critical witness - jack abbot x f!reader (suits!crossover)
summary: a sick colleague and threats of a mistrial lead to you prosecuting a case in which your husband is testifying.
this includes the discussion of domestic violence and associated injuries (bruising, specifically). please read at your own discretion!
pairings: jack abbot x prosecutor!reader, harvey specter x reader (formerly - not at all crucial to the plot lmao) word count: 5.4k cw/tags: sooooo lowkey made this a suits crossover and envisioned DA!harvey and ADA!reader, but you can envision them just as regular prosecutors too and you do NOT need to have seen suits to read this. LEGAL INACCURACIES. reader is described as wearing pantsuits (blouses, slacks), heels, and having breasts and is referred to with she/her pronouns, as 'wife, woman, girl' etc. other than that there is NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION of reader. established relationship (you and jack are married), age gap (this one is nothing for me lmfao you're like 30, jack is in his early 40s), swearing. smut (afab!reader), fingering, unprotected piv, a touch of praise, some degradation, semi-public sex, VEEERY light choking i cannot stress how minor it is, oral (f!receiving). this was so far out of my comfort zone uhhhhh but...hope you enjoy!
MASTERLIST
TAGLIST
“Hey, Harvey wanted to see you,” Your assistant says, poking her head through the glass door of your office. You look up from the file you’re reviewing, giving her a small smile.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a second,” You say. “Thanks.”
She nods, closing the door and walking off down the hall. You finish reading the page you’re on, then you push your chair back, buttoning the single button on your blazer and smoothing it down.
You knock on the door, gaining his attention before stepping inside.
“Abbot,” He greets, as though he’s seeing an old friend for the first time in years, as opposed to a colleague whose office is just down the hall from his. “I need a favour.”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” You say, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs across from his desk. “The last time I did you a favour I almost had to spend the night in jail.”
He rolls his eyes. “I told you that I would’ve bailed you out.”
“Not exactly the point,” You say. “What do you need?”
“You know the Mercer case that I’ve been working on?”
“The one that just went to trial?” You clarify, wanting to make sure you know what he’s talking about. He nods.
“The jury was still deliberating,” He adds. “But the defense is trying to get a mistrial.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep yourself from smirking. “What did you do, Harvey?”
He narrows his eyes, shaking his head, pointing at you for a moment. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then drops his hand back into his lap. “You know what? Doesn’t matter, I need to take tomorrow to deal with it.”
You lean back in the chair, nodding. “Not a problem, I can hold down the fort here.”
“That’s not it,” He counters. “I have a trial scheduled for tomorrow—the Jones case. It can’t be postponed.”
“Why would it have to be postponed?” You question. “I thought Mike was the leading counsel on that?”
He purses his lips. “Yeah, he was. Came down with some kind of…bug this morning, so I told him I would handle it.”
“Ah, poor kid.”
“It’s bulletproof,” He adds. “And I actually think you’ll be able to defend it better than Mike or I ever could.”
“Oh!” You exclaim, sitting up, realization kicking in. “You want me to prosecute your case.”
“You’ve read the file. All the hard work has already been done for you.”
“I’ve read some of the file,” You correct. “It’s a lot of material, Harvey. It would be stupid to swap counsel this late.”
“Not when the new counsel is you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” You say. “What happens if you delay?”
“Like I said—I can’t delay, so it doesn’t matter,” He counters. “The trial needs to happen tomorrow, one way or another.”
You sigh. “Fine. I’ll take your case.”
“You’re amazing,” He says, then he drops his voice a notch, teasing. “Don’t tell Jack I said that.”
“Why?” You ask, standing up, leaning against his desk, cocking your head. “Scared of him?”
“Scared of my ex-girlfriend’s objectively terrifying ex-military husband?” He questions, shaking his head. “Nah, why would I be?”
“Can’t think of a reason myself.”
He scoffs, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Hey, speaking of Jack, there’s something else you need to know about the case.”
You gesture for him to go ahead.
“Your husband is a proposed expert witness,” He says. “I’ll give the opposing counsel a call, let them know, give them the option to postpone if they really want. But I doubt they’ll take me up on that.”
“This is why I don’t do you favours,” You groan, but you’re only half-serious. As far as potential courtroom issues go, this one is relatively minor. “Making me prosecute a case where I have a clear conflict of interest, come on, man.”
“You can handle it,” Harvey promises. “I’ll owe you one.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
You shoot Jack a text, letting him know that you’ll be at the office late. Not that it matters, since he’s already at the hospital for the night and probably won’t get back to you for a few hours. You catch yourself up on the files that Donna gives you, memorizing every detail that the folders contain, making sure you don’t miss anything. You don’t get home until after midnight.
You walk into the courtroom early the next morning, surveying the people that have already arrived. There’s a few seated in the rows, and the defense is already at her table with the defendant, going over a few last minute things while they wait.
They look up when you set your belongings on your own side of the room, pulling out files, notebooks, and a couple pens before putting your bag on the floor beside you. Then, you approach them, a professional smile on your face as you reach your hand out.
You say your name as you shake the lawyer’s hand. “I think Harvey talked to you last night about me taking over?”
She nods. “He did, yes. Nice to meet you. I’m Claire, this is Thomas.”
“Right, of course,” You say, shaking his hand as well, despite how badly you want to ignore him. “Glad we won’t have to delay this any further, Mr. Jones.”
Claire speaks before he can. “It’s been a very difficult process for my client.”
“I’m sure it has,” You say, not letting an inch of your underlying malice towards him show. “Luckily it should be a straightforward case, hm?”
You turn around after that, walking back to your side, not bothering to take a seat since the judge will be called in any minute. The room falls completely silent when he walks in, taking his spot at the front.
“Please be seated,” He says, but you and the defense stay standing. “I’ve been informed there was a last minute change in counsel.”
“Yes, your honour, I will be handling the prosecution today in lieu of my colleagues,” You explain. “I have reviewed all the files and am prepared to represent the case myself.”
“And the defense was made aware of this change?”
“We were, your honour,” Claire says. “We have no objections.”
You inhale before speaking again. “Before we begin, there is one matter pertaining to a witness in today’s trial that my taking over may complicate, which has also already been disclosed to the defense.”
“What would that be, counsellor?”
“A proposed expert witness, Dr. Jack Abbot, is my husband.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“How does the defense wish to proceed?” He asks, glancing towards them, putting a pair of glasses on as he does.
“We wish to proceed as planned, your honour,” She says. “We believe the prosecution and said witness capable of remaining unbiased, and we don’t want another delay.”
“Then let’s begin.”
The case starts out the way it always does—with you.
You give your opening statement, telling the jury the story you memorized last night about Abigail Carter—the defendant’s ex-wife. You talk about who she was without him. You tell them about how she loves to volunteer, her many hobbies, and how much time she devotes to her nieces and nephews.
“On March twelfth of last year, Ms. Carter visited the emergency department at Westbridge hospital after sustaining potentially life-threatening injuries,” You explain, confidence and professionalism radiating from you as you pace in front of the jury. “The evidence will show that the defendant, Thomas Jones, assaulted her that night.”
Your hand drifts towards the defense table, watching as their eyes follow it, a few of them already showing disdain for the man sitting there. By the time you’ve finished presenting your side, most of them look about ready to call the verdict then and there, your case airtight and perfectly executed.
The defense gives a decent case, but it’s nothing compared to yours.
“For our next witness, the defense calls Dr. Jack Abbot to the stand,” Claire says, and you focus on keeping your eyes forward.
He steps into the witness box, wearing black scrubs with a white shirt underneath, almost certainly at the request of the defense. You pay him the same amount of mind you would with any other witness as he gets sworn in.
“Can you please state your name and occupation for the record, please,” She says. Jack shifts, coming a bit closer to the microphone.
“Jack Abbot, attending emergency medicine physician at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre,” He says.
“And how long have you been an emergency physician, Dr. Abbot?”
“Fifteen years,” He answers, his eyes flicking to you for half a second. “Give or take.”
“Over the course of those fifteen years, how many patients with traumatic injuries have you treated?”
“Thousands,” He says.
She nods. “Your honour, we offer Dr. Jack Abbot as an expert in emergency medicine.”
“No objection,” You say, well aware of his expertise in the area.
The judge nods. “The witness is recognized. Proceed.”
“For the purpose of disclosure, let the record show that Dr. Abbot and the prosecution-” She adds, saying your first and last name before continuing. “Are married.”
You watch as the jurors eyes drift between the two of you, but you don’t react. Jack looks almost amused, eyebrows slightly lifted as he sits up a little straighter.
“Dr. Abbot, you’ve reviewed the medical records of Abigail Carter from March twelfth, twenty-twenty-four, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And the photographs documenting the injuries?”
“I have, yes.”
You open the file, revealing the detailed medical documents and photos. Claire paces in front of your desk, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a pen. You bring your notebook closer, ready to jot down any important pieces from his testimony for the cross examination.
“Based on your education, training, and experience with traumatic injuries, were you able to form an opinion on whether or not Ms. Carter’s injuries are consistent with a fall? Specifically the injuries sustained on March twelfth.”
You can see how much Jack hates this.
“I was,” He says.
“And what would that opinion be?”
His jaw ticks. “They could have been sustained in an accidental fall, yes.”
He looks towards you again, an action that no one in the room misses. You’re writing down nonsense on the page in front of you, since his answer isn’t remotely shocking to you.
“What features support this conclusion?”
He rolls his shoulders back. “The bruising pattern on the ribcage is consistent with impact against a blunt surface, like a floor or countertop.”
“So, based on that, as well as the rest of the medical records, can you definitively say that Ms. Carter’s injuries were caused by an assault?”
“No, I cannot.”
She waits a beat, then she gives the jury and judge a dazzling smile. “No further questions.”
The judge looks to you. “Counsellor.”
You push your chair back, buttoning your suit jacket at the bottom, walking towards the witness box. Jack follows your movements, his posture relaxing now that you’re the one he’s talking to.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” You greet.
“Jack, please,” He says, a charming smile on his face. The room laughs lightly, a brief respite from the tension-filled silence, and you realize that you can work this in your favour.
“Jack,” You correct, altering the course of your questioning in your head. “As the defense already acknowledged, you and I are married. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” He says.
“How long have we been married?”
“Objection,” The defense says, standing from her chair. “Relevance?”
“I’ll answer for him,” You say, not waiting for the judge to speak, because you know it’ll be sustained. “Two years, after three years of dating prior to.”
You deliberately pull your left hand out of your pocket, subtly revealing your wedding ring to the jury. “In the five years we’ve been together, how many times has one of us taken a fall that resulted in potentially life-threatening injuries, requiring us to seek medical treatment at an emergency department?”
You intentionally avoid just saying ‘from a doctor,’ because you’ve definitely had a few minor wounds that he’s treated over the years, glasses on while you sit at the kitchen table, watching as he works.
“Objection, relevance,” She stresses.
“I’m laying foundation, your honour,” You counter. “And the defense was the one to bring up my marital status in the first place.”
“Overruled. Please answer the question, Dr. Abbot.”
“Zero,” He says. His confidence wasn’t rattled by the defense, but he answers your question with a definitive tone that he didn’t use with her, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. It reminds you that the person on the stand has always been on your side, and continues to be in this very moment.
You fall into a rhythm with the questions, his answers consistently working in your favour. Not because he’s lying, or even bending the truth—but because you know what to ask and how. He knows how to answer.
“In the fifteen years you’ve been an emergency physician, how many times have you seen the same patient for traumatic injuries more than once or twice in a year?”
“It happens, but it’s abnormal.”
You hum. “Are there any conclusions you would potentially draw about a patient coming in so much? That they’re clumsy, perhaps?”
“More like their injuries aren’t accidental.”
“So, if you saw the same patient, say, eight times within a single year,” You continue, making your way back over to your table as you talk, steps slow and calculated. “Always presenting with a traumatic injury of sorts, that would be peculiar, would it not?”
“I’d definitely have some concerns.”
You slide two identical pieces of paper out of your file. “Your honour, I’d ask that this be marked as exhibit fifty-six for identification.”
The clerk marks it. The courtroom stays completely silent, awaiting your next move. You pass one of the copies to the defense, watching as her eyes scan the words on the page. Most lawyers have an excellent pokerface, and she’s no exception—but you see the muscles in her jaw tense. She sets it down on the table, giving you a small nod.
You face Jack again, giving him a copy, too. “Jack, I’m showing you what’s been marked as People’s exhibit fifty-six. Do these documents look familiar to you?”
He slips his glasses on. Your stomach flips.
“They’re medical records for Abigail Carter from previous urgent care visits,” He answers.
“And you saw these as part of your review for this testimony, correct?”
“Correct, yes.”
“Could you tell me how many times Ms. Carter visited various urgent care centres in the area between March twenty-twenty three and four, please?”
“Eight times.”
“Which, as you stated earlier, is enough to cause concern,” You state. “Did you rely on these records to form your opinion about the cause of Ms. Carter’s injuries?”
“I did, yes.”
“Your honour, the People move to admit exhibit fifty-six into evidence.”
There’s no objection from the defense.
“Sustained,” He says.
“Let the record show that Abigail Carter visited five urgent care centres eight times over the course of twelve months,” You elaborate, facing the jury again. “Always presenting with a traumatic injury, some worse than others. Could you tell me what the chief complaint was on December second, twenty-twenty-three, Jack?”
“Blunt multisystem trauma,” He says, not even needing to look at the page.
“That’s the same chief complaint that she presented with at Westbridge Emergency Department on March twelfth, is that correct?”
“It is.”
“In your expert opinion,” You say, emphasizing the word, not wanting the jury to forget who he is. “Could these injuries have resulted from various assaults against Ms. Carter?”
“Absolutely.”
“What suggests that as a possibility?”
He gestures to the page as though it’s obvious, because it is. You just need him to say it out loud.
The impact of your cross examination is palpable when he's finished. “No further questions, your honour.”
“Would the defense like to re-examine?”
“We would, your honour,” Claire says, pushing herself to her feet. Jack interlocks his fingers, setting his hands in his lap, a small smirk on his face as she approaches. He does his best to remain professional as she questions him again, but his mind is reeling from your examination, eyes drifting past Claire a few times to look at you.
You keep writing things down, and he can’t help but wonder if you’re doing the thing you’ve told him about before, where you recite song lyrics, grocery lists, anything to make it seem like you have many thoughts about what you’re hearing—when in reality you already know you’ve won.
He purposefully sticks around to hear the verdict, sitting on the opposite side of the room, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to himself or you. Your posture is straight as the jury shuffles back into the room, passing the decision to the clerk. He notices that you’re playing with your wedding ring, spinning it around your finger, the action mostly hidden due to how you’re holding your clasped hands. He can see the way your thumb shifts, back and forth, turning it with each movement.
It’s not nerves—it’s anticipation. And no one else would be able to pick that up except for him.
“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty…”
Your face barely changes.
Your eyebrows raise a millimetre, maybe two. The muscles in your neck and jaw lock as you hold back a smile, like you always do when you get the ideal outcome in court. You stop playing with your ring, fingers going completely still. Jack feels himself fighting a smile too, especially when it’s all over, and you immediately turn around and engulf Abigail in a tight hug. Pride floods his chest and limbs.
She’s thanking you over and over, you shaking your head, not accepting the praise. He sees your lips move, but he can’t hear what you’re saying over the volume of the people around him. He steps out of the courtroom and into the hallway, making himself scarce along the wall as he waits for you.
You come through the doors half an hour later, briefcase in hand and purse over your shoulder. He steps out from his spot against the wall, seeing you dissolve into the version of yourself that he gets to see at home, a bright grin on your face as you walk towards him. You stick your hand out, and he chuckles, gripping it with his own.
“Thank you for your testimony, Dr. Abbot,” You say, purposefully looking at his wedding ring, as though you’re noticing it for the first time. “Ah, your wife is a very lucky woman.”
Jack nods, his usual smirk on his face. “I like to think so.”
“It’s a shame you’re married,” You continue, still not dropping his hand. “I was going to ask you to dinner.”
He hums, sucking in through his teeth. “That is pretty unfortunate.”
“I imagine she wouldn’t approve,” You say, lips twitching as you finally let go, adjusting the strap of your bag.
He shrugs. “I might be able to persuade her.”
“Is that so?” You ask, eyes practically twinkling as you look at him, making his knees weak. “Well, I would hate to keep you, Doctor. But let me know if she comes around, will you?”
“Absolutely, Counsellor,” He says, watching you turn and walk down the hallway, pulling your phone out of your bag. He feels his own buzz against his pocket a few seconds later, and he pulls it out, seeing your name on the screen.
Fig & Ash, seven o’clock?
You arrive at the restaurant after him, still wearing your pantsuit—now with three fewer buttons done up on your blouse, showing glimpses of your chest. He stands, pulling your chair out for you, his eyes adoring as you approach. You give him a soft smile, placing a hand on his chest as you peck his lips.
“Hi,” You murmur.
“Hey,” He says, kissing you again before letting you take a seat, pushing your chair into place. Your usual drink is already on the table, and Jack picks up his own once he sits back down, holding it up. “Congratulations on your win, sweetheart.”
You clink your glass with his. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Yes, you could’ve.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” You muse, sitting back, shifting your legs underneath the table until the side of your foot touches his, tapping against it a few times.
Jack taps back. “Gotta’ admit, it was pretty cool to see you do your thing like that.”
“Cool?” You repeat, a touch incredulous. “That isn’t exactly what I was going for.”
“Wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
Your eyebrows raise in suggestion as you take another sip of your drink, setting it down slowly, then folding your arms over your chest. Jack’s eyes stay on your face despite your very distracting cleavage.
“Then what did you mean, Jack?” You ask. “Please, keep things explicit for the records.”
He clears his throat, matching your posture, muscles pressing against the white button down he’s wearing.
“You know what I thought,” He says.
“I don’t think I do,” You counter. “Maybe you could show me instead?”
“How would you suggest I do that?”
“I’m sure you can figure it out for yourself,” You say, shrugging, pushing your chair back and standing up.”I’ll be in the bathroom for when you do.”
You slip your blazer off as you stride towards the back of the restaurant, throwing it over your arm just as you round the corner.
Jack smiles, shaking his head as he reaches for his wallet, tossing a sufficient pile of cash on the table. He shoves his chair back, standing up and following in your footsteps, spotting your blazer hanging from one of the door handles. He doesn’t bother knocking before pushing it open, seeing you leaning over the sink, touching up your lip gloss.
“Why bother?” He asks, flicking the lock, voice gruff. You look at him through the mirror, feigning innocence.
“It looks nice,” You counter, capping the lid and sliding the tube into your pocket. “Don’t you think so?”
He comes up behind you, rough hands slipping beneath your shirt, grazing the sensitive skin on your stomach.
“‘Course I do,” He mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You always look nice, doll.”
He nips at your earlobe. You gasp, the inhale quick and sharp, fingers gripping the edge of the sink. He pulls you back towards him, mouth trailing down your neck. He runs his hands along the waistband of your slacks, undoing your belt, then your fly. He’s watching you the whole time, his gaze fucking electric on you in the mirror.
“Eyes on me,” He murmurs, pushing your underwear aside, grazing your cunt. You jolt against him, peeling your eyes off the hand that’s down your pants, meeting his hazel eyes instead. He nods. “Good girl.”
“Jack,” You whimper, keeping your voice down.
“I know,” He says. “Be patient.”
You swallow, nodding, not daring to look away from him as his fingers crawl along you. His other hand squeezes your side, curling into your skin, bound to leave marks. He dips two fingers inside of you, thumb swiping past your clit, making you tighten your hold on the counter. He’s still watching you, a smirk crossing his face.
“I'm so fucking proud of you," He says. "Wanted to show you how much back at the courthouse."
You make a noise—something between a hum and moan—when he brushes against your clit again, pumping his two fingers up and down, bending them with each motion.
“‘Should’ve,” You say, breathing already getting heavy. “Distraction is a very useful—ah!”
He inserts a third finger, cutting your sentence short, basically proving your point with a single move.
“That so?” He asks, twisting inside of you, stretching your walls just a touch.
“Mhm!” The sound is clipped, your chest heaving as you adjust to the added pressure, pressing one of your hands against the mirror, bending forward. He grabs your chin, tilting your face back up. He finally presses his thumb against you, rubbing up and down for a few strokes, then circling your clit. A whine escapes you, trailing off into a shuddery exhale.
“Wonder if you’d lose more if half the room wasn’t so busy staring at you,” He taunts, his pace agonizingly slow, with no intention of speeding up anytime soon. “Bet some of ‘em didn’t even hear a word you said.”
“Probably not,” You pant. “But even if they did I’d still win.”
“That’s fucking right,” He mumbles, tracing along your jawline and down your throat. He rests his hand on your shoulder, fingers sitting against your collarbone. He presses the crook of his thumb into the side of your neck, applying the perfect amount of pressure to make your head spin—literally.
He pulls his fingers out of you, making you whimper. He steps away, his absence freezing on your back, until he reaches the side table on the opposite wall. He swipes the decorative candles and fake plant off, then he sits down on top of it, thighs and cock bulging against his jeans. You spin to face him, almost drooling at the sight.
He pats his thigh. “Come ‘ere, pretty girl.”
You move to straddle him, but he tuts, shaking his head.
“Other way,” He corrects, widening his stance, guiding you between his legs, your back once again pressed to his chest. He puts his hand over yours, setting it over your throbbing cunt, pushing your own fingers inside of you. “Gonna’ watch you get yourself off for me, doll.”
You lean into him, but he keeps his hands planted on his upper thighs, not touching you at all. Your thighs tighten when you start, already sensitive, heat coiling in your stomach as you move.
“Jack, baby,” You moan, picking up the pace, sweat starting to bead along the nape of your neck.
“Fuck me,” He grunts, shifting closer until you can feel his cock pushing against you. Your back arches, your free hand clawing at his thigh, squeezing tightly as your orgasm builds. Jack takes in the way your chest lifts with each desperate, gasping breath, the overwhelming urge to see more hitting him. His arms loop around you, gripping your shirt on either side, ripping it open, sending buttons scattering across the floor. You barely react—already knowing that he’ll buy you an even nicer blouse in exchange for the one he’s just ruined.
Your breasts move with each flare of your ribcage, perfectly timed with the whimpers that you’re making, eyes closed and head tilted back, resting on his shoulder. He tilts your face into his neck, the touch sending shockwaves down your arms. Your moans vibrate against his skin, the sound muffled just enough to make sure no one outside can hear you.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” He says.
He sees the moment your orgasm hits, your thighs closing around your hand, fingers still moving as you ride it out. He circles his arms around you as you cry out against his neck, biting into him to stay quiet. He holds you there for a minute, letting you come down, breathing ragged and uneven. He can feel your heartbeat against his forearms, the sensation driving him fucking insane.
“Stand up for me,” He whispers, lips against your ear. You listen, legs wobbling, his one hand on your hip to keep you steady. He undoes the fly on his jeans, shifting them and his boxers down single handedly. He turns you around, using both hands to pull your pants and underwear to your ankles. You step out of them, slipping your pumps off too, following his lead when he has you straddle him this time. Your knees press against the tabletop until you’re resting on his thighs, taking some of the pressure off of them.
“Let me mess up that lip gloss,” He says, tilting his chin up. You lean down, kissing him softly at first, but it devolves quickly. Your mouths are half-open, the action a mixture of lips and tongues, both of you breathing heavily. Jack takes hold of your sides, blindly positioning you over him, the movement second nature. You grind down, and he groans against your mouth at the feeling of you around him.
He buries his face into your chest as you bounce, arms around his neck to keep yourself upright. He leaves bruises all over your skin before looking up at you, mesmerized. Your lip gloss is streaked across your cheek, and he’s left some of it on your chest, but he’s sure it’s all over his face too. He leans back against the wall, slightly dazed, legs twitching as he gets closer to finishing.
“Fuck,” He exhales, still watching you. He could look at this view for the rest of his life. “Holy shit, baby—fuck, I—I’m close.”
You moan. “Need you to finish inside me so bad, Jack.”
“Soon, soon, you’re taking me so well,” He says, grunting when you pause at the bottom of your bounce, tilting your hips towards him, shifting back and forth on his dick. “Oh, jesus christ, yeah, fuck—just like that, pretty girl.”
Pressure builds in your thighs and stomach again, your eyes glaze over, and you tighten around him. It sends Jack over the edge, grunting as he finishes inside of you, thighs twitching. You grind down again, hard, moaning when it makes him jerk upwards.
“You wanna’ come again, baby?” He asks, blinking a few times until his vision clears, the haze starting to lift.
“Please,” You beg, already so close—you just need a little more. He lifts you off of him with an ease that makes your mouth water, setting you on his thigh, the contact with the rough denim of his jeans enough to make you gasp. He trails kisses up your chest, neck, and along your jaw.
“Can I go down on you?” He asks, lips against your skin.
“Fuck, do whatever the fuck you want to me,” You breathe, hastily climbing off his lap. He stands, and you expect for him to have you take his spot, but he just pushes you against the wall, already kneeling by the time you process it.
He lifts one of your legs up, resting it over his shoulder, holding onto your thigh and bracing himself against the wall with his other hand. The feeling of his tongue on your clit is dizzying, white dots scattering across your vision as you thread a hand through his curls. He closes his lips around you, sucking while still flicking his tongue up and down.
“Fuck, ah—shit, Jack!” You whine, bucking your hips against him, begging for more. “Oh—oh my god, holy fuck, don’t fucking stop, please.”
He pats your thigh in affirmation, mouth a little busy at the moment.
Your words fade into helpless whining, not a single coherent sentence making it past your lips. He moans against you, making your eyes roll back in your head, fluttering closed.
You come shortly after. Jack stays where he is, pressing a few kisses to your inner thighs, carefully putting your leg back on the ground. He sets you down on the table, cleaning you up, kissing your temple and muttering praises as he does. He pulls his pants back up, then starts unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the white tank top he’s wearing underneath. He hangs the button down on the hook behind the door for you, then helps you get dressed. He picks up the remnants of your shirt, tossing them in the trash, a smirk on his face the entire time.
Once the shaking in your legs dies down you put your shoes back on, standing up and walking over to the mirror. You pull the tube of lip gloss out again, carefully putting it on your lips. Jack frowns.
“After all the work I put in to take it off,” He grumbles, teasingly, making you smile. He comes up behind you again, kissing your cheek. “See you at home?”
You nod, smiling. “Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.”
“Looking forward to it,” He says, passing you his shirt, watching as you pull it over your exposed chest. “I don’t think I’m done with you just yet.”
A/N - series???? maybe??????? lmk :)
some tags:
@generation-zero @navs-bhat
