#the debate was the least arousing 90 minutes of my life but we locked in

[remotewatch]

make that mfer BAM 💥🥣

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 1k wc

Summary: Jack doubts his speechwriting skills. You tug that nonsense right out of him.

cws: emergency handjob, food play, cum eating, he cum in he got damn soup idk what else to tell ya !! dear readers please make sure you’re registered to vote and do try to get involved with the Harris campaign in any way you can (it’s what Jack would want, after all 😁)

hats off to my darling editor @mystardustmelodyyy as always 🩵🗳️

minors dni in fact don’t even glance at it

Light-footed staff weave around your path as you track the length of the house to check on tonight’s finishing touches. Your shoes clack against the mirror-polished foyer tile in time with the cadence of your speech repetition.

A text had just come in from your assistant: everyone was having a splendid time, they were on their way to your place now, and a smidge of traffic might push the start of dinner back, ten minutes at the most. Everything was falling into place, but you couldn’t turn down a free moment to go over your words one last time.

“As you all know, my grandparents were lifelong patrons of the arts… honored to present our new exhibition at my fiancé’s library… we thank you all for your generous…” you lose your train of thought when you spot Jack pacing frantically in an alcove, hands twitching as he stifles reflexive hang loose signs. He jolts at the hand you place on his shoulder and defaults to an uncharacteristically strained smile when he sees it’s you.

“How’s the rehearsal going?”

“Well, I think I hate it.” He bites a knuckle and squints exasperatedly at the tiny font on his phone. “There’s so many jokes in here. Why?!” Jack getting cold feet was the only thing you hadn’t planned for; usually he’s the one swooping in when you’re in such a state. There’s absolutely no time for rewrites, so you need to shut this shit down before he decides to start editing anyway. You squeeze his shoulder a little bit, and his head snaps up to see your most convincing faux-worried face.

“Can you help me with one thing real quick, and then we can get it sorted?”

That breaks him out of the fog long enough for you to drag him through the dining room and into the kitchen abuzz with steam and roving caterers.

A curt “Out!” scatters them, and then it’s just you two and the gentle hum of the convection ovens. You guide Jack over to where tonight’s soup is already plated, then to his bowl placed off to the side, accompanied by a post it stuck to the counter: “JS NO SWEET POTATO”.

He’s still lost in thought as you nudge him closer and move behind him.

“I already tasted it, it’s fine,” he mumbles as you start undoing his pants. His voice trails to a sigh when you take his cock out.

“You loved that speech all last week. What’s going on now?”

“I just-“ he doesn’t comment when you start stroking him, but you can feel the muscles in his back loosen slightly, and some of the tension leaks out of his voice. “I really want this to go well for us.”

Your unoccupied hand slides up his lapel and grasps his to stop the fumbling with his tie.

“It’s already going well, and we’re going to keep it that way.” His brow is still furrowed, but that cute little fuzzy edge his voice gets when you take control is seeping in.

“Won’t they be here soon?”

“Not for at least twenty minutes.” The slippery noises your movements make as he starts to leak echo off all the stainless steel and sound almost amplified in the empty space. It’s just warm enough in the kitchen for your brain to flirt with the idea of calling the whole thing off and spending the night here. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the clock run out on you.”

You can feel his grip on his doubts loosening with every deliberate stroke, and soon he’s bucking into your hand as much as the space between you and the counter will let him.

Jack’s posture sags as he relaxes against you, the sudden movement nearly bobbing him close enough to dip his tip into the soup.

“Keep moving around like that and you’ll burn yourself.”

“Sorry.” He sounds a million miles away from the ball of nerves you found a few minutes ago.

“On your toes. You’re making a mess.” And he does, of course, so you have a proper angle to aim him down at the bowl and prevent the twin rivulets of precum from sliding down your wrist onto his trousers. His mouth falls open when the first drops break the surface tension.

“That’s all I want you to focus on. You know you’ll do well, I know you’ll do well, just do this for me, okay?”

He nods wordlessly.

“Say it for me,” you croon softly into his ear, watching the goosebumps blossom down his neck when your lips graze it.

Jack’s head slumps to the side for a better look at you, but his irises are wandering like bumblebees and working against him.

“I’m focusing.” he slurs.

“I know, I know.” Your hand speeds up to match his breathing as he white knuckles the counter. It’s hard to keep your wrist steady when you feel his ass start tightening up.

“It’s gonna make a mess,” he gasps out.

“No it won’t. Stay still for me. You’ve got this. I know you do.”

Jack’s whole body tenses up, and his protests fade into little pants at your ambiguous encouragement. He throbs in your hand one, two, three, four times as you hold him just a whisper above the steaming bowl. No splash; the rest of him is trembling with the effort, but his hips stay locked in place to neatly spill into his meal.

As soon as his heels are back on solid ground, you’re stretching up to kiss right above his eyebrow. A hand cradling his jaw eases him back to reality.

“It’s a great speech.”

“It’s a great speech.” He can't stop himself from smiling, finally relaxed enough to let it reach his eyes.

-at the table-

From the beginning you’d insisted Jack should speak after you; he was much better at settling everyone into dinner conversation following your more formal remarks. Of course, your guests are utterly captivated by him; he manages to get even your sternest donors chuckling in under five minutes. So captivated, in fact, that you’re free to ogle at him from the other end of the table without worry. You’re crossing and recrossing your legs watching his mouth move, realizing for the first time tonight how fucking hungry you are. When the soup is served, you scarcely blink watching his first mouthful. He stares back just as entranced, completely forgetting his table manners and using his thumb to swipe an errant drop into his mouth.