The fluorescent lights of the diner buzzed overhead, a sharp contrast to the soft, hazy nostalgia of the morning. As you sat across from Londyn, watching her pick at a stack of blueberry pancakes, you couldn't help but see the echoes of the five-year-old girl with the paint-stained shirt. Back then, you had used scratchy paper towels to scrub away the primary blue pigment; today, the stains were internal—a messy breakup that had left her feeling frayed and discarded.
But then there was Jack.
Jack, who had gone from a quiet, hyper-focused kid in the USNTDP to a man who wore the pressure of the NHL like a comfortable sweater. He sat beside you, his large hand resting naturally on the back of your chair, occasionally chiming in with a joke just to see Londyn’s lips twitch into a genuine smile. He hadn’t just "allowed" her to come along; he had made it feel like she was the missing piece of the day. When Jack pulled the truck into the gravel lot of a local florist and boutique, you assumed he was just grabbing a last-minute card or perhaps a coffee for the road.
“I’ll be back. Sit tight,” he murmured, leaning over to press a lingering kiss to your temple. The scent of his cologne—something clean, like cedar and cold air—trailed behind him as he stepped out. The truck grew quiet, the hum of the heater the only sound until Londyn let out a long, shaky breath. "You really scored, you know that?" she whispered, leaning her head against the window. "He’s the only guy I know who wouldn't be annoyed that his 'anniversary-eve' date was hijacked by a crying best friend."
You laughed, reaching over the console to squeeze her hand. "He loves you too, Lon. We’re a package deal. He knew that when he proposed." For twenty minutes, the two of you fell back into your oldest rhythm. You gossiped about people from high school, speculated on whether Luke would ever settle down, and laughed until your sides ached over a shared memory of a failed science project. For a moment, the heavy cloud of her heartbreak seemed to thin out, letting a little light back in.
The click of the door lock signaled Jack’s return. He was slightly out of breath, fending off the crisp morning air as he tossed a few small shopping bags onto the floorboards. But it was what he held in his arms that stopped the conversation dead. He wasn't just holding a bouquet. He was holding two distinct, carefully wrapped arrangements. He turned in his seat, his expression softening as he looked at the two most important women in his life. First, he handed you a cluster of your favorites—the flowers he’d been buying you since you were teenagers, the ones that meant home.
Then, with a gentle, almost shy shrug, he reached into the back. "I remember you saying these were the only things that made your apartment feel alive," Jack said, handing a vibrant, fragrant bouquet of lilies and eucalyptus to Londyn. Londyn froze, her fingers hovering over the petals. The silence in the car stretched out, thick with a kind of kindness that is rare and quiet.
“Jack,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “You didn’t have to do that. Today is supposed to be about you and Bug.” Jack just shook his head, shifting the truck into gear. “It’s not much, Lon. It’s the bare minimum. Everyone deserves to feel like someone’s looking out for them, especially today.” As Londyn began that half-sob, half-laugh—the "crying-laughing" that only happens when someone feels truly seen—you leaned back into your seat, clutching your own flowers.
Your heart didn't just flutter; it tightened with a profound sense of security. You watched Jack’s profile—the set of his jaw, the way he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror to make sure Londyn was okay, the way he didn't look for praise or a "thank you." He just did it because that’s who he was. In the world of professional sports, people often talked about Jack’s "stats" or his "clutch plays." But sitting there in the passenger seat, watching him heal your best friend’s heart just because he could, you knew his best stats weren't on the ice. They were right here, in the small, intentional ways he loved the people you loved.
You hadn't just married a star athlete or a high school sweetheart. You had married a man who knew that love wasn't a limited resource—it was something that grew the more you gave it away. "Ready for the mall?" Jack asked, catching your eye and winking. You leaned over and kissed his cheek, the scent of the flowers filling the cab. "Ready," you whispered, knowing with absolute certainty that you had chosen the right one.
───♡───────────────
◛⑅·˚ ༘ I wrote this on the nineteenth and am finally posting it five days later…
If you have any asks or yaps, feel free to send them. I take requests. 👻
imagining WIFE!READER as an orion carloto type, who balances modelling and writing, and makes tiktoks in the same vain of alanabananaxox on tiktok (she's been my no.1 tiktoker since 2021) and sotce.
met wife!reader at a runway after party of an up and coming new york indie brand ( sandy liang, khaite, bode etc. )
proposes to you with the blythe doll you had been obsessing over, dressed in a wedding dress and hand-customised by a popular etsy dealer with quite a high rate like this girl on tt
encouraged by jack to do a ‘what’s in my ( miu miu joie leather ) bag’ video on tiktok to help campaign for kamala akin to this video of anne hathaway but with a different vibe.
jack is ultimate embarrassing hard launcher bofy, leaving in all his girlfriends giggles that come from his chaotic antics when filming his videos.
wife!reader loves to slather jack’s face in biologique recherche’s “masque vivant”, he complains that it smells like rotting meat😹😹😹😹😹.
jack would be always on that damn phone during your runway shows, recording each time you pass him by in the catwalk.
would be the absolute opposite of marriage-shy.
unpopular opinion this man would be asking about marriage, a solid 3 months in ( jfk and jackie married in a YEAR )
fucks UP a rotisserie chicken.
forwards you his tweets before and asks if they’re good enough to post.
smells like aesop musk and of herbal deodorant.
wife!reader buys rick owen’s black and white t-shirts and slacks for jack, and jack’s absolutely baffled when he learns the price tag.
love language is buying wife!reader drinks whenever and wherever they are: hot chocolate in central park, home-delivers you a sab benedetto sparkling water because he had a meeting at cipriani downtown, and always orders a polo bar punch for you prior to your arrival to your shared weekly dinner date at the polo bar on 55th st.
instigates a24 marathons on friday nights, much to the dismay of your prior night plans ( you are more of a criterion collection girl and have held a subscription since you were a freshman in college )
( clumsily ) slips lana del rey lyrics into sexting and dirty talk.
husband!jack and wife!reader texts go like this:
jack is horrific at low impact pilates, he needs to be near a body of water.
he wears your prized doublesoul x orion caroloto ‘lamb’ socks around your woodfloored high-rise despite your varied attempts at hiding them from him.
constantly frets over you during society galas, which is quite convenient due to your tempered social anxiety and your forgetful memory of high society etiquette.
immediately brings you to meet the family, for which you were completely unprepared for ( i’m imagining something reminder of that one story of meghan markle meeting princess kate middleton in ripped jeans and bare feet )
jack loves to wear your 100% cotton brandy melville pointelle tanks despite them being comically tiny for his frame.
would have an innocence kink.
he gets intensely flushed when called his proper full name: john bouvier kennedy schlossberg, wife!reader abuses this to the HIGHEST degree!!!
the first time he entered you apartment he was constantly paranoid of breaking anything because your house was littered with ceramics from brooklyn under-ground designers and clay lamb figurines.
he NEEDS his beauty Zzzzzzz or else.
plays with your very expensive westman atelier blushes like a toddler.
sickly devoted to you.
you both want to adopt a lamb despite living in a HIGH-RISE apartment.
sends pics captioned with anaïs nin lewd quotes.
he would think whole foods was stupidly over priced but would purchase his groceries there in spite of his opinions.
has hyperfixations on old-hollywood women which causes you to be snippy at him for exactly 2-3 hours ex. jack’s current hyper fixation on audrey hepburn being his doppelgänger.
wife!reader definitely participated in that egg cracking trend where girls would crack an egg on their boyfriends head.
would love caring for your hair and doing your curly girl hair routine if you had one.
wife!reader does small yet viral shoots for brands like mirror palais, the row, and loewe.
manhandles you ( lovingly ) without even trying.
mans is a chronic diptyque candle lighter.
loves to be coddled and cradled as a grown man…
plays with your van cleef stack before stage when he’s nervous about his speech landing correctly
uses his family connections to get his girl courted by the high-ticket fashion brands: schiaparelli, chanel, dior, yves saint laurent etc.
You were dripping. Thighs surely glistening and sticky. You just couldn’t help it when he looked like that. You were only married for three months now, and you were definitely still in that honeymoon phase. You watched as he sipped his drink, laughing with his friends. He was just so fucking hot. A short sleeve button up shirt and jeans, sunglasses up in his hair.
“Y/n!”
You snapped out of your gaze, “hm?”
“I said have y'all gone back to your home town to see your family yet?”
“Oh, no we’re going next month, I think.” You were squeezing your legs together trying to take your thoughts away from your gorgeous husband. God, that felt good to say; husband.
He caught your eye, and you kept eye contact for a while before your friends called your name again. It wasn’t long before Jack made his way over to you, laying kisses on your shoulder as he pulled you into him.
“I’m gettin’ tired, angel. Let’s go home, hm?”
“Ok baby, let’s say goodbye.”
Jack sped all the way home, his cock was hard and throbbing. He jumped out of the car, barely stopping it, and made his way over to your side faster than you could unbuckle your seatbelt. He pulled you out and dragged you inside.
“Think I didn’t see how you were looking at me? How you were rubbing your thighs together?”
“You looked so sexy Jack, can’t I be attracted to my husband?” That made him go absolutely feral. He picked you up and took you to your room, throwing you in the bed and unbuttoning his shirt.
“C’mon! You’re taking too long!”
“Be patient or you’re not cumming,” that shut you up real quick.
You moaned lightly at the sight of his dripping cock, your stomach jumping at the way it stood up all red and drippy.
He got on the bed and crawled closer to you, placing his hands at the neckline of your dress and ripping it down the middle.
“Get you a new one, get you one in every color. Love you in these, I just can’t wait,” he dipped his head down and began licking you through your panties. He lapped at the stickiness on your thighs and sucked bruises into the delicate skin.
Jack spent a good 30 minutes down there; three fingers pumping in and out of you while his tongue was flicking at your clit. You came twice just from that, he wanted you sensitive and swollen, ready for his cock.
“You ready for me, baby?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“You sure? Once I’m in, I’m not stopping,” he warned.
“Yes, please I need that!”
Without another word, he slammed into you, he was feral, fast rough thrusts and growls against your ear.
“I love your cock Jack. Love it, it’s my favorite, daddy.”
“Know it is, baby. Can't get enough of it, can you?” He was pressing down on your lower stomach as he slammed into you over and over again. The squelch was filthy but it only spurred you both on.
“It’s s-so fuckin’ big, daddy!”
“Yeah but you love it, love how it stretches you open,” he growled, biting gently at your neck.
You were screaming at this point, it felt so good. His head was a mess from you grabbing at it, face flushed and concentrated. Your eyes were rolling back into your head, it was all too much, but not enough at the same time.
“Harder!”
“Fuck you’re filthy,” he smirked.
It was a no brainer that you both had a breeding kink, when you got married you went on the pill and Jack threw out every condom he owned. Even before you were married, he’d always promised to fill you up one day. And now that he fills you up almost everyday? You’re obsessed. He’s got tons of pictures of his cum dripping out of your pussy in his hidden folder. Polaroids too.
“Fill me up, daddy. Please, I need it so bad!” You moaned breathily into his neck. You cling to him and bucked your hips. You craved this closeness all the damn time. There was never a passing moment where you didn’t want to be touching him in some way.
“Yeah, gonna make it stick baby. Breed you full of my cum. Would you like that mamas?” You nodded feverishly: “Course you would, dirty girl.”
“Please! I just want it! I want it so fucking bad, please!”
His thumb was rubbing harsh, fast circles into your clit, lips sucking and kissing at every inch of skin he could reach. He was close, he always got extra touchy whenever he came.
“Yes! Yes, fill me up, please!” You squeaked.
“Anything for you, mamas. Anything.” With that, you both came. He collapsed onto you and you sighed in relief at the close proximity.
“Should wear those shirts more often huh?” Jack chuckled
Imagine getting super jealous because all the moms at bubs school or baby play date thing adores Jack and hangs onto him because their husbands don't give them enough attention. (i said what i said, can't relate tho we with Jack) and you keep it to yourself until one day it just gets to you and you tell Jack.
"Mammas I only got eyes for you, you know that, lemme show you."
And baby is with family for the night to allow you and jack to truly have a romantic filthy night together.
Hell does he fuck you.
I mean he fucks you until you can barley form a sentence, probably infront of a mirror to show you just how fucking hot you are to him. Eating you out until you have to push him away because you are so overwhelmed. The bed is literary destroyed when morning comes.
You still completely fucked out, laying in bed trying to stand up and Jack just walks in completely fine.
Like you didn't suck the soul out of this man a few hours back leaving him a moaning mess.
With tea looking all dilfy.
"Morning mammas, you wanna shower?"
"Jackman I can't move my legs."
OH MY GOD HE IS A FUCKING DILFFFFFFF
He’d literally put a whole baby in you that night pls
summary: after a treacherous weekend of paddle boarding along the scenic shores of manhattan and viscose shorts that rid up far too high due to the water, you drag your husband to a Hamptons pilates class, and get far more of a workout than you bargained for.
warnings: (tasteful, classy, anaïs nin pilled) smut, 18+ only, implied age gap, soft petting, words of affirmation, soft aftercare, slapping, unprotected intimacy, biting, back rubs
'drive fast, i can almost taste it now,
You apathetically scroll your manicured, chanel hand-creamed ( a gift from jack himself ) hand through instagram reals and shortly abandon that effort as soon as you feel your brain being numbed by the drivel common on instagram at the current impasse. Your attention abandons that activity for a much more fulfilling escape: that of observing your husband of 2 months, jack, setting up a joint pilates appointment for the two of you with the women upfront, dressed in chic linens only truly observed in all their glory on a women summering in amagansett.
L.A., i don't even have to fake it now,
You gather yourself and sway over to the counter and offer to pay, in the effort of lifting your wallet your steel robot keychain sways slightly before resuming its residence resting by your small leather card holder. Jack looks at you, in a passive yet horrified glance and delicately waves your cards away and places a hand by the nape of your neck. Murmuring to "never worry about that sort of thing around him" in his instantly recognisable accent and cadence.
As he resumes his conversation with the girl organising your shared class, jack continually and gently circles the baby hairs at the base of your neck. Some he would perform a zig-zag motion along the base of your scalp, and other's he would gently caress the baby hairs, not failing to continue his trail to the middle of your neck.
You're like so sick, everybody said it,
It may be because of this delightful pseudo scalp-massage that you nearly don't pick up on the blatant flirting coming from the girl across from you, directed at jack. Even in an effort to catch her eyes, hers are completely fixated on that of your husband's, the gall of some people! You see her taking quick clipped glances at his 6.0 frame, dressed in hand-me-downs gifted to him by his great aunt back in the fall of 2019 (is it really classified as "hand-me-downs" if the pieces of old clothing are Loro Piana and Brunello Cucinelli?)
You're way ahead of the trend, ge-get it,
Due to Jack's parentage and familial connections you had always, to ebbing extents, had been a public figure whenever you stepped outside with Jack. Some crazed paparazzi had even papped you guys entering a jazz bar reconstructed from a prohibition speakeasy in the west village in 2019. This caused slight public fan-fare over niche twitter and instagram communities, many likening it to the glossy nineteen-nighties candids of John F. Kennedy Jr and his wife Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy. But as of 2024 being an election year, and an important decade-defining one at that, the interest around Jack had reached an almost fever pitch. Not only did you wake up to a phone-breaking amount of follower requests on instagram since jack's appearance during the democratic national convention, but your once small, curated following on TikTok had blossomed from a petite fig tree, to a unruly and domineering monstera. Despite this you attempted to take this change in your stride and continued business as usual.
Elvis is the best, hell yes,
As the girl confirms your appointment she asks you to wait a few moments in the lounge to allow the instructors time to adequately prepare the room. You both saunter over to a particularly comfortable-looking linen settee in the back of the room, a hand securely placed along your back by jack.
"You know I can't believe you made me sign up for this, i'll be as graceful as a hippo on a ballet barré and you know so!" Jack chuckles out sarcastically, in such a tone that gives away his true ill-advised confidence at mastering the art of pilates. An activity that since your water paddle-boarding escapes around manhattan's greatest shores, you had been dying to have him try his hand at it at least once.
"You shouldn't knock it until you try it, jack. I promise you'll adore it--or you won't and you'll completely resent it until the day you die. It's just a game of chance really." This instigates you into preparing jack for what he's about to walk into, you start with showing him so low-impact pilates videos you'd saved to your camera roll. He replies with boastful comments sliced in with moments of disbelief at how people could contort their own bodies into such positions.
A pilates instructor by the name of Anya, politely tells us that the room is ready and that instructor Zoe is ready to begin the session whenever they are.
The room, being that the property was in the east Hamptons, had gorgeous, sprawling views of the main beach shore line. The studio was surround by white wooden shiplap, adorned with antique yet charming looking prints of deers and lambs frolicking in a garden so beautiful it had to be painted from the depths of an artist's imagination. Before the couple could even take in the beautiful studio, a very upbeat Zoe bounded into the room not unlike to the excitement of a labrador puppy, and before either person knew it the class had commenced.
The duration of the session plays out like a comedy show that not even the great minds of a 2010s snl dream-team cast could think up. Not only did jack multiple times fall of the reformer, but his grunts were reminiscent of a much more intimate activity not commonly done in the presence of a stranger.
The class ended with you feeling refreshed, and jack feeling mildly humiliated--okay considerably humiliated at his lack of an ability to pick up pilates form on command.
As soon as Zoe departed through the double doors to leave you guys to re-coop, you throw yourself onto Jack's reformer and devolve into a fit of laughter. "Yeah--Yeah laugh it up while your husband is severely embarrassed and wounded" Jack says in a tone that betrays the bitter exterior he's putting up. "Oh please Jack the only thing wounded is your ego, your just jealous I was great at paddle-boarding"
"Depends on how you define great" Jack comments laughing, but quickly dies down once you pull his the hair at the base of his neck to halt his teasing of your mediocre, at best, paddle boarding.
You make me crazy, you make me wild,
As a result this causes him to retaliate my gracefully lifting your alo yoga clad body into his arms and onto his lap. From this point of view you observed the way the tank clung to his form, and the scent of his musk inflamed your desires in an almost animalistic, feral fashion. Both of your hips begin to languidly meet his, as his mouth meets yours. Saliva covers the both of your chins, which in any other situation would disturb you both greatly, but in a moment like this it's supremely erotic. Clothing meeting clothing, friction creating more, and more friction. Your knees start to dig into the plush mat of the reformer as jack settles you gently on the seat of the reformer and undresses the lower half of his and carefully slides your pointelle underwear to one side. In any other situation you, as a couple, would be horrified at your shared lack of social decorum: I mean, seriously, you guys are in a pilates studio for christ sake! But at this interim you cannot find it in yourself to quite care, and you've got a sneaking suspicion that neither does Jack.
Just like a baby, spin me 'round like a child,
As Jack leans over to line himself, you crane your tennis necklace clad neck to delicately kiss his cheek. To which he, in return, blushes (and giggles) like a schoolgirl. As he plunges, the shared couple lets out a breath of relief. Breaths of relief that mirror ships docking into a much-loved harbour, marking a safe return. And that's what they were to each other a safe place to return. Apart from small words of encouragement that you were "doing so well for him" and that he gets amazed by how "well you take him every time" Jack eventually stops talking. On your part he may have continued to talk but by then your mind had soon become the consistency of day-old porridge. With your body only seemingly responding to the stimulus brought on by Jack. The pounding, and the sense of completeness and fullness infuriates your head and decimates any other thoughts not relating to the man in front of you.
Be young, be dope, be proud,
Sometimes, you felt perverse when you slept with Jack in this manner, rough and unrelenting, for you imagined that to know yearning for one person as much as you had, that something had to be wrong with you. Something that had to have been corrupted to form such a need for one person's existence. That was only given brief air-time in your mind as you were brought back by the feeling of callous hands grasping your face with the gentleness of a bear that doesn't know the power of it's strength yet---"Are you still with my me my girl?" Jack asks, and slightly slaps the flesh of the side of your behind.
"Yes-yes-Oh God yes" you slur through breathless gasps, like a fish rising to the surface, you feel the unmistakable roll of thunderous pressure and hear Jack encouraging you to "let it all out sweetheart" while caressing your back. And eventually you convulse in his capable, and protective arms. Due to this you quietly lay your head on his chest cocooning yourself in his musk, and watch you favourite expression befall his face. As you feel encompassed by the most delightful warmness, milking him for all he had. In the interim period, waiting for Jack to come down from his high you play with the littered brown hair covering his public bone curling the corse hair. You observe the space where you both meet, and liken it to an image of the sand meeting the ocean. As a result, you don't notice Jack gazing down at you like you're the only other breathing, sentient being on the planet. Your eyes meet and smile bashfully at each other. To break the sexual tension Jack jokes "This has got to cross at least one box of that weird places to have sex bingo we bought, I-I mean surely it has to right?"
"One can dream" you giggle and receive a drawn out kiss from jack as he slides back out.
Jack, being the gentleman that he was raised to be, doesn't let you do anything after such an act, so he cleans you first, then himself in the ensuite attached for those who indented to shower after a lesson, and dresses you back up.
Like an American
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-oh,
As you both walk out, thanking Zoe for her time who was now conversing with the woman at the counter, you finally make eye-contact with the girl flirting with jack earlier. You sense that she may have connected the dots that it wasn't just the pilates class that got you two so worked up after seeing your messily put on clothing, and birds nests of what once was a slick-back bun combined with the sweat pooling around jack's collarbones.
Or maybe, just maybe the walls of the east hampton pilates studio are not as soundproofed as they had brazenly assumed.
Like an American
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-oh.'
𓊆ྀི ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST: OPEN DOOR! - a jack schlossberg one-shot. 𓊇ྀི
summary: your open door architectural digest interview with your husband jack schlossberg takes an unexpected, and downright sensual turn in your shared kitchen over the most innocuous citrus fruit.
note: this is part of the husband!jack schlossberg universe, here are other works with wife!reader and husband!jack: like an american, husband!jack hc's, and comfort husband!jack hc's
Filming for Architectural Digest, as glamorous as it might look from the illustrious glow of a MacBook screen, was not all it cracked up to be. AD had been relentless in their pursuit, contacting both you and jack's agents on more than one occasion proposing the opportunity for you guys as a couple to be featured on their open door celebrity series.
Initially as a couple you had turned the opportunity down, with Jack working tirelessly on the campaign and you being busy with negotiations on your new book deal: it just wouldn't have worked. But after your wedding, which was featured in Vogue, the title "The Bride Wore Vintage John Galliano And The Groom Wore JW Anderson. Inside Their Cape Cod Ceremony" The open door offer came around once again and it came at just the perfect time.
A few weeks back you and Jack had been getting back into the grove of normal life after returning from an illustrious three week honeymoon in the Greek Cyclades: a honeymoon spent in mostly nothing—bar itty-bitty specs of linen as makeshift bikini's, and gucci by tom ford beachwear.
Getting back to AD, you'd woken up before Jack: which was funny because when you first entered the relationship Jack was always the one who got up early, maybe you've been a bit of a bad influence in that department. Nevertheless you spend about five to ten minutes neglecting to wake Jack up: instead opting to trace the sepia hairs littering the top of his neck while quietly leering at his chest hair—looking like an absolute creep, but I mean, he was your husband after all so—that's gotta minus at least 15% of the pervy factor, right?
When he did wake up—and subsequently clocked your staring contest with his chest, he proceeded to lean over like a total and utter drama queen to piously cover himself with the sheets like a 30s model getting a tasteful nude portrait of herself to give to a lover.
You neglected to do any makeup only choosing to smear some P50 lotion on you and Jack's face—you swore he was like a toddler sometimes always wanting to mirror whatever weird shit you put on your face. Once the hair, makeup, and stylist team for AD got there you and Jack were effectively separated for the next few hours, which you did not hear the end of via jack's incessant complaints about the distance between him and you over iMessage and many, many unhinged gif selections sent to your iPhone.
But alas, you two were reunited for the open door interview and it started off generally normal...
First, you two were situated on the front steps of your townhouse and asked when and why you chose the house,
Jack started for you, "We moved here about five years ago, and it was the second house we both had looked at ever in our whole lives, and it so happens that it was the first house we ever bought as a couple"
"Seems clandestine to me", the interviewer cheerily replies to which you both glance at each other playfully while he speaks.
Taking the hint to speak up, you share what drew you to the home adding, "I love the city, but I also love wood and I love light and I love antiques, so I just fell in deep love with the place. For us it struck the perfect balance of being in the city while not feeling like the city was breathing down your back all the time, it can be hard to find a place like that here."
Making your way into the apartment, you and Jack were told to take a short break for about 2 minutes while the videographer got a good layout of the place, and scoped out the best lighting angles to capture it.
Your home occupies the first floor of a Meatpacking District block, and is a few blocks away from the Hudson River—which more than encourages your Husband's borderline addiction to paddle boarding. But, hey you routinely get to see your man walking home in an ultra-tight swimsuit sopping wet, so who were you really to complain about such things?
Despite loving the city, you found yourself devoted to the charm of those old French farmhouse interior's that you'd looked at in your mom's old magazines. And it felt particularly poignant to you guys as a couple—being that your first couple of dates were in the south of France.
You and Jack didn't want the space to come off as just another midcentury modern sterile, ultra-functional flat. So, you opted for sheetrock to be removed from the walls and ordered a large pair of antique door double doors for the living space off 1stdibs.
Just as abruptly as the break had started, it subsequently finished and the cameras began rolling once again. The interview dragged on until you two had finally gotten to the kitchen which was the last room and the last portion of interview.
You started the space off absolutely waxing poetic about the olive-coloured room,
"This is our little kitchen, we painted it horribly together. And then needed to implore a professional painter to fix our many, many painting faux pas." you take a breath to giggle slightly with Jack at your shared delusional confidence that you could paint a whole room successfully.
It was then Jack's time to pitch in, while the camera man did a slow zoom across the decor littering the marbled countertops—causing you and Jack to both notice a certain stone bowl containing a citrus fruit that you know for certain neither of you put there before AD came. Weird you thought, you weren't notified that set-dressing came with the interview.
Leaning on the counter Jack laments, "I love baking, I cook a lot too. I love limes"—to which he dramatically takes a lime into his hands, spinning it between his large fingers, "They're great and I love them so much, and I like to present them like this in my house."
You try not to let the emotion of total bafflement present on camera at Jack straight up lying for the hell of it about the limes being an integral part of your shared household decor—he neglects to mention that they're set dressing and that he's moderately allergic to them.
Closing of the interview you fake lead the interviewer out of the house to close out the interview, only to let them back in seconds later. The interviewer, Mark, who seems to be a genuinely sweet guy thanks you and Jack for your time, informing you that the crew should be packed up in 10 minutes, and the camera guy only needs another 5 minutes to get b-roll footage.
Once all the pleasantries have been fulfilled you lead, or rather playfully drag Jack by his crisp collared Prada button-up into your kitchen.
"Jack, I mean seriously what the hell was that, truly? I know you know you're allergic."
"M'sorry it was just too good not to pass up! I mean what kind of weirdos just but a bowl of lemons out and nothing else? it's barbaric just from a feng-shui standpoint alone!"
"Godd you're such a weirdo. Come kiss me and make it quick so I can forgot that very fact, please" you beckon him to you, placing your chin on his chest with your hands on his chin. Which, by the way is blemish-less—god, you absolutely hated men sometimes.
"Oh come on! you only kiss me cause I'm a weirdo, let's be real." Jack chuckles yet fulfils your request. He kisses you like a man starved which was quite concerning since you had only parted from him today for two hours—absolute max.
The intimacy got more and more heated until well... maybe you currently had your loafer clad feet either side of jack's head while he ate his idea of a mid-afternoon desert.
The very motion of Jack placing the flat side of his tongue against your clit sent you into an absolute. fucking. meltdown. To the point where the moans you made no longer represented someone who was cognisant that they're were about fifteen people working for AD rooms away. You try to compose yourself, which provides a stark contrast to his relentless endeavour on your clit that seem to be ever increasing.
As if to praise your restraint of volume his thumb gently strokes the inside of your thigh—up and down... and up and down. Sensing your impending climax Jack speeds his motions and adds a digit that outright seems to antagonise you—almost trying to tease a mind-numbing orgasm from you. And because you're weak in the face of his machinations, you of course do.
On your come-down you notice a glaring visitor—a quite large bulge in his pants and decide to take pity on it and by looking at the saccharine, loopy look on his face, him as well.
But you wouldn't be yourself if you didn't make him work for it at least a bit.
Continuing your motions on his bulge: feeling it's twitches and reflexes as intimately as you feel him breath while sleeping on your chest at night—
That was until the door to the kitchen was knocked upon,
"Sorry to be a bother but could you guys get that bowl of limes?—the crew is absolutely swamped trying to pack up for the road."
It was at this point in your movements on his bulge that Jack was starting to get loud, a bit too loud for your current situation, so you did the one thing that could shut him up—bar actually suspending the current movements on his mound: but that wouldn't be half as much fun would it?
Quick thinking led you to quite forcefully shoving a medium sized un-cut lime into his mouth to drown out his moans: it sure as shit worked but his puppy dog-like eyes made you feel bad for your prior roughness—you settled on a quick caress of his hair as a pseudo apology.
"Oh of course it's no trouble at all, we'll go grab it now!"
Hearing the footsteps move further and further from the kitchen you glance at Jack: a pitiful, overstimulated sight really. But a sight you deeply enjoy no less.
Picking up the bowl of lemons you grab his hands, afixing each hand to a parallel side of the stone bowl,
"Why don't you go give them back that bowl of limes you love so much and then maybe we can get back to what we were doing?"
Overcome from the intense stimulation Jack nods, willing to do anything that brings him present relief,
"Good boy" you coy, swiping off your own juices from his mouth and chin, then finally taking the un-cut lime out of his mouth.
