#babysitting

The One Shot

What happens when you have to take care of your male wife cuntboy and you guys' little kiddo?

Top!male reader, male wifey cuntboy, male pregnancy, baby bearing, SMUT, nsfw.

Weeks blur into a whirlwind of quiet preparations, your hands guiding Ethan's every step as you plan the small, traditional wedding. He insists on keeping it proper—traditional vows etched in ancient script, respectful guests limited to close family seated in careful order by age and relation, the ceremony steeped in the cultural weight of your shared heritage. Purity, commitment, unbreakable bonds; it's all a perfect cage for him, disguised as love. You watch him fuss over the details, his small frame bustling with nervous energy, huge breasts shifting under his shirt, and your obsession tightens like a vice. He's radiant already, and soon, he'll be yours in every way the world demands.

The day arrives under a soft autumn sun, the intimate venue a modest hall adorned with red silk and white lilies, symbols of eternal fidelity. Ethan stands at the altar in a flowing white dress that clings to his curves like a second skin, the fabric straining against his massive, milky breasts, the deep neckline barely containing their heavy swell. His big, round ass jiggles subtly with each anxious shift, the dress hugging his plump hips and the secret of his pregnant belly just beginning to show. He looks too fucking sexy, a vision of shy innocence begging to be claimed, and you have to clench your jaw to keep your arousal in check—no boner now, not when you'll ravage him tonight.

You stand beside him, steady and composed, your hand resting lightly on his lower back, possessive fingers pressing just enough to remind him of your presence. To the outsiders—family murmuring approvals, elders nodding sagely—you're the perfect partner: supportive, responsible, protective. Ethan bows his head slightly as the officiant calls for thanks, his voice soft and trembling. "Thank you all for coming," he says, cheeks flushing pink, eyes downcast in that adorable, naive way that makes your heart—and cock—throb with need.

The vows begin, Ethan reciting them nervously, his voice a melodic quiver echoing the room's hushed reverence. "I pledge my heart, my body, my future to you," he murmurs, the words heavy with emotion, his huge breasts rising and falling rapidly, nipples pebbled against the thin white fabric. You lock eyes on his trembling hands, folded in front of him, imagining how they'll clutch at you later, desperate and marked by your grip. Your own vows come out smooth, unwavering—"I will cherish, protect, and bind you to me forever"—each syllable a dark promise of the chains you've already forged.

Rings exchanged next, the simple gold bands sliding onto fingers slick with his nervous sweat. His hand shakes as you slip yours on, a soft gasp escaping when your thumb brushes his skin, and his voice wavers on 'I do'—not from doubt, but from the overwhelming rush of love you've manipulated into his soul. Tears glisten in his eyes, pure and trusting, as the officiant pronounces you wed. You pull him close for the kiss, claiming his lips possessively, tongue delving deep to taste his surrender while family applauds, oblivious to the fire in your veins.

That night, back in your home—now eternally shared—you pace the living room, the weight of the ring on your finger fueling your obsession. Ethan slips into the bathroom first for a shower, the sound of water running like a tease. You imagine it already: streams cascading over his swollen breasts, milk beading on his nipples, trickling down to his plump, pregnant cunt, lips puffy and slick. Your cock twitches, pulse pounding at the thought of worshipping every inch, marking him as yours anew. When he emerges, towel wrapped loosely around his small frame, you take your turn, bathing quickly, soap barely rinsed as visions of his body in that towel—barely hiding those jiggling assets—make your skin flush hot.

You step out, steam following, and there he is: Ethan perched on the bed in revealing lingerie, a wedding gift from some distant relative, the sheer black lace barely containing his huge milky breasts, the cups overflowing with soft flesh, nipples dark and erect through the fabric. The thong rides high on his hips, exposing the curve of his big, round ass that jiggles as he shifts shyly, his plump cunt outlined obscenely, already glistening with anticipation. "It... it was a gift," he stammers, face crimson, hands twisting in his lap. "I thought you'd like—ah!"

You don't let him finish. Obsession surges, and you cross the room in two strides, hands fisting the lace as you rip it off with a savage tear, the scraps fluttering to the floor. 'Mine,' you growl, voice thick with possessive hunger, shoving him back onto the bed. His eyes widen, a whimper escaping as you pin his wrists above his head, your mouth crashing down on his in a bruising kiss. He melts into it, moaning softly, his small body arching up, breasts heaving against your chest.

You trail bites down his neck, marking the pale skin with red blooms—hickeys that scream ownership—before latching onto a nipple. You suck hard, tongue lashing the sensitive bud, drawing out warm milk that floods your mouth, sweet and addictive. "Ah! Oh god!" Ethan gasps, hips bucking, his plump cunt grinding against your thigh, leaving a wet trail. You knead the other breast roughly, pinching until more milk leaks, smearing it across his skin as you worship lower, nipping at his jiggling ass before spreading his thighs wide.

But you don't stop. You flip him onto his stomach, ass up, and bury your face between his cheeks, tongue delving into his puckered hole while fingers fuck his cunt relentlessly. He begs, voice muffled in the pillows, "S-slow down... the baby... oh fuck, too much!" But his hips push back, greedy, and you growl against his skin, "You're mine to fuck, darling. All of you." You rise as you impatiently pull away your towel, grabbing your dick—thick and unyielding—and slam into his pussy without mercy, the wet slap of your hips against his jiggling ass filling the room.

Thrust after brutal thrust, you angle deep, hitting his core, making him cum again—walls clenching like a vice, milking your seed. 'Another one,' you command, hand rubbing his swollen clit, and he shatters twice more, sobs mixing with moans, body trembling. "Ah! Ah! B-Be gentale! Please... Ngh! it's too intense... for the little one... Hngh!" he whimpers, but his legs wrap around you, pulling you closer, love overriding fear.

You slow only to worship more—sucking his breasts until they're bruised and leaking, tongue tracing every curve of his fuckable body, from the swell of his ass to the slick folds of his cunt. Finally, spent but insatiable, you pull him into your larger arms, his small frame curling possessively against you, your hand splayed over his belly. 'I love you so much,' you mumble into his hair, voice soft now, laced with that obsessive truth. 'Forever mine.' He nuzzles closer, whispering it back, oblivious to the depths of your trap, as the night stretches on with unspoken promises of more.

-

Months slip by in a haze of obsessive devotion, your hands never straying far from Ethan's swelling belly, fingers tracing the taut skin where your child grows. You pamper him relentlessly—cooking every meal, massaging his aching back, bathing him with gentle strokes that tease but never push further, no matter how his huge, milky breasts strain against his shirts or how his plump cunt glistens when he shifts in his sleep—too risky, too precious now. His huge milky breasts have grown even fuller, leaking sweet streams that you lap up during stolen kisses, but you hold back from fucking him raw like you crave. 'You're too precious,' you whisper, voice thick with restraint, even as his plump cunt weeps for attention when you change his clothes. He blushes, nuzzling into you, trusting your every word, your manipulation weaving him tighter into your web. No heavy lifting, no stress—just you, shielding your fragile male wife from the world, ensuring he's dependent, bound by the life you forced into him.

The due date creeps up like a shadow, and when Ethan's waters break in the dead of night, panic flickers in his wide eyes. You bundle him into the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clasped in his, squeezing reassurance as contractions twist his small frame. At the hospital, the sterile lights buzz overhead, but you refuse to let go, your presence a constant anchor in the chaos of beeping monitors and hurried nurses.

You cradle your pregnant Ethan through the endless hours, soothing his fears with soft whispers against his damp temple. 'I've got you, darling. Breathe with me.' Your gentle touches roam his sweat-slicked skin—stroking his heaving breasts, careful not to squeeze too hard lest milk sprays, thumbing circles over his knuckles as he grips your hand like a lifeline. He trembles quietly, tears streaking his flushed cheeks, overwhelmed and scared, his plump body quaking with each wave of pain that rips through his cunt, stretching him toward the inevitable.

The long hospital night drags on, Ethan's cries muffled into your shoulder, not loud but heartbreaking whimpers that fuel your yandere fire—you'd kill anyone who dared make him suffer more. You never leave his side, brushing damp hair from his forehead with tender fingers, promising safety and endless love.

Ethan labors quietly at first, his small hand crushing yours as contractions ripple through his body, making his massive breasts heave and leak milk onto the hospital gown. Sweat beads on his forehead, his face pale and twisted in fear, but you never waver—perched on the edge of the bed, stroking his damp hair back, your voice a steady anchor. 'You're doing so good, darling,' you murmur, pressing kisses to his knuckles. 'I've got you. We're in this together—me, you, and our little one. Safe. Always safe.' He cries then—not the loud sobs you're used to in passion, but soft, broken whimpers that twist your heart even as they fuel your resolve. 'It hurts... I'm scared,' he whispers, tears tracking down his flushed cheeks, his free hand cradling the swell of his belly where your baby kicks defiantly. You lean in, forehead to forehead, breathing him in—the salty tang of sweat mixed with the sweet milk scent from his leaking nipples. "Shh, my love. You're the strongest person I know. I'll protect you both forever. No one takes what's mine." Your words are a vow, laced with that yandere edge he mistakes for devotion, and he clings tighter, nodding through the pain.

Hours blur—doctors coming and going, your hand never leaving his. When the final push comes, Ethan's cries peak, raw and vulnerable, his body arching as he bears down. You hold him up, muscles straining, whispering nonsense about how beautiful he is, how this binds you eternally. Then, a sharp cry pierces the air—not his, but the baby's, tiny and furious. Relief crashes over Ethan like a wave; he sobs openly now, exhausted laughter bubbling through as the nurse places the squirming bundle on his chest as the doctor cleans and swaddles the tiny form.

They place the child in his arms, warm and squirming, and something inside him settles, his tear-streaked face softening into awe. His plump cunt throbs visibly, spent and gaping slightly from the birth, a mix of blood and fluids trickling down his thighs, but he doesn't care—eyes locked on the bundle. The infant latches instinctively onto one of his huge breasts, suckling with greedy pulls that make Ethan gasp, milk flowing freely. You watch, mesmerized, a possessive heat stirring low in your belly despite the fatigue—the sight of your family, marked by you, complete.

Ethan's tearful gaze meets yours, glossy with emotion. 'We're a real family now,' he whispers, voice cracking, the words hitting you like a possessive triumph.

You smile, leaning in to kiss his forehead, tasting salt and sweat. 'Yes,' you answer, voice steady with dark satisfaction, your hand covering his on the baby's back. Now you are—irrevocably chained, your manipulation complete.

And the nightmare you invited has arrived.

The idyll shatters fast. Days later, home with your newborn, the baby—your clever little trap made flesh—cries loudly, relentlessly, like it has a personal vendetta against sleep, like a tiny tyrant with lungs like sirens. You haven't closed your eyes in two days, and you're a zombie in yoga pants, dark circles under your eyes as you pace the dim nursery, back aching from endless rocking, your obsession now stretched thin by exhaustion. Ethan sits up in bed, wide glossy eyes fixed on nothing, his body still soft and recovering—breasts heavy with milk still leaking through his nightshirt, leaving damp spots that make your mouth water even now, cunt tender and off-limits. Exhaustion claws at you, but that obsessive fire flickers—god, he's adorable like this, vulnerable and craving, your perfect male wife. '…I think I want strawberries,' he whispers weakly, 'with whipped cream. And maybe pickles. I don't know why.'

You stare at him, the baby's wail piercing your skull. The clock glows 3:07 AM, accusatory red digits mocking your grand plans. You blink slowly, once, twice. Somewhere, your past self cackles at the irony.

Standing, you lift the baby carefully, muttering under your breath, "Whose idea was it to poke holes in that condom, switch those pills, and speedrun trapping the sweetest boy alive into fatherhood?" The infant wails louder, tiny fists flailing. Ethan sniffles, suddenly emotional over fruit, and you groan, deadpan: "Oh right. Mine. Brilliant. Ten out of ten stupid scheming."

You try—god, you try—to persuade him for just a quick fuck, your dick throbbing at the sight of his leaking nipples, just when you only manage to push the tip in his juicy pussy, the cry interrupts again. Groaning, you pivot, never letting your fragile wifey lift a finger. Diaper change like a battlefield soldier: wipes flying, powder dusting, the stench of shit no match for your determination. You bounce the baby gently, humming a lullaby laced with possessive whispers—"Shh, little one, Daddy's here to keep you safe with Papa."

Googling 'is it normal for newborns to cry this much' for the fifth time yields the same useless advice. From the bedroom, Ethan calls softly, "I feel bad… I can help…"

"You grew a human out of that perfect pussy," you call back immediately, voice firm with obsessive care. "Stay there. Rest." Because even if you're bone-tired, back screaming, REM cycles a distant memory… you're still you. The manipulator who doesn't fail.

Fifteen minutes later, you return: strawberries piled with whipped cream, pickles speared on the side, baby finally surrendered to sleep in the bassinet. Ethan looks at you like you've hung the moon, his shy smile stirring that dark love anew. 'You're the best,' he whispers, reaching for a berry, milk beading on his breast from the motion.

You smile. That look—soft, trusting, utterly devoted—yeah, that's why. You sit on the bed's edge, grinning widenly. "Glad that I planned that," you mutter to the ceiling, "the consequences of my own actions."

Ethan tilts his head. 'What?'

'Nothing,' you say quickly, pulling him close, hand splaying over his belly scars. 'Just admiring my life choices.'

The baby makes a tiny sleepy noise. Ethan smiles, nestling in. You gaze at your small, chaotic, perfectly engineered family and think: exhausting, inconvenient, all your fault. But rewind time? You'd do it again. Maybe with a nap schedule. But you'd trap him forever.

Because even villains tire. But regret? Never.

Pairing: Husband!Heeseung x Wife!Reader

Genre: Domestic Fluff | Newlywed AU | Family AU | Babysitting AU | Comedy | Soft Romance | Slice of Life

WC: 3.1k!

Synopsis: When Heeseung's older brother leaves his almost-two-year-old son in the care of the newlyweds for three weeks, Heeseung expects chaos, sleepless nights, and survival mode. What he doesn't expect is discovering he's surprisingly good at bedtime stories, getting jealous of the toddler stealing all of his wife's attention, and imagining a future that suddenly doesn't seem so far away.

The first thing Lee Heeseung learned about babysitting was that toddlers had more energy than grown adults.

The second thing he learned was that his nearly two-year-old nephew could somehow fit an entire toy dinosaur into his mouth while simultaneously trying to climb a couch.

And the third thing?

His wife looked unfairly adorable taking care of children.

"Yah, Minjun!" Heeseung rushed across the living room, gently pulling the plastic dinosaur away from the little boy.

Minjun blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, then immediately grabbed another toy.

"How is he this fast?" Heeseung asked.

From the kitchen, Y/N laughed. "Auntie experience."

"You babysat your cousins a few times. That's not experience."

"It absolutely is."

Their nephew let out a delighted squeal before running away—well, toddler-running, which mostly looked like an excited penguin wobble.

Heeseung stared. Then he looked at his wife. Then back at Minjun. Then at his wife again.

Y/N noticed. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

"That's staring."

Heeseung smiled sheepishly. Seven months into marriage, and he still got caught every time.

Three weeks.

That was how long Heeseung's older brother and sister-in-law would be away for work.

His brother, Minho, and his wife, Soojin, had looked almost guilty while dropping their son off.

"Are you sure?" Soojin had asked.

"Absolutely not," Heeseung replied honestly.

Y/N smacked his arm. "We'll be fine."

Now, forty-eight hours later, Y/N was indeed fine. Heeseung, however, was hanging on by a thread.

Since both worked remotely, they had converted their home office into a temporary, toddler-safe zone complete with baby gates, foam mats, tiny books, and stuffed animals. Yet, somehow, the tiny human still found ways to cause trouble.

"Where did he get the spoon?" Heeseung asked.

Y/N looked up from her laptop. Minjun was proudly holding a wooden spoon. Nobody knew where he'd found it.

"Maybe babies just spawn with random objects."

"That sounds right."

Despite the chaos, something surprised Heeseung: he liked it. A lot.

Especially watching Y/N. He loved the way she crouched down to Minjun's eye level when talking to him, the way she never got frustrated when he repeated the same thing twenty times, and the way she celebrated every tiny achievement like it was a Nobel Prize.

"Look!"

Minjun stacked two blocks. Y/N gasped dramatically. "No way! That's amazing!"

Minjun giggled, and Heeseung completely melted.

Later that afternoon, while Minjun napped, Heeseung found Y/N curled up on the couch answering emails. He sat beside her, and his head immediately landed on her shoulder.

"Tired?" she asked.

"A little."

"You survived today."

"Barely."

She laughed. "You did good."

"I lost him for thirty seconds."

"He was under the dining table."

"Exactly."

Y/N reached up and played with his hair—a habit she'd developed after marriage, and one Heeseung secretly loved.

"You know," he murmured.

"Hm?"

"You're really good with kids."

She smiled softly. "I've just been around them."

"No," he said, turning toward her. "You're gentle."

Her cheeks turned pink. "You make it sound special."

"It is."

For a moment, neither spoke. The apartment felt peaceful, warm, and comfortable. Like home.

Then, a tiny cry echoed from the baby monitor. Nap time was over.

Y/N groaned. Heeseung groaned louder.

The next challenge arrived at bedtime.

Minjun refused to sleep. Passionately. The little boy sat in bed looking personally offended by the concept of rest.

"He gets this from your side," Y/N whispered.

"My side?"

"Look at you."

"I sleep."

"At 3 AM."

"That's still sleeping."

She rolled her eyes, and Minjun giggled. Traitor.

After another failed attempt, Y/N finally sighed. "Maybe tell him a story."

"What story?"

"Any story."

"I don't know stories."

"You read books."

"That's different."

She shoved him gently toward the toddler bed. "Go."

Heeseung sat down, and Minjun looked at him expectantly. Y/N watched fondly from the doorway.

"Okay..." Heeseung cleared his throat. "There was once a brave dinosaur."

Minjun's eyes widened. Good start.

"The dinosaur wanted cookies."

Y/N covered her mouth, already laughing.

"So he traveled across Cookie Mountain."

The story made absolutely no sense. There were talking ducks, flying sandwiches, a heroic turtle, and a cookie kingdom. By the end, Heeseung had invented an entire fantasy universe.

And somehow, Minjun was fast asleep.

Y/N stared in disbelief. "What?" Heeseung asked.

"Heeseung."

"What?"

"That was amazing."

"It was complete nonsense."

"It worked, didn't it?"

He looked down at his sleeping nephew. A tiny hand was still clutching his finger, and something warm settled deep in his chest. "Oh."

The following week brought many discoveries. Heeseung learned how to make dinosaur-shaped pancakes, how to clean spilled juice in under thirty seconds, how to identify different cries, and how to distract a toddler from a tantrum using a sock puppet.

Most importantly, he learned he genuinely enjoyed taking care of Minjun.

One afternoon, Minjun tripped while running. It wasn't a serious fall, just enough to scare him, but tears immediately welled up in his eyes. Before Y/N could even move, Heeseung scooped him up.

"Hey, hey, it's okay."

With tiny sniffles and a trembling lower lip, Minjun buried his face into Heeseung's shoulder. The crying slowly stopped.

Y/N watched quietly, her heart swelling. Heeseung looked so natural—protective, patient, and gentle. A future she hadn't expected to picture so clearly suddenly appeared right in front of her.

Apparently, Heeseung was thinking the same thing, because later that night, after Minjun was asleep, they sat together on the balcony with warm tea under the city lights.

"He likes you a lot," Y/N said into the comfortable silence.

Heeseung smiled. "I like him too."

A pause settled over them before he spoke up again. "Do you ever think about it?"

She glanced at him. "About what?"

"You know..." His ears turned a bright pink. "Future stuff."

Y/N smiled immediately. "Future stuff?"

"Our future." The blush spread down to his neck. It was incredibly cute.

She reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "I do."

Neither rushed the conversation, and neither pressured the other. It was just two newlyweds sharing their dreams.

"When the time's right," Y/N said softly.

Heeseung nodded. "When the time's right." Then he grinned. "But hopefully ours won't try eating dinosaurs."

"No promises."

By the end of the third week, Minho and Soojin finally returned.

The reunion was emotional. Minjun immediately ran to his parents, then ran back to Y/N, then to Heeseung, and then back to his parents again, completely unable to decide who he missed most.

Everyone laughed at the display.

"You survived," Minho said, patting his brother's back.

"I deserve a medal," Heeseung replied. "A trophy. A parade, even."

Soojin smiled warmly. "Thank you. Seriously."

Y/N shook her head. "We loved having him."

And they really had. The apartment felt strangely quiet after Minjun left—no tiny footsteps, no scattered toys, and no random wooden spoons appearing out of nowhere.

That evening, Heeseung wandered into the living room where Y/N was folding laundry. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"The house feels empty," he murmured.

"A little."

For a moment, neither moved, just enjoying each other's presence. Then Y/N smiled. "You're going to miss him."

"I am."

"You got attached."

Heeseung sighed dramatically. "He stole my heart."

"Along with all of my attention."

"Exactly."

Y/N laughed. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"The jealous husband."

Heeseung buried his face in the crook of her neck. "I suffered."

"You survived."

"Barely."

She turned around in his arms and kissed his cheek. His expression softened instantly.

"Still," he admitted quietly, looking at her with the kind of smile reserved only for home, for family, and for her. "I think someday we're going to be really good parents."

Y/N's eyes softened. "I think so too."

Standing there in their cozy apartment, wrapped in each other's arms, Heeseung couldn't help but feel excited for whatever future waited for them. Whenever that future came, there was no rush. There was only love, and a home already full of it.

🪽₊˚⊹ pairings: jaafar jackson x blackfem!reader

🏹₊˚⊹ ࿔ warnings: Smut, explicit sexual content, Jaafar’s a bit awkward, you and jaafar fast asf

💭₊˚ෆ word count: 3k!!!

💌ྀི⋆.˚ a/n just wanted a reason to use this song tbh.

💌ྀི⋆.˚ a/n 2 : I just realized I write so much for jaafar like I’m literally gonna take a break from this man 😭

Warm afternoon sunlight spilled through your living room windows, painting soft golden streaks across the hardwood floor as laughter echoed throughout the house.

The sound was so familiar by now that it almost felt like background music.

Every afternoon seemed to end the same way with toys scattered across the floor, cartoons playing quietly in the background, and Jermaine's youngest son giggling until he could barely catch his breath.

"You can't catch me!" he squealed as he darted around the couch with a toy dinosaur clutched in his tiny hand.

"Oh, really?" you laughed, placing your hands on your hips. "You think you're faster than me?"

He nodded confidently before taking off again.

You exaggerated a dramatic gasp before chasing after him, making sure to stay just a step behind.

Every time you got close, he'd squeal even louder, weaving around the coffee table like he was competing in the Olympics.

Eventually, you slowed down on purpose and dropped onto the couch with a theatrical sigh.

"I give up," you announced, pretending to wipe sweat from your forehead. "You're officially the fastest kid in the neighborhood."

"I told you!" he beamed proudly.

You couldn't help but smile.

Moments like these reminded you why you enjoyed babysitting so much. It had never really been about the money.

Sure, Jermaine insisted on paying you, but living right next door made everything easy, and spending your afternoons with his little boy never felt like work.

He had become like a little brother to you.

Every morning he'd knock on your door with the biggest smile on his face, already telling you about whatever exciting thing had happened before breakfast.

Every afternoon you'd help him with homework, make snacks together, build blanket forts, draw superheroes, or watch his favorite movies for what felt like the hundredth time.

You never minded.

If anything, you looked forward to it.

A soft timer chimed from the kitchen.

"Oh!" you said, standing. "Cookies."

His eyes lit up instantly.

"The cookies!"

You laughed as the two of you hurried into the kitchen together.

The sweet smell of chocolate filled the room as you carefully pulled the tray from the oven, setting it on the stove to cool.

"They're hot," you reminded him gently. "We have to wait."

He let out the most dramatic groan imaginable.

"But waiting is boooring."

"I know," you teased. "Good things take time."

He crossed his arms with an exaggerated pout before both of you burst into laughter.

While the cookies cooled, you helped him pack the few things he'd brought over earlier that morning.

His coloring book disappeared into his backpack first, followed by a few crayons and the dinosaur he'd insisted on carrying everywhere that week.

Just as you zipped the backpack closed, three familiar knocks sounded at the front door.

You smiled before opening it.

Standing on your porch was Jaafar.

Like always, he greeted you with an smile that somehow made the afternoon feel even better.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you replied, stepping aside. "Come on in."

He thanked you quietly before walking inside.

The second his little brother spotted him, he ran across the room at full speed.

"Jaafar!"

"Hey, little man."

Jaafar caught him effortlessly before ruffling his hair.

"Did you have fun today?"

"We made cookies!" he announced excitedly.

"And she let me help."

You laughed.

"He means I let him stir the batter."

"I helped."

"You absolutely did."

Jaafar glanced toward the kitchen, noticing the tray of cookies waiting to cool.

"I can see that."

His little brother nodded proudly.

"I did a really good job."

"You sure did."

Watching the two of them together always made you smile. They cared about each other in a way that didn't need words.

As Jaafar helped his brother slip on his backpack, the little boy suddenly wrapped his arms around your leg.

"I'll miss you."

Your heart melted.

"I'll miss you too."

"You'll be here tomorrow?"

"If your dad needs me," you replied with a smile, "I'll be right next door."

"Promise?"

You gently held out your pinky.

"Pinky promise."

His tiny finger hooked around yours before he grinned from ear to ear.

"Promise."

Jaafar watched the exchange quietly, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It was one of the many reasons he admired you.

You never treated his little brother like babysitting was a job.

You treated him like family.

After one last hug, his little brother skipped out the front door, happily talking about the cookies he couldn't wait to eat after dinner. You followed them onto the porch, leaning lightly against the doorframe as the warm breeze brushed past.

"I'll save you two," you called after him with a smile.

"You better!" he shouted back.

You laughed quietly, watching him race ahead down the walkway while Jaafar trailed behind at a much slower pace.

Just before reaching the steps, he stopped.

Turning around, he glanced back toward you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, a habit you'd noticed whenever he seemed nervous.

"Uh..."

You tilted your head.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he answered quickly, letting out a small laugh. "I was just... wondering something."

You folded your arms loosely across your chest, giving him your full attention.

"What is it?"

For a brief moment, he looked as though he was trying to convince himself to say whatever was on his mind.

Then he smiled.

"Are you doing anything tonight?"

You thought about it for a second before shaking your head.

"No. I was probably just going to stay home and watch a movie."

"Oh."

His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

"I actually wanted to ask if you'd maybe... want to go out somewhere with me."

You blinked.

He hurried to explain.

"There's this little diner that opened not too far from here. I've heard it's really good, and I thought..." He laughed softly at himself. "I thought it might be nice if we checked it out together."

The sincerity in his voice made it impossible not to smile.

"I'd like that."

His eyes widened just a little.

"Really?"

You nodded.

"Really."

A grin spread across his face before he could hide it.

"Great. I'll pick you up around seven, if that's okay."

"I'll be ready."

"Okay."

For another second, neither of you moved.

He looked like he wanted to say something else but decided against it.

Instead, he smiled one more time.

"I'll see you tonight."

"I'll see you then."

As he walked back toward his house, you caught yourself smiling long after he'd disappeared through his front door.

You hadn't expected your afternoon to end with a date invitation.

You were looking forward to it.

⸻

The moment Jaafar stepped inside, he barely had time to close the front door before another familiar voice called out.

"Well?"

Jermajesty was sprawled across the couch with a knowing grin already on his face.

Jaafar tried to play it cool.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what?'" Jermajesty laughed. "Did you ask her?"

Jaafar couldn't hold back his smile anymore.

"...Yeah."

"And?"

"She said yes."

Jermajesty shot up from the couch.

"I knew she would!"

The two brothers laughed as Jermajesty gave him a quick pat on the shoulder.

"I told you all you had to do was ask."

"I seriously thought she was going to say no."

"And yet she didn't."

The excitement hadn't worn off by the time they made it upstairs.

Jermajesty immediately opened Jaafar's closet.

"Alright," he said, already sorting through hangers. "First dates are important."

Jaafar chuckled.

"It's just dinner."

"Exactly."

Jermajesty held up a hoodie.

"No."

Then a wrinkled T-shirt.

"Absolutely not."

Finally, he pulled out a clean button-up shirt.

"There we go."

Jaafar looked at it before looking back at his brother.

"You've been waiting for this day, haven't you?"

Jermajesty shrugged dramatically.

"Maybe a little."

An hour later, after plenty of teasing, a few outfit changes, and one last reminder to "just be yourself," Jaafar grabbed his keys and headed out the door, feeling nervous all over again.

Tonight was the beginning of something he hoped would become much more.

———-

Exactly at seven, Jaafar pulled into your driveway.

He walked up the porch steps, took one deep breath, and knocked.

The door slowly opened. For a moment you forgot every word he'd planned.

You stood there wearing a simple dress that suited your perfectly, smiling as if you'd been just as excited for the evening as he had.

"You look beautiful," he admitted before he could stop himself.

"Thank you." You looked him over before smiling even wider.

"You look really handsome."

His grin grew instantly.

"You ready?"

"I've been ready."

The drive to the diner was nice and calm.

Music played softly through the speakers while you guys talked about childhood memories, favorite movies, and the funniest things his little brother had ever said.

By the time both of you arrived, neither of them felt nervous anymore.

Inside, you both slid into a booth by the window.

The diner had black-and-white checkered floors, glowing neon signs, and the comforting smell of fresh burgers and fries.

Hours slipped away before either of you realized it.

"I haven't laughed this much in a long time," you admitted.

Jaafar smiled. "I'm glad I could help with that."

"I'm glad you asked me."

His heart skipped. "So am I."

⸻

The drive home felt quieter.

As he parked outside your house, neither of you reached for the door.

You both just sat there. "I actually wanted to tell you something," Jaafar said softly.

You turned toward him. "What is it?"

He took a slow breath. "I've liked you for a while now." He chuckled nervously.

"Longer than I'd like to admit."

"I kept trying to convince myself it was just because you're great with my little brother..." He smiled sheepishly. "...but it turns out I just really like you."

You looked at him for a long moment before smiling. "I was wondering when you were going to tell me."

His eyes widened. "You knew?"

"I had a feeling." You laughed quietly.

"And... I like you too." For a second, Jaafar just stared at you.

Then the biggest smile spread across his face. "Seriously?"

You nodded. "Seriously." You leaned forward first, closing the small space between ya'll, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

When you pulled away, both of you were smiling so hard it almost hurt.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," you admitted with a laugh.

"I'm really glad you did."

You both eventually made ya’ll way onto your front porch, where you both spent another hour talking about everything.

Then Jaafar's phone buzzed.

He glanced down at the screen and sighed.

"My dad."

You smiled knowingly. "You should probably answer."

"I know." He slipped his phone into his pocket after the call ended.

"I have to head home."

You nodded. "I figured."

He stepped a little closer. "I'll come see you tomorrow."

"I'll be looking forward to it."

"I promise."

With one last smile and one final hug, Jaafar walked back to his car. As he drove away, he couldn't stop smiling.

Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

———-

The morning light filtered through your kitchen curtains, thin and buttery. You were still in your robe, hair in a bonnet, kettle just beginning its low whistle when you heard knocks on your door.

Your heart did something stupid, that little stutter-step it had been doing since last night. Since Jaafar's mouth had found yours in the warm dark of his car.

Now you crossed the house, bare feet cool on the hardwood, and pulled open the door expecting Jaafar little brothers backpack slung over one small shoulder, Jaafar's apologetic half-smile about being a few minutes early.

Instead, it was just him.

Jaafar stood alone in your doorway, no little brother in sight. A cream-colored sweater hung loose on his frame. His hands were tucked into his pockets. The morning sun caught the angles of his face, the soft curl of his lashes.

"Hey," he breathed.

"Hey," you said back, and the word came out like a question.

"My brothers with my dad today. I just..." He paused, searching your face. His smile crept in slowly, the shy kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I couldn't wait. I know I said tomorrow, but it's tomorrow. Technically. And I needed to see you."

You stepped aside, and he walked in.

The air shifted. It always did when he was near, something quiet and charged, like the stillness before a storm you actually want.

You'd known Jaafar for nearly a year. Every drop-off, every pick-up, every brief exchange in your doorway while his little brother tugged at Jaafar’s sleeve. You'd watched him be gentle with the boy, patient, attentive.

You'd felt his eyes linger on you a beat longer than necessary. You'd told yourself it was nothing, that you were imagining the warmth in his voice when he said your name.

Last night at the diner, over shared fries and laughter that rolled easy as a tide, you'd learned you weren't imagining anything.

Here he was, standing in your kitchen, looking at you the way someone looks at a thing they're afraid might dissolve if they blink.

"I made tea," you said, because your brain had temporarily abandoned anything more sophisticated.

"I'd love some."

You poured two cups. Steam curled between you. The morning news played low on the television, something about traffic on the 405, a weather report promising sun. Neither of you paid it any attention.

On the couch, your shoulders touched. His thigh pressed warm against yours. The tea went lukewarm, then cold.

"You're not watching the show," he murmured.

"Neither are you."

His laugh was soft, a little breathless. "Can't focus on anything when you're right there."

Your robe had slipped off one shoulder. His fingers found the exposed skin, just his knuckles, just a feather-brush along your collarbone. The teacup nearly slipped from your grip.

"Jaafar."

"Hmm?"

"Last night you had to leave."

The knuckles became fingertips. Tracing down your arm now, leaving a trail of raised skin in their wake.

"I thought about it all night. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what I wanted to do if I had more time."

Your breath caught. "What did you want to do?"

He turned toward you fully. The morning light caught the gold flecks in his eyes.

"Everything." The word hung between you. "But not rushed. Not in a car. I want to take my time with you. I want to—" He stopped, swallowed, and the shyness was back, coloring his cheeks. "I want to spend the rest of today making love to you. If you want that too."

The teacup found the coffee table. Your hand found his jaw.

"Mmkay" you whispered. You stood and took his hand and took you both upstairs.

Your bedroom was soft with morning shadow, the curtains still drawn. The bed was unmade sheets rumpled from a night of restless, wondering sleep.

Jaafar paused at the threshold, taking it in. Taking you in, robe hanging open, the thin strap of your nightgown visible beneath. His breath shuddered out of him.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and it came out almost pained, like the words hurt to hold in any longer.

You reached for the hem of his sweater. "Can I?"

He nodded, lifting his arms so you could pull it over his head. The fabric whispered against his skin. Beneath it, he was lean and warm. Your palms flattened against his chest, feeling the rapid drum of his heart.

"You're nervous," you said.

"Terrified." He laughed at himself, that breathless sound again. "I've wanted this for so long. I don't want to mess it up."

"You won't." You took his hands, guiding them to the tie of your robe. "Just go slow."

He did.

Jaafar Jackson was methodical in his tenderness. He undid the robe's bow like unwrapping something precious. The silk slid from your shoulders and pooled at your feet. His fingers traced the strap of your nightgown, then tugged it gently down one arm, then the other. The fabric caught at your hips, and he knelt to ease it lower, his breath warming the newly bare skin of your stomach.

From your navel to your ribs, his lips traveled.

"Lie down," he whispered against your skin.

The bed received you. The sheets were cool beneath your back. Jaafar stood above you for a moment, just looking, and there was nothing predatory in his gaze, only wonder. Only the kind of disbelief that comes from holding something you'd convinced yourself you could never have.

Then he was beside you, then above you, his weight settling gentle as a season change. His mouth found the hollow of your throat. The curve of your shoulder. The swell of your breast.

When his lips closed around your nipple, your back arched off the mattress.

He was patient there. Patient and attentive, learning the rhythm of your breathing, the soft sounds that escaped your throat. His tongue traced slow circles while his hand discovered the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured.

"Please don’t ."

His laugh vibrated against your stomach. He kissed lower, one rib at a time, like counting prayers. His fingers hooked into the waist of your panties, and he looked up at you, asking without words.

You lifted your hips. He drew them down.

What followed was slow immersion. His breath first, warm and unsteady against your center. Then his mouth—soft and exploratory, learning you the way a musician learns a new instrument. His tongue parting you with patient strokes. His name fell from your lips in fragments.

A single finger pressed inside you. Then two. Curling, finding.

Your hands fisted in the sheets. The morning light had shifted to full gold now, painting stripes across the ceiling, and you watched them blur as your vision went soft at the edges.

"Right there?" he asked, voice thick.

You couldn't form words. Your thighs trembled against his shoulders. He stayed exactly where he was, exactly how you needed him, until your spine lifted from the bed and a sound wrenched out of you that was half his name, half nothing at all.

He rose up over you, lips slick, eyes dark and soft all at once.

"I need you," he said, and the rawness in his voice undid something in your chest.

You reached between your bodies, finding him hard and hot and trembling slightly in your palm. A condom from the nightstand. Your hands shook together as you rolled it onto him.

Then he was poised at your entrance, forehead pressed to yours.

"Okay?" he breathed.

"Okay."

He pushed inside.

The stretch was slow, exquisite. Inch by inch, he filled you, both of you breathing through it like a shared meditation. When he was fully seated, he stopped. His eyes searched yours.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered. "Move. Please."

He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. "Tell me if it's too much."

Then he started to move, slow and deep, and you both moaned, a sound that seemed to fill the whole room. He stilled, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, your breath mingling.

"God, you feel so good," he whispered. "So tight. So perfect."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he began to move. Slow at first, long, languid strokes that made you see stars. He kissed you through it, his lips never leaving yours, his hands cradling your face like you were something sacred.

"Look at me," he breathed, and you did. His eyes were dark, full of something deeper than lust. "I love you. I think I've loved you since the first time I saw you with my brother, the way you smiled at him."

Your heart swelled, tears pricking at your eyes. "I love you too."

He kissed you then, deep and passionate, and his pace quickened, driving you both toward the edge. His hand slid between you, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and you shattered, your body arching, a cry torn from your throat.

"I'm close," he managed, voice breaking.

You pulled him deeper, heels pressing into the small of his back. "Let go. I've got you."

His body shuddered. His release came with a guttural sound, buried against your throat. The sensation tipped you over after him, a second crest rising from the first, your walls pulsing around him in waves that made him gasp and cling.

Afterward, he didn't pull out right away. He stayed buried inside you, breathing hard, his weight a comfort you hadn't known you craved.

"Stay," you murmured, already half-drifting.

His lips pressed to your temple. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sleep came soft and certain, wrapped in tangled sheets and the scent of his skin. The afternoon light was different when you stirred. Jaafar's arm was draped across your waist, his breathing deep and even.

You lay there, watching the dust motes float in the sunbeam, feeling the soreness between your thighs like a remembered song.

Then his fingers twitched against your hip.

His voice, sleep-rasped, murmured into your hair.

"I love you"

$80 for babysitting service

Cash app: Daniellegrant64

Venmo: danielle-grant-131

PayPal: Victoriagrant704

You can count siblings/cousins/niblings/etc if you feel that your situation counts as babysitting.

–