lost in translation [2]
pairing: Jackie Taylor x f!reader summary: You're her French tutor. Your methods may be a little controversial. College AU. note: any dialogue line in italics is French I saved us both time by not translating all of it. mdni. more smut. more jackie taylor praise kink Part 1
Jackie gasps as your fingers brush between her legs, already ready for you as your fingers come away damp. You trace a finger across her cunt, feeling out her entrance as you slowly dip your fingertip inside just enough to tease. Her hips shift instinctively, chasing the touch as her knees fall open wider in a silent invitation for more. Jackie always wants more, wants another touch. It’s one of the first things you learned about her.
It’s endearing, the way her eyes fixate on your hands when she wants you to touch her. She doesn’t always say anything–doesn’t need to–but her eyes always give her away every time. Like now. Eyes glazed and hungry for more. Her lips part, like she wants to say something to urge you on but isn’t exactly sure what. She bites at her bottom lip instead, worrying it between her teeth.
That just wasn’t fair: you wanted her bottom lip between your teeth, where it belongs. Jackie could be so selfish sometimes. You love the sounds she makes whenever your teeth come into play, the sighs and little whimpers she tries to quiet. The way she’ll pull just a little bit in the opposite direction to feel the skin pull taut. It’s almost unnoticeable, Jackie certainly thinks it is, but you pay far too much attention to her to let something like that slip by unnoticed.
It’s funny, almost. Jackie usually knows exactly what to say to get what she wants. A part of you enjoys this change of pace, but a bigger part wants to hear her voice in your ear. Soft, desperate, and just the perfect amount of whiny.
It was the simple pleasures in life that you really had to look out for. And Jackie, flushed and pliant and asking for what she wants for a change in that sweet and breathy voice? That made the top of the list.
“How’s it feel?”
She relaxes at the unspoken expectation. Jackie was wondering if she would be practicing her French again today. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she considers, releasing her bottom lip from between her teeth.
“Good. Better inside,” she answers pointedly.
“Better inside, hm?” You echo as you press forward.
Finally, she can’t take it anymore. Her hands reach out for your arm, your shoulder, your back. Anything will do, and she certainly isn’t picky. She settles on your back as you sink two fingers into her.
“God, yes,” she breathes out shakily. Your hand rests on her waist as you curl your fingers, feeling the way she squirms beneath you.
“Fuck, fuck, please,” Jackie whines, clawing at your back as she tries to pull you closer.
You laugh quietly against her ear, nipping at the skin beneath it. “That's not how you say it.”
Jackie groans, trying to turn her head to kiss you, but you pull just out of reach. You won't let her distract you that easily. Again. It was embarrassingly easy to fall victim to Jackie's whims if you weren't careful. She was dangerously adept with her mouth.
“S'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît,” she tries breathlessly, the words falling from her lips like a prayer. She stumbles over the syllables in her haste to placate you, but there's no doubt in your mind what the words are.
She's gotten quite good at that one, you'll admit. Please, please, please. The only words Jackie would ever say in a perfect world. Alas, she keeps insisting on leaving your bed. Jackie's stubborn like that.
“Better,” you murmur in French, nipping at her neck again before soothing it with your tongue. You curl your fingers in reward, which earns a choked whine.
Jackie always complains when you start this up, and yet she was always so wet by the time you slipped between her legs that she clearly didn't mind all that much. Not with the way her eyes lit up whenever you started speaking French, like it was just an instinctual response to the language to press her thighs together and squirm.
God. Have you Pavlov’d her?
The thought of Jackie sitting down to study or take her exam and thinking of nothing but you murmuring words in her ear as you took her was nothing short of life changing. Maybe you should feel a little bad about the whole thing, considering that she had sought you out for help in the first place. But the feeling didn't last long.
Besides, she was the one that kept insisting that you move your regular meetings in the library to your room instead. It was her fault she kept finding herself on her back like this, pleading with you in broken French like her life depended on it. The way that Jackie reacted sometimes, you wondered if it really did feel like that for her.
Sometimes she acted like she would die if she didn't get to come soon.
“Your pronunciation could use some work.”
“Je m'en fiche, je m'en fiche,” she protests. She grabs at your arm, feeling the way your muscles move beneath her fingers as you fuck her.
Jackie always likes to feel you beneath her hands, touching anything and everything as long as it was a part of you. Even when you were just sitting across from each other at the table, you'd eventually find her trying to play footsie beneath the table.
“You don't care?” You tease. “Shouldn't you be practicing?“
“You're killing me.” Half-laugh, half-whine. All desperation. Just the way you like her. She's been so stressed out recently with finals coming up. Having her like this was a welcome relief. Still, you couldn't help but tease her.
“Good. Maybe next time you'll study your vocabulary like I told you to.”
You knew that she cracked open the book when you weren't there, but sometimes you really couldn't tell.
“I'll practice. Later. Promise.”
“Later, when?” You ask, letting your fingers still inside her. “During our next session? You might get distracted then too.”
“I'm studying right now.”
“Not hard enough, apparently.”
Her hips buck in protest at your unimpressed look, trying to fuck herself if you won't do it for her. You make no move to stop her as her foot braces against the bed for leverage, keeping your hand limp and letting her do all the work as she rocks up into it. She throws her head back with a breathy moan, clutching at you even tighter as she chases it. You enjoy the frustrated noises that leave her pretty lips until she stills and glares at you.
Jackie digs her nails into your skin in a way that would be painful if it didn't feel so damn good. “Fine. Yes. Oui. Whatever you want. Just–s'il vous plaît.”
“Bonne fille.” You kiss beneath her jaw again, enjoying the way it made her melt beneath you. You pick your rhythm back up like you'd never even stopped. She could be so pliant when she got what she wanted.
“Again. Say it again.” Whiny. Not quite a plea, but you answer it anyway. Don't you always, in the end? She's good at getting what she wants.
You grin against her skin. “Good girl,” you repeat.
Her breath hitches, hips arching up to meet you. “Again.”
“Hm?”
“I don't even know how–” Jackie groans. “Encore?”
“Is that how we ask?”
“Hate you,” she mutters, dragging her nails down your back. Her eyes flash with irritation when you let out a pleased noise in response. “Hate you.”
“Who taught you that one?” You ask absently, bringing a thumb down to circle her clit.
“S'il vous plaît, encore?”
“Love when you ask nicely. Good girl.”
“I want–I want…” Jackie trails off with a moan, eyes slipping shut as she clutches at you.
“Are you going to come for me?” You ask, taking mercy on her.
“Please–”
“I want to watch. I know you’ll look so pretty for me. Want to hear you say my name; could you do that?”
The words are barely out of your mouth before Jackie arches, her thighs snapping shut around your hand as she manages to cry out something that sounds sort of like your name between shuddering breaths.
…
Two months ago
You’d like to say that Jackie had made massive progress since then, but it would be more honest just to say progress. Some progress. In what direction, you’re not sure. But progress has been made.
That wasn’t entirely fair. She was getting somewhat better. Jackie could probably manage an actual conversation with someone if they were patient enough and didn’t mind having to rely on context clues for the verbs she forgot to conjugate. You were patient enough, but you dreaded the thought of Jackie trying to actually speak to someone like that.
She would probably be getting even better if she would take it just a bit more seriously when she was with you. It’s not like she wasn’t studying outside of your sessions. That much was obvious. Jackie has improved enough that she has to be working on it by herself with real dedication, given how much trouble the language has seemed to have given her. Sometimes it felt like Jackie had improved too much in between sessions, but you never wanted to question her on it.
But whenever you sat down across from her, it seemed like practicing French was the last thing on her mind. You don’t get it. Having you in front of her should have been the best time to practice. That was when she should have been asking you hard questions, clarifying things she didn’t understand, or practicing her conversation skills without you having to prompt her into it.
All she seems to want to do when she has you is twirl her hair around her finger and give you confused looks you suspect were only half-genuine. There’s just something a little too knowing in her eyes for you to take her at her word. Something that makes you wonder if she knows a little more than she’s letting on.
Like when she leans forward with her head resting in her palm, watching you with those eyes that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. The only person worth paying attention to, at least. It made you feel things you probably shouldn’t for someone you were meant to be tutoring. It can’t be productive to have a crush of all things on her.
But she was just so genuine. So attentive. So clearly uninterested in learning French.
The only way you’ve found to get Jackie to attempt a conversation in French was to talk about yourself or soccer. You aren’t sure what the correlation was. Maybe she was just deflecting. Still, watching Jackie stumble her way through asking you to watch her play this weekend was worth the time it took to get out here if nothing else was.
“So, what do you think?” She asks hopefully, fingers fidgeting with her notebook.
“Ask me again, Jackie,” you say, leaning back in your chair and twirling your pencil absently around your fingers.
Her head tilts to the side in an expression of confusion, even while her eyes keep flicking back to your fingers. You can already tell that she has absolutely no clue where this is going, which only makes the whole thing better for you.
“Come to my game this weekend?” she asks hesitantly.
You sigh pointedly. “In French?”
Oh, she mouths, a flush creeping up the back of her neck. “But I… fine.”
“Could–would–will you come to my game?” She tries in French. It takes her a few tries to get the phrasing just right, especially with how nervous the whole thing seems to have made her. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this nervous ever, fumbling conjugations and stumbling over her words. It was like she was holding her breath the whole time and only let it out when you finally nodded your agreement.
Her shoulders relax immediately, her lips parting as she looks at you. There was something she had wanted to say to you right then, but she lost it the moment the words left your mouth.
“You’re doing such a good job,” you say warmly, not even sparing them a thought. Jackie certainly spares them a lot of thoughts if her reaction was anything to go by.
It was like you performed a factory reset on her. Error, error, Jackie does not compute. She stares at you wide-eyed, with something almost bordering on awe, before she breaks eye contact with a slightly manic, high-pitched laugh as she starts shuffling her papers around in distraction. The sound of her laugh lingers just long enough to sound strange and out of character. She avoids your eyes, almost dropping one of her papers and having to do an awkward lunge to stop it from hitting the floor.
“Uh, thanks,” she mutters after a long moment, still staring at the table, looking like she was trying to piece herself back together.
That was something you couldn’t stop noticing after that: the way she responds to praise. A good job here, or a that was perfect there, was usually enough to have her focus on what you were saying to her for at least another fifteen minutes. A lot of people you tutor respond better to praise than they did to criticism–you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, after all–but Jackie responds suspiciously well.
You kept telling yourself that it was only her competitiveness. It’s not like you can become the captain of a nationals-winning soccer team by settling for mediocrity, right? Of course she would want to hear that she was doing things correctly. That’s how you improve, after all. Feedback, praise, constructive criticism–not that you were doing much of the last one.
It wasn’t just satisfaction on her face, was it? It was nothing like the look on her face when she scores a goal, that smug satisfaction as she glances over at you to make sure you were watching. It was something altogether different, something softer shared just between the two of you. Something that lasted longer than it should, stretching out until it made you want to do something stupid.Satisfaction wasn’t what you felt when you watched her react to it, either.
You should stop indulging it. Indulging her.
But it made you wonder, sometimes, just how much it was affecting her. Were you just imagining the way she shifts in her seat when you praise her pronunciation, or was she really pressing her thighs together? Surely it couldn’t be that simple, could it? It was Jackie Taylor, after all. Surely she had better options sitting around than her French tutor who couldn’t quite manage to teach her French?
The way she looks at you in those moments, like she was trying to suss out whether you really meant it or not, made your breath catch sometimes. You never gave it out when you hadn’t felt like she earned it, which Jackie quickly latches onto. She waits just a moment before she tries another exercise, waiting to see if you had anything else you wanted to dole out. A momentary flicker of disappointment crosses her face until she moves on down the page.
Jackie was always fidgeting with something as she sat across from you–restless hands that couldn’t stay still–but when you praised her? All her attention shifts over to you. Even her hands sat motionlessly in her lap.
There was a line you were drawing, clear in the sand. But every day it seems to get muddier and muddier, until finally you step right over it.
…
“D-décrire,” Jackie manages breathily, hips jumping when you reward her by lapping at her cunt again. You throw an arm over her hips to hold them down, tired of having to avoid getting your nose smashed by her errant thrusts.
“Oh, fuck, uh–write? To write?”
Jackie whines as you start to pull away, almost crumpling the notecards in her hands in her desperation. “No! No. Describe? Its describe, please? S'il vous plaît?”
You squeeze her thigh in acceptance, making Jackie cry out as you let your nose bump against her clit with each flick of your tongue. She absently shuffles to the next card, trying to draw the moment out before you force her to pretend to study. Jackie shudders as she meets your impatient eyes, reluctantly turning her attention to your carefully written vocabulary cards. The two of you could have quizzed them the normal way, but she insisted on having your mouth right now.
Let it never be said that you aren't efficient. Two birds with one stone and all that. Or, rather, eating Jackie out while she stutters her way through vocabulary she only half knows. The best of both worlds, really: she gets that orgasm she's so obviously fishing for, and you get to reassure yourself that she's at least learning something out of the time you're supposed to be tutoring her. Also, you get your mouth on her cunt, but that goes without saying.
“Faire des courses. Something with errands… Running errands?”
Another squeeze of her thigh as you pay her clit some attention, a relieved moan leaving Jackie's lips as she shuffles it to the haphazard bunch of cards held precariously in her hands. You almost wish she dropped them just so you could tell her she had to start again. Not seriously, of course: you think Jackie might actually cry if you were, but the thought of her face when you said it might have made it worth it.
Jackie's hips twitch up, trying to get more of the touch you've been withholding from her since you've begun. You've started paying more attention to her now, knowing how close she was getting. Both to the end of the stack and to finishing.
The weight of your arm keeps her pinned more than she seems to like as she grumbles under her breath, her foot pressing lightly into your side in reproach. You dig your thumb into the meat of her thigh, and she pulls back with a whined complaint that's quickly soothed with consolatory flicks of your tongue against her clit.
It's different now that you've moved up, like you've found her kryptonite. Thighs quiver just enough to be noticeable around your ears as they shut reflexively before you have to spread them apart again, an aborted roll of her hips to meet your mouth, the sound of her fumbling with little papers like it's everything she can do to keep them in her hands.
“You–oh, God, there–you're cheating,” Jackie accuses.
You hum in acknowledgment, not bothering to reward that with a response as you flick your tongue steadily against her clit.
A sharp breath, then a slow exhale as Jackie lifts a card up. “Qu'est-ce tu fa–aah…” She trails off into a moan, almost crushing the card between her fingers as she struggles to keep her eyes open. “...fais pendant ton temps libre?”
“Free time, maybe?”Jackie tries, cursing under her breath as you don't respond.
“Hobbies?” Nothing, again. Jackie almost cries. “What do you do for fun? Please?”
You squeeze her thigh in acceptance, and this time she does cry out. In relief, in pleasure, you aren't sure what. Did it even matter when she sounded like that? There's still a few cards left, but if she would just ask…
Almost as if she could read your mind, Jackie starts babbling. “Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease just–”
She's so pretty, all the time, but especially right now–muscles clenching and flushed from her shoulders up, desperation written so clearly across her body. And she's been so good tonight, hasn't she? So patient, even if she did it to herself. You move your arm off her hips to wrap your arms around both her thighs, holding her open as you really dive in. Licking hard and fast at Jackie's clit as her hips jump.
Jackie drops the flashcards with a relieved moan, her hand darting to fist in your hair like it was drawn by a magnet as the cards settle haphazardly across her chest and pool around her sides.
“Yes! Please, like that. Like that.”
And who are you to deny her?
She squirms beneath you, your arms tightening to keep her still as she arches up off the bed. It doesn't seem to take much now, not with how you've been teasing her all night. Jackie's been so worked up for so long–in Jackie time, not real time–that her thighs are already starting to tremble where they're pressed too tightly against your ears.
It's like she's trying to ground herself with the touch, but it's a pointless endeavor. You're not letting up, not after you've waited so long to really have her tonight. You hadn't realized how badly you wanted her too until you were done with your little study session.
This has to be the last one. You haven't managed to actually study in weeks. Every study session, no matter how good your intentions were when starting it, ends up like this. The two of you tangled up in one another, mouths and tongues and fingers. Jackie’s always the first to give in, but some part of you doubts that she ever intended for it to go any other way.
Jackie's growing frantic beneath your attention, soft pleas interspersed with breathy cries of your name as she grabs on tight to any part of you she can reach. She manages to find one of your hands on her thighs, tugging your fingers away. You’re surprised for a moment, thinking she’s trying to lead your fingers somewhere else entirely. You almost start to move to make room for your arm before she entwines your fingers together.
Her hand is sweaty, or maybe it was yours, but all that really matters is how tightly Jackie has to hold your hand to keep from losing it.
“Please,” she murmurs again.
Doesn’t she know you’ll give her anything she wants by now?
…
“I left your money on the nightstand,” Jackie murmurs against your ear, nuzzling her head into your shoulder as the tip of her cold nose brushes your neck. You shiver at the touch, trying not to pull away.
Jackie was always so damn cold.
“You make me sound like a prostitute,” you mutter, fingers tracing shapes along Jackie's bare back beneath her blanket. The two of you are pressed tightly enough together that you can feel Jackie's chest move as she laughs.
“Not true,” she protests in a whisper, grinning against your neck. “Everything I know about French I learned from you.”
“...That's not the compliment you seem to think it is.”
Jackie gasps in offense, nipping at your ear.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means you're going to fail French a second semester in a row, and it's going to be my fault.” Surely she would have made more progress if you hadn't spent the last month before her final fucking her instead of studying.
Jackie laughs nervously. Your eyes narrow as you slowly look toward her messy blonde head.
“Jackie?” you question.
“So, it's a funny story. I actually think you're going to laugh when you find out…”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, totally. See, the thing is I'mnotactuallytakingFrenchisn’tthatfunny?”
“What?”
Jackie clears her throat. “I'm not actually taking French. Isn't that, like, so funny?”
“You're… You're not… You're not even taking French?”
Jackie laughs, trailing off when you don't join her. “I said it was funny.”
“Why would you even–what the fuck, Jackie?”
“I mean…” Jackie trails off guiltily. “I knew you tutored French, see? And I took enough in high school that I figured I could get away with it, maybe.”
High school French.
That explains so much. She probably failed that too. You don't even know what to think of this information.
“Why?”
“It sounds dumb when I say it now, but you're hot, you know? I figured I could just sit a few sessions and ask you out, but then you started talking in French, and it was even hotter, and it spiraled from there.”
“You've given me hundreds of dollars to tutor you because you had a crush?”
“It's my dad's money,” she says dismissively.
You shouldn't find that as cute as you do.
Jesus.
At least you won't have to pretend to tutor her anymore.
