What Friends Are For: Jackson Whittemore x Reader
“Jackson…you okay?” you asked your roommate as you leaned against the doorway to his bedroom. The man was lying on his stomach, his face buried in the pillows. “Jackson, you can’t stay like that forever.”
“Yes I can!” he protested. You could just barely hear his words through the fabric.
Jackson had been feeling depressed after being dumped by his girlfriend. It pained you to see him in such a state of misery. You knew you had to do something to make him feel better. You wandered over to him and sat down on the bed; he didn’t seem to notice. You positioned your legs on either side of him so that you were straddling his tailbone.
“(y/n),” Jackson spoke in surprise of you sitting on his back. “What are you doing?”
“Helping my best friend heal his broken heart,” you replied in sympathy as you started to rub his shoulders gently. “Is that alright?”
You giggled and continued moving your hands across the fabric of his t-shirt. Jackson hummed with delight as your palms pressed into his muscles.
“Lower,” he purred. You decided to do him one better. You lifted his shirt and placed your hands on the exposed skin.
“How’s that?” you asked.
“Perfect.” His sweet sighs made you giggle.
“Just forget about whatever you were feeling before,” you told him, “any pain, just let it go.”
Jackson could feel the pain in his heart being chased away, all thanks to a friend who truly cared. A friend. That’s all you had been to him for two and a half years, but now because of one caring gesture, he started to feel something more. His heart began to pick up speed with every tender touch of your hand. It was like he was in heaven and you were his guardian angel.
Then suddenly, Jackson became aware of the presence of something on his skin that didn’t feel like a hand.
“(y/n),” he addressed you, “are you wearing any pants?”
“Nope,” you answered.
“Oh my god!” He sprung up from his bed, causing you to fall off.
“Ow!” you shouted when your butt hit the floor. “Dude, chill. I’m wearing my girl boxers.” You stood up to show him that your best bits were covered.
“S-Sorry,” Jackson apologized bashfully. “Are those tigers?” He was referring to the print of your undergarment.
“Tigresses,” you corrected him before making a chomping sound with your teeth. He had to admit, it was pretty hot. He put a pillow over his lap in an attempt to stifle any “excitement” that might decide to present itself. “Well, I think I’m gonna call it a night.”
“Okay…hey (y/n), thanks for doing this for me.”
“No problem, Jack. That’s what friends are for.”
Friends…friends weren’t supposed to make Jackson feel what he was feeling. Friends weren’t suppose to make his heart race. Friends weren’t supposed to turn him on. Jackson laid back down on his bed and let out an exasperated sigh from having moved from one romantic crisis to another.
My first time writing for Jackson. Please be kind with your comments.