#jack daniels x f!reader

[trulybetty]

Oh Rachael, I've been so excited to start this one as I've loved all the previous snippets you've wrote!

This did not disappoint in it's set up of the story!

I love the set up here, the build up of anticipation whether Jack will be on the field for play and then the introduction to our reader and the subtel back and forth.

Then the last line literally had me squealing out loud lol, and this is just the first chapter!

Side note: a couple months back I read The Art of Catching Feelings by Alicia Thompson, and because of your story - the entire time I was picturing Jack! ♥️ Great book if anyone is looking for a recommendation!

Also, 📞 paging @lady-bess, not sure if you've read/seen this one, but I'm pretty sure you would enjoy it!

On Deck Part 1: Hot Corner

Pairing: Jack Daniels x Female Reader Baseball AU

Word Count: 8,117

Rating: M (language, general adult thoughts, etc.)

Summary: Taking your best friend's little brother to a minor leage game to see his favorite player just might lead to a lot of changes in your life.

And you're ready.

Author’s notes: 

This story has been in progress for more than two years. I've written about Baseball Jack many times before ... but only the "after". It's time to see how - and where - it all began.

(On Deck universe masterlist for all the extras!)

Thank you to everyone that convinced me to work on this and to keep this pairing going / to flesh them out more. I have had so much fun with this because I have such a love for the MLB (and the men who play in the league) - and I'm so excited to share it.

While there are a lot of baseball references within this story, you only need to know the basics to enjoy it and understand them - we're not getting overrly technical here.

As always, if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to reach out. I hope you enjoy this as much as I am.

Third base is often called the ‘hot corner’ due to the prevalence of right handed hitters - and subsequent on-field action - in the league. The third baseman is typically the infield position player closest to the batter, so to excel in this position, players need to display quick reaction times and exceptional hand-eye coordination. 

“We’re going to be late.” He stood next to you, arms crossed over his chest. “We still have to walk to the stadium.” 

“Caleb.” You sighed, closing and then locking the car door before sticking your keys into the small bag you’d bought specifically for games. “We’re here. We’re parked. The stadium is right there.” Pointing with one finger, you raised a brow and grinned. “The parking lot is only half full, and we’ve already got seats, so -”

“Yeah, but we’re going to miss warm ups and the pregame.” He rolled his eyes, turning away from you and heading toward the ballpark. “And those are the best parts.” 

You agreed, but for a very different reason than the twelve year old you were with. 

You’d been to games with him and Erin before. You and your friend sat a few rows back while the pre-teen hurried down to field level, a baseball and a pen clutched in one hand, hoping to meet at least one of the players after they’d finished warming up and stretching. 

From your vantage point, the two of you had been free to whisper about the players - pointing out the way their uniforms fit, discussing whether or not their asses were in mid-season form yet, or even commenting on the stretches they chose to warm up with before the game. Typically, you didn’t have a thing for men in uniform - but baseball pants were a different story. 

You loved the game, and had been visiting The Distillery - your local team’s home park - since you were a child, attending games with your family and friends and even dates as the years passed. Baseball games were the perfect summer activity no matter who you were with, and that was even true when your company was the younger brother of your best friend… and the game wasn’t a Major League competition. 

“She’s got the tickets.” He made the announcement when you reached the gates, the boy pointing back over his shoulder at you. “Two of them.” You smiled at the attendant, sliding your unzipped bag across the table so she could search it, and then returned your eyes to Caleb. He’d already removed his ballcap and the wallet he carried, pushing them forward and stepping through the metal detector. 

“He’s excited, hmm?” 

“Yeah.” Letting her scan the ticket barcodes, you laughed. “He really is.” Caleb waited for you to follow him through the turnstiles, his hat flipped backwards on his head, and you could see the impatience on his face. “Caleb, do you want to get something to eat before we -”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not yet. Before the game starts, but …” He glanced over his shoulder and you looked down at the field, where the grounds crew were still getting everything ready. “Can we go down there? I want to try and meet him. He’s playing today. They said it on the news.”

“Go.” Your smile widened, head moving up and down in a nod. “I’m right behind you, kid.” 

Caleb took off running toward the stairs that led down toward the third base line, and you followed him slowly, taking your time and eyeing the seating situation. There were people already waiting; a handful of kids and their parents, along with a few women that looked to be your age or a little younger, but there were still plenty of seats open adjacent to the field. 

You sat closer than you normally would have, deciding to take a seat in the row directly behind the boy. Just in case. For the next ten minutes, you paid no attention to the field, instead scrolling through social media and waiting, the music pumping through the speakers fading to background noise as you mindlessly browsed and clicked ‘like’ on a few posts. 

You also let Erin know that you’d made it to the game, and that Caleb was exactly where he wanted to be. But when you glanced up, ready to take a picture to send to her, you were distracted by the sight of the team taking the field. Caleb was too, the boy bouncing up and down in place as he leaned forward, resting his hands on the low wall in front of him. 

You watched for a few minutes - eyeing the players as they did their sprints and stretches, your lips twisting into a small smile at the sight of some of them utilizing their trainers for extra resistance during a few of the exercises. “He’s not here.” Caleb turned back to look at you, disappointment on his face. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Maybe he’ll come out late.” You shrugged, still looking at the field. “You never know, kiddo. You said he’s in the lineup, right?” 

“Yeah.” He turned back to the field, leaning forward. “They talked on the radio about how he was coming back today, because they want him to back in Louisville by the end of next week, and -” Caleb stopped mid sentence, straightening up. “There he is!” 

You couldn’t help it, your attention snapping in the direction that he was pointing. Sure enough, Jack Daniels and one of the trainers - a woman with short, dark hair and glasses - were taking the field to a low chorus of cheers, many of them coming from the section you were sitting in. There he is. 

Despite yourself, you leaned forward to watch him, staring as Jack began his warm up. He started with a few stretches - knee hugs and focusing on his quads, carefully extending and testing his arms, and then bent forward at the waist, the man almost able to press his palms flat against the ground without bending his knees. 

You didn’t take your eyes off of him, because like Caleb, one of the reasons you liked going to the Statesman games was looking at Jack Daniels. And there’s so much to look at.

The trainer watched him closely as he continued to warm up, speeding up his movements and then doing a series of static stretches. But when Jack started to do lunges, you actively fought back a groan, settling against the backrest of your seat and chewing on your lower lip. That’s hot as fuck. 

He looked healthy, and you were happy to see it, because the truth was that the Statesman needed him to be. “He didn’t warm up yesterday.” You turned your head toward the voice, watching as another woman next to you stared at Jack, her smile wide. “He stretched a little, and took batting practice, but he didn’t warm up.” 

“Oh, you were here yesterday, too?” She nodded, and when you glanced back at the field, you saw that Jack and the trainer had switched to more arm exercises, warming up the muscles of his upper body. 

“He pinch hit late in the game.” She leaned forward, her smile widening as she watched Jack start arm circles, the trainer standing a few feet away from him with her arms crossed. “So I knew he’d play today. And that’s why I’m here.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Gonna shoot my shot when he comes over here to sign for the kids. Why not, right? We both know he goes for it sometimes.” 

The girl was pretty - and definitely dressed to get his attention. She wore one of his t-shirts artfully slashed to show off her cleavage and had her legs on display in a pair of cutoff denim shorts. Good for her. “Yeah, why not.” You smiled, turning your head away from where the players were sprinting into the outfield and back to give her your full attention. “Even if he’ll be back in Louisville pretty soon, you might as well. See what happens.”

“It’s only 40 minutes away.” She shrugged, looking out and pointing at where the man was laying on the field, one knee bent and his other ankle resting against the top of it. The trainer was applying extra resistance, and you hummed in approval as you watched. I wish I was that trainer.  “I’d drive there if I needed to.” 

Her eagerness didn’t surprise you. Jack was a notably eligible bachelor, and one of the most desirable men on the team. Unlike the others, though, he didn’t often publicly date. But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t hook up. And … You returned your attention to the field, watching as he stopped to talk to the woman, pointing at the front of his left shoulder and grinning. And I’m sure he’s got his pick in every city he visits. 

“Oh, I think they’re coming over now.” 

She adjusted her shirt and you watched her posture change, the woman’s shoulders straightening and her smile widening. Instead of staring at Jack’s strut toward the seats, you looked at Caleb. The boy was buzzing with excitement as he turned toward where the man was headed - about ten people to your left, where a small crowd had gathered. “Do you think he’ll come over?” Caleb said your name, frowning. “There’s not much time, and -”

“He will.” You leaned in, reaching out to touch his arm. “You’re wearing one of his shirts, right? He’s gotta stop for you.” Caleb grinned, turning back toward the field, though he kept his head turned to the left. 

You watched Jack then, smiling as he interacted with the fans. He signed autographs and posed for a few pictures, his smile genuine. But you noticed that he was really only focused on the kids and teenagers, spending more than a few seconds with them instead of moving along as quickly as was politely possible the way he did with adults. He took pictures with a few women, the man leaning in but keeping both hands behind his back. He puts his hands on the kids’ shoulders, but doesn’t touch the women… interesting. 

“Keep your phone out. I’m gonna need you to take a picture.” Caleb was excited, the boy happier than you ever remembered seeing him. You laughed but did as he asked, leaning to the right and angling the phone so that you could snap a picture of the two of them, though Jack was barely in the frame. 

The girl next to you leaned forward when he was only a person or two away, and then seemed to second guess that decision. You bit back a laugh as she stood and climbed over the seats, standing next to Caleb and effectively blocking your view of the man on the field. Gee, thanks.

He finished with the little girl that he’d been speaking to, handing her back a signed baseball and a pen, and then took a step to the side and in front of the woman, saying hello. 

Clearly hearing his voice in person shocked you - the man’s accent thick, even in the few words he spoke. You desperately wished that you could see him, but you didn’t want to shift in your seat and draw attention to yourself. I’ll see him when he talks to Caleb.

“I heard you were playing and had to come today.” She leaned forward, fingertips resting against the wall. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah?” He laughed, reaching up to pull his hat off and then set it back down on his head, taking a few seconds to think. You caught a glimpse of the bullseye tattoo on his hand, biting down on your lower lip at the sight. “Well thank you for comin’ out. It’s good to be back on the field.” The woman giggled and then held her phone up, tilting her head to the side. 

“Can we get a picture? I’ll tag you in it on Instagram, and -”

“Sure.” You watched as the woman spun around and then leaned backwards, holding her phone up to take a selfie. “Hope it’s a good one.” He smiled, peering at the phone from over her shoulder, and you fought back a roll of your eyes at how wide and practiced her smile was - the woman’s head cocked to the side - and toward his. 

When she straightened up, he took a half step toward Caleb, already tipping his head down and toward the boy. But the woman spoke up before he could fully move on, reaching out to touch his arm. “Thank you, Jack. You have no idea how much I -” He flinched - just barely, but you saw it, his shoulder jerking back slightly as her fingertips made contact.

“No problem. Thank you, and enjoy the game.” She stiffened, but you didn’t focus on that. You turned your attention to the boy in front of you - and in turn, Jack, whose face split into a grin, the man’s dimple on display, even beneath the shade from the brim of his hat. “Well hi there. I’m Jack, what’s your name?” 

“Caleb.” He leaned forward and you opened your camera app again, your smile widening, too. Caleb’s going to be so excited later. “I had tickets to see you play in Louisville and then you got hurt and I didn’t know if you’d be back this season but then my mom bought me tickets for today after I found out you were going to play again, and so we drove all the way here -” 

“Slow down there, big guy.” Jack laughed, giving you a glimpse of his teeth, and then gestured to Caleb’s hand, the boy holding a Sharpie tightly. “You want me to sign somethin’ for you?” 

“Yeah. This ticket, please.” Caleb held the marker out, looking up at Jack. “And I’ve got your jersey, but it was too hot to wear it today, so I picked this t-shirt instead.” 

“Of course I will.” He nodded, taking the Sharpie and the paper, scrawling his name across the front of it. “Turn around and I’ll sign real big on the number on the back.” Caleb spun around and you were thrilled to see that he was almost delirious with excitement, his eyes wide and his smile nearly splitting his face in two. 

“Can I take a picture of you signing for him?” Jack glanced up at the sound of your voice, his smile faltering for a split second and a confused look passing over his features. “I didn’t want to just do it and have the flash go off, and…”

“Go right ahead.” He smiled again, giving you a nod. “Thank you for askin’.” It only took a few seconds for him to sign, but you took multiple pictures, and then as Jack capped the marker, you decided to speak up again, not wanting to make Caleb ask. 

“And can I get one of the two of you looking at the camera before he turns around again?’

“You’ve already got your phone out.” Jack smirked at you, and then reached up to tilt the brim of his hat back, showing you more of his face. Holy shit, look at him. “I’m more’n happy to take a picture with my new buddy Caleb.” 

You couldn’t help smiling at that, and when Jack settled his hand - the Sharpie poking out from between his fingers - against the boy’s shoulder and squeezed, it widened. “Got it.” You lowered the device, mouthing the words ‘thank you’ at Jack at the same time Caleb spoke them out loud, turning back to face the man. 

There were only two more kids to the right of you waiting to talk to Jack, but before moving to them, he hesitated, looking between you and the boy. “Where are you and your mom sitting today, Caleb?”  Mom? Do I really look like -

“She’s not my mom, she’s my sister’s friend. And we’re over there.” He pointed at the outfield. “Somewhere.” Why is he asking? 

“The section right at the end of the dugout.” Jack pointed, but looked directly at you. “First row. Aisle seats, 23 and 24. They’re mine, and if you want ‘em, today they’re yours.” 

“What? Jack, that -” 

“I’ve gotta go.” He nodded, looking at Caleb and grinning, and then back at you, his smile softening. “Enjoy the game.” He didn’t say anything else before he stepped down the field and then stopped to talk to the other kids waiting. What the fuck just … “That was so cool!” Caleb spun back to look at you, his eyes wide. “He signed my shirt and took a picture with me and now we get to sit in his seats, and -”

“Caleb.” You took a breath, still trying to process what had happened in the previous few minutes. “I don’t -” 

“We’re going to sit in them, right?” You didn’t know how to answer him. Should we? You sighed and then looked to your right, watching as Jack signed a baseball and handed it back to a little girl before laughing with an older man that was with her. “I mean he told us to, and -” 

“I definitely would.” The girl next to you spoke up, and when you looked over, you saw that she was jealous, her eyes narrowed as they looked you over. “Do you know him? Is that -”

“I’ve never spoken to that man before just now.” You shrugged, unsure of what else to say. “I have no idea what … or why, or …” You would have been lying if you’d said that no part of you was a little smug at the fact  that he’d offered the seats to you and not to her, but you didn’t want to be that woman. “He must have liked you, Caleb.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Whatever. I’ll just see him after the game at the players’ parking lot.” She stood then, but didn’t say anything else before she spun away from you and headed down the row and toward the aisle. 

Caleb watched her go, his head tilted to one side.“What crawled up her butt?” You snorted at his question but there was no way you could give him an actual answer - so you gave him a partial one. 

“She’s probably just sad that you get to have a great view of the game tonight, kiddo.” With a sigh, you stood up, sliding your phone back into your bag and zipping it. You looked at Jack, watching as he said goodbye to the last of the fans and then headed for the dugout. 

But he didn’t go straight there - instead, he stopped and spoke to one of the security guards, pointing at the stands. Oh, he’s… And then you were stunned when both men looked back in your direction, Jack raising one arm to point at you while nodding. The security guard caught your eye and nodded too, and you then watched as Jack gently smacked him on the arm and smiled again, finally turning away to disappear back into the dugout. 

“Can we go and see the seats? And can I get french fries? Will you send the picture to my mom? And Erin? And -” He was excited - and you couldn’t blame him - but you still laughed, gesturing for Caleb to follow you down the row and toward the opposite aisle, closer to your new seats. 

“Yeah. We’ll do all that. Let’s go.” 

There was plenty of room for the two of you to walk to where Jack had indicated, and when you got close, the same security guard that Jack had spoken to stepped forward, gesturing with one hand. “You’re right here tonight.” 

You thanked him, letting Caleb choose which seat he wanted, and when you dropped into the remaining one, you pulled your phone out again as the boy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the back of the wall in front of him. 

You had just enough time to send off a few quick texts to Erin - the pictures of Caleb and Jack, as well as one that you took from the seat and a message that said we got upgraded, I’ll explain later before the National Anthem started. 

You rose to your feet again, keeping your eyes on the field. Once the music faded and the announcer began to give the starting lineups, you were excited, your smile just as wide as Caleb’s. 

And when they announced Jack and the man trotted out onto the field to even more cheers from the crowd, you clapped along with them, pulse quickening. I love watching him play. 

He and the shortstop tossed a ball back and forth a few times while the pitcher made his way from the bullpen, and the grin never left the dark haired man’s face. By the time the ump signaled the start of the game, he was settled in place and standing a little behind the bag, knees spread and both hands resting on his thighs. 

It took a few batters for him to see any action, and when you heard the crack of the bat, Jack sprung into motion, moving toward second and bending over to scoop the ball off the infield before tossing it to first for the out. 

You cheered just as loudly as Caleb did, clapping your hands without looking away from the field - but you weren’t expecting to catch Jack’s eye when he turned to move back into place at third… and you definitely weren’t expecting him to grin at the sight of you. 

The moment was over quickly, and as the players ran off the field after the third out, you turned to Caleb, clearing your throat. “You said you wanted fries?” 

— 

You made it back to your seats just in time to watch the bottom of the second, both of you carrying a drink and a snack. Jack was batting 8th, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t hit until the next inning, giving you time to eat before he headed to the plate. 

You also checked your messages, a series of exclamation points from Erin and a thumbs up from her mother the only two you had waiting. You showed Caleb, the boy laughing and then scrolling up to look at the picture of him and Jack, his smile so broad that you thought it must have hurt. 

There were no seats in front of you, which meant that you had an unobstructed view when the man finally headed to the plate, the familiar sound of his walkup music - Hungry Like The Wolf - blaring through the stadium’s speakers. Here we go. C’mon, Jack. 

He took a few practice swings and you were relieved to see that he didn’t wince or hesitate. His swing looked comfortable, and when you leaned forward, resting your hands on your knees, you nodded as he took another, pointing the bat outward before settling it on his shoulder and waiting. 

He swung at the first two pitches, making contact on the second one and hitting a long foul down the first base line. But Jack ended up walking, taking his place on first and then getting into position as the catcher stepped to the plate. 

You watched him closely - taking in the way the dark blue jersey fit him, the V of upper chest skin - and a peek of the gold chain he wore - visible thanks to two of the buttons being undone, his socks pulled high to accentuate his muscled calves. He always looks fucking great. 

You knew it meant nothing that he’d offered you and Caleb his seats that day - that he’d just done it to be nice. But you would have been lying to yourself if you said that it didn’t make you feel good, Jack’s momentary attention a confidence boost, especially after the reception he’d given the woman next to you. 

The batter hit a single, and when Jack advanced to second and stopped, you cheered again, the man clapping his hands and shouting something that you couldn’t hear at his teammate. But it was all for nothing, because the following player popped out, ending the inning. 

Jack trotted across the field and toward the dugout, the disappointment on his face evident - but again, when he saw you he smiled, the expression only there briefly … though you certainly didn’t miss it. 

As you settled back against the seat, halfway listening to Caleb as he recounted team stats, you wondered why Jack was making so much of an effort when nothing would come of it. You thought of the woman’s comment about the players lot, wondering just how likely it was that you’d be able to meet him if you went, too. But not with Caleb here. 

The night would be a good memory at least - for both you and the boy, and that would have to be enough. 

By the time Jack stepped to the plate, you were more than ready. The setting sun shaded the sky in hues of orange and purple, the stadium’s lights brightening up the field. Your eyes flicked from where Jack stood to the scoreboard, scanning over the information about him that was displayed there and lingering on the giant image of his smiling face. 

But when you heard the groan of the crowd, your attention snapped back to home plate, where Jack was arguing with the umpire over the previous call, his head shaking back and forth. He stepped back into the box, but you could see his irritation, though it didn’t last for long.

He swung on the next pitch and made contact again, sending the ball straight through between first and second. It rolled halfway into the outfield before anyone got to it, and you got to your feet and cheered, the sound signaling that a run scored loud through the speakers. Not only had he gotten his first hit after the injury, but he’d batted someone in, giving the Cavalry the lead. 

And when the next player swung hard, sending the ball up and out and over the center field wall, the stadium erupted - Jack raising his arm and pumping his fist as he rounded third, before stopping to wait for his teammate to make it home. They celebrated for a few seconds and then off the field, and you slung an arm around Caleb as both of you cheered, too. 

They took a three run lead into the next inning, and then handled their business, setting the batters down 1-2-3 thanks to a double play that Jack initiated. You could see his confidence in every movement; his body remembering exactly what he needed to do to be successful on the field even after weeks away. And he’s good at it, too. That makes a difference.  

Caleb left the seats to fill up his cup from the fountain at the top of your section, and by the time he came back the game had started again. It was a productive inning. You spent more of it on your feet than sitting, joining the crowd in cheering as the Cavalry scored three more runs. But when Jack’s turn to bat came, you realized what the celebration meant. 

“They took him out.” You looked down at Caleb, watching as he frowned. “They’ve got such a lead, that it’s better to rest him, and …” 

“That’s stupid.” Caleb crossed his arms, sighing. “He only batted twice.” You agreed, but you also weren’t the manager of a baseball team. You figured he had a better idea of what the right strategy was when it came to Jack’s rehab … even if it did disappoint you that you wouldn’t get to see him at the plate or on the field again. 

The rest of the game went by quickly, and though they gave up a few runs, your team ended up winning handily. Caleb requested to stay and watch the on-field celebration after, and as the players lined up for high fives and handshakes before leaving for the locker room, you focused, too. Maybe he’ll come back out for a second. 

It was stupid and you knew it, but the moment the field emptied, it meant that the night - and the experience in Jack’s seats - was over… and you didn’t want it to be.

He took his place in line - still wearing his uniform but without his hat - and you watched as he greeted the other players, smiling and laughing with them as they interacted. You couldn’t hear him, but you could tell he was happy, and that made you smile, too. Maybe he really will be back in Louisville by next week. 

The handshakes ended, and when Jack headed back toward the dugout, he didn’t look in your direction again - until right before he made it to the top of the steps. 

It was then that he stopped, eyeing the seats until he saw the two of you. You tried not to react, but Caleb didn’t hide his response; the boy raising his hand and waving wildly. Jack laughed at the sight of it, lifting one of his hands in a wave, too. 

You thought that was it, but then his head turned just enough that he made direct eye contact with you. 

Even from the distance, you could see one side of his mouth lift into a half smile as he nodded, raising one hand and touching the tips of his fingers to his temple before tipping them toward you. Your smile grew and you nodded in return, but before you could do anything else, Jack disappeared into the dugout, leaving the two of you standing in front of the seats. 

Well that was something. Biting your lip and letting out a breath through your nose, you turned your attention toward Caleb, saying his name. “Alright, kiddo. We’re going to go to the bathroom before we head out, because I am not stopping twenty minutes into the drive to let you pee.” 

— 

You’d expected Caleb to talk your ear off the entire drive home. Instead, he fell asleep before you made it back to the highway, leaving you with your thoughts on the drive back. 

And you would have been lying if you said that most of those thoughts weren’t of Jack. 

The interaction with him had been limited, sure. But it had been meaningful in more than one way, for both you and Caleb. He had a cool story that he could tell his friends, and pictures that he could show them. You’d look back on the way his gaze on you had felt and remember the thrill of being on the receiving end of one of his bright smiles. 

You didn’t know him any more than any other person that had ever seen him play or interacted with him briefly, but that didn’t matter. Even if you never spoke to him again, and never saw him in any capacity aside from on the field, you’d have that night as a memory. And a damn good one.

After dropping Caleb off and promising Erin a recap the following day, you drove the short distance to your house and parked in the driveway, turning the car off and enjoying the silence for a few seconds before unbuckling your seatbelt. 

Your house was quiet and dark as you moved through it, leaving your shoes and bag by the front door and grabbing your phone before heading upstairs. You tossed that onto your bed and went into the bathroom, scrubbing your face and changing into your pajamas before staring at your reflection in the mirror. 

You’d been single for six months, and though you’d talked to a few men through the same dating app Erin had used to meet Troy, none of the conversations had led anywhere past the first awkward meetings. It wasn’t that the men weren’t interested, it was you that was selective, opting not to waste your time with anyone that reminded you of the time you’d spent with your most recent ex. 

You knew that you were being picky, but you were content with that knowledge, even if it meant a longer period of being on your own before you found the right person. And Jack couldn’t ever be the right person. You wrinkled your nose while you brushed your teeth, still watching yourself in the mirror. Because he’s been consistently single for his entire career. 

Jack kept much of his personal life private, but Janie was the exception to that. 

And after climbing into bed and plugging your phone in, you searched their names, refreshing your memory of the story that you’d become familiar with when The Statesman had first drafted Jack. 

They’d been high school sweethearts, opting to go to college together. He was going to play ball and major in engineering, and her chosen field was communications. It was clear from all of the pictures of the two of them you found that though they were young, they were in love. 

Everything had gone well for the first few months; Jack and Janie settled in on campus, started classes and began making friends. They’d come home together for Christmas, and Jack was set to begin baseball in January with the rest of the team. 

But only a few weeks into the pre-season, the unthinkable happened: Janie stopped at a convenience store to buy coffee on her way to meet her study group off campus while Jack was at a team workout, and was caught in the middle of a robbery. She hadn’t even made it to the hospital, and Jack had considered quitting the team due to his grief. 

Her parents had convinced him otherwise - reminding him that he’d worked hard for years to get to where he was, and that she wouldn’t have wanted him to give up on his dreams on her account. His parents had agreed, though there were interviews where they admitted that they would have understood if he’d chosen to take a break or even quit outright. 

And Jack had taken a few weeks off, but was ready to go on opening day, dedicating his season to Janie and her family. He was a skilled player, there was no question about it, but the coverage of a D1 athlete losing his girlfriend in such a shocking manner helped draw attention to the man and his performance, and it hadn’t taken him long to grab the attention of scouts. 

He’d had some attention in high school, too, though nothing had panned out - aside from the offer of a partial athletic scholarship. That all changed in his sophomore year when everyone really took notice of his exceptionally high fielding percentage and his infectious enthusiasm toward his teammates. 

Jack declared for the draft that was to take place a month after finishing his junior year - only days after his 21st birthday, and The Statesman had taken him with the fourth overall pick in the first round. 

The rest was history. 

He’d played with The Cavalry for almost four seasons before getting his first call-up, and though it had been toward the end of the regular season, Jack had received an invite to Spring Training the following year … and he’d never gone back. 

In his second season with The Statesman, he’d been named the starting shortstop, making a name for himself with both his agility and personality. His teammates loved him. The community loved him. The cameras loved him, and in the five seasons he’d played in his original position, he earned two gold gloves and got voted into the All-Star Game once. 

But he was injury prone, and after careful consideration, they moved Jack from shortstop to third base. It was an adjustment period for everyone involved, though after a few years of playing the position, it seemed almost natural for him, and there were fewer injuries. 

Until earlier that season, anyway, when Jack had misjudged a slide into second and jammed his shoulder, spraining a muscle and knocking him out of all baseball activities for weeks. He’d gone on the 60 day injured list, though you’d seen him at more than a few games in the dugout before he’d headed down to rehab with The Cavalry. 

He was lucky he hadn’t needed surgery, and even luckier that there’d been no complications with his healing. According to the newest articles you read as you scrolled online that night, Caleb was correct and the team was aiming to have Jack re-activated by the following weekend so that he could finish the final 7 weeks of the season in the majors. Which is where he deserves to be.

You sighed and rolled onto your side, eyes still on the screen - and on a picture of Jack that had been taken a week or two earlier during a Statesman season ticket holder event. He was grinning from behind the bar, one hand holding a glass and the other pulling on a tap to pour someone a drink. 

“Enough.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose with your free hand. Doing a deep dive on Jack wasn’t going to change anything, even if it was keeping you occupied as you wound down for the night.

But before you put the phone down and rolled in the opposite direction, you couldn’t help opening his instagram page and checking his tagged photos, just to see if the woman from next to you had posted the picture like she said she would. 

There were countless pictures of Jack in his uniform posted - everything from on-field screenshots to pictures of him with his teammates and family - but those were dotted with more personal ones; people tagging him in photos of themselves, edited photos, or photos of Jack alone that had been taken from other sources. You didn’t have far to scroll before you found the picture of Jack and the woman, tapping it with one finger to make it bigger. 

She’d put more than one filter on it, smoothing out her features and his, and when you zoomed in on it, you wrinkled your nose. Why would you filter him? He doesn’t need it. Even with the filtering, you could see the bored look in Jack’s eyes, his smile small and tight. Not like it was with Caleb. 

She’d captioned the picture with a black and a yellow heart bracketing the number 7, and it already had more than a few likes. She also had a story, and even though you knew that she’d be able to see who viewed it, you didn’t care, hesitating for only a second before tapping on it. 

The girl - whose name was Brittany - had posted a few times throughout the game; pictures from in her seat, a video of Jack walking up to the plate, her grinning at the camera at the end of the game with the scoreboard behind her… but the final story post was clearly a picture of a parking lot with a tall fence around it, and what looked like a security guard in the corner. She went to the lot. 

You sighed, backing out of the story - and her profile - and going back to Jack’s, eyes lingering on his account’s picture. You followed him, and had for years - liking and commenting on the pictures he posted as well as tagging him and the other players in the occasional ones you’d taken at games. He’d never replied or acknowledged them in any way, though. 

And he won’t, you admitted to yourself as you closed out of the app and opened your alarm, making sure that it was set. “Good luck, Jack.” Closing your eyes after setting the device down on your bedside table, you rolled away from it and got comfortable. As you settled in, you let your thoughts wander back to earlier - to the way Jack’s eyes had warmed when he’d smiled at you, and the way his smile had widened when he saw you and Caleb sitting in his seats. 

You would have been lying if you’d said that the memories didn’t make you feel good. It didn’t matter that he’d likely smiled at hundreds of others in the same way. He’d made the night special for you and for Caleb, and that was the important thing. 

It didn’t take you long to fall asleep - and Jack followed you into your dreams… which you didn’t mind at all. 

— 

You didn’t have a meeting until 10:30 the following morning and so you slept in a little, taking a shower and getting dressed before you even checked your messages. 

There were a few from Erin, asking for details, and you promised you’d reach out once you had a break. But before then, you needed to focus and settled in in front of your laptop, clicking open your first email of the day. Back at it. 

You worked steadily until almost 1 PM, checking things off of your to-do list and scheduling a second consultation with the same client for the end of the following week. You typically worked virtually - and had since your uncle had hired you a few years prior - but there were occasional accounts that required your presence in person. And this one’s going to be one of them. 

That wasn’t an issue. Their offices were located in New Orleans, and you were looking forward to potentially spending a few paid days in the city. But we’ll see. 

While you waited for your lunch to heat, you called Erin, your friend picking up on the second ring and groaning into your ear. “Whatever happened yesterday must have been incredible because Caleb hasn’t shut up since he woke up this morning.” 

“It was pretty great, Erin,” Taking a seat at your kitchen table, you laughed. “I sent him the pictures, did he -”

“He’s already set the one of him and Jack as his phone background. And he’s been bugging me to take him to get them printed.” You weren’t surprised; Caleb loved baseball, and the opportunity that he’d had at the game the previous night had likely meant the world to him. “So how did that happen? He just offered you the tickets?” 

“Pretty much. He stopped to sign for Caleb, and just out of nowhere, asked where we were sitting.” You wet your lips, laughing. “And then once he knew we were in the outfield seats, he just … pointed at the dugout and told us that we could sit in his instead.” 

“He offered them to Caleb? Or to -”

“Well… sort of.” You stood, looking out your back window. “He asked your brother where we were sitting but he was looking at me when he offered the tickets…” You pulled your food out of the microwave and set it down to cool. “And then when we were in the seats, he made eye contact with me a couple times, but -”

“How hot is he up close?” You snorted, but she continued. “Because that picture of him and Caleb? That man’s hand is -”

“Really hot.” Humming in agreement, you reached for a fork. “And he seemed really nice, too. Paid more attention to the kids than to the adults. There was this girl sitting next to us and she was clearly trying to catch his eye, but he barely looked at her.” You figured that he was a professional and wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize his reputation while on the field - and in front of younger fans. But still. She made it obvious. “He was polite, but he was just … going through the motions.” 

She hummed again, the sound non-committal as you took your first bite. “But not with you. And not with Caleb.” No, I guess not. “You should post those pictures and tag him.”

“Erin, I’m not trying to -”

“No, just hear me out. Maybe he’ll see them. And maybe he’ll remember you. And maybe he’ll -”

“Erin, come on. That’s a fantasy. I’m sure he’s got a million people tagging him every day. He won’t even see it if I do.” 

“You never know. It can’t hurt.” She said your name, the tone teasing. “And since Caleb’s account is private since he’s twelve, it makes sense you’d post ‘em for him. He really had a lot of fun with you. He’s already asking if you want to go to a game again.”

“Yeah. There’s still a little over a month left this season, so I’m sure we can figure out a weekend to see the Statesman. I’ll third wheel with you and Troy.” She laughed at that, agreeing. “I’m going to go, though. I need to eat. I have to run and analyze metrics for two campaigns this afternoon, and it’s going to take forever.” 

You hung up soon after, but as you ate, you contemplated what she’d said about posting the pictures. It was really no different than any of the other games you’d been to or posted about. You’d taken pictures that weren’t of Jack, and those could go up, too. Why not post the one of him and Caleb? It’s a good picture. 

After sending the final email for the day, you shut your laptop and changed into more comfortable clothes before stretching out on the couch. You needed to go to the store, but figured it could wait til later … and you had pictures to post. 

You chose five of them - one of the field from the concourse, one of the scoreboard, a picture from the seats, and then two of Jack and Caleb - one while he was signing and the other of them looking at the camera, which you made the main image. Choosing a caption was harder than picking the pictures themselves, but you finally opted for something extremely neutral: First @The_Cavalry game of the season. Great game, even better seats, and @CalebOnBase got to meet his favorite player. 

You tagged the picture - adding Jack and The Statesman’s accounts - and thought about adding one of Jack’s walk up songs to the post. No. That looks too desperate. So you posted it without, taking one final look at the images - and lingering on Jack’s smile - before you checked the Cavalry’s account to see if they’d posted that night’s lineup. 

Jack was starting again, but instead of being in at 3rd, he was the designated hitter. So he’ll get to bat, but can save his arm. It made sense, and you figured that if all went well, he’d only play in a game or two more before being called back up to the majors. And he’ll be back here. It made you smile, and the expression widened when you got a comment on the post from Caleb - four baseballs and the thumbs up emoji. 

You’d done your part, and that was that. Caleb could see that you’d posted the photos, and if by chance Jack saw the tag, he’d also see that you appreciated the seats he’d allowed you to sit in. With one final look at the pictures, you nodded and then sat up, sighing. 

“Alright. Grocery shopping’s not going to do itself.”

— 

You were stunned the next afternoon when you got an alert that The Cavalry tagged you in a story, and didn’t even try to hold back your grin when you saw that they’d reposted your pictures. You got a comment from their account a few seconds later - Glad you had a great time, thanks for coming! - the words accompanied by a blue heart and a baseball. 

After sending the link to Erin so that she could show her brother, you set your phone down, returning to the work you were doing. You stayed busy throughout the rest of the day, and even though your phone kept lighting up with new alerts - strangers liking the pictures and commenting on your post, it didn’t break your focus. 

And by the following day, things were pretty much back to normal. The story was gone, strangers weren’t still finding your profile, and you’d opted to work for most of Saturday morning to get ahead, which meant that you could take Monday off. And I can take a nap. I haven’t been able to do that in weeks. 

You pulled the drapes shut and then climbed into bed, the darkened room helping you to relax much faster than you anticipated. There was no need to set an alarm, and so you didn’t, figuring that you’d wake up on your own when you got hungry… which you did, just after 6 PM. Maybe I’ll order food. I don’t feel like cooking. 

You stretched, pointing your toes, and then reached for your phone, mentally flipping through restaurant options. But you froze with the device in front of your face as the screen lit up, eyes zeroing in on the alert in the center of it. 

Whiskey_Jack7 liked your post

---

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Pressing

Jack Daniels x F!Reader, dude ranch AU

A Palomino oneshot, but can be read on its own

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: Jack marks you as his in an unexpected way.

Warnings: PWP, Jack's belt leaves an impression on reader's skin, unintentional branding, unprotected sex, long-distance relationship, desperate and feral cowboy, no physical descriptions of Reader, very lightly edited, written as part of the Palomino universe, set after the end of the series, but can be read as a oneshot on its own

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: This little story came from an ask sent in by 🐴 anon in December 2022, which I have long lost, about a song that mentions a guy’s belt buckle leaving marks on his girlfriend's inner thigh while fucking. Naturally, they thought of Jack’s belt. 🐴 anon, if you’re still here, thank you for the inspo and for your patience ❤️

Also thank you to @lola-lola-lola for getting me horn knee about our cowboy again 😘 Writing Palomino smut first thing in the year was not on my 2024 bingo card, and I’m not mad about it!

Cutest dividers by @firefly-graphics.

It’s been two and a half months. Week after wretched week of phone calls on stolen time. Day after day of aching to reach through the phone screen and the distance between you to touch him.

It’s hard being hundreds and hundreds of miles apart. It’s even harder on weeks when he’s in the mountains with no reception. Harder to find time to call when you have to work late and he has to get up at dawn.

But you endure it all - for days like this. 

It’s a rare weekend off in the high season, with Teak pulling back-to-back pack trips to cover for him, joking that he can’t take all his sighing and pining for his Darlin’ anymore.

Jack takes the last flight out on Friday night, arriving first thing on Saturday morning, before the city - or you - wake up. You’re half-buried under the duvet when the jingle of the key in the door jolts you from shallow slumber.

On unsteady feet, you wobble out into the hallway, crashing into the walls as you go, balance off-kilter from sleep.

But it’s ok - he catches you, all white t-shirt and tight blue jeans. Incognito, if you will, in casual sneakers, but the cowboy hat is on as always. You knock it off post-haste, burying your face in the side of his neck in a desperate need for contact, his warmth seeping into your skin and wrapping you up in the deepest of comforts.

His hair is longer than he usually keeps it, and your fingers twist into his tousled curls when you pull back, taking in the stubble on his sharp jawline, and his tired eyes. But before you can say anything, he leans in and slants his lips over yours.

The taste of airplane coffee is sharp and bitter on his tongue as he kisses you deep and messy. You startle when he suddenly slams the door shut behind him, not realising it was still open, and his beat-up weekend bag is tossed carelessly behind him somewhere in the doorway. 

The legs of the kitchen table scrape jarringly against the floor as he crowds you onto it, big hands cupping your ass and pulling you against his straining erection through his jeans.

‘Fuck, it’s been too long, darlin’.’ His voice is gravelly from an apparently sleepless overnight flight, and hearing his voice finally on the shell of your ear has you whimpering needily.

‘Can’t wait any more,’ he growls, desperation thick in his voice.

With a flick of his wrists, he shucks off your ratty sleep shirt, eyes hooded as he gazes down at your tits, like he can’t believe he’s actually touching you. Cupping them, soft and heavy, with reverent, rope-worn palms, he sucks one nipple after the other between his lips, making you squirm against him and leak wet and sticky between your thighs.

Strong hands hold you in place easily as you buck, the scrape of his moustache almost painful on your over-sensitive skin, nerve endings on fire after being deprived for long weeks. 

Too impatient to wait, you tug your pyjamas shorts down your hips and kick them off clumsily, panties tangled in your damp folds as you writhe under him. 

You feel the breath catch in his broad chest at the peek of your pussy, a rapidly growing damp spot darkening your cotton underwear. Hooking his thumb under the fabric, he tugs it unceremoniously to the side, baring you to him. 

‘Look at all this,’ he marvels, tracing the fleshy pad of his thumb through your folds, making you arch clean off the table. ‘So wet for me and you’ve barely woken up.’

‘Been thinking about you the while night,’ you admit, hips twitching as you chase his touch. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Did you touch yourself, darlin’?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘No. Wanted your fingers. Your cock.’

His nostrils flare at your answer, unabashedly possessive in the way he looms over you. 

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs into your throat, nosing the side of your neck while thick fingers thrum against your clit. ‘I was so hard for you the whole fuckin’ flight.’ 

As if to prove it to you - not that you need it - he rolls his hips into your inner thigh, the hard bulge undeniable.

You mewl, hooking your ankles around his waist. ‘Fuck me now, Jack - please.’

There’s a wordless fumble for the solid sterling flask bottle of his belt buckle, his usual level-headed composure nowhere to be found as he pushes down his jeans with shaking hands, just enough to pull his cock out of its denim confines - 

And then he thrusts home inside you.

After months of only your fingers, it’s a stretch. But what a delicious stretch it is.

You feel him throb deep inside you, feel the thunder of a pained groan in his chest, pressed up against yours. Your cunt is all slick and give to his determined strokes as he begins to move. 

There’s no finesse, hardly any awareness, when he fucks frantically into you. His solid weight pins you to the table, and it rattles precariously under your back.

Your legs are splayed obscenely wide and bent at the knees while Jack pounds into your wet heat, eyes wild and mouth hanging open, watching your tits bounce as you take him, your nails digging into the cotton of his white t-shirt. He never did take off your panties, and the fabric rubs your clit just so with every one of his thrusts, rapidly sending you to the edge.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware of the coarse scrape of his jeans against your inner thighs, and something digs hard into the tender skin, the repeated motion dulling the sensation to an almost numb pressure. 

When you cum, you’re crying out before your head catches up, your body convulsing with blind bliss as your pussy clenches around him in a hot rush. The blood pounding in your ears is drowned out by your chants of his name, and then his hips start to stutter and his whole body tenses, frantic eyes on yours as he teeters on the edge. 

‘Where, darlin’?’

‘Inside me.’

The words have barely left you and he’s coming, broken pants against your lips as he comes and comes and comes - spilling inside you, filling you to the brim until he’s empty, turned inside out.

Slumped, boneless on top of you, humid pants pressed into your shoulder, his fingers tangle with yours, squeezing as if to let you know that he’s here.

You almost doze off, the gradually slowing rise and fall of the cowboy’s broad chest a comforting anchor, when he rouses you with gentle lips along your jaw. You giggle, feeling him softening and sliding out of you, making a mess of your kitchen table. 

‘Mornin’ darlin’,’ he says somewhat belatedly, warm eyes crinkling as he smiles at you.

‘Morning,’ you grin back, and when he shifts, you wince at the ache in your joints from being pinned to one spot for this very vigorous wake up call. His hands smooth over your legs in apology, and you jump when his fingertips brush over somewhere at the juncture of your upper thigh that is surprisingly sore.

‘What’s that?’ you ask, puzzled.

Jack doesn’t answer, curiously quiet. You look down to where he’s bracketed between your legs, watching him trace his index finger over the unmistakable imprint of his distinct belt buckle on the inside of your thigh, where it’s been digging into your skin the whole time. 

He glances at you. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

‘No, you didn’t,’ you give him a knowing grin. ‘And are you really sorry, cowboy?’

He doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. Gently pinching your swollen folds together, he groans when a milky bead of his cum dribbles out of you, running down the inside of your leg and smearing onto the flask-shaped impression.

‘Ain’t sorry about somethin’ that looks this good on you, darlin’.’

‘Could’ve asked me before you branded me, you know,’ you half-joke, running your own finger along the deep lines carved into your skin, for now.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, I tend to forget my manners when I’m balls deep in a pussy as sweet as yours,’ he retorts, one eyebrow arching when he feels you shiver at his words.

You huff in jest, ‘Doesn’t sound like much of an apology if you asked me.’

‘Whatcha want, darlin’? Me on my hands and knees for you?’

Heat flashes under your skin, from your cheeks down to your toes, and Jack’s eyes darken as his tongue wets his bottom lip. ‘Alright. I hear you loud and clear, ma’am.’

Slowly, he sinks onto his knees in front of you, his joints creaking endearingly as he goes, and you can’t help but tease, ‘Easy there, cowboy.’

The wicked tip of his tongue peeks out, and you bite your lip in a moan when it cleverly traces the outline of the belt buckle on your skin, ending in a playful nip that pulls a gasp from you.

With an unapologetically smug grin, Jack winks. ‘I’m only just gettin’ started, darlin’.’

Note: Thank you for reading ❤️ I’ve missed these two, and if you’re new to Palomino, I hope you’ll give the series a chance!

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2024: October 7th

Day 7: Bruising or Bitemarks // Virgin // Ice Play

Agent Whiskey x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Vaginal sex, cock riding, biting, hickies, begging, submissive Whiskey, teasing

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Uh, Whiskey?” Jack looks up from examining the amber tone of the newest batch of Statesman that had been un-barrelled and bottled, sniffing the oaky rich notes and was satisfied with the hint of cloves and honey. It will be a good vintage, one that he had personally crafted and he was just about to put it to his lips to taste when he’s interrupted. 

Looking up, he finds Champ, aka Agent Champagne, his boss - staring at his neck. Making him frown at the bewildered and slightly bemused expression on the older man’s face. “What is it?” He asks, setting down the glass and reaching up, his brows pulling together even more when he feels a tender abrasion that has been exposed as his collar moved down, pulled tighter as he had sat. Making his own embarrassment bloom on his face as he realizes what Champ is staring at. 

****

“Fuuuuuuuck, sugar.” It’s hotter than fucking Satan’s ass in the middle of July, but he’s not going to even fucking complain. Your sweat slick body writhing on top of him, your cunt wrapped around his cock, bouncing on it so expertly that it makes his toes curl every time you settle on him. His head tips back, eyes closed as you kiss down his jaw. 

You hum, the sound almost a growl as you reach up and start to tangle your fingers into his sweaty hair, holding onto him like you are riding a bull. Putting a little more roll into your hips as your teeth come out and you scrap them over his skin. 

“Oh shit.” Jack hisses, his cock twitching in an instinctive reaction to your little nip and making you giggle. 

“You like that, baby?” You coo, your voice dripping with sex and honey, just the way he likes it. You nibble at his throat again and he moans softly, his cock jolting inside your walls again. Even if he denies it, his body is telling you that he loves what you’re doing. 

“Hmmmmm.” You smirk and open your mouth wider, letting your teeth sink into the sensitive flesh of his neck, right above the pulse and dig in. 

Your name falls as a whimper from his lips, his own fingers digging impossibly tight into your hips. Holding you there rather than trying to push you away. You know Jack is stronger than you are, you have seen him in action. If he didn’t want this, he could easily stop it. 

The fact that he doesn’t makes you feral. Sucking and biting more and more. The same spot over and over again until he is wearing an impression of your teeth in the smooth, tanned skin of his vulnerable throat. A bruise is already starting to bloom under the surface from where the pressure of your mouth has broken capillaries. 

“Goddamn.” He pants, rocking his hips up into you, needing and wanting more of your cunt while you lose yourself in the taste of his sweat and the beauty of marking his body as your own. “Sugar, you gotta- I need-” 

He whines again when your tongue presses at the hollow of his throat, your teeth scraping over his Adam’s apple. He’s never been one to give up too much control, but right now, it’s like you’ve lassoed him to the bed and he can do nothing more than bed for you. Chills racing up his spin every time your teeth bite into his flesh and his body pulls tight in pleasure. 

“I know what you need.” You tease, lapping at the latest mark and then deciding to suck on it again. Enjoying the tightening of his core and the melting of his limbs as you put another set of bitemarks to his shoulder after you’re satisfied with one right above his collarbone. 

His chest becomes your canvas, your mouth the paintbrush. Bruises and impressions start to form a pattern over his skin. Making him whine and squirm ever more, groaning in protest when you actually pull off his cock so you can move down his body. 

Another bruise on his hip bone, making sure that it will be vivid when it fully forms, imagining the way it will look when his low slung jeans rest right below it. It makes your now empty cunt clench around nothing and you moan before you move to give him a matching mark on the right side. 

Jack Daniel whines when you bite right next to the base of his cock. You don’t apply as much pressure as you do on the less sensitive areas, but the shudder of his thighs and lovely little spurt of pre-cum that beads up against his belly and slides down his stomach gives away how much he likes this. 

Your tongue teases his balls, making him gasp and they draw tight, as if he is about to cum, but you move away and his groan is heavy with disappointment. 

Focusing on his thighs. You always love how thick and strong they are. Able to ride a bull and hold tight, they are tight with need and anticipation as you smirk up at him, your face planted right at the most sensitive inner portion. 

“Cock tease.” He blows out a half breath, half laugh as he looks down at you. “You might as well make your mark there, too.” He pants, making your smirk at the way he makes begging seem like he’s going you a favor. He wants this just as much as you do, maybe even more. 

You blow on his skin, making him hiss before you finally give him what he wants. Your mouth suctioned to his skin, pulling it harshly before you pull away and bite around the mark. Only to do it all over again under there is a change in the skin. The slight puffiness of where it has been sucked on, the discoloration and then the indentions that are so close to breaking the skin that they are bruising as well. 

Jack looks drunk, his eyes heavy and his chest heaving, so close to just giving in and cumming untouched from the attention of your mouth. “Sugar.” He slurs the soft praise. “Goddamn, c’mere.” He reaches down and urges you back up his body. “I fucking need to be inside you when I blow my load.” 

You nip his hip again and giggle when he moans, your teeth carving the path back up his body. 

****

“Jack?” He doesn’t hear him say his name the first time. “Earth to Jack.” 

Jack squirms slightly, pulling his collar and covering up the bruises and bitemarks that could be seen and shooting Champ an innocent look. “Training injury.” He lies, knowing that the man would never believe that for a second. 

Champagne snorts and shakes his head, turning back to the bar cart with a chuckle. “I’ll have to get Ginger to get the nanites to get rid of it for you.” He offers, smirking to himself. 

“No.” Jack shakes his head quickly, picking up his whiskey glass to lips to hide his grin. “I’m good.” 

[bonezone44]

Tender This (21+)

Uncle!Jack Whiskey x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a bad dream and ask to sleep with your Uncle Jack.

Word Count: 2064

tags: dub-con/non-con somno. thigh grinding. coming in pants. Reader is the aggressor ! nicknames for Reader: baby, angel, niece.

+++

By the time you opened your eyes, the nightmare was gone from your mind. The foreboding visuals that caused you to feel cornered and terrorized were erased. Unfortunately, though, your body and heart were slower to rid you of the experience. You didn’t think twice before hopping out of bed and heading down to your Uncle Jack’s room. You didn’t care that all you wore were your cotton pajamas.

You could hear the drone of the TV from the hallway, lights flashing from the crack of his door. Knowing he was still awake was a relief, but it wasn’t enough for you to go back to bed by yourself. You rapped your knuckle on his door. He cleared his throat before answering.

“Come in!” he called.

You tip-toed barefoot inside with your shoulders high in your ears. Jack sat up in bed when he saw you–worry evident on his brow. He wore a white t-shirt and thin wire-framed glasses. He grabbed the clicker and turned down the volume on the TV.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked.

“I had a bad dream,” you pouted. 

He sat motionless with his mouth open–his heart nearly beating outside of his chest.

You wrung your hands together. “Can I come sleep with you?”

A few more stunned, heavy breaths before he answered. “I–well, angel–I mean–” he released awkward chuckles between his stuttering. “I-I don’t think you’d have a lot of fun in here with me–” he pointed across at the TV. “--I’m just watching a-a-a documentary on uh… saddles of the old vaqueros from back in the day.” He cleared his throat again and smoothed the thick quilt in his lap.

You glanced to your right at the TV that sat atop his dresser. On screen was an older gentleman in a white sombrero who was smiling and showcasing leather embossing. It took more effort than you’d like to admit to not roll your eyes–because of course Uncle Jack would be watching something like that in the middle of the night. You remained undeterred.

“Please, Uncle Jack?” You attempted the most pathetic look you could muster. “That dream messed me up. I really don’t wanna sleep alone.”

It was almost visceral the way his heart broke for you–brows all curled into his forehead and his eyes growing big and misty. “O-okay, angel,” he croaked, looking you up and down. “If it’s that important to ya.”

“Mm-hmm,” you nodded and scurried forth. You drew back the quilt, distinctly avoiding the look of nervous dread in his eyes as you climbed into the bed with him. Before he could think to put a pillow between the two of you, you scooted as close as you could and wrapped your arm across his middle. 

He choked on his breath and placed his hand on your arm. “A-angel, I don’t know–” 

“Please, Uncle Jack? It was a really bad dream,” you pleaded with your chin on his chest. 

Another yank of his tender heartstrings. His glittery eyes bounced between yours as he tried to find the words–but none came out of his pouting lips. He looked away and wiped his mouth with his hand. “O-okay, baby, just uh… just for tonight, I guess. But–” he cleared his throat a third time. “--but let’s try to-to-to watch the program, okay?” He locked his eyes on the TV. He twitched and tensed his jaw and neck. His lips were close enough that you could smell whiskey on his breath. You wondered what he tasted like this late at night. 

You tugged him closer and pressed as much of your body into his as you could–from your cheek on his chest, to the front of your torso against his side, down to your leg lining up with his. His breathing stuttered, but you ignored it. Instead, you listened to his rapid beating heart. You melted into his strong, steady heat and the scent of his skin. You watched the TV for a while like he asked, and it was actually pretty interesting to see an expert artisan craft a saddle seat out of leather. But really, the most interesting part came when the artisan had to measure and cut the leather pieces for the horn because that’s when Uncle Jack placed his arm around you–his large hand finding respite on your shoulder. You instantly released a small whimper and squeezed his middle.

“It’s alright, angel,” he cooed–his thumb caressing your bare skin. “You’re safe, now. Just keep on watchin the TV.”

“Thank you, Uncle Jack,” you murmured–daring to press a quick kiss to his chest before resting your head again.

“O-of course,” he coughed and squirmed, but his hand stayed steady on your shoulder.

You grew weary as the night went on. Your eyes drifting shut. But you could never quite fall back asleep–not with your body this close to your Uncle Jack. Wetness pooled between your legs. Your body burned so badly for him you were aching. You didn't know what to do. You were afraid of scaring him off, but you were patient. You could be patient for a man like Uncle Jack.

Once the credits started rolling, Jack turned off the TV. You felt him shift beneath you, but you refused to budge. “A-angel?,” he whispered. He tapped you lightly on the shoulder. He was trying to wake you up… without waking you up. “I–... shit,” He murmured. He clicked off the lamp on his bedside table–a soothing darkness blanketing the room. He tried to situate himself a little further down the bed and you did let him move–but only a little. You were determined to stay on him. So much so that once he had settled into a comfortable position, you faked a sleepy moan and wrapped your leg on top of his. 

You could hear him suck air through his teeth–but he didn't push you off or away. In fact, his arm moved from your shoulder down to your waist, rubbing the exposed skin between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your bottoms. It felt like he was igniting you with his fingers, like each one was a matchstick. You wanted more, but you had to be coy about it. 

“Angel?” He tried again and you refused to respond. 

You counted your long, slow breaths, counted the heartbeats you felt in your pussy. You needed to give him time. Let him think it was all happenstance. You waited for as long as you could possibly stand. Then, you shifted again, another sleepy groan and stretch until you were half on top of him–your crotch on his thigh, your leg between his. His hardness poked against you.

“ssshit,” he whispered to himself. The hand that was once on your waist found its way to your shoulder. You couldn't see in the dark, but you knew his mouth was open. You knew he was stumbling over what to do. But he didn't push you away like he should have–like he would have if he truly didn't want you there.

It made you crave him–burning up and down your skin. It made you hungry to know that he desired you–that he wanted you so much that it made him all twisted up inside. That you had the power to falter the boundaries of a man so formidable. The roll of your hips was instinctual–your body so desperate to relieve itself from the ache, but the taste made you voracious. 

You rolled again and a whimper forced itself from your lips. You tried to muffle it by nuzzling into his chest. 

Jack didn't move. He still didn't push you away. He was gonna let you do it, wasn't he? Let himself pretend you were doing this all in your sleep. 

You pressed your swollen clit against his thigh and pushed upward from your knees, curling your toes, and grinding against him. It felt glorious, but you had to take it slow. No matter how much you really wanted to yank his pants down and ride him like the cowboy he was. 

And every little brush of your leg against his hard cock made him twitch and hiss. Again and again you thrusted yourself–rolling your entire body against his while he held himself back. He was braced and taking it. 

—---------

Jack felt drunk. Inebriated. Boozed up. Three sheets to the wind. And it was all because of you.  Your desire for him made him dizzy. The way you tucked your chin and looked at him with the sweetest, most docile eyes. Your sugary pouting lips. It felt too good to have you so close and snuggling up to him. He loved knowing that he could protect you and that you wanted him to protect you. It comforted him that you sought him for comfort. That you trusted him enough to surrender yourself and all your worries upon his shoulders. How could he ever deny you? How could he ever say no to your tender affection?

He knew it was wrong. It didn’t matter that you weren’t blood. It was the principle! He knew his feelings for you were unrefined and not very Kingsman-like, but … you had this way of hypnotizing him–captivating every nerve and synapse in his whole got-dang body. All it took was one wayward look from you and Hoo! Buddy ! he wanted to ravish you in an open prairie, by a campfire, underneath the shining eye of the moon. He wanted to buck up into you from underneath, let you ride him like a stud bull til he filled your belly full of his seed. He wanted to lathe and lick your breasts with his tongue–suck hickeys into your thighs in the shape of the letter J. He wanted to stuff your mouth full of his cock so he could make love to your sweet, darling face.

But …

As it has been mentioned before…

These feelings were unrefined and not very Kingsman-like. 

Jack saw himself as a gentleman. And gentlemen uncles do not bed their nieces.

Yet there you were, grinding against him, moaning and murmuring in your sleep. He knew he should wake you up. He knew he should have made you go back to your own bed. He knew he should have done anything other than what he had done, but… he didn’t. 

He stayed as still as he could. His body twitching and stuttering every time you brushed his cock. He tried to angle his hips a bit to cause more friction and it worked for a little while–but then you started chasing your high. He could feel it deep down in his gut how much your hazy mind hungered for release. He didn’t know what you were dreaming about that would cause you to react in such a way. You were twisting your hips around and moaning, arms wrapped around his middle and your face resting flat on his chest. 

“Uncle Jack…” you cried and Jack’s fist flew to this mouth to bite back his groan. “Please…” you begged as you rode his thigh with deep languid strokes. 

Jack didn’t want to whip his dick out and make a big ol’ mess all over the blankets and sheets and you. But he was feeling pretty goddamn desperate for some relief. He did his best to avoid touching you–lest he wake you up, you poor thing. You were so close! And shit, he was, too! So he reached his hand down and gave his cock a gentle squeeze through the fabric of his sleep pants. Something to ease the ache until he could extricate himself from you and disappear into the bathroom for a few shameful moments. One squeeze wasn’t enough, though. Especially once you started whimpering and shaking and meeting the end of your delightful, filthy dream. He couldn’t wait any longer. Gentlemanly duties be damned! He gave himself a few quick tugs through his pajamas, squeezing the head of his cock in his big, thick hand. He huffed and puffed before grunting hard through gritted teeth, cursing as quietly as he could while come spurted from his cock and smeared into his sleep clothes. ‘Oh, angel.’ He thought, feeling the fabric of his pants cling to him. ‘You’re gonna be the death of your ol’ Uncle Jack.’

After cleaning himself up and changing, he came back to bed and put a pillow between the two of you. Instead of what he wanted to do, which was spoon you, press his cock between your thighs and grind against your slick. But he couldn't. What he had done was shameful enough as it was. He had to stop. He had to put an end to it all. Not that anything had really happened, ...had it?

He took a deep breath and started listing different types of saddles in his head before eventually falling asleep.

+++++++++++++

@xdaddysprincessxx -- I thought this might be a fun one for ya. 😘😘😘

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓

pairing: stripper!jack daniels x f!reader

genre: stripper AU, explicit, minors dni

word count: 4.2k

summary: frustrated by your everyday life, you seek solace at a male strip club. It's your first time and you're instantly mesmerized by the one that calls himself "Whiskey".

warnings: a mild start of a anxiety attack at the beginning, suggestive dancing, stripping, coming untouched, awkward moments, reader's first time at a strip club, unprofessional situations, mutual pining, sexual tension, use of good girl once

a/n: this idea was born whilst we were talking with @fuckyeahdindjarin about stripper!frankie and ofc since both of us are unhinged about a certain cowboy, the conversation steered naturally in the direction of stripper!jack ❤️‍🔥 I'd like to add that I've never been to a strip club and everything here (especially the dances) are born from me watching way too many male stripping tutorials and google searches, so it might not be %1000 authentic buuuuut hopefully it's fun nonetheless!

click for part two of the stripper!jack series

dividers by @firefly-graphics 💜

Your eyes are glued to the neon sign right above the bar. It flickers a bright pink, then purple, then red. In capital letters, it says: PEEP SHOW, and underneath it there’s a heart and in that, a keyhole. 

The music isn’t loud enough to leave you deaf, thankfully. You’re not sure you could’ve handled music blaring from the speakers like you were in a dance club. Make Up Sex by SoMo plays in the background, you gently sway with the rhythm refusing to look at the stage. The thumb of your right-hand traces over the knuckles of your left. You notice the bartender and tear your gaze from the sign.

He stands behind the counter, his presence radiating a magnetic charm. With a physique sculpted to perfection, he possesses an air of rugged masculinity. His hazel eyes hold a captivating depth, and his confident smile hints at a mischievous nature. As he moves with grace and confidence, he threads his fingers through his tousled chestnut hair.

“You look like you might need a drink,” he teases, his smile bright and comforting. “Anything I can help you with?” 

“Uh. . . a greyhound please?” 

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he replies, taking a step back as if about to leave. But then, he pauses, leaning in close. His breath gently fans your skin, a rush of excitement flooding your veins. “And just some friendly advice, try to relax. We promise we don’t bite,” he says with a wink and goes off to prepare your drink. 

You’re frustrated. Have you truly been that obvious? Who are you kidding— of course you have. You’re alone at a male strip club staring at the neon sign rather than the stage. Of course, they can tell you’re new here. You sigh and look around. The establishment is surprisingly neat. You notice a bachelorette party taking place not that far away from you, they seem to be having fun, screaming as a stripper sways his hips from side to side. He looks good. Chiseled abs, shiny chest, the whole thing shebang. 

Your heart sinks into your chest. You hate being alone and you’re so incredibly tired of it. Everyone you know is either busy or doesn’t care enough to spare you even an hour. It’s been two years since your last relationship and you swear the lack of company is eating you alive. It would be fine if you had a couple of distractions, like going out with friends maybe, but that proved to be an impossible ask. You’re not even sure why you’re so bothered. You do a lot of things alone. You enjoy your own company. Yet, for some reason seeing everyone together, having fun is more difficult today compared to other days. Your chest collapses on itself, your pulse quick under your skin. 

Suddenly it's very hard to breathe. 

You take short, sharp breaths, filling your lungs with the scent of musk and strawberries. 

Your chest continues to heave—Shit, are you about to have a panic attack in a freaking strip club? Now that will surely be in your top five most embarrassing moments. Nothing even happened, why are you feeling like this?

“You a’right there darlin’?” 

A voice smooth as honey reaches your ears. It curls around your body and keeps you still. Goosebumps flare across your skin, the small hairs that are scattered over the back of your neck standing with attention. Slowly, you turn. 

It’s one of the strippers, at least you assume it’s one of the strippers. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, a leather jacket, and some low-hanging jeans. He’s wearing a white mesh top underneath. You find yourself unabashedly gawking at him. You’re not sure how long you stare but you’re hoping it only lasted for a second. And if you’re really lucky, he wouldn’t have even noticed. 

In contrast to the other strippers you’ve seen so far, he appears slightly older with a softened stomach, yet possesses a lean physique sculpted by years of dance.

You swallow thickly, forcing your gaze back up. He’s clean-shaven except for a dark mustache, he’s smiling but you see a hint of worry in his gaze. Narrowing your eyes, you notice a small gold sticker in the shape of a star under his right eye. 

“I’m. . .” you swallow again and shake your head. You’re dumbfounded. “I’m okay, thanks.” 

The bartender places the greyhound you ordered, at the same time the stripper extends a hand, “Whiskey,” he says in a sultry way. You squeeze his hand and raise your eyebrows, your shake is a bit weak. 

“Whiskey?” you ask. He lets go of your hand and you bring it to your forehead, nervous laughter escaping you. “Oh, it’s your stage name. Of course.” 

His crooked smile is intoxicating, the tip of his tongue moves over his teeth. “My parents would have to hate me to name me ‘whiskey’ sugar,” he answers, rubbing his chin. A moment of silence follows as he thinks, ”Well, my real name ain’t any less embarrassing now that I think about it.” 

You want to ask him his real name but end up biting your tongue instead. You can’t ask him that, it would be rude, and even if you did you doubt that he’ll tell you. Pressing your lips tightly together, you drop your gaze to your drink. You curl your fingers around it. The sudden cold against your skin calming you. 

“First time?” he asks and you nod. “May I ask why you’re here then, so I can be of service?” 

That’s a good question. Why are you here? 

“I think to have some fun,” you mutter as you drag your thumb over the cool condensation. “I’m just. . .” you shake your head. “Nevermind, that’s stupid. Let’s just say I’m here to have some fun.” 

Whiskey observes you for a moment. His chocolate gaze taking in every detail of your expression. Are all strippers this attentive? you think, heat crawling up your spine. His hand slowly slides over the smooth bar until his fingers are gently resting above your wrist. You suck in a breath. His thumb moves over to the inside of your wrist, tracing the vein that pulses violently. 

“How about a private dance?” he asks slowly, as if you might bolt out the doors at any given second. “I promise to entertain you thoroughly, sugar.” 

You blink, “Really?” you ask instantly feeling foolish at the question. It’s a service he provides, that you will be paying for, of course he means it. Nonetheless, he seems amused by the question. He grins proudly, crowding your personal space. He tilts his head. Your fingers twitch around the glass and your eyes drop to his lips. 

Man, he’s dreamy. You’re starting to understand the appeal of these establishments. 

“Really,” he parrots back at you. “Follow me, darlin’.” 

With shaky legs, you do. 

The private room is a sanctuary tucked away from prying eyes. 

Your eyes follow the sumptuous drapes of deep velvet cascading from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room stands a circular stage much smaller compared to the one outside, its surface gleaming. Positioned in the middle of it, a solitary chair, adorned in lavish leather, and next to it a small table with a small remote on top. Whiskey closes the door as you enter and walks with confident steps. You stand awkwardly until he gestures towards the sole seat with his head. 

“Take a seat, sweetheart. Get comfortable.” 

“O–Okay.” 

You’re not aware of how close he is until you take a seat, he immediately follows, dipping low. He curls two thick fingers under your chin and tilts your head up, his gaze searching. 

“Tell me if anythin’ starts becomin’ too much, understood?” 

“Understood,” you squeak, cheeks growing warm. Without any hesitation, he starts the music. Acquainted by the Weeknd starts playing softly through the speakers. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. The way he walks now is different from the way he walked when guiding you here. He saunters over to you, his shoulders rounding as he starts feeling the music moving through him. 

He stands in front of you, movements fluid and confident. You’re mesmerized by him.  He stalks even closer to you, and you feel the electric heat radiating off of his body. He slides his hands down your arms and you can't help but let out a little gasp. 

Whiskey continues to study your expression, He moves with grace and purpose, his body sliding and swaying sensually to the music. His hips rock back and forth in time, seemingly choreographed flawlessly. His hands glide down his body, tracing the contours of his definition before slipping up his torso. His movements are punctuated by smoldering gazes and slow, deliberate breaths. He rolls his shoulders, his leather jacket sliding to his elbows and falling to the floor a beat later. Your mouth waters. 

Suddenly, he turns and bends his knees, straddling your thighs. Your gaze drops, turning into saucers as you take in the sight of his tiny little ass. You exhale a sharp breath from your nose, nostrils flaring. He draws circles with his hips, nearly brushing against you but not quite, he gently holds your wrists, placing them in his inner thighs. His touch is feather-like and with two fingers, allowing you the chance to break free if needed. Your skin feels taut over your muscles, sweat building at your tailbone—he’s so close. You don’t even remember the last time you were this close to a man. It’s dizzying. 

Whiskey slowly extends his legs and slides your hands up, your fingers skim the apex of his thighs until he’s standing. 

Arousal builds between your legs, your lips a tight, thin line. 

Your hands are on his crotch. 

Oh god, you think you might actually faint. Wouldn’t that be fucking hilarious? 

Fuck he feels warm under your palms—

Scratch that, he feels big. 

He drops down as he rolls his hips, his body slides under your hands like a snake and your fingers move up his chest with the movement, feeling the mesh fabric and the firm chest underneath. Very inappropriately, your nails bite into his skin. If your eyes weren’t glued to this gorgeous man’s back, you would’ve missed the moment his hips stuttered, the smallest grunt echoing from the back of his throat. 

“Sorry,” you squeak, fingers twitching.  

“Don’t worry about it darlin’, just enjoy the show.” 

He stands back up again, guiding your hands down to his hips as he squats low. Before you know it, your hands are resting on his pelvis once more, feeling the underlying heaviness. He grinds forward, hefty bulge filling your palms. 

The music fades to the background. His steps in slow motion, he turns and straddles you normally, knees dipping as he raises his arms and grinds his hips towards you. Your breath catches in your throat. He’s so close. With his every move, you can smell the leather coming off of him, it takes you everything not to close your eyes and just inhale his scent. He steers your hands towards his ass, placing them against the firm mounds. 

You know that this is a strip show. You know that you’ll be paying him afterward—and tipping him generously. 

But, fuck, the way he’s looking at you shouldn’t be allowed. Something dark swirling in them, something ravenous. His smile is knowing, teasing, like he can read your mind and it’s unnerving. How does anyone leave this strip club not being a mess for this man? 

His fingers delicately trace the column of your neck, moving over to your shoulder and coming back. He’s observing you, eyes fixed on you as he searches for any kind of discomfort. Then he gradually wraps his hand around your neck. There’s no pressure and it feels slightly ticklish. 

He moves closer in tune with the music, his lips brush against your neck, your nipples tightening at the touch. He takes your hands and guides them up his chest and broad shoulders. His lips are barely touching yours and you can feel his softly blowing breath. He thrusts his hips, clothed cock nearly touching your chest, suddenly you’re holding your breath wishing nothing more than his touch. His ass flexes under your hand, firm and warm. 

Till this point, you were trying really hard to ignore how wet you’ve gotten. Subtly, you’re moving your hips, trying to add pressure to your throbbing clit. The wet fabric of your underwear grazes against the bundle of nerves, dipping between your wet folds. Your chest heaves and you swallow down a whimper. It’s been so fucking long since you’ve felt anything like this. Tension curls around your thighs and moves up to your stomach, arousal heavy between your legs. He must be used to this right? You can’t be the only one to get this worked up. 

Even if Whiskey does notice your weak attempts at relief, he doesn’t say anything. 

All your senses narrow on him as he kneels in front of you, the music dropping with him. With a wink, he takes your hands and guides them down his chest while leaning back to sit on his heels. Your hands slide down his torso, once again just shy in touching his length. With a body roll, he comes back up and grips the armrests of your chair, popping up into a bridge position. Your thighs are spread and he drops his head low, you swear you feel his breath on you before he slithers up again, lips nearly brushing the valley of your breasts. His face is an inch away from yours, only charm. He tilts his head, coming in closer as if he’s about to kiss you, then moves away again. 

You’re mortified when you find yourself instinctively chasing after his lips. 

He hums, the sound barely audible over the music, his smile never fades, “Good girl,” he mutters as his hands slide down to gently grip the back of your thighs. 

You’ve never been more aware of not touching someone in your life.

Whiskey pushes himself closer and lifts your legs. Despite the clothes that separate the two of you, you feel the sinewy fabric of muscle hidden underneath as your legs frame his narrow hips. He presses closer, positioning his length against you. You feel it. His cock throbbing and aching under those tight, tight pants. Your throat moves, the muscles in your jaw clenched. He grazes one hand up and up and up until the width of it rests over your hip. 

He continues his grinding, his jeans rubbing tantalizingly against your inner thighs. You feel his hardness through the thin fabric separating you; all you can think is how good it feels to have him there. His hands rub lazily across your hips, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Whiskey's hands snake up your sides, his fingers weaving through the flesh of your waist. His pelvis moves rhythmically against yours, each thrust accompanied by a low moan that you’re desperately trying to bite down. 

“You seem tense darlin’,” his breath is hot and heavy in your ear as he gently nibbles the sensitive lobe, tantalizing you further. “Could see it in your eyes as soon as I spotted you alone at the bar. Let go, sweetheart. It’ll be our little secret,” His hips sway in and out, sending shocks of pleasure through your body. You feel your breath catch and become labored, is—is he actually suggesting what you think he’s suggesting? 

God, you just don’t have it in you to care anymore. You’re too worked up, every touch feels doubled with the way he moves, smiles, and looks at you.

You can’t help but relax into his motions. He moves slower, teasing you as he coaxes your inevitable fall. He builds you up, and normally, you would bask in the relief that he would tear you apart soon enough—but the thing is. . . you two aren’t actually having sex. There’s a very high chance the build-up would last forever, that is, until the time was up. You’re being edged in the best way possible but you fear you might have a hearty breakdown if you can’t, as how he put it; “let go”. 

He must’ve sensed your worries because for the first time, his smile falters, brows furrowing with concentration. His eyes flit over yours briefly before cupping your chin and raising your head. You expect him to say something, anything—maybe call you his good girl again—but nothing escapes those lush lips. Your eyes drop to the divot of his bottom lip and he leans closer, cock fully moving over your puffy clit. Your teeth sink into the inside of your cheek. Your stomach bottoms out, there’s a faint buzzing in your ears as the pressure in you grows and grows until you feel it in the back of your eyes. 

Fuck—Are you about to come? 

Nonononononono—

Your body spasms in pleasure, an orgasm building from deep within you as the music and his body surround you. He smells of pine and leather and the scent assaults your lungs. Your insides begin to clench and your muscles carry on a delirious dance of its own as warmth starts to spread in waves throughout your body. Your toes curl and every nerve ending in your body is brought alive. You squeeze your eyes shut,  your breath quickens. You swallow down all the noises that threaten to spill out. All you can think of is how embarrassing this is, your cheeks are left burning, your orgasm washing over you in large waves against your better judgment. 

Whiskey barely slows, still rolling his hips with the guide of the slowing song. He does pull back eventually and you’re grateful for it. The inside of your mouth is dry, your eyes watered, the inside of your panties soaked. 

“S-Shit,” you whisper. “I’m . . . I’m—” 

He lets out a content sigh, if anything, he seems delighted by the whole ordeal. 

“Like I said darlin’,” he rasps, breath ghosting your lips. “This will be our little secret.” 

The music ends and you know your time is up. 

Hanging out at a strip club isn’t actually as mortifying as you thought it would be. 

After your first encounter with Whiskey, you thought you would never step into the glitter and glam of the club ever again. However, after a particularly tough day, you found yourself at the door once more. The bartender, who later introduced himself as Tequila, greeted you enthusiastically, and from that point on, you became a regular.

Despite being a regular, names were still off-limits, and you didn't mind. Everyone was entitled to their privacy, and it made it all the more special for the time when Whiskey might eventually reveal his real name, if that day ever came. You're still not sure where you stand exactly on the spectrum between being a customer and a friend.

You could never afford another private dance though, at least not if you wanted to have enough money for food this month. Nevertheless, you were content with just watching the performances, and seeing Whiskey entertain endless bachelorette and bachelor parties was always a delight.

And hey, surprisingly, Tequila made some killer iced coffees, which you greatly appreciated since you weren't the biggest drinker and a bit of a lightweight. The last thing you wanted was to get drunk with Whiskey around, as you had already embarrassed yourself enough. However, he was a man of his word. He never mentioned the incident that took place during his performance. In fact, he behaved as if it never happened. For a minute there, you even thought that maybe you had imagined the whole thing.

However, there were moments when he would simply give you a certain look, and in that instant, you knew for certain that he did remember.

“Here you go gorgeous,” Tequila says, pulling you from your thought as he places an iced coffee in front of you. 

Your eyes widen as you see whipped cream with a lavish cherry on top. 'Is there a special occasion I'm not aware of?'

He shrugs, “I was bored, it’s a slow night.” 

Thanking him, you turn in your seat. It was a slow night, with only a handful of people present. There was a couple seeking a good time and a couple of corporate-looking ladies. Whiskey was entertaining one of them, employing his Southern charm as he winked at the woman and tipped his hat. Over the passing days, you had come to recognize his dance choreography. It seemed he genuinely enjoyed what he was doing, which made you happy in return.

Sometimes you do wish you had met the man outside of these walls though. You can’t fight the longing you feel whenever you see him. Other than being ridiculously attractive —and knowing how to make a woman come without touching them— he was kind to you that day. He saw how miserable you were and tried to cheer you up. Sure, you were a customer, but still, he didn’t have to go the extra mile. 

You often thought about meeting him at a supermarket or something instead. Would he be as kind? Would he be as attentive? Maybe he wouldn’t even give you a second glance as he buys a box of cereal—you frown, when you think about it like that, maybe meeting him in a strip club wasn’t that bad after all.  

Whiskey's dance comes to an end and you have to fight every fiber of your being not to eat him with your eyes like a hungry, horny, wolf. You try to look disinterested, eyes moving to one of the other dancers. It’s too late though, his gaze catches your own. He smiles as he struts towards you. 

“How are you sweetheart?” he asks, pink tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “Is Tequila here treatin’ you well?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” You grin, gesturing to the whipped cream and cherry on top, as if it's obvious. His eyes drop to the fruit, glistening and wet. Without waiting for you to say anything, he picks up the fruit by the stem and sticks his tongue out. He catches the cherry with his lips, slowly drawing it into his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as he chews. His jaw works over the cherry, then, a moment later, he shows you his tongue once more. 

On the tip of it, lays a neatly knotted stem. 

“Holy hell,” you whisper. “I should be mad because I was looking forward to that cherry but I’m too impressed.” 

With two fingers Whiskey calls for Tequila, “Get the pretty lady another cherry,” he says. 

“Show off,” the other man mutters but complies anyway. A quick moment later, there’s another cherry on a bed of white. 

You eye him warily, “You’re not gonna eat this one too, are you?” 

He laughs, “No darlin’. Don’t worry, enjoy your overly sweetened fruit.” 

Still not trusting him, holding it by the stem, you stick the cherry between your lips and quickly chew. He draws his brows together, “No show?” 

“If I was that talented with my tongue I wouldn’t be single.” 

“There’s more to relationships than a good tongue,” he answers. “I would know.” 

He’s single? 

You don’t know why the revelation shocks you, but it does. You didn’t want to assume anything based on his career choice and by personality alone, you didn’t really think he would be in the same boat as you. 

“You can act a little less surprised you know,” he teases, leaning against the bar with a curled lip. 

“S-Sorry, I just never thought you would be single you’re just so. . .” cutting yourself off, you press your lips together. He leans closer, teasing smile now shifting into a full toothy grin. 

“So. . . what?” he asks. His finger dips into the whipped cream, and he brings it to his lips, his deep gaze never leaving yours as he sucks it off slowly. “Dazzling, charming, talented?” 

Your throat goes dry and you have to swallow, “Well yes, all of those and. . . handsome.” 

“Compliments don’t get you a free dance, sweetheart,” he winks. “Just sayin’.” 

Your lips quiver, a hesitant smile curving your lips. Your cheeks warm under his gaze. 

Talking to him comes easy to you. You also enjoy his confidence, he knows he’s good looking and he doesn’t shame you for stating it, or make you feel less of a person for admitting. It’s freeing. Maybe that’s why you’re always visiting the club. He grants you a place to just be yourself, even if he does so intentionally or not, you appreciate it. 

“You, giving out a free dance?” you exaggerate every word, you mirror his movement and stick two fingers in the whipped cream. You bring them to your lips, savoring the sweetness. It’s subtle, but you catch the way his breath hitches. Your smile grows. “I never would expect such a thing.” 

“Good,” his voice drops dangerously low, almost sounding like a growl. Inching closer, his breath fans the side of your neck and you feel the rough scrape of his mustache against the shell of your ear. A whimper rattles your throat. “I would hate to be misunderstood.” 

He pulls back with a wink, he flashes you his canines, and drags his tongue over them. “See you around, sunshine,” he says, voice returning to normal. The words die in your throat as he disappears towards the back, presumably to get ready for his next show. 

You’re left staring, mouth agape. Flustered, you stir your iced coffee to feel the soothing sound of ice clanking around. 

You frown when you realize all the ice had melted.

Thank you for reading everyone! This one definitely tuckered me out but I think it ended up not being that bad?

Normally this was always going to be a two-parter but then the first part ended up being way longer than I intended (almost 8k) so I decided to split it into two chapters since didn't want it to be too long. Therefore, this little series will be three parts in total. I've written most of chapter two since it was meant to be a part of chapter one so it'll be out relatively quick!

That's it for now, sending everyone love and many hugs 💜

[kedsandtubesocks]

cowboys like us

Bull Rider!Din Djarin x F!Reader x Bronco Rider!Jack Daniels

summary: one cowboy is already a challenge, but two is either going to be your best blessing or worst curse

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, modern rodeo cowboys AU, Din is still a papa and has his baby, light discussion of the rodeo and events, light angst & miscommunication with eventual resolution, Jack & his sweet talk with calling reader ‘baby, honey, sugar,” bar scene with moments of drinking, heavy making out, intense grinding & dry humping, spicy moments, M/M/F & M/M dynamics, polyamorous exploration that leads to eventual poly relationship

word count: 5.9k

a/n: welcome to the first fic of the ‘Let’s Rodeo’ series! I know, I know, this is such a strange combo & AU but I’m such a sucker for cowboy Din and of course Jack decided to barge in and here we are lol, the biggest and deepest thank you’s go to @perotovar @lowlights @nothoughtsjustmeds & @beskarandblasters - this wouldn’t be here without y’all and I’m so eternally grateful…and to you if you’re reading this thank you so much

You wonder if maybe you’ve unknowingly slipped into a strange country song and not realized it.

Popcorn litters the floor all around. The plastic arena seat is a bit uncomfortable. A drunk woman behind you almost spilled beer on you but apologized profusely. There are more cowboy hats here than you’ve ever seen in your entire life.

But as you sit in this strange existence a voice over the loudspeaker comes and sparks up your soul. As the announcer’s voice booms, loud screams swallow up the air of the stadium.

You spot him already climbing onto the bronco and your heart jumps into your throat.

“The man smooth as whiskey!” The announcer screams clear and booming with an accented southern pride.

“Give it up for Jack Daniels!”

Shrill shrieks erupt fanatically loud as if the place now morphes into a boy band concert instead of a rodeo competition.

That is until the alarm sounds. The chute opens, and the ride begins.

Focusing on Jack is chaotic. The bronco bucks frenzied trying to throw the cowboy off with a wild strength. His black Stetson hat goes flying and your stomach drops at how rapidly his body whips around. Back and forth, back and forth, he tries holding on with simply one hand.

It’s terrifying. It’s hypnotic.

Then it’s over fast.

The beautiful horse flings off Jack and he lands on the dirt. You clutch the edge of your plastic seat. The horse continues bucking and your mind rushes to the worst case scenario of the creature’s strong might rearing down on Jack.

Then the cowboy springs up like nothing.

A smile even illuminates his handsome face and it ignites the crowd into a gleeful roar.

You don’t even know if he did good. You barely understand the point system or average or whatever it is.

The horse thankfully settles and Jack struts away effortless.

Suddenly Jack’s salt of the earth eyes flick up. He scans the crowd until his gaze lands on you.

The seat you’re in sits close to the edge of the arena, on the floor just right outside the ring.

Then, with all the confidence of a man whose job it is to ride a bucking bronco, Jack blows you a kiss.

The drunk woman behind you along with her friends scream their heads off thinking he blew the kiss to them. Maybe he did. He’s a damn flirt. You even glance backward to see one of the girls, very drunk, tries to calm herself down from freaking out.

Jack now walks heads to the side to exit. His eyes however stay glued to you. And the minute you turn back to stare at him…he winks.

Then he vanishes.

This cowboy might be this event’s closer, but this isn’t the end of the rodeo for you. The incoming bull rides shift the air. It’s considered another heavy hitter main event and the anticipation bubbles.

Unlike Jack, who arrives like a firecracker ready to brighten up any room he enters, this cowboy emerges like a shadow.

Keeping his head down, it doesn’t help that a protective mask covers his handsome face. However, the energy radiating off the cowboy’s deadly focus composure is like a quiet storm on the horizon.

He stays silent, doesn’t even lift his eyes up, almost in a focused trance.

“Mr. Silent and Deadly himself… Din Djarin!” The announcers boom out his name.

Then you watch as the man becomes a myth, one who tames a wild force of nature.

Din and bull fly out of the chute with a choking force.

In the same way your breath stopped watching Jack getting bucked around, the same dizzying panic fills you as Din battles the same force.

He stubbornly stays on, rides as the bull thrashes around. You wonder if this is where some mythologies stem from because it is something unreal watching this man move with this powerful creature.

The crowd hoots and hollers cheering Din on. You stay petrified in your seat.

Then the ride finishes fast.

Din flies off the bull and your breathing stops. Rapidly the trainers along with other cowboys scramble to settle the bull and check on Din. The bull rider casually rises up unbothered, unshaken, and the crowd goes wild.

You exhale a loud shaken sigh of relief. Your body feels like jello, as if fear has finally been exorcized from your body leaving you a boneless mess.

Suddenly Din rips the guard mask off and all attention falls to him. Sweat adds a shine to his face and his hair is a tousled mess but he’s never looked more gorgeous.

“What the fuck?! Dude, he’s hot too?!” Someone squawks out.

The ladies sitting behind you of course notice Din and squeal out feverishly. Unlike Jack, an actual peacock who owns the crowd basking in the attention, Din’s face stays lowered with his eyes averted shyly.

Until his dark eyes suddenly flicker up, like a viper peering out from a cave. His eyes find you surprisingly fast.

You and him simply stare at each other. Then so quickly Din averts his eyes away again and heads off.

The shakiest exhale leaves you.

Your heartbeat drums loud in your ears as if you were the one who just finished the wild rides. And maybe you did in your own way.

“Oh my fucking god!” Behind you one of the girls screams. “So many hot cowboys! Like, how the fuck do you pick just one?!”

Alcohol drenches her playful words. However, to you they become barbed and catch on your heart. Because how do you pick between two handsome cowboys different as day and night.

“Babe!” One of the girls giggles. “That’s the secret, you don’t pick just one! You have ‘em all!”

She howls a wild laugh and the others scream scandalized but gleeful. One of them even jokingly says ‘so you gotta catch ‘em all like pokemon!’ which almost makes you laugh.

But the words hang in your heart like a rusting anchor.

Grabbing your bag, you head out. Arriving at the backstage area of the arena, you flash the visitor’s access pass to security who lets you through. You’ve only done this a few times before but your heart still races getting this type of entrance.

Earlier today Din said he’d wait for you after in the small rest waiting room. When you open the door, you stumble upon a sight.

Jack's hand firmly holding Din’s face -

As the two men passionately kiss each other.

Jack’s taller than Din, slightly, not by much. Din’s build however is firmer, solid, compared to Jack’s sleek stature.

Immediately they both break away from each other as if electrocuted.

Din and Jack’s eyes catch sight of you and their faces fall. Din whispers your name out while Jack stays silent.

Reality rams into you like a released wild bull.

Because you realize you’ve interrupted them. You're barging in, an actual third wheel.

You want to move, want to say something. But you can’t even imagine what. It clicks that you read this whole situation wrong. Maybe neither of them actually held feelings for you.

A sudden loud knock on the wall makes you and the cowboys practically jump.

One of the event announcers pops his head in casually.

“Hey sorry, but you’re needed out back Djarin.” He says to Din then leaves.

Even with the surprise arrival and then departure, the thick tension doesn’t leave the air. If anything it’s caused a strange vacuum to form.

Jack now breathes out your name hesitantly. Yet, his eyebrows are furrowed hard, concerned and upset. Din’s dark eyes shine so visibly soaked with worry.

Before you can even say anything one of Jack’s main coaches and manager, Champ, waltzes in. He’s a striking presence that draws all the focuses to him

Champ whistles loud. “Who died in here?”

No one says a word.

“Alrighty then,” Champ shrugs, not wanting to dive into whatever he senses.

“Daniels come on,” he urges. “I ain’t waiting anymore. They’re probably waiting for you too Dinny.”

Champ’s nickname for Din, which Din himself detests, makes you smirk and brightens your spirit for a moment.

But the awful tension stays sticking to your skin allowing a poison to seep in.

“Hey there, sweet pea.” Champ nods his head acknowledging you. With a weak smile you nod back.

You politely excuse yourself and leave.

The walk out of the arena is the longest of your life.

Everything you just saw flashes through your mind a rapid flip picture book. You can process what you saw but can’t fully grasp it.

Even outside, the roar of the rodeo swirls around even in you.

You might have wandered into a country song earlier but you didn’t realize it was going to be a heartbreak one.

You met Din first in a grocery store parking lot.

It had been a total accident. Literally. You had gotten into a small fender bender with him in the parking lot of a grocery store.

He drove the oldest silver Honda Civic ever still existing and still can’t believe it didn’t even manage to take a hit. You were also horrified when you saw there was a baby sleeping away in the car.

Yet the entire time Din was so kind and concerned about your wellbeing.

You didn’t realize it then, but that shy and very handsome scruffy man with his ancient Honda Civic would change the orbit of your life.

Because that day you accidentally collided with a cowboy, it opened your world like a vast desert horizon.

Jack arrived soon after.

If Din was the soft daybreak, then Jack came in like a dust devil.

Though they competed in two different categories, you discovered many rodeo circuits crossed paths.

When you went to visit Din months ago at the ranch housing many of the cowboys for training, that’s when you first met Jack.

He walked straight up to you and asked if you were lost because he was concerned heaven was missing an angel.

He hasn’t shut his mouth since.

Before it was simply you and Din. But Jack is a force that seems to barge his way in like the wild broncos he rode.

He is shameless in flirting. He often playfully touches yours and Din’s cheeks often, or casually drapes himself over you or his fellow cowboy.

Din on the other hand is quietly sweet. He routinely sends you photos of the sunrises of all the cities he travels to.

So opposite, they almost are like the sun and moon.

You began caring for them fiercely and fell so fast.

But now, you contemplate if you simply played yourself a fool becoming your own rodeo clown.

All the ideas, all the heavy conflict of having to pick between the two of them, taste bitter on your tongue. You take a long swing of your drink to hopefully wash it away. It doesn’t.

Din texted you asking to please meet him here at this bar near the secondary training arena and now you wait.

It’s lively tonight. Even after being thrown into the world of cowboys, or rodeo circuits, sitting in the honky tonk bar feels as if you’re on another planet. The music thankfully has a nice beat so you enjoy the song playing.

Someone slides in besides you, not even sitting on the bar stool.

“You seem lonely.” The voice of a stranger.

Besides you, a lanky college freshman looking guy leans against the bar staring at you.

“Just waiting for a friend.” You politely answer.

“Well, maybe you’d like some company waiting?”

You’re about to decline when a looming presence arrives at your back.

“Sorry there buckaroo, but this lovely peach is taken for the night.”

Jack’s smooth voice rings out and shocks your system.

The stranger’s face drops comedically fast and the punk scrambles away without another word.

You turn around and it isn't just Jack behind you but Din is as well.

Jack wears his black cowboy hat and you’re surprised to see Din in one as well. He rarely wears his Stetson but it transforms him.

In typical western, the dark midnight cowboy hats are that of the outlaws, the bandits. One of Din’s managers, an older man named Cobb Vanth, once told you that.

And maybe these two are.

Yet, even as bandits, they stand before you like two country romance song dreams. The kaleidoscopic lights dance and radiate off them.

Din mutters your name with hesitation swirling in his eyes.

Panic prickles against your skin. You’re not ready yet.

So you turn to the bartender and order three rounds.

“Honeypie, we gotta talk.” Jack says low, strikingly somber.

Shaking your head, you swallow hard. “Not now. I just…can we just please…just wait for a moment.”

Please let’s just enjoy this false dream a little longer, is what your heart whispers out.

“Of course.” Din mutters and they both move to sit on either side of you, a sort of barricade you’re already missing.

The drinks come and in a nervous quiet move you and the cowboys cling your glasses together. Everyone tosses the shot back. The tequila burns and helps slightly.

You decide if this a goodbye to this dream, you want to at least enjoy it a bit tipsy. So you order another round.

“Careful.” Din urges, ever the cautious one.

“Come on.” You now perk up. “You two both scored high yesterday! We gotta celebrate.”

Which is true. Even with your brewing heartbreak, you still got excited seeing their scores from the app alert. Because that’s the person you’ve become. You have apps on your phone dedicated to rodeo cowboy scores. Well, you might be deleting those apps soon.

You move to take the next shot.

You raise your glass to your two dear cowboys - the ones who you text everyday, the ones you try facetiming as much as you can, your dearest friends.

And maybe that’s all they will be.

You toast to their scores and to them.

Din’s eyes hold a pained shine in them that makes your heart twist. Jack instead wears a rather terrifying steeled up composed face.

You feel empty taking this shot and only Jack throws his back with you. Din even doesn’t touch his drink.

This time the tequila goes down warm and numbing.

The alcohol begins to work its confidence magic in you as you tease Din for not wanting to drink with you. He however glares at you and you’re reminded of an unwavering mesquite tree.

Maybe this is a bad decision.

You can’t be selfish about this. These two found each other. All those moments you thought they had feelings you simply had read the situation wrong.

“Look,” you sigh now, deflated. “I’m sorry-”

Jack suddenly smacks his hand against the bar countertop. It’s aggressively firm, a loud startling whack of a noise.

“Dancin’.” Jack declares loudly. “We’re gonna dance.”

“What? You and him?” You ask over the music.

“No.” Jack snaps. “We’re all goin’. So get your asses up.”

Din scoffs.

Jack, with firm hands yanking on yours and Din’s sleeves, actually drags everyone to the dance floor.

You can’t comprehend what’s happening. The floor is heavily crowded and no one notices three more additions.

“I don’t dance.”

“I can’t dance.”

Both you and Din fling out the same hurried replies to Jack.

He barks a laugh.

“It ain’t about being good at dancin’. S’about feelin’ the music, feelin’ the beat.” He yells back and then instantly transforms into a commanding force.

Sliding behind you, Jack turns you around to face Din.

His and your eyes go wide.

Jack then reaches to yank at Din’s dusty jacket, effectively pulling him forward -

Straight to your front.

Your heart hammers loud in your ears, so loud it drowns out the music blaring.

“Relax.” Jack purrs out. “Just…feel.”

You want to bark back about how that’s easier said than done. But your tongue gets tied up so badly you can’t form words.

Then one of Jack’s solid hands moves to your hips while the other reaches across to rest against Din’s shoulder.

You’re locked into them.

Jack begins to move you slowly.

The music shifts into something sultry, almost aching to be a slow dance, but a lively beat keeps it moving. You didn’t even think country songs could have this kind of vibe. Even though Jack mainly guides your hips, you already start swaying to the beat on your own.

That’s when Jack slowly bumps and nudges his hip against yours, fully pressing you closer to Din.

The position isn’t lost on you. It’s undeniably intimate, overly sexual, and you’re worried how this looks to others in the bar.

Then Din presses forward firmer against you and your mind blanks for a moment. Now sandwiched between a cowboy canyon, a dangerous heat burst from your chest.

Jack moves his nose against your face.

“Relax gorgeous,” he whispers. “Just enjoy.”

Your eyes hazing over flicker to Din who stares out with a deep desire swimming in his eyes. Cautiously his hands now move to rest on your hips. One of them goes on top of Jack’s.

You swallow hard and pray the lingering liquid courage will bless you.

Deliberately, sensually, your hips wiggle and grind between the two of them. You might not be properly dancing right or even swaying to the beat, but desire is the one guiding your body.

Many times nights alone in your bed you've thought of them like this with you. And now, you’re here caught in the sticky heart of that passionate desire.

Din dives forward and presses his face against yours.

Jack groans as his nose buries into your hair. Their cowboy hats create a sort of cover over you casting a shade against the glittering bar lights.

You’re literally under their shadow.

“Oh baby.” Jack whimpers.

Your hands, which you awkwardly kept close to your chest almost afraid to touch this dream and have it pop like a soap bubble, now tingle. You want to touch them both as much as you can.

So one of your hands slides up to hold onto Jack’s face while your other runs up Din’s broad chest to his shoulder. Your hips continue to sway and grind between them.

Then, like a spark ignited, something shifts.

Maybe it’s more people crowding in on the dance floor, or the heat finally bubbling over, but you’re suddenly squished firmly between them, practically glued together. Din’s face, his striking nose, presses against yours while Jack burrows the side of his face against your cheek.

They purposely rut into you. You think this is maybe the closest taste of what it would feel like for them to fuck you and you drown in it.

With Din and Jack, both hard, grinding against your front and back, your eyes close. A debauched sensation sinks its claws into you. It’s sinful and utterly deliriously delicious. You worry you’re about to melt.

Lust rips through you, an incinerating beast, and you bow to it.

In that haze, Din leans down and licks the sweat on your neck. His tongue against your skin, electrifies you. You ascend out of your body and moan.

Your body bucks up hard begging for attention and release only to find you’re still firmly caught between a cowboy canyon.

Jack shushes you firm but low. “G’damn y’all ‘re gonna be the death of me.”

His voice slurs, almost sounded drunk in something dangerous. Din continues licking at your neck not stopping once.

Suddenly Jack moves and shifts your body. The jostling breaks the movement and snaps you aware, like you’re slowly waking up, wearily trying to recapture your focus.

Quickly he snags your hand and Din’s. Out of reflex you clutch onto Din’s jacket. Jack, now a focused man on a mission, guides the three of you out of the crowd.

“Where are we going?” Din mutters against your face.

“Don’t know.” You answer truthfully.

You can’t tell where Jack guides you. The haze still fogging up your focus keeps you surprisingly pliant. It also doesn’t help that Din now practically drapes himself against your back, a protective cowboy like cloak. His lips continue to softly try and kiss any inch of skin he can reach.

You never thought he’d be the greedier one.

Jack guides everyone down a hallway past the restrooms. He even shouts a friendly greeting at someone. Of course he would know people here.

“Get your asses in here.” Jack now growls and his accent seems stronger.

That’s where he opens a door to a small back office type room and barrels everyone inside.

Jack’s not gentle. He almost yanks everyone in like a panicking kid trying to hide something from their parents. The door slams behind him. You’re transported into a badly lit mess of an office.

Jack whips around, pitches forward and before you can react he moves to attack your neck alongside Din.

His tongue licks a possessive strip up to your jaw then starts biting at your skin.

A wild moan escapes you as your eyes blissfully close.

You’re burning up. Your body, now molten, is only held up by your cowboys pressing flat against you. Both Jack’s mustache and Din’s faint beard scrape against your skin beautifully. Two tongues maping out your skin makes your mind evaporate. Every inch of your body screams for them.

That’s when you feel Jack drag his tongue on your neck down towards Din.

With another playful nip at your skin, Jack moves to lick against Din’s mouth still on you.

The wildest moan escapes you and you almost come right then.

Both cowboys almost kiss each other while also trying to still taste at your neck has you absolutely dizzy.

It’s hot and consumes every inch of you. You’re panting ridiculously loud and you can’t even hold back your whines or whimpers anymore. Slick pools between your thighs and sticks to your body. Your neck feels just as wet with the spit covering your skin.

Suddenly a loud aggressive bang rattles the door and your perfect illusion pops.

Panic barrels into you like a wild bull and your eyes go wide.

But your cowboys react fast. Din protectively curls his sturdy arm over you and draws you closer. Jack whips around and stands protectively in front as if to block the view.

Thankfully no one opens the door.

“Ya better not be fuckin’ on my god damn couch, Daniels!” A man howls with laughter.

“No fuckin’ way in hell.” Jack hollers back. “Not when your nasty ol’ ass calls its home.”

From the other side of the door the owner of this room laughs electrically loud. The man smacks on the door twice, an almost playfully goodbye.

The blazing heat that was melting you now simmers out like a fast dying out ember. An awkwardness settles in its place.

Your mind sorts through the heavy doubts again. Were you just a toy for them to play with? And even though a more aggressive side urges you to just enjoy and not think more into this, you don't want to be seen as just an accessory to their duo.

So slowly and quietly you untangle yourself from them.

Din mutters your name slightly confused and Jack turns around looking towards you.

“Where ya headin’ out to, peach?” Jack asks surprisingly composed.

You quietly tell them you’re gonna head home. A thick tension returns, choking the room.

Din calls your name, solid and striking.

“We need to talk.” His words are firm.

You want to make a sarcastic quip that they weren’t much for talking a few moments ago. But you don’t. You want to go home, maybe wash your skin off till you reach bone. You want to wash them away because it’s sinking in.

This last taste of desire is maybe your goodbye.

“Now why ya gotta make it sound like we’re talkin’ about a goddamn funeral, darlin’?!” Jack huffs annoyed.

Din shoots him a sharp annoyed look.

Darlin’

You’ve never heard Jack call his fellow cowboy that.

His nicknames for Din ranged from ‘pigeon’ to ‘sourpuss’ all were affectionately teasing in nature. Now the tender pet name holds the unspoken truth, as if seeing them kissing didn’t solidify it earlier.

“I’m sorry, I just…I read this wrong…” your voice becomes small and deflated. You would head home with a broken pride, but you didn’t want to be bitter about this.

Your eyes flicker up to them.

“You two… I’m glad you both found each other.” You smile weakly, the strongest attempt at being honorable and good. Yet the words turn to ash on your tongue.

You promise you’ll text them when you get home and now turn to leave again.

“The fuck s’that all about?” Jack snarls and his words snap your spine straight.

“Jack.” Din chides him sharp and your attention whips back to them a bit panicked.

Anger, along with the faintest edge of annoyance, colors Jack’s handsome face as he glares at you.

Your face scrunches up confused. What is he so upset about?

“The three of us were practically just humping like fuckin’ barn animals in heat and you wanna say shit like that?” A hot flash runs in Jack’s eye and you swear he even sounds hurt.

“Don’t say it like that.” Din glares.

Your eyes flicker between them and an edge of panic starts crawling on your skin.

“Wait, what?” You mutter out confused.

Silence suffocates the room and it feels like you’ve entered into a classic western standoff waiting to see who will strike first.

“Oh baby,” Jack’s gentle exhale shatters the moment as his eyes stare so directly at you. “Ya haven’t realized it?”

“What?” You squeak out confused.

“We’re crazy for ya… like a bunch of fools tangled up in a damn lasso.”

Jack’s words ignite a flurry of sparks within your chest that knock you breathless.

Turning towards Din, you notice his Stetson hat slid off, possibly during the heat of the moment earlier. But it allows you the clearest view of his gruff face and you think he’s never looked younger. His face is open. Hesitation and worry linger in Din’s dark road eyes reminding you of how secretly tender hearted this cowboy is.

Then Din nods so slowly, agreeing.

You almost choke on an inhale.

The sudden thought of picking between them has a fanged spike of anxiety rushing through you.

You didn’t want to pick. But, were you being selfish because of that?

Sensing your hesitation, or catching whatever emotions now flood your face, both cowboys now hesitantly move towards you.

“Talk to us, please.” Din softly urges.

Your voice cracks, tripping on itself annoyingly conflicted. But you manage to cough out that you don’t think you can pick between them. You don’t think you ever could and you’re worried your heart might not even handle it.

“Oh sweet baby,” Jack breathes out.

Suddenly the back of his hand tenderly strokes your cheek. Din gently glides his hand to your back and softly rubs you soothingly.

Your heart jumps into your throat at their sudden shift in affections.

“You don’t have to worry…or pick.” Din explains softly and with comfort.

Wait.

“You both…” you exhale shakily. “You two want me? Want us?”

For some reason, the notion of ‘us’ strikes you right then and there. That idea of you and them becoming an ‘us’ feels like the most natural progression in your mind.

Your best friend, when you told her about you and these cowboys, had cautiously asked if there was maybe a possibility of a poly type relationship happening. You immediately shot her down, not even wanting to think of the option.

But if you had been honest, a part of you started feeling guilty at the thought of wanting that. You enjoyed spending time with Jack just as much as Din. And you enjoyed spending time with them together.

Now you stand on the new ground of something beautiful waiting for you to step into.

“Sweetheart, hate to break it to ya…but we’ve been an us even before our dumbasses even realized it.” Jack snorts.

Din rolls his eyes and you snicker. But Jack is right.

Tentative date-like nights included Jack joining. Jack constantly invited both you and Din to his ridiculously lavish RV he used for the rodeo road trip days. That eventually led to days where you and Jack waited together for Din to finish. Or Din and you watching Jack practice. Din even began bringing his adoptive son over and Jack took to the baby like a fish to water.

This path you unknowingly had been on now is about to be crystalized before you and it warms every bit of your soul.

But a sharp fanged doubt suddenly gnaws at you.

“Wait,” your voice wavers. “This…this isn’t the alcohol talking right?”

Din sighs, shaking his head no but Jack answers first.

“‘Fraid not gorgeous. Been wanting this for a while.”

All worries get snipped and float out of your body leaving you so limitless.

Din leans to draw you into his side embrace and burrows his face against you.

“Sorry we didn’t discuss this sooner.” He mutters. “It all just…kind of happened.”

You understand and lean back against him. Din exhales shaky, soaked in a relief you can almost feel in your bones.

“Now, now, you two angels can’t go leavin’ out ‘ol Jack.” Of course Jack chimes in.

“Maybe it’s time we rethink this.” Din dryly comments and you laugh when Jack squawks out like a disgruntled crow.

But he effortlessly manages to borrow against both you and Din. It’s a little cluster, a soft clanging of bodies, but it’s cozy and feels right.

Someone yells outside the door laughing and your heart jumps.

“Whose office are we even in?” Din mutters out.

“Jimmy’s. Well technically mine too since I own the bar with him.” Jack casually drops.

Of course he did.

“And as cozy as it is here,” Jack adds gently. Both of their hands now intertwine against your hip.

“I say we move this little party somewhere nicer, like let’s say…my trailer?” Jack offers.

His RV is nice. Din’s is very spartan compared to Jack’s that had a full king sized bed and jacuzzi.

They truly are your sun and moon, so opposite and yet so beautifully brightening up your sky. A beautiful buoyant bliss fills you knowing you’re in their orbit, just as much as they’re in yours.

Din’s baby boy is a fidgety one. While he enjoys running around, he also loves to watch the world form anyone’s welcoming arms.

Which at the moment happens to be yours.

The baby chews happily on his favorite adorable stuffed longhorn plushie while the two of you enjoy the peace of the arena.

Without the noise, the yells and commotion of the crowd, or the sea of cowboy hats, the arena is strangely quiet, almost church-like in its own way. You understand now how it can even inspire a deep devotion.

After all, you see it through the eyes of two cowboys.

The baby happily shrieks and begins twisting in your arms. You turn to see what’s gotten his attention.

“Why howdy there my lil’ tumbleweed!” Jack warmly cries out and without hesitation scoops the sweet little boy into his arms.

The baby squeals in delight as Jack peppers him with kisses. Your heart melts at the sight.

“Don’t worry, didn’t forget about you too darlin’.” Jack winks and leans to kiss you soft now.

His mustache tickles your lips and you smirk. He also playfully and lightly smacks your bottom. You shoot him a look while Jack innocently shrugs.

“Our cowboy come out yet?” He asks.

You shake your head. Not yet. Din being ever the respectful man he is, allowed the others to use the practice bull first and took the last slot available for the practice times.

However, his team and the others arrive just as fast. Din steps out, the true silent assassin he’s regarded as. He’s memorizing to watch, so deeply focused and intense.

The baby now whines at being held and demands to be put down.

“Don’t worry I’ll watch him, you watch Din.” You reassure Jack while he places baby boy on his feet. The baby immediately waddles away, absolutely giddy to be free.

“Lil’ stinker.” Jack affectionately teases with adoration shining in his eyes.

Your eyes now watch the curious little babe you treasure so dearly. Behind you though, the training starts.

The clang of the chute being prepared and the commotion of the team getting ready fills the arena.

Then the alarm blares. The loud noise has the baby jolting in surprise. Before he can cry at the sudden noise, you quickly scurry over and swoop him back in your arms. You playfully press a loud raspberry against his sweet chubby cheeks and he giggles.

The noise of the ride erupts with the thrashing of the bull and the upheaval of the dirt.

Then, it’s all over.

“Attaboy!” Jack cries with a loud proud clap.

The baby, now fully distracted by the commotion, seems happy in your arms again as you approach Jack’s side.

Quickly your gaze goes to the arena to make sure Din’s alright.

“How did he do?” You ask about Din.

“Better! Still ain’t as good as yesterday's time but rides like these just help keep ya warm and flexible.” Jack explains.

With the bull settled, Din moves towards Vanth to discuss the ride.

Din draws his helmet up and already has so much sweat on his face. It’s unfair how handsome he is, rugged and adorably scruffy.

“Bweh!” The baby happily spots his papa and squeaks.

The noise causes all in the ring to turn towards where you three stand. Cobb Vanth grins kindly and Din’s eyes soften immediately spotting your little cheering group.

“Yeah lil cowpoke, you didn’t get to see how good your papa was, but he did great.” Jack coo’s as he softly smooths out the baby’s hair.

With a pat on the back from his manager, Din jogs over to you and Jack.

It’s unique, this new carved out existence of yours with them. But it’s beautiful and feels as if it’s always meant to be, like this has been in your veins long before you even knew.

Din reaches the edge of the ring and you and Jack shower him with praise. It’s adorable watching him get flustered at all the attention given to him, especially when you lean and Jack lean to kiss his cheeks.

“Seems like your ridin’s was a little rusty today though, cowboy.” Jack purrs. “Maybe we should all have a nice private lesson after this.”

“Hope those lessons aren’t with you. Last time you were out by the second count.” Din, like the surprisingly snarky man he is, effortlessly replies back as snatches the baby wiggling trying to for him.

Jack squawks hilariously upset and you snicker as your heart fills to the brim.

The arena is quiet, a sacred space that watches over all of you together like this. And it’s special, having this moment here with both of them.

You think there might not be many country songs about snagging two cowboys, but it’s okay.

You find this song in your heart feels eternal.

[foli-vora]

congrats on 3k!! Not sure if you're still doing this, but can I request something smutty with agent whiskey with the prompt "can we go home yet?"

Thank you for the request, my sweet! I'm so sorry for the time it took to get around to it, but I hope you enjoy! ❤️

errands

jack daniels x f!reader

word count: 1.7k warnings: i love him sm, sweet husband jack will give you everything, jack being a sexy menace, semi public/parking lot activities, swearing, SMUT 18+ ONLY: what's a domesticity kink called? idk, whatever it is we've got that. fingering, orgasm denial, can't not use this gif lmao

The familiar churning of warmth in the pit of your stomach has followed you relentlessly throughout the day, despite you leaving your shared bed much later than socially acceptable after a long morning lost in Jack’s hold. There’s a gentle ache between your thighs from his dedicated efforts, the feeling never once letting your mind wander from the way he unravelled every part of your body and soul over and over.

And this? This wasn’t helping.

The confidence he oozed striding through the hardware store, knowing exactly what he wanted and where he would get it. The way he would ramble about the house renovation plans; what rooms could be what, where he could build you a little reading nook with a window overlooking the endless rolling green fields, or what materials he would need to make some floor to ceiling built in bookcases for your shared collection of books…

His excitement at dedicating his variety of skills into bringing your dream home to life is palpable, bringing forth such a fond tenderness to your chest that it makes you swear you couldn’t possibly love this man anymore if you tried. It rolls from him in waves now, as he wanders with his full cart of various renovation necessities and voicing his thoughts on what particular paint colours would match your shared vision.

It’s just all so sweet, so domestic.

It’s driving you wild.

Lips wrapping around the straw of your soda cup, you study the broad planes of his back, covered by his ever present leather jacket that thankfully stops just above the soft swell of his ass—bless that man for knowing how to pick his jeans. If it weren’t for the sweet elderly couple flicking through colour swatches at the end of the aisle, you simply would’ve crowded him into the shelves just for a much needed taste of his mouth, and maybe a quick feel—

“You listenin’ to me back there?”

“Not really,” you admit honestly, tongue rolling across your lower lip as he gives you a playful frown of disapproval from over his shoulder. That familiar heat rises and swells in your core, and you shift impatiently on your feet. “Can we go home yet?”

He chuckles, reaching out to pluck a paintbrush from the shelf and feeling the synthetic fibres between his fingers. “You gettin’ bored, darlin’? Is that why you’ve been poutin’ the last two aisles?”

“I haven’t been pouting.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles deeply, lips tugged up into a small smile of amusement as he continues his perusal of the variety of painting accessories. Eventually he lands on the ones he finds somewhat satisfactory, and tosses them into the cart before beckoning you closer with an open hand reached out behind him.

You take it and press up into his side easily, sighing softly at the heavy arm that wraps around your shoulders and the lips that press gently against your temple. The heat from his body seeps into yours while a wash of his familiar cologne assaults your nostrils, and it takes every bit of strength to not tilt your head and catch his lips in a searing kiss that would go scaring away any and everyone within range.

God, he just smells so damn good. 

“Okay, so I may have been pouting—but it’s all your fault.”

He chuckles, the deep throaty timbre of it twisting pleasantly in your core, and what really kills you is that he has no idea the actual effect he has on you. Everything about him either sends you into a sweet and dizzying lovesick spiral, or hurtling straight into the fiery depths of hell with the thoughts that turn in your mind.

“Is that right? How so, sugar?”

You sigh, turning in his hold and raking a finger down his chest, winding around the buttons of his shirt as it goes. “All I can think about is fucking you right in the middle of this aisle, Jack.”

He blinks in surprise, taken off guard and rendered slightly bewildered by your admittance. “Come again?”

“Yes—I’m planning on it actually, again and again.”

A grin quickly tugs at his lips and his eyes flicker to the passersby going about their days as he tugs you closer, his thick drawl oozing into your ears, “You’re gonna get us thrown out if you keep that talk up, sugar.”

“Good, then we could go home and waste the afternoon away.”

He sighs, trying to appear vexed by your apparent disinterest in your errands, but the smile still tugging insistently at his lips gives him away. You see the playful sparkle in his eyes, the desperate want to give you everything you need and more, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him.

“Come on, Jack,” you coo, dragging him in for another kiss with just a taste of everything you’re feeling that leaves him chasing your lips when you eventually pull away, “let’s go home. Let me have you.”

“You’ll be the end of me, you know that?” He grumbles quietly before shaking his head, winding a hand down to grab teasingly at your ass cheek and giving it a firm tap that sends a rocket of heat hurtling straight to your core. “Fine. Registers—now. And no dawdlin’, go on now.”

It takes an agonisingly long time to pay, and you’re sure he does it on purpose. Jack lingers, happily chatting away to the older man serving you, and he has to know how impatient it’s making you because you swear you spy a smirk lingering at the edge of his lips as you start to shift from foot to foot. 

You pounce as soon as he slides into the driver's seat, curling a hand around his neck and bringing his mouth greedily to yours. He responds quickly, unable to pull away from the lure of your kiss, lips parting and tongue meeting yours in a tangle of need. You groan into the heat of his mouth, relishing in the burn of his moustache as the kiss deepens. It does nothing to douse the fire wreaking havoc on your body, and you shift restlessly in your seat, thighs rubbing as you search for something to aid in your distress.

He chuckles, the force of his kiss moving you back into your seat as he crowds into you over the middle console, a hot hand splaying on the skin of your thigh to calm your agitation. 

The words rumble against your lips softly, “You want it right here, sugar?”

Public indecency be damned—you need something. It’s not like you’re close to the store where people mill about, with Jack always preferring to park a ways away so there’s minimal risk of someone scratching the sleek and shiny paint of the Bronco. There’s no one around, it’s just you two… just you two, in your own little piece of bliss. 

You pant softly into his mouth while nodding, fire growing up and along your spine as his rough fingers start to push up beneath the hem of your sundress. You’re already squirming from the familiar feel of them, system wired tightly in keen anticipation to feel them brush against you.

“You’re a greedy little thing today,” he murmurs, fingers coaxing your thighs to widen as they begin to dip their way beneath the waistband of your underwear.

A groan reverberates from his chest when he gently glides them along your slit to feel the heavy build up of arousal, taking a painfully long moment to simply feel you, before zoning in on your clit with the lightest of pressures. He circles softly over it, darkened eyes bouncing over your features as you relish in the hazy roll of pleasure taking over your body.

He ducks to press a series of open mouthed kisses to the side of your throat, teeth teasingly nipping at the sensitive skin and tongue soothing the brief pinch of pain away before the curve of his nose traces the shell of your ear. His honeyed drawl brings a shiver across your skin, and it really should be fucking illegal with the things it makes you feel.

“You been walkin’ around like this all morning, honey? You poor thing.”

Finally—God, finally—he allows his fingers to dip down and tease at your entrance, swirling two thick digits shamelessly through your arousal before sliding and curling them deep against the walls of your cunt. He’s quick to swallow the broken sounds that fall from your throat, his lips quirking up into a self satisfied smirk against yours as your hips squirm needily against the pressure of his hand.

“Go on, sugar. Take what you need, I’ve got you.”

You begin a somewhat messy rock of your hips, unashamedly beginning to fuck yourself on his fingers and ensuring to keep the calloused heel of his hand pressed up hard against your swollen clit. It provides the friction you need, you crave, with every back and forth roll against the rough surface of it causing the overwhelming heat in your core to build.

It’s just what you need. It’s just—it’s perfect. The feel of his thick digits dragging against your hot, slick walls; the relentless pressure against your clit; the perfect harmony of both working in tandem to bring a wash of electricity across your nerves, to bring you closer to that blissful edge you feel coming with every tense second—

“G-god, Jack—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

And… fuck. It’s right there, you’re right there—

—only for it to be just out of reach.

The feeling heightens, lingers, and then horrifically melts away into a throbbing ache as Jack retracts his fingers completely, the thick digits glistening from your flood of arousal in the sunlight filled cab.

He ignores your agonised cry of denial from the sudden loss and emptiness, and sucks them into his mouth, before reaching and turning the keys in the ignition, the truck rumbling to life loudly beneath you while you’re left trembling against the leather, thighs spread and cunt weeping.

“That’s what you get for bein’ impatient,” he drawls, a wicked shine to those warm honey eyes. “Now you sit pretty for the ride home, and I may be nicer when I get that sweet ass of yours inside.”

[covetyou]

jack of all trades

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Whiskey x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: Circus AU, public sex, exhibitionism, unprotected PIV, oral (m receiving), brief fingering, creampie, is it mild bondage if it's part of a circus act?, reader is wearing a dress, optional fluffy ending. word count: 4.5k summary: A trip to the circus goes awry thanks to your meddling not-quite-nephews and a handsome stranger in a cowboy hat. Just how did you come to be bent over this barrel anyway?

A/N: clown!Dieter spawned a P-boy circus AU, and now here we are. I am not sorry.

I have an ex called Jack, so parts of this were disgusting to me, fyi. that name is tainted. fluffy ending came and hit me in the face, these two seemed too into each other to leave it there. totally optional and you can ignore its existence if you want.

divider by @saradika-graphics

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Sticky fingers clasp around your wrist, dragging your arm into the air. Your sort-of-nephews had been up to mischief all evening. What they were raising your hand for, you don't know, so you roll your eyes and play along, waggling your fingers skyward just as a beam of light hits you directly in the face.

Shit.

"Well there now, pretty lady, why don't you come on down here."

Double shit.

The voice of the man you'd spent the past twenty minutes fixated on booms over the speakers. Your not-nephews are cackling, your best friend shooting an apologetic look over their scruffy heads as a beautiful woman covered in sequins prances up the stairs to retrieve you. Before you know it you're being hauled down the steep steps, slender fingers holding you tight.

She glides elegantly over the dust covered arena floor, dragging you behind. You stumble, kicking up dust as you're pulled to the middle of the ring and left face to face with the ringmaster.

He was even more enchanting up close. The whole place was, really, but he commanded the space, dominated it, his smooth voice amplified by a microphone hidden at his hairline. You hadn't been to many circuses - none, actually - but you were fairly sure the black cowboy hat that sat on his head wasn't typical headwear for a man with his job description.

He takes one glance at you, sizing you up, before turning to his captive audience with arms spread wide.

"Looks like we found ourselves a damsel," he announces to the crowd, strutting around the ring, the tools of his trade clattering on a belt slung loosely around his waist beneath his jacket. He'd been a distraction from high up in the stand, but up close he was all consuming. You were grateful for the coat tails covering his ass, restricting your view as his hips swayed with each step.

The sequinned woman is back, tossing the Ringmaster rope threaded with something shiny. The tendons in his broad hands flex as he grips the cord, pulling it firmly and holding it up to be viewed by the crowd. At some point she approaches you too, whispering in your ear. You nod along, unable to hear a thing over the blood rushing in your ears and the distracting thrum between your legs. Standing here shouldn't be doing this to you, least of all in front of so many people, but it is. Fuck, you need to get laid.

The music ramps up, a conversation with the crowd totally missed as you fixate on the man before you. There's a distant toot toot and the ringmaster is hurrying back over to you, skillfully unfurling the rope.

"Hold this, sugar," he tells you, voice echoing over the speakers as he hands you one end of the rope. He begins to wind it around you, his long strides making quick work of each rotation. Soon, the rope is spiralled around your torso, across your hips, and winds down your legs. He tucks one end loosely into the last spiral - a kick of your leg could have the whole thing unravelling in seconds if you wanted it to.

A finger on your chin snaps your eyes to his, his dazzling lopsided smile catching you off guard as chaos erupts around you, and he's turning, quickly pulling his lasso from his belt as a group of clowns rush into the ring, galloping around on hobby horses.

Between the brilliant white lights and the galloping clowns, you don't know what's going on. The crowd seem to love it, loud cheers erupting as the ringmaster starts to swing his lasso. With a skilled flick of his wrist, he throws it, capturing one of the clowns and yanking him to the ground. The clown hits the ground with a drum roll and a crash of cymbals, rolling around before he can scramble back to his feet. The ringmaster does it again, capturing another galloping clown with a well practiced throw, one that grumbles and frowns as he's reeled in.

Every minute of chaos and clowns is another minute of sweet agony for you, stood wrapped in golden rope as you keep your eyes locked on the ringmaster in the cowboy hat. His form is elegant, skilled hands knowing the rope of his lasso better than your own know your own body.

When most of the clowns, and their hobby horses, are on the ground, rolling around with fake groans, he reaches for his whip, fingers clasping tight around the leather wrapped handle as the length snakes to the ground.

A final swing of his arm, and the whip slices through the air. a sonic boom cracks at the end of it, silencing any music and drawing a gasp from your chest. The crowd is stunned, the clowns are still, and you are painfully, unbelievably, wet.

Amazing really, how one flick of the wrist could make the sticky situation between your thighs so much worse.

By the time the clowns have rounded themselves up and hobbled off clasping at themselves in mock agony, the ringmaster is approaching you, winking before bending down to tug at the rope nestled against your leg. You can't help the twitch in your hips, rocking forward toward his face just as he takes in a deep breath. He stills momentarily, cocking his head, before finally freeing the rope, and you, and raising to his full height before you.

If you weren't mortified already, you definitely are when his eyes flick from your own, down to between your legs, and back again with a quirk of his eyebrow and a knowing smirk. Shit. The shuffle of your feet definitely doesn't help matters. This can't go on, you decide, you really need to get laid.

Escorted back to your seat, you spend the rest of the show with your legs clamped together and your jaw tensed, watching as the ringmaster comes and goes, introducing act after act, until they're all taking their final bows. Your resolve is all but gone as you watch him strut out of the ring for the final time.

Traversing crowds of revellers back to the car park, you say your quick goodbyes to your friend, her sons getting irritable now that the sugar high has ended and bed time beckons. You'll see them soon, you promise, and you turn on your heel, disappearing into the crowd once more.

You don't make it to your car.

Instead, you make the trek back to the big top, circling it until you find the crew entrance. Costumed performers are coming and going, staff hauling boxes and costumes to and fro. You wait for an opening and take it, darting into the tent as quickly as you can.

No one pays you any mind, they seem to not care that you definitely do not belong back here as you glance all around, eyes wide like a child in a toy store, making your way deeper and deeper into the backstage tent.

And there he is. The ringmaster in the cowboy hat. All suave smiles and flirty quips as he props himself against a supporting post, one ankle crossed over the other as he leans. There's a group of girls in front of him, all much younger than he is and eating up his every word. It might be sickening if you weren't so jealous of them.

You loiter, waiting for them to leave, wondering how much time you'd have to talk to him as each minute ticks by. It's then that he spots you, eyes connecting with yours as you stand awkwardly in the shadow.

He makes a quick excuse, hurries quick goodbyes, brushes his lips across four sets of knuckles, and then turns on you, making short work of the distance between you.

You don't know it then, but he's been hard, achingly so, since watching you leave the ring and head back to your seat. Every time he'd stepped backstage he adjusted his pants, letting his erection wane a little, only to head back out to your incessant stare, beautiful eyes staring down at him doing nothing but mildly torture him and make him stiffen in his pants. Over and over. Now you were in front of him, a chance dangled before him, ripe for the picking.

He reaches for your hand with his much larger one, clasping it gently. "Rude of me not to properly introduce myself back there. Name's Jack."

You try his name on for size, rolling it around your mouth a little before giving him your own.

"Got a little exciting back there, huh," he says in a low voice, brushing his thumb over his bottom lip, his eyes taking a leisurely meander down your body.

"Uh, yeah," you say, rubbing the back of your neck. "Look, I'm sorry if that made anything awkward I -"

He cuts you off with a laugh. "Woah there, sugar, never said anything about it bein' awkward now. Of course, if you got all some kind of way over the clowns, that'd be a different story," he teases with a wink.

Your eyes widen at the mention of the clowns, and Jack laughs again, revelling in the way he could so easily bring you to stunned silence. You'd barely even looked at the clowns, hardly noticing they were there save for a blur of color as they circled you in the ring.

"So what was it that did it for you?" He questions, a twinkle in his eye. "The whip or the lasso? Or was it my devilishly handsome good looks?" He cocks you that lopsided grin and you roll your eyes.

"You're unbelievable. Do you do this to everyone you tie up out there?"

"Most of 'em don't sneak backstage to find me after the show." Well, fuck, he's got you there.

Your jaw flaps stupidly, uselessly, as your brain fails to connect with any words. "I was just... It was..."

"All of the above then," he laughs. You roll your eyes and bite back a smile - he's got you beat. There's no denying that everything about the man set you on fire, scorching you from the inside out.

"Really I just wanted to... thank you. For the great show. You were incredible. Thanks for picking me to be your damsel."

"Oh, I don't get to pick, sugar." The initial disappointment at finding out he didn't pick you fades quickly. "But I do always like when they pick the pretty ones. Gives me something nice to look at. Something good to think about later, after the show." He doesn't need to say it for you to know exactly what he's talking about.

You consider your next move for barely a second - you'd come to thank him, get his number and maybe askin him for a drink, but now is your chance for something more - before taking a step forward, sliding a hand up his jacket to feign brushing something from his lapel. "That's a shame."

"A shame?"

"A shame that you have to wait until later."

His face lights up, a grin tugging at his lips once more. You're fixated on his plushness of them, watching as they form around each word. "Oh, trust me sugar, I'm thinkin' all sorta things right now."

"Thinkin' and actin' are different things entirely, cowboy."

"Is that what you want," he whispers in your ear as he ghosts a hand down the side of your arm, letting it rest softly on your hip. "You want me to act on all these thoughts?"

"Wouldn't be here if I didn't."

His lips capture yours, hands pulling your hips flush with his while mouth moves against your own. There's no push and pull, no fight, just pure pressure of you both trying to sink yourselves into the one another. You swipe your tongue against his bottom lip, dipping in and tasting the honey sweet softness of his mouth.

You pay the crew no mind - with how the man flirts they've probably seen this before. You're just another in a long list of faces that have found themselves attached to his.

"Ain't got much time 'til the next show," he pants as you still try to lick into his mouth. "If you want what I think you want, we gotta be quick about it." You nod, moaning as his hands explore the plains of your body, massaging your hips one moment, drawing blunt nails down your back the next before bunching your dress against your ass in one large fist.

"You're god damn gorgeous," he whispers, grabbing you around the waist once again and pulling you toward him. He stumbles, moving out from the shadowy place you'd occupied by the tent wall. You expect a quick getaway to a trailer, or a secluded part of the backstage, but your ass quickly collides with something solid.

"Wha-" you say, looking around to the spot he's dragged you. It's more brightly lit than where you were standing before, more exposed. He has you pushed against a barrel, legs parted so he can slot between them.

"Privacy is a luxury of time, sugar, and we got neither. Just say the word and I'll stop."

Saying nothing, you grab his belt, the large buckle glinting in the lamp-light, and tug him toward you claiming his mouth once more. You can be sneaky like this, you think, he can slip inside you as you wrap your legs around him, your skirt covering most of you.

It seems Jack has other ideas.

He spins you around, pushing you firmly against the barrel, the stiffness in his tailored pants pushing against the swell of your ass. His hands snake around you, like the rope had earlier, and grope at the pillowy soft tissue of your chest. People are still milling around, walking past and setting up for the next show, paying you no mind as he fondles you. His face nuzzles into your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. You're about to let your head lull back to his shoulder when his hands move from your breasts and push down on your shoulders.

"Oof."

The air is pushed from you with a huff as he bends you over the edge of the barrel, the rim biting into your belly as you hinge over it. He wastes no time in flipping up the edge of your skirt, bunching it at your waist and dragging his hands down over the globes of your ass.

"Think you're wet enough for me to stick it in?" he mumbles into your ear as he rubs at the damp crotch of your panties from behind. You moan into your arm. You'd been wet for most of the show, and he was about to find out.

Before you know it he's rounded on you and is pulling his cock out from his pants, giving you no time to answer. His cock stands stark and heavy, yet even as flushed and full as it is, it looks pale in contrast with the black of his pants and the bright red frame of his jacket. You salivate - wet definitely won't be a problem.

Someone runs past that moment, pulling you sharply you out of it. You're here, bent over a barrel with your dress flipped up, panty-clad ass on display, and cock hanging dangerously close to your face.

What the fuck are you doing.

A light tap on your cheek with the tip of his cock brings you back to him, a sticky drop of precum stringing between the two of you as he brings his cock closer to your lips.

You look up at him, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat.

"Don't pay them no mind, they seen it all," he says, swiping the side of his cock along the seam of your mouth. That's all the reassurance you need to stick out your tongue - the voice that told you you needed to get laid soon preening at the idea of it being here and now. The saliva that had been pooling in your mouth at the sight of it just moments ago works wonders, slicking up his length as he slides it across your tongue, drool seeping from your mouth and dripping down your tongue to fall in wet droplets to the dusty floor below. He teases his tip past your tongue, smiling fondly as you try to capture it in you mouth and suck him in with each swipe.

"That's it, get it wet. Give it some sugar, sugar."

You finally give in, grabbing his slicked length in your fist and pulling the tip into you mouth, sucking on it and swirling your tongue all around his ridge, tasting the precum your spit slicked tongue had already pulled from him. His head falls back as he groans, holding his hat to his head with his palm. You work over him, revelling in his moans as much as he'd revelled in the audiences applause, sliding your lips and hand up and down his cock.

"You're a wild one, ain't you?" he says, looking at you with the same awed expression you'd had plastered on your face during his performance. You suck on his tip one last time, releasing from your tingling lips with a soft pop.

"Uh-huh."

And his lips are back on yours, plundering your mouth, not minding that his own taste is on your tongue, a broad hand smoothing down your back to palm your ass once again. Your hand on his cock tugs, and he gasps into your mouth, a small needy thing that sends wetness trickling into your panties.

"Please," you whisper into his mouth. "Put it in me."

"Yes ma'am," he whispers, cursing as he steps behind you to tug down your panties.

He licks his fingers before swiping his spit slicked digits through your folds. Your hips twitch when they glide back and forth over your clit, before sinking into your pussy with ease. He removes them just as quick, rutting his slicked dick against your pussy instead.

"Damn, darlin', you're soaked."

The head of his spit slicked cock rubs through your glossy folds, teasing over your clit and dipping into your entrance.

"Think you can take it all in one, sugar? Ain't got much time to be wastin' here."

"Give it to me," you pant, pushing your hips back in a desperate attempt to find the tip of his cock again and draw it into you.

You don't need to wait long until he's pushing forward into you again, parting your slick walls with ease and burrowing deep into you. Maybe it had just been so damn long or maybe he was just so damn enchanting, but you never wanted this moment to stop. You're never leaving this god damn barrel. You want to take up home here and let him take root deep inside you.

You were a mess before he pushed into you, and now you're worse, sopping wet and creaming all over his cock as he slides in and out of you, his cock dragging against every ridge and bump inside of you with ease.

"Gonna make a mess of my pants, sugar. Costumin' ain't gonna be best pleased with me but, damn, if this pussy don't just feel too good to give up."

Tinkling organ music starts up as the next audience filters in to the main tent, you can hear the low hum of their voices, excited and eager for the upcoming show. You bite back a whine, the idea of him wearing your mess for an entire show, in front of that audience, too much to bear.

"Think you can come on my cock?" he whispers, draping his body over you as his fingers graze over your clit. The simple action already has you twitching, drenching his cock in yet more slick as he grinds slow and deep into you. You nod. Even with the crew around you, frantically rushing to reorganize props before the next show, you don't think you'll have a problem.

"That's it, gotta be quick now. Shit. You're nearly there already. Got your panties in such a twist you were ready to cream 'em."

You bite into your arm, moaning as his fingers quicken over your slick, engorged nub. His cock is dragging deep now, barely moving as he rocks his hips in the same slow rhythm.

A group of people begin hauling props to a side entrance ahead. You keep your eyes locked on them, their busy hands lifting and moving everything ready for the next performance. Jack's fingers are relentless, and you come undone with a silent scream around his cock, eyes still locked on the strangers in front of you. When your twitches fade, you fall limp against the barrel, Jack pressing a kiss to your neck now damp with your sweat.

"How about that, su-"

"Whiskey!" a voice shouts from nearby, and you jolt up, delirious and cock drunk, Jack's dick still lodged deep inside you. Shit.

Jack pulls back, uncovering you to the people around, people who had been drawn to look at you by the sudden noise. There had been no shame in it before, but now the horny haze was lifting, embarrassment was threatening you, heat flaring in your cheeks.

"Don't shy away from me now, sugar." It wasn't him that was the problem, it was the many people in the bustling backstage that were making you nervous. They paid you no mind before, but now the minutes were ticking down until showtime, they were all looking over, almost expectant, to see if and when their ringmaster would be finished.

"Got five minutes. Wrap this up," you look shyly over your shoulder at a tattoo'd man standing uncomfortably close. Jack keeps rocking into you, grinding deep and slow as he talks to the man.

"Just gonna empty my balls and I'll be right there," he says, so at ease he could have been talking about the weather. The tattoo'd man rolls his eyes, stepping away to start hauling out set pieces for the upcoming show.

"You gonna take it, sugar?"

You take one look at the tattoo'd man - he's still so near, he'd be able to hear everything. Swallowing, you look back at Jack and nod.

"Yeah. I want it."

"Then lemme hear those pretty sounds," and he picks up the pace, hips snapping into yours as you look around at him, eyes locked on him now that he was so ready to blow. Everyone else fizzles away, lost in the dust and low-light. The pounding in your ears and the pounding in your cunt in sync blurs out all other sound, the smell of him still so stark in your nose, even amongst the smell of dirt and cotton candy. A soft moan is all that escapes you, your breaths still ragged from your own orgasm as adrenalin races through you.

Pressure builds in you again. You won't, can't, come again so soon, but fuck if it doesn't feel so good. Large hands grip roughly at the meat of your ass, pulling you back onto him. With every bounce against his pelvis, you feel a deep moan bubbling to the surface until every thrust has a small shriek ripping from your lips.

"Ff- Jack. Oh, Jack."

"That's it. Gonna blow. You ready for it?"

"Yes, yes. Please," you pant, pushing your hips back to meet his every thrust, taking him in so deep you'll be feeling him in your bones for weeks. The harder he fucks, the louder the moans that tear from your throat, earning you looks that go unnoticed from the cast and crew that have gathered to start the show.

He stutters, his hips stilling for a second before shallowly thrusting into you. He lets out a deep groan, lowing soft and long as he releases inside you. You can feel it, the warmth of it seeping through you, drenching your pussy until it's sopping wet.

"Well if I couldn't just get lost in there for days," he murmurs, looking at you with a soft crinkle eyed smile. He bends to kiss you, his cock slipping from you as it quickly softens.

Pulling a handkerchief from an inside pocket, he wipes at the front of his pants, removing as much of your residue from him as he can as you stand, hoisting your panties back up around your hips and flipping down your dress.

"Look even more gorgeous fucked out, sugar. I'll be sad to see this pretty face go." He pulls you in to kiss you, lingering for a fraction before pulling back.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," you say softly, stroking the side of his face and smoothing down a flick in his moustache. His hat has not left his head.

"N - "

"It's showtime people, place please," a voice booms, hands clapping together harshly to get the attention of the crew. Shit.

You don't hide your disappointment, stepping away from Jack to let him get back to work. His whip and lasso are nowhere to be seen, and he still needs to grab them before the show starts. The moment is over, and so is your dry spell, you think, mentally preparing for the walk back to your car.

He's softly tugging you toward him before you can get too far.

"Now... I don't do private shows, but if you stick around, I wouldn't mind a repeat performance."

You can't help the grin that spreads across your face, and neither can he. "I'd like that, cowboy."

You wait, sitting on the barrel he'd fucked you over, stealing kisses between acts, watching as he adjust his pants to hide his stiff cock from the crowd, waiting patiently for another round with your ringmaster.

One day in the not too distant future, after months of travelling, belly heavy and feet swollen, you'll sit at a table laden with food, surrounded by your chosen family, telling the story of how your not-quite-nephews inadvertantly introduced you to the love of your life, the ringmaster in the cowboy hat.

When dinner is finished, you'll stand in the crisp air of the backyard, grateful for the off-season and a chance to settle before the chaos really begins. Large hands will wind around you, just as that rope did many moons ago, gently lifting your belly as a kiss is placed to your cheek.

"You didn't tell 'em the whole story," he'll whisper, placing his cowboy hat on the table.

"Mm, that is a story best kept just between you and me."

"And a few dozen people." You'll laugh into the chill air, clouds of white puffing from your mouth, the memory of the night that started it all so fresh in your mind. You'll turn and look at him fondly, stealing his cowboy hat and placing it on your own head.

"And a few dozen people."

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[pedrospookie]

I’ve decided to start writing again—

I am in the process of writing I’ll Be Home For Christmas, a Javier Peña x f!reader angst/fluff about being home for the holidays and having #mommyissues.

Soooooo that means my asks/reqs are open! It has been literally years since I’ve written a fic, so please be patient with me if they’re crap to start.

I’m looking to write little tales about Joel Miller (TLOU or Pedro, Canon or AU), Javier Peña (Canon or Domestic), Dieter Bravo (MAYBE??? We will see) and Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey (Statesman, AU or Domestic). I also focus on fluff and angst, but if I’m compelled enough I would try my hand at smut. Nothing extreme pls!

If you have an idea, pls send it my way 🥰

[oonajaeadira]

A Welcome Home At Resolution Ranch

Fandom: Kingsman: The Golden Circle / Jack "Whiskey" Daniels

Pairing: Jack Daniels x reader

Reader: Adult female. Former agent, now the manager at a guest ranch. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: T. Fluff.

Warnings: A little bit of angst, but on the edge of healing

Summary: When the news comes through that Jack met his end in Cambodia, you know better.

A/N: Well howdy, friends, and welcome to a good, soft, fix-it fic. What inspired this? @writeforfandoms did when she sent in an ask for a game....

"I wish you would write a fic where Jack is fine and nothing hurts and there are stars in the sky and there is plenty of banter and softness. Maybe horses."

Since her birfday is this week and writing Jack for each other is a love language, this is especially for her. <3

“You sure I’m ready to go on my own?”

Charity is a good girl. A little accident-prone at times, sure, but it’s mainly out of a lack of confidence. She’s got a real knack with the horses though, and you’ve learned to let her be on hand whenever the ranch has new guests check in; that million-watt smile of hers is worth a welcome mat covered in gold. She is Jack’s kin in every way, except he sucked up all the ego in the family and left little over for his niece.

Handing her the roster clipboard, you grant her an approving grin. “You grew up on these trails. You know them better than I ever will. You’re every ounce the guide any of us are. Now you’ve got eight guests riding with you this evening, two of them are about your age, and pretty handsome young gentlemen. You’re about to win the hearts of some suitors with that sweetness of yours…and if not, then for sure their grandparents. Have fun. Oh,” you remember, pointing to a name on the roster, “this lady here is a bit of a tick, but she has it bad for Morgans. Put her on Sasha and she’ll be shining so bright there’s nothing gonna dim her stars.”

“But Sasha’s your horse.”

“She won’t mind. Now get. And remember–”

Charity rolls her eyes. “Don’t let anyone tell me that they know horses better than I do, I know.”

“Good girl. Now you do a good job on your first solo run and I’ll have a big surprise waiting for you when you come back, hear?”

“I’m not a kid. I don’t need a reward.”

Turning the girl around by the shoulders and sending her off in the direction of the stables, you refrain from swatting her playfully, showing her the respect of a coworker. “And I’m not baking you cookies either. I’m not going with you tonight because I have something I gotta do. You’ll get the benefit of that thing whether you do a good job or not. I was trying to be encouraging.”

Her black braid swings down her back as she walks off to her task–both excited and scared, clutching the clipboard with both hands. 

“Oh, and Charry?” She stops to turn and listen. “Don’t put anyone on Whiplash. Leave her in the stable tonight.”

Once she’s given you a nod and marched out of sight, you wander back into the main lodge and relieve everyone for a few hours. You’re ready to take the front desk on your own. No worries, you explain, there’s only one guest booked to come in in the next hour and everyone else is out on the twilight ride. You’ll take it from here.

Once the lobby is quiet, you prop yourself out on the porch in a rocking chair with your boots up on the railing, tip your hat down low, and keep your eyes on the horizon--gradually more pink and gold by the minute--where any cars coming over the mile-long driveway can’t pass your notice.

It’s been six years now since you were secretly decommissioned from Statesman and your agent status revoked. Emotional trauma is a hell of a thing, and some agents take a beating. When head of the organization deems an agent unfit for duty with needs of long-term recovery and care, it’s their call to order it and–with the help of one other top officer–secretly install the probationed agent in a situation where they are anonymous and removed from any society that they could harm or could harm them. The organizational file would relate how the agent was killed in action, with the true story being kept by the two in charge. A total erasure of personage, total disappearance.

If and when the agent passed an evaluation and elected to return, they became extremely valuable as a secret operative, since everyone would assume they were deceased. 

If they decided not to return, the agency made sure they were provided for. For life.

Sometimes they came back; thrill of the hunt, what they know best and all that. But overall, the return rate was low. Something about a slow down calls after a life of deception.

In your case, Jack was chosen as Champ’s second and–having always been one of the only agents that damn cowboy liked working with–suggested you head up his family ranch for your rehab period. Tasked you with making it a nice working vacation ranch for families. Came out and visited you often enough to make sure you were getting on.

And, of course, to make sure you were getting off too. 

There was a lot of hay on property, and Jack was a damn nice rolling partner. Said that he liked that he never had to pretend with you. Not now, not ever.

And you always felt exactly the same.

But the timing was never perfect. And the world had always needed one or the other of you to save it.

Distractions.

After the requisite five year probation, Champ and Jack made the ceremonial trip out and asked if you’d like to be re-evaluated and “reborn”. As much as you’d been itching during the first couple of years to get back in the game, the quiet life had softened your body and won your heart. You’d gained the trust of the employees. Knew all the horses and their idiosyncracies by heart. It had become your home. Walking away to spend days without sleep, lying, taking lives without stopping to think twice….just didn’t appeal anymore.

With Champ’s understanding, you had respectfully retired, and with Jack’s blessing, you’d planted yourself permanently. The ranch was your calling. Your heart. Even with some of Jack’s relatives working and living here it could get lonely at times, but then you’d catch yourself watching the fireflies in the sunset or riding Sasha through a particularly pretty meadow and everything seemed right with the world.

And hells. If the lack of companionship was the only thing you had to complain about, well the universe must have heard. It’s rung the hospitality bell for you.

Taking the letter out of your pocket, you glance over it one more time. An announcement of an agent down. Cambodia. Drug conspiracy. Agents Galahad, Galahad, and Merlin of Kingmen, London. Agent Whiskey showing mental trauma and poor judgment. A violent engagement. A meat grinder. Signed by Head Agent Champagne.

So that’s the story they assigned him, huh. A meat grinder? Really? So stupid. But then, you got to assist in penning your own death, so it makes all the sense in the world that Jack got to have a say in his. Of course he was going to go out in the corniest way possible, of course he was.

Tsk. A meat grinder. Jesus.

Before long, the stars are starting to peek out and there’s a plume of dust on the horizon. Then a black car at the core of it, making its way along the drive. By the time it pulls up in front of the porch, you’ve hidden the letter back in your pocket, stood and made your way to the bottom of the steps. 

Two doors open. From the front a driver emerges, short and sturdy, young and hale, heading for the trunk to retrieve luggage. But when the back door opens, there’s the duo of a boot and a Stetson which emerge together then unfold into a tall, cool drink of Jack Daniels.

It’s a showdown at twilight, but you both keep your hearts in your holster for the time being and instead reach for your sass. “Driver? This here’s a working ranch, so you can just leave the luggage. Guests here are required to haul their own.”

They do as they’re told with a nod, dropping two suitcases and a duffel in the dust. The whole time Jack stands, unmoving, hands on hips, watching with a bemused incredulity as the driver then simply gets back behind the wheel and literally drives off into the sunset, leaving Jack's bags like carrion.

“Well shit. Is that any way to welcome a man home?”

“Maybe I just wanted you all to myself, cowboy. You ever think of that?”

There’s a delicious moment underscored by cricket strings that allows for both of your grins to stretch to full capacity.

But still, he’s a man whose wind has abandoned his sails and you both know why he’s here. It doesn’t mean he’s not still Jack Daniels though. And while he might not come at you with an oppressive swagger, he still comes to you, the cockiness giving way to a genuine fondness.

“Well. Hello, gorgeous.”

“Let me guess,” you tease, opening your arms to guide him to his landing, “You have a pack of cold ones and your roomie’s out so I can scream your name as loud as I want.”

His embrace is more than just happiness to see you. It’s heavy with relief, with longing. He needs it from you as much as you from him, and he hums low into your neck as he lifts you so that your toes just leave the ground before plopping you back down. This is the point where the usual hug might end, but he stays. He stays just a few more breaths and you can tell he’s taking a cure in the moment.

“Come on, cowboy,” you hum into his shoulder. “Let me help you with these bags. I prepared the best room in the house for you.”

Silently, you both heft a suitcase and he takes the extra duffel, and you make it up the stairs of the main house to the biggest bedroom and flip on the light.

“Isn’t this your bedroom, Brandy?”

Throwing a suitcase on the quilted bed you shake a finger at him. “Uh uh uh, that’s not my name anymore, Whiskey.”

He follows suit, unburdening himself. “And that’s not mine. Belongs to Ginger now.”

You can’t--and won't--hide your delight. “Well hot shit. Good for her. She’s always wanted to go out into the field.” But it’s also bittersweet. It's been six years. “How is my girl?” 

“Oh, she’s doing real fine. Took over as Champ’s right hand when I went out and Tequila hopped the pond to work for those Brits.”

“Damn. Well, I’m proud of her. I wish I could tell her. If I could have just had one more agent to keep in touch with….wait.” Something in Jack’s little smile gives you pause. “Waaaaait a minute. Did she–???”

He finishes the thought for you. “With the transfer of title, she also became Champ’s number two. So she’s got access your retirement file. I’m sure she’ll be booking a vacation here soon enough.”

Turning to the window and clamping a hand over your mouth, you hold your own reflection and do your best to keep the tears for later. It’s been six years and your old friend is in Kentucky right now, finding out any day now that you’re not dead after all, that you’re only a plane ride away. A long dreamed-for reunion is coming. Oh god. 

But Jack’s here now, and he’s going to need your support. And of course he’ll demand your attention–”You never answered my question. Where are you sleeping if I’m in here?”

Turning to him, you wink. “Who said I was moving out of this room?” His blush signals that you’ve just out-Jacked Jack Daniels. Stepping in closer, you take his hand. “Hey. I just wanted to give you a view of the stables. If you want me here, I’ll share the room with you. If not, the guest room is free and I’m comfortable sleeping there too. This is your home now, cowboy. I want you to see the sun in the morning. Give you a reason to get up every day.”

“Sunshine’s wherever you are, partner. It’d actually be real nice to have a reason to stay in bed.”

His words spread through you like a good bourbon. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.” It’s a warm moment, new for both of you. Instead of the thrill of the promise of sharing a bed and the obvious adventure that awaits, you have something now that you both never had before–time. Time to hold. Time to breathe. Time to heal and take it soft and slow. “Come on, cowboy. I wanna show you something.”

Picking up his Stetson from the bed, you place it lovingly on his head, your fingertips lingering as they trail down his sideburns. He wears the hat well, and the facial hair. And the deep adoration. Before he gets lost in the moment, you lead him out of the main house and down toward the stables.

“So. A meat grinder.”

He grins as he watches his feet, big hands swinging at his side. “Can’t blame a man for people wanting to remember his demise. That one’ll be talked about.”

“Little over the top, isn’t it?”

“That’s the way I went in, apparently.”

“Stupidest death I’ve ever heard of.”

“But you’ll remember it, won’t you.”

Rolling your eyes, you lead him to one of the front stalls of the stable. “Yeah, but I’d never believe it. Jack Daniels? Taken down by an unarmed, unstable agent and his apprentice? This hulk of a man tossed around and yanked into a grinder as if there’s one big enough to take you?”

“You’re real hung up on the meat grinder part, aren’t you. You do know the target was actually processing people and making them into burgers, right? I don’t see why it’s so unbelievable–” But he stops like stone when you reach your target stall. “Is that…Well slap my chaps. That’s the prettiest mustang I’ve ever seen.”

“You like her?” Clicking your tongue, the lithe and beautiful bay immediately comes to you, tossing her mane, ready for the apple you’ve got on offer. And when you hide it behind your back, she knows to put her nose to yours, to nuzzle you gently. “This is Whiplash. Fast as a shooting star and twice as bright. Picked her out myself. Helped Charity to train her up, which is why she’s also sweet. That girl has the patience of a saint. Must get it from the other side of the family. But this mare was a passion project for both of us. Thought you might like to claim her,” you say, handing the apple over to him and, with it, Whiplash’s attentions. “Anytime you need to clear your head, she’ll run you to the moon and back.”

Jack holds out the apple reverently with one hand, running the other along the mare’s neck. “Always wanted a mustang. Thought I’d have to settle for the automotive variety. They’re not the kind of horse you keep at a pedestrian ranch for just anyone to ride.”

“I know. It was meant to be a surprise for your next visit. But now that you’re here to stay, she’s even more yours than she was before.”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to hold those tears for later, his beautiful brown eyes gathering up all the rising moonlight. Swallowing hard, he gives you a nod, a thanks that he can’t put into words just yet. Instead, he deflects. “Where is my favorite niece?”

“Your only niece is out leading a twilight ride. It’s her first lead. I told her I’d have a reward waiting for her when she got back as long as all the guests are alive and kicking. She doesn’t know you’re coming yet.”

He nods. Goes back to petting Whiplash. The full day and the journey finally come to settle on him and all his thoughts seem to rise to the surface and float in his tired expression.

You reach out. Hook a finger in his belt loop and give it a coy tug. “Hey. Can I ask you...what happened, Jack?”

He has to take a breath. Two. Then he gives Whiplash a final pat and takes your hand, weaving it through the crook of his arm, and you wander out into the darkening pasture together.

The mission was nearly doomed from the start. With Tequila down and Harry still recovering and Eggsy still green, it was just a mess. It didn’t help that his heart wasn’t in it, that he kept thinking about his loss so many years ago, that maybe it was better if all the addicts were just taken down in one fell swoop so they could stop hurting themselves and everyone else. Running the New York branch and distribution on top of fucking saving the world every five minutes–the burnout was getting to him and just made him fixate more. 

Harry saw through him but misinterpreted his reluctance. Harry shot him to take him out of commission, knowing full well that Ginger could fix him. Jack went back into action too soon, too hot. Went straight to Cambodia. Joined in the fray. Ended up taking out his rage on Poppy and brutally jamming a needle in her neck, overdosing and killing her rather than neutralizing her and taking her in as he should have. Harry and Eggsy were kind. Stood up for him with Champ. Helped to corroborate a story so he could step down. Jack let the record show that they were the heroes so they could go back to the Kingsmen in triumph and he could heal in peace.

This is what surprises you the most.

That Jack let himself go down as the bad guy.

“You could have just said you were taken down by one of Poppy’s men and walked away a martyr.”

He simply watches the first fireflies come out in answer to the first stars, squeezes your hand a little tighter, shakes his head. “If I’d had my head in the game, a good agent wouldn’t have died. Merlin. His name was Agent Merlin. Damn fine man. And if Harry and Eggsy hadn’t been the excellent agents they are, my lapse of judgment could have killed a lot more folks. This is my way to atone.”

“And there’s no way in hell you’d let anyone think you got taken down by some nameless thug.”

“Shit. Got me there.”

All you can do is show agreement with a knowing nod. “You know, when I first came out here, I couldn’t wait to leave. But you knew, didn’t you. You knew that I needed this.”

“I did.”

“Cocky bastard,” you mumble in loving admonishment. “Did you understand that you were nearing the end too? That you were sending me out here to give me time to be ready to bring you home?”

“I wasn’t aware of it at the time, probably a little too confident to ever think I should stop.” He turns to you, a sweet little apology in the corner of his smile. “But maybe a little part of me knew.”

“Yeah, that little part of you has gotten me into trouble before.”

He huffs a little laugh, tilts your chin up with a knuckle. Still holding your hand and sliding it inside his jacket against his chest he whispers, “Ain’t the part I was talking about, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it’s a different Jack than the one you used to settle for on occasion. This Jack is ready to put down his revolvers and his whip, ready to concentrate on himself, on you, on a life far from trouble. His kiss holds in it the promise of summer sunsets and long trail rides, of barbecues and lemonade and lazy mornings sleeping in. And there will be stars that are brighter...and nights under them for just the two of you. It’s a kiss that leaves no doubt that there will be many more to follow, each one with its own brand of sweetness and a happy ending well-earned.

No more distractions.

Time enough.

_____

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

[ladamedusoif]

Gentleman Cowboy

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x F!Reader

Pairing: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x F!Reader

Word count: 3500

Summary: A solo getaway. A fateful glass of whiskey. And a very charming cowboy, ready to explore the big city.

Rating: Explicit; 18+ MDNI

Warnings: Alcohol references and consumption; non-canon compliant as is right and proper because that man deserved better; oral sex (F receiving); safe PiV sex; little bit of strong language; no physical descriptions of Reader other than her blue dress and red lipstick; fluff; Jack-typical pet names (sugar, sweetheart, darlin’).

A/N: A belated birthday fic for @agentjackdaniels, who deserves all the nice things - including a certain, irresistible, (retired) secret agent turned ranch owner.

Follow my writing blog, @ladameecrit, and turn on notifications to keep up with my writing.

Charisma.

The jury’s out on whether you’re born with it or can acquire it. For some people, it’s just there. Natural, easy, instantaneous. Doesn’t mean they’re more attractive, necessarily, or more successful. Just… charismatic. 

Hard to explain, but you know it when you see it. And you’d seen it today, checking into the hotel for your solo birthday getaway. A staycation, of sorts - this is your home city, after all - but an escape nonetheless, a break from work, from stress, and a chance to mark another turn around the sun.

He was in the lobby while you were queuing to check in, sitting on one of the hotel’s chi-chi armchairs leafing through a city guidebook. By chance, you glanced in his direction at just the moment he raised his head.

He was all brown eyes, bright smile, dimple set in a tanned handsome face. More than that: he exuded charisma. 

He nodded. You nodded back. By the time you’d checked in and secured your room key, he was gone.

***

He’s been to this city many times before, but always for work. Never any time for sightseeing or getting to know the place. In retirement, he made it his business to return to those old stomping grounds he wished he’d seen more of, joyfully embracing the life of a tourist for a few days before returning to the horse-breeding ranch he owned and ran back home in Kentucky.

The hotel bar is elegant and modern, wooden accents and brushed metal fittings perfectly in line with his own taste. He’s settled in a cosy corner alone, whiskey tumbler in hand, when he sees her again. 

Her casual outfit from earlier has been replaced by a diaphanous, layered dress in midnight blue, printed with a pattern reminiscent of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. He half-expects to see a companion, joining her for a post-prandial nightcap. But she’s on her own.

Just like him.

The bar is quiet. He can’t help but overhear her at the bar. “It’s my birthday,” she tells the bartender, grinning happily. “They said I could have a complimentary drink.”

The bartender smiles and nods. “Sure thing, ma’am. What would you like?”

Jack watches as she peruses the gleaming shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar, noting the adorable way she chews on her lower lip while she’s thinking. 

“I’ll make it a whiskey. A Gentleman Jack, please.”

His ears perk up in spite of himself.

Thing is, Jack’s pretty good at reading other human beings. Part of the job, after all, and pretty hard to let something like that slide when you’re no longer an active agent in the field. 

He knows, then, that it might be a bit much for him to launch a typical come-on attempt at the bar. You seem like the type to find that too heavy-handed, disconcerting - cheesy, even.

Not that Jack minds cheesy, as required.

He returns to his book and when he looks up again, you’re taking your Gentleman Jack over to a small table in the other part of the bar. He taps his glass to get your attention. 

“Hope you don’t mind me overhearing, miss, but I just wanted to wish you a very happy birthday,” he says, Southern drawl as warm and as authentic as the Bourbon in his glass. He raises the tumbler to you, and you reciprocate. 

”Enjoy that whiskey, now. Fine choice, if I may say.”

***

He’s definitely not flirting with you. Right? Right. Just a Southern gentleman of the kind that’s all “manners maketh man” and “yes ma’am” and opening doors for ladies. Probably illegal for him not to wish you a happy birthday. 

Just a gorgeous man with the twinkliest, kindest eyes you’ve ever seen in your life, dressed in a beautifully-tailored western-style shirt and perfect dark denims, wishing you a happy birthday. Move along, nothing to see here. 

You settle in with your birthday drink and your copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude, immersing yourself back in the world of the Buendia clan. Occasionally, you glance back in his direction, and sometimes, he’s looking over at you, too.

Coincidence. 

As the alcohol hits you, you adopt a more cliched “mysterious woman” approach, as befits the slick of vintage-style dark red lipstick you’re wearing for the occasion. Let’s see what happens. No more looking over again, just you, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Gentleman Jack. A good time to be had by all - handsome guy or not.

He’s gone the next time you raise your head. Empty seat. Empty glass. And your heart sinks, against your better judgment. 

“Fuck it. Another whiskey’s in order - for the room.”

You nod over to the bartender, ordering another of the same and asking for it to be put on your room bill. 

He returns swiftly with another crystal tumbler of the amber liquid and what looks like a business card. “Ma’am, the gentleman that was just here asked if he could pay for your next drink. Seeing as it’s your birthday. He just had one condition - that we pass this on.”

He hands you the business card, and it’s embossed on one side with a name:

Jack Daniels, Esq.

Some promotional thing, you assume, connected to the whiskey in your glass. But there’s something written in a clear, determined print on the rear of the card. 

A number - a room extension number - and a message.

Happy birthday, miss. If you want to say howdy, this is where you’ll find me - J.D.

You quirk an eyebrow. This seems…insane. Like a set-up waiting to be revealed. But you take the card and head to your room with the whiskey, half-expecting that the next time you look at the little business card it’ll be blank - the note gone, imagined, the product of your own febrile brain and the power of Gentleman Jack.

Still there. Still metaphorically winking at you, daring you to call.

***

One finger of whiskey down. Enough to give you the courage to dial that number. 

If it’s him, and he’s not a creep, just say thank you. That’s all you want, right? And he wouldn’t possibly want anything else.

He picks up almost immediately. “Well, hello there. Glad that barkeep gave you the card, miss.” His voice is low and honeyed over the line. 

You clench your thighs together involuntarily.

”I, uh…I wanted to say thank you. For the drink.”

He chuckles. Oh, fuck. That voice.

”Wouldn’t be any kind of gentleman if I didn’t buy a lady a birthday drink. Specially when she’s drinking one that bears his name.”

You pause for a second. This is…weird. Pinch yourself, once, twice.

”So that’s your actual name? Jack Daniels?”

”The one and same, at your service.”

The whiskey has emboldened you. “Ah, but are you a gentleman, Jack?”

You swear you can hear him inhale sharply. “Well, well. Guess you’d have to get to know me to find out.”

”Birthday or no birthday, Mr Daniels, I’m not in the business of inviting strange men into my hotel room.”

”Fine by me, sweet girl. How’s about I meet you in the lobby in five minutes? Might be cold but it’s a nice night for a walk. You know the city?”

”Lived here my whole life.”

He chuckles again. Oh, girl. You are in trouble.

”Now, ain’t that something. Perfect person to show a lonesome cowboy around. Grab your coat, sugar.”

***

He’s already waiting in the lobby when you walk out of the lift, wearing a black leather jacket with a corduroy-trimmed collar and a dark brown, felt broad-brimmed hat. Not quite a Stetson, but still perfect for a cowboy visiting the big city. His dark brown boots are impeccably polished, you notice.

”Well, hi there, birthday girl!” He grins, laughter lines around his eyes crinkling and emphasising the handsome contours of his face. “Guess we should introduce ourselves properly.” He extends his hand. “Jack Daniels.”

You introduce yourself and find yourself chuckling at the strange coincidence of his name. “Are you anything to the whiskey brand? I feel like I should know, just in case this is some insane promotional stunt.”

He laughs, a bright, genuine chuckle that makes your heart sing. “Sadly, I’m not the JD. But Whiskey was my…nickname. Once upon a time.”

”Makes sense,” you say, as he holds open the hotel door for you and you step out into the night. “Now, Jack Whiskey Daniels, where to?”

“I’ll leave that up to you, birthday girl. You’re the native and the expert. Happy to surrender myself to your capable hands. Only thing is…” He pauses, looking a little sheepish. “I’m hungry enough to eat a stable door. Mind if we pick up a little something on the way?”

You giggle, noticing the little flecks of grey among the dark hairs of his perfectly-trimmed moustache. “I’ve got just the thing, Jack. Come with me.”

***

”I cannot believe that delicious slice was two dollars. Two dollars! And they always say this city’s expensive.”

You swallow the last bite of your own pizza slice and laugh. “It is expensive, but the dollar slice still reigns supreme. Even if it’s two bucks these days.”

You wander companionably in the direction of the elevated garden walkway, your chosen destination for this stroll through your home city. “So this your first time here?”

Jack shakes his head. “Not quite. Been here a few times over the years, but…never got to see much. Always workin’, in and out of our headquarters. No time for just getting to know a place.”

You nod sympathetically. “If it’s any consolation, sometimes it’s harder to see the good in a city when you’re there all the time. So it’s nice for me to get to be a tourist tonight, too.” The two of you climb the stairs and emerge on the walkway, you pointing out key landmarks to Jack as you stroll along together.

”So are you on a break from work this time?”

He looks at you with a soft smile. “Retired. These days I spend my time on the ranch, down home in Kentucky.”

You clap your hands excitedly when he explains that it’s a horse-breeding ranch. “Oh, wow. I just love horses - truth be told, I think there’s a cowgirl streak in me somewhere. City girl or no city girl.”

He laughs that gorgeous, warm laugh, and you feel your heart skip a beat. “Always happy to welcome a city slicker cowgirl on a tour, sweet girl. You just say the word.”

***

As you walk, you realise just how attentively Jack is listening to you. He takes in every detail, every word that leaves your lips, whether it be about the city or about you. 

With a pang you realise that it had been a very long time since someone really and truly seemed to listen. To see you. 

Or maybe he’s just like that with everyone. You are equally rapt, revelling in the melodious rhythm and comforting timbre of his baritone as he tells you about his ranch, his favourite horses, his fascination with the city. 

You’d always assumed that you might be too overwhelmed in the presence of a man so incredibly handsome and charming to do more than just gape at his beautiful form. With Jack, though, you’d never felt more at ease. 

And, dare you say it - he seems pretty darn comfortable, too.

The wardens on the garden walkway announce that it’s about to close, and you find the nearest exit and return to street level. It’s almost imperceptible, but for an instant you swear you can feel his broad hand on your back as you cross the street, heading back to the hotel. 

“Now I’ve got a confession to make, Jack.”

He turns and raises his eyebrows.

”I’m hungry again. You want another slice?”

His smile feels bright enough to power half the city. “A two-buck pizza slice with the prettiest girl in town? Count me in, sugar.”

***

Your whole life, you’d assumed it was safer to wait until they made the first move. Helped avoid any embarrassing moments where you’d read the vibe wrong. Easier, too, to assume you would want someone more than they wanted you.

The electrical charge that’s crackling between you and Jack Daniels as you stand side by side in the hotel lift is a little too powerful for the “wait and see” approach. You look at him again, in side profile this time. 

Fuck. That is a beautiful man.

”Jack?”

He turns his head and smiles. Your hands find first his shoulders, then the light stubble on his jaw. He closes his eyes as you caress his face, dark lashes resting on his cheeks. You move closer, feeling his breath on your face, tilt your head, and lean in to find his lips in a slow, gentle kiss.

The lift pings as he pulls you tight to him, tongue seeking entrance to your mouth. His floor.

”I sure hope this ain’t too forward, sugar, but… would you like to come to my room?” 

You’re already walking out of the lift, holding his hand as you pull him down the corridor that leads to the guest rooms. 

“Thought you’d never ask, cowboy.”

***

No sooner have you got to the room than he’s pushing you against the wall, your hands hastily unbuttoning his shirt and jeans while his broad hands grope your tits through your favourite dress. 

“Goddammit, sweetheart, these are damn gorgeous,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the outline of your hard nipples under the light fabric. “You are damn gorgeous.”

”So are you, cowboy,” you purr, slipping your hand gently inside his boxer briefs as he moves you away from the wall and over to the king-size bed. Even half-hard, you are impressed by the feel of his cock in your hand - thick, heavy, and velvet-soft around the head.

He lays you down on the bed and quickly peels off his shirt, revealing a broad, tanned body clad in a white undervest that clings lasciviously to the muscles of his chest and back as well as the softness of his tummy. It’s a tantalising sight: Jack, his dark, silver-streaked hair slightly mussed and falling forward over his brow, propped up above you on the bed. You trace your fingertips over the pattern of freckles that peeks over the neckline of his vest.

”Can I taste you, pretty girl?”

You nod, throwing your head back and whining with pleasure as he gets to his knees at the edge of the bed and lifts up the skirts of your dress. He hums and moans contentedly as he buries his nose and mouth against your aching pussy, still wearing your panties.

”God-fuckin’-dammit. You’re gonna taste so sweet.”

With a swift tug your panties are off and his head is between your legs, stubble tickling deliciously over the sensitive skin on your inner thighs as his moustache presses against your wet folds.

”Taste me, Jack, please.”

The first long, slow, lick of his tongue up your slit is enough to have you moaning. 

“Fuck, sugar suits you. Sweet as fuckin’ sugar down here.”

Another long, slow lick, tongue flat against you, and then the tip finds your pussy, flicking over the hole and dipping in and out until you feel like he’s fucking you with it. His nose rubs against your swollen clit in time with the thrust of his tongue.

”You’re gonna make me come, Jack…keep doing that, that’s it.”

You focus on the sensation, the sounds that fill the hotel room: your gentle moans, Jack grunting against your pussy while his hand works his own cock, the lewd wetness of your soaking cunt as he brings you closer and closer to orgasm.

”C’mon, sweetheart, come for me - c’mon, good girl. Got you so nice and wet, darlin’, I know you’re close.”

He rests a hand on your tummy as your hips start to buck upwards, the orgasm building and building inside of you until, with a scream of his name, you come hard on his face.

”Think you enjoyed that, sweetheart.”

”Fuck, Jack, that was…fuck.” You sit up and he helps you out of your dress, eyes roaming over your body and settling on the curves of your tits inside the dark blue lace of your bra.

”Can I take this off, sugar?”

You nod, reaching for the hem of his undervest. “Sure, cowboy. But you have to be naked too.”

He is only too happy to oblige. Undervest discarded and boxers on the floor, Jack climbs onto the bed beside you and sits you up. He takes his time with your breasts, unhooking your bra and tossing it to one side before bringing his mouth to each nipple and lovingly kissing and sucking and caressing them in turn. 

“What do you want, baby?”

It’s a rhetorical question. You both know what you want. He breaks away and you lie back on the bed, spreading your legs, moaning delightedly as you feel his gorgeous weight settling on top of you. 

“Want you, Jack. Want you to fuck me until this whole city knows who’s having me.”

He flushes visibly and chuckles, standing up to retrieve his wash bag and returning with a packet of condoms in hand. “And there I was thinkin’ you were a shy little thing, sweet girl.” 

You laugh. “I’m shy until you get to know me, Jack Daniels. Shy, until…”

He positions himself back between your thighs, carefully rolling the condom over his impressively thick cock. 

“Until?” 

You pause for a moment to look into his eyes. “Until I feel like I’m safe with someone.”

He melts a little, leaning down to kiss you softly and slowly.

”That’s a heck of a compliment, sugar. A nice thing, to know you feel so safe with me.”

You smile and look up at him from under your lashes. “I think it’s your charm, cowboy. Not bad for two people who were strangers until a few hours ago.”

He hums happily and kisses you again. ”Not bad at all. Can I have you, sweetheart?”

”Yes fuckin’ please, Jack.” 

He takes you slowly, carefully, stretching you steadily until he’s fully sheathed inside you. He takes a moment, squeezing his eyes closed as he fights the urge to go straight to fucking you as hard as he wishes.

”Feel good, Jack?”

”Feels out of this world, baby. Perfect tight, wet pussy, perfect pretty girl.”

He pulls his hips back slowly before snapping back into position and you whine, wrapping your hands around his shoulders. 

“That feel good for you, baby?”

You nod frantically. “The best. Fuck me, Jack. Want to feel you.”

He builds up the pace slowly, steadily, taking you deeper and deeper before moving to take you harder and faster. Instinctively you hitch up your legs, finding your calves wrapping around his lower back as he starts to fuck you at just the right angle.

He babbles as he fucks you, praising you, promising you things you remind yourself not to see as anything more than sex talk. How he’ll bring you home with him someday, come back up to see you here, make you all his, how he wants to be all yours.

With a swift shift of his hand he finds your clit again. You come harder, again, crying out his name as he fucks and talks you through it. 

“Good, good girl, my good girl,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the place your bodies are joined as he watches you ride out your orgasm. “You’re so beautiful, you know that? Prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

His long fingers press hard into your hips and you can tell he’s about to come. For a brief, sudden, vivid instant you fantasise about throwing all caution to the wind and letting him finish inside you: filling you, claiming you for his, all his.

Jack comes hard, groaning and crying out your name. He rests on your shoulder for a moment, catching his breath, before pulling out and nuzzling in beside you. You turn to face him, fingers trailing through the dark, damp strands of wavy hair clinging to his brow.

”Good, darlin’?”

You kiss him. “Very, very, very good, Jack Daniels.”

He chuckles against your kiss. “And do you think I’m a gentleman now?”

You pull back and flit your eyes over his face, as if making an assessment. 

“Let’s see. Gentleman cowboy on the streets, gentlemanly demon in the sheets. Sounds perfect to me.”

***

You sleep soundly that night, nestled safely against Jack’s warm body. He wakes you with the gentlest of kisses to your forehead, and for a moment you can’t remember. 

And then those coffee-brown eyes, that smile, and you know you’re right where you’re meant to be.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

IX ║ Warmblood

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 8: Silver Pony | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: The hardest goodbye you'll ever say.

Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, flirting, sexual innuendoes, semi-pubic sex, oral sex (F receiving), risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N

Word count: 7.6k

Notes: Here we are, at the end of the longest packtrip ever, and we did it with only one (1) little meltdown last night 😜 More notes at the end, but I just want to say - this has been a once-in-a-lifetime story for me. If a fic can be a soulmate, Palomino is mine.

Thank you for coming on this journey with me, I love every single one of you ❤️ Last thing, I never do this, but I must insist that you play this song when you get there. You'll know when 🥹

Warmblood: An athletic, agile horse that is noted for its trainability and usually calm temperament, is commonly used in equestrian competition, and typically possesses Thoroughbred, Arabian, and draft horse bloodlines.

Your awakening is gentle, soft and blurry around the edges, as if you’re looking through the lens of a Polaroid camera, tinted in sepia. The morning hour creeps across the ceiling of Jack’s bedroom in equal parts light and shadow, the curtains having been left undrawn last night. A crack in the window lets in the faintest breeze, but mutes all the sounds you’ve grown used to seeking out first thing in the morning, when your eyelids are too heavy to lift.

The hum of flying things, feathered or otherwise, charting their flight paths in your head by the buzz of their wings. The brush of the wind like a hand combing through grass and meadow. Even the sun speaks in the morning, raw energy strumming between constantly shifting air particles.

This stillness comes off as almost - unnatural. Even when straddling the divide between sleep and wake, you feel yourself making tiny adjustments to the physicality of being indoors again. Regret stains the corners of your consciousness, knowing it won’t take you long to recalibrate. Your body will return to what it knows, shedding your once-upon-a-time existence in the mountains like a coat discarded at the turn of the season. 

When the mattress dips behind you, sensation floods your veins like a shock to the system, flushing out the pins and needles in your limbs that you haven’t even noticed. Jack is warm and solid behind you, where he belongs. One leg nudged between yours, his sun-kissed arm across your waist, the only thing keeping you from tumbling off the edge. His breath whistles sweetly over the shell of your ear, and you smile. You don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that his mouth is parted in slumber.

The next time you come to, it’s the rude buzz of metal on wood that jolts you out of sleep. You squeak when Jack follows, almost inadvertently shoving you off the bed as he startles awake. But thankfully, his instincts are fully intact, and he catches you squarely in the stomach, biceps flexing as he pulls you back into his chest with an easy strength.

‘Sorry, darlin’,’ he rasps groggily, burying his face in your neck in an apology. You uncoil in a languid stretch, opening up your throat to the rough scratch of his moustache, wanting to feel the burn.

‘Phone, cowboy,’ you gripe when the vibration doesn’t stop.

With a heave-ho, Jack reaches over you to grab it, before falling back onto the mattress so heavily that the bedframe shakes. Rubbing his thumb and index finger over his eyes, he grouses into the receiver, ‘What?’

Teak’s voice on the other line is clear as day even though he’s not on speaker. ‘Where are you, man?’

You burrow into Jack’s side, and the wide span of his palm on your hip holds you to him possessively. ‘Where do you think I am?’

‘Listen. Poppy made sausage gravy and buttermilk pancakes. Y’all know what that means.’

You venture a peek at Jack, whose lips are pursed thoughtfully. You prompt, ‘What does it mean?’

He smiles down at you. ‘She really likes you, darlin’.’

Teak interrupts with a scoff. ‘Like her? She’s basically adopting you, sunshine!’

Your lips wobble - if you soften any further, you might melt into the mattress.  ‘Oh, Poppy.’

‘Look, I’ve been stallin’ them, but they’re fixin’ to break down her door. You lovebirds best get here quick!’

Tossing away his phone without a goodbye, Jack drops a kiss to your forehead. ‘Listen, we don’t have to go anywhere, you stay here and I’ll make you - cereal in bed?’ He pauses with a wince. ‘Actually, I’m outta milk. And cereal.’

You chuckle, reaching up to run your fingers through his endearingly askew bed hair. ‘It’s ok, cowboy, we should go. I need to pack anyway.’

Your tummy takes the inopportune moment to rumble audibly, and he pins you with a knowing look. ‘And you want that sausage gravy, don’t you?’

‘Shut up,’ you laugh, pushing him off the bed.

When you step out of Jack’s bedroom in last night’s clothes after a quick refresh in his neat ensuite, he’s already outside, warming up the Silver Pony.

The house is even cosier in the morning. Facing east, daylight fills every corner of every room, bringing out the patterns in the wooden panels. Your gaze lingers where you can’t. You want to study the cracked spines of the paperbacks on his bookshelf one by one, you want to press your nose into the shirts hanging in his closet, you want to peer around the door to a second room that is temptingly ajar - 

‘Darlin’?’

You look up, and Christ on a cracker - it’s downright unfair that even after a week of spending every waking minute together, this damn cowboy can still make your heart skip a beat just by standing.

Jack is on the doorstep, in what you assume is his ‘off-duty’ uniform. Instead of a plaid shirt, he’s wearing a simple white tshirt with a round neck that is decidedly not sweat- nor dirt-friendly, tucked loosely into the waistband of dark jeans that look a bit more polished, and if you would believe it, even tighter than the pair he wears in the saddle. While it’s business as usual with the Stetson and work boots, something unfamiliar hangs from the neckline of his top.

Plucking the gold-rimmed aviators from his tshirt, you slide them onto your face, winking at him through the tinted lens. ‘Nice shades. Gotta say, I didn’t peg you for such a snazzy dresser off the trail.’

He grins, all tidy teeth with a deliberately libertine edge, clearly enjoying the attention. Scooping you into his broad frame, he drawls, ‘Gotta look good for the ladies in town, y’know. They’re famished ‘cause you been hoardin’ me all week, darlin’.’

With an exaggerated huff, you elbow past him. ‘I don’t know how you manage to zip your ego into those tightass pants, cowboy!’

‘With lots of practice,’ he retorts, smacking you firmly on the backside.

‘Do you need your sunnies?’ you ask as you climb onto the Silver Pony behind him, pushing the aviators a bit higher on your nose where they’ve slid down.

He shrugs. ‘Keep ‘em. Gives you a reason to come back.’

You smile into his broad shoulders, palms sliding to interlock over his soft belly. The bike revs, startling a flock of birds into flight from a nearby tree, and you realise those six little words are the first to breach the subject of what comes after - which will come to be in a matter of hours, with your flight in the early afternoon, a prospect suddenly so frighteningly real. 

But in the same breath, it becomes blindingly clear that you don’t even need to hear the words.

Because you know there is a space for you in his bed, tucked into his body, curled around you. A spot for you under his arm resting on the back of his couch in the living room, in front of a woodfire when it snows outside. A seat for you at the back of his motorcycle, where you are now, breezing effortlessly downhill towards the ranch, the white fences and red roofs winking at you between the gaps in the trees that line the winding country roads.

When you dream in the months to come, you will always smell pine, white cotton, and well-worn leather as the Silver Pony carries you home.

It’s a shorter drive than you remember. Jack’s watch reads just past half eight when you pull into the parking lot. He kills the engine as you dismount, passing him your star-spangled helmet to be returned to its place in the little cabinet for next time. You’ve turned on your heel towards the ranch when a hand on your wrist grounds you to the spot.

Hands that have made you feel safe, protected, wanted in turn over the past week.

There’s no fanfare, no declarations, as you watch Jack lace his fingers with yours, filling the gaps and the tips curling into the valleys between your knuckles. Palm to weathered palm, calloused from ropework and heavy lifting, you look up to meet his eyes. 

He peers at you, almost shyly, an incomprehensible notion after all that he’s done to you, and what you’ve done to him, across the expanse of the Wyoming wilderness. But there’s a chastity to this simple action, and you find your throat tight when he asks, ‘Is this ok, darlin’?’

Your heart swells, as if it’s going to grow claws and tear itself right out of your chest cavity. Bringing up your tangled hands, you brush a kiss across his knuckles, and his whole countenance lifts with the upward curl of his mouth. 

‘Yes, cowboy.’

The Statesman is putting on a show for your last morning. The sun is out, climbing high into the cloudless sky, with Jack’s aviators bearing the brunt of the harsh glare. It’s déjà vu when you retrace the path you took on the day of your arrival, the same crunch of gravel under your boots, the familiar scent of hay and horse on the breeze. 

The bird’s eye view of the ranch has your breath stuttering just like that first time you cast your gaze on the green pastures and the red roofs. And beyond, like a perfectly painted stage set piece, the Bighorns loom tall and majestic. You’ve seen the mountains in all their incarnations over the past week - they change colour as the sun and clouds move during the day, and sometimes, you swear they morph in shape too. 

It strikes you suddenly that just yesterday, you were but three specks moving across the vast landscape, the realisation almost bowling you over. 

Before all this, it wouldn’t have taken much to convince yourself that you don’t deserve it. That it was the horses doing all the legwork and Jack the navigating, that you haven’t really done anything but sit in the saddle. But something’s shifted, it’s been a baptism by long summer days and the great outdoors - and damn it all, you’re proud of yourself. 

You came on this trip alone, with nothing but a broken relationship behind you, a suitcase full of anxieties and riding gear covered in years of dust and neglect. You said yes, perhaps recklessly, when offered the chance to spend a week alone in the mountains with a complete stranger and the glamour of sleeping bags and portable showers, when it would’ve been easier (and certainly more comfortable) to turn it down. 

Somehow, you’ve come out the other end, long gallops over untouched grassland and starry campfire nights piecing you back together, only to fall so damn hard for this cowboy that you’re sure to break again when you get on that plane this afternoon -

An unexpected tug on your arm has you tumbling clumsily. ‘Jack!’

He arches an eyebrow and remarks, ‘Ain’t heard those cogs in your pretty head grind that loud since the first coupl'a days, darlin’.’

You shrug and, not wanting to sour the mood, deflect his attention with a lighthearted fib. ‘Just realised that I didn’t even come close to falling off once the entire week.’

When he chuckles, the thought comes to you that you’ll miss the way he laughs with his whole body. 

‘You did real good for your first rodeo,’ he pauses, then flashes you a lascivious smirk. ‘You ain’t bad at ridin’ bareback either.’

A rebuke of his crude quip is on the tip of your tongue, but then your nose picks up on the scent of bitter coffee and maple syrup, which is quickly followed by the sighting of the al fresco table set up not far from the grill last night, the singe of smoke and whiskey still hanging in the air.

From a distance, you can see Poppy and Champ engaged in what looks like a heated debate, both gesticulating wildly with fork and knife. On the opposite side of the table, an unbothered Teak mows down his breakfast as if he’s heard it all before, and Ginger is feeding Jameson pancakes under the table.

It’s the younger cowboy who spots you two first. He freezes, brows disappearing under the brim of his Stetson when his eyes flit downwards to your interlocked hands. A huge grin would’ve split his handsome face in two if his mouth wasn’t stuffed full of half-chewed pancakes. The beans are well and truly spilled when Jameson comes bounding over, barking his demands for morning cuddles.

Champ looks up, his argument with Poppy promptly dropped. ‘Aha! There she is! Howdy young lady, we were just wonderin’ where you -’ 

He halts mid-sentence, his head whipping towards his right where the guest lodges are situated beyond the stables, decidedly not the direction you’re coming from. The penny drops as he takes in your hand in Jack’s, eyes wide, and all the occupants of the table seem to inhale a collective breath that stops you in your tracks.

But not Jack. He ignores the gawking with a practised air of been there, done that, and ushers you into the empty seat next to Teak without skipping a beat. Planting a sweet peck on your cheek, he settles to your left and unfolds his starched napkin with a flourished flick of his wrist, which he tucks into the neckline of his tshirt.

‘Mornin’,’ he addresses the silent table in an exaggerated southern drawl. ‘If y’all would be so kind to shut your mouths, you’re embarrassin’ me in front of my lady. Now, pass the coffee if you please, Teak.’

Fittingly, it’s Champ who breaks the silence with a rip-roaring howl of laughter, palms hitting the table so hard you’re convinced everything on it jumps a foot from the surface, the ruckus sending Jameson scampering for cover. ‘Well, well, well! Butter my butt and call it a biscuit!’

Poppy leaps to her feet, halfway to the kitchen before shouting over her shoulder. ‘We’re celebrating! This calls for strawberry milkshake!’

Teak elbows you in the side. ‘Just so y’know, Poppy ain’t the type to make strawberry milkshake for just anybody.’ He salutes you with a crooked grin. ‘Welcome to the family, sweetheart.’ 

It’s a brand of chaos that is distinctly Statesman. Ginger and Champ are fighting each other to load up your plate with far too much food over your protests, Teak pours coffee into your glass and orange juice in the mug, and Jameson is probing your knees under the table for scraps. You meet Jack’s eyes, and he grins back at you with a wink over the rim of his cup.

There’s no reason why you should be this hungry after the barbeque last night, but you don’t stop until you’ve polished off the sausage gravy and biscuits, the welcome richness settling in the pit of your stomach and making you second guess if you have any room left for pancakes.

‘Young lady, I hope this means you forgive me for the strings I pulled to set you two up,’ pipes up Champ around a mouthful of bacon, washed down by black coffee.

‘You’ll hear no complaints from me, sir,’ you reassure him.

He raises a fist in a pantomime of indignation. ‘You wouldn’t believe the grief Jack and Ginger put me through for playin’ matchmaker! I demand a retraction from y’all!’

Ginger raises both hands in surrender. ‘Fine, I take it all back, even if it means you’ll be downright insufferable about it! But I’ll happily live with that!'

Jack slings an arm around your shoulder. ‘It kills me to say it, but you have damn good taste, boss.’

‘Well, y’all know what they say - ain’t a pot too crooked that a lid won’t fit!’ needles Teak.

‘Hey!’ You reach across to slap him on the arm as Jack chuckles behind you. ‘I don’t see you with a lid, you loud-mouthed kettle!’

Teak sasses back, ‘Fine, fine, how ‘bout - there ain’t a man that can’t be thrown, or a cowboy that can’t be rode -’

Right on cue, Poppy’s distant shout interrupts, ‘Tequila!’

Jumping onto his feet, the cowboy winks at you. ‘Hold that thought, sunshine - right away, ma’am!’

Unperturbed by the double entendres, Champ brings the conversation right back around. ‘Well, I do declare, this nosy old man gets it right -’

‘For once!’ heckles Ginger.

‘Joke’s on you, m’dear. I only need to be right once!’

There are oohs and ahhs when Poppy and Teak reappear with the decadent milkshakes in retro fountain glasses, topped with whipped cream and strawberry slices, distributed around the table.

‘So, what are we drinking to?’ asks Poppy.

You turn to Jack, holding up your milkshake. ‘To crooked pots.’

There are cheers and laughs up and down the table, and Jack clinks your glass with a grin as he adds, ‘And cowboys that can be rode.’

You think about the cassette tapes that you used to watch when you were young. How at the end of a film, the black tape is all rolled up in the right window, and you were always the one to press the rewind button on the VCR. You still remember the whirr of the film as it went backwards, round and round, right back to the beginning.

When the coffee has gone cold and the morning chores come calling, the breakfast table empties, and you hear the click of that button when Jack offers you his upturned palm to walk you back to your cabin.

The tape rewinds as you pack. The outfit you agonised over that first day or your introductory ride with the cowboy has been laundered, and you slowly fold up each piece - the jodhpurs, the plaid shirt, the socks - and put them into your open suitcase.

The tape rewinds as you close the door to the cabin, and Jack carries your luggage across the yard in one hand, yours nestled snugly in his other.

The tape rewinds as you walk by the stables - you nip in quickly to say goodbye to Whiskey and Bourbon - past the main lodge, and the grazing field next to the parking lot.

Putting your suitcase down, Jack whistles with his fingers, the sound carrying in the wind. You see a familiar golden head pop up from across the field, and your nose prickles with the threat of tears as you watch Scotch canter towards you, ears forward and tail swishing with an attitude you can spot from a mile away. Climbing onto the first rung of the fence, you throw your arms around his neck and bury your face into his snowy mane as he snoops around your pockets, always looking for treats.

You pull an apple out of your travel bag, neatly cut in two. Scotch nickers, his velvety nuzzle tickles as he carefully plucks each half from your palm.

Combing through his forelock, you coo at him, ‘I’m gonna miss you, boy. You behave with your rider next week, you hear me?’

The key is already in the ignition of your rental pickup when Champ puts your suitcase and tote bag on the backseat floor, while Teak and Jack load the Silver Pony onto the back. 

Your arm almost falls out of its socket when Poppy passes you the promised takeaway lunch, packed into a chiller bag. 

‘You’re flying Delta right?’ she asks. ‘I’ll call them up with instructions on how to heat up the food. It’ll be good as fresh off the barbeque.’

‘Thank you so, so much Poppy,’ you say as she pulls you into a warm hug. ‘I hope you know you’ve ruined food for me. Nothing will ever come close to being good enough.’

She winks. ‘You’re welcome, honey. Come back soon, ok? There’s more where it came from!’

Ginger is next, and emotion clutches at your chest as you squeeze her slender frame in a tight embrace. ‘Just so you know, I was furious that you wouldn’t give me a refund when I called you up all those months ago.’

‘What can I say? I’m a tough cookie,’ she giggles, and hangs onto you for just a moment longer. ‘I’m so glad you didn’t cancel on us.’

Champ surprises you, forgoing your outstretched hand and giving you a hug for the first time. His tweed suit is softer than expected under your cheek, and smells like pipeweed and leather. 

‘It’s been an absolute pleasure, young lady. I’m sure we’ll see you again very soon,’ he winks. ‘And I’ll be in touch about the social media.’

Three steps away, Teak is waiting with his arms crossed, and he pushes off the truck to bundle you into his embrace, the hug as big and as bear-like as him, which makes you chuckle.

‘Anything parting Southern wisdom for me?’ you quip.

‘I’m all out, sweetheart,’ he says, giving you a pat on the back. ‘’Cept, y’know, that cowboy’s been grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet ‘tater all week, and it’s damn annoyin’.’

Jack rolls his eyes, one palm on your back as he herds you towards the truck. ‘C’mon, darlin’, we should make a move.’

Saving himself for last, Jameson trots up to you with a bark, tail wagging. The grass is warm and tickles your bare knees when you crouch down to give him one last hug, giggling at the wet kiss he leaves on your cheek. 

The leather of the passenger seat is soft as you sink down into it, while Jack closes the door behind you and crosses to the driver’s side. Inhaling deeply as the engine starts with a rusty rumble, you look up when he gives your hand a grounding squeeze.

‘Ready, darlin’?’

You nod, though not entirely convincingly. ‘Let’s go, cowboy.’

The Statesman gets smaller and smaller behind you as the truck eases down the driveway, and the four figures waving in the rearview mirror blur into tiny shadows through the mist of your tears. The metal frame of the vehicle squeaks with the movement as it rolls over bumps on the long dirt track, at the end of which, Jack takes a right with a one-handed turn of the steering wheel onto the main road, and the ranch slips out of sight.

The midday sun streams through the windshield, hot on your skin. You’re glad you changed out of the jeans from last night into a lightweight dress, a slightly frivolous last-minute addition to your luggage that’s paid off. 

Staring out of the open window at the rolling landscape, it takes you right back to exactly eight days ago when you were driving down the dusty road - except this time, the Bighorn Mountains are behind you, and next to you is a cowboy instead of an empty seat. 

Unabashedly, you watch him drive. His right hand is woven in yours, disengaging only to shift gears every now and then. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes are on the road, occasionally darting sideways to find himself on the receiving end of your attention.

It’s certainly an adjustment to see him in the driver’s seat after a week in the saddle - Whiskey’s, then the Silver Pony’s. But it doesn’t matter, there’s no mistaking the competence behind his every movement, be it to ease his horse to a slower gait with the lightest closing of his fingers on the leather reins, or to redirect the truck with an effortless palm on the steering wheel -

‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer,’ he drawls, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

‘Not long enough,’ you grumble, shuffling in close.

He half-turns, moustache brushing your temple as he murmurs, ‘Have I told you that you look beautiful in that dress?’

You press a secret smile into his shoulder. ‘You sure you don’t prefer me in jodhpurs?’

Untangling his fingers to slide blunt nails under the hem of your dress and up the inside of your leg, he replies diplomatically, ‘I can see pros and cons to both.’

Your breath hitches with a warning, but the instinctive parting of your thighs gives you away. ‘Cowboy -’

You startle at what sounds like a sudden crack of thunder, but it turns out to be an enormous interstate truck charging down the opposite lane. In a panic, your knees snap shut, trapping Jack’s wandering hand between the soft cushion of your legs. To your chagrin, he makes a point of waving to the driver as he passes by.

‘Jack, he definitely saw your hand up my dress!’ you chide.

He flashes you a knowing smirk, and you shudder when he digs into the meat of your thigh with a firm squeeze. ‘Somethin’ tells me you enjoyed that, darlin’.’

Your mouth opens, ready to object, but a familiar heat warms the back of your neck the same time your throat goes dry. It’s the same thrill from last night, in the cellar, not knowing if you’ll get caught bent over a whiskey cask, jeans pulled down just enough so that this cowboy could bury his cock deep inside you. 

Despite yourself, you shift in your seat, and Jack’s knuckles scrape the fast dampening seat of your panties. Choking on a strangled noise, he turns his wrist so that he can rub the outline of your folds through the thin fabric, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel. ‘Fuck. I feel that, darlin’.’

Another car comes down the opposite lane, a smaller sedan this time, and you’re bold enough to spread your thighs, letting him slip under your panties.

The car swerves sharply as hisses at the wetness he finds, fingertip gliding slickly between the lips of your pussy, smearing the mess all over as your hips rock into the contact. 

Through gritted teeth, Jack groans, ‘Darlin’, you’re soaked for me.’

‘Pull over. Now.’

He does - parking haphazardly behind a tree, barely a couple of yards off the main road before killing the ignition. 

You mount him immediately, throwing your right leg over his lap as if pulling yourself into the saddle, the pain an afterthought when your knee jams into the control panel on the door in your haste. Jack grunts as your hips slot flush against his, his usual composure nowhere to be found as he’s caught between undoing his seatbelt, pushing your dress up and scrabbling down the sides of the driver’s seat for the adjustment lever.

The sudden recline of the seatback pulls a squeak from you while knocking Jack’s hat clean off, and you follow to claim his lips in a messy kiss as he palms the swell of your ass.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he bites out, rocking up against your pussy, head thrown back. ‘You’re so fuckin’ sexy.’

He doesn't question you when you climb over him, taking the chance to scrape open-mouthed kisses down your neck instead - and when you sit back down on your haunches, his pupils blow wide at the sight of you wearing his hat and a flirtatious grin.

‘How about now, cowboy?’ you tease.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing hard as his eyes darken. ‘You’ll look even better sittin’ on my face, darlin’.’

Your jaw goes slack. ‘Jack -’

‘I want to taste you one more time. Need to. Please.’

Something breaks loose inside you, unhinges, and you crawl over the length of his lean body to steal a bruising kiss that has him hot in pursuit when you pull back. The hem of the dress brushes his face when your knees make landing on the backseat, on either side of the headrest he’s lying on. Reaching for the grab handle above, you pull yourself upright, bracing the roof of the truck while you hover over his beautiful nose.

Calloused fingers bunch up your dress to the waist, and Jack hums at the display of your drenched panties, before hooking one thumb around the seams and pulling it unceremoniously to one side.

‘Look at that pussy,’ he groans brokenly. ‘Always fuckin’ soakin’ for me. Just beggin’ for me to taste it, hmm?’

‘Jaaaack,’ you whine on an exhale. Looking down at how he’s so wantonly eyeing you, your back arches with a confidence you didn’t know you have. Thighs splaying wider, you know he hears the slick parting of your folds when he stutters a pained moan.

‘C’mere and let me eat that pretty pussy, darlin’.’

From the moment his lips close around your clit in a sloppy suckle, you know this is a different beast from that first time he took you apart with his mouth, deep in the mountains, under the secret cloak of night. The afternoon sun casts shadows where his brow is creased in studious concentration, his keen gaze flitting from where he delicately holds you open with his fingertips, to your cleavage, to your face, and all the way down again. Every twitch of muscle, every whimper caught in the web of his determination to relish all of you.

In no mood to tease, each measured lick and curl of his tongue hits its mark, your physical reflexes compounded by this show of devastating competence. He draws desperate sounds that you don't even register as your own, your needy cunt leaking all over his face and chin.

‘Cowboy,’ you mewl, reaching down to coil your fingers into his hair, the strands beaded with sweat and sticking to his forehead as he doubles down. Your squirming only makes him tighten his grip on your hips to hold you still, the bite of his fingers bordering on painful. ‘I’m so close -’

The insides of your thighs are cool and slippery, a sensation you’re well used to now, his spit and your slick completely soaking through your panties. His three-day stubble rubs your sensitive skin raw, and the top of his Stetson bumps against the ceiling as you angle your hips to catch his puckered lips where you need him most, chasing friction.

‘Jack,’ you whimper when you feel the first spark of orgasm deep inside you, the spiral instant and relentless. ‘Jack, Jack, oh fuck, - I’m there, that’s it - I’m cumming, don’tstopdon’tstopdon’t -’

Somewhere on the fringes of your scattered mind, you’re aware that the windows are down, not that you can do anything about it now - you thrash and wail and sob his name, all the while he laps at the mouth of your throbbing cunt. The sounds are obscene as he slurps and wrings every last drop of you until you’re pushing him away, nerves firing blindly from overstimulation, choking hoarsely when you catch your breath.

Watching you in a drunken daze, Jack finally draws back with a lewd pop, wiping his thoroughly soaked chin on your knee, which narrowly misses his nose as a violent, full-body shudder ripples through you.

‘Relax, darlin’,’ he cooes. All your joints have capitulated, so Jack has to bodily rearrange you, dislodging your shaky knees from his shoulders down to his sides to pull you in for a kiss. You moan at the sticky release his moustache smears all over your face, the taste of yourself thick and heavy on his tongue.

His brown eyes snap open when you sneak between your bodies to palm his erection through his jeans, voice strained. ‘Darlin’, we ain’t got the time -’

Deftly undoing his belt, that damned flask-shaped buckle that looks as ridiculous as the first time you laid eyes on it, you assure him, ‘Don’t worry, it won’t take long.’

He arches an eyebrow, taking in your face shadowed by his cowboy hat, but stays put otherwise, almost docile as he lets you take the reins. ‘Is that so? And you’re so confident, how?’

Shoving down his boxers and jeans, his cock springs free, hard and ready. With a brazen grin, you sit up and line yourself up to the swollen tip, declaring, ‘Because I want you to cum inside me, cowboy.’

You’re not sure if it’s you sinking down on him, or him snapping his hips upwards. All you know is that by the time your head catches up, he’s driven to the hilt inside you.

‘What are you - fuck you’re so tight -’ he wheezes against your lips, giving you no pause as he ruts into you recklessly, the crude slap of skin on skin filling every space the truck. ‘Whatcha mean by cummin’ inside you?’

‘I don’t know how I can be more clear, cowboy,’ you sass, when a particularly deep thrust almost jolts you off his lap.

‘But you’re not on birth control, darlin’ -’ he tries to reason.

‘I’ll take the morning after pill as soon as I land,’ you promise, holding his unfocused gaze. ‘Do you trust me?’

The wind is knocked out of you when his strong arms pull you flush to his front, his answer immediate and irrevocable. ‘With everythin’.’

There’s too much going on. The coarse scratch of denim on the inside of your thighs, his nails scraping down your ass, the desperate whimpers he leaves in the secret place behind your ear. The air grows humid and thick as Jack feels himself slipping, your pussy gripping him so tightly that his eyes threaten to roll back into his skull.

He gasps in a breathless warning. ‘Darlin' -’

‘It’s ok, cowboy,’ you croon, fingers carding through his dark hair. ‘I want to feel you deep inside me. All of you.’

His bones rattle with a vicious shudder at your words. Snarling, he bucks into you at a pace so unrelenting that you cry out with each snap of his hips. 

‘Gonna stuff you so fuckin’ full,’ he vows in between slippery kisses. ‘Been wantin’ to since the first time. Gonna fill your pussy with my cum, darlin’, you’ll be drippin’ with me for days -’

‘Yes yes yes do it cowboy, please -’ you beg, voice cracking.

‘Look at me,’ he orders, nostrils flaring as you knock foreheads. ‘Look at me while I fuck you full, darlin’.’

Choking on a whine, you feel him swell inside you until he teeters right on the brink. The raw need in his eyes robs you of your breath, and you grow faint on empty lungs as you sway with him -

And then his neck strains, his hips jerk, and you feel his abdomen cave in on itself when he lets go with your name on his lips, and his on yours. A primal roar fills your ears as he pumps you full of him, spilling into you again and again until all you feel is his cum hot and deep inside you, flooding your cunt, his whole body spasming as he pants raggedly for air.

A carnal musk hangs ripe and sweltering in the confines of the truck. Floating on a lazy stupor, you draw soothing circles on his quickly rising and falling chest through the aftershocks, his tshirt clammy with sweat, heart pounding under your palm.

Jack reaches up to push off his hat so that he can see all of you before pulling you in for a lingering kiss. When he softens, his spend dribbling slow and hot out of you, two thick fingers nudge between your thighs, and your back arches when he tenderly pushes it back inside.

His plea is a hoarse mumble into the side of your neck. ‘Keep me in you, darlin’. Take me with you.’

You nod, and smile, ‘Always.’

The airport is tiny, and Jack seems to know everyone you cross paths with. From the security guard at the carpark (previously a groom at the Statesman) to the staffer at the car rental counter (Champ’s nephew), he’s busy tipping his hat and dispatching howdy’s left, right and centre.

‘Small town, huh?’ you quip.

He hums, ‘Welcome to cowboy country.’

And he definitely knows the brunette checking you in at the airline counter, all the while glowering at you over the top of your driving licence.

‘Ain’t seen you 'round town much lately, Jack,’ she says, affixing you with a none too subtle glare.

‘Y’know how it is in the summer, always busy,’ he replies a touch too politely. As soon as he drops your suitcase onto the baggage belt, he wraps one even less subtle arm around your waist and pulls you pointedly into his side.

You bite your lip as the woman’s eyes narrow and she aggressively punches your details into the computer system, surprised that the keyboard doesn’t break. Once your suitcase is on its merry way, Jack wastes no time spiriting you away from the counter without so much of a fare-thee-well.

You burst into laughter, elbowing him in the ribs. ‘Brrrrrr. That was cold!’

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, admitting, ‘To be fair to her, she didn’t catch me at my finest moment.’

‘Do I want to know?’

‘Let’s just say there ain’t enough of this ol’ cowboy to go ‘round for the ladies in town,’ he winks.

‘Well, I hope they know there’s about to be even less of you going forward,’ you sniff primly.

Preening at the possessiveness in your tone, Jack ribs, ‘A tragedy, some might say.’

You huff, but can’t help a smile. ‘Well, aren’t I lucky to have roped you in, cowboy.’

‘And she can’t even lasso!’ he teases, leaning down to steal a kiss.

Feeling eyes on you, you duck your head, protesting, ‘Jack, people are looking.’

‘Let ‘em,’ he counters, prompting a gasp from you when he brazenly squeezes your ass through your dress. ‘I’m stakin’ my claim, darlin’.’

‘You already did in the truck, cowboy,’ you remind him, instinctively rubbing your thighs together, feeling the weight of his cum wet in your panties.

He hums, as if he knows, the sound deep and satisfied. His lips linger at the crown of your head, and he holds you close with his whole body, wrapping himself around your soul.

All too soon, the old-fashioned Solari board you’re sitting under whirrs into action. The retro split-flap display spins and flips with a mechanical staccato to spell out ‘final boarding call’ next to your flight number, one of five scheduled for that afternoon. 

Stubbornly, you turn your face into Jack’s shoulder, inhaling him. He smells like horses and dappled sun filtered through leaves in a tree - you wish you could distil it into a bottle and take it with you.

You’re in denial, that much you know. You’ve warded off the thought of leaving too well, compartmentalised it and pushed it down somewhere it wouldn't be able to resurface.

But that’s the irony - even if you can keep it buried, it doesn’t change the fact that your suitcase is in the belly of the plane parked on the runway, that you’re about to leave Wyoming behind and put thousands of miles between you and this cowboy, who has gone uncharacteristically quiet as the minutes tick down.

Eventually, he murmurs slowly into your hair, as if the words are physically weighing him down. ‘C’mon, darlin.’

Your feet are heavy, dragging, and Jack has to practically strong-arm you out of the airport terminal and onto the tarmac. He holds you as you loiter at the back of the queue, until the crowd disperses, and the stewardess at the top of the boarding stairs gives you both a knowing but firm look.

That’s when the tears spill over the seams of your lashes where they’ve been teetering, held back by sheer willpower and clenched teeth. Ugly sobs bubble out of your throat, and Jack pulls you into him, his own voice thick as he rocks you soothingly. ‘It’s ok, darlin’. I’ll see you before you know it.’

‘But when?’ you wail, almost petulantly.

He answers with no hesitation, and it’s obvious to you that he isn’t just thinking on his feet, that he’s been making plans, but kept it close to his chest. 

‘We have back-to-back pack trips the next three weeks, so I can’t get away. But next month, after the Kingsman’s rescheduled bookin’, I’ll take a whole week off.’

‘That’s an entire month away,’ you grumble into the soaked front of his tshirt.

‘I know, but you’ll need time to plan all the things we’re gonna see,’ he jokes, recalling your fireside conversation. ‘You’re gonna take this country mouse to all the museums and art galleries and all kinds of big city adventures, ain’t that right?’

You give him a watery smile. ‘I stand by the sex and Thai takeaway in bed plan.’

‘Even better,’ he answers, and you hold onto the way the crease of his smile lines bring out the soul in his eyes. ‘I’ll call you, darlin’, ok?’

Somehow, you muster the good humour to tease, ‘The cool kids FaceTime nowadays, and I hear your phone doesn’t have a working camera.’

He laughs, and you can’t quite tell if it’s tears clinging to his lashes, or if it’s a trick of the light. He thumbs away the wet streaks from your cheeks, nose brushing yours in a solemn promise. ‘I’ll get a new one.’

‘Just for me?’

And then he’s kissing you, plush lips slanting across yours, dragging slow like honey. When he pulls back, he breathes, ‘Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’

Jack has to physically unclench his fingers to let you step back. When your hand slides out of his, it takes him everything not to pull you back, or run after you up the stairs. He grasps the railing so hard his knuckles go bone-white as you turn back to him one last time at the aircraft door.

You blow him a kiss, your smile brave but wobbly. ‘Goodbye, cowboy.’

He swallows hard, wanting to be strong for you, but still, his voice wavers. ‘I’ll see you, darlin’. So soon.’

You nod, your tears catching the afternoon light as the stewardess ushers you into the cabin.

Then it hits him. 

You’re not going to be in his arms when he wakes up tomorrow. You’re not going to be there when he reaches around for you - your face, your neck, your voice.

You’re not going to be there.

Jack watches your tear-streaked face appear at one of the windows, and he tries to smile at you, wishing he’d insisted on one last kiss. The heat from the jet engines and the sun is bouncing off the tarmac, but he’s cold, so cold, that his fingers have gone stiff. Nothing feels real, as if he’s been wrapped in cling film and dunked underwater, and he almost doesn’t hear the voice to his left.

The air traffic controller says apologetically, ‘’Mfraid we gotta clear the runway, sir.’

He fumbles over his words. ‘’Course. Sorry.’

Pressing his index and middle fingers to his lips, he waves the kiss at you, which you catch with your palm against the glass. Determined not to miss one single second, he slowly walks backwards with the controller beside him as he waves the batons.

He says sympathetically, ‘It’s always hard, but it gets easier.’ 

Jack glances at him with a questioning look.

He chuckles good-naturedly. ‘You ain’t the first lovelorn cowboy I seen on this runway sayin’ ‘bye to his city girl.’

His lips quirk despite himself, eyes still on you even as the plane slowly taxis away. He says, ‘I sure hope you’re right, man.’

With one last wave, the plane pivots, and you disappear around the bend.

Empty. He feels empty.

The sadness is helium in his chest, inflating between the gaps of his ribs, and he feels himself drift even with each footfall of his heavy boots on the concrete, while a dull ache ricochets in the hollow spaces of his skull.

Grappling for an anchor, Jack forces himself to focus, one thing at a time. Key in the ignition, twist, the whirr of the engine. Switching on the radio, it cackles between the frequencies as he straps his Stetson to the backseat, then swings one leg over the saddle and puts on his helmet.

The static starts taking on shape, lyrics and guitar riffs cutting through the white noise and catching his attention just as he wraps his fingers around the rubber grip of the handlebars.

I want to ride off on a palomino

Feel the fire in my breath and the breeze in my hair as I go

Why the hell am I even looking back for?

For I know, where you go my love goes

For I know, where you go my love goes

He misses the ghost of your arms around his waist, the slope of your nose tucked into his nape. He misses you. He wants to see your face the minute you get off that plane on the other side of the country. He wants to hear your voice before he goes to bed tonight. He wants to tell you mornin’ first thing tomorrow when he gets up. 

As the 737 roars overhead, the shadow passing over him, he wonders if you can spot him from the clouds. 

He’d better crack on and get to the shop in town before it closes.

Steering smoothly out of the parking lot, Jack takes a left, the Silver Pony kicking up dust with a purr as she cruises down the country roads -

The same country roads that brought you to him.

Fin

More notes: I've been writing fanfiction on and off for the past 17 years. Corny as it sounds, it feels like everything I've ever written has been leading up to this fic. I put my heart and soul into Palomino, and it's repaid me tenfold. It gave me the chance to write about my love for horses, to fall in love not only with cowboy Jack, but with Darlin', Teak, the entire cast and the horses, this whole universe that I built in my head. And it gave me all of you - the most wonderful, supportive friends and readers I've had the pleasure of writing for.

I hope I will have the chance to revisit the Palomino universe one day. But for now, I'm ridiculously proud for finishing this series and for giving it the ending it deserves. I don't think I will ever write a fic that I love so deeply again. Palomino was it for me, and I'm forever grateful that I got to share this incredible journey with all of you.

There are some special people I need to thank, please forgive me if I leave anyone out, I appreciate each and everyone of you ❤️

LJ @prolix-yuy: The wonderful friend and writer who made me fall in love with cowboy Jack in first place with her epic Westworld Whiskey series, which is also coming to an end next week. I've said this many times and I'll never stop saying it - there would've been no Palomino if not for LJ. Thank you for being my inspiration bestie, you are the literal best.

Ash @mandoblowmybackout: My OG bestie and fellow cat mum, one of the first people I screeched about cowboy Jack to, I treasure our friendship so much, thank you for your support.

Maddie @imaswellkid: Maddie, thank you for being in my corner throughout Palomino and for holding my hand when I need it (which is often). Talking to you about Palomino in person - well, talking about anything and everything to you in person - was one of the most surreal moments of last year, and I'm hoping it won't be long before I see you again.

Sil @psychedelic-ink: Sil, light of my life, thank you for always being there for me, for listening and talking me down from the ledge many times. I'm so lucky to have you, and to have you love cowboy Jack as much as I do. Talking to you is always the highlight of my day!

Peaches @ohsomightypeaches: Screaming at you/being screamed at by you about anything cowboy Jack is always so much fun, and not just Jack, but also Teak, Champ, etc.. Your love for this series is beyond infectious, thank you for your support and for always making me smile!

Skye @iamskyereads: Skye my love, I believe I was admiring you from afar when you popped up in my notifs with a reblog of the first chapter, and I remember how excited I was! So grateful that Palomino brought you into my life.

Heidi @wildemaven: Thank you for gifting Palomino with not one beautiful video edit, but also a gorgeous moodboard! You are an angel!

Jules @julesonrecord: My fellow cowboy aficionado, your enthusiasm for s'mores and Jack always makes me smile. Thank you for your support, truly.

Jo @mvtthewmurdvck: Thank you for listening to me rant and rave and holding my hand during my meltdown. I'm so grateful for you!

Snowsuit anon: It's always a joy to hear from you, and I will hold you forever responsible for sparking the snowsuit craze (affectionate) 💙 Thank you for your support my lovely!

A special shoutout to my lovely readers who have followed Palomino from the very beginning. Thank you for sticking with me, I really feel like we went on this trip together, all of us: @lola-lola-lola, @harriedandharassed, @witchisenpai, @miss-mandalorian, @fireproofmarta, @dreamymyrrh, @inkededucatednnerdy, @toomanystoriessolittletime, @freakrenaissance, @axshadows, @damnyoupedro, @thosewickedlovelies, @peridotsparadox, @radiowallet, @sherala007, @shirks-all-responsibilities

And needless to say, thank you for every single one of you (I wish I could tag everyone but we'll be here all day!), every comment, reblog, ask, tag for Palomino. You have been an absolutely joy to write for, your love and encouragement kept me going, I really don't know how I've been so lucky, y'all have my heart forever ❤️

Last but not least, thank you @saradika for these adorable dividers!

[l0ngschl0ngking]

Hold on tight, sugar

Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels x f!reader

summary: Jack releases the pent up adrenaline he has…on you

warnings: SMUT (oral - m!receiving, deep throating, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, doggy style, spanking, restrains - yeah, the whip- mentions of anal), fluff, Jack reffering to himself in third person -..what’s new, right?-, the ski suit and hat stay ON 3:)

word count: 2.2k

A/N: I’ve never watched Kingsman and probably never will but I wanted to wrikte for Whiskey so I read the plot of the film on wiki. This fic is happening during the time Eggsy and Whiskey are in the cabin except there’s no Eggsy. This is literally just a porn without a plot.

Before you even close the door of the cabin Jack is on you. Clawing at your ski suit, his tongue finding its way into your mouth. Tongue and teeth clashing together, his hands exploring every part of your newly exposed skin. You didn’t even know how you got into this situation.

His hands roaming your body, mouth rasping filthy words into the chilly air. Mustache scraping against your jaw while his teeth leave marks on your skin, his tongue soothing the sting. But oh, you did. You actaully did know how yu got into this situation.

The heated fight you had before arriving at this cabin quickly flashed through your mind but then he is pushing you on your knees - the floor cold and uncomfortable under the weight of you but you do not protest as he hovers above you, his breath uneven.

His gloved hands shakily unzip his ski suit but he doesn’t take it off - oh, no. Only unzipping it low enough to pull his cock out - hard and weeping, the head of it angry red color leaking precum out of it.

“Fucking open up your mouth, sugartits. Before ole’ Jack shoves it in there and makes you gag with it. I’m gonna put your smart mouth to good use.” Looking at him through your lashes you shuffle closer to him, putting both of your hands on his thighs and opening your mouth - sticking your tongue out. The low growl he lets out makes you shiver - and not from the cold.

He inches his cock towards your mouth and when you wrap your lips around the head he throws his head back. You tease him - slowly licking the head and then popping him out of your mouth, licking the under-shaft - you can feel him tensing, repeating the process two or so more times before his hands grip the back of your head and make you take him all at once. You gag and he slowly exhales. One of his hands grips your chin - making you look at him. You try to pull away - the weight of him sits heavy on your tongue and you feel like he is hitting the back of your head. But he just grips your chin harder and you can see the snarl that makes its way onto his face through your blur-teared vision.

“I am gonna pull out but then I am gonna fuck your throat so you won’t be able to speak for days. Okay, sugarplum?” It’s hard to even nod - that’s how hard he is gripping you. He slowly pulls out and you cough feeling like all of the air in your lungs left your body for a moment.

A string of saliva connects you to his cock and Jack curses lowly - wiping it with his gloved hand.

“Fuck, Jack, I-“ he tuts and cuts you off. Slowly stroking his cock in front of you.

“Be quiet. You want to be good for Jack don’t you?” You nod slowly - unsure. You did not imagine him to be so…rough. And you imagined sex with your fellow partner plenty of times, all right.

“Such a good girl, aren’t you? Jack’s gonna take such good take care of you but first you gotta have to open your mouth and relax, sugar. Can you do that?” Yeah, you could do that for him. Anything for him. You had such a huge crush on this man you were pretty sure you’d do anything he asked. As if you hadn’t been doing just that right now…

Opening your mouth he slowly pushes his cock in. Inch by inch and you feel like you will gag - he taps your cheek one, or two times and tells you to relax and so you try to - you do as he says. The little moans he lets out as you take him are fucking worth it and your nails dig into the material of his ski suit - pretty sure he cannot feel a thing. It grounds you and when your nose hits his pubic hair you look at him and he looks fucking wrecked. Sweat rolls down his forehead and his brows are scrunched, flaring his nostrils while he tries to compose himself. You feel the weight of his fingers on your scalp and before you can think too much about why he just doesn’t take the fucking ski suit off he pulls out almost all the way back out and then back into your mouth.

It shocks you but you relax as he says and praises fall out of his lips - “such a good fucking girl I knew you could take ole’ Jack’s cock. Feels so fucking good.” he mumbles more and you close your eyes, enjoying the praise that is directed to you. He puts one of his hands on your throat moaning out when he puts pressure on it.

“Fuck, I feel I’m right here. Does it make you feel good that I’m almost in your fucking stomach? That ole’ Jack has such a big cock?” The things he says are downright sinful and he looks so lost that you are pretty sure he doesn’t know what he is saying. “Making me feel so good, baby. Your throat was made for my cock.” You moan around him and bob your head as you want to make him feel even better. You want to tell him that he can fuck your throat harder, faster however he wants - that you are all his to use.

One of your hands snakes between your legs and you are fucking soaked - just from someone using you as their little fuck toy. Putting two fingers inside you, you curl them and Jack almost stops when he sees you fingering yourself - his efforts doubling and his mouth never stops talking but you don’t hear him anymore - the only thing you can feel is that you are embarrassingly close to getting yourself off. You moan around him, and your other hand starts playing with his balls and that's when he pulls out quickly.

He sinks to his knees in front of you and takes your hand - the one that was inside of you - and brings it to his plush lips, the heat of his tongue enveloping your fingers feeling so fucking good. You look at him and his eyes are closed, enjoying the essence of you in his mouth. He would eat you out…another time.

With a wet pop, he pulls them out and kisses you. More slowly but still with the same urge as before. The glove-clad fingers grabs the side of your jaw, tilting your head so he can leave a trail of kisses there. Closing your eyes you feel he is reaching for something and then you feel the weight of said something on your thigh. Opening them you see his whip between you two. He takes his gloves off and starts toying with it while holding eye contact with you.

“I want to use this on you. Will you let me?” He searches for your gaze when you think about it. Biting your lip he starts kissing your neck once again. Mumbling against your skin how he will “make you feel so good, baby girl. I want to make you feel so fucking good.” Nodding your head as you cannot do anything else - you feel like you lost your voice more so after him fucking your throat like that - and he grins at you. Ordering you to turn around and get on your hands and knees.

You feel him shift towards you - the ski suit rustling with his efforts to get as close to you as possible. He kisses your spine, and your shoulders, leaving a hot trail of saliva with his tongue. He gently grabs both of your hands and you lay your cheek on the ground - it’s cold and dirty and who knows when it’s been cleaned the last time. He kisses one of your wrists then the other one.

The material of the whip is not as unpleasant as you thought it would be. Moving his hands up and down your body he grabs the flesh of your ass and puts one of his thumbs on the ring of the muscle in the middle. You jolt and he chuckles, pulling back.

“Another time, sugar. I’d like to fuck that ass. Bet ain’t nobody ever done that to ya, huh?” You don’t expect him to expect an answer. But he does and you cry out when he smacks your ass - soothing it right away. “Answer Jack when he asks you something, sugar.” You want to cry. The weight of his palm on you feels so fucking good and you feel the head of his cock pushing against one of your ass cheeks. You want him to fuck you silly.

“N-no. Want you, Jack. Please.” You sob when another smack - now on the other side - lands and he chuckles once again.

“So needy. Begging for my cock. Guess you imagined me fucking you. Didn’t ya?” It’s pathetic how fast you answer.

“Yes! Yes, Jack! Imagined your big fucking cock in me. I want it.” He sneers at that and pushes the head of his cock between your folds.

“It’s your lucky day then. Cause’ ole’ Jack imagined fucking you since the day you started working with him.” It surprises you, really. You and Jack were not on the best terms. You fought a lot and he got on your nerves with his southern charm and the way he made all the ladies swoon over him. But you couldn’t deny you felt the tension between you two either.

You don’t dwell on it too long though, as the head of him slowly enters you. You whine and sink on the ground completely but Jack grabs you by the hips and pushes all the way inside you. He feels so fucking big and you can feel every ridge and vein of him against your walls.

He is not slow with it. He snaps into you and one of his hands pushes between your shoulder blades as he tries to anchor himself. You mewl and moan and you’ve never felt so good in your entire life. He puts his weight behind the thrusts - his own hips getting sore with how hard he pounds against your ass.

The feel of him is like nothing you’ve ever felt before and if could stay here forever you would gladly do so. You are pretty sure you are drooling on the dirty cold floor but you couldn’t care less when he grabs you by the shoulders and presses your back against him. You can’t feel him - only the ski suit and it is a little disappointing. One of his hands grabs you by the chin - he wants to kiss you so he shifts your face towards his. It’s all teeth and tongue and it really isn’t a kiss. He snarls and his mustache scrapes your cheeks, his hips relentless.

The other hand grabs one of your tits. He didn’t touch them the entire time and now that he thinks about he doesn’t really know how come he didn’t. He gets lost in the feel of you - in the feel of them in his hands. You are so soft and putty in his hands and for a moment he thinks he will invite you to dinner later but then you start clenching around him and he rests his forehead on your shoulder - he still has his hat on and it’s in the way but he doesn’t care and neither do you.

The high-pitched moans and mewls are like music to his ears and also the only thing echoing through this cabin with the sound of skin slapping and his puffs of hot breath. He flickers your nipple between his fingers and he wishes he could put his mouth on it but it’s no use in this position.

You are so close and he feels it, the hand that was playing with your tit making its way to your clit. The tight circles are all you need and you are falling right off the edge. He holds you close against him and he bites your shoulder - gasping when you cum. Hips rocking forward into yours.

It only takes two or three more thrusts and then he is cuming too - painting your walls with his seed and he lets go of you - falling on you. The aftershocks of the orgasm are still coursing through you when you feel him untie the whip and gently kiss the shoulder he bit you on. He nuzzles his nose against the back of your neck and his mustache tickles you - so you giggle trying to push him away. You feel him smile against your skin.

Pulling out of you, he slowly rolls to the other side and you shift your body toward him. You smile - unsure of what to do or say next. But he beats you to it, putting his hat on your head he winks and says: “Watcha say, sugar? Want to go out and spend a nice evenin’ dinner with this old cowboy?”

You just grin and pull him by the collar of his ski suit towards you. Whispering against his lips: “You have yourself a deal, cowboy.” As you kiss the corner of his mustache-covered lip.

[absurdthirst]

Birthday Wishes {Agent Whiskey x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: Jack being absolutely besotted, public sexual activities, vaginal fingering, slight exhibitionism, oral sex (female receiving), multiple orgasms

Comments: Jack promises to make your birthday a night to remember.

💝🎉🎊🎁Happy Birthday @wardenparker!!!!! You are an amazing friend and co-writer, I am lucky that you want to spend time with a nut like me! I hope you have an amazing birthday today. 💝🎉🎊🎁

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Agent Whiskey MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Sugar, you are as pretty as a picture and twice as sweet.” Your eyes shift from the mirror where you had been carefully touching up your makeup under the bright bulbs of your vanity to where Jack’s warm brown eyes are watching you. They darken slightly and on edge of that cock mouth curls up and lifts his neatly trimmed mustache. You know what is about to come out of his mouth. “We can always stay home and have our own celebration right here, sans clothes.” 

It shouldn’t be tempting, but when Jack Daniels is your lover, your partner, it’s always on the table. The man could talk you out of plans and out of your clothes so fast, your head would be spinning. And not just from that talented mouth eating your pussy like it was nectar of the Gods. 

“You always say that, Jack.” “‘Cause you always tempt me to keep you for myself, sugar.” Strong, warm arms slide around your soft stomach and he squeezes you tight as his nose and mouth burrow in at your shoulder. Giving you a view of his artfully combed hair. The cowboy hat hadn't gone on his head, just yet. “Fuck, you always smell so good.” 

It was the perfume he had bought you. One of the first gifts he had brought from a mission when he had decided to ‘court’ you. His words, although you find the old fashioned vernacular charming and very fitting. Jack might be crass at times, but at others he is the height of a southern gentleman. 

His mustache tickles and makes you shiver, followed by his hot mouth ghosting over your pulse and pressing petal soft kisses to your skin. Making gooseflesh pebble your skin and your eyes slip closed as you sigh out his name. 

He’s good at distracting you. Those large hands sliding over your stomach and traveling up to cup your breasts. His groan against your skin is low, already husky rumble even raspier as he slowly massages the flesh in his hands through your bra. You hadn’t dressed yet, waiting until  your hair and makeup is done before you slide your dress on. 

“Jack.” You whine, eyes half closed and your lips poised in a pout as you instinctively lean to the side to give him more room to do whatever he wants with your body. “You planned tonight.” You remind him. 

“Next time, smack me upside the head.” He huffs, reluctantly pulling away from where he was nibbling on your shoulder to send you an playfully unhappy look in the mirror. “For being such a fool to think I wouldn’t want to keep you home and to myself.” 

Rolling your eyes at him, you smirk and lift a brow. “Finish getting ready, Mr. Daniels.” You chide. “You promised me a night out for my birthday and that is exactly what I am getting.” 

Letting go of your tits, Jack winks at you and grins. “Of course you are, sugar.” He promises with a smirk. “Tonight is going to be a night you never forget.” 

****

“Jack!” Your surprised squeal is muffled against his jacket, although you shouldn’t be surprised. Jack’s fingers, push aside the material of your panties and those thick, nimble fingers quickly find your sex slick with desire. “We are in public!” 

“So?” His chuckle fans out warmly over your skin and he rubs your bundle of nerves before his thumb presses against it and two fingers push slowly inside you. “No one is paying attention and I can’t help myself.” He defends. “You are too appealing, sugar. Sittin’ here lookin’ like an angel wrapped in sin.” 

The pressing curl of his fingers steals your ability to answer. Mouth dropped open in a soundless moan, only the tiniest squeak manages to sound, barely even reaching his ear except he’s listening for it. 

“Hmmmm.” He rumbles, making sure that he curls his body around you in the booth in the most intimate corner of the restaurant. While he loves pushing the boundaries of propriety, he doesn’t want anyone to actually see you. Your pleasure is his alone. “What’s that, sugar?” He coos softly. “I didn’t hear you.” 

Turning your head, you feel the way that he is absolutely playing your pussy like it’s a stringed instrument. Moaning softly into his ear, your body pulls taunt and starts to roll with the plunge of his fingers. It’s wicked and filthy, letting him finger you right here in the middle of the trendiest restaurant around, the possibility of anyone catching you running high as waiters and guests run around. Still, your fingers grip the fabric of his suit coat and you let him do whatever he wishes to your body as you respond to him. 

The drag of his fingers in and out of your velvet walls makes you hiss in pleasure, the way they pulse around his thick digits similar to how he feels when he is working his cock inside you. Nerve endings firing in pleasure and making the knot in your belly grow every time he pushes them deep. 

“Jack.” You pant softly, trying to keep your voice down as your eyes dart around the room. It makes him chuckle, but the pressure against your clit and the movement of his fingers never pauses. 

“You’re gonna cum for me, sugar.” He promises. “Your pretty little pussy is gonna weep around my fingers and give me a little treat to suck on that will be more delicious than the best dessert in this place.” His chuckle is low and raspy. “Hell, I’d rather set you up on the table and feast on you.” 

He would probably do it, if you were at home. Your table has often been the scene of countless couplings. Now he just intends to make you whine and whimper, shaking with pleasure in public. 

Your finger nails dig into the fabric of his suit, clutching for purchase, to ground you so you don’t go floating away on a cloud of ecstasy while the entire restaurant watches. The wine on the table is barely touched and yet you feel like your head is swimming, thoughts fuzzy to everything but the press of his fingers. 

Jack’s dark eyes watch you, sparkling encouragement from their dark depths. His lips pulled into a smirk as every pass of his fingers rockets you closer to having to muffle a cry. He’s enjoying your pleasure. If you were to reach down and take a squeeze of his cock, you would find him hard as a rock. 

“Just a little more, sugar.” He coos, leaning in and kissing your jaw. “Just a little more and your sweet pussy will be singin’ for me. Can you do that? Can you cum in my fingers and let me have a little taste of you?” 

The raw, rough pitch of his voice and the next swipe of his finger pushes you over the edge. Turning and burying your face against his neck, your muffled moan is barely heard outside your little booth, breathed into the fabric of his suit. “Jack, oh God, Jack.” You whimper, the quiver of your cunt following the molten slick that coats his fingers and makes him hum in satisfaction. 

“That’s it, sugar, cream on ole Jack’s fingers for me.” He whispers in praise, working you through it and humming as your flutter walls start to slow. “Good girl,” He likes the way you pant against his collar, looking just for the world like a woman who is snuggled against her man. “Ride it out.”

Jack’s fingers work you until he can sense that you want him to stop and slowly pull out of your wet heat. The sticky sounds make him grin and his napkin comes up with his hand to cover him discreetly licking his finger clean with a small groan of pleasure. 

Your face flames hot when the server glides back over to the table, either unaware of what had just happened or the soul of discretion to not mention that you are still slightly panting from the way he had just turned your world upside down. Clearing your plates and assuring you that dessert was already on the way. 

Turning towards Jack with a surprised look, you can tell that he had pre-planned this by the very pleased look on his face as he nods and picks up his champagne glass. “To another year that we - and I mean all of us - have been graced with your presence and blessed by your existence.” He taps his glass to yours. “Happy Birthday, sugar.” 

You take a sip of your frothy, bubbly champagne and he winks at you. “This is only the beginning.” He promises, having planned out the entire night out to make sure you know how special you are to him and how much he loves you. 

“Jack.” You huff, almost embarrassed having his attention centered on you like you always are. When Jack is focused, that is the only thing that matters in the world and right now, that focus is on you.  

“Baby girl, you deserve a night that is all your own.” He insists, lips pushed into a pout and winks at you. “I’m going to make sure of it.” A promise that you know that he will not be satisfied until he makes good on.

****

“Jaaaaaaaack.” Your hips jerk and lift under his firm grip, not going anywhere but where he wishes for you to. Completely in control and taking you apart lick by lick as his tongue curls and flicks over your swollen clit. Wrenching moan after unhinged moan out of you as he builds you up for yet another peak. 

You don’t know how long it has been since you last shuddered apart under the coaxing of his tongue, it might have been thirty seconds ago or an hour. Time is suspended when you look down to see his mustache pressed against your mound and his sharply curved nose breathing in the heady scent of your pleasure. 

Jack is meticulous. Bringing you into the house and starting to strip you down. His lips covering every inch of your body and making sure that he whispers praises into your skin as he scatters them artistically on your skin. Fingers trailing as he slowly drags your dress down to let it pool at your feet before sliding under the straps of your bra to pull them down your arms. Stripping much more than your clothes as he undresses you, he’s stripping away the layers of protection and armor until there is nothing left but you and him. 

That is when Jack’s true talent comes out. That mouth. It can be used for quick witted banter or issuing threats that he has the training to back up, sarcastic quips or for smooth reassurances. The best use for it though is when he puts his mouth on you. 

Jack Daniels is a cocky son of a bitch, but he knows what he is doing. He spends the time making sure that he knows every spot on your body that would make you sing his name. Carefully and meticulously mapping your pleasure points to use against you.

Smirking against your cunt, Jack chuckles and flicks his tongue against your clit once more. Pushing you over the edge and you come with a wail of his name. Watching as your entire world explodes and your eyes flutter while you gasp out. Working you through it with a slow suckle on your sex that keeps extending the pleasure and twisting it higher inside you. 

Your fingers tangle into the sheets, the only thing keeping you from floating away as your body shakes and heat floods your system. His name is the only thing that you can manage to say over and over again. Falling off your tongue in gasping praise while your thighs press around his ears and squeeze them tight. 

By the time that he is kissing up your body and settling between your thighs, you are finally floating back down to earth. Cognizant of the smug smirk that rides on his face as he slides up to kiss your lips and nudges his nose against yours. “I love you, sugar.” 

The sentiment is perfect for the moment that he slides inside you. Filling and stretching you out the way that only he can. Your head tilts back and your moan is soft, your legs starting to wrap around his waist. Enjoying the weight of him on top of you and surrounding you. Consuming you. 

Every thrust is slow and measured, letting you feel him. Experience the slow pulses inside you and the sharp twitches as he rocks you both higher. Words of love and praise passing between you with languid kisses. 

“I love you sugar.” Jack groans, wrapping his arms around you tighter. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.” 

Nothing on earth could ever beat birthday wishes from Jack. Nothing. 

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄

pairing: stripper!jack daniels x f!reader

genre: stripper AU, explicit, minors dni

word count: 6.5k

series summary: frustrated by your everyday life, you seek solace at a male strip club. It's your first time and you're instantly mesmerized by the one that calls himself "Whiskey".

chapter summary: you bump into "whiskey" at the farmer's market and learn more about him.

warnings: awkward moments, fluff, mutual pining, sexual tension, bondage via jack's belt, piv, oral (female receiving), praise kink, fingering, dirty talking, brief mention of jack being widowed, angst & arguing at the end

a/n: sadly no stripping in this one folks but I promise we're gonna get some more (and our happy ending) in part three!

part two of i can feel your heartbeat

dividers by @firefly-graphics 💜

You don’t visit the farmer’s market as often as you used to but when you do, man, do you love it. 

It’s almost therapeutic. You love the gentle morning sun warming your skin, you love the scent of fresh produce wafting through the air. You enjoy looking at the colorful display of flowers. While you walk, you look up into the sky, the clouds looking fluffier than ever. A soft wind blows and ruffles the leaves of the trees, the sound of it strong enough to make you believe you’re in another, more exciting world. 

The crowd mimics the motion of waves in the sea. You follow the current, not having a particular stand in mind. The only thing on your list is buying some fresh fruit; some juicy peaches, and maybe some strawberries. 

Lost in your thoughts, you don't notice a man stepping into your path until it's too late.

With an unexpected jolt, you collide into him, your momentum abruptly halting. Startled, you blink and take a step back, a mix of embarrassment and surprise washing over you. 

It’s then that you notice an item slipping from his bag, plummeting toward the ground.

In that split second, your senses heighten, and you catch a whiff of familiar leather and a trace of a perfume that sparks a distant memory. But you can't dwell on it for long as your gaze fixates on what has fallen—a meticulously hand-carved wooden horse.

The delicate figurine lies there, its intricate details captivating your attention. The sunlight dances upon its smooth surface, casting intricate shadows that accentuate the craftsmanship. It is a thing of beauty, captivating in its simplicity and elegance.

You kneel down, carefully picking up the wooden horse. Its weight in your hand feels grounding. Your fingertips trace the curves and contours, marveling at the artistry that brings it to life.

Distracted by the wooden horse, you momentarily forget about the man with whom you collided. But as you rise to your feet, you finally take notice of him, standing there with a surprised expression on his face. Recognition flickers in his eyes, and a smile slowly curves his lips; meanwhile, you’re absolutely shocked. Your mouth falls open and your eyes go wide at the sight of a cowboy hat you’ve grown accustomed to seeing almost every night. 

“Whiskey?” you say in a hushed, yet loud, whisper. “W-What are you—” 

His smile falters at the sound of his stage name, it seems to you that he’s forgotten that you don’t actually know his birth-given name. He crowds your space, the scent of pine filling the air, unmistakable and comforting. When you part your lips the second time, it’s to apologize, but before you can, he claps a hand over your mouth and gently pushes you towards the back of one of the market stalls. Your heart races, his grip firm yet strangely gentle. 

The rough surface of wood meets your back. You feel the subtle grooves and indentations beneath your palms and a shiver runs down your spine as his intense stare penetrates your defenses. He breathes heavily through his nostrils, lips a thin line.

“It’s Jack,” he grunts, almost begrudgingly. “My name’s Jack.” 

“Jack,” you say, enjoying the way his name rolls off of your tongue. Then your brows furrow with realization. “Wait, is that why you call yourself Whiskey? Like, Jack, as in Jack Daniels?” 

He gives you a pained expression, the corner of his lips lifting, “Guess my last name.” 

“Nooooo,” you let out a hushed gasp. “Your last name is Daniels?” 

“I told you my real name wasn’t any less embarrassin’.” 

You tut with a grin, “You poor thing.” 

He inches closer, leg almost between your thighs but not quite. Jack always makes his presence known. He is used to being center stage, garnering all the attention and whisking anyone away from their thoughts. His very being overwhelming and affective. You stiffen as awareness starts creeping in— the large hand cupping the column of your neck, his body imposing as it blankets yours, the thick wood behind your back. In the distance, you still hear the clamoring of people. Your breath catches in your throat, he’s only an inch away. 

Your fingers twitch and you remember the wooden horse he’d dropped. 

“Um, I think this is yours,” you blurt out, handing him the carving. He’s briefly startled but then pulls away, taking it from you. “It’s lovely by the way. Where’d you get it?” 

“I. . . uh. . . I made it,” he mutters, tilting his head forward. Hiding from you. 

“You made it?” 

He nods and steps away from you. 

“Is there anything you can’t do?” you tease, pushing yourself away from the market wall. You follow him into the crowd. “You’re truly a man of many talents. . . Jack.” 

“Don’t make me regret tellin’ you my name.” 

“I won’t,” you answer with a hint of mischief. You eye the bags he’s holding. “Are all of those wood carvings?” 

“Yea,” he says. “I bring them for my mother-in-law, she sells them along with other stuff.” 

“You—” your mouth dries and you swallow around the know forming rapidly in your throat.  “Wait, you told me you were single.” 

“Widowed.” 

He says it in a way that doesn’t allow for any follow-up questions. His voice is curt, nonchalant. Tearing your gaze away from the crowd, you stare at him, your heart squeezing in your chest. You want to hold him, whether it's a hug or just a delicate brush of your fingers. You want him to know that you're here for him.

But you just can’t. 

If you two hadn’t bumped into each other, he wouldn’t have ever told you. This was a truth that was spoken due to circumstance, not something he wanted to admit and that makes you feel incredibly guilty. “I’m sorry,” is the only thing you’re able to say. 

You might be imagining it, but you think he starts walking closer to you. His hand brushes your waist and pulls you close—right then you realize you were about to crash into some poor unsuspecting woman with enough goods to feed an army. 

He snorts, “You really out to be more careful, sweetheart.” 

“Sorry,” you mumble, distracted by the hand cupping your side. The woman had already disappeared into the crowd but he’s still holding you close. Heat drips down your spine. 

“What’s your favorite animal?” 

The question takes you by surprise but you indulge him with an answer, “Foxes.” 

“Hmm,” he looks down at his bag. “Darn, I don’t think I made a fox.” 

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” a nervous chuckle bubbles from your lips. He makes a sound and the two of you continue walking through the crowd. When you reach almost the end of the stalls, he stops you. 

“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll drop these off and we can look around together.” 

“O-Oh you don’t have to—” 

“If today is any indication you can’t function properly without me, sunshine,” he grins. “You’ll probably headbutt a fruit stand or somethin’.” 

You stand there, your heart pounding in your chest as he leaves you. Your eyes trace his figure until he stops beside a middle-aged, elegant-looking blond woman at a nearby stand. They engage in conversation, their voices carrying faintly to your ears.

They seem comfortable in each other's presence, their conversation carrying a lightness that betrays a shared history. Her smile lights up her face, and for a moment, her eyes meet yours. You feel a jolt of nervousness, your instinct urging you to avert your gaze, fearing that you may be intruding upon a private moment.

You don’t want to pry, but you would be damned if you said you weren’t hungry for more information. . . .among other things. 

Soon Jack returns, the bags he carried earlier now gone. His presence draws you back to the present, grounding you in the here and now. “You ready to go?” he asks.

“Sure.” 

When your eyes find the woman’s once more, she waves at the both of you. Jack tilts his hat as he places his hand protectively over the small of your back, heat seeping through the fabric of your shirt and into your skin. You stumble for a moment before waving back. 

You’re not sure how to react to any of this. Seeing Jack outside of the strip club feels forbidden, in a way. Like a certain spell has been broken. Before you knew his name it was easy to pretend your growing emotions were nothing other than you enoying the attention he was giving you. But now you’re in the real world. He has his hand on your back unprompted and is willing to walk around with you at the farmer’s market. In the club, a curtain of illusion looms most of the time. It’s another world. A separate little nook where you can disappear into and be pampered in.

That spell is broken now. 

He’s a real person. Your emotions are real. Everything is. 

And that terrifies you. 

With the heel of his palm pressed firmly against the steering wheel, Jack parks in your driveway. Your eyes drop to his lap where his legs are spread, an enticing view by any means. His belt buckle shines under the street light coming through the windshield. The soft yellow softens the edges of his face, giving him an almost somber look. 

He kills the engine, you wait for him to speak but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Thank you for dropping me off,” you say, breaking the silence. You unwillingly grip the latch of the door. “So,” you add. 

“So,” he clears his throat, and drags a thumb down the bridge of his nose. “I’ll see you around darlin’. Today was nice.” 

“Yeah. It was.” 

The two of you had ended up spending time together until the sun had set. You even had dinner together which was a pleasant surprise. It wasn’t awkward then, so you have no idea why you feel so unnerved right now. It’s as if your entire vocabulary had dropped from your head. 

You swallow, thinking of your next words very carefully, “Would you. . . like to come in? I have a bottle of wine.” 

Time seems to slow down, every sound around you amplified. The cacophony of crickets fills the night air, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of nearby trees. You hold your breath as the car emits a soft creak. The muscle in his jaw twitches. He seems hesitant, his eyes glazed as if looking at the horizon. You shouldn’t have asked. Just because he was friendly doesn’t mean he wants to date, or have a relationship. And from what you’ve learned today, there is a very high chance that Jack wouldn’t be interested in any form of intimacy. 

“Sure,” he finally says, his voice rough. “Lead the way, sugar.” 

Despite the hot summer air, your skin is ice cold. He follows you inside, his body close yet painfully far at the same time. The skin at the base of your spine tingles. You have a feeling that he wants to wrap his arms around you but it remains only a thought. Briefly you imagine the phantom feel of his limbs coiling around you, the warmth you would feel. 

You quickly unlock the door and invite him inside. You’re not sure what to do now that he’s in your apartment. Hands in his pockets, he gives his surroundings a quick once-over. 

“Cozy,” he says. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, not sure if that was a compliment or not. “So, wine?” without waiting for an answer you head to the kitchen. Jack follows. You're desperately racking your brain for conversation topics that won't be awkward, but your mind seems determined to make your life miserable by providing no ideas.

“Today was fun,” you say, reaching for the glasses. He makes a sound of approval and your gut simmers with something unpleasant. You grab the bottle of wine from the fridge and the cork from the drawer. With a frown, you struggle with pulling out the cork. “I hope. . .” you pull at it again. “you had fun. . .” you let out a loud grunt, too distracted to realize he’s rounding the small island. “. . . too—shit!” 

Jack is right behind you when the cork finally comes loose and sends your arm flying back. 

Your elbow slams loudly against something hard and pointy, the pain that blossoms from skin to bone immediate. Jack lets out a shout and when you turn you see him hunched over, holding his chin. 

Oh god, you’re a moron. 

“What were you doing behind me!?” you chide, your voice shrill. 

“I should be the one fuckin’ yellin’,” he hisses, each word bouncing against the back of his teeth. He breathes heavily through his nose and slowly stands back up. He moves his jaw as if he’s testing if it’s broken. “I was gonna offer help. It didn’t look like you were gettin’ anywhere with the bottle.”

Your chest heaves, heart pounding maniacally beneath the cage, “I’m so so so sorry,” you say quickly. “I—I wasn’t paying attention. Do you need anything? Should I get the first aid kit?” 

He’s still moving his jaw when his eyes meet yours. You hear the faint clicking of bone, the sound ominous to your ears. “Sorry,” you whisper again, feeling like a parrot. 

Jack’s gaze grows softer the longer he stares at you. Momentarily his eyes flutter closed. He takes a deep breath and opens them back up again. The air around you is still, the only sound not drowned by the drum of your heart is the faint traffic coming from outside. With long strides, he’s at you in an instant, his body feeling larger than life itself. His fingers gingerly brush your cheek and you swear you feel electricity crackling across the skin. 

“I should be the one apologizin’. It’s my fault for sneaking up on you like that,” he sighs, turning his hand, he drags his knuckles down your face. You’re reminded of the first time he danced for you, how he wrapped his hands around your neck. “I didn’t mean to shut down like that. Of course, I had fun today. I’m glad we ran into each other.” 

In order to avoid appearing desperate and insecure, you sink your teeth into the tip of your tongue, consciously refraining from uttering the question: "Really?"

“That’s good,” you say instead, hating how unsure you sound. He definitely thinks that you don’t believe him. “For a while there I felt bad. I didn’t want to intrude.” 

“Well, you didn’t.” 

“Okay.” 

His touch feels good on your skin. You don’t ever want him to leave, at least, not for tonight. It’s odd really, you’ve been much closer than this before but this feels more intimate, more nerve-wracking. His head tilts towards the bottle, the corner’s of his mouth curling up.  

“Now pour us what’s left in the bottle.” 

You’re grinning now, a sound between a chuckle and a snort dropping from your lips, “Okay.” 

Jack picks up the glasses of wine as you lead him to the living room. You can definitely sense an energy shift between you two. You don’t need to force yourself to fill the silence anymore. Everything is more natural, just like it was before. 

“I’m just glad you didn’t get my nose,” he says as he takes a seat on the couch. “It would’ve been bad for business.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you roll your tongue. “People love a rugged handsome man with a bit of blood.” 

As soon as you sit, his arm comes up to lay above the backrest. His fingers draw patterns across your skin; stars, hearts, circles. Your muscles tighten, nipples left tingling at his touch. You breathe out slowly. Jack shuffles closer and spreads his legs, his knee digging into the meat of your thigh. His thumb smooths over the stem of the wine glass. You have his full focus, gaze brimming with intrigue. 

“Is that what you like?” Every word is said tantalizingly slow, you shudder. “A bit of blood.” 

Not the blood, you want to say, but the thought of someone stepping in to be a shield for me. 

The words don’t come however and you just stare, your cheeks warm as he continues to toy with the small hairs scattered across the back of your neck. You’re actually glad you managed not to answer. You’re not sure if he’d want to stay after hearing it. There’s just something so intoxicating about another person caring enough to want to protect you, no matter what happens. And your lizard brain just thinks it’s hot. You’re aware it’s not the strangest thing but still, you don’t think it’s the best course of action to admit this to your stripper. 

Well, not your stripper. He doesn’t belong to anyone but you digress. 

“Tell me whatcha thinkin’ pretty girl,” he spreads his fingers around your nape, gently squeezing the side. You practically purr at the pressure. “You should know by now that I’m good at keepin’ secrets.” 

The reminder brings a rush of warmth between your legs. You squirm and bring the glass of wine to your lips, taking two large gulps. “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” you answer, swallowing at the same time. “Besides you already know what the people want, don’t pretend that you don’t.” 

“I do,” he hums. “But right now I’m more interested in what you want, sugar.” 

“You. . .” you furrow your brows. “What?” 

Placing the wine glass on the coffee table, he leans closer. His lips are tinted from the wine. “What do you want, darlin’?” he pressed his palm flat on your thigh. “Because to me, it seems like you have an itch you just can’t seem to scratch.” 

Holy freaking hell. 

You’re a goner— what kind of steamy cowboy romance book did this man climb out of? 

“What about you?” 

Your question startles him and his fingers twitch around your thigh, “What do you mean ‘what about me’?” 

“Well,” you shrug. “What do you want?” 

You’re giving yourself mental pats on the back for keeping your voice leveled. The fabric of your underwear is damp with arousal, your clit throbbing and aching for his fingers. There’s a storm raging inside you. A storm that you’re glad he’s not able to witness. You keep your breathing even. Nice and slow. His hand starts sliding up your leg, stopping when he reaches the crease between your legs. He smiles. 

“I want to fuck you, darlin'.” 

You hold your breath, your pussy bottoming out at his deep southern drawl. He leans in, lips brushing your ear before gently nipping the hard shell. Electricity spikes up your spine, a strangled moan parting your lips. 

“I want to fuck you slow,” he continues on, tongue wet and warm over your skin. “Then I want to fuck you hard. I want to look in your eyes as you come for me again, sunshine.” without warning Jack cups your sex, fingers digging into your clothed folds. Your head snaps up, every bone going rigid in your body. “Want to feel that pretty pussy chokin’ my cock.” 

You’re shaking and your ears are left ringing. It’s just one touch. One touch and your entire body is locked up, aching, begging. Your jaw hurts from how hard you’re clenching your teeth. He blows a puff of air, goosebumps rising over your skin. He kisses your neck, such a gentle, fleeting feeling. All blood gathers under his lips, pounding. You swallow. 

“Your turn,” he rasps, circling your clit with two fingers. “What do you want, gorgeous?” 

“I—I—” you look down to where his hand is, the sight knocking the air from your lungs. He’s actually touching you, fingers deep between your legs. Sweat beads at your temple. “I want that too.” 

“Hm?” he’s amused, you can tell. A tone you’d grown accustomed to that you both hate and adore. You refuse to look at him. “You like the sound of that, pretty girl? Me fucking this neglected pussy? Has a man ever made you come before, sunshine?” 

You don’t want to answer but you forget that silence is an answer on its own. “What is this a questionnaire?” His eyes glimmer under the dimmed light, how can he look so delighted while taking you apart you’ll never know. 

“I’m takin’ that as a no,” he tuts and sticks his bottom lip out. “Poor thing.” 

You might not admit it, but that doesn’t make him any less right. You haven’t really been lucky when it came to previous sexual endeavors. None of them really made you that comfortable to just let go. There were some that came really close, and some felt good despite you not finishing—some were just downright bad at it— That’s why his dance had surprised you. He worked you up so thoroughly and that added with the thought that you’d never see him again bred the perfect ground for you to just relax. 

You had no idea the end result would be him in your apartment, telling you how badly he wanted to fuck you. If this is a dream you never want to wake up from it. 

His hands slide to your hip, holding you tight as he leans over. You gasp when you feel his lips, so soft, so tender. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip hungrily, not asking but demanding to be let inside. You part your lips with a feverish groan and he slips inside. You seize him by the collar, pulling him closer, wanting more of him. Your head spins as he tilts his head, shoving more of him inside you, your tongue eagerly backing down so he takes full control. He squeezes the breath out of you, swallowing your tender moans of his name. 

Jack’s hand tenderly cups your cheek as he pulls away, a string of saliva still connecting you two together. You breathe heavily, your lips stinging in the best way. Your eyes flit over his face. His lips kiss swollen, chocolate eyes a shade darker. With a thumb, he tugs down your bottom lip and swallows. 

“Take me to your bedroom.” 

“I’ve never seen you take off your clothes so fast before.” 

He snorts, “Shut up. I ain’t on the clock. You think that’s how I undress all the time? I would get nothin’ else done.” 

Jack unbuckles his belt while you take in the sight of his bare torso. A shudder crawls up your spine at the sound of the metal buckle coming loose. He has a smooth chest, which you already knew but still, to have it all to yourself makes your entire mouth water. 

Your eyes drop when he rips the belt away with one smooth motion. Anticipation stirs in your chest, causing your eyebrows to raise. Before you can avert your eyes, he catches your gaze, his trademark grin tugging at his mouth. Belt still in hand, he comes closer. With a gentle touch, Jack's hands grasp the fabric of your shirt. Carefully, he pulls upward, the fabric gradually lifts, revealing the tender skin beneath. You instinctively raise your arms for him and he slids it completely off, leaving you in nothing else but your bra. 

He dips down, kissing the soft swell of your breasts, one by one, “Can’t do anythin’ without me,” he says with no conviction. His lips move over your skin. “My helpless sweetheart.” 

You barely hear the second part of his sentence, he had uttered the words softly, just above a whisper. The words resonate in you, short-circuiting your brain and shutting out unrelated thoughts. You like this. You like him taking care of you, guiding you. His tone holds no pity, only care. 

His thumb follows the lace of your bra, tongue tasting the salt of your skin. You whine as your knees weeken, his mouth has no right feeling this good. He cups them from underneath and slowly pushes the satin fabric up, calloused palm grazing your peaked nipples. He swirls his tongue around the areola then closes his lips around the hardened flesh. Your back arches, filling his mouth with more of you. He groans as he opens his mouth wider, teeth softly caressing the skin. 

“Jaack,” you breathe out as you shift from one leg to the other. Your panties stick uncomfortably to your core. You palm him through his jeans, feeling the weight of him. He sucks your nipple harder, pinching the other one. You want to taste him. “Let me,” you say, already going down. 

Much to your surprise, he stills your movements. “No,” he groans. “Let me take care of you first.” 

He pushes your arms behind you, locking your wrists together with one hand. Your breath stills when you feel the leather of his belt circling your wrists. “Can I?” he asks, breath fanning your neck. 

Your stomach flips and not trusting yourself to remain upright, you brace yourself by dropping your forehead to his shoulder. Your entire body is winded. You place a small, chaste kiss over his clavicle, his chest raises with a deep inhale.  

“Just promise this isn’t where you tie me up and steal my watch,” you joke, immediately regretting it when you look up to see his brows drawn together, a small snarl tracing his lips. “Sorry, that was in bad taste.” 

“We don’t have to,” he says, his grip around your hands loosening. “And if we do we can stop whenever. I just. . .” he swallows thickly. Anticipation burrows into your skin. “I like the idea of you trustin’ me to make you feel good.” 

“I do trust you,” you answer quickly. “And I want to. I just wasn’t aware how much I wanted it which is why I made that dumb joke.” 

“I’m sure you can make it up to me,” he answers with a crooked grin. Suddenly, he tightens the belt around you and you let out a quick gasp, his lips are on your instantly, teeth nipping at your chin. “Does this feel okay?” he asks, slightly tugging on the leather. 

It’s funny how such a simple thing can alter one’s mindset. You’re almost subdued, in a way, completely at his mercy. However, you don’t feel helpless either. His heavy palms move up and down your arms, you quiver as you drip for him, wetness gathering between your folds.  You’re breathing heavily, heart bellowing in your chest, loud and strong. His skin against yours feels warmer somehow. 

“Yeah,” you answer. “Feels more than okay.” 

You hear the smile in his voice, “Well a’right then,” he helps you towards the bed, you drop head first into the pillows, hands securely at your back. His lips brush the tender skin between your shoulder blades. “Gonna taste this sweet pussy now, sunshine. I’ve been eager for dessert.” 

“God, the mouth on you,” you swallow, feeling his breath ghosting your wet core. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

“Not yet,” he sighs, kissing right where the curve of your ass begins. “First I gotta make you come.” 

You’re in the midst of thinking of a quip to answer with when you feel it. The wet, warmth of his tongue gliding up between your folds. Your body coils and unwinds almost simultaneously. He moves his jaw, pushing his tongue deeper. He traces your entrance with a pointed tip, licking himself deeper. The sound he makes are sinful—loud in the silence of the room. 

Your wrists strain against the restraint, you push back wanting more of him. He groans into you, the reverberations seeping into your cunt. You’re withering helplessly, heat coiling tight in your stomach as your insides flutter and clench around nothing. Jack parts you with two fingers, his teeth like daggers against the sensitive flesh. With a loud cry, you feel your slick dripping out of you, making a mess of his face. 

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, giving you another fat stroke of his tongue. His hand comes up to your asscheek, kneading the flesh playfully. You relax at the touch and drool over the pillows. It’s too much, yet not nearly enough. He circles his tongue around your throbbing clit and sucks it between his lips, you jolt at the pleasure and wiggle helplessly. 

He gives you a gentle, yet firm, smack on the ass. A whimper echoes in your throat, your eyes shutting closed as your nails bite into your sweaty palms. “Settle,” he warns, voice deep and rich like molasses. “Use your words when you want something darlin’. Or else you ain’t getting it.” 

You make a sound between a choke and a moan, despite your non-answer answer, he seems to understand. 

“You want my fingers, sweetheart?” 

You nod, another moan slipping from your lips. 

He presses his lips over the heated skin and you keen at the soft touch of his mouth. “Can’t wait to be filled, hm?” he grins “You think you’re wet enough to take two, darlin’?” 

The tips of his fingers press against your entrance, his touch nothing but a tease. “Yeah,” you answer, voice hoarse. He kisses your core before pushing two fingers in, they slide in easily, the sound of how et you are making you shudder. 

“That’s my good girl,” he praises. “Fuckin’ soaked for her cowboy.” 

He moves his fingers in and out of your slickened depths, coating them. His tongue returns to your cunt, your head left spinning as his talented tongue flicks, licks, and swirls. He moves his fingers in time with his tongue, plunging deeper into your sopping core. 

Jack’s free hand roams your body, cupping your breasts as the intensity of his movements increases. His thumb brushes your hard nipple as he pulls you closer to his mouth, greedy to take more of you. Sparks of pleasure zig-zag through your body and you gasp as pleasure heaves through you.

Your hips buck as he moves his fingers faster, slipping them in then out with a maddening rhythm. His tongue slides faster and harder against your clit and you arch your back. You feel yourself clenching around his fingers, pleasure building and building until you’re a trembling mass panting for release. 

Jack’s fingers fill you up to the brim, your inner walls quivering and contracting around them, eager for more. He pinches your nipples, sending shivers up your spine. You gasp and cry out as you build up towards your peak, trembling against him. 

Finally, with one final thrust of his fingers and swipe of his tongue, you let out a loud moan as your orgasm rocks your entire body. Your walls weakly gripping his fingers as the pleasure spreads through your body, leaving you a boneless, exhausted mess. 

He pulls his fingers from you and kisses your neck tenderly. “Oh darlin’,” his deep voice whispers into your ear before trailing kisses down your jaw. “Look at you, fuckin’ gorgeous.”

His cock lays heavy above your ass, smearing precum across your skin. You whimper, rolling your hips back, showing him what you need. His breath hitches. He meets your movements, slowly, grinding onto you. 

“You want my cock?” 

“Y-Yes, please,” your eyes roll as he teases you with the fat tip of his lenght. But before he fills you, a longing stirs in your chest. “Wait,” you gasp and he still in an instant, without looking at him you know his eyes are painted with worry. “I want to see you.” 

“See me?” he repeats slowly, as if the words are foreign to his tongue. 

“Please,” you add. “I want to touch you too.” 

Swiftly, he unties you and throws the belt to the floor. Your arms drop loosely to your sides, a pleasant ache stirring in your muscles. Jack turns you side ways, your thighs offering him a velvet entrance to your tight heat. He caresses your back, his touch soothing. When your gaze meet his, there’s a slightly hesitation in them. Almost like he’s afraid of something. 

“Is this alright?” he asks and you nod, reaching out to him. He sighs as your arms weakly wrap themselves around his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss. 

While your tongues intertwine, he enters you. Just like he promised, he does it slowly, every ridge felt by you. You tear away from him with a gasp, you’re overwhelmed by the size of him, stretching your sensitive cunt perfectly. When he’s buried himself in your completey, he pulls out in an equally slow manner. Your jaw drops wide, your walls trembling at the slow guide. The inside of your thighs shake. With only the tip inside, he pushes forward, slowly. Your nails bite into his back, tension coiling in your stomach as he presses his lips against yours once more. 

“So warm,” he groans, eyes staring deep into yours. “Fuckin’ pussy was made for me.” 

“Yes,” you cry out, holding him closer. “Made for you, Jack. Made for your cock.” 

His hips stutter and your eyes go wide, a gutteral moan tainting your lips. “Please,” you beg. “Please, please, please—” 

“Please. . . what, darlin’?” his lips brush your teary eyelids. 

“Fuck me,” you whisper. “I-It’s too much, please just fuck me. Stop teasing.” 

“Alright, sugar. I won’t.” 

There’s a small window of clarity where the softness of his voice catches you off guard, but that feeling is quickly replaced by the overwhelming strike of pleasure hitting your spine. His demeanour completely changes. Slow and sensual grind of his hips becoming fast and merciless, he snaps into you, length gliding against a spot you can barely reach with your fingers. He breathes into your neck. Your mind is in a complete haze, the four walls around you dssapearing from existence. 

You yelp when he flips you over to your back, spreading your trembling legs wide, his thumb falls on your clit and he begins to draw fast, precise circles around the bundle of nerves. You scream his name, pulsing around him as he fucks you deeper, harder until you’re coming undone around him once again. 

You squeeze him tight before gushing around him, your back arching almost painfully with his continued thrusts. Pleasure rolls over your body in the form of tidal waves, and just as you’re coming down from your high, he pulls out, spilling over your stomach. 

You look at him blearily, eyes barely able to focus on the heavy way his chest moves. He breathes heavily, the muscles that surround his stomach tense. Before you can utter a word, Jack dips down, claiming your lips in a heady kiss that you can only describe as a finality. 

Jack parts away and hops off of the bed. 

Your eyes widen, confusion swirling in them. Why is he getting dressed? You’re still within a heavy haze of pleasure, your surroundings feeling disoriented and dreamlike. With a weak hand, you reach towards him, hoping the action will convey to him not to go. 

Jack already has one leg shoved into his pants when he sees you. Helpless. Needy. Your heart suddenly feels too big for your chest, tears build in your eyes. He hasn’t said anything yet, but you know. You just do. 

He’s quick to clamber over to you, dropping to his knees and taking your hand into his own before dragging damp lips over your knuckles. Your chest heaves. You don’t want him to go. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice choked. “I can’t stay.” 

“Why?” 

He ignores your question, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stop by the club either, darlin’.” 

“Don’t call me that,” you snap. He stiffens at your tongue, shoulders raising. He still has your hand enclosed in his. Your eyes sting. “I thought. . . I thought you liked me. . .” 

You hate the way your voice cracks. You hate seeing the remorse in his eyes. You hate how tortured he looks, as if you’re the one hurting him. 

“This ain’t gonna work out. Whatever it is.” 

“Then why even come here? Why even. . .” you viciously pull your hand back, startling him. He stands as you straighten,  leaning against the bed rest. You reek of sweat and sex. Marks of him, all of it, on you, on the bed, on the pillows. You cross your arms over your chest, refusing to pull up a blanket over your naked body. Refusing to be ashamed. 

It doesn’t matter. Embarrassment sears your skin. 

He doesn’t answer and you realize. Your heart lurches, your stomach dropping and churning uncomfortably. You can’t breathe—fuck, you can’t breathe. 

“This was a goodbye,” you say coldly, the next words you whisper, broken. “That’s why you were distracted in the kitchen. You knew this was going to be a one-time thing.” 

Anger flashes in his eyes, surprising you, “I thought somewhere along the way you would’ve figured that out too,” he snarls. “Wans’t it obvious from the start this couldn’t go anywhere?” 

“It wasn’t obvious to me!” your hands drop from your chest and you’re crawling off the bed to meet him halfway. Just as you’re stepping down, your knees gave way beneath you, still weak. Jack takes a step forward and catches you, one arm securely wrapped around your torso. You push him away. “Fuck you—stop being nice to me!” 

“Fuck me?” he repeats, bewildered. “Fuck you! I was just tryin’ to help.” 

“Oh please, you were just helping yourself,” you hiss between gritted teeth. “Spare me any favors!” 

Silence falls, the air still crackling with tension. You breathe heavily. Both your gazes remain locked on one another, both of you refusing to step down. You feel like a wounded animal, trying to bite back after being kicked. 

“Just because someone does the bare minimum,” he says slowly, pulling up his pants. “Don’t mean their kind. I’m not the type of person you think I am, I’m just savin’ you the trouble of figuring it out yourself.” 

He shakes his head, tormented. 

“I’m sorry whoever it was who hurt you. I’m sorry they made you believe that every person is a shithead that’ll treat you like crap—but that just ain’t true. They are better people out there,” he sighs and pulls his shirt over his head. “I hate the way you look at me.” 

“I look at you the same way I look at everyone else.” 

“No, you don’t,” he smiles and all oxygen leaves your lungs. It’s a broken smile, the corners of his lips twitch. “You look at me like I’m more than I am. I can’t handle it. Not again.” 

Not again. 

Not again. 

Not again. 

Not again. 

What does that mean? What happened? What’s again? 

The face of the elderly blond woman you barely saw flashes before your eyes. His mother-in-law. You shrink under his gaze, guilt, and regret coursing through your veins. You didn’t ask him how she died. He didn’t let you as and you figured he’d tell you when the time was right. 

Now it looks like such a time won’t ever come. 

“I’m sorry,” he says for how many times you lost count. His voice cracks. “This is the best for you, I promise, sunshine.” 

He leaves and you break. 

The way he said sunshine. . . it echoes in the loud emptiness of your bedroom. 

[prolix-yuy]

Chapter 1: I Once Had a Different Path

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x F!Reader "Sugar"

Summary: It's only been a year.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: T, discussions of a bad relationship, drinking, little bit of angst, will be E in later chapters so full series is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: Welcome back to Westworld Whiskey! Almost the moment I finished Cognitive Dissonance the idea for this fic leapt into my head, and I've been trying to figure it all out since! The outpouring of love for this story makes me unreasonably giddy, and I am so excited to share what Jack and Sugar have been up to.

This story takes place exactly a year after the events of Cognitive Dissonance. Honestly, the Westworld timeline is confusing as heck, and so much happens that the public wouldn't know or see, so in terms of the show it's taking place after the fall of the Delos theme parks early in season 3. I'm taking some liberties with how Westworld and the world around it works, but we should all have a good time because of it. For those not as familiar with later seasons, the "real world" takes place in 2053 in a modern futuristic setting.

Cross-posted on AO3

Decoherence Masterlist   ||   Whiskey & Westworld Masterlist

The glow of sun on your back, baking into your skin and spreading golden through your limbs, makes today feel like a really freaking good day. You’re wearing your favorite outfit, your shoes are comfy on your feet, and the air is just warm enough that you don’t have to wear a heavy jacket. When the door to the coffee shop schicks open, the uplifting scent of dark roast and cinnamon sugar practically dances on your tongue.

Strike that. A fantastic day.

Lacey is already at her favorite sitting spot, a low table with two high-backed armchairs jammed in a corner far from the automated baristas and hiss of milk froth. She catches sight and waves, bright peony pink in her chiffon dress. Curled in the chair she’s akin to neapolitan ice cream, and just as cool when she gestures to your waiting cup. Not before jumping up to give you a hug, though.

“I’m so glad to see you! It’s been too long!” she exclaims, a sentiment you’ve often heard from long-lost acquaintances but Lacey puts every ounce of honesty behind it. You give her another squeeze before settling in your proffered chair, cradling the thick retro ceramic mug in your hands.

“Well you’ve been pretty busy, Mrs. Hughes,” you sing-song, back, knocking your shoes off so you can settle more comfortably. “How was the honeymoon? The photos were gorgeous.”

You descend into vacation chatter, looking at photos on Lacey’s phone and laughing over whatever little anecdote she shares. The coffee buzzes pleasantly in your veins, bittersweet on your tongue. The sun streams in the café window and drapes warmth across your shoulders again. 

It feels like the perfect day.

"How's married life treating you?"

Lacey smiles, bright enough to crinkle her whole face, and the radiance of it blooms in your chest.

"Not much different really, which is probably for the best," she says, taking another sip of her coffee. You're prepared to ask her something else, some follow-up question, when she reaches over and squeezes your hand.

"You look really good, too," she says, her eyes softening. "I know it was hard, with the wedding and everything going on with Eric at the same time, but...you look so much happier."

Your throat tightens, but it's a welcome feeling for once.

"I am. Much happier."

She’s right. It was hard. Once you were alone with your thoughts, your decision made, all of the terrifying reality had crashed down on you. You’d sobbed in your car, half curled in the driver's seat, trying to will yourself to go inside and face Eric. 

It didn’t get any better once you finally did. The shouting, the accusations, the tears, and shockingly a chair kicked against the wall so hard it left an ugly dent. He never laid a hand on you, but the anger raked across your pounding heart, the cruelty sinking into your flesh like teeth. You grabbed just enough of your things to escape, his bellowing voice following you as your hands shook.

What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving?

What the hell did Lacey say to you?

Are you fucking serious? 

After all I’ve done for us?

I can’t believe you’re being so selfish.

What has gotten into you?

The words echoed between your ears while you laid in your motel room bed, too raw and ashamed to call anyone for a place to stay. You woke stiff and silent and achingly alone, and regret welled in your throat.

Were you being stupid? Were you giving up the life you were supposed to have?

But then the day passed, hours spent driving aimlessly with the radio on low, long walks on bike paths lost in your thoughts. And while failure burned behind your eyes, the dreaded whispers of why didn’t you try harder creeping into your brain, the vice grip in your chest began to unwind. A lightness you hadn’t felt in years began lifting your shoulders, your head, even the corners of your mouth. 

The neverending ache was finally gone. 

You slept better that night, and in the morning you called Lacey. She drove out to pick you up, her tight embrace ushering in a new flood of tears. 

“Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry,” is all she says at first, rocking you back and forth like when you were both young and upset about a schoolyard fight. Then more pointed questions, her face hardening as you detail the slow descent into unhappiness you’d been hiding from her for years.

“He never did anything bad. I just…I couldn’t…” You struggled to voice all the fears that still lingered until she squeezed your hands.

“He didn’t have to treat you badly to not treat you the way you wanted. And if he can’t change, or doesn’t want to change, then this isn’t right for you.”

A fresh wave of tears followed the well-worn tracks down your face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

She rubbed at your face with a crumpled tissue.

“Everything is going to be okay.’

It took a few days before the tornado of Lacey’s true feelings pulled to the forefront. Later she’d tell you she barely kept her cool while you cried in her living room, Alan instructing her to punch it out at the gym rather than overwhelm you. But barely settled into your temporary housing, she rang you in the middle of the day. 

“We’re getting your stuff.”

“What…?”

“Eric is at work, Alan did a drive-by and checked. He’s waiting with the truck. I’m picking you up and we’re getting your things, then we’re going to leave your key on the table and never go back.”

She was chatting in low tones with Alan when you answered the door, face lined with concern. The stern expression melted into dismay when she took in your tired eyes and sloped shoulders.

“That motherfucker should be ashamed of himself for doing this to you,” she spits out, crushing you into a hug that almost suffocates you.

“Lace, I was the one…” you tried to say, but she cut you off with a sharp chop of her hand.

“I’ve got plenty to say about Eric and what I think about him when everything settles, but I’ll tell you this - I fucking hate him for making you feel like this. And we’re going to get your things and never see him again.”

So you did, emptying your drawers and shared closet - always less room allocated for you than him. Lacey shuffled through mail and tossed in anything that had your name on it in a bankers box. Later you’d have to disentangle your lives, but for now you could take solace in having your toiletries back, and placing your photos and family heirlooms safe in Alan’s truck. He helped move your grandmother’s hope chest into the truck bed, and silently drove as Lacey let you lean on her shoulder. Your childhood stuffed dog sat in your lap, and its gentle weight gave you a moment of relief.

Eric’s shouting through the phone later that night sliced across your chest, but only for a brief moment. You’d left the ring on the counter, and that thankfully shut him up.

The following months had been a blur of canceled engagements, severed services, broken agreements and bitter voicemails. Eric tried a few times to entice you back, forgiving you for having cold feet and wanting to get dinner, coffee, to talk. Your heart tugged at the softness in his voice.

We can still make this work.

But then the cold reality of the situation crept in. He wanted the picture-perfect life he thought he deserved. He wanted to have everything without working for it. And most of all, he wanted you to be grateful for him giving you everything he thought you deserved. Not what you wanted, but what he decided you should want.

That was never going to change.

Lacey and Alan helped where they could, but you didn’t want to taint the excitement of their upcoming nuptials. So you told them you were fine and signed a lease on a modest apartment while you picked out the barbs of Eric’s latest outburst. You picked out a dress for her wedding and were secretly grateful that she didn’t make you a bridesmaid. You didn’t think you’d be able to keep it together in front of all her family and friends. You drank too much champagne and considered a tumble with one of Alan’s single friends but instead threw up in your hotel room toilet and woke up fully clothed on top of the bed. The first thought that greeted you once you could see through your headache was, “Thank fuck I’m not getting married.”

The giggles were sharp against your sore stomach, but with that you finally felt something in you begin healing.

“...and I know I wasn’t around as much as I could have been, and it kills me that you were going through it alone, and on my bachelorette for crying out loud, how insensitive was that…”

Lacey’s diatribe brings you back to the café and your cooling coffee and Lacey’s earnest grip on your hand. You shush her with a few squeezes.

“You were a big part of why I finally got up the courage to leave. And I am so fucking glad I did,” you say, earning another smile that glitters with morning light. 

“I think someone else also had some influence,” Lacey says, looking pointedly over her cup as she takes an innocent sip. Your brow furrows briefly before the implication of her tone slams into your chest.

Jack.

“That was a year ago…holy shit, today,” Lacey exclaims, twisting her wrist to verify on her smart watch. 

“Wow, yeah,” you say weakly, swirling the dregs of coffee in your cup.

Yet again, Lacey isn’t wrong. Jack did open your eyes to a world that could offer the care and comfort you were yearning for. But you’d been forced to push memories of him to the back of your mind. 

Weeks after the breakup, with Lacey lying on your brand new bed in your half-empty apartment, you told her about your weekend with the suave yet gentle cowboy. She interjected with excited “I knew it!” and “Holy shit yes!” exclamations as you recounted the cattle run, the innocent lie, the dinner, and the lust-filled night (heavily redacted, met with disappointment). Once the story was told you laid beside each other, silence stretching until she finally said, “I’m so happy Jack helped you realize you deserve more.”

So were you.

“Did you ever think about booking another weekend?” Lacey asks, placing her cup down so she can more fully watch you, playful smirk making you roll your eyes. “I mean, before all the stuff in the news about them.”

Guests injured in the park. A veil of silence and NDAs falling over Delos. An uncertain return.

You chew on your answer for a moment. It’s easy to chalk up not going back to the current state of the park, but in recent weeks you had been thinking more and more about Jack. Maybe it was some old movie you caught late at night, horses riding across gloriously wide plains. A cowboy hat or two you swore you saw in a crowd, only to be tricked by perspective and light. Strong, broad silhouettes that reminded you of large hands, a clever mouth, a warm embrace.

Tell her the truth.

“No,” you finally sigh, putting your cup down a little firmly.

You couldn’t.

“Why not?”

“It’s all fantasy, I’m not into that more than once.”

You couldn’t bear to see him again.

“Not even a little more fantasy with a certain cowboy?” Her eyes drop to your left hand, and you realize you’ve been slowly rotating the turquoise band she gave you on your ring finger. When you returned the engagement ring it became a comforting weight replacing what you’d given up. You fold them instead under Lacey’s watchful eye.

“It’s not real,” is the excuse you give.

He’s not real, and you can’t have him.

Lacey shrugs, looking at the time again and gathering up her coat.

“Real enough that you changed your whole life over it,” she observes, not unkindly. You stand up as she gathers her purse.

“It was a perfect weekend. Going back would have ruined it.” 

Him not remembering you would have ruined it.

Lacey sighs but acquiesces, giving you a hug and confirming your next coffee date in a couple weeks. They’ve become a sweet schedule you look forward to more than you thought.

Once she breezes out the door, all summer blush and cosmopolitan chic, you join the line to get a coffee to go. The machine at work is dismal, and you’d much rather spend the four dollars. You enter your order on the cool blue holoscreen and step to the side to wait. The warmth of a good conversation bubbles in your veins, a beam of sunlight caressing your back. Even the brief memory of Jack you allow - his hands soft on your skin, the tender brush of his nose on your cheek, how safe you felt in his arms - fills your heart to bursting. A smile plumps your cheek. Today really is an exceptional day.

But oddly enough, your toes are wet. 

Looking down, you can’t help but let out an exasperated, “Oh c’mon you idiot,” as you realize you didn’t put your shoes back on, and have now stepped in someone’s spilled beverage. So maybe not the perfect day, but you’re close enough to home to swing by and grab a new pair of socks. Shaking your head, you spin on your heel to retrieve your abandoned shoes.

You could have done it a breath sooner, or later, and never been the wiser. Or you could have kept your damn shoes on - do we live in a barn, your mother’s voice echoes in your ears - and avoided the issue in the first place. But today, on an exceptionally perfect day, you turn and take a step just as someone passes behind you, propelling your frame into their broader form. You almost bounce, but the stranger catches you by your shoulders, large firm palms wrapping around your biceps.

“Whoa there,” a deep voice says, laced with a southern drawl. It tickles something in your brain, neurons firing at memories close to the surface. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mumble, stepping back to apologize properly to the man you almost bowled over. As your eyes begin their ascent the voice is clearer, sharp as a bullwhip crack.

“You okay Sugar?”

Your breath freezes in your throat, eyes snapping to the man’s face. He swims in your vision before the soft curl of his brown hair, the delicate trim of his mustache, the hawkish curve to his nose comes into focus. If that wasn’t enough for your short-circuiting brain to manage, his plush lips part in concern, deep chocolate eyes darting across your face.

Jack?

“I - oh,” he says, his grip tightening on your shoulders. You wrench back, stumbling a half step away, still locked on his face.

Jack Jack Jack Jack Jack

People are looking at you now, agape and struggling to pull in a full breath, your brain tumbling like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Can’t be.

Jack.

Not real.

Jack.

How?

Jack.

“I can explain…”

Then the whole world shifts, and you’re falling.

NEXT