cut him off, her eyes telling him clear—don’t fight it.
Sammie swallowed hard and crouched, glancing under each stall one by one. The tension thickened with every empty space. Finally, he straightened, wiping his palms on his trousers.
“No one, Smoke.”
Smoke’s jaw ticked, that muscle in his cheek jumping. He brushed past Sammie and Annie without another word, his eyes dark as he headed down the hall toward the stock room, each step heavier than the last.
Back upstairs, Y/N and Stack were in sixty-nine, his hard penis deep in her throat and her pretty womanhood on his mouth. As she rode his mouth, he was thrusting up into hers. Both moaning and pleasing one another. She started to use her saliva to massage his balls, making him smack her behind, her jolting and squirting in his mouth softly. He smiled to himself before latching on to her clit, fingering her and making her weak.
Smoke stopped in front of the stock room, his gaze sharp and calculating. He glanced at Pearline, who instinctively met his eyes.
“What?” she asked, wary.
“Open the door,” Smoke said, his tone clipped.
“Smoke, this is—” Pearline started, raising her hands, but froze when she saw him level a revolver at her.
Annie’s eyes went wide, disbelief written across her face. Sammie stepped forward. “What the—”
A sharp smack from the butt of Smoke’s gun cut him off. He leveled it back at Pearline. “Open the door, now, woman. Don’t make me ask again.”
Pearline’s eyes flicked to Sammie, then reluctantly swung the door open, keeping a careful eye on Smoke. The group peered inside—but the room was empty, just the usual stock and neatly arranged supplies.
“Oops,” Pearline muttered, folding her arms and leaning against the wall, a faint smirk betraying her amusement.
Smoke’s jaw clicked audibly. He slipped the revolver back into its holster and pushed past her, his steps heavy with tension, the silence following him like a shadow.
Upstairs, Y/N lied her chest on the bed, Stack thrusting in her kissing her shoulder, listening to her moan. “Ugh, Y/N. You about to make me come”, he said biting in her skin, their sweat combining and all. His hand wrapped around her neck and he began kissing her. “I wanna feel it, baby. I won’t waste a drop, I promise, baby. Give it to me, please. Shiiiiiit”, Y/N said and smiled when she heard him grunt in response.
Outside, Smoke stalked ahead, Annie and Pearline at his sides, Sammie trailing behind. His eyes swept over the alley and the shadows, searching, restless. The longer he found nothing, the hotter his blood boiled.
He spun on them, jaw tight, voice sharp. “Y’all got me runnin’ on some damn goose hunt. Where the hell is she?!”
Annie folded her arms, chin tilted with that usual sass. “Honey, she been workin’ all night. That’s why she here anyway, right?”
Smoke sucked his teeth, his patience razor-thin. Just then, footsteps scuffed against the ground behind them. The group turned.
“Bo,” Annie sighed, exasperated. “What you need, suga? We a little busy.”
Bo glanced at them all, hesitant, before squaring his shoulders. “I know where Y/N is.”
The words hit the air heavy, pulling every eye his way. Shock flickered across Annie and Pearline’s faces. Sammie stiffened. Smoke’s eye twitched, a slow, dangerous smile tugging at his lips.
“Where?” he asked, voice low, deadly calm.
Upstairs, Y/N was on her back, Stack on top. They were almost there, feeling that certain feeling. Y/N moaned, softly biting his lip before they kissed. “I love you, Y/N.”
Bo,” Smoke growled, his voice like gravel, “she better be up here with that negro or I swear—”
Bo swallowed hard but kept climbing the steps, the others trailing behind. “I saw him pull her up here an hour ago,” he said quickly, eyes darting toward Smoke.
Smoke cut him a side-eye sharp enough to slice. Pearline arched a brow, smirking despite the tension. “An hour… hmmm. Impressive.”
Sammie shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Annie, but no one dared speak further. The wooden steps creaked under their weight as the group marched up, the silence thick with Smoke’s simmering rage.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched before them—dimly lit, lined with doors leading to the private sex rooms. The air was heavy, carrying the faint perfume and musk of what went on behind those doors. Smoke’s boots struck the floor hard, each step like a warning, as he led them down the narrow hall toward the truth he was dead set on finding.
“I love you, Stack.” And that was it, he grabbed her throat, making them both came together. Even with his release inside her, he gave a few quick thrusts before fully pulling out. He looked down at her sweaty body, seeing how tired. He kissed her skin, pulling her into a soft hug, kissing her lips as her eyes looked at him. “Hey”, she said, and he replied, “Hey, baby,” before kissing her lips.
Smoke stormed down the hall, blood pounding in his ears, until he spotted Cornbread leaned lazy against a closed door, arms crossed like he had no care in the world.
Cornbread’s head lifted at the sight of them, and his hand slipped behind him to rap three soft knocks against the wall. A signal. A warning.
“Smoke, what’s goin’ on ?” Cornbread asked, his tone calm but his eyes too alert.
“Who in there, Cornbread?” Smoke’s voice was low, dangerous, his jaw flexing like steel about to snap.
Cornbread shifted, glancing at the group crowding the hall. “Can’t say, boss. Ain’t nobody’s business.”
“It’s mine now.” Smoke’s words came out like a growl. “Bo says someone who ain’t supposed to be here dragged somebody else up here.”
Cornbread’s gaze cut sharp toward Bo, slow and menacing. “Damn… Bo, you snitchin’ summa beech.”
Before the air could settle, Smoke shoved Cornbread aside and gripped the handle. For a heartbeat, the hallway went still. Annie’s breath caught. Pearline leaned forward. Sammie’s eyes darted, wide as saucers.
Then Smoke flung the door wide open.
Inside—Slim. Butt-naked, tangled with his old lady in sweaty chaos. Her shriek ripped through the room as she snatched the sheets, Slim spinning around with wild eyes.
Pearline’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes near bursting. Sammie slapped his palms over his face. Annie snapped her head away. Bo froze. Cornbread bit back a laugh.
“WHAT THE HELL Y’ALL DOIN’?!” Slim roared, chest heaving, manhood swaying bold in the lamplight. “CORNBREAD, I TOLD YO’ SORRY ASS TO COVER ME!”
Annie snapped the door shut so hard it rattled. “That’s enough. Everyone downstairs—NOW.”
The group scattered fast, shame and shock tangling their feet as Slim’s curses echoed behind the door. Smoke stayed frozen, muscles rigid, the fury in his chest boiling hotter with every second wasted.
“See what happens when you go huntin’ ghosts?” Annie hissed low at him, eyes sharp. “Now move.”
Reluctantly, Smoke stormed off, boots stomping the boards, Annie close at his heels. She glanced back once, throwing Cornbread a quick wink.
Cornbread tilted his hat slow, waiting until the hallway emptied. Then, calm as ever, he turned and rapped twice on the wall beside him—the signal meant for another door.
A door Smoke hadn’t even checked.
Silence hung, thick as smoke. Then a voice inside stirred.
Inside, Stack’s head lifted. He glanced at Y/N sprawled in the sheets, breathless, glowing. “Well, Doll,” he murmured, a crooked grin tugging his lips, “looks like Smoke’s sniffin’ us out. Let’s get you washed up ‘fore he tears this whole place down.”
He pushed up from the bed, muscles aching, and looked down at her.
“Baby… I can’t feel my legs,” she pouted, lips quivering like she meant it.
Stack chuckled low, shaking his head. “That’s ‘cause I laid claim to ‘em.”
Bending down, he scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothin’, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He carried her toward the bathroom, her laughter soft against his ear, the sound almost enough to drown out the storm brewing just outside the door.
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: Okaaaay, I know I haven't wrote any fanfics in a while or just anything on Tumblr but I watched Sinners last night before bed and let's just say...my dream was very vivid. If this goes well, then I will make this a mini series.
Warning: Sexual Situations
Word Count: 3335
Pairing: Elijah 'Smoke" Moore X Annie (feat. Elias "Stack" Moore and Black Female Reader
Y/N hurried down the hall to catch up to her friend, giving Sammie a sharp church pinch on the arm.
“Ow! What’d you go and do that for, woman?” he yelped.
She pressed a finger to her lips as they slowed their pace. “Now, why on Earth would you go tellin’ your family I’m gonna be the maid?”
“Nanny,” he corrected.
Y/N folded her arms, one brow arched. “Nanny who’s also cookin’, cleanin’, and doin’ all the dang housework.”
Sammie tilted his head. She wasn’t wrong.
“If I was lookin’ to run myself ragged, Sammie, I wouldn’t have left home.”
“And all that without a dime to help your family, huh?”
That made her look away, arms still folded, thoughts heavy. Y/N had told Sammie about her sister’s worsening condition and how they needed the best treatment money could buy. Her father was already worn down from three jobs, too tired to enjoy even two, and Y/N—recently unemployed—had been feeling useless. She’d asked if there was any work back in Mississippi she could take on. Sammie had delivered.
“Y/N, you know any Negro in town’d give their right arm to work with my cousins. They don’t trust many—just a select few—and even then, they keep a close watch. So you oughta take it as a good sign Smoke saw somethin’ in you he didn’t see in any of the other girls he interviewed.”
Her head snapped toward him. “Hold on—you mean there were gals before me?”
Sammie didn’t answer, just smirked and nodded before stopping at a room with the door wide open. He stepped inside while she lingered in the hall, taking it in.
It was bigger than her room back home—cream-colored walls, polished oak floors, and not just a twin bed but a tall dresser, a bookshelf, and a desk by the window. Sammie set her bags down beneath it and looked back as she stepped in.
“You’ll be just fine, Y/N. I’ll let you settle in, but you may wanna freshen up and change into your uniform.”
“Uniform?” she repeated, but he was already heading out the door.
She turned toward the dresser, curiosity piqued, and opened it. Her expression shifted immediately at what she saw inside.
Moments later
Freshly washed, Y/N was pinning her kinky curls into a low bun when she heard a baby coo downstairs, followed by Smoke’s warm drawl: “My girls are back home,” and the soft sound of a kiss.
She smoothed her new clothes, took a steadying breath, and made her way to the stairs. A woman’s voice floated up to meet her—gentle, nurturing. Y/N had a feeling this was the lady of the house, and that maybe working for her would feel… less like servitude.
By the third step, she rolled her shoulders back, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and descended the last few steps. The chatter in the living room faded to silence.
Stepping in, she found every set of eyes fixed on her. She couldn’t yet tell if the looks were good… or bad. The air felt heavy, like a cold blanket.
Y/N decided to cut through it. “Hi, Miss Annie Moore. I’m Y/N Carter…”
“Our new nanny, huh? Well, it’s real nice to finally meet you, darling. Come on in—don’t be shy now.”
Y/N stepped inside slowly, feeling every pair of eyes fixed on her. Stack lingered by the archway, chewing on a toothpick, lips caught in a thoughtful bite. Sammie’s gaze was warm, steady—comforting. Annie and Smoke stood side by side; Annie’s lips curved gently, while Smoke’s face remained a stony mask.
Annie wore a long white lace gown, the kind befitting the 1930s, her hair adorned with sprigs of baby’s breath. Cradled in her arms was a baby girl, swaddled in white, peacefully sleeping.
“Y/N, this here is Angelina Moore.” Annie lifted the cloth to reveal the baby’s chubby cheeks and angelic face—one of the most beautiful little ones Y/N had ever seen.
“She’s just like a little doll, so precious.”
“Thanks, dear. When she smiles, she’s the spittin’ image of Elijah.”
A quiet snicker came from behind her. Annie and Smoke’s eyes flicked to Stack, who shrugged innocently. Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Annie’s gaze returned to Y/N, who stood quietly. “So, Y/N darling, I hear you and my husband have already gone over the terms.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you got him to put more money on the table as well, huh?”
Y/N felt a flicker of nervousness as Annie’s brow rose, her eyes narrowing slightly. Smoke’s gaze swept her up and down, taking in the uniform she wore. Y/N glanced at a nearby picture frame and spotted Stack still watching from across the room.
She met Annie’s eyes again. “Yes, ma’am. My father taught me to negotiate—said that’s how real folks handle business, especially when they’re servin’ others. If I was just watchin’ your child, the last offer would’ve been fine. But since it sounds like I’ll be doin’ plenty more ‘round the house, I figured better compensation was fair. I don’t mind the work—I can handle whatever comes my way.”
The room seemed to heat up with tension as she finished. Y/N braced herself, expecting dismissal, but Annie’s face softened.
“Good—couldn’t agree more.”
Relief washed over her, and she exhaled quietly. Annie continued, “I’m glad you made him sweeten the offer. With a house this big, what he offered before was way too little.”
“Sweetheart, I truly believed it was enough,” Smoke said, trying to plead his case.
Annie smiled knowingly at her husband, then turned back to Y/N and stepped closer. “Please, would you mind placing Angelina in her crib now? We’ve had a long day.”
Annie gently set the baby into Y/N’s arms. Entranced by the sleeping child’s face, Y/N began heading up the stairs, unaware of the eyes tracking her every move—or the whispers behind her back.
“The uniform’s sittin’ on her just right, don’t it?” Stack murmured, adjusting his pants.
Annie approached Sammie by the piano. “Sammie, why didn’t you say she was a bit of a thicker gal? That uniform’s lookin’ a little tight on her.”
Sammie tipped his hat respectfully. “Sorry, Ann. I ain’t seen her in a while—I didn’t know she’d be that… shapely.”
“It’s fine. She looks alright, but if she wants to get more comfy, I’m here to lend a hand,” Annie said with a knowing smile, taking her place beside her husband again.
“Elijah, ease up on that tough mug. You’ll have the poor girl jumpin’ outta her skin.”
Smoke’s face stayed stone as he glanced at his wife, then around the room. Annie smiled and said, “Yeah, that’s better.”
It was Y/N’s first night in the Moore home, and she lay staring at the ceiling in the dark. From the right, she could hear the deep, rumbling snores drifting out of Annie and Smoke’s master suite.
Slipping out of bed, she tied her satin robe over matching pajamas and padded quietly to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water and sat at the small table under the window, the moonlight washing silver over the surface. Her thoughts drifted to her father, to her sister—was she doing any better? She missed them so much that she barely noticed the tear that slid down her cheek, landing on the tabletop.
The kitchen light snapped on.
Annie stood in the doorway, her long robe cinched at the waist, concern softening her face. “Miss Carter, you’re awake. Everything alright?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just couldn’t seem to fall asleep.” Y/N sipped her water.
Annie chuckled gently. “Elijah’s got a snore on him—keeps me up half the night. Like sharin’ a bed with a bear.”
Y/N smiled, trying not to laugh outright, idly circling her finger around the rim of her glass. Annie crossed to the stove, setting a kettle on the burner and reaching for a jar from the cupboard.
Bondye beni ou, she murmured in Creole, spooning herbs into two mugs. She sat beside Y/N, the kettle beginning to hum softly between them.
“Miss Carter,” Annie began, “what brought you back to Mississippi? Samuel says you haven’t been here since y’all were twelve.”
Y/N hesitated. “I… was looking for work. My father’s grown weary, and to let him rest, I reached out to Sammie for a favor.”
Annie studied her, her gaze following Y/N’s down to the table. “You seem sad. You miss ’em?”
Y/N nodded. “I do. But I’m a big girl—I can take care of myself.”
Annie’s lips curved. “I can sense that—and it ain’t the voodoo, either. You’ve got an energy we want around here. Elijah’s noticed it too, even if he won’t say. Trust don’t come easy for him, but he’ll warm up to you. You two’ll be spendin’ plenty of time together—when he’s got his poker nights, when I’m tied up at the store, or whatever else comes along. Elijah likes to be a happy man, and if he’s happy, we’re all happy. You just make sure you help him any way you can. Understood?”
Annie’s hand rested over hers, the touch warm. Y/N smiled back.
The kettle hissed. Annie rose to pour the hot water over the herbs. Y/N’s gaze wandered to a shadow in the corner—and froze. Annie noticed but kept pouring.
“Elijah, you can come in, honey.”
He stepped into the light, pajama shirt unbuttoned, gaze locked on Y/N. “Why are you up? You both have an early morning.”
“Miss Carter couldn’t sleep,” Annie answered easily. “You know how it is in a new home, Elijah.”
Still, his eyes never left her. She found herself glancing away, uneasy under the weight of it, as though he could read more than she wanted him to.
“Here you go, darlin’,” Annie said, setting a steaming mug in front of her. “Lavender and chamomile. Should help you sleep.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Moore.”
“Honey, call me Ann. You’re family now. Go on and get some rest.”
“Good night, Ann.”
“Good night, honey.”
As Y/N moved toward the archway, Elijah stepped aside but kept his gaze fixed on her.
“Good night, Mr. Moore,” she said quietly.
He watched until she disappeared upstairs and shut her door. Annie’s voice broke the silence. “Elijah, give her a chance. She’s a good girl.”
“I reckon she can manage… though I do wonder if the gal’s ready for what’s comin’ her way.” He held out his hand to her. “C’mon now, sweetheart—let’s get on back to bed.”
It was the next morning, and Y/N was dressed in her gardening clothes, a wide shady hat perched on her head. She knelt beside Annie’s garden, humming softly as she pulled weeds, her gloved hands gently working the earth around the flowers. She was so focused, so in the zone, that she didn’t even notice the sound of a car pulling up behind her.
A man stepped out, tipped his brimmed fedora, and smiled as he watched her work.
“Well now… if I’d known the garden could grow a blossom like you, I’d have been out here tendin’ it every day.”
Y/N looked up and smiled to see Stack standing there. “Morning, Stack. When’d you get in?”
“Just rolled in to see you were keepin’ well. Is Smoke ’round?”
“Nah, just me and the baby.”
She stood, slipping off her gloves and dropping them into her bucket. Stack looked her over and grinned, making her wonder what he saw.
“You sure like to smile a lot, huh?”
“Only when I got a fine-lookin’ lady like you in front of me, Miss Doll.”
Y/N couldn’t lie—Stack was smooth, but all the men back in New York knew their way with words. “You gotta be sayin’ that to every pretty lady in town, don’t ya?”
Stack just smiled and shook his head. “Could be, but the only one catchin’ my eye these days… is you, ain’t it?”
Heat crept up Y/N’s cheeks as they stood there in the sun.
“It’s kinda hot out. How ’bout we take it inside for a spell?” Stack asked. She nodded. “I’ll fix us some lemonade, if you like.”
“I’d like that mighty fine. Thank you, Miss Doll.”
He watched her lead the way inside. Y/N slipped off her gardening shoes by the door and swapped them for slippers before hanging her hat on the coatrack.
As she began squeezing lemons for the lemonade, Stack leaned against the kitchen archway, looking around.
“So, Stack. What do you do besides bein’ a smooth talker and runnin’ the juke joint?”
“Not much. Just around to help when I’m needed.”
“I see. So it’s just you and Mr. Moore ’round here?”
“Sure is, Doll.”
Y/N reached into the freezer for some ice but dropped a cube on the floor.
“Ah, shoot.”
As she bent to retrieve it, Stack’s mouth went slightly agape, his head tilting. The curve of her behind caught his eye, and though he felt a rush to pull her close, he held back. There was something delicate about her he didn’t want to disturb.
Suddenly, Stack felt a presence behind him and glanced back to see Smoke stepping in, taking his usual spot to Stack’s left. His eyes quickly found Y/N, and Stack, reading his brother’s body language like a book, watched quietly. Smoke’s hand rested casually in his pocket, cigarette balanced between his fingers, as he observed Y/N bending down to retrieve the dropped ice cube. She tossed it into the sink, then washed and dried the pot with careful, practiced movements.
Still facing away, Y/N flinched when a voice cut through the quiet.
“Why ain’t you out in the garden, Miss Carter?”
Startled, she turned sharply, clutching her pearls. “Good morning, Mr. Moore. I—”
Stack jumped in before she could falter. “I asked her to fix some lemonade for when you got back, seein’ as it’s hot out.”
Smoke didn’t look away from Y/N; instead, he gave his brother a sharp side-eye. Then, taking a few steps forward, he stood directly in front of her, eyes locked on hers.
Y/N felt the urge to look away but held her gaze—something told her she’d regret it if she did.
Smoke appraised her silently, then reached for a glass filled with ice and mint, pouring lemonade slowly as their eyes stayed locked. He raised the cup and took a deliberate sip.
Y/N noticed his lids drooping slightly as he savored the drink, the lemonade dripping softly down his mouth. For a brief moment, his usual stern expression softened.
He finished the glass and set it gently on the counter, never breaking eye contact.
“That lemonade’s sweeter than usual. What’d you put in it, Miss Carter?”
“I boiled some honey and stirred a little in. Mama used to make it that way.”
Y/N wasn’t sure if he liked it. Stack poured himself a glass, sipping slowly while watching her.
“Miss Carter, that lemonade’s real good, doll. Just what I needed,” he said with a grin, trying to ease the tension.
Y/N returned his smile warmly, about to reply when Smoke cleared his throat, preparing to speak—only to be interrupted by a faint baby coo.
Seizing the moment, Y/N excused herself and slipped quietly upstairs.
Smoke looked over at his brother, clicking his teeth and leaning on the counter.
“Elias, I know what you’re up to.”
“Just makin’ the girl feel welcomed.”
“You look desperate.”
“You look like a real putz, if you ask me.”
Smoke stepped around the counter, standing close enough to stare down his brother.
“Look here, I’m just tryin’ to run my house like I should, and you go and start sweet talkin’ my nanny.”
Stack cracked his neck and poured himself another glass.
“Smoke, if you don’t put some effort into Doll, she might up and quit. Then what? You’ll be back at square one, tryin’ to keep things runnin’ ’round here—and with yourself.”
Smoke sighed and rolled his eyes. He knew Stack was right—but he’d never admit it out loud.
Upstairs, Y/N placed the baby back in her crib as she fell asleep. “You love ya beauty sleep, huh, sweetheart? Well, while you sleep, I am gonna take a nice shower and change into my uniform.” She left Angelina’s room, opened the linen cabinet, and made her way to the bathroom to draw a shower. Once the water warmed up, Y/N pinned her hair up tighter and closed the door to undress. Once she was done, she hopped in the shower and began bathing, but she had no clue what would happen next.
The steam began to cloud the mirror, wrapping the bathroom in a soft haze. Warm water cascaded over her shoulders, tracing slow paths down her back as she worked the soap over her skin. Her eyes were closed, lost in the comfort of the heat, when the faintest sound crept into her ears — the creak of a stair, drawn-out and deliberate.
She froze, the rhythm of her hands pausing mid-lather. Maybe it was the house settling… or maybe it wasn’t. The sound came again, this time followed by the faint scuff of leather on wood. Someone was moving upstairs.
A man’s loafers made their way up the steps of the home, and he noticed that the door was cracked enough to get a clear view of the mirror. When he peeked in, he could see the light sag of Y/N’s breasts, the unique shape of her areolas. Her nipples were hardened under the warm water and the soap, kissing each part of her body. He began to caress the hard print in his pants as he watched her touch her body, hearing her softly moan at the feel of the water. How can something so sweet-looking make him want her even more than he already did?
He began to unzip his pants, letting his manhood free, and placed himself inside his hand. He started slowly stroking himself, watching Y/N wash her womanhood and breasts gently. The way he wished he was inside her drove him insane. The urges were getting to him, and he placed his hand softly on the door to open slowly until he heard a car pull up and shut the door instead, making Y/N’s eyes open. “Hello? Anyone there?” she asked, but no one answered.
A few minutes later, Y/N was finished and dressed in her nanny attire. When she was about to head to the baby’s room to check on her, she remembered that it was almost her feeding time. She began to make her way down the stairs when she could hear a loud smack in the air. She slowly made her way down when she could now hear moaning and grunting from a man and a woman.
Y/N stood on the second step, peeking around the area when she heard the noise getting louder. She then looked into the living room and saw nothing. She started to think before heading down the rest of the stairs, and that’s when she saw them. Miss Annie and Mr. Moore were in the kitchen. Annie’s breasts rubbed against the kitchen table as Smoke stood behind her, shirt unbuttoned and wide open, thrusting into her. Y/N could see the sweat dripping down from their bodies. Y/N didn’t know if she should run back upstairs, but her feet wouldn’t let her move. All she could feel was shock, fear… and arousal. She could feel her heart beat through her chest as she slowly backed away to not cause any noise until the loud cry of a baby not only caught her attention but the couple as well. Annie panted as did Smoke as Miss Moore said “Y/N”...
A/N: Okay, sweet babies. This short series is inspired by @spaceprincess04 who wondered if our favorite bad boy turned vampire was either a man of the night or the man who supplies ladies of the night. With her permission, not only am I giving y'all Sex Toy!Stack Moore but also Big Daddy or Pimp!Stack Moore- yes, TWO new short series!!! Ya welcome, HOODLEMS !!!!
POV: Elias “Stack” Moore runs on rules—who he protects, what he allows, and what he never touches.
When he offers you safety, structure, and work without lies, you know the choice isn’t simple. He promises protection, not ownership. Control, not affection.
But Stack watches too closely. Steps in too fast. Cares in ways that break his own rules.
Because in a world built on survival, protection is easy. Want is the dangerous part.
Under His Protection is a slow-burn, morally gray series where safety becomes temptation—and the man who knows better might be the one thing you can’t afford.
Warning: Soft prostitution. Domination and Submission.
Word Count: 6428
Pairing: Big!Daddy Elias 'Stack' Moore x Thick!Black Reader
Stack checked his watch once. Then again. Fifteen minutes passed with the patience of a man who understood that showing up was its own kind of test.
He didn’t pace. He leaned against the hood of his car, arms folded, eyes on the street—not searching, just watching. The city moved the way it always did, careless of people making decisions that could reroute their lives. When she appeared at the corner, breath a little fast, coat buttoned wrong, he didn’t smile like he’d won something.
“You came,” he said. Not relief. Recognition.
“Traffic,” she replied, lifting her chin like an apology wasn’t owed.
He opened the passenger door for her without ceremony and drove.
They didn’t talk much on the way. The city thinned, streetlights stretching farther apart, houses growing larger and quieter. When the gates opened, she noticed the absence of noise first—the way sound seemed to stop at the iron bars. The house rose from the grounds wide and deliberate, not flashy, not hidden. It looked… established.
Inside, warmth greeted them before anything else. Soft lighting. Polished floors. Voices—women’s voices—laughter drifting from somewhere deeper in the house. Women of different races and builds moved through the space dressed in silk, lace, satin robes that caught the light like confidence. None of them looked afraid. None of them looked owned.
“Big Daddy Stack,” one of them called as she passed, grinning wide.
Another brushed his shoulder. “You're late today, Big Daddy Stack.”
“Business, honey,” he replied, approving, unbothered. The name stuck to him easily. He didn’t correct it. He never had.
They noticed her immediately—not circling, not measuring like competitors. One woman smiled softly. Another nodded like she understood what it meant to walk into a place like this for the first time. No judgment. Just awareness.
“This is home,” Stack said quietly, as if that mattered. “Rules apply here most of all.”
He led her upstairs, past open doors and low music, to a room at the end of the hall. He opened it and stepped aside.
It was simple and clean. A large bed with crisp sheets. A dresser. A mirror that didn’t distort. Fresh flowers on the nightstand like someone remembered softness mattered.
“This is yours,” he said. “No one comes in without your say. Lock works. Use it.”
She ran her fingers over the dresser like she was checking for traps. Found none.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he added. “We’ll talk downstairs when you’re ready.”
And he left.
She didn’t come back nervous.
That surprised him.
Most people returned with jitter in their hands, eyes darting like they were already apologizing for wanting something better. She came back quiet, deliberate. Comfortable in the way people get when they’ve already made the decision and are simply stepping into it.
The coat was still wrapped around her when she crossed the threshold downstairs. The building had a hush to it—thick walls, old money energy, a place that had learned how to keep secrets without swallowing them. Stack stood in his study, not pacing, not looming. Just waiting.
He looked up when he heard her boots stop.
“Door locks behind you,” he said evenly. “Always does.”
She nodded. No flinch. That registered.
She slid the coat from her shoulders slowly, not as a reveal, not as performance. Underneath, there was nothing but the silk gown she’d worn beneath it—deep-toned, liquid against her skin, clinging to her curves without apology. It wasn’t lingerie. It wasn’t armor. It was just her, honest and unadorned, the fabric whispering when she moved.
Stack did not let his gaze linger where it didn’t belong.
That mattered.
“Good,” he said instead, voice steady. “You dressed for yourself.”
She met his eyes, something curious passing between them. “You said not to be pretty.”
“I said be yourself,” he corrected gently. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. Solid wood. No wheels. No trap. Positioned so her back wasn’t to the door. That was on purpose.
“Sit,” he said. Not a command. An invitation with structure.
She sat. Crossed one leg over the other. Relaxed into the space like she was testing whether it would betray her. It didn’t.
Stack didn’t sit behind the desk. He leaned against it, arms folded loosely, giving her his full attention without crowding. The light was low but intentional—no shadows on faces, nothing obscured.
“This isn’t a test,” he began. “And it’s not a lesson you pass or fail. It’s information. What you do with it is yours.”
She nodded once. Listening.
“First,” he said, “I teach you how to read men.”
He paused, making sure she understood what he didn’t mean.
“Not how to flatter them. Not how to tempt them. That’s noise. I mean how to see what they want before they say it—and what they’re lying to themselves about.”
He stepped closer—not into her space, just near enough for gravity.
“Men tell you everything with their bodies. Their mouths lie. Their posture doesn’t.”
He gestured with his chin. “Tell me what I’m doing right now.”
She studied him. Took her time. He didn’t interrupt.
“You’re relaxed,” she said finally. “But not casual. Your weight’s on your heels, not your toes. You’re ready to move if you need to, but you’re not expecting trouble.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. Approval, not praise.
“Good. Now—men who lean forward too fast want control. Men who won’t sit want escape. Men who talk about money early are afraid they don’t deserve you. Men who talk about respect too much don’t practice it.”
He let that sink in.
“You don’t argue with any of that,” he continued. “You clock it. You decide what you’re willing to deal with. And if the answer is none—”
“I leave,” she finished quietly.
“Yes,” Stack said. “Before it turns.”
That was the second lesson.
“Control,” he said, shifting topics smoothly, “is not force. Force is loud. Control is quiet. Control is choosing the pace and making them think it was their idea.”
He picked up a glass from the desk, rolled it between his palms. “You don’t raise your voice. You don’t threaten. You don’t bargain your safety. You control the frame.”
She frowned slightly. “Frame?”
“The story they think they’re in,” he explained. “If they believe they’re being evaluated, they behave. If they believe they’re lucky to be here, they listen. If they believe they’re losing you—”
“They panic,” she said.
“Exactly.”
He set the glass down. “You don’t owe anyone reassurance. You don’t chase comfort. You offer presence and remove it the moment it’s disrespected.”
Her shoulders loosened as if something heavy had been named.
“And if they test me?” she asked.
“They will,” Stack said calmly. “That’s not personal. That’s men checking the edges.”
He met her eyes. “Your job is not to pass their test. It’s to end the conversation if the test costs you anything.”
Silence stretched—not awkward, but weighty. He let it breathe.
“Now,” he said, softer, “the most important part.”
She leaned forward without realizing it.
“How to leave,” Stack said. “Before things turn.”
He walked to the door and opened it a crack, then closed it again. Demonstration, not drama.
“You never wait for a situation to get bad enough to justify leaving,” he said. “That’s how people get hurt. You leave when your body notices first—tight chest, heat behind the eyes, the feeling that your laughter isn’t yours anymore.”
She swallowed. Recognition flickered.
“You don’t explain,” he went on. “You don’t apologize. You don’t let anyone follow you into a hallway to ‘talk it out.’ You say one sentence and you move.”
“What sentence?” she asked.
“Whatever sounds natural to you,” he replied. “That’s why I don’t script you. But it ends the moment. ‘I’m done for tonight.’ ‘This doesn’t work for me.’ ‘I’m leaving.’”
He stepped back into place, grounding the room again.
“And if someone ignores that?”
Her voice was steady. “Then it’s already over.”
“Yes,” Stack said quietly. “And you won’t be alone.”
That landed. Not as a promise. As a system.
He finally sat across from her, same level, no hierarchy. “You came back because you wanted structure,” he said. “This is it. Knowledge. Boundaries. Exit routes.”
She looked down at her hands, then back up. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you want out of this?”
Stack didn’t answer immediately. He respected the question too much for that.
“I want you safe,” he said at last. “I want you paid. I want you informed enough to walk away from me if you ever choose to.”
She searched his face for the catch. Found none.
The silk of her gown whispered as she shifted, settling deeper into the chair—not trapped, not owned. Present.
“Good,” she said softly. “Because I’m not here to be controlled.”
Stack’s gaze sharpened—not threatened. Impressed.
“Then you’re exactly where you should be,” he replied.
The lesson wasn’t over.
But the foundation had been laid—slowly, deliberately—like something meant to last.
He didn’t call it sex.
That was the first thing he made clear.
Stack shifted his weight, lowering his voice—not to hush it, but to narrow the room around them. What he was about to teach wasn’t performance. It was survival layered with dignity.
“This part,” he said, tapping the desk once, “is about permission. Yours. Always yours.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. That told him she could handle truth without spectacle.
“What you allow,” he continued, “is decided before you’re ever touched.”
He didn’t describe acts. He described lines.
“You decide what’s on the table when you’re calm, not when someone’s breathing too close or trying to rush the moment. If you wait until then, you’ve already given up ground.”
He watched her face carefully. She nodded once, slow.
“Anything you allow,” Stack said, “has to meet three conditions: you’re sober enough to choose, you feel respected before it happens, and you can stop it without punishment.”
Her brow furrowed. “Punishment?”
“Sulking. Pressure. Anger. The sudden cold shoulder,” he said evenly. “Those are penalties people use when they think access is owed.”
He let that settle.
“Now—what you never allow,” he said, voice firming, “is anything that costs you your voice.”
He stepped closer, still not invading her space.
“No pain you didn’t ask for. No isolation. No being told to ‘relax’ when your body is saying no. No jokes about your size, your color, or your worth—ever.”
Her jaw tightened. He noticed. Logged it.
“And you don’t negotiate those lines in the moment,” Stack added. “You don’t soften them to keep peace. Peace that requires you to disappear isn’t peace.”
She exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding that truth in her chest for years.
“And if something starts to cross?” she asked quietly.
“That’s the last lesson,” he said. “How to stop something without causing a scene.”
He didn’t smile. This wasn’t clever. It was precise.
“You don’t explain your history. You don’t justify your discomfort. You don’t apologize for changing your mind.”
He raised one finger. “One sentence. Calm voice. Direct.”
He gave examples, not scripts—shapes she could fill with her own language.
“This isn’t working for me.”
“I’m done.”
“Stop.”
“No anger,” he said. “Anger invites argument. Calm shuts doors.”
She tilted her head. “And if they push?”
“They don’t get a second sentence,” Stack replied. “They get distance.”
He gestured to the door again. Exit. Always visible.
“You stand up. You move away. You leave. You do not stay to manage their feelings.”
Silence stretched between them again, thick but steady.
“This work,” Stack said finally, softer now, “isn’t about what you give. It’s about what you keep.”
She looked at him then—really looked.
“And if I decide I don’t want any of this anymore?” she asked.
He met her gaze without hesitation. “Then you walk. Clean. No debt. No consequences.”
That, more than anything, told her the truth of him.
He straightened, signaling the end of the lesson for tonight.
“Go upstairs,” he said. “Rest. Tomorrow we talk about money and movement.”
She stood, silk whispering again, more grounded now than when she’d arrived.
At the door, she paused. “Stack?”
“Yes.”
“This,” she said carefully, “this doesn’t feel like being sold.”
“It’s not,” he replied. “It’s being prepared.”
She left with her shoulders squared—not owned, not exposed.
Just informed.
And that was exactly how he intended to keep her.
Morning came slow and warm, like the house itself was stretching awake.
The kitchen was already alive—bare feet on cool tile, the hiss of grease, laughter layered over clinking plates. Women moved around one another with easy familiarity, silk robes and oversized tees brushing hips and shoulders. Someone hummed. Someone else argued about seasoning. Coffee steamed near the window.
Y/N stood at the counter cracking eggs, her body relaxed in a way it hadn’t been the night before. Still alert—but not braced. Comfortable didn’t mean careless. She was learning the difference.
The door to the study opened behind them.
“Morning, Big Daddy Stack,” one voice called sing-song.
“Good mornin’, Big Daddy,” another chimed, followed by a chorus of greetings, playful and warm.
Stack stepped into the kitchen like he always did—unhurried, observant, already taking inventory. He nodded once, murmured acknowledgments, his presence settling the room instead of dominating it.
Then Y/N glanced over her shoulder.
“Morning, Elias.”
Just his name. Clean. Undecorated.
It shouldn’t have done anything. But it did.
The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it. A small, private smirk—gone almost as soon as it appeared.
He clocked it immediately. The way she said it. Not challenging. Not deferential. Just… honest.
He took a seat at the table, accepting a mug someone slid his way. And that’s when he noticed the things he shouldn’t have been noticing.
The way her laugh caught when someone teased her—low, surprised, like she hadn’t expected joy to find her so easily.
The way she looked at him—not hungry, not fearful. Measuring. Curious. Like she was deciding something instead of waiting to be chosen.
Stack was strict. Everyone knew that. But strict didn’t mean cold.
“Eat,” he said to the room. “Nobody works on an empty stomach.”
They listened. They always did.
When the bustle softened and plates were mostly full, he turned his attention to her—not singling her out, not raising his voice.
“Y/N,” he said calmly, “there’s something you need to know.”
She met his gaze immediately.
“I step in once.”
The room quieted—not tense, just attentive.
“If a client overreaches, disrespects your boundary, tries to make you smaller than the agreement—you don’t fight him,” Stack continued. “You don’t fix it. You signal me.”
She nodded. “And after once?”
“After once,” he said evenly, “you already know how to leave.”
That landed. Not as threat. As trust.
He stood then, motioning subtly for her to follow. Not away—just closer. Instruction, not isolation.
“Reading a man,” Stack said, lowering his voice just enough, “starts before he opens his mouth.”
He gestured with his chin toward the front room. “Posture. Pace. Where his eyes go when he thinks no one’s watching.”
She listened closely.
“Some men want softness,” he went on. “They respond to calm, quiet confidence. You let them feel like they’re choosing—even when you already know the outcome.”
His eyes met hers again.
“And some men,” he said, “need to feel contained.”
Her brow lifted slightly.
“Dominance isn’t volume,” Stack explained. “It’s certainty. It’s moving first. Speaking once. Not shrinking when they test you.”
He paused. Let her absorb it.
“You don’t become submissive or dominant because they ask,” he finished. “You choose what keeps you in control.”
There it was again—that look. Thoughtful. Grounded. Fully present.
Breakfast resumed around them, but something had shifted. Not danger. Not desire.
Recognition.
Stack straightened, already stepping back into his role, his rules, his distance.
But as he passed her, his voice dropped just enough for only her to hear.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Don’t rush learning who you are in this house.”
She watched him leave—not with longing.
With understanding.
And for the first time since she’d walked up those boarding house steps, she didn’t feel like she was surviving something.
She felt like she was being trained to stay whole.
After lunch, the house settled into a quieter rhythm.
Plates were cleared. Laughter drifted off into other rooms. The afternoon sun slanted through tall windows, dust motes floating like they had nowhere better to be.
Y/N found herself standing outside the study door again.
It wasn’t an order this time. It wasn’t even an invitation. Just a knowing look from Stack as he’d passed her in the hall, a slight tilt of his head—if you want to learn, come see how this actually works.
She knocked once.
“Come in.”
The study smelled like leather, paper, and something darker—ink, maybe, or old wood. Stack sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled, watch loose at his wrist. Stacks of bills were spread out in clean, disciplined rows. No rush. No mess. Control in physical form.
He didn’t look up right away.
“Close the door,” he said calmly.
She did.
“You eat enough?” he asked, still counting.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Silence stretched—not awkward, just present. The soft thup-thup of bills being aligned. The scratch of a pen marking totals. Y/N leaned against the wall at first, watching. Learning without being told to.
After a while, Stack spoke again.
“Sit.”
Not sharp. Not commanding. Just matter-of-fact.
She took the chair across from him, folding her hands in her lap. He finally looked at her then, really looked—how she held herself, how her eyes tracked the room, how she didn’t fidget even when the quiet got thick.
“Most people think this is the job,” he said, gesturing to the money. “It ain’t.”
He slid a stack into a drawer and locked it.
“This is just the receipt.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Then what’s the job?”
Stack leaned back, considering her like the question mattered.
“Attention,” he said. “Listening. Knowing when to stay and when to disappear.”
He pulled another bundle toward him, slower now. More deliberate.
“You ever notice how men talk more when they think they’re being admired?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “They fill the space.”
A pause.
Stack’s eyes flicked up, sharp—not surprised, but impressed.
“Exactly,” he said. “And the more they talk, the more they tell you what they’re afraid of.”
The lesson unfolded like that. No lectures. Just conversation that circled deeper each time.
They talked about tells—hands tightening on glasses, voices lowering when pride got touched. About how silence could be a boundary just as strong as a no. About how leaving first wasn’t weakness—it was leverage.
“What you allow,” Stack said quietly, “teaches people how to treat you.”
“And what you never allow?” she asked.
He met her gaze steadily.
“You don’t negotiate that,” he said. “You remove yourself.”
No bravado. No threat. Just truth.
The afternoon faded into evening almost unnoticed. Someone knocked once to say dinner was ready. Neither of them moved right away.
“Go eat,” Stack said finally. “We’ll finish later.”
Later turned into night.
The house dimmed. Lamps replaced overhead lights. The study became its own pocket of time—just the soft glow, the smell of paper and coffee now, the steady rhythm of counting.
Y/N sat beside him this time, close enough to pass stacks back and forth. Their shoulders didn’t touch—but they could have. That was the difference. Choice.
They talked while they worked.
About nothing. About everything.
Where she grew up. Why she learned to watch people instead of trusting them. How he built this place rule by rule, mistake by mistake, loss by loss.
He didn’t soften when he spoke—but he didn’t hide either.
Somewhere after midnight, he noticed it again—the way she leaned in when she laughed quietly. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Not flirtation. Recognition.
It unsettled him more than he liked.
“Time,” Stack said eventually, pushing his chair back. “That’s enough for today.”
She stood with him.
At the door, he stopped—not blocking her, just grounding the moment.
“You’re learning fast,” he said. “That don’t mean you rush.”
“I won’t,” she replied.
He studied her a beat longer, then nodded.
“Good. We build this slow.”
She left the study feeling something unfamiliar settle in her chest—not excitement. Not fear.
Stability.
And Stack, alone again with the locked drawers and quiet room, realized something he hadn’t planned for at all:
This wasn’t attraction growing between them.
It was trust.
And that was far more dangerous.
Night settled deep into the house, the kind of quiet that pressed against the walls and made every thought louder.
Y/N lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the building breathing around her. Sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind kept circling—money, tomorrow, rules she was learning, the weight of being seen without being touched.
Finally, she pushed the covers back.
She slipped from the bed and pulled on her silk robe, tying it loosely at the waist. The fabric cooled her skin as she stepped into the hallway. Her hair, blown out and softly curled, was tucked behind her right ear out of habit, like she needed something familiar to hold onto.
The house lights were low. Not dark—just dim enough to feel private.
She padded toward the kitchen, intending only to pour a glass of water.
She didn’t expect to see him.
Stack came down the opposite end of the hall, bare feet quiet against the floor, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, robe loose and open at the chest. He stopped when he saw her, brows lifting just slightly.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
She shook her head. “You either?”
He gave a low huff of a laugh. “Haven’t slept right in years.”
Neither of them moved for a second. No tension—just recognition. Two insomniacs meeting in the middle of the night.
“Kitchen?” he asked.
She nodded.
They sat at the table instead of the counter, across from each other, the way people sat when they planned to talk longer than they meant to. Stack poured water for both of them without asking.
For a while, they drank in silence.
Then he leaned back slightly, studying her—not her body, not the robe, but her face. The tiredness behind her eyes.
“Why’d you get into this?” he asked, voice low, even. No judgment. Just curiosity.
She swallowed.
“No family,” she said plainly. “No money. No safety net.” A pause. “I got tired of pretending hustle was the same thing as stability.”
Stack nodded slowly, like he’d already known the answer but needed to hear it anyway.
“That makes sense,” he said. “You ain’t running toward chaos. You’re running away from it.”
She looked down at her hands. “I don’t want to be disposable.”
Something in his expression shifted—not soft, but focused.
“That’s why you’re here,” he said. “And why I don’t rush shit.”
He glanced toward the hallway that led back to the rooms. “Next lesson was supposed to be in the morning.”
She looked up. “But?”
“But I’m awake. You’re awake.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “And this one don’t need daylight.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “What is it?”
Stack leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, lowering his voice like the walls themselves might listen.
“What keeps men coming back,” he said.
As the door clicked shut behind them, Stack turned to face Y/N, his eyes dark with desire. Without a word, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back against the wall, pinning her there with his body.
"On your knees," he growled, his voice rough with barely restrained hunger.
Y/N's heart raced as she slowly sank to the floor, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder. She looked up at Stack through her lashes, her breath coming fast and shallow.
"Good girl," he purised, his hand coming to rest on the back of her head. "Now, open your mouth."
Y/N parted her lips, her tongue darting out to moisten them. Stack took advantage, pushing two fingers into her mouth and tracing the curve of her lower lip.
"Get them nice and wet," he commanded. "You're going to need it."
Y/N obeyed, sucking on his fingers, her tongue swirling around them as if they were his dick. The taste of his skin, the salty tang of his sweat, the way he groaned softly above her—it all combined to make her dizzy with need.
"Fuck," Stack hissed, pulling his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop. "You're a natural at this, aren't you? Born to be on your knees, serving a man's dick."
Y/N flushed at his words, a rush of heat flooding her core. She'd never been spoken to like this before, never been so utterly dominated. But there was something intoxicating about it, something that made her ache to submit further.
"Please," she whimpered, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "Please, sir. I need your dick."
A dark chuckle rumbled in Stack's chest. "You think you deserve my dick? You think you've earned it?"
Y/N shook her head frantically, tears of desperation pricking at the corners of her eyes. "No, sir. I don't deserve it. I'm just a dirty little slut who needs to be punished for being so greedy."
"Exactly," Stack growled. He gripped her hair tighter and forced her head back. "And punishment is what you're going to get."
With that, he undid his pajama pants and pulled out his massive, throbbing dick. It bobbed in front of Y/N's face, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. She licked her lips in anticipation, her mouth watering at the sight of it.
"Open wide," Stack commanded, and without waiting for her response, he shoved his dick deep into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat.
Y/N gagged and choked around him, tears streaming down her face as he fucked her mouth with brutal intensity. She could feel his dick throbbing against her tongue, could taste the salty musk of his skin. She relaxed her throat, taking him deeper, wanting to prove that she could handle whatever he gave her.
"Fuck yes," Stack groaned above her. "Take it, you little whore. Take my dick like you were made for it."
He thrust harder, faster, his balls slapping against her chin with each stroke. Y/N could feel herself growing wetter with every second, her pussy clenching around nothing as he used her mouth for his pleasure.
Just as she thought she couldn't take anymore, Stack pulled out abruptly, leaving her gasping and shaking on the floor. He stared down at her, his chest heaving, his dick still hard and dripping.
"You've done well," he said roughly. "But the night's just getting started."
With a strong hand, Stack hauled Y/N up from the plush carpet of his master bedroom, his iron grip bruising her arm as he yanked her flush against his broad chest. His massive dick throbbed against her belly through the thin silk robe, the heat searing into her skin like a brand. The room's dim lamplight cast shadows over the king-sized bed with its rumpled black sheets, the air thick with the scent of his musk and her arousal.
“Big Daddy Stack,” she whimpered, craning her neck to meet his piercing gaze, her voice trembling with desperate need. “I need you inside me. Fuck me hard.”
His lips curled into a wicked smirk, and he ripped the robe's tie free, the fabric parting to bare her trembling body. Rough palms mauled her tits, kneading the soft flesh until it spilled between his fingers, then he latched onto her nipples, twisting and pulling them viciously until she arched and yelped in pain-laced pleasure.
“Such a desperate whore,” he snarled, his voice a gravelly rumble that vibrated through her. One hand shot between her thighs, shoving past the slick lips of her pussy to ram two fingers deep inside. She was soaked, her juices coating his digits instantly as he curled them against her inner walls, pumping with brutal force. “Dripping like a faucet for my dick. I love that nasty shit.”
Y/N bucked against his hand, moaning like an animal in heat, her hips grinding shamelessly for more. Stack's laugh was dark and mocking as he withdrew his fingers, only to slap her clit sharply, making her jolt and cry out. He spun her roughly, shoving her face-down onto the bed, her knees hitting the mattress as he forced her ass up high. The silk sheets whispered against her skin, cool against the fire building in her core.
“Present that wet ass pussy to me,” he ordered, his large hands spreading her cheeks wide, thumbs digging into the sensitive flesh. Y/N arched her back deeper, pushing her dripping pussy toward him, exposed and vulnerable under his hungry stare. The head of his dick nudged her entrance, thick and insistent, smearing her wetness along her folds but not entering yet.
“Please, Big Daddy,” she begged, twisting to glance back at him, her eyes glassy with lust. “Shove your dick in me. Stretch me wide and own this pussy.”
With a guttural grunt, Stack slammed forward, his entire length spearing into her in one merciless thrust. Y/N's scream echoed off the bedroom walls, her tight walls clamping down around his girth as it bottomed out, hitting her cervix with a jolt of agony and ecstasy. He didn't pause—his hips pistoned immediately, fucking her with savage depth, the bedframe groaning under the assault. Each drive slapped his heavy balls against her clit, sending shocks through her body.
“Your pussy's gripping me like a vice, slut,” he growled, tangling his fist in her hair and yanking her head back, arching her spine painfully. “Made to take my dick, huh? Say it while I wreck this muthafucka.”
“Yes! Made for your huge dick!” she wailed, pushing back to meet his punishing rhythm, her tits bouncing wildly against the sheets. The friction built fast, her first orgasm crashing over her without warning—her pussy spasming, squirting around his shaft as she sobbed his name. But Stack didn't relent; he kept pounding through it, his free hand cracking down on her ass cheek, leaving a purple handprint that burned.
He pulled out abruptly, her hole clenching at the emptiness, and flipped her onto her back like she weighed nothing. Spreading her legs wide, he hooked them over his shoulders and plunged back in, folding her in half. The new angle let him grind deeper, his pubic bone crushing her clit with every thrust. 'Cum again, fucktoy. Soak my balls.' His fingers found her nipples again, pinching and rolling them until tears pricked her eyes.
The pressure coiled tighter, and she shattered a second time, her nails raking down his back as her pussy milked him, juices flooding out around his pistoning dick. Stack's breath grew ragged, but he held off, sweat dripping from his brow onto her heaving chest. He wanted her utterly destroyed.
Yanking free once more, he manhandled her onto her side, lifting one leg high. His slick dick pressed against her asshole, the tight pucker resisting for a heartbeat before he forced the tip in. “No mercy for this hole,” he hissed, inching forward relentlessly, her ring stretching around his thickness until he was buried balls-deep in her ass. The burn was intense, tearing a raw scream from her throat, but it melted into filthy moans as he started thrusting, slow at first, then building to a frenzy.
“Fuck, why you tight, baby?” he groaned, reaching around to shove three fingers into her abandoned pussy, stretching both entrances simultaneously. He matched the rhythms, fucking her ass while finger-banging her cunt, the dual invasion overwhelming her senses. Y/N's body quaked, a third orgasm ripping through her like lightning—her ass clenching rhythmically around his dick, pussy gushing over his hand as she thrashed on the bed.
Only then did Stack unleash, his thrusts erratic as he buried himself deep in her ass and erupted. Hot ropes of cum flooded her, spilling out around his shaft as he ground against her, marking her completely. He collapsed over her for a moment, both panting, before pulling out with an obscene squelch, watching his seed drip from her gaping ass onto the sheets.
They didn’t speak right away.
The room was dim, lit only by the low lamp on the far side of the bed, casting shadows that moved with their breathing. The sheets were tangled, warm, damp with sweat, clinging to skin that hadn’t yet cooled. Stack lay on his back, one arm bent beneath his head, chest rising and falling slow but heavy. Y/N was beside him, turned slightly toward him, her shoulder brushing his, her breath still uneven.
Nothing needed to be explained. Nothing needed to be named.
The air between them was thick—not with heat anymore, but with the quiet aftermath of it. The kind that made your body feel boneless, your thoughts slow and honest. Stack reached out without looking, his fingers grazing her wrist, resting there like he was grounding himself. Not possessive. Just present.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see it and murmured, “Yeah.”
Her voice sounded different to her own ears—softer, stripped of the armor she usually wore. She stared up at the ceiling, watching the light shift with the fan’s lazy spin, feeling the echo of him everywhere without needing him to touch her again.
Minutes passed like that. Long ones. Comfortable ones.
Stack turned his head just enough to look at her. He took in details he hadn’t let himself notice before—the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes rested against her skin, the calm settling into her after something that had clearly shaken them both.
“You don’t rush,” he said, more to the room than to her.
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Neither do you. Not really.”
That earned a small smile from him. Brief. Unguarded.
They lay there, shoulders touching now, heat slowly fading into something steadier. Something that felt dangerous in a different way. Stack knew it. So did she. Feelings were messier than desire. Harder to control. Harder to walk away from.
He shifted slightly, careful not to crowd her, and she didn’t move away.
Instead, she rolled onto her side, resting her head against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm came around her automatically, settling at her back. No squeezing. No claiming. Just holding.
Their breathing synced without effort.
If either of them noticed the way it felt too right—how the silence didn’t itch, how the closeness didn’t demand more—they didn’t say it.
They stayed there, listening to each other exist.
And for now, that was enough.
He didn’t move right away.
Stack stayed where he was, back against the pillows, chest still rising slow and heavy, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was memorizing it. When he finally spoke, his voice was low again—steady, back under control.
“Go shower,” he said. “Then get some rest.”
Y/N nodded, already halfway somewhere else in her head. She reached for her silk robe, sliding it over her skin, the fabric whisper-soft against a body that hadn’t fully stopped humming yet. She tied it loosely at her waist, fingers trembling just a little before she smoothed them out, reclaiming herself piece by piece.
At the door, she paused.
She turned back just enough to look at him—still stretched out, still watching her like he was trying not to. Her voice dropped, gentle, almost shy.
“Good night, Big Daddy Stack.”
The words weren’t teasing. They were intimate in a way that caught him off guard.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.
He just dipped his chin once, eyes never leaving her as she slipped out and closed the door behind her.
Alone again, the quiet pressed in fast.
Stack exhaled through his nose and dragged a hand down his face.
This is business.
This is temporary.
He repeated it like a rule, like something written in stone. But the problem was—his mind didn’t listen. It kept circling back to the way she’d looked at him before she left. The way she hadn’t asked for anything. The way she trusted him enough to sleep under his roof.
That was the dangerous part.
Morning came loud and warm, sunlight spilling through tall windows in the dining room. The long table was already crowded—women laughing, plates clinking, coffee being passed down. It felt lived-in, almost domestic in a way the house rarely allowed itself to be.
Stack sat at the head of the table, posture straight, presence grounding the room without effort. Conversation softened whenever he spoke, resumed when he didn’t. Beside him was an empty chair.
Y/N came in a few minutes late.
She moved slower than usual, careful with each step, schooling her face into calm even as her body protested. The room noticed anyway—small pauses, quick glances—but no one said a word.
She reached the table, eyes flicking briefly to Stack before she took the seat beside him. Lowering herself took time. She masked it well, but he saw it. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“You good?” he asked quietly, leaning just enough that only she could hear.
She nodded. “Yeah. Just… sore.”
Something unreadable crossed his face—concern edged with restraint. He poured her a cup of coffee without asking and slid it toward her.
“Eat,” he murmured. “Slow.”
Around them, the table buzzed on, none of them catching the exchange meant only for two people. Stack reached for his own mug, then spoke again, softer still.
“Tonight’s your first job,” he said. No drama. No buildup. Just the truth. “I’ll be close. You won’t be alone.”
Her fingers tightened around the mug. She looked at him then, really looked at him, searching his face for something—fear, reassurance, permission.
What she found was certainty.
He met her gaze, steady and serious.
“Remember,” he said, voice low but firm, words meant to anchor her. “You don’t owe anyone your body. Only your time—and even that’s borrowed.”
She swallowed, nodding once.
And for just a second—before the noise of the room swallowed them again—it felt like the world narrowed down to that space between their shoulders, charged and careful and dangerously close to something neither of them was ready to name.
A/N: Okay, sweet babies. This short series is inspired by @spaceprincess04 who wondered if our favorite bad boy turned vampire was either a man of the night or the man who supplies ladies of the night. With her permission, not only am I giving y'all Sex Toy!Stack Moore but also Big Daddy or Pimp!Stack Moore- yes, TWO new short series!!! Ya welcome, HOODLEMS !!!!
POV: Elias “Stack” Moore runs on rules—who he protects, what he allows, and what he never touches.
When he offers you safety, structure, and work without lies, you know the choice isn’t simple. He promises protection, not ownership. Control, not affection.
But Stack watches too closely.
Steps in too fast.
Cares in ways that break his own rules.
Because in a world built on survival, protection is easy.
Want is the dangerous part.
Under His Protection is a slow-burn, morally gray series where safety becomes temptation—and the man who knows better might be the one thing you can’t afford.
Warning: Soft prostitution.
Word Count: 1499
Pairing: Big!Daddy Elias 'Stack' Moore x Thick!Black Reader
She was sitting on the chipped steps of the boarding house because the room upstairs smelled like other people’s fights and the landlord charged by the week in a way that made bills multiply like bad luck. The city hummed around her—buses coughing at the curb, neon from a corner bodega throwing cheap light across the sidewalk, someone laughing too loud in a doorway. She kept her coat wrapped around herself not to be pretty but to keep her warmth where it belonged: close to her ribs. Full-figured and unadorned, she looked like a woman who had learned the economy of neglect. She looked like survival.
Stack saw her before he let himself notice the rest of the street. He didn’t glide up like a predatory shadow. He moved the way a man who had watched people his whole life stepped—calibrated, careful. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and waited a beat, giving her the space a stranger might need when the world already felt crowded.
She glanced at him once, then away. Something in the set of her jaw told him she was used to being seen and not being looked at. He took his time. He asked where the nearest public phone was—an innocent, useful question—and when she pointed, his voice softened with thanks. He asked nothing else right away.
When he spoke again, he asked a different kind of question. “You reading anything?” He nodded at the small dog-eared paperback in her lap. It was a slim detective novel; she closed it like it wasn’t worth defending.
“Just something to drown out the noise,” she said. Her voice was even. It had edges, but it didn’t beg.
He sat on the step below hers, not intruding but not retreating either. The city noise folded around them like a blanket.
“Do you want to be somewhere else?” he asked. No promise, no flourish—just the simple fact of a question. He was asking permission. She could have said no. She didn’t.
She studied him properly then. Mid-thirties, a coat that had seen better winters, hands that spoke of work. Not a preacher. Not a polished recruiter. Someone used to asking the right question at the right time. He listened when she answered. He did not fill the silence with soothing lies.
“I want a little more,” she admitted finally. “But more is expensive right now.”
He nodded, like that explained everything. He didn’t frown. He didn’t pity. He examined her—not as prey, but as a ledger of choices. Intelligence registered in the small adjustments she made—how she held onto her purse, the quick scanning of the street when a van pulled up, the way she measured distance between herself and the door. This wasn’t chaos. It was strategy.
Stack’s voice tilted into plain facts. “I’m Stack,” he said. “I do work that keeps people breathing when the world tries to choke them out. I don’t—” he stopped to look at her hands, then continued, slow and careful, “—I don’t sugarcoat. I don’t sell fantasies.”
She listened because he didn’t move like someone trying to sell her a story. He laid his hand flat on his knee and spoke in paragraphs like he was stating terms of employment rather than pledging allegiance.
“Rules,” he said. “First—nobody touches you without your say. Second—if you don’t want to do something, you don’t have to. Third—safety comes before anything else. You’ve got a right to leave. Fourth—cash is cash. You get your cut. No middlemen that vanish at the first sign of trouble. If you want to walk away later, you walk away later.”
She let the list sit between them, tasting the bluntness of it. It was not romantic. It was structural. It was a thing that could be used to build a life, or at least prop one up for a while.
“And the money?” she asked.
He told her plainly. A cut, a percentage, a payment schedule, a line about not owing anyone but herself. He sketched contingencies—if work slipped, if situations turned—his voice steady like an anchor. He explained who would be involved: people she could see, people who’d act as human eyes and hands, names and faces that meant something in the neighborhoods she already navigated. The math of it made sense. The safety plan made sense. The honesty in the offer made sense.
“You don’t have to say yes,” Stack said. He met her eyes then, and there was nothing in them but the gravity of someone who had watched too many yeses become traps. “You can tell me no. You can tell me later. You can leave. You are allowed to change your mind.”
She felt herself measuring him the way she’d measured a landlord, a boss, a friend—how much could one trust that opening? He did not shove his hand toward hers. He did not call her cute. He did not offer the small stings of charm that cushion a lie. His tone was practical, not hungry. He let choice sit like currency between them.
“I don’t sell girls,” he said finally, in a voice that made everyone within earshot imagine the opposite. “I sell safety. You decide if that’s worth the price.”
There it was—the Key Line. It landed like an outline around something she’d been unready to name: she needed structure more than romance. She needed an arrangement that acknowledged the work of staying alive without asking for the surrender of her body as collateral. Stack’s language gave that to her; it separated the idea from the myth.
She thought about it. Considered the counteroffers the world had already given her—sweat, shame, disappointment. She watched Stack’s hands outline the conditions one more time. He repeated the safety protocols, the cut of the money, the exact people involved. No promises about forever. No demands for her to change her name. No touch, nothing that smelled like coercion. He gave her a time to think, a private line to call him, and a place to come if she said yes.
“Why should I trust you?” she asked. The question was small, practical.
“Because I won’t lie,” he said. “Because I don’t touch you. Because I’ll let you leave. And because I’ve built a roof over people who had no roofs. That work has scars. You can ask anyone.” His calm was a kind of history, a ledger of people who’d walked in and not been sold for parts.
She felt the gravity of that. Trust came in measures. So did power. She was aware of both—how much of each she’d give, what it would cost. She wasn’t naïve. She’d seen men with offers like his; she’d seen the rot underneath a velvet pitch. But here, for the first time in months, someone had offered her a blueprint and no promise of prettiness—just protection, pay, the right to refuse.
After a long breath, she folded the detective novel closed and looked at him properly.
“If I say yes,” she asked, “what do I wear?”
Stack cocked his head, registering the small human ritual of it. “Not to be pretty,” he said without condescension. “Wear what you are. Clothes that let you move. Shoes you trust. Something that feels like you when you’re not pretending.”
She let out a small laugh—surprised by the tenderness of such a utilitarian request. He wasn’t asking for a costume. He wanted the real person—the one who’d figured out which steps to avoid and which streets made room.
“When do I come back?” she asked.
“Two days,” Stack said. “No pressure before then. Think it over. Bring whatever questions you need. If you decide you want out after the first week, you come to me and we cut it clean.”
She slid his number into her purse like a talisman. It was only a folded strip of paper with digits on it, but it felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with ink.
He stood, gave her the space she needed to stand too, and for the first time since she’d sat on those steps, she felt the surge of a possibility that was not frantic—something that might be steadier than the last thing the world offered her.
“Be yourself,” he said, surprising both of them with the simplicity. “That’s the condition. Nothing else.”
She nodded. The city kept breathing behind them. She rose, wrapped her coat tighter, and walked away with the detective novel in her bag and the number in the pocket of her life like an uncertain anchor.
Stack watched her go, not with triumph but with watchful patience. He had not sold her a fantasy. He had offered an option. The kind with rules. The kind with a safety net strong enough to catch, but not to smother. If she came back, she would come back on her terms. If she didn’t, he would know he had not coerced. He would know the price of his work remained honorably paid.
