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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