jack offers to cook dinner and reader does not let him finish! (well about that...) explicit 18+ mdni
content: jack abbot x fem!reader, established relationship, explicit 18+ mdni, handjob, subby!jack | wc: approx 900
Jack’s in your kitchen in a tight fitting black t-shirt that does very little to hide what’s underneath it, straining around his biceps every time he reaches for something, the paprika, the butter, the wooden spoon - and low-slung grey tracksuit pants that should probably be illegal.
You’re sitting on the counter, legs crossed, with a glass of chilled white wine watching him.
He’s been at the stove for twenty minutes. You’ve contributed nothing except finishing half the wine and a running commentary on the Buffy episode you just watched that he is absolutely pretending to follow.
“The whole time,” you say. “He was faking the whole time! Angel never actually lost his soul, it was all a ruse to get Faith to confess, and I just - I did not see that coming.”
“Mm.” He tilts the pan. Doesn’t look up.
“And Faith is standing there going ‘what can I say, I’m the world’s best actor’ all smug, and Angel just goes ‘second best’. And her face.” You point at him. “Her face, Jack.”
“Mm.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening.” A pause. “Which one’s Faith.”
“The bad slayer.”
“There are two slayers?”
“Yes and one of them is bad, keep up old man.” You take another sip. “The point is she thought she’d won and she hadn’t and she’d told them everything and didn’t even realise and I - I actually screeched. In my own living room, alone.”
He reaches past you for the salt, his arm brushing your knee, and glances up at you, just once, briefly, before going back to the stove.
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.
“You’re not funny,” you snap, no real bite behind it.
“Didn’t say anything,” he murmurs.
You’re watching his arms. The way his veins track down his forearms and into the backs of his hands, more pronounced every time he lifts the pan, reaches for something, grips the counter. You set your wine glass down.
You slide off the counter and slink up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, your chin finding his shoulder blade, and you feel the exact moment he registers your presence - the way he goes just slightly more still, the grip on the spatula tightening.
“Hey.” Low. Already a little unsteady. “Hey, now -”
“Smells good, baby,” you say against his back, pressing your lips to the fabric.
“It’s gonna burn if you -”
You slide one hand down the front of his tracksuit pants and he exhales sharply, a short helpless sound. He’s already half hard and you wrap your fingers around him through his boxers, thick even like this, heavy in your palm, and he drops his head forward.
“Sweetheart -” Plaintive. “Come on -”
“Stove’s fine,” you urge. “Keep stirring.”
“I can’t baby - I’m not going to be able to -” you stroke him once, slowly, and his free hand slaps down on the counter edge. “Christ. Okay. Okay, okay.”
You get your hand inside his boxers properly. His cock is fully hard now, hot and thick in your grip, the hair at his base coarse against your knuckles.
You work him slow and deliberate, dragging your fist from base to tip, thumb catching the head of him on every upstroke where he’s already leaking, slick and warm. He makes a noise that’s almost embarrassing. Needy and low. His hips already trying to push into your hand.
“You’re doin’ that on purpose,” he grits out.
“Obviously.”
“Please -” he says it before he can stop himself. “Please, just a lil’ faster”
“No,” you hum pleasantly.
“Honey. Honey, come on -”
“Stove off.”
Jack reaches over with a shaking hand and turns the stove off. The spatula drops loudly onto the floor. His head falls back, blush creeping up his neck, the freckles disappearing into it, and you press your lips to his shoulder blade and twist your wrist on the next stroke, thumb smearing the precome over his head. The sound that tumbles out of his mouth is wrecked and wonderful.
“Fuck - please, please don’t stop”
You don’t stop. You work him steady and deliberate and he’s completely gone, all that composure dissolved, hips rolling helplessly into your fist, low whimpering sounds escaping into your kitchen, knuckles white on the counter edge, his whole body strung tight.
“Sweetheart,” he manages, barely. “I’m right there”
“I know,” you say. “Go on.”
He does, shuddering forward against the counter, your name in his mouth, hips stuttering through it as he spills hot into his boxers, soaking through the fabric, and his whole body shakes with it. One hand flies back to grip your hip like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
After, you drag your lips slow and wet up the back of his neck. He turns around, jaw slack, eyes dark and a little dazed, looking at you like he’s not entirely sure what just happened.
“Dinner’s cold,”
“Worth it”
a/n: everything i had been working on got tossed aside when i saw all the promo for shawn’s quinn audio i am actually gonna go feral i am not ready…..i had to write something….
also i am a major buffy fan this was gonna come up at SOME point in my writing
shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot shirtless jack abbot
please lord, take all of Perlah’s pain and discomfort and give it to Ogilvie. please lord, take all of Princess’s pain and discomfort and give it to Ogilvie. please lord, take all of Dana’s pain and discomfort and give it to Ogilvie. please lord, take all of Donnie’s pain and discomfort and give it to Ogilvie. please lord, take all of Emma’s pain and discomfort and give it to Ogilvie.
guys pls stop using ai to make your fics its painfully obvious and i cant get even a paragraph through without wanting to go insane. BRING BACK BENG CREATIVE AND STOP USING AI JUST TO GET CLICKS
IF YOU ARE GONNA MAKE AN X READER STOP GIVING THEM DEFINING FEATURES LIKE SKIN COLOR, HEIGHT, EYE SHAPE OR COLOR, ETC NOT EVERYONE WHO READS FANFICS ARE 4’11, SKINNY, PASTY WHITE, WITH LONG STRAIGHT HAIR, BLUE EYES, AND MASSIVE BOOBS
IF YOU ARE GONNA MAKE AN X READER STOP GIVING THEM DEFINING FEATURES LIKE SKIN COLOR, HEIGHT, EYE SHAPE OR COLOR, ETC NOT EVERYONE WHO READS FANFICS ARE 4’11, SKINNY, PASTY WHITE, WITH LONG STRAIGHT HAIR, BLUE EYES, AND MASSIVE BOOBS
Some of ya’lls Readers/Y/Ns are just your OCs in disguise bc what you mean my blonde hair and Red cheeks 😭And who wears micro skirts and messy buns in a apocalypse In Georgia
