Hello I'm new to your fics and I love them SM I was recently scrolling and I came across an ask about Jake x Curvy f/r vibes based off the song Sometimes Back Wood, and i just wanted to let you know I'm excited for that one cause I know you'll kill it
All my love x
omg thank you so much 😭 I am working to get some requests out, but life has been licking my ass and I'm so behind but I promise I have a few in the works and coming soon! ❤️ I'm so glad you enjoy them, that means the world to me!
So Ive been thinking about this friends to lovers situation lately.. and. Forgive me. Its a lot.
Let's say you met the boys right after hs. But you've always been the closest with Jake. No body can explain why, not even the two of you, you both just click. You've traveled with them, so much so that its been rumored that you were Jakes gf countless times. But. You both never took it there. You just never thought anything of it. Platonic soulmates always seemed right. Atleast, that's what you always TRIED to convince yourself. But none the less, Jake was the closest to a loving supportive boyfriend youd ever had, and Jake could say the same about you.
So. The band is out at a bar, celebrating their first show of the new tour. You get up to go get another drink. Here's where things get interesting. While you may not have had many boyfriends, it doesnt mean you havnt had your share of unwanted attention from creepy men. This man hits on you, and your clearly very uncomfortable. Little do you know, Jake, ever the protector, has been watching you since you left the table. He doesn't intervene yet tho. You've had the conversation with him. You can handle yourself. He doesn't have to jump in and threaten to fight every guy who hits on you. So Jake stays.. waiting.
Then it happens. This man puts his hands on you. Jake waits another second to see how you react.. but when your eyes meet his from across the room, he gets his answer. That's when Jake loses it. No body touches his best friend without her consent.
Jake goes up to this man, tells him the fuck off, and since the man still didn't want to back off, Jake takes more serious matters. Finally, the dude fucks off, with heaps of blood pouring out of his nose. And somehow from all this, your weirdly turned the fuck on. Its not the first time Jake has stood up for you, but from some reason, it has you feeling different this time. Seeing Jake lately, freshly 30, looking manlyer than ever, all the things he's accomplished over the years. Suddenly all these feelings rush into you. You've never loved someone so much before. And you've never been more proud of him. Or MORE turned on by him.
Of course, you cant keep this all to yourself. You HAVE to tell him. You tell eachother everything. His reaction to it all is something you never knew you needed. You both call it a night, and escape to the hotel. And. Yeah you know what they do.
After making love, and proclaiming all their pent up feelings, they both are lying there in bliss. And suddenly, Jake says "Marry me." He still promises to buy her a ring. A beautiful one that she would love. He would ask her families blessing, And he would propose to her properly. And surprise her with it at any random point. Because thats what she deserves. But.. in that moment Jake knew. He always knew. He would end up with her one way or another. He had to ask her right there, right after the first time they said I love you, and it ment something deeper than what it always was before.
(Can you tell im on my period? )
OHHHHHHHHH THIS IS SO GOOD I LOVE THIS SM I'M ON ITTTTTTT!!!!
We've had jake walk in on the reader.. how about the reader walks in on jake touching himself 👀 bonus points if he's looking at the photos y/n has sent to him and he gets super embarrassed 🙈
warnings: little bit of enemies-to-lovers, asshole!jake, mechanic!jake, banter, arguing, car stuff? idk, SMUT 18+!, makeout sesh in the mechanic shop, getting interrupted, oral sex (f. rec), fingering (f. rec), unprotected sex, dirty talk, teasing, no pull-out game, lemme know if I missed any!
a/n: Sorry for the month long silence, hopefully yall enjoy this! Love yall bunches mwah xx
Masterlist
You have the worst luck.
That is the only explanation.
Not bad luck. Not occasional inconvenience. Not the normal, everyday kind of misfortune most people deal with.
The kind of luck that makes your car die in the middle of traffic on a Tuesday afternoon while smoke pours from under the hood.
The worst part is— You love that car.
Objectively, it's a complete piece of shit.
The paint is faded. The air conditioning only works when it feels like it. The driver's side window makes a horrifying grinding noise every time you roll it down, and there's a stain on the passenger seat that has existed so long neither you nor science can identify its origin.
But it's your piece of shit.
You've had it forever.
It's gotten you through high school, college, terrible jobs, worse relationships, and more late-night drives than you can count. It rattles when it hits fifty-five miles per hour and sounds vaguely concerning whenever you start it in cold weather, but it always gets you where you need to go.
Until today.
Today it finally decides to give up.
So now you're standing in the open bay of the most popular auto shop in town while your beloved disaster sits on a lift looking pathetic and betrayed.
Because apparently everyone in town agrees there's only one person worth taking a broken car to.
Jake.
The best mechanic in town.
The hottest man you've ever seen.
Brown hair carelessly gathered into a low bun at the nape of his neck, as if he'd twisted it back without a second thought hours ago and never bothered fixing it.
His eyes are dark brown, heavy-lidded and sharp all at once, carrying the kind of weary intensity that made your stomach flip when they landed on you.
A strong jaw anchored his face, softened only slightly by surprisingly full cheekbones. There was a permanent crease between his brows, like he spent most of his days concentrating on things that came apart for a living.
He wore a dark blue work shirt with his name stitched above the pocket, tucked into a pair of worn jeans that fit far too well for a mechanic. The fabric stretched across solid thighs, making you wonder how he managed to crawl beneath cars without splitting a seam.
He wasn't particularly tall, but he didn't need to be. There was something undeniably sturdy about him— lean muscle built through years of work.
Grease stained his shirt and smudged his forearms, but his hands resting on his hips were unexpectedly nice; broad-palmed, capable, and rough in all the right places.
You watch as he circles your car slowly, hands shoved into the pockets of grease-stained work pants. The smell of oil and hot metal hangs heavy in the air around him.
“You should scrap this piece of shit,” he says simply.
You immediately frown, “I'm emotionally attached to her.”
“That seems to be the only thing keeping her together,” he says, looking up at you.
“How much will it cost to fix it?”
“More than it's worth.”
“Can I get a number?” You ask, matching his tone.
He lifts a brow, “Around four or five.”
“Thousand?” He stares blankly at you as you sigh, “Fuck.”
“You'd be better off selling it to a junk yard and getting something better,” he shrugs a single shoulder.
“I can't afford something better,” you grumble, rubbing a hand over your face, “I can't even afford to get it fixed!”
He looks away, his lips pursed as if to say— That's not my problem.
“Can I do payments?” You ask weakly.
He sighs, “Alright, look. If you want me to fix, I will. I'll cut the cost in half, and yeah, we can do payments. Just let me know what you wanna do.”
“I want it fixed, I just—”
“Alright,” he cuts in, “Then I'll fix it.”
“Okay,” you nod once.
“You should probably get what you need out of it and get a ride home,” he says, reaching up to shut the hood, “It's gonna be a few days, at least.”
“Okay,” you repeat, your shoulders sinking, “Great.”
—
Jake is waiting beside your car, looking exactly like someone preparing to deliver bad news. His arms are crossed over his chest. His expression is unimpressed. Annoyed, even.
You force a smile, "Hi."
His eyes sweep over you once before settling somewhere over your shoulder, "I give it a week."
You blink. "What?"
"A week before this thing breaks down again."
A laugh escapes you despite yourself. "I thought you fixed it."
"I did." His jaw tightens. He reaches into his pocket and holds out your keys. "Doesn't change the fact that it's probably the worst car I've ever worked on."
You snatch the keys from his hand, "You're such an asshole."
He shrugs, "I'm right."
You roll your eyes, though it's harder than it should be when he's standing this close. Grease smudges the side of his forearm. His dark shirt is stretched across broad shoulders. He smells faintly of motor oil and whatever soap he uses.
Unfortunately, it works for him.
"Well," you say, taking a step backward toward your car. "Thanks. I guess."
Jake exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you've personally exhausted him, "Yeah."
For a second neither of you move.
The air hangs heavy between you. The distant sounds of the garage drift across the lot. Neither of you seems particularly eager to leave, despite the fact that neither of you has anything left to say.
Then Jake breaks first, "Try not to kill it."
A grin tugs at your mouth, "No promises."
He mutters something under his breath before turning toward the garage.
You watch him go.
Just for a second.
Maybe two.
Your gaze drifts lower before you can stop it, lingering on the way his jeans fit far too well.
Jesus.
—
You've had your car back for possibly not even three days.
It's running better than before, but you can still hear the faint rattling and feel the jerky idling it does.
It's not normal, but it's familiar.
You're humming to the radio, fingers tapping on the dash, when your car suddenly lurches. Panic immediately fills your body as you hear the engine start to sputter.
“No,” you whisper, as your beloved car slows, a sick sputtering noise coming from beneath the hood, “No, no, no—”
It dies.
You shift it into park, turning the key off, before you stare at the dash, watching it light up like a Christmas tree. Your eyes shoot to the gas level, frowning when you find it's still got three quarters of a tank in it.
You turn the key once, and you're met with a loud grinding noise, before you shut it off again.
“Fuck!”
You sink down into the seat, tears falling your eyes as you realize you're fucked. You're going to have to call someone.
Jake.
You stare at the windshield for a few moments, before you reach for your phone, huffing a sigh of dread as you go to your contacts.
After a beat of your finger hovering over the call button, you press it.
It rings three times, then, “This is Mark, how can I help you?”
You nearly sob with relief— it's not Jake on the line. You quickly tell Mark your name and your situation, and he chuckles.
“Didn't Jake tell you that would probably happen?”
“I didn't expect it so soon!” You defend, “Besides, if he's the best mechanic in town, this shouldn't have been a problem!”
“You got me there,” he says, still laughing, “Alright, where are you at?”
You tell him, looking around at the street signs.
“Okay. Give me about 20 minutes, we'll getcha.”
“Thank you, Mark,” you say softly, “I appreciate it so much.”
“Of course! Jake's gonna love this when he finds out,” he says, and ends the call before you can even respond.
You slump back into your seat. At least Jake wouldn't be showing up to rub it in your face. No I told you so's to ruin your night even further.
You're not sure how long you wait, but by the time the tow truck shows up, you're antsy and exhausted. You want to go home and sleep. And possibly cry.
You get out of your car, fidgeting with your keys as the truck door opens.
And fucking Jake gets out.
“Oh, my God,” you mutter, your stomach sinking as he places his hands on his hips.
“You still think it's worth fixing?” He asks, lifting an eyebrow as he smugly tilts his head.
“Who asked you?” You snap, crossing your arms.
And for the first time since you've met him, he grins at you. An actual grin. And God help you, it's beautiful.
Then he looks at your car and shakes his head, “Get in the fuckin’ truck,” he says, hooking his thumb toward the tow truck behind him.
You sigh, your shoulders slumping as you trudge toward the cab, grumbling to yourself all the while.
You watch through the side mirror as he works— you nearly cry at seeing your car being lifted onto the bed of the tow truck once again.
You slump into the seat, tears brimming your eyes as Jake gets in.
“What happened to it this time?” He asks, leaning over and setting the air vents onto you, letting the warm air blow over you.
“I dunno,” you grumble, “I was driving, it sputtered, a bunch of lights came on, so I pulled over— and it just fucking died.”
“I told you that car wasn't worth it.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us have the money to just go out and get the hottest thing on the lot, Jake.”
“There are other options, Y/n.”
“Mind your business.”
“This is the second time your car has been towed to my shop in under a week, sweetheart— I'm pretty sure your car is somewhat my business.”
“Whatever.”
He shakes his head, but lets it die. Good, you think, didn't wanna talk to him anyway.
But fuck, he looks good tonight. His hair is down this time, his hair tie on his wrist, and he's in normal clothes versus the usual mechanic garb you've always seen him in.
A black shirt, unbuttoned halfway, denim jeans that cling perfectly to his thick thighs.
“Were you working tonight?” You ask, Looking like that?
“No, I was supposed to be off tonight.”
“Why'd you come get me then?”
“Office called.”
“Oh.”
And what do you say to that?
You think he does it on purpose— gives you short answers so you'll shut up. But you can't take a hint, or you're just too stubborn.
“Were you out somewhere?”
He glances at you, “Yeah.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeah, well, c'est la vie.”
“What were you out doing?” You ask, picking at an imaginary loose thread on your jeans, trying for conversation.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“I'm not, I was just—”
“Interrogating me.”
“Why is everything so difficult with you? I was trying to make conversation, but you're genuinely just a total dickhead.”
“I was out with my brother, does that answer your question?”
“Yeah, was that so difficult to have an adult conversation?”
“Fuck's sake,” he sighs.
“Sometimes I just wanna hit you over the head with the closest heaviest object.”
He actually stares at you as if you'd grown two heads, a slightly mortified, annoyed expression on his face,“I could drop your car and leave you on the side of the road tonight,” he says tightly.
“Bad for business,” you say sweetly.
“Not for me— You're rude.”
“You were rude first! And I can tank your Yelp reviews,” you threaten with your arms crossed.
He glances over at you, “You're a dramatic little thing, aren't you?”
Something about that makes your insides warm in a way you hate. So you glare at him and look away.
“You have an odd way of making conversation,” he says after a long moment of quiet, “Makes me uncomfortable when you quiz me like that.”
“I didn't mean to do that, I was just trying to talk to you,” you say weakly.
He nods once, “I'm— sorry.”
You hesitate, before you sigh, “I don't wanna hit you with anything,” you mutter, before you glance at him again. “Mostly.”
He hums, a soft Mm that sounds almost amused.
You let the silence settle, hoping the drive to the shop goes by quickly.
It doesn't.
The last five minutes drag on forever. You spend most of them biting back questions, resisting the urge to fill the quiet with nervous chatter. By the time you pull into the lot, you've managed not to say another word, and you're almost proud of yourself.
Jake parks beside the garage and kills the engine.
"Go wait in the office," he says. "I'll get your car inside."
You nod and head in.
The familiar bell jingles overhead as you step through the door. Behind the front desk, Mark looks up from the computer.
"You again," he says, already grinning. "What happened this time?"
You let out a long sigh and explain everything. The strange noise. The smoke. The tow.
By the end of it, Mark is wincing.
"Oh," he says. "That's... not good."
"Don't tell me to sell it," you say before he can continue. "I can't afford a new car."
"Shit." He leans back in his chair. "C'est la vie, huh?"
You resist the urge to pull your hair out.
It isn't Mark's fault. He's always been nice to you— nothing but sympathy and easy smiles every time you've had to come in here.
A lot nicer than Jake.
"Why didn't you come get me?" you ask. "He said he was off tonight. Why did he have to show up?"
Mark shrugs,"I dunno. Usually I take the truck out. But Jake told me if you call, come in to make a payment, need a tow— anything like that— I should call him. Said he'd handle it himself."
The words make something warm and uneasy settle low in your stomach. It takes you a second to recognize the feeling. It's the same one you used to get when your middle-school crush said hi to you in the hallway.
You frown. "Why would he do that?"
"I honestly don't know." Mark gives you a knowing look. "Maybe he likes you."
You bark out a laugh, "He fuckin' hates me."
Mark laughs too, "He's a dick. Don't take it personally." He shrugs again. "He's a good guy. Just terrible with people." He pauses, still smiling. "But I think he likes you.”
The bell above the door chimes before you can respond, and you turn to find Jake wiping his hands on his jeans with a slight glare.
“It's hopeless. Scrap it.”
“I'm not fucking scrapping it!”
“You should,” he mutters. “Come here.”
He nods for you to follow him, and after a helpless glance at Mark, you trudge along behind Jake to the garage.
Your hood is already lifted, it's already parked in place over a lift, and you sigh.
He leans over the engine, moving around for a second before he turns to you with the dipstick from the oil reservoir.
And the oil on the thin metal stick— It looks like chocolate milk. Fuck.
“Oh.”
“You know, this shit was fine just a couple days ago.”
“Why are you acting like it's my fault?” You frown at him.
“Blown head gasket. And— judging from the way it sputtered and died, probably a fuel pump. Your radiator is also leaking, by the way, Y/n,” he looks at you with something that resembles pity. And it makes your skin prickle, “It isn't worth it anymore.”
“I can't afford—” You almost stomp your foot, “Can you fix it?”
“Of course I can fix it,” he says, almost offended, “It just isn't worth it.”
You look away, unsure exactly how to ask him to just fix it without annoying him further.
He sighs after a moment, “You still want it fixed.”
“I can't afford a new car.”
“I— Fine. I'll fix it, again. But if you have to come back again, I'm sending it to the junkyard myself.”
“Jesus,” you breathe. “Maybe I'll just take it to a different mechanic next time.”
He stares at you for a long moment, before he scratches the back of his neck as if annoyed, “It's almost two in the morning,” he says, letting his hand fall with a sound smack against his thigh, “I can take you home.”
You blink at him, “You don't have to.”
“I know. I offered.”
“I— It's fine. I can just walk, I don't live that far—”
“You are not fucking walking home at two in the morning,” he says tightly, his nose wrinkling in disgust or annoyance, “Just get in the fuckin’ car.”
“That's twice now you've told me to get in a fucking vehicle tonight.”
“Because you tend to argue with me and not listen to me,” he points out, “It's annoying. Get in the car, I'll take you home.”
“Jesus, fine,” you sigh, rubbing a tired hand over your face as you follow behind him.
You take one look at his car and you almost laugh— Because of course. You're not sure entirely what year it is, but it's an old Chevy, a classic, something that makes your car definitely look like it belongs in the scrap yard.
You sigh, adjusting your purse strap on your shoulder, “I'll sit in the back,” you say tightly, moving to pull the back door open.
“Don't be ridiculous. Get in the front seat.”
“I'm good.”
“I'm not fuckin’ driving Miss Daisy— get in the front seat, Y/n, Jesus Christ.”
“You're such a fucking dick,” you snap, doing as he says regardless.
He sighs when you slam his door shut, “You know, even when I'm doing something nice for you, you're still ungrateful.”
“Your delivery's all wrong,” you say primly, “You're rude, Jake— It's a problem.”
“You've been a fuckin’ problem since I met you,” he says, his tone harsh as he starts his car.
And that stings.
But you hide your hurt with anger, and you whip your head to glare at him, "Maybe if you weren't such an asshole from the get-go, I wouldn't still be dealing with you.”
“No, you would,” he says with a dry laugh, “Your car's still a piece of shit.”
“You're a piece of shit,” you grumble, looking out the window again, though he's still parked.
“And you're a mouthy asshole.”
“That's rich, coming from you,” you snap, glaring at him once more.
He says nothing to that.
But he sits there and stares at you. His eyes slightly narrowed, head tilted like he's assessing you, his hands on his thighs, before he hums and shifts the car into drive.
You keep your eyes out the window, focusing on the city streets and the buildings passing by.
Finally he speaks.
“I don't have good people skills.”
You blink, before you turn your head toward him, studying him in the passing street lights.
“No shit,” you say, but it holds no heat.
He breathes a short laugh through his nose, but says nothing else.
You internally sigh, “At least you're a good mechanic though…”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I don't think you're too bad,” you lie, “Maybe just be a little nicer.”
“I try,” he says, “I don't give my customers rides home.”
“Then why are you giving me a ride home?”
“I pity you.”
“Jesus,” you grumble.
“Not like that.”
“How?”
He shrugs, “I dunno.”
“I think your problem is your conversation skills.”
He hums, almost smiling at that, “Yeah.”
“You could try being a little nicer. You know, ask people how their day is, show some concern— People like that.”
He frowns, “I don't care how their day is. And it's obviously a shit day if they have to bring their vehicles in.”
You can't help but grin, “What do you care about?”
He slows to a stop at a redlight, picking at the grease and dirt beneath his nail, eyes glued to the light, “Getting my job done. Being reliable, doing it right. I guess making sure people are alright.”
Fuck. Why is that attractive?
“You could pretend to care about how people's days are,” you say, almost jokingly.
“Mm.” After a pause, he says, “Alright. How was your day?”
And you can't help but laugh, which makes him frown a little before he looks away.
“It was good until my car died on the highway again.”
“I told you it would.”
“I can't afford anything better,” you sigh, leaning back into the seat, “I know I need a different car, I just… She's gotten me through so much.”
“Put her down.”
“Don't you have any emotional attachment to anything?”
He seems to think about that for a second, “I have a guitar I'm really attached to.”
“You play guitar?”
“Kind of.”
You smile, “Are you any good?”
He glances at you, “That's relative.”
“So you're a hands-on kinda guy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mechanic. Guitar player.” You shrug. “It just seems like you're good with your hands.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you wish they hadn't. Because now they sound flirtatious.
Jake is quiet.
You stare very hard out the windshield. The light ahead turns green.
“That's a weird thing to say.”
“I didn't mean it like that.”
Finally he shakes his head, almost to himself, “Are you gonna tell me where you live, or are we just gonna drive around all night?”
“Oh!”
—
You walk into the office an entire three days later.
You glance up at the crooked clock on the wall. The shop closes in ten minutes. Something tells you Jake's going to have an opinion about that.
You sink into one of the plastic chairs, chewing on your bottom lip while you wait. The office smells faintly of grease and stale coffee. Somewhere in the garage, metal clangs against concrete.
Five minutes later, the bell over the door jingles.
You look up in time to see Jake step inside from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyebrows pull together the second he sees you.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi." His eyes flick over you once before he tosses the rag onto the counter. "Your car's not done."
"I know. I just came to make a payment."
"Gotcha." He moves behind the desk and wakes up the computer.
You hesitate, "I'm guessing with all the extra work, the bill's back up to four grand?"
"No."
"More?"
His fingers tap against the keyboard, "Still two."
You blink, "What?"
"Still two."
"But— why?"
He doesn't even look at you, "Because I don't want to deal with you any longer than necessary."
Your jaw drops. "What the fuck have I done to you?"
"Nothing."
"Then why are you always mean?"
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
He sighs like you're exhausting him. "How much did you bring?"
You tell him the amount and set the cash on the counter a little harder than necessary.
The office falls quiet. Then, "How was your day?"
You huff, "You don't care."
"I'm trying."
The answer catches you off guard. Jake keeps looking at the screen, expression flat, but somehow he sounds sincere. Which is honestly more confusing than if he'd insulted you again.
"It was fine," you mumble. "How was yours?"
He shrugs, "Alright."
Silence.
You narrow your eyes, "Do you have some personal issue with me?"
"No."
"Because it feels personal."
"It isn't."
"You act like you hate me."
That finally gets his attention. His head lifts, and he frowns, "I don't hate you."
The look he gives you is almost offended.
You shrug, "You're just kind of an asshole."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. The printer beside him suddenly starts screeching and rattling like it's moments away from a violent death.
You look over, lifting your chin, "You should get a new printer."
Jake snorts, "I don't work up here. Not my concern."
"Poor workplace conditions— I'm adding it to my Yelp review."
That earns an actual huff of laughter. Barely there, but it's enough to make your stomach flip. He tears off the receipt and hands it over, muttering, "Yeah, that'll show me."
You grin, "Can I be annoying for a second?" He opens his mouth, but you cut him off, "A little more annoying than usual."
Jake sighs. One hand braces against the desk while the other settles on his hip, "Something tells me you're gonna do it either way."
You ignore that, "How much longer on my car?"
His expression softens just a fraction.
"I don't mean to rush you," you add quickly. "It's just my ride to work and everything, and I was wondering—"
"You talk a lot." You stop. Jake continues before you can argue, "I'll probably finish it tonight."
"Oh." Your face lights up immediately. "Oh, that's amazing— What was wrong with it this time?"
"A lot."
You wait. Jake stares. You realize that's the entire answer, so you nod, "Right. Okay."
A beat passes. Then Jake looks away. Almost like he's debating something. Finally, he sighs, "It'll probably only be another couple hours."
You nod, "Okay."
"If you want, you can stay."
You blink, "What?"
"You can stay while I finish it."
The offer is so unexpected it takes a second to process.
"Are you sure?"
"Wouldn't have offered if I wasn't."
"Oh." You swallow. "Yeah. Okay. I'd like that."
Jake nods once. Then he turns toward the garage. You stay exactly where you are. A few steps later, he stops, and looks over his shoulder, "Are you coming?"
Your face immediately heats. "Oh. I thought you meant stay in here."
"No."
"Right."
You hurry after him.
—
Watching Jake work is dangerous. You discover this almost immediately. The man barely talks, barely smiles, and somehow that makes everything worse.
He's focused. Confident. Completely at home underneath the hood of your car. Every movement looks effortless. Like he already knows exactly where everything goes before he reaches for it.
You've spent the last ten minutes pretending not to stare. Jake slides out from beneath the car long enough to grab a wrench.
Your eyes accidentally drift lower, to his thighs. Jesus Christ. You immediately look away, then immediately look back.
You clear your throat and force yourself to focus on the engine instead, "It's really shiny."
Jake's voice drifts out from underneath the car, "What is?"
"The engine."
"No it isn't."
"It is."
"No."
You squint at it, "It definitely is."
Jake sighs. "It's a new engine."
You freeze. "A what?"
"A new engine."
You stare into the engine bay. Then back at him. Then back at the engine. "Jake."
"What?"
"A whole new engine?"
"Yep."
"Those are expensive."
He shrugs from underneath the car, "It wasn't bad."
"That's way more than what you charged me."
Silence.
A second later, Jake slides himself out from under the car. He sits up and fixes you with a look. "Are you complaining that I did something nice for you?"
"No."
"Sounds like it."
"I'm just trying to understand why.”
Jake stands, and tosses a wrench onto the cart, "Because I can."
"You're losing money."
"It's not always about money."
You stare at him. Jake immediately looks annoyed that he said it.
"Jake—"
"Nope." He points across the garage. "Go sit over there."
You glance toward a tiny kids' table shoved into the corner. A box of crayons sits on top. Your lips turn down, "What?"
"Go draw me a picture."
You laugh, "I'm not a kid."
"I know."
You cross your arms. Jake raises an eyebrow. You hold out for exactly three seconds. Then you sigh dramatically and walk over, "You're impossible."
"That's what they tell me."
"I don't understand you."
Jake ducks back under the car, "You're not supposed to."
You roll your eyes.
But as he disappears beneath the vehicle, you catch the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
And somehow that's enough motivation to spend the next half hour coloring a cartoon dinosaur while sneaking glances at him.
—
It's nearly one in the morning.
And you're bored out of your mind.
You'd colored through every page despite insisting earlier that you weren't going to touch them. Now you're slowly spinning in the rolling chair beside his workbench, pushing yourself one direction until your feet bump the table leg, then kicking off toward the wall. Back and forth. Back and forth.
The garage is quiet except for the occasional clink of tools and the faint hum of an old radio somewhere in the corner.
You glance up when Jake slides out from beneath your car. The look on his face immediately makes your stomach sink.
His jaw is tight as he tosses a wrench onto the nearby tray with more force than necessary. The metal rattles loudly through the garage. He plants his hands on his hips and stares into the open engine bay like he's seconds away from destroying it.
Jake looks over at you, and you slowly stop your chair as you stare back. Then his gaze drifts away again, returning to the car as he lets out a long, measured sigh.
"Y/n."
"What?" you ask weakly.
"Every time I work on this fucking car," he says carefully, like he's trying very hard not to lose his temper, "there's always something else wrong with it."
Your shoulders immediately slump.
"What happened?"
Jake drags a hand down his face, not seeming to care that he's smearing grease across his skin. Somehow it only makes him look annoyingly attractive.
"I'm gonna take you home," he says after a moment, sounding exhausted. "It's probably gonna be another couple hours."
"I don't mind waiting." His expression says he doesn't believe you. "I can help—" The look he gives you kills that idea instantly. "Okay, maybe not help," you correct. "But I could... I don't know. Get food? Coffee? Something?"
Jake glances toward the clock. Then back at the car, and mutters, "Alright."
Before you can argue, he's already pulling his keys and wallet from his pocket and handing them over.
"Jake—"
"Just go."
—
When you get back, he's cleaned up a little.
Not completely.
There are still smudges of grease on his forearms and a faint streak near his jaw, but his hands are clean for once. Actually clean.
You try very hard not to stare.
His hair is still tied back, though several loose strands have escaped the bun and fallen around his face. Combined with the tired look in his eyes and the sleeves pushed up his forearms, it's weirdly attractive.
"You took forever," he says.
"Well— there was a line."
Jake grunts in acknowledgment. You set the bags on the table next to your coloring sheets.
"At this point," he mutters, already reaching for his food, "I'm half tempted to just buy you another fuckin' car."
You laugh quietly.
"That seems a little excessive."
"No."
"It is."
"It'd probably be cheaper."
You open your mouth to argue, then close it again because there's a very real chance he's done the math.
The two of you settle onto opposite sides of the table.
And then comes the silence. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just... awkward. The kind that seems to linger longer than it should.
The radio crackles softly in the background.
A few times you catch him staring off toward your car. A few times he catches you staring at him.
Neither of you acknowledge it.
Eventually the food disappears, wrappers piling up between you.
Jake crumples the last of his into a ball and tosses it into the trash can without looking. It lands perfectly.
Of course it does.
For a moment neither of you move. Then Jake pushes to his feet with a quiet sigh. Without a word, he heads back toward your car.
You watch him stop in front of the open hood, hands settling on his hips as he stares into the engine bay again.
Studying, thinking. Already mentally back at work.
“I know it’s a lost cause,” you murmur, eyes fixed on your car like if you stare hard enough it might magically apologize for itself. “I just… I don’t know. You put a whole new engine in and—”
“I can take it out,” Jake says, like it’s nothing. He’s leaning against the open hood, expression unreadable in that way that always makes you feel like you’re slightly annoying him just by existing in his vicinity. “Return it. No money lost. Your old engine’s still behind the shop— I can put it back in. Help you sell it off if you want.”
You huff a small, humorless laugh. “Probably wouldn’t get much for it.”
He goes quiet for a moment, eyes drifting over the car like he’s already rewriting its fate in his head. That’s what he does— you’ve noticed. Fixes things. Rearranges broken parts until they make sense again.
“Or,” he says finally, voice lower now, more thoughtful, “I fix it properly. Get it running clean. You sell it for more than it’s worth. You walk away with something better.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
“It’s work either way,” he replies, flat as ever, like it’s obvious you’re being difficult.
You glance at him then quickly look away when you catch him already watching you. That does something strange to your chest. It’s been doing that a lot lately— small, inconvenient tightening feelings you keep trying to ignore.
“I don’t know what would be best,” you admit quietly.
“Then I’ll figure it out,” he says without hesitation. “I’m not going to cheat you out of anything, Y/n. I’ll help. All of it.”
There’s no softness in his tone. But there’s something steady underneath it— something that holds. And that’s what unsettles you most. Jake isn’t supposed to feel like that. Jake is supposed to be grumpy, blunt, borderline rude when he’s stressed, not… constant.
“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. Like you’re missing something everyone else can see.
“Because,” he says.
“Jake.”
His jaw tightens a fraction. “Because I want to.”
Your heart stutters. You hate how quickly that lands.
“That seems like a lot of effort for someone who can’t stand me most of the time,” you try, half teasing, half defensive.
That finally cracks something in him. He pushes off the car, posture shifting, tension snapping into place along his shoulders.
“I don’t hate you,” he says sharply.
You blink. “You sure act like it.”
He exhales through his nose, like you’re exhausting him in the most infuriating way possible. Then he looks at you properly, and something about it makes you go still.
“I like you, Y/n.”
You stare at him.
For a second, your brain refuses to process it. Like it’s spoken in a language you don’t quite understand.
“Like… romantically?” you ask carefully.
His expression shifts instantly— too fast. Something guarded snapping into place.
“Forget it,” he mutters, already turning away.
“No, wait— Jake, I—” You follow him as he heads toward the shop door. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s late,” he cuts in, voice tight again, all edges. “I’ll take you home.”
“Jake.”
He opens the side door to his office without looking at you. “Did you grab your stuff?”
That tone— the shut down, the wall slamming back into place— makes something in you flare.
You cross the distance in a few quick steps and grab his shirt, turning him toward you. He stops immediately. Not because you’re stronger. Because he lets you.
“Will you stop for a second?” you say, sharper than you intend. “Just listen to me.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “So you can laugh at me? I misread it. Sorry.”
“I like you too,” you say quickly.
That makes him freeze.
“I asked because I like you,” you add, quieter now. “Romantically. I just didn’t want to get my hopes up if that wasn't what you meant.”
Something flickers across his face— shock, relief, frustration all tangled together like he doesn’t know where to put any of it. Then he scoffs under his breath, like he’s angry at himself.
“Why is everything so fucking complicated with you?” he mutters.
“You make it complicated,” you shoot back without thinking.
That earns you a look— sharp, heated.
And then he moves.
His hand catches your shirt and pulls you in with a suddenness that steals your breath. His mouth is on yours before you can even think to react, rough and urgent and entirely unlike the careful restraint he’s been wearing all night.
It knocks something loose in you.
Your hands find his shirt instinctively, gripping like it’s the only stable thing in the room. The door behind you swings shut, but you barely notice. Everything narrows down to him— heat, pressure, the way he exhales against your mouth like he’s been holding it back for too long.
When he finally pulls just enough away to look at you, his forehead almost touches yours, “I really do like you,” he says, like it irritates him to admit it. “It’s fucking annoying.”
A laugh slips out of you, breathless. “Tell me about it.”
That gets you the faintest flicker of a smile before he kisses you again— slower this time, but no less intent.
He starts guiding you backward without breaking contact, until the edge of his desk presses against the backs of your legs. His hands are steady against yours now, like he’s anchoring himself as much as he is you.
You shift slightly— and that’s when you see it.
A camera mounted in the corner of the room.
You go still.
“Jake,” you murmur against his mouth.
He pauses immediately, pulling back just enough to read your expression. “What?”
“There’s a camera.”
His eyes flick to it. A beat of silence. Then he exhales like it’s an inconvenience he can fix, “Stay here,” he says.
You watch him cross the room, move behind his desk, and start working on his computer without hesitation.
“What are you doing?” you ask softly.
“Cutting it,” he replies simply.
“Why?” You ask, warmth budding inside of you as you realize he isn't done with you.
“Because I'm gonna fuck you,” he says simply.
“Oh.”
The intimacy of his office suddenly hits you. The couch against the wall. The worn tools. The framed photos you’ve never asked about. The quiet, lived-in mess of him.
It feels like stepping into a space he doesn’t usually let people see. When he comes back, he’s quieter. More focused. And then he’s in front of you again.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs, hand sliding up to your jaw.
“Maybe,” you admit, leaning into him despite yourself.
“About what?”
“I don’t know,” you breathe. But that’s a lie, and you both know it.
His thumb brushes your cheek slowly, grounding you.
“I don’t know what it is about you,” he says after a moment, voice rougher now. “I just— I get this instinct. To make sure you’re okay. To keep you from dealing with everything alone.”
Your chest tightens again, softer this time. “I usually am alone,” you whisper.
“Not with me,” he says immediately.
There’s no hesitation. No room for argument. His hands settle at your waist, steady and warm.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he adds, quieter now. Like a promise he didn’t mean to say out loud, “God, I'm going to take such good care of you, Y/n.”
You can't help the breathy, “Please,” that leaves your lips.
He hoists you back up onto the desk, splitting your thighs around his hips, and pulling you tight against him.
You feel his hand snake to the bottom of your shirt, slipping beneath it and giving your waist a tight squeeze that makes you sigh into his mouth.
Your own hands move to the buckle of his belt, tugging him tighter to you and whining at the pressure against your core.
Then you hear the front door open.
“Jake?”
He pulls back with a quiet curse at Mark's voice in the lobby, his jaw tight with frustration as he straightens his clothes to look less disheveled.
“I'll be back,” he mutters, clearly annoyed.
You nod, grinning like a lovesick puppy as he leaves. You can hear them talking, Mark mentioning something about having to come in for a tow. Jake's voice is lower, harder to pick up on, but you listen all the same.
After a few moments, Jake comes back in, looking almost uncomfortable, uncertain for the first time since you've known him.
“He killed the mood.”
You smile, “Wanna take me home?”
His eyes flick between your own for a second, before he says, “I— Do you want me to stay, or—”
“Yeah,” you nod, maybe too eager, but you don't care. “I do.”
“Okay,” he breathes, eyes softened with a smile, "Come on, then.”
—
The drive takes a different turn entirely.
Somewhere between your place and his, the conversation shifts, and before you know it, you're pulling into Jake's driveway instead.
You step out of the car and glance up at the house.
Damn.
It's not flashy in the way you'd expect. No marble columns or ridiculous fountains. Just solid. Expensive without trying to be. Dark wood, black steel accents, a wide wraparound porch, and enough land around it to make the place feel private.
Very Jake.
Inside is somehow even worse.
Or better.
The house smells faintly of cedar and motor oil, a combination that shouldn't work but somehow does. The furniture is heavy and well-made. Leather couches that have actually been lived on. Custom metal shelving. Framed photos mixed between family pictures, and projects he's clearly proud of.
You trail your fingers over a polished wooden countertop.
"You know," you say, looking around, "This is ridiculously nice."
Jake huffs out a laugh from somewhere behind you.
You glance over your shoulder.
He's leaning against the kitchen island, hands tucked into his pockets, watching you with a small smile.
You continue wandering through the open living space, taking everything in. The exposed beams overhead. The stone fireplace. The garage visible through a set of glass doors, spotless and looking like it belonged in a magazine.
You don't hear him move, so when you feel his chest brushing against your back, you flinch before you relax into him.
He uses a gentle hand at your jaw to tilt your head back to look at him, before his hand slides down to your throat, his palm rough and warm against your skin.
Dear God.
Your head falls back against his shoulder, as you whisper a quiet, “Hi.”
“Hi,” he says, pressing his lips to your temple. Then your cheek, your jaw, using his hand at your throat to angle your face to the side, and he leaves a kiss just below your ear.
You let out a shaky breath, and his other hand snakes around your waist, slipping beneath your shirt and resting against your bare skin.
You move your own hand to his belt buckle, tugging his hips flush against your backside, and he hums as he uses his own hold on you to pull you tighter to him.
His lips continue their way across your heating skin, making your knees almost buckle when you feel his teeth graze over the sensitive area.
You reach a hand up, tangling it into his hair to keep yourself steady, and his hand moves from your waist to the button of your jeans.
You tilt your head forward just a little to watch as he pops the button and slides the zipper down, and your insides give a weird twist.
“Can I—”
You grab his hand and shove it toward your panties, “Please.”
“God,” he whispers around an endeared laugh, and you bite your lip as he slips his fingers beneath the thin cotton.
You melt the exact second his fingers brush over your clit. You let your head fall into the hollow of his throat, your lips parted around a heavy sigh as his fingers tease over your wet folds.
“You're so fucking wet,” he murmurs, fingers slipping along your achy slit, “Is this all for me, baby?”
He asks like he doesn't know.
You nod regardless, giving him a weak, “Mm-hmm,” as your fingers tighten in his hair.
“Fuck,” he whispers, tracing his fingers over your clit again, humming when you gasp, “Yeah, that's what you need, isn't it, honey?” His fingers circle over the swollen bud slowly, “Just need someone to take care of you…”
“Yeah,” you mindlessly agree in a breath of pleasure, your hips moving lightly into his touch.
He moves his hand down, fingers prodding at your entrance now, “I hate these fuckin’ jeans,” he tells you, his hand limited in the tight denim.
“Take them off,” you say.
“What happened to that pretty little skirt you wore the first time I met you, hm?” He asks, pressing a single finger inside only to the first knuckle.
“You liked it?” You ask, rocking your hips for more.
“Fuckin’ loved it, baby.”
You whine when his hand slips out of your panties completely, “Jake—”
“Come on,” he nudges you toward the hallway, and you eagerly follow his lead to the bedroom, your poor cunt aching with need, feeling neglected as your core throbs around nothing.
His room is fucking incredible— guitars line the walls, a giant tool box against one wall, a shirt hanging off the handle of it. His room is clean, but there's more signs of him in here. Even more intimate and warm.
Against the far wall is his bed, and it's fucking huge. Black sheets, dark red comforter over them, and it's made like nobody's ever slept in it before.
And before you know it, you're spread out over the bed, your jeans that had annoyed Jake are somewhere on the floor, and he's on top of you with his lips pressed to yours and his thigh pressed between yours.
His hands are all over you, like he doesn't know which part of you he wants to touch the most. They wander to your hips, gripping tight as he rocks you against his thigh.
Fuck.
You hadn't ever done that before, but the feeling of his denim-clad thigh beneath your swollen clit makes you hot all over.
You start to move on your own, sighing into his mouth for the umpteenth time tonight. And when you chance a glance at it, the sight nearly leaves you breathless.
“Fuck, Jake,” your voice comes out pitchy, a whine to it that makes his cock ache.
He leaves another kiss to your lips, before he starts his way down, and your heart skips a beat as you watch him settle between your thighs.
“You don't have to do that…” You start, trailing off when he frowns in offense at you.
“Have to?” He repeats, already moving your thighs over his shoulders.
“I just— I know some guys don't like to do that—”
“I do,” he says certainly. “And this is all I've fucking thought about since I met you, so shut up and keep your legs open for me, honey.”
God, you'd never in your life had someone talk to you like that! You'd never even had a man who wanted to do this, your last ex treated it like a chore and it was always just… awkward.
It makes you almost nervous as he impatiently tugs your panties down your thighs, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder without a care.
You feel on display as he spreads you open and stares. You feel a slight apprehension, your hands fidgeting in the sheets, and you open your mouth to tell him your fears when he finally speaks.
“God damn.”
You finally muster the courage to look at him, and you'd swear the man had seen heaven with the way he's looking at you.
“What?” You ask shyly.
“She's so fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he murmurs.
He leans in, leaving a kiss just above your clit, and you swallow heavily. You don't think you're going to survive this entire night, truthfully.
Not when he's already started to kiss over you, his mouth warm and soft against you, and fuck, your thighs twitch when he kisses directly at your clit, humming low in his throat.
Your head falls back against the pillow beneath you as he wraps his lips around your clit, suckling lightly.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, thighs tightening around his head.
His mouth seals over the sensitive bundle of nerves. He doesn’t suck hard; he just holds you gently between his lips and begins to massage you with the broad, wet heat of his tongue. Slow circles. Lazy, deliberate strokes that press and roll and linger.
Jake’s eyes flick up, dark and soft. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your clit, the words muffled and warm. “Let me feel you.”
His hands slide under your ass, lifting you a fraction so he can get even closer, and then he’s back to that unhurried, thorough massage— tongue working in steady, sensual laps that make your thighs tremble.
He’s not even trying to make you come yet… he’s just enjoying it.
Fuck.
Two of his fingers slide through your wetness and press inside without warning, curling immediately against that spot that makes your back arch. He doesn’t thrust; he simply fills you, holds you open, and keeps that same slow, devoted rhythm on your clit.
Oh— oh.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Jake moans softly into you, the sound almost desperate even though his movements stay gentle.
“You taste so fucking good,” he breathes, voice rough. “I could stay right here all night.”
His tongue never stops its careful massage, circling and pressing, while his fingers work deeper, coaxing more slickness out of you with every slow curl.
Your thoughts are starting to fray.
“Pull your shirt up,” he orders, lips brushing over your slick folds.
“Why?” You ask, pouting as you tangle your fingers into your shirt regardless.
“Let me see those pretty tits, baby.”
You whine quietly, but you lift your shirt, glad you'd decided to wear the cute bra today. It was black, the cups a thin lace with flowers stitched across them, and you can't lie— your tits do look really good in it.
He pulls away, lifting his head to stare at your chest for a moment, his eyes heavy as his fingers continue to work inside of you, “God damn, Y/n.”
“Shut up,” your cheeks are burning red hot, your body is burning from the inside out, and he's just staring at you like he can't help it.
“You're the prettiest little thing,” he sighs, “So soft and sweet… God, I can't get enough of you.”
You can only manage a moan in response, because his mouth is back on your clit, and this time he's working with a purpose. His tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit, his fingers are slicking in and out of you, curling and twisting so that you see stars.
“Jake—”
He hums against you, a low, rough Mm-hmm that shoots straight into your core, because he knows you're close.
You tell him anyway, a weak gasp of a warning.
“Come for me,” he whispers, tongue circling quickly against your clit, the words half-plea, half-command. “I need to feel it. Please, baby— let me have it.”
His fingers speed up, working just a little more, but the desperation in his voice makes the pleasure spike sharply.
The orgasm hits hard and sudden, your walls clenching around his fingers as your clit pulses under his tongue.
Jake groans like he’s the one coming, the sound low and grateful, and he doesn’t pull away— he keeps licking you through it, slow and thorough, drawing every last tremor out of you while his fingers stay buried deep, stroking you gently as you ride it out.
When your thighs finally stop shaking, he lifts his head just enough to press a soft kiss to your over-sensitive clit, then another to your inner thigh. “Good girl,” he murmurs, voice warm and a little hoarse. “That’s my girl.”
You let out a strangled sound, your eyes falling shut as you recover.
Holy shit.
You've never come from that— you've never had someone eat at you as enthusiastically as he did, much less enjoy it as he did.
You hope this isn't a one-time thing…
You huff a laugh, your eyes fluttering shut as he frowns at you almost defensively, but still soft, “What?”
“I was right,” you say, smiling up at him as you nudge his hip with your knee, “You are good with your hands.”
His smile is slow, but genuine, “You're ridiculous.”
“I know,” your voice softens as he climbs up over you, and your hands slip down to his belt, tugging lightly at it.
“You want something?” He asks, leaving a kiss to your jaw as his hand covers yours, moving it down until it's pressed against his rather large and prominent bulge.
“Yeah,” you answer honestly, your voice no more than a sigh, “I want that,” you say, squeezing lightly, just enough to make the muscles in his jaw tick.
“Keep talking, baby, tell me what you want,” he murmurs, now pressing small, warm kisses along your jaw, down the side of your throat as he rocks his hips into your touch.
You hum, your hand not grabbing at him moving to unbuckle his belt, “I want it inside me,” you say, desperation airing your words as you realize he's perfectly content just like this— no rush to get his cock inside you, just rocking against you and leaving kisses on your heated skin, “I want you to fuck me, Jake.”
“I'm gonna,” he assures you gently.
You slip your hand away from his dick, now using both hands to fight against the belt buckle that you've come to absolutely hate. Finally, you all but yank it open, and get to work on his jeans.
And he's no help— still just kissing you.
“You could help,” you grumble, gasping when his teeth nip lightly just below your ear, “I'm trying to fuck you.”
He hums, amused and rasped, "I'm just happy to be here,” he says, but he reaches down and pops the button, pulls the zipper with ease while you stare.
“Go on,” he encourages, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth as you tug at his jeans and underwear.
You wrap your hand around him before you can even fully see him— you're desperate, you feel too empty, and you need him to fuck you more than you can fathom right now.
He's thick, long and hot to the touch, the skin soft despite how achingly hard he is. God. The head is a bruised red, leaking at the tip, and it makes your mouth water as your thighs part further of their own volition.
“Fuck, I want it,” you breathe, angling your hips to get closer to him.
“I know, baby,” he says soothingly, reaching between the two of you and replacing your hand with his own.
You can't help the pathetic whine that claws its way up when you feel him tap the head against your throbbing clit, before he teases it along your slippery heat.
“Put it in,” you plead, rocking your hips up, “Please, Jake, put your cock in me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost in disbelief at your wanton display of desperation.
He leans in, smearing his lips messily with yours and swallowing down the loud moan you let out as he finally pushes his way inside your pulsing walls.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he grits out, huffing a sigh when he bottoms out, his hips pressed snugly to yours as he straightens up to take in the sight of it.
You can only manage to make an unintelligible sound, lifting your head to look, and you have to look away— Fuck.
“Fuck, look at that,” he whispers, ghosting a thumb over your clit, before tracing it around where you're taking him in, “Your sweet little pussy’s taking me so well, baby— So fuckin' pretty.”
His words make you whine as he leans back over you, his arms slipping beneath you and sliding up to your shoulders. He presses his lips to yours, one hand moving to cradle your head, the position pressing your chests close together, and he starts to rock his hips.
You let out a sound you should probably be embarrassed about, but it feels good already. Really good.
He's everywhere around you, surrounding your senses in a way you didn't even know you were craving.
The fullness is intense— his length throbbing inside you, the smooth skin of his shaft dragging along sensitive spots that make your toes curl.
Jake draws back until only the head remains inside, then thrusts forward again in one smooth motion. The slide is slick and hot; your walls cling to him on the way out and part greedily on the way in.
Each stroke sends a rush of sensation through you— the blunt pressure of the head nudging your cervix, the thick ridge of him rubbing your inner walls, the way your clit brushes against his pelvis with every deep push.
"That’s it," he breathes, pace steady and controlled. "Feel how deep I am? Fuck, your pussy squeezes me so fucking good."
He keeps you pinned beneath him, chest brushing yours, hips rolling in a rhythm that lets you savor every inch.
Sweat-slick skin slides together. Your nipples graze his chest with each movement, adding sparks to the overwhelming fullness between your legs.
His voice stays gentle even as the words turn filthy, "Your cunt’s so greedy for it— hugging my cock like it never wants me to leave."
Jake angles his hips slightly, changing the angle so the head of his cock drags along your front wall with every thrust.
“Oh, fuck,” you whimper. The new pressure makes your breath hitch; he notices immediately.
"Right there? Yeah, I can feel you fluttering around me. Keep squeezing my cock like that and I’m going to fill you up so good."
He maintains the same deep, measured pace, never rushing, letting the wet sounds of your bodies fill the room.
Your arousal coats him, easing the glide while your walls grip and release around his thickness. The heat of him radiates through you, the pulse of his heartbeat matching the throb of your own.
"Such a good girl," he praises, lips brushing your temple. "Letting me fuck you open nice and slow. I love watching your face when I’m buried all the way inside. Your pussy’s so warm and wet— perfect around my cock."
He laces your fingers together, holding your hand above your head while his other arm supports his weight.
The position keeps you spread open beneath him, completely at his mercy yet cradled by his steady presence.
"I’m going to keep fucking you until you come all over my cock,” he grins at the whine you give him, “Then I’ll fill this pretty pussy with every drop."
His thrusts stay deliberate, each one pressing you firmly into the bed, the head of his cock nudging that sensitive spot inside you again and again.
The constant stretch, the slick drag, the way his pelvis grinds against your clit with every downstroke— all of it builds steadily, your body tightening around him in response.
Jake keeps that same deep, steady rhythm as your body starts to tighten around him. His cock drags along your soaked walls with every thrust, the thick head pressing right against that spot that makes your thighs shake.
“Fuck, Jake—” you manage to gasp your words, “I'm so close…”
"That's it, baby," he murmurs, voice low and rough in your ear. "I can feel it. You're getting so fucking tight around my cock. Squeeze me harder— let me feel you come."
Your orgasm hits fast and hard. Your cunt clamps down on him in pulsing waves, walls rippling and gripping his shaft as slick gushes out around his thickness.
Jake groans low, hips never stopping as he fucks you straight through it. "Fuck, just like that. Your pussy's making such a pretty mess on my cock. Fuckin’ come all over me, baby, that's it."
He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down to rub tight circles over your swollen clit while his cock keeps pounding into your spasming hole.
Every thrust forces more wetness out of you, the sounds filthy and loud as he works you through the aftershocks. "Don't stop coming, baby. Keep that greedy cunt squeezing me. I want every drop."
Jake's control finally cracks as your pussy keeps fluttering around him.
His thrusts turn sharper, deeper, "Fuck," he growls, voice breaking.
With a final hard thrust he buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as he unloads inside you. He stays buried, grinding his hips in slow circles as he empties himself completely, your releases mixing and dripping down.
"God damn," he pants against your neck as he stills, your sweat-slick bodies pressed tightly together.
After a moment, he pulls back, looking more put-together than you feel, still fucked out and worn. Strands of his hair stick to his forehead, his eyes heavy as they flit across your face.
He leans back in, his hands gently cupping either side of your face, “You okay, baby?”
You nod, humming a soft sound as he presses a kiss to your mouth, “M'okay,” you sigh, a satisfied smile pulling at your lips, “I'm more than okay,” you add around a giggle.
He smiles, his hands moving to your waist, moving you with him as he lays beside you. He's still sheathed inside of you as he lifts your thigh to rest over his hips, but it's not sexual anymore, just intimate.
It makes your heart flutter and your head spin just a little.
Jake's breathing evens out against your skin, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip where your thigh drapes over him.
He gives a low, amused huff, lips brushing your temple. "Guess I should've fucked you stupid weeks ago."
You push lightly at his arm, grinning despite yourself as he only tugs you closer, “You should've been nicer to me.”
“You should've been less stubborn.”
“Fuck off,” you giggle, “I'm not even stubborn.”
He gives you a look, one that tells you you're full of shit, before he shakes his head with a smile, “Quit arguing with me.”
You bite your bottom lip, giving his soft, probably over-sensitive cock a tight, quick squeeze of your walls around him, and you press your lips to his as you whisper, “Or what?”
Sorry I've been inactive here, there has been a lot going! I have a couple things I am working on and will have one of them posted by tonight! Spoiler alert, it's mechanic!Jake... Really excited for this one!!!
I was listening to Gigi Perez - Sometimes (Backwood) and all i could think about was a smutty friends to lovers Jake fic reader and Jake are in collage and have been friends for years they've slept together a few times after smoking or drinking together and that's all it's ever been nothings ever come of it
Reader is gorgeous and a little curvy, but Jake treats her like one of the guy's around their friend group but gushes over her, loves on her and adores her when it's just them two together 🫣
OH MY FUCKING HEART I LOVE THIS SO MUCH I'M ADDING IT TO THE LIST!!!!!!
Okay so. Hear me out. This may be tmi. But. Personally, I have always loved the feeling of overstimulation you get after an orgasm from penetration. Because of this, It has always made it easy for me to have multiple orgasms. And sometimes. I try to see how many I can have. Until I finally absolutely can't stand it anymore. I'll give myself a number, and see if I can get past it. And it's like a fun little game/challenge for me.
So anyways. Im thinking about Jake just. Absolutely eating this up, about you. He's got the stamina of a God. So you both love to just go for hours. He's just the greediest pleasure dom. Making the most out if you he possibly can. He gives you a number for the night and its his purpose not just to help you reach it, but to go PAST it. Of course there's little breaks in between the orgasms. But the both of you are just so insatiable for eachother, you just wanna keep going. And at some point it just turns into an excuse to be close to eachother, an excuse to just. Make love and reconnect your souls after a stressful few weeks if life.
FORGOT TO RESPOND TO THIS BUT THIS IS IN THE WORKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO EXCITEDDD
warnings: grumpy pouty bf!Jake, pajamas, stupid ugly pajamas, Jake really fucking hates those pajamas, slight arguing but with joking and sexual undertones the entire time, SMUT 18+!, kitchen sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, spanking, light hair pulling, no pull out, lemme know if I missed any!
Masterlist
Jake hates waking up alone.
He hates it more than anything.
When he reaches for you on your side of the bed, and you're not there, he immediately sits up with a frown directed to the empty sheets.
So he sets off to find you.
As soon as he enters the room, his hand buried deep in his tangled hair as his other hand absentmindedly rubs at his rumbling tummy, he knows he’s fucked.
You're leaning forward on your stomach on the stretch of the marble counter beside the stovetop, bent forward so that your backside is sticking out towards him. Your elbows are propped on the surface below you, chin resting between both of your palms as you stare curiously into the single pot that is boiling on one of the spots on the stove.
Your fingers are unconsciously tapping against your cheeks as you wait out whatever is cooking inside the dish, your body slumping slightly as you release a bored sigh.
Jake folds his arms across his chest, head tilting a bit to the side as he worries his plump lower lip between his teeth, ogling your ass. He’s most definitely enjoying this small spoonful of unintended bliss that the universe had so kindly gifted him. The only thing that is ruining it is the baggy pajamas.
He lied. More than he hates waking up alone—
He hates those fucking pants.
They’re not only hiding you away from him, but they’re ugly, as well. They’re humungous on you, the pattern plaid with black and an ugly dark green that reminds him of a swamp.
The dark colors hide the curves of your backside and he just really fucking despises it. Hates those stupid pants that are too long for you— long enough that the cuffs drag along the ground when you walk— and that keep him from enjoying the simplicities that usually come from a relationship, like gawking at your partner’s ass in free spirit.
And now that he thinks about it, he hates the shirt too. It’s an oversized tee the color of grass that reads Have some elf-respect! in big, blocky white letters with a drawing of a grumpy elf in the middle.
It’s cheesy and lame but you’d laughed for a solid ten minutes when you’d first seen it and begged him to get it for you, so he’d reluctantly complied.
It was hard to say no to you, especially when your wide gaze was working its charm and your pretty mouth was quivering in a childish pout.
“Why are you wearing that?”
You flinch, spinning around and frowning at him almost immediately, “When did you wake up?”
He ignores your question to frown at your outfit once again, “I'm gonna throw those pants in the trash.”
“No,” you protest immediately, your hands grabbing at the sides of them to pull them up from where they'd pooled at your feet, “They're so comfy.”
“They're fuckin’ ugly.”
“Your attitude is ugly,” you grumble, turning back to the stove. He simply hums in response, making his way to the fridge, scratching his lower stomach as he pulls the door open.
“You could just ditch the pants,” he suggests, grabbing the carton of orange juice, “Run around the house in that shirt and those pretty panties you usually wear.”
Your cheeks flush hot as you avoid his eyes, “I like my ugly pajamas,” you mutter, arms still crossed over your chest, “You can just deal with it.”
His hands still from where he was twisting the cap off the orange juice, his eyes narrowing almost dangerously.
Then he sets the carton on the counter, and you turn back to the stove, like maybe if you aren't looking at him, it will deter him.
It doesn't.
He's pressing his chest to your back before you can even take in a breath, his hands at your hips, and his mouth brushing your ear, “Is it so bad that I wanna see my pretty girl?”
Your hands move to grip the edge of the counter to hold yourself up, but you huff a sigh of faux annoyance, “You're so… lusty.”
“Mm, no,” he disagrees in a low voice, pressing small kisses along the side of your throat, “I'm in love.”
“You're horny,” you refute.
“S'your fault.”
You open your mouth to respond, but his hand slips beneath the waistband of your pajamas, brushing over the lace sat snug at your hips, and he lets out an affronted sound.
“Take those fuckin’ pants off.”
“No,” you say stubbornly as he bunches the sides of your panties in his hands, the elastic popping beneath his grip.
“Fuck,” he breathes, tugging lightly at the flannel from the inside of them, “Please, baby?”
“I'm trying to make us breakfast–”
“I'll eat if you make breakfast with no pants on.”
You huff a breath, wanting so badly to just let him push you against the cool marble of the countertop, but you reach for his hands, pulling them out of the baggy pants and forcing them back to his sides as you turn to face him.
“You're gonna eat breakfast either way,” you say firmly.
He sets his jaw, taking a step back, “You're the worst,” he mutters, moving back to his carton of orange juice, “You're almost as bad as those stupid fucking— stupid and ugly pants.”
You want to laugh at his frustration, because he's had you like that many, many times before. But you can't, because then you really will end up bent over the counter and your breakfast will end up burnt and you really just want to eat before anything.
He snatches up the carton again, taking a drink directly from it, before he twists the lid back on, and shoves it back into the fridge.
“Breakfast will be done in a little bit,” you call out to him as he all but stomps out of the room.
“I don't care,” he calls back, but you know better.
You also know you're probably in for it later.
—
“You’re really not going to eat?”
“I can’t,” he says flatly, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “Those pants ruined my appetite.”
You scoff, heat rising to your face. “You’re so dramatic.” Your foot stomps before you can stop it, irritation bubbling up. “They’re just pajamas.”
“Mhm.” He leans back in his chair like he has all the time in the world, gaze dragging over you in a way that makes your stomach flip.
You huff, crossing your arms. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.” A beat. Then, casually, “Let’s compromise.”
Your eyes narrow. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
His mouth tilts, slow and knowing. “You take them off—” he gestures lazily toward your legs, “—and I’ll eat.”
“Jacob Thomas—”
“Ooh,” he cuts in, amused, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. “Am I in trouble?”
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite to it. “I worked hard on this, you know.”
That does it. You see the shift immediately— subtle, but there. His expression softens just enough, the teasing edge dulling as he studies you more carefully.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I know you did.”
For a second, you think he’ll drop it entirely. He always does when it matters— when he thinks you’re actually upset. That’s the annoying thing about him.
Then he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll eat.”
You try not to look too pleased, pressing your lips together to hide it.
“But,” he adds, pointing his fork at you, “those pajamas are still going. After.”
“Maybe,” you say, lifting your chin, pretending you have any real intention of arguing.
His eyes flicker with something sharper, more certain. “Not a maybe.”
Before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead— brief, but deliberate.
“I’ll eat,” he murmurs, already reaching for his plate. “And then I’ll deal with you.”
Your stomach flips again. “You will not.”
He hums, unconcerned, like you didn’t say anything at all. “We’ll see.”
You look away, trying to hide the warmth spreading through your chest, the small, quiet pride of winning this round— Because with Jake, a victory is a victory, no matter how small.
He's a menace like that.
And you love him for it.
—
You should've expected it.
But he'd left the room– your guard was down, you didn't expect it when he's suddenly behind you, his hands wrapping around your waist, reaching up, grabbing at your chest with a whisper of, “Let me fuck you.”
You drop the rag in your hand as you brace yourself against the counter, “Jake—”
“C'mon, baby,” his voice takes on that slight whine to it that makes your knees buckle, “You've got me so fucking hard.”
“It's the pajamas, isn't it?” You manage to tease, gasping when his fingers harshly pinch your nipples through your shirt.
“You and your fucking jokes,” he mutters, grabbing you by your hips and pulling your backside against him. You can feel him through your pajamas, hard and warm and mouthwateringly thick, as he grinds against you. “C'mon,” he repeats, leaving tiny kisses along the hack of your neck, “You've made your point with those stupid pants, just let me fuck you.”
You hum like you might disagree, but before you can respond, his hand has already snaked up your torso, grabbing you by your throat.
“You've got me fuckin’ aching, Y/n,” he rasps in your ear, “Be a good girl, and let me in.”
You bite your lip to hide your grin, “What if I don't wanna?”
He doesn't hesitate to shove his hand into your pajamas, past your panties, his fingers slipping along your slick folds, “Yeah, that's what I thought,” he murmurs, “Soaked through your fucking panties trying to pretend you don't want it.”
Your eyes roll back when he pinches your clit, “Jake—”
“Shut up,” he says, grabbing your pajamas and shoving them down your thighs. You whine when his palm collides with your backside in a harsh smack, the sting zipping through your body.
He pushes your upper half against the counter, rucking your shirt up just enough to reveal the curve of your ass, hidden by your panties.
“You've got the prettiest ass, and you wanna fuckin’ hide it from me,” he sounds irritated, but his hands are grabbing and squeezing the plush skin, fingers digging in just enough to potentially leave bruises.
You whine again, crossing your arms beneath your head and giving in to your fate– he's about to ruin you, and you're one hundred percent okay with that.
One of his hands disappears, and you know it's coming before his hand even cracks down against your ass again.
Your toes curl, and you try to wiggle away, but he holds you in place, grinning to himself as he watches you squirm.
Okay, maybe he is a bit sadistic, but watching you get so worked up and shy over something as simple as fucking your own boyfriend, it makes his cock and his heart ache.
He knows you're a little more reserved, a little less open about your desires— you'd never even asked him to fuck you before, you usually just have to bat your pretty eyes or touch him just right and he's driving into you.
And, all that considered, he wants you to ask him. He knows you well enough to know what you want, to know what you're doing, but after the games you'd both been playing all morning, he wants you to say it.
And if that means he has to wait until nightfall to hear those words fall from your lips, he will. He'll get you there.
Despite his impatience today, he's a very patient man. Usually.
He doesn't even realize he's just been grabbing your backside for the past half minute or so, just watching the way the supple skin spills between the cracks of his fingers, until you whine softly.
“Quit staring,” you mumble, hiding your face in the crook of your arms.
“I'll stare as long as I want to,” he retorts, spreading you apart and eyeing the way the drenched lace covers your cunt. “Not my fault you've been hiding from me.”
“I'm not like you,” you say, words muffled, “I don't just… show off.”
“Oh, you think I'm a show off?” He asks, pressing the pads of his fingers over your clit through your panties.
“I know you are,” you say, voice shaky, “You've been half naked all day.”
“You say that like it's a bad thing,” he murmurs, half distracted as he circles over the swollen bud of your clit, barely visible through the lace.
“It's not,” you breathe, still hiding.
“Why are you hiding from me?” He asks, hooking his fingers into your panties and pulling them aside.
“You're just touching me and staring at me,” you grumble.
He huffs a laugh, grabbing your panties and pulling them down. They slip down your thighs and join your pajama pants on the floor.
“It's cute, y'know,” he starts, moving behind you, “No matter how many times I fuck this pretty cunt— no matter how many times I have you naked and whining for me— you're still so shy. It's so fuckin’ cute.”
“Jake…”
“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
You immediately frown, looking back at him with a pout, “Do it.”
He shakes his head slowly, an evil glint in his eyes, “Say it.”
“You bastard.”
“Tell me you want my cock,” he says, pressing the head to your clit, slowly slipping along your soaked heat, “Tell me you want me to fuck your pretty pussy ‘til you can't fucking take it anymore.”
“No,” you whisper, “You know what I want, Jake—”
“If you won't say it, I'll just get myself off right here— just rub my cock over this wet cunt until I paint it with my come… Say it.”
“Fuck, I do! I want you to…” You pause, hands tightening into fists, “I want you to fuck me.”
“Where?”
“I hate you.”
“Where?” He repeats, giving you another sudden, harsh spank to your backside.
“It's so dirty,” you try to protest one final time, but his hand tangles into your hair and he pulls you up to his chest, angling your face to his.
“Say it, baby,” he takes on that gentle voice that makes your knees weak, “Tell me you want me to fuck your pretty pussy.”
You take a deep breath, letting your eyes fall shut to hide from his lust-filled gaze as shame overtakes you, “I want you to fuck my pussy…”
“Pretty pussy,” he corrects softly.
“Fuck, Jake,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his throat, “I want you to fuck my pretty pussy.”
God, he feels like he could come untouched from that alone. Hearing such filth from your sweet, pretty lips has him throbbing against you, and he nods, “Fuck, that's it.”
He moves you back down to the counter, and before you can even anticipate it, he's pushing inside your soaked entrance.
Your mouth falls open around a hiccuped whine as he bottoms out, fully sheathed inside of your pulsing, slick walls.
His grip is impossibly tight at your hips, his blunt nails digging in— and you hope for bruises after this.
You don't think you'll ever get over how big he always feels inside of you, no matter how many times you take him, he always feels like he's stretching you out for the first time.
He draws back, the head dragging deliciously over that little bump inside that makes your toes curl and your stomach tighten, and you can't help but whine when he pushes back in.
He grabs your backside again, spreading you apart as he mutters a quiet curse, “Fuck, look at that,” he hums, “You were fuckin’ made just for me, weren't you, baby?”
You nod, letting out a tiny uh-huh that makes his cock twitch.
He smirks to himself, his hands sliding up your back, drifting beneath your shirt, only to dig his nails in and lightly scratching on the way back down.
He can't stop staring at your ass. The curve of it, the way it bounces with every slam of his hips, the pretty red staining your skin from his hands.
And the longer he looks, the more he hates those fucking pajama pants.
He glances down at the floor where they lay, using his foot to kick them behind him to hide them from you later.
He knows how it'll go— you'll look for them, get whiny when you can't find them again, and end up bouncing on his cock later as bribery. And he'll fold.
God, he loves you.
He voices that right as he slams inside you again, his hand tight at your waist, holding you in place as he fucks into you with the lewd, wet sounds of your cunt taking him in and the smack of his skin hitting yours.
You reach a shaky hand behind you, your fingers fumbling against his until he tangles them together, and you let out a choppy, “I love you.”
“I don't think you do,” he teases, ever the tormentor, “You wouldn't even let me look at you, sweetheart.”
You let out a strangled sound, squeezing his hand tightly against the small of your back, “I do— I just don't—” You cut yourself off with a whine, “Don't like to be looked at…”
“I know,” he soothes, catching a glimpse of the flush on your cheeks, “But I fucking love you, Y/n. I love to look at you, I love to touch you,” he draws out until just the head is nestled inside your wet warmth, “I love to fuck you…”
“You're insatiable,” you retort softly.
“I love all that because I love you, baby,” he says easily, making a warmth bloom in your chest as tears threaten your eyes, “Everything about you.”
“I— Fuck, I do love you,” you breathe, wiggling against his hold to get him to push back inside, “I love you so much…”
He pushes back inside completely and leans over you, his chest pressing to your back as he brushes his fingers through your sweat-damp hair.
He moves your hair out of the way to press tiny warm kisses to your neck, “You always make my heart soft at the most inconvenient times,” he teases. “Here I am trying to be mean and you just make me so fucking soft for you.”
“I like it,” you admit softly, “When you're mean… I like it.”
“I know you do,” he murmurs. “You're so fucking cute.”
You nod, lifting a sock-covered foot to curl it around the back of his calf, “Please…”
He hums low, straightening back up, brushing his thumb over your southernmost entrance just to feel you tighten around him.
“I'm gonna fuck this pretty ass one day,” he says, almost to himself, and you let out a sound that makes your face burn.
“Jake,” you chastise, gasping when his palm lands against your ass, the sound echoing around the room.
His hand snakes around to your front, fingers pressing over your swollen clit, “Poor baby, she's begging for some love, isn't she?” You nod as he begins rubbing tight circles over it, his fingers deft and unforgiving.
“Fuck,” you moan, your mouth falling open when he uses his forearm to push against your lower stomach.
“Feels like you're about to come, baby,” he murmurs with a teasing edge, “Your sweet cunt's squeezing me so tight… Fuck, Y/n.”
“I'm so close,” you sigh, that familiar heat burning in the pit of your belly as your orgasm builds too quickly for your own good, “Please, Jake…”
“Yeah, listen to you now,” he grits out, “Playing your fuckin’ games all day just to beg me to let you come on my cock— I shouldn't even let you.”
“No,” you cry out, grabbing his arm with one hand to keep it at your clit, “No, please.”
“You're gonna come, baby,” he assures you, “Even though you don't deserve it, I fuckin’ want it,” he angles your hips up with one hand, making each push inward of his cock slam into your sensitive spot perfectly, “You're gonna come for me, baby.”
You nod, the greedy part of you thankful he was playing it that way— he talks a big game, but more than anything in the world, he gets off on you getting off, and despite his threats, he's never not let you finish.
Still, with the mood he's in today, you never know.
And you'd rather not chance it.
Your hips start moving of their own accord, meeting his thrusts with gentle rocking onto his cock, your eyes fluttering as your body tightens.
“Fuckin’ come,” he demands, “Give it to me— Make a fucking mess on my cock, baby.”
With a final sob, your orgasm hits, like it grabs you by the throat and slams you down into it. You can feel your cunt spasming around his thick length, squeezing him as the room is filled with filthy wet sounds, heavy breaths and moans, and skin hitting skin.
He grunts out a sound, and within seconds, you feel his warm release painting your walls. It only serves to add to the intensity of it all, and before you can register it— before you're fully through your first orgasm— another one hits.
“Fuck—” He curses loudly, his hands slamming against the counter on either side of you as he fucks you through it to the point of overstimulation.
Your hips hit the counter with every brutal smack of his own hips, and yeah, you're definitely going to be bruised, but you couldn't care less as you ride out your prolonged high.
He eases down to gentle rocking of his hips, a slow grind of his cock moving inside of you as you still twitch and spasm around him, your upper half completely collapsed onto the marble counter top.
He stills, resting inside, as he leans over you, pressing the gentlest kisses up your neck, “Fuck, baby,” he breathes, his lips soft and warm against your heated skin, “You okay?” He asks softly.
You nod, letting out a strangled Mm-hmm, that makes him smile as his hands smooth up your sides, beneath your shirt, grounding you with his gentle touch and sweet kisses.
“I want a bath,” you say in a sigh, making him grin at you.
“We'll get us a bath,” he tells you, straightening up and slipping out of you with an overstimulated grimace.
He tries not to watch his release leak out of you, but his eyes wander and his cock gives a half-interested throb that he has to put a quick lid on.
“Lots of fuckin’ bubbles,” he says, moving you to your unsteady feet. You grip the edge of the counter to properly hold yourself up, your legs shaking, and you still fight to catch your breath as he turns you to face him, “And we can use that oil you like that smells like vanilla— How's that sound?”
You grin as he lets you go, stooping to hand you your panties, “I love that.”
He straightens once again, “I'll go get it ready,” he places a kiss to your hair, before he leaves you for the moment.
You know you shouldn't bother with putting your panties back on, you're about to get a bath, but you slip them on regardless and scan the floor for your pajamas.
They're gone.
“That bastard,” you mutter, before yelling his name, “Where are my pajamas?!”
You can hear his laughter from the bathroom, before he responds, “I have no idea what you're talking about!”
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