#boxer!pedro x fem!oc

[harryandpedro]

uppercut - masterlist

status: on-going

paring: boxer/dbf/single-dad!pedro x fem oc

contains mature themes - mdni

warnings for the entire series: inexperienced/virgin fem!mc, loss of virginity, fluff, achingly soft pedro, panic attacks, coming of age, pet names (babygirl, sweetheart, sweet girl, pretty girl etc.), a touch of praise kink, fem!mc is a simp for pedro, protected p in v, fingering, oral (f receiving) softdom!pedro, a twelve year age gap

synopsis

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven {a}

seven {b}

eight

nine

ten

eleven

[sexxyasia]

capture the flag (LUKE CASTELLAN X !FEM! READER

ABOUT: after luke hears about you being a little too nice to some of the other boys in his cabin, luke starts becoming over protective, and jealous since everyone says you're the most beautiful girl at camp...

warnings: told in 3rd person, pet names (reader & luke), cursing, p in v, jealousy, teasing, overstim (reader), kinda noncon, luke being a little jealous BITCH, use of y/n, rough sex, squirting, sex in crazy places, unprotected sex, creampies, y/n being very childish and humorus whilst luke isnt even smiling, an instigating ass friend. a few ocs that arent too important and the reader can be any race (no shit) but i intended for her to be black :P...

MDNI :P (bruh cmon js wait until ur 17+... if u dont wanna u will be blocked. sorry not sorry pooks. :O)

(dont mind the fuck ass banners i used, they're fucking terrible. i was too lazy to actually look for something... but ig it KINDA matches my vibe 😭)

"woohoo" you cheered while having the opposite teams flag in hand.

"you were so fucking amazing y/n..." your teammate ezra says to you with a bright smile on his face.

you give him a warm smile back and embrace him in a tight hug. his hands wander to your ass, but you ignore it thinking he meant nothing of it.

your team had been kicking ass all day, you'd been playing capture the flag since 9:00 this morning, you were fucking tired.

you threw the flag to ezra and waved goodbye to your other teammates before walking back to the aphrodite cabin.

when you arrived you told your siblings about everything. even the hug with ezra. you were so excited to practice for the next game tomorrow with ezra and his friends.

༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄

ezra arrived back at the hermes cabin with his siblings and friends and saw luke sitting on his bed reading a book when all of a sudden some of the boys from the aphrodite cabin rudely interrupted.

"hey man, you'll never believe what ezra did to your girl... or my sister? i dunno!" luke quickly looks up in shock "what happened..." "they were like huggin' and shit like all day. they might be doin something on the low..." one of your brothers; pedro said in a whispered tone.

"like a lot?" luke asked with a furrowed brow.

"hell fucking yeah a lot, he like touched her ass and everything. i think they, like each other, man..." pedro instigated.

luke stood up and stormed out of his cabin, making his way to the aprodite cabin.

when he arrived he knocked on the door and then let himself when no one answered.

"y/n, come here, i need to talk to you..." luke yelled out.

"hey baby, whatchu doin here?" you asked playing with his necklace.

"you were touching all over ezra and thought i wouldn't know. do you like him?" luke said in a hushed tone.

"honey, you know i'd never like any other guy... and besides, i was only touching him to hug him because we'd won the game this morning..." you said while rubbing up and down his torso.

some of your siblings in the cabin giggled as you two talked back and forth.

"come with me y/n, i'm not joking with you anymore. i seriously have to talk with you." luke grabbed you by your wrist and took you to your favorite spot; the middle of the woods.

the woods were your favorite because you two could hook up there when your cabins were full and the bathrooms were occupied.

why did luke take you here just to talk?

༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄

"just take it off baby, you know you wanna..." luke whined

you slowly nodded, not being sure if you even wanted to, but it was luke so you definitely wanted to.

while you worked to take your shirt and bra off luke squeezed his cock through his shorts and boxers to relieve some of the tension thats built from seeing you in a thin tank top and booty shorts all day.

luke pulled your shorts clean off and rubbed your clit through your panties on the wet ground making you moan lightly.

"i bet ezra doesn't even know what a clit is..." luke mutters to himself.

while you lie on your back luke pulls his shirt and shorts off too.

left in nothing but his light grey boxers that read calvin klein on, his shoes, and his necklace.

he pulled his boxers down just under his cock to reveal his raging hard on that he's been harboring for quite some time.

luke kneels over you, lining his throbbing cock up with your pulsating hole before shoving it in without warning.

he quickly fucks your dripping hole, making you a whimpering mess.

"do you think ezra could fuck you this good?

your creamy cunt left a ring around the base of his girthy, and veiny cock. he squished your cheeks while you looked up into his eyes to guarantee your eye contact

"answer me." he said whilst hitting all your spots with his leaky, red tip making you tremble and squirm.

"no baby... no." you whisper while you moan out in pure pleasure.

his hand quickly rubs circles on your puffy pink clit. he kisses and licks all the glittery gloss off your lips. your back arched off the ground and your legs shook under his touch.

his deep orgasmic groans fill your ears making you dig your long fingernails into his back, causing his to fuck into you faster and harder.

"does my pretty girl like that?" luke says in a cocky tone.

"yes... harder baby, harder." you moan into his ear.

his big girthy cock stretched your walls to an almost painful point. making you wrap your legs around him as thighs clench around his toned waist.

the way his thrust perfectly filled you up made your stomach tighten and your heart race.

he pulled his throbbing cock out and rubbed it all over your dripping clit.

"you're such a good girl for taking me so well." luke said while he lightly stroked his cock over your pussy.

"am i?" you said bucking your hips upward in need of friction again.

"yes you are mama, yes you are..." he moaned out.

he pushed himself all the way in making you gasp as his heavy balls smacked right under your pussy. his hand wandered to your clit and he slapped it a few times getting a few praises from you.

all of a sudden your body convulsed upwards and liquids sprayed out of your abused cunt. you tightened around his thick cock and squirted all over his torso while he mindlessly fucked you and attacked your clit.

"honey, slow down fuck!" you say pushing his torso forward.

"give me one second baby... one second." he said while his head was thrown back and his tip lightly brushed your cervix, causing you to be on the verge of pain and pleasure.

all of a sudden his thrusts got slower, but deeper. his cock slammed against your cervix causing you immense pain, that was somehow still pleasureable.

"fuck baby, thank you!" he moaned out while his balls emptied in hot sexy spurts of cum, filling you to the brim and making you squirm.

"what if i get pregnant, you should've pulled out!" you whine

"trust me, you won't." luke says standing up and brushing off his knees.

he helped you stand up, legs wobbly and your heart still racing. he handed you your clothes and kissed you up and down your body while you got redressed.

"we should go back, huh?" luke suggested.

"yeah..." you said breathlessly

(i wanna make a taglist, but i dont have anyone to put on it, plz tell me if u wanna be on it :P)

[harryandpedro]

uppercut - three

summary: Masiy and Pedro have an unfiltered drunken conversation.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of feeling lost post-graduation

wc: 2.3k

series masterlist here.

Maisy

I've been watching Oliver for the past week and it seems all three of us have acclimated to this new normal.

Usually, Pedro wakes with Oliver, changes and feeds him. I let them have their uninterrupted father-and-son time before taking over when he leaves to train. He sometimes comes back home to have his lunch but the majority of the time he's too busy with business calls and sponsorship deals and spends his whole day out.

When he gets in, he's exhausted. Next week, he has his first match of the season and I'm flying with him to Miami to look after Oliver.

He's less hurried to check on his son, now greeting me before he peeks his head into the nursery to make sure Oliver is still breathing. I take that as a sign that I've earned his trust around his son.

Over the span of the past week, I too have learnt to trust myself around Oliver. Though I must admit, he's making it easy by being a mellow fourteen-month-old. He makes me feel like I have a knack for kids. I was even debating taking him on a coffee date, but I wanted to ask his dad before I did so.

We spend our days working on broadening his vocabulary and on his balance. While he takes his naps, I tinker with my resume and send in a few job applications before losing all my willpower to exist. When that happens, I entertain myself by going through Pedro's book collection, flipping through the well-thumbed pages of his paperbacks.

I didn't anticipate that taking care of a fourteen-month-old would tire me out the way it does, but by Oliver's bedtime, I'm ready to hit the sack.

I wait until Pedro gets home with the baby monitor. We exchange a few words—I ask how his training was and he inquires how Oliver's and I's day went. Mainly our conversations revolve around his son.

Tonight, however, he shows more interest in getting to know me.

I'm lounging on the couch, scrolling on my phone when he walks through the front door. He texted me late afternoon, informing me that he had an emergency meeting with one of his sponsorship partners.

I hear him in the foyer, putting his shoes away and the soft thud of his duffle bag as he drops it. Instead of checking on his son, this time he goes in search of me. He strolls over to me, hands in his pockets.

My gaze rises over his tall body. On the bottom, he's wearing a pair of black pressed pants, and the material hugs his corded thighs. A faded green chenille button-down graces his upper body. The first three buttons are undone, displaying his pectorals. If I squint I make out the freckles dotting his tanned skin.

"Hi."

"Hi," he parrots, his rich, velvety voice is like a caress. "Is Oliver sleeping?"

I pass him the baby monitor. "Out like a log."

His eyes fill with overt fondness as he watches his son through the screen. "He didn't give you trouble?"

I shake my head. "He was easy, as always."

He sets the device on the coffee table. "You're really good with him. He likes you."

"I'm glad. I like him too. He's the sweetest." I busy my hands with redoing my bun. "And while I got you, I wanted to ask if it would be okay with you if I took him out on a little outing, like for a stroll around the neighbourhood or to the bookstore? Just to stimulate him."

His face brightens. "Yeah, sure. I bet he'd enjoy that." He makes his way into the kitchen. The first floor of his house is open plan so I can follow him with my eyes. "I have a stroller in the foyer's wardrobe. But if you don't want to push him around I have a sling you can use to carry him on your body. That's in the bottom drawer of his dresser."

"Cool, I'll test it out."

He begins to open cabinets, my cue to leave. I stand, starting for the stairs.

"Hey," he stops me, "You don't have to lock yourself up in your room once I get home, you know that right?"

I freeze on the bottom step. "I know. I just don't want to get in your hair."

He chuckles at that. "You're not getting in my hair." He bends to open the built-in wine cooler and grabs a bottle of red. "Now, I don't normally encourage alcoholism," he starts, rummaging through his cupboards. "But would you want a glass of red?" He must see hesitation in my eyes because he adds, "You've been taking care of my boy for a week now and I don't even know what's your favourite colour." He flashes one of his debonair smiles and the cannibalistic butterflies in my stomach start flapping their wings. "Soo... can I get you to tell me about yourself over a bottle of wine?"

I feel myself preen under his soft gaze. "Fine, but you're not going to get me talking with the most dreaded job interview question." I retake my seat on the couch.

He laughs, pours us a glass each. "Fair point. A little too unoriginal." He carries our glasses to the couch where he plops down next to me. "You lost your mom, right? Rick hinted at it a couple of times," he asks, handing me my glass.

"Yeah, when I was seventeen. She had a heart attack."

"What was she like?"

I let out a slow breath. "Fun... and too kind for this world. She was my best friend in a way. She worked as a nurse, met my dad in the ER, but you probably know that already," I tell him. The memories of my mom bring a fond smile to my face. "What's your family like?"

He grins and puffs air from his cheeks. "Let's see. I'm one out of thirty-four cousins. I was nine months old when we left Chile to seek political asylum."

"Political asylum?" I frown, taking a sip of my wine.

"Yeah. My parents were liberal socialists and they had family members very involved with the opposition movement against the military regime at the time. So we fled to Denmark, spent a bit of time there and then we settled in San Antonio for a bit before moving to Orange County."

"And now you're a New Yorker. That's a lot of moving," I observe. "I've only ever lived in New York besides my college years. And what about your parents?"

"My mom died too, actually. She passed away in my early twenties, when my boxing career was taking off. That was a fucking hard time for me." He looks away briefly before our gazes lash together once more. "She was sort of the love of my life. I use her maiden name, Pascal, as my stage name."

He relives these intimate memories for me; I see it in his eyes. Him revealing such personal details of himself twists something in me I can't identify. I just know it holds significance.

"She must've been wonderful," I offer.

"She really was." He takes a sip of his wine. "Do you have any siblings?"

I shake my head. "Only child."

We continue to swap stories from our childhood. He tells me about his siblings and how he found boxing. I confess how I didn't have that romanticized college experience and how lost I feel now that I graduated.

Then he starts asking me questions and, while I talk, he sits, unmoving, and listens to my answers.

We get sucked into the conversation and as we do, we both relax into the couch. I curl my legs underneath me and he props one leg on the edge of the couch so he can turn towards me. He leans his side against the back of it, his head propped up by his hand as he studies me.

He asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him I don't. He doesn't react, his face unreadable.

"On the topic of love," I take a sip before continuing, "I've always had this silly, romantic notion of falling in love organically—like meeting someone on the subway or in a coffee shop," I divulge, surprising myself with my admission. "But the chances of that are growing slimmer by the day. God, twenty-one is a harrowing age," I mumble, staring into my glass ruefully.

Pedro takes a slow, thoughtful sip of his wine. "I think that thought is sort of beautiful. And it's definitely not silly."

A little smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "I appreciate you saying that, but that's not how the dating pool works. And I hate going out and clubbing, so I don't foresee myself a bright future in the love department." I let out a sigh. "I'm aware I should put myself out there, but a part of me is like, if it doesn't happen naturally, I'm not sure I want it."

"Which part? The meet-cute or the falling in love?" He tops up our glasses.

"I guess I want us to meet without it feeling forced, if that makes sense. Like, I don't want to chase love, I want it to find me."

His facial expression softens and something warm floods his eyes, making them gleam. Our gazes slot together like puzzle pieces and I'm forever hypnotized.

This doesn't feel forced, my heart screams at me.

He doesn't seem to notice my silence and goes on talking.

For a moment my brain goes blank and I have to ask him to repeat himself. He chuckles at me and the deep, mellifluous sound rolls through me. My whole body buzzes.

As I continue to overshare, he grants me his undivided attention. His focus is like he's shining a light in my eyes. I feel seen.

He gets me talking, and I'm rarely the talker. With most people, I'm the listener, the shoulder to lean on. Alongside the very few—nowadays my dad and grandma—he's able to create a space where I can unburden myself. He doesn't judge when I reveal that I don't have many, if any friends—the closest connection to friendship I have is with Lindsey, my roommate from college, but I wouldn't categorize the two of us as anything above friendly acquaintances. I leave out the part that even though I'm turning twenty-two in a few months, I'm yet to have a boyfriend. Hell, I haven't even been kissed before.

Up until recently, my lack of experience in love and relationships didn't bother me that much. But now that I've graduated, the empty cavern I've masterfully ignored all my college years feels more substantial. Now I just feel embarrassed for myself.

All while staying unjudgemental, Pedro is asking the best follow-up questions and as our conversation reaches a natural conclusion, I'm left as if I just had a vulnerable but productive therapy session.

He's now telling me about a road trip he went on a few years ago, and I try to listen, I do, but his bulging biceps captivate my attention. They're like suspension cables. Every time he makes the tiniest of moment, the muscles in his arm ripple. I must be seriously touch-starved because I want to reach out and wrap my fingers around his biceps, which my fingers probably couldn't encircle.

His other hand that's not supporting his head holds his glass, balancing it on his thigh. I've never in my life been this severely mesmerized by thighs.

I hum a few times and say "That's so cool" to show that I'm listening before my stare leaves his face and dips to his hand once again.

His forefinger is tracing the lip of the wine glass. The longer I stare, the sexier his hand becomes. He has a little doodle tattoo between his thumb and forefinger and I find myself wanting to sink my teeth into the flesh.

This is so inappropriate, I scold myself. I really shouldn't be mapping his body.

I try my best to tidy up my head but the two glasses I drowned have made me loose and floaty.

"You alright there?" he probes, tilting his head to the side. My cheeks crimson. He must've clocked I was drooling over him. The corner of his beautiful, moustache-topped mouth lifts in an amused smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm great," I cover up and a laugh slips me.

I clumsily place my now empty glass down and he reaches out to steady me by the elbow. My breathing turns shallow and rushed with the knowledge of his proximity.

"What is it?" he presses, chuckling lightly, clearly entertained by my tipsiness.

I groan, hiding my flushed face in my hands, cursing myself and the wine for making me more candid than I intended to be. "Nothing," I hiccup.

"Now you've got to tell me," he urges, cupping one of my elbows in his massive palm.

His touch is warm, his callouses scrap my skin. It feels like a parade of fire ants are crawling out of the area he's touching into every direction.

I move my hand from my face, dropping it onto my lap as his fingers trail up my forearm, which he squeezes lightly before letting go.

"It's stupid really," I mumble.

"Come on, you can tell me," he assures me, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

I shake my head at myself. "It's just that—oh my God, I can't believe I'm saying this—, it's just that you have nice hands and arms, okay?"

His cheeks blush visibly at my compliment, but he immediately turns it into a joke. "These?" He pulls back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flexes his bicep.

"Yeah," I admit sheepishly, letting out a nervous laugh.

"Can touch them if you want," he teases in a low murmur, a crooked smile spreading across his perfectly smooth lips.

"No, Pedro, I shouldn't have said what I said," I stammer coyly.

"Alright, alright," he drops it and fixes his sleeve. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

I swallow, whising away the redness colouring my face. Silence lapses for a beat and I notice the tops of his ears have turned red.

He leans over to grab the bottle of wine. "More?"

I shake my head. "I'd rather not further embarrass myself."

His smile fading, he chugs the rest of his wine and stands up. He gathers our glasses and the bottle, carrying them over to the sink where he rinses them. "I should get some sleep," he says with a sigh.

"I should too," I agree, sleepiness crashing down on me. "I'll—, I'll see you in the morning," I mumble and flee to my room, my heart soaring.

[harryandpedro]

uppercut - five

summary: Maisy witnesses Pedro's first victory of the boxing season

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: talks of sexual orientation, fem!mc being pathetic and self-sabotaging, mild description of violence (in the form of boxing)

wc: 3k+

series masterlist here.

Maisy

The next morning, we meet up with Pedro's team which includes a physiotherapist, my dad and a second coach at the airport. We get through check-in and security fairly quickly and hunker down in the business lounge while we wait for our flight to Miami to be called.

After a tactical bathroom break before gate info, I return to the spot we claimed as ours in the lounge. On my way back I grab a fruit salad from the buffet and pop a piece of mango into my mouth.

The four other men I'm travelling with are standing in a circle, using a tablet to go over film of Pedro's opponent for tomorrow's match.

Oliver is perched on his dad's left hip, his head pillowed on Pedro's sculpted shoulder, and as soon as I'm close enough, the boy hurls himself at me. I take him but not before Pedro kisses the top of his son's head and murmurs a thank you to me.

Oliver and I sit down on the couch we deposited our cabin bags on. I situate him on my lap, one of my arms going around his back to prevent him from falling down. I feel Pedro's gaze following my movements and as I look over at him, he gifts me with a smile then turns to face my dad and the other trainers accompanying us.

Oliver makes a humming sound, restoring my attention. "What's up, Bug?" I ask, eating a piece of strawberry. His eyes go all big and he smacks his lips together. "Want a bite?" I fork a slice of banana and he eagerly starts at it.

While we wait for boarding, Oliver and I share the fruit salad. He drools all over himself and I pull a cloth from his diaper bag to clean him. As I do, I catch Pedro stealing glances at the two of us. A silent conversation passes us: Hi and Hi back, and You're watching me and No, you're watching me.

A light giggle bubbles out of me.

At that, a debonair smile spreads slowly across his stubbled face. He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek and winks.

The fluttery warmth in my stomach curdles.

I curse at him inwardly for the way he makes me feel.

When they announce our gate, he strolls over to us, hands in his pockets. He's wearing a baseball cap, a plain grey T-shirt, black joggers and his usual New Balances. Even in a simple outfit he manages to look spruce and otherworldly handsome.

We merge into the line that's forming around the gate. Perdo wordlessly takes my tote bag from my shoulder, sliding it down my arm and carrying it for me alongside his personal bag while I carry his son.

"This is us," he says on the plane now, slowing to a stop. We've got a whole row to ourselves at business class. All six cubicles with reclining cushioned chairs, one with a special seat for Oliver strapped into it. Pedro's personnel take their respective seats. I put Oliver in his seat and take the aisle seat directly next to it, presuming Pedro would need my help with his son during the flight.

He puts our bags in the overhead luggage compartment. "I thought you wanted to spend some time with your dad," he says. "Don't feel like you need to hang out with Oliver on the plane. I'll be with him and if I need to go over film or something he can be with me for that."

"But I like watching him."

Pedro's eyes dart to me. "Okay. I just don't want to burn you out on him."

"It's fine, really," I assure him with a placating smile. "I like spending time with him."

He looks at me with a softness I've only ever seen him wear with his son. "I know. He likes spending time with you too."

The flight and the rest of the day ensues without a hitch. We check in at our hotel and everyone disperses to freshen up. My dad then invites me out for dinner and after Pedro reassures me he doesn't need help with Oliver, we go out into the city and explore for the remainder of the night.

After my mom passed away, I became even closer to my dad. He's always been a role model for me and I heavily rely on his guidance. I consider him a wise, well-mannered, both street and book-smart guy. He gave me the most wonderful childhood—he never missed birthdays or school recitals, read me bedtime stories when I was still little, and gave me permission to follow my dreams.

I couldn't have asked for a better man to raise me. I'm eternally grateful for him.

While I was in another State to get my education, we stayed close. We Facetimed regularly and he pretty much advised me through college.

I had quite the unconventional college experience; I didn't party, didn't join societies nor did I put myself out there. Instead, I focused on my classes, did all my readings, and passed my exams with flying numbers.

I remember dad asking me after I finished my junior year and still nothing panned out romantically if I were into girls. I told him the truth, that no, I was not into girls and he didn't pry about it ever since. I guess he thought I wasn't ready to date yet, which wasn't entirely a misconception but I also knew that it couldn't be just my reserved exterior that warded off boys. I wasn't getting approached, not ever, and no one had ever invited me out on a date.

For a long time, I genuinely believed something was horribly wrong with me. I even debated with myself that I might be asexual. Those thoughts were fueled by the fact that even though I played with myself, I didn't make myself orgasm, still haven't, and nobody truly has aroused me—at least not how Pedro has in the past two weeks.

By my last year of college, I considered my lack of romantic—and sexual—partners as a byproduct of my asexual tendencies (I can count on one hand how many times I found a guy handsome) and my introversion-induced self-isolation. Instead of pursuing those few boys I've found remotely attractive, I retreated into my fantasies: I read romance and daydreamed about my book-boyfriends. Rather than searching for real connections with other human beings, I dreamt up enough to keep my desires and urges satisfied; a habit I still default to.

To this day I often catch myself imagining alternative lives where I chose to be a doctor and now I live with my blue-eyed boyfriend who rock-climbs, or a sugar daddy took me under his wings and now I owe my own pottery studio, selling my craft. When I'm teleported back into reality from one of these trances, I faintly feel sorry for myself but not enough to offset any kind of action that would put me out of my self-inflicted misery.

Apart from my parents and other family members, nobody has ever loved me unconditionally. And lately, despite reconciling myself to the fact that apparently, I'm not most guys' type, at twenty-one I find myself carving affection, both physical and emotional.

God, I feel pathetic, asking someone to love me when all I ever do is beg to be alone.

After my dad and I get back to the hotel, I lie awake in bed, staring at the adjoining door that opens to Pedro's and Oliver's suite, and feel very homesick for arms that have never held me.

×××

The next morning I join Pedro and his personnel for breakfast then fifth-wheel with Oliver in the corner of Pedro's hotel room while they huddle on the match's game plan. Following lunch me and Oliver move to my room to let Pedro get on with his pre-match rituals, and we spend our afternoon watching cartoons on YouTube and reading picture books.

Originally, Oliver and I would've stayed in but when I get a text from my dad saying that he managed to get us a pass for Pedro's match, I jump on the offer.

This will be my first time going to one of his matches and just the mere thought of seeing him in the ring, in his element awakens a horde of butterflies in my stomach.

When he wakes from his afternoon nap, I get Oliver dressed in a pair of forest green trousers and a white polo shirt. I decide on a white and muted pink, tiered ruffle sundress, accessorizing it with my everyday jewleries; my silver droplet necklace and four dainty rings.

At the venue, a hostess shows us to a private box above the bleachers and tells me that later on Jason, Pedro's physio and Sam, his second coach will be coming up here to watch the fight.

We arrive just in time because a few minutes later, they dim the light and the crowd roars in anticipation. I stand right before the window overlooking the arena with Oliver slung over my hip as the boxers get their introduction.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event of the evening. Twelve three-minute rounds for the WBO cruiserweight championship of the world," the speaker hollers. "Miami, I need you to get out of your seats, raise your drinks high and get wild. Let us meet the fighters."

Pedro's opponent walks out first. "Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue and red trunks is Cole Wayne." He's the same build as Pedro but appears less agile. "From last season, he holds a record of fifteen victories with nine of those wins coming by way of knockout." The man cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders with a smug expression.

"That's your daddy's opponent," I tell Oliver. "He seems like a brat, don't you agree?"

He makes a jumbled sound and I take it as his version of yes.

"And now, his opponent, fighting out of the red corner, wearing black and green." The crowd erupts as Pedro makes his walkout in his robe. He's focused and in his head, I can tell solely by his posture. The speaker goes on, "He holds an undefeated professional record of twenty victories versus no defeats with sixteen of those wins coming by way of knockout." He climbs into the ring, slipping under the ropes, and like that, he sets my heart aflutter. "Introducing the former WBA InterContiental Cruiserweight Campion. Ladies and gentlemen, Pedro 'The Viper' Pascal."

He lowers the hood of his robe, revealing his perfect brown hair and the most tender brown eyes I've ever looked into. His features and his personality are a stark contrast to his robust, mesomorphic body.

My dad slips the robe from his form, and I see Pedro shirtless for the first time. Hard, defined muscles cover his upper body, with visible obliques. His trunks cut mid-thigh, and his legs are thick and cut.

He bounces on the spot, shaking off his arms. His muscles ripple and my stomach pulls taut.

The referee calls the two boxers over. Cole invades his personal space but Pedro remains stoic and collected. "Okay boys," the referee says, "At call break I expect you to stop punching and take a step back. Don't deliberately throw punches on the back of the head. Protect yourselves at all times. Any questions?" The two of them eye each other. "Alright. Touch gloves." They do so before returning to their respective corners of the ring.

"That there," I point at Pedro, "Is your daddy."

Oliver claps and squeals, his precious eyes wide with excitement.

"Is your dad the best boxer in the world, huh, buddy?"

He nods his head eagerly, though I know he doesn't have any idea what I'm asking.

Jason and Sam join us in the box then. They greet me with polite smiles and wave at Oliver before taking their seats to my right where a couch is positioned in front of the window.

In the ring, my dad feeds Pedro his mouthpiece before leaving the platform to take his spot at the ringside.

I fix the noise-cancelling headphones on Oliver—they look comically big on him—and zero in on the elevated platform.

The bell sounds and the fight begins.

Pedro is quick and light on his feet, slipping and ducking any incoming punch. In the first two rounds, Cole is the initiator, trying to force the pace but Pedro doesn't let him.

In the third round, he takes over and by the fourth one, it's clear as the sky he's got the experience going for him. He lends a few stinging jabs and crosses, throwing Cole off balance. He tries with an uppercut but Pedro guards his face with his gloved hands, then delivers a quick right hook in the ribs.

I watch with batted breaths as the match unfolds.

Another punch disorients Cole and Pedro lets loose a torrent of hard-landing jabs.

His punches are precise and lethal, and the way he conducts himself in the ring has got me handing in my feminism card for the night.

He wins in round five with a vicious right uppercut that has Cole toppling. The referee raises his hand high into the air, declaring him as the victor.

Pedro's eyes scan the faces in the crowds, his chest heaving with heavy breaths, and as his gaze rises, he finds me and pins me with a look, a glint in his eyes and his lips curled into a devilish smirk.

I feel a zing of awareness between my thighs.

"What do you say, Maisy? He's a hell of a boxer, isn't he?" Sam speaks from beside me.

I clear my throat. "Yeah, he really is," I whisper, not daring to take my eyes off Pedro. "He's a knockout."

The speaker asks him for an interview and he begrudgingly breaks eye contact.

I deflate and can only hope Sam and Jason didn't notice the physical effect their boxer has on me.

Surely this is my cue to get a therapist because something is terribly wrong with me if I think we stand a chance.

×××

Pedro enters his hotel suite stealthily. Oliver is fast asleep in the portable crib provided by the hotel, and I've already showered and changed into my nightwear.

He knocks on my door which I've left ajar. I hum in acknowledgement and he steps inside, closing the door behind him so that we can have a conversation and not have to whisper.

"Congrats on your win," I say, climbing out of bed.

He's in the same joggers he wore for the flight yesterday and a simple white t-shirt. His hair is still wet from his post-match shower.

"Thanks," he murmurs. "I liked having the two of you in the crowd."

I hand him the baby monitor. "Oliver liked being there for you."

"And what about you?" he asks in undertones, tentatively. His fingers brush against mine as he takes the device from me.

"Uhum, I—, it was a great match," I mumble, refusing to meet his stare. I touch my necklace to do something with my hands.

"Okay, well, as per usual, thanks for taking care of Oliver," he says, smiling softly. He turns to leave but I stop him.

"Pedro?"

"Yeah?" He faces me.

"I actually—," I pause, unsure how to continue, "I was wondering if I could ask you something."

"Sure," he says, rubbing his hands on his joggers. "Go ahead."

"It might be kind of weird," I warn. "Please don't laugh at me."

He shakes his head, granting me with his softest eyes yet. "I won't."

"Would you—," I begin, nibbling on my bottom lip, "—teach me how to box?"

"I—," he recoils slightly, taken aback by the question. "What?"

"Would you teach me how to box?" I repeat, though my voice is significantly smaller and much more hesitant. "I want to learn how to defend myself."

"Against what?" he asks, his brows knitting together in concern. "Is everything alright?"

My insides warm at his unreasonable protectiveness. "Everything's fine." I wave away his worries with an inattentive flick of my hand. "It's just that, when we, Oliver and I go on our daily adventures, I want to feel safe. And I think knowing how to throw a punch would help ease some of that anxiety."

"Did something happen while you were out? Did someone try to hurt you or Oliver?" he urges, voice low and serious.

"No, no one has hurt or tried to," I tell him calmly. "But I want to know how to react if someone did try something."

Pedro's eyes narrow as he studies my face. "You come to me if they do." I nod firmly. "What do you want to learn?" he asks.

"Anything," I answer breathlessly. "Everything."

The corner of his mouth quirks up a little, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest. "How about I teach you the basics first?"

I nod in agreement. "And please don't tell my dad I want to learn self-defence, he'd freak out." I rush to add.

His smile falls again. "Maisy," he rasps my name lowly, warningly. "Are you sure there's no reason for me to worry?"

"No, nobody is harassing me I promise. Just—," I let out a breath. "It's just Rick doesn't have to know, alright?"

There's a pause and he uses his X-ray eyes on me. "Alright," he echoes finally.

"Alright," I parrot and avert my eyes.

A moment of tension-laden silence descends on the room. "I—we should get some sleep, we've got a flight to catch tomorrow." I remind him quietly, tossing my thumb over my shoulder towards the bed.

"You're right." He touches his lips, scratches his bearded jaw. "I'll, uhm, see you in the morning," he drawls and goes back to his room, closing the adjoining door.

.

.

.

taglist: @biapascal

[harryandpedro]

uppercut - four

summary: As Maisy settles in and slowly becomes an integral part of Pedro's and Oliver's everyday life, Pedro wages an internal battle over his budding feelings for his coach's daughter.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: mentions of a twelve year age gap

wc: 2.8k

series masterlist here.

Pedro

After our heart-to-heart conversation over a bottle of red two days ago, Maisy's been occupying the forefront of my thoughts.

Scrubbing a hand across my face, I make my way downstairs to get my morning cup of coffee. I move around stealthily, a skill I mastered the moment Oliver came into my life. I unload the dishwasher and draw the curtains while the coffee machine powers up. I go into the living room to let the morning light in when I spot Maisy. I'm surprised to find her already out of bed, she usually wakes an hour behind me.

I haven't seen her from the kitchen because the back of the couch hid her petite form. She's in her typical sleepwear attire—a pair of shorts that reveal her slender legs and a cosy hoodie to ward of the morning chill. She lies on the couch, curled up on her side, clutching a hand to her lower belly. "Are you okay?" I speak softly in hopes of not startling her.

"I'm fine," she answers with her eyes closed.

She doesn't look fine. She looks like she's having the period of hell. She winces.

"Have you taken anything yet?" I tread carefully. 

"I took two Aspirins at five am." Even her words sound painful.

Having a period must seriously suck.

I check the time on my phone. "You can alternate with Motrin. I have some in my gym bag," I offer.

She just nods, rubbing her thumb across the expanse of her stomach. I grab two pills and bring them back with a glass of water and hand it to her. She takes them gratefully.

"Thanks," she mumbles, flopping back against the cushions, closing her eyes once more. "How do you know all these things?"

"I'm thirty-four. I've been with enough women to know the drill. Also, have you seen any box match? My body is constantly in pain." I say and a little smile tugs on the corners of her perfectly pink lips.

After my forenoon training session, I stop off at a bodega and grab her some feminine hygiene products, just in case. My kindness certainly doesn't have anything to do with my dislike of seeing her in discomfort, I lie to myself.

When I arrive home, I locate her in Oliver's play area. She's camping on the floor with my son as they play with building blocks. I drop the bag of tampons and pads by her feet. "Didn't know what you preferred so I got a selection," I mutter.

Frowning, she peers into the top of the bag. I watch as her expression morphs with emotion. "You didn't have to. Let me get my wallet."

She moves to stand but I wave her off. "It's okay. Don't worry about that."

She gives me a bashful smile. She already seems to be feeling better. The Motrin must be working. "Have you had anything for lunch?" She shakes her head. "How does a grilled cheese sound?"

"No, Pedro, you really don't have to do all that," she protests but I'm already halfway to the kitchen.

"I have to throw something together for lunch anyways, so you want a grilled cheese or not?"

She groans. "Ugh! Fine. Make me one."

I'm aware that what I'm doing isn't slick, and that my curiosity towards her is entirely wrong. Taking care of her on her period and buying her feminine hygiene products sound far too boyfriend-y to me.

I am not attracted to Maisy. Not even a little. I tell myself but my dick doesn't seem to care.

×××

The next day, she goes on a coffee run with Oliver. I know because she comes by the gym to tell me about it with a proud smile on her face.

It's the first time she's come to the gym since I hired her to nanny Oliver. She burst through the door, radiating eternal sunshine. My son is strapped to her chest in a baby sling, his head resting on her chest, his arms and legs slathered in sun cream.

She greets Magda at the front desk, turning her body so the receptionist can better see Oliver who squeals in greeting.

Maisy is heading towards me now and my heart starts working overtime. I stop the swinging of the sandbag with my hands, discard my boxing gloves and comb my fingers through my curls.

She's wearing a floral print sundress paired with white tennis shoes and her hair is styled in a dutch braid. A few whips of baby hair have come loose, I feel myself wanting to reach up and tuck them behind her delicate ear. Instead, I rub my thumb and forefinger together.

"We got you coffee," she chimes, holding a small takeaway cup. "It's a double shot, no sugar, no milk." I open my mouth to protest, but she beats me as she adds, "A thank you for the other day."

"Thanks." I take it from her, giving it a swirl before swiging it. "What did you guys do today?"

Maisy toys with Oliver's hands that are dangling at his sides. "We went to a quaint little coffee shop, sat on the terrace and people-watched," she says. "We were brave around strangers, didn't we, Bug?"

"Oh, you were?" I ask, petting my son's head lovingly. He perks up at the sound of my voice.

"Dadda," he exclaims.

I chuckle. "That's right, buddy, I'm your daddy."

"Do you, uhm," she swallows thickly, heat colouring the apples of her cheeks. Have me uttering the word daddy made her blush? "Do you want me to get him out of this thing so you can hold him?" Her hands fiddle with the straps of the sling.

"No, that's alright," I assure her. I let my son clutch onto my thumb and we stay quiet for a moment. From the corner of my eyes, I see her take in the space around us.

Sandbags of various sizes and shapes hang from the ceiling, behind us two boxing rings stand on elevated platforms with ropes squaring them.

In one of the rings, two shirtless twenty-something guys fight against one another. I wonder briefly if she finds either of them attractive. She probably does; they're her age, childless and universally good-looking.

To our right, there's a handful of rowing machines and assault bikes and a mobility area. There's a hallway to our left leading to the locker rooms and coaches' offices.

"I'm done for today. I've gotta take a shower and change but if you guys wait, we can drive back together." I speak up, letting go of my son's tiny hand.

"Sure," Maisy agrees with a beaming smile, smoothing a hand down Oliver's hair.

"Okay, I'll be quick," I say, shoving my workout gear into my duffle bag. "Your dad's still here if you want to say hi to him," I tell her, walking backwards to the locker rooms.

Once outside, I walk her to the private parking lot behind the gym. I've got Oliver perched on my forearm and my gym bag dangling from my other shoulder.

"Do you need help with that?" Maisy offers.

"No, it's alright, I got it."

We get to my car and I open the passenger door for her. She lowers into the seat with a sweet, coy smile I don't miss playing on her kissable mouth.

Shooing away my controversial desires, I put my duffle bag in the trunk before situating Oliver in his car seat.

"I'd imagine you rich people drive more lavish cars," she says and our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.

I laugh. "Well, first of all, my car is on the lavish side of the spectrum." I drive a sleek, black Audi A8. "And second of all, I'd say your dad is pretty well off too, don't you agree?"

"Okay, you got me there, but an Audi? Come on, man."

I give the straps of my son's car seat a gentle tug to make sure they're tight but not too tight around his body.

"Hey, I love my car. Plus, I don't need a flashier one." I tell her, getting behind the wheel. "I don't blow my money on things for the sake of having them. That's just not who I am. I have like ten shirts in my wardrobe."

"Then what do you do with your money?"

I slow to a stop at a red light. "I donate half of my income to charity."

"Really? Where to?"

I glance over at her with an impish grin. "Well, currently I'm housing this unemployed college graduate. Total charity case. Tragic story, really."

She lightly swats at my arm, laughing. "Shut up."

The traffic light turns green and I start driving again. "I donate to lesser-known nonprofits that serve impoverished schoolchildren," I divulge, taking on a more serious tone. "My main goal is making sure kids have the textbooks they need for class and food for lunch. And part of my sponsorships is that every year my sponsors have to match my donation in gifting sportwear to kids who need something to wear in order to be active," I elaborate. "There's so much more that could be done but I have no idea how. It feels overwhelming."

Later that night, once I tucked Oliver in, I knock on her door.

She invites me in. I push the door open but decide to linger in the doorway. "I'm gonna put on Gladiator II. Wanna join?" I propose, leaning my forearm on the doorframe.

She's pottering around the room, storing away folded clothes. "I would love to, but I haven't even seen part one."

"Then let's watch part one first."

She chuckles lightly, sweetly. I curse at myself and my obvious desperation to spend more time with her.

"When's showtime?"

"Whenever you want."

"Alright. I'll be downstairs in a minute," she says, and as she breezes past me to the guest bathroom, her flowery scent heads me.

As inconspicuous as I can be, I inhale every note of her smell.

Then a wave of guilt washes over me.

This isn't right. Me lusting after my coach's daughter, after the girl who looks after my son, it couldn't get any more morally grey than this.

I should shut down my developing feelings for her because she's way too young for me and even if age wasn't a problem, there's no way in hell she thinks of me as I think of her.

I hate myself for not being strong enough to close the door on my selfish feelings.

×××

The next day I only have my morning gym session since two days from now I'll be in the ring. To prepare I'm tapering which means less time in the gym and more time resting.

When I get home, the house is loud with cackles of glee. The sounds guide me into the kitchen where Oliver and the girl who is rapidly climbing the ranks to be my second favourite person are baking.

Maisy's nose is covered in flour as is Oliver up to his elbows. He's displaying a toothy grin and is clapping enthusiastically, making dust clouds.

Maisy's got my son situated on her left hip and as he wiggles in her arms, her sundress inches up. I give the bare skin an appreciative glance. She sees me do it. Wearing a bashful expression, she tugs the fabric down.

"We—well, I made cookies." She slides a plate in front of me across the kitchen island.

"Chocolate chip?" I ask with a smirk playing on my mouth, my gaze lifting to meet hers.

She lets Oliver down and leans on her elbows. "Mhm. Whoever bakes them with raisins needs to be locked up."

I chuckle and grab one. "Agreed," I say through a mouthful and as it dissolves on my tongue, I let out an obnoxious moan. "Maisy, these are ridiculously good." I take another bite.

My compliment makes her beam. "Thank you," she mumbles softly.

We share a cookie in companionable silence while watching Oliver crawl across the floor. Then I suggest we go out for coffee and she obliges me with it, even lets me pay for her iced latte.

We take our coffees to go and drink it in the nearby park. We lounge in the grass, Oliver squirming on his back between our bodies. She asks me about my training strategy and how I feel about my upcoming match. I tell her that I'll be getting the jitters the morning of but as for now, I feel confident about it. Then I inquire about her job-hunting. She gives a terse answer and I spare her my many follow-up questions. Instead, I get her talking about her degree. Her eyes shine as she explains Wallerstein's world system theory and how that changed herperception of international relations. What she's saying is so complicated for me that I lose track after the first couple of sentences but still nod along to make her feel like she isn't boring me because she truly isn't.

At home that night, I give Oliver a bath and I shower while Maisy watches him. Then I take over once more and get my son bed-ready in a pair of snug pj's. We work on his walk a bit before I read him a story and put him down.

He's out in a matter of minutes, giving me plenty of time to pack both his and my suitcases for our flight tomorrow.

As I pack, I fall into a meditative trance. By now I do this on autopilot. I no longer stress or give too much significance to my upcoming match, knowing I put in the work. I have enough seasons behind me to feel calm about it.

I used to get anxious many days prior to my matches and that took a toll on me mentally. Over the years, Rick and I worked on building up my confidence and figuring out a system that removes some of the unproductive stress from my training.

Boxing often is a mind game rather than a physical one so my strategy adapted. Training in my thirties is less about my physique and technique and more about maintaining it while strengthening my mental health. I think my mental clarity is what differentiates me from the other boxers. I throw a solid punch and have great footwork but being there mentally when we're on the umpteenth round is what matters.

I zip up the suitcases and carry them downstairs. 

"Can we watch Gladiator II when you're done?" Maisy calls from the living room.

I stop under the archway leading into the space. "Did you pack your bags?" I quiz, hands on my hips.

"All packed and ready to go," she promises.

We're maybe one-fourth of a way into the film when she tells me offhandedly I'm the real-life version of Marcus Acacius but younger, and since she spends all one hundred and fifty-six minutes of the movie drooling over the Roman General I take it as a compliment.

I try my best to concentrate on the plot happening on-screen but it all feels domestic—cosying up on opposite ends of the couch and enjoying a movie together—almost too comforting. On second thought, this whole day felt too domestic, too family-day like.

The realization scares the shit out of me but as we let the credits roll, a part of me—a self-sabotaging part of me— secretly hopes our movie nights become a tradition.

.

.

.

taglist: @biapascal

[harryandpedro]

uppercut - two

summary: Maisy moves in with Pedro to care for his son. An irrationalizable infatuation with the thirty-four years old boxer puts roots in her heart.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: none

wc: 3k

series masterlist here.

Maisy

From the gym, I head home to pack up my wardrobe and essentials.

I try not to overthink this whole situation. I'm just helping this handsome-looking man, nothing else. And besides, this is my opportunity to be spontaneous for once in my life.

I fill two suitcases then take an Uber over to Pedro's.

The car pulls up by the curb of a three-story renovated brownstone in Tribeca. I pay the driver and climb out, spotting Pedro sitting on the steps holding what I presume is a baby monitor.

When he sees me, he leaps to his feet. I struggle with my suitcases and he comes over to help. "Thanks," I mumble sheepishly.

"No worries." He shoots me a warm smile over his shoulder as he leads the way inside. He holds the heavy mahogany door open and ushers me inside. "Go ahead."

I enter and notice how tidy everything is. Peeking past the foyer, his home is spacious but not empty. Sure, there are telltale signs of a toddler living here—a play mat here and a stack of building blocks there—but for the most part, he keeps his space neat.

I take off my shoes and place them by the end of a row of sneakers, mostly New Balances. Footwear he can easily put on. Dad shoes. A smile lifts on my lips at my conclusion.

"Thank you, Maisy. You're really saving my ass by watching my son," he says, and he sounds genuinely grateful. "As soon as the agency finds a replacement, you can go back to your big plans," he promises.

My big plans of wallowing in bed and regretting my life choices? I'd rather not.

"That's okay," I give him a smile. "Think this will be better for me than doom-scrolling and bed-rotting all summer."

"One piece of advice; enjoy those summers while you still can," he tells me, winking. "Let me show you around."

I hum and he rounds me and leads me further into his home. He faces me, walking backwards. "Oliver's room is on the second floor. I'll let you explore on your own when he wakes from his nap, but the main part of the house is this way." Hands in the pockets of his jeans—he changed out of his workout clothes, he nods towards the opposite side of the house.

I trail after him as he gives me a tour of the first floor. We pad barefoot across the hardwood flooring. "Living room, dining room, kitchen," he rattles off the open spaces as we pass them. The interior follows the same colour scheme—white, charcoal grey, navy blue and a pop of burnt orange on textiles. His kitchen is pine green with stainless steel appliances. The living room has a pillowy L-shaped couch and a nook for Oliver to play with a playpen and a basket of toys. A monstrous flatscreen television is built into a custom-made bookshelf system that takes up the entire wall.

"Why the big screen?" I tease him.

A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I like to make it an occasion when I watch a movie."

I scoff. "What movie do you watch that requires this many pixels?"

"Nothing mature-themed, if that's what you're getting at. More like The Big Lebowski. Blade Runner. The Gladiator, to name a few," he shrugs.

"Never seen them."

"Well, I have them on DVD so you can give them a watch when Oliver's sleeping." A beat of silence mushrooms us, and I use it to scan his book collection. He has a vast array, spanning from Dostoevsky to Daphne du Maurier.

"Let's go upstairs." We take the stairs to the third floor. "My room's up here," he motions to a closed door. "As is the guest bedroom. I got it all set up for you."

I follow him and he shows me to my room for the next ten or so weeks. I immediately notice how much direct sunlight it gets because of the south-facing window. The floors are the same hardwood as the rest of the house. The furniture is all white—a desk, a dresser and a built-in closet—except for the double bed that has an anthracite curved headboard.

I leave my spot and opt to explore and while I do, I hear him walk away and come back, placing down my suitcases by the door. I turn to face him.

"There's a binder on the desk for you with everything listed about Oliver in there. His routines and daily schedules. What his gibberish is supposed to mean, that kind of stuff. Also emergency contacts. You got my number right?"

I thumb through the pages. "Yeah, I have it saved in my phone."

"Good. That's good."

"You're really organized," I say more like an afterthought.

"I got to be. My son's relying on and I'm not about to let him down." He scratches his chin. "All right, I'll let you get comfortable. Oli's gonna wake up soon from his nap, come find us when you're ready to meet him."

He backs out of the room, leaving the door ajar. I don't bother to close it. I quickly change out of my jeans and into some shorts that go with the basic white tee I have on before unpacking. First, I put my clothes in the drawers and the wardrobe, then I move on to stacking my summer reads on the nightstand—all romance because if I don't have romance in my life then at least I can fantasize about it. I didn't bring much clutter, only a scented candle and a framed drawing of New York's skyline from when I was big into creative stuff. They find their new home on the desktop. I fluff the pillows and inspect the sheets Pedro got me. They're white and ironed, like in hotels. I smell them, and they smell fresh and something musky.

I store away my toiletries in the bathroom across my room and as I walk the two steps it takes back to my quarters I pick up on the babble of voices coming from the living room downstairs.

Anxiety rises in me as I contemplate the what-ifs, my biggest concern being what if Oliver doesn't like me. I take a cleansing breath to get over myself and make my way over to them.

Pedro

Oliver and I are in the living room, practising our walk when Maisy appears in the archway. She's wringing her hands so I shoot her an encouraging smile, prompting her to come closer.

"Look, Bug, someone's here to meet you," I say in a baby voice. I'm hunched over and I let him use me for balance as he clutches onto my hands and takes wobbly steps ahead of me. We stop and I lift him into my arms. "This is Oliver." I nod my head towards him, shifting my hip so Maisy can see him better.

"Hi, Oliver," Maisy coos, her eyes melting.

My son blushes, burrowing his head into the crook of my neck. He's being shy, but he's not afraid of her the way he is with most strangers. I think he's simply aware of her attention, and even though he's acting like he doesn't, he likes it.

"He's being shy."

"That's okay. We all get shy sometimes." She tells my son in a soft voice.

At that, he picks his little head up and peers at her curiously.

"Should we show Maisy all your stuff?" I ask my son. He makes a gibberish sound.

"He's not walking on his own yet?" Maisy asks.

My head snaps to her, looking for a judgmental glare to accompany her statement, but there isn't one. In fact, nothing in her tone was judgmental either.

It's a me thing, thinking others are judging my parenting skills or my son's progression. He's fourteen months old. Maybe he should be walking. Maybe he should have more words in his vocabulary. I don't fucking know. To be honest, I don't want to know because I'm doing my best.

"Not yet. It'll happen any day now, though." I shift my attention back to Oliver, not letting her see the concern on my face that I'm screwing up this whole "dad" thing.

"That's kind of a relief. I'm glad I don't have to worry about him running away on me," she chuckles.

Looking at her, I catch her watching my son with a fond smile. She's not judging us, not judging me.

"He's a hell of a crawler though." We make it to the second floor where Oliver's nursery is located. I close the stairs gate and then place him down and he immediately starts crawling. "The house is baby-proofed so you can let him crawl as much as he wants, just make sure the stairs gate is shut."

I steer her in the direction of Oliver's nursery. She enters first and I stop in the doorway, watching her take in the room.

"We're at the stage where he naps two times during the day and he's sleeping through the night. If he gives you trouble when you put him down, you can give him a bottle."

She nods along as she inspects Oliver's crib.

I push off the doorway and meet her by the dresser. Pulling drawers, I go over with her what where to find.

We make our way back to the kitchen. "We're doing baby-lead weaning. I try to introduce a new food every four days but basically, he sets the pace." I point to the fridge. "I have an ongoing list of foods he has tried. Please don't give him anything allergenic if I'm not here."

"Noted," she says before finding Oliver sitting at her feet, staring up at her with big eyes.

She gets down on her haunches, making herself as eye level as she can. "Hi, buddy."

Oliver gives her a giddy, toothy grin and I lean against the kitchen counter, watching their interaction.

There's something about this image of her standing in my kitchen with her big, beautiful brown eyes and the thick lashes framing them, that makes me forget she is the nanny and my coach's daughter and not one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. For just one second.

I erase the inappropriate thoughts.

"What do you say? Wanna hang out with me while your dad is working?" Maisy pokes my son's belly playfully.

Oliver makes grabby hands at her, his way of telling her he wants to be held. "Up, up," he babbles, smacking his lips together.

She picks him up with ease, positioning him on her hip, an arm securely wound around him. My son lies his head on her shoulder with a sweet sigh, his little palm settling on her collarbone. She gazes down at him, fondness glistening in her eyes.

Oliver has never been this keen on being held by a stranger before, least of all a random woman. I blame his general shyness around women on the fact that the one who gave birth to him left him to be raised by a single dad and a team of boxers.

Witnessing how quickly Maisy has gained his liking eases away a small amount of my hesitation about this situation.

Maisy

My nerves wake me before my alarm. I lie in bed for some time, listening to the soft sounds of Pedro getting his day started. I hear the coffee maker, him unloading the dishwasher, Oliver's sweet little squeals.

"Whoa, Bug. Let's try to keep the volume down. We don't want to wake Maisy, do we?" I hear him say and my insides go all warm and fuzzy.

I press down this foreign tender feeling and throw off my covers. I pull on a hoodie, hiding my bedhead with the hood and set out to find them. They're in the kitchen, Oliver in his highchair, elbow deep into some kind of puree while his dad watches him like a hawk over the rim of his mug of coffee.

"Morning," he rasps in a bourbon-backed voice, "Did we wake you?"

His morning rasp has my tummy doing cartwheels. I try to ignore the sensation but it spreads through my body.

I've never had sex but I do know what it feels to be drawn to someone. And this funny feeling his voice just wrought out of me is so wrong on many levels. For starters, he's my dad's client and friend. Secondly, I'm nannying his kid. And perhaps most importantly, he's twelve years my senior. I shouldn't be attracted to him.

"No, you didn't," I say, swallowing past a lump in my throat.

He does a casual peruse of my get-up but his gaze doesn't make me feel objectified. It's not predatory, it's curious. His eyes linger on my bare legs before lifting to meet mine. "Coffee?" he offers.

"Yeah, thanks." The grinder of his coffee machine gets to work.

"Black or—?"

"With milk, if you have some."

"Sure. Suit yourself."

He cleans up Oliver while I fix up my coffee. "We're gonna get ready. You can join us if you feel up for it," he prompts. Effortlessly, he holds his son up with a single forearm and the two of them wait for my answer.

Naturally, I agree and, as he has taken me through Oliver's nighttime ritual last night, I shadow him as he performs their morning routine.

An hour later, I come to the conclusion that Pedro is a bit helicopter-y. All morning he refuses to put Oliver down. Though he's needy, I can sympathise with him; he's probably trying to soak up every minute he gets with him because he's leaving his boy for the rest of the day and Oliver won't be awake when he gets home.

"You should go or you'll be late to your session," I remind him. He ignores me and continues to blow raspberries on his son's tummy and cheeks. I try to respect him but he's been saying his goodbyes for the last five minutes. "Seriously, Pedro, just go. I promise I can handle this."

He reluctantly hands Oliver over. "Call with anything," he says to me, boring into my eyes.

"We will be fine," I assure him.

With one final kiss to his son's forehead, he slings his duffle bag over his shoulder and heads for the front door. "I'll be back around seven," he tells me and finally heads out.

I shut the door behind him and peer down at Oliver. "Looks like it's just you and me for a bit." I bounce on the balls of my feet, rooting to keep him from getting fussy now that his dad is gone. "What should we do now, huh, buddy?"

Our day ensues without a hitch. I follow his daily schedule—eat, play, sleep and repeat. I play peekaboo with him but we both get bored of it quickly so when he's down for his afternoon nap, I consult Google about more engaging activities we can do together.

He gets clingy when I'm putting him down for the night—obviously missing his dad's comfort—but rocking him seems to do the trick and he eventually succumbs to sleep.

It's almost eight when Pedro gets in, and I've done the dishes, folded the baby clothes in the dryer and emptied the diaper pail.

Without as much as greeting me or bothering to take his sneakers off, he takes the steps in twos before breaking into a light jog on the second floor. I don't take it personally, I'd most likely be the same. It must be hard to leave your child in the care of someone else.

I watch on the baby monitor as he enters the darkened space of the nursery and hurries over to the crib. Oliver is soundly sleeping in a set of comfy pyjamas. Pedro's posture visibly relaxes. He tucks the edges of the blanket around his son's little body before kissing his forehead and slipping out of the room.

I hear him toeing off his shoes in the foyer. "Maisy?" he calls.

"In the kitchen," I respond, loud enough for him to hear.

I sense his presence and I turn to see him. "Hey," I say with a smile. "He's asleep?"

"He is. Did he go down okay?" He's still in his workout clothes, rocking a grey t-shirt with sweatmarks over it and a pair of basketball shorts.

"He was a bit upset but we managed. Otherwise, he was an angel." I dry my hands on a dish towel. "You hungry? I took the liberties and got groceries delivered with your emergency card."

"Thank you. I completely forgot we were out of stuff," he says. His gaze leaves mine and looks behind me. "Did you do the dishes?"

"Yeah," I mumble tentatively. "Am I overstepping here?"

"No, it's not that," he reassures me. "But you don't have to worry about that stuff. I have a cleaning lady come every three days to help with that."

"Oh, well, it wasn't that much of a hustle," I tell him.

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. "I appreciate the enthusiasm." He moves past me, heading for the fridge.

He starts pulling ingredients for an omelette and I simply stand there, observing him. "Can I ask you something?" I speak up after a beat. He hums in acknowledgement. "Where's Oliver's mom?"

There's a hint of hesitation in his eyes as he looks at me. "No idea. We were a drunken fumble. She didn't tell me she got pregnant, then she showed up one year post-partum out of nowhere and a couple of days later skipped town." He sets a pan on the stovetop. "Said didn't want any part of her kid."

That puts Pedro's overbearing protectiveness of his son into a better perspective. Oliver didn't have anyone and Pedro stepped up, ready to be his everything. My heart cracks.

"You don't need to feel sorry for us," he adds, turning on the stove. "I made peace with Oliver's mom's decision. I'm not saying that what she did was acceptable by any means, but I think Oliver is better off without her than to be loved half-heartedly by her."

I gnaw on the inside of my cheeks. It must've been a lot to take on, to fill in for two and to carry that responsibility.

"I know I've only been here for a day but I can tell that you're a wonderful dad to Oliver. He's lucky to have someone as loving as you are as their parent." I tell him earnestly.

"I do the best I can with our situation."

With that, silence descends on the room. He's in his head and I suddenly feel like I'm intruding. "Well, if you don't need me with anything else I think I'm going to turn in for tonight."

"Okay. Good night."

[harryandpedro]

uppercut planned schedule

i'll be uploading the pre-written chapters of uppercut every sunday!

[harryandpedro]

uppercut - one

summary: Masiy meets her kryptonite, box champion Pedro, who's a single dad and in desperate need of a live-in nanny

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: none

wc: 1.4k

series masterlist here

Pedro

"Look, you don't know when you're going to get a nanny, and Maisy's summer is free and she's not doing anything," Rick, my coach says from behind his desk. "This will give her a job, and it helps you out," he reasons as I stand there with a stoic expression, hands on my hips, itching to shower after a sweaty conditioning session. "You've got some big matches coming up and you need to be at your prime. You can't do that when you're constantly stressed about childcare," he says as a reminder.

"I know," I agree him on that one, scrubbing a hand across my stubbled face.

It's a decent offer, and I'm not sure another option is even out there. After only two weeks on the job, I fired my fourteen-months old son's nanny. And the poor lady wasn't the first that I sent away. I have a problem with letting random strangers look after my son. I want the best possible care for him but it's hard to scout out a caregiver who is willing to fly with us when I have matches all over the States. I don't have much wiggle-room. It's either Rick's daughter—who at least isn't a complete stranger I have to let into my home—or bringing my son to the gym. My hands are tied here.

"Fine, but one screwup, and she's done."

A pleased smile spreads across Rick's face. "Okay, great. She'll be here soon so you two can meet right away."

I swear to god. "Really? What if I said no?" I scoff.

"You didn't," he simply brushes it off.

Maisy

I fucking hate my life.

I'm running late, my hair is a frizzy mess due to the humidity outside, and that suffocating feeling that my whole life is a failure has flared up in the past few days.

I enter the gym and greet the desk lady who's worked for my dad since the day he opened his boxing academy. "Hi Magda. I'm here to see dad. Is he in his office?"

"Yes, sweetie. Go ahead, you know where to find him," she says over the loud music, turning to hand a sweaty guy a towel.

I make a beeline for my dad's office. I rarely come here, but when I drop by, it's to talk to him. I never linger around, this place is a bit intimidating with all the muscular men punching sandbags.

"I need your help with something," is the first thing my father says as I close the door behind me.

"Hello to you too. Glad to be of service," I mock. "How can I be of help today, dad?" I ask, thinking it's something to do with laundry or kitchen duty.

At twenty-one I still live with my parents, well it's just dad and me now. I went to college to study political science and you can imagine how that ended up. With me jobless. I decided to move back in with my dad partly because I didn't find my group of people I could start a life in another State and partly because most internships—yes, after earning my degree I could only apply for internships—are in New York.

"I need you to nanny for a little boy until they find a suitable replacement," my dad tells me.

"Wow, okay," I plop down into one of the two seats facing his desk. I don't even try to cover up the confusion overtaking my features. "Of all the things you would ask, I never would've guessed it would be to nanny for someone but here we go."

"I know it might be a lot to take on but Pedro just fired his nanny and I need him to focus on his training," my father elaborates.

I know exactly who Pedro is. He's my dad's best-performing boxer with multiple titles to his name. He's considered the next Muhammad Ali in the boxing community. What I didn't know was that he had a kid.

"He's got the loveliest little boy, I'm certain you'd get along," he goes on, knowing full well how when I was choosing a major, I was also debating childcare. "Plus, it'd be just for the summer, I know you've got another internship starting in September."

I'm not as sure about that internship as my father though. My first six-month internship left me thinking that corporate America might not be it for me. But that's for me to iron out.

I don't take much convincing. This nannying thing would at least keep my mind off the fact that my life is in shambles and I'm clueless as to what to do with myself for the rest of my adult life.

As soon as I agree to do this, he hollers his boxer's nickname. "Viper!"

In anticipation, I catch myself smoothing down my hair. What on earth is going on with me? I'm going to nanny this man's kid for fuck's sake. I don't need to look desirable.

An imposing man is entering the small room that serves as an office for my dad. "Pedro, meet my daughter."

Pedro edges into the room, dominating the space. His tall body towers over me and I'm at eye level with his broad chest. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt and it looks so good on him. His broad shoulders, his tapered waist, the fabric tight over his contoured chest, his biceps pushing against the sleeves.

He ducks a little to pull my attention from the expanse of his chest, giving me a smile that I imagine must be cultivated to reassure people that he isn't going to break their hand when he shakes it.

The slow smile stretching across his lips draws my attention to his face. His coffee-brown hair is combed off his forehead, he has achingly soft brown eyes and raspberry-pink lips. Patchy stubble dots his jawline and he has a moustache. He's unfairly gorgeous but just imperfect enough to seem perfect. He has a scar on his chin and a fading black eye.

Overall he emits an older man aura and that alone is my kryptonite.

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze when he shakes it. "I'm Pedro," he drawls and I might have just fallen under its spell.

Yet another one-sided situationship here I come I guess.

"I know who you are," I blurt and I instantly want to facepalm. "My dad boasts about you constantly. I'm Maisy."

He drops my hand, placing his on his hips, his eyes ping-ponging between me and my father. "Is that so, huh? What's he telling you about me?" His easy-going demeanour wins me over immediately.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Like you're the next big name in boxing."

"Tough luck. You might want to find yourself another client who still has it in them, coach, because I'm getting old," he bickers.

"You're only thirty-four," Rick gives him a deadpan look. "You still have a few good seasons in you. Anyways," he says, cutting straight to the point like the straightforward guy he is. "I called you in here because the two of you are a perfect match. Maisy here needs a summer job while you, my friend, need a nanny to look after your kid. Now, can we make it work?"

Pedro looks at me with X-ray eyes. "Can you drive?"

I nod. "I can drive."

"Do you have any experience with children?"

I shrug. "I mean I babysat for a couple of kids when I was in high school."

He's wordless as he mulls over his options.

"I guess if she's in, it's fine by me."

"Then it's a done deal," Rick concludes, clapping his hands together. He looks at the clock above the door. "Shit, I gotta go, I have a class to teach," he springs to his feet. He's pretty fit for his fifty-one years of age. "Bye, sweetheart. Pedro, see you eight in the morning for conditioning." He plants a kiss on my cheeks before hurrying off.

"Put your number in. I'll text you my address," Pedro says then, holding out his unlocked phone for me to take. "I'll have the guest bedroom ready for you in a few hours."

My dad explained that he requires a live-in nanny since he travels a lot and has a hectic schedule—I figured as much, my father too travels with him, he's his head coach after all. I agreed to his terms because I knew my dad wouldn't support this if Pedro was a creep.

My ovaries swoon when I see that his wallpaper is of his son, all baby teeth as he smiles into the camera.

I punch in my number with tingling fingertips and hand it back to him.

Oh God, he is going to spin my world off its axis, isn't he?