hello :p how do u feel ab Pope taking care of his sweet girl after she’s had suuuch a long day at work? running a shower, oiling her down, feeding her then fking her to sleep!!
hiii! i just so happened to have a very stressful day at work today, so this is perfect timing!
nsfw (minors dni, please!): oral (f recieving), p in v sex, somno (slight), andrew is a total loverboy, references to dumbification (c’mon, you know me), poorly written smut :(
you can’t get in the house fast enough. today was monstrously long & frustrating— more often than not there were tears blooming in your eyes as you daydreamed about the work day ending. the intense desire to go home and be with pope catapulting you through the work day.
when you finally do get inside, after you nearly trip up the stairs and burst into a new set of tears, you drop your bag & go face first into your cozy couch. silently breathing, fingers rubbing against the sandy colored fabric. it’s blissful, the quiet. but far too quiet. usually pope is waiting for you on the couch, jaw set and hands unoccupied; most times just staring out the window at the vast ocean. but no sign of him today.
you settle further on your tummy, breasts slightly squished against the couch, but you welcome the discomfort. at least you’re home. now, you just need to get out of your own head and decompress.
the sound of wet feet hitting lineoleum. the wooden hallway floor creaking with the unmistakable weight of a man; a thick man, at that. and finally the sweet, casual coo “hey, when did you get home?”
the sound of his voice alone, the gruff throaty murmur coupled with a classic surfer drawl, brings you the most comfort you’ve felt all day. rolling over, you lean your chin on the arm of the couch. jaw clamping down into a little pout as you gaze over at him.
broad shoulders, freckled & sunburnt, hunched over in his usual gait. a towel wrapped tightly around his waist, his right hand holding it secured as pools of water drip from his auburn curls to the floor. andrew is always a sight for sore eyes, but today? exactly the remedy you needed.
“a couple minutes ago” your eyes flutter shut, finally taking your first deep breath all day— just the steady presence of andrew can cure so much. his heavy footsteps come closer, a large hand carding through your hair as you sigh.
it’s silent for a few moments, only the feel of andrew’s thick fingers keeping you awake. “you tired? bad day?” andrew is a man of few words but it’s times like these where you prefer it. he doesn’t always know how to show love verbally, and after spending the day with an overstimulating amount of people, the last thing you want to do is have a long conversation.
your sad response of “yeah” causes andrew to pout even more. his hand sprawls across your head after a few light scratches before he’s made up his mind. “c’mon baby, get up” whispered so gently that it’s almost as if he didn’t want to wake you from your daze.
he leads you to the bathroom, turning on the shower for you as you stand in the middle of the room. he’s so precise, it might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. pope lines up your body wash, your favorite shampoo & conditioner, your signature lotion, your cleansers & moisturizers— all of it. he does it without a single clank or clamber; well rehearsed in doting on his sweet girl.
you move to sit on the toilet seat lid, fatigued and enamored. so enamored, you don’t even notice when he steps out to throw on a pair of comfy shorts.
checking the water to make sure it’s your preferred temperature (scalding enough to make any other man flinch in a shared shower, but andrew revels in the sting), andrew returns back to you. sitting on the toilet seat, you gaze up at him, in adoration.
andrew cradles your cheek as he stands, breathing before sinking to his knees to slip off your shoes. “y’gonna take a shower, get all clean and cozy, and then i’m gonna lotion you up, and braid your hair, kay?”
he falls into this caretaker role so easily, it makes you want to cry thinking about how he must’ve always wanted this for himself.
you nod wordlessly, tenderhearted and needy for him. pope continues slowly, keeping eye contact as he nearly mumbles “alright honey, g’head and get in, i’ll be right here.”
shedding your work clothes, you barely notice andrew grabbing them and folding them up for you before he slips out of the steamy bathroom. andrew, loyal in all facets, goes to your bedroom and grabs some comfy jammies. the softest sleep shorts you own, comfy cotton panties, one of his old shirts & fluffy socks, he can already see your shoulders relaxing into his familiarity.
your shower was quick, a 15 minute hair wash & body session that leaves you glowing and warm. you can see the outline of andrew sitting on the toilet seat lid, quiet and poised. the comfort of his shadow an irreplaceable desire.
turning off the shower & peering around the floral curtain, you mumble “‘m all done.” promptly, andrews placing a warm towel in your hand and helping you out of the shower. you dry your hair as he dries your body, eternally pouty but relaxed.
your eyes flutter shut as he dries down to the bottoms of your feet, one knee propped up while the other kisses the tile floor. he’s determined in his pursuit, ridding you of all water droplets as he softly rubs the warm cotton against you.
“you want some lotion, sweetheart?” he whispers— already knowing the answer. he grabs your favorite lotion, the nutty vanilla shea butter brand that drives him insane, and comes back to kneeling in front of you. before one hand is braced on your knee, andrew pumps the sticky cream into his hands, rubbing them together before starting at your feet.
his hands rub over your pedicured toes, his thumb rubbing gently into your once-sprained ankle. andrew’s breathing picks up, and the entire scene is so sensual, so devoted, tears well in your eyes. his big hands span up your calves, paying equal attention to them before moving up to your thighs.
they’ve always been a source of insecurity for you; stretch marks & body hair being the constraints that can dictate an entire image. but andrew loves them. fuckin’ loves laying on them, kissing them, nipping them, sliding his cock between them.
so it comes as no surprise when andrew massages the tops of your thighs, his auburn curls tickling the little mound of your own curls. kissing your thighs, he continues to squeeze them gently as he makes his ascent. his nose rubs right against your clit as he inhales against you, a small groan leaving his chest as he settles in comfortably.
still rubbing your thighs, andrew nuzzles his head closer to you, closing his eyes to lick into you with your broken sigh. his hands trail up to your hips, rubbing lotion into the dips of your waist and the expanse of your tummy.
pope’s tongue swirls in figures 8s, sucking and nipping at your little bud with all the ease of a man eating his favorite meal for the rest of his life. the clack of his tongue resounds in the steamy bathroom as he presses his face further into you. it’s messy, filthy, downright dirty. everything andrew usually fears. but it’s you, and the grout in his knees and the ache in his jaw feel so good.
his hands move up to cup your breasts as you hunch over him, legs shaking as he hums softly into you. “so good, y’work so hard. taste so good”
digging your hands into his curls, you whine out; feeling your peak nearing. heaving and sobbing, andrew holds you upright as he slurps, his tongue rolling against your sensitive little hole as you cry out.
afterwards, when he rises to kiss you & helps you into your jammies, he braids your hair as you sit in a daze on your bed. the light tug of his hands keeps you grounded, keeps you from slipping too far away from him just yet.
when he’s finished, he kisses you from above, hand on your chin to tilt your head up. “c’mon, lemme make you somethin to eat.” pope grabs your hand, helping you rise before you trail behind him into the kitchen.
he sits you on the stool as he preps your dinner, asking you little, unstressful questions about your day. “how was your lunch?” “what color pen did you use at work?” “did you see any cool birds today?” the last one was so random it made you laugh, but andrew was entirely serious. okay, maybe he just wanted to hear you giggle.
after your eat your yummy grilled cheese, andrew cutting your sandwich into squares and feeding you from across the island, you feel the same anxiety from earlier creep in. andrew cleans the kitchen & shuts it down for the night, before padding over to your chair and scooping you into his arms. your arms hook around his strong neck, ankles crossed as he carries you into your room.
he places you gently on your lavendar comforter, floating about the room as he checks all of the locks. andrew is… meticulous, but not without reason. he’s careful with what he loves, and there’s a warm feeling in your stomach when you realize that’s how he’s been all night— like a child realizing that their favorite stuffie is entirely their own.
crawling into bed next to you, andrew keeps you nose to nose as you even your breathing. he doesn’t even need to say it, you can tell in his eyes he wants you to sync up with him. andrew licks his lips as you gaze at him doe-eyed. his strong thighs touch yours as you sink closer to him, “thank you andrew” “course”
you try & sleep after that, really you do. but the feeling of andrew, cradling you to his chest when he was still very much awake? the sound of his hand rubbing up and down your back over his t-shirt? the very reminder that he was real and wanted to do your skincare & eat you out on the floor of your bathroom? how could anyone rest?
now, andrew’s taken it easy on you, but he knows what you need. that sweet, dumb space in between reality and sleep; the daze you crave. this very realization is what leads his eyes to darken as he speaks with a swallow, “you still need me, huh?”
you preen as you sigh, “yess.” the moment you finish this answer, andrew’s leaning forward with a desperate kiss. rolling you on your back, you’re tummy to tummy with him as he deepens the kiss. the silent smack of your lips fills the room as you whine, hands coming up to frame his back as he breathes into your mouth.
the black shorts clinging to his thighs, some old mma practice shorts you begged him not to throw out, slide down to his knees. his arm braced beside your head as he whispers, “‘m gonna make it all go away, i promise.”
the slide, the squelch, the tremor that wracks through him as he slips inside of you already has your eyes fluttering shut. he rocks softly, hips flush against your pelvis as he sinks in as deep as he can. it almost feels like you have to gasp to accomodate all of him; have to clear your body of air to make room for his thickness.
he knows what you need, knows your poor, exhausted little brain is overworked and just wants to rest for the night. which is why it’s so perfectly timed that andrew wiggles his hips from left to right, drool pooling down his chin as you kiss. a calloused thumb comes to rub against your clit, still sensitive from his previous affections.
a gasp rolls through you, making room for andrew’s tongue— covered in him at all ends. the soft creak of the mattress, the slide of his sweaty chest against your soft t-shirt, the friction of your nipples straining against the fabric; it was all too much.
before you know it, you’re panting into his mouth. pope bites his lip with a shudder “fuuuuuuck” as your eyes glaze over. “y’still here baby, hm? oh, oh you’re fuckin’ gone, huh? i got you, i’ll make it better.” he whines out, struggling to hold back his release himself.
with a wail, you cum, legs shaking against andrew as he continues to thrust. wordless, breathless, boneless— you’re not even sure what planet you’re on. all thoughts of work, and miserable coworkers and a shitty pay leave your brain— the only thoughts a resounding andrewandrewandrew and loveyouloveyouloveyou as you weep.
andrew watches in awe as you repeat those phrases out loud, you don’t even know what you’re saying, you’re so thoroughly fucked. your eyes flutter closed with sleep as you cling to him, his jaw going slack as his hips pick up speed.
“ah fuck- y’can go to sleep baby, yeaaaah, that’s a gooood girl.”
and you do, surrounded in him, belly inwardly pulsing with the sudden flush of wet heat from your lover. a kiss to your eyelids, a breathy sigh against your lips as he settles in next to you, facing you as he speaks.
just thinking about how pope likes to watch you do your makeup. your beautiful to him always but he loves watching you so focused on the task at hand. right as your finishing, he'd come up behind you, tilting your chin up to him as he looks down at your face. the sparkly highlighter on your inner corners of your eyes, the button of shimmer on your nose, the soft blush on your cheeks and sparkly eyes looking up at him. his thumb strokes your throat before he leans down pressing a kiss to your lips, murmuring against them so sweetly 'my girl's so pretty'. he's always so patient when you're doing your makeup, he always waits until right before you reach for your lip combo so you don't pout at him for messing up the freshly applied masterpiece. of course he's ruining it later when he's got your face mushed into his pillow at the end of the night while you take him from behind.
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i think everyone should know that i hc jack abbot as loud ass moaner. that man is grunting, groaning and moaning at the highest decibel know to man, he doesn't give a fuck who knows or who can hear. his/your neighbors think it's cause he's approaching geriatric age, you think it's because he doesn't know how to control his volume level when he's already so vocal during sex. really it's because he can feel you clench harder around him the louder he gets.
i know this trope is so overused but idc i js love the idea of s1 sammy having the most beautiful girl on his arms. he's always been a little more chubbier than the rest of the detectives. resulting in a multitude of jokes at his expense. always stuff about him never being able to 'pull' or that he's not a ladies man like nate. but little do they know he has his own pretty lady waiting for him at home.
his fellow detectives don't find out about you until the annual summer barbecue that the precinct throws every year. this year, sammy got the short end of the stick and was forced into being the host. he tries telling you that you don't have to be around if you don't want. that he can give you some money to spend while you walk the grove. but you insist on staying. "i wanna meet all your friends, baby." and how can he deny you when you look up at him with those big eyes and pouty lips?
it's pushing one o'clock now, and all his buddies have arrived. they all sit outside around the pool, drinking beers and sharing old stories. sammy stands by the grill, talking to nate, who stands on his left. all of a sudden, he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist from behind. your glossed up lips press a kiss at the base of his neck. "hi, baby," you greet softly. "you need anything?" sammy sets down the metal spatula, moving his now free arm around your waist. "nah, honey, i'm all good here. nate, i'd like you to meet my girl."
the man is almost in total shock. he had no idea that his own partner had a girlfriend. nor did he expect her to be gorgeous. even sammy was a little speechless at the sight of you in some daisy duke shorts and tank top that matched your complexion perfectly. nate holds out his hand for you to shake, which you do. the two of you hold a pleasant conversation for a few minutes, with sammy occasionally jumping in, when you hear the oven beep. "oh, those are the brownies. i'm gonna head back in now. it was lovely meeting you, nate. lemme know if you need anything, baby," you say to sammy, before slipping back into the house.
once you're gone, nate claps sammy on the back, softly laughing to himself. "my man. you secured a beautiful girl." sammy drops his head to hide the blush that blooms across his cheeks. yeah, he did. he couldn't be luckier to have a girl like you in his life.
Jack does a double take when he sees pink latex gloves on your hands, “Since when did we start carrying those?” He asks, nodding to your hands.
You brightly smile at him, “We don’t. I bought them for myself to use at work. They’re hospital grade and everything! Aren’t they cute?” You hold up your hands.
He hums, “Won’t be very cute when they’re covered in blood, sweetheart.”
You drop your hands and roll your eyes at him, “God forbid a girl adds a little whimsy to her chaotic work life!”
Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture.
He’s a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobody’s paying proper attention to it.
And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion.
So he makes an effort to fix it.
A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when you’re bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit — plate to sink, fridge to stove — he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs.
A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.
“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.”
He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time.
He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look.
It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen.
So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.
Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.
“Up.”
You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.
His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting.
Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation.
“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”
You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”
He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.
“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”
He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it.
You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.
“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.”
Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way.
Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.
MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye
Recently been thinking about cat hybrid!reader who's usually so affectionate with the team...
"Scenting us. Important thing for hybrids." Price had explained when soap first grumbles about how often you touched them.
Marking them as territory, as family, really. They don't understand how important it is for you, but none of them complain when you wake up sometimes and simply need to rub your cheek into their necks. Tail twitching softly, ears shifting in content. You do your best work when you can scent them frequently.
Of course, after so many months working together in close proximity, no one really argues with your cuddly nature. Gaz runs warm, your ideal heating pad for those cold meeting rooms, spending your time in his lap with your tail curled around hid ankle. Ghost, the best sniper of the team by far, never moves when you decide to nap on him. Price's office has the best sunspot, and he keeps the area open with some blankets purchased just for you. Soap doesn't mind PDA when you crawl on top of him in front of others, he loves feeling your deep purrs in his chest.
All of that is to say, you're constantly with at least one of them, basking in physical affection.
So it's strange when no one sees you all morning.
Usually you're trailing after one of your teammates before going about your morning scenting. Today...you're just...gone.
Price assumes you've finally made other friends, assures the team it's nothing. But by time lunch has rolled around and still no one's seen you? A search is started, each of them keeping the others updated.
With each passing moment the list of places you aren't keeps growing. You aren't in the barracks, your room, anyone's rooms. You aren't in the gym, pool, supply closets. You aren't on the roof or in the kitchen.
It's near dark when ghost finds you.
Tucked under various tools in the groundskeepes shed. You're sweaty, clammy. Sluggish. You squint up at ghost, lethargic, and let out a weak hiss. You look....horrible.
"Found 'em." He mutters into his comms. Ghost kneels down to press the back if his hand to your face, frowning deeply "the runts sick. Bad shape."
Which is how you end up back in your room, smothered under blankets with at least one of the guys at your sides at all times. Making sure you don't make a sixth escape attempt.
For once, they initiate the contact. After all, you are their territory as much as they are yours.
SUMMARY: When the double date from Hell rolls around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang.
WARNINGS: big screen time for tom in this chapter ladies, i do apologize, narcissistic tendencies, slight mentions of emotional abuse and mental manipulation, swearing, protective!jack, flirting, teasing, smut; oral (female receiving), biting, praise kink, protected p-in-v...
A/N: girls i am literally at out at the bar rn trying desperately to get this out on time!! i am so so excited to share this, it's the long awaited chapter of tom and jack finally meeting!! i promised i would have it out by the weekend so here you go! <3 also there's two big references in here... whoever gets them wins smooches
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 12.2k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You stare at Phoebe.
She stares at you.
She doesn’t move, but you can see the brief flick of her eyes beneath the mesh sockets of her mask. Her hands are fisted, resting on narrow hips as she stands on the coffee table, refusing to see reason.
“Baby, it is eighty degrees outside.” Your words squeeze through gritted teeth, patience wearing thin from this argument lasting ten minutes already.
Frustration is showing in the form of tight lips and beads of sweat that dots your hairline, the clamminess of your palms. But Phoebe does not budge. Her stance remains steady on the oak, fists pressing firmly onto her hips. You blink at her, at the fucking nylon fabric that’s borderline suffocating every single inch of her skin.
“Fine.” Your voice is tight when you speak. “Then we’re not going out for ice cream.”
You make a show of dropping your purse on the kitchen counter, making your way to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water instead. Phoebe still doesn’t move, not even an inch. It’s from across the lounge that Jack has to stifle a laugh by pursing his lips, angling his head so he’s not staring at the back of Phoebe’s outfit.
He doesn’t interfere, finds it quite amusing to watch the way Phoebe stubbornly tries to take control of your parenting. It’s like she’s waiting you out, like she knows it’s a matter of time before you cave and just let her go out in what she’s chosen.
In any other instance, maybe you would. Pick your battles and all that. But not when it's roasting hot outside and she won’t be able to breathe. Phoebe isn’t the only stubborn one in this apartment. She got it from someone, and that someone is you.
Jack watches in amusement as you sit at the kitchen island and take a sip from your water bottle, the silence so loud he’s worried that if he even breathes out a laugh, this frustration and stubbornness on both of your sides will then be directed at him.
But five minutes pass. Then ten. And neither you nor Phoebe have moved.
“Jack, if you’d like to go and get ice cream without us, go ahead.” You speak in a feigned, professional tone. The sound of it quirks Jack’s brow, but it still doesn’t make Phoebe move.
He cranes a neck to look around her, to meet your gaze. You nod your head to Phoebe, eyes wide and brows raised, a silent command for him to try instead. It causes a ruckus of movement in his stomach at the suggestion, at the approval from you to do so.
But Jack doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of experience with disciplining stubborn kids, so he swallows thickly when he approaches the table to stand in front of Pheebs instead of behind her.
“Diva,” he regards her softly, though there's a kink in his tone that she’s never heard from him before. One that holds something like authority.
Her head twitches, but ultimately, she ignores him like she’s ignored you.
With a sigh, Jack leans down with his legs spread, his eyes level with hers, palms resting on his lower thighs. “Spider-Girl…”
Phoebe, the little shit, turns her head to look at him fully at that. Jack can just about make out the blinking of her eyes beneath the mesh mask as she shifts in her Spider-Man costume.
“I know you wanna save the city, kid. But, it's too hot today for you to wear this outside.”
You watch the interaction with squinted eyes and a racing heart. Jack is soft when he speaks with her, gentle yet firm enough that she knows not to argue with him the way she will with you.
“Peter Parker doesn’t wear his Spidey stuff every day and he still manages to save people without it, right?”
Her head dips until her chin is pressed to her chest. “I guess so.” Her words are muffled through the fabric of the mask.
Jack hums, like he understands her upset and inner turmoil. “So, why don’t we change into something else? Maybe a pretty dress like Mommy? Or some shorts like me? Plus, you don’t wanna spill ice cream down your Spidey outfit.”
It’s with a heavy sigh that Phoebe pinches the mask at the top of her head and pulls it off. Her cheeks are flushed red, hair an unruly mess despite you fixing it just an hour ago. Jack grins at her, stands back at his full height and tenderly smoothes down her wanton strands like he’s slicking them.
You watch the exchange, heart lodged in your throat at how easy it is between them—how natural he is with her, how quickly they understand each other. Phoebe jumps down from the coffee table and trudges back into her bedroom to change and you watch Jack watch her go.
Quietly, you stand and approach him and Jack meets your gaze with hesitancy.
“Was that okay?” He asks lowly.
Your bottom lip is sucked into your mouth as you nod your head, wrapping your arms around his broad waist when you reach him. “Uhuh,” you hum, pressing your lips to his slowly.
Jack kisses you gently, slowly, lets his tongue swipe against yours only once before he pulls away with a crooked grin.
“Yeah?” His tone is suggestive, amused, and you both love and hate how easily he can read you.
That he knows you liked watching him step just slightly into the threshold of parenthood, that it rattled you a little to watch him be so respectful and kind but authoritative at the same time. That you liked how natural it was for him, how easily Phoebe listened.
You roll your eyes at him but the act is nothing but fond and affectionate.
You’ve felt much braver, secure, since your talk at the beginning of the week. Since Jack told you he was happy that Phoebe had been calling him your boyfriend. Since you became his girlfriend.
He’s been touchier since. Given, you’ve only been able to see him yesterday and now, but there’s a noticeable change between you both; in your actions and in the air. The hesitancy when reaching for one another is gone, no more reservations or timid uncertainty.
And you love it.
You love even more when Phoebe runs down the hall in a summer dress and twirls around, when Jack offers her a dramatic applause and then bows at the waist like a Jester would to his Queen.
“You are an absolute fashionista, Pheebs.” He compliments, your daughter's grin stretching wider across her face.
The sight of her unbridled joy does something sinister to Jack’s chest. He knows the sensation of self-sabbotage far too well, knows he’s beginning to get stuck in his head with guilt and shame for playing happy families.
He feels a sense of betrayal to his wife. Even though he knows she would want him to move on and find happiness again, even though he visited her just yesterday morning after shift and sat with her for hours.
Talking, reminiscing, apologizing for beginning to fall for someone who wasn’t her. Explaining that he isn’t sorry for meeting someone new, he isn’t sorry for how deeply he feels for both you and Phoebe, but that he’s wholly and irrevocably distraught because he knows he’s truly moving forward from her.
He sat and cried when he admitted to her gravestone that he no longer wears his ring on his finger, but that he keeps it on a chain close to his heart instead. And when a gentle breeze caressed his face right after, he let himself believe that Mary was there with him; soothing him, silently accepting his words and praising him for finding happiness.
Despite how much lighter he’s been feeling today… there’s still that stab of guilt that lodges in his throat. Only briefly, not long enough for you to notice a change, but it’s there. Jack knows it’s there.
He blinks it back when you smother suncream across every inch of Phoebe’s exposed skin, cracks a smile when she grimaces and whines when you smear it across her entire face and accidentally forces her to taste some of it.
And when you’re out on the streets, with Pheebs walking between you; a hand in yours and a hand in Jack’s, he feels that gentle breeze caressing his face again. Tender and warm, most likely just the sun, but his shoulders ease at the feeling of it.
At the thought of Mary supporting him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
After ice cream and a quick trip to the park, you all make your way back to the apartment —Phoebe on Jack’s back and you following close behind, sneakily snapping photos of them together.
It’s sly when Jack winks at you when you’re in the elevator and Pheebs is too busy blowing kisses to herself in the mirror that encases the back wall. You stifle a laugh at the sight, stepping into Jack’s side and he instinctively wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you close.
“Hey, Diva?” Jack calls her softly.
She perks up at the name, turns to him with raised brows and an expectant expression. Jack rolls his lips between his teeth in amusement before speaking. “You wanna meet someone?”
You frown to yourself as you look at him, unsure who he’s referring to and why he wouldn’t run something like this by you first. But he squeezes your shoulder in a silent form of reassurance as the doors open on your floor.
“Are they nice?” She questions with a frown and Jack barks out a laugh.
Instead of turning left to your apartment, Jack turns you both right with Phoebe skipping ahead, like she already knows
“Yeah, she’s friendly.”
You blink as a smile curls its way into the corners of your mouth, piecing together just who exactly Jack is talking about. Phoebe stops outside Jack’s door, the fact that she’s remembered which one is his after only stopping by once to drop off cakes is a little insane.
Jack opens the door slowly and Pheebs wanders inside like she owns the place. Jack ushers you in after her with a palm ghosting your lower back and you take in the difference of his apartment compared to yours.
You’ve not been inside properly before—most dates start with him coming over if Phoebe is in bed or him picking you up and dropping you back after.
Jack’s place is a mirror layout to yours with a small entrance hall that breaks directly into the lounge and open kitchen space. But unlike your mismatched fabrics and colors, Jack’s is much more cohesive in an organised way.
Rustic dark wood coffee table and matching TV console, twin brown leather couches and black lamps in the corners of the room. A solid, dark oak bookcase and leather arm chair in the place where you cram a small dining table.
His refrigerator isn’t littered with magnets like yours, but it does have a few that pin up several of Phoebe’s drawings that she’s made over the past few months. It’s a bit overwhelming to be in his home, with Phoebe. To be fully surrounded by his scent.
It’s a reminder of the very different lives you live. Jack has no mess, everything has a place. There are no buckets of toys tucked away, no wanton blocks of Lego stuffed beneath the couch. Perhaps it's cruel to think, but his apartment does not feel like a home.
You wonder briefly if he feels the same way. If that’s why he’s never really brought you into his space before.
“You have a kitty!” Phoebe’s shrill excitement breaks you from your spiralling thoughts and you’re quick to shush and scold her.
“Baby, inside voices. You don’t want to scare Sally.”
“Sally!?” She coos, dropping on her knees and slowly crawling toward the fat cat that stares at the new guests.
Jack watches in amusement, wraps his arms around you from behind and nuzzles his chin into the crook of your neck. You melt into him, arms wrapping around his as you watch Phoebe introduce herself to Sally and giggle uncontrollably when she nuzzles into the kids' touch.
“We should’ve done this sooner. They’re little besties.” You giggle.
Jack hums, lets himself bask in the feel of you in his arms—uses it to reassure himself that this is okay. To have you and Phoebe in his space, to share what little he has considering you’ve shared so much already.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve only been here for a few minutes. The apartment already feels less quiet as Phoebe’s infectious laughter worms its way into the crevices of every room.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Jack can’t take his eyes off you.
And not like in the way he’s used to struggling, where every five minutes he has to look at you and just admire for a moment. No. Right now, he physically cannot take his eyes off you as you saunter down the hall from your bedroom and toward where he lounges on the couch.
Chocolate brown midi dress with a subtle draping through the waist, sheer dark brown tights that disappear into a pair of simple heels. You’ve painted your face in a way he’s only ever known you to; subtle enough for it to not be dramatic, yet precise enough to see the effort.
There’s a familiar heat that’s curling in his lower tummy; a tightness that’s beginning to strangle and suffocate his muscles. Your delicate heels click elegantly across your hardwood floors, arms bent as you reach up to slip an earring in.
Your eyes are focussed on your feet as you move, brows pinched just slightly in concentration as you attempt to clip the jewellery in place.
Jack leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and he takes your moment of distraction to drink you in greedily
Jesus fucking Christ.
“You look incredible.”
Your eyes snap up to his at the sound of Jack’s raw voice. You don’t miss the hunger in his tone, the darkness that pools in his eyes. He’d let himself in five minutes ago like you’d told him to, had gotten himself comfortable on your couch while he waited.
And he looked nothing short of delicious. A simple white button up shirt beneath a black blazer, his thighs almost bursting at the seams in his tailored trousers. It’s a conscious effort not to bite down on your freshly glossed lip.
The compliment sends a jolt of excitement through you.
Clearly the two fancy dates he’s taken you on isn’t enough for him to get used to you being dressed up this way. You think it’s fair, though. You haven’t got used to him dressing like this either.
“And you look delicious.” You drawl playfully, but it’s flirtatious enough for him to know that you mean it.
He grins, crookedly, and rises from the couch to move closer to you. His eyes hover over your waist before replacing the tender gaze with a delicate touch. Your heels keep you face to face, your hands reaching to rest on his shoulders.
“Do we have to go to this?” You pout at him; the sight causes his grin to grow in adoration and he squeezes your hips reassuringly.
“It’s for the best. It’s for Pheebs, not us or them.” He offers in a gentle tone, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his and your breath catches in your throat.
It’s not lost on either of you the path tonight will likely take. How the double date will no doubt end with you at his place or him at yours. That it will end in an intimacy you’re yet to explore with one another.
And despite the underlying assumption of it, there’s no pressure of expectation. Neither of you feel like it’s owed to each other because it’s been three months of nothing but kissing and dry humping. But tonight—perhaps it’s something in the air, or the fact that this double date makes things even more real between you—it feels like the right time.
You’re fretting on the walk down to Jack’s car, picking at your freshly polished nails as he pulls out of his allocated parking spot and follows the route to Preston’s.
You feel sick with nerves and annoyance. Angry at the fact that this is happening under Tom’s terms, anxious at the things he may try to say; Jack’s opinions on you that he might try to change. But more than that, there’s something fierce that’s bubbling beneath your skin.
Hot, fiery, protective. After the years of being in a relationship with Tom and now trying to co-parent (if it can even be considered that, given how little he shows up for Phoebe), you’ve grown more than accustomed to his spiteful tongue and manipulative tendencies.
You’re not prepared for Jack to be subjected to it—to bear witness to his passive cruelty.
And Jack, being ever observant, takes note of your unusual quietness, your fidgety demeanor. It makes his heart sink, has him assuming the worst that this double date has sobered your rose-tinted view of him and the relationship. That you’re making a grave mistake with him.
Still, he reaches a hand across the console to intertwine his fingers with yours, breaking your anxious habit.
“Talk to me.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, gripping Jack’s hand much harder than you ever have before. But the feel of his skin on yours brings at least a little bit of comfort. He’d be disgusted to know you’re considering that Tom will have any sway on Jack’s view of you.
You loose a breath, let your head roll back against the headrest, turning slightly to admire the side of his face as he keeps his focus on the road again. You let your fingers on your spare hand trace patterns across his knuckles.
“Just anxious. I don’t like being around him. I don’t like knowing you’re going to be around him.” You explain quietly, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as you take a moment to try to compose your breathing.
You feel Jack squeeze your hand tenderly. “Honey, however tonight plays out…it won’t change a thing between us. His behavior is not going to change how I feel about you.”
You nod at his words, forcing yourself to sit up straighter and heave a heavy breath again.
“I know. I just—he can be an ass. And he’s self-absorbed, and he… he twists things so well…”
“Baby,” Jack cuts you off with a soft chuckle, chucks an admiring gaze at you before looking back at the road ahead. “From what little you’ve told me about him, he seems like some douchey finance bro that probably thinks he’s too big for this world because he had one successful trade in Crypto. Someone like that is not going to scare me away.”
A laugh tumbles from you before you can even stop it. “Douchy finance bro? I haven’t even told you what he does for work.”
Jack shrugs, a smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t care what he does for work. Just the vibe I get.”
It’s enough to quell that crippling anxiety, enough to force it to pry its claws out of your skin. You release another breath, let your gaze fall to the window as the streets blur into soft strokes of color as you pass.
“Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?” His voice causes heat to curl up your neck and all you can do is laugh breathlessly.
“Yes.” You turn to look at him but his eyes are back on the road again.
Jack nods. “Good. Because you do. Ridiculously so.”
Your lips curl to hide your bashful grin, but Jack can feel your skin warming, thinks he can actually hear your heartrate picking up in the silence of the car.
But the moment Jack pulls up, your momentary relaxation is short-lived. You’re gnawing on your glossy bottom lip, effectively smearing it away as you look at the passenger window and directly at the entrance of Preston’s.
“What do you say about a quick tequila shot when we get in there?”
Your eyes close as you huff out a laugh, actually quite thankful for how easy he is to calm you down. And you’re also not at all opposed to a bit of hard liquor to take the edge off.
You turn to him with a nervous smile, still worrying your bottom lip and Jack reaches a hand to caress your jaw, to pull your lip from between your teeth.
“If it gets too much, or you just want to leave, say Poughkeepsie.”
You raise a brow at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“Poughkeepsie?” You deadpan. “As in a safe word?”
Jack pulls a face of consideration. “Maybe more of a distress signal.”
That gets a real laugh out of you—one that’s unrestrained and entirely unapologetic. Jack thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, thinks you look nothing short of angelic when your nose crinkles and your shoulders shake.
You don’t tell him that you don’t need a distress signal. That you have absolutely zero problem with telling Tom exactly what you think of him and leaving without looking back. But the light that shines in Jack’s eyes when you laugh at his suggestion, when you lean in to kiss him with everything that you feel for him, you can’t bring yourself to tell him so.
“Okay,” you agree with a giggle against his lips. “Poughkeepsie, it is.”
He kisses you again, but it’s all teeth; both of you grinning too wide to really press your lips in the ways you want to.
Jack doesn’t let you open your door yourself. He rounds the car to open it for you, to press a hand on your lower back as he guides you into Preston’s.
You hate that Tom suggested the double date to be here. It’s one of your favorite restaurants and bars in the city. Classy enough to require an effort, common enough for there not to be a three month wait list for a table.
It’s very moody, the interior. Industrial loft style with expensive furniture and dim, golden lighting. Nothing harsh, nothing performative. It’s a place to eat and drink and enjoy yourself and your company. It’s just a shame your company tonight is about as interesting as a spam email.
True to his word about some liquid courage, Jack keeps his hand on your lower back as you move past the hostess stand and straight for the bar. But it’s only three steps in that you clock a familiar face amongst the tables and stop dead in your tracks with a huff.
“So much for that tequila shot.” You mutter and Jack frowns slightly, trying to follow your line of sight.
He sees it then. Them. A brunet and a blonde sat at a table, eyes sharp and looking between you and Jack. It takes him a moment to register that this brown-haired pretty boy is Tom. That the doe-eyed blonde sitting beside him is Kirsty.
He feels your spine stiffen beneath his touch and he snakes his arms around your waist, to keep you close, to keep you grounded.
You sigh, swallowing. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”
Your nerves are rolling off you violently, despite Jack’s comforting touch. He can feel how tense you are, like you’re already in fight or flight by just seeing Phoebe’s dad. It makes Jack’s skin crawl, makes him angry and frustrated and helpless.
It’s only now, that Jack is moving closer to the table and getting a clearer look at your ex, that Jack realizes just how much Phoebe looks like you. Your hair, your eyes, your smile. Diva holds little to no physical resemblance to Tom, and it makes a sick part of Jack happy.
You stop at the table as Tom watches with the eyes of a shark. He doesn’t move, not even when Kirsty stands with a nervous smile and soothes out the non-existent creases in her dress.
You glance at her, force your features to soften, to appear friendly. Jack doesn’t exactly offer the same courtesy. He stays neutral. No smile, no frown.
“Hi, I’m Kirsty. It’s so nice to meet you!”
Her voice is soft, kind, gentle. It makes you pause, a little stunned. She’s beautiful. Glass-like skin with a slim and slender build. She extends a hand across the table to you and you don’t have enough animosity to reject it.
As quickly as you shake her hand, she offers it to Jack. “And you must be Jack! Nice to meet you.”
Unfortunately, Jack does crack a soft smile at that. Does let his hand shake hers politely. You were both expecting Kirsty to be a complete and utter bitch. And yet… she’s kind, soft, just as nervous as you are.
The little bubble of mutual caution is popped, though, when you look down at Tom who remains in his seat. Expressionless, yet relaxed. Lounging back in his chair with an arm thrown over the back of Kirsty’s empty one.
“Tom.” You greet him bluntly.
“Y/N.” He returns it, just as dry.
He stares at you, though. Something like disbelief and disgust battling for first place in his expression. You don’t need to ask to know why.
Because while you’re not sure what exactly Phoebe has told him about Jack, you know for a fact she hadn’t mentioned his age. If Tom’s shock is anything to go by.
Jack watches Tom as Tom watches you. It sets his blood on fire in something both protective and disgusted. And when Tom’s eyes leave you to look at him with someone less than pleased in his expression, it takes every ounce of Jack’s patience to not hurl you over his shoulder and walk out the door.
“Tom Scavo.” His voice drips off his tongue like silk when he introduces himself to Jack.
It’s a voice that feigns confidence and security. It’s hard not to laugh in his face at how unironically wrong it is.
“Jack Abbot.” He replies, and his voice is much deeper, raw and husky and something that promises comfort and stability.
Not that it matters, Jack isn’t about to get into a pissing contest with your ex—with Phoebe’s dad—who holds all the arrogance and entitlement in the world on his face.
You’re staring down at the table, trying to regulate yourself and not spiral on how fucking awkward and uncomfortable this entire situation is. Kirsty isn’t faring much better, but she’s not as good at hiding it. Wide eyes flickering between Jack and Tom like ones about to shoot and the other is about to pounce.
It’s Jack who moves first, unwinding his arm around your waist to pull your chair out for you, sitting close beside you and resting a heavy palm on your upper thigh beneath the table.
You could really do with that tequila shot right about now.
Jack can sense as much when you subtly turn to side-eye one another; one of his brows slightly raised in amusement while your lips struggle not to curl in response.
The private glance helps, though. Reminds you that you’re not in this alone. And you know that despite how shitty this evening might grow, one look at him and you can find the light in the darkness.
You’re saved by the waiter, who introduces himself as Martin. He takes note of Tom’s red wine and Kirsty’s fruity cocktail and asks what he can get for you and Jack.
“I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.”
“Make that two. Thank you.” Jack smiles briefly at Martin as he saunters away toward the bar.
Jack doubling your order has you looking at him, amused. “What about the car?” It’s a quiet tease, one only meant for his ears.
He grins down at you, fights back the urge to kiss your full lips. Because Jack only plans on having one glass of wine, and he knows you know he’s not a lightweight to get even tipsy off one drink.
“Well, I was only intending to have one, but if you’re planning on taking advantage of me later, we can come back for the car tomorrow.”
It’s entirely instinctive when your hand comes up to swat his chest at the playful but suggestive remark. It’s also entirely involuntary when your cheeks burn and flush with heat at the thought.
You have to hide your face behind the menu for a moment, feigning consideration of your meal. The act causes you to miss the disgusted glare Tom throws at you and the soft longing in Kirsty’s eyes as she watches yours and Jack’s private exchange.
“Jack, I hear you’re a doctor?” Kirsty asks softly, and a pang of guilt sears through you at the fact that she is the one to have to try and make conversation.
Jack nods, keeps his tone and expression polite and kind toward her. “Yeah, I’m an attending physician over at PTMC.”
Her eyes dazzle slightly in wonder as you lower the menu to force yourself to engage in the conversation. She’s about to open her mouth to say something else when Tom beats her to it.
“That’s a senior position, I’m assuming.”
You narrow your eyes at his smug tone but keep your mouth closed when Jack offers a reassuring squeeze to your thigh.
“What about you, Y/N?” Kirsty asks the question so quickly it’s like she can sense the route Tom is trying to go down and she’s desperate for that not to happen.
Your stomach curls in bitterness toward yourself, for thinking so negative of her before even meeting her.
“Oh, I work in pub—“
“She’s an aspiring author.” Tom cuts you off with a dig and a really fucking low blow.
Because he’s always known you’ve kept your job under wraps. That you use a pseudonym for a reason, because you don’t want to be known publicly.
Martin arrives and places two chilled glasses of white wine before you and Jack, about to ask if you’re ready to order food before sensing the tension off the table and thinking better of it, walking away.
Jack reels back slightly.
“You’re an author?” Kirsty asks with wide eyed excitement.
“Aspiring.” Tom mutters under his breath but it’s loud enough for the table to hear—clear enough for Jack’s jaw to twitch.
You blubber for a moment, torn between glaring at Tom and smiling kindly at his girlfriend that he is undeserving of.
“Uh, yeah— I go under a pseudonym, though. I don't really like the idea of my name being out there like that.” You laugh, nervous and completely out of your element.
Jack knows that’s not the only reason. That your primary concern has and always will be Phoebe, and the asshole kids as she grows up. That you don’t want to subject her teenage years to bullying because her mom writes erotic romances.
He looks at Tom, keeps his expression friendly when he corrects him. “A New York Times Bestseller says a lot more than aspiring, don’t you think?”
You dip your head to hide the flush on your cheeks and the curve of your mouth at Jack’s boyish defence of you. You already knew tonight would be a struggle of both of your patience, but you should’ve known that Jack will defend you.
Even if he has to do it passive aggressively.
He refuses to sit back and allow anybody to disrespect you.
“Wow, that’s incredible.” Kirsty gushes, beaming wide and you meet her gaze with something guilty.
You can’t help but wonder how the fuck she’s ended up with someone as awful as Tom. He hasn’t got much else but his face going for him. You know the sex is boring and his personality is drier than a desert.
“What about you?” You ask Kirsty.
Her smile shifts into a look of shy apprehension and she tucks locks of blonde hair behind a pierced ear. “Oh, I’m twenty, so I’m still in college. Lots of time to figure it out, though, right?” She laughs nervously.
You blink at the information, feel Jack still slightly beside you. Christ. Kirsty looks young but…twenty? Tom’s freshly thirty-three.
“Yeah, loads of time!”
A smile forces its way on your lips as you drag your gaze to briefly meet Tom’s. But he’s already looking at you with barely contained disdain. Like he’s daring you to say something when your age gap with Jack is three years bigger than theirs.
Both you and Jack reach for your drinks at the same time, suffocating your unfair judgement with wine. But is it entirely unfair when you’re a fully grown woman and Kirsty is barely legal?
“And obviously, you already know Tom works in Crypto exchange.”
Jack chokes on his wine with a fit of splitting coughs when the words fall from Kirsty’s mouth. He places his glass down a bit too unceremoniously, dabbing his mouth and chin with a napkin as he struggles to breath through the coughing.
“Sorry,” he apologizes and it takes everything in you to hold back your laughter.
Jack reaches for his water instead to try and soothe the burn the alcohol has left in his throat. His hand remains in your thigh throughout the exchange and squeezes with a playful warning.
Maybe you should’ve warned him in the car that his perception of Tom was a little too accurate. Even down to his job.
But every movement the two of you make is observed and noted by Tom. He doesn’t say anything at first about it, remains polite when Martin returns to take your food order, to refill your drinks.
It’s mostly Jack and Kirsty keeping the conversation afloat throughout dinner, weaving around Tom’s animosity.
In all honesty, you’ve enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and watching. Maybe it’s the wine that’s relaxed you, or maybe it’s the fact that Jack goes out of his way to politely disagree with everything that Tom says.
“Crypto is the way for the future of money.”
“Nah, can’t go wrong with cash.”
“Don’t you think cash is a little outdated? Old fashioned?”
“I think it’s good to be prepared for an emergency.”
“Cash is pointless. A bit like romance novels.”
“You’re not a romantic, Tom?”
“I just think they’re unrealistic. All a bit of make believe, really.”
“Ah, I have to argue otherwise. Maybe I can lend you my copy of Y/N’s book. You might learn a thing or two.”
“Oh, I would actually love that, if the offer extends to me?” Kirsty asks around a mouthful of food, palm covering her lips as she speaks—like she’s too excited by the idea to wait to finish her food.
You laugh under your breath and find yourself nodding, completely unaffected by Tom’s attempt at belittling you and your career. It’s a bit hard for him to hit how he wants when the other two people at the table disagree with him.
“Sure. Just—beware, they're a bit…spicy.”
Her eyes light up at the warning as she swallows her food, lowering her hand to offer a conspiratorial smile.
“I say the spicier the better.”
Tom grimaces at the interaction, something that sends a jolt of smugness through Jack. Good. Let him fester in his girlfriend praising you, in her clear excitement toward your career that Tom does everything he can to belittle.
Let that jealousy explode in his eyes at the thought of you and Jack together like that. He doesn’t plan on correcting him that nothing has happened yet.
“Where’s Phoebe tonight?” Kirsty asks as she takes a sip of her third cocktail.
“She’s with my parents for the night. Her favorite kind of sleepover.”
She beams at that. “She’s such a great kid. I don’t think she likes me very much, though. I didn’t mean to upset her last weekend…I only asked if she wanted to listen to music and make some breakfast together.” Kirsty admits sheepishly, upset evident in her tone.
Your heart cracks at that. Because Kirsty was only being kind and friendly to Phoebe. Offering to do something that you and Pheebs do every Sunday. And Phoebe… had she thought that her dads new girlfriend was trying to replace you?
Jack seems to come to the same conclusion, you can practically smell the pity rolling off him.
You chew on the inside of your cheek. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize for anything. It takes her time to open up to people sometimes.” You offer.
“She seemed to take to Jack pretty quickly.” Tom comments in a bitter tone and you hate the way that Kirsty seems to shrink into herself at that.
The same way that you used to.
“There were no labels or expectations when she met Jack.” You’re quick to defend, the hand in your lap reaching beneath that table to rest on Jack’s thigh.
You don’t tell him that the first time Phoebe met Jack was accidental, that it was also your first time meeting him, too. You don’t have to explain yourself. You refuse to.
“He’s all she seems to talk about. Jack’s a doctor. Jack’s fun. Jack makes Mommy laugh. Jack’s a silver fox.” Tom continues and you still at that, eyes hardening as Tom glares at you, his anger and disbelief leaking out of his pores.
“Really? That’s the type of shit you’re saying in front of our daughter?” His tone takes a spiteful turn. One that, despite your years apart, you still feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up at.
Jack’s struggling to keep his cool, to not step in. Because he can handle Tom’s futile attempts of making Jack insecure, of focusing on his age and comments that come with it. But Jack cannot handle the blatant disrespect and nasty tone Tom’s directing at you.
“No. She overheard me on the phone.” You explain through gritted teeth.
Tom cocks a brow. “And that makes it better? She’s fucking four and you’re teaching her this shit?”
You frown. He’s good at this, manipulating things into something that they’re not. Like you’re going out of your way to educate your child on something inappropriate.
“I’m not teaching her that, Tom. She overheard a conversation.” You’re speaking through gritted teeth, your anger beginning to boil over.
He scoffs, opening his mouth to say something else but you stand abruptly before he can. “I’m going to the restroom.”
Something aches in you when Kirsty stands, too, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ll come, too many cocktails.” She tries to diffuse your well-placed anger with a light joke but she knows it’s not really any use.
You turn to look at Jack, swallowing down the lump in your throat when you notice the conflict of anger and devastation in his eyes. You bend at the waist to press a kiss to his cheek, a silent apology of leaving him alone with Tom, before you and Kirsty make for the ladies room.
Jack doesn’t watch you go, but Tom does. Metaphorical daggers stabbing into your back with every step and Jack’s knee begins to bounce beneath the table.
“You talk to her like that in front of Phoebe?” Jack asks, his mouth set in a firm line of barely restrained anger.
“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m Phoebe’s dad. Not you.” Tom’s tone isn’t angry or rash. But it is accusing.
Yes, maybe he has the right to make such a statement. Yes, he may be Phoebe’s father but he does not exactly qualify for the title of Dad.
In another circumstance, maybe Jack would find the statement amusing. But not in this one. In this one, it makes Jack angry. All Tom is doing is portraying his bitterness of you finding someone else as a proud father setting boundaries.
It’s anything but.
A dry, humorless chuckle escapes Jack.
“Oh, I understand perfectly that I have no right or opinion when it comes to Phoebe. But as for her mother, I have every right to tell you to watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking with her.”
The sheer venom in his words sets Tom slightly on edge. Because Jack’s threat lingers in his calm demeanor. His relaxed position in his seat, his warm and raw tone that turns grave at the end of his sentence.
The soft clicking of your heels on the marble floor drifts closer until your presence is warm against the back of Jack’s chair. You sense the tension immediately, the hard set in Tom’s jaw as he stares at Jack.
“What did we miss?” You ask carefully, dragging your eyes to assess Jack for any hint of emotion.
He cranes his neck to look up at you. “Nothing, baby. Was just telling Tom about my trip to Poughkeepsie last year.”
You stare down at him, heart thumping at the ridiculous distress signal Jack came up with in the car. In all honesty, you assumed he was only teasing when he suggested it, or that if it needed to be used, it would be by you.
But he sits there, looking up at you with a smile that does not reach his darkening eyes and you realize that he’s serious. He’s ready to leave before he does something to make matters so much fucking worse.
His hand reaches for yours that rests on the back of his chair, a touch so tender and reassuring. Because he doesn’t want you to worry, doesn’t want you to think that this abysmal night changes anything between you.
You’re both too caught up in one another to notice the yearning look that Kirsty watches with. The realization that occurs to her when she sees what love and care and adoration is supposed to look like.
You turn to her with an apologetic smile, not deigning to give Tom a glance. “We’re gonna head out. Pheebs is back early tomorrow.”
She nods, eyes crinkling when she moves across the table to wrap you in a friendly embrace. And you let her, allow yourself to relax against her because Kirsty is nothing but good. Her reassurance and apology on Tom’s behavior in the bathroom was unnecessary but appreciated all the same.
It’s not her fault he’s a fucking cunt.
“It was so lovely to meet you.” You both offer the sentiment at the same time, a laugh tumbling right after and she pulls away to respectfully shake Jack’s hand when he stands.
Much like when you arrived, Tom remains seated. He doesn’t even feign niceties of a goodbye and instead relaxes into his seat with the smugness of a Persian Prince.
Like he’s won this round.
And Jack, ever the gentleman and bigger person, extends a hand across the table to Tom.
Tom regards it as a test, of sorts. One that he surveys with scrutiny, like he’s just been dealt the losing hand. Whether he accepts or not, Jack wins.
Only it’s not offered as a test. It’s out of Jack’s respect for you and his love for Phoebe that he puts his anger and hatred aside to offer his hand. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you when Tom ultimately focuses his attention on his empty plate instead.
But there’s that sinking feeling of anger and upset when he does.
When he leaves your Jack standing with his hand still extended.
It’s not a bruise to Jack’s pride or ego, though. He has to hide his amusement at Tom’s childishness and retrieves his hand to dig into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out his wallet, plucks a hundred and a fifty and sets the bills softly onto the table.
“That should cover ours and a tip.”
Tom doesn’t look up, just burns holes into the cash he’s left when Jack turns to you and helps ease your purse over your shoulder. You offer a tight-lipped smile to Kirsty as you curl your palm around Jack’s elbow before you’re both weaving through tables for the exit.
The moment the cool evening air hits you and your feet meet the sidewalk, neither of you stop. Jack unlocks the car with the press of a button on his keys, and opens and closes your door for you. You’re still holding your breath when Jack gets in the drivers side, still trying to process the night you’ve just had.
He doesn’t start the engine straight away, just stairs ahead at the people that pass, the cars that drift. It’s eating at him, what he’s done. How he lost his cool just enough for him to have cross words with Tom. If he had it his way, Jack would’ve done a lot more than a verbal scolding. But the guilt of that alone is eating at him.
“I threatened Tom.” He finds himself blurting quietly.
Your head whirls around to look at him, eyes wide and heart stammering at the weight of what he’s just said. Of what he’s done.
“You did what!?”
“Not—not physically, not properly. I—” He’s stammering, anxious that he’s overstepped and despite his reasoning for it, he knows it’s not good enough.
Your eyes somehow grow wider at his attempted retraction. “You either threatened Phoebe’s dad or you didn’t. Which one is it, Jack?”
He turns to you with a frown, with agony in his eyes. “I didn’t threaten Phoebe’s dad. I threatened your ex.” He’s trying to paint it clearer for you, to understand the difference between the figures.
And you do. Your shock and frustration shifts, your lips part and your eyes begin to hood. Because you’re picking up what he’s putting down; reading between the lines that Jack had clearly had enough of Tom’s belittling.
“I spoke to him as a man who will not tolerate anybody disrespecting his girlfriend. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I not have every right to do that? As your partner?”
You blink at him, brows softly pinching together as your shoulders drop and you realize exactly where he’s coming from. That he bit his tongue when it came to all the times Tom has and continues to let Phoebe down. Because it’s not his place. Because in the face of Phoebe’s father, he has no right.
Your eyes close as you release a heavy sigh and you find yourself nodding softly. “Yeah, baby. You do. Of course, you do.”
He watches you carefully when you open your eyes and lean your head against the headrest, when you turn just slightly to look at him with exhaustion and apprehension.
“I won’t apologize for it.” He tells you, bluntly.
You huff a laugh through your nose at that, reach a hand lazily across the console to intertwine your fingers. “I’m not asking you to.”
Jack squeezes your hand with a nod, brings your knuckles to his lips where he kisses them tenderly.
“He’s a fucking asshole.” Jack says, his eyes locked on yours like he can’t quite understand what you ever saw in him. Like he’s distraught that that piece of shit is Phoebe’s father.
“Yeah,” you sigh. “Kirsty seems nice, though.”
“Mmh,” Jack hums. “Poor girl.”
You don’t say anything, just watch him for a moment. Trying to let your body relax now that you’re out of Tom’s presence. Trying to read Jack’s emotions that he struggles to keep off his face.
He only did have one glass of wine, so you know whatever is running through his head is completely valid and justified.
“Thank you, for coming and sitting through that. And I’m sorry that you had to.” You say softly, untangling your fingers to caress his stubbled jaw.
Jack leans into the touch, lets his hand wrap around your wrist to keep you there. Christ, he’s so fucking handsome.
“Honey, you don’t need to thank me. And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault Tom’s an asshole and has the personality of a piece of drywall.”
A giggle tumbles out of you and you stroke your thumb across the soft skin of his cheekbone.
He intertwines your fingers again as he begins to drive back to the apartment complex. The radio plays in the background and he listens to the sound of your voice as you single along softly.
He finds peace in it, in the rolling of your tongue as the lyrics almost sigh out of you. Focusing on that helps to take his mind off his simmering anger. The frustration and hatred that’s still brewing toward Tom.
He doesn’t mention how devastating it was to watch you curl into yourself in Tom’s presence. How infuriating and disgusting it was to hear the way he speaks to you, how uncaringly he belittles you.
Instead, Jack drives silently, singing along every now and then with you to take his mind off it. To calm himself down and remind himself that that treatment will remain in the past. That you will never, ever experience a lover like that again so long as he is by your side.
He opens the car door for you, closes it. Intertwines your fingers again as you walk into the complex together. You catch sight of a few of your neighbors. Deborah from downstairs who grins to herself at the sight of you both, Chirpy from apartment twelve that gives you both a less than pleased look, while the newly wed Mr and Mr Hammond wiggle their brows at you as you join them in the elevator.
The ride to yours and Jack’s floor is silent but not uncomfortable. You let the pair of husbands leave first, both of you left lingering in the hall as the elevator goes back down empty.
Jack turns left toward your apartment when you stop walking and squeeze his hand. He turns to you with a furrow.
“Can we go back to yours tonight instead?”
He blinks, then softens. This afternoon was the first time you really came into his space, any other time he’s always come to you.
“Yeah, baby. Let’s go.” His heart swells when you both begin to walk to his front door, when he opens it and you immediately crouch down to pet a waiting Sally.
She purrs beneath your touch as you scratch behind her ears, laughing when you stand to take off your heels and she nuzzles at your ankles.
Jack shuts the door with a quiet click, keeps his own shoes on and tosses his keys in the bowl at the small entrance table. You place your bag beside the bowl, pad through the apartment to follow him into the kitchen and make yourself comfortable on one of the stools.
There’s a stiffness in Jack’s posture. It’s evident he’s never really had a woman in his space like this since his wife. It makes you wonder if you’ve pushed too hard. That maybe you should’ve just agreed to go back to yours instead.
But the gentle clinking of a wine glass being set atop marble before you catches your attention. Jack takes a heavy gulp of his own before shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over a stool.
He rests a palm on either side of the island, leaning his weight into it and the motion is far more sinful than he intends for it to be.
You’re left with nothing to do but reach for your wine and guzzle down half of it. Jack cocks a brow in amusement, in silent question and you place it back with a laugh.
“We are never doing that again.”
He grins. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
He moves swiftly, despite the slight ache in his leg from being on it all day. You turn in the stool to face him as he cups your cheeks in his palms and leans down to press his lips against yours.
You both sigh into the kiss, tasting each other and hints of elderflower. He pulls away to rest his forehead against yours, heaving in a breath.
“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you looked tonight? How hard it was to not kiss you the entire time?”
You beam at him, eyes fluttering closed and relief is finally beginning to settle within you. The date already forgotten about, Tom’s spiteful words and childish behavior shoved to the very back of your mind.
You lean closer to kiss him again. It’s needy and hungry and sensual, and Jack returns it with even more vigor.
“Jack,” you whimper against his mouth, hands reaching for his chest, fingers fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt.
He makes a sound from the back of his throat, lets his hands wander from your face and down your neck, reaching to the back of your dress as his fingers trace the zipper down your spine.
You pop a button and then another. Grow frustrated with how long it takes and sneak your hands beneath the fabric to feel his warm, hard chest.
Jack whimpers at the sensation, pinches at the zip and slowly tugs it down the track.
“Jack,” you breathe again, fingers curling until your nails scratch gently at the skin of his chest. “Jack, take me to bed.”
You don’t know what comes over him, what you’ve said or done that makes him snake his arms around your waist and lift you. Your legs wrap around his hips, your fingers tangle into his hair and he does not break the kiss as he somehow manages to carry you from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the dim lighting of his bedroom.
You’re offered no time to look as Jack gently eases you back on your feet, returning his attention to the zipper at your back. He tugs it all the way down when his lips begin to travel from your mouth to your neck; licking and nipping hungrily.
Your head rolls back as he pulls the shoulders of your outfit down your arms, as the dress pools at your ankles and leaves you in nothing but a bra, panties, and brown tights.
He pulls away to look at you with blown eyes and swollen lips. He drinks you in like a man starved, hands covering over your hips like he doesn’t know if he wants to touch you there or somewhere else.
Your skin burns under his attentive gaze, arousal almost gushing between your thighs. Your heart stammers sporadically as your hands find their way back to the buttons of his shirt again, desperately fumbling to pop them open.
“Look at you.” Jack’s voice is wrecked; the words are so broken it makes you pause. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby.”
Your lungs are on fire, can’t quite seem to catch a deep enough breath at how he’s looking at you. It makes you frustrated and you find yourself gripping either side of his partly open shirt and ripping it open.
Buttons pop and clatter on hard wood in every direction. Freckled skin meets your line of vision; his torso toned and hard and hot beneath your touch. And when you peek up at Jack, he’s already smirking down at you.
“Sorry,” you laugh breathlessly.
He says nothing as he tugs the sleeves down his arms, throws the fabric haphazardly across the room. Jack catches your lips in a kiss again, tongues swirling in something erotic and entirely uncoordinated.
“Lay down on the bed for me, Angel.” He commands softly against your mouth.
The new pet name has your head spinning. You don’t argue, far too excited to even consider not giving him everything he wants from you.
You keep your eyes on him when you move backward until the foot of the bed hits the backs of your knees. You sit down, shuffling backward until your head is resting on his pillows and you’re enveloped in the comforting scent of him.
Jack moves slowly, admiring the sight of you sprawled out on his bed. His chest heaves with every breath and your eyes track his hands when they reach for the belt wrapped around his waist.
An involuntary whine slips past you as he unbuckles it. “Take your tights off, baby.”
There’s something so incredibly sexy at how naturally he’s taken control. At how earnestly he speaks to you, at how devotedly he stares down at you.
You move quickly, hooking your fingers in the thin waistband of your sheer tights and tugging them off as gracefully as you can. You’re left almost bare. In just a little black thong and a matching balcony bra.
Jack swallows at the sight of you and abandons his belt, wrapping his hands around your ankles and gently tugging you down the bed until your ass is flush with the edge.
“Now, spread your legs.”
He eases himself to his knees as smoothly as he can at the same time as you parting your thighs. His hands soothe up the soft skin of your calves, tracing the flesh of your inner thighs.
You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him with hooded eyes. And Jack thinks he’s about to pass out.
There’s a prominent wet patch on the dark fabric of your panties, goosebumps pebbling on your skin as he hooks fingers into the underwear and slowly eases them down your legs.
When he throws them to the ground and you drop your legs open again, Jack groans.
He’s seen you before. But this is different. This time you’re willing and excited and desperate. This time you’re in his fucking bed, not behind a hospital curtain.
And above all, this time, Jack allows himself to really look. To admire you. To touch.
You moan when he parts your lips with his index and middle finger, when you feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your clit.
“Prettiest fucking cunt.” He praises roughly, salivates when he watches how you pulse because of it.
“You’re soaked, baby.”
His lips tease with open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, causing them to quake. His stubble grazes deliciously against the tender skin, but it only fuels the fire.
You whine again, hips bucking toward his face. Desperate for something, anything.
Jack relents, eager to taste you. His cock is throbbing against the confinements of his pants and boxers, eager to be buried to the hilt.
His thumb swipes at the wetness at your puckering entrance, all the way up to your clit. He keeps it there for a moment when you gasp, rubs lazy circles around the little nub until you’re whimpering and begging for more.
He’s a generous man. Not one to deny a woman of anything. Especially not you.
It’s without another thought that Jack moves closer to swipe his tongue in the same way he did with his thumb. Laps at your cunt, eyes rolling back at the taste of you and all restraint is lost.
His hands grip at your waist to keep you still, gripping with enough force to mark but not to bruise. Your back arches at the feel of his mouth on you—skilled and messy, worshiping every inch.
“Jack, oh, fuck!”
His guttural moan sends vibrations through your nerves as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. His tongue flicks against it at the same time, burying his face between your thighs.
His short stubble scratches deliciously at your sensitive skin, a welcome burn grazing at your entrance and inner thighs. It only makes you needier.
He’s completely drunk on you. So much so that he doesn’t even notice the ache forming below his knee, the discomfort that’s usually enough to cripple him.
Your back drops onto the bed, head digging into the sheets as your hands fly to his hair, gripping and pulling until your nails are scratching at his scalp.
He pulls off to heave a breath, to release one hip and circle your entrance with a finger.
“You taste so fucking good.” He slowly pushes between your walls, curling against the tightness.
A sharp cry sounds from the back of your throat when he returns his mouth to its rightful place, when he curls his finger faster and rubs the flat of his tongue against your clit when he sucks between his lips.
The thickness of his fingers is unfamiliar but most welcomed. And the praise of how you taste goes straight to your head.
Has your toes curling and eyes rolling. That familiar burn at the bottom of your spine creeps up on you like a freight train. You have no time to warn Jack when you clamp down on his finger, when you shudder and spasm beneath his hold.
You have no time to warn him because the breath is stolen from your lungs and you’re gushing as release paralyzes you.
And Jack…he drinks you like a starving man. Abandons your clit and removes his finger to lap at your pulsing hole; swirling his tongue and slurping like he can’t fucking get enough.
You’re struggling to catch your breath when he’s struggling to stand again, your vision is nothing but a kaleidoscope gaze. All you can think is to scold yourself for waiting as long as you fucking have for that to happen.
And when you blink through the distortion, you catch your orgasm coating Jack’s chin and mouth. The sexiness of it is short lived when you realize how his mouth is slightly curved into a grimace and he’s favoring his weight on his good leg.
But he tries to soldier through it. To drop his trousers to his ankles, to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.
It’s more effort than you care to admit to sit up. Your body spent but still aching for more. You rest your palms on the outsides of his muscular thighs, let your nose brush against his navel, pressing open mouthed kisses to the burning skin.
“Take it off.” Your words are drunken and muffled but Jack hears them. Understands them.
“I’m fine.” His voice is raw when he speaks, dripping with lust so much it almost masks his discomfort.
“You’re not. Take it off, baby. I don’t care.” You insist, still peppering hot kisses across his waist, dragging your tongue across the path.
Jack sighs shakily, relenting. And when he bends down with one hand on the bed and the other reaching to unclasp his prosthetic, you crawl backward on the bed until your head is resting on his pillows again.
You spread your legs for him, let your hand snake down between your thighs to touch yourself while you wait. You’re dripping onto his sheets, unapologetic and when Jack looks up with his prosthetic off, he whimpers at that sight.
“Jesus Christ, baby.” He’s almost drooling at the sight, still using one hand to balance and the other hooks into the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down.
Your eyes bulge. He’s fucking big. Long and fat and veiny. Slapping against his navel when it’s free, red and neglected. You feel your chest tighten, feel yourself drip between your thighs.
“Holy shit.” You pant.
He crawls into the bed and between your thighs with a bashful smirk; his cheeks dusted pink and eyes twinkling with something like excitement and nerves.
It’s then that he really notices the small scar just above your pubic bone. The evidence of the life you carried and birthed. It only intensifies his feelings toward how. Reminds him of how much you trust him.
You swallow, unable to take your eyes off his cock. But you’re not dumb on it yet, still able to consider him in these final few moments.
“Do you want me to—“
“No. Fuck no.” He knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Does he want you to do the work, does he want to lie down so it’s easier on his leg.
The answer is a resounding not a fucking chance in hell.
“Baby, I am more than happy for you to ride me whenever you want. But not—fuck—not tonight.” He’s panting out his words, like he’s already on the verge of release and he’s not even inside you yet.
His hands block you in on either side of your head, thighs slotting between yours and when he lowers his hips, his cock brushes against your soaked folds.
There’s a sobering moment that hits him the second he feels you. He doesn’t have any condoms and he doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject of asking if you do without breaking the moment.
But it’s like you read his mind, or maybe you can just read the hesitancy on his face. “It’s okay. I’m clean. I haven’t—I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”
Jack looses a breath at your admittance. Lets his head drop so his forehead rests against yours. Your words send a strike to his cock, the reminder of your IUD, the thought of feeling you bare. “Me too.”
You swallow, breaths mingling and your hand leaves your pussy to wrap around his cock, pumping slowly and Jack shudders.
“So, we take it slow. No expectations, right?”
Jack practically melts at your tone and your words, at how easy everything is with you. How right it all feels.
“Yeah, baby. No expectations.”
You nod again, as much as you can, and guide the tip of his swollen cock to your fluttering entrance. A shudder runs through you both, anticipation crawling at your spines.
Jack’s hips move slowly, easing into you in a way that makes you relax enough to take him. Inch by inch, whimper by whimper, until his hips are flush against yours and you’re both panting.
“Give me— fuck, give me a second. Jesus fucking Christ—baby, you’re…you’re so fucking tight.”
“Big,” you gasp through a heavy breath, nails scratching down the wide expanse of Jack’s muscled back. You can’t form a coherent word, far too overwhelmed.
“I know.” He coos, holding his weight above you on one hand by your head when the other reaches between your chests to slowly fold your bra down, exposing your breasts.
The whimper that slips out of him is almost enough to make you cum. Your supple breasts spill out, nipples perk and he flicks a thumb over one, pinches gently when you whine for more.
“You’re doing so well for me, baby. So good.”
You mewl at the praise again, something you’ve never once experienced in bed. But now that you have, you know you could never go without it again.
Jack moves his hips gingerly, pulling out a few inches before slowly sheathing himself back in. You’re far too tight around him to remain composed; cunt soaked and sucking him in like it’s where he belongs.
“Keep going, feels so good. So big.” You whine.
“Yeah?” Jack asks breathlessly, rolling his hips with a tedious rhythm, like he’s experimenting what works best for you.
You’re too caught up in the pressure and stretch of him to realize just how much strength it takes for him to hold his weight on one hand, fuck you like he loves you, and pinch your nipples like you’re nothing but his good girl.
All with one leg. All with barely contained restraint.
Your hips begin to roll against his, bucking up to meet his thrusts and he gets the hint that you need more.
But you’re tight, pulsing, sucking him deeper with every thrust. Until you’re both panting and Jack’s bed is creaking. Until moans are slipping from your lips instead of breaths. Until Jack’s whimpering and moaning and whining into the crook of your neck.
He abandons his assault on your nipple, rises to his hands at either side of your head to watch your face, to flicker his gaze between your thighs to watch you stretch around his thick girth.
His cock is slick with your arousal, a creamy ring of white at the base of him.
“Fuck, baby.” His voice is slightly higher pitched now. Whining in a way that has you bucking up against his in urgency.
That burning returns in the base of your spine, tingles zapping up and down your navel as your orgasms balloons.
“Jack! Oh fuck, baby—I’m…I’m gonna cum… oh fuck…”
“Yeah? You gonna come on my cock? Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”
It doesn’t crash into you this time, doesn’t sneak up on you and paralyze you like the last one. No, this time it sets your body alight; bursts from you from within.
You shudder and spasm, sob and moan and whine and claw at Jack’s back. He feels you tighten impossibly, feels your cunt attempt to gush around him.
It drags his own release from him, and he hates how quickly and harshly he pulls out of you so he doesn’t spill inside. His cock drops heavily on your cunt, ribbons of creamy release spurting across your lower stomach as you shudder through the remnants of your orgasm.
Despite how fucked out you are, you still hear the whimper of a moan that falls from Jack’s, the praise that follows when he cums across your abdomen.
You’re struggling to catch your breath, blinking away the white spots that mask your vision. But you feel the bed dip as Jack collapses beside you on his back, the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he pants breathlessly.
You turn your head to him in a lazy motion, an arm thrown over his eyes while the other reaches out for his hand to hold your thigh. His cock lays heavy on his leg; still glistening in your excitement and still incredibly big as he softens.
“Remind me again why we waited so long to do that.” You laugh through a heavy breath, and it makes Jack chuckle heartily.
With as much energy as you can muster, you try to sit up to clean yourself but Jack moves faster. Grips your thigh harder and turns to you beneath the arm over his eyes.
“Don’t you dare move.” His voice is gravelly, slightly broken. “I’ll clean you up, just give me a second.”
But you don’t listen. Jack watches with disdain as you sit up and round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom just beside his bedroom door.
It’s pure inadequacy that he feels. Like he’s unable to do something as simple as clean you up and take care of you after sex. A bare minimum act that you don’t let him complete.
He spirals in the two short minutes you’re gone, and when you come back clean and naked with a wash cloth in your hands, it only intensifies the feeling tenfold.
“I could’ve done that, sweetheart.” He tells you when you had him the cloth and sit on your heels on the bed beside him.
“I know.”
You don’t elaborate on the fact that he’s always taking care of you. Coming over to fix the sink or the dryer, helping you build a new bookcase or unclogging the toilet after Phoebe stuffed a whole roll of toilet paper down it.
You don’t want to make a thing out of it.
“Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?” You ask instead.
Jack blinks when he takes the wash cloth from you, pointing silently to the second drawer of the dresser in the corner of the room.
You make quick work on shaky legs of standing and pinching a gray t-shirt from the draw. It swallows you whole, the hem reaching just below your ass and the arms almost reaching your elbows.
Jack’s chest seizes when you turn to him, an uncontrollable wave of adoration and slight possessiveness strokes through him. The latter is something he’s not exactly proud of.
But you’re in his apartment, in his room, wearing his shirt, blissed out from his cock…
It takes him a moment or two to regulate his emotions. The internal battle of pinning you beneath him again to coax another orgasm out of your body and just coddling you close to his chest all night.
So he’s a little thrown off when you remain standing at the foot of the bed and ask, “Where do you keep your lotion?”
“My lotion?” He blinks.
“For your leg.”
His eyes betray him as they flicker toward the bathroom and you’re sauntering off before he can even stop you.
When you return with the bottle in hand and sit on your heels again beside him on the bed, he doesn’t stop you when you squeeze a dollop into your palms. Doesn’t comment when you warm it between your hands before gently massaging it across his tender skin.
He watches, reverently. In complete adoration and disbelief that you could ever be real. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination.
But it is real.
And when you curl up into his side beneath the covers like you’ve only ever belonged there, in this moment, Jack finds himself battling with three words that threaten to spill from his lips.
Too caught up in the moment and intensity of the night as you and Jack drift off to sleep, both of you miss the fact that neither of you are wearing your rings around your neck.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
OKAY IM SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG BUT I DID WARN YOU IN THE LAST CHAPTER!! lots to unpack in this one; tom's behavior, kirsty being a poor little sweetheart, jack being hot as fuck and of course, the smut!!!! from here on out, things take a big change and there is lots to happen and get through, so chapters will likely be this length or longer!
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
