Cabin in the Woods
A quiet Christmas night in Jason’s cabin safehouse turns anything but gentle when both of you give in to something messy, desperate, and entirely your own—just you, him, and the fire bearing witness.
Tags/CW: 18+, MDNI, Jason x fem!reader, smut, oral (f! receiving), Jason kisses his meal before he eats it, p in v, unprotected sex, making out (too much too sloppy), creampies, cuddling, estab!relationship.
Jason’s arms have always been big. Big enough to wrap around you and blot out the rest of the world, rough enough to feel real when everything else slips. They’ve always made you feel like you could hide there—press your forehead to the crook of his neck and just disappear.
Now that there’s no noise to hear other than the soft cracking noise of wood burning in the flames, you realise, looking back in sprinkles of past thoughts, you’ve always wanted this.
The couches on either side of you remain forgotten, eerily still in the passage of time, they don’t have dents of conjoined body weight that strains their velvety pillows. All the hand woven throws on them, untouched, un-crinkled. No sign of them thrown off in a lazy sprawl.
You and Jason didn’t even look at them when you arrived at his safehouse cabin, having been drawn to the front of the fireplace, like moths to bright light —precious floor time, as you had called it earlier— you drifted fast to create your makeshift fortress.
And now here you are. His shoulder brushed against yours. His thigh warm where it rests beside your knee. The futon he insisted on bringing—because you mentioned, half-laughing, that hardwood floors would murder his spine—unfolded beneath you like he’d known you’d end up here.
Jason shifts beside you, slow and easy, enough that the futon dips and your hip nudges into his. He doesn’t move away—he never does. Instead, his arm settles behind you, brushing your back with that familiar, grounding warmth that always makes your shoulders drop a little.
The fire cracks softly, and the glow spilling over him feels unfair. All warm golds and long shadows, softening a man who spends the rest of the world hard-edged. Here, he’s just Jason. Your Jason. The one who always looks back at you like you’re the only steady thing he’s got.
You lean into him without thinking, letting your head rest against his shoulder. He shifts just the tiniest bit, settling you closer, like he was waiting for you to do exactly that and you coo into his warmth.
His fingers find your thigh in patterns of absentminded, lazy little circles that make it very hard to pretend you’re not melting. Not because it’s new, but because it’s him. Because somehow no amount of time together has made this feeling normal enough so that your heart doesn’t want to jump out of your chest.
The silence between you is thick but silky, like the blanket you’re both wrapped under. Not awkward. Not anticipatory. Just full of everything that doesn’t need to be spoken for you to feel it humming between your ribs.
Your hand drifts toward his on instinct, brushing across his knuckles before you weave your fingers through. Jason’s chest rises in slow, quiet breaths, the kind he only ever takes when he’s fully, privately at ease.
And then he hums, low in his throat—almost a laugh, almost a sigh.
“Y’know…” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough that his cheek grazes your hair, then your temple, “we’ve got two perfectly good couches behind us.”
You smile in his chest without lifting your head. “And?”
Jason’s thumb strokes along your thigh, slow enough to feel intentional.
“And we still end up right here.” He leans down just slightly, voice brushing your ear like a secret. “Pressed up against each other on the floor like teenagers.”
He pauses, warm lips grazing your temple.
“Not that I’m complaining. Just saying… there’s gotta be a reason.”
Jason shifts just enough for his nose to skim your hair, his voice dipping into that gravelly, amused tone he saves for when he’s about to get under your skin.
“‘Cause if I didn’t know any better…” his fingers slide a little higher on your thigh, just enough to make you breathe in, “I’d think you drag me down here on purpose.”
You pull back half an inch to give him a look, but he catches your chin lightly between two fingers, smirking.
“Mmhm,” he hums, eyes half-lidded, way too pleased with himself.
It earns him a chuckle from the depths of your throat.
“Act innocent all you want.” You tell him “Every damn time we’ve got a surface to lay down, a blanket, and five minutes alone? You end up glued to my side.”
He scoffs—mostly because you’re right.
“And what about you?” He mumbles.
“Must you need the confirmation?”
Jason nods, then laughs under his breath, warm and low. He presses his forehead to yours, grin softening into something deeper.
“Baby,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your jaw, “you think I’d sit anywhere else when I could have you right here? Not a chance.”
His lips hover a breath above yours before he adds, teasing but honest enough to crack you open a little
“Besides… you get real cuddly on the floor. Kinda my weakness.”
You don’t even try to hide your smile this time—it just blooms, warm and helpless, because he’s doing that thing again. That thing where he teases you until you’re flustered, then softens at the last second like he can’t help giving you the truth underneath.
“Your weakness, huh?” you whisper, lips brushing his.
Jason’s smirk tilts, lazy and fond. “Mm. Big one.”
And then he kisses you.
Not hungrily. Just slow—achingly slow—like he’s got all night and wants to savor every second of it. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you in, and your fingers curl into the front of his shirt without thinking. The fire pops behind you, sending a warm ripple across your skin, but Jason is warmer, deeper, steadier.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to nudge his nose against yours. “See?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your mouth. “Floor time makes you sweet.”
You shove him lightly in the chest, mostly to hide the way your heart just stuttered, but he only laughs, low and amused, and pulls you straight back into him. This time he lies back on the futon, tugging you with him until you end up half sprawled across his chest.
“‘M always sweet you asshole.”
“Aha, indeed.”
His arm wraps around your waist. Solid muscle, heat, that quiet strength you never have to ask for. You settle into him, your cheek pressed to the spot just over his heartbeat, and he exhales like you’ve put him exactly where he’s meant to be.
The firelight dances across the room. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your spine.
After a minute, he speaks again—soft, teasing, but quieter, like he’s letting his guard slip a little.
“Gotta admit…” he murmurs into your hair, “I like when you curl up on me like this.”
You tilt your head up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”
He looks down at you, eyes warm enough to ruin you.
“Yeah,” he says, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know, needed!? Yours...”
Your breath catches—so subtle you’re not sure he noticed.
But he did. And his hand stills on your back, fingertips sinking in just slightly.
“Jay..”
“’Cause I am,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?”
Jason’s words are still hanging in the air when you shift on him—slowly, like you’re sliding into a better position without any particular intention.
But he knows better.
Your leg drapes across his waist. Just a little weight. Just enough to make his breath catch. Barely.
You pretend not to notice.
Instead, you nuzzle into the warm column of his throat, lips brushing the skin there like an accident. A soft, lingering accident. Jason’s hand on your back flexes, fingertips digging in for half a second before he catches himself.
Good.
You let your nose trail up the line of his neck, lazy, innocent, torturously tender. His pulse jumps under your mouth—fast, but ever so contained. He’s trying so hard to be unbothered.
You’re not done with him however.
Your palm slides across his chest, slow enough that you can feel each breath he’s trying to regulate. He’s solid under your hand, warm, muscles going tight one at a time like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to admit he wants.
Still you say nothing.
You just shift again. Just enough that your hips settle a little closer over his. Not grinding. Not obvious. Just aligned. A feather-light tease that sends a hot, invisible jolt through him. You feel it. You feel everything.
Jason exhales, a quiet, shaky thing he tries to turn into a laugh.
It does not sound like a laugh.
You bite back a smile and press your lips to his stubbled jaw—soft, slow, completely devastating. He tilts into it instinctively before he forces himself still.
His fingers slide lower on your back.
You don’t give him what he wants.
Instead, you kiss the corner of his mouth—barely there, a whisper of warmth—and pull back before he can quite chase you. His eyes crack open, dark and unfocused, a little ruined around the edges.
You settle your head back on his chest like nothing happened at all.
He makes a noise in his throat. Frustrated. Fond. Helpless. His heartbeat is thunder under your ear now.
“I know you’re mine,” you whisper.
You shift one last time, just a tiny roll of your hips as you get ‘comfortable,’ and Jason’s arm tightens around you—reflexive, full-body, soft growl stuck in his chest.
He mutters something incoherent into your hair.
You smile smugly into his shirt.
Jason is officially in hell and he’s loving every second of it.
“And I’m yours.”
Jason lasts all of—what—another eight seconds? Maybe ten, if you’re too generous.
Because you stay exactly where you are, pretending to be oh-so-innocently settled on top of him, and then you do it—that move. That tiny, absentminded roll of your hips like you’re just adjusting your weight.
It’s not even a grind. It’s not even purposeful.
But Jason’s whole body reacts—hips jerk the slightest bit under you, all blood rushing suddenly to his cock, breath punching out of him like you knocked it loose. His hand, the one resting on your lower back, spasms and grabs a handful of your shirt.
“Jesus—” he breathes, barely audible.
You smile into his chest wickedly. He knows you do. He feels it.
And that’s the moment he officially cracks.
One second you’re lying on him, all soft and innocent, the next—
His hands slide down to your hips, grip tightening, and he flips you onto your back in one fluid, pissed-off-but-turned-on-as-hell motion. The futon dips beneath the sudden shift, and you gasp more from the shock than the force.
Jason hovers above you, breath unsteady, hair falling into his eyes like he lost it somewhere in the movement.
And he looks beautifully wrecked.
Flushed pink. Jaw tight. Pupils blown wide. The thin veneer of “I can handle this” absolutely torched in flames.
He braces one forearm beside your head, the other still clamped around your hip like he’s anchoring himself. It slips away only for a moment’s time, to adjust his bulge inside his pants.
“You think you’re funny,” he growls—quiet, deep, breath warm against your lips.
You grin up at him, soft and taunting. “A little.”
Jason’s eyes flick down your body, then back to your smile, and he huffs out a broken laugh.
His lips pepper kisses across your face and jawline, each one of them sloppy and slow.
“Yeah?” He says between kisses. His thumb strokes along your hip, possessive, hungry, already losing any attempt at patience. “You’re lucky I love you.”
You tug lightly on the collar of his shirt. “Do something about it then.”
That’s it. That’s the actual kill shot.
Jason lets out a sound—somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and crashes his mouth directly to yours, all heat and pent-up frustration and relief. His hand grips your thigh and pulls you flush against him, no space left, no guessing.
Jason’s kiss is hot enough to dizzy you—deep, and hungry, coating the skin around your mouth with saliva, like he’s been trying not to do this for the past thirty minutes and you finally snapped the last thread holding him together. His hand slides under your thigh as his tongue touches yours, tugging you up to meet his hips and the low sound he makes when your bodies line up is downright sinful.
He bucks his hips directly into yours eliciting a small moan out of you when your clit rubs perfectly on the seam of your pants.
You pull him closer by the front of his shirt, kissing him back just as fiercely—teeth catching his bottom lip and pulling it into your mouth, fingers threading into his hair. You can feel him melt into it, lose the last scraps of restraint, push his weight down over you like he wants you under him, wrapped around him, nowhere else.
But there’s no way you’re letting him win that easily.
Mid-kiss, you twist your grip in his shirt and roll your hips slow and steady, with cocky intention this time. Jason’s breath stutters; he breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale right against your mouth.
“Oh, you’re—” he starts, but you don’t give him the chance.
You use his moment of shock to flip him.
You hook your leg around his waist, shift your weight, and suddenly he’s the one on his back and you’re straddling his hips. The futon dips under you both, the fire crackles, and Jason just freezes.
Not in fear, but in awe.
His hands fall to your thighs like gravity dragged them there, fingers spreading over your skin, squeezing like he needs the reassurance you’re real.
You lean down, kiss him slow—slow enough to make him chase the end of it when you pull back half an inch.
He exhales shakily.
“Baby,” he warns, voice shredded down to something deep and ruined, “don’t start something you can’t finish.”
You smirk, shifting your weight deliberately over him, drawing a curse out of his throat.
“Who says I’m not finishing it?”
Jason’s head falls back with a low groan, his hands tightening on your hips—possessive, helpless, gone.
That’s when he moves.
One sharp thrust of his hips up into yours—enough to knock a gasp out of you and make your hands slap against his chest for balance. He grins up at you, wild and triumphant.
“Got you.”
You glare at him, breath uneven. “Cheater.”
“Survivor,” he counters, grabbing your waist and dragging you down again so your faces nearly touch. “And if you keep teasing me—”
He flips you back.
Fast.
Effortless.
Like you weigh nothing.
Your back hits the futon again and he cages you in with his body, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His lips ghost along your jaw, down to your neck, warm and maddeningly slow.
“You gonna behave now?” he murmurs against your skin, voice barely holding together.
You curl your fingers into his hair and tug just enough to make him curse under his breath.
“No.”
Jason laughs—breathless, disbelieving, insanely turned on.
“Good,” he growls, dragging your hips up against his again, “’cause neither am I.”
He kisses you again—deeper, dirtier, more desperate—and this time neither of you hold back. Smooching sounds fill the room and Jason’s scent mingles with your own, so much, you don’t know where he starts and you begin.
His hands fly to the button of your jeans, the pads of his fingers fiddling with it.
The button pops with a sharp, silver click, but Jason doesn't rush to strip you. Instead, he pauses, his large hand splayed flat against the heat of your stomach, his thumb hooked just inside the waistband. He’s looking at you with such intensity that feels heavier than his actual weight.
Jason’s kisses turn hungry fast — the kind that steals the air from your lungs and gives it back to you warmer. You arch up into him, not consciously, not even teasing this time, just responding to the heat of him pressed fully against you.
He moans, low and helpless, the sound punching out of his chest like he’s been holding it back for weeks.
Your fingers tangle in his shirt. You tug hard and he jerks a little, hips pressing into yours with absolutely zero finesse. He bites down on a laugh, breath hot against the wet patches his lips have left on your throat.
“That’s… not fair,” he manages when you palm him through his pants, voice tight, breath shaking.
You drag your nails lightly down the back of his neck.
“Who said I was playing fair?”
He loses it for a second. His hand grips your thigh, hauling it up around his waist like he needs you anchored there or he’ll come apart. His body settles deeper against yours, chest to chest, hips locked to your hips, the futon creasing under the weight of both of you pressing together like there’s not a single inch you can spare.
Your shirt rides up, you don’t even know when, and his hand slides under the fabric, warm, broad, rough in that way that makes your breath catch. He strokes up your side slowly, until his fingers shimmy inside your bra from the front and begin to flick at one of your nipples.
Your own hands slip beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of him, the solid muscle, the way he tenses the second your fingertips skim the edge of his ribs. He shudders and you feel it all the way down to your pussy.
“That’s it,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours, eyes blown wide and dark. “God, you drive me—”
His voice breaks.
You kiss him before he can recover.
It gets messier than before, very very fast.
His mouth is open against yours, desperate, almost clumsy in the way he chases you. He drags you up into him, half-guided, half-grabbed, bodies tangling as hands roam and clothing shifts, little gasps slipping between kisses. You’re barely aware of what’s moving where or how clothes are stripped messily off you — just skin, heat, the wet drag of his breath against your cheek, the way he sounds when you touch him just right through his pants.
He pulls back only long enough to look at you — really look at how beautiful you look with just your underwear— chest heaving, lips red from kissing you stupid, a string of saliva connecting your faces.
“You’re not getting away from me tonight,” you murmur, voice like spice and honey all at once.
You wrap your arms around his neck, tug him down on you again.
“Didn’t plan on it, princess” he mumbles, the word vibrating against your collarbone. His smile is downright sinful.
He pulls back just enough to meet your half lidded gaze, his eyes roaming over your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of you.
His hand slides up, disappearing beneath the curve of your back, his rough palms dragging over your scorching skin. He finds the strap of your bra and undoes it with a soft click. He lets his thumb trace the curve of you, over and over, until you’re arching off the futon just to meet the pressure.
“Jason,” you breathe, half-plea and half-complaint.
“What—I’m just lookin’,” he grunts, a slow, predatory smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’m takin’ my time. You’re the one who wanted to play games, baby. Now you gotta sit with the consequences.”
He leans down, but he doesn't kiss you. Instead, he brushes his lips against the sensitive hollow behind your ear, inhaling deeply. His beard scruff burns against your skin, a delicious friction that makes you shiver. He moves lower, his tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe down the side of your neck, stopping right where your pulse is thrumming like a trapped bird.
His other hand finds your inner thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin there. He doesn't go for the center—not yet. He just kneads the muscle, his touch possessive and grounding, reminding you of exactly how much stronger he is than you.
Jason knows how much you love it when he pins you down just like this.
“You’re shaking,” he observes when your legs decide to give out, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates right through your chest.
He shifts, dragging his body up yours until his nose nudges yours. He stays there, breathing your air, his hand finally sliding up, up, until the heel of his palm brushes against the damp patch of your underwear. He doesn't move. He just applies pressure on your clit with his pointer finger—steady, delicious pressure—and watches your eyes blow wide in pleasure.
Before he moves further, he gives your clit a fast flick.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice a rough velvet when he circles a finger at your entrance, feeling how sticky you are. “Me making a mess of you on the floor?”
You can’t even answer; you just nod, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull him lower.
Jason chuckles, a dark, low sound. He finally relents, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, finding you already slick and hot and achingly pulsing for him. He doesn't rush. He circles the hood of your clit with agonizing slowness, his touch light as a feather one second and firm the next, mocking the way you’ve been teasing him all night.
He watches your face the whole time, tracking every hitch in your breath, every little broken sound that leaves your throat, looking entirely too smug for a man whose own heart is trying to beat out of his ribs.
Jason’s fingers continue that torturous slow-motion circling, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s reading you like a map, noting the exact second your pupils dilate or the way your hips stutter upward when his thumb find a specific, sensitive ridge.
You don’t even have time to whine at the loss of friction when he moves to completely take off your panties, because he’s back to you inhumanly fast.
His fingers spread your puffy folds apart and he rubs from your sopping hole to your poor clit, with two of his fingers, up and down again and again, so achingly slow that you can’t help but chase it with your hips.
He’s being deliberate. It’s his revenge for the way you played him earlier—an undoing that leaves you grasping at the fabric of his shirt just to stay tethered to the room.
“You’re so loud for me,” he says, his voice thick with a dark sort of pride. “Even when you’re trying to be quiet, your body’s fucking screaming.”
He dips a finger inside you, shallow and testing, and the sound that breaks out of you is high and thin. He swallows it with a kiss, his tongue mimicking the slow intrusion of his hand. It’s too much—the heat of the fire on your side on your skin, the weight of him on your chest, and the slick, sliding friction of his fingers fucking themselves inside your squelching pussy.
Just as he adds a second finger, stretching you open with a scissoring motion a groan of his own, a loud —crack— echoes through the room.
A cedar log in the fireplace decides to give up, snapping in half and sending a violent spray of orange sparks against the mesh screen. The sudden noise is like a bucket of cold water in the middle of a fever dream.
You jump, your back arching off the futon, and Jason’s head snaps toward the hearth, his shoulders tensing instinctively as if his bodyguard reflex kicks in for a split second.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the frantic thumping of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again, pulsing in both of your ears.
Jason looks back at you, a single stray spark reflected in his dark eyes. He’s still hovering over you, his fingers still buried in you, but the spell of the ‘perfect moment’ has a tiny, jagged crack in it.
Bent on not letting this destroy the moment completely, Jason takes a beat and continues sliding his fingers inside you ever so slowly.
He huffs out a breath when you mewl, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead.
“Scared the hell outta me, shit” he whispers, though he doesn’t move an inch away.
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands sliding from his hair to his cheeks. “The ah—floor is a dangerous place, Jay. Hazards everywhere.”
Jason’s gaze teasingly drops to your lips, then down to where his hand is still hidden away between your thighs, feeling the way you’re pulsing around him. The smirk from earlier returns, slower this time, more dangerous.
“Right. Hazards,” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. He leans back in, his nose brushing yours, the playful banter dying a quick death as he replaces it with raw intent. “In that case, I better finish this quick before the house burns down, huh?”
Your lips purse in dissatisfaction at that, your eyes squinting. Solemnly, you shake your head at him.
“What?” Jason teases, smirking ever so slightly “want me to take my time instead?”
He doesn't wait for a comeback, for he knows your answer. He just hooks his other hand under your knee, dragging your leg up and over his shoulder, exposing you completely to the firelight and his hungrily wrecked expression.
Jason watches you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving as he takes in the sight of you—disheveled, legs draped over him, skin glowing with a sheer coat of sweat like polished amber in the firelight, your pussy glistening in need for him. His playfulness is still there, dancing in the corners of his mouth, but it’s being rapidly overtaken by a hunger that looks almost painful.
“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than you, patting down his body. “Clothes. These have gotta go.”
He sits back on his heels, a move that feels like a physical loss the moment his heat leaves your skin. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, his knuckles grazing the jacked ridges of his stomach. In one fluid, impatient motion, he yanks the fabric over his head and tosses it somewhere toward the dark kitchen on the left.
The firelight catches on the broad expanse of his chest; the scars that map out his life of vigilance, the heavy, tensed muscles of his arms. Seeing him like this—bare and braced for you—always makes the air feel a little too thin to breathe.
Fuck—even every vein that props over his muscles sent you into a frenzy.
He makes quick work of his belt, the leather creaking in the quiet room. When he finally shucks his pants, the futon groans under his shifting weight. He’s back over you in nanoseconds, but he doesn't go for the kill. Not yet.
He settles between your knees, his large hands sliding up your inner thighs, spreading you wider until you feel the cool air of the room hit your skin—and then the scorching heat of his gaze.
“Jason…” you murmur, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists and pins them gently above your head.
“Uh-uh,” he rumbles, his voice a low, warning vibration. “You spent all that time teasing me. Now you’re gonna stay right there and take it.”
He leans down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he starts at your knee. His tongue traces a slow, wet line up the sensitive skin of your thigh as his lips wrap around patches of your skin, his beard scruff nuzzling to you sending fresh jolts of electricity through your nerves. You writhe under him, but his grip on your wrists is like iron—steady and grounding.
And fuck, you love it when he bends you in half like this. Even if by the time he reaches the glossy center of you, you’re breathless and your head is tossing back against the futon.
Jason pauses, his hot breath ghosting over your folds, making you shiver. He looks up at you, a wicked, ruined sort of grin on his face.
“You wanted floor time,” he whispers against your throbbing slit. “I’m gonna give you floor time you’re never gonna forget.”
Then, he dips his head.
The first lick of his tongue on your slit is broad and slow, catching every bit of your sticky slick. You let out a broken, jagged sound, your hips jerking upward instinctively. He groans into you at the taste, his tongue finding your clit and swirling around it with a rhythmic pressure with the tip of his tongue that makes your vision go white at the edges.
He’s not rushing. He’s savoring you, his fingers letting go of your wrists only to dive into the futon on either side of your hips, bracing himself as he drinks you in. Every time you try to close your legs, his shoulders act as a wedge, keeping you open, keeping you vulnerable, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
The sound of the fire is a distant hum compared to the rushing blood in your ears. Every muscle in your body is wound tight, vibrating like a live wire snapped in half as Jason continues eating you out.
He’s using his tongue with a terrifying level of focus, swirling, flicking, and then applying the flat of it all over your slit, before his lips lock around your clit and suck, ever so gently. It makes your heels dig into the futon and your hands find his hair, pulling him closer even as you try to escape the sheer intensity of it.
“Jay—please,” you gasp, the words breaking apart as he finds that one specific spot that makes you see stars and keeps abusing it with his tongue.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets more aggressive with it, his hands sliding under your glutes to tilt you further up, until you’re bent upwards, meeting every one of his wet laps with a desperate tilt of your hips.
The friction is perfect, agonizingly so. It’s a building pressure behind your ribs, a tightening in your stomach that feels like a spring being coiled tighter and tighter until something has to snap.
“Baby…Look at me,” he pleads against your skin, eyes all soft when he pulls back for air, his voice muffled as he leaves open mother kisses all over your pussy, then some smaller, more focused in your clit. His tongue is darting out to place small kitten licks on your sensitive bundle of nerves.
His hand plucks one of yours away from his hair and comes to interlace with it onto your stomach tenderly.
You force your eyes open, your breath coming in short hitches. You see the top of his head, his dark hair messy and wild between your fingers, and the way his broad shoulders are bunched with the effort of holding himself back. The dimples on his biceps flex when his palms force your legs open, so he can keep licking, keep sucking.
Then, he does it. He uses his thumb to pin your clit in place while his tongue sweeps over it in long, firm strokes.
That’s it for you.
Your world narrows down to a single, blinding white light. You cry out, a raw, high pitched sound that is lost in the crackle of the wood, as the first wave of your orgasm slams into you.
Your walls clench desperately around nothing, pulsing in a frantic rhythm that matches the thumping of your heart. Jason doesn’t pull away; he drinks in every shutter, every twitch of your thighs, his own breathing ragged and harsh.
He stays there, giving your clit small and pointed licks and tiny kisses until the last of the tremors fade into a heavy, boneless warmth.
You’re floating, your limbs feeling like lead, your chest heaving as you try to remember how to breathe. Jason finally lifts his head, his chin, dripping, slick with your juices and cheeks red, looking like he’s just survived a fight.
He doesn't give you a second to recover, however.
He crawls up your body, his skin sliding against yours in a delicious, heavy drag of heat. He hovers over you, bracing his weight on his forearms, his eyes dark with a hunger that hasn't been even slightly sated by your release.
“Love it when you come on my tongue. Oh shiiit.” he rasps, his voice a ruined growl.
He reaches down, guiding his hand across his length, giving it a few twisted jerks before lining it up to your entrance—still wet and sensitive from his tongue—and pushes inside.
He goes slow at first, catching all your wetness with the fat tip of his cock, letting you stretch and flutter around him, a guttural moan escaping his throat as he feels how tight you still are, how much you're still humming from your climax.
He sinks in until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re molded perfectly to shape of his dick, his forehead dropping to yours as he just breathes you in for a second, his heart hammering against your chest.
Your pussy clenches desperately around him, sopping all around his entire length.
“God, you’re… you’re perfect,” he murmurs.
His hips begin slow; a soul-crushing grind that tells you the real ‘floor time’ you so desperately wanted, has only just begun.
The hardwood floor groans beneath the futon, a rhythmic creak that underscores every heavy thrust Jason makes to drill into you.
He isn't rushing either; he’s taking his sweet time and up all the space you gave him, fucking you with a slow, agonizing friction that feels like it’s peeling back every intimate layer of you.
The heat from the fireplace is a constant presence against your side, scorching you with kisses of fire’s warmth, but it’s still nothing compared to the furnace of Jason’s skin and the pace of his hips.
He’s solid, crushing weight above you, his arm muscles roping and snapping under your touch as he anchors himself. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the floor beside your head. Because he has to, and because he wants to feel the way your knuckles knock against the wood when he hits the right depth inside you. When he hits all the spots that make your eyes roll back.
“Floor’s too hard, huh?” he grunts, his jaw tight as he pulls back almost entirely before sinking in again, faster this time, hips stuttering with bullet like strength. The friction is excruciatingly good and you’re feeling so full that your eyes water.
The way he’s picking up the pace makes your toes curl into the folds of the throw blanket before you wrap them around his waist to guide him into you further.
You remember to shake your head in response to him, your hair fanning out across the futon like a halo. “Don't... don't stop. Go harder. Jason puhleasee.”
“Wasn't plannin' on it,” he breaths out, a jagged, broken sound.
He shifts his angle, his hips tilting for his cock to catch that spongy spot his fingers had already teased into a raw, pulsing ache.
The impact sends a jolt through you that feels like a spark from the fire—sharp, hot, and impossible to ignore. Every time his weight comes down so he can fuck his mushroom tip inside you, the futon dips, your skin slaps frantically and the shadows of your joined bodies dance wildly against the ceiling in the orange glow.
He starts to pick up the pave even more, the movements turning from a grind into something more urgent, even more primal. The sound of his thighs slapping against your ass is wet and rhythmic, a counterpoint to the messy mewls you’re making into the crook of his neck or into his mouth.
It’s a sticky mess, really. Spit everywhere, your thighs and his coated with your sleek.
Jason’s breathing is a series of harsh hitches now. He’s already losing that "hard-edged" control he prides himself on on his best days, his movements becoming less calculated and even more desperate to chase his own release. He buries his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that’s just shy of a bite.
“You’re so wet,” he mutters, the words nearly lost to the friction. “So damn wet for me. I keep sliding out.”
It’s like he’s going insane afterwards; he’s kissing you one second and the other he’s got a nipple in his mouth to lick and suck onto, and the next one he’s biting down the flesh of your chest, like he could chomp a piece of you and eat you.
In a frenzy of touches, he releases your hands, his palms sliding down to grip the edges of the futon, his arms caging you in as he drives into you with everything he has. The floor vibrates and creaks with the force of it, a dull thudding that resonates in your very bones.
It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s perfectly, quintessentially him—taking the rough, unyielding reality of the world and turning it into something that belongs only to the two of you.
Suddenly you are so glad the two of you came to this random safehouse of his in the middle of the snowy woods for Christmas. You get to have him all to yourself like this, anywhere, anytime.
Just the two of you and no one else, trying to swallow each other’s tongues.
Only the fire can hear your squealing moans tonight, and if you made a hole through the floor right now with the force Jason is fucking into you, it wouldn't even matter.
You’d love it, even in the afterglow.
Just the thought of it makes you even wetter.
Jason’s movements slowly lose their drilling edge, replaced by a desperate series of bucks that tell you he’s right on the brink of coming too.
His pace slows down, a fraction of what it was before, his face pulling away from yours so he can look at you with those lust blown green eyes. His hips buck upwards, hitting the spot that makes you lose it—
“Yeah, that’s right,” he tries to say, though he slurs his words out of gritted teeth and hisses of pleasure “yeah baby I’ll give it to you slow, shh—fuck—I gotchu.”
His fingers dig into the padding of the futon, then your hips, just to make you match his own rhythm, knuckles white. He drives into you with bruising force that it doesn’t even matter if he’s been pretending to go slow.
You’re both spent, moving with hurried twitches, chasing each other’s release; you by locking your feet behind Jason’s ass and forcing him to be rougher, maybe a little faster too since his pace is downright torture. Him by slamming your hips into his while his hands leave bruises on you.
Every swallow thrust is pure collision, a shatter wreck of skin and friction. You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs as they go taut, the way his entire body has gone rigid like a bowstring about to snap.
“Baby,” he chokes out, his voice completely shredded and high pitched. He lifts his head, and for a second, the mask of lust is totally gone.
His eyes are blown wide, dark and vulnerable and so glossy, searching yours for that one final bit of permission to let go. His lips are parted perfectly, with that beautiful crease down the middle of the bottom one, his jawline sharp as the light hits him. “Look at me—can I come inside? Y’r pussy feels like heaven.”
You wrap your legs tighter around him, pulling him in, your heels hooking into the small of his back to bridge the last microscopic gap between you. His fucking stutters in a white-hot roar now, eclipsing the crackle of the wood, a building pressure that demands everything you have left in you to give him.
“Dun’ wanna pull out.”
“Fuck yeah, Jas—Jason,” you sob against his lips. “Make ah—a mess.”
He lets out a sound that is half-growl, half-shatter. His hips jerk in a final, deep surge, burying himself to the hilt as his own climax slams into him. He goes still, his head falling back, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief under the firelight. You’re right there with him, your body clenching around him in a frantic pulsing that feels like it’s shaking your very soul loose, your inner walls are painted in streaks of white, hot cum, and he bucks his hips devastatingly into yours so he can fuck his own release even deeper into you.
For a long, suspended moment, the only sound in the room is the overlapping gasps of two spent bodies who have run out of all air.
Jason collapses forward, his weight pinning you deep into the futon, his heart thundering against your ribs like a captured drum.
He’s truly shaking; his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck as he tries to regulate a breath that still won’t come. He feels massive, heavy and so very tender in your arms. You coo into him too, wrapping your arms completely around his back to pull him in closer into you.
He can’t suffocate you if you’ve already run out of breath, but even if he did, you’d adore him still.
Slowly, the world starts to bleed back in again; the smell of woodsmoke, the fading warmth of the embers, and the dull ache of the floorboards on your back that Jason warned you about earlier.
Jason makes a low, tired noise in his throat—a sound of pure contentment—and nuzzles his nose into your skin, his hair, damp with beads of sweat sticking to your temple.
“Told you,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly ghost of itself. “Floor time... dangerous.”
You let out a weak, shaky laugh, your fingers tracing the dip of his spine. “Shut up, Jason.”
“Make me,” he huffs against your lips, sucking your bottom one into his mouth, but he doesn't move. He just settles deeper into you, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor you both to the spot, right there in the glow of the fireplace.
You feel him harden up inside you again and oh fuck— it’s time to have him on his back.
You’re gonna show him just how bad hardwood is for his back.
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
A/N: hiii, merry Christmas everyone! This is my gift for all of you, I know it took me so long to get this out but work is kicking my butt. Also this is SO self indulgent, im so sorry I just need him like this right now😭
Taglist: @starfiremylove @vanillacici
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
Dividers by @/cursed-carmine
