you and jack forget just how paper thin the walls are on vacation with your coworkers
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
PAIRING jack abbot x fem!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, p in v, secret fwb relationship, enemies w benefits more like, hate sex, angry sex, mutual antagonism, consensual rough sex, competitive/power-struggle dynamics (?), manhandling, physical restraint, rough dirty talk, insults & verbal degradation, shared vacation rental, risk of being caught, accidnental exhibitionism
WC 2.5k | REQUEST here!
Your back hits the mattress hard enough to make the old springs squeal beneath you and Jack’s first hiss isn’t one of pleasure.
“Shut. Up.”
His hand closes around your jaw before the laugh can properly make it out, fingers digging into the hinge just shy of painful. His thumb finds the soft under of your chin and presses until your mouth falls open for him.
It’s supposed to be corrective, presumably. Intimidating. To make you reconsider whatever smart thing you were about to say.
Instead, you turn your head just enough to catch the heel of his palm between your teeth. Salt. Sunscreen. Jack.
You bite down lightly and watch the quick flare in his eyes that says try me again.
It makes you want to try him again.
This is perhaps your most enduring character defect, the congenital need to worry at Jack Abbot until something gives, to poke one finger into every concealed pressure point and keep pressing until that pleasant facade finally fractures and you get the man underneath, irritated and looking at you like patience is a finite natural resource you have personally exhausted.
Conveniently, this defect has also made the two of you very easy to hide.
Wanting Jack has never looked substantially different than hating him. Same symptoms, really.
At work it manifests as narrowed eyes across the nurses’ station, remarks delivered half an octave louder than necessary, shoulders knocking in hallways wide enough to accommodate two functioning adults.
In private, the argument merely changes medium.
You end up underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips while he fucks every complaint back into you, and somehow neither of you has to concede the point.
That is, more or less, what is happening now.
Jack is attempting to fuck a confession out of you, specifically the admission that he had been right when he told you not to challenge the ocean after three frozen margaritas and one declaration that rip currents were mostly “a mindset.”
In your defense, this had sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. The ocean disagreed.
You made it maybe six yards before a wave hit your broadside, folded you clean in half, stole your sunglasses, and deposited you at Jack’s feet with enough seaweed caught in your bikini to suggest the beginnings of marine conservation.
You called him an insufferable bastard for saying he told you so.
Now he keeps insisting he “rescued” you because he hauled you upright by the waist while you sputtered saltwater.
He would like an apology. You would like him dead. Compromise remains unlikely. You would swallow your own tongue before giving him the satisfaction.
You nip him again, sharper this time, then grin around his thumb. “Go on — make me. You’ve been trying all day.”
“Fucking brat.” He drags his thumb free, replacing it with two thick fingers that press insistently at your tongue. “Keep talking and I’ll stuff you so full the only word you remember is sorry.”
He’s close to delivering on that promise, hips battering the breath from your lungs until all you can do is claw the navy sheets below you.
You almost give him the noise he’s hunting for, but feeding Jack’s ego has never been on your to-do list, so you smother the sound and glare your defiance instead.
You clamp down on his fingers, hard enough to make him grunt, and he jerks back, slick digits slipping free.
“Jesus — watch the teeth,” he growls, shaking the sting before flattening your wrist to the mattress. “You want a muzzle, sweetheart?”
You swipe your tongue over enamel, savoring the residue. “So many threats, Doctor. I’m starting to think you’re all talk.”
“Careful,” Jack murmurs with a hollow laugh. “You might hurt my feelings.”
He apparently decides conversation has exhausted its usefulness.
One second you are on you looking at him; the next he has you flipped facedown, dragged your hips into the air, and buried himself back inside you with enough force to make the entire bed complain in sympathy.
His chest covers your back, breath searing the shell of your ear. A half-moan, half-sob cracks loose out of you, palms skidding for purchase as your pelvis jerks forward as if distance could blunt the stretch, make it more manageable.
Jack only laughs again, settling both hands over your shoulder blades as he lets his weight weld you to the sheets.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Each thrust stakes you there, sensation cresting so hot the edges of the room tremble out of focus and into watercolors.
You mash your face into the pillow, trying to hide the choked noises bleeding from you but they seep through cotton and feathers just the same.
“Listen to you,” he croons, mock-tender, thumb stroking a false comfort along your spine. He grinds you down while he pushes in again, slow enough you feel the catch of every ridge. “So fucking mouthy until I start making you feel good.”
His hand snakes beneath you, palm burning a trail down your stomach until two fingers find your clit. The first tight circle detonates in your core. Supernova heat.
“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t fight common sense,” he purrs. “Just admit it — You were right, Jack. Should’ve trust you. Smartest guy I know. That’s all I want.” Another figure-eight of his thumb, another planet collision behind your eyes. “I keep you safe, I make you feel good — why’s it so hard to give me a little credit?”
“Because — you’re such — a cocky — asshole,” you gasp, the insult dissolving into a helpless whine when his thumb presses harder.
“Dirty mouth on you,” Jack tuts. “C’mon, honey. Be sweet for ten little seconds — tell me I’m right — and I’ll let you come.”
You give him nothing but a furious side-to-side wobble, hair stuck wetly across your cheeks.
He can make your thighs shake and turn your brain into warm soup but he cannot make you surrender a point you are still technically convinced is yours.
The knot low in your belly winds tighter in retaliation, every muscle beginning that little climb towards something inevitable, and then Jack simply stops.
Fingers gone. Thrust halted. He holds himself inside you like a blade sheathed to the hilt, every inch throbbing but inert, punishment by deprivation.
Your muscles fire once more on instinct, grasping at a phantom that’s already gone, walls twitching uselessly around empty air.
The knot loosens with insulting patience — twist, release, release — until climax slips from reachable to hypothetical.
A brittle, involuntary sound hooks in your throat, proof that your body has accepted what your mind refuses to: Jack Abbot means to leave you suspended in this awful limbo until you fold.
“Please — no.” You writhe beneath him in shallow arcs, powerless under the weight pinning you. “Need you — need you to keep going.”
He slips a broad palm under your jaw, lifting your mouth off the pillow for your gasps to reach him unfiltered. “You know what I need, honey. Say the words, and I’ll give you everything you’re begging for.”
“I — I’m sorry,” you finally spit out. “You were right, Jack. Always are. Just — please — don’t stop.”
The words hit like blood in the water. He buries himself with a hoarse snarl, rhythm turning brutal, inexorable, as though the apology were a starting gun. Wood knocks hard against the plaster wall and your body jolts forward with every drive.
“Was that so hard?” His voice drips triumph while his teeth worry a shallow crescent into your shoulder. “Christ, sweetheart, what’re you always fighting me for? You know I’m gonna get my way.”
The only reply you manage is a shaky “uh-huh — ah, Jack —” strangled into the pillow, every syllable climbing higher until it breaks apart in a thin, urgent keen that tells him exactly how close you are.
“There you go, pretty girl. Give it to me — yeah, just like that.”
That’s all it takes.
Your body locks, squeezes, and he answers with a raw-throated groan, bracing you inside the bracket on his arms while your trembling tries to shake both of you off the bed.
Then everything goes incandescent. A long, rushing hush, white and depthless, flooding every corner of your mind as you come all over his length.
Somewhere inside all that brightness, Jack loses whatever rhythm he had left.
He lasts two more strokes.
“Fuck — sweetheart.” His hips snap tight against your ass, burying himself as deep as he can go, filling you in heavy surges that make your already-softened core flutter all over again.
You barely understand it at first, only feel another strange wave roll through you, your body squeezing reflexively around every throb until his arms tighten and his forehead drops heavily between your shoulder blades.
Jack stays folded over you until both your breathing begins to settle, the hard rise and fall of his chest gradually slowing against your spine.
When he finally moves, it is with considerably more care than anything he has done in the last thirty minutes.
He withdraws from you slowly, and your cunt manages one useless twitch at the emptiness he leaves behind. Pathetic, really, but apparently it's all the reaction your spent body can afford.
Sensing the weakness, the bastard takes advantage.
He rolls you onto your other side until you're nose-to-nose, the world tilting under the authority of a man rearranging furniture. Normally, you'd bark at him to ask first. Right now you just marvel that you're the furniture.
You blink at him through the pleasant cotton packed between your ears.
Jack studies the damage he's done, mouth curling like he's content with his handiwork, then lowers himself to press a kiss above your hipbone.
He works upward without hurry, lips brushing warm over skin still prickling with aftershocks, teeth occasionally catching in a light nip that makes you squirm before he kisses the same place better.
Your fingers slide into the silver-flecked hair at his temples, nails scratching lightly until you feel the growl rumble against your ribs.
“Funny how suddenly you like me again.”
“Like is generous.” You give the silver strands at his temple a tug. “Give me five minutes. I’ll remember everything I hate about you.”
“Mm. I can do a lot with five minutes.” He lifts his head just enough to give you that smug, crooked look.
“Four and a half now.”
Jack laughs, apparently delighted by the threat of your imminent return to hostility, and works his way up until there is nowhere left between you for him to kiss.
He folds down beside you and takes your mouth one final time before you can decide whether final kisses are perhaps too affectionate for people who supposedly cannot stand each other.
“Better use ’em wisely, then.”
He does, in fact, use them wisely. Spending what remains of his allotted minutes with his mouth between your thighs and apparently deciding there is some obscure world record for orgasms induced out of spite that he intends to break before sunrise.
But by breakfast, the consequences have arrived.
You sit at the island with a fork slack between your fingers, pancakes cooling untouched beneath a generous pour of syrup.
Your eyelids keep flirting with gravity; every time they drop Jack clears his throat in exaggerated warnings, as if falling face-first into breakfast would somehow be his fault.
It would be. Somehow. You'd make it so.
“Late night?” Frank asks from across the island, not bothering to look up from whatever he’s doing to his coffee.
Your head lifts approximately half an inch.
“No, I'm fine,” you say, far too quickly. You hear it the second it leaves your mouth, that bright little note of guilt you have apparently developed overnight, and clear your throat before anyone else can appreciate it. “I'm fine. Just tired. All that swimming yesterday wore me out.”
Dana, standing at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, lets out a thoughtful hum as she rinses a plate.
“Funny, everyone seems to be dragging this morning,” she remarks, flicking water off her wrist. “Can’t imagine why.”
“I can.” Robby lifts his mug. “Some of us were awake until two in the morning. Against our will.”
There is a tiny, merciful interval where you almost misunderstand him.
Of course people were awake. There are more than twenty coworkers crammed into one beach house, sleeping on couches and air mattresses and whatever other horizontal surfaces they could claim before someone else did.
Somebody is always awake. Somebody is always opening a refrigerator or flushing a toilet or talking too loudly in the hallway.
But when you finally drag your eyes up from your pancakes and find several people already looking at you with expressions ranging from tired amusement to outright accusation, the alternate interpretation arrives all at once.
They heard you. They heard Jack. Possibly extensively.
Fuck.
You lower your eyes and shovel another piece of pancake into your mouth.
Then again, maybe they're staring for some completely unrelated reason. A syrup stain, bed hair, the fact that you still haven't blinked in ten seconds.
“So, Jack,” Trinity suddenly says from the other side of the island, casual enough that for one stupid second you don’t hear the trap opening beneath your feet, “how's it feel being right all the time?”
You keep chewing.
“I mean, so right,” she adds, her voice climbing into a suspiciously breathy imitation. “The rightest man alive, apparently.”
The pancake becomes significantly harder to swallow as a hot ribbon of mortification slides up your throat. You manage a strangled cough and focus on sawing your next bite into pieces the size of atoms so you don't have to lift your head and meet anyone's eyes.
Without missing a beat, Jack wipes a smear of syrup from his thumb and shrugs. “Feels pretty nice, if I’m honest.”
“You are such a smug little —”
“Language,” Dana cuts in from the sink without even turning around.
You clamp your lips together, cheeks still burning, then lean just enough into Jack’s line of sight and mouth, shit.
His smirk cuts sideways across his face, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before coming back up darker than they were a second ago. His nostrils flare faintly, then his thighs spread another inch beneath the island as he leans back.
A minute repositioning of his hips that would mean nothing to anybody else and means everything to you because you know exactly what Jack looks like when his body gets ahead of his better judgment.
“Ew,” Trinity says suddenly, pointing between you and Jack with her fork. “This is flirting, isn’t it? You two have just been doing foreplay in front of us for, like, years.”
Robby grimaces. “Freaks.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” you insist, despite the heat steadily colonizing your entire face.
Jack undermines you immediately as he shoots you a wink. “It’s worked pretty well for us.”
Your eyes widen ten sizes. “Shut. Up.”
His grin only gets worse, teeth showing this time, and something about that makes you want to kick his ankle under the island just to restore the natural order of things.
Frank shakes his head. “Get a room.”
“We had one. Apparently that was the problem,” Jack says.
A chorus of disgusted groans answers him.
MARIA NOTE jack abbot getting pussy as a direct consequence of being annoying… terrible precedent to set actually 🍋🫧🌀 HOPE YOU ENJOY I LOVE YOU ALLLL
“it’s a good point about not making eye contact, ‘cause abbot is very much into eye contact. he loves it. he can't get enough of it.” said with a smile and a chuckle.
hi, anon. my blog is multifandom. my hyperfixations go through waves, but rest assured, twd is one that has been around since 2010.
i did private / take down a lot of my work for twd (if that’s what prompted this ask). i feel like i am constantly shifting as a writer, and a lot of my older work just didn’t feel like me anymore. but i do have twd wips!
➶➴ summary: after a job goes sideways, andrew comes home wound tight and finds you stretched out by the pool, giving him something else to focus on.
➶➴ tags: established relationship, domestic intimacy, poolside, sunscreen, touch as a love language, protective andrew cody, possessive undertones, sexual tension, shameless reader, interrupted moment, fluff, suggestive.
wc: ~1.5k
you had dropped by the house early, knowing andrew was stuck across town doing a high-risk job. it was dead quiet when you let yourself in, so you changed into your new bikini, grabbed a towel, and claimed one of the lounge chairs by the water.
the sun beat down heavy, wrapping you in a warm, drowsy haze. you nearly drifted off to sleep, the low hum of the pool motor fading into the background, until a scuff of shoes against the concrete jarred you awake.
you squinted against the glare, turning your head just as a tall, broad frame filled the sliding glass doorway, scanning the empty living room for you.
“andrew.”
he froze. the movement stopped dead, his broad shoulders tensing under his black shirt. he turned around immediately, stepping out onto the patio and standing there completely speechless.
“when did you get here?” his voice was a low, gravelly rasp.
“i’ve lost track of time,” you murmured, blinking sleepily against the light through your sunglasses.
he walked closer until he stopped about an arm’s length away from the lounger. he looked down at you with that flat, unreadable expression, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths.
“how did it go?” you asked.
“anyone else get back before me?” he asked instead.
you pushed your glasses up onto your head, studying his face.
“i’m not sure. is everything okay?”
his eyes followed the movement before he caught himself. they dropped from your face to the fabric across your chest, lower, and just as quickly he jerked them away. his jaw flexed once.
“job went to shit,” he muttered. “you’re gonna burn.”
a slow, knowing smile touched your lips. “fuck, i forgot. wanna help?”
a muscle ticked in his jaw. he gave a single, stiff nod.
you reached down into your beach bag, pulled out a bottle of tropical-scented sunblock, and handed it to him before flipping smoothly onto your stomach, propping your chin on your folded arms.
he dragged a chair over, sitting down right beside your lounger. he unscrewed the cap, squirted a generous dollop into his calloused palm, and rubbed his hands together briefly to warm the lotion before pressing his hands flat against your shoulders.
“skin cancer’s the most common cancer in the country,” he said, his voice rough with the effort of sounding normal as he smoothed the lotion down your shoulder blades.
the warm pressure of his hands against your skin drew a soft, involuntary groan out of you, your back arching slightly into his touch.
at the sound, his hands jerked downward, abandoning your shoulders and moving straight to your lower back.
“is it really?” you breathed, the simple friction of his palms sending a hot shiver down your spine, the quiet torture of his proximity completely fogging your brain.
“millions of cases diagnosed each year,” he replied.
his fingers brushed against the delicate edge of your bikini top. he carefully pushed the fabric up with his thumb, tracing the sensitive skin along your spine as he worked the lotion neatly underneath the strap.
“andy—” you breathed, a soft laugh catching in your throat as his thumb lingered a second too long against the small of your back before he caught himself and spread the lotion farther down.
“gotta get here too,” he muttered, his voice rough.
before you could reply, deran, craig, and j cut across the backyard, heading straight for the kitchen. j stopped short when he caught sight of the patio, his eyes flicking between andrew and your back.
“family meeting, now,” j said flatly.
“seriously?” andrew snapped, looking up with a dark, murderous glare, visibly annoyed as he jerked his head down toward you.
“yes, seriously,” j replied, turning and walking into the kitchen without waiting.
andrew’s face fell into a hard, rigid line. he let out a long, shaky breath, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful. reluctantly, he smoothed your strap back into place, tightening the bow despite it already sitting securely against your skin. his fingers brushed your shoulder once, absentmindedly, before he turned toward the house.
“i'll be right back,” he huffed.
inside, the kitchen was cool. the brothers and j stood clustered around the center island, drinking beer and arguing about another job now that today’s score had fallen apart.
andrew stood on the far side of the island, positioned right at the edge of the kitchen counter. the angle gave him a direct, unobstructed line of sight straight out to the pool.
the other guys had their backs turned to the window, completely oblivious.
you pushed yourself up from the lounger, a slow, innocent grin spreading across your face. you pulled your sunglasses back down and picked up the bottle of sunscreen, and squirted a dollop into your palm.
with his attention fixed on you through the glass, you deliberately rolled over onto your back.
you smoothed the lotion over your collarbone, dragging your fingertips slowly down the center of your chest and over your stomach, holding his unwavering gaze from behind your dark lenses. you paused, letting your hands slide down the curves of your hips and thighs, rubbing the lotion in with slow strokes.
andrew stopped mid-sentence, his voice cutting off entirely. his hands settled on the edge of the counter without him realizing it, his grip tightening. his breathing slowed instead of quickened. his eyes tracked every movement of your hands.
“pope. what were you saying?” deran snapped, waving a hand right in front of andrew’s face.
summary – winding jack up all through date night earns you a one-way ticket to the doghouse. a photobooth at midnight gives jack the perfect place to get you back for it!
warnings – [ wc: 3.8k ] 18+ MINORS DNI! fingering, brat tamer!jack, brat!reader who’s slightly insufferable to jack at the beginning, reader’s wearing a silk dress, grinding/dry humping, thumb in mouth, semi-public/public intimacy (photobooth on an empty street!), jack’s got a mouth on him, hair-pulling, light degradation, sex while under the influence (consensual!), established relationship dynamics, soft-dom/dom!jack
notes – this is basically part of the controversially young gf!reader universe but it got a lotttt longer so i just thought i should make it a oneshot
You’d been a pest all throughout dinner. It was awful, and you and Jack both knew it was intentional. You’d sank down five glasses of red with your alfredo, cooing by the third one that Jack was just so amazing, running your foot slowly up the inside of his calf under the table while you said it. The fine wool of his trousers was warm under your bare arch, and you felt the muscle beneath it tighten. So handsome and hot and grumpy, how you couldn’t wait until the two of you got home to see it all, you’d said, loud enough that the elderly couple beside you had glanced over, and Jack had shot you a glare over the rim of his class that did the opposite of ceasing you.
Fuck, you’d been wrong. You’d stolen forkfuls of his plate. You’d found a dozen flimsy excuses to lean across the table, every one of them cover to let the champagne silk of your neckline fall low, watching his gaze drop and stay. A flush had climbed up his neck at the sight of the swell of your breasts underneath and you took such immense satisfaction watching how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Poor Jack, always so composed and now losing it at this Italian joint. Your hair became a little tousled because you kept sweeping it back off your shoulder to expose the line of your throat. You kept leaning in close so the candlelight caught the gloss on your mouth, your tongue peeking out slightly as you tried to catch the wine at the corner of your lip.
He’d hooked his good leg around yours at one point, a pained and warning smile on his face, when you let a strap fall loosely off your shoulder, and said, “Asking for one nice dinner with my girl.”
“S’this not nice?” you’d asked, frowning, your lips jutting out so sweetly.
“It’s really nice.” He reached over and tugged your strap up onto your shoulder, knuckles dragging down your bicep once it was fixed, gooseflesh chasing the graze of them. “It’d be nicer if you’d sit still for two minutes.”
“I’ve missed you,” you murmured, because you had.
It was almost embarrassing how badly you’d wanted to simply push him onto the bed once you were both ready; your stomach coiling as you watched him spritz on the cologne you liked and roll his sleeves. You’d sat on the edge of the mattress in your robe, watching him. And then he’d told you that your makeup looked just so pretty, how the night was going to be so much fun, and you’d realized there was no way you were going to last through this dinner.
You’d been starved of him the past week, practically living on scraps of him. You had a feeling Jack knew exactly how much you’d missed him. You weren’t sure what hint you’d ever given him that made him think you were going to play fair.
“Missed you, too,” he said, thumb finding your wrist on the table. “That’s why we’re here. Missed you so much I got us to the place you’ve been goin’ on about for a month. You can do all this at home.”
Wine-fueled and pouty, you said, “Should’ve just stayed home.”
“You’re complaining about being taken to the hardest reservation in the city?” Jack’s brows went up to the middle of his forehead and he set his fork down. When you opened your mouth, he shook his head and said, “No. No. You’re right. Should’ve done the couch. Saved myself a fortune.”
That may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, because now, you were walking beside Jack – past midnight – trying to find a dessert shop in silence. He’d indulged you when you quietly, hesitantly, asked him if you guys could get something else after trying the tiramisu, which had been – you’d whispered it – kind of dry, actually. His jaw had tensed, and he’d nodded quickly and said, “Sure,” reaching for the check, “let’s get you somethin’ else.”
Your heels clicked too loud on the pavement and Jack was a half-step ahead of you the whole way, hands buried in his pockets, so silent. He wasn’t holding your hand, and Jack was a hand-holder through and through. A small-of-the-back toucher. A man who steered you like a wheel through the world. And now, it felt like a very, very painful punishment he was doling out on you.
“Are you mad?” you tried.
“No,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder without looking. “Looking for your dessert.”
“You could hold my hand,” you said, and hated just how small you sounded. “Jack,” you tried again when his hands stayed exactly where they were. “Are you going to talk to me?”
“When you’ve got somethin’ to say,” he said, shaking his head with a small click of his tongue at a closed bakery. “There’s a place two blocks up that stays open late.”
Two fucking blocks. Your heels clicked, and his footsteps stayed silent. You let the gap between you stretch – a foot, then another, as you slowed and he didn’t – until you were trailing him down an empty midnight street. Groaning to yourself, you bit the bullet, speeding up to catch up to him properly. You slid your hand into the crook of his elbow and pressed yourself into his side, tucking your cheek toward his shoulder.
“Sorry, Jack,” you mumbled.
He breathed out through his nostrils, pulling his hand out of his pocket to maneuver it around you now, pulling you in. Still tense, but the relief of being by his side was so immense you sagged against him, still wine-drunk and loose.
“Woah – ” he muttered, trying to catch you as you tipped into him, your heel skidding a little on the pavement. His arm clamped tightly around your waist, hauling you upright to his side before you could go anywhere, and he huffed out a small laugh. “Who told you to drink this much?”
“Was trying to match you,” you mumbled.
“Now, that’s stupid, isn’t it?” He patted the side of your waist once. “Gotta take care of you now. Wound me up all through a nice dinner ‘cause you wanted my attention and couldn’t ask nicely. Congratulations, you got me.”
“You’re being kind of mean,” you mumbled, tucking into his shirt.
“Not getting you out of the doghouse, so don’t try it.”
“I’m in the doghouse?” you asked, surprised.
“Oh, you’re in the doghouse,” he said, chuckling, steering you around a crack in the pavement. “Forget brunch and the whole big day we planned tomorrow. We’re on house arrest.”
You squeaked out something incoherent. “How do I get out of the doghouse –?” Your words trailed off, when your eyes landed on the photobooth – wedged into an alcove between a laundromat and a corner store, a curtained one with the pale blue fabric hanging crooked, its light still buzzing faintly. It was like a star in a cloudy sky to you, your body perking up at his side, feet slowing as the wanting rose brightly, childishly.
But you were in the doghouse, so you made your lips clamp shut. You’d be surprised if Jack ever did an outside-activity with you ever again, much less indulged a wine-drunk detour into a novelty photobooth this late. You were pretty sure you’d used up your whole allotment of Jack’s patience when you’d stood up on the pretense of the ladies’ room and instead leaned over to whisper something dirty in his ear as the waiter arrived with the entrées. Somewhere in the gauntlet, Jack’s amusement had faded and you were now, a little too late, sure you were the worst, most ungrateful girlfriend ever.
So you did the hardest thing ever: you said nothing. You looked at it like you were a kid looking at a toy in a shop window – doomed – and you dragged your gaze forward to keep your feet moving.
Jack, whose open book you were, read the longing off you in an instant. “No.”
“Didn’t say anything,” you mumbled.
He got four steps forward before he paused, craning his neck down to look at you nuzzled into him. His arm tightened around your waist, and you had a feeling that this time, it was more exasperation toward himself.
“What is wrong with you?” he mumbled. “You don’t want a picture with me?”
“I do,” you said, immediately, through a sharp breath. Your shoulders stiffened at your sides. “But I’m in the doghouse.”
Jack let out a laugh at that, disbelieving. He turned, so the two of you stood across properly, chest to chest, and his face dipped down toward yours. “You know you can ask me for it.”
Your hands came up to fist at the fabric above his chest. “Can we take a picture?”
He took his time, eyes dropping from your face, down your throat, lingering on the silk covering just more than a third of you, how the fabric clung and skimmed and gave everything away. Your brows furrowed in suspicion when his tongue quickly dragged over his bottom lip.
“Why, yes, we can.” His hand slid up your spine as he leaned down to press his mouth against your forehead. “Can’t have you this dolled up and nothin’ to show for it.”
He pushed the crooked curtain aside and held it, nodding his head for you to go in first, and you ducked into the little box. It was three feet with a lightbulb as the screen flickered awake to throw its glow across the two of you. Jack folded his frame down onto the single stool with a low grunt, one hand bracing against the wall, taking the weight off the prosthesis, settling back against the metal. He worked the ache out of his thigh with the heel of his palm before he spread his knees wide enough that it took up the entire square footage of the space.
You stood in the vee of them, hemmed in, and looked down at him. His knee bracketed you in, the walls an inch off your shoulders, the heat of them crowding out the air outside.
Your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you watched him thumb through his wallet. He glanced up at you through his lashes as he counted coins into his palm, heavy-lidded, a slow curve pulling at his mouth, and he looked suddenly, thoroughly, indecent. He placed the coins into your open palm, then gestured to the slot.
When you turned to feed the coins and leaned down slightly, Jack’s palms came to the sides of your thighs, sliding up to go up to your bare skin under the dress, and he let out a pleased hum.
“This is a nice view,” he murmured, his thumbs pressed to the side of your hips before he turned his palm to squeeze the globes of your ass. “Take your time there.”
His hands filled themselves with no hurry at all, kneading slow, palming you like he’d also been waiting all night for you to shed the layer off your skin.
You let out a small fuck as the quarter hit the slot and clattered somewhere on the floor.
“Butterfingers,” he mused, palms sliding up from the curve of your ass, dragging the dress up until it bunched up around your waist, exposing the tiny black lace pair you’d picked out before dinner.
Before you could say anything, his mouth pressed over the base of your spine, letting out an appreciative hum into your skin. You’d chosen it for this reason, only you hadn’t expected it to be revealed in a shitty photobooth. You hardly had time to think about dignity, or anything dignity-adjacent, because Jack blew out a long breath that ghosted over your skin while pulling away, and his thumb hooked into the delicate band at your hip and snapped it along your skin.
“Maybe we shoulda stayed home,” he muttered.
“Thought you wanted a nice dinner,” you said, palm bracing flat to the wall as you tipped your head down, having no space to spread out.
He clicked his tongue, letting his hands go greedy, spreading his palms wide over the bare curves of your ass. “S’my fault for thinking my girl wants to be wine and dined.” He gave a pointed squeeze, humming delighted as your back arched in response. “No, this is all you wanted.”
On any other day, you would’ve – you were sure of it – had some quick thing to fire back at him, some retort to keep the game going. But the calluses in Jack’s palm were kneading slowly, the roughened skin catching the softness of you with each pass, and the friction of it scattered every thought you’d ever had. His hands were so functional – so broad, innately warm, scarred at the knuckles – and they moved over you so achingly slowly, and the wit just drained straight out of you and pooled right about where your dress was shamelessly resting on his wrists.
The box had gone humid, the air thick with the warm cedar of him and the wine, your breath fogging on the glass every time you exhaled. You managed to shove a coin in with wobbly hands, determined – for what? You didn’t know.
“Hey, look at that. Cat finally got your tongue.” He let one of his palms drift down, finger reaching out testingly where the damp fabric sat between your legs, tracing one feather-light stroke along the lace, and your knees buckled slightly, your head pressing against the cool, glowing glass of the screen, your reflection – completely undignified – swimming an inch from your face while his breath fanned against your back. “This the off switch for your mouth now?”
“Jack–” Your hips went to chase the touch before you could think better of it.
His hand went to splay wide and heavy over your hip, pulling you back slightly closer to hold you steady as your legs shook. His other finger hooked the lace aside – one blunt finger easing the sodden fabric out of the way – and pressed the pad of his thumb through the bare, slick heat. You let out an embarrassed whimper, teeth digging into your lips as your eyes pinched shut.
“Did all this to yourself thinkin’ about me at dinner while I was right across from you, huh?”
Letting out a low groan, he dragged you back in one motion, tumbling you into the sprawl of his lap. His arm wrapped around your waist to hold you right there, and he ground you down against him, so fucking mean with it, slow and fast all at once, so you felt every inch of two hours’ worth of tormenting him pressed against your legs, the blunt drag that made you chase more, more, more.
His free hand slid beneath your thigh, fingers digging the soft crease on the inside of your thigh, and pulled it outward, patting your skin once. “Open up.”
He rolled his hips up when you did, and your eyes snagged on the screen in front of you, catching your faces from the neck-up. His head tipped back against the metal wall, hands sliding up under the silk bunched at your waist, up over the bare plane of your stomach, and closed over your breasts, palming them full and greedy – the band of his watch a shock of metal against the warm underswell of you – as his thumbs grazed over the hardened peaks until you arched back into him with a broken sound.
“Jack,” you said, trying to force a hiss as you looked down, noticing how your dress had bunched into nothing but a few inches of fabric sitting shamelessly over his forearms like a tiny towel. “Someone could walk in –”
“Mhm – they could, couldn’t they?” His chin fell onto your shoulder to watch your face on the screen. His tongue dragged over his lips before his mouth found the shell of your ear. “Someone could see my pretty girl fallin’ apart on my lap.” He shifted his hips forward, pressing against your core with a groan. “Wanna take the risk?”
Your teeth gritted together as you tried to focus on him, focus on the screen, focus on his hands that had seemed to already have done a clean sweep of your entire body. “Thought I was –” you started, and his brows furrowed in amusement, “in the doghouse.”
“Oh, you are.” He slid his fingers back down, bumping his hip against yours to slide his fingers down the lace, thumb finding your aching and circling it. “You love it here, too.”
“I don’t–”
“No?” he drawled, thumb circling while his teeth nipped at your throat. “Coulda fooled me.” He let his fingers drift down, the pads of them gliding through the slick heat you’d made for him until two fingers pressed against your entrance while his thumb rubbed over your clit. The lace was now clinging in a dark, translucent patch against your inner thigh. He tapped his fingers against your entrance. “You’re soaked for me, baby. I could slide right in here.”
You let out a small whimper at the words, and like you’d done a magic trick for him with the sound, his fingers sank deep in one broken press until his knuckles rested against you. On the screen, you watched your own mouth fall open, watched how he smiled against your throat like he’d won something.
He curled his fingers, dragging them over a spot that made your whole body seize in Jack’s cage, the sound following was filthy enough to make the entire booth feel smaller. His smile widened, and he pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss right under your ear.
“Got myself such a pretty girl,” he murmured into your skin, the lower half of his face nuzzling into the flush emanating off your neck. He kept dragging his fingers in you, always knowing your body better than you knew yourself, until your thighs trembled against his.
He shifted behind you, free hand pressing flat between your shoulder blades, folding you forward until your palms hit the glowing glass of the screen and your spine curved down.
“Hold there,” he rasped, the new angle somehow driving his fingers deeper. “Attagirl.”
Your eyes flickered up to catch him on the screen as he worked his shirt open one-handed, thumbing the buttons loose. The fabric fell away from the broad stretch of his chest, exposed in the wash of the screen, and you watched him move behind your own reflection with your breath picking up.
“See somethin’ you like?” His hand gathered a fistful of your hair and tugged, drawing you up back against him in one motion. Your spine hit the heat of his chest, the sweat sticking to you, and your head tipped back. “Got warm in here,” he said, smiling when you tried to press even closer to him.
Your hand awkwardly reached up to his neck, manicured nails raking up the hot column of it, scraping through the short hairs at his nape and holding on for life as everything in you wound tighter, brighter, and turned completely unbearable. “M’close,” you said, words slurring together, and your head nuzzled the side of his face.
“Aw,” he cooed softly, fingers continuing their rhythm. “S’that what that is?” He curved them inside you pointedly, and you bit down a sound. His thumb pressed into making quick, merciless circles. “That why you’re squeezing my fingers, huh? Spoilt girl.”
When you pulled at his hair, he tsked, amused, and brought his free hand up to wrap loosely around the front of your throat, thumb resting against at the hinge of your jaw, dropping your head back against his shoulder where he wanted it. His thumb, pressed at the corner of your mouth, and your mouth just felt so empty, so achingly unoccupied, so you turned your head and drew it in – the blunt salt-and-soap of him, slightly rough against your tongue – and the weight of it in your mouth settled the frantic-ness in you, gave your restless want somewhere to wrap.
Jack’s face in the reflection had gone hooded, brows drawing in together at the sight. His pupils swallowed the last of the color from his hazel eyes as his jaw clenched. His hips rolled helplessly beneath you.
His thumb pressed down onto your tongue, forcing your mouth open, then dragged his thumb along your bottom lip, pressed it back in, out, and every second your throat worked around a sound or your lashes fluttered at the overwhelm of him, his fingers stuttered still buried in you.
And fuck, the relentless attention of Jack tipped something in you. You’d spent all night starving for exactly this – his eyes, his focus, all of it aimed at you, selfishly – and now you had it completely that it made you drunk in a way the drinks hadn’t managed.
“I think you like watching us,” you said around the shape of his thumb.
He chuckled, and his thumb slipped from your mouth to trace along your jaw, tilting your face just so, and his lips curved into a crooked smile.
“No, I think I like you,” he said, fingers still working you through the peak. His mouth pressed to your temple. “Love you.”
“Jack,” you said through a small, cracked whimper. You almost hated how he could do that, how easy it was for him to reach past with two plain words and disarm you so thoroughly. You turned your face to nose against his jaw, greedy for him. “Love you, so much. Even when you’re mean.”
He laughed at that, fingers moving your jaw so you could face the screen again. “So mean to you, huh.” He tilted his head in the reflection, amused as he watched your face scrunch up. “Looks like you’re suffering real bad.”
He pulled his fingers out of you completely, and they came away slick. He dragged them up over your clit in one small smear, then pushed back in almost as quickly as they were gone.
Your hips ground down into the heel of his hand, chasing that unbearable brightness winding tighter and tighter behind your stomach. And Jack, watching you on the screen with such naked curiosity, chose the exact moment to reach with his free hand and jab his thumb against the plastic of the machine.
Your eyes, hazy, barely caught the countdown on the screen. Behind it, your head was lolled against the crook of his shoulder, throat damp with sweat, your mouth slack and parted, the hints of gloss coating your lips and around. Jack’s jaw shadowed your temple, his eyes hooded with pupils blown out, fixed on your reflection, one hand a clear hard line where it disappeared beneath the dress bunched underneath. A loving couple, from the collar up. A postcard, and below the frame, his fingers buried deep, your lace panties shoved aside, and his whole length straining against his pants and rubbing into you.
The countdown blinked, and Jack’s fingers curled for the final few pumps so knowingly, your vision had started going white at the edges.
“C’mon, baby. Give the camera somethin’ good,” he whispered. “All it can see is you lookin’ like my fucking angel.”
hair color - naturally dark brown but rn it’s somewhere between light brown with pink highlights with some bleached blonde highlights where pink has faded
favorite color - pink n teal
favorite drink - iced latte
one thing u love about urself - err umm my style
if u could be any animal what would u be - a cat (meow)
dream place to visit - tokyo
what’s one thing ur looking forward to rn - going to a trip to an island (driving rnn)
ur biggest dream - getting a job i actually love and living a life i love
songs that are permanently on ur repeat - idkk lwk nothing bcz i get bored if songs really quickly
favorite drink: iced matcha latteeeeeeee😽 or diet pepsi!
one thing i love about myself: my brows that i have thinned out and let grow to the perfect shape and size
if i could be an animal: i’d either be a kitty, a deer, or an otter
dream place to visit: japan🥹
one thing i’m looking forward to rn: watching the new spiderman movie with my fav cousins!
my biggest dream: to be fully free
song that’s permanently on repeat: complexity by madison beer, duhhhhh
tags: @fairiesgloss @kissofcocteau @strongbabydoll999 @teetharoundorgans @estellebunnyxoxo @whenigetdrunkiwantuboy @444prilsbae @dustyrosegarden @polkadotpr1ncess @fiftiesdrivein @girl-so-online @higcghb1897 @mm-ii @morbid-blonde sorry if i tagged u and u already participated :,) +if u see this consider urself tagged!
THANK YOU FOR TAGGING MEEE @maithaofthezora i love u sm <3
hair colour: very dark brown/black
favourite colour: green!!!!!!!!!! always always
favourite drink: strawberry milk 🍓 yummy yum
one thing i love about myself: my curls!!!!
if i could be an animal: i would be a cat 🐈⬛ obvi
dream place to visit: china or switzerland!!
one thing i’m looking forward to rn: pool party with my uni friends 🫂
my biggest dream: to marry someone i love and live a happy life
song that’s permanently on repeat: suuuuuper hard to choose but as of rn i wanna say the cure/what’s wrong with me by olivia rodrigo <3
tags (sorry if you don’t want to be tagged/were already tagged!!): @clleanlliness @angelonthescreen @aki-qko @servingfairydust @xh444 @madeofvioletdreams @missme-kissme-killme @solvoros + anyone else who wants to do this!!! <3
hiiii — love your writing + think you write for pope super well!!! <333
i’d lowkey LOVE to read a drabble/one shot between pope and his gf on their way back from a day of super domestic errands (maybe a trip to a vintage market where pope gets introduced to reader’s obsession with 2000s clothing, which reminds him of their age gap that, while he never makes a big deal about, he secretly loves), ending their trip with some touchy feely on the ride home?
#thinkingthoughts
➶➴ hii!!! thank you, thank you! i loved this idea so much. i started them out at the market. hope you enjoy!! mwah.
as you turned a corner past a row of retro home decor, you stopped dead in your tracks. spread out before you were several metal racks and shelves dedicated entirely to the nineties and early noughties. brightly colored tracksuits, low-rise denim, and faded graphic tees hung neatly under a sign proudly declaring y2k vintage.
andrew stopped behind you, staring at the rack with a furrowed brow and a look of profound skepticism.
“vintage?” he huffed, shaking his head once.
you turned back to him with a bright, teasing grin. “yeah, andy. twenty years marks an item as vintage.”
“…what?” he looked bewildered, his brow furrowing.
“look! i’ve been looking for one of these,” you said excitedly, diving straight into the clothing rack, your fingers rifling rapidly through the hangers.
your eyes dropped to the price tag dangling from the garment, and your smile fell.
“it’s so expensive,” you frowned, holding it against yourself with a sigh before pushing it reluctantly back onto the rack.
andrew watched you, tracking every micro-expression on your face. he stepped closer, pressing his lips into a flat line. he didn’t like watching you talk yourself out of something that made you smile.
“i’ll pay for it,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble as he reached past you to pull the hanger back off the rack.
you blinked up at him, surprised. “andrew, you don’t have to—”
“i’ve got it,” he cut in gently, though there was no room for argument in his tone. he kept the hanger hooked over two fingers while you continued shopping.
andrew’s eyes drifted back over the rows of colorful garments. he reached out, pulling a faded graphic t-shirt off a hanger. the logo printed across the chest instantly transported him back in time. his thumb moved slowly over the cracked logo, his brow drawing together.
for once, the memory stopped at the skateboard.
“used to wear this skateboarding,” he said softly, almost to himself.
back when skating down cracked sidewalks for an hour felt like freedom.
you noticed the distant look in his eyes and stepped closer, resting a hand gently against his arm.
“wish i’d seen it,” you said warmly. “bet you looked cool.”
a faint, self-conscious smile touched the corner of his mouth. “thought i was.”
you smiled softly, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick, affectionate kiss to his cheek before grabbing his hand. “come on!”
before he could process the compliment, you dragged him toward the next booth, completely energized while he was helplessly swept along.
an hour later, he watched you weave between parked cars toward the truck, talking about everything you’d found. somewhere between the band tees and the old skate brands, the afternoon had stopped feeling crowded. he couldn’t remember the last time that happened.
andrew stood by the passenger side of his truck, his arms completely full. he was carrying multiple heavy canvas bags crammed to the brim with clothes for both of you. somewhere along the way, he’d found a stack of vintage band tees and a couple of hats just like the ones he’d worn back when he still skated daily.
he opened the passenger door for you, holding it steady as you hopped in his truck. he carefully placed all the heavy bags in the back seat, shutting the door securely before walking around to slide into the driver's seat.
he shifted into drive, pulling smoothly out of the parking lot and merging onto the open road. the quiet hum of the engine filled the cab, accompanied by the comfortable, easy silence that only the two of you shared.
you glanced over at him, your heart full, and reached across the center console to rest your hand gently on his thigh, rubbing it lightly.
“thank you for a fun day, popey,” you murmured with a soft smile.
andrew turned his head, looking at you once, his expression softening as he covered your hand with his own, stilling the movement.
“been a while,” he said, his voice quiet.
“since what?”
“since i had a day like this.”
the admission was so plain that it took you a second to understand what he meant. before you could form a reply, he shifted, drawing your joined hands casually across the center console and settling his over your thigh, anchoring the movement.
your breath caught in your throat, painfully aware of how little space separated the two of you in the cramped cab.
andrew’s eyes flicked toward you from the road, catching the abrupt change in your posture immediately.
“what?” he asked quietly.
“nothing.”
his brow tightened, a shadow of skepticism crossing his face. “wasn’t nothin’.”
you turned your gaze out the passenger window, watching the city pass as heat crept rapidly into your face. “i just like your hand there.”
he slipped your hand from beneath his, watching the profile of your face for another second, weighing your words, before turning his attention back to the road ahead. his fingers spread a little wider against your thigh, settling there with quiet certainty.
“yeah?” he asked softly.
you nodded, unable to trust your voice quite yet.
his thumb moved once, dragging a slow, deliberate arc over your thigh before his hand closed around your leg in a slow, grounding squeeze. he left it there as he steered with his free hand.
“when’s the last time you messed around in a car?” you asked, swallowing hard and trying to recover some semblance of composure. “y2k?”
andrew huffed through his nose, a dry, quiet sound.
“thought vintage meant old,” he deadpanned.
“it does.”
he glanced over at you, the corner of his mouth pulling upward into a reluctant, knowing smirk.
