nara

SUE ME I WANNA BE WANTED!

⋆˙✶ ݁ nara, she, her, twenty, bi, salvadoreña. i love older men and women. writing about them is my specialty.

this blog is 18+. minors dni !!

requests are open

currently writing for… jack abbot, andrew 'pope' cody .

accepting requests for … jack abbot, pope cody, clark kent, ellie williams, trinity santos | writing prompt request

my complicated masterlist

e.w masterlist

summary ... jack and reader have been seeing one another for nearly four months and jack is finally ready for it to be official.

content warnings ... use of Y/N, reader has hair, period... blindfold use. face 🐎

wc ... 6.7 k (okay so let me get my immature ass off the internet).

a/n ... i am so so sorry for being absent this past month. it has been so insane and i haven’t been able to write or concentrate. but here is the new chapter!! hope you guys like it. not edited

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can be read as a stand alone.

Jack has been sure of everything about his relationship with you since your first date, but as he sews quilted letters spelling out ‘Will you be my girlfriend? ' he’s beginning to doubt himself. And Robby, who decided to join out of boredom and after he was kicked out of Dennis and Trinity’s apartment, isn’t making him feel any better. 

He snorts as Jack stabs himself with the small needle for the fifth time. He’s working on the question mark, because, according to him, it was the easiest to make. Now he’s also doubting himself because he’s not quite sure how he’ll attach the tiny circle to the rest of the shape: somehow sew it all together, make it look like a broken dick, stick thread through both ends and let the circle dangle… 

“You’re not sewing it back and forth like Sherry in the video. It’s supposed to –” 

“This isn’t supposed to be perfect!” Jack exclaims, dropping the second L in his lap while still holding the needle. He’s already stabbed his stub. “I’m not making it for an Etsy shop; I’m making it for my girl. So all that matters is that it’s being made with love.” 

“People say that when their work turns out shit.” 

“Yeah, well, what masterpiece did you make when you asked Dennis to be your boyfriend?” 

Robby cocks his head to the side and bites down on his lip. He chuckles and returns to tying the stuffed circle to its body with a white piece of thread. It looks funky, and he nearly throws it on the floor and disappears from the room, but it might make Jack laugh. And that isn’t wanted. Not when Jack knows that Robby hasn’t asked Dennis to be his boyfriend. 

“That shut you up real quick, huh?” Jack jokes, inching his foot over to Robby’s side of the couch and prodding at his leg. 

“Fuck off.” Robby lifts his middle finger and flips Jack off, then sets his final ‘question mark’ on the table. He picks up another piece of fabric and stares at it like it’s the hardest math problem on the planet. He glances at Jack, who’s already forgotten about his teasing and has finished sewing.  “How are you so good at this?” he hisses, and falls back against the couch, the fabric falling onto his knee as he leans. 

“You just told me my stitching was terrible.” 

“Right, well, I lied. I’m jealous that you only needed to watch the video once before you got it.” 

Jack shrugs and steals the fabric lying on Robby’s knee. “I’ve watched Y/N sew a lot of things. My shirts, her jeans with fun patches. She’s way better at me, but sometimes I’ll get bored of reading when I stay over, so I watch her till I fall asleep.” 

Robby stares at his friend as he maps out another letter, then proceeds to cut it out with his very fancy, very pink fabric shears. Jack must have raided your crafts bin, he thinks, or maybe you have turned him into an entirely different person. Robby knows you have, but in the best way possible. His thoughts begin with jealousy at how great Jack’s crafting skills are, then settle into something cheesy – something that starts with, “Before he met you,” as if he’s a best man starting a speech at a wedding. But he can’t stop himself. Before you entered the picture, Jack was the most hopeless romantic man he had ever met. Despite standing by the fact that he wasn’t old enough to forget about love and dating, he was sad no one had made an appearance yet. He was uttering these depressing sentences like, “Maybe Hannah was my only love,” then would quite literally try to shake it out of his head. He kept this on until mid-March, when Robby is certain you and Jack met, because he began clocking into his shifts like he got new shoe inserts: bouncy and with ease. Now he’s watching Jack sew, a task he’s probably never done outside of combat or an overly white room with blinding overhead lights, and he’s happy for him. 

“I’m excited for your wedding already,” Robby says, and Jack chokes on his own saliva. 

“I’m only asking her to be my girlfriend tonight,” he chuckles, and pushes his glasses up. He doesn’t know where this is coming from, but it’s a nice contrast. 

Robby shakes his shoulders and sits up, placing his elbows on his knees. “Well, I can already see it: small but fun and colorful. You’ll probably have to help DIY everything.” 

“And I’ll be glad to do it.” 

“What made you want to ask?” Robby questions, and changes his posture into an alert, defensive stance when Jack furrows his eyebrows. “I know you already wanted to ask, but was there any moment between our conversation two weeks ago and now… did anything happen during the Fourth of July?” 

“What makes you think something beyond the ordinary happened on the Fourth that would make me want to ask?” 

“Well…” Robby scratches the back of his neck in guilt. “A little bird told me something happened.” 

“What little birdy?” 

“You know which birdy.” 

Jack looks around his living room like said birdy might fly into the place through the sliver in the patio door. “I didn’t know I had turned into a bird expert overnight.” 

“Oh fuck you,” Robby laughs. “It was Trinity. She was debriefing about her trip to Y/N’s editor’s lake house while I was hiding in Dennis’ room. I overheard the beginning of the story, and once she started talking about you and your girls’ drunkenly dancing to fireworks and the La La Land soundtrack, I walked out and made her tell me the entire story in detail.” 

“Didn’t take you for such a gossip-queen.” 

Robby isn’t ashamed. In fact, he once again shifts his posture and sits straighter, more confident and interested in Jack’s untold experience. “I knew you wouldn’t tell me unless I begged you to. Plus, it was adorable. My apologies for being interested in your adorable love story.” 

Jack rolls his eyes and lays his letter down. Its body is perfect, and it’s halfway stuffed. “You want to know what happened, don’t you?” 

Robby nods with a smile. “Would you mind?” 

Jack rolls his eyes, acting as though recounting the magical night is a nuisance, when in reality, thinking about it again – like he has been doing for the past week – makes the apples of his cheeks warm and red. 

Fourth of July was originally going to be spent at your parents' house forty minutes outside of the city, on a big plot of land and their small cabin-like home, like you had been doing for years. You explained to Jack that it wasn’t going to be a big event – no extended family members, no grand drinking, no driving around on four-wheelers like the neighbors. It was just going to be a small cookout with a few beers and fireworks bought from a questionable stand with a ten-year-old as the cashier. That was until your editor, Mikey, invited you and Jack to her lake house in Findley Lake, two hours away from Pittsburgh. You agreed, and had to cancel on your parents, who were surprisingly excited for you to give them a holiday to themselves. 

When you got to the lake house, which was as big as you had expected – two stories with fancy white stairs cascading down the back porch into the backyard, and then more that led to the deck – you thought it was dumb of you to ever wonder where her income went into. Her home in Pittsburgh isn’t really a house by usual standards. Not even a townhome, like some people who have a stable income but don’t want a single-family home decide to reside in. No, her place in the city is a studio apartment where her kitchen is a few steps away from her bedroom and office – if it can even be considered an office. Where she takes her calls and edits her clients' novels is on a badly built IKEA desk the size of a bedside table. You assumed that maybe she was saving ninety percent of her income for the children she was either going to adopt, have through surrogacy, or IVF. But never did you think she was saving it for this tremendous waterfront house. But good for her. 

Seconds into unloading your bags from Jack’s trunk, you heard two sets of laughter coming from the front porch. Mikey didn’t tell you that anyone else had been invited. She just said, “I would love for you and Jack to give me some company this Fourth of July.” Maybe you should’ve asked if it was a big ordeal, one of her get-togethers where she invites half of the publishing world and all of her clients, but you didn’t. It was probably for the better; you never socialize. 

When you turned towards the sound, you almost dropped the seedless watermelon you’d been salivating over the entire drive there, because Trinity Santos was laughing alongside Mikey as though she was a top comedian. Her head was tilted back, and her hands were pressed against her cheeks, hiding the red that wouldn’t stop on her face. You looked around the property — the backyard, the curtainless basement window, the deck you could see slightly if you took three steps to the right — but no one was there. Just you, Jack, Mikey and Trinity Santos. 

Trinity told you a couple of days after you set them up that she went on a date with Mikey, and it had gone really well. So well, that they spent Trinity's two free days together lounging around, drinking wine, cooking expensive steak on Mikey’s tiny patio, and of course, having sex. Despite it being a more-than-perfect match, you didn’t think she’d be invited to her lake house. During the time you’d known Mikey, she’d always been a private person who preferred solitude. She would have one-night stands every once in a while, girls she would talk to for a week or two, but they’d never spend more than 24 hours in her personal space. Her studio is where she keeps her sci-fi manuscripts she’s never had the confidence to publish, and her past hobbies, like tennis and guitar playing. No one has ever struck her heart enough to witness it, or even witness her floating around in it. Maybe Trinity was finally the one who could. 

“Is that Santos?” Jack asked you, his shoulders stiff, nudging into your side. 

You hummed and nodded eagerly. “This is exciting!” you exclaimed, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards them. 

Introducing Jack to Mikey was easy, because it felt as though they were already friends. During meetings about your book, you’d tell her about your latest dates, showing her pictures from them, along with selfies of the two of you together. When Jack would come over after shifts or after he spent too much time alone in his apartment, you’d debrief about your week, and the fun comments Mikey would make towards him – always about medical knowledge for books if her go-to doctor friend wasn’t available. Once they met, you no longer needed to play telephone, and it was a nice sight. 

After hugs, laughter, and unloading the car, you and Jack spent most of the day preparing food and watching Trinity and Mikey find their rhythm together. You and Jack would work the grill while the girls inflated floaties, swapping spit when one got too tired. Later on, you’d sit outside with him and talk about your dream of owning a house by the water while the girls mixed drinks and fed them to you. Each one was loaded with alcohol, and you and Jack had to grimace while saying, “It’s good!” through coughing fits. 

They were cute, you and Jack realized after burgers, hot dogs, drinks, and an abundance of potato chips. They danced around one another as if they had scheduled practices three times a week. They could somehow finish one another’s sentences and understand references before they even exited the other's mouth. Trinity also knew when Mikey was done chatting for the day — excusing themselves from the firework show fifteen minutes in. The only thing was, you weren’t sure whether she was done chatting in general or just chatting with you and Jack, because they skipped away, giggling and whispering like schoolgirls, touching one another’s flushed faces. Then, before they vanished through the patio doors, they turned to you and winked. They noticed instantly and kissed messily. 

Once they tripped inside and shut the door with a loud ‘thud’ that drowned out the fireworks, you climbed onto Jack’s lap and began peppering him with kisses along his jaw. He patted your ass and tilted his head up to the sky to let you continue your assault. 

“I love love,” you told Jack between nips and kisses. 

“I do too,” he replied, then grabbed your ass and began moving your hips back and forth, gearing you into a grind against his crotch. 

Despite your mouth and tongue being hot against his, and your wet pussy pushing against his hard cock with only two thin layers of clothing in between, this didn’t feel overtly sexual. You might’ve been huffing, but you weren’t planning on fucking him on Mikey’s new furniture. You just couldn’t contain your adoration for him and the suffocating crushes forming nearby. 

“I hope we stay in the honeymoon phase forever,” you whispered.

Jack chased your mouth and nodded as your breaths mingled between your lips. He looked down at your face, eyeing the sunburnt patch hot against the bridge of your nose and the glittery sunscreen you sprayed all over yourself. 

“I’ll make sure that happens,” he said, and finally wedged his lips into yours again. It was a gentle peck at first, but as you leaned back to catch the neighbors' next firework, Jack grabbed your hips and threw you underneath him on the couch, still making sure your casted arm wasn’t in any harm. He pushed his left knee further between your legs, and you grabbed his face, entwining your fingers behind his head, pulling him harshly against you. 

Making out with Jack and performing lewd acts beneath the sky erupting in color and smoke felt like some kind of college-girl experience you missed out on. As you tried your hardest to feel every inch of him without having to undress, you couldn’t stop thinking about how someone else was probably doing this exact thing. Except that instead of with a guy twice their age, it was a guy they’d been yearning for since they began wandering their university. Or maybe it was an older man, and they were trying to find a poetic way to tell their parents that age truly is just a number, while being touched. 

The feelings coursing through your mind and blood mirrored those of a college girl, too; or perhaps someone who never quite lost the hopeless romanticism that kept them alive during their formative years. Your hands gripped the curls you’d been obsessed with, the curls you’d help him style and refresh every day, the curls you dug your fingers into late at night when he couldn’t sleep, or pull and coil around your skin when he’d slide into you and fuck you. Your fingernails scratched the biceps you held when walking through busy sidewalks and grocery store aisles, or feathered when you required affection. Every touch, every kiss, every light scrape of your clothing or warm skin was associated with a feeling or a memory that rocked your heart off-balance in the best way possible. You were in love with what was happening inside of you. 

“You make me feel so good,” you murmured as he dragged his lips down to your jawline. 

“Yeah,” he groaned and sucked beneath your ear. 

Your palms shifted from his neck down to his shoulders, and you nudged him so that he’d look at your face instead of trying to spackle you with hickeys. It took him a second before he retreated and gazed down at you, his pupils dilating as they skipped from your eyes to your lips and neck. 

“I don’t mean sexually.” 

His eyebrows grew closer together, and they looked as though they were going to start fighting: heads shifting up and down, threatening to pummel into one another. “Am I not doing a good job? Please don’t tell me I turned into a bad kisser.” 

You chuckled and shook your head. “No. No, you’re the greatest kisser on earth. I just mean that you make me feel nice on the inside. You know, like safe, cared for, thought of … beautiful.” 

His eyebrows returned to normal, and the frown pulling at his face dissolved, a soft, wobbly smile taking its place. “You mean that?” 

“Why would I ever lie about something like that?” 

He shrugged and kissed your forehead as if it were made of porcelain. “Maybe I am a bad kisser, and you’re just saying this to make me feel better. I’ve heard that sometimes, women will feel bad that they don’t like someone – or feel bad that the other person is a bad kisser, or doesn’t do sex well – and so they try to find the good in the rest of them even though it doesn’t make up for the other stuff.” 

“What the hell are you talking about, Jack?” you cackled. “I’m not lying to you! I love you and your kisses.” 

As soon as you finished your sentence, the realization of what you said hit you like a bus. You gasped and scooted to the end of the couch, slapping your hands against your mouth. You didn’t regret saying it, because it was the truth; you did love him! The problem was that you were supposed to think about how to say you loved him, and when to tell him instead of spitting it out so casually. 

Jack stood up and towered over you, his hands resting at his sides, pawing at his invisible pockets, trying to find something to touch so he wouldn’t shake. “Did you just say–” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay. Wow.” 

You started chewing on your fingernails and silently begging him to give you a real answer. “Is that okay? Are you supposed to say that?” you asked, and inched your hands higher up your face. “It’s okay if you don’t. Well… I don’t think it is okay, per se, but I’ll live with it if you don’t.” 

Jack’s entire body shook. He was shaking his head, his arms, his fingers. It was like his bones were trying to break free. He silently stood in front of you for approximately ten seconds before extending a shaky hand and yanking you up, hauling you into his chest. 

“I love you, too,” he whispered. “I was trying to find the perfect time to tell you. I was going to say it when the first firework went off, but I thought it might’ve been too corny.” 

“That would have been perfect,” you said. “But honestly, any time and place would be perfect.” 

“I love you,” he said again, then a few more times when he kissed you. “Keeping that inside was killing me, you know. Ever since I realized I loved you, I woke up every morning wanting to tell you. I’d see your puffy eyes and want to say it. Even when you started using that mouth tape, and I nearly jumped out of my body seeing you walk into the bedroom with it on, I wanted to say it.” 

You swatted his chest and shoved him away, only to pull him in a second later. You started using mouth tape because you wanted to put an end to your mouth breathing, and when you asked him over a message before bed how you looked, he answered aloud, “You look beautiful like you always do.” Thinking about how he might have lied, and nearly died from a heart attack due to your looks made you question whether you’d ever use it again. But the insecurity vanished as quickly as it came, because, in the end, he loved you anyway.

“I was supposed to tell you another way,” you whispered, and began swaying back and forth to an unintelligible song in the distance. 

Jack closed one hand around your back and the other around your right hand. You settled your free hand over his left shoulder, and he followed your very slow steps to the right, left, front and back. “How were you supposed to tell me?” 

“After a very special date or something?” you said. In all of the romance novels you’ve either read or written, the main characters have confessed their love for one another through cinematic gestures like standing in the rain with a bouquet of flowers, potentially holding a letter they didn’t have enough courage to hand over. You knew that sort of thing only happened in books and movies, but because it was all that you consumed, you began believing otherwise. You didn’t think it could happen this way: spitting it out after your significant other made himself believe he was a bad kisser. 

“We can make it more romantic, if you want,” he said. 

“How?” 

“Hey Siri,” he said, loud enough for her to hear over the fireworks, “play Mia and Sebastian’s Theme from the La La Land soundtrack.” 

“Baby, this is kind of a sad song,” you chuckled, though you did nothing to skip the song. 

“Shhh,” he said, shaking his head. “Forget the confession for just a second, okay? Act like that didn’t happen.” 

You raised a brow, and nodded. “Okay…” 

Jack shut his eyes, straightened himself out, squeezed your hand and rubbed your lower back. Then he opened his eyes and said, “I have to tell you something.” 

You thought for a second, if this was a part of the play he tied you into without a proper explanation. You looked around the patio, trying to figure it out like someone would pop out of the bushes and tell you that, yes, this was a part of the play and Jack had recently picked up a theater hobby. But when you returned your squinted eyes back to him, he nodded, silently telling you to play along. 

So, you did. “What is it?” you asked nervously. “Are you breaking up with me… or another secret thing?” 

Jack closed his eyes again, and placed a bubble in his mouth to avoid laughing. “No,” he breathed out. “I … I don’t know how to say this, but I thought that right now would be the perfect time. It’s the Fourth of July, the world smells like hot dogs and burgers, we smell like hot dogs and burgers –” 

“And alcohol!” you quipped. 

“And alcohol,” Jack chuckled. “You also look beautiful.” 

“It’s just a bathing suit, nothing special.” 

“Anything you wear is special to me,” he whispered. You didn’t argue as you sensed he was reaching his monologue. “I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve been thinking about it for a very long time. I care about you more than anything in the world, and … I love you. More than you’ll ever know. I love you when I get up, I love you when I’m at work and someone brings your book into the waiting room. I love you when we cook together, and when you’re upset that I don’t care about myself as much as I care about you. I love you.” 

You didn’t know what to say. Had he just come up with a speech off the top of his head without any preparation? Without having to stand beneath a scorching spout of water to induce inspiration? You wanted to cry. You did start to cry, which was something you didn’t realize until his thumbs were wiping your cheeks. 

“I love you too, Jack. So much that it overwhelms me sometimes.” You dropped your head down onto his shoulder as the song slowly came to an end. It started again, but you didn’t say anything until it came to an end a second time. “Are we going to listen to this on a loop for the rest of the night, or should we switch it to another song from the soundtrack?” 

“Let’s play City of Stars,” he offered. You nodded. “Hey Siri, play City of Stars –” 

“The City of  Stars is located–” 

“NO!” Jack grunted. “HEY SIRI! PLAY CITY. OF. STARS. FROM THE LA LA LAND SOUNTRACK. THANKS.” 

Once Jack is finished giving a long re-telling of his Fourth of July confession, Robby is dotting the thin skin beneath his eyes with the letter I Jack had completed a second ago. 

“Are you crying?” Jack asks. “Why are you crying?” 

“What you did was beautiful!” Robby exclaims and throws the letter at him. “Also, were you in theater at any point in your life? What the hell was your little acting thing?” 

Jack shrugs nonchalantly. “I took a few classes in high school.” 

“What the hell, why?” 

“So I had options in case medicine didn’t work out for me. Now shut up and get back to work. We need all of the DIY decorations done by five o’clock. Our date is at 7:30 and I need to get dressed, pick up the bouquets of flowers, instruct Dennis and Trinity on what they need to do at Y/N’s house while we’re away, and then actually pick her up.” 

“What is this grand plan, anyway?” Robby asks as he starts drawing out another letter. 

“I’m not telling you. You’ll just have to wait.” 

“You’re telling Trinity and Dennis but you can’t tell your best friend? How does that work?” 

Jack doesn’t want to admit that he’s nervous, although he is, nor does he want to admit that he doesn’t want to jinx anything, though he’s sure that you’ll accept even if he gives Robby a step-by-step of how he plans on asking you to be his girlfriend. So, he settles on a short answer that’s partially true: “You’ll find a way to tell her even without her phone number. Just know that she’ll be blindfolded and your hard work will pay off.” 

“Oh-ho-ho. Alright then, I’ll just need to watch the video at point-five speed one more time and I’ll get to work. You’re about to see the best quilted letters in existence.” 

Drinking and pottery painting should be classified as a crime. Your pink polka dot skirt, yellow shirt, and cast are splattered with red wine and paint, and you’ve just created the worst portrait of Jack. It’s the first time you’ve ever looked at something regarding his face and gone, “Oh this is terrible.” 

“It’s not that bad,” he chuckles, stealing your mug and tilting it up and down. “It just looks like me from an alternate alien planet.” 

You take the mug back and pout. “Do you think I can re-do it?” 

“Baby, I think it’s perfect just the way it is,” he tells you, and turns his own mug around, flaunting the portrait he painted of you. “Mine isn’t great either.” 

You want to roll your eyes and leave the establishment, because in reality, it looks amazing. He’s painted you with your blue-light glasses and favorite silver necklace with the star pendant. The background is a bright shade of red and blue, with a few yellow stars dancing around. Instead of rolling your eyes, your pout becomes larger and you have to look away from him – instead, at the odd shark painted onto a plate by a guy whose girlfriend copied your idea – and try not to cry. 

“It looks beautiful, Jack. Thank you.” 

“Are you crying?” he asks and reaches over to your side of the table, cupping your chin to get you to turn around. 

“Well, trying not to!” you say, throwing your hands up and cupping your own face over his fingers. “It just looks so good. So pretty and … I don’t know… You’re incredibly skilled and I don’t know how you’re capable of bringing people back to life while also being a great actor and painter!” 

Heads turn to you, including the guy painting small fishes on the rim of his shark plate. The instructor, who’s telling someone else about the drying process before they leave, also turns to you and Jack. “Is everything okay over there?” she asks. 

You nod and give her a thumbs up. “Just emotional. He just painted me and it looks great.” 

“Meaningful art can do that to you,” she replies, then adds, “Everyone please make sure that if you’re drinking enough to get drunk, acquire a sober driver or get Uber! Thank you.” 

Jack takes his mug back and sets it down far enough for you to see it, but not touch it. “I think you should be cut off,” he says, and takes the wine glass away from you. “You’ve had half a bottle, and we still have something important to do.” 

You stop crying and slowly turn towards him. You were only informed of a singular outing happening tonight, not multiple. “Am I okay to look like this?” you ask. 

“What do you mean?” 

“My clothes are dirty now. Should I go home and change or am I fine?” 

“You don’t need to change, sweetheart,” Jack tells you, patting your hand that is inching towards his mug. “Now c’mon, let’s figure out what to do with these mugs and get going.” 

Jack’s heart has felt like it’s been trying to beat out of every part of his body except his chest the entire drive to your house. You’ve been trying to have a conversation with him regarding the book you’re 90% done with and how you’re wondering if you can keep a part of your cast when it gets taken off, but he’s been too busy wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. He’s also wondering if Dennis and Trinity followed his instructions, or if they forgot due to the fit of giggles they couldn’t shake. 

He just wants everything to be perfect. He wants you to look at the quilted letters hanging from the garden arbor in your backyard and the multitude of flowers littering the ground and table, and feel special. He wants you to twirl around beneath the string lights and feel like the princess you are. 

Jack steers into the neighborhood next to yours and you lift your head from its place on your palm. “Does the important thing take place in my house?” you ask, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He nods and laughs when he sees you leaning over to grab his hand. He has to wipe it on his pants again before sliding it into yours. “It does,” he tells you. 

“What is that certain important thing? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“I sort of do mind you asking,” Jack replies. 

You hum and bring his hand closer to your face. Jack sets his elbow on the center console and lets you kiss the back of his hand and soft knuckles between your fingers. You don’t ask him any questions, but you do sit back and think about what the plans are. You’re hoping it involves sex, because your period is finally gone for the month and you’re much too horny for your own good. Usually you feel quite unpleasant in your body following your period's departure, but you’ve felt quite amazing these past few days. It must be something in the air. 

The rest of the ride to your house is filled with your humming and Jack’s compliments about how good you sound. When Jack parks his car, you unclip your seatbelt but halt once it crosses your throat. The porch light is on and there’s a basket sitting on your door mat. 

“Jack, look,” you say, pointing at the porch. “I didn’t leave the light on earlier and it only turns on if someone is there. That means someone actually flipped the switch.” 

“Oh…” Jack replies, a bit of humor in his tone. He slips out of the car as you begin to internally panic and try to strap yourself back into your seat. He walks around the hood and opens your door, reaching for the seatbelt you keep fiddling with. “C’mon. There’s no intruder, it was me.” 

“How?” you exclaim as he takes you out of the car and walks you toward the house. “I didn’t see you leave anything when we left. Or did you order them here while we were gone?” 

Jack just shrugs as if he doesn’t know anything, and leads you up the porch steps. You bend down to take a look at the basket’s contents, and grab the card and pink satin blindfold sitting on top of fresh flowers, fancy chocolates, and a stuffed bunny wearing a bow. You flip it open and read the cursive letters you know so well. 

“Put the blindfold on, relax, and follow me (Jack) for a surprise.” 

You set the card down and stand up again, the blindfold dangling from your fingertips. “What did you plan?” you ask, your heartbeat already vibrating through your chest. All you can hear is your blood pumping and the “mhm-mhm” coming from Jack that translates into I can’t tell you. “So what, do I put it on?” 

Jack nods and signals with his finger for you to turn around. You do as he asks and slip him the blindfold. He covers your eyes first then secures it behind your head. He leans in next to your ear and kisses the skin peaking from the fabric. “Maybe once we’re done, we can keep this on?” he says in a whisper. “You look so pretty like this.” 

“Turning something cute and sweet into something dirty already?” you laugh. “You haven’t even shown me the surprise.” He sputters a chuckle and the sound carries from your ear down to your core. You squeeze your legs shut and grab his hand to avoid diverting your thoughts from the surprise to fucking him silly. 

“Alright, alright, let’s go, then.” He very carefully leads you back down the steps and around your front yard to the white wooden fence. He pulls it open while gripping your waist and tugs you toward the center of your backyard. 

You don’t know what to do at this moment besides clinging to him and asking yourself over and over again if you’re being given a girlfriend proposal, or if you’ve silently agreed to skip everything and just get married. You also don’t know if all of that is wrong, and you’re just being dragged into your backyard to be killed by the person you thought to be the love of your life. Being blindfolded without having a solid reason is quite scary. 

“Okay. Uhm…” Jack drops your hand and you can hear his footsteps travel from beside you to behind you. “We’re here. I’m going to take your blindfold off now, okay?” 

You nod, but quickly cup his hands that cover your ears. “Wait! I’m scared.” 

“Why?” he asks, the question entering your ears quite muffled. 

“I don’t know. You’re surprising me. Just tell me you love me so I won’t be scared.” 

“Okay, I love you. I love you a lot, with my whole heart. Now can I take the blindfold off?” 

You wait two seconds, and nod. He loosens the knot and very slowly, slides the blindfold off your face. You stare at the ground and blink profusely before looking up and instantly choking on your saliva. “What the hell!” you scream, and get closer to the hanging words and gorgeous flowers. You touch the letters – the thread tying the fabric together, the stuffing making them plump, the bow that hands from the end of the line. You’re in complete awe. 

“Yes!” you say, loudly enough for the neighborhood to hear. It’s late but you don’t care. You’ve just been asked to be Jack’s girlfriend and you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. “Yes, yes, yes. I will so be your girlfriend, Jack Abbot!” 

You turn to face him and run into his arms, hugging him tightly while you jump up and down. “Oh, I love you so much. I love this so much.” You press a wet kiss to his cheek, then one on his jaw, chin, nose, and a million more on his lips. “This was the most beautiful girlfriend proposal ever. The letters – oh, they’re amazing. Did you make them yourself?” 

He nods, his plum painted bottom lip tucked between his teeth. “With the help of Robby; and this one lady named Sherry from YouTube.” 

“You are the most talented boyfriend on this planet,” you say, and he instantly picks you up and twirls you around. You squeal, clinging onto his neck with pure joy and thrill running through your body. 

“I love that title,” he tells you. 

“I’m going to overuse it until you become my husband,” you reply. “Now take me to bed, boyfriend. We need to celebrate.” 

Jack has you sitting on his face as a celebration. You’re holding onto your headboard, the straps of your shirt falling off your shoulders and your tits spilling out as he grips your thighs and holds you harshly against his mouth whenever you try to move away. 

“Sit still, baby,” he urges you, and wraps his mouth around your clit, sucking it like it’s the most beautiful taste in the world. He licks down to your hole and darts his tongue inside, tasting the slick that continues pooling out of you. 

You clamp down on your lip to try and silence yourself, but fail immediately. You moan out his name and one too many expletives. “You thought you were a bad kisser?” you ask, laughing. “Jackie, you’re fucking insane with your mouth and you thought you were a bad kisser?” 

Jack answers by taking a finger that was initially embedded into the fat of your hip, and plunging it into your pussy. “How does that feel, baby?” 

You try to raise your hips but he holds you down with his other hand. “A lot,” you pant, and buck your hips against the curved finger. “It feels so good, but this is a lot.” 

“Mhmmm, well I’m not done celebrating us being official tonight.” 

“Please put my clit in your mouth, then,” you say, and he obliges as he always does. 

Jack inserts another finger into your hole and pumps in and out while he sucks on your clit. You grab your tit and twist your nipple, jerking your hips back and forth against his face. You look down and see that his face – from what’s visible – is completely soaked in you, and he looked fucking happy to be. 

“So excited that I’m fucking your face, huh?” you whine. 

He nods, and hollows out his cheeks that hold your pussy. You groan and sink further down. “So excited,” he replies, then flicks your sensitive and very red clit with his tongue. “I’d drown in you if I could. In all of your cum…” 

The knot at the bottom of your tummy is beginning to unravel as Jack inserts another finger and pushes them further into your hole. You try to move to the rhythm of his tongue, but you can’t keep up, so you decide to let his hand do the work. He continues jamming his fingers into your cunt, brushing the sensitive spot that has you quickly spilling out. 

“Jack… I’m not just going to come,” you warn him. 

“Squirt all over my face, baby,” he urges you, and fucks you faster with his fingers. 

You become louder – enough to probably get some kind of complaint – and seconds later, you feel yourself gushing all over his face. You gasp, grip onto the headboard, repeat his name over and over again, and say, “I love you,” when your orgasm settles into peace. 

“I’m getting off,” you tell Jack, and pull your leg over his face. You sit down beside him, with his face covered in your juices, and lift your shirt up and over your head. You pat away at his cheeks and kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips. “That was the best gift ever. Thank you, my beautiful boyfriend. Now I have to give you your gift.” 

He shakes his head and throws a hand over your naked thighs. “No, that’s fine. I already got my gift.” 

“Oh yeah, and what was that?” 

“You just wiped it off!” 

—

i’ve been a ghost. my apologies. as i said before, i got into an accident two weeks ago and started anxiety meds the day before (for driving, MIND YOU). it’s been absolute hell having to deal with the side effects of both things. i had major headaches everyday up until yesterday and i couldn’t write for more than 15 minutes. i was tired non-stop from the meds. i’ve had to go to physical therapy while also trying to pick up one thousand work shifts because my 21st birthday is in a few weeks. 🫩🫩

was i very rude because she was very rude? yes. do i feel bad? kind of. she didn’t have a license. and had a baby on board safety 1st sticker on the back.

get me out of this terrible state. i’m moving to canada.

a/n … well yes! sorry if this isn’t smutty enough, today has been hectic but i still wanted to write this. this is from the category light smut + meet me in the bathroom + dennis whitaker

content … clubbing, drinking (both), suggested bathroom seggggg

word count … .600

—

Dennis seems completely unaware of the effect his new haircut has on you. He’s sporting it freshly styled along with the gold hoop in his ear and a blue plaid button down that was bought before his biceps grew. He has a white tank top underneath, and his sleeves are rolled up to prevent the heat radiating in the slightly packed club — yet, there’s a sheen of sweat coating his forearm and chest beneath his gold chain.

You’ve been ogling him since before you stepped into the club, though the humidity and result of dancing amongst his coworkers have elevated his beauty. When he walked out of your shared bedroom with a tank top on, slightly wet from hair styling, you nearly pleaded for him to walk out like that: shirt tucked into his jeans, flashing the silver belt buckle. While he asked you a multitude of questions about what to wear, what scent to spray, if he should put a diffuser onto his curls, you stared at him with desire and a trail of imaginary saliva falling out of your mouth.

You were silent on your way to the club, like a shy girl on her first date. All you could do is intertwine your fingers and press your face against his bicep. You could only whisper your drink order into his ear and sheathe your face as best as possible — only turning your blushing face down to look at his beat-up boots. You only became extremely confident and ready to pounce when Trinity made you take two shots back-to-back.

Now you’re on the dance floor, hot hands trying to unbutton his already half-open button down and your lips — ridden of their lipliner and stained with grenadine — along his jawline. Dennis, with a couple drinks in his system and a step above tipsy, is enjoying this. When you distance your lips, he’s following them with his own, mouth parted and whining like a distraught puppy. You kiss him whenever he asks, and you maneuver his hands down to your ass.

This play of hand-grabbing lasts until Dennis plays with the hem of your black mini skirt. “You look so pretty like this,” he pants into your ear, then licks along your lobe. “Top is almost sheer. People might see your tits if they stare hard enough.”

“You like it?” you ask him, grabbing his hand and moving it slightly over to feel the inside of your thigh.

He nods with a lip between his teeth. “You know I do.”

“Even if you can see my tits?”

He gets a bit more handsy and moves his hand over to your backside, grabbing your ass and digging his fingers into the fat. “I think the gym has prepared me enough to ward off some weirdos.”

You chuckle and grab his chin. You press your thumb into the tip and pull him down to your face. You kiss him harshly, the tip of your tongue pushing further into his mouth, wrestling with his for some kind of comfort. His hand keeps squeezing, and you realize shortly after his mouth is grazing more than just your lips, that you’re becoming the couple that nearly has sex in the middle of the dance floor. So, you pull away and whisper into his ear, “Meet me in the bathroom.”

You step back and tread into the bathroom, where Dennis meets you a minute or two later, hard cock pressed against his jeans and his palms pressing against said outline.

“This can’t be sanitary,” he says, pointing at the overflowing trashcan and the graffiti ruling the walls.

“Just fuck me, okay. We’re not doing it on the floor, Denny.”

me overly turned on because i have a tramp stamp and when i got it, i was talking to someone and she was completely in awe at it. i hate her now, she’s terrible, but jeezus just thinking about how JACK ABBOT would be all over you.

he’d ask how long you can wait until you have sex, or until he can touch it. he’ll be ecstatic when you ask him to clean it, because of course he’d want to help you. he’ll take the saniderm off in the shower — his body on his shower chair while you stands beneath the warm stream of water — and moisturize it when you step out.

once it’s healed, he’ll want to fuck you from the back, just so he can see that beautiful back tattoo. he’ll kiss it when he can, and when you’re lying side by side, he’ll memorize its shape and outline it with his fingers.

i saw this idea on @domesticblisss tumblr account and wanted to follow lol. i’m wanting to write a bit more but my brain has not been as creative as i’d like it to be (unless im in the shower and things stem for approximately 20-30 minutes). i’d love to write some blurbs/drabbles based on the prompts from the various lists below …

ׂ╰┈➤ smut | fluff | kissing | vulnerable/sad | angry confessions

characters i’ll be writing for ⤵︎

the pitt 🩺

🍌 jack abbot

🍌 dennis whitaker

🍌 trinity santos

🍌 cassie mckay

other

🍎 andrew 'pope' cody

🍎 clark kent /superman (david corenswet)

🍎 ellie williams — the last of us

🍎 joel miller — the last of us