no strings attached | sjy
ʚɞ summary - one petty decision to fuck another guy turns into jake sim at your apartment at 2 am, reminding you who you belong to you while he’s in between your legs. he says it’s just sex. you both know it’s a power play—and you’ve never been very good at saying no to him. ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, friends with benefits, dom!jake, sub!reader jealous!jake, possessive!jake, toxic!jake, unequal power dynamics, penetrative sex (p in v) protected sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), fingering, degradation, cock slapping, jake is ACTUALLY an asshole ʚɞ w.c - 7k
The buzz of your phone was an insistent, ugly vibration against your thigh, pulling you from a shallow, restless sleep. You’d muted notifications hours ago, but he’d somehow gotten past that, the call vibrating through. You knew without looking. Only one person called you at 2:17 AM.
You let it ring out, staring at the shifting shadows on your ceiling. The ghost of Max’s cologne still lingered in the air, a clean, piney scent that was nothing like Jake’s.
The phone buzzed again, a single text lighting up the screen.
jake: open up.
A cold knot tightened in your stomach. You hadn’t given him your new apartment number. He must have asked someone. He always found a way. You lay there, paralyzed, the silence after the buzz feeling heavier than the noise itself. Another text.
jake: i know ur awake y/n i can see your light in the window
You got up, your body moving on autopilot, drawn to the window like a moth to a flame. Peering through the slats of the blinds, you saw him. Leaning against his car across the street, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamp. Even from here, in the middle of the night, he looked effortlessly cool. Jeans, a dark hoodie, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t looking at his phone. He was looking directly at your window, as if he could feel your eyes on him.
The memory of the party hours earlier was a fresh bruise. The guy—Max, an art history major from one of your electives—had been sweet and persistent in a way that wasn’t demanding. He’d listened to you ramble about anything and everything. He’d made you laugh, a real laugh that didn’t feel like it was curving around the hollow Jake had carved inside you. And when the music swelled and someone shouted “kiss already!” to the pair of you standing a little too close by the keg stand, you’d done it. You’d leaned in and kissed Max. It was soft, exploratory. Nice, even. The room had cheered, a distant, fuzzy sound. You’d pulled back, seen the genuine, dazed smile on Max’s face, and felt…
Nothing. If anything, just a numb curiosity.
What would it be like to want someone who actually wanted you back?
You hadn’t seen Jake there—of course, you’d scanned the crowd instinctively, a Pavlovian response, and you hadn’t found his sunshine-bright smile or heard his easy laugh. He was probably elsewhere, likely with a girl draped over him, his fingers tracing patterns on her back the same way he did on yours. The assumption had given you a perverse sense of freedom, and you’d left with Max, his hand warm in yours.
The sex had been… fine. Careful and considerate. He’d asked “is this okay?” so many times it started to bore you. You’d moaned, you’d arched, you’d performed the part of a woman being pleasured, all while your mind was a thousand miles away, trapped in another bedroom with another boy. Jake never asked. Jake took, and you gave. The lack of question felt like its own dark, twisted form of intimacy. After Max fell asleep, you’d slipped out to the living room, scrolling through Instagram with a morbid fascination until you saw it: a story posted just an hour ago. A girl filming Jake as he tapped his head to the music from the driver’s seat of his car. Her caption: midnight adventures with my favorite person <3. He was smiling that wide, brilliant smile, the one that made everyone feel like they were the only one in the room. Your smile. The one you’d stupidly thought you had some claim to.
That’s when you’d muted your phone, and the numbness had finally cracked, letting in a seeping despair.
And now he was here.
You didn’t text back—you simply walked to your apartment door and unlocked it, leaving it open a crack before retreating to the center of your living room, arms wrapped around yourself. You heard the soft creak of the building’s main door, then footsteps, sure and familiar, coming down the hall. He pushed your door open and stepped inside, closing it softly behind him.
He didn’t look angry. He looked calm.
That was always more terrifying.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rasp. He shrugged off his hoodie, tossing it onto your armchair. Underneath, he wore a thin white t-shirt that clung to the planes of his chest. He looked around, his gaze a lazy sweep of the room. It lingered on the two empty wine glasses on the coffee table. On the throw blanket crumpled on the floor instead of neatly folded over the couch. On you, standing there in just your sleep shorts and a tank top, no bra.
“You’re out late,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady.
“So were you.” He finally looked at you, and his eyes weren’t bright now. They were a flat, dark brown. “Heard you had quite the night.”
You shrugged, the motion feeling jerky. “Just went to a party.”
“Yeah. Saw the Instagram stories.” He took a step closer. The room felt smaller. “Looked like you were having fun.”
“I was.” The lie tasted bitter.
He hummed, a non-committal sound, then walked past you, not touching you, towards your kitchenette. He opened the fridge, took out a water bottle, and drank deeply, droplets of water dripping down as his throat worked. You watched him, tracing the lines of his profile, the habit so ingrained it was muscle memory.
Fuck, you were so pathetic.
“Who was he?” Jake asked, still facing the fridge.
“Does it matter?”
He turned then, leaning against the counter. “Just curious. You don’t usually… you know. Mingle.”
The casual dismissal sent a spike of hot anger through you. “Maybe I feel like mingling these days.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Good for you.” He pushed off the counter and started wandering your apartment again, a predator inspecting new territory. It made you nervous, especially when he paused by the ajar bathroom door and his body went very, very still.
You followed his line of sight.
His gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the small plastic trash bin just inside your bathroom. The lid was askew. And poking out from beneath a crumpled tissue, unmistakable in the harsh, clinical light from the vanity, were two pale, rolled rings of used condoms.
You held your breath.
Jake’s back was to you, his shoulders rigid beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. He didn’t say a word. He just stared.
Then, slowly, he turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His expression was blank, utterly wiped clean of that practiced, sunny charm. It was a face you’d never seen before: stripped bare, raw, and terrifyingly quiet.
“You fucked him,” he said. It was a flat, dead statement of fact. “Twice.”
You couldn’t speak. Your throat had sealed shut.
He turned fully, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, his arms crossing over his chest. The posture should have looked relaxed, but right now, it just looked like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. “Here. In your room.” Again, it wasn’t a question.
“It’s none of your business, Jake,” you finally managed, the words a weak whisper.
His laugh was a short, sharp exhale through his nose. Humorless. “None of my business.” He pushed off the doorframe and took a single step toward you. Just one. “You let some random fucking art history nerd put his dick in you in the same place I fuck you, and it’s none of my business?”
The crudeness of the sentence, the venom in his usually warm voice, made you flinch. “We’re not even together, Jake, you made that very clear. We’re just friends, I can kiss whoever I want.” you scoffed, mimicking his voice. “Those were your words. So I can—I can sleep with whoever I want, too.”
He was in front of you then, so fast you didn’t see him move. He didn’t touch you—no, he just loomed, eyes searching your face, looking for something—weakness, remorse, triumph—fuck, you didn’t know.
“You kissed him at the party,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rasp that crawled over your skin. “I saw. I was there.”
Your heart stuttered. “You were?”
“Yeah.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Maybe you would’ve noticed if you weren’t too busy eating his goddamn face,” he grit out.
“It didn’t mean anything,” you heard yourself say, the sad truth tumbling out before you could stop it.
Something flickered in his dark eyes at that—a savage, hungry satisfaction. “No,” he agreed softly. “It couldn’t have. Because you don’t want him.” He leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing your ear. His breath was hot. “You want me. You’ve always wanted me. Isn’t that right, baby? Since high school, when you’d stare at me in class and think I didn’t notice?”
Tears, hot and shaming, welled in your eyes. You blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. “Fuck you, Jake.”
He finally touched you then. A single, firm finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his. His touch was electric and horrible. “That’s the idea,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your jawline, a mockery of tenderness. “But first, you’re going to get rid of every trace of him.”
He released you and walked to the bathroom. You heard the lid of the trash can snap open, the rustle of the plastic liner being yanked out. He walked past you, holding the offending bag away from his body like it was contaminated, and tossed it out your front door into the hallway. He left the door wide open.
“The glasses,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You stood frozen.
“Now,” he snapped, the word cracking like a whip.
You moved robotically, picking up the two wine glasses from the coffee table. Your hands were trembling. You carried them to the kitchen sink.
“Not the sink,” he said. He was right behind you again, a constant, oppressive presence. “The trash. I want them gone.”
“They’re just glasses, Jake,” you whispered, a last, feeble attempt at resistance.
He reached around you, his chest pressing against your back. His hand closed over yours on the stem of one glass. His grip was hard, forcing your fingers. Together, you lifted it. Then he guided your hand, with a deliberate, punishing force, to slam the glass down onto the edge of the metal trash can.
Crack.
The glass shattered, shards scattering across the linoleum and into the bin. The sound was violent and loud, and you gasped, jumping at the noise. He didn’t flinch. He took the other glass from your numb hand and repeated the action.
Crack.
“There,” he said, his voice back to that eerie calm. “Now it’s gone.”
He turned you around to face him.
“Was it good, at least?” he asked suddenly, catching you off guard.
“Jake—”
“Was. It. Good.” Each word was a chip of ice.
You swallowed, your throat dry. “It was fine.”
“Fine,” he repeated, mocking your tone. “You let some random guy fuck you twice in my bed, and it was fine?”
“It’s not your bed,” you whispered, the protest weak.
He ignored it. He took another step closer, and you had to tilt your head up to look at him. The proximity was a drug, a punishment. Your body recognized his, yearned for his, even as your mind screamed in revulsion. “Did he make you come?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register that was meant for your ears alone, even as the words were weapons.
“I told you, Jake, it’s none of your business—”
“Did he?” Jake insisted, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. His thumb stroked over your cheekbone, a gesture that had once felt like worship. “Did he get you wet? Did you scream for him? Or were you just lying there, thinking of me?”
The accuracy of the last guess was a physical blow. You flinched, and his grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know he could. “Stop it.”
“Why? You wanted to mingle. I’m just… mingling. Catching up.” His thumb drifted down, tracing the line of your lips. You didn’t open your mouth. “Tell me. I want to know what my good friend gets up to when I’m not around.”
You willed the tears not to fall. “He was nice. He was… gentle.”
Jake’s smile was a cruel, beautiful thing. “Gentle.” He said the word like it was a disease, then scoffed. “You don’t like gentle, baby. You like it when I fuck you so hard you forget your own name. You like it when I don’t ask. You like it when it hurts a little the next day, because it means I was there. No?”
Every word was a lash, and every lash was true. The tears spilled over, tracking warm paths down your cheeks. He watched them fall, his dark eyes following their trajectory with a detached fascination.
“You’re crying,” he observed softly. “Why are you crying, baby? You got what you wanted. You got someone to pay attention to you. Wasn’t that the point?”
“You’re an asshole,” you choked out.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his thumb catching a tear and lifting it this mouth to taste. “But I’m your asshole. And you…” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. His breath was warm. “…are mine.”
Then his mouth was on yours.
It was hard and desperate and punishing, all teeth and possession. He didn’t ask for entry; he took it, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting you, erasing the traces of anyone else. You made a sound against his lips, a muffled sob of protest that he swallowed whole. Your hands came up, pressing against his chest, but the push was feeble, the muscle memory of wanting him overriding the moral imperative to shove him away.
He kissed you like he was trying to consume you, to drag you back into the dark orbit where only the two of you existed. One of his hands fisted in the hair at the nape of your neck, angling your head back to give him deeper access. The other slid down your back, over the thin fabric of your tank top, and gripped your ass, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, already hard, pressing against your stomach through his jeans.
The heat of him, the familiar scent short-circuited your anger, your hurt, your resolve. Your body melted into the kiss, your lips moving against his, your own tongue meeting his in a frantic, familiar dance. You hated yourself even as you moaned into his mouth.
He broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d started it, leaving you gasping for air. Your lips felt swollen, bruised. His were slick, his eyes blazing with a fury that had finally found its outlet.
“See?” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours. “This is what you need.”
He didn’t wait for an agreement. He walked you backward, his arms strong around you, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed. He pushed you down, and you fell onto the mattress, bouncing once. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, then pulled his white t-shirt over his head in one swift motion and tossed it aside.
In the dim light, his torso was a landscape of lean muscle and smooth skin you knew by heart. You’d mapped every dip and plane with your lips, your fingers. The sight of it now, after the night you’d had, was a visceral punch.
“Take it off,” he commanded, nodding at your tank top. You hesitated for a second, the last shred of dignity shivering inside you. His eyes narrowed. “Now.”
Your hands trembled as you grabbed the hem of your tank top and pulled it over your head. The cool night air pebbled your nipples. You lay there, exposed, as his gaze raked over you, hot and possessive, lingering on your breasts, then dipping lower, to your sleep shorts.
“Those too.”
You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and panties and pushed them down your legs, kicking them off the side of the bed. You were completely naked now, sprawled before him, completely vulnerable.
He undid his jeans, the sound of the zipper loud. Then he pushed them and his boxers down just enough to free his erection. He was already fully hard, thick and flushed. He didn’t touch himself. He just looked at you, and then at the bed beneath you.
“This where you let him fuck you?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
You nodded, a tiny, miserable movement.
He climbed onto the bed, crawling over you on his hands and knees, caging you in. Still, he didn’t touch you yet, only hovered, his face inches from yours. “You smell like him,” he whispered, his nose skimming the column of your throat. “That cheap crap. It’s all over you.”
“I showered,” you whispered back, your voice trembling.
“Not well enough.” He dipped his head lower, his lips and tongue tracing a hot, wet path from your collarbone down to your breast. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak, and you cried out, a sharp sound that was torn from your chest. He soothed the sting with his tongue, then gave the same treatment to the other breast, his hand coming up to knead and pinch the one he’d just abandoned.
He was marking you, erasing Max’ touch, Max’s mouth, with his own. The thought should have revolted you, but in its place, a dark, shameful thrill shot through your core. You were getting wet, your body betraying you utterly. And he could feel it, you knew. He always knew.
His mouth moved lower, over the quivering plane of your stomach. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along your hip bones, his faint stubble scratching your sensitive skin. He was taking his time, a deliberate, torturous pace. He was making you wait. Making you remember who was in control.
Then he settled between your thighs. He didn’t push them apart. He just looked at you, his gaze heavy and intent. “Open for me.”
You did, letting your knees fall apart. The cool air hit your damp folds, and you shuddered.
He didn’t use his fingers first. He lowered his head and dragged his tongue through your slit, a long, slow, flat stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit.
You jolted, a gasp ripping from your throat. It was so much more intense than earlier with Max—Jake’s mouth on you was practiced, a skilled, merciless instrument of pleasure. He knew exactly how you liked it: the pressure, the rhythm, the spots that made you see stars. And he used that knowledge now not to please you, but to dominate you, to prove a point. He licked you like he was starved for you, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it gently into his mouth. You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets. He hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core. One of his hands came up to hold your hip down, pinning you to the mattress as you began to squirm.
“Jake—oh, f—please—”
He ignored your broken plea. He added a finger, sliding it inside you without preamble. You were wet, so wet for him, and he growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your entire body. “Fucking dripping,” he muttered against your flesh, his breath hot. “All for me. You were thinking about me when he was inside you, weren’t you? Pretending it was me.”
He curled his finger, finding that spot inside you that made you see stars, and at the same time, he fastened his mouth back on your clit, sucking intently. It was too much, too soon, too expertly applied, and pleasure coiled tight and sudden in your belly, a white-hot spring ready to snap. You were panting, your back arching off the bed. “Fuck, Jake—I think I’m gonna—”
“No,” he said, pulling his mouth and hand away abruptly.
The sudden absence was a physical agony. You cried out, a sound of pure frustration, your body trembling on the precipice. You were so close. He’d brought you there deliberately, just to deny you.
Your hips bucked, seeking the pressure that had vanished. A ragged, frustrated sob tore from your throat. “Jake, please.”
He ignored you, withdrawing from between your thighs. He loomed over you on his knees, his erection standing thick and angry against his stomach. He was still fully clothed from the waist down, the denim of his jeans rough against your inner thighs.
“You want to come?” His voice was low, rough. It wasn’t the smooth, charming tone he used with everyone else—this was the Jake only you ever saw. “Beg for it.”
You shook your head, tears of frustration and humiliation mixing on your cheeks. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t give him that.
He smirked, a cruel twist of his lips. “Suit yourself.” He reached down and wrapped his hand around himself, giving his length a slow, deliberate stroke. Your eyes were glued to the movement, to the way the head flushed darker under his touch. He was watching you watch him, his dark eyes hooded. “Can’t believe you—and fucking—what, Max, was it?” He spat the name like it was garbage. “Why the fuck were you smiling at him, huh? You looked so fucking happy with his hands on your waist.”
His words were a lash. You squeezed your eyes shut.
“Open your eyes,” he snapped. “Keep looking at me. Look at what you do to me.”
You obeyed, despite yourself.
“I stood there,” he continued, his hand still moving on himself, a lazy, taunting rhythm. “And I thought, ‘she’s never smiled at me like that.’ Not once. You’re always so… fucking tense around me, Y/N. It’s always like you’re waiting for me to break you. But with him?” He leaned forward, bracing one hand by your head. “You were so relaxed. You were so normal.” he gritted out the words. “Shit, it pissed me the fuck off.”
The confession startled you. He was jealous? Of Max? Of the normalcy? The idea was so foreign it short-circuited your shame. He’d always been the one who got to be chill, who got to kiss others, who got to post intimate pictures with other girls. You’d never crossed that unspoken line before. You’d never given him a reason to feel anything but amused, casual ownership. This rage, this raw feeling was so new.
And it was terrifyingly intoxicating.
“So I left,” he said, his breath hot on your face. “I took that dumb bitch home, let her suck my dick in the car thinking about you, and then I came here. To my bed. To my girl. And what do I find?” His free hand came up, not to caress, but to grip your chin, forcing your head to turn towards the open bathroom door. “Proof you let that other motherfucker inside what’s mine.”
“You don’t own me,” you whispered, the protest automatic, weak.
“The fuck I don’t,” he growled. His grip on your chin tightened. “You’ve always been mine. You’re in my fucking system. You think a nice little guy is gonna scrub that out?” He released your chin, and before you could react, his hand that had been stroking himself came up.
He slapped his erection against your cheek. It left a damp, hot stripe on your skin, and you balked, gasping.
He did it again on the other cheek, a little harder. A soft, stinging pat. “You let him put his mouth here?” he asked, slapping his length against your closed lips.
You kept them sealed, trembling.
“Open,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a deadly calm.
When you didn’t immediately comply, he used his thumb to pry your lips apart, pressing against your teeth. The moment there was a gap, he pushed the head of his cock past your lips, resting it on your tongue. The taste of him flooded your senses.
“Suck,” he ordered, his hands moving to fist in your hair, not gently. He didn’t thrust. He just held himself there, a heavy, demanding weight on your tongue. “Show me how much better you are for me than for him.”
Your tongue flattened, swirling around the broad head. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked, drawing him deeper.
A low, gratified groan rumbled from his chest. “There you go. Knew you missed it, baby.” He began to move then, shallow thrusts that bumped the back of your throat. “C’mon take it. All of it.”
He wasn’t gentle, or nice. He fucked your mouth with the same possessive aggression that he’d done everything tonight. His grip on your hair was firm, controlling the pace, the depth. He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, tracking the tears that leaked from the corners of your eyes as he pushed deeper, as you gagged softly.
“Relax your throat,” he instructed, his voice thick with arousal. “You know how. You’ve done it a hundred times.”
You tried, swallowing around him, letting your muscles ease. He rewarded you with a deeper slide, his pubic bone brushing your nose. He held himself there for a moment, buried to the hilt in your mouth, and you breathed through your nose, your eyes streaming. The feeling of being used so thoroughly for his pleasure, sparked more arousal low in your belly. It was so messed up, it was so wrong. And yet, it was the most alive you’d felt all night.
He pulled back slowly, slick with your saliva. “Good girl,” he murmured, looking down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. “Look at you. My pretty little cockslut. You think Max deserves this? You think he deserves to fuck this sweet mouth?” He thrust harder on the last word, making you choke slightly. “No. This is mine. Always has been.”
He picked up the pace, his hips pistoning, using your mouth with a single-minded focus. His grip in your hair was unrelenting, holding you in place for his use. Drool leaked from the corners of your mouth, mixing with his precum, creating a messy, wet sound with every thrust. The obscenity of it, the sheer degradation, should have made you sick, but a treacherous heat continued to pool low in your core. You were an object for his pleasure, and in some twisted recess of your soul, that felt like your purpose.
He was talking, his words filthy and relentless, punctuated by the wet slap of his skin against your lips. “That’s it—hah, take it all. God, you’re so fucking good at this, baby… you were made for this—hn—made for my dick…”
His free hand came down to squeeze your tits, pinching a nipple hard between his fingers. The sharp pain made you moan around him, the vibration drawing a ragged curse from his lips.
“You like that, you fucking slut?” he panted, his rhythm becoming less controlled, more frantic. “You like me using your mouth after you let someone else touch you? Huh? You think this makes us even?”
You couldn’t answer. You could only take him, your throat working, your jaw aching. You looked up at him through wet lashes. His expression was one of intense concentration, his brows drawn together, lips parted. He was close. You could feel the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his thrusts became shallower, more urgent.
One of his hands left your hair and cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing into your cheek, making your mouth stretch wider around him. “Y/N.”
You dragged your watery gaze up to his. He was flushed, sweating lightly at his temples.
“I’m gonna come,” he stated roughly. “And you’re not swallowing it. I’m not wasting it down your throat tonight.”
He pulled out of your mouth entirely with a wet pop. You gasped for air, your lips feeling bruised and stretched. He was breathing heavily, his fist pumping his length rapidly. He shifted his position, kneeling over your chest.
“Arch your back,” he ordered. “Push your tits together.”
Dazed, you obeyed, lifting your hips slightly to press your breasts together, creating a valley between them. He didn’t wait. He positioned himself at the top of the cleavage you’d made.
“This is where it belongs,” he gritted out.
His strokes quickened. You watched, hypnotized, as his muscles coiled, as his abdomen tensed. You knew the signs. You knew him. The air grew thick with the sounds of his ragged breathing and the slick friction of his hand.
“Touch them,” he commanded, his voice strained. “Play with your fucking tits for me, Y/N. Now.”
Your hands rose obediently. You cupped your own tits, your thumbs brushing over your stiff, aching nipples. A weak, broken moan escaped you at the contact. You were so sensitive, so desperate for any touch.
“Yeah,” he hissed, watching your hands on yourself. “Just like that. Make ‘em all pretty for me.”
You squeezed and kneaded your own flesh, a pathetic, erotic display performed under his command. It was degrading. It was unbearably hot. Your hips shifted on the mattress, your own need a throbbing, ignored pulse between your legs.
Jake’s strokes became shorter, harder. “Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”
His body tensed, a tremor running through him. A low, guttural groan ripped from his chest. And then he came.
The first hot stripe landed across your left collarbone. You flinched at the sudden heat. The second splashed directly onto your right nipple. The third, and fourth, painted a messy, possessive pattern across the swell of your breasts and your sternum. He kept pumping himself through it, his release pulsing out in thick, warm spurts that coated your skin.
You lay utterly still, breathing heavily, feeling the cum seep into your skin.
He finally stilled, his body slumping slightly. He looked down at his work, at your cum-splattered chest, and a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face. It wasn’t his usual sunny smile. It was dark and triumphant.
“There,” he breathed, his voice hoarse. “That’s better.”
He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of your head. He dipped his head and licked a broad stripe through the mess on your sternum, his tongue rough and hot. His eyes, which had softened momentarily with release, hardened again with renewed purpose.
“But that’s not enough, is it?” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your wet skin. “He was inside you. In my pussy.”
The crude ownership of the word sent a jolt through you.
“I can still smell him on the sheets,” Jake continued, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he glanced at the bed beneath you. “I can feel him in the air.” he scorned. You’d never seen him this worked up before. “Fucking loser. Bet he came in two pumps.” He moved off you, kneeling between your legs again. He pushed your thighs apart, wider this time, his gaze fixed on your core, which was glistening with your own arousal, a betrayal your body couldn’t hide. He ran a single, teasing finger through your folds, collecting your wetness, and then brought it to his mouth, sucking it clean with a loud, deliberate sound. Then he positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging your entrance. He didn’t push in. He just rested it there. “You wanna know the difference between me and Max?”
You were trembling, a mess of conflicting sensations—the cooling cum on your chest, the ache between your legs, the humiliation, the desperate, clawing need. You shook your head helplessly.
Jake leaned forward, his body covering yours, his mouth at your ear. His voice was low, dripping with a cruel certainty. “Max could never fill you up like this.”
Then he pushed inside of you.
He was bigger than Max. He filled you more completely, stretching you in a way that was both familiar and breathtaking. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. He didn’t move for a moment, just stayed buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch of him. Letting you feel the difference.
“This is what you need,” he grunted, his face buried in the crook of your neck. “Not some—boy who asks for your permission. You need to be fucked. You need to be reminded who this tight little cunt belongs to.”
Then he began to move.
It wasn’t making love, or even passionate sex. It was fucking, pure and simple.
He set a brutal pace. His hips pistoned forward relentlessly, pulling his thick cock almost all the way out until just the swollen head caught on your fluttering entrance, then slamming back in with a force that jarred your entire body. The bedframe rattled beneath you, the wooden slats creaking in protest as the headboard thumped rhythmically against the wall—thud, thud, thud. Each thrust forced a raw sound from your throat: a sharp gasp as he filled you again, a desperate moan when his girth stretched your sensitive walls, a broken sob when the tip battered that deep, aching spot inside you that made white lights explode behind your closed eyes.
Sweat beaded his skin, dripping onto your chest as he hovered over you, muscles flexing with every drive. Your pussy clenched around him involuntarily, still pulsing from your release, the slick mix of your cum and his pre-cum easing the way even as the friction built that sharp, almost painful pleasure anew. He grunted with effort, his balls slapping wetly against your ass on every plunge. Without warning, he shifted his weight, grabbing your right leg and hooking it high over his muscled arm. The position splayed you open wider, your thigh pressed against his side as he leaned in, changing the angle just enough to sink even deeper. You arched off the mattress, your back bowing as the intensity overwhelmed you, vision blurring, breaths hitching into nothing but frantic whimpers.
Words tumbled from your lips in an incoherent rush. “Yeah—oh god, right there—fuck, Jake—harder—hngh, don’t stop—” you mewled, your free leg trembled, toes curling against the sheets, while your hands clutched at his arms, nails biting into his biceps to keep yourself steady. “Jake—hngh—oh my—God, please—”
“Please what?” he gritted out, his own breathing ragged. Sweat gleamed on his chest, dripping onto yours. “Please go harder? Please fill this tight little cunt until you can’t think straight? Please fuck all that attitude out and make you beg for my cum?”
Before you could form a coherent answer, he leaned down, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress. His mouth crashed against yours in a searing kiss, all teeth and tongue, devouring your cries like they were his due. He tasted of the vodka from the party earlier, his slightly stubble scraping your chin as he angled his head. You moaned into him, the sound muffled as his lips sealed over yours, his free hand tangling in your hair to hold you in place.
His hips never faltered, pistoning forward with that relentless force, thick shaft dragging along your inner walls. Every withdrawal pulled a whine from you, your pussy clenching greedily around the retreating length, only to be slammed back full when he buried himself to the hilt. The new angle let him grind against that swollen bundle of nerves inside, sparks igniting with each brutal stroke. Your clit throbbed untouched, the pressure building from the sheer girth of him splitting you open.
The world narrowed and narrowed and narrowed until it was just him. The distant sound of cars outside faded, the crumpled condoms in the bedside trash forgotten, even the vague memory of the girl in his car dissolved into irrelevance. Max's face flickered once in your mind, a meaningless shadow compared to the man railing into you now, but it vanished under the onslaught. There was only Jake: the musky scent of his sweat filling your lungs, the muscles of his arms caging you in, the unyielding press of his body as he fucked you. He broke the kiss with a growl, nipping at your lower lip hard enough to bleed, his voice a rough whisper against your mouth. “Say it. Tell me what you need from a real man. Not that limp-dicked loser who couldn't even make you wet.”
Your response dissolved into another cry as he angled his hips sharper, the head of his cock battering that deep spot relentlessly. The bed creaked louder under the assault. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails that only spurred him on. You were climbing again, the denied orgasm from before combining with the stimulation now to create a feeling that was unbearable. Your inner muscles were fluttering around him, clutching desperately.
“I’m gonna come,” you sobbed, breaking the kiss. “Jake, I’m gonna come, please.”
“Look at me,” he demanded.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils were blown wide. “Come,” he ordered, his voice a guttural rasp.
It pushed you over the edge.
Your orgasm shuddered through you, convulsive, a wave of pure, mind-numbing pleasure that ripped a scream from your throat. You clenched around him, milking his length, your vision tunneling. He fucked you through it mercilessly, his rhythm stuttering but never stopping, drawing out the sensations until they were bordering on painful. As your contractions began to subside, you felt his own control fray.
His thrusts became erratic, harder, deeper again. A low moan ripped from his chest. “Fuck, fuck—Y/N, fuck…” He buried his face in your neck, his body going rigid as he emptied himself inside you with a final, shuddering thrust.
Instead of pulling out, he pushed you down further onto the bed, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his heart hammering against your chest. You were both covered in sweat, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps.
But eventually, he was the first to move. He rolled off you, onto his back, staring up at your ceiling. You lay on your side, facing away from him, drawing your knees up to your chest. The physical release had left you hollowed out, empty. You couldn’t stop the tears from starting again, silent this time, soaking into your pillow.
You heard him get up. The soft pad of his feet on the floor. The sound of the bathroom faucet running. He was cleaning up. You didn’t move.
He came back to the bed, but he didn’t lie down. He sat on the edge, his back to you. You could see the taut lines of his shoulders in the dim light.
“You can’t do that again,” he said quietly. His voice was tired and flat, drained of any earlier fury.
You didn’t answer.
“I mean it.” He looked over his shoulder at you. His profile was sharp, beautiful, and closed off. You thought, briefly, about how in love you were with him. “This thing we have… it only works if it’s just us. You know that.”
“You were with someone else, though,” you said, your voice thick with tears. “You literally said it, Jake.”
He was silent for a beat. “That’s different.”
“How?” You pushed yourself up on one elbow, the sheet pooling around your waist. “How is it different, Jake? Tell me. Because you get to kiss whoever you want, fuck whoever you want, and I just get to sit here and wait for you to remember I exist?”
He turned fully to face you. In the shadows, his expression was unreadable. “Because you’re you. And they’re just…” He ran his hands through his hair, then swore. “They don’t matter, okay?”
It was the closest he’d ever come to admitting there was a hierarchy, and it was the most gut-wrenching thing he’d ever said.
“That’s not fair,” you whispered.
“Life isn’t fair, Y/N,” he said, standing up. He found his boxers and jeans and pulled them on. He picked up his t-shirt. “Don’t see him again.”
It was an order.
“Or what?” you challenged, a last spark of defiance.
He finished zipping his jeans and looked at you. The streetlight caught his eyes, and for a fraction of a second, you saw something vulnerable and desperate flash in their depths. Then it was gone, shuttered behind his regular, cool-guy facade. “Or this ends.”
He said it like it was the worst threat in the world. (For you, it might well have been.)
He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He didn’t look back. “Lock up after I leave.”
Then he was gone, pulling the door shut softly behind him.
mona stop writing evil men !!!!! 𝓷𝓸. 𝓲 𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓹
© 2026 heedimples. this work belongs to @heedimples. do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize it in any way on any platforms.
