s.jy — save a horse.
SUMMARY: showing up to a concert in a skimpy outfit with the sole intent to get backstage might just be the most delusional act you've ever committed. except it works, and when the opportunity presents itself in a hushed proposal that only you can hear, the long flight to houston, texas doesn't seem useless, after all.
TLDR: save a horse, ride jake sim.
WORD COUNT: 4.7k
ꨄ︎: heyyy everybody 🙃 this fic was anonymously requested to follow in the footsteps of non-disclosure! figured i'd put my own twist on it, because i have this thing for a man in a cowboy hat...and like, also jake. so like when he wears them...can you blame a girl for going insane???? aaaanyway, i hope you guys like seeing what my wet dreams look like 💔 enjoy, and as always, happy reading! xo
TAGS: smut, (semi) protected sex, you'll see what i mean by that, oral (f receiving), (semi) public sex, fingering, (minimal) dirty talk, jake is like, big, like she's stuffed, riding, jake's in a cowboy hat, reader is lowkey crazy lowkey me, she's delusional but it works so like is she though, experienced reader, jake calls her cowgirl, creampie
♫ — save a horse, ride a cowboy.
Eyes on the prize.
Follow that, and you’ll get whatever you want. You’ve done it since you were a kid, and you can safely say that it’s worked, for the most part.
Tonight, the prize was Jake Sim. And, well—you won it.
You traveled to see ENHYPEN in Houston, because you wanted—no, needed to see him in those goddamned cowboy hats. So what if you like a man in a cowboy hat? God forbid a girl has hobbies.
You decided to bring one yourself. Decorate it with gems, bedazzle the letters S.JY on it, so everyone would know it was for him. Handwrite ‘Save a Horse’ on the inside just in case he cared to look. And you? You’d wear the exact matching outfit to it and hope that it would be enough to catch his attention. You’re entirely aware that you’re good-looking, so why not take advantage of that in the only way you know how?
Flaunt it.
Black, leather cutout pants. A cow print top with attached lace straps that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. White pumps. You’re confident—perhaps even too much with the number of dirty looks you received when you arrived. But you didn’t care then, and you especially don’t now, standing at sendoff with him in front of you, practically undressing you with his eyes and making his best effort not to be obvious.
He wore the hat on stage, kissed it. Tossed it back to you. You gladly hand it to him again at the barricade when he asks. He studies it, reads the inside, bites his lip so discreetly that nobody even notices. When he looks back up, he studies you, if only for a moment, before he has to move on. Mouths you want to? and watches as you respond with a nod. And this time, he doesn’t give it back. Keeps it on his head when he walks to the other people around you, mumbles something incoherent to the guard behind him, and makes his way down the line.
You don’t think much of it until someone pulls you aside, and you turn to make eye contact with the guard from earlier. The look he gives you is telling, and when you return a confirming glance, he knows he doesn’t have to speak for you to put two and two together.
In short, you’ve come out the other end victorious. Now you have to retrieve the prize with more courage than you’ve ever needed.
The guard drops you at Jake’s dressing room and leaves faster than you can process. His demeanor the whole time suggested that he wants nothing to do with what Jake does behind closed doors, and he’s likely the one who always has to deal with it.
Your knuckles gently knock against the door, which you determine to be freshly painted and lacquered. You wait for a response, something to invite you inside, but instead, the door swings open, and you’re met with him.
Sim Jaeyun, in all his glory, his presence reserved for you only, with no other fans around to distract him. His smile is smug—confident, but not cocky, though he seems aware of the obvious dynamic between you two.
Still, you front a matching smile and walk in, although he gave no instruction. And from that, he knows he chose correctly. He likes you—the confidence in your stride, how you’re so sure of yourself, even when he hasn't given any indication that he’ll humor you. Your lips stretch into a grin when you catch a fleeting glimpse of his expression; he’s amused, and you’re proud.
“You know,” you finally break the silence, planting your ass on the nearest surface, which just so happens to be the back of the small sofa that sits in the middle of the room. “My mom always told me to go after what I want. Eyes on the prize, and you’ll get it. Isn’t that funny how things work out?”
He laughs. “You have a lot of confidence for someone who I could kick out with the snap of a finger.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but something tells me you wouldn’t do that, considering you and I both know why I’m sitting here,” you counter, crossing one leg over the other. “And I don’t think I have to be Sherlock to figure that out.”
He walks over, taking slow, calculated strides as he sizes you up. Motions you to stand with a curt jerk of his head, and you obey, standing before him, bodies but a few inches apart. You see the gears turning in his head, watch as his eyes lose focus and study your figure, mostly exposed from the sluttiest outfit you could conjure up.
“You got a name, Cowgirl?”
In his hand sits a piece of paper that you’re all too familiar with.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you retaliate, folding your arms.
He holds the paper out to you, along with a black pen. You take the pen, skim the page just enough to get the gist—it’s not like you don’t already know what it’s asking, or really demanding, of you. His signature’s already there. You scribble a lazy version of yours on the line and give him back the pen. He sets them aside. Deal’s made.
His hands perch on each side of your torso, finding purchase on your hips as he draws you closer, letting you feel his breath on your face when he exhales. He only remains this close, never more, not offering a release of tension with a kiss. He studies, looks through you, and decides how he’s going to have you because he’d be damned to give a choice to someone with your attitude.
He takes tentative steps forward, watching you catch on and move back to accommodate until the backs of your knees make sudden contact with an unfamiliar wooden surface that you quickly identify to be the vanity. He lifts you, and you assist him as best as you can, letting him place you atop the (semi) flat surface. It’s not all that stable.
“Kinda wobbly, don’t you think?” you point out with a raise of your brow.
“You won’t be here for long,” he replies with what you can only assume is attempted reassurance, and though it doesn’t quite serve its purpose, you guess it’ll do.
It doesn’t seem to matter when his lips find the soft skin just below your jawline, peppering kisses along it and down the column of your throat. You flatten your palms on each side of you and tilt your head to give him better access. Soft and warm, his mouth focuses on the place where your shoulder meets your neck, quick to locate the sweet spot there and coaxing a gentle moan from your parted lips, the sound like music to his ears.
His touch is at first reverent, worshipping your body, its curves and crevices, the thin clothes that inhabit it, and the warm, exposed skin he knows is only on display for him. His fingers glide along your side, studying your figure and committing it to memory, for later, he’ll need it. But for now, his hand dips lower and reaches the waistband of the useless shorts you opted for.
When he unzips them, you sit back, letting him slide them down your legs and lift one at a time to get them off. It leaves your lower half clad in only cutout pants and a pair of black lace panties, ones you chose to wear tonight with intent, accompanied by the matching bra that’s built into your top.
His fingers toy with the fabric, and he smiles when he looks down, admiring the sight. Then, his eyes are back on yours, gaze dark, but not daunting. Determined.
“These for me?” he asks, fingers dancing along the lace, and you offer a grin.
He seems pleased enough by that, if the immediate sinking to his knees in front of you is anything to go by. The smile on his face widens when he notices how wet you’ve become in such little time. You feel a little sheepish due to the obvious reason you’re like this already, but you figure it doesn’t matter in the long run. His finger hooks in the waistband, and his eyes trail up to yours, looking at you almost innocently, like a small dog.
“May I?”
You nod, and he pulls them down, letting you kick them off before peppering tiny, worshipping kisses along your inner thighs. He trails them up further until he reaches the exposed skin where the panties previously lay, and you feel his breath fanning against the skin, damp and inviting. Anticipating. His fingers pry your thighs further open. Let him slip between them.
The first touch is a slow, deliberate lick, parting you and collecting the slick on his tongue, a test of the waters to gather your taste and gauge your reaction. It coaxes a gentle moan, almost a whimper, from you, and your arms stiffen, hands digging into the vanity for stability.
Then, he’s kissing it. Slow, languid ones, almost teasing, yet it’s as if he’s still trying to gauge you. His lips find your clit and draw it into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then applying pressure on it with his tongue. He earns another moan, even gives off one of his own that vibrates against your skin. His intensity heightens when he licks again, picking up the pace only slightly, but adding more pressure and letting you feel his tongue against every bit of skin you have to offer. Your hips chase the feeling, rolling against him, his nose gliding between your folds with every movement.
A trail of spit leaves his mouth and lands on the soft skin beneath it. You gasp, the wetness cold to the touch, and suddenly, his fingertips are spreading it around.
It’s when his finger nudges inside, the slide made easy from the mixture of your arousal and his spit, that it becomes more than gentle caresses. He starts somewhat slow in the beginning, but the pace almost instantly becomes near relentless, teeth grazing your sensitive skin and pulling more breathy groans from your throat, needy and desperate, but ringing deliciously in his ears. Your hand snakes into his jet black hair, silky smooth under your fingertips when you fist it, keeping him closer, and you feel the pull of his lips into a smile against your skin.
He adds another finger and pushes them deeper, harder than before. Scissors them while inside to stretch you out, curls them to hit places that make you squirm and force him to hold you down. All the while, his mouth works at your clit, adding and removing pressure, sucking, doing whatever he sees fit to bring you towards your peak. He’s enjoying it all the same, speeding up as he becomes more desperate himself, mumbling nonsense into your skin, strings of you taste so good and various profanities that are just barely able to be deciphered.
You finally cry out, the noise too strained and broken to be considered a moan, and clench around his fingers, coating them in white. As he continues to work on you, prolonging the sensation, the warm liquid begins to drip down the sides of his pistoning fingers, eventually reaching the crevices between them. He finally pulls them out, drawing a whine, and stands up carefully. You watch as he brings them into the light, glistening and thickly coated, and cleans them with his tongue, the grin on his face unmistakable.
Before you have time to recoup, his hands are sliding beneath your ass and hoisting you up. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist—a little weak now, but you have enough strength to stay in place. With one arm holding you up and yours loose around his neck, he uses the other to sift through the duffel bag that sits on the coffee table, roughly pulling something out and stuffing it into his pocket.
Finally, he sits on the small sofa, letting you straddle his waist, and he breathes out, resting his hands on your hips, still bare beneath your waist, save for the pants that don’t serve as such.
“Still gonna hide that name from me?”
You look up, pretending to ponder his question, and return your gaze to him. “Yep.”
He laughs, “Why?”
“Gotta keep you guessing somehow,” you smile sweetly, subconsciously rolling your hips in anticipation. And he feels it, shooting blood straight to his dick, already hard, yet worsening with each fleeting second. But he offers an eye roll in response, paired with a laugh that sounds a little too pained to be sincere.
“Fine, then,” he replies, leaning over to grab the hat you gave him earlier and holding it up in front of you. “Saw what you wrote in here,” he says, his thick Brisbane accent suddenly sounding smooth as velvet. “You offered. You gonna keep to your word?”
“Gladly.”
His lips curve into a smirk as he places the hat atop his head, tipping it up just enough to see you from beneath the brim. Your fingers tactfully unzip his hoodie, worn as a part of their final stage outfits and now hanging open, exposing the lack of clothing beneath it. Soft, toned abs stare back at you, shining just slightly in the light from the sweat that must have formed over time.
You run a hand along his torso, from his stomach up to his chest, then slowly back down, discarding his belt and hooking your fingers in his jeans with one fluid motion. Your thumb loosens the button with ease. You’re more experienced than he probably accounted for, and it makes things easier for him, allowing him to sit back leisurely and let you do the work. Taking an educated guess, you stick your hand in his pocket to pull out what you can only assume is a condom that he shoved in there before. Your guess is right.
Within twenty-five seconds (give or take), you’ve managed to rid him of the jeans and boxers beneath, getting them down his knees enough for them to pool at his feet. You knew he was big because the tent he pitched in his pants was freaking massive, but even you hadn’t expected this, painfully hard and already leaking with pre-cum. Your thumb brushes the tip and collects the warm droplets on it so you can have your turn getting a taste, and it proves to be delicious, although it’s not something you’re inherently surprised by.
He watches it all, eyes glazed over, gaze dark. Anticipation clouding his features, his fingers pressing deep into your sides, skin on full display because you really pushed the venue’s dress code to its limits with that goddamned outfit.
Once you’ve finally secured the condom on, he wastes no time adjusting your position and sheathing you on his cock, drawing an elongated moan from you that he matches soon after. Based on the experience you seem to have, he didn’t assume you’d be so tight, but here you are practically fucking squeezing him like a constrictor around some poor guy’s neck. No matter how primed he thought you were, it doesn’t seem to have worked.
God, have you only slept with guys that have fucking micropenises?
Meanwhile, you’re already a mess on top of him, breaths coming out in waves as you try to adjust. Eyes squeezed shut, palms squeezing his shoulders under the hoodie, because they somehow ended up there, and, well—you’re clenching.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You’re tight.”
“You’re big,” you retort, rolling your eyes yet gripping him tighter.
He bites his lip and nudges your hips, urging you to stop talking and start keeping to that promise you made. “Come on, Cowgirl,” he all but whispers, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
So you start to move. Slow at first, because God only knows you’d snap in fucking half if you did the opposite. But fuck, he feels good, even at the stupidly crawling pace and with the condom separating you from him. You feel him, fucking feel every inch of him from whatever angle he perfectly managed.
It’s tantalizing. It’s embarrassing how frequent the noises spilling from your mouth have become in a matter of minutes. How stupidly hot he looks in that godforsaken hat you basically put on his head in the first place. His teeth still dig into his lip; you swear he’ll draw fucking blood at this rate. But hey—at least you know you’re doing your part, and damn good, at that.
You slide a hand down his front again. More sweat has beaded since earlier. You let your palm sit atop his abdomen, tense, hot to the touch. He groans, and fuck, if you’ve ever heard anything so profoundly filthy. And your moans don’t even sound familiar to you. Whatever noises he’s managing to pull from you are the first of your bloodline.
His hips are bucking. He’s growing out of the slow bullshit. You’re more than willing to give that to him.
So you speed up. You’ve gotten used to him, the length, the sheer thickness that feels like you’re stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey. You’re in your groove—the one you’re almost always in instantly, yet it took much, much longer to reach that point of strength with Jake.
Perhaps you’re not as tough as you thought. Or maybe the guys you’ve slept with just fucking suck.
But you won’t let him know that.
It’s faster, harder, his hands are moving all over you like they can’t find a place to stay. You whine when he takes a handful of your breast into his hand, already sensitive, the other back on your waist, tightly gripping it like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.
“Fuck this,” you huff, tearing the tube top off entirely and throwing it away irritably. And then his hand is back, gripping, teasing, kneading, making sure you feel every touch.
Strands of hair are starting to stick to your sweat-slicked forehead. Your mascara’s reached the middle of your cheek. The red lipstick has smudged itself to oblivion and isn’t even noticeable anymore. And your moans? They sound fucking wrecked. You’re babbling almost nonsensical words and phrases—a mixture of pleas and yelps of his name, which has left your mouth so many times that someone would think it’s some sort of prayer if they didn’t know any better.
In short, you’re a mess.
Which gives Jake the perfect opportunity to lift the hat from his head and place it on yours. God, and the look on his face when you just sit there and accept it, taking on the role and being determined not to do otherwise.
You can’t tell if you’re grinding or bouncing on it anymore with the adrenaline rush, the overwhelming sensation, and the obscene sounds it’s creating. Sometimes it’s skin slapping, sometimes the squelch of the sheer wetness being fucked in and out of you, and mainly the loud moans mixing and reverberating around the room like it’s a damn porno.
If you heard someone else being fucked this good, you’d probably think it was.
“That’s it,” he encourages, eyes honed in on the place you’re connected, watching his cock disappear into you repeatedly with each grind of your hips. His expression is a constant display of tension with his bottom lip pushed out just enough to be considered a pout, and you’d typically find it in you to point it out but with the nonstop surges of pain and pleasure shooting through you like a lightning bolt, you don’t really care that he’s getting off on your weakness.
The first push of his hips to meet yours hurts. Really in a good way, but still.
Now he’s hitting that spot. You’re not just crying out anymore—you’re actually in tears. They’re pricking at the corners of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks, bringing more of that smudged mascara right down with them. You look even filthier than before, and he’s eating it up, loving how disoriented he can make you look, despite the confidence you once strode in here with.
God, if he bites his lip one more time, you swear you’ll rip it clean fucking off.
But even in his expression, you can see the mental turmoil, the need for more—to cross a boundary you’re not sure he ever has in this particular situation. And to your surprise, he actually fucking does.
In one motion, he discards the hat by practically shoving it off your head, brings his hand to the nape of your neck, and yanks you towards him, lips crashing into yours in a hungry kiss.
There’s no hesitation. No gentle quality to it, if at all possible. It says everything it needs to without words, a transparent release of tension and desperation as any remaining shred of resistance fades away in the blink of an eye. His tongue is already dragging along your teeth, licking into your mouth with no warning and familiarizing itself with the spanse of it. The sheer intensity and deliberateness of it prove that he’s crossed the line he so carefully constructed all that time ago, because it would be ridiculous and totally fucking irresponsible to let that realm of intimacy be entered with someone who worships the ground he walks on and could get attached so easily.
Yet here he is, devouring your mouth with his because he clearly underestimated his weakness in this situation and decided you seem to have a decent enough head above your shoulders, and honestly, even if you didn’t, he’d probably have to convince himself otherwise because you’re fluttering around him, and he needs this to take his mind off of that, and you really have no clue at all.
You moan into the kiss and let it vibrate against his pillow-soft lips, feel him pushing you impossibly closer from the nape of your neck. Your hand, not sure what to do, slides into his hair all the same, tugging and curling into the messy, black strands with an intensity even you aren’t so familiar with yourself. It’s not enough. You need more.
You’re not quite sure what washes over you when you break away, only to lift your hips and reach between you to remove the condom altogether.
“Are you sure?” he asks, but you’re already slamming back down into his lap before he can even finish the question.
The slide is anything but easy, causing a wave of pain to shoot through your body, and you moan at the feeling like some sort of freak that gets off on it. Though maybe it could fall under the umbrella of ‘hurts so good’, because he’s thicker and hotter and pulsating, and you can feel all of it.
So much for those useless fucking boundaries. He set two, and his half-baked, debilitated ass discarded one himself and didn’t as much as protest to breaking the other. He is far too gone for that and at this point can only hope you’ve taken your own precautions because he’s not pulling out and he’s sure as fuck not going to stop now.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” he wonders out loud, and it only serves to make you grip him harder, pull yourself closer, sink further down. “Fuck,” he rasps, and your stomach curls.
You’re not really doing much work anymore when he starts fucking up into you, clouding every last sense. You hear his breathy groans, see the desire in his gaze between each kiss, taste him on your tongue, smell the raw air around you.
And fuck, do you feel him.
It’s not pretty, and it’s not calculated—it’s impulsive and reckless and full of want, dripping with it, despite how you’ve both been there, done that upwards of a hundred times. Yet still, it goes and will stay unspoken that both of you have proved yourselves to be different than your predecessors.
“Jake,” you moan weakly into his mouth as his hips continue to drive into yours, almost fucking you dumb because his name and yes are the only two things you’ve been able to properly choke out.
And finally, his hand moves to your clit, connecting with his pelvis with each disgustingly painful thrust, and rubs it with consummate precision that forces a choked-out cry.
As he keeps going, bringing you closer and closer to your release, his lips move again to your jaw. He kisses along your jawline and moves down your neck, finding that same spot from earlier and kissing the sensitive, marked skin like his life depends on it. The combination of that, his hand on your clit, the way he mumbles ‘come for me’ into your skin like a mantra, and the tip of his cock driving repeatedly into your sweet spot is enough to finally bring your orgasm to fruition.
It washes over you in a wave that forces a guttural noise from your throat, so loud and obvious that it would’ve been sure to bleed through the walls had he not decided last-minute to envelope your mouth with his again. He swallows every last moan, lets out one of his own as you completely unravel above him, nails forcing crescent-shaped marks into the golden skin they rest on. And still, he’s working you through it, milking every last drop from you and prolonging the sensation for as long as your body can withstand it.
As if it wasn’t tight enough, you’re practically strangling him now. Needless to say, it’s enough to bring him right along with you.
The noise that he makes is absolutely fucking obscene. And a string of incoherent praise follows in the form of a rasp that sends a shiver down your spine.
At first, you felt a pang of apprehension when he went in raw (albeit by your request), but the sheer feel of him in his entirety, warm and velvety and every inch without restraint? Yeah, it didn’t seem to matter anymore after that.
Besides, it’s not like you were actually stupid enough to show up completely unprepared for that possibility.
And it surely doesn’t matter now—not with the sensation that comes with him spilling into you, hot, white ropes decorating your walls like they’re a sacred painting. It feels so good and soars entirely above any other time you’ve had some guy finish inside (and it’s not many), because nothing, and you mean nothing, will compare to the feeling of Jake Sim fucking the mixture of his and your cum back into you until you’re both spent.
Then, stillness.
“Shit,” he whispers when a few warm droplets hit his bare thigh, a reminder of his blatant ignorance.
Your head rests on his shoulder, half-bare from the sweatshirt that has managed to slip off a little. You breathe in harmony, setting a pattern with him as you match one another, letting the sound hang in the space between you. It’s silent save for that and the faint back and forth of crew members outside the door that separates this closed-off world you’ve conjured up from reality. It’s now that realization hits, and you process who you’re on top of, who you’ve just let finish inside you with almost no forethought, and who made you feel higher than you’ve ever felt in your life, despite the body count that you’re not so sure you’re proud of anymore, seeing as it clearly lacks any sort of substance.
He’s bigger than all of them, better than all of them, and worst of all, more unattainable than all of them combined.
“Not so bad, Cowgirl,” he murmurs, fingers tracing gentle lines along your back.
“…It’s Y/N,” you whisper back, breathing softly against him. A quiet chuckle falls from his lips, and for the first time, he gives a smile that lacks its usual smugness.
There’s something beyond the surface of his gaze that sticks out to you, screams that you’ll be someone he remembers for a long time. A precedent you hoped to set when you first walked into this room. And now you almost wish you could backtrack, because he’s not the only one experiencing this feeling. Hell, you let him get away with things you typically have too much pride for, or at least…one thing in particular. The warmth still resides in your stomach to keep that decision fresh in your mind. Yeah, choosing to come back here probably wasn’t one of the smarter choices you’ve made. Yet still, you return the smile with a glint of softness in your eyes.
You suppose you won’t forget him, either.
— © jaeyundazed 2025.