spidey-webz

[spidey-webz]

Ready For It

Jake Seresin x reader

Summary: When you weren't ready for a baby, you and Jake broke up. But now, months later, you are ready, and Jake is pissed.

Notes/Warnings: implied smut, baby talk, cursing.

Words: 2770

Jake Seresin Masterlist / Main Masterlist

You aren’t trying to be that kind of person, the kind who throws words out into the wind to elicit shock from those with nearby ears. But alcohol has a way of twisting your brain into forgetting to keep your mouth shut when a shut mouth is best. And that’s precisely why their brows are raised and their eyes are bugged out and their beer bottles are frozen mid-air on their way to their lips. 

Nat is the first to break out of the trance. She blinks and sets her bottle back down on the high-top table, shakes her head as if to clear the fog that might’ve caused her to mishear you, and says, “You want to what?”

It’s too late to take it back, so you grasp on to the bit of alcohol-induced confidence that had you saying it in the first place. “I want to have a baby.”

You notice Javy swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Why?”

Your shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, and you know the gesture is stupid. It’s too nonchalant. It makes you look like you’re trying on a quick thought to see if it fits rather than presenting yourself for as sure as you are about your decision. 

“Like I said, I want one,” you tell him. That answer, too, nearly makes you wince. I want one. That’s what children whine to their parents after seeing an advertisement for a new toy on TV. That’s what spoiled brats say. “I mean, I’ve thought about it.”

“That’s great,” Reuben says with a shaky edge to his tone. “It’s just that–”

“It’s just nothing,” you interrupt him, the alcohol loosening your lips even more. “I’m ready to have a baby.”

Voices cease, and despite the cacophony of noise throughout the room, your little table is surrounded by silence. Then a loud thump comes from behind you, and you jolt in place, choking on your sip of beer. 

Coughing to clear the liquid from your lungs, you spin on your heel to find that the source of the sound was a beer bottle slamming down onto a table, hitting it so hard that amber droplets spewed over the rim, scattering little puddles onto the oak wood surface. 

Around the glass neck are the tightly squeezing fingers of your ex-boyfriend. His knuckles are white. Nails are digging into the side of his thumb. There’s a frown; a sharpened jawline from gritted teeth; eyes that are burning holes into yours. 

You didn’t realize he’d already arrived. 

Before you can get yourself together enough to utter a syllable—no, a fraction of a syllable—Jake is turning his back to you and abandoning his drink to shove his way through the crowd. Shoulders nudge shoulders as he weaves himself around body after body until he’s swallowed completely. From over many heads, you see the front door of the Hard Deck open and close. 

When you look back at your friends, they all have their heads down, save for Bradley, who says, “It’s um…he’s…you know…”

The weight of shame bends your spine forward. You nod, take one last sip of your drink for courage, and retrace Jake’s steps.

In the humid air of summer’s night, he is pacing, back and forth and back and forth, muttering something you can’t quite make out as his boots crunch the gravel of the parking lot and his hand ruins his neatly combed locks. You wait for him to notice you, and when he finally does, he stops short. His jaw ticks. His eyebrows dip in the center. Your throat constricts, blocking from entry the deep breath that you were hoping would calm your racing heart. 

Then he says, “What the actual fuck,” and your stomach twists into a knot. “Are you for goddamn real? You want a baby?”

A sigh trembles out of you. “Jake, I–”

When you take a step forward, he takes one back, and it so thoroughly shatters your heart that you can practically feel the pieces of the organ falling away from where they are meant to be.

“I cannot fucking believe you,” is just short of a growl. 

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, it is absolutely what I’m thinking. You said you didn’t want one. But what you meant is you didn’t want one with me,” he says. “What, did you find some other guy I don’t know about?”

Your head shakes with vigor in your best attempt to dispel that thought from his head. “There’s no guy.”

“Yeah, right,” he grumbles. 

“There isn’t. I just–when we were together, I wasn’t sure.”

Jake’s arms throw up and fall back down, hands smacking against his outer thighs. It echoes like gunshot, and you flinch as if the bullet struck you. “What the hell could’ve changed in nine months!”

You swallow hard, trying to process the question in a way that will provide you with an acceptable answer, an answer he will understand, but you come up short. “I–I don’t know. Alright? It’s a…a feeling.”

He scoffs. “A feeling.”

“Yes, a feeling,” you say. “And it’s not my fault we didn’t have that feeling at the same time.”

Jake stares at you for five hefty beats of your heart before releasing a groan and pressing the heels of his palms against his closed eyelids. He tries to breathe, but the inhales are too shaky and the exhales too uneven to be effective. After a minute, his hands pull away from his face to settle on his hips, and he again meets your gaze. Green orbs are glistening. You think you see the gathering of tears in his ducts, and in response, your vision turns watery, briefly blurring his figure and features.

“I wanted to marry you,” he says, much too softly for your comfort. His voice cracks when he repeats, “I wanted to fucking marry you. I wanted us to raise children. I wanted all of it. But you ran.”

Your knees quiver. “I didn’t want to run from you.”

“Oh, no?” He mockingly snorts. “Well, I wasn’t the one to leave you, was I? I never would’ve left you. Not for anything.”  

Your mouth opens, but you close it, because you can’t argue. Not fairly, anyway. You can’t pretend you weren’t aware of what he is telling you now. You knew how deeply he loved you when you were together. But he scared you that day. He threw you a curveball over breakfast with a conversation you weren’t anticipating having for years. A baby wasn’t something you’d thought about before. But what you did know was that you weren’t prepared to be a mother, and that the smile on his face was so wide it was as if you’d already agreed, and the combination of the two had panicked you to a point of breaking both of your hearts.

“What you said came out of nowhere, and it terrified me. I didn’t know what else to do,” you say, and the wince that scrunches his features just about kills you. 

You want to tell him that it wasn’t him. That it wasn’t his fault. That he did nothing. That he was perfect, and amazing, and everything you could’ve asked for. But you’re not sure it would matter, if he would even believe you at all. 

Still, you want to try. 

“Jake, you were–”

“What about now?” he says.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

His weight shifts from his left foot to his right. “You not being ready is why you broke up with me,” he reminds you, as if you could ever forget your mistake. “So if you’re ready now, why wouldn’t we be doing this together?”

Your heart’s suffering rivals the ache that consumed it on the day you left him. Suddenly, those shards of its brokenness feel like they are being stomped on, a heel digging into the pieces and twisting back and forth, grinding them back into grains of sand. 

At the pained pinch between your brows, Jake’s face falls, his lips thinning and olive-green eyes flicking away from your sorrowful expression as if he is unable to take in the sight of your pity. He tilts his head, and his hand rubs along the edge of his jaw. It could be minutes that go by, but you allow him that time, as much time as he needs.

“Yeah.” His following huff is weak. “I guess it’s stupid, but I’ve been hoping that if you one day changed your mind, you’d come to me,” he tells you, gaze locking back onto yours. “Was there ever a possibility of you doing that?”

You shake your head.

He nods as he bites the inside of his cheek. “Why not?”

“Because we’ve been broken up for almost a year. And it wasn’t like that day was particularly amicable,” you point out as you recall the raised voices, the devastation, the tears you shed as he pleaded with you, the slamming of the front door that had you collapsing to the ground, the regret that followed, the damage that could not be undone.

His mouth pulls down into a frown. 

“Jake, it’s not that I don’t want y–” You pause, swallow, take in some of the remaining oxygen that has yet to be sucked out of the air, then blow out. “I wasn’t going to assume you still love me.”

“Well, you should’ve,” he says dryly, and that oxygen abandons you entirely. Your eyes widen and your head jerks back, and you don’t know why you didn’t anticipate that response, but you didn’t, and so once again, you’re plunged into a state of silence. 

“You still love me?” he asks, but you’re still in shock, and too much time passes for his liking. “Simple answer, Honey. Yes or no.”

Simple. He’s right. It is simple, and it’s an answer you already have. But you fail in your attempt to give it. Your vocal chords do not flutter, your tongue does not flick, and even if it did, your lips don’t seem to be able to form the shapes needed to get the words out. 

Jake’s chin dips toward his chest as he lightly shakes his head, and, unsure of what else to do, you stand there and just watch him, watch the physical embodiment of his disappointment, watch the hurt you’ve inflicted upon him all over again. A tired sigh blows out of his nose before he looks up and starts walking back in the direction of the bar’s door, and you know you should let him go, but as he passes you, your arm whips out and you grab onto his wrist. 

He doesn’t pull away. Nor does he slough you off as you expected. He freezes.

In your peripherals, you can see his chest rising and falling with thick breaths. You can feel his pulse thrumming against your fingertips, a rhythm you had memorized long ago, and you quickly release him as if the meeting of your skin and his burns you. 

When Jake turns, his eyes are forced to sear into your cheek because you can’t get yourself to look at him. You fear what you will see. Anger? Irritation? Misery? You’re not sure you can handle the reality of any of those possibilities. 

In the end, though, you’re not given the choice. His hand reaches over to cup the opposite side of your face, and your head is eased to the side until your stares are connected. To your surprise, it’s not anger; it’s not irritation; it’s not misery. It’s curiosity. It’s a questioning gaze that searches every one of your features for an answer that he eventually succeeds in finding. 

“You do,” he says. Not an inquiry; a statement of fact. One that your voice doesn’t have to confirm.

Surrendering, you twist your body toward his. As his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the hair on your arms stands on end. A few moments hang over your heads to give you the space to push him away, but when you don’t, he leans in, inching closer and closer and closer. And then his mouth is on yours. 

You’d forgotten the sound of your own whimper, and it’s like greeting a long-lost friend. Familiar. Comfortable. Full of promises. Your arms immediately loop around his neck as you rise up on your toes. Jake’s head tilts. Your mouth parts for his tongue and you greedily claim the groan he throws down your throat.

Time warps, pulling your past forward to meld with your present, and it’s as if those months without him didn’t happen. As if it were all a bad dream and you woke to find yourself in the home you shared, and rather than reject him as you had at his mention of a baby that morning, you accepted the proposal, ready to dive headfirst into a beautiful future together. 

That future peeks its head into the corner of your vision as he continues to kiss you, reinserting itself into your pathways of possibilities. And you want so desperately to wrap your fingers around it and hug it to your chest. Cuddle and protect it. You know this time you would take good care of it. But Jake starts to pull back. He separates his lips from yours like it’s the easiest thing in the world, when for you, it would be about as easy as unwelding one piece of metal from another without the fire to do so. The act stuffs you full of dread; it makes your nerves wriggle under your skin and turns the tips of your fingers and toes numb. 

You don’t know what to say, how to beg him not to leave you, but thankfully, you don’t have to. Your anxiety is instantly quelled when he says, “Come here.” Then he’s grasping your hand and leading you around to the side of the building. 

Once hidden by the darkness that the streetlights can’t reach, he pushes you up against the wall. His hands plant on either side of your head. He stares down at you. Breath brushes your face, and the tension is unbearable, tight, a band ready to snap. It’s the only tension you’ve had between you and a man that’s capable of bringing you to your knees. 

“Honey,” he says, a desperate muttering accompanied by a heavy exhale. 

You nod. 

“Yeah?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” 

Your fingers fist into the collar of his shirt and you pull his mouth back to yours. The clink from the metal clasp of his belt being undone echoes over the waves that crash onto the shore.

—

You’re in awe. There’s no other way to describe it. She blinks up at you with his eyes and lashes, and her lips, a replica of your own, part in a yawn, and your heart explodes with an otherworldly kind of love.

“She's…” You shake your head, choosing silence, because you’re unable to find the perfect words to describe the bundle in your arms. And she deserves nothing less than perfection. 

Jake’s lips plant on your temple. “I know, Honey,” is a mutter. “I know.” His palm grazes over the blond dusting of hair on her head. “You did amazing.”

“You think so?”

He hums in agreement.

With great difficulty, you tear your eyes away from your daughter to those of your soon-to-be husband. He’s already looking down at you, his lips curved upward, his eyes shining with a devotion that, despite the weight of your relationship’s history, has been present from the moment you met. Even when you were broken up, you would often catch him looking at you in the very same manner before he could turn his head and pretend otherwise. And you love him for that; for his unwavering hope.

“Jake,” you start. 

“Yeah, Honey.”

Your smile matches his as you reach up to cup his cheek. His hand overlaps yours and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. 

“I never wanted it to be anyone but you,” you then say. Because it’s the truth. More than the truth, it was inevitable in every sense. You knew it for certain the moment you learned of your pregnancy after that night outside the bar. You instantly acknowledged that there was a dominant piece of your mental will that was always going to ensure you would end up where you are now, in this bed, with her, with him. 

Jake’s eyes close. He leans down until your foreheads touch. His nose nudges yours. “And I only ever wanted it to be you,” he replies. 

[spidey-webz]

— 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐈'𝐌 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐘

PAIRING: jake seresin x f!bradshaw!reader

TAGS: no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, character death

request from @rinaarlert

hi jaden! i really admire your writing and was wondering if you’d consider writing about sad jake's seresin. You know how the scene in Top Gun: Maverick, where Rooster said 'Hangman the only place you'll lead anyone is an early grave' and you can see everyone in the room got so tense like something did happen. what if like you know hangman's wingman, a girl, who he loved, but then she died during their mission together and jake's felt like it was his fault and it should have been him that died. when he heard rooster's comment maybe he got angry at him for mentioning it and about to lashed out at rooster but were hold back. and when he comes home, he like have a beer in his hand and he like for the first time in a while cried, and maybe there are some flashbacks of their memory. Of course, no pressure at all—just thought I’d ask!

A/N: thank you so much for the request! as i said in the reply this fic has been sitting in my drafts genuinely for forever and the fact you clocked me with a request basically identical to what i was cooking up is insane to me haha :) it's a little different but i hope you enjoy!

WORD COUNT: 930

masterlist || request box <3

If there was one thing that everyone in the room could agree on, it was that Jake Seresin was an asshole.

“We call him Hangman because he’ll always leave you out to dry,” was the famous story Phoenix spread around about the origins of his callsign, telling anyone who would listen. Was the general premise true? Maybe. Was it really how he got the name Hangman? Far from it, but he’d given up on sharing the real story a long time ago. There wasn’t a point after all, not after you’d gone. He’d learned his lesson with you. Jake Seresin wasn’t allowed to have nice things. So he played along. Build up a reputation. You can’t lose anyone if you don’t have anyone, right?

“Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.” Two years. Two years without you. Whoever came up with the phrase “Time heals all wounds” lied.

As he rounded the pool table, he glanced at Natasha and remembered where he was—that there were three other pilots staring daggers into the back of his head that didn’t know the hushed history the rest of them shared. He clenched his jaw in an attempt to mask the way the man before him managed to shatter his heart into pieces across the floor of the Hard Deck. He’s not even really sure what snarky quip he managed to come up with before he walked off. And when Penny rang the bell, he wasn’t even sure what he said to the man he threw onto the sand.

When he shut the door behind him to see the state of the bar, it was as if his heart had been ripped out his chest, his throat suddenly tightening. Bradley had found his way to the piano—as he usually did anywhere he went—with the whole bar practically gathered around him.

Make no mistake, he wasn’t jealous that Bradley had stolen everyone’s attention. He could care less, especially in his current mental state. No, it was the way Natasha fell so easily back into her place next to Bradley, cheering him on. The way Bob and Payback gently swayed along to the music, smiling at Fanboy in the place he and Javy used to take up. The way Fanboy stood behind the piano in front of Bradley, jumping in excitement and coaxing Bob to join him just as you had used to do with him. “Come dance with me, Jake!”

The memory made him flinch, and without missing a beat, he made his way through the crowd and out of the front door. He doesn't really remember the drive home, or him walking to the fridge to grab the beer he was now nursing as he stared at the wall in front of him, his brain having gone on autopilot. Taking a long swig, he sighed and leaned his head back and shut his eyes.

“Jacob Matthew Seresin, I hate you so much.”

Sitting on the couch across from where you were standing with a Nerf gun in his hand, the smile on his face kept growing bigger and bigger by the second. “Sweetheart,” he gasped, feigning offense to her statement. “Don’t you think hate is a strong word?”

Stepping towards him, you asked, “You think this is funny, do ya?”

“I think it is very funny. Wait- why’re you…” Before he could finish his sentence, you charged at him, Jake jumping from his seat on the couch and sprinting off towards the foyer before you could pounce on him.

“Where’re you going, babe? I thought it was funny!” The chase around the house lasted for what felt like forever, now finding yourselves wrestling on the kitchen floor with whipped cream everywhere. “Babe,” he whined. “Now we’re both dirty.”

As you pried yourself off of him, you giggled. “It’s called payback, cowboy.”

Sitting up from his position on the floor, he watched as you wiped the residual whipped cream off of your face with a paper towel. “Now, I know Mama Seresin taught you that staring’s rude,” you remarked, making your way back to where he sat and bending down.

“You got a little something,” you trailed off, leaning closer to his face with the paper towel in your hand. At the last second, you pulled you hand back and grabbed his neck, licking a stripe of whipped cream off of his cheek before running off, Jake right on your tail.

At the feeling of something wet falling into his ear, his eyes shot open, and he sat up. “Fuck,” he hissed to himself, wiping the tears from his face.

No amount of time could possibly pass to heal the wound left by you. Bradley might as well have punched him in the face earlier. He of all people should have understood the weight that a sentence like that could have. Not just because he understands the risks that come with their line of work, but because of who he used to be to Jake—who he was to you.

He and Jake were best friends in flight school. Then he met you, and the Bradshaws became more. They were family. When you died, it tore everyone apart. Jake couldn't blame Bradley for the hate he now held for him. He had promised to keep you safe. It should have been him that day not you but orders were orders. Now you were six feet under, and all he had left was an ache in his chest and an empty space next to him in the shape of you.

[spidey-webz]

i’m back bitches 🫦

[spidey-webz]

MILES TELLER The Gorge (2025)

[spidey-webz]

warnings: 18+ mdni, m!receiving oral, slight face-fucking, sub!bob more than anything, switchy if you squint

thinking about giving bob reynolds head. he's already half-hard by the time you're sinking to your knees, body taut with tension. restraint, maybe, because he's always on his best behaviour with you. doesn't want to ruin his chances before you’ve even started. you barely have to brush your fingers over his thigh before his breath his catching in his throat, chest rising too quickly for someone just sitting still in a chair.

you like to draw it out. start slow at first, teasing the waistband of his sweatpants down, nuzzling the skin of his hip with your nose and peppering a few light kisses there. it's nice to take a moment to just breathe in his scent at first. all that musk and arousal. his cock is big. of course it is. more lengthy than girthy, but pretty all the same—flushed and veined, resting heavy against his stomach as it stiffens more with each pass of your lips against his hip, each breath ghosted against his skin, prickling with goosebumps.

then you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock, all slow and deliberate, tongue swirling, lips plush and slick. he just breaks instantly. his head tips back, hands clenching into the arms of the chair in an attempt to pace himself. for you. you take more of him—inch by inch, jaw aching, saliva trailing down your chin. not that you care. you want to feel ruined by him. you want to ruin him back. it’s a mutual thing: you both come out of this wrecked.

"fuck, baby—" he groans. it's full-body, helpless, the sound vibrating right through to his toes as he quivers with each bob of your head and swirl of your skilled tongue.

he's trying his hardest not to move. it shows in the way his muscles are locked, thighs trembling, whole body shivering like it's taking everything he has not to thrust forward. not to fuck your throat the way you both know he could. sometimes, when it's like this, he's tempted to just let it out. sentry. void. whatever. the parts of him that are brave enough to do it. but even now, with your mouth warm around his cock and your fingers digging into his muscles thighs to keep steady, he's trying to be gentle. trying to deserve this. you hum around him and his hips jerk involuntarily. his whole face twists in this exquisite, pained expression. you're already soaked in your own underwear from the sight of him like this.

"c’mon," you pull off him to encourage. and whatever leash he had on him just snaps.

he doesn't say a word—probably isn't capable of uttering anything but breathy pleas right now—and cups the back of your head with a hand so careful it makes your heart ache. you aren't made of glass, he knows that, but boy does he treat you that way sometimes. and with that touch, just the barest pressure, he starts to move. gently at first, then less so. just these slow, shallow thrusts, hips rolling, cock gliding deeper over your tongue to hit the back of your throat. you let him, eyes wet, spit pooling, moaning around him like you’re the one receiving head.

he looks ruined, too. flushed and sweating, gasping and moaning around breaths he can't quite catch. the pleasure is too much to hold, pouring out of him in curses and broken groans he’ll be embarrassed he let slip when he’s recovered.

"i’m sorry," he pants suddenly, voice strangled with the barest edge of panic. "i can’t—oh, fuck, m'gonna cum—"

you don't stop. the squeeze to his thigh is permission enough for him. and when he does let go, it's blinding. he shudders, every muscle in his body seizing in ecstasy. the sound he lets out can only be described as a whimper, your name rolling off his tongue, breathless and stunned. thick ropes of white spill across your tongue endlessly, and you sit there patiently on your knees until he’s finished. his knees are buckling, hands fisting in your hair. he looks like he doesn't know whether to cry or thank you.

you swallow and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. he's there to wipe the dampness collected at the corner of your eyes, still trying to catch his breath.

"good?" you tease, voice hoarse.

he laughs. sort of. it's more like a broken exhale. "i mean, i think i just saw god, but yeah."

as far as the rest of the world is concerned, he is god. not the one you know, though—jaw slack and body lax in a chair, cock still twitching with the aftershocks of a mind-blowing orgasm. your pretty, ruined god of a boyfriend.

[spidey-webz]

this was so so good!!!!!

peeled back

bob reynolds x reader

it just went through my mind that bob has most likely never had sex sober, and I knew I had to do something with that

summary: He’s never done it sober. He had warned you. He said it like he meant it to be a warning, at least. Had told you he didn’t know how to do this the normal way. Displayed his vulnerability, looking at you like this could possibly ruin something between you. You don’t see it that way. It makes it all the more special. Intimate.

tags: f!reader, smut, handjob, piv sex, soft sex, riding, switching, tiny bit of manhandling, angst, mentions of bob's former drug addiction, hurt/comfort, soft bob, desperate bob, lots of feels and yearning, bob's scrumptious serum-acquired abs

word count: 4.6k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

He’s never done it sober.

His hands are anchored to you like he’s afraid that if they aren’t, you’re going to escape, slip away. Like you’re just a figure of smoke that is going to curl around his fingers to eventually fade out and away and leave him to an empty room where he will have to face himself.

He had warned you. He said it like he meant it to be a warning, at least. Had told you he didn’t know how to do this the normal way. Displayed his vulnerability, looking at you like this could possibly ruin something between you. 

You don’t see it that way. It makes it all the more special. Intimate.

His hand cups your face as his tongue slides back into your mouth, exploring it like he wants to swallow and savor every breath you have to give. A low hum tears from the back of his throat to vibrate into your own when you let your hand slip under his shirt, fingers briefly grazing against his stomach before he stops you, covering your hand with his own to lace your fingers together.

“Let me–”

He doesn’t complete and closes the gap between you again. You’re not entirely sure what he means, but you can’t seem to linger on the thought when you feel his hands settle at your hips; they’re a bit clumsy and tentative as he holds back from letting them roam along your sides in fear he will come across as too greedy, and his hesitation is a stark contrast to the way he had backed you up against that wall in the first place. 

Bob is not quite sure how much is too much, how to handle things without the chemical confidence and buzz that used to make him chase that potent urge – it had only ever been a matter of satiating his needs any way he could, as quickly as he could. 

It had always been a rush to satisfy his own drug addled lust.

It all feels different now, more anchored, more palpable. He draws every action out, savors each of those, gets you impatient, pulls the focus back to you when you try to take care of him and put him first. And you would say something if you weren’t trying to indulge him and let him take what he wants – it’s the first time he gets to take his time, and he’s too eager to discover what it’s like for you to just take that away from him. 

You’re convinced some part of you would feel cruel for rushing it and not letting it play the way he wants it to, even if it involved putting him and his pleasure first.

His hesitation and restraint is obvious and gets you to pull back from the kiss to take a look at his face. His gaze follows when your hands frame it gently, fingers gently brushing back the strands of hair falling over his face. “Don’t overthink it” you whisper, thumb lingering against his cheek. His lips pinch slightly before he nods half confidently, hand cupping your jaw as he presses his mouth against yours once again. 

It flips a switch, sort of. His hand presses against your lower back to pull you closer to his own body as he leads you with him towards his bed, steps blind and clumsy as he walks backwards – he hums into the kiss in startlement when the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed and force him to sit if he doesn’t want to fall all the way and bring you down with him. You can only breathe out a laugh and climb onto his lap after that.

He forces his hands to settle at your hips and stop faltering, eyelids softly fluttering as he looks up at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real. His teeth lightly sink into his bottom lip, gaze roaming along your face when your hands rest at the sides of his neck. 

“I can’t believe you dodged Mario Party night with Joaquin for this” you smile as you let your fingers gently trace along his face – his own busy themselves by lightly fiddling with the hem of your shirt, playing with the soft fabric.

He grins playfully. “A last minute change of schedule isn’t so bad sometimes” he says with a shrug, hands slipping under the garment to find the soft heat of your body – his thumb lightly strokes your bare skin, rubbing small circles under your shirt. You hum contemplatively, hands holding his face.

“What’d you even tell him?” you ask, brushing away a stray strand of his hair.

He sucks in a contemplative breath before he shrugs again. “Just… something about wanting to go to bed early, y’know” he grins.

Your head shakes, a chuckle escaping your lips. “You liar.”

“I didn’t lie,” he counters, defending himself. “Going to bed early doesn’t necessarily mean sleeping” he teases, moving to nuzzle along your cheek, arms wrapping and tightening around your waist.

“Yeah okay,” your hands find the back of his head, fingers sinking in his hair that’s already messy from playing with it while you were making out. You can feel his breath where his mouth gently brushes at the ticklish skin under your jaw, can hear his low, quiet whimper when you grind against his sweatpants as he presses you closer to his own body, can feel the heat of him through the layers of clothes. “Bob” his face lifts to meet your gaze, a questioning hum quietly vibrating between you. “Take your shirt off and lie back.”

His eyebrows raise in startlement, mouth slightly parting before he snaps out of it and eventually nods fervently, fingers already grabbing at the hem of his shirt to lift it over his head and toss over the floor before his back meets the mattress with a quiet grunt. 

“Holy shit Bob,” you gasp, astounded. His throat bulges as he swallows in nervousness when your gaze rakes along his bare torso. “Why’d you hide those from me?” you ask, barely able to contain the awed smile growing over your face as the tip of your fingers brush against his muscled stomach in fascination.

“Oh,” his face is slowly turning red, body growing hotter than he even thought possible under the look in your eyes, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “I uh, I trained this afternoon so they’re–”

“God, this is so sexy.”

A small, choked sound catches in his throat, something between a flustered chuckle and a desperate groan when your fingers teasingly trail down the hard plane of his stomach, muscles softly tensing under your touch. His lips pinch as his gaze follows your hand, trying his best to remain quiet under the feeling of the graze of your fingertips, throat tight with anticipation when they progressively get lower and lower.

His breath catches again, breathing growing thicker when you reach the waistband of his sweatpants, one finger hooking there. You catch sight of the way his brows are knitted in focus when you look up at him before it goes further. “You okay?” you ask, eyebrows raised, hand stilling to give him room to tell you if it’s too much, too fast. 

He nods almost immediately. “Yeah– yeah” he gives you a reassuring smile, momentarily brought back to his senses. He lets out a small chuckle, slightly shifting his position under you to get more comfortable – it’s not easy when it feels like he’s growing harder each second because you’re straddling him and because your hands are teasing so close to where he needs you.

Bob props himself up on his elbows when you pull your shirt over your head and toss it to join his on the floor, not saying anything, just looking, eyes unapologetically roaming along your figure, mouth parting slightly.

“What?” you ask, voice quiet, suddenly a little shy under his gaze.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head with a sincere smile. “You just– you look so pretty.” he barely has time to catch a glimpse of the smile over your face before you grab his and lunge in to kiss him, his back pressing against the bed again. 

His hand instinctively slides to the small of your back, warm and obvious like he’s burning from the inside out. It travels up your spine, slow and careful like he wants to remember the feeling, wants to remember the soft hitch of your breath when his thumb traces along your ribcage and the way your body leans into his touch like it’s only natural for you to – which it probably is, but he wouldn’t know of since he’s never taken the time to linger with anyone else before, to notice such slight reactions beyond the overwhelming fog of the drugs.

Your body shifts above him to the side when your hand snakes between your bodies, trailing back down his abs, mouth ever so slightly pulling away from his own when you feel you’ve reached the thick material of the band of his sweatpants. “Can I…?” you murmur quietly, breath warm against his kiss swollen lips, fingers grazing the waistband.

Bob nods, and it comes with a breathless affirmative spilling out right after, his voice hoarse and unsteady in anticipation. A barely audible sound escapes his mouth when your hand slips under the layers of his clothes, eyes down to follow, make sure this isn’t just a dream or hallucination – the sight alone of your hand buried down there could have been enough to drive him crazy, but the thought escapes his mind when your hand closes around his hard cock, a small exhale leaving his mouth when you start moving, start gently stroking him like you have all the time in the world and all that matters is right there.

“That feel good?” you ask, a proud grin tugging at your lips from how expressively wrecked he gets, that quickly, not from much.

“Yes– Yeah,” he nods, head sinking back against the mattress.

“It’s real tight in there” you joke, voice soft but gently teasing. He lets out something between a chuckle and a groan, his arm flinging over his face to hide the heat creeping up his cheeks and attempt to chase the embarrassment away. You laugh at his reaction, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Don’t hide, this is sweet” you whisper, nose nudging against his arm, hand still wrapped around him, pumping slowly. “You’re all tense”

He’s so hard it’s almost painful, your palm gliding along his length, thumb sweeping over the sensitive tip, smearing the precum around just to watch him shudder and hiss through clenched teeth. “Shit– Don’t make fun of me, it’s all your fault”

“Well you look so good like this,” you breathe as you drag your lips along the edge of his jaw, your hand still working him beneath the fabric, not that easily from the lack of space there. “Already wrecked while I’ve barely even really started yet”

He moans, the noise quiet but broken, his arm uncovering his face to grab at the sheets, his hips lightly twitching up into your palm like he can’t help himself anymore. “Please sweetheart,” he whines, eyes squeezing shut.

“Yes baby,” you whisper as your free hand hooks in his clothes to grant him more comfort, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the sensitive spot just under his ear. “Let me take care of you”

It feels like less of a torture once you free him of the prison of his own clothes, and he progressively eases into it as you take your time with him, take the time to observe every little shift in his face, every ragged breath that escapes his mouth, every time his lips part as he’s about to say something but the pleasure steals his words.

His fingers dig into your flesh as he clings to your arm, eyes dark and completely gone from the way you’re touching him and the way you’re looking at him – like he’s so much more than the trembling mess beneath your palm, more than just a body desperate for release, like he’s truly wanted for once in his life. 

He’s never had this like this before, never had it slow, intentional, a bit tentative, not just about finishing.

Bob’s hand shifts to slide up to the back of your neck and guide your face back to his, a low hum tearing from your throat when you sense his fingers working at the button of your pants; it's a bit hurried and clumsy as he struggles, and you're forced to pull away just long enough to rid yourself of the rest of your clothes faster. 

He kisses you again like he’s starving for it once you’re back over him again, deeper, needier, body pressing up against yours like the brief moment you've been apart has been unbearable.

Your forehead remains pressed up against his, breath thick with anticipation, skin burning up with desire. “Are you clean or do we need to–”

“The serum cleared me of anything” he nods, fingers brushing along your face, nose gently nudging your own.

“Okay that’s great– okay.”

Your name leaves his lips in a shaky breath when you roll your hips against his, slick and aching, the head of his cock catching right where you’re warmest. His hand digs into your waist, holding you there as his forehead presses against your shoulder. “Fuck– please,” he whispers, voice wrecked, wavering with need. “Stop teasing, I need–”

“You're acting so impatient for someone who wants to take it easy,” you chuckle softly, reaching between the two of you again to guide him where you want him. 

The moment he feels himself start to slide inside, he lets out a small grunt that joins your own exhale. “Jesus, you’re–” his hands tremble on your hips as you work to take all of him in, inch by inch, until your thighs are pressed flush to his. You pause there, letting the both of you adjust, brushing your fingers along the nape of his neck while your breathing evens out. “Are you okay?” he asks, warm hands settling at your thighs, lightly squeezing in reassurance. You nod, steadying yourself, palms resting against his abdomen to brace yourself, hips leisurely starting to move. 

You can’t help but wonder how many times he’s been in this position before, if it’s ever been serious enough to really mean something to him, if it feels as any good without the chemical alteration – if being that close to him in that context used to really meant being that close, if being that intimate really meant being that intimate, if it used to have any more depth than just the physical connection.

His head sinks back into the soft fabric of his bedding with a faint sigh of your name, broad hands firm at your sides, a hushed cussword quietly slipping from his mouth as you ride him slowly. 

“I’ve dreamed of this before” he admits in a murmur. 

Your movements still just slightly, head tilting to the side in curiosity. “Yeah?”

“Not in a weird way. I mean– dreaming about it is probably weird either way” he adds quickly, brows pulling in embarrassment as his lips twist into a self-deprecating smile. “But I’ve thought about you like this for a while” 

You feel your heart thrumming faster with the way his breath catches every time you rock against him, the way his fingers twitch against your skin when you clench around him, the way he holds your gaze like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Knowing that he’s been thinking about this before, has been wanting you like this for a while and trusts you enough to admit it could make you crumble faster than you even expected. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, like you're trying to indulge in the way he initially wanted this to be unhurried, body pressed up against his. 

“That’s more sweet than weird but– you can’t say this and expect me to last a while” you chuckle once you pull away, breath hitching in your throat when his hips tilt upwards to meet the slow grind of your body. 

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing” he grins, lips dragging against your bare shoulder, the tip of his fingers running up along your spine.

“I thought you wanted to take your time,” you say, unable to help the soft gasp that follows, cheeks burning as your face buries into his neck when Bob clutches onto your waist to thrust up into you.

“I do. But it's nice knowing I can make you feel good” he grunts, muffled and short of breath, fingers digging deeper into your flesh, eyes squeezing shut when he realizes what he’s capable of when he’s not numbed by something synthetic, when it’s just him and not him and that painful itch to scratch driven by the drugs.

You keep moving together like that for a while, slow, gentle, but desperate. He lets his hands wander, less hesitant than before, sliding up your back and down again to grip your ass and guide your rhythm, groaning softly into your shoulder with each shift of your hips. There’s a desperation in his hold like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even for just a second you might disappear, like this entire moment could be a dream he might wake from too soon like it has been before. 

And when he leans back, eyes filled with desire as he murmurs, “Can I– let me get on top, yeah? Let me do this,” the uncertainty is so obvious across his face, like he’s afraid you’ll say no, that your heart tightens in your chest before you nod, cupping his cheek.

His lips twitch into a faint, grateful smile before he rolls you onto your back like it requires no effort at all – you sometimes forget about the serum and its effects that in some cases turn out to be great perks – you never thought of how useful it could be in that kind of situation, but the thought of how much more it could get to your advantage sparks even more excitement within you.

When he settles between your legs, it’s with a tenderness that almost shatters your soul. He doesn’t push back in right away, he just hovers there, his chest pressed to yours and his hands sliding under your thighs as if to remind himself you’re still real. His lips brush the corner of your mouth as he kisses you, his breath shivering against your cheek like he’s afraid he might ruin this if he moves too fast.

And then he’s inside you again, filling you up with a slow thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. It's deeper this time, his eyes squeezing shut as a shudder rips through him, soft moans escaping your mouths at each gentle drag of his cock. 

His pace starts slow, his thrusts calculated, a hand planted beside your head to hold himself up as his teeth bite into his bottom lip in focus. “You feel so good sweetheart” he murmurs, voice low with desire. His words somehow make you feel as good as his body does, unconsciously clenching around him when you feel them reverberate in the pit of your stomach. 

It doesn’t take long before he picks up on the pace, hips rolling harder against yours like he can’t hold back anymore. Soft gasps and whimpers escape you, nails grazing over the muscles of his back as he fucks you, but it’s only when you open your eyes and catch a glimpse of his face that you realize that he’s crying. 

Not dramatically weeping, not full on sobbing, and he probably thinks that it’s not enough to be noticeable and he can probably get away with it.

“Bob,” you whisper, hands coming to hold his face, fingers instantly brushing along his temple, panic and worry filling your voice as your gaze searches his. “Are you okay? Do you want to stop? We can stop–”

“No– no,” he breathes, voice breaking, head shaking. “I don’t wanna stop” he swallows hard, his body trembling above you, gaze dropping in shame. “It’s just– It feels real and that’s– don’t worry, just– let’s just keep going, please” he nods, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, head turning to the side like he wants to hide any way he can, face flushed and damp.

Your hand cups his cheek, gently turning him back to face you. His tears are warm against your fingertips as you swipe them away, your heart breaking for him when you see his gaze reflecting the overload of conflicted thoughts inside his head when his eyes finally meet yours. “Are you sure? We can take five if you want,” you offer, the tone of your voice poisoned with worry, watching intently when his head shakes and he swiftly wipes the few of the rest of his tears away.

“I’m okay,” he insists with a firm and resilient nod though his voice remains quiet and wavering. “I promise.”

You lean up just enough to press a kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. “I know you don’t believe it, but you’re allowed to have nice things, you know,” you murmur against his mouth. 

His breath shudders out again, hand gripping your waist just a little tighter. “Yeah,” he says, almost like he’s still trying to convince himself of it, lips curling into a small, genuine smile when your hand slides down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder to soothingly rub there.

You feel the shift in him after that. It takes some time before the rhythm and confidence build up again, but Bob catches up on his pace, and soon, the momentary disruption is long forgotten, his thrusts growing bolder, surer, still tender but with more intent now, like he’s actively trying to believe that he deserves it, all of it, and has to make the most of it. 

Your lids fall shut at Bob’s quiet gasps of your name breathed into your ear when you tell him how good he’s doing, coupled with his hand snaking between your bodies to touch you, gently trying to coax it out of you, begging you like you’re not already going liquid beneath him. “Come on baby, please give it to me” 

Your fingers curl against his back, legs wrapping tighter around his waist and pulling him in even deeper. "Bob," you gasp as you arch into him, chasing after his touch. You’re so close it hurts, every desperate drag of his cock inside you feeling just right, every graze of his fingers sending sparks up your spine and heat pooling low in your belly.

"Please," he whispers again, like he's begging for more than just your orgasm, like he's asking for everything he’s ever wanted from you; your trust, your faith, your forgiveness for everything he's ever done and felt shameful for before he got here, right here with you beneath him. 

And you give it to him, you give all of it, you want him to have it all.

Your body tightens around him with a strangled gasp, hand clinging onto his bicep and nails digging into his skin as you let go beneath him, moaning his name as you tremble in his arms, melting into the mattress as it overtakes you.

He’s not far behind. The way your body pulses around him and the broken sounds you make in his ear get him right here. He lets out a groan, hips stuttering when you meet his eyes, the dim light of the room making them appear darker than they are – yet you could swear that for the matter of half a second, you can see a golden glint shine through his irises that disappears just as fast as it went, and then he’s spilling into you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

His whole body trembles with the force of it, the muscles in his neck tensing under your fingers when your hands slide up to bury into his hair.

“You’re all sweaty,” you tease breathlessly once he starts to come down, fingers threading into his damp hair, lightly scratching his scalp.

His lips curve against your skin, his chuckle low and warm, vibrating through your feverish body. “So are you,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw before looking at you again, gaze heavy with affection and something deeper that makes your stomach twist.

You lie like this for a while, tangled limbs buzzing with that funny feeling, your breathing evening as you hold each other, your thumb idly moving back and forth against his cheek.

Bob takes in a breath before he eventually breaks the comfortable silence. ”Sorry about earlier. When I… Y’know,” his voice drops, gets quieter. “Cried” your head shakes, brows pulling, and he speaks again before you can even begin to tell him he shouldn’t have to feel like he has to apologize for that. “It’s just that... I didn’t know it could feel this good,” he admits like it's some embarrassing confession, not even sure it’s something he would be saying out loud in any other context, not sure it would be something worth admitting. “Not just the sex, I mean. You. All of this.” he murmurs. “The… emotional connection”

He shifts, readjusting his position so that he’s lying beside you, still close, giving you space so he’s not smothering you with the overwhelming heat of his body, but most of all so he can face you. 

“It’s always been so quick and insignificant before” your head tilts to the side as you listen intently, quietly brushing away the damp strands of hair falling over his face, silently encouraging him to go on. “And besides the physical reactions it used to be so… numb.” he frowns. You can practically see the gears turning inside his head as he looks for his words, how to express it properly. “Not-special”

You nod, lips pinching into a small smile that wordlessly tells him that you get what he’s trying to say.

“I feel at ease when I'm with you” he eventually admits quietly, tiredly blinking as he looks at you like you’ve been giving him anything he’s ever wanted and needed.

You don’t say anything, maybe from fear that it wouldn’t even begin to compare to the preciousness of his words, so you just kiss him.

“I would want it to last forever if we could handle it. Being like this with you” he says once he pulls away, and he looks like he might almost cry again despite the grin over his face.

You chuckle, your fingertips lightly tracing the edges of his face. “We can always try” you tease playfully.

He snorts a laugh, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he breathes out like a weight has been lifted off his chest. The exhaustion is obvious over his face, like he’s been drained of all energy, blinking the sleepiness away as he tries to fight it, holding on just to not give up on you like this.

You let your hand run through his hair again. “You can rest. I’ll be there when you wake up tomorrow, I’m not going anywhere”

His eyes roam along your face before he nods, not looking to argue, and he smiles, eyes closing in contentment when you kiss his face.

He had never done it sober, but now he has.

—

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[spidey-webz]

#Love him

[spidey-webz]

THE RUNNING MAN (2025) dir. Edgar Wright

[spidey-webz]

the concept of rooster brat taming reader

[spidey-webz]

LEWIS PULLMAN as Garret THEM THAT FOLLOW (2019)— dir. Britt Poulton & Dan Madison Savage

[spidey-webz]

this was perfect 😩

What a way to die

pairing; best friend's dad!jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; You hook up with Jake Seresin without knowing he's the father of the friend you're supposed to spend the whole summer with.

word count; 11.8k

warnings; SMUT!!!! this is pretty nasty: choking, dom!jake, sub!reader, AGE GAP (reader is 22 jake is 43), oral (fem and male recieving), reader is not a virgin but she is inexperienced, corruption kink??, sex in a public bathroom, thigh riding, no use of protection (don't do that), overstimulation kink!, jake has a size kink!, i think that's it

a/n; well i never thought i would write smut like this but here we are, if it sucks let it be known this is my first time i'm sorry!!! also i made the reader british??? idk why it just happened

masterlist

The cafe was warm, quiet, and smelled like citrus and espresso. You’d been there for nearly an hour now, halfheartedly sipping on an iced matcha while your phone rested on the tabletop in front of you.

Lucy had texted twenty minutes ago:

“So sorry!!! Still with Ryan. Just go to the house — or go explore if you want! The spare key is in the flowerpot by the porch.”

You’d smiled, despite yourself. Of course she was with her boyfriend. And of course she assumed you were brave enough to just go explore.

You glanced out the window at the setting sun and sighed. You were 22, freshly free for the summer, thousands of miles away from your posh London flat, and still you couldn’t shake the nerves curling in your chest.

You opened Tinder.

It had been Lucy’s idea. “San Diego’s full of hot people, babe. At least talk to someone who’s not me for once.”

You’d only swiped a few times when a match popped up.

“Blake.” 28. Works in finance. Cute smile. Tattoos.

Hey, wanna grab a drink? I know a place right around the corner. Pub-style. Casual.

You hesitated for maybe ten seconds.

Sure, you typed.

Send me the location.

The pub was low-lit and buzzing — wood-paneled walls, soccer on the TVs, a dartboard in the back. You stood awkwardly by the bar, still clutching your phone like a lifeline, eyes scanning for anyone who looked like a “Blake.”

He wasn’t there.

You ordered a drink anyway. Gin and tonic, your comfort zone.

Twenty minutes passed. Your phone stayed blank. You gave yourself another five before you'd call it quits and walk out.

But that’s when he walked in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired — he had that kind of posture that said military even before the uniform came into view. He wore jeans and a dark Henley instead, but the aura stuck. Confident. Casual. Like he knew the room would shift when he entered, and he didn’t mind at all.

He caught your eye as he approached the bar.

And then he smiled — slow and lazy, like he wasn’t in any rush — and said, “You waiting for someone, or just looking like you are?”

You looked up from your drink, caught off guard.

The man in front of you wasn’t Blake. He was… older. Late thirties? No — early forties, probably. The fine lines around his eyes gave him away, but they only added to his appeal. Sun-kissed skin, square jaw, hair a little tousled like he’d run a hand through it before walking in. His shirt stretched just enough over his chest and arms that you knew he looked good without trying.

He was the kind of man people stared at. And, judging by the glint in his eye, he knew it.

“I was,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “But I don’t think he’s coming.”

The man hummed, low and sympathetic. “Let me guess — Tinder date?”

You blinked. “Was it that obvious?”

He grinned. “Well, you don’t look like a local, and you’ve been nursing that drink like it’s your only friend.”

You blushed instantly, your cheeks heating in a way that made you look away. “Rude.”

“Not wrong, though.”

You bit back a smile and glanced up at him again. His eyes were green, bright even in the dim lighting. There was a bit of stubble along his jaw — not messy, just enough to make him look like he didn’t care too much, which somehow made it worse.

He leaned one forearm on the bar beside you. Not too close. But close enough that your heart stuttered a little.

“Can I buy you another?” he asked. “Unless you’re waiting on a better offer.”

“I doubt there’s a better one coming,” you murmured before you could stop yourself.

That made him laugh — a real laugh, low and smooth. It did something to your chest.

“What are you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Classic,” he said, motioning to the bartender. “You don’t look old enough for gin and tonic.”

You raised a brow. “I’m twenty-two.”

That made him blink — just for a second. It wasn’t judgmental, just mildly surprised. Then he smirked. “Dangerously young.”

“And you?” you asked, before nerves could make you chicken out. “You don’t look old enough to make me feel like I’m breaking the law.”

He chuckled again, this time slower. “I’m forty-three.”

You blinked. Forty-three. You’d never in your life been into older men — they reminded you too much of professors, or your dad’s friends. But this man? He was tall, sharp, magnetic. Confident without being gross about it. Like he knew who he was, and he’d stopped apologizing for it years ago.

“Still want that drink?” he asked, holding your gaze.

You nodded, cheeks still warm. “Yeah. Please.”

He handed you the drink himself when it arrived, letting his fingers brush yours — warm, steady, intentional.

“To your tragic Tinder date,” he said, lifting his whiskey. “May he forever regret standing you up.”

You laughed softly, clinking your glass against his. “That’s dramatic.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, smirking. “But I meant it.”

You took a sip — cold, sharp, familiar — and tried to ignore the way your heart picked up when he shifted a little closer on the barstool. His knee bumped yours. He didn’t move it.

“So,” he said, turning his body more toward you. “What brings a pretty Brit all the way to San Diego?”

Your blush came instantly — not from the compliment, but the ease with which he gave it. Like it was a fact, not something he expected a reaction to.

“I’m here visiting a friend. Her family lives here.”

He gave a low, thoughtful hum. “And how long are you in town?”

“The whole summer.”

That got his attention. His brow lifted just slightly, his smile edging toward a smirk.

“Well,” he said, “lucky us.”

You hid your face behind your glass. “You’re relentless.”

“Not my fault you’re easy to fluster.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, even as your cheeks burned.

His grin widened. “Sure you’re not.”

There was something electric between you now — an unspoken awareness. Your thighs were still pressed together, the contact so warm you could feel it right to your core. Every time he shifted, even a little, your breath hitched. And he noticed. God, of course he noticed.

“Your accent’s gonna be a problem,” he said suddenly, almost conversationally.

You blinked. “My… what?”

He leaned in, just slightly, voice dropping.

“That accent. I’m not gonna lie — it’s sexy as hell.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. Just a high, breathless sound that barely passed for a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” you said, covering your face with one hand. “I swear I’m usually more—more composed than this.”

“Oh, don’t be composed on my account,” he murmured. “This is much more fun.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Do you flirt like this with everyone you meet?”

“Only the ones I want to see again.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to hold his gaze, but it was hard — his eyes were too direct, too calm, like he already knew what you'd say before you did.

“You still don’t even know my name,” you mumbled.

He tilted his head. “Neither do you.”

You smiled, soft and nervous. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, voice low. “Or maybe it just makes things more interesting.”

It didn’t take him too long to have you pinned against the wall of the women’s bathroom.

You weren’t sure how it happened, not exactly. One minute he was making you blush over a second drink, and the next — after a comment too smooth to be innocent, a look too heavy to be polite — he was following you down the narrow hallway at the back of the bar, hand warm and certain on the small of your back.

And now here you were.

Your spine pressed against cold tile. His palm flat against the wall beside your head. His other hand gripped your waist firmly, thumb brushing under the hem of your shirt like he had every right to be there.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “and I will.”

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

He was too close. Too intentional. Every movement had weight. Every glance, a purpose.

Your breath caught as he leaned in, mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“You’ve been blushing all night,” he murmured. “But you didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you admitted softly, barely a whisper.

His hand slid up, fingers curling gently around your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

“Good girl,” he said — low, approving, possessive — and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and hunger and control, his mouth claiming yours without hesitation, his body pinning you so firmly that your knees nearly buckled. His hands roamed without rush — confident, exploratory, like he was mapping you by feel and taking mental notes of everywhere you shivered.

And you were shivering — overwhelmed and burning up all at once, one hand clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

His thigh wedged between yours, dragging a desperate sound from your throat that he swallowed with a growl of satisfaction.

“Look at you,” he muttered against your mouth, hips rolling just enough to make you gasp. “Sweet little thing, letting a stranger have you like this.”

“I’m not usually—” you started, breathless.

“I know you’re not,” he cut in. “You don’t have to say it.”

His mouth found the side of your throat, sucking gently before dragging his teeth along your skin, just enough to make you tremble.

“Yet you don’t seem scared of me.” He whispered.

“I’m not.”

He smiled against your skin. “No. You’re not. You like it.”

Your head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud. He slid one hand down, down, skimming along the waistband of your skirt like a promise, like he’d go further if you asked. But he didn’t rush it.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said, voice rough now, one hand pressed flat against your belly. “And if we keep going like this, I’m not gonna stop.”

You bit your lip. Heart hammering. Eyes wide.

And then you said it.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

The second you said the words, his expression shifted — something darker flickered in his eyes, something possessive. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, and his thigh pressed more firmly between yours.

You gasped, not from surprise but from the sudden, delicious pressure.

“Didn’t think so,” Jake said lowly, dragging his nose along your jaw. “You’ve been soaking this in all night. Every blush, every little gasp — you’ve been begging me to take control.”

His hands were everywhere now — one sliding up the back of your thigh, fingers finding the edge of your skirt, tugging it up with slow, deliberate purpose.

You whimpered when he pressed his thigh up again between your legs, this time angled just right. His hands returned to your hips, holding you still for a moment — just long enough to make you ache — before he spoke again.

“Come on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it.”

Your breath hitched. And then you moved — hesitant at first, rocking your hips just slightly, grinding down onto the muscle of his thigh.

The noise that left his throat was primal.

“That’s it,” he growled, voice hot against your ear. “Look at you. Fucking gorgeous like this — needy, desperate, rubbing yourself all over me.”

Your hands curled in the fabric of his shirt. You couldn’t think — you could barely breathe.

He kissed you again, rougher this time, his tongue claiming your mouth while your hips rolled helplessly against his leg. You were trembling, thighs tight around him, chasing every bit of friction you could get.

Jake broke the kiss, panting, and then his hand slid up — across your ribs, your chest, until it curled around your throat.

Not tight. Not dangerous. But firm.

Controlling.

Your eyes widened, and his gaze pinned you in place.

“You okay?” he asked, voice husky but steady.

You nodded — too fast — and whispered, “Yes.”

He smiled. Not sweet. Smug.

“You like this,” he said. “You like being handled.”

Your hips jerked against him in answer.

“You gonna come just like this?” he murmured. “Grinding on my thigh, letting a man you just met ruin you in a bar bathroom like a fucking slut?”

You moaned softly — and he didn’t even give you time to answer. His hands slid back down to your hips, guiding you with purpose now, moving you against him just right, just rough enough to pull another whimper from your lips.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You were unraveling, breath catching in short gasps, toes curling in your boots as the pressure built and built until it felt like it would snap — sharp and sudden and all-consuming.

Jake pressed his mouth to your ear, voice low and commanding.

“Come for me.”

And you did — thighs clenching, body trembling, face buried in his neck as the wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He held you through it, solid and unshakable, hands soothing now, stroking your back as you caught your breath. His hand left your throat only to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangled gently in your hair.

You were still panting when he murmured, “There she is.”

You blinked up at him, flushed and dazed.

You were still catching your breath, blinking up at him in the dim light, when Jake’s hand shifted from the back of your head to your cheek, fingers tilting your face up.

He looked calm. Too calm for what he’d just done to you — but there was fire behind his eyes. Heat he hadn’t spent yet.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said simply. Like it was fact. Like there was no question.

Your mouth parted — not in protest, just disbelief at how easily those words wrecked you.

“I—” you started, voice catching.

But he was already kissing you again — deeper, rougher. Possession written in every movement. His hand slid under your skirt again, hooking your underwear down in one smooth motion, letting them fall to your ankles as he growled against your lips, “Step out.”

You did.

He barely broke contact as he undid his jeans, breath hot against your mouth.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

You hesitated only a second. Then turned, palms braced flat against the cool tile wall. You could see his reflection behind you in the streaked bathroom mirror — broad shoulders, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on you like he was starving.

He stepped in close. One hand slapped your left ass-cheek before gripping your hip while the other slid back around your throat — firmer this time, applying just enough pressure to make your thoughts blur at the edges.

“You okay?” he asked again — low, tight, still in control.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

That’s all it took.

He pushed into you in one smooth thrust, stretching you open with a deep, guttural groan against your ear.

You gasped, nails scraping against the wall, and he didn’t stop — just rolled his hips again, deeper, harder, filling you until you couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Could only feel him.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered, voice ragged. “Tight little body. Letting me take you like this — use you like this.”

You whimpered, head falling forward, and his hand around your throat tightened — just slightly — grounding you, controlling your rhythm with his grip on your hip.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Bent over in a bathroom, dripping down your thighs, letting a stranger fuck you dumb. That what you needed, sweetheart?”

You moaned in answer. Couldn’t have formed words if you tried.

He kept up the pace — relentless, punishing — his breath ragged now too, teeth scraping your shoulder as he slammed into you again.

“Not gonna last,” he warned, voice rough. “You’re too fucking perfect.”

Your knees were giving out again, legs shaking. The only thing holding you up was his grip — one hand at your throat, the other digging into your hip like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“Come with me,” he growled. “Now. Want to feel you squeeze me.”

And somehow, somehow, your body listened. Your second orgasm hit harder — raw and overwhelming — as he cursed against your neck and followed you over the edge, hips jerking deep as he spilled inside you with a broken, desperate sound.

For a moment, there was only breath — his harsh and uneven, yours trembling.

Then Jake eased his hand from your throat and pulled you gently back against his chest, holding you upright.

“Still okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, dazed.

He smiled against your temple. “Fuckin’ incredible.”

You stayed like that for a few seconds — your back pressed to Jake’s chest, both of you catching your breath, skin still warm and tingling. His hand lingered low on your waist, thumb stroking lazily over your hip, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

You weren’t either.

But your phone buzzed from somewhere in your bag — three short pulses.

You sighed and reluctantly reached for it, muscles aching.

Lucy: Come meet us!! We’re at LUME downtown. You’ll love the DJ. Drinks on meee 🎉💋

You read the text once. Then again. Then remembered — right, you were supposed to meet her tonight. You were supposed to be sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending you weren’t terminally shy.

Not letting a total stranger wreck you in a bathroom stall.

Jake caught the look on your face. “You leaving?”

You nodded, pulling your skirt back down and smoothing it over your hips with trembling fingers. “Yeah. Friend stuff.”

He stepped back to give you space, reaching for his belt. “No number?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. “No name.”

His smile widened, slow and crooked. “That’s how you want to play it?”

You blushed. Again.

“I—It just feels like… if we say names, it makes this real.”

He stepped close again, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Sweetheart, that was real.”

You swallowed hard. “Still. Let’s leave it.”

He gave you a once-over, gaze dark and amused. “Fine. Have it your way.”

You turned to leave. Then paused at the door, glancing back.

He was standing in the middle of the bathroom, shirt half-buttoned, hair messy, watching you like he could devour you all over again.

You slipped out without another word.

The music pulsed through the floor and into your ribs, a deep bass that buzzed in your blood. Colored lights swept the dancefloor in ribbons of gold and violet. The whole place smelled like citrus and perfume and sweat — and, unfortunately, you were still wearing all the evidence of your earlier… activities.

Your hair was messy. Your lips were kiss-swollen. Your skirt had definitely seen better days.

Lucy found you within seconds.

“Oh my God,” she shouted over the music, grabbing your hand and dragging you into the glow of the bar. “There you are! Come meet everyone—wait—wait.” She stepped back and really looked at you. “What the hell happened to you?”

You flushed. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes like a predator. “You’re… flushed. And glowing. And your lipstick is halfway to your chin. And your skirt’s wrinkled to hell. What—oh my God. Did you hook up with someone?!”

You covered your face, laughing into your hands. “I—maybe.”

“Maybe? Babe, you look like you got wrecked.” Lucy grabbed both your arms, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. “Tell me everything. Right now.”

You leaned in, voice low. “It was… intense.”

She gasped. “Bathroom hookup?”

You nodded.

“Yesss,” she hissed, practically vibrating. “How old?”

“I don’t know. Early forties?”

“WHAT.” Her mouth dropped open. “You—you fucked a DILF?”

You choked on your drink, laughing. “Don’t say that.”

“I will absolutely say that.” She grabbed your arm again. “Was he hot?”

You blinked at her. “Lucy. He was ridiculous. Like—tall, tan, probably ex-military, hands the size of dinner plates—”

“Oh my God.”

“—and he was so confident. Like he owned the fucking room. And dominant. Like—bossy bossy.”

Lucy screamed, grabbing her drink and yours. “We are celebrating this. You finally let loose. And with a hot older guy in a public bathroom? You’re officially a legend.”

You shook your head, but you were grinning, cheeks warm. “I didn’t even get his name.”

She clinked her glass against yours. “Honestly? That just makes it hotter.”

You laughed and sipped your drink, heart still fluttering somewhere in your chest — half from the memory, half from knowing you might never see him again.

Or so you thought.

You woke slowly, tangled in too-soft sheets in a room that wasn’t yours, blinking against the golden morning light pouring through the window. Your body ached in the most telling ways — thighs sore, hips tender, lips a little too sensitive.

Oh.

Right.

That happened.

You covered your face with a groan, the memory of his voice still echoing in your head. Come for me. Look at you. Good girl.

It didn’t even feel real. It felt like some fantasy — one you definitely shouldn't still be thinking about with your best friend’s dad sleeping somewhere in this house.

You stretched, rolling out of bed in the tank top and shorts you’d passed out in last night, the waistband of your cotton sleep shorts twisted and riding low on your hips. Your tank was thin — too thin, probably, but it was warm out and it was just Lucy’s dad, right?

You padded down the hallway barefoot, still half-asleep, hair a mess, expecting silence and coffee.

Instead, you heard voices.

Laughter.

Sizzling.

You stepped into the kitchen and froze.

There, standing in front of the stove in grey sweatpants and a navy t-shirt that clung to his back, was him.

Jake. The stranger. The man who had you coming undone against a bathroom wall just twelve hours ago.

And he was flipping pancakes.

Flipping. Pancakes.

“Morning, sunshine!” Lucy called, perched on the kitchen island in pajama pants and a hoodie, swinging her legs lazily. “We were just talking about waking you up.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Jake turned his head — casually, over his shoulder — and froze the second he saw you.

Your eyes locked.

You were still in your tiny tank top. No bra. The cool air-conditioning was not helping the situation. His eyes flicked lower, then immediately back up, jaw tightening like he was biting back something.

Then his lips twitched. Barely. Controlled.

“Morning,” he said smoothly. Voice deeper than last night, but still just as devastating. “Sleep okay?”

You blinked.

Swallowed.

Nodded.

Lucy laughed. “We came in super late last night.” She sipped her juice.

Jake’s hand slipped on the spatula. The edge of the pancake started to burn, smoke curling up from the pan.

“Shit,” he muttered, turning quickly and adjusting the flame, jaw tight as he scraped it off. “One casualty.”

You were still frozen in the doorway, face flushed, heart in your throat. You couldn't even look at Lucy.

Jake didn’t look at you again.

Not really.

He handed Lucy her pancake with a calm, practiced air. “Eat up.” he said, his voice smoother now — Admiral Cool.

You finally shuffled in on stiff legs, pretending you hadn’t just relived every filthy detail in your head while watching him pour syrup like nothing happened.

Jake reached for another plate.

“Hungry?” he asked, glancing at you once — just once — under lashes and with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded quickly. “Starving.”

“Yeah,” he said, low, under his breath. “Bet you are.”

You nearly dropped dead on the spot.

You sat stiffly at the kitchen island, legs crossed under you, hands tight around the fork like it might anchor you to the present. The pancake on your plate was golden and fluffy, perfectly cooked — no sign of the earlier mishap — and Jake had even set a tiny pitcher of warm syrup next to it like this was some kind of cozy bed-and-breakfast and not an actual fever dream.

You weren’t blushing.

You weren’t blushing.

Except you definitely were.

“Okay, so,” Lucy said, mid-chew, “we’ve gotta do La Jolla Cove — it’s super pretty, you can swim with seals, and then maybe Coronado, because that beach is actually magical. Oh, and I have to take you to Balboa Park, there’s this little tea shop—”

You nodded quickly, stuffing a bite of pancake in your mouth to give yourself a reason not to respond. Across the island, Jake leaned back in his chair, coffee in hand, watching the two of you like this was just any normal morning.

Like he hadn’t had you trembling and breathless hours earlier.

You caught the flick of his gaze when your knees brushed together. When your hand shook slightly lifting your mug. When you bit your lip just a little too hard.

He said nothing.

But he was smirking.

“You okay?” Lucy asked, glancing over.

You blinked. “What?”

She laughed. “You look totally out of it. Hungover?”

You smiled quickly. “No, just still waking up.”

Jake hummed behind his coffee. “Had a good dream?” he asked lightly, his voice low and amused.

You kicked him under the island.

Hard.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of his mouth quirked higher.

“Anyway,” Lucy continued, oblivious, “I’ll give you the full tour of the house once we finish eating. It’s massive, but you’ll get used to it. Two floors, four bedrooms, five bathrooms. Dad turned the basement into a gym—”

Jake took another sip of coffee. “You’re welcome to use it.”

Your face burned.

“—and there’s a pool out back,” Lucy added. “And my dad’s office is upstairs at the end of the hall. Just don’t touch anything in there or he’ll have a meltdown.”

Jake gave a dramatic sigh. “One time someone moved a classified file—”

“I was ten!” Lucy argued.

You laughed, finally relaxing for half a second, and dared a glance at him.

Jake caught your eye.

And winked.

You nearly choked on your orange juice.

Lucy didn’t notice.

But he did. And he was enjoying every second of it.

“Alright,” Jake said, setting his mug in the sink. “I’ve got to head to base for a few hours. Meetings all day.”

Lucy groaned. “You’re always in meetings.”

“Comes with the title,” he said, reaching for his keys and aviators from the counter. “Don’t let her redecorate the house while I’m gone.”

You looked up just in time to catch his eyes on you — calm, unreadable, just a flicker of heat beneath the surface — before he slid on his sunglasses and turned toward the door.

“Be good,” he added over his shoulder.

“I’m a delight,” Lucy called.

But you… you stayed quiet.

Because you could still feel his fingers on your throat.

By early afternoon, the San Diego sun was blazing.

You and Lucy had changed into swimsuits — hers a sporty black bikini, yours a pale blue two-piece that suddenly felt a little too revealing after spending breakfast pretending you hadn’t been railed by her father.

The pool glistened behind the house, surrounded by stone tiles and tall hedges for privacy. A couple of lounge chairs were parked near the edge, complete with an umbrella and a tiny table that Lucy had already loaded with drinks and sunscreen.

She stretched her arms overhead with a sigh. “God, I missed this.”

You dipped your feet into the water. “You’re living in a resort.”

She grinned. “I know. But don't tell him that — he'll say he earned it or whatever.”

You smiled, settling onto the edge with your legs in the water.

“So,” she said, turning toward you, legs criss-crossed, “now that we’re alone—spill.”

You blinked. “Spill what?”

“The DILF. The mystery man. The bathroom hookup that left you looking like you'd just survived a very sexy natural disaster.”

You laughed, hiding your face. “Stop.”

“No. I need details. Was it a ‘he kissed me and it just happened’ situation or more like he told you what to do and you liked it way too much?”

You blushed instantly. “I—I mean… the second one.”

She squealed, nearly sliding off her towel. “Oh my God. So he was bossy?”

You nodded, reluctantly. “Very.”

“Tall?”

“So tall.”

She fanned herself. “This just keeps getting better.”

You sank back against your hands. “I didn’t think I was into older guys…”

“But?”

“But—he just knew what he was doing. Like, there was no second-guessing. He touched me like he owned me.”

Lucy made a choked noise. “I’m going to need you to write this down and send it to me like erotica.”

You threw a towel at her. She dodged it.

“Would you do it again?” she asked, leaning in like this was the most important question in the world. “With an older guy?”

You hesitated — and she saw it.

Her mouth dropped open. “You totally would!”

“I didn’t say that,” you muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

You smiled to yourself, legs swishing through the cool water, heart still racing with the memory of Jake’s hand on your throat and the way he’d said good girl like it meant something.

“I mean,” you admitted softly, “if it was him? Yeah. I would.”

The sun was dipping low, casting long golden shadows across the kitchen as Jake moved around like he’d never left — sleeves pushed up, wristwatch glinting, a dish towel slung casually over one shoulder. He was making dinner.

Not grabbing takeout. Not ordering pizza.

Making it.

From scratch.

You weren’t sure why that made everything worse.

He had the sleeves of his navy button-down rolled to his forearms, exposing strong, tanned arms that should’ve been illegal. The man looked like an ad for luxury bourbon, or some dangerously flirty Williams-Sonoma campaign. He had an apron on, for God’s sake. An apron.

Lucy leaned on the counter, stealing slices of tomato off the cutting board while he chopped garlic like a professional.

“You really didn’t have to cook,” you said, sliding into one of the chairs at the island.

Jake didn’t look up. “If I left dinner up to Lucy, you’d both be eating frozen waffles and jelly beans.”

“It happened once,” Lucy argued.

“Three times.”

“I was experimenting with textures!”

You smiled as Jake shook his head, dropping pasta into a pot. He moved with effortless confidence — the same kind he’d had in the bar. The same kind he’d had with you.

And you were hyper-aware of it.

He turned slightly as he stirred the sauce, glancing at you. “So,” he said casually, “you’re from London?”

You blinked. “Um. Yes. West London, technically.”

“Fancy,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed softly. “Not that fancy.”

Lucy scoffed. “Her parents live in a townhouse near Kensington Palace and her mum wears actual tweed.”

Jake raised a brow. “So, very fancy.”

You flushed. “It’s not like I grew up in a castle.”

“No,” Jake said, watching you too closely, “but I’m guessing the silver spoon came standard.”

The way he said it wasn’t unkind. More amused than anything. He was teasing you — gently, but deliberately — and you could feel the tension humming just under his voice.

“I turned out alright,” you said, sitting up straighter.

He shrugged. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

Lucy chimed in, oblivious. “Her dad’s in finance or something ridiculous. She’s the only person I know who went to a boarding school that had a wine cellar.”

“That is not true,” you protested, laughing. “It was a wine vault. It belonged to the headmaster.”

Jake chuckled, low and rough. “See, now you’re just making it worse for yourself.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting back a smile. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Just a little,” he said, stirring the sauce again. “You’re easy to fluster.”

Your cheeks went hot instantly. You looked down at your lap, trying not to picture his hand wrapped around your throat again. Trying not to remember how easily he’d pulled those same reactions from you when you weren’t fully dressed and sitting across the table from his daughter.

He was still watching you. You could feel it.

“Dinner’ll be ready in ten,” he said, finally turning back to the stove — but there was that twitch at the corner of his mouth again. The faintest smirk.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Dinner had gone surprisingly smoothly.

Lucy did most of the talking — rattling off beach plans, introducing you to San Diego slang you absolutely would not be using, and insisting you had to try a California burrito “even if it looked like a heart attack.”

Jake mostly listened, sipping from a glass of red wine, chiming in here and there with dry commentary. You’d mostly kept your eyes on your plate — trying not to stare too long at his hands or his forearms or his mouth. Trying not to wonder if Lucy would notice you blushing again.

You felt his gaze a few times — quiet, measured, knowing — but he didn’t say anything. Not really.

He just smirked when you stumbled over your words talking about uni.

And raised a brow when you very deliberately avoided looking at him.

By the time the dishes were cleared, Lucy yawned and declared she was “crashing hard,” disappearing upstairs with a sleepy wave and a promise to wake you up for yoga “probably.”

You lingered for a moment. Jake glanced your way once, a ghost of something like amusement behind his eyes.

“Goodnight,” you said, too soft.

“Night, sweetheart,” he replied.

And there it was again — that damn voice, low and casual and dripping with something that made your knees feel unreliable.

You turned and made it halfway up the stairs before exhaling for the first time in twenty minutes.

The house was dark and still, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floor under your bare feet. You’d tossed and turned for an hour before giving up, padding downstairs in an old oversized tee with no shorts underneath, just underwear. The shirt covered enough, you reasoned — and it was just to grab a glass of water. Everyone was asleep.

Or so you thought.

The faint clink of ice broke the silence just as you flicked on the kitchen light — and froze.

Jake stood barefoot at the counter in dark joggers and a plain black t-shirt, a glass of whiskey in his hand, eyes already on you like he’d been expecting you.

You stared at him.

He took a sip and tilted his head. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You moved toward the sink slowly. “I—yeah. Just needed some water.”

“Figured.”

You turned on the tap, filling your glass slowly. Your fingers trembled slightly, betraying you, and you could feel the heat in the air — subtle but there.

You sipped. And then, before you could stop yourself, blurted:

“Why aren’t you freaking out?”

Jake raised a brow. “Freaking out?”

“Over… over this.” You gestured vaguely between you. “Over what happened.”

He smiled — slow and lazy and devastating. “Because it’s funnier watching you freak out.”

You blinked. “You’re the worst.”

He took another drink, leaning casually against the counter. “That bad, huh?”

“No, it’s not—” You sighed. “I just… I didn’t know you were her dad. If I’d known—”

“Would you still have kissed me?” he asked, cutting you off gently. Not judging. Just… curious.

You stared at him.

And then whispered, “I don't know.”

His eyes warmed. Something flickered there. Not cockiness — something quieter.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” you added softly. “And then you were just… making pancakes like it never happened.”

He chuckled. “Well, I was hungry.”

You stared at your glass. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

Jake stepped closer — not too close, but enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to meet his eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly.

And somehow, that made it worse. Better. Both.

He watched you for a moment longer — and then nodded toward the stairs.

“You should get some sleep.”

You nodded, heart doing something complicated in your chest.

As you moved past him to leave, he added, “And sweetheart?”

You paused, glancing back.

“That oversized shirt’s not hiding anything.”

You flushed violently and fled.

His soft laugh followed you up the stairs.

The next several days in San Diego passed in a blur of sunshine, ocean breeze, and strategic avoidance.

You and Lucy went everywhere.

Morning yoga at Balboa Park. Beach days in La Jolla. Sunset drinks in Pacific Beach. You even pretended to like surfing for exactly forty-three minutes before bailing and claiming your British skin wasn’t built for board rash.

You were never home before dinner. And when you were home, you stuck to Lucy like glue.

All to avoid him.

Jake didn’t make it easy.

Every time you crossed paths — in the hallway, on the stairs, in the kitchen grabbing coffee — he was there. Leaning casually in a doorway, towel slung over his shoulder post-workout, t-shirt clinging to his chest like it had no right to.

And every time, he wore that same infuriating smirk. The one that said I remember every sound you made for me.

He didn’t say anything too bold — not with Lucy around — but he didn’t have to. The way his gaze lingered, the way his fingers brushed yours when handing off a plate, the way he always seemed to look like he was one second away from whispering something that would destroy you…

It was exhausting.

You were doing so well avoiding the tension. So well pretending that what happened in that bar was just a weird, impulsive blip you could bury under beach days and brunches.

Until Thursday night.

You were in your room half-dressed for bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, when Lucy appeared in the doorway wearing a sundress and a guilty smile.

“Hey, quick question,” she said.

You looked up.

“So Ryan kind of surprised me with a weekend getaway thing. Just two nights. His parents have a beach house a few hours north.”

You raised a brow. “Romantic.”

“I know.” She grinned, then hesitated. “I was gonna say no because I didn’t want to leave you alone, but Dad said he’d be around, so…”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh. You want me to stay?”

“Only if you’re cool with it,” she said quickly. “You can totally say no. I just didn’t want to bail on you.”

You hesitated.

Jake was already under your skin. Already in your head.

But saying no would just make it more obvious. And Lucy didn’t suspect a thing.

So you smiled. “Of course I don’t mind. Go. Have fun.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’ll hang out here. Work on my tan. Raid your snack drawer.”

Lucy lit up and launched herself at you with a grateful hug. “You’re the best. I owe you. I’ll bring you back something slutty and overpriced.”

You laughed weakly. “Looking forward to it.”

She darted back down the hall to call Ryan, and you sat there for a moment in silence, staring at the wall.

Alone.

In a house with Jake Seresin.

For an entire weekend.

You buried your face in your hands and groaned.

This was definitely not going to end well.

You spent the first hour after Lucy left convincing yourself you could hide in your room for the entire weekend.

Blanket burrito. Door locked. Streaming rom-coms, answering the occasional “you good?” text with a cheerful yep! and pretending you weren’t slowly spiraling into madness.

That plan lasted until about 3:15 p.m.

By then, the silence was too loud. The house too big. The mental image of Jake, shirtless and sweaty post-run, way too vivid.

So, like a rational adult, you decided to take the edge off with endorphins. Maybe if your body was tired, your brain would shut up.

You dug out your workout set — tight black shorts that hugged you far more snugly than you remembered, and a matching sports bra that pushed your boobs up like they were auditioning for a role. You considered changing.

You didn’t.

Hair up. Water bottle filled. Earbuds in.

The basement gym was cooler than expected — all clean lines, polished equipment, mirrors, and one of those expensive weight racks that looked like it belonged in an Avengers training montage.

You got to work.

Music up. Heart rate climbing. Glutes burning.

You were halfway through a squat set, wiping sweat from your collarbone with the hem of your sports bra, when you felt it.

That… prickle.

Like you were being watched.

You paused. Straightened. Glanced toward the stairs.

Jake stood at the bottom step, barefoot, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised like you were the plot twist in his otherwise average Friday.

You pulled out one earbud, chest still rising and falling. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged, casual. “Long enough to be impressed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Staring isn’t very polite.”

He smiled — slow, deliberate, eyes dragging down your frame and then back up. “Neither is walking around in shorts that should come with a warning label.”

You felt your entire body flush — part from the workout, part from him.

“Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “it’s a gym, not a church.”

Jake stepped off the stairs, padding across the mat with all the quiet confidence of someone very aware of what he looked like in grey sweatpants and a black tank.

“You always work out like that?” he asked, voice lower now. “Or is this part of your plan to drive me insane?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not a plan.”

“Shame,” he said, stopping just a little too close. “It’s working.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

He smiled — not smug exactly, but knowing. “Don’t stop on my account,” he added, gesturing to the weights.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you lied.

But when you turned back toward the rack, cheeks burning, you could feel him still watching — leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, like you were his favorite show and he wasn’t planning to change the channel anytime soon.

You picked up your dumbbells with shaking hands.

This weekend was going to kill you.

You’d been out of the shower for ten minutes — still wrapped in the towel, hair damp and skin flushed from the steam — when the knock came.

Three sharp raps against your door.

You froze.

Jake’s voice followed, easy and casual. “What do you want for dinner?”

You scrambled to answer, trying to sound normal. “I—I’m not picky. Whatever’s easiest.”

“Steak okay?”

You exhaled. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

A pause. Then: “You can come down if you want.”

Your heart kicked up. Of course he’d heard the shower. Of course he knew exactly what state you were in.

“Sure,” you called, voice higher than usual.

You dressed slowly — loose cotton shorts and a white tank, no bra. You told yourself it was just for comfort, but the thrum under your skin told a different story.

The kitchen was golden with late sun, the counters already set with ingredients.

Jake stood at the stove, barefoot again, sleeves rolled, a dish towel over his shoulder — and somehow he looked even better than before. Relaxed. In control. Like this was his space.

Like you were just another thing in it.

He glanced at you once, then looked back to the cutting board.

“Cut the peppers,” he said. “And the onion.”

You swallowed and stepped up beside him, fingers brushing his for half a second when you reached for the knife.

The tension was immediate.

His heat radiated next to you, his cologne a slow burn in your nose. You could feel him there — not touching, but near. The kind of near that makes your breath shallow.

You chopped. Silently. Carefully.

He was quiet too.

Until—

“You always this quiet when you’re turned on?”

The knife froze under your hand.

You turned to look at him, but he was still at the stove, flipping the steak like he’d asked about the weather.

“I—” You swallowed. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he said simply.

He turned to you fully then, one hand braced against the counter, watching you like he was letting you pretend you had any power here.

“You’ve been trying not to look at me all week,” he said. “You’ve been walking around in tiny shorts like that’s not a choice. You don’t have to want this.”

He stepped closer. “But you do.”

You stared at him, pulse hammering.

And then?

You kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It was messy, urgent, all tongue and teeth and hands.

Jake groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, spinning you around and lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. Your thighs parted around him automatically.

He kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone — leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses like he was mapping you out again, tasting skin he hadn’t touched in over a week.

You tugged at his hair, breath coming in short gasps.

“Say it,” he murmured against your throat.

“Say what?” you whispered, trembling.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Tell me what you want.”

You flushed. “Jake, I—”

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You licked your lips, chest rising. “I want your mouth on me.”

He smirked — all slow-burning satisfaction. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Well, beg for it.”

Your cheeks couldn't get any redder as you let out little whimpers mixed with Please, Jake, please, and I'll be so good, please.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Right there in the kitchen.

He pushed your shorts down, gripped your thighs, and buried his face between them like he’d been starving. Like he’d missed this. Missed you. Like nothing else mattered.

You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “Oh my God—Jake—”

He didn’t let up. Didn’t stop. Stayed locked there like he was built for it, murmuring filthy praise against your skin that made you shake. His tongue savoured every inch of you, making sure to collect all the wetness from your cunt as if he was afraid he'd miss any.

When your legs started trembling around him, he finally slowed — just enough for you to catch your breath.

You stared down at him, dazed. “That was the first time someone’s…” His eyes snapped up.

“You’re joking.”

You shook your head, still breathless. “Never.”

He didn’t speak for a beat. Just stared — and then leaned in again.

“Then you’re not done.”

You barely had time to exhale before his mouth was on you again, his hands keeping you right where he wanted you.

And all you could do was say his name.

Over. And over. And over.

Your breathing was ragged.

The countertop cool beneath your thighs, the air heavy with heat and something even more dangerous — the slow, steady realization that this wasn’t just lust anymore.

Jake rose slowly, mouth still damp, jaw tight with something like restraint. His hair was a mess from your fingers, his chest rising and falling with each breath, like even he was struggling to keep himself together.

He leaned over you, bracing one hand on the counter beside your hip, the other sliding up your thigh, firm and steady.

You were still shaking.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did.

Your eyes met — and this time, it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug or playful. It was real. Raw. A flash of something deeper in the way he studied you, like he was memorizing everything: your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the stunned way you looked at him like he’d cracked something open inside you.

Jake reached for your face and brushed your hair behind your ear, his fingers surprisingly gentle.

“First time?” he said, quieter now.

You nodded, breath still catching. “Yeah.”

He held your gaze. “That’s a fucking crime.”

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers still curled around his wrist like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Jake leaned in, kissed the corner of your mouth — once, then again. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss that made you forget anyone had ever kissed you before.

Then his lips moved to your jaw, your cheek, the hollow beneath your ear.

“You taste like sin,” he murmured, and you shivered.

“Jake—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”

He pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now — just for you.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Just…”

“Overwhelmed,” he finished for you.

You nodded again.

His hands slid around your waist, easing you down off the counter like you weighed nothing. You felt soft and unsteady, like your knees hadn’t gotten the memo that it was over.

Jake didn’t let go.

He held you there, hands firm at your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles into your sides. His eyes were still locked on yours.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said.

“About what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re gonna kill me if you keep walking around like that.”

You smiled, cheeks still pink.

He kissed your temple.

“Come here,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to slip his arms around your thighs.

Before you could answer, you were lifted clean off the ground.

You gasped, instinctively clutching his shoulders. “Jake—”

He didn’t break stride, didn’t flinch. “Let me take care of you.”

His voice was low. Steady. Like a promise.

You buried your face against his shoulder as he carried you upstairs — strong arms holding you close, slow, deliberate footsteps echoing in the quiet house. His scent wrapped around you again, warm and clean and maddening.

The door to his room creaked open.

You barely had time to glance around — dark wood, clean lines, the faint scent of cedar and something distinctly him — before he laid you gently on the bed, like you were something he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

You stared up at him, chest still rising and falling, heart pounding like a drum beneath your ribs.

Jake stood at the edge of the bed, eyes raking over you slowly, devouring every inch of exposed skin, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he was tasting you all over again.

“You drive me crazy,” he said, voice thick.

You whispered, “Then do something about it.”

His smile turned dangerous.

“Oh, I plan to.”

He climbed over you, hands planting on either side of your head as he hovered — tall, broad, body thrumming with tension he hadn’t unleashed yet.

His mouth descended on yours, not gentle this time — desperate, needy. You arched into him, fingers sliding up the hard planes of his back, pulling him down as close as he’d let you.

“Need you to beg for it,” he muttered against your lips.

“What?”

His teeth grazed your neck. “You heard me.”

You whimpered, breath catching.

“Say it,” he growled, one hand sliding under your tank, up your ribs, stopping just before your breast. “Tell me what you want.”

Your cheeks burned. “I—I want you.”

“Not enough.”

His mouth ghosted over your chest, warm breath teasing your skin. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Want me to wreck you properly this time?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes. God, yes. Please.”

His groan was low and rough. “That’s better.”

He tugged your top over your head, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping a gift he already knew was his. Then he kissed you — hard, possessive — and moved lower.

And lower.

And lower.

You gasped when his mouth found you again, this time with no interruptions, no teasing, no distractions.

Just Jake. Starved. Locked in.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. His mouth moved like he’d studied you, like he knew exactly how to pull you apart. His hands pinned your thighs open as your back arched off the sheets, whimpers pouring out of you like prayers.

���Say my name,” he murmured against you. Ordering.

“Jake—Jake—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he deepened, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough. Your hands fisted in his hair, hips bucking — and he held you there, firm and unrelenting.

When your orgasm hit, it tore through you like lightning.

But Jake didn’t stop.

Not even close.

You gasped, trembling. “Jake, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice wrecked. “I’m not done with you.”

He kissed your thigh, then your stomach, then your ribs, dragging his mouth all the way back up your body like a man possessed.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he growled, lining himself over you now, breath rough in your ear. “And again. Until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your nails dug into his back.

And you whispered, “Then take me.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

You barely remembered how your tank top ended up across the room.

One second you were gasping his name, and the next, Jake was kneeling between your thighs, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t just fit — he was sculpted.

Tanned skin stretched over thick muscle, every line of his torso defined like something carved from stone. Wide chest. Shoulders that could carry the weight of the world. A six-pack that looked like it had its own six-pack.

He looked like he worked out seven days a week because, clearly, he did.

Your pussy clenched around nothing. Jake caught it and smirked, voice low and obscene as he climbed back over you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his hand trailing up your side. “So damn tiny underneath me.”

You whimpered as he leaned down, pressing you into the mattress with the weight of his chest.

“Could fold you in half if I wanted to,” he growled into your ear. “Hold your wrists in one hand. Pin you anywhere. You want that, baby?”

You nodded, already dizzy from his voice alone.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes. I want that, please.”

He chuckled darkly, hand sliding up your throat again — not squeezing, not yet, just there, a reminder.

“So polite,” he murmured. “You gonna be good for me?”

You bit your lip. “If you let me.”

His eyes flashed.

Jake kissed you hard — tongue, teeth, everything. His hand stayed on your throat, not applying pressure, just letting you feel it. His thumb brushed slowly over your pulse, like he was reminding you who had control of your breath.

Then he kissed down your neck again. Lower. Across your chest. Your stomach. Saying things between kisses that made your spine arch and your fingers clutch the sheets.

“Can’t believe no one’s touched you like this,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along your skin. “All this time. Wasted.”

He rocked against you — and you felt him, hard and heavy between your thighs, making you cry out softly just from the friction.

You felt tiny underneath him. And he loved it.

“Feel that?” he rasped, grinding against your core with slow, maddening pressure. “You’re gonna take it, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Jake—please—”

“Tell me how badly you want it.”

“I want it so bad, I—God, I need it—”

That was all it took.

He slid his hand beneath your thigh and hitched your leg up high on his waist, lining himself up with practiced precision. When he pushed into you, it was slow, deliberate — like he wanted you to feel everything.

And you did.

Every. Inch. Of him.

He stretched you so wide, you saw stars.

Jake groaned, low and broken, one hand squeezing your hip as the other returned to your throat — more pressure this time, just enough to send your head spinning in the best possible way.

“You’re so small,” he rasped, burying himself deeper. “So tight around me. Can barely fucking move.”

You gasped, legs trembling.

He moved then — slow at first, then deeper, harder, rhythm building like a thunderstorm you couldn’t outrun. Each thrust knocked the breath out of you, every drag of his body sending fire through your limbs.

Your nails left red marks on his shoulders, his back. You moaned his name again and again, and he owned every sound you made.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let me hear you.”

“Jake—!”

“You’re mine now, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes—yes—yes—”

He kissed you again — hard, possessive, hands roaming like he couldn’t get enough. Then he shifted just slightly, angling his hips, and the next thrust had you screaming.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even think about it.

“You gonna come again?” he whispered against your lips. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Want every damn part of you ruined for anyone else.”

You shattered.

And this time, he followed — groaning low in your ear, body tensing as he came with you, both of you tangled in sheets and sweat and something dangerous.

Something that wasn’t just heat anymore.

When it finally slowed — when your body stopped trembling and your breath came back in broken gasps — Jake brushed your hair from your face, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“Still think hiding in your room all weekend was the plan?”

You laughed, exhausted.

And he kissed you again.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of two hearts slowing down.

Your limbs were tangled in his. The sheets were kicked low around your hips, his skin warm against your back, one arm slung heavy around your waist.

You could still feel the echo of him everywhere — the weight of his hands, the press of his mouth, the sound of your name spilling from his lips like he owned it.

Jake didn’t say much as you drifted closer to sleep, but you felt his hand smoothing up and down your side, his thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you.

And eventually — wrapped in his warmth, breathing in his scent — your body went still.

His followed.

You woke first.

The light was soft and golden, filtering through the half-closed blinds. Jake was flat on his back beside you, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his chest. Hair tousled. Lips parted just slightly.

Even asleep, he looked smug.

The blanket had slipped down to his hips, and you could see the defined curve of his abdomen — those unfair lines and ridges, the way his chest rose and fell slowly, the deep grooves of his lower stomach disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You bit your lip, heart pounding for a different reason now.

Carefully, slowly, you shifted beneath the sheet, leaning over him, pressing a kiss to the curve of his jaw.

He stirred — but didn’t open his eyes.

Another kiss. Lower, just beneath his collarbone.

You felt him exhale.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep, “if you’re doing what I think you’re doing…”

You kissed down his chest.

Jake’s eyes opened — slow, lazy — and the look he gave you made your cheeks burn instantly.

“Well, good morning to me,” he murmured, folding his hands behind his head like he was watching the sunrise. “Didn’t know you were the type to repay favors so early.”

You didn’t answer. You just smiled — innocent and wicked all at once — and kept going.

Jake’s breath hitched. You saw it in the way his chest rose.

“Look at you,” he groaned, tilting his head back against the pillows. “So polite. So eager. That mouth’s gonna ruin me, isn’t it?”

You hummed, lips trailing over the sharp line of his lower abs.

Jake looked down at you, his smirk filthy.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” he said, voice hoarse and slow. “Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”

You did.

And Jake?

Jake watched the whole time — eyes heavy, lips parted, muscles twitching under your touch. His praise came low and rough, muttered between sharp breaths and bitten-off groans.

“God, you look so good down there.”

“Those hands barely fit around me, don’t they?”

"Look at you, choking around my cock."

“Fuck—keep going, just like that—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

You let him fall apart in your hands, your mouth, your name on his tongue like it was the only thing he knew how to say.

When it was over, his chest was heaving, his hands finally pulling you back up toward him. You curled beside him, flushed and warm and grinning like you’d stolen something.

Jake looked at you, dazed.

“Well,” he said, still catching his breath, “you just made this weekend very hard to survive.”

You raised a brow. “Hard to survive, or just hard?”

He laughed — that deep, low laugh that went straight through you — and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m keeping you,” he murmured into your hair.

And you didn’t argue.

You didn’t leave the house again.

You barely left each other.

From the moment Jake pulled you back into his bed Saturday morning, nothing existed outside the walls of his home. Time blurred, clothes vanished, the rest of the world faded to white noise.

He was insatiable.

And you?

You let him ruin you, over and over.

The kitchen counter was the first casualty.

It started with a kiss, casual, teasing — until he lifted you up and spread you out like he owned the place. The marble was cool beneath your thighs, but Jake was nothing but heat: between your legs, on your tongue, in your lungs.

You lost track of how long you stayed there. All you remembered was the ache between your hips and the sound of his voice in your ear, telling you exactly how beautiful you looked falling apart.

Then it was the living room.

You made it halfway to the couch before he tackled you to the floor.

The rug left marks on your knees. Jake left them everywhere else.

He liked you there — beneath him, pinned, breathless. His size dwarfing yours, his hands braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on your face as he made you cry his name like it was your only language.

And then there was the pool.

The sun was high, the water shimmering, and you had just barely dipped your feet in when he came up behind you — all slow smirks and wet hands on your hips.

“Thought you were hiding from me again,” he murmured against your neck.

You turned, heart pounding. “Does it look like I’m hiding?”

“No,” he said, tugging the tie of your bikini bottom loose with one knuckle. “But you should.”

The water was warm. Jake’s body, slick and strong beneath the sun, was hotter. He kept you afloat with nothing but the strength of his arms, one hand guiding your hips while the other silenced every protest you tried to make.

You were gasping before you even left the shallow end.

That night, it happened on the floor of his office.

Then again in the shower.

Then again in the bed — twice.

You lost count of how many times he made you come. You lost words.

By Sunday afternoon, your thighs ached, your lips were swollen, and you couldn’t sit properly without wincing — but the way Jake looked at you every time you winced? Like he was proud of it?

That made you melt all over again.

He was still vocal. Still teasing.

He loved how small you were beneath him. How easy it was to lift you, fold you, move you. How your body reacted like it was made just for his hands.

“Look at you,” he muttered sometime Sunday evening, dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh. “Spent. Shaking. Wrecked.”

You moaned, head thrown back.

“I should feel bad,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “But I really, really don’t.”

And you didn’t want him to.

Because even with the soreness, the bruises, the muscles you hadn’t felt in years now screaming — you’d never felt more alive. Never felt more wanted.

Never felt more you. You were a tangle of limbs and sheets in his bed again, your skin pressed to his chest, his fingers tracing slow, idle lines along your spine.

You were half-asleep, head on his shoulder, when he murmured, “You okay?”

You nodded, lips brushing his skin. “I can’t walk. But I’m happy.”

He chuckled — low, smug, and entirely too satisfied. “Good.”

You closed your eyes.

“I’ll make you dinner in a bit,” he added. “You’ll need the calories.”

You groaned, laughing softly. “You’re going to kill me.”

Jake kissed your hair and pulled you closer.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting everything in a soft, golden haze. The sheets beneath you were warm, wrinkled, and familiar now — scented with sweat, and skin, and the traces of everything you and Jake had done that weekend.

But right now, he was different.

Slower. Gentler. Focused.

He was stretched out beside you, half-propped on one elbow, fingers tracing idle shapes against your bare stomach. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, eyes drinking you in like he was trying to memorize the way you looked in this light.

Quiet. Flushed. Wrecked.

But his.

He leaned in and kissed you — not greedy this time, not rushed. It was warm. Lingering. Like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to kiss you just once more.

Then again.

And again.

“You’re trouble, sweetheart,” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, shyly, your fingers sliding along his forearm. “You started it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and fond. “And I’d do it again.”

His hand drifted lower, along your ribs, brushing the outer curve of your hip, trailing slow, reverent lines along your skin like he was learning you all over again.

You leaned into his touch, breath hitching slightly.

“I want to try something,” you whispered.

Jake stilled — not in alarm, but in the way a predator does when it hears something interesting.

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heat already creeping into your cheeks. “I—I’ve never…” Your voice faded.

He watched you carefully. “Never what?”

You glanced down, words barely above a whisper. “Been on top.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

And then?

He smiled.

Not teasing. Not cocky.

Just slow-burning, stunned pleasure.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you don’t know what that kind of information does to a man like me.”

You bit your lip.

“You want to try?” he asked softly. “You sure?”

You nodded, voice still small. “Only if… only if you want me to.”

He sat up a little, hands moving to your hips as he gently guided you up and over him, settling you across his lap.

“Oh, I want you to,” he said, gaze fixed on where your bodies met, his voice husky and dark. “I want to watch you take it. Watch you fall apart on top of me.”

You gasped, hands finding his chest — solid, warm, so much. He made you feel small, even from above.

He reached up, cupped your jaw again, and kissed you — deeper now, with purpose. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid along your lower back, guiding you without forcing, leading you.

“You go as slow as you need,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “I’ll be right here. I’ve got you.”

You braced yourself, heart racing, nerves fluttering in your belly.

But as you sank down — slow, careful, guided by his hands and his voice and the dark heat in his eyes — Jake let out a groan so raw it nearly undid you.

“Fuck, look at that,” he muttered, head tilting back. “You’re even tighter like this. Taking me so deep, baby—Jesus.”

You moaned softly, breath shaking. His hands steadied you, thumbs brushing the soft skin of your thighs.

“You feel so good,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “So small on top of me. Look at you. Look how pretty you are like this.”

You moved — tentative at first, adjusting to the new angle, the pressure — but Jake met you with patience and quiet encouragement, his hands trailing over your waist, your breasts, your thighs, everywhere.

“Ride me, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice thick. “Nice and slow. Let me feel all of you.”

And you did.

You moved for him. Shy at first, uncertain — but the way he moaned? The way he gripped your hips, watched you with worship in his eyes?

It gave you confidence. Power.

You rocked your hips again — deeper this time — and Jake groaned, both hands flying to your waist.

“Oh, hell, that’s it,” he breathed. “You’re learning so fast. You gonna come like this for me? On top of me?”

You whimpered, nodding.

He pulled you down into a kiss, one hand sliding up to your throat again — just resting there this time, his thumb stroking your jaw like a promise.

“That’s my girl.”

The tension built slowly this time — not frantic, not greedy. Just long, drawn-out bliss. Every grind of your hips lit another spark. Every sound from his mouth made your body sing.

And when you did fall apart — right there in his lap, shaking and moaning and clinging to him like you’d never been touched before — Jake held you through it, kissed your temple, groaned your name like it tasted good.

You collapsed against his chest, panting.

He stroked your back, murmured praise, pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Think that’s my new favorite view,” he said against your skin, voice like warm honey. “You. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “I liked it.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

He shifted, still cradling you in his lap, hands warm and wide across your back. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You tilted your head, dazed. “No?”

Jake smiled against your neck.

“Not even close.”

[spidey-webz]

joseph quinn might have won me over with this role as johnny storm finally

[spidey-webz]

where do i go with my newly acquired glen powell obsession... this blog??

[spidey-webz]

no one asked but i know rooster is such a munch. if he could live with his face between your legs forever, he absolutely would.

[spidey-webz]

sorry i haven’t answered some asks in a while, i haven’t been around much <3 i’ll get to it today!

[spidey-webz]

BOB REYNOLDS WHEN HE... FINGERS YOU.

Robert is nervous the first time his fingers slip under your clothes.

Not because he doesn’t want it—God, he wants it—but because he doesn’t trust his strength. He keeps looking at you like he’s afraid he’ll break something precious. Like you’re glass, and he’s the hurricane that forgot how to breathe gently. His fingertips hover above your inner thigh for so long it makes your skin tingle with anticipation, and when he finally touches you, it’s featherlight. Like he’s apologizing before anything’s even happened.

“I… I’ll be gentle,” he whispers, voice tight in his throat. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

It’s never too much. If anything, he’s too careful—tentative and trembling with restraint as he traces circles over your underwear, eyes glued to your face for any flicker of discomfort. You guide him through it at first, whispering praise and soft gasps against his cheek, letting him know that he’s doing good, that you want this—want him. That you trust him, even if he doesn’t trust himself yet.

When his fingers finally slip inside you, stretching you out, he gasps like he’s the one being touched. His mouth falls open just a little, breath hitching as he feels your warmth tighten around his knuckles. You watch the way his brows furrow, the way his lips part—so red and kiss-bitten—as he watches your body react to him. There’s reverence in his gaze, awe, like he can’t believe someone like him is allowed to make you feel this good.

And once he realizes he can—really can—he starts to fall apart. Every soft moan you let out seems to undo him, unraveling his nerves thread by thread. He breathes your name like it’s a prayer, fingers moving slow and deep, trying to memorize how you sound when you gasp, how you shiver when he curls them just right.

You can feel his wrist trembling with effort—he’s holding back so much, scared he’ll push too far, go too fast, lose control. But his need is growing by the second, and you can see it in the way his free hand clutches the sheets, knuckles white.

When you whimper and arch into his touch, his control falters.

“Does that feel okay?” he asks breathlessly, voice wrecked. “I—I wanna make you feel good. Please, let me—”

You do. You let him. And when your body clenches around his fingers and you come undone beneath him, his eyes go wide like he’s witnessed something holy. His lips part in stunned silence, and you swear he nearly comes in his pants just from the sight.

And through it all—he’s still blushing.

[spidey-webz]

Thunderbolts* (2025)