#queuing this to post while im sleeping so i dont have to look yall in the eye and face the consequences of my actions here

[flashyfucker]

summertime | jamie oleksiak ✷

MY MASTERLIST / gimme ur thoughts/questions! summary: jamie’s got some rules he follows while you’re hooking up behind your family’s back. not fucking you in your parents’ house is number one. as the temperature gets higher, though, so do the hemlines on your dresses, and god, you’re really testing his determination.      dad’s best friend!jamie x fem reader. word count: 4.8k (sorry for being a whore)  warnings: smut. size kink (obvi!). hints of mocking/degradation but praise kink goes so hard it makes up for it. filthy. low key bratty reader. secret relationship + risky/chance of getting caught. age gap (reader is college-aged, jamie is like mid-late 20s). once again jac cannot write something normal. thank u to the anons (and kaylee!) who helped build this entire AU, super slutty behaviour from all of us ngl MORE DBF!JAMIE HERE xxx

You’ve been trying to crack him for weeks.

      The stars really aligned, how the heat was growing all encompassing at the same time you and Jamie started sharing moments. How tiny shorts and swimsuits gave way to his hands pushing over your thighs when you’d pass one another in the hallway, when you’d open the front door for him, when you’d text something a little too risqué from across the room and he’d have to remind you where you are. Remind you of your least favourite rule.

The first time you’d kissed Jamie, you were alone in your house while your parents were out of town for the week. With his hand nearly completely circling your jaw and a splitting surge of confidence, you’d asked him to make you his, and he’d shaken his head with a mean smile and told you “’M not fucking you under your parents’ roof.”, and he’d held himself to that, held you to that. 

But then he’d show up, light summer sleeves rolled to the elbow and call you sweetheart, call you darling and fill your head with memories of the last times he’d called you those things, and expect you to happily oblige the rule. With that all-encompassing heat beginning to linger, though, it was getting harder.

      Those tiny shorts were one thing in trying to crack him, but you quickly learned words got you closer. You’d catch him in the bathroom doorway or while helping bring plates inside and get up on your tiptoes to get closer to his ear and murmur something, “Wouldn’t it be so hot to take me in my childhood bedroom?” you’d ask, “Shut me up with your cock down my throat so we don’t get caught?” and his cheeks would flush a little, but he’d remain stoic and strain “Not here,” through a sigh before breaking away from you.

      Inviting a friend from one of your college classes over while Jamie was tinkering around the yard with your dad was, maybe, a little mean. Making him watch while the guy wrestled you into the pool, watch you fake laugh at his bad jokes, him clearly trying to impress you, all while Jamie had to pretend he didn’t care, had to act like he didn’t want to put you on your hands and knees on one of the sunbeds and make that poor, flirty guy watch? Yeah, a little mean.

Your friend left, innocently, a little after lunchtime, though, and all his visit got you was Jamie pressing you into the kitchen island from behind, a big hand shoved between your shaky thighs and rubbing hard over your swimsuit bottoms, telling you so casually as your mouth fell open, “I think he has a crush on you. Your charade still isn’t working, though.” with an easy smile before his hand was gone and he was on his way back outside.

      On the day of your mom’s birthday lunch, it’s ninety degrees and you’ve almost given up on trying to crack him. But, when you hear his truck roll up onto your lawn and feel your heart squeeze as its door slams, a little part of you wants to play the game again.

Rifling through your closet, your hands fall to something silky and little and inky-black, and on any other day of the year you’d never consider it for a function attended by a bunch of families, but with the way the sweat is threatening to bead along your soft skin even at eleven AM, you can’t bring yourself to mind. 

And, if you know how much Jamie loves it when you wear black… well, maybe you haven’t given up on breaking that rule at all.

      Jamie’s already slinking between the kitchen and patio with plates and barbecue tools, dutifully helping your parents before other guests arrive, when you come downstairs. It’s not lost on you, the way his eyes widen a little when they catch you for the first time, and the little swell of excitement you feel at it makes your heart race. 

“How’s it goin’, kid?” He asks, unabashed in the way his eyes peruse the length of your body, only the two of you in the room, but your parents not far. The moment steals your breath for half a second, but then your dad’s calling you outside to show you the shiny new grill-smoker setup Jamie helped him with, and Jamie clears his throat and coughs around it, sighing back to reality.

“Gonna have to remember where we are today, huh?” You grin, tilting your head smugly up at him. 

He looks at you, brows pinched and blinking slowly, tonguing behind his teeth in a way that tells you if you weren’t where you were, you’d easily be over his knee for that. Your low-key sense of pride is clipped, though, when your dad calls out again and Jamie’s hand is heavy on your back as he ushers you towards the door.

      When it comes time to eat, you sit beside Jamie and pretend, expertly, that you don’t notice the way his thigh is tucked up against yours. You’re both a bit outnumbered, out of place by your distant relatives and the neighbourhood moms and all their fussing, your dad tied up so Jamie’s a little lost at the table, so, you find comfort in each other’s familiarity, how easy your conversation feels. 

He’s talking about this one band’s show he’d just seen, offering you the last half of his negroni, and you’re remembering how much you loved their last album, sipping on the unfinished cocktail, and together, you’re both trying to avoid any blatant eye-fucking at this PG-13 meal.

You’re nearly hung out to dry entirely when one of your cousins finally cuts in to ask you, “So, how long have you and Jamie been dating?” in front of everyone, and it’s nearly comical how quickly your mom cracks up in the face of it and assures them, Jamie is your dad’s plus one, not yours, and god, you’re glad nobody sees the way his hand squeezes your thigh below the table while you both laugh it all off above.

      Later, patio lights wash the yard, backlit by a late sunset making everything a little warm, and the breeze blowing through finally offers some relief from the sweltering afternoon. Jamie’s great at this: at riling you up even from meters away.

You’re positive he’s undone one or, like, three buttons on his shirt since lunch, his thin golden chain clung to the heat-flushed skin by his collarbone, tipping his head a little and smiling over his beer, leaning in to charm whichever of your mom’s friends it is who’s approached him, now. He’s cycled through them all afternoon. You’d be vexed by it, maybe, but you can’t be– not when he finds your eye and licks over his bottom lip and fucking winks, so cliché. Still, it stirs in your lower belly and the excitement climbs up your spine.

      He’s got no clue what they’re talking about, really, the older women who all seem to love him. They’re all a few too many wines deep and taken by his height and broad body and kind eyes, and they’re an easy excuse to stand around and let his eyes wander the busy yard, look for you, the flutter of that dress, the little flash of thigh. Meanwhile, you’re all gentle smiles and gratuitous laughter, appearing far more innocent than he knows you can be.

You’re stuck deep in a conversation with a friend of your mom’s (one who remembers when you were, like, six, and wants to know everything that’s happened since) when you notice Jamie across the yard once more, this minuscule cat-and-mouse game finally threatening its crescendo as he gestures a thumb towards the house, a smirk on his mouth before he sips his beer and excuses himself from the conversation he’s caught in. 

You hear your heartbeat pulse in your ears as you mention going to find someone, get something— you don’t really register whatever excuse you manage to rattle off while your stomach leaps and twists, watching Jamie duck inside as whoever you were speaking to bids you goodbye with a shallow hug. 

      You’re about to be confused when you get over the threshold and Jamie’s nowhere to be seen, but he takes your hand from the shadowy spare bathroom by the back door and starts pulling you in, flicking the fluorescent overhead on with his spare hand so he can see you again. 

“Guests are using the bathroom here. Upstairs is free.” You cut in quickly, leaning against the doorframe to stop him from tugging you closer. You chew the inside of your cheek while awaiting his response, sure he’s going to curb your advances once more, but Jamie tugs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “Fuck. Come on, then.” 

You have to stop yourself laughing with how giddy you are on your way upstairs, Jamie’s lumbering frame in tow. You give a precautionary glance down the hall to make sure nobody’s around to see the both of you skulk into the bathroom, sneaking like teenagers; the exact kind of playful tension you’ve craved for weeks. You think you could die with how fast your heartbeat batters in your chest.

      The moment the door’s deadbolt clicks, he’s on you. Hands clasping your jaw, he kisses you hard, hungry, tongue nearly instantly pressing in. Your head spins as he pulls your hips flush against him, hiking you up, fingers finally groping at your flesh with desperation matching that which you’ve felt for hours, what feels like forever, now. 

When your hands begin wandering, though, fingers searching for his shirt’s buttons, the soft smattering of chest hair, Jamie breaks it all off, spins you around so your lower stomach meets the cool, stone basin, freezing the hard breath in your throat in a gasp. 

“Fuckin’– I love this dress.” He talks low and his hands smooth over the satin on your hips as he nudges his body forward against yours, “Too bad I can’t ruin it here.”

His words feel like a punch to the stomach after the way you’d gotten your hopes up, after how he’d kissed you. You find him in the mirror, ruddy-cheeked and panting a little with the most innocent smile on his lips.

“You’re so mean.” You groan with your head tipped back into his chest, more than a little frustrated, by now. Your shoulder blades press into his pecs and you feel his body tremor as he chuckles, watching you, admiring.

“Yeah, because your pussy floods every time I am.” 

Your breath holds and you feel hot all over. You see your cheeks grow red as much as you feel it, but despite it, despite how you kinda wanna stomp your feet in protest, he’s right (and you probably should be used to how good he is, by now, but it’s a little impressive that he’s noticed, made that connection.). 

“You could do something about it, for once.” You try to quip, meeting his eyes in the mirror, his baby blues gone a little darker. You feel the slick between your thighs flow from his comment, his boldness in calling you out like that, and maybe the little inkling of shame that comes with it.

“For once?” His hips rock forward against you, half-hard in his jeans, and he smiles with a guiltless curiosity, tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Remind me, how many times did you come the other night?”

You hide a smile at him for a bare moment, searching for words through the haze of excitement and growing arousal, lost in the feeling of him pulsing against your lower back, big hands crawling up your torso, their heat enveloping you.

“C’mon, use your big girl words. How many times was it, kid?”

You feel your face grow warmer, if that’s even possible, suddenly shy saying it aloud. Jamie’s hand finds your hip and rests there lightly, and the almost-innocence of it makes you squirm.

“‘Till I cried, then one more.” You finally admit, breathless at the memory (and at how he’s using it, now.).

“Then one more, for good luck.” Jamie reiterates, smiling fondly, his weight against you growing heavier when you hum appreciatively, searching for his gaze in the mirror once more. He bends to dip his head down, getting closer to your ear, his free hand sweeping your hair over your shoulder and letting his fingertips dwell at the base of your throat: tiny movements all exaggerating how much taller, bigger than you he is, standing behind you. Your whole body feels like it’s vibrating, thrumming.

“I can’t make you cry like that, here. But… God, this fucking dress.” He starts, excruciatingly slow in running his fingers up over your backside, you arching into him, rucking the dress up to reveal your thong, and he asks, “How long do we have, do you think?”

The air feels cool as it chases the pressure of Jamie’s hands along your ass, now bare to him. You can hear it, the commotion from the party outside, muffled, cheery voices of people who have no clue what’s happening in the guest bathroom, parents with no clue what their sweet Jamie is doing with their darling daughter. The thought buzzes along your skin, sending a fresh pulse of wetness to your core. You swallow hard, and try not to rush your words:

“Fifteen. Maybe twenty, at a push.” 

You see him contemplating, exhaling slowly with his fingers squeezing at your skin, and where your muscles once were held stiff and tense, you soften under his touch. You brace yourself with shaky hands on the counter as Jamie reaches around the front of your body to gently pull your panties to the side, you hissing softly through your teeth when the cooler air meets the sticky seam of your cunt.

“Made a fuckin’ mess of these, eh? Been dripping for hours?” He runs his fingers along the soft, wet cotton of your panties, knuckles ghosting over your inner thigh, avoiding your core. “Can’t ruin the dress tonight, but these…”

He runs the pads of his fingers along your slit experimentally, watching your face, gaging the uptick of your hips, studying your tiniest reactions. Then, he pushes two thick fingers inside, smiling a little at the way your voice breaks around a yelp, your mouth falling wide open.

“Tightest cunt.” He nearly smiles against your temple, muttering to himself. “Gonna take my cock here? Gonna make it fit in this tiny pussy?”

He pumps only a handful of times before he adds a third finger against the first two and you’re gasping his name at the intrusion, the overwhelming feeling of him opening you up, getting you ready for his cock, as much as he can with only a handful of ticking minutes. He strokes expertly at your g-spot, thumb barely drumming over your clit, working out the wetness obscenely, and it’s all so much, his entire body pressed to you, lips mouthing softly at the side of your head, all of it exactly what you’ve been working for all summer. 

Your hips alternate between pushing forward, chasing the thrusts of his fingers, and rocking back against his clothed cock, obsessed with the way his body tenses up at the added pressure, and Jamie would maybe punish it, if he were feeling mean, the way you’re begging without anything but wordless whimpers, joyfully teasing him with your hips. But, tonight, he’s not feeling mean, so he revels in it, how fond he is of you, so beautiful like this.

Before you have much of a chance to chase any real high, to find any relief, his fingers are out of your pussy, and you feel frustratingly empty, throbbing, legs kicking a little, making him laugh softly. 

Jamie strings your juices up against your mouth, slick fingers shoving between your glossy lips. He watches adoringly, your eyes screwed shut as you suck his fingers clean, savour the sweety-salt of it, and you see it, the fire in his eyes, his mouth open, feel his big cock jump in his slacks, pressed hard to your body as he murmurs senselessly, “Good girl. Clean it up, so good for me.”

He grabs your face with fingers still wet, thumb stroking your soft cheek.

“J, need you. Want you so bad it hurts.” 

And he’s a sucker for you, really, despite your bratting and his arbitrary rules, he’d give you whatever. Especially when you beg. Especially when he’s got you like this, pretty little dress bunched up over your hips and you’re dripping, and he’s rock hard, and there’s probably ten minutes before anybody will notice you’re both gone, let alone come looking.

“It hurts, does it?” He mutters, brows raised in question, “Pretty cunt hurts ‘cause it’s not stuffed with a nice, fat cock?”

And you don’t need to answer, not with the way you’re writhing back into him, brows furrowed and mouth glossed, slack, keening. He’s trying to stave off a little grin at how good you look, nipples peaked under the thin fabric sticking to your sheening skin, your hand finding its way between your own thighs, trying to gain some friction between your slick folds but your stroke is messy, unfocussed: overexcited.

“Ahuh, J. Please.” Is all you manage.

With his free hand, Jamie unzips his pants and shoves them down only enough to pull his cock out, his body wracked by an exhale as he presses the thick, drooly head to you from behind. It’s hot against your skin, pussy puffy and soft and pliant but, still, you’re tiny against the insane thickness of him. 

“It’s so big.” You mewl, fingertips dipping to pull over his length messily, smearing your juices into his where he weeps precum. The crown of his cock nudges into your entrance once, twice, then sweeps up against your clit, repeating, driving you crazy. 

“You can take it.” He says when he feels your body tighten, feels your breath shallow and a little panicky, and he rests his hand atop yours gently. Despite the lewd circumstances, his hot, heavy member rubbing at your little slit messily, butterflies beat their wings in your belly, and you breathe a little easier, relaxing against his frame. 

      Jamie meets your eye in the mirror, gaze steady and serious and waiting, entirely, for your reassurance, regardless of his member throbbing between your thighs, and you know you could call it all off, forget all the teasing at once and he’d kiss you all over and walk you back downstairs. Hell, he’d take you back to his place and make you gush on his tongue until the size of his cock is a nonissue, if you asked. That’s not what you want, though– the ache between your thighs wants him here, now, needs the rush, the headspin.

You nod just enough for him to see, tongue wetting your lips hungrily, a little go-ahead. 

Your brows furrow as he buries himself slowly, groaning with it, his chest rumbling against your back. 

The stretch burns hot and you’re so full, feel him so deep, biting down on your bottom lip to save crying out, face screwed up. Your feet barely touch the ground, pinned up against the basin by his pelvis, his hand which creeps between your body and the sink to hook under you and tease at your clit. You can’t wait to watch the faint, spotty bruises bloom on your thighs from the bite of the counter (moreover, you can’t wait for Jamie to kiss them in apology, eat you out to make it up to you. Maybe it’s greedy, looking forward to the next time before this one’s even over. You can’t convince yourself to care.).

“Atta girl, fuckin, split apart on me. I'm so proud of you.” Jamie huffs, sighing finally when he feels his tip prodding up by your cervix, zeros in on how impossibly tight you’re choking him, struggling to take it all at this angle. 

The dopey little smile on his face when you find his eyes makes your heart melt, unable to stop yourself from letting out a satisfied, mindless giggle at him, at it all, and, like playful revenge, he cants his hips upward a bit, angling against your g-spot, and your eyes roll back, the ah-huh you let out a clear indication he’d gotten the best of you, there.

      He barely moves inside you, at first, save for the most shallow lurches of his hips and whatever friction you can garner by rocking your own body, desperately trying to fuck yourself on his length. But, his fingers stroking over you gently alongside the squeeze of your tight pussy wrapped around the sheer size of him makes you squirm on his dick embarrassingly quickly, arching forward, away from him and over the sink while your hips move back and forth. You bite down on the back of your hand to stop yourself from yelping as your high grows closer, winding pressure building irresistibly.

“Already?” Jamie murmurs mockingly at how you’re moving on his cock, trying to take more of him, more of what won’t quite fit, you already painfully close to coming. His fingers rub steady circles between your thighs, sweeping down to where his cock is seated within you to swipe your leaking juices over your clit periodically. “I’ve barely even fucked you yet. Fuckin’ filthy.”

His mean words wind you higher and within moments he feels your cunt seize up around him, your high hitting you hard, all at once, squeezing obscenely on his cock, repeating fuck, fuck, fuck in whiny sobs like a mantra. He’s unmoving inside you, now, and he curses into the crown of your head as your body tosses, head falling forward.

“You cum so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart. Look at you.” Jamie muses, hand gabbing your chin, pushing your face up so you watch yourself in the mirror, watch him, you both elated, ready for more. You smile lazily at the mess of your hair and the stunned cast on your face and the lewd sounds between you, how messy your pussy is for him, clenching around him.

“So good.” You swear, breathing hard as your hand finds its place gripping the forearm Jamie uses to prop himself up, prop you both up, really, and your fingernails dig in. “Thank you, J. So fucking good.”

Carefully, in time with the sweet murmurs of “Good girl, taking me so well,” the drive of his hips picks up pace. Your eyes are rolling again, and the honeyed daze you’re stuck in is obvious as the faint aftershocks of your first climax glimmer up through you, jolting your body sporadically. Your cunt pulses around the fat cock rubbing against your g-spot as Jamie chases his own orgasm.

“You’re so good, letting me use your pretty cunt like this, even with your parents right downstairs. My best girl. Best fuckin’ girl.” 

His chants fill your mind, making you lightheaded in the best way, and as his pelvis drives up into you faster, the fluttery little skirt of your dress tickles the tops of your thighs.

“Want me inside?” Jamie asks breathily, meeting your glassy eyes in the mirror, grind of his hips not slowing, like he wants you to struggle for words, he basks in it. 

“Ye-ah. Yes. If you get cum– oh my god, Jamie.” He chuckles haughtily at how you can barely string together your words, your jaw hinging open around a moan when his hips stutter just right and one hand gropes at your tits over your dress. 

“Can’t even fuckin’ speak. Fucked stupid on my fat cock, huh, baby?” 

“Fuck off. I’ll kill you if you cum on this dress.” You swallow hard to talk steady, and vow between your whimpery moans. Vague memories of where you are right now slink back, making you shudder, contract around him so sharply it hurts, a fresh lick of your wetness dribbling down his shaft filthily.

“Shut ah– shut up.” He manages— though he’d maybe laugh at your promise if he wasn’t balls-deep in your dripping cunt, so tiny around him. You feel, where his thighs press to your ass, where your hand clutches his forearm: his muscles tremble beneath the skin, holding back only enough to stop the both of you from erupting in a way sure to get you caught. Regardless, with the steady drive of his pelvis– the heady pleasure-pain of him nudging against your cervix, you barely stand a chance. 

“C’mon, pretty girl. Give me one more, sweetheart. Know ya want to.” He presses down on your clit hard, frothy slick and the quick pound of his cock in and out and in all you need to finally clear the edge, your body giving way to him entirely as your weight falls limp against the sink, crying out for him, savouring the tender way he pulls you close, his deep voice rumbling “Messy baby, creaming all over my dick. Such a good girl for me.” talking you down through it.

Your hole contracting around him pathetically, like it’s trying to push him out, the stimulation too much, is what cracks him, finally, like you’ve wanted for weeks. He snaps his hips hard into yours once more, and he’s cooing your name, throaty and broken with no regard for the party downstairs as he pumps his white-hot load against your tender cervix.

You’re humming his name contentedly, gratefully, all soft smiles and uneven breaths as he stills inside you, brushing your hair back over your heaving shoulders and leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple.

“Ready to go back down?” Jamie asks, smoothing your dress out over your stomach like he’s not still buried deep inside you, softening slowly. You run your hands over your clammy face as you remember everything, now, how it surely won’t be long before someone comes looking for either of you.

You ignore Jamie’s sarcastic little chide, grasping the basin as he pulls out carefully, sighing with the motion, only to quickly push his hand up against your swollen pussy, now heartbreakingly empty as you spasm, pushing his cum out over his fingers and your inner thighs.

Like it’s the dirtiest thing you’d felt today, you blush, dipping your head in the mirror, avoiding your own gaze. Jamie feels his cock twitch at it as he pulls your panties back over your sensitive mound, wiping his messy fingers clean on the soft fabric by the waistband, and you’d nearly complain about that, but your thoughts are still a little airy and, fuck, facing your family is coming close to the forefront of your mind.

“I never wanna go back down.” You huff, spinning to face Jamie, finally. He’s tucking himself back into his slacks, straightening out his clothes, trying to ignore how that dress just flared as you spun, once a-fucking-gain.

“Doing it here was an awful idea.” You determine.

Your mouth is wrecked and glistening from all the biting and panting and Jamie wants, so badly, to kiss you, but he thinks you might throw a fit if he tries right now (or if he tells you he told you so, which is tempting), so he just laughs, his own cheeks a little red from the shame of it. 

“It was hot, though. While I was buried in you, y’know.” 

His breath hitches when your shoulders slump and you comment, “Don’t flirt with me, now,”, and your arm curls around his body, fingers dipping into his back pocket. His exhale comes slow when you pluck his car keys, circling them around one finger playfully.

“I’m gonna text mom and dad. Tell them that Maddie from study group picked me up in a crisis or something. I’ll be in your car waiting.”

Your amusement grows as Jamie’s eyes widen a little, brows furrowed and mouth hung open, floundering in a way you’ve never seen from him.

“Baby, no– why do I have to go alone? How am I meant to go shake your dad’s hand and say goodnight after that?” 

“Yeah… You should definitely wash your hands, first.” You deadpan, nodding solemnly.

When he cuts you an aghast look, you raise your hands in surrender and hold back a laugh, continuing, “Okay. I’ll go say goodnight with you. Tell them Maddie’s in crisis and you’re dropping me off on your way home.”

      And it works, you think, as nervous as you both are. If anyone were to look close enough, they’d find the angry crescent nail-marks in Jamie’s forearm as he shakes your dad’s hand, confirms the plans they have to take the boat out the next day. 

Maybe they’d notice the way your pretty lips are swollen, your lipgloss gone entirely as you peck your grandparents’ foreheads. If it were lighter out, if they were looking and you moved quickly enough when you bent down to hug your mom goodnight, maybe they’d cop an eyeful of the milky white, sticky between your supple thighs.

      But, they don’t. You’re off scot-free, in Jamie’s front seat then in his bed, where there’s no bated moans or holding back, and he can have you as loud as he wants, have you as long as he wants (and god, does he want.).