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Truthfully Jack shouldn't be surprised in the slightest. It's far from the first time you've done this. His clothes go missing left and right. His t-shirts, his boxers, his gym shorts, and most frequently his hoodies—his favourite hoodie especially, which is the catalyst for his current search.
"Hon, have you seen my hoodie?" He asks as he moves down the hall on his crutches.
"Which one?"
"My favourite—" He cuts himself off as he turns into the living room. Sure enough, there you are. The culprit has been caught red handed—wearing the very item of clothing he’d just been scouring the bedroom for. "The one you're wearing."
You turn your head and peer at him from over the back of the couch. There's not an ounce of guilt on your face. He would go as far as to say you look amused—perfectly content and snug in his hoodie. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s offered to buy you one of your own. The same brand, same size, same colour. His efforts, however, have been fruitless, but it doesn’t deter him from posing the question again and again.
"Would you let me buy you your own already?" He asks.
"It wouldn't be the same.” That’s exactly what you say each time he offers, so he can’t say he’s surprised to hear the reasoning again.
Jack crosses the room and lowers himself onto the couch beside you, setting his crutches against the arm of the couch. Even though he doesn't entirely understand, he doesn't mind, not really. It's endearing, and he's pretty certain part of the appeal is the reaction he gives. The push and pull.
Well, that and his scent. That little tidbit of information hadn’t been easy to get out of you, not with the amount of teasing you knew would ensue, but you had admitted it once. Quietly, avoiding his gaze, and twiddling with the hem of one of his shirts.
You like his scent—you find comfort being enveloped in it. It was sweet, and he hadn’t poked fun in that moment, not with how fast he chubbed up in his pants over your bashful admission. But he hadn’t exactly let you off scot free since then.
"It would be the exact same."
"No it wouldn't," you insist, shaking your head.
"It wouldn't?"
"Nope, not at all."
"Pretty sure that thing hasn't been washed in awhile," he remarks as he reaches to tug at the sleeve.
"Yeah, that's kind of the point." You roll your eyes. The dots connect.
"Okay, weirdo, no need for the attitude." He lifts his hand to flick your nose, watching as it scrunches up.
“I’m not weird,” you protest, and he laughs.
“Right, you just like lounging around in my unwashed clothes.”
“You’re not being nice to me,” you say, crossing your arms.
“Why should I be nice to a thief, huh?” He fires back, before adding teasingly, “stealing my clothes to fulfill your sick and twisted needs.”
“You have other hoodies!”
Silence falls over you. Neither of you say anything for a moment—two. Then his eyes rove up and down your frame.
"You're gonna make me pry it off you?"
"I'd like to see you try."
In the next instant he's on top of you, caging you against the couch. You squeal, and flip over to try and crawl out from beneath him, but he lays himself over you, effectively trapping you.
You huff, and kick your legs but it's no use. "This isn't fair!"
"This all could've been avoided if you let me have my hoodie."
"I think you mean our hoodie," you correct. As he sits up his hand skirts the hem of it. "Wait, wait, I'm not wearing anything underneath!"
He quirks a brow. "That's not the discouragement you think it is, sweetheart."
It sets his wandering hand on another course entirely, one that brings his broad palm down and into the space between your thighs. He slides hand along the curve of you. A ragged breath escapes him when he's met with the velvet heat of your bare cunt.
"Oh so this is what you wanted all along?" When you neglect to respond he removes his hand only to bring it back down in a smack to your ass. You jolt, mumbling something into the throw pillow.
"Yes?" He prompts again, rubbing his palm over the tender skin. He waits for your answer another moment before lifting his hand.
"Yes...!" You concede with a shudder, and when his hand lowers, slowly this time, he tucks his fingers between your legs. Even if you had tried to deny it, your body betrays you. The slickness that coats his fingers gives you away without need of an utterance from your lips.
"My pretty girl just wanted some attention, is that it?" He circles your clit, smiling as your hips twitch. “You only ever need to ask. ‘m not gonna hold out on you.”
“I need you, please,” you mewl, and it sends a wave of heat straight to his groin. He can't wait a moment longer, and he's sure you can't either. He fumbles to shuck his pants down along with his boxers, just enough so he can free his cock.
Hovering over you, he lowers himself back down as he sinks into you. You tense up beneath him. A low groan pours from his lips. His chest presses to your back, trapping you beneath the solid heft of him. There’s nothing neat or tidy about the way he fucks you then. It is a messiness that comes only from unbridled desperation.
His lips at the nape of your neck, nose tucked against sweat damp skin. He inhales. Maybe you aren't the only one who has a thing for scent. You're barely coherent anymore—rendered dumb from the very moment his voice dropped into that low and sultry tone. Mere insinuation was often enough to turn you to a helpless puddle of whimpers and babbles.
One arm remains wound around your waist, hand snug between your legs while two fingers strum your clit. He ruts into you from behind. Whatever tiny inkling of rhythm he had to begin with disintegrates when your cunt starts to pulse and constricts around his cock. He moans, hips faltering before he buries himself to the hilt and lets himself go. His eyes shutter, and hot air fans against your skin as he breathes out another moan.
“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, rocking his hips as he comes.
He forgets himself—completely blissed out. Then you wriggle beneath him, letting out a gentle whine. He peels his eyes open only to lean down and press another kiss to your neck before extracting himself from you. He watches as you turn over, your chest heaving and eyes heavy lidded.
“Can I have my hoodie back now?”
“Absolutely not.”
He never can win with you.