#seth rogan

casting 🤔🤔🤔🤔:

chris pratt as classic 🦴🦴🦴🦴

kevin hart as cross 🐄🐄🐄🐄🐄🐄

jesse pinkman as underswap 😋😋😋😋😋😋

seth rogan as underfell 🫜🫜🫜🫜🫜🫜🫜

charlie day as dream 🌝🌝🌝🌝🌝🌝

awkwafina as xtale chara 🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫

jack black as error 🧶🧶🧶🧶🧶🧶

pyrocynical as ink 🖌️🖌️🖌️🖌️🖌️🖌️🖌️

tom holland as undertale frisk ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

ice cube as nightmare 🍏🍏🍏🍏🍏

bryan cranston as xgaster 👩‍🦽👩‍🦽👩‍🦽👩‍🦽👩‍🦽

the rock as epic 🙂🙂🙂🙂

mariah carey as undertale toriel 🥧🥧🥧🥧

xtale alphys as matthew gray gubler 👭👭👭👭👭👭👭

james cordon as killer 😮😮😮😮😮

Pairing: James Franco x Reader

TW: explicit sexual content, slightly taboo, age gap, dirty talk, oral sex, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, strong language.

Synopsis: Rehearsal tension boils over as you, a former child star, and your older co-star, James, transform a scripted romance into a something real.

Based on this request.

James had this habit of touching his lower lip when he was thinking—just the pad of his thumb pressing there, like he was testing the shape of a thought before letting it out. You noticed it years ago, when you were eleven and he was twenty-six, filming that godawful kids’ show where he played your perpetually exasperated uncle. You’d memorized all his little quirks back then, the way his left eyebrow twitched before a retake, how he’d sigh through his nose when the director called cut. Now, fifteen years later, he’s doing it again—thumb against his mouth, brow furrowed—while staring at the script in his hands like it’s written in a language he doesn’t quite understand.

The rehearsal space smells like old coffee and the faint citrus of someone’s abandoned hand sanitizer. You fiddle with the edge of your own script, creasing the corner of page fourteen where your character is supposed to gasp his name in a way you haven’t quite figured out how to fake yet. Across the table, James exhales sharply and drops the pages. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is warmer than you remember, deeper. “We should probably talk about the, uh—” He gestures vaguely at the script.

"You mean the part where I climb into your lap like a cat in heat?" you blurt, then immediately want to die. Heat floods your cheeks—why did you phrase it like that? James' thumb pauses mid-press against his lip, his eyes flicking up to yours. There's a beat where you're both frozen, the air thick with something you can't name, before his mouth quirks.

"Actually," he says, slow, deliberate, "I was going to say the kitchen counter scene. But now I'm rethinking our approach." His voice drops half an octave, and suddenly you're twelve again, watching him effortlessly command every room he walked into—except now that deep timbre does something entirely different to your insides. He leans forward, forearms braced on the table. "You nervous?"

You swallow. "Is it that obvious?"

James studies you for a long moment before reaching across the table. You freeze when his fingers brush your wrist—his touch is startlingly warm, his thumb tracing idle circles over your pulse point. "You used to bite your nails before every take back then too," he murmurs. "Still do, apparently."

His thumb presses harder against your racing pulse, just for a second—enough to make you gasp—before he pulls back with a chuckle that’s all warmth, no mockery. “Relax,” he says, pushing his chair back with a scrape against the floor. “We’ll start slower.” Before you can ask what that means, he’s rounding the table, hands in his pockets, that familiar loose-limbed saunter unchanged since your childhood. He stops behind your chair, close enough you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Stand up.”

You do, clutching the script like a shield, and nearly stumble when his hands settle on your shoulders from behind. “Jesus,” he murmurs, thumbs kneading the tense muscles there. “You’re wound tighter than a spring.” His breath ghosts over your ear as he leans down, voice dropping to that dangerous octave again. “Gonna be hard to sell passionate love scenes if you flinch every time I touch you.”

“I’m not—” You cut yourself off when his fingers slide up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back until you’re staring up at him. His eyes are darker this close, the gold flecks in them catching the overhead lights.

“Breathe,” he orders softly, and you do, shuddering when his thumb brushes your lower lip. “Good girl.” The praise curls low in your belly. He lets go abruptly, stepping around to face you, and you immediately miss the contact. “Here’s what we’ll do—skip the script today. Just…” He shrugs, a slow, easy movement. “Talk to me.”

You blink. “About what?”

“Whatever you want.” He leans back against the rehearsal table, crossing his ankles. The overhead lights catch the silver threaded through his stubble—something you don’t remember from fifteen years ago. “Or tell me to fuck off. Your call.”

The abrupt shift disarms you. “I don’t… want you to fuck off,” you admit, and his mouth twitches.

“Good,” James says, pushing off the table to step closer, his hands slipping into his pockets again. He studies you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle—the same look he used to give when you’d flub your lines on set all those years ago. “Then tell me why you’re stiff as a board every time I get within three feet of you.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something sharper beneath it. “Is it me? The role? The fact that you have to pretend to want me?”

You open your mouth, then close it. The truth lodges in your throat—It’s because I don’t have to pretend—but you bite it back. “It’s… weird,” you settle on, picking at the edge of your script again. “Playing lovers when I used to call you ‘Uncle James’ and you’d buy me ice cream between takes.”

He laughs, low and warm, and the sound skates down your spine. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly knocking back chocolate sprinkles in a sundae dress anymore.” His gaze drags over you, deliberate, and your skin burns under the weight of it. “And I’m not your fucking uncle.”

The way he says it—rough, almost possessive—makes your breath hitch. You’re saved from responding by his phone buzzing on the table. He glances at it, then back at you, and something in his expression shifts. “You free tonight?”

You blink at him, the script slipping from your fingers to land with a soft thud on the floor. “Tonight?” Your voice comes out higher than intended, like you’re eleven again and he’s just asked if you want an extra scoop of sprinkles.

James picks up the script, his fingers brushing yours as he hands it back. “Dinner,” he clarifies, though his mouth quirks like he knows exactly how your pulse just stuttered. “Somewhere quiet. We can go over lines without the crew breathing down our necks.” His thumb grazes your knuckle—brief, deliberate—before he steps back. “Unless you’ve got plans.”

The sensible part of your brain screams danger, but your mouth moves faster. “No plans.” You cringe internally at how eager it sounds, but James just nods, tucking his phone away.

“Good. Seven o’clock. I’ll text you the address.” He turns to leave, then pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. The rehearsal lights catch the silver at his temples, the sharp line of his jaw. “Wear something…” His eyes flick down your body, slow, appreciative. “Less script rehearsal, more dinner with your co-star.”

You show up at seven twenty-three because you spent forty minutes changing outfits, then changed back into the first dress, then panicked and called your best friend, who told you to “stop being a fucking coward” and wear the red one. James is already seated when you arrive, nursing a whiskey at a corner booth with low lighting that catches the amber in his eyes. He doesn’t stand when you approach—just tilts his head, gaze dragging over the slit in your dress, the way the fabric clings to your thighs. “Late,” he observes, but his mouth curves when he says it.

You slide into the booth across from him, knees brushing under the table, and immediately reach for the menu to hide how your hands shake. “Got lost,” you lie. James hums, taking a slow sip of his drink, and you can feel his eyes on you as you pretend to study the wine list. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until he reaches across the table and plucks the menu from your hands.

“Look at me,” he says, and it’s not a request. You lift your gaze to find him watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. “Better.” He sets the menu aside, fingers drumming against the table. “You eat yet?”

You shake your head, suddenly aware of how close his foot is to yours beneath the table. James flags down a waiter without looking away from you, ordering for you both in that effortless, low timbre that used to make the crew snap to attention back in the day. When the waiter leaves, he leans forward, elbows on the table. “So,” he says, voice dropping. “Tell me about the audition.”

You blink at him, fingers tightening around the stem of your water glass. "The audition?"

James' mouth quirks. "Yeah. How'd you land this role?" His gaze is steady, curious in a way that feels like he's peeling back layers. "Casting director didn't mention we'd worked together before."

You trace a bead of condensation down the glass. "I didn't either." The admission slips out before you can stop it. "Figured it'd be... weird."

His eyebrow lifts—just like it used to before a retake. "Weirder than pretending to fuck your childhood co-star?"

The bluntness of his words punches the air from your lungs. You choke on your water, coughing into your fist while James watches, unrepentant, swirling his whiskey like this is a normal conversation. “Jesus,” you wheeze, wiping your mouth. “Could’ve warned me.”

James shrugs, all lazy confidence, but there’s a flicker of something darker in his gaze. “Life’s full of surprises.” He leans back as the waiter sets down your wine, his fingers brushing yours when he slides the glass toward you. “Like finding out my old TV niece grew up to be the only actress in Hollywood who can make me forget my lines.”

Your face burns. You take a too-large gulp of wine to hide it, the tannins bitter on your tongue. “You’re not… forgetting lines,” you mutter into your glass.

“No?” His foot hooks around your ankle under the table, dragging you an inch closer. “Then tell me what my next line is in the kitchen scene.”

The wineglass nearly slips from your fingers when his ankle locks around yours, dragging you forward until your knees bump under the table. You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how the booth’s low lighting throws shadows across the sharp planes of his face—how the amber in his whiskey matches the flecks in his eyes. “I don’t—” Your voice cracks. You clear your throat. “I don’t have the script memorized yet.”

James hums, swirling his drink. The ice clinks against the glass, loud in the quiet between you. “Liar.” His smile is slow, knowing. “You used to memorize everyone’s lines by week two. Even mine.” His foot slides higher, the toe of his shoe pressing against your calf. “Try.”

Your breath hitches. The script pages flutter behind your eyelids—page fourteen, the kitchen counter, his character’s rough murmur against your character’s throat. “You’ve been driving me crazy since the moment you walked in.” You bite your lip. “Something about… driving you crazy?”

James’ fingers tighten around his glass. “Close.” His voice drops, gravelly and low, and suddenly you’re not in a booth anymore—you’re back in rehearsal, his hands on your hips, the script abandoned on the floor. “You’ve been driving me insane since you were sixteen.”

The wineglass slips from your fingers entirely this time, landing on the table with a sharp clink that draws the waiter’s attention. James catches it before it can spill, his fingers brushing yours again—always touching, always deliberate. You stare at him, your pulse hammering in your throat. "That’s—that’s not in the script."

"No," he agrees, setting the glass upright with a quiet scrape against the tabletop. His thumb traces the rim, slow, absent, like he’s imagining the shape of your mouth there. "But it’s true."

The air between you thickens, charged with something you don’t know how to name. You grip the edge of the table to steady yourself. "You—" The word fractures. You try again. "You noticed me? Back then?"

James laughs, but it’s rough, uneven. "Not like that." His gaze flicks up, holds yours. "Not until you turned eighteen. Saw you in that indie film—the one where you played the bookstore clerk." His jaw tightens. "Nearly walked out of the theater."

You can’t breathe. The confession hangs between you like a live wire, sparking against your skin. “You walked out?” The question comes out small, wounded, and you hate how it sounds—how young.

James’ knuckles whiten around his glass. “Because I wanted to drag you into the fucking alley behind the cinema.” His voice is raw, stripped bare, and the heat of it licks up your spine. “You were eighteen. I was thirty-three. Tell me what kind of man that makes me.”

The table feels like it’s tilting. You press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself, the grain rough under your fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” His laugh is sharp, self-loathing. “Didn’t jerk off to the thought of you in that little cardigan? Didn’t lie awake wondering if you’d still smell like vanilla from those goddamn ice creams?” He leans in, his scent—whiskey and something darker—washing over you. “I did. Every night for months.”

The confession hangs between you like a struck match—dangerous, illuminating things you’re not sure you’re ready to see. James exhales sharply and leans back, putting space between you, his fingers drumming once against the tabletop. The waiter chooses that moment to arrive with your food, and you both flinch at the interruption. James mutters a thanks without looking up, his jaw working like he’s grinding his teeth.

You pick at your salad, the greens suddenly unappetizing. “Did you ever—” You stop, fork hovering. “Never mind.”

James’ eyes snap to yours. “Did I ever what?”

The wine has loosened your tongue enough to whisper, “Reach out. After that film.”

James exhales through his nose, his thumb tracing the condensation on his glass. “Wrote you an email,” he admits, voice low. “Deleted it six times.” His gaze lifts, holding yours across the table. “First draft called you kid. Second draft got halfway through before I realized I was describing your fucking mouth for three paragraphs.”

The fork slips from your fingers, clattering against the plate. Heat floods your cheeks, but you can’t look away—his eyes are dark, intent, like he’s waiting for you to bolt. “You kept drafts?” The question comes out breathless.

“Kept one.” He leans back, the booth’s leather creaking under his weight. “Buried it in my drafts folder like a goddamn time capsule.” His mouth quirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Pulled it up last month when casting sent your headshot.”

Your pulse stutters. The restaurant noise fades to a dull buzz in your ears. “And?”

James drains his whiskey before answering, the ice cubes rattling ominously. "And I rewrote the whole damn thing." His fingers tap once, twice against the glass. "Sent it to my agent instead. Told her if she didn't get you cast opposite me, I'd walk."

The admission punches through you like a physical blow. You press a hand to your sternum, as if you could steady the frantic flutter beneath your ribs. "You—" The words stick in your throat. "You blackmailed your agent over me?"

His laugh is dark, unrepentant. "Sweetheart, I would've burned down entire studios for this." His boot hooks around your ankle again beneath the table, dragging you closer until your knees bump. "Tell me you didn't feel it too. That first read-through when I touched your wrist and you shivered."

You can't lie—not when his gaze burns through you like this. "I thought it was just... acting."

James leans in, the heat of him pressing against the charged air between you. “Then you’re a better actress than I thought.” His voice is rough, whiskey-laced, and his fingers find yours on the tabletop, turning your palm up to trace the lines there. “Because I haven’t been acting since day one.”

The confession unravels something in your chest. You watch his thumb circle your pulse point, the calloused pad catching on your skin. “You’re serious,” you whisper.

His grip tightens, just shy of painful. “Deadly.” The word is a growl, low enough that the couple at the next booth doesn’t glance over. “Tell me to stop.” His eyes lock onto yours, the gold flecks swallowed by black. “Say the word, and I’ll walk out of this restaurant and never touch you again.”

Your breath comes too fast. The sensible part of you screams that this is insanity—that he’s fifteen years older, that you used to braid his hair between takes when you were eleven. But his thumb is pressing into the center of your palm now, slow, insistent, and all you can think is more.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whisper. The words hang between you, fragile as spun glass. James’ fingers still against your palm. For a heartbeat, there’s nothing—just the distant clatter of cutlery, the hum of conversations around you—then his grip tightens, yanking you forward across the table until your chest brushes the edge of it.

The wineglass topples, spilling crimson across the white tablecloth like a wound. James doesn’t flinch. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your bottom lip with the same deliberate pressure he used on his own earlier. “You sure?” His breath ghosts over your skin, whiskey-sweet and dangerous. “Because once I start—” His thumb drags down, leaving a faint sting in its wake. “I won’t stop until you’re crying my name.”

Your pulse thrums where his fingers circle your wrist. Somewhere rational, you know you should be terrified—should recoil from the barely leashed hunger in his eyes. Instead, your thighs press together under the table, the ache between them sharp enough to make you gasp. James’ mouth curves, slow and satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

He releases you abruptly, tossing a wad of cash onto the table without glancing at the amount. When he stands, his jacket brushes your shoulder, the scent of his cologne—something dark and expensive—wrapping around you like a second skin. “Up.” The command is quiet, absolute. “We’re leaving.”

You don’t remember standing, but suddenly you’re on your feet, his hand at the small of your back guiding you through the maze of tables. The cool night air hits your flushed skin like a slap when you step outside, but James doesn’t pause—his grip tightens, steering you toward a sleek black car idling at the curb. The door opens before you reach it, and you blink at the unfamiliar driver holding it open. James’ lips brush your ear as he nudges you inside. “Mine,” he murmurs, like it explains everything.

The leather seat is cool against your thighs when you slide in, but James’ body is a furnace beside you, his thigh pressing insistently against yours. The door shuts with a muted thud, sealing you in silence except for the low hum of the engine. You open your mouth—to ask where you’re going, to protest, anything—but his fingers slide into your hair, tilting your face toward him. “Don’t,” he says softly. His thumb traces your bottom lip, smudging the wine stain there. “Just let me take care of you.”

The car moves, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows in smears of gold and red. James’ hand doesn’t leave your hair, his fingers combing through the strands with a possessiveness that makes your breath catch. “You’re shaking,” he observes, though his voice is rough, uneven. His palm cups the nape of your neck, kneading the tense muscles there. “Tell me why.”

You swallow hard, your pulse jumping under his fingertips. “I’ve never—” The admission fractures, too big for the quiet between you.

His fingers still against your scalp. The car slows at a red light, painting the interior in sickly neon green from a streetlamp, and in that eerie glow, you watch his throat work as he swallows. "Never?" The word is gravel, rough with disbelief. His hand slides down to cradle your jaw, forcing your gaze up to meet his. "Tell me I'm misunderstanding."

You shake your head, the motion slight under his grip. His exhale is sharp, almost pained, and suddenly his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm and whiskey-sweet between your lips. "Christ," he mutters, more to himself than you. His thumb traces your cheekbone, slow, reverent. "You let me talk about—fuck." He pulls back just enough to see your face, his eyes searching yours. "Why didn't you stop me?"

The truth lodges in your throat like a stone. ‘Because I wanted to hear it.’ The car turns sharply, and you brace a hand against his thigh without thinking, the muscle tensing instantly under your palm. James inhales sharply, his fingers tightening around yours. "Tell me," he orders, voice low.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Because it felt good," you whisper. "Knowing you—wanted me."

James makes a sound low in his throat—something between a growl and a prayer. His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face up to the shifting streetlight shadows. "You have no idea," he murmurs, rough, "how many nights I spent imagining this." The car turns again, throwing you against him, and his free arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against his side. His lips brush your temple—not quite a kiss, just heat and the faint scrape of stubble. "Tell me you've at least touched yourself thinking about me."

The question punches through you, raw and unexpected. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out—just a shaky exhale that betrays you completely. James' chuckle is dark, victorious. His hand slides from your hair to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. "That's what I thought." The car slows, and he glances out the window at a nondescript building before reaching for the door. "Come on."

His penthouse is all sharp angles and muted tones—exactly what you'd expect from a man who commands every room he walks into. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly his chest presses against your back, his hands settling on your hips. "Last chance," he murmurs against your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Safe word is 'sundae'." The childhood callback makes you huff a laugh, but it dies in your throat when his teeth graze your earlobe. "Say it now, or I'm taking you to bed."

Your knees nearly buckle. "I—" His hands slide up your sides, slow, deliberate, and you gasp. "I don't want to stop."

His hands tighten on your waist, spinning you around so abruptly your back hits the door with a soft thud. James cages you in, forearms braced on either side of your head, his body a solid line of heat against yours. The amber in his eyes has been swallowed by black, pupils blown wide. "Look at me," he orders, voice rougher than you've ever heard it. When you lift your gaze, his thumb brushes your bottom lip—the same motion from the restaurant, but now his fingers smell like whiskey and your smudged lipstick. "Tell me what you want."

The words stick in your throat. You've rehearsed love scenes, read scripts with dirtier dialogue than this, but now your mind is blank except for the hammering of your pulse where his thigh presses between yours. James waits, patient as a predator, until you manage a whisper: "You."

His nostrils flare. One hand slides down to grip your thigh, hiking your leg up around his hip with effortless strength. The sudden friction draws a broken sound from your lips, and James smiles—slow, pleased. "Better." His mouth finds the frantic pulse at your throat, teeth scraping lightly. "But I need specifics, princess. My hands? My mouth?" He rolls his hips forward, the hard line of him dragging against your core, and you gasp, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders. "Or this?"

Your nails dig into the crisp cotton of his shirt. "All of it," you choke out, arching into him. "Please."

James exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on your thigh as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bedroom without breaking stride. The world tilts—ceiling, then doorway, then the dark expanse of his bed—before you’re deposited gently onto the sheets. His hands linger for a heartbeat, smoothing the fabric of your dress down your thighs like he’s savoring the shape of you. "Stay," he murmurs, though you’re already frozen in place, pulse hammering where his thumb brushes your knee.

He steps back, shrugging out of his jacket with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving yours as he loosens his tie. The silk hisses against his collar, pooling on the floor like a discarded thought. You watch, breath caught, as he undoes the top button of his shirt—then stops. "Your turn," he says, voice rough. "Show me."

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the clasp at your shoulder, the dress slipping down your torso with a whisper of fabric. James’ gaze burns over your exposed skin, lingering on the lace-edged bra you’d agonized over choosing. "Pretty," he observes, though his tone is anything but casual. He kneels at the foot of the bed, hands sliding up your calves with possessive familiarity. "But I’d rather ruin it."

His mouth finds the inside of your knee first—a slow, open-mouthed kiss that sends shocks up your spine. You gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets as his teeth graze higher, his stubble scratching deliciously against your thigh. "James—" His name fractures in your throat when his tongue traces the lace edge of your panties, hot and wicked. "Oh God."

His chuckle vibrates against your inner thigh as he hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric of your panties. "Not quite who you should be praying to right now," he murmurs before tearing them aside with a sharp jerk that makes you yelp. The cool air hits your exposed skin for only a second before his mouth seals over you, tongue dragging through your folds with a groan that rattles your bones.

You arch off the bed, a broken cry escaping as his hands pin your hips down. James doesn’t let up—his tongue flicks against your clit with practiced precision before plunging deep, drinking you in like he’s been starved. One broad hand slides up your stomach to palm your breast through your bra, thumb circling your nipple until the lace is damp with spit where he’s licked through the fabric.

"Taste even better than I imagined," he growls against your thigh when you tug at his hair. His teeth graze your sensitive skin in warning before he drags you to the edge of the bed by your hips, your ass barely balanced on the mattress as he stands between your spread legs. His belt buckle clinks ominously as he undoes it with one hand, the other stroking himself with a tight grip that makes your mouth water.

When he presses the thick head of his cock against your dripping entrance, his grip on your thigh tightens. "Look at me," he demands, voice shredded. You force your eyes open—his forehead is damp with sweat, jaw clenched like he’s holding onto control by a thread. "This gonna hurt," he warns, but the way his thumb brushes your clit betrays his gentleness.

You nod, breathless, fingers digging into the sheets beneath you. James exhales sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on your thigh as he presses forward—slow, relentless—until the stretch burns and your gasp cracks into a whimper. His free hand slides up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away the tear that escapes your lashes. "Breathe," he murmurs, and you suck in air just as his hips snap forward, sheathing himself fully with a groan that sounds ripped from his chest.

The pain is sharp, bright—then gone, replaced by a fullness that makes your toes curl. James stills, his entire body trembling with the effort, sweat beading along his temple. "Fuck," he grits out, fingers flexing against your skin. "You’re—" His voice breaks when you experimentally roll your hips, drawing a choked moan from him. "Christ, don’t move yet."

But you do—canting your hips again, testing the delicious friction—and James curses, slamming a hand into the mattress beside your head. "Greedy," he accuses, but his hips jerk in response, dragging his cock almost all the way out before thrusting back in with a snap that punches a cry from your throat. His rhythm is relentless from the first stroke, each thrust carving out space inside you until you’re gasping his name like a prayer.

His mouth finds yours—messy, desperate—tongue licking into you in time with his hips. You taste whiskey and something darker, something uniquely him, and when his hand slides between your bodies to circle your clit, the coil in your stomach tightens unbearably. "That’s it," he growls against your lips, fingers working you in tight circles. "Come for me. Wanted to feel this since I saw you in that fucking movie."

The orgasm hits like a lightning strike—white-hot and all-consuming, your back arching off the bed as James fucks you through it, his rhythm stuttering only when your walls clench around him. "Fuck," he snarls, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged against your lips. "Just like that. Taking me so well." His praise sends another pulse of pleasure through you, and you whimper, oversensitive but craving more.

James doesn’t give you a moment to recover. He hooks your legs over his elbows, driving deeper, the angle wringing a sob from your throat. His thumb finds your clit again, rough and insistent, and you writhe, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice wrecked. "All mine." His hips snap forward, and the possessive claim coils tight in your belly, another climax already building.

When it breaks, it’s with his name on your lips, half-sobbed, half-sung, and James groans, his rhythm faltering. He pulls out abruptly, his hand finding his cock as he strokes himself, his gaze locked on your ruined expression. "Open," he orders, and you do, obedient even in your dazed state. His release spills over your tongue, hot and bitter, and you swallow instinctively, his groan vibrating through you as he watches.

Exhaustion hits you like a wave afterward, your limbs heavy as James gathers you against his chest, his heartbeat thundering under your ear. His fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, the gesture oddly tender for a man who just fucked you senseless. "Alright?" he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead.

The word sticks in your throat—alright feels too small for whatever this is. Instead, you press closer, inhaling the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, something primal unfurling in your chest when his arms tighten around you. James exhales, his breath ruffling your hair, and you feel the curve of his smile against your temple. "Cat got your tongue, princess?"

You huff a laugh, your fingers tracing the divot of his collarbone. "Just thinking."

His thumb tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. The amber in his eyes has returned, softened at the edges—but the intensity remains. "Don’t." The command is gentle, but firm. "Not tonight." His lips brush yours, barely a kiss, just enough to steal your breath. "Tonight, you just feel."

The simplicity of it unravels you. You nod, and his mouth curves against yours before he shifts, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you’re sprawled across his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady beneath your cheek—a counterpoint to your own racing pulse—and his fingers trace idle patterns along your bare shoulder. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable; it settles over your skin like another layer of warmth.

"You’re thinking again," James murmurs, his thumb brushing the dip of your collarbone. The observation isn’t accusatory—just amused, like he’s cataloging a familiar habit.

You press your lips together, watching his fingers trace the curve of your shoulder. "Hard not to," you admit, voice still raw from earlier. "After all that."

James exhales through his nose, a slow, measured sound that stirs the hair at your temple. His fingers still on your skin, pressing lightly—a silent demand for your attention. When you lift your gaze to his, his expression is unreadable in the dim light.

“This isn’t a one time thing for me bunny.”

His thumb returns to your lower lip, tracing the shape of your stunned silence with that same contemplative pressure you’d memorized fifteen years ago, but the "Uncle James" of your childhood is long dead, buried under the weight of the man currently pinning you to his chest. "I didn't wait over a decade and blackmail my way into a production just to scratch an itch," he says, the possessive edge returning to his voice as he rolls you beneath him once more, his weight a grounding, territorial heat. He weaves his fingers through yours, pinning your hands to the pillow and locking you into an intensity that makes the rest of the world—the script, the age gap, the scandal of it all—fall away into insignificance.

Also Edward can get it . I would’ve been on him like white on rice

Loveddd this movieee smmm!!