I enjoy writing stories about people. It’s a hobby. I like this shit y’ah know? Here’s your guide to my depths.I write for lots of things, mostly Marvel and John Wick. I don’t write for real people anymore, but people find comfort in those things so I keep them up you know? Asks are always open. Talk to me!
usually when you have a stomach bug your body is like yes sir we'll get this punk out of here, 48 hours tops. then you get a cold and your body is like I dunno ... between a few hours and eleven months ... maybe a week minimum .... you gotta understand we're short staffed
tbf to the body, stomach bugs are easier to flush out since they are already in The System That Flushes Things Out From The Body, and that includes BOTH ends.
with a cold you gotta wait for the macrophages in your blood to start Eating Everything, and they are. not big. it takes them a while. please be more considerate of your macrophages in the future, theyre doing their best
summary. You're patient, Jack's learning. Still, you pretend it isn't hurting.
word count. 9.1k
content warnings. smut, ANGST. pls brace yourself.
notes. bear with me please, part 5 should be coming soon because this chapter was getting waaay too long so im cutting it in half lol
There's an addictive sensation that's ever present when dating someone new. The unknown that leaves room for curiosity rather than anxiety. How they take their coffee, their movie preferences, or if they prefer pickles or no pickles. There's a margin of error that isn't seen as a mistake but a stepping stone of learning more about them, that rush of not knowing where you'll land. Because there is safety knowing you will land.
Lately, with Jack, you aren't sure where to step, unsure if the floor beneath will give way to a tense conversation that is an argument in disguise.
He's still reassuring, the affection never lessens between you two, and maybe Jack didn't change at all — but you did. Your mind burrows deeper within, searching for a shadow of doubt in his quick and easy promises, weaving a conclusion for the backstory of an excuse that you can't swallow without chewing on it.
The water churning below the below that metaphorical precipice is dotted with rocks now but you can't find it in you to turn away.
"It's fine," Jack says but both of you hear the lie before he can even continue talking. "Go to the dinner with Trinity, sweetheart, I have some lyrics to look over."
His voice never falters, his gaze doesn't harden — everything in his response aligns with a man that isn't bothered, nothing like how Baz would twist the conversation to his advantage and leave you feeling like shit — and yet you tense where you're tucked against him in bed.
Your eyes never leave his even as he scrolls through his phone, his glasses sitting primly upon the slope of his nose. Emails and the like, nothing incriminating. "But Jack— are you sure?"
When he looks at you then, you feel that fear of being too much rise, like a tide tugging at your ankles, ready to sweep you under. "Sweetheart." That petname rolls roughly off his tongue, the affection that clings to each syllable tasting bittersweet. "It's fine. It's good that you're hanging out with people your own age."
Now that's bait, you think. The age thing seems to be bothering Jack more; you had initially thought the uneasiness festering between you might've been him holding resentment for the kiss you shared with Robby. But he seems far more upset every time TMZ or Entertainment Tonight! rave about your newest superstar clique: Trinity, Dennis, Mateo, and occasionally Dove.
You refuse to take the bite. Jack's a grown man — he should know how to communicate better.
You swallow down your rebuttal and decide to go along with this nonchalant front he's putting on. "Okay," you shrug. "If you insist."
The book Robby had recommended you sits on your side of the bed and you detangle from Jack to roll over, grabbing the loved novel and picking up from where you left off. You tangle your legs with Jack beneath the covers out of habit as you lean against the headboard, absentmindedly stroking the dog-eared pages.
Jack watches you read, sees the way you turn the book just enough to read Robby's annotations scrawled in the margins.
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NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY, ORRINGTON HOUSE, SECOND FLOOR, JACK AND ROBBY'S SUITE.
Jack stretches out on the lumpy couch he and Robby nabbed at a sale (the side of the road right after an Alpha Tau party right before fall semester) in hopes to smooth out the kink in his lower spine, an unfortunate result of studying all night at the library. His legs dangle off the edge of the arm rest on the opposite end, his eyes glazing across the sitcom blaring off the television with mild interest. He's about to light up a blunt — a wonderful possibility now that he and Robby finally moved out of the freshman dorms and into the houses near campus — when his roommate's door opens and shut.
"… the big deal? Why can't I just borrow your copy?"
He glances away from the screen to see Robby escort a pretty girl to the door; Jack might've given up on remembering the girls' names with how often he brings home a new face every few days or so.
"I can just buy you your own copy," Robby insists with a charming smile, sweet and puppyish even with his newly grown beard. Jack fights back his own grin when the girl visibly melts, hovering by the doorway as his roommate lifts an arm to lean against the door.
"… okay," the girl swoons, tilting her head up for a kiss that Robby happily indulges in… while gently nudging her out the door. "I'll call you."
"Sure, sweetheart," Robby smiles. Once the door's shut, he lets out a low exhale of relief and trudges over to the tiny couch. Jack lifts his legs just in time for Robby to settle, bringing his legs back onto his lap.
An amused chuckle escapes Jack, throws a twizzler at his friend's head to gain his attention. "What was that about?"
"She wanted to borrow my copy of White Nights," he mutters, catches the twizzler to nibble at the ends.
"What's wrong with that? Is it some kinda first edition?"
Robby shakes his head, hands the half-eaten twizzer to Jack who finishes it off without thinking. "No, I have annotations in there. It's as personal and private as it can get, man. I'd rather not have a girl whose name I can barely remember reading that."
Jack frowns. thinks of his East of Eden copy he's yet to give back to Robby sitting on his nightstand.
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"That's it, sweetheart, take it—"
Jack grunts, his palm hugging the length of your neck as your head is positioned carefully off the edge of the bed while he fucks your throat. Tears well up, eyes rolling back while your lover's balls hit your forehead, heavy and warm against your skin. It should be uncomfortable, the way his cock seems to drive even deeper while Robby finds a rhythm of his own tip slamming against your cervix.
They've gone longer than you've expected but perhaps having two older men is enough to sate your own libido as they take turns, passing you between each other. But it's the first of the evening where you're taking them both, Jack feeding his cock in your waiting throat while you've got your legs tossed up on Robby's broad shoulders as he fucks you slow and deep.
A shiver zips down your spine each time Jack would gingerly stroke your jaw and Robby would kiss the anklet that both men had chosen for you.
"Mmf…!" You whimper as the blood rushing to your head becomes too much but Jack's pulling out just as you tap his thigh, painting your collarbone and tits with his release just in time for Robby to do the same. He finishes between your thighs instead, making a mess upon your lower abdomen and the ruined lacy thong he didn't even bother removing when he began an hour ago.
You bask in it, the depravity of being used as a canvas for their pleasure, but then Robby's sneaking his index and middle finger in you. Your thighs quiver, hips jumping at the sudden intrusion as your overstimulated clit throbs.
"Come on, princess," Robby coos as he hovers over you, his beard scratching along your cheek. "You can give us one more."
A refusal sits on your tongue but then you feel another finger join. Your lashes flutter open and you gasp, seeing Jack settle on the bed beside Robby, a half-smirk on his lips as you see his wrist move in tandem with his best friend's. "Oh fuck—"
"Think she got wetter, man," Robby chuckles darkly and Jack glances over to him.
"I think so," Jack replies and this elicits a needy keen out of you; by now, they've fucked you stupid, words failing you as you chase yet another climax while they finger you relentlessly, treating you like a toy they aren't tired of yet.
Despite wringing three orgasms out of you already, the two men manage to bring you to the precipice once more, tears sliding down your blotchy cheeks. A broken whine spills from your kiss-swollen lips when they remove their fingers, feeling hopelessly empty. Jack helps you up, settles you in between them before Robby leaves to get a clean washcloth.
You no longer whine for him; it's a practiced routine now, both men moving around you to get you comfortable while making sure one is maintaining contact with you as you slowly come down from the haziness of your afterglow. You feel more settled into your bones when they've cleaned you gently, sharing chaste kisses until you're tucked between them.
"Who do you want to be the big spoon, sweetheart?" Jack asks quietly.
"Mm… Robby," you murmur and both men share a little look before shaking their heads fondly. You've been swapping between them both, having picked Jack last time and then Robby the night before. They lift the covers for you, waiting patiently as your turn to your side so you can tuck yourself into Robby's embrace while facing Jack with a soft and sleepy smile.
Darkness descends into the room now, nothing heard but your soft breathing as you fall asleep in the safety of both their arms.
But when morning comes, brought in by bird song and soft kisses from Jack and his stubborn internal clock, you know better than to seek out Robby and yet disappointment sinks like a stone in your gut when your arm reaches out to his side of the bed and only feel cold sheets.
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Entertainment Tonight! — DAILY STAR SIGHTINGS.
LOOKS LIKE STAR'S GATHERING MORE TO JOIN HER ORBIT AS HER CLIQUE MEET UP AT CHATEAU MARMONT FOR A PRIVATE DINNER. SOURCES SPOTTED STAR WITH TRINITY, DENNIS, AND MATEO SHARING APPETIZERS.
WHILE IT'S NO SURPRISE THAT TRINITY IS PRESENT (IT'S NO EXAGGERATION WHEN WE DUB THEM OUR FAVORITE CONJOINED TWINS), DENNIS THE COUNTRY STAR AND MATEO, OUR UPCOMING FAVORITE HEARTTHROB, ARE DEFINITELY NEW FACES. MANY SPECULATE THAT DENNIS HAD BEEN PULLED INTO THE CLIQUE DURING COACHELLA WHILE MATEO AND STAR HAVE CLEARLY HIT IT OFF AFTER PLAYING ROMEO AND JULIET IN HER MUSIC VIDEO.
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TMZ — REWRITING TRAGIC LOVE STORIES?
STAR AND MATEO ARE HOT HOT HOT IN HER NEWEST MUSIC VIDEO, FANS ARE RAVING ABOUT THEIR CHEMISTRY AS ROMEO AND JULIET. WHILE MANY ARE BEGGING FOR STAR TO BREAK INTO HOLLYWOOD, A GROWING PORTION OF FANS ARE BEGINNING TO SPECULATE IF THERE MAY BE SOMETHING MORE BETWEEN THE TWO.
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drop dead enthusiast! @.dropdeadd — 39m
who tf is writing all these articles and are they living under a rock? star's obviously dating jack abbot lmao god forbid a girl has guy friends??
troll @.ragebaiter — 51m
What a slut, is one man not enough for her? Used to listen to Nightcrawler back in my day, I can't believe their standards would drop this low.
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"I think I'm gonna have to stop asking you what you've been up to and just check TMZ," Mateo snorts as the two of you sit in a new coffee spot that had just opened in Culver City. Despite the drive down the 405 being literal hell, the two of you figured it'd be easier to catch up like this than be caught visiting each other's houses.
You roll your eyes behind your sunglasses, face bare of makeup while having dressed down considerably to avoid any kind of recognition. You hide your snort behind the rim of your coffee cup while Mateo does the same. His curls are tied back in a low ponytail, his own sunglasses sitting low on his nose. "You're confident in the tabloids' accuracy? Last article about me claimed I was secretly engaged to Parker Ellis."
"Who's engaged?"
You glance up and smile, instinctively opening your arms to greet Penny in a warm hug — the real reason why you had happily taken the drive to Culver: Mateo's girlfriend. Unlike the rest of your friend group, Penny isn't a celebrity and highly values her privacy, something you and Mateo can never promise. But without leaving LA county, Culver City has become no man's land whenever you'd happily third wheel with Mateo and his partner.
It's a nice reprieve from your odd lovelife and the chaos that follows whenever you third wheel Trinity and Dove. The other people you know of that are in normal relationships are a plane ride away.
"No one's engaged," you answer, watching fondly as she sits beside Mateo across the table.
"Not according to TMZ," Mateo grins. "Rumors say that she's been secretly seeing Parker Ellis— another director to add to your list?"
It's truly a testament of how much time has passed since your breakup with Baz and your budding friendship with Mateo that his little joke did nothing to actually offend you. If anything, it just makes you gasp at his audacity. "Oh, fuck you."
You and Penny laugh as you toss a napkin at his head. "Okay, but it's safe to say that you got a type, right?" Mateo nudges, casually taking the drink that Penny gives him while she takes his.
You frown slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Dude. You date older men. Baz was your longest and now Jack. That's a type. And it's not like you only attract older men, I've heard you reject Dennis Whitaker and Frank Langdon even before you met Jack. Ergo— a type.."
"It is not—" You pause, recall back all your exes and once realization settles in, you don't finish your sentence and opt to sip at your coffee instead with a glance to the street. Mateo still waits patiently for your reply, a mischievous smile growing on his lips. "I hate you."
"Nah, you don't."
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With your EP packaged and ready for the higher-ups to finally complete the little details of release days and promotional schedules, your own personal schedule finally has pockets of free time that you readily fill up with lunch dates with friends and dinners with Jack (and now occasionally Robby).
But with your sudden insurgence of appearances, so did the paparazzi. They've learned their lessons last time they had swarmed you but even with the few feet of space they allow, the calls of your name and the flashing lights is enough to kickstart the panic in your heart.
"Come on, Star, give us a smile!"
"This way, sweetheart!"
"Just one look over here, girly!"
It takes all your media training to keep your face neutral and unbothered, grateful for the sunglasses that never leave your purse as it shields you from the blinding camera lights. Trinity, however, has no qualms in shouting their vitriol back at them, fully protected by her status as an A-Lister. Dennis takes your left side, a hand on your lower back while Trinity's got her arm hooked around your right elbow. They flank you, pressing together as the two of you make it into Poppy lA, a nightclub that Dove had been begging you to drop by.
The bouncer at the door steps away from his perch to wrangle the paparazzi out of the way, allowing the three of you inside past the red velvet ropes.
"I can't believe you roped me into this," Dennis mutters, looking very much like his cute humble roots as a farm boy before his songs catapulted him to the front of every tween fantasy. You chuckle, wriggle out of your coat to hand over to the attendant, before slightly hunching over to tug at the sinfully short hemline. "I think I wanna tap out at midnight."
Your smile is genuine, reaching up to ruffle Dennis' curls. "Dennis, my love, it's 11:32 PM… you wanna leave in twenty eight minutes?"
"Earlier would be better."
Trinity groans and hooks her arms with yours and Dennis, tugging you further inside. "Come on, it's been forever since we got to just dance and let loose! Don't ruin my vibes, Huckleberry."
"How about 1 am?" You barter and despite the grimace on your friend's face, he gives in just as Trinity brings the both of you to the table Dove's occupying with a bunch of other big names in the industry. A handful of greetings and cheek-kisses are swapped before a round of shots are delivered into everyone's hands.
The room whirls around you, reaching that edge of tipsiness where everything is hilarious and every song that blares is a hit. Somehow you find yourself on the dance floor with Trinity behind you and Dennis in front, grinding to the beat before the three of you burst into laughter. Your heart seems to beat in time with the bass, rocking the walls and floors beneath you. Suddenly, the room tilts floor tips under you and it takes a second to right yourself with Dennis' help.
His warm hands cup your elbows, gliding up to your upper arms. Your own hands settle on his chest as Trinity hugs you from behind, catching a whiff of her perfume when she hides her face into the side of your neck. Muffled giggles tickle your skin and Dennis ends up hauling the both of you off the dance floor.
"Let's get some air," he chuckles but Trinity breaks away first, pulled into Dove's orbit as usual as she settles onto the girl's lap. When you make no movement, Dennis nudges your side. "I think you and I should call it."
The addictive spinning room is giving way to nausea and it takes all you can from throwing up on Dennis' shoes to nod. "God, yes— please."
Dennis frowns, his hand on your cheek before he's looking around urgently. You're about to ask what's wrong but your chest heaves, your upper body nearly lurching over before he's got an empty glass pressed against your heated cheek. The nausea is momentarily abated enough for him to bring you to the closest bathroom. Fortunately for the both of you, it's single use and gloriously line-free — you nearly trip over your heels to get to the toilet before you're emptying your entire stomach content.
"I'm sorry—" you mumble before you're throwing your head back over the rim. Warm, calloused hands gather your hair, quiet hums of support given without a drop of judgment. Once the nausea's passed and your stomach is empty, you sit back with a pathetic groan. "That was disgusting."
Dennis laughs quietly, moves your hair out of the way before he settles on the floor on the opposite side. "Don't worry about it… s'like unlocking a new level of friendship."
You chuckle, sitting with your legs folded beneath you. The music's bass thumps beyond the door, a pleasant reprieve to keep away the budding headache growing at the base of your skull. "That's one way of looking at it. Let me take you out for lunch someday, though — you literally held my hair up as I puked."
"Sure. Can't say no to free food."
A beat passes and Dennis rises first, offers his hand to you which you take. His grip is steady when you carefully get onto your feet, a feat on its own considering how high and unstable your stilettos are. The world is no longer spinning but you hug Dennis' bicep anyway as he leads you out. You draw in a few curious looks but neither of you pay them any attention; you're determined to make it out the door without faceplanting in front of a horde of influencers.
This time around, there aren't many paparazzi waiting outside the door but in your rush to get out, you realize you left your coat inside. Dennis remembers the same time you do and he squeezes your waist to gain your attention as he stops at the top of the steps.
"Let me get your coat," he says, pats your hip and gives a nod to the bouncer who nods back; you won't be bothered by anyone while he's inside fetching your things.
Your hands rub at your bare arms, goosebumps arising. "You've got a good friend," the bouncer tells you, his voice gruff and no-nonsense but his eyes hold a warmth that you didn't qutie expect. A tentative smile grows upon your lips just as the door swings open once more. Dennis has his own jacket on but he's got your coat hung on his forearm. "Have a good night, you two."
Your smile blooms into something more genuine as Dennis helps you in your coat, realizing that there isn't anything suggestive clinging beneath the bouncer's words. Not a statement to add onto the reputatation that's evolving without your permission but an observation after a genuine interaction. It's a welcomed reprieve.
You give the bouncer a little wave just as your phone starts to ring and you eagerly answer, recognizing the assigned ringtone. "Jack—" you gasp as the line connects, bursting into excited giggles while Dennis stops guiding you along. "Hi!"
Jack chuckles on the other end and it's honey smooth, warm and raspy that you can feel yourself melt if it isn't for Dennis's arm around your waist. "Hi, pretty girl. Trinity texted me, told me you were ready to go home. Where's your phone, hm?"
You giggle again. "It's in my hand, baby!" Dennis chuckles quietly beside you; while you aren't tripping your feet, you're still the furthest thing from sober.
Across the city, that ugly monster in his gut rears its head when Jack hears a male voice laugh beside you. His jaw clicks but he keeps his voice casual for you. "I know it is, sweetheart," he chuckles. "Stay put, I'll come pick you up."
"Mkaaay," you slur and despite the growing jealousy that's blistering in his heart, Jack's hopelessly endeared by you. He's hearing you babble about nothing and everything and sure, half your sentences are unintelligible but he hums and nods anyways, grabbing his keys to drive out to wherever you are. He'll always come whenever you call.
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Dennis keeps you from stumbling off the curb when Jack's G-Wagon pulls up, the bright headlights nearly blinding you. When the lights shut off, Jack circles and something dark passes across his gaze but it leaves as fast as it had arrived.
"Jack!" You giggle excitedly, leaning away from Dennis' arms to fall right into your lover's waiting embrace. His smile is gentle when his arms wind around your waist, chuckling when you press messy kisses along his scruffy jaw. "You're here!"
"Hi, silly girl," he greets with a tender kiss to your cheek. "Ready to head home?"
You give a nod, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders while your fingers card through his silver curls with a dreamy sigh. "Mhm… thanks Dennis—" You remember to say with a wave of your hand behind you, barely catching the amused chuckle from your friend while Jack's eyes harden when you see him looking over his shoulder. A pout settles on your lips and the hand that had been tangled in his hair comes down to hold his chin, pulling his gaze down back to you. "Why so grumpy, Jackie?"
"Jackie?" He repeats with an amused yet incredulous laugh, his bad mood shedding when he gets the full impact of your adorable pout. "That's a new one… no, baby, I'm not grumpy. Come on, let's get you home."
He hauls you into the front seat, pressing kisses all over your cheeks and lips to get you to sit still long enough for him to buckle you in. He lets you hug his arm as he drives, the little green monster in his chest purring satisfactorily each time your nail runs up and down his bicep. When he doesn't feel your hands move, he steals a glance during a red light and his heart bleeds at the sight of you: fast asleep with the pendant still sewn into his sleeve pressed gently between your index finger and thumb.
"Sweetheart?" Jack murmurs a few minutes later, the car parked and the front porch lights on to light the way inside his home. He'd managed to get you in his bedroom, gently placed on the ottoman at the foot of his bed. "I'm gonna need you to stay up for me a bit longer, hm? You'll fall right off your seat."
You pout up at him but he makes sure you're no longer listing to the right before he stands to get the makeup wipes from his bathroom. He knows you have a whole routine but he'd rather not accidentally waterboard you. When he returns, he sits beside you and gently holds your face where he starts to wipe away the foundation and blush.
"Eyes closed for me, pretty girl," he murmurs and when you do as he says, you're rewarded with a chaste kiss on your lips. Then you feel the slightest pressure along your eyelids, his touch still so heartbreakingly gentle. When the most of your makeup is finally off, getting you changed is a routine he can do in his sleep. Soon enough, he's got you out of that little dress and into one of his shirts, curled up in his arms. By the time he's got the covers pulled up, you're out like a light.
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Even with Jack's gentle kisses drawing you out of sleep, it doesn't soothe the absolute riot beneath your skull as the sun's rays pierce through your orbital lobe. You groan and roll over to shove your face into his bare chest, trying to escape the hangover that's already settled deep in your every being.
"Ow," you whine when he leans over you, stretching across to grab something from the side of the bed and inadvertently pressing you into the mattress. When he leans back, he kisses your forehead and hairline.
"Painkillers and water," he says, offering the two little pills and water bottle which you gratefully accept.
"Thank you," you sigh with a soft smile but there's something in Jack's eyes that unsettles you, something he's holding back. A loose thread that you want to keep on tugging. "Jack? What is it?"
His mouth parts and you huff.
"Don't lie. Please don't do that thing where you pretend nothing is wrong," you say quietly. "I don't want to be that person where we— that we wait for things to blow over without talking things through."
"Sweetheart, what are you talking about?"
Something in your eyes shutter, your lips pressing in a firm line, and that fear sparks in his chest— he doesn't know what to do if you'd ever start pulling away.
"I didn't know Dennis was joining your night out."
You swallow back a sharp retort, eyes widening for a moment. "I didn't think it was an issue," you say as carefully as you could. "Dennis is a friend, Jack."
He shifts slightly as you sit up, hates the space that grows when you lean back against his headboard. Instead, he lets his gaze take you in, memorize the way his shirt hangs perfectly off your frame. "You're right," he concedes, shakes his head as though it could shake the frustration that's been building.
It's not that he doesn't want to talk to you; he loves talking to you! Rooftop pizza dates, midnight chats in the kitchen when sleep evades the both of you … he just doesn't know what to say this time around. It's a growing clump of something, building and growing like a cyst behind his heart that eludes any kind of description that could probably justify what he's feeling whenever you're around men your age.
But he sees the disappointment that clings to your smile as you swallow down another lie from him. "Jack, I only ever want you," you promise and when your arms open, he falls into them.
He'll swallow your lies, too.
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"Baby?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?" He leans his head back off the couch to peek towards the kitchen where you're divesting his freezer of ice cream and whatever you're currently craving. He hears the faucet run, ceramic hitting the bottom of the sink, and he cranes his head to find you in the kitchen. You pad around the island counter to get to his line of sight and what he sees fights back the little monster in his chest.
Bare legs, a peek of the lacy pink undies he'd bought for you in New York after he'd torn your last pair from his own impatience, and the cropped band tee that you might've stolen from his closet. But what does it for him is your face undone, hair pulled back as you've got little gummy patches under your eyes and star stickers dotting your cheeks.
You look completely at home.
"Nicole and Matt's wedding invites came in last week," you announce as you bend over slightly, rewarding him with a perfect view of your ass which he shamelessly gropes, to dig into your purse you've discarded on the opposite couch a few hours ago upon arrival. Once you've found it, you join him on the couch, legs folded beneath as Jack's arm loosely falls around your shoulders.
"Nicole… she's the one with the lawyer fiance, right?" Jack asks as he looks upon the thick cardstock of Nicole and Matt's name written in loopy script above the braille beneath each line. "The one you flew out for Coachella?"
You nod as you gently fan the invite, sighing contentedly at the sweet scent that wafts from the card. "She's giving me a plus one."
A stupidly wide grin curls on Jack's lips. "You askin' me out, sweetheart?"
Your eyes roll as you try to get up, squealing when Jack's arms wind around your waist to pull you back into his lap. You squirm and jostle but your lover's arms are cords of steel when he keeps you on top of him. "Jack—! Okay, okay, yes!" Your giggles fill the room and his heart pounds, hiding his smile against your neck.
"Then, yes. I'll gladly be your plus one for your friend's wedding."
Jack chuckles at your resounding squeal, watches you flit off his lap to call up your friend. It leaves him feeling sticky sweet, forgetting the tension that has been hanging over the both of you recently.
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Your head hangs off the edge of the chair, legs propped up on Trinity's vanity as the woman in question sits in the eye of a storm — the storm being heaps of clothing dragged out of her closet as she attempts to finish packing. You had come by to help but you've gotten distracted, watching reruns of a sitcom the two of you are obsessed with.
"Have you ever made it official? You and Jack?"
You pointedly ignore her question as you help yourself to her snacks while she tries to fold but the silence is deafening and it results to a pillow thrown right at your head. "Jesus Christ, how long has it been now? A year?"
"I wasn't counting—"
Especially not after adding Robby to the mix.
"You're fucking Robby, too?!"
Your groan is swallowed up by the pillow you shove your face into, hoping it could deflect the waves of judgment rolling off your best friend. You can feel her eyes on you, searching for any semblance of common sense from you but you've long accepted that none can be found when it comes to Jack Abbot.
"I don't think it matters anymore. Things have been weird between us. Tense. I wouldn't be surprised if things just crash and burn."
Trinity winces. "I think you've been hanging out with me too often, you're too cynical." She stops folding, abandons her three open suitcases in favor of crossing the room to kneel by the chair you're lounging on. "Come on, talk to me. You've been too preoccupied with old man dick to keep me updated."
"Gross," you gag dramatically but your hands find your best friend's hair anyways, soothing yourself to play with her soft tresses as you try to find the words. "Things were fine even after Robby joined in, you know. We even have a routine, all three of us— they're both so protective."
"Well, there's your answer," Trinity hums. "They're both jealous men."
"What?" You laugh incredulously.
"Think about it. Those two already come as a set—they won't be jealous with each other. But any other guy? All bets are off."
You're just about to refute Trinity but it fits too easily, jigsaw puzzle pieces slotting into place. Jack didn't flinch when Robby had bought you that bracelet nor did he start to pull away when Robby had kissed you solo. But Jack did get territorial when Mateo was casted as your love interest for your music video, started getting distant when Dennis joined the friend group.
He even fucked you a bit harder when you had made it onto Page Six with both Dennis and Mateo flanking you.
"It doesn't matter," you say eventually, removing your hands from Trinity's hair. "He's never asked to make things exclusive. He doesn't get to dictate who I hang out with if he can't even bring himself to call me his. Officially."
It had been something the two of you made very clearly during that first night, right before you had fallen asleep in his bed but right after he had fucked you into the mattress. While you were both in agreement that this was supposed to be a casual affair, any changes have to be said outright, whether it's ending things officially or wanting anything more.
You don't get to be taken for granted, never wanting to be the girlfriend of a man under assumption.
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Frustration begins to build into something nastier but it's something a few steps removed from you, just more annoyances and grievances from past flings that are rising from the past just out of similarity. Jealousy has been an ugly habit of Jack's, something he nipped in the bud immediately with Iris. A whirlwind romance is what the public saw, a desperate fix to cling to whoever deigned to stay longer than a month is the truth. He'd been lucky enough that Iris had been just as insane as he was, hopelessly in love and eager to be claimed.
The flings that follow only ever stayed as flings, back when he kept his heart on the top shelf for the night as strange women would keep his bed warm. They liked the fame that came with spending the night with Jack, the possessiveness that bloomed and expired once they left right after.
But you've been staying longer than a night and that same jealousy — possessiveness — has nowhere to go but cultivate. The easy fix is there, the same solution that had won him the love of his life a decade ago, but the stakes seem higher with you. He doesn't know if his final push to claim you would result in the same with Iris or if he'll lose you forever. You're a younger woman, what the hell would you want to do settling down with a man as old as him?
So that's where every night takes him, every night that he doesn't spend with you, writing in a notebook to finish a song he's begun since losing Iris. Then the song is born, carefully put together by producers and other in-house musicians that are too professional to let themselves dwell on the lyrics that they aren't allowed to change.
Soon the song is ready, Jack avoiding Robby's gaze when they wrap up recording. Once they get the OK from the company, it'd be ready to be released soon.
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NIGHTCRAWLER @.NIGHTCRAWLER — 1m
New single: 'TEETH' out now, streaming everywhere.
Todd @.ncbuddies — 1m
I think this was a demo from after that huge blowout between Jack and Iris, glad to finally see it out
JACKSTAR ENTHUSIAST @.jackstarsbitch — 1m
oh god THIS RIFF???
STAR'S BABY @.starluvbot — 1m
these lyrics,,,,,, i mean both jack and robby are credited but the Wife Line,,,,,,
PINK LIMOS OUT SOON @.bbystars — 1m
all men do is disappoint and never get over their ex
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The world falls beneath your feet, a mutinous storm churning as the waves tug at your ankles and wrists to try and pull you under. The four walls of your bedroom disappear and the sheets tangled around your limbs are suffocating. You can't breathe.
It almost feels like a mistake refusing Trinity's offer to sleepover. Although it was only earlier that afternoon that you had been attempting to help her pack, it feels like days since then as you listen to the surprise drop of NIGHTCRAWLER's single. You shouldn't be so shocked; Fridays are the usual for new music. You just didn't expect the lyrics to feel like a stab to the gut.
With your chest heaving, you sit up in the middle of your bed and kick away your duvet. Your eyes are glimmering with angry, unshed tears when you catch a glimpse of your reflection upon your laptop screen before it wakes up.
You jam in the new title of the song on Genius lyrics, hit play on your phone. The bass kicks in, empty vocals following.
Robby sings the first verse and you shut your eyes. "Sometimes you're a stranger in my bed, don't know if you love me or you want me dead." The knot in your chest eases; Robby's infamous seven week itch would obviously culminate in a song like this. "Every little lie gives me butterflies," he sings and you manage a half smile.
The chorus comes and goes, a heavy-hitting punch delivered straight to your chest. But then Jack's voice kicks in and you hate the way your heart flutters. "Some days, you're the best thing in my life. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife."
Your eyes fly open and that knot in your chest feels like a stone, sinking deeper and deeper. It tears through your windpipe, angrily batting away the tears that threaten to spill. When the lyrics confirm the bullshit you're reading, you throw on the closest jacket your fingers touch, shove your feet into a pair of uggs and grab your keys and wallet.
It's nearly midnight but you swerve between the traffic of Los Angeles to get to Jack's neighborhood. You punch the clicker attached to your visor, the gate swinging open for you to pull through. The cold bites at your bare legs; you might've tossed a jacket over your threadbare sleep shirt but your baby pink cotton shorts do nothing against the chill.
"Jack—" you call, knocking at the heavy door. He answers with an easy smile and you can feel the way your heart splinters, willing to let it all go and fall into something safe— but that splintered piece lodges deep in your lungs and a shaky breath snaps you to attention, to the hurt that's been growing like a bruise between your ribs. "We need to talk."
"Sweetheart? I thought you were sleeping early—" he frowns but steps aside to let you in. "It's fuckin' cold outside, why didn't you call me and let me know that you were coming?"
"Your song," you whisper as you step further in. His alarm bells are ringing in his head when you maintain the distance between you and him, stumbling back when he takes a step forward. "Teeth. Did you mean it?"
His frown deepens, the panic clawing to escape the cell he's got it trapped in with that jealous little monster inside his chest. "Baby, what are you talking about—"
"The song, Jack! The fuckin'—" Your voice breaks and the sharp breath you take in, jagged and raw has him trying to step closer but you lift a hand to stop his progress. A wet laugh escapes you. "The lyric. About your wife. Did you fuckin' mean it?"
"Those lyrics… they're old—"
"Jack, please," you beg. "You said that when you see me, sometimes you see your wife. Don't insult me further by saying that that isn't about me and Iris— because I'm not an idiot. I'm— I know I'm younger than the women you date a-and I can't even begin to comprehend what it's like to be a spouse but I think I deserve better than to live in the shadow of your late wife."
Despite the solidity of your statement, Jack sees the way your shoulders tremble, the tense posture you maintain. A paradox of control in your speech but an unraveling in your body language, like a cornered animal trying to maintain its position. "That's not—" He pauses when you let out an indignant noise of disbelief. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"That's bullshit." Your arms raise to hug yourself, a protective barrier against Jack. "I— You can't be that obtuse, Jack. You can't claim ignorance for something as obvious as— as…"
"As what?" And you hate the way how patient he is despite this, how tender and delicate the words roll off his tongue.
"God—!" You exclaim with a frustrated noise, a humorless smile on your face as you meet his eyes. "That I'm in love with you! That I fell so—" Another shaky breath punctures your sentence. "—so in love… fuck, there's no way you didn't know, Jack. You can't be this fucking blind to it, can't be this cruel to write that line as if I'm just a replacement for Iris. Is that what I am to you? Because I don't even know where I stand in your life—"
He interrupts as he surges forward, desperation clinging to his every word. "I want you, you know I do—!"
"But do you love me?"
The room goes horribly still and the silence yawns like a cavernous chasm between you two. You two are nearly chest to chest but the warmth that usually follows with close proximity is bone-chilling now. "I—"
You take pity and the smile you give him is heartbreakingly sad. An amalgamation of heartache and understanding. "Maybe it's best we take some time apart… I think this has been a long thing coming."
"Wait, angel—" His arm reaches out to grasp your wrist as you move for the door. His touch burns but you don't shake him off. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"Can't break something that was never whole, Jack."
While he's stunned, you take the chance to leave but the tears roll down quickly, obstructing your view as you make your way towards his driveway to your waiting car. At this point, the world blurs away into nothing; it feels like you've sunk to the bottom of the ocean, Jack's pleas unheard on you like he's above water. You enter the car and begin to pull away.
"… can't drive like this—"
But you give him one last tearful look before you pull out of his driveway and down the street. You can only make it a block until your unshed tears start to blur your vision so you pull over in front of someone's house, kill the headlights and engine, before you drop your walls and sob into the steering wheel.
It's raw and ugly, snot dribbling past your upper lip as you let it all out; all the frustration and grievances of Jack's inability to communicate, dragging you on to a place he can't name. Your chest is heaving and your eyes are swollen when you finally feel the vestiges of your heartache abate for the time being, catching the time displayed on your dashboard.
1:02 AM.
Guilt tugs at your heartstrings but Trinity's line rings twice before she finally answers. "Trin?" you whisper. Rustling sounds echo through the line, another woman's voice unintelligible in the background.
"Hey— what's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I… I need a ride. I can't drive home like this." Your voice is nasally, cracked and raw. You're in no state to explain why you need a ride but Trinity is already sending her ETA, promising that she and Dove are on their way.
Dove's deep red vintage Mercedes Benz rolls up beside your car and the two women are quick to help you into the back seat. While Trinity grabs your main things from your car, she locks it up and shoots a text to Cassie that you'll need a tow truck to pick up your vehicle the following day.
When you don't offer any explanation, both women follow your lead and keep silent. They take you straight to Trinity's place, tucking you between them both with a quiet hug of support. You fall asleep just like that, surrounded by your closest friends.
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"You wanna talk about it?"
You don't look up from Trinity's laptop where you're browsing through flights to New York on her couch the next morning. "Nothing much to say, Trin. He wouldn't talk to me. Not in the way it matters. So I broke things off."
"So you're running away to New York?"
"I'm not running away, I'm going to Nicole's wedding."
"That's a week away from now!" Trinity huffs as she leans against the back of the couch, hovering above where you're perusing flights. "Come on— when have you been the one to run away from your problems?"
You tilt your head up, give your best friend a stupid grin. "Looks like you've been rubbing off on me, Santos." Her eyes roll and she shoves the laptop shut. "Hey—!"
"Just fly with me," she sighs, thumbs flying across her screen as she contacts her own manager. "I'm heading out for the press junket in New York anyway… besides, I'd rather not leave you alone anytime soon."
"I'm not fragile!"
Dove passes by, drops a kiss to the top of your hair. "You kinda are, babes."
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The six and a half hour trip to New York had been spent watching every movie you can find on the available services, promptly annoying Trinity to shove an eyemask over her head to try and nap. Sleeping is out of the question, it'll leave you alone with your thoughts until you're stuck mourning a relationship that never quite existed and you're absolutely done with crying.
Nicole had been all too eager to welcome you when you called her while boarding in LAX, asking if it'd be alright with her and Matt if you fly in earlier than expected. When you finally landed that Sunday evening, Trinity's drivers had dropped you off at Nicole and Matt's brownstone in Brooklyn, tucked in an affluent neighborhood.
Matt must make bank as a lawyer, you think to yourself as you exit the car, thanking the driver with a smile when he brings out your meager luggage. You didn't take long to pack when Trinity had taken you home before the flight, just grabbed the essentials before leaving in case Jack had the idea of coming by after your fight. Anything else you needed, you could just buy and the idea of retail therapy is a lot more appealing than crying your troubles out in a tub of ice cream.
Just as you make it to the first step, the door flies open and Nicole rushes down so quickly to hug you that you had thought she might've fallen. "You're here—!" She squeals, peppering your cheeks with chaste kisses before she tugs you inside. "Come in, come in. We cleared up the spare guest room just for you. Matt's at the office but he'll be home in a couple of hours for dinner, and— hey, is everything okay?"
The sudden switch gives you whiplash and your eyes fly up to your friend's gentle concern; despite the years that's passed, she still knows you better than you do, a superpower of being childhood friends, you suppose. "Yeah—! Just… stress from work, you know? I needed a break so I figured I could fly in early, get my Nicki time before anyone else arrived!"
Her smile returns reluctantly but you pull her in for a tight hug, hiding your own heartbreak. You push aside your own issues for now, shelving them to the backburner. The last thing you want is your feelings to poison what's meant to be the happiest moment of your childhood best friend's life.
"Okay…" she says hesitantly but your smile must come off as genuine when she pulls back enough to meet your eyes because her spark returns and she's back to tugging you further into her home. You listen in as she rambles excitedly for the week she has planned out. "So, Saturday—! That's the big day, obviously. The bridal party is arriving Wednesday and we're all staying at the Bryant Park Hotel up until the ceremony and reception. We reserved the top two floors for all our needs. You get to stay in the largest suite right beside Jacqueline—"
She continues to line out the festivities as she helps you unpack and settle in the guest room— spa day for the bridesmaids on Wednesday, final fittings on Thursday, and rehearsal along with the rehearsal dinner on Friday.
Busy enough to keep yourself from thinking about Jack.
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You throw yourself in the last minute details of wedding planning with Nicole during the two days you stay at their home, tying up any loose ends. In the evenings, you pour over old photos and yearbooks with her, regaling Matt with your childhood spent together.
You try not to stare whenever Matt kisses her, how he never seems to hold back in telling her how much he loves her.
By the time the rest of the bridal party arrives, you're lugging in a larger suitcase— a result of shopping with Nicole the day before to pack up on outfits you may need for the rest of the trip. You greet the rest of the bridesmaids, recognizing some of Nicole's sorority sisters from college and blushing when they compliment your music.
But you get the largest hug from Jacqueline, your other childhood best friend and Nicole's maid of honor. The three of you had been a trio of trouble growing up and Nicole had nearly thrown a bridezilla fit when the wedding planner had casually mentioned that 'two maid of honors aren't traditional'. You were quick to bow out despite your regretful pout during her engagement party about a year and a half ago, reminding her that your career isn't the most consistent to help her plan the wedding. Jacqueline had been all too eager to step up but always included you in the conversation whenever you had the chance to get on your phone.
"It's been forever—!" Jacqueline wails dramatically as she hugs you as tight as Nicole did. You match her dramatics perfectly, whining and huffing as you two waddle and sway around the lobby while latching onto each other. "I'm so so sorry I couldn't come to Coachella! Nicki said you did amazing!"
You laugh softly and gently pull away, beaming under the attention of your closest friends. The ache in your heart feels less jagged, less raw when you're surrounded by this much love. "As long as you come to my tour, all's forgiven!"
"You're going on tour—?!"
"Shush—" you laugh as you link arms with her, following the parade of women and men to the ornate elevators. "It's not something I told the company I wanted yet…"
The two of you catch up, listening in on what's new with her life. While she's able to do so from how often TMZ reports on you, you drink up every detail she gives you as her new life as a married woman.
"With how amazing your honeymoon sounded," you giggle while you two stretch out on the balcony chaise, swaddled in fluffy white bathrobes, "I completely forgive you for missing my Coachella performance."
She laughs and somehow, the conversation is derailed for the nth time that Wednesday afternoon. Your heart is full and for a moment, a sweet blissful hour, you've forgotten the pieces Jack had left your heart in.
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Your skin feels soft and clean, your body renewed after the almost-intensive session with the spa day that Nicole had planned a few hours before the dinner Jacqueline insisted on for just the three of you. The other bridesmaids took no offense to it, opting to explore the nightlife New York City offers.
The three of you end up in your room after you've begun to get too close to tipsy at the restaurant — the last thing you need is to get messy drunk. It feels like high school when you shower and freshen up, changing into the matching silk pajama sets that Nicole had monogrammed with your names as a gift for her bridal party.
"Alright." Jacqueline says quietly, calling for your attention as Nicole wanders out to the balcony of your room to answer Matt's call. "You may have fooled her but not me. What's going on?"
It takes everything in you not to fall apart under your best friend's sharp gaze, protective and fierce as her hand finds yours. Your smile barely falters but the anguish in your eyes is unmistakable. "I ended things with Jack. It's why I flew in so early," you whisper. "I didn't want to tell Nicole— I don't want to ruin her wedding."
"Oh, sweetie—" Jacqueline tuts but there's nothing but empathy written across her features, pulling you in for a tight hug and a gentle rub of your back. "After the wedding, stay with John and I. Gosh, I can't even imagine a breakup, let alone being in the public eye."
You nod, grateful that she understands your hesitance on being seen back in Los Angeles so soon. "I'll catch you up on everything, I promise. Just… after the wedding, okay?"
"Of course, of course."
Despite Nicole having her own room with Matt ("traditions can go fuck themselves, I'm sharing the bed with my future husband—") and Jacqueline settled in with John in the room beside yours, the two of them have made themselves comfortable on your massive bed— sprawled out on their stomachs, flipping through bridal magazines with little under-eye masks on as if the three of you are back in high school.
A knock interrupts your conversation but you roll off the bed, figuring it may be another bridesmaid wanting to join in on the impromptu sleepover. "If it's Grace, tell her to bring back my hair-curler—" Nicole shouts and you give her a nod, pulling the door open.
"Gracie, Nicole wants her— Robby?"
Two heads pop up at the name, eyes widening to look over your shoulder to see Michael "Robby" Robinavitch standing at your hotel door.
whew okay thank you for reading! i know it's a cruel spot to end but i promise to have part 5 asap! comments, likes, reblogs, and asks are highly appreciated!
summary. You're patient, Jack's learning. Still, you pretend it isn't hurting.
word count. 9.1k
content warnings. smut, ANGST. pls brace yourself.
notes. bear with me please, part 5 should be coming soon because this chapter was getting waaay too long so im cutting it in half lol
There's an addictive sensation that's ever present when dating someone new. The unknown that leaves room for curiosity rather than anxiety. How they take their coffee, their movie preferences, or if they prefer pickles or no pickles. There's a margin of error that isn't seen as a mistake but a stepping stone of learning more about them, that rush of not knowing where you'll land. Because there is safety knowing you will land.
Lately, with Jack, you aren't sure where to step, unsure if the floor beneath will give way to a tense conversation that is an argument in disguise.
He's still reassuring, the affection never lessens between you two, and maybe Jack didn't change at all — but you did. Your mind burrows deeper within, searching for a shadow of doubt in his quick and easy promises, weaving a conclusion for the backstory of an excuse that you can't swallow without chewing on it.
The water churning below the below that metaphorical precipice is dotted with rocks now but you can't find it in you to turn away.
"It's fine," Jack says but both of you hear the lie before he can even continue talking. "Go to the dinner with Trinity, sweetheart, I have some lyrics to look over."
His voice never falters, his gaze doesn't harden — everything in his response aligns with a man that isn't bothered, nothing like how Baz would twist the conversation to his advantage and leave you feeling like shit — and yet you tense where you're tucked against him in bed.
Your eyes never leave his even as he scrolls through his phone, his glasses sitting primly upon the slope of his nose. Emails and the like, nothing incriminating. "But Jack— are you sure?"
When he looks at you then, you feel that fear of being too much rise, like a tide tugging at your ankles, ready to sweep you under. "Sweetheart." That petname rolls roughly off his tongue, the affection that clings to each syllable tasting bittersweet. "It's fine. It's good that you're hanging out with people your own age."
Now that's bait, you think. The age thing seems to be bothering Jack more; you had initially thought the uneasiness festering between you might've been him holding resentment for the kiss you shared with Robby. But he seems far more upset every time TMZ or Entertainment Tonight! rave about your newest superstar clique: Trinity, Dennis, Mateo, and occasionally Dove.
You refuse to take the bite. Jack's a grown man — he should know how to communicate better.
You swallow down your rebuttal and decide to go along with this nonchalant front he's putting on. "Okay," you shrug. "If you insist."
The book Robby had recommended you sits on your side of the bed and you detangle from Jack to roll over, grabbing the loved novel and picking up from where you left off. You tangle your legs with Jack beneath the covers out of habit as you lean against the headboard, absentmindedly stroking the dog-eared pages.
Jack watches you read, sees the way you turn the book just enough to read Robby's annotations scrawled in the margins.
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NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY, ORRINGTON HOUSE, SECOND FLOOR, JACK AND ROBBY'S SUITE.
Jack stretches out on the lumpy couch he and Robby nabbed at a sale (the side of the road right after an Alpha Tau party right before fall semester) in hopes to smooth out the kink in his lower spine, an unfortunate result of studying all night at the library. His legs dangle off the edge of the arm rest on the opposite end, his eyes glazing across the sitcom blaring off the television with mild interest. He's about to light up a blunt — a wonderful possibility now that he and Robby finally moved out of the freshman dorms and into the houses near campus — when his roommate's door opens and shut.
"… the big deal? Why can't I just borrow your copy?"
He glances away from the screen to see Robby escort a pretty girl to the door; Jack might've given up on remembering the girls' names with how often he brings home a new face every few days or so.
"I can just buy you your own copy," Robby insists with a charming smile, sweet and puppyish even with his newly grown beard. Jack fights back his own grin when the girl visibly melts, hovering by the doorway as his roommate lifts an arm to lean against the door.
"… okay," the girl swoons, tilting her head up for a kiss that Robby happily indulges in… while gently nudging her out the door. "I'll call you."
"Sure, sweetheart," Robby smiles. Once the door's shut, he lets out a low exhale of relief and trudges over to the tiny couch. Jack lifts his legs just in time for Robby to settle, bringing his legs back onto his lap.
An amused chuckle escapes Jack, throws a twizzler at his friend's head to gain his attention. "What was that about?"
"She wanted to borrow my copy of White Nights," he mutters, catches the twizzler to nibble at the ends.
"What's wrong with that? Is it some kinda first edition?"
Robby shakes his head, hands the half-eaten twizzer to Jack who finishes it off without thinking. "No, I have annotations in there. It's as personal and private as it can get, man. I'd rather not have a girl whose name I can barely remember reading that."
Jack frowns. thinks of his East of Eden copy he's yet to give back to Robby sitting on his nightstand.
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"That's it, sweetheart, take it—"
Jack grunts, his palm hugging the length of your neck as your head is positioned carefully off the edge of the bed while he fucks your throat. Tears well up, eyes rolling back while your lover's balls hit your forehead, heavy and warm against your skin. It should be uncomfortable, the way his cock seems to drive even deeper while Robby finds a rhythm of his own tip slamming against your cervix.
They've gone longer than you've expected but perhaps having two older men is enough to sate your own libido as they take turns, passing you between each other. But it's the first of the evening where you're taking them both, Jack feeding his cock in your waiting throat while you've got your legs tossed up on Robby's broad shoulders as he fucks you slow and deep.
A shiver zips down your spine each time Jack would gingerly stroke your jaw and Robby would kiss the anklet that both men had chosen for you.
"Mmf…!" You whimper as the blood rushing to your head becomes too much but Jack's pulling out just as you tap his thigh, painting your collarbone and tits with his release just in time for Robby to do the same. He finishes between your thighs instead, making a mess upon your lower abdomen and the ruined lacy thong he didn't even bother removing when he began an hour ago.
You bask in it, the depravity of being used as a canvas for their pleasure, but then Robby's sneaking his index and middle finger in you. Your thighs quiver, hips jumping at the sudden intrusion as your overstimulated clit throbs.
"Come on, princess," Robby coos as he hovers over you, his beard scratching along your cheek. "You can give us one more."
A refusal sits on your tongue but then you feel another finger join. Your lashes flutter open and you gasp, seeing Jack settle on the bed beside Robby, a half-smirk on his lips as you see his wrist move in tandem with his best friend's. "Oh fuck—"
"Think she got wetter, man," Robby chuckles darkly and Jack glances over to him.
"I think so," Jack replies and this elicits a needy keen out of you; by now, they've fucked you stupid, words failing you as you chase yet another climax while they finger you relentlessly, treating you like a toy they aren't tired of yet.
Despite wringing three orgasms out of you already, the two men manage to bring you to the precipice once more, tears sliding down your blotchy cheeks. A broken whine spills from your kiss-swollen lips when they remove their fingers, feeling hopelessly empty. Jack helps you up, settles you in between them before Robby leaves to get a clean washcloth.
You no longer whine for him; it's a practiced routine now, both men moving around you to get you comfortable while making sure one is maintaining contact with you as you slowly come down from the haziness of your afterglow. You feel more settled into your bones when they've cleaned you gently, sharing chaste kisses until you're tucked between them.
"Who do you want to be the big spoon, sweetheart?" Jack asks quietly.
"Mm… Robby," you murmur and both men share a little look before shaking their heads fondly. You've been swapping between them both, having picked Jack last time and then Robby the night before. They lift the covers for you, waiting patiently as your turn to your side so you can tuck yourself into Robby's embrace while facing Jack with a soft and sleepy smile.
Darkness descends into the room now, nothing heard but your soft breathing as you fall asleep in the safety of both their arms.
But when morning comes, brought in by bird song and soft kisses from Jack and his stubborn internal clock, you know better than to seek out Robby and yet disappointment sinks like a stone in your gut when your arm reaches out to his side of the bed and only feel cold sheets.
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Entertainment Tonight! — DAILY STAR SIGHTINGS.
LOOKS LIKE STAR'S GATHERING MORE TO JOIN HER ORBIT AS HER CLIQUE MEET UP AT CHATEAU MARMONT FOR A PRIVATE DINNER. SOURCES SPOTTED STAR WITH TRINITY, DENNIS, AND MATEO SHARING APPETIZERS.
WHILE IT'S NO SURPRISE THAT TRINITY IS PRESENT (IT'S NO EXAGGERATION WHEN WE DUB THEM OUR FAVORITE CONJOINED TWINS), DENNIS THE COUNTRY STAR AND MATEO, OUR UPCOMING FAVORITE HEARTTHROB, ARE DEFINITELY NEW FACES. MANY SPECULATE THAT DENNIS HAD BEEN PULLED INTO THE CLIQUE DURING COACHELLA WHILE MATEO AND STAR HAVE CLEARLY HIT IT OFF AFTER PLAYING ROMEO AND JULIET IN HER MUSIC VIDEO.
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TMZ — REWRITING TRAGIC LOVE STORIES?
STAR AND MATEO ARE HOT HOT HOT IN HER NEWEST MUSIC VIDEO, FANS ARE RAVING ABOUT THEIR CHEMISTRY AS ROMEO AND JULIET. WHILE MANY ARE BEGGING FOR STAR TO BREAK INTO HOLLYWOOD, A GROWING PORTION OF FANS ARE BEGINNING TO SPECULATE IF THERE MAY BE SOMETHING MORE BETWEEN THE TWO.
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drop dead enthusiast! @.dropdeadd — 39m
who tf is writing all these articles and are they living under a rock? star's obviously dating jack abbot lmao god forbid a girl has guy friends??
troll @.ragebaiter — 51m
What a slut, is one man not enough for her? Used to listen to Nightcrawler back in my day, I can't believe their standards would drop this low.
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"I think I'm gonna have to stop asking you what you've been up to and just check TMZ," Mateo snorts as the two of you sit in a new coffee spot that had just opened in Culver City. Despite the drive down the 405 being literal hell, the two of you figured it'd be easier to catch up like this than be caught visiting each other's houses.
You roll your eyes behind your sunglasses, face bare of makeup while having dressed down considerably to avoid any kind of recognition. You hide your snort behind the rim of your coffee cup while Mateo does the same. His curls are tied back in a low ponytail, his own sunglasses sitting low on his nose. "You're confident in the tabloids' accuracy? Last article about me claimed I was secretly engaged to Parker Ellis."
"Who's engaged?"
You glance up and smile, instinctively opening your arms to greet Penny in a warm hug — the real reason why you had happily taken the drive to Culver: Mateo's girlfriend. Unlike the rest of your friend group, Penny isn't a celebrity and highly values her privacy, something you and Mateo can never promise. But without leaving LA county, Culver City has become no man's land whenever you'd happily third wheel with Mateo and his partner.
It's a nice reprieve from your odd lovelife and the chaos that follows whenever you third wheel Trinity and Dove. The other people you know of that are in normal relationships are a plane ride away.
"No one's engaged," you answer, watching fondly as she sits beside Mateo across the table.
"Not according to TMZ," Mateo grins. "Rumors say that she's been secretly seeing Parker Ellis— another director to add to your list?"
It's truly a testament of how much time has passed since your breakup with Baz and your budding friendship with Mateo that his little joke did nothing to actually offend you. If anything, it just makes you gasp at his audacity. "Oh, fuck you."
You and Penny laugh as you toss a napkin at his head. "Okay, but it's safe to say that you got a type, right?" Mateo nudges, casually taking the drink that Penny gives him while she takes his.
You frown slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Dude. You date older men. Baz was your longest and now Jack. That's a type. And it's not like you only attract older men, I've heard you reject Dennis Whitaker and Frank Langdon even before you met Jack. Ergo— a type.."
"It is not—" You pause, recall back all your exes and once realization settles in, you don't finish your sentence and opt to sip at your coffee instead with a glance to the street. Mateo still waits patiently for your reply, a mischievous smile growing on his lips. "I hate you."
"Nah, you don't."
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
With your EP packaged and ready for the higher-ups to finally complete the little details of release days and promotional schedules, your own personal schedule finally has pockets of free time that you readily fill up with lunch dates with friends and dinners with Jack (and now occasionally Robby).
But with your sudden insurgence of appearances, so did the paparazzi. They've learned their lessons last time they had swarmed you but even with the few feet of space they allow, the calls of your name and the flashing lights is enough to kickstart the panic in your heart.
"Come on, Star, give us a smile!"
"This way, sweetheart!"
"Just one look over here, girly!"
It takes all your media training to keep your face neutral and unbothered, grateful for the sunglasses that never leave your purse as it shields you from the blinding camera lights. Trinity, however, has no qualms in shouting their vitriol back at them, fully protected by her status as an A-Lister. Dennis takes your left side, a hand on your lower back while Trinity's got her arm hooked around your right elbow. They flank you, pressing together as the two of you make it into Poppy lA, a nightclub that Dove had been begging you to drop by.
The bouncer at the door steps away from his perch to wrangle the paparazzi out of the way, allowing the three of you inside past the red velvet ropes.
"I can't believe you roped me into this," Dennis mutters, looking very much like his cute humble roots as a farm boy before his songs catapulted him to the front of every tween fantasy. You chuckle, wriggle out of your coat to hand over to the attendant, before slightly hunching over to tug at the sinfully short hemline. "I think I wanna tap out at midnight."
Your smile is genuine, reaching up to ruffle Dennis' curls. "Dennis, my love, it's 11:32 PM… you wanna leave in twenty eight minutes?"
"Earlier would be better."
Trinity groans and hooks her arms with yours and Dennis, tugging you further inside. "Come on, it's been forever since we got to just dance and let loose! Don't ruin my vibes, Huckleberry."
"How about 1 am?" You barter and despite the grimace on your friend's face, he gives in just as Trinity brings the both of you to the table Dove's occupying with a bunch of other big names in the industry. A handful of greetings and cheek-kisses are swapped before a round of shots are delivered into everyone's hands.
The room whirls around you, reaching that edge of tipsiness where everything is hilarious and every song that blares is a hit. Somehow you find yourself on the dance floor with Trinity behind you and Dennis in front, grinding to the beat before the three of you burst into laughter. Your heart seems to beat in time with the bass, rocking the walls and floors beneath you. Suddenly, the room tilts floor tips under you and it takes a second to right yourself with Dennis' help.
His warm hands cup your elbows, gliding up to your upper arms. Your own hands settle on his chest as Trinity hugs you from behind, catching a whiff of her perfume when she hides her face into the side of your neck. Muffled giggles tickle your skin and Dennis ends up hauling the both of you off the dance floor.
"Let's get some air," he chuckles but Trinity breaks away first, pulled into Dove's orbit as usual as she settles onto the girl's lap. When you make no movement, Dennis nudges your side. "I think you and I should call it."
The addictive spinning room is giving way to nausea and it takes all you can from throwing up on Dennis' shoes to nod. "God, yes— please."
Dennis frowns, his hand on your cheek before he's looking around urgently. You're about to ask what's wrong but your chest heaves, your upper body nearly lurching over before he's got an empty glass pressed against your heated cheek. The nausea is momentarily abated enough for him to bring you to the closest bathroom. Fortunately for the both of you, it's single use and gloriously line-free — you nearly trip over your heels to get to the toilet before you're emptying your entire stomach content.
"I'm sorry—" you mumble before you're throwing your head back over the rim. Warm, calloused hands gather your hair, quiet hums of support given without a drop of judgment. Once the nausea's passed and your stomach is empty, you sit back with a pathetic groan. "That was disgusting."
Dennis laughs quietly, moves your hair out of the way before he settles on the floor on the opposite side. "Don't worry about it… s'like unlocking a new level of friendship."
You chuckle, sitting with your legs folded beneath you. The music's bass thumps beyond the door, a pleasant reprieve to keep away the budding headache growing at the base of your skull. "That's one way of looking at it. Let me take you out for lunch someday, though — you literally held my hair up as I puked."
"Sure. Can't say no to free food."
A beat passes and Dennis rises first, offers his hand to you which you take. His grip is steady when you carefully get onto your feet, a feat on its own considering how high and unstable your stilettos are. The world is no longer spinning but you hug Dennis' bicep anyway as he leads you out. You draw in a few curious looks but neither of you pay them any attention; you're determined to make it out the door without faceplanting in front of a horde of influencers.
This time around, there aren't many paparazzi waiting outside the door but in your rush to get out, you realize you left your coat inside. Dennis remembers the same time you do and he squeezes your waist to gain your attention as he stops at the top of the steps.
"Let me get your coat," he says, pats your hip and gives a nod to the bouncer who nods back; you won't be bothered by anyone while he's inside fetching your things.
Your hands rub at your bare arms, goosebumps arising. "You've got a good friend," the bouncer tells you, his voice gruff and no-nonsense but his eyes hold a warmth that you didn't qutie expect. A tentative smile grows upon your lips just as the door swings open once more. Dennis has his own jacket on but he's got your coat hung on his forearm. "Have a good night, you two."
Your smile blooms into something more genuine as Dennis helps you in your coat, realizing that there isn't anything suggestive clinging beneath the bouncer's words. Not a statement to add onto the reputatation that's evolving without your permission but an observation after a genuine interaction. It's a welcomed reprieve.
You give the bouncer a little wave just as your phone starts to ring and you eagerly answer, recognizing the assigned ringtone. "Jack—" you gasp as the line connects, bursting into excited giggles while Dennis stops guiding you along. "Hi!"
Jack chuckles on the other end and it's honey smooth, warm and raspy that you can feel yourself melt if it isn't for Dennis's arm around your waist. "Hi, pretty girl. Trinity texted me, told me you were ready to go home. Where's your phone, hm?"
You giggle again. "It's in my hand, baby!" Dennis chuckles quietly beside you; while you aren't tripping your feet, you're still the furthest thing from sober.
Across the city, that ugly monster in his gut rears its head when Jack hears a male voice laugh beside you. His jaw clicks but he keeps his voice casual for you. "I know it is, sweetheart," he chuckles. "Stay put, I'll come pick you up."
"Mkaaay," you slur and despite the growing jealousy that's blistering in his heart, Jack's hopelessly endeared by you. He's hearing you babble about nothing and everything and sure, half your sentences are unintelligible but he hums and nods anyways, grabbing his keys to drive out to wherever you are. He'll always come whenever you call.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
Dennis keeps you from stumbling off the curb when Jack's G-Wagon pulls up, the bright headlights nearly blinding you. When the lights shut off, Jack circles and something dark passes across his gaze but it leaves as fast as it had arrived.
"Jack!" You giggle excitedly, leaning away from Dennis' arms to fall right into your lover's waiting embrace. His smile is gentle when his arms wind around your waist, chuckling when you press messy kisses along his scruffy jaw. "You're here!"
"Hi, silly girl," he greets with a tender kiss to your cheek. "Ready to head home?"
You give a nod, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders while your fingers card through his silver curls with a dreamy sigh. "Mhm… thanks Dennis—" You remember to say with a wave of your hand behind you, barely catching the amused chuckle from your friend while Jack's eyes harden when you see him looking over his shoulder. A pout settles on your lips and the hand that had been tangled in his hair comes down to hold his chin, pulling his gaze down back to you. "Why so grumpy, Jackie?"
"Jackie?" He repeats with an amused yet incredulous laugh, his bad mood shedding when he gets the full impact of your adorable pout. "That's a new one… no, baby, I'm not grumpy. Come on, let's get you home."
He hauls you into the front seat, pressing kisses all over your cheeks and lips to get you to sit still long enough for him to buckle you in. He lets you hug his arm as he drives, the little green monster in his chest purring satisfactorily each time your nail runs up and down his bicep. When he doesn't feel your hands move, he steals a glance during a red light and his heart bleeds at the sight of you: fast asleep with the pendant still sewn into his sleeve pressed gently between your index finger and thumb.
"Sweetheart?" Jack murmurs a few minutes later, the car parked and the front porch lights on to light the way inside his home. He'd managed to get you in his bedroom, gently placed on the ottoman at the foot of his bed. "I'm gonna need you to stay up for me a bit longer, hm? You'll fall right off your seat."
You pout up at him but he makes sure you're no longer listing to the right before he stands to get the makeup wipes from his bathroom. He knows you have a whole routine but he'd rather not accidentally waterboard you. When he returns, he sits beside you and gently holds your face where he starts to wipe away the foundation and blush.
"Eyes closed for me, pretty girl," he murmurs and when you do as he says, you're rewarded with a chaste kiss on your lips. Then you feel the slightest pressure along your eyelids, his touch still so heartbreakingly gentle. When the most of your makeup is finally off, getting you changed is a routine he can do in his sleep. Soon enough, he's got you out of that little dress and into one of his shirts, curled up in his arms. By the time he's got the covers pulled up, you're out like a light.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
Even with Jack's gentle kisses drawing you out of sleep, it doesn't soothe the absolute riot beneath your skull as the sun's rays pierce through your orbital lobe. You groan and roll over to shove your face into his bare chest, trying to escape the hangover that's already settled deep in your every being.
"Ow," you whine when he leans over you, stretching across to grab something from the side of the bed and inadvertently pressing you into the mattress. When he leans back, he kisses your forehead and hairline.
"Painkillers and water," he says, offering the two little pills and water bottle which you gratefully accept.
"Thank you," you sigh with a soft smile but there's something in Jack's eyes that unsettles you, something he's holding back. A loose thread that you want to keep on tugging. "Jack? What is it?"
His mouth parts and you huff.
"Don't lie. Please don't do that thing where you pretend nothing is wrong," you say quietly. "I don't want to be that person where we— that we wait for things to blow over without talking things through."
"Sweetheart, what are you talking about?"
Something in your eyes shutter, your lips pressing in a firm line, and that fear sparks in his chest— he doesn't know what to do if you'd ever start pulling away.
"I didn't know Dennis was joining your night out."
You swallow back a sharp retort, eyes widening for a moment. "I didn't think it was an issue," you say as carefully as you could. "Dennis is a friend, Jack."
He shifts slightly as you sit up, hates the space that grows when you lean back against his headboard. Instead, he lets his gaze take you in, memorize the way his shirt hangs perfectly off your frame. "You're right," he concedes, shakes his head as though it could shake the frustration that's been building.
It's not that he doesn't want to talk to you; he loves talking to you! Rooftop pizza dates, midnight chats in the kitchen when sleep evades the both of you … he just doesn't know what to say this time around. It's a growing clump of something, building and growing like a cyst behind his heart that eludes any kind of description that could probably justify what he's feeling whenever you're around men your age.
But he sees the disappointment that clings to your smile as you swallow down another lie from him. "Jack, I only ever want you," you promise and when your arms open, he falls into them.
He'll swallow your lies, too.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
"Baby?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?" He leans his head back off the couch to peek towards the kitchen where you're divesting his freezer of ice cream and whatever you're currently craving. He hears the faucet run, ceramic hitting the bottom of the sink, and he cranes his head to find you in the kitchen. You pad around the island counter to get to his line of sight and what he sees fights back the little monster in his chest.
Bare legs, a peek of the lacy pink undies he'd bought for you in New York after he'd torn your last pair from his own impatience, and the cropped band tee that you might've stolen from his closet. But what does it for him is your face undone, hair pulled back as you've got little gummy patches under your eyes and star stickers dotting your cheeks.
You look completely at home.
"Nicole and Matt's wedding invites came in last week," you announce as you bend over slightly, rewarding him with a perfect view of your ass which he shamelessly gropes, to dig into your purse you've discarded on the opposite couch a few hours ago upon arrival. Once you've found it, you join him on the couch, legs folded beneath as Jack's arm loosely falls around your shoulders.
"Nicole… she's the one with the lawyer fiance, right?" Jack asks as he looks upon the thick cardstock of Nicole and Matt's name written in loopy script above the braille beneath each line. "The one you flew out for Coachella?"
You nod as you gently fan the invite, sighing contentedly at the sweet scent that wafts from the card. "She's giving me a plus one."
A stupidly wide grin curls on Jack's lips. "You askin' me out, sweetheart?"
Your eyes roll as you try to get up, squealing when Jack's arms wind around your waist to pull you back into his lap. You squirm and jostle but your lover's arms are cords of steel when he keeps you on top of him. "Jack—! Okay, okay, yes!" Your giggles fill the room and his heart pounds, hiding his smile against your neck.
"Then, yes. I'll gladly be your plus one for your friend's wedding."
Jack chuckles at your resounding squeal, watches you flit off his lap to call up your friend. It leaves him feeling sticky sweet, forgetting the tension that has been hanging over the both of you recently.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
Your head hangs off the edge of the chair, legs propped up on Trinity's vanity as the woman in question sits in the eye of a storm — the storm being heaps of clothing dragged out of her closet as she attempts to finish packing. You had come by to help but you've gotten distracted, watching reruns of a sitcom the two of you are obsessed with.
"Have you ever made it official? You and Jack?"
You pointedly ignore her question as you help yourself to her snacks while she tries to fold but the silence is deafening and it results to a pillow thrown right at your head. "Jesus Christ, how long has it been now? A year?"
"I wasn't counting—"
Especially not after adding Robby to the mix.
"You're fucking Robby, too?!"
Your groan is swallowed up by the pillow you shove your face into, hoping it could deflect the waves of judgment rolling off your best friend. You can feel her eyes on you, searching for any semblance of common sense from you but you've long accepted that none can be found when it comes to Jack Abbot.
"I don't think it matters anymore. Things have been weird between us. Tense. I wouldn't be surprised if things just crash and burn."
Trinity winces. "I think you've been hanging out with me too often, you're too cynical." She stops folding, abandons her three open suitcases in favor of crossing the room to kneel by the chair you're lounging on. "Come on, talk to me. You've been too preoccupied with old man dick to keep me updated."
"Gross," you gag dramatically but your hands find your best friend's hair anyways, soothing yourself to play with her soft tresses as you try to find the words. "Things were fine even after Robby joined in, you know. We even have a routine, all three of us— they're both so protective."
"Well, there's your answer," Trinity hums. "They're both jealous men."
"What?" You laugh incredulously.
"Think about it. Those two already come as a set—they won't be jealous with each other. But any other guy? All bets are off."
You're just about to refute Trinity but it fits too easily, jigsaw puzzle pieces slotting into place. Jack didn't flinch when Robby had bought you that bracelet nor did he start to pull away when Robby had kissed you solo. But Jack did get territorial when Mateo was casted as your love interest for your music video, started getting distant when Dennis joined the friend group.
He even fucked you a bit harder when you had made it onto Page Six with both Dennis and Mateo flanking you.
"It doesn't matter," you say eventually, removing your hands from Trinity's hair. "He's never asked to make things exclusive. He doesn't get to dictate who I hang out with if he can't even bring himself to call me his. Officially."
It had been something the two of you made very clearly during that first night, right before you had fallen asleep in his bed but right after he had fucked you into the mattress. While you were both in agreement that this was supposed to be a casual affair, any changes have to be said outright, whether it's ending things officially or wanting anything more.
You don't get to be taken for granted, never wanting to be the girlfriend of a man under assumption.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
Frustration begins to build into something nastier but it's something a few steps removed from you, just more annoyances and grievances from past flings that are rising from the past just out of similarity. Jealousy has been an ugly habit of Jack's, something he nipped in the bud immediately with Iris. A whirlwind romance is what the public saw, a desperate fix to cling to whoever deigned to stay longer than a month is the truth. He'd been lucky enough that Iris had been just as insane as he was, hopelessly in love and eager to be claimed.
The flings that follow only ever stayed as flings, back when he kept his heart on the top shelf for the night as strange women would keep his bed warm. They liked the fame that came with spending the night with Jack, the possessiveness that bloomed and expired once they left right after.
But you've been staying longer than a night and that same jealousy — possessiveness — has nowhere to go but cultivate. The easy fix is there, the same solution that had won him the love of his life a decade ago, but the stakes seem higher with you. He doesn't know if his final push to claim you would result in the same with Iris or if he'll lose you forever. You're a younger woman, what the hell would you want to do settling down with a man as old as him?
So that's where every night takes him, every night that he doesn't spend with you, writing in a notebook to finish a song he's begun since losing Iris. Then the song is born, carefully put together by producers and other in-house musicians that are too professional to let themselves dwell on the lyrics that they aren't allowed to change.
Soon the song is ready, Jack avoiding Robby's gaze when they wrap up recording. Once they get the OK from the company, it'd be ready to be released soon.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
NIGHTCRAWLER @.NIGHTCRAWLER — 1m
New single: 'TEETH' out now, streaming everywhere.
Todd @.ncbuddies — 1m
I think this was a demo from after that huge blowout between Jack and Iris, glad to finally see it out
JACKSTAR ENTHUSIAST @.jackstarsbitch — 1m
oh god THIS RIFF???
STAR'S BABY @.starluvbot — 1m
these lyrics,,,,,, i mean both jack and robby are credited but the Wife Line,,,,,,
PINK LIMOS OUT SOON @.bbystars — 1m
all men do is disappoint and never get over their ex
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The world falls beneath your feet, a mutinous storm churning as the waves tug at your ankles and wrists to try and pull you under. The four walls of your bedroom disappear and the sheets tangled around your limbs are suffocating. You can't breathe.
It almost feels like a mistake refusing Trinity's offer to sleepover. Although it was only earlier that afternoon that you had been attempting to help her pack, it feels like days since then as you listen to the surprise drop of NIGHTCRAWLER's single. You shouldn't be so shocked; Fridays are the usual for new music. You just didn't expect the lyrics to feel like a stab to the gut.
With your chest heaving, you sit up in the middle of your bed and kick away your duvet. Your eyes are glimmering with angry, unshed tears when you catch a glimpse of your reflection upon your laptop screen before it wakes up.
You jam in the new title of the song on Genius lyrics, hit play on your phone. The bass kicks in, empty vocals following.
Robby sings the first verse and you shut your eyes. "Sometimes you're a stranger in my bed, don't know if you love me or you want me dead." The knot in your chest eases; Robby's infamous seven week itch would obviously culminate in a song like this. "Every little lie gives me butterflies," he sings and you manage a half smile.
The chorus comes and goes, a heavy-hitting punch delivered straight to your chest. But then Jack's voice kicks in and you hate the way your heart flutters. "Some days, you're the best thing in my life. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife."
Your eyes fly open and that knot in your chest feels like a stone, sinking deeper and deeper. It tears through your windpipe, angrily batting away the tears that threaten to spill. When the lyrics confirm the bullshit you're reading, you throw on the closest jacket your fingers touch, shove your feet into a pair of uggs and grab your keys and wallet.
It's nearly midnight but you swerve between the traffic of Los Angeles to get to Jack's neighborhood. You punch the clicker attached to your visor, the gate swinging open for you to pull through. The cold bites at your bare legs; you might've tossed a jacket over your threadbare sleep shirt but your baby pink cotton shorts do nothing against the chill.
"Jack—" you call, knocking at the heavy door. He answers with an easy smile and you can feel the way your heart splinters, willing to let it all go and fall into something safe— but that splintered piece lodges deep in your lungs and a shaky breath snaps you to attention, to the hurt that's been growing like a bruise between your ribs. "We need to talk."
"Sweetheart? I thought you were sleeping early—" he frowns but steps aside to let you in. "It's fuckin' cold outside, why didn't you call me and let me know that you were coming?"
"Your song," you whisper as you step further in. His alarm bells are ringing in his head when you maintain the distance between you and him, stumbling back when he takes a step forward. "Teeth. Did you mean it?"
His frown deepens, the panic clawing to escape the cell he's got it trapped in with that jealous little monster inside his chest. "Baby, what are you talking about—"
"The song, Jack! The fuckin'—" Your voice breaks and the sharp breath you take in, jagged and raw has him trying to step closer but you lift a hand to stop his progress. A wet laugh escapes you. "The lyric. About your wife. Did you fuckin' mean it?"
"Those lyrics… they're old—"
"Jack, please," you beg. "You said that when you see me, sometimes you see your wife. Don't insult me further by saying that that isn't about me and Iris— because I'm not an idiot. I'm— I know I'm younger than the women you date a-and I can't even begin to comprehend what it's like to be a spouse but I think I deserve better than to live in the shadow of your late wife."
Despite the solidity of your statement, Jack sees the way your shoulders tremble, the tense posture you maintain. A paradox of control in your speech but an unraveling in your body language, like a cornered animal trying to maintain its position. "That's not—" He pauses when you let out an indignant noise of disbelief. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"That's bullshit." Your arms raise to hug yourself, a protective barrier against Jack. "I— You can't be that obtuse, Jack. You can't claim ignorance for something as obvious as— as…"
"As what?" And you hate the way how patient he is despite this, how tender and delicate the words roll off his tongue.
"God—!" You exclaim with a frustrated noise, a humorless smile on your face as you meet his eyes. "That I'm in love with you! That I fell so—" Another shaky breath punctures your sentence. "—so in love… fuck, there's no way you didn't know, Jack. You can't be this fucking blind to it, can't be this cruel to write that line as if I'm just a replacement for Iris. Is that what I am to you? Because I don't even know where I stand in your life—"
He interrupts as he surges forward, desperation clinging to his every word. "I want you, you know I do—!"
"But do you love me?"
The room goes horribly still and the silence yawns like a cavernous chasm between you two. You two are nearly chest to chest but the warmth that usually follows with close proximity is bone-chilling now. "I—"
You take pity and the smile you give him is heartbreakingly sad. An amalgamation of heartache and understanding. "Maybe it's best we take some time apart… I think this has been a long thing coming."
"Wait, angel—" His arm reaches out to grasp your wrist as you move for the door. His touch burns but you don't shake him off. "Are you breaking up with me?"
"Can't break something that was never whole, Jack."
While he's stunned, you take the chance to leave but the tears roll down quickly, obstructing your view as you make your way towards his driveway to your waiting car. At this point, the world blurs away into nothing; it feels like you've sunk to the bottom of the ocean, Jack's pleas unheard on you like he's above water. You enter the car and begin to pull away.
"… can't drive like this—"
But you give him one last tearful look before you pull out of his driveway and down the street. You can only make it a block until your unshed tears start to blur your vision so you pull over in front of someone's house, kill the headlights and engine, before you drop your walls and sob into the steering wheel.
It's raw and ugly, snot dribbling past your upper lip as you let it all out; all the frustration and grievances of Jack's inability to communicate, dragging you on to a place he can't name. Your chest is heaving and your eyes are swollen when you finally feel the vestiges of your heartache abate for the time being, catching the time displayed on your dashboard.
1:02 AM.
Guilt tugs at your heartstrings but Trinity's line rings twice before she finally answers. "Trin?" you whisper. Rustling sounds echo through the line, another woman's voice unintelligible in the background.
"Hey— what's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I… I need a ride. I can't drive home like this." Your voice is nasally, cracked and raw. You're in no state to explain why you need a ride but Trinity is already sending her ETA, promising that she and Dove are on their way.
Dove's deep red vintage Mercedes Benz rolls up beside your car and the two women are quick to help you into the back seat. While Trinity grabs your main things from your car, she locks it up and shoots a text to Cassie that you'll need a tow truck to pick up your vehicle the following day.
When you don't offer any explanation, both women follow your lead and keep silent. They take you straight to Trinity's place, tucking you between them both with a quiet hug of support. You fall asleep just like that, surrounded by your closest friends.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
"You wanna talk about it?"
You don't look up from Trinity's laptop where you're browsing through flights to New York on her couch the next morning. "Nothing much to say, Trin. He wouldn't talk to me. Not in the way it matters. So I broke things off."
"So you're running away to New York?"
"I'm not running away, I'm going to Nicole's wedding."
"That's a week away from now!" Trinity huffs as she leans against the back of the couch, hovering above where you're perusing flights. "Come on— when have you been the one to run away from your problems?"
You tilt your head up, give your best friend a stupid grin. "Looks like you've been rubbing off on me, Santos." Her eyes roll and she shoves the laptop shut. "Hey—!"
"Just fly with me," she sighs, thumbs flying across her screen as she contacts her own manager. "I'm heading out for the press junket in New York anyway… besides, I'd rather not leave you alone anytime soon."
"I'm not fragile!"
Dove passes by, drops a kiss to the top of your hair. "You kinda are, babes."
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
The six and a half hour trip to New York had been spent watching every movie you can find on the available services, promptly annoying Trinity to shove an eyemask over her head to try and nap. Sleeping is out of the question, it'll leave you alone with your thoughts until you're stuck mourning a relationship that never quite existed and you're absolutely done with crying.
Nicole had been all too eager to welcome you when you called her while boarding in LAX, asking if it'd be alright with her and Matt if you fly in earlier than expected. When you finally landed that Sunday evening, Trinity's drivers had dropped you off at Nicole and Matt's brownstone in Brooklyn, tucked in an affluent neighborhood.
Matt must make bank as a lawyer, you think to yourself as you exit the car, thanking the driver with a smile when he brings out your meager luggage. You didn't take long to pack when Trinity had taken you home before the flight, just grabbed the essentials before leaving in case Jack had the idea of coming by after your fight. Anything else you needed, you could just buy and the idea of retail therapy is a lot more appealing than crying your troubles out in a tub of ice cream.
Just as you make it to the first step, the door flies open and Nicole rushes down so quickly to hug you that you had thought she might've fallen. "You're here—!" She squeals, peppering your cheeks with chaste kisses before she tugs you inside. "Come in, come in. We cleared up the spare guest room just for you. Matt's at the office but he'll be home in a couple of hours for dinner, and— hey, is everything okay?"
The sudden switch gives you whiplash and your eyes fly up to your friend's gentle concern; despite the years that's passed, she still knows you better than you do, a superpower of being childhood friends, you suppose. "Yeah—! Just… stress from work, you know? I needed a break so I figured I could fly in early, get my Nicki time before anyone else arrived!"
Her smile returns reluctantly but you pull her in for a tight hug, hiding your own heartbreak. You push aside your own issues for now, shelving them to the backburner. The last thing you want is your feelings to poison what's meant to be the happiest moment of your childhood best friend's life.
"Okay…" she says hesitantly but your smile must come off as genuine when she pulls back enough to meet your eyes because her spark returns and she's back to tugging you further into her home. You listen in as she rambles excitedly for the week she has planned out. "So, Saturday—! That's the big day, obviously. The bridal party is arriving Wednesday and we're all staying at the Bryant Park Hotel up until the ceremony and reception. We reserved the top two floors for all our needs. You get to stay in the largest suite right beside Jacqueline—"
She continues to line out the festivities as she helps you unpack and settle in the guest room— spa day for the bridesmaids on Wednesday, final fittings on Thursday, and rehearsal along with the rehearsal dinner on Friday.
Busy enough to keep yourself from thinking about Jack.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
You throw yourself in the last minute details of wedding planning with Nicole during the two days you stay at their home, tying up any loose ends. In the evenings, you pour over old photos and yearbooks with her, regaling Matt with your childhood spent together.
You try not to stare whenever Matt kisses her, how he never seems to hold back in telling her how much he loves her.
By the time the rest of the bridal party arrives, you're lugging in a larger suitcase— a result of shopping with Nicole the day before to pack up on outfits you may need for the rest of the trip. You greet the rest of the bridesmaids, recognizing some of Nicole's sorority sisters from college and blushing when they compliment your music.
But you get the largest hug from Jacqueline, your other childhood best friend and Nicole's maid of honor. The three of you had been a trio of trouble growing up and Nicole had nearly thrown a bridezilla fit when the wedding planner had casually mentioned that 'two maid of honors aren't traditional'. You were quick to bow out despite your regretful pout during her engagement party about a year and a half ago, reminding her that your career isn't the most consistent to help her plan the wedding. Jacqueline had been all too eager to step up but always included you in the conversation whenever you had the chance to get on your phone.
"It's been forever—!" Jacqueline wails dramatically as she hugs you as tight as Nicole did. You match her dramatics perfectly, whining and huffing as you two waddle and sway around the lobby while latching onto each other. "I'm so so sorry I couldn't come to Coachella! Nicki said you did amazing!"
You laugh softly and gently pull away, beaming under the attention of your closest friends. The ache in your heart feels less jagged, less raw when you're surrounded by this much love. "As long as you come to my tour, all's forgiven!"
"You're going on tour—?!"
"Shush—" you laugh as you link arms with her, following the parade of women and men to the ornate elevators. "It's not something I told the company I wanted yet…"
The two of you catch up, listening in on what's new with her life. While she's able to do so from how often TMZ reports on you, you drink up every detail she gives you as her new life as a married woman.
"With how amazing your honeymoon sounded," you giggle while you two stretch out on the balcony chaise, swaddled in fluffy white bathrobes, "I completely forgive you for missing my Coachella performance."
She laughs and somehow, the conversation is derailed for the nth time that Wednesday afternoon. Your heart is full and for a moment, a sweet blissful hour, you've forgotten the pieces Jack had left your heart in.
⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆
Your skin feels soft and clean, your body renewed after the almost-intensive session with the spa day that Nicole had planned a few hours before the dinner Jacqueline insisted on for just the three of you. The other bridesmaids took no offense to it, opting to explore the nightlife New York City offers.
The three of you end up in your room after you've begun to get too close to tipsy at the restaurant — the last thing you need is to get messy drunk. It feels like high school when you shower and freshen up, changing into the matching silk pajama sets that Nicole had monogrammed with your names as a gift for her bridal party.
"Alright." Jacqueline says quietly, calling for your attention as Nicole wanders out to the balcony of your room to answer Matt's call. "You may have fooled her but not me. What's going on?"
It takes everything in you not to fall apart under your best friend's sharp gaze, protective and fierce as her hand finds yours. Your smile barely falters but the anguish in your eyes is unmistakable. "I ended things with Jack. It's why I flew in so early," you whisper. "I didn't want to tell Nicole— I don't want to ruin her wedding."
"Oh, sweetie—" Jacqueline tuts but there's nothing but empathy written across her features, pulling you in for a tight hug and a gentle rub of your back. "After the wedding, stay with John and I. Gosh, I can't even imagine a breakup, let alone being in the public eye."
You nod, grateful that she understands your hesitance on being seen back in Los Angeles so soon. "I'll catch you up on everything, I promise. Just… after the wedding, okay?"
"Of course, of course."
Despite Nicole having her own room with Matt ("traditions can go fuck themselves, I'm sharing the bed with my future husband—") and Jacqueline settled in with John in the room beside yours, the two of them have made themselves comfortable on your massive bed— sprawled out on their stomachs, flipping through bridal magazines with little under-eye masks on as if the three of you are back in high school.
A knock interrupts your conversation but you roll off the bed, figuring it may be another bridesmaid wanting to join in on the impromptu sleepover. "If it's Grace, tell her to bring back my hair-curler—" Nicole shouts and you give her a nod, pulling the door open.
"Gracie, Nicole wants her— Robby?"
Two heads pop up at the name, eyes widening to look over your shoulder to see Michael "Robby" Robinavitch standing at your hotel door.
whew okay thank you for reading! i know it's a cruel spot to end but i promise to have part 5 asap! comments, likes, reblogs, and asks are highly appreciated!
If Project Hail Mary taught us anything it's that forced romance subplots have ruined movies. Too many stories about guys sacrificing themselves to save girls and not enough movies about guys sacrificing themselves to save their cool rock alien friend.
Actually that no punctuation plot hole ooc wattpad fanfic written by that 12 year old will ALWAYS be better than character ai. And I love that 12 year old btw
summary. It's become an open secret that you and Jack are dating but the world grows frustrated when neither of you give the details everyone has been begging for.
word count. 12.3k
content warnings. fluff, smut (light choking, fingering, riding), TMZ and trashy tabloids are used as a plot device here, some slut-shaming, agegap (reader is in her mid 20s, rabbot is in their mid to late 40s) !!
notes. these chapters keep getting longer lol , reader is also really into baseball sorry i make the rules! also there's a 'the bear' reference here again lol , also fluff galore !!!
Sent via form submission, anonymous.
Subject: Singer 'Star' dating both guitarists from NIGHTCRAWLER.
Message: So many eye witnesses have seen Star with an older man the past few months. We all thought it was just some nobody exec or producer (unsurprising; most of these pop girlies are whores) but we got a better look of the silver fox just about a week ago and sources say it's Jack Abbot from NIGHTCRAWLER.
—
Sent via form submission, anonymous.
Subject: Star shared by two older men?
Message: Saw Star out at another after party with two old men, found out it was Robby, frontman for NIGHTCRAWLER, and Jack, the guitarist. She looked super cozy between them. Age gap is weird but I've seen weirder throuples in LA.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Aside from making the front cover of US Weekly about your secret man, more blind items begin to pour in. They haven't been trending but there's enough chatter about your love life that you're being called yet again into another meeting with your PR team.
You're seated in one of the empty conference rooms with Cassie beside you, typing away on her laptop while you roll a pen around on the table. The glass doors swing open slowly and you glance up to see Baran Al-Hashimi, the head of your PR team, enter in a sharp suit and her iPad with Mel, one of the producers and members of your creative team in tow.
"Good morning," Baran greets, each syllable pronounced with such intent that you can't help but stiffen. Shen saunters in with a tray of coffee for everyone while he slurps noisily at his. The two of them are terrifyingly competent. "Let's get started, shall we?"
Everyone scoots their chair in as Baran takes the head of the table where you sit on her left. When she has everyone's attention, she turns her gaze on you.
"You've caused quite a stir," she says lightly. You might've been terrified if it weren't for the fact that she had been the first to look out for you during an almost wardrobe mishap at your first tour. "Since you don't have a dating ban like our other signed artists, no contracts have been broken, yes?" After a collected murmur of assent, she continues on. "In that case, we just need to work together to create a narrative that'll be in our favor."
The projector at the end of the room flicks on and Mel's standing to connect her laptop in as Shen turns off the front lights. A simple presentation takes up the screen.
"Your latest album is a testament to your growth from a young woman to who you are today. The producers and your creative team are in agreement to start adjusting your style to a woman in love," Mel begins as look books of your curated outfits appear. "Your so-called scandal won't be a scandal if we get to spin it into a love story."
Your spine stiffens but you make sure to keep your face neutral. This is exactly what you've been trying to avoid, defining a relationship that Jack may never want to stay in. Mel continues on despite the storm raging in your mind.
"We'll be avoiding any kind of confirmation, the general public will believe what it wants to believe regardless of whatever statement we put out. However, we can play this to our advantage by working in the grey space," she says as she taps to a new slide of multiple grainy photos of you with Jack. To any unknowing gaze, the photos could pass as anybody.
"These photos," you gape as you sit up. "How did these—?"
"We have a contract with some paparazzi. We outbuy anyone before they even think about reaching out to other publications," Baran interrupts. "With our permission, they'll start releasing them in a timely manner to support the narrative you'll be pushing. So now— what is your relation to these men?"
You shift slightly in your seat, visibly uncomfortable, but Cassie nods her head to you with a maternal smile.
"Um— it's just Jack. Jack Abbot," you answer while you relax back in your seat. "The other one is Robby but he just hangs out with us."
Shen releases a low whistle. "Impressive." When multiple sets of eyes glance to him, he gives a careless shrug. "I'm not blind. That man's a silver fox."
Baran allows a tiny smile to tug at the corner of her lips, amused. "We won't be intruding on your relationship any further than allowing you to be seen more in the public eye with him. It'll let everyone talk more about you, create some buzz for the new album."
You blink. "Wait— that's it? We'll just be a bit more public about our… relationship?"
The exec ignores the way you nearly had to spit out the last word. "Yes, that's all. Of course, we do request that you refrain from any more scandalous sightings but anything than that, we encourage it."
"Actually." Cassie politely cuts in. "I thought it'd be interesting if you used the pink limousine photo to be the cover of the EP, have her reclaim that to be a moment of passionate love rather than a careless tryst."
Baran nods in approval, makes a note of it. "I'll let the other creative directors know but I like it. Star, what do you think?"
The idea had initally made you recoil in disgust but Cassie's explanation smooths out the furrow between your brows. "I actually like it, too. Before we release those pap photos, I do want to let Jack know."
"Of course," Baran says. "Let us know of his response by EOD, please."
The sudden deadline is startling but you understand, giving the older woman a nod.
"Perfect. I believe that'll be it for this meeting. If there's anything else you'd like to add later on, email me." With the meeting ending promptly, you sigh as you watch the execs file out while you slump in your chair beside Cassie.
She taps your knee. You loll your head over to gaze at your manager. "You haven't defined anything with Jack, did you?"
You shake your head.
"Mm, alright. Let me know if anything changes."
✧⋆⋆⋆
And nothing really changes. Jack spends the night or you're sleeping over for the weekend on the rare occasion where you aren't being rushed over from one place to the next. Time plays a funny role as you try your best to keep your head above water; water being the metaphorical state of all the rumors that have been piling up about you.
He hadn't turned away from you either when you had asked him if the two of you could go public without confirming anything, just smiled and nodded with an eager glint in his eye.
("Sweetheart, if I ever refuse to kiss you in public where everyone can see you're mine, shoot me because that isn't me.")
You had laughed, told Baran the decision to continue public outings with Jack, and continued the rest of your week without another worry. But your mind ricochets back to that: 'you're mine.' It isn't enough to get Jack to pick up on your swirling thoughts but it's enough that you look distracted most times he comes over.
Because what exactly did he mean? You're his? His what— to own? To fuck? To… love? The thought is chilling — not that you don't have strong feelings for Jack but rather, how readily you seem to be to dive past the edge of the cliff when you aren't even sure he's at the bottom to catch you. And as you stand at the precipice of that metaphorical edge, you know it's a hard landing beneath but at the height of your feelings, the concrete looks like water.
You try to spill these tumultous thoughts as ink onto pages rather than into words. It helps keep the cup from overflowing in your head, lets you keep your head above water when Jack drives you back to his place after he had picked you up from another meeting. Even the monotonous ritual you have of arriving at his front door, jacket and purse set aside on the loveseat upon entrance, and a stolen tangerine in his kitchen to give your hands to do something, is bone chilling; when did you begin to have a routine?
He peels the tangerines for you, feeds you occasionally in comfortable silence, but as you reach for your phone to check what another news outlet has to say, he knows it's time to step in.
Anxiety threatens to creep in but Jack is quick to set your phone aside, distract you with kisses along the back of your neck. When he presses lightly against the small of your back, you bend over without question.
"Let go for me, pretty girl," he coos as he drags your dress up, your cheek pressing against the cool marble counter of his kitchen island. "You did so good today."
You can only offer a pathetic whimper. Each touch from Jack lights a fire within you as sweet nothings fall from his lips. They fall over you like a balm upon your mind as you slowly relax, feeling his ruddy tip glide along your slick folds while he holds your thong aside.
He fucks you slow and deep, his larger body folding over yours as he nips and bites at your neck. Your toes are brushing along the hardwood floors as he holds you up by your waist and keeps you pinned onto the island counter. It isn't brutal or demanding when he coaxes an orgasm out of you although his touch is rough when he pulls your hair back for a searing kiss. Each thrust of his hips is sharp, hits where you need him exactly. It isn't love-making but it feels a hell of a lot like Jack taking care of you.
The thought catapults you into your second climax with him shortly following, plugging you full with his release and a low groan of your name falling from his lips. "Fuck, baby— felt you squeezing me there," he grunts with a few more shallow thrusts until he slowly pulls out. You think that's the end of it but then you hear some rustling behind you, your head tipping back to look over your shoulder— until you feel Jack's tongue dive into your filthy heat with a perverted moan.
"Jack—!"
His chuckles are warm against your sopping cunt as he eats his release out of you, licking you clean while reaching up to hold your hand against the edge of the counter. It's tender enough that a couple of tears slide down your cheeks; you aren't concerned. Jack's fucked you hard enough that he's made you cry before. He doesn't have to know the real reason why your cheeks are tear-stained when he draws out one final orgasm from you.
You exhale, cheek rubbing along the cool marble counter as you catch your breath. A giggle spills past your lips when you feel his stubble grazing along your inner thighs before he showers your ass and cunt with kisses. "Kissing my ass, Daddy?" you tease as you look over your shoulder.
He smacks your ass. "Of course I am. You're my favorite peach."
"Ew, gross—" you giggle as you playfully push his head away. You turn around to lean your back against the counter as he gets to his feet. His hands settle on either side of you, trapping you against the island as he lowers his head for another kiss. It's slow and lazy, stirring something sweet and satisfying in your chest. "Thanks, Jack."
He nudges the tip of his nose against yours. "Anytime, superstar. You looked a little lost in your head there."
You aren't sure how to feel about that, Jack utilizing your pleasure as a distraction but you can't find a reason to be upset over it. "Thanks," you say instead, genuinely. You lean in for another short kiss before he nips at your lower lip.
"You taste like tangerines," he chuckles at your questioning look. "Tastes good."
You roll your eyes but your smile is unmistakable, playfully pushing his shoulder. "Perv. Go shower, old man."
"Join me?"
And who are you to refuse?
✧⋆⋆⋆
GQ: JACK AND ROBBY FROM NIGHTCRAWLER BREAK DOWN THEIR FAMOUS DISCOGRAPHY.
The two men sit at a table looking right at home in front of the camera despite their ten year absence from the public eye. Jack and Robby fidget as they reattach the small mics to the collar of their shirts.
"No more fuzzy mics?" Robby jokes as the camera starts to roll. Behind the camera, the producer prompts them to begin. "Hi, GQ, we're Nightcrawler, and we're here to talk about our past discography."
The cue cards begin and whenever a new song gets lifted, the two men shift easily and move on. "Ghost Of You did a lot better than I expected. Looks like Iris is still the more popular one," Jack chuckles as he hits play on the laptop that's sitting between them. A snippet of the chorus plays as the coordinator behind the camera flips to a new cue card.
"Oh, that's an oldie. High might've been one of our more popular softer songs," Robby reminisces as his higher vocals fill the room. "I remember being worried that we were gonna alienate our main demographics."
"You were a pretty boy back then, Robinavitch—" Jack snorts as he sends his friend a wry grin. "You could've screamed into a mic and the girls swooned."
"You sound jealous, Abbot."
"Course I am, you're still a pretty boy!"
"Oh, fuck off—"
✧⋆⋆⋆
TWITTER—
Pop Base @.PopBase — 2m
STAR drops single 'stupid song' — listen now on Spotify and Apple Music!
✧⋆⋆⋆
After you and Jack agreed to stop hiding the relationship (situationship, Trinity's voice would ring in your ear), you both also agreed to not just simply hard launch it to the world. Ease it in. Maybe both of you could step out of the car at the same time rather than waiting five minutes in between.
Despite the plans to stop hiding, you and Jack are suddenly rocked with packed schedules and endless interviews and fittings. He barely has time to come over now and your texts are few and little in between. But without Jack present to distract your thoughts, you're on twitter more often than you'd like to admit.
✧⋆⋆⋆
@enam3l : oh so she's IN LOVE !!!
@deathreverse : IS THE NEW EP ABOUT HER FALLING IN LOVE???
@pearlessance : the last time she wrote about love was about b*z yall, idk if this is gonna be happy…..
@mariasont : [ screenshot of lyrics from stupid song— I feel right, I feel wrong, I feel totally insane. And I want you more than any stupid song can ever say. ] SHE'S DOWN BAAAAD…. pour one out for a baddie lost to another man.
@.user01 : if the rumors are true, the man in question is jack and i, too, would pour out my lil heart for him. have you seen him???
@.user1: you can tell she got inspired by some dad rock vibes with the demos she's been singing on her livestreams
@.user2: speaking of dad rock, i've been listening to NIGHTCRAWLER's older albums…. ok white boys get itttt
@.user3: went through the credits for nightcrawler's songs, robby's obviously the manwhore between the two but jfc his ballads are so fucking good too
✧⋆⋆⋆
The light of your phone illuminates your face, eyes wide as you adjust the sheet mask you've just placed on. Your neck is aching from how you're laid out on Jack's bed, head propped up a little too high by his pillows, as you doomscroll. The attached bathroom door opens but you don't pay Jack any mind — not even his shirtless state can steal you away from the downspiral that's starting when you see your ex's name pop up just as often as Jack's.
"Darling, you'll ruin your eyes like that," Jack huffs as he sits on his side of the bed, sets his crutches aside while you scroll like you didn't hear him. "Baby?"
You startle slightly, big eyes peeking above the top of your phone. "Yeah?"
"What's got you stressing?" The bed dips and rocks slightly as Jack scoots close enough for his arm to wrap around your frame while you rest your head on his chest. You bring the phone up to show the comments and he tugs on his glasses.
He hums as he scrolls, absentmindedly playing with your hair. "They seem to like it, superstar, I wouldn't worry," he says. He locks your phone and sets it aside. "C'mon, you need the sleep."
You might've gotten annoyed with Jack then, how he takes the reins from you without expecting any refusal, but exhaustion has been weighing down your bones all week and you find yourself nodding. "Let me take off the sheet mask," you hum as you playfully crawl over his body, laughing as he sneaks a squeeze to your ass, and climb off the bed. You complete the rest of your skincare in the bathroom before joining him in the sheets.
The lights shut off and you close your eyes, finding comfort in his embrace before you realize you are annoyed — he didn't give your song a second glance.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Your annoyance didn't last past the night.
Jack wakes you sweetly and lazily, stroking your cheek and jaw until your eyelashes flutter. When your eyes meet his, he leans in for a tender kiss that has your toes curling beneath the sheets. It's a rare thursday where both of you have a free morning, let alone a whole day. Although you figure it's best to start being seen with Jack more, the domesticity that follows whenever the two of you are home is addicting. Sticky sweet kisses are shared when he juices fresh oranges for you, laughter echoing throughout his kitchen as you play some cheesy pop song from the 2000s.
The two of you are lost in your honeymoon-esque bliss in the kitchen that neither you or Jack hear the front door open and shut for Robby to enter the scene.
"Am I interrupting?" He chuckles over the sight of you, wearing nothing but Jack's shirt and a lacy pair of underwear, and his best friend still in just his flannel pajama pants. Robby himself looks like he's already lived through half the day, leather jacket and windswept hair.
You nearly shriek at the sudden new presence of another man only to relax, half-hiding behind Jack who just tugs you forward front and center. "Jesus, Robby," Jack laughs. "That key was for emergencies."
"It's an emergency— I'm hungry." Robby grins as he sets his helmet and bag down to hop onto the bar stool tucked against one side of the kitchen island. The two of you share a smile before Jack circles the space to continue flipping the pancakes while you putter around to make coffee.
"How do you take your coffee, Robby?" you ask as you bring out an extra mug, head tilting slightly over your shoulder to meet the other man's eyes.
"Just black, sweetheart."
You hum in acknowledgment and turn back around, measuring out the ground coffee beans to pour into the filter. Behind your back, Jack sends a curious look to his friend who busies himself on his phone before letting it go. Something splinters in his chest, a dull ache he could ignore if he tries hard enough, when he watches you set the steaming mug by Robby who thanks you with a careless smile.
To your credit, you don't react any differently from what Jack could see. You just pour him a mug, add just the right of cream and sugar before attaching yourself to his side and placing the coffee right where he can reach it. He turns the stove off and moves the pan to the cooler side so he can bend down and kiss your hair.
"Thanks, gorgeous."
You grin and tilt your head up, lips pursed adorably that he plants one kiss there and another on your nose. The two of you miss the way Robby keeps his eyes pointedly on his phone. The plates are set and the three of you eat in comfortable silence, occasionally pockmarked with small talk between Jack and Robby.
"So, what are your plans today?" Robby asks as he leans back, one arm crossed and the other holding his mug.
Jack mimics his movement, leaning back to drape an arm on the back of your chair as you continue to sip at Jack's coffee. "Some shopping in Rodeo before dinner—"
You pat his chest to interrupt him, your eyes locked on your phone. "We need to stop at the recording studio, Jack, I left a couple of notebooks in the booth."
Jack nods, doesn't miss a beat. "Shopping, recording studio, and then dinner."
"Mind if I tag along on your shopping trip? I got a few things to pick up at Van Cleef."
"That works out perfectly! I have a couple pieces I want to get refitted," you perk up, detaching yourself momentarily to lean in and turn your full attention to Robby. Your smile is blinding and it takes almost half a second for either of them to respond.
"I can meet you two there. I have a couple things to drop off, but before I forget—" Robby sends you a smile warmer than you've ever received from him, getting to his feet while he grabs his helmet. "I listened to 'stupid song'. It's pretty good but I gotta ask— this old man got you this lovesick?"
Your cheeks burn, a shy smile following before you attempt to play coy. "Hey—! Technically, I never confirm who my songs are about." The playful eye roll Robby gives you has you giggling, making you miss Jack's approach who comes around to tug you firmly into his side.
"Alright. See you two later."
✧⋆⋆⋆
"I'm stealing a shirt!"
Jack's resounding chuckle from outside of his walk-in closet is answer enough for you and you happily dig into his drawer. You lift your foot up to casually scratch at your opposite calf as you rummage through his clothes, wandering to the opposite side to pick out a long-sleeved button up that you cinch and style with some shorts you had left behind a few days ago.
You aren't sure when Jack started keeping duplicates of your makeup in his bathroom but you never did ask and he never talked about it. You ignore the way your stomach flutters when you lean over the sink, applying eyeliner and mascara.
A knock sounds behind you and you offer with a noncommital hum. In the reflection, Jack leans against the doorway, already dressed and his leg on.
"Almost done, baby?"
You cap the mascara and when you reach for the lip gloss, Jack crosses the distance to gently cradle your cheeks for a kiss. "Jack—" you giggle against his mouth but he shushes you sweetly.
"Let me get my kisses in before you put your lip gloss on, superstar," he chuckles. When he feels you've been thoroughly kissed, he leaves you be and starts to head out. "I'll get the car running."
You sigh dreamily, lovesick as you finally apply your lipgloss.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Jack hasn't let go of your hand since he's parked his ostentatious G-Wagon. The two of you aren't overtly dressed either and with sunglasses on, you and Jack blend well with the rest of the pedestrians that graze along the cobbled stonewalk of Rodeo Drive. Despite that no one's stopped you or Jack for photos or autographs, you aren't naive enough to believe that no one is watching you either.
With Robby on his way, the two of you head into Van Cleef & Arpels and the low lighting is a welcomed reprieve from the Los Angeles sun. The sales associate recognizes you almost immediately before a look of delight leaves their features as quickly as it comes when they see Jack right behind you.
"Welcome, ma'am. Your client advisor is ready to see you now," the pristinely dressed woman says, her tone clipped and professional, yet you catch the bright shimmer in her eyes as the two of you thank her and enter a private show room.
Your shoes are silent against the dark hardwood flooring, your bangles clinking delicately together as you swing your joined hands with Jack as you approach.
"Thank you for coming in. I'm Noelle, how may I assist you today?"
Noelle guides you and Jack towards the leather-wrapped high-top tables. He helps you onto the stool before sitting himself beside you while Noelle circles and opens her gloved hands in gentle accommodation.
"I'm here to get this re-fitted actually," you offer your wrist to her and two bracelets clink together. The one in question had been the Lucky Alhambra bracelet with four motifs and it dangles prettily besides the delicate gold bangle from the Perlée clovers line; you had fallen in love with the bangle immediately and Jack had purchased it for you without a second word.
That had been from your fourth date.
"Oh, such a beautiful piece. May I?" When you nod, she deftly unclasps the chained bracelet before laying it out carefully upon the leather surface to inspect. Jack's arm reaches out casually to rest on the back of your chair and you fight back a shiver when you feel his touch, absentmindedly stroking your spine as he listens to Noelle. You offer your wrist again at her prompting, allowing her to measure out the desired fit before she places it in a spare box with the marked length. Right as she's finishing up, footsteps echo behind you and you look over to see Robby approach.
He cuts an imposing figure, all rough strewn edges in his old band shirt and well-worn Levi's in the boutique. When he stands behind you and Jack, you can catch a whiff of his cologne and a hint of cigarette smoke.
"Mr. Robinavitch," Noelle greets warmly as she hands off your box to another employee. "We have your pieces ready, please feel free to browse while we bring it out for you from the back."
"Please, take your time," he replies with a nod of his head. When it's just the three of you, he looks at you and Jack. "You two heading out then?"
Jack rubs your shoulder. "Depends, did you want to browse too, baby?"
You nod. There was a bracelet that had caught your eye and you're eager to take the time to try it on yourself. Jack helps you down and you loosely take hold of his hand, leading him over to the other show room where the Sweet Hearts bracelet is displayed. It's a dainty rose gold chain with a single carnellian heart motif.
Another client advisor approaches and offers it for you to try on which you gladly accept. The two men watch fondly as you gasp softly at the simplistic beauty of the bracelet. Right as they unclasp the bracelet, your phone rings and you reluctantly step away to answer a phone call from your manager, Cassie.
Once you're out of earshot, Robby turns to the employee. "I'll take it."
Jack glances up in mild surprise. "You got a girl or something?"
Robby's pulling out his wallet with a little chuckle. "No, but you have her and she looked too happy to not get it." He waits for some pushback from his friend; Robby's no stranger to Jack's bouts of possessiveness, having seen enough of it with Iris all those years ago. But Jack just nods. Silent permission.
"Sure. Call it an early birthday gift or somethin'," he allows as the employee walks off to wrap up the bracelet for you. Robby nods as he merely hands over his black credit card without a second to spare, just in time for you to return. "Is everything okay?"
You dip your head with a reassuring smile, tucking yourself back into Jack's side. "Yeah, it was just to confirm our ballgame tickets."
Robby perks up. "You two are going to a game?"
"Eh, it's just a Dodgers game—"
The smack that lands on his chest elicits a playful laugh from Jack, something he anticipates whenever he pokes fun at your local team that you'd defend without hesitation. As native Pittsburgh Pirates fans, both Jack and Robby never fail to tease you about it whenever their team is in town for a game.
"You two have been Angelenos for more than a decade, you better act like it," you wag your finger at them in mock disappointment, a giggle escaping at Robby's exaggerated contrite expression while Jack apologizes with a tight backhug and a kiss to the nape of your neck.
Noelle returns with Robby's items and a new box for you and your eyes widen slightly. "Is this the Sweet Hearts bracelet? Oh, I haven't—"
"I got it for you," Robby interrupts with a little shrug. "Consider it an early birthday gift."
You take the box and thank Noelle for her service, confirming the pick up time for your other bracelet. When she exits, you untangle yourself from Jack to lean up and kiss the other man's cheek. "Thanks, Michael."
Something flashes in his eyes that you miss entirely but Jack does not. His chest feels hollow but it isn't unpleasant, rather it feels like he's waiting for that anvil to drop in his chest whenever you give anyone else a modicum of attention but nothing arrives.
"Don't mention it, sweetheart." Robby exits first, holds the door open for you to step out first just as Jack follows behind. With the signature green box in hand (just as iconic as Tiffany blue in your opinion), you place a hand on Robby's shoulder with another sweet smile of thanks just as Jack leads you out on the sidewalk. The two men give each other a brief hug goodbye before Robby departs in the opposite direction, helmet in hand and his other pieces he'd picked up.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Across the street in a heavily tinted van, a photographer captures a series of photos. Despite the glaring sun, he manages to adjust the aperture to take a still shot of Robby opening the door for you with the gift in hand. Even though Jack can be partially seen right behind you, the man crops it just enough to send it to one tabloid company.
In the next photo, you've got a hand on Robby's chest with Jack right behind. He keeps this one as is and sends it to another tabloid magazine. Within minutes, he receives two hefty checks from two different publications to put out two different stories. He sets his camera down, starts the van, and drives off without a second glance.
✧⋆⋆⋆
The drive to the recording company you signed to is short and you're grateful that there's basement parking, giving you another reprieve from any kind of wandering camera. You aren't sure if your eyes had been playing tricks on you back at Van Cleef, catching a glimpse of a camera pressed against a tinted window of a van. Regardless, you figure it's what you and Jack wanted anyways, fueling the rumors of your dating life without confirming a goddamn thing.
"Hey, Ahmad," you greet the security guard by the main entrace, a lanky man that seems to always be preoccupied with the hidden betting pool he's got below the receptionist's desk. Princess greets you with a sweet smile, nudging you past the doors and into the main floor. She eyes Jack with a knowing grin towards Ahmad who promptly pulls out the sheet on her desk, scrawling down something new. You snort to yourself, your fingers tangled with Jack as you pull him over to the elevators inside.
You hit the button to your usual floor and you're met with a long hallway that sprawls out to your left and right, pockmarked with soundproof doors. "Left are the dance studios," you mention casually to Jack. "Rehearsal spaces and whatnot. They're generally multi-purpose rooms. Rooms to the right are the recording studios and booths."
After passing the entire hall, you stop at the final door at the end. Unlike the producers' private studios that have an attached padlock with a code, yours is unofficially assigned. Everyone aside from your team knows to steer cleer of it, to always keep it available to you. You aren't expecting anyone inside so you nearly startle when you step in to see a familiar figure behind a piano, jotting down chords.
"Christopher?" You beam, releasing Jack's hand to approach the man who stands from the bench to draw you in for a tight hug. His strong arms wind around your waist, eliciting a loud laugh when he lifts you. "What are you doing here? I thought you left!"
"My new space is still being renovated but Gloria let me in to work in here for old times' sake," he answers, his subtle Australian accent throwing Jack for a spin as he finally recognizes the younger man that's still got you in his arms. He looks up to see Jack and with his arm still around your shoulders, he reaches out to shake his hand. "Hi, I'm Christopher. I used to be Star's main producer."
✧⋆⋆⋆
(ONE YEAR AGO) —
US WEEKLY: IS LOVE IN THE AIR?
JUST WEEKS AFTER HER SPLIT WITH BAZ, THE DIRECTOR OF HER MUSIC VIDEO SERIES, STAR WAS SEEN COZYING UP TO Christopher B, THE MAIN PRODUCER OF HER LAST ALBUM 'SPILLED', AT SANTA MONICA PIER. HAS STAR FOUND SOMEONE NEW AFTER HER TUMULTUOUS AND MESSY BREAKUP?
Star and Christopher had been electric in the studio booth, creating hit after hit that ultimately led to her first Grammy win. In her social media posts, the two have not been shy about their friendship. Fans had taken to twitter and deuxmoi, inputting their own theories of the true nature of their relationship. They've always denied it, especially when Star and Barry "Baz" Blackwell had confirmed their dating status. But now that the couple has split, the world is convinced that Star and Christopher are meant to be.
They'd make a power couple in the music industry. With Star's vocals and enchanting lyrics and Christopher' creative beats and addicting melodies, they would take the world by storm.
Read more about Christopher and his accolades below...
✧⋆⋆⋆
The grainy photo of you and Christopher had been the most talked about rumor for months that it even entered Jack and Robby's circle of friends. Older musicians that's taken a well-deserved break from the limelight who wouldn't even know how to peruse the rumor mill of today's age of artists and celebrities. He remembered seeing you in that photo, tragically beautiful that even the camera had captured your glassy tear-stained eyes and pouty lips while your head rests on Christopher' broad shoulder while sitting at a high-top counter of a balcony in a restaurant.
This had been before he met you six months later at that bar in West Hollywood, looking all the more frustrated at that notebook you've never been away from until now.
"I'm Jack," he replies and a vindictive, petty part of him enjoys the fact that he's a bit taller than Christopher. And older, a sabotaging voice in his head reminds him. That opens the floodgates in his mind now as he starts to tally up the differences between him and Christopher while you (fortunately) detach yourself from both of them to search for your beloved notebook.
He's taller but Christopher has broader shoulders.
Jack's arms are bigger but Christopher' defined muscles are evident even through the shirt he's got on.
The tallying ends there when you return to his side, your touch anchoring him to the present when your hand curls delicately around his forearm. "I got it," you wave the notebook in your free hand before you're smiling at Christopher again. "Feel free to use this space as long as you need to. Just because you quit doesn't mean you aren't welcome."
Christopher's smile is bright when he nods, gives you another parting kiss to your cheek before giving Jack a genuine pat on the shoulder. No bad blood there and it makes Jack's stomach twist at his own immaturity.
"Nice meeting you," he says instead to make up for his own petty thoughts. The smile you give him is reward enough and he's all too eager to gently tug you to the door. "Good luck with what you're working on."
"Thanks. You two have fun," he says with a little knowing grin to which your cheeks burn.
When you two exit, you get sidetracked when you bump into another fellow artist, leaving his side momentarily to catch up with her as he waits patiently in one of the plush seats. His thumb hovers over the screen as he pulls up your instagram profile, momentarily admiring you before he gives in to sick curiosity and scrolls down. Down, down, down.
Until he stops at the handful of photos of Christopher.
These are old, way back to when the two of you had begun working together for your debut album, but the familiarity between you two makes jealousy twist and writhe in his stomach. That poison pushes him to keep scrolling, hates the way his chest tightens at seeing you with a man your age.
"Jack?"
He lifts his head and almost drops his phone when you approach, standing between his knees that he has to set the gadget down to lightly hold the back of your thighs. "Yeah, sweetheart?"
Your nails scratch along his scalp with a lazy hum, admiring his soft silver curls. "I'm ready to go now. Sorry for stopping so much."
A low chuckle escapes him and the irate jealousy that had been simmering dissipates completely beneath your touch. "You're fine, superstar. You want to stop somewhere to eat before we head home?" He kisses your stomach, sets his chin right above your belly button to smile up at you.
"Can we just stop at in n out?" You ask sweetly, nails scratching along his jaw before bending down to capture his lips in a sweet kiss.
"Mm, sure, baby—" he murmurs against your mouth, realizing that this may be the first kiss you've shared in public when the sun's still up. You must've had the same realization because you let out a quiet squeak, pulling away to hide your face into the top of his hair. He chuckles and lightly pats your ass before he gets to his feet. "Come on. Time to feed my girl."
✧⋆⋆⋆
TMZ — BREAKING NEWS: GREEDY STAR.
NOT ONLY HAS STAR BEEN SEEN WITH JACK ABBOT OUT ON THE STREETS OF LOS ANGELES, BUT IT LOOKS LIKE SHE'S GOT CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF A LOVE TRIANGLE? A SOURCE HAS SENT IN THE PHOTO BELOW OF STAR STEPPING OUT OF A JEWELRY STORE WITH A GIFT IN HAND WITH NO JACK IN SIGHT.
—
US WEEKLY — THREE… ISN'T A CROWD?
STAR WAS SEEN TODAY AT RODEO DRIVE WITH NOT ONE INFAMOUS MUSICIAN… BUT TWO. SHE WAS EXITING VAN CLEEF AT RODEO DRIVE WITH JACK AND ROBBY IN TOW, HOLDING A JEWELRY BOX. LUCKY GIRL!
Anonymous_User01 : can yall PLEASE get a grip??? robby and star are friends, she's obviously dating jack—
Anonymous_User02 replied : that old man is yearning, look at how he looks at her???
✧⋆⋆⋆
Baran isn't the most pleased when she sees that your first public outing had included Robby, confusing the masses at who exactly you were dating. Although the slut-shaming and the all-around disparaging theories about who you spread your legs for had diminished, the confusion isn't exactly aiding the story she had been pushing for you to tell. To remedy this, you tell her that Jack had acquired a heavily-sought after reservation at a two-Michelin star restaurant in Chicago. A perfect date that fits cleanly with some of your other interview or travel plans that are in the city, Jack tags along.
The photos of you two at LAX go viral, too. With both of you half-attempting to maintain anonymity, many still recognize his silver curls peeking out from under a baseball cap and your smile whenever he lowers his head to press a kiss to the top of your hair. Although you've been taught to make sure to be polite without stopping for autographs in case it'll incite crowding and mobbing, Jack hovers when you drop down to one knee when a little girl and her mother approaches for an autograph in the boarding lobby.
You scrawl your autograph onto the napkin the child brought you. "What's your name, sweetheart?" She whispers it to you, her little hands wringing together shyly behind her back. Your heart bleeds with affection. "Angelica? Oh, that's a pretty name!" You add in her name with a heart before handing the napkin back.
"Thank you," she gasps. Shyness flees her body because she tackles you in a hug, nearly toppling you backwards as your hand comes up to pat her back with a soft laugh. Above you, Jack watches fondly, almost sets his hand out to catch you in case the girl does push you over in her excitement. The two of you share a bit of small talk before her mom calls her over and you smile, allowing Jack to help you to your feet as the little girl reluctantly walks back with a giddy wave.
When it's just you two, you glance to see Jack give you a look you can't decipher. "What?" You ask with a soft laugh, feeling a tad bit self conscious. He gives a shake of his head, draws you in by your shoulders to kiss the crown of your head.
"Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all."
✧⋆⋆⋆
Boarding goes smoothly, the flight is uneventful. But landing is a whole other obstacle when it seems someone might've leaked your flight to the local paparazzi of Chicago. You silently thank Cassie for her quick thinking of calling up a security detail that meets you upon landing, creating a tight perimeter for you and Jack until you make it to the car.
The shouts and bright flashing of the camera is avoidable, due to your sunglasses but mainly because of Jack keeping you close. He doesn't let you go until you make it into the car, carefully helped in before he follows behind you.
"Fucking animals," he growls as he slams the door shut, the bright camera flashes dimmed to a low light with how heavy the tint is in the car. You shake your head.
"It's fine, Jack—"
"No, it's not. Do you deal with this every time you travel?"
The question takes you aback; does Jack… not deal with paparazzi? He's one of the biggest names in music, probably always will be. You blink at him a couple times. "Not… to this extent. It's why Cassie makes sure I have security detail wherever I go. Sorry, do you not—"
"In the beginning, yeah. Honestly, Robby and I basked in it but if we told them to back off, they did… baby, you could've gotten hurt."
You give a shrug, unaware that your carelessness to this seemingly common situation is driving Jack up the wall. "Maybe, but I'm fine. I'm more surprised that you don't get mobbed like this. My boundaries are basically nonexistent to the paps."
The truth is, you know why you get hounded more than Jack— or rather, why young women in the industry gets talked over, ignored, mocked whenever they make attempts at maintaining a line or a boundary against paparazzi or the media while men are obeyed without question. But it's a never ending argument and it isn't something you have the bandwidth to discuss after still seeing spots in your vision from all the camera flashes.
"That's not fair," he says anyways as the car continues to drive down the highways. "I know I haven't been present in the public eye since we took that hiatus, but…"
You two sit in silence for a few more minutes and you figure that may be the end of the conversation but he squeezes your hand. He's taken to holding your hand in car rides like these ever since you've been given the go-ahead to make this public.
"I remember Iris once mentioned that the paparazzi were vultures," he says quietly. "By then, we were inseparable and I never got to see that side of it all since I never really let her out of my sight when we were in public like that."
"How could you know? The world's always a little kinder to men, Jack." And there isn't any malice there, nor any trace of resentment, but a sad acceptance as he gives your hand another squeeze. He's spoken about Iris before; you've always revered their relationship, never shied away about the topic of her and only avoided it in the early part of your trysts with Jack to spare his feelings. When he realized you aren't running every time he brings up his late wife, he had felt more comfortable bringing her up with you from that point on.
He grunts in obvious discontent but the conversation ends there when the car stops at the curb of the hotel you two are staying at. There isn't any paparazzi this time around and that relieves the both of you. At least no one knows where you two are staying.
Checking in and your luggage being brought up for you goes smoothly and with the entire day finally settling in, all you're searching for is a hot shower and a warm bed.
But that all goes out the window when his hands find your waist, creeping up your shirt to grope your tits above your bra.
"Jack," you hum but his lips are already on you the moment the door shuts. "Jack— I smell like plane! Let me freshen up." You giggle as he retaliates with a playful groan and a bite to your neck. The older musician sighs dramatically as he releases you to place the 'do not disturb' placard on the outside before he locks it. Meanwhile, you casually strip, leaving a trail of your clothing that leads to the bathroom which you promptly shut.
He's shameless when he leans against the door, knocking lightly. "Baby, don't tease."
Through the door, you can hear how wrecked he is but you bite back a giggle, prancing barefoot to the shower to start up the hot water while making sure the shower chair you requested is in. When the water's hot and ready, you unlock the door and you know you have seconds until Jack is on you.
You're barely opening the shower door when he enters, gently pulling you in and crowding you against the glass to devour you with a searing kiss. His hand finds your wrists, holds them in one grip before lifting it above your head. "Mm, baby… what am I gonna do with you?" He murmurs against your mouth, kissing along your jaw as his free hand explores your chest. Your back arches off the glass, chasing his touch.
"Touch me," you whine and he indulges immediately, kissing you down your neck and collarbone. Your moans flood the bathroom and Jack doesn't hesitate to latch his lips around a pert nipple, tongue lashing against the hard nub while his middle and ring finger strokes your folds. You lift a leg up to take him deeper and soon you're writhing, your lust for Jack always taking him off guard. It's the worst time to be overthinking things, wondering what exactly you see in a washed up old man like him when he's two knuckles deep inside and playing you like an instrument.
"Daddy—!"
The title rocks him out of his haze and his gaze pierces yours, releasing your wrists to cradle your jaw instead. "Yeah? Am I taking too long, baby?" That patronizing, condescending tone… it has you fucking dripping. You can only offer a tiny whimper which he responds with a mean chuckle, his hand lazily pumping his fingers that drags against your walls. Not enough friction.
"God, yesyesyes— please, I need you—"
And to his credit, Jack gives you exactly what you need. He swallows your desperate moans when he removes his fingers to gently push you down to your knees. You've done this before, you know what he needs— you help remove his prosthesis and despite that carnal lust that's rushing through your veins, it's something intimate that he doesn't dare put a name to.
In the rush of the waterfall shower, he's settled into his chair and you're eagerly climbing onto his lap. It's a tad awkward, reaching between to guide his stiffening length into your dripping cunt, but once he's sheathed inside you, you ride him without wasting a second.
It reminds him of that phrase you've muttered the first time he took you to bed, when your age gap had been a slight weight on his conscience: old enough to know what I'm doing, you promised, but young enough to do it well.
His hand travels up your skin slick from the spray of the water, warm and heated beneath his touch. The way his fingers splay out is possessive and your neck bares instinctively. With an indulgent pass across your tits, his hand presses around your neck in the correct positioning, safely squeezing while your eyes roll back in bliss.
"That's it, pretty girl… take what you need," he croons as he tugs you down to kiss along your gasping mouth, smirking against your wet skin when he feels your walls convulse around his cock. "Gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Come on, baby…"
He continues to utter sweet nothings against your mouth as you fall apart on his cock, his own orgasm following after that he doesn't hesitate to finish inside you. As you slump against his chest, he holds you close with a throaty chuckle, his rough hands stroking up and down your spine.
"I got you, sweetheart. I got you."
✧⋆⋆⋆
Even when high-profile guests have been to The Bear before, you and Jack still garner looks when you two are dropped off by the driver. He steps out first, looking dashing in slacks and a tight button-up that you haven't really been able to keep your hands off of. Your hand slips into his as he helps you out, shielding the way your black cocktail dress rides up as your heels land on the sidewalk. A couple of flashes appear from your peripheral view but you don't shy away from it, just smiling as Jack steps slightly in front of you to give you room to adjust your neckline and hemline.
"Thanks," you hum and he nods, straightening out his shirt before he's offering his arm to you. Your hand slides into the crook of his elbow while holding your clutch against your thigh. A few fans call out your name and you turn instinctively, giving a shy wave before you're entering the restaurant.
The soft ambience of the establishment soothes your raw nerves and with the small party of three in front of you, it lets you gather yourself and pull on the persona of a famous person and not a slightly harried woman in her twenties. There's a subdued hum of conversation from all the other guests already seated, a few shouts and calls from the kitchen whenever the door swings open each time a waiter walks in and out.
"Ah, Mr. Abbot and Miss Star," the maitre d' greets with a personable smile. Despite his sharp suit, his scruffy beard and his bright smile is warm and genuine. "Welcome to The Bear, my name's Richie. You're the, uh… seven o'clock, yes?"
Jack confirms with a nod, dropping your arm so he can wrap his around your waist. "That's right. Are we late?"
"No, no. Right on time, actually—" Richie looks over his shoulder, gives the space a quick scan. You aren't sure what he sees but he must've seen something correct because he taps something on the screen and steps from the podium. "Perfect. If you two will follow me?"
You nod and walk alongside Jack, ignoring the way a few looks follow you both as Richie leads you two to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant for some privacy. It's intimate, illuminated with a candle in the center.
"Gary will be around shortly with drinks."
The evening continues on without a hitch and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the date with Jack. You try not to think about the fact that this is even happening because of your team's approval, to push a narrative that's meant to promote your upcoming EP. But then you backtrack your own thoughts because it isn't like you're dragging Jack to this restaurant; he likes hanging out with you, enjoys your presence outside of the bedroom… and yet uncertainty poisons your mind as you take another sip of your wine.
"Hey."
Jack reaches across the table to take your hand, running his thumb across your soft skin. Your lashes flutter as you lift your gaze from the tablecloth to him. "Yeah?"
"You alright? You look a little bit lost in your head there…" His crows' feet deepen slightly as he offers you a little smile, his voice soft as though there isn't an audience to perform for. You let yourself have this much at least, this only certainty in the gray space you've found yourself in with Jack.
"Yeah— yeah, I'm okay," you assure him with a smile of your own, lacing your fingers with his. He nods and lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles before his attention snags onto the sweet hearts bracelet dangling off your wrist.
He admires it for a moment. "Robby got good taste."
It feels like a test but you answer as honestly as you can. "It's a red heart bracelet that cost him a thousand dollars. It's an easy choice."
Jack chuckles, mildly pleased and yet a bit unsure as to why jealousy hasn't creeped in yet.
✧⋆⋆⋆
PEOPLE MAGAZINE — SPOTTED! JACK ABBOT AND STAR COZYING IT UP AT A CANDLELIT DINNER AT MICHELIN STAR RESTAURANT.
STAR SHOWS HER TRUE COLORS AS A CONNOISSEUR FOR FINE DINING WHEN FANS SPOT HER WITH OLDER BEAU, JACK ABBOT, AT THE BEAR IN CHICAGO FOR A ROMANTIC DINNER. MANY WONDER IF FAME HAS CHANGED HER. HOW DID OUR SWEET NATION'S POPSTAR GO FROM IN N OUT COMFORT FOOD TO A MEAL THAT COULD'VE FED HUNDREDS?
IT LOOKS LIKE FAME GOT TO HER IN THE END. EAT THE RICH, RIGHT FOLKS?
—
PAGE SIX — JACK ABBOT AND STAR, CONFIRMED?
A SOURCE SHARES THEIR OWN EXPERIENCE MEETING THE COUPLE AT THE BEAR. THEY LOOK 'SORDIDLY IN LOVE' DESPITE NOT RELEASING A CONFIRMING STATEMENT OF THE STATUS OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP.
—
TMZ — IS STAR THE NEW IRIS? SEE JACK ABBOT'S DATING HISTORY.
THE TWO WERE SPOTTED AT A ROMANTIC CANDLELIT DINNER IN CHICAGO, SHARING BITES OF DESSERTS AND SUBTLE KISSES.
—
THE CUT — DOES STAR HAVE A THING FOR OLDER MEN?
IT LOOKS LIKE JACK ABBOT AND STAR HAVE NO PLANS ON CONCEALING THEIR BUDDING RELATIONSHIP WHEN THEY WERE SEEN AT A RESTAURANT THIS PAST WEEKEND. LOOKING BACK UPON HER LAST RELATIONSHIP WITH BARRY 'BAZ' BLACKWELL, ANOTHER OLDER MAN, MANY SOURCES WONDER IF THIS IS JUST A PATTERN.
✧⋆⋆⋆
After getting back to Los Angeles a few days later, the two of you are thrust back into your work. Jack and Robby nearly lock themselves in their studio for peak brainstorming sessions while you finish up the dance routines and blocking for your headlining performance at a music festival that's coming up soon.
The packed schedules keep you from seeing Jack but that doesn't stop the news articles and online publications from posting their own hot takes of you two from your date in Chicago. Some of them make you wrinkle your nose at the gigantic leaps but the others just have you skimming past the empty prose, vainly zooming in on the photos taken of you and Jack.
The two of you look good together at least. When a certain name jumps out at you from the screen, you decide to lock your phone and throw yourself back into songwriting.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Across the city, Robby's sprawled out on the length of the leather couch as Jack hunches over his guitar, grumbling under his breath while re-tuning it again. It's a testament to the years they've worked together that Robby knows better than to interrupt.
Except he comes across a recent article that has him sitting up.
"She dated Barry 'Baz' Blackwell?" Robby blurts out.
Jack frowns as his fingers still against the chords. "The… music video director?"
Robby nods, taps a few things on his screen before handing it over. Jack takes it and he's met with an old article, dated from before he's even met you. It must be early in the relationship, you and Baz. It's a photo of you in the street, dressed down and looking completely at ease while you're hand in hand with the director. It's old, your hair is different here, and yet a wave of jealousy that detonates in Jack's chest nearly has him tossing Robby's phone aside.
Instead he scrolls on, finds another article posted a few months after the last one he went through. This time his chest tightens in heartache. The article has a few blown up photos of you, captured through the glass of a cafe where you've been crying, sweater paws covering your eyes while your lips are down-turned in the way he's seen before when you try to hold back tears.
It's the public breakup, the one that had pushed you to finish the album that had won you your first Grammy.
He doesn't even get through the article before he looks up at Robby, hands his phone back. "Why'd you bring him up?"
His friend pauses and the hesitance there has Jack on edge. "It's fuckin' stupid, you know this—"
"Robby."
"The magazines are making her look like she just goes after older men."
His breath leaves him in a quiet rush. "Jesus."
"Yeah. It's just a stupid article. Don't think about it too much." Jack nods and Robby turns back to his phone but his gaze is elsewhere, his thumb hovering above the screen. "Have you two made it official?"
Jack strums harshly. "Not really our priority right now. Haven't seen her since we landed from Chicago."
"Got it." The abrupt ending nearly topples Jack's concentration, wonders why his best friend won't push the way he usually does, but when he looks up from his guitar, Robby's scrawling away lyrics in his notebook.
✧⋆⋆⋆
"Missed you."
You look up at Jack as he guides you through the crowded floors of the baseball stadium to your field level seats. The simple two words set off a round of butterflies in your gut and you don't bother hiding your smile. With a ballcap on, you tilt your head up a little higher to meet his eyes.
"Missed you more," you reply as he lets you step down the stairs first until you stop at the row right above the dugout. He pinches your hip lightly, eliciting a sharp squeak from you.
"I doubt it, sweetheart," he chuckles as the two of you take your seats. It's an impressive viewpoint, just a few seats away from behind homeplate. The game's just about to start and you're already surrounded with bigwig CEOs and the few rare fans that splurged on such pricey seats.
"Hey." An unknown voice makes itself known behind you and Jack and when the two of you turn around, you're greeted with a balding man and a young boy beside him, around the age of six. "I'm a huge fan of Nightcrawler, it's amazing to meet you. I'm Dan and this is my boy— Neil. Neil's a huge fan of you, Star."
The man is genuine and your smile matches his; you love meeting fans, true fans that aren't seeking out a quick story to sell. "Nice to meet you two." Jack shares the same sentiment, offering a firm handshake before you offer to sign something of Neil's.
After the ceremonial first pitch, the game begins and you and Jack, unsurprisingly, lock in. As a native Angeleno, you're a die hard fan with Jack tagging along for the ride. Media training is nearly forgotten when you're cheering with the fans and booing at bad calls, huffing when your favorite player hits a popout fly ball that ends the inning too soon.
The entire time, you miss the way Jack steals looks at you.
After an inning, you sigh and slump against your seat, catching his gaze before he promptly looks away. "What?"
He chuckles, the sound sticky sweet, lodging deep in your heart. "Nothing, sweetheart. You're just adorable."
Your cheeks burn but you lean in for a kiss anyways which Jack mirrors before the bills of your caps bump into one another. Another low, amused laugh escapes him and the sound is so husky smooth that a shiver zips down your spine. Jack doesn't hesitate to reach up, removez his hat to place it on backwards. Tufts of silver curls escape in the gap between the hat and the strap and it's so boyishly cute that when you kiss him, it's borderline indecent.
Unfortunately, Jack breaks the kiss and the look he gives you, the way his dark gaze drops to your kiss-bitten lips, tempts you to drag him out of his seat and into the closest bathroom. "Behave," he says instead and the way you nod so sweetly, so pliantly nearly has him groaning lowly.
He rewards you with another kiss to your nose before turning your attention back to the ongoing game. fixing his hat to wear it forwards once more. He chuckles and kisses the top of your hat, feeling the pressure of his lips there. You're just as excitable as before but you're happily tucked in his arms now— you've taken to ignoring the little voice in the back of your head (the one that sounds like Trinity) asking what exactly this is with Jack.
With the game slowly approaching the ninth inning, the sun has set and the lights are on illuminating the field. But it doesn't stop the camera from roving around, capturing families and friends onto the big screen.
"And now for the kiss cam—!" The commentator announces as the crew on the field smooth out the dirt track in between bases. You chuckle as you turn your attention to the giant screen, cooing and awwing alongside Jack when the camera stops at an older couple, giggling when it lands on what looks like a first date of a young couple.
But genuine surprise is written all over your face when you and Jack fill the big screen. Your cheeks burn as he chuckles, a blush on his own features as the crowd around you cheers and chants for him to go in for the kiss.
When his eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. His smile widens, pretty crows' feet deepening as he repeats the similar movement of placing his hat backwards so he can lean in for a proper kiss.
This one is far more chaste than the last, but just as sweet that it has you smiling against his lips. When you part first, the crowd bursts into 'awwws'.
Later that evening, only positive articles and comments could be seen when you scroll through your social media.
✧⋆⋆⋆
BREAKING NEWS — ABBOT MADE IT TO FIRST BASE!
AT LAST NIGHT'S DODGERS GAME, MUSICIANS JACK ABBOT AND STAR ATTENDED AND PUT ON A LITTLE SHOW FOR THE CROWD. THEY MADE IT ON THE KISS CAM AND SHOWED OFF A LITTLE LOVING. IS THIS THEM FINALLY MAKING IT OFFICIAL?
—
BUZZFEED PRESENTS: THE PUPPY INTERVIEW, FEAT. STAR!
You sit in the center of a room, dressed comfortably with your attention on the puppies crawling over your lap. The producers behind the camera see their chance, diving in to slip in a question that you haven't answered outright.
"So is Jack Abbot officially your boyfriend?"
You lift a baby rottweiler, nose brushing against the pup's with an outlandish baby voice: "No comment," you sing-song without making eye contact with the camera.
—
HOT ONES VERSUS: STAR VS TRINITY SANTOS
Trinity picks the card up between you two as you try not to pant like a goddamn dog in heat. The two of you are halfway through the row of impossibly hot wings. When your best friend had asked you to tag along for the press tour of her newest film (the same one you had a song in the soundtrack), you didn't think it would result in you dying with your tongue on fire.
"Truth or dare," Trinity manages to say in between pants. "Answer the question truthfully or eat a death wing: are you and Jack Abbot officially together?"
You maintain eye contact when you grab the next wing and take a brutal bite.
"Jesus—!" Trinity cackles.
—
SETH MEYER AND JACK ABBOT GO DAY DRINKING
Seth is settled behind the bar, smiling widely as he brings out a bottle of tequila and two shotglasses. The bar they're filming in is empty but the light filtering in through the open windows proves that it truly is daytime. It takes a few minutes of conversation to break the ice, discussing new music and the woes of being an older generation with the media, before Seth pours them both a glass.
"So. Dating life… little birdy tells me that you've got a sweetheart," Seth grins as he nudges a shot closer to Jack. A wide smile curves onto his lips, crows feet deepening as he shakes his head. The entire crew is in agreement; Jack Abbot is smitten.
"I plead the fifth."
"Oh come on," Seth laughs. "We saw the photos, the dates… are you two together?"
Jack maintains eye contact when he downs his shot.
—
TWITTER —
PINK LIMOS IS COMING! @.starsbabey — 2m
im not even kidding i just saw star and jack at wholefoods arguing about MATCHA….. something something about not the right consistency. yall i fear they're MARRIED
JACKSTARS GF @.nitecrawlers — 4m
im getting tired of all these official interviews teasing us about JACKSTAR and its just them denying their relationship like???
✧⋆⋆⋆
The bulbs of the cameras flashing outside are still somehow able to be seen through the tinted windows. It's a bit startling, kicking up the anxiety levels as the car finally rolls to a stop. Your hands are clammy but you fight the urge to wipe them on the velvet dress that's draped artfully onto your frame. Emma, your stylist, would have your head if you ruin her masterpiece. After all, it's her first time styling you for a high profile event rather than Heather, your main stylist who's currently on maternity leave.
"Hey," Jack murmurs beside you in a sharp tuxedo, cutting sharp angles that emphasize his broad shoulders. His hand finds yours and to his credit, doesn't seem to cringe away from your sweaty nerves. "It's just a benefit gala. After we get past the horde, there won't be anymore cameras inside and we'd be home free."
You nod and you see a shadow move outside the window; it has to be your bodyguard, awaiting for the knock from either you or Jack to give the go ahead and open the door. "Yeah, I know. I'll be fine." You take a deep breath and give a nod. "I'm ready."
Jack maintains eye contact for another beat, as if to make sure of it himself, before he knocks twice against the glass. Your bodyguard waits a beat before he opens the door and the roar of the paparazzi calling for yours and Jack's name nearly bowls you over. Fortunately, Jack steps out first and you duck slightly as you step out of the vehicle.
"Star, over here—"
"… us a smile, sweetheart!"
"Look this way—"
But in the midst of the paparazzi are fans of yours, adorning your merch and holding out posters or albums for you to sign. To your slight relief, they're far closer to you than the paparazzi and you release Jack's hand to stop and sign a few items. While your fans beam at you, the cameramen pounce.
Within seconds, you're swarmed and Jack is nowhere to be seen.
You look up and when only strange men and camera flashes, you're proud of yourself of how steady your voice is when you call for him. None can be said the same for Jack who nearly bellows out your name — not your stage name — and strong arms a few men out of his way. When he cuts through the masses, he looks positively livid and the nerves that had been dialed up to eleven since you've been in the car knocks down a few levels. Relief tentatively seeps through your bones as you give a half-hearted goodbye to fans, immediately reaching out which Jack goes for.
"Hey, hey, hey, get the fuck out of my way—" Jack growls as he shoves one last man, his hand enveloping yours and tucking you close. He stands slightly in front, a human shield against the crowd.
One of the camera men had enough gall to try and placate your lover. "Come on, Jack, she's fine, it's alright—"
"Fuck off," he hisses instead, uncaring of the media as you cling to his arm.
With your heart beating at a slower pace, you tug carefully at his suit. "I'm fine, it's okay, I'm fine."
But Jack just nearly hauls you up the steps and into the hotel lobby where security immediately shuts behind the two of you. You hadn't realized how loud the red carpet had been until you're both inside in the silence of the lobby. Your heels click against marble floors as Jack slowly walks you further in.
You can hear the bustling conversations spilling from the open, double doors of the ballroom venue down the hall, but Jack doesn't bring you inside just yet.
"Baby, you're shaking."
Jack gently rubs at both of your exposed arms and you realize he's correct when you look down at your hands. "I think I'm still rattled," you admit quietly and he nods sympathetically, lets his hands travel down to take yours and give a little squeeze. You can still see adrenaline coursing through him, frustration and anger from the event outside that you reach up to cradle his scruffy jaw. "I'm okay."
"The hell you are—"
"Where've you two been?"
Another familiar voice calls out and when you look, it's Robby exiting the ballroom with a touch of confusion and concern. He looks sharp in a suede black tuxedo, his bowtie neat against his collar. "Got swarmed by the paps outside," Jack grunts as his best friend approaches. Your lover still looks a tad bit jittery which he finally acknowledges as he reluctantly lets go of your hands to shake out. "Can you stay with her for a sec? I'm getting her some water."
"'Course," Robby nods and brings a warm hand to your mid-back once he's close enough. The smile he gives you feels like home and your heart rate is finally lowering to something less anxiety-ridden. Jack gives you a careful kiss to your hairline before he stalks off, anger still rolling off of him in waves.
Maybe it's because Jack isn't around that you let yourself fall apart a little, panic seizing your lungs just enough to take a shaky breath — you didn't want him to worry, maybe kick up his protectiveness another level when he'd already looked so livid outside. Robby hears it immediately and turns around to face you, slightly hunkering down to meet your eye level as he holds your cheek.
"Whoa, you alright, sweetheart?"
His sweet concern makes you nod but your lip quivers and you're quick to lift a hand to brush a finger beneath your waterline. Fortunately, no tears fall. "I'm okay. Jack lost me for a second outside and it was scary to just be surrounded," you share quietly. Robby lets out a low, disapproving grunt and soon he's carefully drawing you into his arms.
"Jesus, no wonder he looks pissed," he mutters against the side of your head as you hug Robby back. He squeezes you once before releasing you, but not without letting go of your hands. "You look beautiful, by the way. Don't know what you see in Jack, but he's one lucky son of a bitch."
The sudden compliment shakes a genuine laugh out of you, a smile blooming as you lightly swat his chest. "Flatterer," you tease but Robby catches your wrist and kisses the back of your hand. It silences you as he hums, looking absolutely shameless as he admires your dress.
"You're wearing the bracelet," he murmurs as he releases your hand, his gaze caught upon the red carnellian heart pendant that dangles from your wrist.
"It's pretty," you shrug and before he might've asked to elaborate, Jack returns with an ice-cold bottle of Pellegrino's. He opens the top off, handing it you while he takes your opposite side. "Thanks, baby."
"Don't mention it," he murmurs before taking the half-empty bottle to hand to the employee nearby to dispose. "You ready to go in?"
When you nod, you enter the benefit gala with Jack on your left and Robby on your right. For the entire evening, neither of the men ever leave your side.
thank you so much for reading! as always, likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
pink limousines taglist: @redolently @yiiiikesmish @vinecstasy @ap1390 @crazycat-ladys-blog @xoxo--ryleigh @satellitesslt @deathreverse @live-love-be-unique @stoptheinnocence @raeofsunshine13 @gracerockysavestarz @vicky066 @madprincessinabox @bludickaaa @peaches-roses-sins @strangegirl26sff @isavulpix @possiblyafangirl @tiredvampireandcrying @hotdocsandcowboys @acornacreacure @delicatedragonflower @ptolemaea444 @maciclove @deathreverse @unsaidjaelinrose @flow33didontsmoke @kneelforloki @rabbotseatcarrots @4ria790 @leolionsthings @pearlessance @sofianotvergara @angelryex @lillianarosethorns @kbakery @archxve @yemandarin @pickles-the-jackalope @shivispunk @crazycat-ladys-blog @ana-stasssiaaa @arianmock13-blog
summary. It's become an open secret that you and Jack are dating but the world grows frustrated when neither of you give the details everyone has been begging for.
word count. 12.3k
content warnings. fluff, smut (light choking, fingering, riding), TMZ and trashy tabloids are used as a plot device here, some slut-shaming, agegap (reader is in her mid 20s, rabbot is in their mid to late 40s) !!
notes. these chapters keep getting longer lol , reader is also really into baseball sorry i make the rules! also there's a 'the bear' reference here again lol , also fluff galore !!!
Sent via form submission, anonymous.
Subject: Singer 'Star' dating both guitarists from NIGHTCRAWLER.
Message: So many eye witnesses have seen Star with an older man the past few months. We all thought it was just some nobody exec or producer (unsurprising; most of these pop girlies are whores) but we got a better look of the silver fox just about a week ago and sources say it's Jack Abbot from NIGHTCRAWLER.
—
Sent via form submission, anonymous.
Subject: Star shared by two older men?
Message: Saw Star out at another after party with two old men, found out it was Robby, frontman for NIGHTCRAWLER, and Jack, the guitarist. She looked super cozy between them. Age gap is weird but I've seen weirder throuples in LA.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Aside from making the front cover of US Weekly about your secret man, more blind items begin to pour in. They haven't been trending but there's enough chatter about your love life that you're being called yet again into another meeting with your PR team.
You're seated in one of the empty conference rooms with Cassie beside you, typing away on her laptop while you roll a pen around on the table. The glass doors swing open slowly and you glance up to see Baran Al-Hashimi, the head of your PR team, enter in a sharp suit and her iPad with Mel, one of the producers and members of your creative team in tow.
"Good morning," Baran greets, each syllable pronounced with such intent that you can't help but stiffen. Shen saunters in with a tray of coffee for everyone while he slurps noisily at his. The two of them are terrifyingly competent. "Let's get started, shall we?"
Everyone scoots their chair in as Baran takes the head of the table where you sit on her left. When she has everyone's attention, she turns her gaze on you.
"You've caused quite a stir," she says lightly. You might've been terrified if it weren't for the fact that she had been the first to look out for you during an almost wardrobe mishap at your first tour. "Since you don't have a dating ban like our other signed artists, no contracts have been broken, yes?" After a collected murmur of assent, she continues on. "In that case, we just need to work together to create a narrative that'll be in our favor."
The projector at the end of the room flicks on and Mel's standing to connect her laptop in as Shen turns off the front lights. A simple presentation takes up the screen.
"Your latest album is a testament to your growth from a young woman to who you are today. The producers and your creative team are in agreement to start adjusting your style to a woman in love," Mel begins as look books of your curated outfits appear. "Your so-called scandal won't be a scandal if we get to spin it into a love story."
Your spine stiffens but you make sure to keep your face neutral. This is exactly what you've been trying to avoid, defining a relationship that Jack may never want to stay in. Mel continues on despite the storm raging in your mind.
"We'll be avoiding any kind of confirmation, the general public will believe what it wants to believe regardless of whatever statement we put out. However, we can play this to our advantage by working in the grey space," she says as she taps to a new slide of multiple grainy photos of you with Jack. To any unknowing gaze, the photos could pass as anybody.
"These photos," you gape as you sit up. "How did these—?"
"We have a contract with some paparazzi. We outbuy anyone before they even think about reaching out to other publications," Baran interrupts. "With our permission, they'll start releasing them in a timely manner to support the narrative you'll be pushing. So now— what is your relation to these men?"
You shift slightly in your seat, visibly uncomfortable, but Cassie nods her head to you with a maternal smile.
"Um— it's just Jack. Jack Abbot," you answer while you relax back in your seat. "The other one is Robby but he just hangs out with us."
Shen releases a low whistle. "Impressive." When multiple sets of eyes glance to him, he gives a careless shrug. "I'm not blind. That man's a silver fox."
Baran allows a tiny smile to tug at the corner of her lips, amused. "We won't be intruding on your relationship any further than allowing you to be seen more in the public eye with him. It'll let everyone talk more about you, create some buzz for the new album."
You blink. "Wait— that's it? We'll just be a bit more public about our… relationship?"
The exec ignores the way you nearly had to spit out the last word. "Yes, that's all. Of course, we do request that you refrain from any more scandalous sightings but anything than that, we encourage it."
"Actually." Cassie politely cuts in. "I thought it'd be interesting if you used the pink limousine photo to be the cover of the EP, have her reclaim that to be a moment of passionate love rather than a careless tryst."
Baran nods in approval, makes a note of it. "I'll let the other creative directors know but I like it. Star, what do you think?"
The idea had initally made you recoil in disgust but Cassie's explanation smooths out the furrow between your brows. "I actually like it, too. Before we release those pap photos, I do want to let Jack know."
"Of course," Baran says. "Let us know of his response by EOD, please."
The sudden deadline is startling but you understand, giving the older woman a nod.
"Perfect. I believe that'll be it for this meeting. If there's anything else you'd like to add later on, email me." With the meeting ending promptly, you sigh as you watch the execs file out while you slump in your chair beside Cassie.
She taps your knee. You loll your head over to gaze at your manager. "You haven't defined anything with Jack, did you?"
You shake your head.
"Mm, alright. Let me know if anything changes."
✧⋆⋆⋆
And nothing really changes. Jack spends the night or you're sleeping over for the weekend on the rare occasion where you aren't being rushed over from one place to the next. Time plays a funny role as you try your best to keep your head above water; water being the metaphorical state of all the rumors that have been piling up about you.
He hadn't turned away from you either when you had asked him if the two of you could go public without confirming anything, just smiled and nodded with an eager glint in his eye.
("Sweetheart, if I ever refuse to kiss you in public where everyone can see you're mine, shoot me because that isn't me.")
You had laughed, told Baran the decision to continue public outings with Jack, and continued the rest of your week without another worry. But your mind ricochets back to that: 'you're mine.' It isn't enough to get Jack to pick up on your swirling thoughts but it's enough that you look distracted most times he comes over.
Because what exactly did he mean? You're his? His what— to own? To fuck? To… love? The thought is chilling — not that you don't have strong feelings for Jack but rather, how readily you seem to be to dive past the edge of the cliff when you aren't even sure he's at the bottom to catch you. And as you stand at the precipice of that metaphorical edge, you know it's a hard landing beneath but at the height of your feelings, the concrete looks like water.
You try to spill these tumultous thoughts as ink onto pages rather than into words. It helps keep the cup from overflowing in your head, lets you keep your head above water when Jack drives you back to his place after he had picked you up from another meeting. Even the monotonous ritual you have of arriving at his front door, jacket and purse set aside on the loveseat upon entrance, and a stolen tangerine in his kitchen to give your hands to do something, is bone chilling; when did you begin to have a routine?
He peels the tangerines for you, feeds you occasionally in comfortable silence, but as you reach for your phone to check what another news outlet has to say, he knows it's time to step in.
Anxiety threatens to creep in but Jack is quick to set your phone aside, distract you with kisses along the back of your neck. When he presses lightly against the small of your back, you bend over without question.
"Let go for me, pretty girl," he coos as he drags your dress up, your cheek pressing against the cool marble counter of his kitchen island. "You did so good today."
You can only offer a pathetic whimper. Each touch from Jack lights a fire within you as sweet nothings fall from his lips. They fall over you like a balm upon your mind as you slowly relax, feeling his ruddy tip glide along your slick folds while he holds your thong aside.
He fucks you slow and deep, his larger body folding over yours as he nips and bites at your neck. Your toes are brushing along the hardwood floors as he holds you up by your waist and keeps you pinned onto the island counter. It isn't brutal or demanding when he coaxes an orgasm out of you although his touch is rough when he pulls your hair back for a searing kiss. Each thrust of his hips is sharp, hits where you need him exactly. It isn't love-making but it feels a hell of a lot like Jack taking care of you.
The thought catapults you into your second climax with him shortly following, plugging you full with his release and a low groan of your name falling from his lips. "Fuck, baby— felt you squeezing me there," he grunts with a few more shallow thrusts until he slowly pulls out. You think that's the end of it but then you hear some rustling behind you, your head tipping back to look over your shoulder— until you feel Jack's tongue dive into your filthy heat with a perverted moan.
"Jack—!"
His chuckles are warm against your sopping cunt as he eats his release out of you, licking you clean while reaching up to hold your hand against the edge of the counter. It's tender enough that a couple of tears slide down your cheeks; you aren't concerned. Jack's fucked you hard enough that he's made you cry before. He doesn't have to know the real reason why your cheeks are tear-stained when he draws out one final orgasm from you.
You exhale, cheek rubbing along the cool marble counter as you catch your breath. A giggle spills past your lips when you feel his stubble grazing along your inner thighs before he showers your ass and cunt with kisses. "Kissing my ass, Daddy?" you tease as you look over your shoulder.
He smacks your ass. "Of course I am. You're my favorite peach."
"Ew, gross—" you giggle as you playfully push his head away. You turn around to lean your back against the counter as he gets to his feet. His hands settle on either side of you, trapping you against the island as he lowers his head for another kiss. It's slow and lazy, stirring something sweet and satisfying in your chest. "Thanks, Jack."
He nudges the tip of his nose against yours. "Anytime, superstar. You looked a little lost in your head there."
You aren't sure how to feel about that, Jack utilizing your pleasure as a distraction but you can't find a reason to be upset over it. "Thanks," you say instead, genuinely. You lean in for another short kiss before he nips at your lower lip.
"You taste like tangerines," he chuckles at your questioning look. "Tastes good."
You roll your eyes but your smile is unmistakable, playfully pushing his shoulder. "Perv. Go shower, old man."
"Join me?"
And who are you to refuse?
✧⋆⋆⋆
GQ: JACK AND ROBBY FROM NIGHTCRAWLER BREAK DOWN THEIR FAMOUS DISCOGRAPHY.
The two men sit at a table looking right at home in front of the camera despite their ten year absence from the public eye. Jack and Robby fidget as they reattach the small mics to the collar of their shirts.
"No more fuzzy mics?" Robby jokes as the camera starts to roll. Behind the camera, the producer prompts them to begin. "Hi, GQ, we're Nightcrawler, and we're here to talk about our past discography."
The cue cards begin and whenever a new song gets lifted, the two men shift easily and move on. "Ghost Of You did a lot better than I expected. Looks like Iris is still the more popular one," Jack chuckles as he hits play on the laptop that's sitting between them. A snippet of the chorus plays as the coordinator behind the camera flips to a new cue card.
"Oh, that's an oldie. High might've been one of our more popular softer songs," Robby reminisces as his higher vocals fill the room. "I remember being worried that we were gonna alienate our main demographics."
"You were a pretty boy back then, Robinavitch—" Jack snorts as he sends his friend a wry grin. "You could've screamed into a mic and the girls swooned."
"You sound jealous, Abbot."
"Course I am, you're still a pretty boy!"
"Oh, fuck off—"
✧⋆⋆⋆
TWITTER—
Pop Base @.PopBase — 2m
STAR drops single 'stupid song' — listen now on Spotify and Apple Music!
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After you and Jack agreed to stop hiding the relationship (situationship, Trinity's voice would ring in your ear), you both also agreed to not just simply hard launch it to the world. Ease it in. Maybe both of you could step out of the car at the same time rather than waiting five minutes in between.
Despite the plans to stop hiding, you and Jack are suddenly rocked with packed schedules and endless interviews and fittings. He barely has time to come over now and your texts are few and little in between. But without Jack present to distract your thoughts, you're on twitter more often than you'd like to admit.
✧⋆⋆⋆
@enam3l : oh so she's IN LOVE !!!
@deathreverse : IS THE NEW EP ABOUT HER FALLING IN LOVE???
@pearlessance : the last time she wrote about love was about b*z yall, idk if this is gonna be happy…..
@mariasont : [ screenshot of lyrics from stupid song— I feel right, I feel wrong, I feel totally insane. And I want you more than any stupid song can ever say. ] SHE'S DOWN BAAAAD…. pour one out for a baddie lost to another man.
@.user01 : if the rumors are true, the man in question is jack and i, too, would pour out my lil heart for him. have you seen him???
@.user1: you can tell she got inspired by some dad rock vibes with the demos she's been singing on her livestreams
@.user2: speaking of dad rock, i've been listening to NIGHTCRAWLER's older albums…. ok white boys get itttt
@.user3: went through the credits for nightcrawler's songs, robby's obviously the manwhore between the two but jfc his ballads are so fucking good too
✧⋆⋆⋆
The light of your phone illuminates your face, eyes wide as you adjust the sheet mask you've just placed on. Your neck is aching from how you're laid out on Jack's bed, head propped up a little too high by his pillows, as you doomscroll. The attached bathroom door opens but you don't pay Jack any mind — not even his shirtless state can steal you away from the downspiral that's starting when you see your ex's name pop up just as often as Jack's.
"Darling, you'll ruin your eyes like that," Jack huffs as he sits on his side of the bed, sets his crutches aside while you scroll like you didn't hear him. "Baby?"
You startle slightly, big eyes peeking above the top of your phone. "Yeah?"
"What's got you stressing?" The bed dips and rocks slightly as Jack scoots close enough for his arm to wrap around your frame while you rest your head on his chest. You bring the phone up to show the comments and he tugs on his glasses.
He hums as he scrolls, absentmindedly playing with your hair. "They seem to like it, superstar, I wouldn't worry," he says. He locks your phone and sets it aside. "C'mon, you need the sleep."
You might've gotten annoyed with Jack then, how he takes the reins from you without expecting any refusal, but exhaustion has been weighing down your bones all week and you find yourself nodding. "Let me take off the sheet mask," you hum as you playfully crawl over his body, laughing as he sneaks a squeeze to your ass, and climb off the bed. You complete the rest of your skincare in the bathroom before joining him in the sheets.
The lights shut off and you close your eyes, finding comfort in his embrace before you realize you are annoyed — he didn't give your song a second glance.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Your annoyance didn't last past the night.
Jack wakes you sweetly and lazily, stroking your cheek and jaw until your eyelashes flutter. When your eyes meet his, he leans in for a tender kiss that has your toes curling beneath the sheets. It's a rare thursday where both of you have a free morning, let alone a whole day. Although you figure it's best to start being seen with Jack more, the domesticity that follows whenever the two of you are home is addicting. Sticky sweet kisses are shared when he juices fresh oranges for you, laughter echoing throughout his kitchen as you play some cheesy pop song from the 2000s.
The two of you are lost in your honeymoon-esque bliss in the kitchen that neither you or Jack hear the front door open and shut for Robby to enter the scene.
"Am I interrupting?" He chuckles over the sight of you, wearing nothing but Jack's shirt and a lacy pair of underwear, and his best friend still in just his flannel pajama pants. Robby himself looks like he's already lived through half the day, leather jacket and windswept hair.
You nearly shriek at the sudden new presence of another man only to relax, half-hiding behind Jack who just tugs you forward front and center. "Jesus, Robby," Jack laughs. "That key was for emergencies."
"It's an emergency— I'm hungry." Robby grins as he sets his helmet and bag down to hop onto the bar stool tucked against one side of the kitchen island. The two of you share a smile before Jack circles the space to continue flipping the pancakes while you putter around to make coffee.
"How do you take your coffee, Robby?" you ask as you bring out an extra mug, head tilting slightly over your shoulder to meet the other man's eyes.
"Just black, sweetheart."
You hum in acknowledgment and turn back around, measuring out the ground coffee beans to pour into the filter. Behind your back, Jack sends a curious look to his friend who busies himself on his phone before letting it go. Something splinters in his chest, a dull ache he could ignore if he tries hard enough, when he watches you set the steaming mug by Robby who thanks you with a careless smile.
To your credit, you don't react any differently from what Jack could see. You just pour him a mug, add just the right of cream and sugar before attaching yourself to his side and placing the coffee right where he can reach it. He turns the stove off and moves the pan to the cooler side so he can bend down and kiss your hair.
"Thanks, gorgeous."
You grin and tilt your head up, lips pursed adorably that he plants one kiss there and another on your nose. The two of you miss the way Robby keeps his eyes pointedly on his phone. The plates are set and the three of you eat in comfortable silence, occasionally pockmarked with small talk between Jack and Robby.
"So, what are your plans today?" Robby asks as he leans back, one arm crossed and the other holding his mug.
Jack mimics his movement, leaning back to drape an arm on the back of your chair as you continue to sip at Jack's coffee. "Some shopping in Rodeo before dinner—"
You pat his chest to interrupt him, your eyes locked on your phone. "We need to stop at the recording studio, Jack, I left a couple of notebooks in the booth."
Jack nods, doesn't miss a beat. "Shopping, recording studio, and then dinner."
"Mind if I tag along on your shopping trip? I got a few things to pick up at Van Cleef."
"That works out perfectly! I have a couple pieces I want to get refitted," you perk up, detaching yourself momentarily to lean in and turn your full attention to Robby. Your smile is blinding and it takes almost half a second for either of them to respond.
"I can meet you two there. I have a couple things to drop off, but before I forget—" Robby sends you a smile warmer than you've ever received from him, getting to his feet while he grabs his helmet. "I listened to 'stupid song'. It's pretty good but I gotta ask— this old man got you this lovesick?"
Your cheeks burn, a shy smile following before you attempt to play coy. "Hey—! Technically, I never confirm who my songs are about." The playful eye roll Robby gives you has you giggling, making you miss Jack's approach who comes around to tug you firmly into his side.
"Alright. See you two later."
✧⋆⋆⋆
"I'm stealing a shirt!"
Jack's resounding chuckle from outside of his walk-in closet is answer enough for you and you happily dig into his drawer. You lift your foot up to casually scratch at your opposite calf as you rummage through his clothes, wandering to the opposite side to pick out a long-sleeved button up that you cinch and style with some shorts you had left behind a few days ago.
You aren't sure when Jack started keeping duplicates of your makeup in his bathroom but you never did ask and he never talked about it. You ignore the way your stomach flutters when you lean over the sink, applying eyeliner and mascara.
A knock sounds behind you and you offer with a noncommital hum. In the reflection, Jack leans against the doorway, already dressed and his leg on.
"Almost done, baby?"
You cap the mascara and when you reach for the lip gloss, Jack crosses the distance to gently cradle your cheeks for a kiss. "Jack—" you giggle against his mouth but he shushes you sweetly.
"Let me get my kisses in before you put your lip gloss on, superstar," he chuckles. When he feels you've been thoroughly kissed, he leaves you be and starts to head out. "I'll get the car running."
You sigh dreamily, lovesick as you finally apply your lipgloss.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Jack hasn't let go of your hand since he's parked his ostentatious G-Wagon. The two of you aren't overtly dressed either and with sunglasses on, you and Jack blend well with the rest of the pedestrians that graze along the cobbled stonewalk of Rodeo Drive. Despite that no one's stopped you or Jack for photos or autographs, you aren't naive enough to believe that no one is watching you either.
With Robby on his way, the two of you head into Van Cleef & Arpels and the low lighting is a welcomed reprieve from the Los Angeles sun. The sales associate recognizes you almost immediately before a look of delight leaves their features as quickly as it comes when they see Jack right behind you.
"Welcome, ma'am. Your client advisor is ready to see you now," the pristinely dressed woman says, her tone clipped and professional, yet you catch the bright shimmer in her eyes as the two of you thank her and enter a private show room.
Your shoes are silent against the dark hardwood flooring, your bangles clinking delicately together as you swing your joined hands with Jack as you approach.
"Thank you for coming in. I'm Noelle, how may I assist you today?"
Noelle guides you and Jack towards the leather-wrapped high-top tables. He helps you onto the stool before sitting himself beside you while Noelle circles and opens her gloved hands in gentle accommodation.
"I'm here to get this re-fitted actually," you offer your wrist to her and two bracelets clink together. The one in question had been the Lucky Alhambra bracelet with four motifs and it dangles prettily besides the delicate gold bangle from the Perlée clovers line; you had fallen in love with the bangle immediately and Jack had purchased it for you without a second word.
That had been from your fourth date.
"Oh, such a beautiful piece. May I?" When you nod, she deftly unclasps the chained bracelet before laying it out carefully upon the leather surface to inspect. Jack's arm reaches out casually to rest on the back of your chair and you fight back a shiver when you feel his touch, absentmindedly stroking your spine as he listens to Noelle. You offer your wrist again at her prompting, allowing her to measure out the desired fit before she places it in a spare box with the marked length. Right as she's finishing up, footsteps echo behind you and you look over to see Robby approach.
He cuts an imposing figure, all rough strewn edges in his old band shirt and well-worn Levi's in the boutique. When he stands behind you and Jack, you can catch a whiff of his cologne and a hint of cigarette smoke.
"Mr. Robinavitch," Noelle greets warmly as she hands off your box to another employee. "We have your pieces ready, please feel free to browse while we bring it out for you from the back."
"Please, take your time," he replies with a nod of his head. When it's just the three of you, he looks at you and Jack. "You two heading out then?"
Jack rubs your shoulder. "Depends, did you want to browse too, baby?"
You nod. There was a bracelet that had caught your eye and you're eager to take the time to try it on yourself. Jack helps you down and you loosely take hold of his hand, leading him over to the other show room where the Sweet Hearts bracelet is displayed. It's a dainty rose gold chain with a single carnellian heart motif.
Another client advisor approaches and offers it for you to try on which you gladly accept. The two men watch fondly as you gasp softly at the simplistic beauty of the bracelet. Right as they unclasp the bracelet, your phone rings and you reluctantly step away to answer a phone call from your manager, Cassie.
Once you're out of earshot, Robby turns to the employee. "I'll take it."
Jack glances up in mild surprise. "You got a girl or something?"
Robby's pulling out his wallet with a little chuckle. "No, but you have her and she looked too happy to not get it." He waits for some pushback from his friend; Robby's no stranger to Jack's bouts of possessiveness, having seen enough of it with Iris all those years ago. But Jack just nods. Silent permission.
"Sure. Call it an early birthday gift or somethin'," he allows as the employee walks off to wrap up the bracelet for you. Robby nods as he merely hands over his black credit card without a second to spare, just in time for you to return. "Is everything okay?"
You dip your head with a reassuring smile, tucking yourself back into Jack's side. "Yeah, it was just to confirm our ballgame tickets."
Robby perks up. "You two are going to a game?"
"Eh, it's just a Dodgers game—"
The smack that lands on his chest elicits a playful laugh from Jack, something he anticipates whenever he pokes fun at your local team that you'd defend without hesitation. As native Pittsburgh Pirates fans, both Jack and Robby never fail to tease you about it whenever their team is in town for a game.
"You two have been Angelenos for more than a decade, you better act like it," you wag your finger at them in mock disappointment, a giggle escaping at Robby's exaggerated contrite expression while Jack apologizes with a tight backhug and a kiss to the nape of your neck.
Noelle returns with Robby's items and a new box for you and your eyes widen slightly. "Is this the Sweet Hearts bracelet? Oh, I haven't—"
"I got it for you," Robby interrupts with a little shrug. "Consider it an early birthday gift."
You take the box and thank Noelle for her service, confirming the pick up time for your other bracelet. When she exits, you untangle yourself from Jack to lean up and kiss the other man's cheek. "Thanks, Michael."
Something flashes in his eyes that you miss entirely but Jack does not. His chest feels hollow but it isn't unpleasant, rather it feels like he's waiting for that anvil to drop in his chest whenever you give anyone else a modicum of attention but nothing arrives.
"Don't mention it, sweetheart." Robby exits first, holds the door open for you to step out first just as Jack follows behind. With the signature green box in hand (just as iconic as Tiffany blue in your opinion), you place a hand on Robby's shoulder with another sweet smile of thanks just as Jack leads you out on the sidewalk. The two men give each other a brief hug goodbye before Robby departs in the opposite direction, helmet in hand and his other pieces he'd picked up.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Across the street in a heavily tinted van, a photographer captures a series of photos. Despite the glaring sun, he manages to adjust the aperture to take a still shot of Robby opening the door for you with the gift in hand. Even though Jack can be partially seen right behind you, the man crops it just enough to send it to one tabloid company.
In the next photo, you've got a hand on Robby's chest with Jack right behind. He keeps this one as is and sends it to another tabloid magazine. Within minutes, he receives two hefty checks from two different publications to put out two different stories. He sets his camera down, starts the van, and drives off without a second glance.
✧⋆⋆⋆
The drive to the recording company you signed to is short and you're grateful that there's basement parking, giving you another reprieve from any kind of wandering camera. You aren't sure if your eyes had been playing tricks on you back at Van Cleef, catching a glimpse of a camera pressed against a tinted window of a van. Regardless, you figure it's what you and Jack wanted anyways, fueling the rumors of your dating life without confirming a goddamn thing.
"Hey, Ahmad," you greet the security guard by the main entrace, a lanky man that seems to always be preoccupied with the hidden betting pool he's got below the receptionist's desk. Princess greets you with a sweet smile, nudging you past the doors and into the main floor. She eyes Jack with a knowing grin towards Ahmad who promptly pulls out the sheet on her desk, scrawling down something new. You snort to yourself, your fingers tangled with Jack as you pull him over to the elevators inside.
You hit the button to your usual floor and you're met with a long hallway that sprawls out to your left and right, pockmarked with soundproof doors. "Left are the dance studios," you mention casually to Jack. "Rehearsal spaces and whatnot. They're generally multi-purpose rooms. Rooms to the right are the recording studios and booths."
After passing the entire hall, you stop at the final door at the end. Unlike the producers' private studios that have an attached padlock with a code, yours is unofficially assigned. Everyone aside from your team knows to steer cleer of it, to always keep it available to you. You aren't expecting anyone inside so you nearly startle when you step in to see a familiar figure behind a piano, jotting down chords.
"Christopher?" You beam, releasing Jack's hand to approach the man who stands from the bench to draw you in for a tight hug. His strong arms wind around your waist, eliciting a loud laugh when he lifts you. "What are you doing here? I thought you left!"
"My new space is still being renovated but Gloria let me in to work in here for old times' sake," he answers, his subtle Australian accent throwing Jack for a spin as he finally recognizes the younger man that's still got you in his arms. He looks up to see Jack and with his arm still around your shoulders, he reaches out to shake his hand. "Hi, I'm Christopher. I used to be Star's main producer."
✧⋆⋆⋆
(ONE YEAR AGO) —
US WEEKLY: IS LOVE IN THE AIR?
JUST WEEKS AFTER HER SPLIT WITH BAZ, THE DIRECTOR OF HER MUSIC VIDEO SERIES, STAR WAS SEEN COZYING UP TO Christopher B, THE MAIN PRODUCER OF HER LAST ALBUM 'SPILLED', AT SANTA MONICA PIER. HAS STAR FOUND SOMEONE NEW AFTER HER TUMULTUOUS AND MESSY BREAKUP?
Star and Christopher had been electric in the studio booth, creating hit after hit that ultimately led to her first Grammy win. In her social media posts, the two have not been shy about their friendship. Fans had taken to twitter and deuxmoi, inputting their own theories of the true nature of their relationship. They've always denied it, especially when Star and Barry "Baz" Blackwell had confirmed their dating status. But now that the couple has split, the world is convinced that Star and Christopher are meant to be.
They'd make a power couple in the music industry. With Star's vocals and enchanting lyrics and Christopher' creative beats and addicting melodies, they would take the world by storm.
Read more about Christopher and his accolades below...
✧⋆⋆⋆
The grainy photo of you and Christopher had been the most talked about rumor for months that it even entered Jack and Robby's circle of friends. Older musicians that's taken a well-deserved break from the limelight who wouldn't even know how to peruse the rumor mill of today's age of artists and celebrities. He remembered seeing you in that photo, tragically beautiful that even the camera had captured your glassy tear-stained eyes and pouty lips while your head rests on Christopher' broad shoulder while sitting at a high-top counter of a balcony in a restaurant.
This had been before he met you six months later at that bar in West Hollywood, looking all the more frustrated at that notebook you've never been away from until now.
"I'm Jack," he replies and a vindictive, petty part of him enjoys the fact that he's a bit taller than Christopher. And older, a sabotaging voice in his head reminds him. That opens the floodgates in his mind now as he starts to tally up the differences between him and Christopher while you (fortunately) detach yourself from both of them to search for your beloved notebook.
He's taller but Christopher has broader shoulders.
Jack's arms are bigger but Christopher' defined muscles are evident even through the shirt he's got on.
The tallying ends there when you return to his side, your touch anchoring him to the present when your hand curls delicately around his forearm. "I got it," you wave the notebook in your free hand before you're smiling at Christopher again. "Feel free to use this space as long as you need to. Just because you quit doesn't mean you aren't welcome."
Christopher's smile is bright when he nods, gives you another parting kiss to your cheek before giving Jack a genuine pat on the shoulder. No bad blood there and it makes Jack's stomach twist at his own immaturity.
"Nice meeting you," he says instead to make up for his own petty thoughts. The smile you give him is reward enough and he's all too eager to gently tug you to the door. "Good luck with what you're working on."
"Thanks. You two have fun," he says with a little knowing grin to which your cheeks burn.
When you two exit, you get sidetracked when you bump into another fellow artist, leaving his side momentarily to catch up with her as he waits patiently in one of the plush seats. His thumb hovers over the screen as he pulls up your instagram profile, momentarily admiring you before he gives in to sick curiosity and scrolls down. Down, down, down.
Until he stops at the handful of photos of Christopher.
These are old, way back to when the two of you had begun working together for your debut album, but the familiarity between you two makes jealousy twist and writhe in his stomach. That poison pushes him to keep scrolling, hates the way his chest tightens at seeing you with a man your age.
"Jack?"
He lifts his head and almost drops his phone when you approach, standing between his knees that he has to set the gadget down to lightly hold the back of your thighs. "Yeah, sweetheart?"
Your nails scratch along his scalp with a lazy hum, admiring his soft silver curls. "I'm ready to go now. Sorry for stopping so much."
A low chuckle escapes him and the irate jealousy that had been simmering dissipates completely beneath your touch. "You're fine, superstar. You want to stop somewhere to eat before we head home?" He kisses your stomach, sets his chin right above your belly button to smile up at you.
"Can we just stop at in n out?" You ask sweetly, nails scratching along his jaw before bending down to capture his lips in a sweet kiss.
"Mm, sure, baby—" he murmurs against your mouth, realizing that this may be the first kiss you've shared in public when the sun's still up. You must've had the same realization because you let out a quiet squeak, pulling away to hide your face into the top of his hair. He chuckles and lightly pats your ass before he gets to his feet. "Come on. Time to feed my girl."
✧⋆⋆⋆
TMZ — BREAKING NEWS: GREEDY STAR.
NOT ONLY HAS STAR BEEN SEEN WITH JACK ABBOT OUT ON THE STREETS OF LOS ANGELES, BUT IT LOOKS LIKE SHE'S GOT CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF A LOVE TRIANGLE? A SOURCE HAS SENT IN THE PHOTO BELOW OF STAR STEPPING OUT OF A JEWELRY STORE WITH A GIFT IN HAND WITH NO JACK IN SIGHT.
—
US WEEKLY — THREE… ISN'T A CROWD?
STAR WAS SEEN TODAY AT RODEO DRIVE WITH NOT ONE INFAMOUS MUSICIAN… BUT TWO. SHE WAS EXITING VAN CLEEF AT RODEO DRIVE WITH JACK AND ROBBY IN TOW, HOLDING A JEWELRY BOX. LUCKY GIRL!
Anonymous_User01 : can yall PLEASE get a grip??? robby and star are friends, she's obviously dating jack—
Anonymous_User02 replied : that old man is yearning, look at how he looks at her???
✧⋆⋆⋆
Baran isn't the most pleased when she sees that your first public outing had included Robby, confusing the masses at who exactly you were dating. Although the slut-shaming and the all-around disparaging theories about who you spread your legs for had diminished, the confusion isn't exactly aiding the story she had been pushing for you to tell. To remedy this, you tell her that Jack had acquired a heavily-sought after reservation at a two-Michelin star restaurant in Chicago. A perfect date that fits cleanly with some of your other interview or travel plans that are in the city, Jack tags along.
The photos of you two at LAX go viral, too. With both of you half-attempting to maintain anonymity, many still recognize his silver curls peeking out from under a baseball cap and your smile whenever he lowers his head to press a kiss to the top of your hair. Although you've been taught to make sure to be polite without stopping for autographs in case it'll incite crowding and mobbing, Jack hovers when you drop down to one knee when a little girl and her mother approaches for an autograph in the boarding lobby.
You scrawl your autograph onto the napkin the child brought you. "What's your name, sweetheart?" She whispers it to you, her little hands wringing together shyly behind her back. Your heart bleeds with affection. "Angelica? Oh, that's a pretty name!" You add in her name with a heart before handing the napkin back.
"Thank you," she gasps. Shyness flees her body because she tackles you in a hug, nearly toppling you backwards as your hand comes up to pat her back with a soft laugh. Above you, Jack watches fondly, almost sets his hand out to catch you in case the girl does push you over in her excitement. The two of you share a bit of small talk before her mom calls her over and you smile, allowing Jack to help you to your feet as the little girl reluctantly walks back with a giddy wave.
When it's just you two, you glance to see Jack give you a look you can't decipher. "What?" You ask with a soft laugh, feeling a tad bit self conscious. He gives a shake of his head, draws you in by your shoulders to kiss the crown of your head.
"Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all."
✧⋆⋆⋆
Boarding goes smoothly, the flight is uneventful. But landing is a whole other obstacle when it seems someone might've leaked your flight to the local paparazzi of Chicago. You silently thank Cassie for her quick thinking of calling up a security detail that meets you upon landing, creating a tight perimeter for you and Jack until you make it to the car.
The shouts and bright flashing of the camera is avoidable, due to your sunglasses but mainly because of Jack keeping you close. He doesn't let you go until you make it into the car, carefully helped in before he follows behind you.
"Fucking animals," he growls as he slams the door shut, the bright camera flashes dimmed to a low light with how heavy the tint is in the car. You shake your head.
"It's fine, Jack—"
"No, it's not. Do you deal with this every time you travel?"
The question takes you aback; does Jack… not deal with paparazzi? He's one of the biggest names in music, probably always will be. You blink at him a couple times. "Not… to this extent. It's why Cassie makes sure I have security detail wherever I go. Sorry, do you not—"
"In the beginning, yeah. Honestly, Robby and I basked in it but if we told them to back off, they did… baby, you could've gotten hurt."
You give a shrug, unaware that your carelessness to this seemingly common situation is driving Jack up the wall. "Maybe, but I'm fine. I'm more surprised that you don't get mobbed like this. My boundaries are basically nonexistent to the paps."
The truth is, you know why you get hounded more than Jack— or rather, why young women in the industry gets talked over, ignored, mocked whenever they make attempts at maintaining a line or a boundary against paparazzi or the media while men are obeyed without question. But it's a never ending argument and it isn't something you have the bandwidth to discuss after still seeing spots in your vision from all the camera flashes.
"That's not fair," he says anyways as the car continues to drive down the highways. "I know I haven't been present in the public eye since we took that hiatus, but…"
You two sit in silence for a few more minutes and you figure that may be the end of the conversation but he squeezes your hand. He's taken to holding your hand in car rides like these ever since you've been given the go-ahead to make this public.
"I remember Iris once mentioned that the paparazzi were vultures," he says quietly. "By then, we were inseparable and I never got to see that side of it all since I never really let her out of my sight when we were in public like that."
"How could you know? The world's always a little kinder to men, Jack." And there isn't any malice there, nor any trace of resentment, but a sad acceptance as he gives your hand another squeeze. He's spoken about Iris before; you've always revered their relationship, never shied away about the topic of her and only avoided it in the early part of your trysts with Jack to spare his feelings. When he realized you aren't running every time he brings up his late wife, he had felt more comfortable bringing her up with you from that point on.
He grunts in obvious discontent but the conversation ends there when the car stops at the curb of the hotel you two are staying at. There isn't any paparazzi this time around and that relieves the both of you. At least no one knows where you two are staying.
Checking in and your luggage being brought up for you goes smoothly and with the entire day finally settling in, all you're searching for is a hot shower and a warm bed.
But that all goes out the window when his hands find your waist, creeping up your shirt to grope your tits above your bra.
"Jack," you hum but his lips are already on you the moment the door shuts. "Jack— I smell like plane! Let me freshen up." You giggle as he retaliates with a playful groan and a bite to your neck. The older musician sighs dramatically as he releases you to place the 'do not disturb' placard on the outside before he locks it. Meanwhile, you casually strip, leaving a trail of your clothing that leads to the bathroom which you promptly shut.
He's shameless when he leans against the door, knocking lightly. "Baby, don't tease."
Through the door, you can hear how wrecked he is but you bite back a giggle, prancing barefoot to the shower to start up the hot water while making sure the shower chair you requested is in. When the water's hot and ready, you unlock the door and you know you have seconds until Jack is on you.
You're barely opening the shower door when he enters, gently pulling you in and crowding you against the glass to devour you with a searing kiss. His hand finds your wrists, holds them in one grip before lifting it above your head. "Mm, baby… what am I gonna do with you?" He murmurs against your mouth, kissing along your jaw as his free hand explores your chest. Your back arches off the glass, chasing his touch.
"Touch me," you whine and he indulges immediately, kissing you down your neck and collarbone. Your moans flood the bathroom and Jack doesn't hesitate to latch his lips around a pert nipple, tongue lashing against the hard nub while his middle and ring finger strokes your folds. You lift a leg up to take him deeper and soon you're writhing, your lust for Jack always taking him off guard. It's the worst time to be overthinking things, wondering what exactly you see in a washed up old man like him when he's two knuckles deep inside and playing you like an instrument.
"Daddy—!"
The title rocks him out of his haze and his gaze pierces yours, releasing your wrists to cradle your jaw instead. "Yeah? Am I taking too long, baby?" That patronizing, condescending tone… it has you fucking dripping. You can only offer a tiny whimper which he responds with a mean chuckle, his hand lazily pumping his fingers that drags against your walls. Not enough friction.
"God, yesyesyes— please, I need you—"
And to his credit, Jack gives you exactly what you need. He swallows your desperate moans when he removes his fingers to gently push you down to your knees. You've done this before, you know what he needs— you help remove his prosthesis and despite that carnal lust that's rushing through your veins, it's something intimate that he doesn't dare put a name to.
In the rush of the waterfall shower, he's settled into his chair and you're eagerly climbing onto his lap. It's a tad awkward, reaching between to guide his stiffening length into your dripping cunt, but once he's sheathed inside you, you ride him without wasting a second.
It reminds him of that phrase you've muttered the first time he took you to bed, when your age gap had been a slight weight on his conscience: old enough to know what I'm doing, you promised, but young enough to do it well.
His hand travels up your skin slick from the spray of the water, warm and heated beneath his touch. The way his fingers splay out is possessive and your neck bares instinctively. With an indulgent pass across your tits, his hand presses around your neck in the correct positioning, safely squeezing while your eyes roll back in bliss.
"That's it, pretty girl… take what you need," he croons as he tugs you down to kiss along your gasping mouth, smirking against your wet skin when he feels your walls convulse around his cock. "Gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Come on, baby…"
He continues to utter sweet nothings against your mouth as you fall apart on his cock, his own orgasm following after that he doesn't hesitate to finish inside you. As you slump against his chest, he holds you close with a throaty chuckle, his rough hands stroking up and down your spine.
"I got you, sweetheart. I got you."
✧⋆⋆⋆
Even when high-profile guests have been to The Bear before, you and Jack still garner looks when you two are dropped off by the driver. He steps out first, looking dashing in slacks and a tight button-up that you haven't really been able to keep your hands off of. Your hand slips into his as he helps you out, shielding the way your black cocktail dress rides up as your heels land on the sidewalk. A couple of flashes appear from your peripheral view but you don't shy away from it, just smiling as Jack steps slightly in front of you to give you room to adjust your neckline and hemline.
"Thanks," you hum and he nods, straightening out his shirt before he's offering his arm to you. Your hand slides into the crook of his elbow while holding your clutch against your thigh. A few fans call out your name and you turn instinctively, giving a shy wave before you're entering the restaurant.
The soft ambience of the establishment soothes your raw nerves and with the small party of three in front of you, it lets you gather yourself and pull on the persona of a famous person and not a slightly harried woman in her twenties. There's a subdued hum of conversation from all the other guests already seated, a few shouts and calls from the kitchen whenever the door swings open each time a waiter walks in and out.
"Ah, Mr. Abbot and Miss Star," the maitre d' greets with a personable smile. Despite his sharp suit, his scruffy beard and his bright smile is warm and genuine. "Welcome to The Bear, my name's Richie. You're the, uh… seven o'clock, yes?"
Jack confirms with a nod, dropping your arm so he can wrap his around your waist. "That's right. Are we late?"
"No, no. Right on time, actually—" Richie looks over his shoulder, gives the space a quick scan. You aren't sure what he sees but he must've seen something correct because he taps something on the screen and steps from the podium. "Perfect. If you two will follow me?"
You nod and walk alongside Jack, ignoring the way a few looks follow you both as Richie leads you two to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant for some privacy. It's intimate, illuminated with a candle in the center.
"Gary will be around shortly with drinks."
The evening continues on without a hitch and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the date with Jack. You try not to think about the fact that this is even happening because of your team's approval, to push a narrative that's meant to promote your upcoming EP. But then you backtrack your own thoughts because it isn't like you're dragging Jack to this restaurant; he likes hanging out with you, enjoys your presence outside of the bedroom… and yet uncertainty poisons your mind as you take another sip of your wine.
"Hey."
Jack reaches across the table to take your hand, running his thumb across your soft skin. Your lashes flutter as you lift your gaze from the tablecloth to him. "Yeah?"
"You alright? You look a little bit lost in your head there…" His crows' feet deepen slightly as he offers you a little smile, his voice soft as though there isn't an audience to perform for. You let yourself have this much at least, this only certainty in the gray space you've found yourself in with Jack.
"Yeah— yeah, I'm okay," you assure him with a smile of your own, lacing your fingers with his. He nods and lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles before his attention snags onto the sweet hearts bracelet dangling off your wrist.
He admires it for a moment. "Robby got good taste."
It feels like a test but you answer as honestly as you can. "It's a red heart bracelet that cost him a thousand dollars. It's an easy choice."
Jack chuckles, mildly pleased and yet a bit unsure as to why jealousy hasn't creeped in yet.
✧⋆⋆⋆
PEOPLE MAGAZINE — SPOTTED! JACK ABBOT AND STAR COZYING IT UP AT A CANDLELIT DINNER AT MICHELIN STAR RESTAURANT.
STAR SHOWS HER TRUE COLORS AS A CONNOISSEUR FOR FINE DINING WHEN FANS SPOT HER WITH OLDER BEAU, JACK ABBOT, AT THE BEAR IN CHICAGO FOR A ROMANTIC DINNER. MANY WONDER IF FAME HAS CHANGED HER. HOW DID OUR SWEET NATION'S POPSTAR GO FROM IN N OUT COMFORT FOOD TO A MEAL THAT COULD'VE FED HUNDREDS?
IT LOOKS LIKE FAME GOT TO HER IN THE END. EAT THE RICH, RIGHT FOLKS?
—
PAGE SIX — JACK ABBOT AND STAR, CONFIRMED?
A SOURCE SHARES THEIR OWN EXPERIENCE MEETING THE COUPLE AT THE BEAR. THEY LOOK 'SORDIDLY IN LOVE' DESPITE NOT RELEASING A CONFIRMING STATEMENT OF THE STATUS OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP.
—
TMZ — IS STAR THE NEW IRIS? SEE JACK ABBOT'S DATING HISTORY.
THE TWO WERE SPOTTED AT A ROMANTIC CANDLELIT DINNER IN CHICAGO, SHARING BITES OF DESSERTS AND SUBTLE KISSES.
—
THE CUT — DOES STAR HAVE A THING FOR OLDER MEN?
IT LOOKS LIKE JACK ABBOT AND STAR HAVE NO PLANS ON CONCEALING THEIR BUDDING RELATIONSHIP WHEN THEY WERE SEEN AT A RESTAURANT THIS PAST WEEKEND. LOOKING BACK UPON HER LAST RELATIONSHIP WITH BARRY 'BAZ' BLACKWELL, ANOTHER OLDER MAN, MANY SOURCES WONDER IF THIS IS JUST A PATTERN.
✧⋆⋆⋆
After getting back to Los Angeles a few days later, the two of you are thrust back into your work. Jack and Robby nearly lock themselves in their studio for peak brainstorming sessions while you finish up the dance routines and blocking for your headlining performance at a music festival that's coming up soon.
The packed schedules keep you from seeing Jack but that doesn't stop the news articles and online publications from posting their own hot takes of you two from your date in Chicago. Some of them make you wrinkle your nose at the gigantic leaps but the others just have you skimming past the empty prose, vainly zooming in on the photos taken of you and Jack.
The two of you look good together at least. When a certain name jumps out at you from the screen, you decide to lock your phone and throw yourself back into songwriting.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Across the city, Robby's sprawled out on the length of the leather couch as Jack hunches over his guitar, grumbling under his breath while re-tuning it again. It's a testament to the years they've worked together that Robby knows better than to interrupt.
Except he comes across a recent article that has him sitting up.
"She dated Barry 'Baz' Blackwell?" Robby blurts out.
Jack frowns as his fingers still against the chords. "The… music video director?"
Robby nods, taps a few things on his screen before handing it over. Jack takes it and he's met with an old article, dated from before he's even met you. It must be early in the relationship, you and Baz. It's a photo of you in the street, dressed down and looking completely at ease while you're hand in hand with the director. It's old, your hair is different here, and yet a wave of jealousy that detonates in Jack's chest nearly has him tossing Robby's phone aside.
Instead he scrolls on, finds another article posted a few months after the last one he went through. This time his chest tightens in heartache. The article has a few blown up photos of you, captured through the glass of a cafe where you've been crying, sweater paws covering your eyes while your lips are down-turned in the way he's seen before when you try to hold back tears.
It's the public breakup, the one that had pushed you to finish the album that had won you your first Grammy.
He doesn't even get through the article before he looks up at Robby, hands his phone back. "Why'd you bring him up?"
His friend pauses and the hesitance there has Jack on edge. "It's fuckin' stupid, you know this—"
"Robby."
"The magazines are making her look like she just goes after older men."
His breath leaves him in a quiet rush. "Jesus."
"Yeah. It's just a stupid article. Don't think about it too much." Jack nods and Robby turns back to his phone but his gaze is elsewhere, his thumb hovering above the screen. "Have you two made it official?"
Jack strums harshly. "Not really our priority right now. Haven't seen her since we landed from Chicago."
"Got it." The abrupt ending nearly topples Jack's concentration, wonders why his best friend won't push the way he usually does, but when he looks up from his guitar, Robby's scrawling away lyrics in his notebook.
✧⋆⋆⋆
"Missed you."
You look up at Jack as he guides you through the crowded floors of the baseball stadium to your field level seats. The simple two words set off a round of butterflies in your gut and you don't bother hiding your smile. With a ballcap on, you tilt your head up a little higher to meet his eyes.
"Missed you more," you reply as he lets you step down the stairs first until you stop at the row right above the dugout. He pinches your hip lightly, eliciting a sharp squeak from you.
"I doubt it, sweetheart," he chuckles as the two of you take your seats. It's an impressive viewpoint, just a few seats away from behind homeplate. The game's just about to start and you're already surrounded with bigwig CEOs and the few rare fans that splurged on such pricey seats.
"Hey." An unknown voice makes itself known behind you and Jack and when the two of you turn around, you're greeted with a balding man and a young boy beside him, around the age of six. "I'm a huge fan of Nightcrawler, it's amazing to meet you. I'm Dan and this is my boy— Neil. Neil's a huge fan of you, Star."
The man is genuine and your smile matches his; you love meeting fans, true fans that aren't seeking out a quick story to sell. "Nice to meet you two." Jack shares the same sentiment, offering a firm handshake before you offer to sign something of Neil's.
After the ceremonial first pitch, the game begins and you and Jack, unsurprisingly, lock in. As a native Angeleno, you're a die hard fan with Jack tagging along for the ride. Media training is nearly forgotten when you're cheering with the fans and booing at bad calls, huffing when your favorite player hits a popout fly ball that ends the inning too soon.
The entire time, you miss the way Jack steals looks at you.
After an inning, you sigh and slump against your seat, catching his gaze before he promptly looks away. "What?"
He chuckles, the sound sticky sweet, lodging deep in your heart. "Nothing, sweetheart. You're just adorable."
Your cheeks burn but you lean in for a kiss anyways which Jack mirrors before the bills of your caps bump into one another. Another low, amused laugh escapes him and the sound is so husky smooth that a shiver zips down your spine. Jack doesn't hesitate to reach up, removez his hat to place it on backwards. Tufts of silver curls escape in the gap between the hat and the strap and it's so boyishly cute that when you kiss him, it's borderline indecent.
Unfortunately, Jack breaks the kiss and the look he gives you, the way his dark gaze drops to your kiss-bitten lips, tempts you to drag him out of his seat and into the closest bathroom. "Behave," he says instead and the way you nod so sweetly, so pliantly nearly has him groaning lowly.
He rewards you with another kiss to your nose before turning your attention back to the ongoing game. fixing his hat to wear it forwards once more. He chuckles and kisses the top of your hat, feeling the pressure of his lips there. You're just as excitable as before but you're happily tucked in his arms now— you've taken to ignoring the little voice in the back of your head (the one that sounds like Trinity) asking what exactly this is with Jack.
With the game slowly approaching the ninth inning, the sun has set and the lights are on illuminating the field. But it doesn't stop the camera from roving around, capturing families and friends onto the big screen.
"And now for the kiss cam—!" The commentator announces as the crew on the field smooth out the dirt track in between bases. You chuckle as you turn your attention to the giant screen, cooing and awwing alongside Jack when the camera stops at an older couple, giggling when it lands on what looks like a first date of a young couple.
But genuine surprise is written all over your face when you and Jack fill the big screen. Your cheeks burn as he chuckles, a blush on his own features as the crowd around you cheers and chants for him to go in for the kiss.
When his eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. His smile widens, pretty crows' feet deepening as he repeats the similar movement of placing his hat backwards so he can lean in for a proper kiss.
This one is far more chaste than the last, but just as sweet that it has you smiling against his lips. When you part first, the crowd bursts into 'awwws'.
Later that evening, only positive articles and comments could be seen when you scroll through your social media.
✧⋆⋆⋆
BREAKING NEWS — ABBOT MADE IT TO FIRST BASE!
AT LAST NIGHT'S DODGERS GAME, MUSICIANS JACK ABBOT AND STAR ATTENDED AND PUT ON A LITTLE SHOW FOR THE CROWD. THEY MADE IT ON THE KISS CAM AND SHOWED OFF A LITTLE LOVING. IS THIS THEM FINALLY MAKING IT OFFICIAL?
—
BUZZFEED PRESENTS: THE PUPPY INTERVIEW, FEAT. STAR!
You sit in the center of a room, dressed comfortably with your attention on the puppies crawling over your lap. The producers behind the camera see their chance, diving in to slip in a question that you haven't answered outright.
"So is Jack Abbot officially your boyfriend?"
You lift a baby rottweiler, nose brushing against the pup's with an outlandish baby voice: "No comment," you sing-song without making eye contact with the camera.
—
HOT ONES VERSUS: STAR VS TRINITY SANTOS
Trinity picks the card up between you two as you try not to pant like a goddamn dog in heat. The two of you are halfway through the row of impossibly hot wings. When your best friend had asked you to tag along for the press tour of her newest film (the same one you had a song in the soundtrack), you didn't think it would result in you dying with your tongue on fire.
"Truth or dare," Trinity manages to say in between pants. "Answer the question truthfully or eat a death wing: are you and Jack Abbot officially together?"
You maintain eye contact when you grab the next wing and take a brutal bite.
"Jesus—!" Trinity cackles.
—
SETH MEYER AND JACK ABBOT GO DAY DRINKING
Seth is settled behind the bar, smiling widely as he brings out a bottle of tequila and two shotglasses. The bar they're filming in is empty but the light filtering in through the open windows proves that it truly is daytime. It takes a few minutes of conversation to break the ice, discussing new music and the woes of being an older generation with the media, before Seth pours them both a glass.
"So. Dating life… little birdy tells me that you've got a sweetheart," Seth grins as he nudges a shot closer to Jack. A wide smile curves onto his lips, crows feet deepening as he shakes his head. The entire crew is in agreement; Jack Abbot is smitten.
"I plead the fifth."
"Oh come on," Seth laughs. "We saw the photos, the dates… are you two together?"
Jack maintains eye contact when he downs his shot.
—
TWITTER —
PINK LIMOS IS COMING! @.starsbabey — 2m
im not even kidding i just saw star and jack at wholefoods arguing about MATCHA….. something something about not the right consistency. yall i fear they're MARRIED
JACKSTARS GF @.nitecrawlers — 4m
im getting tired of all these official interviews teasing us about JACKSTAR and its just them denying their relationship like???
✧⋆⋆⋆
The bulbs of the cameras flashing outside are still somehow able to be seen through the tinted windows. It's a bit startling, kicking up the anxiety levels as the car finally rolls to a stop. Your hands are clammy but you fight the urge to wipe them on the velvet dress that's draped artfully onto your frame. Emma, your stylist, would have your head if you ruin her masterpiece. After all, it's her first time styling you for a high profile event rather than Heather, your main stylist who's currently on maternity leave.
"Hey," Jack murmurs beside you in a sharp tuxedo, cutting sharp angles that emphasize his broad shoulders. His hand finds yours and to his credit, doesn't seem to cringe away from your sweaty nerves. "It's just a benefit gala. After we get past the horde, there won't be anymore cameras inside and we'd be home free."
You nod and you see a shadow move outside the window; it has to be your bodyguard, awaiting for the knock from either you or Jack to give the go ahead and open the door. "Yeah, I know. I'll be fine." You take a deep breath and give a nod. "I'm ready."
Jack maintains eye contact for another beat, as if to make sure of it himself, before he knocks twice against the glass. Your bodyguard waits a beat before he opens the door and the roar of the paparazzi calling for yours and Jack's name nearly bowls you over. Fortunately, Jack steps out first and you duck slightly as you step out of the vehicle.
"Star, over here—"
"… us a smile, sweetheart!"
"Look this way—"
But in the midst of the paparazzi are fans of yours, adorning your merch and holding out posters or albums for you to sign. To your slight relief, they're far closer to you than the paparazzi and you release Jack's hand to stop and sign a few items. While your fans beam at you, the cameramen pounce.
Within seconds, you're swarmed and Jack is nowhere to be seen.
You look up and when only strange men and camera flashes, you're proud of yourself of how steady your voice is when you call for him. None can be said the same for Jack who nearly bellows out your name — not your stage name — and strong arms a few men out of his way. When he cuts through the masses, he looks positively livid and the nerves that had been dialed up to eleven since you've been in the car knocks down a few levels. Relief tentatively seeps through your bones as you give a half-hearted goodbye to fans, immediately reaching out which Jack goes for.
"Hey, hey, hey, get the fuck out of my way—" Jack growls as he shoves one last man, his hand enveloping yours and tucking you close. He stands slightly in front, a human shield against the crowd.
One of the camera men had enough gall to try and placate your lover. "Come on, Jack, she's fine, it's alright—"
"Fuck off," he hisses instead, uncaring of the media as you cling to his arm.
With your heart beating at a slower pace, you tug carefully at his suit. "I'm fine, it's okay, I'm fine."
But Jack just nearly hauls you up the steps and into the hotel lobby where security immediately shuts behind the two of you. You hadn't realized how loud the red carpet had been until you're both inside in the silence of the lobby. Your heels click against marble floors as Jack slowly walks you further in.
You can hear the bustling conversations spilling from the open, double doors of the ballroom venue down the hall, but Jack doesn't bring you inside just yet.
"Baby, you're shaking."
Jack gently rubs at both of your exposed arms and you realize he's correct when you look down at your hands. "I think I'm still rattled," you admit quietly and he nods sympathetically, lets his hands travel down to take yours and give a little squeeze. You can still see adrenaline coursing through him, frustration and anger from the event outside that you reach up to cradle his scruffy jaw. "I'm okay."
"The hell you are—"
"Where've you two been?"
Another familiar voice calls out and when you look, it's Robby exiting the ballroom with a touch of confusion and concern. He looks sharp in a suede black tuxedo, his bowtie neat against his collar. "Got swarmed by the paps outside," Jack grunts as his best friend approaches. Your lover still looks a tad bit jittery which he finally acknowledges as he reluctantly lets go of your hands to shake out. "Can you stay with her for a sec? I'm getting her some water."
"'Course," Robby nods and brings a warm hand to your mid-back once he's close enough. The smile he gives you feels like home and your heart rate is finally lowering to something less anxiety-ridden. Jack gives you a careful kiss to your hairline before he stalks off, anger still rolling off of him in waves.
Maybe it's because Jack isn't around that you let yourself fall apart a little, panic seizing your lungs just enough to take a shaky breath — you didn't want him to worry, maybe kick up his protectiveness another level when he'd already looked so livid outside. Robby hears it immediately and turns around to face you, slightly hunkering down to meet your eye level as he holds your cheek.
"Whoa, you alright, sweetheart?"
His sweet concern makes you nod but your lip quivers and you're quick to lift a hand to brush a finger beneath your waterline. Fortunately, no tears fall. "I'm okay. Jack lost me for a second outside and it was scary to just be surrounded," you share quietly. Robby lets out a low, disapproving grunt and soon he's carefully drawing you into his arms.
"Jesus, no wonder he looks pissed," he mutters against the side of your head as you hug Robby back. He squeezes you once before releasing you, but not without letting go of your hands. "You look beautiful, by the way. Don't know what you see in Jack, but he's one lucky son of a bitch."
The sudden compliment shakes a genuine laugh out of you, a smile blooming as you lightly swat his chest. "Flatterer," you tease but Robby catches your wrist and kisses the back of your hand. It silences you as he hums, looking absolutely shameless as he admires your dress.
"You're wearing the bracelet," he murmurs as he releases your hand, his gaze caught upon the red carnellian heart pendant that dangles from your wrist.
"It's pretty," you shrug and before he might've asked to elaborate, Jack returns with an ice-cold bottle of Pellegrino's. He opens the top off, handing it you while he takes your opposite side. "Thanks, baby."
"Don't mention it," he murmurs before taking the half-empty bottle to hand to the employee nearby to dispose. "You ready to go in?"
When you nod, you enter the benefit gala with Jack on your left and Robby on your right. For the entire evening, neither of the men ever leave your side.
thank you so much for reading! as always, likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
pink limousines taglist: @redolently @yiiiikesmish @vinecstasy @ap1390 @crazycat-ladys-blog @xoxo--ryleigh @satellitesslt @deathreverse @live-love-be-unique @stoptheinnocence @raeofsunshine13 @gracerockysavestarz @vicky066 @madprincessinabox @bludickaaa @peaches-roses-sins @strangegirl26sff @isavulpix @possiblyafangirl @tiredvampireandcrying @hotdocsandcowboys @acornacreacure @delicatedragonflower @ptolemaea444 @maciclove @deathreverse @unsaidjaelinrose @flow33didontsmoke @kneelforloki @rabbotseatcarrots @4ria790 @leolionsthings @pearlessance @sofianotvergara @angelryex @lillianarosethorns @kbakery @archxve @yemandarin @pickles-the-jackalope @shivispunk @crazycat-ladys-blog @ana-stasssiaaa @arianmock13-blog
summary. It's become an open secret that you and Jack are dating but the world grows frustrated when neither of you give the details everyone has been begging for.
word count. 12.3k
content warnings. fluff, smut (light choking, fingering, riding), TMZ and trashy tabloids are used as a plot device here, some slut-shaming, agegap (reader is in her mid 20s, rabbot is in their mid to late 40s) !!
notes. these chapters keep getting longer lol , reader is also really into baseball sorry i make the rules! also there's a 'the bear' reference here again lol , also fluff galore !!!
Sent via form submission, anonymous.
Subject: Singer 'Star' dating both guitarists from NIGHTCRAWLER.
Message: So many eye witnesses have seen Star with an older man the past few months. We all thought it was just some nobody exec or producer (unsurprising; most of these pop girlies are whores) but we got a better look of the silver fox just about a week ago and sources say it's Jack Abbot from NIGHTCRAWLER.
—
Sent via form submission, anonymous.
Subject: Star shared by two older men?
Message: Saw Star out at another after party with two old men, found out it was Robby, frontman for NIGHTCRAWLER, and Jack, the guitarist. She looked super cozy between them. Age gap is weird but I've seen weirder throuples in LA.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Aside from making the front cover of US Weekly about your secret man, more blind items begin to pour in. They haven't been trending but there's enough chatter about your love life that you're being called yet again into another meeting with your PR team.
You're seated in one of the empty conference rooms with Cassie beside you, typing away on her laptop while you roll a pen around on the table. The glass doors swing open slowly and you glance up to see Baran Al-Hashimi, the head of your PR team, enter in a sharp suit and her iPad with Mel, one of the producers and members of your creative team in tow.
"Good morning," Baran greets, each syllable pronounced with such intent that you can't help but stiffen. Shen saunters in with a tray of coffee for everyone while he slurps noisily at his. The two of them are terrifyingly competent. "Let's get started, shall we?"
Everyone scoots their chair in as Baran takes the head of the table where you sit on her left. When she has everyone's attention, she turns her gaze on you.
"You've caused quite a stir," she says lightly. You might've been terrified if it weren't for the fact that she had been the first to look out for you during an almost wardrobe mishap at your first tour. "Since you don't have a dating ban like our other signed artists, no contracts have been broken, yes?" After a collected murmur of assent, she continues on. "In that case, we just need to work together to create a narrative that'll be in our favor."
The projector at the end of the room flicks on and Mel's standing to connect her laptop in as Shen turns off the front lights. A simple presentation takes up the screen.
"Your latest album is a testament to your growth from a young woman to who you are today. The producers and your creative team are in agreement to start adjusting your style to a woman in love," Mel begins as look books of your curated outfits appear. "Your so-called scandal won't be a scandal if we get to spin it into a love story."
Your spine stiffens but you make sure to keep your face neutral. This is exactly what you've been trying to avoid, defining a relationship that Jack may never want to stay in. Mel continues on despite the storm raging in your mind.
"We'll be avoiding any kind of confirmation, the general public will believe what it wants to believe regardless of whatever statement we put out. However, we can play this to our advantage by working in the grey space," she says as she taps to a new slide of multiple grainy photos of you with Jack. To any unknowing gaze, the photos could pass as anybody.
"These photos," you gape as you sit up. "How did these—?"
"We have a contract with some paparazzi. We outbuy anyone before they even think about reaching out to other publications," Baran interrupts. "With our permission, they'll start releasing them in a timely manner to support the narrative you'll be pushing. So now— what is your relation to these men?"
You shift slightly in your seat, visibly uncomfortable, but Cassie nods her head to you with a maternal smile.
"Um— it's just Jack. Jack Abbot," you answer while you relax back in your seat. "The other one is Robby but he just hangs out with us."
Shen releases a low whistle. "Impressive." When multiple sets of eyes glance to him, he gives a careless shrug. "I'm not blind. That man's a silver fox."
Baran allows a tiny smile to tug at the corner of her lips, amused. "We won't be intruding on your relationship any further than allowing you to be seen more in the public eye with him. It'll let everyone talk more about you, create some buzz for the new album."
You blink. "Wait— that's it? We'll just be a bit more public about our… relationship?"
The exec ignores the way you nearly had to spit out the last word. "Yes, that's all. Of course, we do request that you refrain from any more scandalous sightings but anything than that, we encourage it."
"Actually." Cassie politely cuts in. "I thought it'd be interesting if you used the pink limousine photo to be the cover of the EP, have her reclaim that to be a moment of passionate love rather than a careless tryst."
Baran nods in approval, makes a note of it. "I'll let the other creative directors know but I like it. Star, what do you think?"
The idea had initally made you recoil in disgust but Cassie's explanation smooths out the furrow between your brows. "I actually like it, too. Before we release those pap photos, I do want to let Jack know."
"Of course," Baran says. "Let us know of his response by EOD, please."
The sudden deadline is startling but you understand, giving the older woman a nod.
"Perfect. I believe that'll be it for this meeting. If there's anything else you'd like to add later on, email me." With the meeting ending promptly, you sigh as you watch the execs file out while you slump in your chair beside Cassie.
She taps your knee. You loll your head over to gaze at your manager. "You haven't defined anything with Jack, did you?"
You shake your head.
"Mm, alright. Let me know if anything changes."
✧⋆⋆⋆
And nothing really changes. Jack spends the night or you're sleeping over for the weekend on the rare occasion where you aren't being rushed over from one place to the next. Time plays a funny role as you try your best to keep your head above water; water being the metaphorical state of all the rumors that have been piling up about you.
He hadn't turned away from you either when you had asked him if the two of you could go public without confirming anything, just smiled and nodded with an eager glint in his eye.
("Sweetheart, if I ever refuse to kiss you in public where everyone can see you're mine, shoot me because that isn't me.")
You had laughed, told Baran the decision to continue public outings with Jack, and continued the rest of your week without another worry. But your mind ricochets back to that: 'you're mine.' It isn't enough to get Jack to pick up on your swirling thoughts but it's enough that you look distracted most times he comes over.
Because what exactly did he mean? You're his? His what— to own? To fuck? To… love? The thought is chilling — not that you don't have strong feelings for Jack but rather, how readily you seem to be to dive past the edge of the cliff when you aren't even sure he's at the bottom to catch you. And as you stand at the precipice of that metaphorical edge, you know it's a hard landing beneath but at the height of your feelings, the concrete looks like water.
You try to spill these tumultous thoughts as ink onto pages rather than into words. It helps keep the cup from overflowing in your head, lets you keep your head above water when Jack drives you back to his place after he had picked you up from another meeting. Even the monotonous ritual you have of arriving at his front door, jacket and purse set aside on the loveseat upon entrance, and a stolen tangerine in his kitchen to give your hands to do something, is bone chilling; when did you begin to have a routine?
He peels the tangerines for you, feeds you occasionally in comfortable silence, but as you reach for your phone to check what another news outlet has to say, he knows it's time to step in.
Anxiety threatens to creep in but Jack is quick to set your phone aside, distract you with kisses along the back of your neck. When he presses lightly against the small of your back, you bend over without question.
"Let go for me, pretty girl," he coos as he drags your dress up, your cheek pressing against the cool marble counter of his kitchen island. "You did so good today."
You can only offer a pathetic whimper. Each touch from Jack lights a fire within you as sweet nothings fall from his lips. They fall over you like a balm upon your mind as you slowly relax, feeling his ruddy tip glide along your slick folds while he holds your thong aside.
He fucks you slow and deep, his larger body folding over yours as he nips and bites at your neck. Your toes are brushing along the hardwood floors as he holds you up by your waist and keeps you pinned onto the island counter. It isn't brutal or demanding when he coaxes an orgasm out of you although his touch is rough when he pulls your hair back for a searing kiss. Each thrust of his hips is sharp, hits where you need him exactly. It isn't love-making but it feels a hell of a lot like Jack taking care of you.
The thought catapults you into your second climax with him shortly following, plugging you full with his release and a low groan of your name falling from his lips. "Fuck, baby— felt you squeezing me there," he grunts with a few more shallow thrusts until he slowly pulls out. You think that's the end of it but then you hear some rustling behind you, your head tipping back to look over your shoulder— until you feel Jack's tongue dive into your filthy heat with a perverted moan.
"Jack—!"
His chuckles are warm against your sopping cunt as he eats his release out of you, licking you clean while reaching up to hold your hand against the edge of the counter. It's tender enough that a couple of tears slide down your cheeks; you aren't concerned. Jack's fucked you hard enough that he's made you cry before. He doesn't have to know the real reason why your cheeks are tear-stained when he draws out one final orgasm from you.
You exhale, cheek rubbing along the cool marble counter as you catch your breath. A giggle spills past your lips when you feel his stubble grazing along your inner thighs before he showers your ass and cunt with kisses. "Kissing my ass, Daddy?" you tease as you look over your shoulder.
He smacks your ass. "Of course I am. You're my favorite peach."
"Ew, gross—" you giggle as you playfully push his head away. You turn around to lean your back against the counter as he gets to his feet. His hands settle on either side of you, trapping you against the island as he lowers his head for another kiss. It's slow and lazy, stirring something sweet and satisfying in your chest. "Thanks, Jack."
He nudges the tip of his nose against yours. "Anytime, superstar. You looked a little lost in your head there."
You aren't sure how to feel about that, Jack utilizing your pleasure as a distraction but you can't find a reason to be upset over it. "Thanks," you say instead, genuinely. You lean in for another short kiss before he nips at your lower lip.
"You taste like tangerines," he chuckles at your questioning look. "Tastes good."
You roll your eyes but your smile is unmistakable, playfully pushing his shoulder. "Perv. Go shower, old man."
"Join me?"
And who are you to refuse?
✧⋆⋆⋆
GQ: JACK AND ROBBY FROM NIGHTCRAWLER BREAK DOWN THEIR FAMOUS DISCOGRAPHY.
The two men sit at a table looking right at home in front of the camera despite their ten year absence from the public eye. Jack and Robby fidget as they reattach the small mics to the collar of their shirts.
"No more fuzzy mics?" Robby jokes as the camera starts to roll. Behind the camera, the producer prompts them to begin. "Hi, GQ, we're Nightcrawler, and we're here to talk about our past discography."
The cue cards begin and whenever a new song gets lifted, the two men shift easily and move on. "Ghost Of You did a lot better than I expected. Looks like Iris is still the more popular one," Jack chuckles as he hits play on the laptop that's sitting between them. A snippet of the chorus plays as the coordinator behind the camera flips to a new cue card.
"Oh, that's an oldie. High might've been one of our more popular softer songs," Robby reminisces as his higher vocals fill the room. "I remember being worried that we were gonna alienate our main demographics."
"You were a pretty boy back then, Robinavitch—" Jack snorts as he sends his friend a wry grin. "You could've screamed into a mic and the girls swooned."
"You sound jealous, Abbot."
"Course I am, you're still a pretty boy!"
"Oh, fuck off—"
✧⋆⋆⋆
TWITTER—
Pop Base @.PopBase — 2m
STAR drops single 'stupid song' — listen now on Spotify and Apple Music!
✧⋆⋆⋆
After you and Jack agreed to stop hiding the relationship (situationship, Trinity's voice would ring in your ear), you both also agreed to not just simply hard launch it to the world. Ease it in. Maybe both of you could step out of the car at the same time rather than waiting five minutes in between.
Despite the plans to stop hiding, you and Jack are suddenly rocked with packed schedules and endless interviews and fittings. He barely has time to come over now and your texts are few and little in between. But without Jack present to distract your thoughts, you're on twitter more often than you'd like to admit.
✧⋆⋆⋆
@enam3l : oh so she's IN LOVE !!!
@deathreverse : IS THE NEW EP ABOUT HER FALLING IN LOVE???
@pearlessance : the last time she wrote about love was about b*z yall, idk if this is gonna be happy…..
@mariasont : [ screenshot of lyrics from stupid song— I feel right, I feel wrong, I feel totally insane. And I want you more than any stupid song can ever say. ] SHE'S DOWN BAAAAD…. pour one out for a baddie lost to another man.
@.user01 : if the rumors are true, the man in question is jack and i, too, would pour out my lil heart for him. have you seen him???
@.user1: you can tell she got inspired by some dad rock vibes with the demos she's been singing on her livestreams
@.user2: speaking of dad rock, i've been listening to NIGHTCRAWLER's older albums…. ok white boys get itttt
@.user3: went through the credits for nightcrawler's songs, robby's obviously the manwhore between the two but jfc his ballads are so fucking good too
✧⋆⋆⋆
The light of your phone illuminates your face, eyes wide as you adjust the sheet mask you've just placed on. Your neck is aching from how you're laid out on Jack's bed, head propped up a little too high by his pillows, as you doomscroll. The attached bathroom door opens but you don't pay Jack any mind — not even his shirtless state can steal you away from the downspiral that's starting when you see your ex's name pop up just as often as Jack's.
"Darling, you'll ruin your eyes like that," Jack huffs as he sits on his side of the bed, sets his crutches aside while you scroll like you didn't hear him. "Baby?"
You startle slightly, big eyes peeking above the top of your phone. "Yeah?"
"What's got you stressing?" The bed dips and rocks slightly as Jack scoots close enough for his arm to wrap around your frame while you rest your head on his chest. You bring the phone up to show the comments and he tugs on his glasses.
He hums as he scrolls, absentmindedly playing with your hair. "They seem to like it, superstar, I wouldn't worry," he says. He locks your phone and sets it aside. "C'mon, you need the sleep."
You might've gotten annoyed with Jack then, how he takes the reins from you without expecting any refusal, but exhaustion has been weighing down your bones all week and you find yourself nodding. "Let me take off the sheet mask," you hum as you playfully crawl over his body, laughing as he sneaks a squeeze to your ass, and climb off the bed. You complete the rest of your skincare in the bathroom before joining him in the sheets.
The lights shut off and you close your eyes, finding comfort in his embrace before you realize you are annoyed — he didn't give your song a second glance.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Your annoyance didn't last past the night.
Jack wakes you sweetly and lazily, stroking your cheek and jaw until your eyelashes flutter. When your eyes meet his, he leans in for a tender kiss that has your toes curling beneath the sheets. It's a rare thursday where both of you have a free morning, let alone a whole day. Although you figure it's best to start being seen with Jack more, the domesticity that follows whenever the two of you are home is addicting. Sticky sweet kisses are shared when he juices fresh oranges for you, laughter echoing throughout his kitchen as you play some cheesy pop song from the 2000s.
The two of you are lost in your honeymoon-esque bliss in the kitchen that neither you or Jack hear the front door open and shut for Robby to enter the scene.
"Am I interrupting?" He chuckles over the sight of you, wearing nothing but Jack's shirt and a lacy pair of underwear, and his best friend still in just his flannel pajama pants. Robby himself looks like he's already lived through half the day, leather jacket and windswept hair.
You nearly shriek at the sudden new presence of another man only to relax, half-hiding behind Jack who just tugs you forward front and center. "Jesus, Robby," Jack laughs. "That key was for emergencies."
"It's an emergency— I'm hungry." Robby grins as he sets his helmet and bag down to hop onto the bar stool tucked against one side of the kitchen island. The two of you share a smile before Jack circles the space to continue flipping the pancakes while you putter around to make coffee.
"How do you take your coffee, Robby?" you ask as you bring out an extra mug, head tilting slightly over your shoulder to meet the other man's eyes.
"Just black, sweetheart."
You hum in acknowledgment and turn back around, measuring out the ground coffee beans to pour into the filter. Behind your back, Jack sends a curious look to his friend who busies himself on his phone before letting it go. Something splinters in his chest, a dull ache he could ignore if he tries hard enough, when he watches you set the steaming mug by Robby who thanks you with a careless smile.
To your credit, you don't react any differently from what Jack could see. You just pour him a mug, add just the right of cream and sugar before attaching yourself to his side and placing the coffee right where he can reach it. He turns the stove off and moves the pan to the cooler side so he can bend down and kiss your hair.
"Thanks, gorgeous."
You grin and tilt your head up, lips pursed adorably that he plants one kiss there and another on your nose. The two of you miss the way Robby keeps his eyes pointedly on his phone. The plates are set and the three of you eat in comfortable silence, occasionally pockmarked with small talk between Jack and Robby.
"So, what are your plans today?" Robby asks as he leans back, one arm crossed and the other holding his mug.
Jack mimics his movement, leaning back to drape an arm on the back of your chair as you continue to sip at Jack's coffee. "Some shopping in Rodeo before dinner—"
You pat his chest to interrupt him, your eyes locked on your phone. "We need to stop at the recording studio, Jack, I left a couple of notebooks in the booth."
Jack nods, doesn't miss a beat. "Shopping, recording studio, and then dinner."
"Mind if I tag along on your shopping trip? I got a few things to pick up at Van Cleef."
"That works out perfectly! I have a couple pieces I want to get refitted," you perk up, detaching yourself momentarily to lean in and turn your full attention to Robby. Your smile is blinding and it takes almost half a second for either of them to respond.
"I can meet you two there. I have a couple things to drop off, but before I forget—" Robby sends you a smile warmer than you've ever received from him, getting to his feet while he grabs his helmet. "I listened to 'stupid song'. It's pretty good but I gotta ask— this old man got you this lovesick?"
Your cheeks burn, a shy smile following before you attempt to play coy. "Hey—! Technically, I never confirm who my songs are about." The playful eye roll Robby gives you has you giggling, making you miss Jack's approach who comes around to tug you firmly into his side.
"Alright. See you two later."
✧⋆⋆⋆
"I'm stealing a shirt!"
Jack's resounding chuckle from outside of his walk-in closet is answer enough for you and you happily dig into his drawer. You lift your foot up to casually scratch at your opposite calf as you rummage through his clothes, wandering to the opposite side to pick out a long-sleeved button up that you cinch and style with some shorts you had left behind a few days ago.
You aren't sure when Jack started keeping duplicates of your makeup in his bathroom but you never did ask and he never talked about it. You ignore the way your stomach flutters when you lean over the sink, applying eyeliner and mascara.
A knock sounds behind you and you offer with a noncommital hum. In the reflection, Jack leans against the doorway, already dressed and his leg on.
"Almost done, baby?"
You cap the mascara and when you reach for the lip gloss, Jack crosses the distance to gently cradle your cheeks for a kiss. "Jack—" you giggle against his mouth but he shushes you sweetly.
"Let me get my kisses in before you put your lip gloss on, superstar," he chuckles. When he feels you've been thoroughly kissed, he leaves you be and starts to head out. "I'll get the car running."
You sigh dreamily, lovesick as you finally apply your lipgloss.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Jack hasn't let go of your hand since he's parked his ostentatious G-Wagon. The two of you aren't overtly dressed either and with sunglasses on, you and Jack blend well with the rest of the pedestrians that graze along the cobbled stonewalk of Rodeo Drive. Despite that no one's stopped you or Jack for photos or autographs, you aren't naive enough to believe that no one is watching you either.
With Robby on his way, the two of you head into Van Cleef & Arpels and the low lighting is a welcomed reprieve from the Los Angeles sun. The sales associate recognizes you almost immediately before a look of delight leaves their features as quickly as it comes when they see Jack right behind you.
"Welcome, ma'am. Your client advisor is ready to see you now," the pristinely dressed woman says, her tone clipped and professional, yet you catch the bright shimmer in her eyes as the two of you thank her and enter a private show room.
Your shoes are silent against the dark hardwood flooring, your bangles clinking delicately together as you swing your joined hands with Jack as you approach.
"Thank you for coming in. I'm Noelle, how may I assist you today?"
Noelle guides you and Jack towards the leather-wrapped high-top tables. He helps you onto the stool before sitting himself beside you while Noelle circles and opens her gloved hands in gentle accommodation.
"I'm here to get this re-fitted actually," you offer your wrist to her and two bracelets clink together. The one in question had been the Lucky Alhambra bracelet with four motifs and it dangles prettily besides the delicate gold bangle from the Perlée clovers line; you had fallen in love with the bangle immediately and Jack had purchased it for you without a second word.
That had been from your fourth date.
"Oh, such a beautiful piece. May I?" When you nod, she deftly unclasps the chained bracelet before laying it out carefully upon the leather surface to inspect. Jack's arm reaches out casually to rest on the back of your chair and you fight back a shiver when you feel his touch, absentmindedly stroking your spine as he listens to Noelle. You offer your wrist again at her prompting, allowing her to measure out the desired fit before she places it in a spare box with the marked length. Right as she's finishing up, footsteps echo behind you and you look over to see Robby approach.
He cuts an imposing figure, all rough strewn edges in his old band shirt and well-worn Levi's in the boutique. When he stands behind you and Jack, you can catch a whiff of his cologne and a hint of cigarette smoke.
"Mr. Robinavitch," Noelle greets warmly as she hands off your box to another employee. "We have your pieces ready, please feel free to browse while we bring it out for you from the back."
"Please, take your time," he replies with a nod of his head. When it's just the three of you, he looks at you and Jack. "You two heading out then?"
Jack rubs your shoulder. "Depends, did you want to browse too, baby?"
You nod. There was a bracelet that had caught your eye and you're eager to take the time to try it on yourself. Jack helps you down and you loosely take hold of his hand, leading him over to the other show room where the Sweet Hearts bracelet is displayed. It's a dainty rose gold chain with a single carnellian heart motif.
Another client advisor approaches and offers it for you to try on which you gladly accept. The two men watch fondly as you gasp softly at the simplistic beauty of the bracelet. Right as they unclasp the bracelet, your phone rings and you reluctantly step away to answer a phone call from your manager, Cassie.
Once you're out of earshot, Robby turns to the employee. "I'll take it."
Jack glances up in mild surprise. "You got a girl or something?"
Robby's pulling out his wallet with a little chuckle. "No, but you have her and she looked too happy to not get it." He waits for some pushback from his friend; Robby's no stranger to Jack's bouts of possessiveness, having seen enough of it with Iris all those years ago. But Jack just nods. Silent permission.
"Sure. Call it an early birthday gift or somethin'," he allows as the employee walks off to wrap up the bracelet for you. Robby nods as he merely hands over his black credit card without a second to spare, just in time for you to return. "Is everything okay?"
You dip your head with a reassuring smile, tucking yourself back into Jack's side. "Yeah, it was just to confirm our ballgame tickets."
Robby perks up. "You two are going to a game?"
"Eh, it's just a Dodgers game—"
The smack that lands on his chest elicits a playful laugh from Jack, something he anticipates whenever he pokes fun at your local team that you'd defend without hesitation. As native Pittsburgh Pirates fans, both Jack and Robby never fail to tease you about it whenever their team is in town for a game.
"You two have been Angelenos for more than a decade, you better act like it," you wag your finger at them in mock disappointment, a giggle escaping at Robby's exaggerated contrite expression while Jack apologizes with a tight backhug and a kiss to the nape of your neck.
Noelle returns with Robby's items and a new box for you and your eyes widen slightly. "Is this the Sweet Hearts bracelet? Oh, I haven't—"
"I got it for you," Robby interrupts with a little shrug. "Consider it an early birthday gift."
You take the box and thank Noelle for her service, confirming the pick up time for your other bracelet. When she exits, you untangle yourself from Jack to lean up and kiss the other man's cheek. "Thanks, Michael."
Something flashes in his eyes that you miss entirely but Jack does not. His chest feels hollow but it isn't unpleasant, rather it feels like he's waiting for that anvil to drop in his chest whenever you give anyone else a modicum of attention but nothing arrives.
"Don't mention it, sweetheart." Robby exits first, holds the door open for you to step out first just as Jack follows behind. With the signature green box in hand (just as iconic as Tiffany blue in your opinion), you place a hand on Robby's shoulder with another sweet smile of thanks just as Jack leads you out on the sidewalk. The two men give each other a brief hug goodbye before Robby departs in the opposite direction, helmet in hand and his other pieces he'd picked up.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Across the street in a heavily tinted van, a photographer captures a series of photos. Despite the glaring sun, he manages to adjust the aperture to take a still shot of Robby opening the door for you with the gift in hand. Even though Jack can be partially seen right behind you, the man crops it just enough to send it to one tabloid company.
In the next photo, you've got a hand on Robby's chest with Jack right behind. He keeps this one as is and sends it to another tabloid magazine. Within minutes, he receives two hefty checks from two different publications to put out two different stories. He sets his camera down, starts the van, and drives off without a second glance.
✧⋆⋆⋆
The drive to the recording company you signed to is short and you're grateful that there's basement parking, giving you another reprieve from any kind of wandering camera. You aren't sure if your eyes had been playing tricks on you back at Van Cleef, catching a glimpse of a camera pressed against a tinted window of a van. Regardless, you figure it's what you and Jack wanted anyways, fueling the rumors of your dating life without confirming a goddamn thing.
"Hey, Ahmad," you greet the security guard by the main entrace, a lanky man that seems to always be preoccupied with the hidden betting pool he's got below the receptionist's desk. Princess greets you with a sweet smile, nudging you past the doors and into the main floor. She eyes Jack with a knowing grin towards Ahmad who promptly pulls out the sheet on her desk, scrawling down something new. You snort to yourself, your fingers tangled with Jack as you pull him over to the elevators inside.
You hit the button to your usual floor and you're met with a long hallway that sprawls out to your left and right, pockmarked with soundproof doors. "Left are the dance studios," you mention casually to Jack. "Rehearsal spaces and whatnot. They're generally multi-purpose rooms. Rooms to the right are the recording studios and booths."
After passing the entire hall, you stop at the final door at the end. Unlike the producers' private studios that have an attached padlock with a code, yours is unofficially assigned. Everyone aside from your team knows to steer cleer of it, to always keep it available to you. You aren't expecting anyone inside so you nearly startle when you step in to see a familiar figure behind a piano, jotting down chords.
"Christopher?" You beam, releasing Jack's hand to approach the man who stands from the bench to draw you in for a tight hug. His strong arms wind around your waist, eliciting a loud laugh when he lifts you. "What are you doing here? I thought you left!"
"My new space is still being renovated but Gloria let me in to work in here for old times' sake," he answers, his subtle Australian accent throwing Jack for a spin as he finally recognizes the younger man that's still got you in his arms. He looks up to see Jack and with his arm still around your shoulders, he reaches out to shake his hand. "Hi, I'm Christopher. I used to be Star's main producer."
✧⋆⋆⋆
(ONE YEAR AGO) —
US WEEKLY: IS LOVE IN THE AIR?
JUST WEEKS AFTER HER SPLIT WITH BAZ, THE DIRECTOR OF HER MUSIC VIDEO SERIES, STAR WAS SEEN COZYING UP TO Christopher B, THE MAIN PRODUCER OF HER LAST ALBUM 'SPILLED', AT SANTA MONICA PIER. HAS STAR FOUND SOMEONE NEW AFTER HER TUMULTUOUS AND MESSY BREAKUP?
Star and Christopher had been electric in the studio booth, creating hit after hit that ultimately led to her first Grammy win. In her social media posts, the two have not been shy about their friendship. Fans had taken to twitter and deuxmoi, inputting their own theories of the true nature of their relationship. They've always denied it, especially when Star and Barry "Baz" Blackwell had confirmed their dating status. But now that the couple has split, the world is convinced that Star and Christopher are meant to be.
They'd make a power couple in the music industry. With Star's vocals and enchanting lyrics and Christopher' creative beats and addicting melodies, they would take the world by storm.
Read more about Christopher and his accolades below...
✧⋆⋆⋆
The grainy photo of you and Christopher had been the most talked about rumor for months that it even entered Jack and Robby's circle of friends. Older musicians that's taken a well-deserved break from the limelight who wouldn't even know how to peruse the rumor mill of today's age of artists and celebrities. He remembered seeing you in that photo, tragically beautiful that even the camera had captured your glassy tear-stained eyes and pouty lips while your head rests on Christopher' broad shoulder while sitting at a high-top counter of a balcony in a restaurant.
This had been before he met you six months later at that bar in West Hollywood, looking all the more frustrated at that notebook you've never been away from until now.
"I'm Jack," he replies and a vindictive, petty part of him enjoys the fact that he's a bit taller than Christopher. And older, a sabotaging voice in his head reminds him. That opens the floodgates in his mind now as he starts to tally up the differences between him and Christopher while you (fortunately) detach yourself from both of them to search for your beloved notebook.
He's taller but Christopher has broader shoulders.
Jack's arms are bigger but Christopher' defined muscles are evident even through the shirt he's got on.
The tallying ends there when you return to his side, your touch anchoring him to the present when your hand curls delicately around his forearm. "I got it," you wave the notebook in your free hand before you're smiling at Christopher again. "Feel free to use this space as long as you need to. Just because you quit doesn't mean you aren't welcome."
Christopher's smile is bright when he nods, gives you another parting kiss to your cheek before giving Jack a genuine pat on the shoulder. No bad blood there and it makes Jack's stomach twist at his own immaturity.
"Nice meeting you," he says instead to make up for his own petty thoughts. The smile you give him is reward enough and he's all too eager to gently tug you to the door. "Good luck with what you're working on."
"Thanks. You two have fun," he says with a little knowing grin to which your cheeks burn.
When you two exit, you get sidetracked when you bump into another fellow artist, leaving his side momentarily to catch up with her as he waits patiently in one of the plush seats. His thumb hovers over the screen as he pulls up your instagram profile, momentarily admiring you before he gives in to sick curiosity and scrolls down. Down, down, down.
Until he stops at the handful of photos of Christopher.
These are old, way back to when the two of you had begun working together for your debut album, but the familiarity between you two makes jealousy twist and writhe in his stomach. That poison pushes him to keep scrolling, hates the way his chest tightens at seeing you with a man your age.
"Jack?"
He lifts his head and almost drops his phone when you approach, standing between his knees that he has to set the gadget down to lightly hold the back of your thighs. "Yeah, sweetheart?"
Your nails scratch along his scalp with a lazy hum, admiring his soft silver curls. "I'm ready to go now. Sorry for stopping so much."
A low chuckle escapes him and the irate jealousy that had been simmering dissipates completely beneath your touch. "You're fine, superstar. You want to stop somewhere to eat before we head home?" He kisses your stomach, sets his chin right above your belly button to smile up at you.
"Can we just stop at in n out?" You ask sweetly, nails scratching along his jaw before bending down to capture his lips in a sweet kiss.
"Mm, sure, baby—" he murmurs against your mouth, realizing that this may be the first kiss you've shared in public when the sun's still up. You must've had the same realization because you let out a quiet squeak, pulling away to hide your face into the top of his hair. He chuckles and lightly pats your ass before he gets to his feet. "Come on. Time to feed my girl."
✧⋆⋆⋆
TMZ — BREAKING NEWS: GREEDY STAR.
NOT ONLY HAS STAR BEEN SEEN WITH JACK ABBOT OUT ON THE STREETS OF LOS ANGELES, BUT IT LOOKS LIKE SHE'S GOT CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF A LOVE TRIANGLE? A SOURCE HAS SENT IN THE PHOTO BELOW OF STAR STEPPING OUT OF A JEWELRY STORE WITH A GIFT IN HAND WITH NO JACK IN SIGHT.
—
US WEEKLY — THREE… ISN'T A CROWD?
STAR WAS SEEN TODAY AT RODEO DRIVE WITH NOT ONE INFAMOUS MUSICIAN… BUT TWO. SHE WAS EXITING VAN CLEEF AT RODEO DRIVE WITH JACK AND ROBBY IN TOW, HOLDING A JEWELRY BOX. LUCKY GIRL!
Anonymous_User01 : can yall PLEASE get a grip??? robby and star are friends, she's obviously dating jack—
Anonymous_User02 replied : that old man is yearning, look at how he looks at her???
✧⋆⋆⋆
Baran isn't the most pleased when she sees that your first public outing had included Robby, confusing the masses at who exactly you were dating. Although the slut-shaming and the all-around disparaging theories about who you spread your legs for had diminished, the confusion isn't exactly aiding the story she had been pushing for you to tell. To remedy this, you tell her that Jack had acquired a heavily-sought after reservation at a two-Michelin star restaurant in Chicago. A perfect date that fits cleanly with some of your other interview or travel plans that are in the city, Jack tags along.
The photos of you two at LAX go viral, too. With both of you half-attempting to maintain anonymity, many still recognize his silver curls peeking out from under a baseball cap and your smile whenever he lowers his head to press a kiss to the top of your hair. Although you've been taught to make sure to be polite without stopping for autographs in case it'll incite crowding and mobbing, Jack hovers when you drop down to one knee when a little girl and her mother approaches for an autograph in the boarding lobby.
You scrawl your autograph onto the napkin the child brought you. "What's your name, sweetheart?" She whispers it to you, her little hands wringing together shyly behind her back. Your heart bleeds with affection. "Angelica? Oh, that's a pretty name!" You add in her name with a heart before handing the napkin back.
"Thank you," she gasps. Shyness flees her body because she tackles you in a hug, nearly toppling you backwards as your hand comes up to pat her back with a soft laugh. Above you, Jack watches fondly, almost sets his hand out to catch you in case the girl does push you over in her excitement. The two of you share a bit of small talk before her mom calls her over and you smile, allowing Jack to help you to your feet as the little girl reluctantly walks back with a giddy wave.
When it's just you two, you glance to see Jack give you a look you can't decipher. "What?" You ask with a soft laugh, feeling a tad bit self conscious. He gives a shake of his head, draws you in by your shoulders to kiss the crown of your head.
"Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all."
✧⋆⋆⋆
Boarding goes smoothly, the flight is uneventful. But landing is a whole other obstacle when it seems someone might've leaked your flight to the local paparazzi of Chicago. You silently thank Cassie for her quick thinking of calling up a security detail that meets you upon landing, creating a tight perimeter for you and Jack until you make it to the car.
The shouts and bright flashing of the camera is avoidable, due to your sunglasses but mainly because of Jack keeping you close. He doesn't let you go until you make it into the car, carefully helped in before he follows behind you.
"Fucking animals," he growls as he slams the door shut, the bright camera flashes dimmed to a low light with how heavy the tint is in the car. You shake your head.
"It's fine, Jack—"
"No, it's not. Do you deal with this every time you travel?"
The question takes you aback; does Jack… not deal with paparazzi? He's one of the biggest names in music, probably always will be. You blink at him a couple times. "Not… to this extent. It's why Cassie makes sure I have security detail wherever I go. Sorry, do you not—"
"In the beginning, yeah. Honestly, Robby and I basked in it but if we told them to back off, they did… baby, you could've gotten hurt."
You give a shrug, unaware that your carelessness to this seemingly common situation is driving Jack up the wall. "Maybe, but I'm fine. I'm more surprised that you don't get mobbed like this. My boundaries are basically nonexistent to the paps."
The truth is, you know why you get hounded more than Jack— or rather, why young women in the industry gets talked over, ignored, mocked whenever they make attempts at maintaining a line or a boundary against paparazzi or the media while men are obeyed without question. But it's a never ending argument and it isn't something you have the bandwidth to discuss after still seeing spots in your vision from all the camera flashes.
"That's not fair," he says anyways as the car continues to drive down the highways. "I know I haven't been present in the public eye since we took that hiatus, but…"
You two sit in silence for a few more minutes and you figure that may be the end of the conversation but he squeezes your hand. He's taken to holding your hand in car rides like these ever since you've been given the go-ahead to make this public.
"I remember Iris once mentioned that the paparazzi were vultures," he says quietly. "By then, we were inseparable and I never got to see that side of it all since I never really let her out of my sight when we were in public like that."
"How could you know? The world's always a little kinder to men, Jack." And there isn't any malice there, nor any trace of resentment, but a sad acceptance as he gives your hand another squeeze. He's spoken about Iris before; you've always revered their relationship, never shied away about the topic of her and only avoided it in the early part of your trysts with Jack to spare his feelings. When he realized you aren't running every time he brings up his late wife, he had felt more comfortable bringing her up with you from that point on.
He grunts in obvious discontent but the conversation ends there when the car stops at the curb of the hotel you two are staying at. There isn't any paparazzi this time around and that relieves the both of you. At least no one knows where you two are staying.
Checking in and your luggage being brought up for you goes smoothly and with the entire day finally settling in, all you're searching for is a hot shower and a warm bed.
But that all goes out the window when his hands find your waist, creeping up your shirt to grope your tits above your bra.
"Jack," you hum but his lips are already on you the moment the door shuts. "Jack— I smell like plane! Let me freshen up." You giggle as he retaliates with a playful groan and a bite to your neck. The older musician sighs dramatically as he releases you to place the 'do not disturb' placard on the outside before he locks it. Meanwhile, you casually strip, leaving a trail of your clothing that leads to the bathroom which you promptly shut.
He's shameless when he leans against the door, knocking lightly. "Baby, don't tease."
Through the door, you can hear how wrecked he is but you bite back a giggle, prancing barefoot to the shower to start up the hot water while making sure the shower chair you requested is in. When the water's hot and ready, you unlock the door and you know you have seconds until Jack is on you.
You're barely opening the shower door when he enters, gently pulling you in and crowding you against the glass to devour you with a searing kiss. His hand finds your wrists, holds them in one grip before lifting it above your head. "Mm, baby… what am I gonna do with you?" He murmurs against your mouth, kissing along your jaw as his free hand explores your chest. Your back arches off the glass, chasing his touch.
"Touch me," you whine and he indulges immediately, kissing you down your neck and collarbone. Your moans flood the bathroom and Jack doesn't hesitate to latch his lips around a pert nipple, tongue lashing against the hard nub while his middle and ring finger strokes your folds. You lift a leg up to take him deeper and soon you're writhing, your lust for Jack always taking him off guard. It's the worst time to be overthinking things, wondering what exactly you see in a washed up old man like him when he's two knuckles deep inside and playing you like an instrument.
"Daddy—!"
The title rocks him out of his haze and his gaze pierces yours, releasing your wrists to cradle your jaw instead. "Yeah? Am I taking too long, baby?" That patronizing, condescending tone… it has you fucking dripping. You can only offer a tiny whimper which he responds with a mean chuckle, his hand lazily pumping his fingers that drags against your walls. Not enough friction.
"God, yesyesyes— please, I need you—"
And to his credit, Jack gives you exactly what you need. He swallows your desperate moans when he removes his fingers to gently push you down to your knees. You've done this before, you know what he needs— you help remove his prosthesis and despite that carnal lust that's rushing through your veins, it's something intimate that he doesn't dare put a name to.
In the rush of the waterfall shower, he's settled into his chair and you're eagerly climbing onto his lap. It's a tad awkward, reaching between to guide his stiffening length into your dripping cunt, but once he's sheathed inside you, you ride him without wasting a second.
It reminds him of that phrase you've muttered the first time he took you to bed, when your age gap had been a slight weight on his conscience: old enough to know what I'm doing, you promised, but young enough to do it well.
His hand travels up your skin slick from the spray of the water, warm and heated beneath his touch. The way his fingers splay out is possessive and your neck bares instinctively. With an indulgent pass across your tits, his hand presses around your neck in the correct positioning, safely squeezing while your eyes roll back in bliss.
"That's it, pretty girl… take what you need," he croons as he tugs you down to kiss along your gasping mouth, smirking against your wet skin when he feels your walls convulse around his cock. "Gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Come on, baby…"
He continues to utter sweet nothings against your mouth as you fall apart on his cock, his own orgasm following after that he doesn't hesitate to finish inside you. As you slump against his chest, he holds you close with a throaty chuckle, his rough hands stroking up and down your spine.
"I got you, sweetheart. I got you."
✧⋆⋆⋆
Even when high-profile guests have been to The Bear before, you and Jack still garner looks when you two are dropped off by the driver. He steps out first, looking dashing in slacks and a tight button-up that you haven't really been able to keep your hands off of. Your hand slips into his as he helps you out, shielding the way your black cocktail dress rides up as your heels land on the sidewalk. A couple of flashes appear from your peripheral view but you don't shy away from it, just smiling as Jack steps slightly in front of you to give you room to adjust your neckline and hemline.
"Thanks," you hum and he nods, straightening out his shirt before he's offering his arm to you. Your hand slides into the crook of his elbow while holding your clutch against your thigh. A few fans call out your name and you turn instinctively, giving a shy wave before you're entering the restaurant.
The soft ambience of the establishment soothes your raw nerves and with the small party of three in front of you, it lets you gather yourself and pull on the persona of a famous person and not a slightly harried woman in her twenties. There's a subdued hum of conversation from all the other guests already seated, a few shouts and calls from the kitchen whenever the door swings open each time a waiter walks in and out.
"Ah, Mr. Abbot and Miss Star," the maitre d' greets with a personable smile. Despite his sharp suit, his scruffy beard and his bright smile is warm and genuine. "Welcome to The Bear, my name's Richie. You're the, uh… seven o'clock, yes?"
Jack confirms with a nod, dropping your arm so he can wrap his around your waist. "That's right. Are we late?"
"No, no. Right on time, actually—" Richie looks over his shoulder, gives the space a quick scan. You aren't sure what he sees but he must've seen something correct because he taps something on the screen and steps from the podium. "Perfect. If you two will follow me?"
You nod and walk alongside Jack, ignoring the way a few looks follow you both as Richie leads you two to a booth in the far corner of the restaurant for some privacy. It's intimate, illuminated with a candle in the center.
"Gary will be around shortly with drinks."
The evening continues on without a hitch and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the date with Jack. You try not to think about the fact that this is even happening because of your team's approval, to push a narrative that's meant to promote your upcoming EP. But then you backtrack your own thoughts because it isn't like you're dragging Jack to this restaurant; he likes hanging out with you, enjoys your presence outside of the bedroom… and yet uncertainty poisons your mind as you take another sip of your wine.
"Hey."
Jack reaches across the table to take your hand, running his thumb across your soft skin. Your lashes flutter as you lift your gaze from the tablecloth to him. "Yeah?"
"You alright? You look a little bit lost in your head there…" His crows' feet deepen slightly as he offers you a little smile, his voice soft as though there isn't an audience to perform for. You let yourself have this much at least, this only certainty in the gray space you've found yourself in with Jack.
"Yeah— yeah, I'm okay," you assure him with a smile of your own, lacing your fingers with his. He nods and lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles before his attention snags onto the sweet hearts bracelet dangling off your wrist.
He admires it for a moment. "Robby got good taste."
It feels like a test but you answer as honestly as you can. "It's a red heart bracelet that cost him a thousand dollars. It's an easy choice."
Jack chuckles, mildly pleased and yet a bit unsure as to why jealousy hasn't creeped in yet.
✧⋆⋆⋆
PEOPLE MAGAZINE — SPOTTED! JACK ABBOT AND STAR COZYING IT UP AT A CANDLELIT DINNER AT MICHELIN STAR RESTAURANT.
STAR SHOWS HER TRUE COLORS AS A CONNOISSEUR FOR FINE DINING WHEN FANS SPOT HER WITH OLDER BEAU, JACK ABBOT, AT THE BEAR IN CHICAGO FOR A ROMANTIC DINNER. MANY WONDER IF FAME HAS CHANGED HER. HOW DID OUR SWEET NATION'S POPSTAR GO FROM IN N OUT COMFORT FOOD TO A MEAL THAT COULD'VE FED HUNDREDS?
IT LOOKS LIKE FAME GOT TO HER IN THE END. EAT THE RICH, RIGHT FOLKS?
—
PAGE SIX — JACK ABBOT AND STAR, CONFIRMED?
A SOURCE SHARES THEIR OWN EXPERIENCE MEETING THE COUPLE AT THE BEAR. THEY LOOK 'SORDIDLY IN LOVE' DESPITE NOT RELEASING A CONFIRMING STATEMENT OF THE STATUS OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP.
—
TMZ — IS STAR THE NEW IRIS? SEE JACK ABBOT'S DATING HISTORY.
THE TWO WERE SPOTTED AT A ROMANTIC CANDLELIT DINNER IN CHICAGO, SHARING BITES OF DESSERTS AND SUBTLE KISSES.
—
THE CUT — DOES STAR HAVE A THING FOR OLDER MEN?
IT LOOKS LIKE JACK ABBOT AND STAR HAVE NO PLANS ON CONCEALING THEIR BUDDING RELATIONSHIP WHEN THEY WERE SEEN AT A RESTAURANT THIS PAST WEEKEND. LOOKING BACK UPON HER LAST RELATIONSHIP WITH BARRY 'BAZ' BLACKWELL, ANOTHER OLDER MAN, MANY SOURCES WONDER IF THIS IS JUST A PATTERN.
✧⋆⋆⋆
After getting back to Los Angeles a few days later, the two of you are thrust back into your work. Jack and Robby nearly lock themselves in their studio for peak brainstorming sessions while you finish up the dance routines and blocking for your headlining performance at a music festival that's coming up soon.
The packed schedules keep you from seeing Jack but that doesn't stop the news articles and online publications from posting their own hot takes of you two from your date in Chicago. Some of them make you wrinkle your nose at the gigantic leaps but the others just have you skimming past the empty prose, vainly zooming in on the photos taken of you and Jack.
The two of you look good together at least. When a certain name jumps out at you from the screen, you decide to lock your phone and throw yourself back into songwriting.
✧⋆⋆⋆
Across the city, Robby's sprawled out on the length of the leather couch as Jack hunches over his guitar, grumbling under his breath while re-tuning it again. It's a testament to the years they've worked together that Robby knows better than to interrupt.
Except he comes across a recent article that has him sitting up.
"She dated Barry 'Baz' Blackwell?" Robby blurts out.
Jack frowns as his fingers still against the chords. "The… music video director?"
Robby nods, taps a few things on his screen before handing it over. Jack takes it and he's met with an old article, dated from before he's even met you. It must be early in the relationship, you and Baz. It's a photo of you in the street, dressed down and looking completely at ease while you're hand in hand with the director. It's old, your hair is different here, and yet a wave of jealousy that detonates in Jack's chest nearly has him tossing Robby's phone aside.
Instead he scrolls on, finds another article posted a few months after the last one he went through. This time his chest tightens in heartache. The article has a few blown up photos of you, captured through the glass of a cafe where you've been crying, sweater paws covering your eyes while your lips are down-turned in the way he's seen before when you try to hold back tears.
It's the public breakup, the one that had pushed you to finish the album that had won you your first Grammy.
He doesn't even get through the article before he looks up at Robby, hands his phone back. "Why'd you bring him up?"
His friend pauses and the hesitance there has Jack on edge. "It's fuckin' stupid, you know this—"
"Robby."
"The magazines are making her look like she just goes after older men."
His breath leaves him in a quiet rush. "Jesus."
"Yeah. It's just a stupid article. Don't think about it too much." Jack nods and Robby turns back to his phone but his gaze is elsewhere, his thumb hovering above the screen. "Have you two made it official?"
Jack strums harshly. "Not really our priority right now. Haven't seen her since we landed from Chicago."
"Got it." The abrupt ending nearly topples Jack's concentration, wonders why his best friend won't push the way he usually does, but when he looks up from his guitar, Robby's scrawling away lyrics in his notebook.
✧⋆⋆⋆
"Missed you."
You look up at Jack as he guides you through the crowded floors of the baseball stadium to your field level seats. The simple two words set off a round of butterflies in your gut and you don't bother hiding your smile. With a ballcap on, you tilt your head up a little higher to meet his eyes.
"Missed you more," you reply as he lets you step down the stairs first until you stop at the row right above the dugout. He pinches your hip lightly, eliciting a sharp squeak from you.
"I doubt it, sweetheart," he chuckles as the two of you take your seats. It's an impressive viewpoint, just a few seats away from behind homeplate. The game's just about to start and you're already surrounded with bigwig CEOs and the few rare fans that splurged on such pricey seats.
"Hey." An unknown voice makes itself known behind you and Jack and when the two of you turn around, you're greeted with a balding man and a young boy beside him, around the age of six. "I'm a huge fan of Nightcrawler, it's amazing to meet you. I'm Dan and this is my boy— Neil. Neil's a huge fan of you, Star."
The man is genuine and your smile matches his; you love meeting fans, true fans that aren't seeking out a quick story to sell. "Nice to meet you two." Jack shares the same sentiment, offering a firm handshake before you offer to sign something of Neil's.
After the ceremonial first pitch, the game begins and you and Jack, unsurprisingly, lock in. As a native Angeleno, you're a die hard fan with Jack tagging along for the ride. Media training is nearly forgotten when you're cheering with the fans and booing at bad calls, huffing when your favorite player hits a popout fly ball that ends the inning too soon.
The entire time, you miss the way Jack steals looks at you.
After an inning, you sigh and slump against your seat, catching his gaze before he promptly looks away. "What?"
He chuckles, the sound sticky sweet, lodging deep in your heart. "Nothing, sweetheart. You're just adorable."
Your cheeks burn but you lean in for a kiss anyways which Jack mirrors before the bills of your caps bump into one another. Another low, amused laugh escapes him and the sound is so husky smooth that a shiver zips down your spine. Jack doesn't hesitate to reach up, removez his hat to place it on backwards. Tufts of silver curls escape in the gap between the hat and the strap and it's so boyishly cute that when you kiss him, it's borderline indecent.
Unfortunately, Jack breaks the kiss and the look he gives you, the way his dark gaze drops to your kiss-bitten lips, tempts you to drag him out of his seat and into the closest bathroom. "Behave," he says instead and the way you nod so sweetly, so pliantly nearly has him groaning lowly.
He rewards you with another kiss to your nose before turning your attention back to the ongoing game. fixing his hat to wear it forwards once more. He chuckles and kisses the top of your hat, feeling the pressure of his lips there. You're just as excitable as before but you're happily tucked in his arms now— you've taken to ignoring the little voice in the back of your head (the one that sounds like Trinity) asking what exactly this is with Jack.
With the game slowly approaching the ninth inning, the sun has set and the lights are on illuminating the field. But it doesn't stop the camera from roving around, capturing families and friends onto the big screen.
"And now for the kiss cam—!" The commentator announces as the crew on the field smooth out the dirt track in between bases. You chuckle as you turn your attention to the giant screen, cooing and awwing alongside Jack when the camera stops at an older couple, giggling when it lands on what looks like a first date of a young couple.
But genuine surprise is written all over your face when you and Jack fill the big screen. Your cheeks burn as he chuckles, a blush on his own features as the crowd around you cheers and chants for him to go in for the kiss.
When his eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. His smile widens, pretty crows' feet deepening as he repeats the similar movement of placing his hat backwards so he can lean in for a proper kiss.
This one is far more chaste than the last, but just as sweet that it has you smiling against his lips. When you part first, the crowd bursts into 'awwws'.
Later that evening, only positive articles and comments could be seen when you scroll through your social media.
✧⋆⋆⋆
BREAKING NEWS — ABBOT MADE IT TO FIRST BASE!
AT LAST NIGHT'S DODGERS GAME, MUSICIANS JACK ABBOT AND STAR ATTENDED AND PUT ON A LITTLE SHOW FOR THE CROWD. THEY MADE IT ON THE KISS CAM AND SHOWED OFF A LITTLE LOVING. IS THIS THEM FINALLY MAKING IT OFFICIAL?
—
BUZZFEED PRESENTS: THE PUPPY INTERVIEW, FEAT. STAR!
You sit in the center of a room, dressed comfortably with your attention on the puppies crawling over your lap. The producers behind the camera see their chance, diving in to slip in a question that you haven't answered outright.
"So is Jack Abbot officially your boyfriend?"
You lift a baby rottweiler, nose brushing against the pup's with an outlandish baby voice: "No comment," you sing-song without making eye contact with the camera.
—
HOT ONES VERSUS: STAR VS TRINITY SANTOS
Trinity picks the card up between you two as you try not to pant like a goddamn dog in heat. The two of you are halfway through the row of impossibly hot wings. When your best friend had asked you to tag along for the press tour of her newest film (the same one you had a song in the soundtrack), you didn't think it would result in you dying with your tongue on fire.
"Truth or dare," Trinity manages to say in between pants. "Answer the question truthfully or eat a death wing: are you and Jack Abbot officially together?"
You maintain eye contact when you grab the next wing and take a brutal bite.
"Jesus—!" Trinity cackles.
—
SETH MEYER AND JACK ABBOT GO DAY DRINKING
Seth is settled behind the bar, smiling widely as he brings out a bottle of tequila and two shotglasses. The bar they're filming in is empty but the light filtering in through the open windows proves that it truly is daytime. It takes a few minutes of conversation to break the ice, discussing new music and the woes of being an older generation with the media, before Seth pours them both a glass.
"So. Dating life… little birdy tells me that you've got a sweetheart," Seth grins as he nudges a shot closer to Jack. A wide smile curves onto his lips, crows feet deepening as he shakes his head. The entire crew is in agreement; Jack Abbot is smitten.
"I plead the fifth."
"Oh come on," Seth laughs. "We saw the photos, the dates… are you two together?"
Jack maintains eye contact when he downs his shot.
—
TWITTER —
PINK LIMOS IS COMING! @.starsbabey — 2m
im not even kidding i just saw star and jack at wholefoods arguing about MATCHA….. something something about not the right consistency. yall i fear they're MARRIED
JACKSTARS GF @.nitecrawlers — 4m
im getting tired of all these official interviews teasing us about JACKSTAR and its just them denying their relationship like???
✧⋆⋆⋆
The bulbs of the cameras flashing outside are still somehow able to be seen through the tinted windows. It's a bit startling, kicking up the anxiety levels as the car finally rolls to a stop. Your hands are clammy but you fight the urge to wipe them on the velvet dress that's draped artfully onto your frame. Emma, your stylist, would have your head if you ruin her masterpiece. After all, it's her first time styling you for a high profile event rather than Heather, your main stylist who's currently on maternity leave.
"Hey," Jack murmurs beside you in a sharp tuxedo, cutting sharp angles that emphasize his broad shoulders. His hand finds yours and to his credit, doesn't seem to cringe away from your sweaty nerves. "It's just a benefit gala. After we get past the horde, there won't be anymore cameras inside and we'd be home free."
You nod and you see a shadow move outside the window; it has to be your bodyguard, awaiting for the knock from either you or Jack to give the go ahead and open the door. "Yeah, I know. I'll be fine." You take a deep breath and give a nod. "I'm ready."
Jack maintains eye contact for another beat, as if to make sure of it himself, before he knocks twice against the glass. Your bodyguard waits a beat before he opens the door and the roar of the paparazzi calling for yours and Jack's name nearly bowls you over. Fortunately, Jack steps out first and you duck slightly as you step out of the vehicle.
"Star, over here—"
"… us a smile, sweetheart!"
"Look this way—"
But in the midst of the paparazzi are fans of yours, adorning your merch and holding out posters or albums for you to sign. To your slight relief, they're far closer to you than the paparazzi and you release Jack's hand to stop and sign a few items. While your fans beam at you, the cameramen pounce.
Within seconds, you're swarmed and Jack is nowhere to be seen.
You look up and when only strange men and camera flashes, you're proud of yourself of how steady your voice is when you call for him. None can be said the same for Jack who nearly bellows out your name — not your stage name — and strong arms a few men out of his way. When he cuts through the masses, he looks positively livid and the nerves that had been dialed up to eleven since you've been in the car knocks down a few levels. Relief tentatively seeps through your bones as you give a half-hearted goodbye to fans, immediately reaching out which Jack goes for.
"Hey, hey, hey, get the fuck out of my way—" Jack growls as he shoves one last man, his hand enveloping yours and tucking you close. He stands slightly in front, a human shield against the crowd.
One of the camera men had enough gall to try and placate your lover. "Come on, Jack, she's fine, it's alright—"
"Fuck off," he hisses instead, uncaring of the media as you cling to his arm.
With your heart beating at a slower pace, you tug carefully at his suit. "I'm fine, it's okay, I'm fine."
But Jack just nearly hauls you up the steps and into the hotel lobby where security immediately shuts behind the two of you. You hadn't realized how loud the red carpet had been until you're both inside in the silence of the lobby. Your heels click against marble floors as Jack slowly walks you further in.
You can hear the bustling conversations spilling from the open, double doors of the ballroom venue down the hall, but Jack doesn't bring you inside just yet.
"Baby, you're shaking."
Jack gently rubs at both of your exposed arms and you realize he's correct when you look down at your hands. "I think I'm still rattled," you admit quietly and he nods sympathetically, lets his hands travel down to take yours and give a little squeeze. You can still see adrenaline coursing through him, frustration and anger from the event outside that you reach up to cradle his scruffy jaw. "I'm okay."
"The hell you are—"
"Where've you two been?"
Another familiar voice calls out and when you look, it's Robby exiting the ballroom with a touch of confusion and concern. He looks sharp in a suede black tuxedo, his bowtie neat against his collar. "Got swarmed by the paps outside," Jack grunts as his best friend approaches. Your lover still looks a tad bit jittery which he finally acknowledges as he reluctantly lets go of your hands to shake out. "Can you stay with her for a sec? I'm getting her some water."
"'Course," Robby nods and brings a warm hand to your mid-back once he's close enough. The smile he gives you feels like home and your heart rate is finally lowering to something less anxiety-ridden. Jack gives you a careful kiss to your hairline before he stalks off, anger still rolling off of him in waves.
Maybe it's because Jack isn't around that you let yourself fall apart a little, panic seizing your lungs just enough to take a shaky breath — you didn't want him to worry, maybe kick up his protectiveness another level when he'd already looked so livid outside. Robby hears it immediately and turns around to face you, slightly hunkering down to meet your eye level as he holds your cheek.
"Whoa, you alright, sweetheart?"
His sweet concern makes you nod but your lip quivers and you're quick to lift a hand to brush a finger beneath your waterline. Fortunately, no tears fall. "I'm okay. Jack lost me for a second outside and it was scary to just be surrounded," you share quietly. Robby lets out a low, disapproving grunt and soon he's carefully drawing you into his arms.
"Jesus, no wonder he looks pissed," he mutters against the side of your head as you hug Robby back. He squeezes you once before releasing you, but not without letting go of your hands. "You look beautiful, by the way. Don't know what you see in Jack, but he's one lucky son of a bitch."
The sudden compliment shakes a genuine laugh out of you, a smile blooming as you lightly swat his chest. "Flatterer," you tease but Robby catches your wrist and kisses the back of your hand. It silences you as he hums, looking absolutely shameless as he admires your dress.
"You're wearing the bracelet," he murmurs as he releases your hand, his gaze caught upon the red carnellian heart pendant that dangles from your wrist.
"It's pretty," you shrug and before he might've asked to elaborate, Jack returns with an ice-cold bottle of Pellegrino's. He opens the top off, handing it you while he takes your opposite side. "Thanks, baby."
"Don't mention it," he murmurs before taking the half-empty bottle to hand to the employee nearby to dispose. "You ready to go in?"
When you nod, you enter the benefit gala with Jack on your left and Robby on your right. For the entire evening, neither of the men ever leave your side.
thank you so much for reading! as always, likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
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SUMMARY: Jack Abbot was a creature of habit. Structure and routine were infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough. But that was before he met you and Phoebe. Before he fell hopelessly and irrevocably in love with the chaotic girls in apartment seventeen.
WARNINGS: lots to get through; mentions of Tom x Kirsty and abusive and narcissistic tendencies, Phoebe feeling confused and lost in her head and heart, Jack being promoted to Uncle Jack, heavy discussion of readers late fiance and Jack's late wife, talks about parent abandonment, disgusting fluff, minor child injury, inaccurate medical terminology (lol), the pitt teasing Jack, swearing, flirting, kissing, mentions of smut, this is truly quite angsty so may I recommend having some tissues for the final part, just in case.
A/N: I would just like to take a moment to thank every single one of my lovely readers for giving this story a chance and sticking with it to the very end. I am so incredibly sad that this series is now complete and I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support you've given me and this story!! There is a lot to unpack in this final chapter, a very big deep conversation that may make you feel some type of way so just be prepared! I also highly recommend listening to Wait by M83 on repeat when you get to the balcony scene!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 13.4k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Maybe Jack is a little out of his element, but he tries not to let it show.
Tries to ignore the blatant ogling of moms on the playground and the whispered names of yours and his that pass through gossiping lips.
Jack reminds himself that this was his idea, that you didn’t exactly force school pick up upon him. Still, this feels entirely more daunting than a shift at PTMC, which he really needs to be getting ready for soon.
It isn’t the first time he’s offered to pick Pheebs up from her school, but it is the first time he’s done it alone.
Over the past two months, his presence at the school doors has become much more consistent. In the mornings—if he hasn’t just got back from a night shift—Jack will join you for drop-off before taking you out for breakfast and coffee. And in the afternoons, no matter if Jack has work in a few hours or not, he’s made a habit of joining you on pick-up, too.
The addition of his presence in both the playground and Phoebe’s life has been profoundly noticed by everyone. So much so, that his name has been added to Pheebs’ authorized pick-up list and he’s been invited to speak with her class about what it’s like to be a doctor next Tuesday.
The doors to Phoebe’s class open before Jack can be subjected to any unwarranted approaches, and it barely takes a moment for him to spot Pheebs in the line of kids. It takes her even less time to spot him, to tug on Ms. Melia’s hand and point to where he stands.
He offers a small wave and Ms. Melia doesn’t wait to send Pheebs off to him.
She races over faster than he’s ever seen her move, riddled with unkept excitement and rambling at the speed of light about her day. She mentions about twelve times that she’s sad Florence was sick and couldn't come in before he even gets her to the car.
It’s only when Pheebs is strapped into her seat and Jack’s phone is connecting to the CarPlay that she seems to realize that she’s missing a parent, and her recap of the day's events comes to a halt.
“Where’s Mommy?” Jack’s gaze meets hers through the rearview mirror.
It was entirely unexpected when Kirsty had arrived at your apartment just an hour before Pheebs was due to be picked up from school. You and Jack were in the middle of some very exciting bedroom activities when the persistent ringing of your doorbell cut through the moment, and you found Kirsty sobbing at your front door.
How she found your address, neither of you are quite sure. But you ushered her inside with a steaming mug of tea and listened when she sobbed and poured her heart out about Tom and the irrevocable damage he’s done to her mental and emotional health.
Ten minutes before pick-up time, she was still crying on the couch and Jack did not have the heart to interrupt her. He also did not have the stomach to sit and listen to all the cruel things Tom has said and done to the young woman. It hit too close to home, made him wonder if they’re the same things he said and did to you.
So Jack had kissed your temple and told you he’d pick Pheebs up when you went into the kitchen to refill her tea. You didn’t argue with the offer. Just kissed him fiercely and promised to pick up where you left off when he’s back from work in the morning.
He turns in his seat to get a look at her in the back. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed and ominous stains on the front of her shirt that you always somehow manage to get out.
“Mommy was needed for something super important, so I thought I’d pick you up. That okay?”
She nods with a grin. “Can we get ice cream?”
Jack’s smile mirrors hers, something cheeky and mischievous. “Can we get ice cream? We can get burgers and then bring ice cream home for Mom after.”
Her excited squeal is music to his ears when he turns forward in his seat and brings up your contact in his text messages.
Jack: Acquired the goods, taking her for early dinner. How’s Kirsty?
You: not good, tom tends to have that affect on women… she said he up and left last week for dubai after promising he would take her with him. shock.
You: i’ll call you when she's gone
Jack: Don’t rush, I can always take Diva back to mine to grab Sally and we’ll bring you back ice cream and burgers
You: you’re getting the sloppiest head tomorrow morning
Jack: Yeah? I’m holding you to that
You: ;)
Jack: ❤️ u gorgeous girl
You: ❤️ u baby
Jack locks his phone with a grin and stuffs it into the cup holder, pulling out of the parking lot and following the route from his mind to the best burger joint in the city.
He sings along with Phoebe to whatever songs she allows him to listen to. Keeps his mouth shut when she screams Hey Siri, skip! to the CarPlay when she gets sick of something that comes on.
He does well at keeping his focus on the road and not the final texts you shared. The only time that sentiment has been communicated between the two of you, but it’s still become almost an every day occurrence as of recently.
Much like Jack’s presence at your apartment. It’s rare he’s ever at his own place for more than two nights in a row. And somewhere four weeks ago, Sally had made the move, too. A shared sort of custody, if it can be considered as that.
She’s at your apartment more than she’s at Jack’s. Taken it upon herself to snuggle at the foot of Phoebe’s bed every night. It’s a fight Jack’s glad he gave up on, when you were persistent about having the cat so she wasn’t alone when he worked.
The reasoning of Sally pissing everywhere was weak, and still something you like to rub in his face, seeing as she’s only piddled twice in the last four weeks.
She’s also become your writing companion, often purring away beside your laptop when Jack’s sleeping and Pheebs is at school while you wrap up the final installment of your trilogy. Something that Jack is incredibly proud of you for.
Your literal blood, sweat and tears have gone into this final book. Sleepless nights and mental breakdowns where you’ve reconsidered every choice you’ve ever made for your career. It doesn’t help that you’ve been so on edge since Tom walked out at Phoebe’s field day, like you’re just waiting for him to try and pop back into Diva’s life.
Jack hasn’t exactly been much better.
He’s tried his hardest to support you in the ways that he can. Staying consistent with the both of you, taking Pheebs out to the park or for food, helping her rearrange her bedroom just so you have some peace to write when inspiration does strike.
He’s cooked and cleaned, taken Phoebe to bed almost every night for the past six weeks. He’s practically moved into your apartment without fully taking that step. Half of his clothes have made their way into your empty drawers and a spare key to your place has wound its way around his keychain.
And over the past month, his usual strict routine has been completely thrown out the window. Night shifts have remained the same, but Jack now only goes to the gym whenever he can squeeze an hour in. His shifts with SWAT have slowly been dwindling, but it’s not something he’s mad about.
For almost three months now, Jack’s been purposely picking up less shifts with the team. Partly because his time has been better placed with you and Pheebs, but mostly because he no longer feels like there’s a void that needs to be filled with adrenaline and near-misses.
Neither of you have really sat back and considered how and when these changes started to occur. How that key ended up on Jack’s chain, why it feels so natural to eat every meal as a family, how dates are no longer squeezed into your schedules but slot seamlessly into everyday life.
How you can sleep just fine when Jack’s working a night shift, but can’t sleep at all if he’s staying at his own apartment. How even Phoebe can tell the difference between it, too.
Jack’s grown used to spending his night shift sharing texts and random ninety second FaceTime calls with you. He’ll tell you the craziest patient of the night and you’ll share a snippet of a scene you’ve written (which is usually smut and him promising to try it out with you in the morning).
Everything between you has intensified and blossomed into the most domestic, honest and real thing he’s ever experienced. Nothing feels rushed or forced, nothing feels out of place or uneasy. And it’s the first time in Jack’s life that he hasn’t felt like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
The only non-issue that has been on his mind is Tom.
Though, he is something that David has been very vocal about on the odd occasion he and Jack have seen one another one-on-one, and it’s been reassuring to see just how frustrated it makes your father. It hasn’t been nice to see the stress it’s caused you, though.
Neither of you realized how much things needed to change. From removing Tom from Pheebs’ pick up list to removing him as her emergency contact (where Jack offered to be put as the replacement because “baby, if they see a doctor on there, she’ll take priority of anything ever happens,”), and all the paperwork in between, it’s been a lot.
“Jack, I need to pee.” Phoebe’s strained voice from the backseat brings him back to the present and Jack casts a glance at her through the rearview mirror.
“We’re almost there, slugger. Can you hold it for five minutes?”
She’s shaking her head quickly, face pink and lips curled in, knees bouncing in her child seat as she stuffs her hands between her legs. “I really gotta go!”
Jack feels the internal panic begin to sneak up on him. He’s dealt with tearful falls and tumbles, scraped knees and an almost broken leg when it’s been just the two of them. But Phoebe potentially peeing her pants is not something he’s prepared for.
He has no spare clothes for her, she’s too big for a potty to be kept in the back of the car…it only really leaves one other option as he pulls up a dirt trail, out of the way of the road.
Jack turns to her, keeps the engine on and finds himself mirroring her expression.
“Honey, if you can’t hold it…you’re gonna have to pee in a bush.”
Her eyes widen, lips part. The shaking of her head becomes quicker. “I’m not peeing in a bush, there’s spiders in there!”
Jack blinks at Phoebe, rolling his lips between his teeth as he sighs. “I promise the spiders won’t go anywhere near you.”
She shakes her head again, lifting her chin. “I can hold it, I’ll hold it.”
“Are you sure?”
Her head continues to bob. “Come on!”
He doesn’t argue at her desperate shout of a plea. And he just hopes she doesn’t tell you that he sped a little too fast to get her to the burger joint before she saturated the carseat.
Phoebe has unbuckled herself before Jack even kills the engine, and the moment he rounds the car and opens her door, she’s jumping out of the vehicle and running with quick, desperate steps to the diner’s entrance.
Jack barely manages to lock the car and catch up with her in time, holding open the women’s restroom and sighing in relief when he finds it empty. Phoebe shoves him against the basin as she rushes into a cubicle—kicking the door closed, but not locking it—and a dramatic sigh of relief sounds from her when she finally relieves herself.
Jack struggles to hide his amusement, takes a moment to check his phone for any more texts from you. There are none, but he still admires the lockscreen photo of the three of you at your parents barbeque last weekend.
The door to the restroom swings open, soft footsteps halting as Jack looks up from his screen to come face-to-face with a cautious woman and child. His fingers immediately point to the stool that Phoebe’s occupying.
“My daughter…I didn’t wanna take her into the mens.”
My daughter? Jack’s heart lurches when he catches what he’s said, when he realizes that Phoebe is only six feet away with half a door separating them.
“Okay, I’m done, Dad!” She calls out as Jack pockets his phone and swallows down his heart.
The woman watches with a gentle smile, one much more relaxed as she ushers her own child into a stool and Jack has to take a moment to try and regulate his breathing.
Phoebe just fucking called him Dad.
“Good job, kid. Do you need help with your pants?” His voice is more wrecked than he anticipated when he lowly calls back to her, when he blinks back tears that brim in his eyes and struggles to breathe through the tightening of his throat.
“I’m four, not stupid!” Oh, right. Of course. Because she didn’t get the hump three days ago when she couldn't button up her jeans and Jack had to spend fifteen minutes showing her again how to do the zipper and button.
Her snarky remark gets a huff of laughter from the cubicle beside Phoebe’s but Jack can’t seem to reign himself in. His head is spiralling in worry for how you’ll react when he tells you what’s happened, his heart is bursting at the fact that Pheebs has likely only said that because he called her his daughter first.
“Watch that attitude of yours, young lady.” His tone holds no authority or threat. The words come out too breathlessly, like he’s struggling to fill his lungs deep enough.
But he’s the picture of composure when Phoebe flushes the toilet and swings open the door to reach for the sink. It’s second nature for Jack to lift her beneath her armpits so she can reach; lathering her hands and fingers in soap and muttering a song under her breath.
He lets Phoebe take the lead and guide him out of the restroom and toward a table by the front of the diner. Allows her to be the one to order for them both when the waitress comes over, only chiming in to add another burger onto the order that he can bring home for you.
Phoebe watches Jack through it all, notices how he begins to grow quiet and puts his attention into the cartoon sheet they’re coloring together. It makes her tummy tilt, makes worry begin to bubble in a feeling that usually causes her to seek him and you out for comfort.
“Jack?” Her voice is small, much smaller than he’s ever heard and his head snaps up to look at her. She chews on her inner cheek, head tilted as she averts her gaze to the pink crayon she holds. “Are you upset at me?”
Jack’s brows pinch together tightly, his chest aching as it tightens. “No, Diva. Why would I be upset with you?” His tone is gentle, soft. But his heart is cracking that she could ever think he’d ever feel anything but happiness and exhaustion when he’s with her.
“Because I called you Dad,” she whispers, still not daring to look at him.
Jack’s movements still, gently dropping the crayon and reaching out to poke at her hand to grab her attention. He swallows down the lump in his throat, silently scolds himself for getting too caught in his head over it that he’s caused this timid, quiet version of Phoebe to arise.
“Kid, you could never upset me. Especially not by calling me that. It just…suprised me.”
She frowns. “You called me your daughter first.”
Jack swallows. Is that what this is? Has she just been waiting to feel like it’s okay to call him Dad? Like she’s been holding out for some form of permission? How long has this new title been brewing? How long has she been stopping it from slipping?
Jack feels like he might pass out.
“I—yeah, I guess—I guess I did.”
A silence sits between them. Not awkward, but…heavy. They’re both aware of the weight of it, of the titles they’ve called one another. Uncharted territory for both parties, neither knowing what’s quite acceptable without you being present.
He can tell she wants to say more but he doesn’t push. If there’s one thing about parenting that Jack has learnt from you, it’s to create a safe space where Diva feels comfortable enough to come to you when she’s ready.
She doesn't say anything else while waiting for the burgers, doesn’t say anything when she begins to eat. It’s only after Jack asks her to say cheese at the camera so he can send a photo of her to you, and when she steals the phone to take a photo of him, that she finally finds her voice on the topic again.
“Would I be…allowed…to call you that, sometimes?”
Her voice is so quiet and meek, Jack almost has to ask her to repeat it. It takes a few moments for the request to fully register, to understand if he’s heard her correctly.
Because Phoebe is an incredibly intelligent kid. She’s far too aware of her surroundings and people’s intentions. It’s not been lost on you and Jack how in the past two months, she’s only asked about Tom twice. Both times were if she would be seeing him again.
You didn’t lie to Phoebe, you never do. You told her simply that no, she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Pheebs never asked for an explanation so you never gave one. She took the answer and left it at that, like the child was content with that being all.
But Jack knows that Phoebe knows the significance of calling someone Dad. To begin with, she no longer wanted to refer to Tom as that. And now, she’s asking for permission to give Jack that label instead, trying to soften the blow by proposing it to be just occasionally.
“Pheebs,” he calls her name softly. “I am honored that you want to call me that. You can call me whatever you want to call me…but I think it’s something you should talk to Mommy about first.”
“Yeah, okay.” She sighs, stuffing a mouthful of fries into her mouth and chomping down like having to speak to you about it is an inconvenience to her.
At least she still has an appetite, Jack’s completely lost his. He can feel his mind spiralling into every direction, trying to figure out where he’s overstepped recently for her to want to call him Dad, but he falls short.
Because it’s all been so natural and felt so right. You’ve had no issue with Jack taking Pheebs to bed almost every night at her request. You’ve had no problem with holding hands or cuddling each other in her presence. You’ve included him in every family event like it’s a given that he should be there.
That he is a part of you and Pheebs.
Jack’s phone vibrates from beside him on the table, the scream lighting up with smiling faces and your contact with a text preview.
You: god i love those beautiful faces!!
You: kirsty has left so hurry up and come home, someone else has come to see us
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
During the short drive home, Jack and Phoebe played a guessing game of who might be waiting at the apartment for them. Of course, not the best idea to play with a four-year-old. She’s somehow convinced herself that both Harry Styles and Peter Parker are waiting for her in her bedroom.
But when they do manage to make it inside the apartment, Phoebe tripping over her feet to get to her room and Jack struggling to hold all the leftover boxes and Phoebe’s bookbag, they stop short with wide eyes.
Karis sits on the couch beside Ricky, glowing and grinning and looking absolutely exhausted. But Jack cannot take his eyes away from you.
Slightly bent over with your hands tucking beneath small arms, cooing with watering eyes as you lift their little baby boy out of the carseat and into your arms. The newborn scrunch and the sight of you holding a baby short-circuits Jack’s brain and he thinks he’s having the most overwhelming day of his life.
“Baby Jude!” Phoebe gushes in excitement, slowly easing closer like he’s a frightened little mouse.
Karis scoops her up and peppers kisses across her cheeks and head as Jack gently closes the door behind him and places the styrofoam boxes on the coffee table when he inches closer.
It takes effort to drag his gaze off you and meet the eyes of your friends. He leans down to offer a warm hug to Karis, a kiss to her cheek and a shake of Ricky’s hand as he congratulates them.
You and Jack have FaceTimed them at least once a week for the past two months since Jude was born, when complications had arisen and they were stuck in the hospital for six weeks after his birth. But now they’re here, in your apartment and you’re snuggling that baby like you don’t plan on giving him back.
Jack’s heart fucking aches.
“He still has that newborn baby smell.” You whisper tearfully, inhaling the smell that reminds you of when Diva was just a little bubba and didn’t answer back to everything you said.
She beams up at you, shoulders raised and hands clasped together by her mouth. She looks like an excited old granny and you can’t deny giving her cuddles with her baby cousin. Karis settles Pheebs on the couch between her and Ricky, watches as you coo at Jude before leaning down to gently place him in her lap.
Jack’s by your side when you pull away to stand straight, and your vision is immediately distorted. Phoebe is so gentle with him, eyes wide and sparkling at the little life in her hands as she strokes the slope of his nose.
It’s a heartbreaking glimpse of what she could be like with her own sibling, with yours and Jack’s baby. A sobering thought that you catch yourself on, but you don’t for a single second tell yourself it’s wrong to imagine.
“She’s so gentle with him.” His low voice is comforting in your ear, a hand on your lower back and a kiss to your temple as a late greeting.
You hum, sink slightly into his side as you both watch her giggle when Jude begins to stretch and fuss. It’s ridiculous to feel so emotional over something as little as her holding a baby. But you find yourself sniffling and blinking back tears, anyway.
Jack’s just better at hiding it when he feels his eyes begin to sting. Not just at the sight of Pheebs, but at the memory of you holding Jude that’s now ingrained to the very wrinkles of his brain. Is that what you looked like when Phoebe was a baby? Only more fresh-eyed and inexperienced?
He’s not sure what it is other than something primal and overwhelming, has him conjuring up what you’d look like with a swollen belly again.
“Mommy, I need to pee.” Phoebe whispers, cautious not to wake the sleeping baby in her lap.
Ricky gently takes him from her and she waits until her lap is clear and Jude is secure in his father’s hold until she hops down from the couch and makes her way to the bathroom.
“You gonna have a hold, Uncle Jack?”
He blinks at Karis’ words, a little stunned at the honorable title he’s unsure he’s worthy of. But he nods, untangles his arm from around you and Ricky stands to reach across the distance and hands his baby boy over.
Jack has held many babies throughout his profession, but none have ever felt quite so meaningful as this. Uncle Jack. His nephew squirms slightly in his hold, eyes still shut and lips puckering, a tiny tongue peeking out before his mouth stretches into a yawn.
You watch the way Jack’s eyes sparkle down at Jude, the natural way he coddles him to his chest. Your ovaries are exploding at the sight, your heart aching profusely at the ridiculous play-pretend notion that this is your child, Jack’s child.
“He has so much hair,” Jack breathes a chuckle, risking a featherlight hand over the baby’s head to smooth the thick hair down. He dares a glance up at Karis and Ricky for barely a second before he’s captivated by Jude again. “He’s beautiful.”
Karis beams, in both pride and happiness for you and Phoebe.
“Thank you, for answering all my stupid questions when it came to his health. And for the gift baskets.”
Jack waves a hand to dismiss the gratitude that is not needed. He knew how anxious she had been while in the hospital and when she got home. While you only FaceTimed once or twice a week, Karis and Ricky would text Jack at least once a day, just needing reassurance that Jude was still recovering well from his surgery, checking what was normal and what wasn’t.
“Nothing is stupid when it comes to your child’s health.”
He spends a few more moments with Jude in his arms before finally relenting and handing him back over to his parents at the same time that Phoebe waddles back into the living room, a wicca basket in hand that Sally lounges in.
“She’s getting too fat!”
Jack cocks a brow, both arms bending to rest his hands on his hips. “That’s ‘cause you carry her everywhere.”
Phoebe pokes her tongue out at him as she passes, her excitement for Jude worn off as she opens Sally’s toy box instead. Your gaze meets Jack, something crossing his eyes as watches Pheebs get settled on the rug.
When he finally averts his gaze to meet yours, you cock your head slightly toward the kitchen in silent invitation, muttering out to Karis and Ricky that you’ll make some tea as Jack grabs the takeout boxes and follows you.
The moment the kettle flicks on and Ricky turns on the sports channel, you turn to Jack and wrap your arms around his waist. “Was Diva okay when she came out of school?”
He hums, leans down to steal a kiss. “Yeah, how was Kirsty?”
You sigh, leaning forward to crash your head against his chest. Your heart still feels heavy for the girl, the conversation having brought up all the trauma Tom had also put you through. You pull away to look at him and Jack only now sees how much it has drained you.
“She’ll be okay.”
He watches you in the same way you’re watching him; with slightly furrowed brows and concern prickling at your eyes.
“Jack, are you sure you’re okay?”
All he can do is make a humming sound, something that is not entirely convincing but you won’t push him. Not here, not now.
“I’ve gotta get ready for work soon. Debrief tomorrow night?”
Your frown grows deeper. “Tomorrow night? You got somewhere to be in the morning?”
A grin curls on his mouth at your playfully teasing tone and he leans down to press a ghost of a kiss to your pouting lips. “I gotta meet up with my SWAT guys.”
You kiss him again, just a gentle movement of lips. “You finally picking up a shift? Been a while since I’ve seen you in uniform.”
“No,” he whispers raspily against your mouth. “I’m leaving.”
He feels your body still before you pull away and he doesn’t have time to stop himself from smoothing out the elevens between your brows with the pad of his thumb. “Stop frowning.”
“Why are you leaving?”
Jack pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, considers the weight of the reason behind his decision to be a bit too much to divulge when you’ve got company. But he doesn’t want to leave you entirely in the dark. He knows your mind, your soul—knows you’ll worry yourself sick with overthinking the worst possible scenarios.
His hands leave your waist to cup your jaw, to force your gaze to not just look into his eyes but deeper. “I don’t need it anymore. Coming home safe to you and Pheebs is more important to me.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
By the time Karis and Ricky left with Jude, Jack was having to leave for work. With a smattering of kisses to Phoebe’s cheeks and your lips, he sauntered out the door just before six, always wanting to start a bit earlier to get a feel for what the night would look like.
You got Pheebs into the bath the moment he left, let her splash around the tub and draw with water crayons on the porcelain. Surprisingly, she let you wash her hair tonight without putting up much of a fuss, and didn't argue when you told her it was time to get out.
She dressed herself with minimal help, letting you brush the knots from her hair with lips pressed into a firm line. You’re not stupid when it comes to your daughter. You know there’s something on her mind, whether it be a concern or a request.
She’s always far too compliant when she’s thinking.
Usually, you don’t push. You allow her to come to you when she’s filtered through a muddy mind and knows what she wants to say. But it’s harder to do that tonight when it’s clear there’s something on Jack’s mind, too.
“Alright,” you sigh as she settles into her stool at the kitchen island. You lean on your forearms, head dipping slightly between your shoulders to meet her gaze. “What’s going on in that crazy little head of yours, hm?”
Phoebe shrugs. “Nothing.”
You roll your lips between your teeth. “Did something happen today? At school? With…with Jack?”
She shakes her head, still not wanting to meet your line of sight. It's a struggle not to ask for more, but you don’t want to push her away. You have to remind yourself that you trust Jack. That if something had happened, if Pheebs had told him something concerning, he’d have told you.
“Alright, well let's have dessert and finish our movie before bed then, sound good?”
She hums, half committed. “I’ll get Sally a treat.”
You turn to the fridge when the words tumble out of her, followed by a screech and an awkward sounding thud. You whirl around at the sound of Phoebe’s sob, round the island to find her laying on the ground and clutching her foot.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Where did you hurt, your foot?”
You’re kneeling down to her, trying desperately to keep your cool and not let her shrill cries pierce through your heart. Phoebe doesn’t let you get too close; face bright red and cheeks soaked with tears, pulling away every time you try to reach for her foot.
“Baby, you need to let me have a look.”
She pulls away again when you inch closer, her knuckles white around her lower calf, eyes squeezed shut.
“I can’t, Mama, it hurts!” She hiccups through the cries, catching Sally’s attention who curls into her side in a form of comfort.
You feel sick, heart in your throat as you desperately try to calm her down without touching her. You’ve never heard Phoebe cry so loudly, and you’re unsure if it’s the shock of the fall or if she’s really hurt herself. She doesn’t let you take a look, doesn’t let you put ice on it or keep it elevated above a pillow.
“I want Jack.” She speaks on a shaky inhale of breath, her pyjama shirt soaked from tears. Her desperate request makes your fingertips ache.
“Alright, okay. I’ll take you to Jack. Come on, up you get.”
It’s only then that Phoebe allows you to touch her. Not her leg or her ankle, but she lets you hold her arm to help her stand. The moment she tries to put pressure on her right leg, her knee gives way and she bursts into another fit of tearful whimpers.
Worry and panic begins to course through you, thoughts that she’s broken her fucking ankle being the only thing you can really think about. It’s enough to have you gently hoisting her into your arms as gently as possible and grabbing your keys off the hook on your way out of the apartment.
You can only really offer gentle coos of reassurance to her as your flip flops snap against your feet with every step. You didn’t even think to grab your phone or purse, just Pheebs and the keys as you get her down to the car and buckle her in.
She cries the entire ten minute drive to PTMC, declining any music or chit-chat to try and keep her mind off things. Her sobs have calmed to whimpers by the time you somehow manage to find a parking space at the ED, feet bare from not allowing you to put shoes on her, so you carry her from the car to the main entrance.
The last time you were here was at 3 a.m., over nine months ago. It was much quieter then. Tonight, the waiting room is packed with no spaces to sit and a long line at the check-in desk. Phoebe wraps her arms tighter around your neck as you hold her to your front, and get to the back of the line.
You rock her gently, swaying slightly from side to side as you take in the amount of people waiting to be seen. She hides into the crook of your neck, the noise and bright lights and people squished in too-close proximity a bit too much for her to handle.
The sight of the chaos makes your skin crawl. You’ve always been acutely aware of the tension and pressure of Jack’s job, but seeing the waiting room—or Chairs, as he calls it—so packed and desperate, it makes you want to dote on him for the rest of your life and never let him lift a finger at home.
The line crawls forward at a snail's pace, many people kicking up a fuss when it’s their turn to check in, complaining about wait times or demanding that their issue is more important than the rest. By the time you get to the check-in counter, your neck is soaked from Phoebe’s snot and tears.
“What’s your name and problem, hon?” It’s the same face and voice that greets you as the last time you were in here for your little pelvic issue.
You smile tightly at Lupe, shifting your hold on Diva to shuffle her to your other hip. She grips you tighter, like she’s worried you’re about to put her down.
“Phoebe Y/L/N. I’m her mother. She fell off the island stool and landed on her ankle, she can’t put any pressure on it, won’t let me look—I don’t know if it’s just a sprain or maybe a fracture.”
She hums at your words, typing at her computer and sliding a form through the gap at the bottom of the clear screen. Lupe catches Phoebe’s eye as she shifts in your hold, a sympathetic pout forming on the older woman's mouth.
“Take a seat, hon. Someone will be with you shortly.”
You don’t mention that there are no seats left to take, it’s not her problem. So you thank her with a smile, take the paperwork and carry Pheebs through the throes of people. You mentally prepare yourself for such a long night, to put those pilates classes you’ve been taking to good use with there being no seats available.
But within three and a half minutes of standing against the wall and gently rocking Diva from side to side, there are fast footsteps approaching until Jack is standing before you with wide eyes assessing the back of Phoebe’s body.
“Is she okay? What happened?”
Jack feels sick to his stomach with worry at the sight of her clinging to you. He didn’t even read over her notes or ask Lupe what happened when he was paged about your arrival. Seeing her now, he wishes he had some notion of an idea to be at least a little more prepared.
He’s never seen Pheebs so tearful and whiney. Not when she has her usual tumbles and not when she awakes crying for you both in the middle of the night after a nightmare.
The moment she hears his voice, she’s uncurling herself from around you to leap into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, lets her wrap herself around him and cries softly into his neck. You appreciate the reprieve and shake your arms out at your sides.
“She fell off the stool, landed on her ankle. Says she can’t walk on it—what…how did you know we were here?”
Jack rubs a comforting hand up and down the expanse of Phoebe’s back, craning his neck the best he can to try and get a look at her bare feet that dangle from his waist. He sighs when he turns back to you, reaching a hand around your waist to press his lips to your forehead.
“I’m on her emergency contact list, remember? Lupe paged me the moment you checked her in.”
You barely have any time to process the fact before Jack is guiding you through the doors of triage with a hand on the small of your back and an arm carrying Phoebe against his chest. You follow him through to a small cornered off section, just a few down from where you were, where Jack tenderly lays Pheebs on the bed.
You take the place at her side, let her reach for you and grip your hand as Jack slips his fingers into a pair of blue gloves. He sits on the small swivel stool, walks his feet across the ground to drag himself closer to the edge of the bed.
“Dr. Abbot, would you like me to take this one?”
Your head turns at the sound of a soft voice, a petite nurse standing at the curtain with fresh gloves already slipped onto her fingers. He whirls to look at her, like he’s catching himself on a line he’s crossing.
Because as an attending, he has no reason at all to be treating a sprained ankle in triage. He should be on the main floor, tending to whatever chaos gets sent to him or comes barreling through the ambulance bay.
So, he nods, moving away on the small stool to make room for the nurse to take his place instead.
“Alright, Diva. You gonna let Nurse Dean take a look?”
She shakes her head, pleasing eyes glued on Jack as she scoops her legs into her arms with her knees pinned to her chest. Nurse Dean looks at Jack with pursed lips and soft eyes, a silent way of saying she understands and won’t push.
He smiles apologetically, resuming his previous position when Dean slips back through the curtain to tend to patience that will let her care for them. Despite the guilt, you can’t help but huff out an air of laughter over Phoebe’s stubborn preferences.
If it’s not Jack, she isn’t interested.
Phoebe doesn’t argue with the gentle tone of Jack's voice when he coaxes her to show him her foot. She offers her ankle to him willingly with one hand still squeezing your fingers. Her tears have dried, her face now blotchy from the hyperventilating.
You watch Jack closely, the concentrated set in his brow, the firm line of his lips when he examines Phoebe’s ankle with more tender care than you think he gives his other patients. It’s also not lost on you that any nurse or triage doctor could be doing this instead of him. That he could have encouraged Pheebs to have Nurse Dean take a look.
“You said she couldn’t walk?” He asks, lips barely moving and the words almost strung together when he very carefully twists and moves her ankle.
You hum, sitting on the side of the bed next to Pheebs, one arm around her shoulders as she curls into your side. You press a kiss to the top of her head, your anxiety significantly easing now you’re with Jack and she’s under his care.
If you’re being completely, selfishly honest, you’re more than pleased that Jack’s taken it upon himself. Not that the rest of the doctors here aren’t competent, but getting to watch Jack in his element and feel so listened to and genuinely cared for…yeah, he’s definitely your preference.
“Yeah, she couldn’t put pressure on it after it happened. Wouldn’t let me look or put it on ice…she just kept crying that she wanted you.”
He pats her calf with a grin, snapping off the gloves and tugging the leg of her pyjamas pants back down. There’s a swell of pure pride and relief in his chest when he realizes there’s nothing seriously wrong and that all she wanted for comfort was him.
“The good news is it’s not broken. The bad news is that you’re gonna have to rest it and I’m going to have to prescribe you one rub of chocolate ice cream.”
Phoebe sniffles, and it’s not the reaction that Jack was hoping for.
“So, I don’t need a new leg like you?” Her voice is meek, unsure, and slightly disappointed.
It causes a frown to pull between your brows, between Jack’s. You dare a glance over at him but your attention is stolen by two figures standing by the open curtain, instead. It’s the slurping through a straw that then catches Jack’s attention and his head whirls to the two culprits.
John Shen stands with his lips wrapped around a plastic Dunkin straw, Ellis Parker stood close beside him with arms crossed over her chest. Shen’s brows are raised teasingly, Parker’s eyes gleaming in taunting mischief.
“Well, who is this Diva?” Dr. Parker croons playfully as she steps into the partition, eyes flickering between the three of you as Dr. Shen follows close behind him.
“I hurt my ankle,” Phoebe sighs.
Jack heaves in a heavy breath, catching your eye from across the bed as his two coworkers approach the foot of it.
“Baby, this is John Shen and Ellis Parker, guys this is—”
“Oh, we know who you are.” Parker grins something a bit too feline for Jack’s liking and you can’t help but laugh.
“I knew who you guys were the moment I saw the Dunkin cup.” Shen nods in what appears to be approval at your words, but as quickly as they give you their attention, it’s quickly given to Pheebs instead.
She’s always been a social butterfly, so it’s not much of a surprise when she begins to introduce herself to them—beaming at the attention and prospect of two new friends. A laugh bubbles out of you when Parker hands her one of the ER stuffies; a little brown bear that’s likely from the dollar store.
Your gaze flits to Jack to gauge his reaction and he tilts his head slightly to the curtain, a silent invitation to step away and talk. You step out silently with Jack and he pulls part of the curtain across to shield you both from prying ears.
“You okay?” His quiet voice asks into the small space between you and it feels like you can finally take a breath.
“Yeah,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. She couldn’t walk on it, it must've just been a bit of shock…she just wanted you.”
Jack shakes his head. “No, don’t apologize. You did the right thing to bring her in, even if just to be safe.”
You hum, leaning against a pillar. “You know, you could’ve insisted that Nurse Dean took a look at her.”
He frowns at that, almost like he’s insulted. “No chance. I asked you to put me down as an emergency contact for a reason. Do you know how worried I was when Lupe paged me that you brought her in? You two could’ve been waiting out in Chairs for hours.”
You know he’s right. That despite Pheebs being young, her problem doesn’t exactly warrant her to be seen over the more critical and emergent cases. But Jack’s shoulders are still tense, and you’re unsure if it’s due to whatever's been bothering him or the fact that he’s coming down from his worry.
You regard him for a few moments, waiting to see if he’ll snap himself out of it. But his eyes slowly dart around triage instead of looking at you. You’ve got a sneaky suspicion that this behavior of his has nothing to do with the chaos of work.
“Jack, did something happen today?” Your question is quiet, voice careful.
It’s enough to have him finally looking at you again, and you can see the war in his eyes as he fights if it’s something he really wants to bring up right here and right now.
His lips are moving before he can think better of it. “She called me Dad.”
You blink, unsure if you’ve heard him correctly. Your neck cranes slightly closer to him, head tilting like you might pick up another whisper of what he’s just said. Your chest suddenly feels very tight.
“What?” You breathe.
He starts to ramble, hands moving animatedly as he explains, “I called her my daughter first. There was this restroom incident, with this—this mom and daughter and it just came out of me, and Pheebs—she—”
“She called you Dad?” Your voice is quiet, cracking slightly as you cut him off.
His shoulders drop, eyes a quiet kind of frantic as they flick between yours, searching for any hint of anger or upset. He finds none. Only a glassy look that passes your iris’ like you're overwhelmed and struggling to process what this means.
“Yeah,” Jack whispers. “Are you…are you okay with that?”
A disbelieving sound escapes you on a breath. “Are you okay with that?”
His head nods in a very small movement, tongue darting out to tug his bottom lip between his teeth. This is not the conversation he wants to be having at the start of his shift in the middle of triage, where his coworkers and subordinates are passing by with curious glances.
Still, he doesn't leave you in the dark.
“Yeah, I am. But I—I told Diva it’s something she should talk to you about first.”
You feel like you could cry and throw up. Anxiety bubbles beneath your skin, unease and concern when you consider what Phoebe’s little mind must look like right now. The mess of her father walking out, the confusion of having Jack so close and her assuming he’s now to be the figure she’s missing.
It’s too much to sit and unpack on the spot. Jack’s made it so clear to you how deeply he cares for Phoebe, that even if things don’t work between the two of you, he’d still fight to be in her life in whatever capacity you’d allow.
But to hear him admit that he referred to Pheebs as his daughter—despite the rushed reasoning he gave—and for her to call him Dad in return…you can feel yourself spiraling down that rabbit hole again. The one that Tom weaved and spun where you’re forced to put your walls up and shut down.
Because if Tom can leave, what’s stopping Jack from one day doing the same?
It’s ridiculous, you know it is. Because the difference between Tom and Jack is that Jack loves Phoebe. He holds her best interest at heart at all times, considers her in every decision he makes and has never once let her down.
It is something you need to speak with Phoebe about first. Something you’re not prepared to brazenly sign off on. You’re not ready for her to call him that.
You swallow as you look at Jack, the patience and understanding in his eyes despite you not saying a word. From the peripheral of your vision, a tall figure approaches; walks past you both before slowly backing up with arms crossing over a broad chest.
You peek a glance when Jack sighs, scratching at his jaw.
“Honey, this is Robby. Robby, this is—”
“The woman that Jack does not stop talking about,” Robby interrupts him, untangling his arms to clasp your hand in a friendly shake. His skin is softer than Jack’s, less firm and calloused.
A laugh slips from your lips when he releases your hand. “It’s nice to meet you and put a face to the name.”
Robby grins, eyes shining as he looks between you and Jack in something you can only describe to be pure happiness for his friend. “I’d say the same but I feel like I’ve known you for years at this point.”
Your laughter grows at the playful tease to Jack, who is too busy staring holes into Robby’s face. It feels like you’ve got a slight whiplash, your mind and emotions all over the place while trying to hold a polite conversation.
“You brought Phoebe in?” Robby asks, voice low as if he likes to keep his conversations private and away from prying ears.
Something you appreciate, if you’re honest.
“Yeah, Jack checked her over. Sprained ankle.” Robby hums at your explanation, arms still across his chest as he cranes his neck to peer past the curtain. “Mind if I say hello?”
“Go for it.”
He offers a warm smile before dipping behind the curtain, the soft rumble of his voice heard through the fabric as he introduces himself to Phoebe. You turn to Jack with a small smirk, still very much overwhelmed but amused enough to break through it for at least a few moments.
“So you talk about me at work, huh?”
“Shut it.” Jack’s eyes roll fondly as he reaches out for your hip in a playful pinch.
But it doesn’t matter how hard you try to push the new information to the back of your head, to wait until later—because you just can’t.
You reach for him, fingers toying with the hem of his scrubs at the same time as him reaching a hand up to brush strands of hair from your face. He can sense the shift in your mood, the concern you’re trying to bury.
“Hey, I know you’re okay with her calling you that, but I—”
“No, it’s okay,” Jack interrupts with a coo and a shake of his head. “I understand. It’s a huge thing, and she’s probably confused now that Tom’s not around.”
Your grip on his scrubs tightens, a deep furrow forming between your brows and Jack hates the look of guilt and unease that’s plastered all over your face.
“I just—I don’t want anything like that rushed, or expected of her.”
“Baby, you do not need to explain. I told you before that I’m happy to be in her life in whatever capacity you’re comfortable with.”
He hates this, hates every fucking moment of you doubting him, of you worrying about Phoebe. It’s all warranted, of course it is. Phoebe’s biological father walks out on her, and then she calls her mom’s boyfriend Dad only two months later.
When Jack looks at it that way, it breaks his heart a little. He’s left wondering if his presence recently has been more confusing than helpful to the kid. He doesn’t bother to remind you that nothing is ever expected from Phoebe, that Jack will take whatever the both of you are kind enough to offer.
Because he knows you know that. That he would never expect or force anything.
You nod with a shaky breath, loosening your hold on his now slightly creased scrubs and doing your best to smooth them out with your fingers. An act that’s futile but still appreciated by Jack nonetheless.
“We can talk about this properly tomorrow, yeah?”
Another nod follows from you as Jack leans down to press his lips to the crown of your head. With a palm on the small of your back, he guides you back behind the curtain to Phoebe, and it’s only then that you realize how full the little partition has grown.
Diva remains lounging on the bed, ankle wrapped in a bandage with squiggles of different colored ink decorating it, as if it’s broken. Shen sits on the swivel chair at her side, talking in a ridiculously high-pitched voice as he pretends the dollar store teddy is drinking his precious coffee. Parker and Robby stand off to the side listening intently to Phoebe’s dramatic recollection of her fall.
And Mateo grins at the scene before him.
Wait.
“Mateo?” He turns at the sound of his name falling from your lips breathlessly, the easy grin dropping into something sober and slightly grave.
Jack does not like the shift in the air, the way you whispered his name like a lost lover, how Diaz now looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost. And then he’s whispering your name back like it’s a sacred prayer, inching closer to get a better look at you.
“What—what are you doing here?”
You want to ask him the same thing, but his scrubs and ID badge say enough. He’s a fucking nurse. The last time you’d seen him was almost ten years ago, when he was as babyfaced as you and unsure what the world had in store for him.
You blink, pointing at Diva. “Pheebs—I, I’m her mom.”
His eyes widen further, doe-like and familiar in the way he was when you were both kids. God, he looks so much like his brother now that he’s older. A stubble and long hair, tan skin and welcoming features. The more you look at him, the more you feel your heart twisting in your chest.
His gaze flicks behind you as he repeats your own words, landing on Jack who is doing nothing to hide his frown and distaste for the exchange.
There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach when he watches Mateo look at you again, something like longing and heartache in his eyes. Jack can’t handle the idea of Diaz being an ex of yours. Just when he thought this day couldn’t make his head spin anymore.
“Wait, you’re the pelvic chick?”
You frown at the odd nickname, and it takes a moment or two for your drowning mind to catch up with what he’s called you and why you’re being referred to as it. You whirl around to Jack with raised brows.
“I’ve got a nickname around here?”
His hand squeezes your hip reassuringly. “You can thank Dr McKay for that one.”
A flurry of snickers and giggles slip from Shen and Parker, a smirk curling at the corners of Robby’s mouth, too. Jack thinks he’s absolutely had enough of today. If he wasn’t overwhelmed enough already, he’s now drowning in unwarranted jealousy and budding a blooming distaste toward Mateo.
“Alright,” Jack calls, clapping his hands. “Don’t you all have patients to see? I think Phoebe would like to go home to bed now.”
“I’m happy to stay!” She pipes up.
Jack points a stern but playful finger in her direction. “It is way past your bedtime, kid. And you are a beautiful distraction to my doctors. Mom’s gonna take you home now.”
Phoebe pouts animatedly about it but knows better than to argue. She instead says goodbye to her three newfound friends and takes a sheet of stickers from Mateo’s hands when he goes to leave.
He does stop short just in front of you when he reaches the curtain. “I can’t believe you’re a mom now. She’s a cool kid. And you look great.”
You smile tearfully, a watery chuckle slipping past your mouth as your head tilts. “Yeah, you too.”
Mateo chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never reached out after—”
“Don’t,” you interrupt with a shake of your head. “I didn’t reach out either. It’s not on you. Your parents were just—”
“Yeah, I know.” The sadness in his voice hurts more than you’d like to admit. After nine years, you thought you’d moved on from what happened. But seeing Mateo now, after all this time…you can’t help but wonder if it’s breaking him as much as it is you.
“We uh, we should grab a coffee sometime.”
The frown of your mouth curls up into a trembling smile and you can feel your eyes stinging with salty tears. “Yeah,” your voice cracks when you speak. “I’d really like that, Teo.”
Jack watches the interaction with a tightness in his throat and chest. Barely registers what Phoebe is saying to him as she plasters stickers all over his scrubs and arms. He can’t tear his eyes away from you, can’t stop his mind from starting the cycle of self-sabotage.
Despite it all, despite the concern and worry and doubt and insecurity, when you approach with tearful eyes and pursed lips, he still reaches out to comfort you.
“Look, Mommy! I can move it again.” Phoebe calls to you despite there being barely any distance, lifts her leg to move her ankle in the air.
You plaster on your most encouraging smile, toying with the keys in your hands. Jack notices the nervous fiddling, the anxiety that’s sitting heavy on your shoulders and the way you’re starting to drown in your own head.
He brushes Phoebe’s hair from her face and keeps his tone soft and quiet. “You can go home with Mommy now, and I’ll see you after school tomorrow, okay?”
“M’kay.” You watch as Phoebe nods, when she dips her chin in silent request of a kiss that Jack happily pressed to her head.
He helps her stand on the bed where she then opens her arms wide to be carried by you. Bare feet and one bandanged ankle swing by your thighs when you hold her and return to Jack with tired eyes.
Despite the foreign feelings brewing in the pit of Jack’s stomach, he still moves closer to press his mouth against yours, to squeeze your waist and kiss you one more time.
“Text me when you get home.”
You agree to the request with a hum, when a Nurse Dean pops her head into the curtain and offers to escort you out. Jack follows you out of the partition and the moment you begin to walk away, Phoebe waves at him as she looks over your shoulder.
“Love ya, Jack!”
He beams at the way she shouts across the space, like she’s desperate for her message to reach his ears.
“Love ya, Diva!” He calls back just as you both reach the door. When you cast one last glance back at him, Jack offers a dip of his chin and a wink, basking in the way that his stomach leaps when you grin back at him until you’re both out of sight.
He feels Robby’s presence shift behind him, a looming frame filled with questions and silent observations. He watches with Jack as you disappear back into Chairs to go home.
“You told her yet?” Robby asks, the words drifting from his mouth and into Jack’s ear.
His gaze is still focussed on the door. “Told her what?”
“That you’re in love with her.”
Robby’s observation echoes in Jack’s mind. Worms its way into every memory and thought he cherishes of you, of Phoebe. There’s no longer that all-consuming sensation of guilt when he thinks about it now, there hasn’t been for a little while.
At first, it was something Jack didn’t want to acknowledge. Wasn't ready to acknowledge. But somewhere along the past nine months, he’s stopped holding onto his need and love for structure and routine. He’s found himself basking in the chaos of love, the spontaneity and freedom of it if you look in the right places.
He’s found his home to be nothing but a shell of one. A blank canvas that was posed as a fresh start six years ago. One that he never broke in with memories and laughter, where he never scuffed up the floors or chipped the paint off the walls.
Somewhere along the past nine months, the weight of his wife no longer haunts him like a bad dream. She rests in his heart, deep and protected in her place of permanent residence. But the space she occupies no longer spans across the entirety of him.
She’s made room for you, for Phoebe. Allowed her space to be taken by a love that breathes, not one that haunts. It happened slowly, organically. Like this is the way it was always supposed to be.
Jack swallows around the realization.
“No, not yet.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You barely slept all night.
Whether it was tossing and turning because of the events of yesterday, or Phoebe waking you up every hour because she swears her foot is about to fall out, you barely got any sleep.
FaceTiming Jack at three in the morning instead when Pheebs sobbed because she was adamant she needed to go back to see him at the hospital. Sitting on her bedroom floor and reading stories until she fell asleep, only to wake up again forty-five minutes later.
The pair of you were like zombies when you left for the school run this morning. Hair not up to its usual standards and outfits more than a little skewiff. By the time you got back to the apartment, you were swooped up into Zoom meetings with your editors and publishers, the deadline pushing closer for the final installment.
Jack didn’t get back until noon, after finishing his shift and meeting with his SWAT buddies to let them know he was officially stepping away. The two of you have been like passing ships all day. When he got home, you were leaving to do a grocery run. When you got back, he was fast asleep. When Jack woke up, you were already picking Phoebe up from school.
It wasn't until you returned home that he finally scooped you into his arms and peppered your face with kisses. Phoebe’s laughter at the attack had echoed through the apartment and bounced off the walls when Jack lunged for her and blew an onslaught of raspberries onto her stomach.
The three of you cooked dinner together, ate and spoke about your days. Phoebe did most of the talking, like usual. And Jack cleaned the kitchen when you bathed her an hour later. You don’t get a chance to speak throughout it, attention occupied by Diva until she’s requesting that Jack puts her to bed with a very specific rendition of Paranoid by Black Sabbath as her lullaby.
She does let you squeeze her in your arms, pepper kisses to the top of her head as you bid her a goodnight. But as quickly as she crashes into your arms, she’s wiggling out of them in search of her new bedtime companion, Sally.
“Alright, slugger. Let’s get you to bed.” Jack calls out to her, pressing a kiss to your cheek before following Phoebe on his crutches.
The heaviness in your chest hasn’t disappeared. It’s eased just enough to feel like you can breathe this evening, but even Jack’s presence alone isn’t enough to completely keep it at bay. You’re overly aware that you both need to have a big conversation about yesterday and you’re not quite prepared for it.
Feeling hot beneath your skin at the thought, you grab two glasses and a bottle of wine from the fridge that you carry in two hands out to the balcony. The evening air is crisper than it was through the day, a slight breeze that does little to cool your skin but enough to help the rise and fall of your chest.
The sun is starting to set, long summer nights falling behind you as the sky is painted in something beautifully golden. Hints of pinks and oranges peek beneath the clouds, a promise of sunshine for the morning and a sleep full of sweet dreams.
You fill both the glasses halfway as you sit on the rattan couch, a crocheted blanket draping across your lap as you take a sip. Only a moment for you to try and gain your bearings, to sort through the whirlwind that has been the last two days.
You’ve drained half your glass of wine by the time Jack finds you, an easy but tired grin stretching on the corners of his mouth when he pops his head out into the balcony. His brows raise playfully when he clocks the almost empty glass in your hand and the freshly poured one on the small table.
He doesn’t say anything as he joins you, a little too caught up in his head. The last time he drank out on the balcony with you was when it all started. The night of Diva’s birthday party. The night he first kissed you and felt his soul slowly beginning to tangle with yours.
“She settled okay?” He hums as he comes closer, resting the crutches against the wall and sitting beside you with a tired sigh.
“Out like a light.” Jack pinches the blanket, drapes some of it across his thighs. He reaches for his wine but doesn’t drink it. Holds it in his lap while his other arm lifts to rest against the back of the seat; fingers gently tracing the skin of your shoulder.
He feels the heaviness, too. The plethora of topics that need to be addressed, discussed. It’s because of that, that he finally takes a long gulp of his wine before turning to admire you.
“So…Kirsty, huh?”
A non-committal hum escapes you, eyes far off in the distance but when Jack follows your line of sight, he sees your gaze is settled on his balcony across the way.
“She okay?”
A loaded question, really. One that takes you a moment to consider and answer. “No, he’s really done a number on her.”
Jack swallows, doesn’t like the hollowness of your voice. Like your reminiscing on your own experience with Tom. He squeezes your shoulder.
“What happened?” He only heard snippets when Kirsty had shown up unannounced. Jack was a little preoccupied with hiding a raging boner, getting dressed and reattaching his prosthetic. By the time he did join you both in the kitchen, he put himself to good use by making tea.
He didn’t want to make Kirsty uncomfortable.
Jack feels you shrug beneath his palm. “His usual shit.”
It’s not something you want to get into. Not yesterday in a quick explanation, and not now when you have the time. Mostly because it’s not your story to share, but also because it’s the same things that Tom put you through. The lies, the abuse, the manipulation.
You got out of the woods. You escaped the claws he had in your mind and you’re free now. Happy. Your mind is no longer held in a prison. It’s watered and cherished, cared for and set free to bloom.
“He’s really gone, though,” you find yourself clarifying anyway. “She said he’s been given a house and position at some finance company in Dubai. Living his dream.”
Jack scoffs, wine sloshing in the glass on his lap from the movement of his body. “Yeah, well…he made his bed, now he can lie in it.”
That heavy silence settles over you both again as you gaze out across the sunset. It’s lowering more with every passing minute, darkness slowly creeping over the tops of the sky. You don’t want to spend the evening tiptoeing around things that need to be discussed. Jack’s got four nights off now and you’re not willing to start them off with anything unsaid.
“So, we’ve debriefed about Kirsty. Next up…you’re leaving SWAT?”
Jack heaves a heavy sigh and rolls his head in a lull of a nod. “Met them this morning after my shift. Told ‘em it’s not for me anymore.”
You frown at him, his gaze locked on the stem of the wine glass pinched between his fingers.
“Why? I thought you enjoyed it?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“What changed?”
He turns to you then, eyes slightly glassy and lips scrunched slightly to the side. It’s an expression you’ve learnt that usually means he’s trying to suppress his emotions, or at least keep the full extent of them off his face.
“I didn’t have anyone waiting for me at home when I joined SWAT. We both know what it’s like to lose a partner. I’m not prepared to put you through that again, to put Pheebs through that.”
His gentle explanation—like it’s the most simplest decision in the world—almost crushes your chest. Your lungs seize at the consideration, at the pure reverence in his tone. You don’t mean to, but your fingers instinctively move to your chest, to reach for the chain you haven’t worn for months and months now.
The one that sits in a box in your nightstand. Like Jack’s sits in a box in his.
The fact that you and Phoebe continue to make such a profound effect on him, the way that he so loudly respects and considers you both…how he so happily changes his lifestyle to fit healthily around you both…
“Jack, that’s a big decision to make.”
“No, it’s not.” It’s not an argument, he counters you like it’s a fact. Unbothered and undeterred in his decision. “Besides, Robby’s been trying to get me to quit that shit for years.”
An unintentional laugh barks through you at that, the thought of his dear friend chiding him for such a reckless hobby—which, if you’re honest, you’d have to agree with. Despite how sexy the uniform is…how much fun you’ve had with it in the past.
You haven’t been able to stop thinking about Robby since you met him last night. Kind eyes, teasing lilt to his deep voice. Secure, competent. Attractive, if you’re allowed to think as much.
“Robby’s single, right?”
Jack’s brows raise comically high at the sudden question. He’s a bit ashamed to admit the wall of jealousy and discontent that slams into him, the way his shoulders stiffen. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you’ve written threesome stories with that very vivid imagination of yours…Jack can’t help but silently begin to panic that you’re about to ask for Robby to be a third.
“Why?” He asks carefully, voice tight and deep.
You shrug, take a long sip of your wine. “He’s responsible, older…I think he and Bella would look pretty good together.”
Jack blinks at you for a moment, lungs seizing as he finally releases an exasperated exhale. Relief slams into him like a freight train and he’s met with the embarrassing realization that he desperately needs to get his emotions in check.
First he’s ready to blow a gasket over your far too friendly interactions with Mateo, and now he’s here fretting over the possibility of you wanting Robby?
Jesus fucking Christ, Jack. Get a grip!
“You wanna set up Robby and Bella?” He busies his hands with topping up both of your glasses as he asks the question, his newfound and deeprooted insecurity needing a bit of reassurance. “Do you forget how mentally unstable Robby is?”
You frown. “I thought you said he was better after his sabbatical?"
“Well, yeah, but he’s not magically cured, baby.”
You take the wine from him with a hum, peering up at him over the rim of the glass when you take a sip. That heaviness between you both has slowly started to ease into something more comfortable, more familiar. And the glint in your eye promises Jack is about to have his ass handed to him.
“Your team is nice. They seem to know a lot about me.”
“Yeah. You seem to know a lot about Mateo.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jack! What the fuck is wrong with you!?
His eyes widen at his own retort, shoulders stiffen at the sight of your entire body freezing for a split second. Panic surges through him, and Jack feels sick to his fucking stomach for saying something so stupid in such an accusing tone.
Dread curdles in the pit of his stomach when your lashes flutter droopily, when you lean over to place your drink back on the table. When you turn back to him, Jack gets the sense that he has royally fucked up.
“I was engaged to Mateo’s brother.”
The admittance slips past your lips in a quiet confession, one that’s laced with dormant pain and an ache that time will never quite heal completely. Jack blinks at you, heart in his throat and he’s never fucking hated himself as much as he does in this moment.
“My mom used to call us the three musketeers. Anywhere we went, Mateo always tagged along with us. The night that Sammy… the night of the accident, I had taken Teo to the theatre, some new Avengers movie that had come out…”
“Baby, you don’t have to do this,” Jack’s voice is wrecked when he reaches for your hand. You grip his fingers, knuckles turning white but you ignore him and continue anyway.
“Sammy was supposed to meet us there—” Your voice breaks as tears begin to slip past your eyes. Years since it happened and whenever you think about it, it feels like it was only yesterday.
It’s killing Jack to listen, to watch. To see the pain in your eyes and the hurt in your voice. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should never have fed into those stupid thoughts, should have never said anything about it.
“We called him, Teo was telling him to hurry up, that he’d be so mad if he missed a single second of the movie. Sammy was speeding…we—fuck, we heard the car ram into a pole—”
Jack catches you before you can collapse into him. Coddles you straight into his chest as he wraps himself around you in the only way he can think to protect you right now. Your body shakes as sobs tear through you, tears soaking into his shirt while his own slip past bloodshot eyes.
He holds you like that until the cries soften to sniffles. Until you’re able to pull away and keep yourself up right. But the pain is still there, still so fresh and prominent in the very centre of your chest.
“His parents blamed me. Said I got him killed. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, wasn’t allowed to see Mateo anymore. I never got to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Baby, I shouldn’t have assumed, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No,” you cut him off with a sniffle. “No, it’s okay. I get it. And you deserve to know about him—about Sammy.”
He just wants to hold you close again, to tuck you under his skin to shield you away from everything horrible in this world. Jack reaches for you, a tender hand caressing your jaw as his thumb smoothes away the remnants of silver tears.
He dips his head to meet your gaze. “If he could see you now. See the brilliant woman you’ve become, the incredible mother that you are…”
“You always say this,” you interrupt through a sniffled laugh.
“Because it’s true. My mom walked out on me when I was a kid, left my dad to raise me alone. You are everything to Phoebe that I wish my mother had been to me. And Sammy…he would be so proud of you, if he could see you now.”
You stare at him through bleary vision, unable to steady the ache in your sternum at the mention of Jack’s mother. The only time he’s ever mentioned her. You find yourself nuzzling into his palm, seeking out his comfort and offering yours in return.
“Mary would be proud of you, too.”
Jack blinks, eyes reddening as his lips roll into a thin line. It’s not heavy with guilt like before. Not haunted by pain, but like he’s accepting the fact as a truth.
“Yeah, she would.” He sniffles.
There’s a moment of pure clarity that seems to wash over Jack, like the final weight of something unspoken has been shifted off his shoulders. He can’t seem to take his eyes off yours, can’t help but be whisked away by your soul.
He has never found someone so beautiful before. Every part of you, every imperfection that makes you you. It feels like his heart has burst open in his chest, given way to a field of fresh grass and blooming tulips as this thing begins to glow from the inside out.
He can't hold it in anymore.
“I need to tell you something.” Jack whispers.
“When I lost my wife, when there was nothing else we could do and she passed…I never thought I would find happiness again, never find love. But you—you and Phoebe…you’ve changed me. I’m not the same man I was when we first met. You’ve reminded me of what it feels like to live, to love. And I know that neither of us expected this, that Phoebe calling me Dad is never something we anticipated but…”
“But what?” You’re breathless, bottom lip trembling and fresh silver lines your eyes again. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, can feel that familiar tingle in your fingertips as your gaze desperately searches his.
“Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you, the way I feel about Diva. And I know—I know—I’m not her dad, but she’s become my daughter.”
“Jack…” Your voice is unsteady and you can’t catch your breath.
He rests his forehead against yours, both hands cupping your face now and wiping the tears as quickly as they fall. You’re not given a moment to comprehend his words, to filter through them. The tip of his nose traces the slope of yours when he speaks again.
“I am so, irrevocably in love with you—it’s not even…it’s not funny—why are you laughing?”
But Jack’s laughing, too. Watery and broken as your hands come up to wrap around his wrists, as you blubber and press your tear-soaked lips to his.
Months of uncertainty and pain and guilt and anguish have led up to this. Trials and tribulations, hurdles and heartache. All of it has led to this right now. To Jack’s heart calling out to yours.
“Because I'm happy! Because I'm in love with you, too.”
“Yeah?” His voice cracks, chasing your mouth to kiss you again when another bubble of laughter tumbles from the back of your throat.
While you’re both caught up in one another, in the happiness and love and devotion that’s finally flourishing so freely on the balcony of apartment seventeen, further into the home is where Phoebe sneaks awake.
Her feet are kicked up behind her, belly to the ground with pieces of paper with practiced letters and colored pens scattered around her. In one hand is a black sharpie, the other her bright pink diamonte purse.
And just beside her sits Jack’s SWAT card that she pinched from his wallet five days ago. For the last few nights, she’s been practicing in sneaky sessions, feigning sleep until either of you leave the room so she can continue her mission at hand.
Days of messy handwriting, backward lettering and something just not looking quite right. But tonight is the night. No more trials, no more fresh sheets of paper.
She grins at Sally, who pads over on tubby paws and nuzzles into the crook of Diva’s neck, the whiskers tickling her skin and she struggles to keep her giggles at bay.
And it’s like the furry friend understands the significance of this moment. Because when Phoebe looks down at her work on the wallet, Sally does, too.
PROPERTY OF DIVA PHOEBE Y/L/N ABBOT
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You have officially reached the very end of Apartment Seventeen. I am feeling a lot of emotions right now tbh, this story is one of my favourite things I've ever written and I am truly so incredibly sad to see it end. I cannot thank you all enough for the overwhelming amount of love and feedback and support you guys have shown me and this series, it truly means so so much!!
I do have plans to check in on them again in the future, along with a potential big bonus chapter later down the line, too. But in the mean time, I am excited to start some new projects and I hope you'll stick around to see them too!!
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot was a creature of habit. Structure and routine were infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough. But that was before he met you and Phoebe. Before he fell hopelessly and irrevocably in love with the chaotic girls in apartment seventeen.
WARNINGS: lots to get through; mentions of Tom x Kirsty and abusive and narcissistic tendencies, Phoebe feeling confused and lost in her head and heart, Jack being promoted to Uncle Jack, heavy discussion of readers late fiance and Jack's late wife, talks about parent abandonment, disgusting fluff, minor child injury, inaccurate medical terminology (lol), the pitt teasing Jack, swearing, flirting, kissing, mentions of smut, this is truly quite angsty so may I recommend having some tissues for the final part, just in case.
A/N: I would just like to take a moment to thank every single one of my lovely readers for giving this story a chance and sticking with it to the very end. I am so incredibly sad that this series is now complete and I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support you've given me and this story!! There is a lot to unpack in this final chapter, a very big deep conversation that may make you feel some type of way so just be prepared! I also highly recommend listening to Wait by M83 on repeat when you get to the balcony scene!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 13.4k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
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Maybe Jack is a little out of his element, but he tries not to let it show.
Tries to ignore the blatant ogling of moms on the playground and the whispered names of yours and his that pass through gossiping lips.
Jack reminds himself that this was his idea, that you didn’t exactly force school pick up upon him. Still, this feels entirely more daunting than a shift at PTMC, which he really needs to be getting ready for soon.
It isn’t the first time he’s offered to pick Pheebs up from her school, but it is the first time he’s done it alone.
Over the past two months, his presence at the school doors has become much more consistent. In the mornings—if he hasn’t just got back from a night shift—Jack will join you for drop-off before taking you out for breakfast and coffee. And in the afternoons, no matter if Jack has work in a few hours or not, he’s made a habit of joining you on pick-up, too.
The addition of his presence in both the playground and Phoebe’s life has been profoundly noticed by everyone. So much so, that his name has been added to Pheebs’ authorized pick-up list and he’s been invited to speak with her class about what it’s like to be a doctor next Tuesday.
The doors to Phoebe’s class open before Jack can be subjected to any unwarranted approaches, and it barely takes a moment for him to spot Pheebs in the line of kids. It takes her even less time to spot him, to tug on Ms. Melia’s hand and point to where he stands.
He offers a small wave and Ms. Melia doesn’t wait to send Pheebs off to him.
She races over faster than he’s ever seen her move, riddled with unkept excitement and rambling at the speed of light about her day. She mentions about twelve times that she’s sad Florence was sick and couldn't come in before he even gets her to the car.
It’s only when Pheebs is strapped into her seat and Jack’s phone is connecting to the CarPlay that she seems to realize that she’s missing a parent, and her recap of the day's events comes to a halt.
“Where’s Mommy?” Jack’s gaze meets hers through the rearview mirror.
It was entirely unexpected when Kirsty had arrived at your apartment just an hour before Pheebs was due to be picked up from school. You and Jack were in the middle of some very exciting bedroom activities when the persistent ringing of your doorbell cut through the moment, and you found Kirsty sobbing at your front door.
How she found your address, neither of you are quite sure. But you ushered her inside with a steaming mug of tea and listened when she sobbed and poured her heart out about Tom and the irrevocable damage he’s done to her mental and emotional health.
Ten minutes before pick-up time, she was still crying on the couch and Jack did not have the heart to interrupt her. He also did not have the stomach to sit and listen to all the cruel things Tom has said and done to the young woman. It hit too close to home, made him wonder if they’re the same things he said and did to you.
So Jack had kissed your temple and told you he’d pick Pheebs up when you went into the kitchen to refill her tea. You didn’t argue with the offer. Just kissed him fiercely and promised to pick up where you left off when he’s back from work in the morning.
He turns in his seat to get a look at her in the back. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed and ominous stains on the front of her shirt that you always somehow manage to get out.
“Mommy was needed for something super important, so I thought I’d pick you up. That okay?”
She nods with a grin. “Can we get ice cream?”
Jack’s smile mirrors hers, something cheeky and mischievous. “Can we get ice cream? We can get burgers and then bring ice cream home for Mom after.”
Her excited squeal is music to his ears when he turns forward in his seat and brings up your contact in his text messages.
Jack: Acquired the goods, taking her for early dinner. How’s Kirsty?
You: not good, tom tends to have that affect on women… she said he up and left last week for dubai after promising he would take her with him. shock.
You: i’ll call you when she's gone
Jack: Don’t rush, I can always take Diva back to mine to grab Sally and we’ll bring you back ice cream and burgers
You: you’re getting the sloppiest head tomorrow morning
Jack: Yeah? I’m holding you to that
You: ;)
Jack: ❤️ u gorgeous girl
You: ❤️ u baby
Jack locks his phone with a grin and stuffs it into the cup holder, pulling out of the parking lot and following the route from his mind to the best burger joint in the city.
He sings along with Phoebe to whatever songs she allows him to listen to. Keeps his mouth shut when she screams Hey Siri, skip! to the CarPlay when she gets sick of something that comes on.
He does well at keeping his focus on the road and not the final texts you shared. The only time that sentiment has been communicated between the two of you, but it’s still become almost an every day occurrence as of recently.
Much like Jack’s presence at your apartment. It’s rare he’s ever at his own place for more than two nights in a row. And somewhere four weeks ago, Sally had made the move, too. A shared sort of custody, if it can be considered as that.
She’s at your apartment more than she’s at Jack’s. Taken it upon herself to snuggle at the foot of Phoebe’s bed every night. It’s a fight Jack’s glad he gave up on, when you were persistent about having the cat so she wasn’t alone when he worked.
The reasoning of Sally pissing everywhere was weak, and still something you like to rub in his face, seeing as she’s only piddled twice in the last four weeks.
She’s also become your writing companion, often purring away beside your laptop when Jack’s sleeping and Pheebs is at school while you wrap up the final installment of your trilogy. Something that Jack is incredibly proud of you for.
Your literal blood, sweat and tears have gone into this final book. Sleepless nights and mental breakdowns where you’ve reconsidered every choice you’ve ever made for your career. It doesn’t help that you’ve been so on edge since Tom walked out at Phoebe’s field day, like you’re just waiting for him to try and pop back into Diva’s life.
Jack hasn’t exactly been much better.
He’s tried his hardest to support you in the ways that he can. Staying consistent with the both of you, taking Pheebs out to the park or for food, helping her rearrange her bedroom just so you have some peace to write when inspiration does strike.
He’s cooked and cleaned, taken Phoebe to bed almost every night for the past six weeks. He’s practically moved into your apartment without fully taking that step. Half of his clothes have made their way into your empty drawers and a spare key to your place has wound its way around his keychain.
And over the past month, his usual strict routine has been completely thrown out the window. Night shifts have remained the same, but Jack now only goes to the gym whenever he can squeeze an hour in. His shifts with SWAT have slowly been dwindling, but it’s not something he’s mad about.
For almost three months now, Jack’s been purposely picking up less shifts with the team. Partly because his time has been better placed with you and Pheebs, but mostly because he no longer feels like there’s a void that needs to be filled with adrenaline and near-misses.
Neither of you have really sat back and considered how and when these changes started to occur. How that key ended up on Jack’s chain, why it feels so natural to eat every meal as a family, how dates are no longer squeezed into your schedules but slot seamlessly into everyday life.
How you can sleep just fine when Jack’s working a night shift, but can’t sleep at all if he’s staying at his own apartment. How even Phoebe can tell the difference between it, too.
Jack’s grown used to spending his night shift sharing texts and random ninety second FaceTime calls with you. He’ll tell you the craziest patient of the night and you’ll share a snippet of a scene you’ve written (which is usually smut and him promising to try it out with you in the morning).
Everything between you has intensified and blossomed into the most domestic, honest and real thing he’s ever experienced. Nothing feels rushed or forced, nothing feels out of place or uneasy. And it’s the first time in Jack’s life that he hasn’t felt like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
The only non-issue that has been on his mind is Tom.
Though, he is something that David has been very vocal about on the odd occasion he and Jack have seen one another one-on-one, and it’s been reassuring to see just how frustrated it makes your father. It hasn’t been nice to see the stress it’s caused you, though.
Neither of you realized how much things needed to change. From removing Tom from Pheebs’ pick up list to removing him as her emergency contact (where Jack offered to be put as the replacement because “baby, if they see a doctor on there, she’ll take priority of anything ever happens,”), and all the paperwork in between, it’s been a lot.
“Jack, I need to pee.” Phoebe’s strained voice from the backseat brings him back to the present and Jack casts a glance at her through the rearview mirror.
“We’re almost there, slugger. Can you hold it for five minutes?”
She’s shaking her head quickly, face pink and lips curled in, knees bouncing in her child seat as she stuffs her hands between her legs. “I really gotta go!”
Jack feels the internal panic begin to sneak up on him. He’s dealt with tearful falls and tumbles, scraped knees and an almost broken leg when it’s been just the two of them. But Phoebe potentially peeing her pants is not something he’s prepared for.
He has no spare clothes for her, she’s too big for a potty to be kept in the back of the car…it only really leaves one other option as he pulls up a dirt trail, out of the way of the road.
Jack turns to her, keeps the engine on and finds himself mirroring her expression.
“Honey, if you can’t hold it…you’re gonna have to pee in a bush.”
Her eyes widen, lips part. The shaking of her head becomes quicker. “I’m not peeing in a bush, there’s spiders in there!”
Jack blinks at Phoebe, rolling his lips between his teeth as he sighs. “I promise the spiders won’t go anywhere near you.”
She shakes her head again, lifting her chin. “I can hold it, I’ll hold it.”
“Are you sure?”
Her head continues to bob. “Come on!”
He doesn’t argue at her desperate shout of a plea. And he just hopes she doesn’t tell you that he sped a little too fast to get her to the burger joint before she saturated the carseat.
Phoebe has unbuckled herself before Jack even kills the engine, and the moment he rounds the car and opens her door, she’s jumping out of the vehicle and running with quick, desperate steps to the diner’s entrance.
Jack barely manages to lock the car and catch up with her in time, holding open the women’s restroom and sighing in relief when he finds it empty. Phoebe shoves him against the basin as she rushes into a cubicle—kicking the door closed, but not locking it—and a dramatic sigh of relief sounds from her when she finally relieves herself.
Jack struggles to hide his amusement, takes a moment to check his phone for any more texts from you. There are none, but he still admires the lockscreen photo of the three of you at your parents barbeque last weekend.
The door to the restroom swings open, soft footsteps halting as Jack looks up from his screen to come face-to-face with a cautious woman and child. His fingers immediately point to the stool that Phoebe’s occupying.
“My daughter…I didn’t wanna take her into the mens.”
My daughter? Jack’s heart lurches when he catches what he’s said, when he realizes that Phoebe is only six feet away with half a door separating them.
“Okay, I’m done, Dad!” She calls out as Jack pockets his phone and swallows down his heart.
The woman watches with a gentle smile, one much more relaxed as she ushers her own child into a stool and Jack has to take a moment to try and regulate his breathing.
Phoebe just fucking called him Dad.
“Good job, kid. Do you need help with your pants?” His voice is more wrecked than he anticipated when he lowly calls back to her, when he blinks back tears that brim in his eyes and struggles to breathe through the tightening of his throat.
“I’m four, not stupid!” Oh, right. Of course. Because she didn’t get the hump three days ago when she couldn't button up her jeans and Jack had to spend fifteen minutes showing her again how to do the zipper and button.
Her snarky remark gets a huff of laughter from the cubicle beside Phoebe’s but Jack can’t seem to reign himself in. His head is spiralling in worry for how you’ll react when he tells you what’s happened, his heart is bursting at the fact that Pheebs has likely only said that because he called her his daughter first.
“Watch that attitude of yours, young lady.” His tone holds no authority or threat. The words come out too breathlessly, like he’s struggling to fill his lungs deep enough.
But he’s the picture of composure when Phoebe flushes the toilet and swings open the door to reach for the sink. It’s second nature for Jack to lift her beneath her armpits so she can reach; lathering her hands and fingers in soap and muttering a song under her breath.
He lets Phoebe take the lead and guide him out of the restroom and toward a table by the front of the diner. Allows her to be the one to order for them both when the waitress comes over, only chiming in to add another burger onto the order that he can bring home for you.
Phoebe watches Jack through it all, notices how he begins to grow quiet and puts his attention into the cartoon sheet they’re coloring together. It makes her tummy tilt, makes worry begin to bubble in a feeling that usually causes her to seek him and you out for comfort.
“Jack?” Her voice is small, much smaller than he’s ever heard and his head snaps up to look at her. She chews on her inner cheek, head tilted as she averts her gaze to the pink crayon she holds. “Are you upset at me?”
Jack’s brows pinch together tightly, his chest aching as it tightens. “No, Diva. Why would I be upset with you?” His tone is gentle, soft. But his heart is cracking that she could ever think he’d ever feel anything but happiness and exhaustion when he’s with her.
“Because I called you Dad,” she whispers, still not daring to look at him.
Jack’s movements still, gently dropping the crayon and reaching out to poke at her hand to grab her attention. He swallows down the lump in his throat, silently scolds himself for getting too caught in his head over it that he’s caused this timid, quiet version of Phoebe to arise.
“Kid, you could never upset me. Especially not by calling me that. It just…suprised me.”
She frowns. “You called me your daughter first.”
Jack swallows. Is that what this is? Has she just been waiting to feel like it’s okay to call him Dad? Like she’s been holding out for some form of permission? How long has this new title been brewing? How long has she been stopping it from slipping?
Jack feels like he might pass out.
“I—yeah, I guess—I guess I did.”
A silence sits between them. Not awkward, but…heavy. They’re both aware of the weight of it, of the titles they’ve called one another. Uncharted territory for both parties, neither knowing what’s quite acceptable without you being present.
He can tell she wants to say more but he doesn’t push. If there’s one thing about parenting that Jack has learnt from you, it’s to create a safe space where Diva feels comfortable enough to come to you when she’s ready.
She doesn't say anything else while waiting for the burgers, doesn’t say anything when she begins to eat. It’s only after Jack asks her to say cheese at the camera so he can send a photo of her to you, and when she steals the phone to take a photo of him, that she finally finds her voice on the topic again.
“Would I be…allowed…to call you that, sometimes?”
Her voice is so quiet and meek, Jack almost has to ask her to repeat it. It takes a few moments for the request to fully register, to understand if he’s heard her correctly.
Because Phoebe is an incredibly intelligent kid. She’s far too aware of her surroundings and people’s intentions. It’s not been lost on you and Jack how in the past two months, she’s only asked about Tom twice. Both times were if she would be seeing him again.
You didn’t lie to Phoebe, you never do. You told her simply that no, she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Pheebs never asked for an explanation so you never gave one. She took the answer and left it at that, like the child was content with that being all.
But Jack knows that Phoebe knows the significance of calling someone Dad. To begin with, she no longer wanted to refer to Tom as that. And now, she’s asking for permission to give Jack that label instead, trying to soften the blow by proposing it to be just occasionally.
“Pheebs,” he calls her name softly. “I am honored that you want to call me that. You can call me whatever you want to call me…but I think it’s something you should talk to Mommy about first.”
“Yeah, okay.” She sighs, stuffing a mouthful of fries into her mouth and chomping down like having to speak to you about it is an inconvenience to her.
At least she still has an appetite, Jack’s completely lost his. He can feel his mind spiralling into every direction, trying to figure out where he’s overstepped recently for her to want to call him Dad, but he falls short.
Because it’s all been so natural and felt so right. You’ve had no issue with Jack taking Pheebs to bed almost every night at her request. You’ve had no problem with holding hands or cuddling each other in her presence. You’ve included him in every family event like it’s a given that he should be there.
That he is a part of you and Pheebs.
Jack’s phone vibrates from beside him on the table, the scream lighting up with smiling faces and your contact with a text preview.
You: god i love those beautiful faces!!
You: kirsty has left so hurry up and come home, someone else has come to see us
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
During the short drive home, Jack and Phoebe played a guessing game of who might be waiting at the apartment for them. Of course, not the best idea to play with a four-year-old. She’s somehow convinced herself that both Harry Styles and Peter Parker are waiting for her in her bedroom.
But when they do manage to make it inside the apartment, Phoebe tripping over her feet to get to her room and Jack struggling to hold all the leftover boxes and Phoebe’s bookbag, they stop short with wide eyes.
Karis sits on the couch beside Ricky, glowing and grinning and looking absolutely exhausted. But Jack cannot take his eyes away from you.
Slightly bent over with your hands tucking beneath small arms, cooing with watering eyes as you lift their little baby boy out of the carseat and into your arms. The newborn scrunch and the sight of you holding a baby short-circuits Jack’s brain and he thinks he’s having the most overwhelming day of his life.
“Baby Jude!” Phoebe gushes in excitement, slowly easing closer like he’s a frightened little mouse.
Karis scoops her up and peppers kisses across her cheeks and head as Jack gently closes the door behind him and places the styrofoam boxes on the coffee table when he inches closer.
It takes effort to drag his gaze off you and meet the eyes of your friends. He leans down to offer a warm hug to Karis, a kiss to her cheek and a shake of Ricky’s hand as he congratulates them.
You and Jack have FaceTimed them at least once a week for the past two months since Jude was born, when complications had arisen and they were stuck in the hospital for six weeks after his birth. But now they’re here, in your apartment and you’re snuggling that baby like you don’t plan on giving him back.
Jack’s heart fucking aches.
“He still has that newborn baby smell.” You whisper tearfully, inhaling the smell that reminds you of when Diva was just a little bubba and didn’t answer back to everything you said.
She beams up at you, shoulders raised and hands clasped together by her mouth. She looks like an excited old granny and you can’t deny giving her cuddles with her baby cousin. Karis settles Pheebs on the couch between her and Ricky, watches as you coo at Jude before leaning down to gently place him in her lap.
Jack’s by your side when you pull away to stand straight, and your vision is immediately distorted. Phoebe is so gentle with him, eyes wide and sparkling at the little life in her hands as she strokes the slope of his nose.
It’s a heartbreaking glimpse of what she could be like with her own sibling, with yours and Jack’s baby. A sobering thought that you catch yourself on, but you don’t for a single second tell yourself it’s wrong to imagine.
“She’s so gentle with him.” His low voice is comforting in your ear, a hand on your lower back and a kiss to your temple as a late greeting.
You hum, sink slightly into his side as you both watch her giggle when Jude begins to stretch and fuss. It’s ridiculous to feel so emotional over something as little as her holding a baby. But you find yourself sniffling and blinking back tears, anyway.
Jack’s just better at hiding it when he feels his eyes begin to sting. Not just at the sight of Pheebs, but at the memory of you holding Jude that’s now ingrained to the very wrinkles of his brain. Is that what you looked like when Phoebe was a baby? Only more fresh-eyed and inexperienced?
He’s not sure what it is other than something primal and overwhelming, has him conjuring up what you’d look like with a swollen belly again.
“Mommy, I need to pee.” Phoebe whispers, cautious not to wake the sleeping baby in her lap.
Ricky gently takes him from her and she waits until her lap is clear and Jude is secure in his father’s hold until she hops down from the couch and makes her way to the bathroom.
“You gonna have a hold, Uncle Jack?”
He blinks at Karis’ words, a little stunned at the honorable title he’s unsure he’s worthy of. But he nods, untangles his arm from around you and Ricky stands to reach across the distance and hands his baby boy over.
Jack has held many babies throughout his profession, but none have ever felt quite so meaningful as this. Uncle Jack. His nephew squirms slightly in his hold, eyes still shut and lips puckering, a tiny tongue peeking out before his mouth stretches into a yawn.
You watch the way Jack’s eyes sparkle down at Jude, the natural way he coddles him to his chest. Your ovaries are exploding at the sight, your heart aching profusely at the ridiculous play-pretend notion that this is your child, Jack’s child.
“He has so much hair,” Jack breathes a chuckle, risking a featherlight hand over the baby’s head to smooth the thick hair down. He dares a glance up at Karis and Ricky for barely a second before he’s captivated by Jude again. “He’s beautiful.”
Karis beams, in both pride and happiness for you and Phoebe.
“Thank you, for answering all my stupid questions when it came to his health. And for the gift baskets.”
Jack waves a hand to dismiss the gratitude that is not needed. He knew how anxious she had been while in the hospital and when she got home. While you only FaceTimed once or twice a week, Karis and Ricky would text Jack at least once a day, just needing reassurance that Jude was still recovering well from his surgery, checking what was normal and what wasn’t.
“Nothing is stupid when it comes to your child’s health.”
He spends a few more moments with Jude in his arms before finally relenting and handing him back over to his parents at the same time that Phoebe waddles back into the living room, a wicca basket in hand that Sally lounges in.
“She’s getting too fat!”
Jack cocks a brow, both arms bending to rest his hands on his hips. “That’s ‘cause you carry her everywhere.”
Phoebe pokes her tongue out at him as she passes, her excitement for Jude worn off as she opens Sally’s toy box instead. Your gaze meets Jack, something crossing his eyes as watches Pheebs get settled on the rug.
When he finally averts his gaze to meet yours, you cock your head slightly toward the kitchen in silent invitation, muttering out to Karis and Ricky that you’ll make some tea as Jack grabs the takeout boxes and follows you.
The moment the kettle flicks on and Ricky turns on the sports channel, you turn to Jack and wrap your arms around his waist. “Was Diva okay when she came out of school?”
He hums, leans down to steal a kiss. “Yeah, how was Kirsty?”
You sigh, leaning forward to crash your head against his chest. Your heart still feels heavy for the girl, the conversation having brought up all the trauma Tom had also put you through. You pull away to look at him and Jack only now sees how much it has drained you.
“She’ll be okay.”
He watches you in the same way you’re watching him; with slightly furrowed brows and concern prickling at your eyes.
“Jack, are you sure you’re okay?”
All he can do is make a humming sound, something that is not entirely convincing but you won’t push him. Not here, not now.
“I’ve gotta get ready for work soon. Debrief tomorrow night?”
Your frown grows deeper. “Tomorrow night? You got somewhere to be in the morning?”
A grin curls on his mouth at your playfully teasing tone and he leans down to press a ghost of a kiss to your pouting lips. “I gotta meet up with my SWAT guys.”
You kiss him again, just a gentle movement of lips. “You finally picking up a shift? Been a while since I’ve seen you in uniform.”
“No,” he whispers raspily against your mouth. “I’m leaving.”
He feels your body still before you pull away and he doesn’t have time to stop himself from smoothing out the elevens between your brows with the pad of his thumb. “Stop frowning.”
“Why are you leaving?”
Jack pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, considers the weight of the reason behind his decision to be a bit too much to divulge when you’ve got company. But he doesn’t want to leave you entirely in the dark. He knows your mind, your soul—knows you’ll worry yourself sick with overthinking the worst possible scenarios.
His hands leave your waist to cup your jaw, to force your gaze to not just look into his eyes but deeper. “I don’t need it anymore. Coming home safe to you and Pheebs is more important to me.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
By the time Karis and Ricky left with Jude, Jack was having to leave for work. With a smattering of kisses to Phoebe’s cheeks and your lips, he sauntered out the door just before six, always wanting to start a bit earlier to get a feel for what the night would look like.
You got Pheebs into the bath the moment he left, let her splash around the tub and draw with water crayons on the porcelain. Surprisingly, she let you wash her hair tonight without putting up much of a fuss, and didn't argue when you told her it was time to get out.
She dressed herself with minimal help, letting you brush the knots from her hair with lips pressed into a firm line. You’re not stupid when it comes to your daughter. You know there’s something on her mind, whether it be a concern or a request.
She’s always far too compliant when she’s thinking.
Usually, you don’t push. You allow her to come to you when she’s filtered through a muddy mind and knows what she wants to say. But it’s harder to do that tonight when it’s clear there’s something on Jack’s mind, too.
“Alright,” you sigh as she settles into her stool at the kitchen island. You lean on your forearms, head dipping slightly between your shoulders to meet her gaze. “What’s going on in that crazy little head of yours, hm?”
Phoebe shrugs. “Nothing.”
You roll your lips between your teeth. “Did something happen today? At school? With…with Jack?”
She shakes her head, still not wanting to meet your line of sight. It's a struggle not to ask for more, but you don’t want to push her away. You have to remind yourself that you trust Jack. That if something had happened, if Pheebs had told him something concerning, he’d have told you.
“Alright, well let's have dessert and finish our movie before bed then, sound good?”
She hums, half committed. “I’ll get Sally a treat.”
You turn to the fridge when the words tumble out of her, followed by a screech and an awkward sounding thud. You whirl around at the sound of Phoebe’s sob, round the island to find her laying on the ground and clutching her foot.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Where did you hurt, your foot?”
You’re kneeling down to her, trying desperately to keep your cool and not let her shrill cries pierce through your heart. Phoebe doesn’t let you get too close; face bright red and cheeks soaked with tears, pulling away every time you try to reach for her foot.
“Baby, you need to let me have a look.”
She pulls away again when you inch closer, her knuckles white around her lower calf, eyes squeezed shut.
“I can’t, Mama, it hurts!” She hiccups through the cries, catching Sally’s attention who curls into her side in a form of comfort.
You feel sick, heart in your throat as you desperately try to calm her down without touching her. You’ve never heard Phoebe cry so loudly, and you’re unsure if it’s the shock of the fall or if she’s really hurt herself. She doesn’t let you take a look, doesn’t let you put ice on it or keep it elevated above a pillow.
“I want Jack.” She speaks on a shaky inhale of breath, her pyjama shirt soaked from tears. Her desperate request makes your fingertips ache.
“Alright, okay. I’ll take you to Jack. Come on, up you get.”
It’s only then that Phoebe allows you to touch her. Not her leg or her ankle, but she lets you hold her arm to help her stand. The moment she tries to put pressure on her right leg, her knee gives way and she bursts into another fit of tearful whimpers.
Worry and panic begins to course through you, thoughts that she’s broken her fucking ankle being the only thing you can really think about. It’s enough to have you gently hoisting her into your arms as gently as possible and grabbing your keys off the hook on your way out of the apartment.
You can only really offer gentle coos of reassurance to her as your flip flops snap against your feet with every step. You didn’t even think to grab your phone or purse, just Pheebs and the keys as you get her down to the car and buckle her in.
She cries the entire ten minute drive to PTMC, declining any music or chit-chat to try and keep her mind off things. Her sobs have calmed to whimpers by the time you somehow manage to find a parking space at the ED, feet bare from not allowing you to put shoes on her, so you carry her from the car to the main entrance.
The last time you were here was at 3 a.m., over nine months ago. It was much quieter then. Tonight, the waiting room is packed with no spaces to sit and a long line at the check-in desk. Phoebe wraps her arms tighter around your neck as you hold her to your front, and get to the back of the line.
You rock her gently, swaying slightly from side to side as you take in the amount of people waiting to be seen. She hides into the crook of your neck, the noise and bright lights and people squished in too-close proximity a bit too much for her to handle.
The sight of the chaos makes your skin crawl. You’ve always been acutely aware of the tension and pressure of Jack’s job, but seeing the waiting room—or Chairs, as he calls it—so packed and desperate, it makes you want to dote on him for the rest of your life and never let him lift a finger at home.
The line crawls forward at a snail's pace, many people kicking up a fuss when it’s their turn to check in, complaining about wait times or demanding that their issue is more important than the rest. By the time you get to the check-in counter, your neck is soaked from Phoebe’s snot and tears.
“What’s your name and problem, hon?” It’s the same face and voice that greets you as the last time you were in here for your little pelvic issue.
You smile tightly at Lupe, shifting your hold on Diva to shuffle her to your other hip. She grips you tighter, like she’s worried you’re about to put her down.
“Phoebe Y/L/N. I’m her mother. She fell off the island stool and landed on her ankle, she can’t put any pressure on it, won’t let me look—I don’t know if it’s just a sprain or maybe a fracture.”
She hums at your words, typing at her computer and sliding a form through the gap at the bottom of the clear screen. Lupe catches Phoebe’s eye as she shifts in your hold, a sympathetic pout forming on the older woman's mouth.
“Take a seat, hon. Someone will be with you shortly.”
You don’t mention that there are no seats left to take, it’s not her problem. So you thank her with a smile, take the paperwork and carry Pheebs through the throes of people. You mentally prepare yourself for such a long night, to put those pilates classes you’ve been taking to good use with there being no seats available.
But within three and a half minutes of standing against the wall and gently rocking Diva from side to side, there are fast footsteps approaching until Jack is standing before you with wide eyes assessing the back of Phoebe’s body.
“Is she okay? What happened?”
Jack feels sick to his stomach with worry at the sight of her clinging to you. He didn’t even read over her notes or ask Lupe what happened when he was paged about your arrival. Seeing her now, he wishes he had some notion of an idea to be at least a little more prepared.
He’s never seen Pheebs so tearful and whiney. Not when she has her usual tumbles and not when she awakes crying for you both in the middle of the night after a nightmare.
The moment she hears his voice, she’s uncurling herself from around you to leap into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, lets her wrap herself around him and cries softly into his neck. You appreciate the reprieve and shake your arms out at your sides.
“She fell off the stool, landed on her ankle. Says she can’t walk on it—what…how did you know we were here?”
Jack rubs a comforting hand up and down the expanse of Phoebe’s back, craning his neck the best he can to try and get a look at her bare feet that dangle from his waist. He sighs when he turns back to you, reaching a hand around your waist to press his lips to your forehead.
“I’m on her emergency contact list, remember? Lupe paged me the moment you checked her in.”
You barely have any time to process the fact before Jack is guiding you through the doors of triage with a hand on the small of your back and an arm carrying Phoebe against his chest. You follow him through to a small cornered off section, just a few down from where you were, where Jack tenderly lays Pheebs on the bed.
You take the place at her side, let her reach for you and grip your hand as Jack slips his fingers into a pair of blue gloves. He sits on the small swivel stool, walks his feet across the ground to drag himself closer to the edge of the bed.
“Dr. Abbot, would you like me to take this one?”
Your head turns at the sound of a soft voice, a petite nurse standing at the curtain with fresh gloves already slipped onto her fingers. He whirls to look at her, like he’s catching himself on a line he’s crossing.
Because as an attending, he has no reason at all to be treating a sprained ankle in triage. He should be on the main floor, tending to whatever chaos gets sent to him or comes barreling through the ambulance bay.
So, he nods, moving away on the small stool to make room for the nurse to take his place instead.
“Alright, Diva. You gonna let Nurse Dean take a look?”
She shakes her head, pleasing eyes glued on Jack as she scoops her legs into her arms with her knees pinned to her chest. Nurse Dean looks at Jack with pursed lips and soft eyes, a silent way of saying she understands and won’t push.
He smiles apologetically, resuming his previous position when Dean slips back through the curtain to tend to patience that will let her care for them. Despite the guilt, you can’t help but huff out an air of laughter over Phoebe’s stubborn preferences.
If it’s not Jack, she isn’t interested.
Phoebe doesn’t argue with the gentle tone of Jack's voice when he coaxes her to show him her foot. She offers her ankle to him willingly with one hand still squeezing your fingers. Her tears have dried, her face now blotchy from the hyperventilating.
You watch Jack closely, the concentrated set in his brow, the firm line of his lips when he examines Phoebe’s ankle with more tender care than you think he gives his other patients. It’s also not lost on you that any nurse or triage doctor could be doing this instead of him. That he could have encouraged Pheebs to have Nurse Dean take a look.
“You said she couldn’t walk?” He asks, lips barely moving and the words almost strung together when he very carefully twists and moves her ankle.
You hum, sitting on the side of the bed next to Pheebs, one arm around her shoulders as she curls into your side. You press a kiss to the top of her head, your anxiety significantly easing now you’re with Jack and she’s under his care.
If you’re being completely, selfishly honest, you’re more than pleased that Jack’s taken it upon himself. Not that the rest of the doctors here aren’t competent, but getting to watch Jack in his element and feel so listened to and genuinely cared for…yeah, he’s definitely your preference.
“Yeah, she couldn’t put pressure on it after it happened. Wouldn’t let me look or put it on ice…she just kept crying that she wanted you.”
He pats her calf with a grin, snapping off the gloves and tugging the leg of her pyjamas pants back down. There’s a swell of pure pride and relief in his chest when he realizes there’s nothing seriously wrong and that all she wanted for comfort was him.
“The good news is it’s not broken. The bad news is that you’re gonna have to rest it and I’m going to have to prescribe you one rub of chocolate ice cream.”
Phoebe sniffles, and it’s not the reaction that Jack was hoping for.
“So, I don’t need a new leg like you?” Her voice is meek, unsure, and slightly disappointed.
It causes a frown to pull between your brows, between Jack’s. You dare a glance over at him but your attention is stolen by two figures standing by the open curtain, instead. It’s the slurping through a straw that then catches Jack’s attention and his head whirls to the two culprits.
John Shen stands with his lips wrapped around a plastic Dunkin straw, Ellis Parker stood close beside him with arms crossed over her chest. Shen’s brows are raised teasingly, Parker’s eyes gleaming in taunting mischief.
“Well, who is this Diva?” Dr. Parker croons playfully as she steps into the partition, eyes flickering between the three of you as Dr. Shen follows close behind him.
“I hurt my ankle,” Phoebe sighs.
Jack heaves in a heavy breath, catching your eye from across the bed as his two coworkers approach the foot of it.
“Baby, this is John Shen and Ellis Parker, guys this is—”
“Oh, we know who you are.” Parker grins something a bit too feline for Jack’s liking and you can’t help but laugh.
“I knew who you guys were the moment I saw the Dunkin cup.” Shen nods in what appears to be approval at your words, but as quickly as they give you their attention, it’s quickly given to Pheebs instead.
She’s always been a social butterfly, so it’s not much of a surprise when she begins to introduce herself to them—beaming at the attention and prospect of two new friends. A laugh bubbles out of you when Parker hands her one of the ER stuffies; a little brown bear that’s likely from the dollar store.
Your gaze flits to Jack to gauge his reaction and he tilts his head slightly to the curtain, a silent invitation to step away and talk. You step out silently with Jack and he pulls part of the curtain across to shield you both from prying ears.
“You okay?” His quiet voice asks into the small space between you and it feels like you can finally take a breath.
“Yeah,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. She couldn’t walk on it, it must've just been a bit of shock…she just wanted you.”
Jack shakes his head. “No, don’t apologize. You did the right thing to bring her in, even if just to be safe.”
You hum, leaning against a pillar. “You know, you could’ve insisted that Nurse Dean took a look at her.”
He frowns at that, almost like he’s insulted. “No chance. I asked you to put me down as an emergency contact for a reason. Do you know how worried I was when Lupe paged me that you brought her in? You two could’ve been waiting out in Chairs for hours.”
You know he’s right. That despite Pheebs being young, her problem doesn’t exactly warrant her to be seen over the more critical and emergent cases. But Jack’s shoulders are still tense, and you’re unsure if it’s due to whatever's been bothering him or the fact that he’s coming down from his worry.
You regard him for a few moments, waiting to see if he’ll snap himself out of it. But his eyes slowly dart around triage instead of looking at you. You’ve got a sneaky suspicion that this behavior of his has nothing to do with the chaos of work.
“Jack, did something happen today?” Your question is quiet, voice careful.
It’s enough to have him finally looking at you again, and you can see the war in his eyes as he fights if it’s something he really wants to bring up right here and right now.
His lips are moving before he can think better of it. “She called me Dad.”
You blink, unsure if you’ve heard him correctly. Your neck cranes slightly closer to him, head tilting like you might pick up another whisper of what he’s just said. Your chest suddenly feels very tight.
“What?” You breathe.
He starts to ramble, hands moving animatedly as he explains, “I called her my daughter first. There was this restroom incident, with this—this mom and daughter and it just came out of me, and Pheebs—she—”
“She called you Dad?” Your voice is quiet, cracking slightly as you cut him off.
His shoulders drop, eyes a quiet kind of frantic as they flick between yours, searching for any hint of anger or upset. He finds none. Only a glassy look that passes your iris’ like you're overwhelmed and struggling to process what this means.
“Yeah,” Jack whispers. “Are you…are you okay with that?”
A disbelieving sound escapes you on a breath. “Are you okay with that?”
His head nods in a very small movement, tongue darting out to tug his bottom lip between his teeth. This is not the conversation he wants to be having at the start of his shift in the middle of triage, where his coworkers and subordinates are passing by with curious glances.
Still, he doesn't leave you in the dark.
“Yeah, I am. But I—I told Diva it’s something she should talk to you about first.”
You feel like you could cry and throw up. Anxiety bubbles beneath your skin, unease and concern when you consider what Phoebe’s little mind must look like right now. The mess of her father walking out, the confusion of having Jack so close and her assuming he’s now to be the figure she’s missing.
It’s too much to sit and unpack on the spot. Jack’s made it so clear to you how deeply he cares for Phoebe, that even if things don’t work between the two of you, he’d still fight to be in her life in whatever capacity you’d allow.
But to hear him admit that he referred to Pheebs as his daughter—despite the rushed reasoning he gave—and for her to call him Dad in return…you can feel yourself spiraling down that rabbit hole again. The one that Tom weaved and spun where you’re forced to put your walls up and shut down.
Because if Tom can leave, what’s stopping Jack from one day doing the same?
It’s ridiculous, you know it is. Because the difference between Tom and Jack is that Jack loves Phoebe. He holds her best interest at heart at all times, considers her in every decision he makes and has never once let her down.
It is something you need to speak with Phoebe about first. Something you’re not prepared to brazenly sign off on. You’re not ready for her to call him that.
You swallow as you look at Jack, the patience and understanding in his eyes despite you not saying a word. From the peripheral of your vision, a tall figure approaches; walks past you both before slowly backing up with arms crossing over a broad chest.
You peek a glance when Jack sighs, scratching at his jaw.
“Honey, this is Robby. Robby, this is—”
“The woman that Jack does not stop talking about,” Robby interrupts him, untangling his arms to clasp your hand in a friendly shake. His skin is softer than Jack’s, less firm and calloused.
A laugh slips from your lips when he releases your hand. “It’s nice to meet you and put a face to the name.”
Robby grins, eyes shining as he looks between you and Jack in something you can only describe to be pure happiness for his friend. “I’d say the same but I feel like I’ve known you for years at this point.”
Your laughter grows at the playful tease to Jack, who is too busy staring holes into Robby’s face. It feels like you’ve got a slight whiplash, your mind and emotions all over the place while trying to hold a polite conversation.
“You brought Phoebe in?” Robby asks, voice low as if he likes to keep his conversations private and away from prying ears.
Something you appreciate, if you’re honest.
“Yeah, Jack checked her over. Sprained ankle.” Robby hums at your explanation, arms still across his chest as he cranes his neck to peer past the curtain. “Mind if I say hello?”
“Go for it.”
He offers a warm smile before dipping behind the curtain, the soft rumble of his voice heard through the fabric as he introduces himself to Phoebe. You turn to Jack with a small smirk, still very much overwhelmed but amused enough to break through it for at least a few moments.
“So you talk about me at work, huh?”
“Shut it.” Jack’s eyes roll fondly as he reaches out for your hip in a playful pinch.
But it doesn’t matter how hard you try to push the new information to the back of your head, to wait until later—because you just can’t.
You reach for him, fingers toying with the hem of his scrubs at the same time as him reaching a hand up to brush strands of hair from your face. He can sense the shift in your mood, the concern you’re trying to bury.
“Hey, I know you’re okay with her calling you that, but I—”
“No, it’s okay,” Jack interrupts with a coo and a shake of his head. “I understand. It’s a huge thing, and she’s probably confused now that Tom’s not around.”
Your grip on his scrubs tightens, a deep furrow forming between your brows and Jack hates the look of guilt and unease that’s plastered all over your face.
“I just—I don’t want anything like that rushed, or expected of her.”
“Baby, you do not need to explain. I told you before that I’m happy to be in her life in whatever capacity you’re comfortable with.”
He hates this, hates every fucking moment of you doubting him, of you worrying about Phoebe. It’s all warranted, of course it is. Phoebe’s biological father walks out on her, and then she calls her mom’s boyfriend Dad only two months later.
When Jack looks at it that way, it breaks his heart a little. He’s left wondering if his presence recently has been more confusing than helpful to the kid. He doesn’t bother to remind you that nothing is ever expected from Phoebe, that Jack will take whatever the both of you are kind enough to offer.
Because he knows you know that. That he would never expect or force anything.
You nod with a shaky breath, loosening your hold on his now slightly creased scrubs and doing your best to smooth them out with your fingers. An act that’s futile but still appreciated by Jack nonetheless.
“We can talk about this properly tomorrow, yeah?”
Another nod follows from you as Jack leans down to press his lips to the crown of your head. With a palm on the small of your back, he guides you back behind the curtain to Phoebe, and it’s only then that you realize how full the little partition has grown.
Diva remains lounging on the bed, ankle wrapped in a bandage with squiggles of different colored ink decorating it, as if it’s broken. Shen sits on the swivel chair at her side, talking in a ridiculously high-pitched voice as he pretends the dollar store teddy is drinking his precious coffee. Parker and Robby stand off to the side listening intently to Phoebe’s dramatic recollection of her fall.
And Mateo grins at the scene before him.
Wait.
“Mateo?” He turns at the sound of his name falling from your lips breathlessly, the easy grin dropping into something sober and slightly grave.
Jack does not like the shift in the air, the way you whispered his name like a lost lover, how Diaz now looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost. And then he’s whispering your name back like it’s a sacred prayer, inching closer to get a better look at you.
“What—what are you doing here?”
You want to ask him the same thing, but his scrubs and ID badge say enough. He’s a fucking nurse. The last time you’d seen him was almost ten years ago, when he was as babyfaced as you and unsure what the world had in store for him.
You blink, pointing at Diva. “Pheebs—I, I’m her mom.”
His eyes widen further, doe-like and familiar in the way he was when you were both kids. God, he looks so much like his brother now that he’s older. A stubble and long hair, tan skin and welcoming features. The more you look at him, the more you feel your heart twisting in your chest.
His gaze flicks behind you as he repeats your own words, landing on Jack who is doing nothing to hide his frown and distaste for the exchange.
There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach when he watches Mateo look at you again, something like longing and heartache in his eyes. Jack can’t handle the idea of Diaz being an ex of yours. Just when he thought this day couldn’t make his head spin anymore.
“Wait, you’re the pelvic chick?”
You frown at the odd nickname, and it takes a moment or two for your drowning mind to catch up with what he’s called you and why you’re being referred to as it. You whirl around to Jack with raised brows.
“I’ve got a nickname around here?”
His hand squeezes your hip reassuringly. “You can thank Dr McKay for that one.”
A flurry of snickers and giggles slip from Shen and Parker, a smirk curling at the corners of Robby’s mouth, too. Jack thinks he’s absolutely had enough of today. If he wasn’t overwhelmed enough already, he’s now drowning in unwarranted jealousy and budding a blooming distaste toward Mateo.
“Alright,” Jack calls, clapping his hands. “Don’t you all have patients to see? I think Phoebe would like to go home to bed now.”
“I’m happy to stay!” She pipes up.
Jack points a stern but playful finger in her direction. “It is way past your bedtime, kid. And you are a beautiful distraction to my doctors. Mom’s gonna take you home now.”
Phoebe pouts animatedly about it but knows better than to argue. She instead says goodbye to her three newfound friends and takes a sheet of stickers from Mateo’s hands when he goes to leave.
He does stop short just in front of you when he reaches the curtain. “I can’t believe you’re a mom now. She’s a cool kid. And you look great.”
You smile tearfully, a watery chuckle slipping past your mouth as your head tilts. “Yeah, you too.”
Mateo chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never reached out after—”
“Don’t,” you interrupt with a shake of your head. “I didn’t reach out either. It’s not on you. Your parents were just—”
“Yeah, I know.” The sadness in his voice hurts more than you’d like to admit. After nine years, you thought you’d moved on from what happened. But seeing Mateo now, after all this time…you can’t help but wonder if it’s breaking him as much as it is you.
“We uh, we should grab a coffee sometime.”
The frown of your mouth curls up into a trembling smile and you can feel your eyes stinging with salty tears. “Yeah,” your voice cracks when you speak. “I’d really like that, Teo.”
Jack watches the interaction with a tightness in his throat and chest. Barely registers what Phoebe is saying to him as she plasters stickers all over his scrubs and arms. He can’t tear his eyes away from you, can’t stop his mind from starting the cycle of self-sabotage.
Despite it all, despite the concern and worry and doubt and insecurity, when you approach with tearful eyes and pursed lips, he still reaches out to comfort you.
“Look, Mommy! I can move it again.” Phoebe calls to you despite there being barely any distance, lifts her leg to move her ankle in the air.
You plaster on your most encouraging smile, toying with the keys in your hands. Jack notices the nervous fiddling, the anxiety that’s sitting heavy on your shoulders and the way you’re starting to drown in your own head.
He brushes Phoebe’s hair from her face and keeps his tone soft and quiet. “You can go home with Mommy now, and I’ll see you after school tomorrow, okay?”
“M’kay.” You watch as Phoebe nods, when she dips her chin in silent request of a kiss that Jack happily pressed to her head.
He helps her stand on the bed where she then opens her arms wide to be carried by you. Bare feet and one bandanged ankle swing by your thighs when you hold her and return to Jack with tired eyes.
Despite the foreign feelings brewing in the pit of Jack’s stomach, he still moves closer to press his mouth against yours, to squeeze your waist and kiss you one more time.
“Text me when you get home.”
You agree to the request with a hum, when a Nurse Dean pops her head into the curtain and offers to escort you out. Jack follows you out of the partition and the moment you begin to walk away, Phoebe waves at him as she looks over your shoulder.
“Love ya, Jack!”
He beams at the way she shouts across the space, like she’s desperate for her message to reach his ears.
“Love ya, Diva!” He calls back just as you both reach the door. When you cast one last glance back at him, Jack offers a dip of his chin and a wink, basking in the way that his stomach leaps when you grin back at him until you’re both out of sight.
He feels Robby’s presence shift behind him, a looming frame filled with questions and silent observations. He watches with Jack as you disappear back into Chairs to go home.
“You told her yet?” Robby asks, the words drifting from his mouth and into Jack’s ear.
His gaze is still focussed on the door. “Told her what?”
“That you’re in love with her.”
Robby’s observation echoes in Jack’s mind. Worms its way into every memory and thought he cherishes of you, of Phoebe. There’s no longer that all-consuming sensation of guilt when he thinks about it now, there hasn’t been for a little while.
At first, it was something Jack didn’t want to acknowledge. Wasn't ready to acknowledge. But somewhere along the past nine months, he’s stopped holding onto his need and love for structure and routine. He’s found himself basking in the chaos of love, the spontaneity and freedom of it if you look in the right places.
He’s found his home to be nothing but a shell of one. A blank canvas that was posed as a fresh start six years ago. One that he never broke in with memories and laughter, where he never scuffed up the floors or chipped the paint off the walls.
Somewhere along the past nine months, the weight of his wife no longer haunts him like a bad dream. She rests in his heart, deep and protected in her place of permanent residence. But the space she occupies no longer spans across the entirety of him.
She’s made room for you, for Phoebe. Allowed her space to be taken by a love that breathes, not one that haunts. It happened slowly, organically. Like this is the way it was always supposed to be.
Jack swallows around the realization.
“No, not yet.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You barely slept all night.
Whether it was tossing and turning because of the events of yesterday, or Phoebe waking you up every hour because she swears her foot is about to fall out, you barely got any sleep.
FaceTiming Jack at three in the morning instead when Pheebs sobbed because she was adamant she needed to go back to see him at the hospital. Sitting on her bedroom floor and reading stories until she fell asleep, only to wake up again forty-five minutes later.
The pair of you were like zombies when you left for the school run this morning. Hair not up to its usual standards and outfits more than a little skewiff. By the time you got back to the apartment, you were swooped up into Zoom meetings with your editors and publishers, the deadline pushing closer for the final installment.
Jack didn’t get back until noon, after finishing his shift and meeting with his SWAT buddies to let them know he was officially stepping away. The two of you have been like passing ships all day. When he got home, you were leaving to do a grocery run. When you got back, he was fast asleep. When Jack woke up, you were already picking Phoebe up from school.
It wasn't until you returned home that he finally scooped you into his arms and peppered your face with kisses. Phoebe’s laughter at the attack had echoed through the apartment and bounced off the walls when Jack lunged for her and blew an onslaught of raspberries onto her stomach.
The three of you cooked dinner together, ate and spoke about your days. Phoebe did most of the talking, like usual. And Jack cleaned the kitchen when you bathed her an hour later. You don’t get a chance to speak throughout it, attention occupied by Diva until she’s requesting that Jack puts her to bed with a very specific rendition of Paranoid by Black Sabbath as her lullaby.
She does let you squeeze her in your arms, pepper kisses to the top of her head as you bid her a goodnight. But as quickly as she crashes into your arms, she’s wiggling out of them in search of her new bedtime companion, Sally.
“Alright, slugger. Let’s get you to bed.” Jack calls out to her, pressing a kiss to your cheek before following Phoebe on his crutches.
The heaviness in your chest hasn’t disappeared. It’s eased just enough to feel like you can breathe this evening, but even Jack’s presence alone isn’t enough to completely keep it at bay. You’re overly aware that you both need to have a big conversation about yesterday and you’re not quite prepared for it.
Feeling hot beneath your skin at the thought, you grab two glasses and a bottle of wine from the fridge that you carry in two hands out to the balcony. The evening air is crisper than it was through the day, a slight breeze that does little to cool your skin but enough to help the rise and fall of your chest.
The sun is starting to set, long summer nights falling behind you as the sky is painted in something beautifully golden. Hints of pinks and oranges peek beneath the clouds, a promise of sunshine for the morning and a sleep full of sweet dreams.
You fill both the glasses halfway as you sit on the rattan couch, a crocheted blanket draping across your lap as you take a sip. Only a moment for you to try and gain your bearings, to sort through the whirlwind that has been the last two days.
You’ve drained half your glass of wine by the time Jack finds you, an easy but tired grin stretching on the corners of his mouth when he pops his head out into the balcony. His brows raise playfully when he clocks the almost empty glass in your hand and the freshly poured one on the small table.
He doesn’t say anything as he joins you, a little too caught up in his head. The last time he drank out on the balcony with you was when it all started. The night of Diva’s birthday party. The night he first kissed you and felt his soul slowly beginning to tangle with yours.
“She settled okay?” He hums as he comes closer, resting the crutches against the wall and sitting beside you with a tired sigh.
“Out like a light.” Jack pinches the blanket, drapes some of it across his thighs. He reaches for his wine but doesn’t drink it. Holds it in his lap while his other arm lifts to rest against the back of the seat; fingers gently tracing the skin of your shoulder.
He feels the heaviness, too. The plethora of topics that need to be addressed, discussed. It’s because of that, that he finally takes a long gulp of his wine before turning to admire you.
“So…Kirsty, huh?”
A non-committal hum escapes you, eyes far off in the distance but when Jack follows your line of sight, he sees your gaze is settled on his balcony across the way.
“She okay?”
A loaded question, really. One that takes you a moment to consider and answer. “No, he’s really done a number on her.”
Jack swallows, doesn’t like the hollowness of your voice. Like your reminiscing on your own experience with Tom. He squeezes your shoulder.
“What happened?” He only heard snippets when Kirsty had shown up unannounced. Jack was a little preoccupied with hiding a raging boner, getting dressed and reattaching his prosthetic. By the time he did join you both in the kitchen, he put himself to good use by making tea.
He didn’t want to make Kirsty uncomfortable.
Jack feels you shrug beneath his palm. “His usual shit.”
It’s not something you want to get into. Not yesterday in a quick explanation, and not now when you have the time. Mostly because it’s not your story to share, but also because it’s the same things that Tom put you through. The lies, the abuse, the manipulation.
You got out of the woods. You escaped the claws he had in your mind and you’re free now. Happy. Your mind is no longer held in a prison. It’s watered and cherished, cared for and set free to bloom.
“He’s really gone, though,” you find yourself clarifying anyway. “She said he’s been given a house and position at some finance company in Dubai. Living his dream.”
Jack scoffs, wine sloshing in the glass on his lap from the movement of his body. “Yeah, well…he made his bed, now he can lie in it.”
That heavy silence settles over you both again as you gaze out across the sunset. It’s lowering more with every passing minute, darkness slowly creeping over the tops of the sky. You don’t want to spend the evening tiptoeing around things that need to be discussed. Jack’s got four nights off now and you’re not willing to start them off with anything unsaid.
“So, we’ve debriefed about Kirsty. Next up…you’re leaving SWAT?”
Jack heaves a heavy sigh and rolls his head in a lull of a nod. “Met them this morning after my shift. Told ‘em it’s not for me anymore.”
You frown at him, his gaze locked on the stem of the wine glass pinched between his fingers.
“Why? I thought you enjoyed it?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“What changed?”
He turns to you then, eyes slightly glassy and lips scrunched slightly to the side. It’s an expression you’ve learnt that usually means he’s trying to suppress his emotions, or at least keep the full extent of them off his face.
“I didn’t have anyone waiting for me at home when I joined SWAT. We both know what it’s like to lose a partner. I’m not prepared to put you through that again, to put Pheebs through that.”
His gentle explanation—like it’s the most simplest decision in the world—almost crushes your chest. Your lungs seize at the consideration, at the pure reverence in his tone. You don’t mean to, but your fingers instinctively move to your chest, to reach for the chain you haven’t worn for months and months now.
The one that sits in a box in your nightstand. Like Jack’s sits in a box in his.
The fact that you and Phoebe continue to make such a profound effect on him, the way that he so loudly respects and considers you both…how he so happily changes his lifestyle to fit healthily around you both…
“Jack, that’s a big decision to make.”
“No, it’s not.” It’s not an argument, he counters you like it’s a fact. Unbothered and undeterred in his decision. “Besides, Robby’s been trying to get me to quit that shit for years.”
An unintentional laugh barks through you at that, the thought of his dear friend chiding him for such a reckless hobby—which, if you’re honest, you’d have to agree with. Despite how sexy the uniform is…how much fun you’ve had with it in the past.
You haven’t been able to stop thinking about Robby since you met him last night. Kind eyes, teasing lilt to his deep voice. Secure, competent. Attractive, if you’re allowed to think as much.
“Robby’s single, right?”
Jack’s brows raise comically high at the sudden question. He’s a bit ashamed to admit the wall of jealousy and discontent that slams into him, the way his shoulders stiffen. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you’ve written threesome stories with that very vivid imagination of yours…Jack can’t help but silently begin to panic that you’re about to ask for Robby to be a third.
“Why?” He asks carefully, voice tight and deep.
You shrug, take a long sip of your wine. “He’s responsible, older…I think he and Bella would look pretty good together.”
Jack blinks at you for a moment, lungs seizing as he finally releases an exasperated exhale. Relief slams into him like a freight train and he’s met with the embarrassing realization that he desperately needs to get his emotions in check.
First he’s ready to blow a gasket over your far too friendly interactions with Mateo, and now he’s here fretting over the possibility of you wanting Robby?
Jesus fucking Christ, Jack. Get a grip!
“You wanna set up Robby and Bella?” He busies his hands with topping up both of your glasses as he asks the question, his newfound and deeprooted insecurity needing a bit of reassurance. “Do you forget how mentally unstable Robby is?”
You frown. “I thought you said he was better after his sabbatical?"
“Well, yeah, but he’s not magically cured, baby.”
You take the wine from him with a hum, peering up at him over the rim of the glass when you take a sip. That heaviness between you both has slowly started to ease into something more comfortable, more familiar. And the glint in your eye promises Jack is about to have his ass handed to him.
“Your team is nice. They seem to know a lot about me.”
“Yeah. You seem to know a lot about Mateo.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jack! What the fuck is wrong with you!?
His eyes widen at his own retort, shoulders stiffen at the sight of your entire body freezing for a split second. Panic surges through him, and Jack feels sick to his fucking stomach for saying something so stupid in such an accusing tone.
Dread curdles in the pit of his stomach when your lashes flutter droopily, when you lean over to place your drink back on the table. When you turn back to him, Jack gets the sense that he has royally fucked up.
“I was engaged to Mateo’s brother.”
The admittance slips past your lips in a quiet confession, one that’s laced with dormant pain and an ache that time will never quite heal completely. Jack blinks at you, heart in his throat and he’s never fucking hated himself as much as he does in this moment.
“My mom used to call us the three musketeers. Anywhere we went, Mateo always tagged along with us. The night that Sammy… the night of the accident, I had taken Teo to the theatre, some new Avengers movie that had come out…”
“Baby, you don’t have to do this,” Jack’s voice is wrecked when he reaches for your hand. You grip his fingers, knuckles turning white but you ignore him and continue anyway.
“Sammy was supposed to meet us there—” Your voice breaks as tears begin to slip past your eyes. Years since it happened and whenever you think about it, it feels like it was only yesterday.
It’s killing Jack to listen, to watch. To see the pain in your eyes and the hurt in your voice. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should never have fed into those stupid thoughts, should have never said anything about it.
“We called him, Teo was telling him to hurry up, that he’d be so mad if he missed a single second of the movie. Sammy was speeding…we—fuck, we heard the car ram into a pole—”
Jack catches you before you can collapse into him. Coddles you straight into his chest as he wraps himself around you in the only way he can think to protect you right now. Your body shakes as sobs tear through you, tears soaking into his shirt while his own slip past bloodshot eyes.
He holds you like that until the cries soften to sniffles. Until you’re able to pull away and keep yourself up right. But the pain is still there, still so fresh and prominent in the very centre of your chest.
“His parents blamed me. Said I got him killed. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, wasn’t allowed to see Mateo anymore. I never got to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Baby, I shouldn’t have assumed, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No,” you cut him off with a sniffle. “No, it’s okay. I get it. And you deserve to know about him—about Sammy.”
He just wants to hold you close again, to tuck you under his skin to shield you away from everything horrible in this world. Jack reaches for you, a tender hand caressing your jaw as his thumb smoothes away the remnants of silver tears.
He dips his head to meet your gaze. “If he could see you now. See the brilliant woman you’ve become, the incredible mother that you are…”
“You always say this,” you interrupt through a sniffled laugh.
“Because it’s true. My mom walked out on me when I was a kid, left my dad to raise me alone. You are everything to Phoebe that I wish my mother had been to me. And Sammy…he would be so proud of you, if he could see you now.”
You stare at him through bleary vision, unable to steady the ache in your sternum at the mention of Jack’s mother. The only time he’s ever mentioned her. You find yourself nuzzling into his palm, seeking out his comfort and offering yours in return.
“Mary would be proud of you, too.”
Jack blinks, eyes reddening as his lips roll into a thin line. It’s not heavy with guilt like before. Not haunted by pain, but like he’s accepting the fact as a truth.
“Yeah, she would.” He sniffles.
There’s a moment of pure clarity that seems to wash over Jack, like the final weight of something unspoken has been shifted off his shoulders. He can’t seem to take his eyes off yours, can’t help but be whisked away by your soul.
He has never found someone so beautiful before. Every part of you, every imperfection that makes you you. It feels like his heart has burst open in his chest, given way to a field of fresh grass and blooming tulips as this thing begins to glow from the inside out.
He can't hold it in anymore.
“I need to tell you something.” Jack whispers.
“When I lost my wife, when there was nothing else we could do and she passed…I never thought I would find happiness again, never find love. But you—you and Phoebe…you’ve changed me. I’m not the same man I was when we first met. You’ve reminded me of what it feels like to live, to love. And I know that neither of us expected this, that Phoebe calling me Dad is never something we anticipated but…”
“But what?” You’re breathless, bottom lip trembling and fresh silver lines your eyes again. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, can feel that familiar tingle in your fingertips as your gaze desperately searches his.
“Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you, the way I feel about Diva. And I know—I know—I’m not her dad, but she’s become my daughter.”
“Jack…” Your voice is unsteady and you can’t catch your breath.
He rests his forehead against yours, both hands cupping your face now and wiping the tears as quickly as they fall. You’re not given a moment to comprehend his words, to filter through them. The tip of his nose traces the slope of yours when he speaks again.
“I am so, irrevocably in love with you—it’s not even…it’s not funny—why are you laughing?”
But Jack’s laughing, too. Watery and broken as your hands come up to wrap around his wrists, as you blubber and press your tear-soaked lips to his.
Months of uncertainty and pain and guilt and anguish have led up to this. Trials and tribulations, hurdles and heartache. All of it has led to this right now. To Jack’s heart calling out to yours.
“Because I'm happy! Because I'm in love with you, too.”
“Yeah?” His voice cracks, chasing your mouth to kiss you again when another bubble of laughter tumbles from the back of your throat.
While you’re both caught up in one another, in the happiness and love and devotion that’s finally flourishing so freely on the balcony of apartment seventeen, further into the home is where Phoebe sneaks awake.
Her feet are kicked up behind her, belly to the ground with pieces of paper with practiced letters and colored pens scattered around her. In one hand is a black sharpie, the other her bright pink diamonte purse.
And just beside her sits Jack’s SWAT card that she pinched from his wallet five days ago. For the last few nights, she’s been practicing in sneaky sessions, feigning sleep until either of you leave the room so she can continue her mission at hand.
Days of messy handwriting, backward lettering and something just not looking quite right. But tonight is the night. No more trials, no more fresh sheets of paper.
She grins at Sally, who pads over on tubby paws and nuzzles into the crook of Diva’s neck, the whiskers tickling her skin and she struggles to keep her giggles at bay.
And it’s like the furry friend understands the significance of this moment. Because when Phoebe looks down at her work on the wallet, Sally does, too.
PROPERTY OF DIVA PHOEBE Y/L/N ABBOT
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You have officially reached the very end of Apartment Seventeen. I am feeling a lot of emotions right now tbh, this story is one of my favourite things I've ever written and I am truly so incredibly sad to see it end. I cannot thank you all enough for the overwhelming amount of love and feedback and support you guys have shown me and this series, it truly means so so much!!
I do have plans to check in on them again in the future, along with a potential big bonus chapter later down the line, too. But in the mean time, I am excited to start some new projects and I hope you'll stick around to see them too!!
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
E | cw - slight manipulation, jacks got a thing for pregnancy but like nothing nsfw, eluded intimidation/threats
2:06 AM
I’m thinking of Jack Abbot who loves his new pregnant neighbor.
He doesn't think he’s seen a more beautiful pregnant woman than you, even with swollen feet that were always in slippers or sandals, or how your face was fuller than the older pictures he’d seen of you. He’d thought you looked amazing as you were, an amazing creator of life, who just shone with natural and effortless beauty, as life itself.
He easily found himself helping you with everything and anything before going to work every day. Moving your new furniture around, putting together the nursery, and helping you paint- basically any manual labor your deadbeat boyfriend was supposed to be doing.
That was a sore subject to him; he would get irrationally angry and possessive when he did come around, asking for handouts and overall douchebaggery he did not appreciate or warrant for this new age of boys. You seemed to never notice Jack's sudden abrasiveness towards your boyfriend, but then again, everyone was so it wasn’t much of a difference as with everyone else.
You were struggling with the decision of keeping your baby daddy in your life and soon to be born childs life. Embarrassed to be walking around with no father, but not ready to let him be in your child’s life if he kept up the way he was. Jack was adamant about not giving you his opinion, kept saying ‘it’s obvious, sweetheart, but I can’t be the one to tell you.’ Or ‘you wouldn’t care for what I think, it’s a little outdated’
The whole time, he just wants to put on a shotgun wedding and make you his before that baby comes so his last name is on both of you— but that’s not exactly feasible with that lowlife hanging around, so it’s about time he’d stop.
After texting no response from your ex in weeks, you decided to carry on your own, rushing to tell Jack next door as soon as you had the epiphany. He couldn’t be more thrilled; of course he was. Things were moving right on schedule; you were coming up on your third trimester, and he had a wife to move in.
Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.
Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!
Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare
NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie
Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist
A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive
Word Count: 18.3k
Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.
Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time.
Tonight changes that.
It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.
But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.
The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.
“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”
The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”
Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”
Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”
Brendon rolls his shoulders.
The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.
In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fist knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.
Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrowing into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.
But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much in there.
So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.
As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.
Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”
With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”
“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”
Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”
Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.
You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”
“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”
“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”
“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”
“It’s eighty degrees out.”
“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”
With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”
“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”
“That’s hot.”
Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.
“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”
He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”
“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”
“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”
With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”
“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”
Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”
“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”
Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”
Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”
With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.
The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.
Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”
“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re so pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”
The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”
Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”
With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”
Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”
“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”
Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your now-chipped manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”
Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”
“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”
Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”
“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”
“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”
“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”
“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”
You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”
He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”
Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”
Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”
Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”
“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”
You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”
Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”
“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a road trip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”
“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”
“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”
You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”
Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.
Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”
“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”
Brendon nearly growls.
Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”
You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”
As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”
“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”
Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”
“It’s America.”
“The bill’s over four grand.”
“Like I said, America. And?”
“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”
“I barely know her.”
“Whatever you say, Shark.”
You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.
Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md
You have to suppress a squeal.
Game, set, match.
It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.
With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”
“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”
“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”
“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver Sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”
“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”
You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him sick. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”
He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”
“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being a stupid boy about it.”
“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”
Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”
“My friend, huh?”
“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in that same forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”
With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”
Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”
Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”
“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”
You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”
“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer too-”
A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”
“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I wouldn't expect you to have four grand to spare lying around.”
With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”
“How?”
“I have my secrets.”
“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”
“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinky with yours. “Good girl.”
Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”
“I’d do it for anyone.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.
It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”
Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”
He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”
You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.
On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.
As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the dam finally breaks.
Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-
“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”
He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”
“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”
“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”
“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”
“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”
You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”
He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”
“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”
He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”
But he can’t resist how damn concentrated and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.
When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. Really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”
You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”
He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”
God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”
Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”
“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”
As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”
Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”
He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.
“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”
He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”
You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”
“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says, “Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”
You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”
He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”
You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”
“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”
He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”
You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”
Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.
As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”
Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”
“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”
You’re about due for a cold shower.
you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇
you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences.
brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests.
you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on.
brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual.
you: yeah?
brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me.
you: never.
brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are.
you: thank you!! i will 💕💕
you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late
brendon (hot gym guy): I never am.
you: that’s hot.
Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve-racking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup by your standards – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.
Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.
Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple of pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor-length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.
you: which shoes do you like better?
brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck.
brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language.
you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇
brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t.
brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow.
you: you really do like my girly stuff huh?
brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast.
you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake?
brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄
brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that.
you: omg did you just use an emoji
you: im already making progress on you
brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight.
you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑
brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass?
you: oh my god. yes grandpa
you: you’re so lucky you have me
brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually.
brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.
Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.
Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.
Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”
Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.
“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”
He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in that strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in a sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.
By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.
Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.
Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”
Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”
“Perfect; go right ahead.”
“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pinot grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22. Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”
The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”
The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”
He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”
After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”
“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.”
“What face?”
“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”
You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.
Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.
Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild, almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce, and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him, “You’re staring at me.”
Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”
“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”
“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your free hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”
You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”
He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”
You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”
Brendon glances over it, folds and tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”
“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”
Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”
Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”
That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”
You slice into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”
“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”
He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.
Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”
Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”
He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”
After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”
“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”
You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.
When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”
Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”
The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.
Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet to every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”
You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”
She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”
“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display. “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”
“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”
“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”
She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”
“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get a bouquet, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”
“On it, boss.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.
you: most people would’ve texted
bren: Did you want ‘most people’?
you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!!
bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very romantic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess?
you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!!
bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them.
you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight
you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕
bren: Me too, beautiful.
bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside.
you: that a promise?
bren: Yes.
you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!!
bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day.
you: yes sir
bren: Careful.
you: rarely 😘
Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky high-rise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.
“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”
“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”
Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”
“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”
“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”
Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.
The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and wood and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.
You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”
Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.
Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.
Deep breaths.
In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.
Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you unfold a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.
Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite, given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.
In the en suite bathroom, across from a massive walk-in closet (half-full, yearning to be filled with pink designer clothes, you think), there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.
Comfortable, indeed.
One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.
While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long, deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. Excited, you realize. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.
When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”
“Too late.”
Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.
And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”
Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.
You’re in the shark’s den now.
Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper.
“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”
Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”
Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”
You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”
“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”
“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”
“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – a phrase you didn’t fully understand until now. Predatory but confident. Knowing he has the kill in sight. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”
You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”
And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”
Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”
He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”
You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.
When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”
You whimper.
He laughs.
Again.
Bastard.
“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”
You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”
Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”
So he gets to work.
First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.
Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unfazed by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”
“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”
He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to think about your armpits.”
As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”
It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it naturally exists.”
Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”
After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”
And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”
Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”
He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tense.
Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”
And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”
“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”
Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.
Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act.
“You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”
Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between them, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.
Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”
You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”
“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of lying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”
“Just for you.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”
He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”
You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”
“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”
Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan at the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.
Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.
Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”
“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”
Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”
“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”
Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”
He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”
You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “I don’t think so.”
“And does it still feel good?”
You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.
“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”
You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”
Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”
“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his affirmations, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”
You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”
“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”
Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”
“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything, including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”
When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.
“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”
“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”
“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”
“I- I’ll try.”
“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”
He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”
That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just instinctively fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.
“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the brink of supernova, he commands like a sergeant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”
You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.
His voice.
The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.
“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”
You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. You're barely aware of the uncontrollable gush from your cunt. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.
When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gaping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.
Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.
Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”
With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”
Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”
“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can I have your cock now?”
“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”
“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer finger, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”
“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”
“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”
Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”
Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.
He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”
“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and later you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”
His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”
You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”
Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”
You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”
“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”
Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.
His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.
He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”
Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.
But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breathe, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.
He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.
So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.
Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”
You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.
“If the very first words out of your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”
You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.
Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”
Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.
In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.
Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysium. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.
Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”
You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.
“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple of large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”
You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”
“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”
You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”
“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up.”
You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”
“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”
Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”
That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”
A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.
“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”
You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”
“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”
Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”
He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm.”
“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”
“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”
“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”
You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”
After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.
“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”
“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”
“And I meant it.”
When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.
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