can you do a fluff concept of jack comforting college reader
*speaking from experience😭*
she’s struggling in her human anatomy course and he’s helping her study or like he’s comforting her after a breakdown
yes! i feel you babes i hope you feel better! take a break and relax for a bit.
He felt so bad. he was testing you on vocab and after you couldn’t remember a word, you completely broke down. it was all too much. there was so much work to do and it was all so hard, you were completely overwhelmed. he quickly wraps his arms around you and kisses your temple, shushing you quietly between soft kisses. and once you’ve calmed down, he makes you a snack and you get back to work. trying a different technique.
Head canon: MAKING JACK BLUSH. I NEED TO SEE IT. 🥺
Summary: Jack Daniels is a pretty cowboy.
Paring: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x reader
Word Count: 1.3k+
Warnings: soft!Jack, no sins but they are for sure basking in the post-sin afterglow, a lil bit of blushing for our baby boy, this is not beta read bc i’m impatient
Author’s Note: YESDJHGJFD I LOVED EVERY SECOND OF THIS. This is also my first little like drabble, except it’s too long but ig 1.3k is a drabble for me kids this is the standard.
It’s early in the morning. 1:43 am to be exact. But you can’t bring yourself to end the night; he always make it so hard to sleep. In a good way of course; a really good way.
It’s in the afterglow that his feelings begin to melt, glaciers in his mind turning to liquid as the golden amber spills gently from his lips and over your chest so that it will encapsulate you, dry around you and encase you, keeping his words wrapped around your body forever. Embroidered into the soft chenille of your neck and whispered into the lobes of your ears. He speaks to you in a way that you can feel; it’s a pleasure of its own to feel his lips kiss the dips of your clavicles through his words, his voice low and sending wide vibrations through your sternum. It feels sinful, heavenly, like something too good to be right.
It feels nice.
You’re laid by him on your side, face buried into his bare chest as his thick fingers run along the curve of your spine, re-exploring you with a sense of focused clarity that he doesn’t often get when he’s overwhelmed with lust and passion. His fingers are careful, sensitive, picking up on every bump and blemish until he can paint the perfect picture of you under his closed eyelids, even as the meek moonlight bathes your waist and glimmers against the sheets. Perfect.
He’s resolved to a comfortable state of wordlessness, eyes trained on the top of your head as you bask. There truly is something golden about the afterglow he casts onto you; you always seem to feel like you’re floating, like not even gravity could keep you from ascending to the clouds with him. He makes you feel precious.
With an inhale of his musk, you slowly nudge your chin so that you can look up at him, fingers tracing his jaw. You love to let him shower you in his affection like a delicate hummingbird is kissed by tiny drops of rain, but you rarely take the time to take him in. The bump of his nose is highlighted by the window’s rays, his lips still a little blushed and swollen from the night. The side of your palm runs up along the side of his face before finding his hair; it’s been mussed, disheveled by your greedy fingers. Gorgeous.
“What’s going on in that big beautiful mind of yours, angel?” Jack ponders, prodding you tenderly with his words. He can tell when you’re lost in thought, lost in him. Perhaps he can’t tell when you have no desire to be found, when you want to be left to traverse the tall grass of his forest and hug the applewood in his eyes. What a way to go.
“Nothing, Jack,” you assure. It’s a weak excuse, an almost embarrassing attempt at deflecting his question, but maybe it’s because you want him to ask you again, dig a little deeper into you so he can make a home inside you. Never leave.
“Now, darlin’,” he starts, feigning a little sternness in his tone, “I think you know good and well that ol’ Jack can tell when you’re fibbin’. Ain’t no use lyin’ to me, honey. I’ll catch ya every time.” Your heart swells swells a little at his words, because he’s so honest with you. You know he knows you, sometimes better than you know yourself. He’s made you his hobby, learning you like a subject and studying you like a book. He can always read you.
And yeah; he always catches you.
You take a few diamond-adorned seconds to look at him; his mustache rests right on top of his soft smile, there to accent his words and tickle your neck when he’s feeling playful. His eyes are wide like when a two-month old baby can finally look at its mother in awe, utterly mystified and doe-y. His face is sculpted by the gods, chiseled to magnificence in his charcoal features, and yet he uses it to show you he loves you. He loves you.
“You’re so pretty, Jack,” you whisper. The words barely leave your lips as a noise, traveling to his ears as wisps of the breeze you blow onto him.
Jack Daniels is floored.
It’s not a word he’d ever use to describe himself. Cocky, sure. Sexy, absolutely. Brash, confident, competent; he wasn’t too shy to toot his own horn every once in a while. But pretty? Flowers are pretty; butterflies are pretty. When the sleepy sun yawns and breathes a peach glow onto the front-porch flower bed, that’s pretty. When you step outside to dip yourself in the golden afterglow and he walks out into the backyard to find you sitting on the quaint bench he built just for you. When he drags himself into the kitchen in the morning to find you already there, frying up bacon on his stove in nothing but his unbuttoned flannel and last night’s bra; that is fucking pretty.
But Jack Daniels -- is he pretty? He looks down at you carefully. He can tell when you’re fibbin’, after all.
You don’t look like a dishonest woman to him.
“You’ve already got me in bed with you,” he teases, trying to deflect. He can’t handle the weight of your words, isn’t strong enough to hide what they do to him, and he needs you to take them back before he bursts into a supernova of rouge love. “You don’t need to-”
“I mean it, baby,” you interrupt, tone serious. You can tell he doesn’t want to believe you, doesn’t want to grapple with the intensity of your thoughts. But he needs to know, he has to trust you’re not deceiving him. “You’re beautiful.”
His smirk is gone, his smug, self-assured grin nowhere to be seen. The room is dark; he knows that. But the moonlight hits him just right, at just the right angle that you can see that sweet strawberry syrup tint his cheeks, giving him up. You can’t help but smile a little, like you’ve done something good. He’s good.
Jack’s breathing is a little jagged, his heartbeats a little stuttered. What was it he’d done to deserve you again? Oh right; nothing.
Your hand leaves his hand to cup his red cheek, thumb running right under his big eyes. He leans into it, face turning a little to nuzzle your palm, and the notion makes you giggle. A fierce lion reduced to a whimsical lamb, so gentle under your touch. He is vulnerable when he is with you, especially in these shared moments of solitude, and you wonder if you could look at him like this forever.
Blushing.
“C’mere, pretty boy,” you tease, but you mean it. You mean every word.
You nudge him towards you, his face finding solace in your chest. He shifts down a little, his soft body wrapping around your middle. He can hide in you, feel pretty in your arms. He’s safe in you.
“You think I’m pretty, sugar?” he asks softly. Almost a little timid. He’s embarrassed to need validation like this, ashamed that he’s practically begging you to say those words again, but you make him feel so warm, so secure, and he knows that the last person to leave him for a lapse in strength is you.
You press a kiss to the top of his scalp, his wild hair tickling your nose but you don’t care; you want him close. Closer.
“I know it,” you whisper, throat closing on itself a little because you’re so grateful that you finally get to tell him. That Jack can finally begin to grasp just how much he means to you. There’s so much more you want to say, but you don’t want to overwhelm him with it because you know he loves you with a fury and passion that drowns him without you piling on your love too.
And as Jack closes his eyes, finally ready to let the night end, he thinks he might know it too.
Tags (ik this is a drabble but idk lmao): @gustavos @catfishingmorales @keeper0fthestars @1zashreena1 @blancatobarxoxo @honeyedspace @chaotic-noceur @opheliaelysia @adikaofmandalore @din-damn-djarin @mrsparknuts @girlwithanewplan @mrschiltoncat @buckstaposition @the-feckless-wonder @ergotautology (girl you know what to do)
also im gonna never tag anyone in my headcanons again bc that was embarrassing yikes gjfhdjgd
Making dinner for Jack would be so rewarding and nice. I feel like he’d be so grateful because having a home cooked meal is probably few and far between
yes! cause let’s me honest, we know he can’t cook. with that peanut butter chicken bs there’s no way he can cook good balanced meals😭 but i’d be so worried about him especially cause when you’re over working yourself and tired you’re not gonna feel better without some good food so he’s just smiling and eating and staring at you like you’re the only thing right in the world
