woke up, had an introspective half hour in which i thought about how my mother tried so hard to stomp my identity out of me, and how she played a direct part in cultivating my self-loathing over everything from my weight to other aspects of my appearance, from my skintone to my eyebrows to the size of my hands and feet.
when i was younger, despite desperately wanting to be a boy, anything masc about me made me hate myself. anything fem ALSO made me hate myself, because it was all "wrong" -- either because it felt that way to me, or because of how my mother acted about it. she would force perm my hair - badly - because she didn't want me to have thick, wavy dark hair. she wanted me to have her perfect thin and bouncy blonde curly hair, otherwise i wasn't "pretty" enough. she would force me to wear earrings - but never the kind i liked. little plastic bright red things so people could see I Was Female even when she'd buzzed off all my hair (the one part of myself that i loved) instead of taking the time to comb the lice out. she would force me to wear makeup to school recitals and stuff - but never would it look good. she'd cake my face in the tones she wore, which were a few shades too dark/tan, use bright red lipstick, line my eyes with blotchy pencil, and if i begged her not to put it on me, she would scream and call me names and hit me and threaten to kill herself.
she would force me to wear "women's clothing" - except she would spend all her money on beer, cigarettes, and other drugs, so all my clothes came from the extended families of whatever boyfriend she had at the time. hand me downs that never quite fit, you know, and her favorites were always the gaudy blouses that only old ladies would wear to church. she'd pick the ugliest ones with lace ruffles and pearl buttons even if they fit me terribly, and i'd be forced to school in them. ill-fitting pants, tits spilling out of my too-small bras (which she also made a point to make fun of, even though i was eleven or twelve), ugly grandma blouses, poorly done makeup jobs in the style from when she was a teenager, and all my hair buzzed off so that people could see those hideous bright red earrings.
she told me, when i was in highschool and finally making friends, that if she ever found out i was gay - because my theater kid friends walked me home one time - that i would never be welcome in her home again. and if i did show up, that she would kill me. i never talked to her about my first heartbreak because she threatened my life over it. i never got to open up about the fact that my freshman year was awful because a junior girl liked me, that we made out one night, that she decided she was annoyed by idk the trivia i knew about anime, and so she -- and consequently anyone in the upper three years in that extended friend group -- suddenly refused to speak to me overnight. i stopped eating lunch or spending time anywhere except the library after school. mom should have been worried.
but i lost a little weight so it was good.
i got a job. i started buying my own clothes. i bought my younger brother's school supplies because mom wouldn't. i got kicked out at sixteen and had to live with the family i babysat for because my younger brother called the police one night when she and her boyfriend were having a drunken argument -- one in which a lamp got broken and my brother, shaking and sobbing and terrified, came into my room and woke me up and told me he called the police about 30 seconds before they knocked on my door -- the back door, because my "bedroom" was originally the back porch. the police waited politely when i told them i had to get dressed. my mother never showed me the same respect.
mom and her bf got arrested, and i disappeared from school. the timing was a little fucked, because there was a boy i liked who had asked me to be his gf and it was a few weeks before homecoming. we'd been on a couple of dates, and then i vanished for a week and a half or so before it was considered safe for me to go back to school. when i got back i told him that i wasn't ready to try dating right now, that there was too much going on with things i didn't want to talk about just yet. i didn't dare tell him i was facing homelessness bc my mother was released and told me i had three days to get out of her house. she refused to accept that the scared 9 year old called the police. she thought i had done it. and blamed me for letting the police in. (the police explained that they were going to have to break down the door because of the domestic violence call. like. did she want them to do that in a rental? haha)
anyway, that guy and his friends all also decided to cut me off, so that was great. even though we'd like. not kissed or anything. he could not fathom what could possibly be going on that i wouldn't want to focus on ~high school romance~. (his mother was the school secretary and SHE knew what had happened. she offered me hugs and was so much help over the next couple of years bc she knew i didn't have parents or legal guardians to help with anything. she was the one i talked to any time i had to call out of school, and she never pressed the matter. she was a real saint.)
oh but also it turns out that that guy had major jealousy issues so i kind of dodged a bullet. he and a good friend wound up dating a year or two after graduation and he got intense and scary and emotionally abusive, so. i guess that worked out for me. anyway.
i was alone except for my two good friends after being cut off from anyone else who shared my interests. one was a year ahead of me, and it turns out that she was also not really a great friend, because she was using her friendship with me as a way to craft great stories for her other friends -- from the group that shunned me as a freshman -- about how i was so depressed that i was going to bring a bomb to school, or how i carried knives in my backpack (years before school entry scanners), or blah blah blah blahhhhh i don't even care anymore. she would up stealing my online identity and making accounts on furaffinity and stuff like that with it... which was kind of noticeable as.... she was the only person irl i'd ever shared my online presence with. hahahha. hah
also i did have knives. they were xacto knives from my art teacher, because scratchboards are the greatest fucking stim thing out there. and i always informed/asked my teachers if it was all right to work on art projects after i finished their assigned work, so they all knew i had them. tiny 1 inch blades. working on cute fuckin drawings of foxes and anime boys. so as you can imagine this is actually funny to me in some way, because even though she was being really malicious, all of my teachers loved me and, well, the "knives" were not an issue.
i got a little off topic there. anyway, what i'm saying is, once i managed to break out of my mother's oppressive management of what i should be, i realized that i was never going to be the pretty princess that she wanted me to be, and that i didn't want to be, anyway, because i was a boy and had always wanted to be a boy. i started buying men's clothes and it changed my life. i started hitting the gym and it was incredible. sure, i'm flabby and out of shape right now, but i have faith that if i pull through just a little longer, i'll be able to get whatever's wrong with me fixed, and i'll be able to start going to the gym again.
i learned that eyeliner can really enhance my face, as long as it's not like what mom forced on me. full racoon eyes on guys is hot. i also learned that makeup can help make me look more masculine -- with the proper contouring, that is, and darkening/shaping my eyebrows. (hell. just doing brow filler helps me look better REGARDLESS. thick eyebrows are so in XOXO) my hair is something that people are jealous of -- not something ugly or hideous that needs to be "fixed". it's a giant fucking mane of silver-streaked brown nowadays, and it's incredible, and i love it even if it's really warm and if sometimes my husband rolls onto it and there is hair on everything everywhere at all times and eternally i am SORRY about the shower it just looks like that now.
i learned that women's pants fit me better with how wide my hips have gotten, as men's pants unfortunately are not crafted for The Belly. but i can still pair them with a t-shirt and sandals and look perfectly fine. pants are just pants tbh. it doesn't make me squirm like it used to when i was forced into anything "feminine".
anyway. what i'm saying is like. you didn't win, mom, and i will always loathe you. i feel sorry for you in a way, but i also understand that your unwillingness to do any self-introspection or to work past your own narcissism is your own fuckin fault. you tried to kill who i was time and time again, and then flipped and tried to boo-hoo your fuckin way out of it the moment i had a community that helped raise me up instead of breaking my spine to fit me into that little perfect princess box.
it's a prince box now and i fit in there without having to hurt myself for your gratification.
✮ stepdaddy!toji can't get enough of you. cw: stepcest
stepdaddy!toji didn't plan on getting married at all. he had zero desire to deal with responsibility and all that bullshit, but he figured his kid needed a mother figure. so he met a woman who worked in some boring office, no spark or passion happened, and he didn't even expect it. he just wanted to make sure his boy didn't grow up lonely.
stepdaddy!toji who didn't even blink when she said she had a daughter but would do whatever it took to make sure you wouldn't cause a problem, 'cause apparently you were a total brat who rebelled against her on purpose and all that shit. he just grunted and nodded, thinking you were the same age as his son.
stepdaddy!toji didn't even set eyes on you until he and your mom got hitched, 'cause you kept running away from home and this time your mom just kicked you out. when you guys first met, you were wearing these crazy short lounge shorts with your hair all messy. well, you were way older than his son. you licked your ice cream and looked at him with those doe eyes. "so, you're my new daddy now?" he checked you out from head to toe, letting his gaze linger on those hips. "guess so. and did you have a lot of new ones?" "enough to know you won't last long here." well, that did something to his cock.
stepdaddy!toji saw with his own eyes that you weren't some bratty, hopeless kid like your mom described. you just didn't agree with her and tried to prove her wrong, and she got pissed every single time, telling you she wasted her youth on you. he just cut the argument short, stroking your hair and telling your mom to stop being such a bitch.
stepdaddy!toji couldn't tear his eyes away when you walked around the house in just panties and a sheer white top after another fight just to spite your mom, with your nipples peeking through. you never gave any blunt hints, but the way you stared at his biceps every time he reached for the salt on the table, or at his huge cock when he wore gray sweatpants, spoke for itself.
stepdaddy!toji walked into your room one day while you were out to swipe your panties and sniff 'em while he jerked off, but he found something way more interesting. your laptop stayed open with a chat with your friend on the screen. he was just about to blow it off when he saw his name.
→ idk girl, it sounds gross but if you saw him you'd wanna fuck him too
i mean, you got a shitty mom who's been terrorizing you since you were a kid, he didn't raise you, he didn't change your diapers, so why the hell not? if the dick's worth it lol ←
→ it's huge, i'm sure he'd just rip me apart. i have to imagine him instead of my dildo, though he's definitely like three times bigger
stepdaddy!toji decides to shower with you the next morning, making you let out a scream. "what are you doing in here?" and you try to cover yourself up, but he just laughs. "giving you exactly what you want." he starts stripping and you stare at his massive biceps, his rock-solid chest and abs, then your eyes trail down and see the happy trail leading to a huge, hang-hard cock that was already standing tall. your mouth hung open while he sat down on the edge. "get over here, baby." one second you stopped hiding yourself, and the next you were bouncing on his cock, and he was deep inside you, ripping you apart.
his hands are glued to your ass, guiding your rhythm, squeezing and spreading you open on his cock. every time you slide down, you feel him hit that spot deep inside. "nngh! yes! yes! so good—" he leans forward and captures your nipple between his lips, suckling hard, his tongue flicking across the sensitive peak. "you were made to take my cock." you gasp when he bites down gently, then soothes the ache with his tongue. "mmnn— my little girl’s got the sweetest tits, huh? gonna suck 'em dry." your hips start to slow — you're exhausted, your muscles screaming — but he won't let you stop. his hands grip your waist and start bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you with brutal precision. your head falls back, mouth open, letting out a long, guttural moan. "you like that, baby? you like your daddy using you like this?" "yes! yes— please nngh! don't stop—" "that's it, baby. cum for daddy. cum all over my cock."
stepdaddy!toji gets addicted to you right away. he turns fucking you every morning into a tradition. he's already hard when he pushes your door open, already stroking himself through his boxers by the time he's kneeling on the mattress, dragging the sheets off your sleeping body. "mornin', little girl." you stir, blinking up at him. his cock is already out, thick and heavy, the head brushing against your thigh. "...it's so early..." "shhh." he pulls your panties down your legs. "daddy needs his breakfast." he rolls you onto your stomach first, because he likes watching the way your back arches when he pushes inside from behind. his chest presses against your spine, his mouth at your ear. "been dreamin' about this pussy all night, baby. you know that? can't sleep proper without knowin' i'm gonna be inside you the second i wake up." "nngh! daddy—! so good..."
stepdaddy!toji uses your tits like a pacifier. it started as something innocent — him suckling gently while you watched tv — but now it's a full-blown ritual. his hands find your shirt, push it up. your bra follows. he groans the second your nipples are bare, leaning down to take one into his mouth. "toji—" "shhh." he sucks hard, tongue circling the sensitive peak. "just let daddy have this."
his eyes are half-closed. he is latched on, suckling slow and steady. his hand cups your other breast, thumb stroking over the nipple. "one day," he murmurs against your skin, "gonna put a baby in you. gonna fill you up so good. and then these tits..." he takes the nipple between his teeth, tugs gently. "gonna be full of milk for me. gonna drink it straight from the source, baby." you whimper, and he suckles harder, his hand sliding down between your legs. "and you'll let me, won't you? let daddy drink it whenever he wants. let me fall asleep right here, with your nipple in my mouth and my cum drippin' out of your tight little pussy." he does fall asleep like that, sometimes. your nipple still between his lips, your hand stroking his hair. and when he wakes up in the middle of the night, hard and aching, he slides inside you without a word, still half-asleep, still sucking your breast.
stepdaddy!toji loves making you squirt just to prove he is way better than guys your own age. he's on his knees between your legs, and he's been down there for god knows how long. your thighs are shaking, you're soaked, and he shows no signs of stopping. "i know you got it in you, baby." his fingers curl inside you, pressing against your front wall. "give it to daddy. give me that." "daddy, i can't—mnngh! i can't, it's too much—" "you can. you will." his mouth closes over your clit, sucks hard while his fingers pump faster. "c'mon, my baby. let go for me. let me see it." your body locks up. every muscle goes tight. and then it releases — a gush of fluid that soaks his hand, his chin, the towel he'd laid down beneath you. "there she is. there's my good fuckin' girl." he doesn't stop. he keeps fingering you through it, keeps sucking your clit until you're screaming, until you're pushing at his head because you can't take anymore. "one more, little girl. give me one more."
stepdaddy!toji who treats your pussy like a living thing. he talks to it, kisses it, worships it. he pushes your thighs up to your chest and groans at the sight of you. "mm, she's wet for me. of course she is. she knows who she belongs to." "look at my girl. missed me, didn't she?" he's talking to your pussy, and he means it. he leans in, presses his open mouth against your folds like a kiss. "fuck, i missed you too, pretty girl." he makes out with it. that's the only way to describe it — his tongue sliding between your lips, pressing inside, then pulling out to suck your clit into his mouth. "daddy's girl's got the sweetest fuckin' pussy in the world. you know that?" he presses his nose against your clit, inhales deep. "can't get enough." "ha— mmnh!!— daddy! i'm gonna—!" "come in my mouth, baby." you cum again from his tongue alone, and he moans through it, smiling against your pussy. when you try to pull away from the oversensitivity, he grabs your hips and yanks you back. "i'm not done. daddy's never done with this pretty pussy."
stepdaddy!toji doesn't give a fuck if someone can catch you guys, if he wanted to fuck you, nothing was gonna stop him. "someone will see—" "let 'em." he pulls you over the center console, guides you onto his lap. your back presses against his chest, the steering wheel digging into your knees. his cock slides into you from behind, and you choke on a moan. "shhh, baby. gotta be quiet." but he's already thrusting up into you, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your throat. "look how good you take my cock." a woman walks past with a shopping cart. you freeze, but he keeps moving, keeps fucking up into you slow and deep. "look at her. she got no idea you're gettin' stuffed full of my cock right now." "fuck— daddy! —nngh!" "that's it. let 'em hear. let 'em know who you belong to." sunlight floods the car, and anyone glancing over would see two silhouettes. he comes inside you with a grunt, holding your hips down, filling you up while a minivan parks three spaces away.
stepdaddy!toji who tells your mom he needs to spend more time with you to get to know his stepdaughter better, so he heads to the mall with you. he fucks you in the first dressing room he finds. you're on his lap, your back against his chest, the flimsy curtain doing nothing to muffle your sounds. his cock is buried deep, and he's holding you still while the saleslady asks through the curtain if everything fits okay. "just fine," he calls out, voice steady. his hips thrust up. "my girl's just trying things on." you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. his hand covers your mouth. "shhh, my baby. don't wanna get caught, do you?" but he's fucking up into you harder, faster. the cheap stool beneath you creaks. "nngh! mmn—!" "what was that?" he pulls his hand away. "you got something to say, little girl?" "daddy! — fuck... i'm gonna!—" "gonna come? right here? with your mama thinkin' we're just havin' a nice afternoon?" you nod frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "then do it, baby. come on daddy's cock. let 'em all hear who makes you feel this good." you come with a broken cry, and he follows right after.
stepdaddy!toji finally gets to fuck you everywhere after the divorce, without hiding or trying to muffle your sweet sounds. he bends you over the thick upholstered arm, your toes barely touching the floor, ass arched high. he pushes in slow, watching his cock disappear into your tight little pussy inch by inch. the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room. "you hear that, baby? listen to how wet you are for me. this pussy knows who it belongs to, doesn't it?" "y-yes, daddy! it's you— ah!— all yours!" or when he folds you in half, knees pressed against your shoulders, your ankles hooked over his biceps. he looms over you, watching his own cock slide in and out of your gaping hole. he fucks you deep and slow, grinding his pelvis against your clit with every thrust until you're a writhing mess beneath him. "look at you little girl, taking every inch. you love being stuffed full of this cock, don't you?" "yes! daddy— mmnh!— yes, i love it, i love it!"
stepdaddy!toji who loves it when you warm up his dick. he's sitting on the couch, watching tv, and you're in his lap, facing him, his cock buried deep inside your pussy. you're both fully dressed except for where your panties are pushed aside and his zipper is down. "just sit still, little girl. keep me warm." you try to stay quiet, but every small movement makes you clench around him, and you can feel him twitch inside you. your thighs are shaking, your pussy pulsing, and you're so wet you can feel yourself dripping down onto his lap. "please— i need you to move—" you can feel him twitch inside you, feel him get harder even though he's not moving. his thumb traces lazy circles on your hip. "one day," he murmurs, "gonna keep you on my cock all day long. gonna carry you around the house like this. make you breakfast with my dick still buried in you." you clench around him involuntarily, and he groans. "fuck, yeah. squeeze daddy just like that."
stepdaddy!toji who couldn't see you for a whole week because of all the divorce drama. and when you finally show up at his place, he doesn't even take your clothes off all the way. just pushes your skirt up, rips your panties aside, and sinks into you with a groan that sounds like relief. "fuck! fuck— i needed this. i needed you, baby." your back hits the wall, your legs wrap around his waist. he's holding you up, fucking you standing, your weight suspended on his cock. "never again. never gonna go a week without this pussy again. you hear me?" "yes— mmh! daddy— yes!" "now i can have you whenever i want. wherever i want." he carries you across the room, still inside you, fucks you against every surface he can reach. the counter. the couch. the floor. "gonna make up for lost time. gonna spend the whole weekend buried inside my little girl."
stepdada!kuna ? amazing art from @ dickerystuf on ig / x
summary: She’s given him her all, keeping his life on schedule without complaint, but now it’s her turn to shake things up. She's leaving him in just two weeks.
content warnings: max being not a great boss
word count: 2.5k
pairing: max verstappen x assistant!reader
SERIES: my dear assistant || may be confusing if read as a standalone one-shot!
a/n: ITS HEREEEE! nawr because i had so much fun writing this like im ACTUALLY so stupid super excited for this series
Max, I love you. I’m your biggest fan, please send me—
You sighed, dragging the email into the trash.
“Seriously, he needs to take his business email out of his Instagram bio,” you muttered under your breath.
Mornings always looked the same. Blue light glasses perched on your nose, emotional support blanket wrapped around your shoulders, laptop balanced on your knees. Max’s inbox was the most consistent thing in your life. You’d learned early on that it was faster to just keep it bookmarked—front and center—ready for whatever chaos awaited overnight.
Your fingers tapped next again and again, skimming the latest flood of messages that had piled up while you were asleep. Most of them weren’t worth your time, fan mail begging for signed driver cards, free merch, or worse, his phone number.
Filtering through that mess was easily your least favorite part of the job. Max was perfectly capable of checking his own emails, eventually. But every morning, before he even woke up, it was your job to make sure his inbox looked spotless.
Your phone alarm blared suddenly, cutting through the quiet. You glanced at the clock: 7 a.m. sharp.
Another sigh. You closed the laptop, tucked it under your arm, and pushed the blanket off your legs before heading to the door.
Your studio apartment in Monaco wasn’t exactly the dream. Max had requested—more like insisted—that you move closer six months into the job. And when Max requested something, there was rarely an option to say no.
Keys in hand, you slipped downstairs and slid into your car. You turned on the seat warmer, for the passenger side, of course, stopped by the convenience store for a Red Bull, and headed toward Max’s luxurious penthouse to pick him up for the gym.
Just like you did every day.
You pulled up to the curb and picked up your phone. The Here. text was practically muscle memory by now. Short, simple, and the same every morning. Max, your mom, and your best friend back home were the only pinned chats at the top of your messages.
You reached across the passenger seat to test the warmth of the cushion. Warm, but not too warm. You quickly shut off the heater, he always complained if it got left on too long. You switched your music over to light instrumentals, low enough to fade into the background while you drove him between commitments.
Everything you did ran like clockwork now, fine-tuned around his habits. You knew what he liked, what he couldn’t stand, and every tiny detail in between. It wasn’t efficiency so much as self-preservation—every well-timed adjustment kept you safe from one of his early-morning lectures.
It didn’t take long before he appeared at your car door, opening it with practiced ease and sliding into the passenger seat. You reached for the Red Bull waiting in the cupholder, popped it open with one hand, and passed it to him. He took it without looking, as usual.
“What’s planned for today after the gym?” he asked, taking a sip before setting it down, halfway on the console, halfway in the cupholder like he owned the car himself.
“You’ve got two video shoots—one for ORB, one for Ford—lunch with your dad, social shoots for ORB, dinner with investors, then you’re free for the night.”
“What about paddle?”
“What about paddle?” you echoed, glancing over at him.
“Lando and I made plans to play before lunch.”
“Max, did you tell anyone about these plans?”
“No, but you know I don’t like my schedule so tight.”
You exhaled through your nose, already bracing for the rest of the day. “Max, those things have been on the calendar for months. You can’t keep making plans during work hours.”
You eased the car to a stop in front of the gym.
He pointed to the clock on your dashboard before stepping out. “Looks like you have an hour to fix it. Don’t cancel on Lando or Dad.”
The door shut harder than necessary, and you winced.
You muttered a few quiet expletives, then let out a breathy laugh. “Unbelievable. I don’t even make his schedule.”
Pulling out your phone, you dialed the Red Bull comms manager.
“No, no, I understand. Thank you anyway, he’ll be there for sure.”
You hung up and leaned your head against the headrest, groaning at the clock. 15 minutes left to fix this.
“I was on such a good streak of him not yelling at me,” you said to yourself, scrolling through your contacts. There was one more person you could try.
You tapped on Lando Norris. You’d only gotten his number because you’d once needed help getting a very drunk Max into his apartment. Still, it was worth a shot.
To your surprise, he answered after two rings.
“Hello?”
“Lando? This is Max’s—”
“Right-hand man, yeah, I know,” he said with a laugh. “Everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Just checking, are you supposed to be playing paddle with Max before lunch?”
“Yes? Why, what’s up?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if there’s any chance you could move it to later in the day? He’s got back-to-back shoots, and he didn’t mention it to anyone.”
“Just texted him. Will eight o’clock work, you think?”
You blinked. Honestly, speechless over how easy that was. “Uh, yeah. That’s perfect, actually. Thank you so much.”
“No problem. I know how he can be,” he said before hanging up.
By the time the clock hit 8, Max walked out of the gym, hair damp, phone in hand, same as he did every day.
“You got lucky,” he said, sliding into the seat. “Lando texted me and said he needed to move paddle.”
You only nodded, keeping your eyes on the road.
“Don’t let them schedule things that close together again,” he added.
You wanted to remind him that you didn’t handle his scheduling. You wanted to remind him how out of the many things you did quietly manage for him every single day, that was the one thing you did not have to worry about.
But you didn’t. You never did.
“I’ll make a note of that,” you said, instead, shifting the car into gear and pulling out toward his first commitment of the day.
Despite Max being a royal pain in your ass, he was never that to anyone else. Always polite, always charming, always perfectly composed. He smiled for the cameras, thanked every crew member, and acted like he hadn’t just handed you a scheduling disaster two hours ago.
The first shoot ran over, naturally. You stood just off set, answering texts and calls from PR and the comms team while keeping one eye on him. He looked like he was born for this. For all of the bright lights, cameras, the constant hum of attention. You, on the other hand, were apparently born for crisis control.
“His outfit for the Ford shoot hasn’t arrived yet, he told us to tell you. That you would fix it” the stylist whispered urgently, rushing over to you.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.”
Five minutes later, you were sprinting across the parking lot, car keys in hand, off to pick up the missing garment yourself. When you returned, slightly winded, Max didn’t even blink before reaching for the clothes as if they’d been there all along.
Between shoots, you handed him a towel, a protein bar, a fresh Red Bull, all without a word. He didn’t thank you, but he took them like he always did.
By the time you both got back in the car, your phone was buzzing nonstop. PR wanted confirmation on his post-shoot interview slot, his dad’s assistant was trying to move lunch, and the Red Bull team wanted to push up his next event by fifteen minutes. You were juggling it all while merging into Monaco traffic.
“You know,” Max said casually from the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, “they should really hire someone to handle my scheduling.”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him before refocusing on the road. “Yeah. Imagine that.”
He didn’t even look up, but you caught the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
After the investors' dinner, you barely had time to breathe before heading to the paddle courts. The sun was dipping just enough to turn the sky gold, the city still buzzing around you. Max adjusted his sunglasses, scrolling through his texts.
“Lando’s already there,” he said. “Don’t make me late.”
When you pulled into the lot, you spotted Lando immediately, leaning against the fence, grinning and giving you both an excited wave.
“Made it on time?” Lando called out as Max stepped out of the car, looking down at his watch. “That’s a first.”
You stayed in the car while the boys talked to each other, your phone in hand, already drafting an email about tomorrow’s rescheduled shoot, hoping to get around an ‘overloaded’ schedule early.
Max grabbed his paddle bag from your backseat and tossed you a look. “You’re staying, right?”
You raised an eyebrow without looking up from your phone. “In case you forget how to hold a paddle?”
He rolled his eyes. “In case I need something.”
You sighed and turned the car off. Because of course you were going to stay. You always did.
You followed the boys onto the courts, taking up space on the bench you always sat on when you stayed at the courts.
“I’m going to change,” Max said, disappearing into the changing rooms.
Lando’s eyes flicked to you. “You know, I don’t know how you manage him all day. Honestly. You’re like, superhero-level organized.”
You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “It’s mostly endurance and Red Bull,” you said dryly.
“No, seriously,” he said, stepping closer. “I’d pay double whatever he pays you to work for me. Two million a year?”
You physically coughed at the number out of pure surprise. Two million a year. That was way more than double what Max paid you. That was more than enough to finally get at least a one-bedroom apartment and not a studio. Your first instinct was to say yes, right here, right now. But before the words could escape, the changing room door swung open.
“Ready?!” Max called from inside.
You blinked. He always seemed to have perfect timing. You laughed quietly, shaking your head. Of course he had to come out right now.
Max strutted onto the court, towel over his shoulders, still scrolling on his phone. Lando picked up a paddle, grinning at him. “Ready to lose?”
“You’re on,” Max shot back, smirking.
By the time the match ended, Max had disappeared to the bathroom once again to change. Lando turned to you, leaning on the fence. “So, you’re thinking about my offer, right? I was being serious.”
You hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yes, I will take your offer.”
“Wait—think about it for a few days,” Lando said, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve already made up my mind,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll give Max two weeks. Enough time to find someone else, train them, make sure he doesn’t completely implode on them.”
Lando laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually impressive. Most people would just bolt. You’re solid.”
“I’m loyal,” you said lightly. “And apparently crazy.”
He grinned. “Fair enough. Well, still think it over anyway. You never know.”
You shook your head. “Nope. I’ve thought it through. Two weeks, then the new job starts.”
And just like that, the decision was made, but you knew the next two weeks promised to be very interesting.
When Max reemerged, you instinctively packed up his gear while him and Lando continued to talk and tease each other. By the time you both slid back into the car, the sky had deepened into a dark navy, and streetlights stretched across the Monaco streets. Max leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms, and within minutes, his head lolled slightly to the side. He had always had a habit of dozing off if you were driving at night.
You drove in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space, enjoying the rare moments of calm after a day of chaos. Your phone buzzed on your lap. Your mom. You hadn’t spoken to her in a few days. Max’s packed schedule had left barely a moment for your own life.
You hesitated, glancing at the sleeping figure beside you. Then, carefully, you answered. “Hi, Mom,” you whispered, keeping your voice low.
“Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay? How’s everything?” Her voice was warm and familiar.
You smiled faintly, pressing the phone closer. “I’m fine, just, busy,” you said quietly, glancing at Max, who stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes. “I just wanted to talk for a minute.”
“Of course, I just—”
Before you could finish, Max’s head lifted, blinking sleepily, irritation creeping into his voice. “You couldn’t wait until I’m back home?”
You muttered an apology to your mom before quickly hitting the end call button. Something inside you snapped. The two years of constant juggling and reworking his schedules, waiting on him hand and foot, managing his quirks, keeping every moving part in line, it all suddenly felt too heavy to carry in silence.
“I’m leaving, Max! I’m actually leaving this job!” you said, louder than you intended, voice carrying in the quiet car.
Max froze, eyes wide with shock. “What do you mean? You can’t do that?” he said slowly, his voice catching in disbelief.
“Yes, I can,” you said, forcing calm into your voice, but letting a hint of frustration bleed through. “Look, I’m giving you two weeks. Two weeks to help you find someone else, train them, and hopefully make sure you don’t completely scare them off.”
He went quiet. You could feel the tension in the car surge. It was so thick you swore you could physically feel it. For a moment, it was just the hum of the engine and your own heartbeat.
You tried to gauge his reaction, and for the first time all day, or maybe for as long as you had known him, you couldn’t. There was no playful smirk, no teasing remark, no nostrils flaring, no raised eyebrow, no eye roll. Just quiet.
“I—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head, sighing further into the seat.
You softened slightly, leaning back in your seat, too. “Max, I’ve thought about this for a long time. I like keeping things running smoothly for you, I like knowing everything is under control, but I need to look out for myself, too. And yes, the timing isn’t perfect, but I’m going to try my best to make this transition easier for you.”
He finally exhaled, running a hand over his face, and the silence stretched again. The weight of your words hung between you.
You finally pulled up in front of his penthouse, engine idling. Max didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at you. He opened his door and stepped out, shoulders stiff. You watched him go inside without another word.
You sat there for a second, staring at the blinking streetlight outside of his apartment that he always commented on. Two weeks. That’s all he had before the world you’d kept running for him would start to shift, before he’d have to face just how indispensable you really were.
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. Two weeks. Enough time to help him adjust, but not enough to undo the decision you had already made.
synopsis:: you and Bakugo were never close in school. just classmates who ended up in the same friend group by accident and stayed there out of habit. eight years later he's one of the top heroes with a mouth on him and you're the unbothered ex-classmate who somehow still doesn't know he's been in love with you since UA. His friends know. His mom knows. Everyone knows. You do not. This is Bakugo's guide— written badly on the back of a receipt at 2am— to finally doing something about it.
yellow and pink divs edited by me. base here if you'd like to make your own ♡ layout inspired by my goat @6x-x9
You were never the loud one in the friend group. That was never your job. Kirishima was loud. Bakugo was louder. You were the one who sat back and watched everyone lose their minds over something small and just — didn't. Calm under pressure. Unshakeable in a way that used to annoy Bakugo in high school and now just makes him feel like he's losing a fight he never agreed to start.
Eight years out of UA and somehow you're still around. Still in the group chat. Still showing up to Kirishima's birthday parties and Sero's terrible karaoke nights. Still completely unaware that Katsuki Bakugo — the number five hero, walking explosion, a man who has never once backed down from anything in his life — has been quietly losing his mind over you since roughly your second year of school.
Everyone else figured it out years ago. Kirishima figured it out first, mostly because Bakugo made the mistake of getting drunk at his own agency's holiday party and saying your name four times in one sentence. Mina figured it out next. Even Todoroki figured it out, which says a lot, because Todoroki barely notices when buildings are on fire.
You did not figure it out. You are, according to every single person in that group chat, the last person on earth who has no idea.
So one night Bakugo sat down with a receipt from a ramen place and a pen that was almost out of ink and wrote himself a list. Not because he needed help — he would tell you he did not need help — but because eight years of doing nothing had clearly not worked and something had to change.
Here's what he came up with.
Rule #1: Don't call her pretty. That's weak. She'll see right through it.
You've been called pretty before. Plenty of times. It rolls off you like water because it means nothing coming from strangers. So the first time Bakugo actually looks at you — really looks, across a table at a group dinner while everyone else is arguing about something stupid — he doesn't say pretty. He says your hair looks stupid pushed back like that and it takes you a full three seconds to realize that's the nicest thing he's said to anyone all night.Kirishima kicks him under the table. Bakugo kicks back harder.
Rule #2: Don't let her see you get soft. Save that for when nobody's watching
You broke your wrist on a mission six months ago and Bakugo showed up at the hospital before your own agency finished the paperwork. He didn't say much. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed and glared at every nurse who walked past like they'd personally wronged him. You thanked him for coming. He said he was in the area. He was not in the area. He is never in your area.
Rule #3: If she teases you don't react. Reacting means she wins.
You have exactly one move against Bakugo and it works every time. You call him Kacchan in that flat unbothered voice of yours, the one that makes it sound like an insult and a joke at once, and he goes red before he can stop it. He tells you to shut up. You don't. He never actually wants you to.
Rule #4: Don't stare. Staring is for losers who can't say what they mean.
He stares anyway. Across bars. Across meeting rooms when your agencies do joint operations. Across the space between his couch and yours when the whole group crashes at his place after a night out and you fall asleep first, curled up small and unbothered like the world isn't currently on fire somewhere. He tells himself he's just checking you're breathing. He checks for a very long time.
Rule #5: If she steals your jacket let her keep it. Don't be a bitch about it.
It was cold outside a bar in October and you didn't bring one. He took his off without being asked and put it around your shoulders before you could even shiver a second time. You tried to give it back at the end of the night. He told you to keep it, said something about not needing two jackets anyway, which made no sense, and walked off before you could argue. You still have it. He knows you still have it. Neither of you has ever mentioned it again.
Rule #6: Don't get jealous. Jealous is for weak men.
A guy from a rival agency spent an entire mixer talking to you last spring and Bakugo spent that same mixer setting three separate small fires with his quirk completely by accident, according to him. Kirishima said it wasn't an accident. Bakugo told Kirishima to shut the hell up in front of everyone, which everyone agreed was extremely on brand and extremely obvious.
Rule #7: If she's tired let her sleep on your shoulder. Don't make it weird.
You fell asleep on the train back from a joint mission once, head tipping slowly toward his shoulder like gravity had made a decision without asking you. He went completely still. Didn't move for forty minutes. Told everyone later he just didn't want to wake you up. That was true. It was also not the whole truth.
Rule #8: Compete with her. Don't let her win just because you like her. That's pathetic.
You beat him at darts once, at a bar, fair and square, and he demanded a rematch on the spot. You beat him again. He demanded a third round. By the fourth round he wasn't even trying to win anymore, just trying to make you laugh at his increasingly unhinged trash talk, and you were laughing too hard to notice you'd stopped keeping score.
Rule #9: Play it cool when she touches you. Don't be obvious.
You have a habit of grabbing his arm when you laugh too hard at something, quick and unthinking, gone in half a second. It means nothing to you. It means everything to him. He has thought about that half-second more times than he'd ever admit under torture.
Rule #10: If she's cold under the table don't offer your legs. That's insane. Nobody does that.
He does it anyway. It's a slow dinner, everyone's talking over each other, and your foot brushes his under the table by accident. You don't move it. Neither does he. What starts as an accident turns into something else entirely — your foot pressed lightly against his shin, his ankle hooked loosely around yours, both of you carrying on two separate conversations with the rest of the table like nothing is happening below it. He nearly chokes on his drink when your foot slides slow up his calf, just once, just to see what he'll do.
He does absolutely nothing. Which is how you know it worked.
Rule #11: Don't ask about her ex. That's weak and clingy behavior.
He asks anyway, once, badly, wrapped inside a completely unrelated sentence about something else entirely so it wouldn't sound like what it was. You answered honestly and briefly and didn't ask why he wanted to know. He spent the rest of that night in a genuinely foul mood that had nothing to do with the mission report he'd claimed was bothering him.
Rule #12: If she gets sick you're not worried. You're just making sure she doesn't die. There's a difference.
You caught something nasty last winter and didn't tell anyone because you hate being fussed over. Bakugo found out from Kirishima and showed up at your apartment within the hour with a bag of groceries he refused to let you see the receipt for. He made soup badly. He stayed anyway sitting stiffly on your couch like he'd rather be anywhere else until you fell asleep on his shoulder for the second time in your life. He didn't move again. This time you were awake enough at the end to notice and you didn't say anything either.
Rule #13: Don't remember small stuff about her. That's obsessive.
He remembers everything. Your coffee order. The exact way you take your eggs. The name of the street you grew up on mentioned once years ago in passing. He tells himself it's just a good memory. Kirishima tells him that's not what a good memory looks like for anyone else in the friend group.
Rule #14: Don't get quiet around her. Quiet means she'll know something's wrong.
He gets quiet anyway sometimes when it's just the two of you left at the end of a group hangout and everyone else has gone home. You've noticed. You've never asked. You've started noticing you kind of like the quiet too.
Rule #15: If she insults your cooking don't take it personal.
You told him once that his katsudon tasted like it was made out of spite. He told you to make it yourself then. You did. It was worse than his. He has never let you live that down and somehow still makes you a plate every single time you come over unasked like it's not a big deal.
Rule #16: Don't let her see the soft stuff. Like the notebook. She can never see the notebook.
There is in fact a notebook. Bakugo would deny this to his last breath. It is not a diary. It is a training log that occasionally accidentally includes things like *she laughed at something dumb I said today* written in the margins in handwriting too small for anyone to notice. Nobody has ever seen it. It stays that way.
Rule #17: Don't dance with her at Mina's stupid parties. Dancing is for saps.
He dances with you exactly once badly at Mina's birthday both of you a little drunk and laughing about how neither of you knows what you're doing. His hand sits low on your waist the entire song. Yours rests flat against his chest close enough to feel his heart going faster than the song's tempo would explain. Neither of you comments on it. Both of you notice.
Rule #18: If she calls you at 2am for no reason answer immediately. Don't overthink it.
You called once at 2am half-asleep just to complain about a case that was bothering you and needed someone to talk it out with. He picked up on the first ring even though he'd been dead asleep three seconds earlier. Talked you through it for forty minutes in a voice rougher than usual low and half-awake until you finally calmed down enough to sleep. Neither of you brought it up the next day. You both remembered it anyway.
Rule #19: Tell her the truth eventually. Stalling makes you look like a coward.
He almost doesn't. Eight years of almost. Eight years of jackets and soup and 2am phone calls and a notebook nobody's supposed to see all adding up to exactly nothing because Katsuki Bakugo — who has never once in his life backed down from a fight — has apparently decided this is the one fight not worth having.
Kirishima finally sits him down and tells him flatly that watching this has become genuinely embarrassing for everyone involved. That you deserve to actually know. That you're not going to figure it out on your own because you're the single most unbothered person either of them has ever met and unbothered people don't go looking for things they've never been told to look for.
Rule #20: Ask her out. Just say it. Stop being a coward about it
He shows up at your apartment on a random Tuesday with no plan and no speech prepared which is unlike him in every possible way. You open the door in an old shirt and no makeup unbothered as always and ask what's wrong like something must be wrong for him to be standing there.
"Nothing's wrong," he says and immediately looks like he regrets starting that way. "I just — " He stops. Starts again. "You're coming to dinner with me Friday. Not the group. Just you and me."
You blink at him. For the first time in eight years something in your carefully composed face actually slips just a fraction just enough for him to see it happen in real time.
"Is this a date Bakugo?"
"Obviously it's a date," he says too loud the way he gets when he's covering for something. "What else would it be. Are you always this slow or is it just with me?"
You don't answer right away. You just look at him for a long moment the unbothered mask cracking wider by the second and something like a smile starts pulling at the corner of your mouth.
"Friday," you say. "Pick me up at seven. And Katsuki—"
"What."
"Wear the jacket back. I've had it long enough."
He goes red for the second time in eight years. Somewhere across town Kirishima's phone buzzes with a single text that just says *finally* and nothing else and every single person in that group chat already knows exactly what it means before he explains a word of it.
SUMMARY: Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything.
WARNINGS: the summary is a warning in itself but this part includes mentions of Tom, alcohol consumption, deep talks, heavy mentions of foster care, flirting (!!!!!), slight miscommunication, Jack opening up about his relationship with his wife, yet another phone call from Robby and god I don't want to spoil it but.... a surprise at the end !!!!!!
A/N: it's here!! This is it, here we go. I have been so excited to get to this point in the series because this is where we get the juicy stuff, and I was screaming my ass off writing the last part of this chapter hehe. A huge thank you for all the love and support this series is receiving, it truly means so much <3
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 8.7k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It was a mistake to have told your friends what happened in the ER. Even more of a mistake that you told them your fucking neighbour was the one to conduct your pelvic exam. Because you know that they're a bunch of busybodies. And you also know from experience that whenever one of you mentions a new male figure entering your lives in any capacity, they have to do their research.
It should not have surprised you that Bella had somehow found his LinkedIn and sent his very attractive and recent photo into the group chat. You also should’ve known that with that, came the thirst comments and that they’d be more than happy to have their pelvic exams to be done by him, too.
All in jest, to begin with. You didn’t stress because it was separate. There was no reason for them to ever meet him. Except now, there is. Because he’s coming to Phoebe’s birthday party and now you’ve had to gather the girls around the kitchen island while the kids play to give them their one and only warning to be on their best fucking behavior.
“Jack’s coming.”
It’s all it takes for all four pairs of eyes to land on you and widen. Bella, naturally, is the first to smirk. An expression that is very quickly mirrored by Leone, Chloe and Karis. You raise a palm to stop them before anyone can try to say something stupid or inappropriate.
“You are all to be on your best behavior and not stare at him like he’s some sort of zoo animal.”
Their smirks collectively turn into feline grins at your words. “Jesus, we’re not that bad.” Karis defends, though really she’s only actually speaking for herself.
You huff. “He’s just a friend and he’s Phoebe’s favorite person. Please don’t be weird and please do not bring up my pelvic exam.”
Karis giggles at that, her short brown bob swaying with the movement of her shoulders. Her reaction is much more innocent than the crazed smirks of the others. She’s always been the prude one of the friend group, never openly engaging in sex talk or sharing personal experiences. She’s just a bit of a quieter, more timid soul. Engaged to her lovely fiance, Ricky, and four months pregnant with her first.
Bella feigns an offended sigh, leaning across the kitchen island on her forearms. Her palms clap together gently, the chunky rings on her fingers clicking. “We promise to behave.”
You squint at her, unconvinced. Bella will be the biggest problem. Single, flirty and has no real sense of shame or embarrassment. That’s probably why she’s your favorite.
Your eyes flicker over to Leone and Chloe who are honestly the least of your concerns. “Don’t look at us.” They spend so much time together that the words slip from their mouths at the same time.
Anyone who meets them assumes they're in the honeymoon period, freshly smitten. But in reality, they’ve been together since high school. When they were told it was just a phase. When they got bullied by girls and sexualized by boys. You’ll forever have the memory of the time you broke Henry Stevenson's nose when he called them dykes and asked them both to scissor in front of him.
You feel a palm on your lower back, a presence at your shoulder. Your mom stands beside you, unwrapping the rest of the party food that’s plated on the island. “Tom not coming?”
You scoff at her joke. “Nope. I invited him for Pheebs, but he said he has plans.”
She pauses, turns to you. “But it’s her birthday.”
With a sigh, you purse your lips and drop your shoulders. You can’t help but look across to Phoebe; playing with Bella’s daughter, Florence, and some of her other friends from preschool. It makes your heart ache to watch her laugh with excitement and grin in happiness and know that Tom doesn’t love her the way he should. The way she deserves.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. She's got everyone she needs right here.” It’s your dad’s hands that land comfortingly on your shoulder, a grounding touch and a blanket of reassurance and love.
You sink into it a little, let him wrap you in his arms. No matter how old you are, it always makes you feel like a teenager again. Safe in your fathers hold, knowing that he will never let anything touch or harm you.
“Besides,” Bella begins with a grin, “I’m sure she’ll forget all about Tom when Jack gets here.”
Your moms head whips to you, eyes wide and sparkling as her lips curl in intrigue. “The silver fox?”
You feel your dad still slightly as he pulls away from you, cocking a brow at your mom in what can only be playful from him. She swats his rounding tummy in jest and wraps herself around him. But your dad…he turns to you with raised brows, a silent question as to what the fuck your mother is talking about.
“You’re seeing someone? Someone older?”
A groan tumbles from your lips. “No. He’s a neighbor. A friend.”
“For now.” Chloe murmurs over the rim of her glass, eyes shining something mischievous.
He looks at Chloe, then back to you. Your mom pats his stomach, one arm around his waist. “David, you’re not allowed to feel any type of way about this. You’re nineteen years older than me!”
A huff falls from you but you can’t help the laugh that follows. “There is nothing to feel about anything because Jack is a friend.” It’s like you speak in an alien tongue, because they all blink at you blankly.
Your dad rolls his shoulders, clears his throat like the subject has made him uncomfortable. If he’s honest with himself, it has. He’s never liked the topic of you having a boyfriend or a partner. He hated it as a teenager and now you’re almost thirty…it still hasn’t gotten easier to come to terms with.
That you, his little girl, isn’t a little girl anymore. David often has to remind himself that you’re an adult, a mother. And that despite how uneasy he feels about you potentially being interested in an older man, Prue is right. He is nineteen years older than her. He has no place to judge, only has room for validated fatherly concern.
He clears his throat, focuses his attention on you. “How old is this Jack, exactly?”
You chew on the inside of your cheek. There is absolutely no need to be having the conversation, and yet you find yourself quietly indulging your father anyway. “Forty-four.”
Your father blinks and you know he’s mentally calculating an age difference. He has the same look in your eye that you did when you were staring at your reflection the night after the ED visit, calculating the gap yourself.
Sixteen years.
David looses a breath and there’s a stillness in the kitchen. Phoebe and her friends continue to play, unaware of the turmoil he’s mentally battling. He reminds himself that you’re a big girl now, that you can make your own decisions. That he knows Phoebe is your priority always.
But David knows what an age difference looks like. There’s a worry that wedges itself deep beneath his ribcage for you. Because while an older man may be able to offer you more, he can’t offer everything. At seventy-five years old, he knows he’s lucky if he’s got another ten years in him. That he’ll be leaving Prue a widow at sixty-six. That he won’t make it to see Phoebe become an adult, won’t make it to meet his grandchildren if she grows to have any.
It doesn’t matter how fit and healthy he is, or how good he looks for his age. David is old, getting older. He can’t do the things that Prue can. He doesn’t want that life for you.
The tension in the kitchen makes the next part even harder. And you don’t look at anyone when you utter words that make your father tense even further. “If you see his wedding band, don’t ask about it.”
An even thicker silence settles over the room at that. Partly because you’d never told them he was married, but also because they all seemed to get the hint that his wife is no longer here.
It makes David’s chest feel tight. Like history is repeating itself. Because before Prue, he was also a widow.
Before any other questions can be asked, Phoebe is shrieking in delight as she tears open another gift. It’s all that’s needed for everyone to swiftly move past the doomed conversation. You avoid your mothers sympathetic gaze as you reach Phoebe, grinning as she slips her feet into a pair of plastic heels.
There’s wrapping paper everywhere, toys and books and dress-up outfits. She’s torn through the majority of her gifts, screaming at Alexa to play Ain’t It Fun by Paramore. She’s no longer wearing the pretty dress you picked out for her; replacing it sometime ten minutes ago with a bright pink tutu and a Def Leopard t-shirt.
After a round of musical statues and beating the shit out of a pinata, there’s a firm knock at the front door and Phoebe is moving toward it before you can say otherwise.
The excitement in her screech is ear shattering as she throws the door wide open and bounces on the spot. Jack grins down at her widely, a large box wrapped in funky paper tucked under a muscular arm.
“Hey, birthday girl.”
“Jack! You came! Look, I'm having a party.” Phoebe doesn’t wait for Jack to respond, wraps her hand around his fingers and drags him into the apartment with far too much excitement.
You watch with pursed lips, desperately trying to hide your grin at the sight. Jack’s eyes find yours amongst the chaos of hyperactive children and wayward adults, his gaze softening but the edges are lined with amusement.
No more navy scrubs, but a pair of dark wash jeans and a white t-shirt that’s far too tight around his biceps. The slightly salt and pepper hair sits in what you can only assume to be their natural curls, and you have to remind yourself not to stare.
You offer a wave, stepping over toys and little feet to reach him. It’s far too natural in how his free arm opens to pull you into a casual hug, your front pressing against his side for a brief moment in greeting before you both pull away.
“Looks crazy in here,” he observes with a fond tone.
You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, you couldn’t have arrived at a more chaotic time.”
Phoebe pulls on Jack's pants, eager for his attention again. He gives it to her without another thought, crouches with a soft groan and about as much fluidity as a rusty pole. But he offers the gift to a bright eyed girl and she tears the paper off it within seconds.
Another shriek of delight echoes through the room and you watch with raised brows as Phoebe jumps and shakes the box. “Mommy! I’m just like Jack!”
She shoves the box to the ground and frantically begins to rip into it. It’s a medical kit. Complete with a doctor's case, plastic medical equipment, a pretend ID badge and blue scrubs that match Jack’s a little too well.
You blink at him, lips parted slightly in surprise. It was only yesterday that Phoebe told him she wanted to be a doctor when she grows up. And somehow, he’s found the most perfect gift between then and now.
“This is the bestest present ever! Thank you, Jack.” Phoebe throws herself at him again, arms wrapping around his neck and he smiles softly as he holds her with a gentle palm on her back.
“You’re so welcome, kid.”
He rises with another soft groan when Phoebe finally releases him from her clutches, and you both watch as she struggles to put the top on over her current one and step into the pants beneath the tutu. She’s grinning wide when she wraps the stethoscope around her neck and shoves the rest of the medical tools in her little bag.
You have to stifle a laugh when she orders one of her friends to pretend to be sick and Jack follows you toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a drink. You didn’t have to get her a gift.”
He scoffs, like he’s offended. “And show up to a diva's birthday party empty-handed?”
A laugh falls from your lips but lodges in your throat the moment you approach the kitchen island and realize all eyes are on you. Well, not you. On Jack.
He stands with a polite smile, hands behind his back and a slight stiffness in his shoulders like he’s about to be interrogated for something he absolutely has not done yet.
You clear your throat. “Um, Jack, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Jack. Our neighbor and Phoebe’s best friend.”
He laughs softly at that, a brief blush of pinkness dusting across his cheeks at your introduction. Bella is the first to introduce herself as your best friend. Then Karis, who’s a little more polite about it. Both Leone and Chloe offer smirks and a wave, no words to tell him their names.
But your mom and dad… they approach Jack slowly. Your mother with a warm smile and your father with a slight squint in his eyes.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Jack. I’m Y/N’s mom, Prue. And this is my husband, David. Phoebe does not shut up about her favorite doctor.”
Jack’s laugh is a bit nervous, a bit self-deprecating. But he offers a warm handshake to your parents and you take that moment to shoot a glare and a silent shut the fuck up to your grinning friends.
“Ah, nothing too special about me but she’s a pretty cool kid.” He deflects it easily, casually.
Your mom makes a sound of disagreement. “She’s a strongheaded girl, like her mom. I trust her judge of character more than my own sometimes, and I’ve been a lawyer for thirty years.” She laughs and Jack dips his head a bit bashfully.
“Yeah, I heard you retired recently. Congratulations.”
She waves him off with a grin. “Is a lawyer ever truly retired? You ever need a defence attorney for anything outside of the hospital, you let me know.”
He grins appreciatively at the offer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Prue.”
“You always been a doctor, Jack?” David asks it casually enough but there’s a slight accusing tone to his voice that’s completely unwarranted.
But Jack just shrugs with a slight nod. “I’ve been in medicine most of my life. I served three tours as a combat medic before I went into emergency medicine.”
Your dad pauses, stares at your neighbor and you quickly take note of the wide eyes of your friends. You’d missed that tidbit of information when they were grilling you about him. And you’re yet to let them know about his little SWAT hobby.
There’s a hint of approval in your dad’s eyes at that and you visibly watch the way his shoulders relax slightly. “I did four tours back in my day. The medics are the real heroes… PTMC is lucky to have you.”
It’s about as much outright approval David has ever given a man that’s come into your life. It’s something that makes you feel sick and happy all at once. He’s just your fucking neighbor, why is everyone treating him like he’s your boyfriend?
Phoebe is bouncing into the kitchen before much more can be said, complaining about the lack of food she’s eaten and your parents and friends make quick work of moving the food to the small table set up in the lounge. You take that moment as a breather as they set the kids up for dinner and busy your hands with making a drink for Jack.
“Sorry, you kind of got thrown in the deep end there.” You apologize with a fond laugh.
Jack sits at the island, shrugging a shoulder and lazily waving a hand to brush it off. “They all seem nice. Phoebe had a good day?”
You nod with a tired smile as you slide a plastic cup toward him. He probably shouldn’t trust you as blindly as he does because he lifts the cup to take a sip before even checking what’s inside it, and swallows with brows raised.
“Beer at a kids party?”
You lean across the island to clink your cup to his. “I won’t tell if you won't."
Jack laughs but nods his head, taking another gulp before twisting in his seat to watch Phoebe help her friends put party hats on their heads and hold a mini speech to thank everyone for coming.
Your head falls between your arms as you laugh at the sight, a loud chuckle falling from Jack as he watches her with a wide grin and an ache in his chest.
For a moment, you just watch him watch her. Notice the way his grin softens into something fond and caring. Your throat dries up and you have to clear it with a cough. “Thank you for coming and for her gift. She’s a bit crazy about you at the minute.”
His eyes remain on Phoebe when he speaks. “Yeah, I've got a soft spot for her, too.” And when he turns back to you, his expression morphs into something slightly more intense. “And her mom.”
You swallow around the dryness in your throat, pray to fucking God that he doesn’t notice the heat that crawls up your neck and sits on the apples of your cheeks. You feel warm and fuzzy all over at his words, at the potential implications of them. The actual meaning.
You don’t know what to say so you don’t say anything at all. Your lips roll between your teeth to conceal a growing smile and you try your best to maintain his eye contact as you bring your cup to your lips again to take another sip.
Jack doesn’t get to spend much more time with you for the rest of the party. You’re either pulled away by duties or Jack is pulled away by Phoebe. He spends the next hour playing doctors with the four year olds and getting to know your mom and dad. But it’s on more than one occasion that you glance over to find him in deep conversation with Bella.
It sits uneasy in your stomach; the way he looks at her in such an intense way, like whatever she’s saying is gospel. It makes your throat swell in something like insecurity and embarrassment. There is nothing between you and Jack, you know that. But he says he has a soft spot for you and Phoebe and then submerges himself in Bella’s presence.
You’re not blind. You know how beautiful Bella is. Dark skin and silky hair. Chocolate brown eyes and fluttering lashes that frame them. She’s slender, perfectly proportioned and she has a smile that tends to daze anyone she speaks with. It’s not a surprise to you that Jack fell into her captivation either.
But it hurts, nonetheless. It stings in a way that it always has done with Bella. You’re wanted and desired until they meet her. Then you’re just a stepping stone to get to who they really want.
You believe what Jack said, that he does have a soft spot for Phoebe and you. But you believe it’s a spot of pity. Where he feels sorry for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Bella finds you when you’re sticking candles into the frosting of Phoebe’s birthday cake, a sly look on her features as she stands beside you. “Jack seems nice. I see why Pheebs is obsessed with him.”
You still at her voice, at the mention of him. You force yourself to shove her playfully as crimson begins to crawl across your skin. She watches the heat on you, the insistent blinking. A mixture of embarrassment, hurt and if you’re honest with yourself, something like jealousy.
Her lips part. Body turning to look at you. “You like him.”
It’s not a question, it’s written all over your face. You can’t bring yourself to deny it, you’ve never been able to lie to Bella. She sees right through you. Always has. But you do look at her and it’s then that she notices a vulnerability in your eyes that she’s never seen before.
It makes her pause, makes her teasing falter. You see the look of understanding cross her features and you look away. You’re not prepared to have this conversation with her. Not here. Not now.
So you grab a lighter instead and bring the flame to the candles. Heaving a sigh, you slip your palms beneath the cake board and slowly round the kitchen island to make your way over to everyone.
Jack notices you approaching first, eyes darting between yours with a small knit between his brows like he knows something is wrong. But when he notices the cake in your hands and your careful footsteps, he doesn’t approach you to ask.
He does a quick take of everyone else, all too occupied in conversation or tending to the children and without much more of a thought, he slips his phone into his pocket and angles it toward you and you have to look away as he begins to film.
Bella starts singing first, allowing you a moment to find your voice before the entire room is singing off-key and you’re kneeling in front of Pheebs. She blows out the candle on a big breath and it’s not lost on you that this is the first year the cake isn’t covered in her saliva from it.
Jack moves closer to catch it on camera, his laugh bubbling out of him when he actually sees the cake properly and the iced writing on top of it.
DIVA, ALL THE TIME. OLDER, OCCASIONALLY.
Phoebe scoops her finger into the edge of the cake, a hefty chunk of frosting making its way into her mouth and she grins cheekily at Jack’s camera. Your mom scoops her up, peppering kisses to her cheeks and nose despite Phoebe’s obnoxious protests to put her down.
You move in exhaustion and auto pilot for the last thirty minutes of the party. Cutting cake, filling goodie bags, watching Phoebe and her friends do round after round of Singstar on the old PlayStation2 you had kept from your younger years. It made you laugh when she started singing Faint at the top of her lungs.
“I thought she didn’t like screaming music?” Jack had asked.
And it was his turn to laugh when you both turned to look at him and said, “Linkin Park doesn’t count,” at the same time.
By 7.30p.m, the party is clearing out of guests. Parents come to collect their kids while Bella drags a very uncooperative Florence out of the apartment; overtired and not wanting to leave.
Jack sits on the couch with a very sleepy Phoebe who has tucked herself into his side as she makes him read your copy of Stevie Nicks’ autobiography. The sight is so overwhelming it almost makes you feel sick and you have to look away and focus on the state of your kitchen instead.
You feel a presence approaching you, gentle hands resting on your shoulders that you know to be your moms. Her lips barely tickle your ear as she speaks quietly. “I didn’t see a ring.”
Your brows pull together slightly in a frown. For a moment, you’re confused as to what she’s talking about. But when you turn to face her and she offers a subtle movement of her head toward Jack’s direction, you blink.
“Really?”
She hums. “He’s not wearing it. Not today at least.” She presses a kiss to your cheek as your dad joins her, wrapping you in a hug to say goodbye.
You watch them press kisses to Phoebe’s head but she dodges them and shimmies out of Jack’s grasp. Her legs can barely keep her on her feet as she reaches you, rubbing at her eyes and insisting she needs to have a bath and go to sleep.
Taking her into her arms, you’re reminded that your four-year-old is no longer a baby and actually weighs thirty-eight pounds of pure sassiness. You throw an apology over your shoulder to your parents and Jack, each of them dismissing you with a smile and wave of their hand.
She puts up a fight in the tub, fighting you for the jug as you try to wash the soap out of her hair. Brushing her teeth is a wrestling match in itself, her argument being that she wants to be able to taste her birthday cake while she dreams.
But when you go on a bit of a desperate spiral of convincing Phoebe that her teeth will fall out and then so will her tongue and she’ll never be able to eat cake again if she doesn’t brush them, she gives in.
Settling her to bed is an even bigger struggle. First, her pyjamas are too warm, then the second pair are not pink enough. It takes every ounce of you to remain calm and patient. And after four pyjama changes and three Avril Lavigne songs, she’s snoring into her pillow like butter wouldn’t melt.
By the time you creep out of Phoebe’s room, your apartment is silent and…clean.
You blink.
The food and wrapping paper has been cleared up. The frosting smears on the furniture have been wiped clean and popped balloons and torn party streamers no longer litter the floor.
Rustling from the kitchen catches your attention and you follow the noise. Jack stands there, trash bag in hand and humming something that sounds oddly like AC/DC under his breath. He catches your presence as you move closer, taking in the spotless kitchen in slight astonishment.
He smiles at you, not stopping the task at hand. “Phoebe okay?”
You blink again at him. “Uh, yeah. Just overtired—Jack, you didn’t need to stay to clean up.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “You snuck me beer, it’s the least I could do.”
A tired laugh escapes you, and when he nods his head to the open doors to the balcony, you notice two more in the bottle sitting on the little patio table. Your shoulders sag in relief at the sight of it and even from a short distance, you can make out the little drops of condensation that drip down the glass.
“On second thought, you can stay and clean up whenever you like.”
Jack chuckles at that, nods his head toward it again and you hate that you don’t argue with the silent but gentle command. The moment you step outside, your clammy skin is kissed by the cool evening breeze. It shakes a stressed sigh from your chest and you sink into the patio couch.
You’re a few sips into your beer when Jack joins you, easing himself beside you with a small grunt. You watch him take in the surroundings. Unlike Jack’s balcony—which is bare of anything but a table and two chairs—yours is comfortable, homey.
There’s outdoor furniture suitable for weather with throws and pillows, plant pots lining the corners and warm twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the iron fencing. When he reaches for the beer, it’s then that you notice for yourself what your mom observed earlier.
He really isn’t wearing his ring.
You take another long gulp from the bottle, let the bitterness line your tongue when you catch him stretching out his leg from your peripheral.
“You can take it off by the way.” You nod toward his leg. “My great uncle had two prosthetic legs.”
Jack cocks a brow as he looks at you.
“Army?” He assumes but he doesn’t argue with your offer. He tugs his jeans up as much as the denim will allow and reaches beneath the hem to pop the clips on the prosthetic.
You scoff. “Being a jackass.”
It’s both a laugh and a sigh of relief when he eases the socket past his knee and places the machinery to the side of him. The relief in his body is almost immediate. You watch the way his shoulders sag in something like relaxation and he sits back with his beer and a gleam of tiredness in his eyes.
“Thank you again, for coming. For her gift. For cleaning up. She really does adore you, you know.”
A softness eases the worrylines on his face, coaxes the tiredness from his eyes and loosens the clench in his jaw. Jack looks at you with something gentle. “She’s a great kid. You’re a great mom.”
A smile teeters on the edges of your mouth, cheeks swelling slightly at the motion. And despite the fact that he’s interested in Bella, you still find yourself wanting to open up to him. His company is exciting. His presence is comforting.
No matter what, you know you’ll always have a friend in Jack. It’s a fact that you believe enough that your lips are moving and unspoken vulnerabilities are slipping out.
“I was only three months pregnant when Tom told me he couldn’t do it. Be a dad…” Jack listens intently, eyes on you despite your gaze landing on his balcony across the way. “I was barely twenty-three and I was terrified. I never even wanted kids, you know? I was too selfish to be able to care for something so dependent. I had no job, no qualifications… a boyfriend that was an ass.” You laugh but Jack doesn’t. He just watches you, soaks the information in.
You swallow, fingers catching the drops of condensation that race down the neck of the bottle.
“But I loved her already, and I promised her and myself that I’d be the best mother I could be. I was content with doing it alone, without Tom. But he kept coming back. Hot and cold. One minute she was his daughter and the next he needed time away. I gave him so many outs, Jack. So many chances to just leave her alone before it got complicated for her.”
Jack watches the tears well in your eyes and it clenches his heart in a vice. “He picks and chooses when he wants to be in her life. When it’s convenient for him. And now she’s four and she notices when he doesn’t show up when he’s supposed to. He’s constantly disappointing her. He couldn’t even show up for her fucking birthday.”
Jack’s hand moves before he can really comprehend the action. His palm rests on your fist in your lap, a soothing and grounding gesture to tell you he understands, he’s here, he’s listening.
You sniffle and look down at it, the thin, pale line of where a ring used to sit.
“I’m sorry.” You laugh a bit watery. “Didn’t mean to unload that on you.”
He shakes his head. “No, don’t do that. Don’t apologize for how his actions have made you feel. You deserved more than that. Both of you.” His voice is tender, the words wrapping around your soul in the form of an embrace. And you allow yourself to find reprieve in it, if only for a moment.
But the weight of his palm above your fist becomes suffocating. A ring-less hand, a touch that no doubt itches for your beloved friend. Your fingers wiggle beneath his hand and he retreats, watching you use it to wipe the tears from your face that have fallen.
“I know.” You whisper. “My parents were a saving grace.”
Jack feels lighter when he watches the sadness morph into something happier. “You’re close with them.” He comments with a small smile of his own.
“Yeah.” You smile. “Not always.” You add with a laugh.
When you turn to Jack, he’s looking at you with a lopsided smile and raised brows. A silent question.
You huff a laugh. “I grew up in foster care. I didn’t get assigned to David and Prue until I was twelve, and by that age I was angry at the world and drowning in hormones. I was…a difficult teenager. But they were patient. They were kind and understanding and they let me express myself. It took me a long time to understand that they cared about me. That they loved me.”
Reminiscing on your youth doesn’t bring up fond memories. You’ll always be plagued with the houses before them. The unforgiving foster families. The neglect and the bullying. And how it’s somehow continued to transpire into your adult life.
A bit similar to that saying, always the bridesmaid but never the bride.
He understands you a bit clearer now. Your frustration and heartache when it comes to Phoebe. Because it hits you deeper than anyone could truly understand. Because you’d never been enough for anyone before David and Prue chose you.
Jack calls your name softly, a reverent look in his gaze, like his soul is boring into yours. “You are an incredible mom. An incredible woman.”
There’s so much conviction in his voice that you don’t know what to do with it. It wedges its way into a chained off crevice in your heart and settles there like a permanent tattoo.
You try to wave him off, attempt to scoff out a light laugh and look away but Jack chases your gaze. “I’m serious. I mean, c’mon. You’re not even thirty and look at what you’ve accomplished. Give yourself some grace.”
That does make you scoff, but not maliciously. “Says the guy that’s served three tours, is an attending physician in the ED and also spends his free time as a combat medic for SWAT.”
Jack cracks a wonky grin at that, one that screams flirtation and a promise of heartbreak. “Don’t forget I’m also your daughter's favorite person.”
Your head falls back on a laugh before it lulls to your shoulder and you’re looking at him again. “What about you? No kids of your own?”
It’s a sobering question for Jack. One he would prefer not to delve into right now… or at any point, for that matter. But there’s a comfortability he feels with you, no judgement or disgust.
And you’ve opened up so deeply to him, he supposes it’s only fair he offers part of himself to you in return.
“No,” he begins softly. “I was never against the idea, but Moira…”
You offer him the same grace that he gave you. You don’t rush, don’t speak. Just listen and absorb his past as he did yours. It’s intimate for him to share, to admit to someone new that his wife worried she’d be a bad mom, that Jack believed she knew she was sick for longer than he did.
That it was her way of protecting him.
It almost clears your heart in two when he confides in you that, actually, it breaks him more to live with nothing but the foggy memories of her. Nothing shared between them remains.
How he sold the house, how she never wanted to take his name in fear of it removing the hard work she’d made for herself prior to him. How Jack understood it all, how she loved him unconditionally and he her.
And how recently, he’s come to terms with the fact that he can’t live with the ghost of her. That his once undying love has eased into something he’ll carry forever, but not something he can never move forward from.
But one thing he’s certain of is biggest regret of not having children. Before his wife, with his wife, after his wife.
“I think being around Phoebe made me realize that.” The admittance that comes from him almost paralyzes you. “I’ve come to realize it’s my biggest regret in life.”
You have to blink back tears. At the sad and very vulnerable admission he’s given, and the fact that your Phoebe is the one to make him realize such a thing. That she’s special enough to have that effect on someone.
“You don’t think you’ll have any in the future?” You ask softly.
Jack scoffs a laugh, humorously. “I think I’ve passed my sell-by date for that.”
You roll your eyes, ready to argue that forty-four is not too old to have a child but Jack cuts you off with a question of his own before you can.
“What about you? Do you think you'll have more?”
The question gives you pause and it takes you a moment to truly consider your answer. “I’ve always said no. That Pheebs is my one hit wonder. But sometimes, I don’t know, I get worried she'll grow up lonely like I did.”
You don’t mention that having more children would mean having to meet someone who you can trust and rely on not to step away. That a man that isn’t put off by a single mom is harder to come by than people think.
“Besides, I think Phoebe is enough of a handful on her own.”
Jack’s grin stretches wide in amusement and fondness, chuckling into the rim of his beer bottle as he takes another long swig. His eyes cloud over with something pensive before turning to you with a slightly sheepish expression.
“I need to be honest with you about something.”
You grow uncomfortable at his words, shifting in your seat to face your body to his. Jack doesn’t speak again straight away. He looks to be considering his next statement and you’re a bit concerned at how quickly it's pushing you toward the brink of panic.
“Phoebe might’ve slipped up on something about a silver fox.”
His eyes glimmer with mirth when yours widens with horror. A crippling wave of humiliation spreads through as fire licks at your skin from the inside out. He doesn’t have to say it properly for you to know exactly what Phoebe has said.
That meddling little shit.
“I am so sorry.” Your hands come up to shield your burning face and you force yourself to laugh to ease the embarrassment but it comes out more pained than anything. “She must’ve heard me on the phone.”
The sight makes Jack chuckle, finding the situation both flattering and endearing. It makes him feel other things, but they’re nothing he’s willing to admit just yet.
Dragging your hands down your face, you turn to him sheepishly and can’t help but laugh at your own predicament. “I’m sorry. I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
Jack waves you off with a dismissive hand, the muscles in his biceps stretching as he leans across to place his beer on the table. Your eyes track the movement, your thighs clench.
“Are you kidding me? I’m flattered.”
A laugh barks out from the back of your throat at that and Jack decides it’s one of the most gorgeous things he’s ever heard before. It makes his lips move again, keeps him talking, if only to hear it one more time.
“I think you should consider it for your next book. A silver fox protagonist.”
Your giggles follow through his next statement, head lulling back and body shaking slightly. “Oh, I’m sure that would do wonders for your ego.”
Jack’s brows raise, his smirk stretching. “Well, I never said it had to be about me, but I’m more than happy to play muse if I get a scene like chapter fifty-five.”
You don’t miss the slightly sultry dip in his tone. It’s playfully enough to not be truly perceived as anything more than that, but it still ignites a flame in your belly.
Turning to him with burning cheeks, your eyes squint accusingly. “You finished my book.”
He grins wider, teasing. “That chapter is some of the best writing I’ve ever read.”
You refused to be embarrassed or ashamed for it. So you cock a brow and force a smirk and pin him with a look of accusation and taunting. “Oh, yeah? You’re into threesomes and sex toys?”
Jack chuckles, loud and carefree. But he doesn’t answer the question, just pins you with the same look you gave him. “Is that chapter based on a personal experience or…”
“No, I’m just blessed with a very vivid imagination.”
“Yeah?” It comes out breathlessly, a raspy whisper that you’re sure he doesn’t mean to speak in. Jack’s eyes zero in on yours, captivating in a way that makes you violently ill.
He’s flirting. You’re not dumb. The smirk pulling at the corner of his tempting mouth, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes like he’s testing the waters.
Your breath hitches, you’re hot all over, and it’s completely involuntary when your eyes flick down to his naked hand. Like you’re doing something wrong. Jack catches the movement, sobers him enough to drop the smirk and reach for his bare finger. A hint of panic begins to seize in your chest. Partly because you’ve made him uncomfortable with the slip but mostly because his interactions with Bella are at the forefront of your mind.
“I know you’ve noticed. It’s okay for you to ask about it.” His soft voice brings you back to the present and your lips part to blubber out something you’re unsure of.
You don’t deny it, you won’t lie to him. So instead, you settle on the only thing that’s truthful and respectful to him and his late wife. “It’s not my place.”
Jack shrugs a shoulder, brows pinched just slightly. “Sure it is.”
Confusion doesn’t manage to fully reach you before Jack dips two fingers into the hem of his shirt to pull out a silver chain and his band dangling from it. “You’re the one that gave me the idea.”
You stare at the thin chain pinched between two thick fingers, at the silver band that glimmers when the moonlight catches on the metal. Something happens in your chest; a clench, an ache, a cry. You’re unsure of the sensation, the way it spreads cold and warmth through your blood at the same time.
The idea that you and your daughter have made such a profound effect on someone in such a short amount of time is almost dystopian. You’re not used to it. Being noticed, being seen. Not used to your actions or words being absorbed so fully to the point of them altering someone else in a positive way.
It steals your breath from your lungs, makes your eyes sting. But you muster up a gentle smile, anyway. It’s a feeling of happiness for Jack that shortly follows, pride. Because you remember how long it took for you to finally move your ring to a chain around your neck. You remember the struggle and inner battle about moving forward, scared that you were belittling a once prominent presence in your life.
Jack’s phone vibrating and ringing a generic sound breaks the lull between you both. He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s willing to ignore whoever it is in favor of whatever the fuck is happening between you right now. But responsibility gets the better of him and he reaches for his phone in his pocket at the same time as Phoebe waking up and shouting that she needs to poop.
With a laugh, Jack watches you excuse yourself and returns his attention to his phone. Robby’s name is on his screen and he’s never fucking wanted to strangle him as much as he does in this moment. But Jack answers, and brings the device to his ear with a heavy sigh.
“Hey, man. You good?”
“Yeah. You told me not to leave it for two weeks next time. You watching the game?”
Jack huffs to himself, lets his eyes gaze behind him and through the window where you’re making your way to Phoebe’s room. “Uh, no. I’m out…kinda busy right now.”
Robby’s silence is enough to make Jack cringe. Because if his best friend knows anything, it’s his work and sleep schedule, his inability to have a hobby that doesn’t include a near-miss and an adrenaline rush.
“You’re on a date?” He can fucking hear the smirk in Robby’s voice.
Jack clears his throat. “No, not…exactly.”
Another pregnant pause echoes down the line and he knows what Robby is doing. Thinking of a snarky comment, fighting off a shit-eating smirk that’s no doubt already stretched across his stupid face. Really, Jack’s happy to be his source of entertainment for the evening. Better it be at his expense than Robby throwing himself into incoming traffic.
“Babysitting?” He finally quips back.
Jack scoffs, fights off his own grin and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll call you tomorrow, asshole.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply before ending the call. Jack stares at the darkening night sky, finally catching a glance at the time on his phone screen. You’ve been talking for almost three hours, the time slipping between his fingers. It bothers him a little to know he’s likely overstaying his welcome and should probably leave.
By the time he’s reattached his prosthetic and gently discards your empty bottles of beer in the trash, Jack finds you in the hall, sneaking out of Phoebe’s bedroom with hushed steps. You spot him immediately, notice his leg back on and keys in his hand. You try to hide the disappointment of his departure.
“I should probably head out, it’s getting late.”
You nod, offer a gentle smile as you approach. Jack lets you lead him to the door, lets you thank him for the third time for Phoebe’s gifts, for cleaning up, for keeping you company.
When the door opens and he crosses the threshold, you lean against the doorframe with your arms folded loosely across your chest. Jack smiles down at you, only a few inches taller but enough for your lashes to flutter as you blink up to meet his gaze.
Only a foot away from you.
“Thank you for inviting me. And the beer.” He grins. “Your folks seem like good people.”
You smile despite yourself at that, at how easily he had conversed with your mom, how quickly your dad had offered his respect to him. But you’re sobered with the reminder of your friends. Of his interactions with one in particular.
“It looked like you and Bell got along.” You smile but it doesn’t reach far.
Jack seems to notice, a minute squint in his eyes at the very slight waver in your voice. “Yeah, she’s nice. Cares about you a lot.”
You hum, believe him wholeheartedly. Bella does care, deeply and irrevocably. You’ve been sisters by choice for as long as either of you can remember. That’s what makes it so hard. Because she notices the shift in a man’s attention when she’s introduced to them.
Jack’s eyes flicker slowly across your face, like he’s memorizing every line and imperfection. Like he’s searching for the truth beneath your closed off expression and body language. When his eyes reach your forehead, a twitch forms on his top lip.
A little smear of frosting tucked close to your hairline, something he hadn’t noticed under the dim lighting of the balcony. Without much thought, he reaches a hand to your face, lets his thumb brush against the dried, flaky consistency. Tries not to think too much about how warm your skin is. How soft.
You force yourself not to seize up beneath his touch, can feel a tightness on your skin in the area he gently tries to brush clean. “She’s single, by the way.”
Jack’s too fixated on the frosting coating your skin to pay much attention to your words. Doesn’t register his movements until after he’s brought the pad of his thumb to his tongue and returned it to your forehead with three caressing strokes.
“Who’s single?”
The raspiness of his voice paired with his actions makes you falter for a moment. You’re barely quick enough to catch yourself from slipping under as goosebumps pebble across your warm skin.
“Bella,” you swallow thickly. “I can give you her number, if you’d like.”
Your breathing becomes somewhat labored as you watch him, drowning in the focus in his gaze as he wipes away whatever is blemishing your skin. His hand slips down the same time that Jack’s eyes do and he locks his line of vision into your soul as his palm cups your jaw.
You don’t know when he stepped closer, when your arms dropped to your sides, when your chest suddenly became pressed against his. But you know when you feel a gentle pressure on your hip, a testing squeeze and a thumb stroking against your cheekbone.
Jack moves closer, tentative enough to give you the chance to pull away. But you don’t. You let his palm tilt your head back just an inch, let the tip of his nose ghost against the nape of yours. You feel his breath on your lips, warm with the scent of vanilla frosting and a tinge of beer.
“It’s not Bella that I'm interested in.”
You feel the movement of his lips against your own. And against your better judgement, you press your mouth to his. Jack responds to you immediately, like he’s been waiting on the precipice of this for far too long. His grip on your hip tightens just a notch, his touch on your face growing reverent.
And you find yourself melting into him. Your arms reach for his waist, slide up the hard expanse of his sides, press against his toned chest until they reach his stubbled jaw and snake to the nape of his neck.
Your fingers get lost in his curls as Jack’s mouth opens for you, your tongue chasing him in languid strokes of need. He matches your every lick with as much ferocity as the stroke before. You swallow the breathless sounds that escape him, a rugged whimper that travels like lightning bolts between your legs.
It’s only the need for air that forces you apart, but even then, Jack doesn’t move far. He keeps his hands on you in any capacity that he can as you both breathe heavily. Your head feels muzzy, like you're drunk on just the most simple taste of him.
But nothing about that kiss was simple. Nothing about how Jack makes you feel is simple.
His eyes are closed as his forehead rests against yours, his chest heaving with whatever restraint he has left not to pursue more of you. Not to take whatever you’ll give. Not to give whatever you want.
The tips of your noses caress each other, and Jack almost makes a sound of protest when your fingers slowly uncurl from his hair and slide down his back before your hands are resting back at your sides.
Jack’s eyes remain locked on yours as he presses a final kiss to the corner of your mouth before following your actions. You feel cold the moment his touch is no longer warming your skin. Disoriented when he takes a single step back and out of your space. It's a fight not to reach for him again, to pull him back into you.
“I’ll call you?”
His voice is fucked and raw and it zaps something unhealthy in your core. You don't trust your words, don’t think you can muster anything up even if you tried. So you nod. Dumbly, far too eagerly. It earns you a bit of a smug grin from Jack, but he has the decency to bite his bottom lip in an attempt to hide it.
The act does absolutely fucking nothing to quell the wetness beginning to pool in your panties, but you make no mention of it. Pray to whatever fucker is listening that he can’t notice the tremor in your thighs.
Jack dips his head, another pisspoor attempt to hide his smug amusement.
“Night.”
You say nothing but you watch him walk away. Until he rounds the corner for his side of the complex. Until you’re left standing in your open doorway with arousal coursing through you and the ghost of his lips on yours.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
WHAT DO WE THINK PLS TELL ME UR THOUGHTS BC I AM SO EXCITED TO FINALLY GET INTO THE START OF THEIR ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP!! I feel like it was a good time for them to open up more about their pasts before things progressed between them and don't worry, Jack will get his moment with Tom hehe
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
summary:You are Steve's children's babysitter and little by little you become very close to him, becoming friends until one day Steve simply can't stand his desire for you
warnings: DILF, daddy kink, cheating on his wife, praise kink, spitting in the mouth, vaginal sex, oral sex (f and m receive), doggy style, hair pulling, light choking,and nothing more(i think)
(Here's Dilf! Part 2)
It had been almost two months since you started working as a babysitter for the Harrington family. The pay was ridiculously good — it covered your university tuition, books, transportation, and even left you some money for little treats. The kids were an adorable whirlwind — the eight-year-old boy with the energy of a hyper puppy and the five-year-old girl who followed you everywhere like you were her personal hero. But what really made the difference was the atmosphere in that huge house.
Mrs. Harrington was almost never home. “Business trips,” dinners with friends, entire weekends away. The kids said it without filter: “We like you more than Mom.” Steve would laugh when he heard it, but his warm brown eyes stayed on you longer than necessary.
Steve Harrington. Thirty-eight years old, but he still looked like the king of high school he must have been. Thick, wavy brown hair, perfect, without a single gray strand. Sharp jawline, broad shoulders, strong arms from still playing impromptu basketball with his kids in the backyard. He always smelled like expensive cologne, clean, and pure man. And with every day that passed, the tension in the air grew thicker.
At first the conversations were innocent. You’d finish playing with the kids and he’d appear in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, asking about your classes. Then he’d lean against the island while you washed the dishes, talking about everything and nothing. He became your friend. Too good of a friend. He made you laugh with his silly jokes, asked about your dreams, and actually listened. And you… you couldn’t help noticing how he stared at your ass when you bent over, how he bit his lip when you leaned over the table to help the kids with homework.
Steve fought with himself every night.
No. I have a wife. I should be thinking about her. This is wrong. I’m a father, a husband. I can’t want to fuck my kids’ babysitter.
But then he’d see you walking around the house in those tight jeans that hugged your hips, or the shirt that rode up when you stretched, or laughing with that mouth he imagined wrapped around his cock… and the thought turned dirty, raw, unstoppable:
I want to bend her over this fucking table and wreck that tight pussy until she screams. I want to fill her with my cum and watch it drip down her thighs. I want her calling me Daddy while I destroy her.
That Tuesday the kids were at school all day. Your normal shift started at three, but at eleven thirty your phone buzzed.
Steve:
Hey, gorgeous. The kids are gone and I’m wrecked. I don’t even have the energy to open the fridge. Want to come be my personal chef today? I’ll pay you triple. Promise I won’t be a terrible boss… or maybe just a little
You accepted. Of course you did.
You arrived fifteen minutes later. Steve opened the door wearing a tight gray t-shirt that showed every muscle on his chest and abs, and black sweatpants that did nothing to hide the heavy bulge between his legs. His hair was still damp from the shower, tousled in that sexy way. He gave you that dangerous smile.
—My favorite chef is here. Come in, baby.
The atmosphere in the kitchen changed fast. You were cutting vegetables for a quick lunch while he sat on the high stool in front of you, watching you like a wolf. Casual chat at first: university, how well you got along with the kids, how absent his wife had been lately.
And then he dropped the question that changed everything:
—Why doesn’t a girl as fucking gorgeous as you have a boyfriend? You’re beautiful, smart, you’ve got an ass that could drive anyone crazy… what’s up?
You shrugged, blushing, and took a deep breath before telling him the truth. You looked down a little, cutting the vegetables slower as you spoke.
—I had one in high school… but it was a disaster. He only wanted me to do his homework. I spent hours doing his history papers, math, everything. I thought it was because he really liked me, you know? I felt special. But at the end, when I tried to get closer… when I wanted something physical, he told me it would gross him out to have sex with me. That he wasn’t attracted to me like that, that I was more like a useful friend. I felt so stupid… so undesirable. Since then I haven’t wanted to try with anyone else. I’m scared it’ll happen again.
Steve stayed silent for a few seconds, processing every word. His eyes darkened with a mix of disbelief and protective anger.
—Grossed out? —he repeated with a low, dangerous laugh—. That piece of shit said it would gross him out to fuck you? After you did all his work? What an idiot. He had no idea what he was missing.
He stood up slowly, walked around the island and stopped right behind you. His broad chest pressed against your back. You felt his hot breath on your ear.
—If I had been your boyfriend back then… I would have fucked you in every corner of that school. I would have fingered you with three fingers in the bathroom between classes until you came shaking against my hand. I would have eaten your pussy in the backseat of my car every night, licking until you begged me to give you my cock. I would have marked your neck so everyone knew that girl was mine.
Your nervous laugh died in your throat when his big, strong hands grabbed your waist and turned you around. The kiss started sweet, almost tender — his soft lips pressing against yours, tasting you like he was afraid of breaking you. But within seconds it turned hungry. Tongue invading your mouth, teeth biting your lower lip, hands sliding down to squeeze your ass hard.
When he pulled away, breathing hard, he grabbed your neck with one big hand. He squeezed gently but with authority, completely in control. And then he spat directly into your open mouth — a thick, hot glob landing on your tongue.
—Swallow it like a good girl —he growled in a hoarse voice.
You did it without hesitation. The salty, dirty taste made you moan softly, your cheeks burning while you felt your pussy instantly soak, juices dripping down your thighs. A shameful and delicious heat ran through your whole body.
Steve smiled, dark and satisfied, those eyes full of pure lust.
—Good girl. I knew you were perfect for Daddy.
He lifted you in his arms like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist while you felt his hard cock pressing against your center through the clothes. He carried you up the stairs effortlessly and took you straight to the master bedroom, to the huge, perfectly made bed of his wife.
He threw you onto the mattress and undressed you slowly, almost reverently, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. Wet, hot kisses on your neck, sucking until he left visible marks, moving down to your breasts where he gently bit and licked your nipples until they were swollen, red and ultra-sensitive. He continued down your stomach, kissing your hips, nibbling the soft skin, and finally knelt between your spread legs, opening them even wider with his big hands.
—Look at you… this pretty pink virgin pussy dripping like a fountain for me. So fucking perfect and tight, glistening just thinking about my mouth.
He lowered his mouth without mercy and devoured you like a starving man who had been fantasizing about this for weeks. First he ran his flat, hot tongue from your dripping entrance to your swollen clit, licking slowly and savoring every drop of your sweet, slick juices. He repeated the motion over and over, pressing harder, swirling his tongue around your clit in slow, torturous circles that made you arch your back and moan loudly, your hands gripping the sheets tight.
—Oh God, Steve… that feels so good… please don’t stop… —you moaned, your voice already broken.
Then he sucked your clit hard, sliding two thick, long fingers into your soaked pussy, curling them expertly to hit that perfect deep spot inside you that made you see stars and gasp his name between sobs of pleasure. His tongue was relentless: fast firm circles, long deep licks that traveled all over you, tongue-fucking you while his fingers moved faster, in and out with wet, obscene sounds that filled the room.
—Steve… Daddy… you’re gonna make me cum… yes, right there! —you cried out, pulling his thick hair.
He sucked, slurped, groaned and vibrated against your pussy, eating you like it was his favorite meal, licking all the way to your ass occasionally just to make you jump and moan louder, your body shaking uncontrollably.
—So sweet and juicy… this pussy has never been eaten the way it deserves. Take my fingers, baby. Cum in Daddy’s mouth, soak my whole face like the desperate horny girl you are.
You came hard, screaming his name, your thighs shaking violently around his head while he kept licking every drop, prolonging the orgasm until you were almost crying from pleasure, your pussy clenching and pulsing around his fingers, juices running down his chin.
—Daddy… that was so intense… no one has ever made me feel like that… —you panted, still trembling.
Then he made you kneel in front of him on the bed. He pulled down his pants and his cock sprang free: long like your forearm, thick, veiny, with a swollen, precum-glistening head. Heavy, hot and perfect to ruin you completely.
—Suck it, baby. Show me how much you want a married man’s cock.
You grabbed it with both hands, trembling with anticipation, and started licking from the base to the tip, tasting the salty precum.
—It’s so big… I don’t know if I’ll be able to… —you murmured, nervous but excited.
But Steve quickly lost patience. He grabbed your thick hair with one strong hand and fucked your face without mercy. He pushed his thick cock all the way to the back of your throat in one thrust, making you drool and gag loudly. Tears of pleasure ran down your cheeks but you loved every second: the salty masculine taste, the brutal way he used you, how your nose kept hitting his pelvis again and again while he fucked your mouth sloppy, wet and messy. Saliva dripped down your chin, onto your tits, everywhere, making a complete mess on the bed. You moaned around his cock, vibrating, your hands gripping his thighs as you felt him filling your throat.
—Daddy… I love it… fuck my mouth harder… —you managed to moan between thrusts, choked but desperate for more.
—That’s it, take all of Daddy’s cock to the bottom. Look at you drooling like a dirty girl. You love when I fuck your face hard, don’t you? My girl swallowing cock like she was born for it, choking on it and begging for more with those teary eyes.
He let you breathe for just a few seconds, panting with strands of saliva hanging from your mouth, before thrusting deep again, fucking your throat with long, controlled but increasingly fast strokes.
—I want more… please, Daddy… —you begged with a hoarse voice.
You came just from that, rubbing your swollen clit while he used you, moaning and vibrating around his cock.
He lifted you, threw you on your back on the bed and positioned himself on top in missionary. He kissed you slow and deep, his tongue dancing with yours while he rubbed the thick hot head of his cock against your soaked entrance, sliding it up and down to get you even wetter. He pushed in inch by inch, stretching you brutally with his huge size, burning in the most delicious and overwhelming way that made you gasp and dig your nails into his back.
—Ahh… Daddy… it’s so big… you’re opening me up so much… —you moaned, biting your lip.
—Breathe, princess… you’re so fucking tight. This virgin pussy is strangling my cock. So hot, wet and perfect for Daddy.
He kept kissing you while going deeper, tenderly caressing your face, sliding his hands down to pinch and caress your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers. His thrusts were slow but incredibly deep, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back to the bottom, making you feel every thick vein, every pulse of his cock inside you. He whispered praises and dirty things in your ear between kisses.
—So beautiful… so sexy… my perfect girl. Look how this big thick cock opens you up. I’m marking you inside, baby. No one else is ever going to fill you like this, no one is going to make you feel so full and complete.
—It feels incredible… don’t stop, Daddy… fuck me deeper… —you begged, arching your hips to take him better.
When you were already moaning desperately for more, he spat in your mouth again — a long, thick, hot glob.
—Swallow it while I fuck you, good girl.
You swallowed moaning and he sped up the pace, still deep but harder, kissing and biting your neck while he fucked you with passion, your moans filling the room.
—Daddy… yes… just like that… I love when you fuck me like this… —you panted between kisses.
Then he flipped you over without pulling out. Doggystyle.
That’s when he completely lost control.
He grabbed your hips hard and slammed into you in one thrust all the way to the bottom, his heavy balls slapping your clit. You screamed in a mix of pleasure and pain. His long cock reached so deep you felt it hitting your cervix with every brutal, savage thrust, your whole body shaking.
—God… Daddy… you’re filling me completely… harder! —you cried, pushing back against him.
—Arch that back more —he growled, landing a hard spank that echoed in the room and left your skin burning red.
He pulled your hair with one hand, arching your back to the maximum. The other hand on your waist, yanking you back so you took every savage stroke. Fast, hard, deep thrusts, skin slapping skin with constant wet, obscene sounds. He spanked you again and again, alternating hard smacks that made you clench tighter around him, your pussy dripping around his cock.
—That’s it, take all of Daddy’s thick cock. This pussy is mine now. Your ex was a useless idiot who didn’t know how to fuck, but I’m destroying you the way you deserve. Do you feel how I stretch you? How I fill you to the bottom with every thrust?
—I feel everything… Daddy… you’re ruining me and I love it… don’t stop, please… harder! —you moaned, completely surrendered.
He kissed your sweaty back, bit your shoulders, licked down your spine while he kept fucking you mercilessly. He pulled you back with his hand around your neck, squeezing just enough to make you feel completely his, arched and given over.
—Daddy… I’m gonna cum again… yes, right there! —you screamed as you came twice like that: once with his fingers rubbing your swollen sensitive clit in fast circles, and another just from his thick cock pounding that perfect sensitive spot deep inside you without stopping, screaming his name and gushing down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you.
Finally he flipped you onto your back again, spread your legs as wide as possible and fucked you while looking straight into your pleasure-glazed eyes. One hand on your neck, the other pinching your nipple hard.
—Tell me who this pussy belongs to, baby.
—To you, Daddy… only you… I’m yours… please, fill me… —you moaned, broken, whimpering and shaking with pleasure.
—Exactly. Mine. My favorite girl.
He came inside you with a deep, animal growl, hot, thick, abundant ropes filling you until it overflowed. You felt it dripping down your thighs when he finally pulled out, his cock still semi-hard and shiny with your juices and his cum.
After the wild sex came the sweet, tender aftercare. He pulled you tight against his sweaty chest, kissing your forehead, stroking your messy hair, carefully cleaning between your legs with a warm towel he brought from the bathroom.
—This can’t happen again… —he murmured against your hair, but his fingers were already sliding down again, lazily playing with your sensitive swollen clit. —Or maybe… just one more time before the kids get back.
You just smiled, knowing perfectly that this was only the beginning and that you were completely addicted to your DILF.
