( 애인 ) 𝒾n which ︵ since you're afraid sex will ruin your relationship, your best friend promises you it'll be just the tip. well, guess what? he's kind of a liar. ⫶ smut mdni 277O dom!enha friends-to-lovers-esque very much strings-attached sex rough/mean sex implied no protection confessions not proofread (oops ><)
⌨️ like&&reblog for a kiss. ── #click4masterlist to see more.
LEE HEESEUNG ── "yes, baby, i swear. c'mon, jus' let me in you."
the thing with heeseung? you've never been good at denying him of what he wants. all it takes is one look, one pout, and you're caving instantly.
you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, hesitant, "hee, please don't... you said it'd be just the tip." thing is, he's your best friend. at least, that's all he's supposed to be—instead, he's lined up between your legs, the leaky tip of his cock tapping against your clit, practically begging to let him fuck you right.
heeseung's fingers brush your slick cunt, and you whimper, bucking your hips slightly up. "i know you want it, doll. lemme make you feel good, yeah?" he leans down, teeth sinking into the skin of your collarbone, making your breath hitch in a whiny moan.
his touch makes you melt. makes your brain short-circuit. makes you forget about any worries you have about ruining what you already have with him. he drags his tongue over the bite marks he's just made, soothing the spot.
he litters soft kisses all over your chest, and just like that, you forget why you ever held off fucking him like this in the first place. "okay," you whisper. "shit—okay."
he looks up quick, like he's not sure if he even heard you right. but there's this grin on his face. it's wide, toothy, and entirely too smug. like he knew you'd end up agreeing. if he wants to rub it in, he doesn't, which you're a little grateful for.
"fuck, baby, thank you. gonna fuck you so well, i swear you won't regret it."
yeah, just like he swore he wouldn't go past the tip. the retort dies on your tongue, because then he's pushing into you, the bed frame creaking in protest with every thrust. he's just so big, and he barely gives you a moment to adjust.
"mm, wait, hee—"
"sorrysorrysorry," he groans, the words falling from his mouth in a single string. "just spent so long dreaming of fucking this pretty pussy."
PARK JONGSEONG ── "y'know, you're not doing a great job at pretending you don't want this."
your face flushes, and you try to duck your head, but jongseong's hovering over your body. with the hand that's not on your bare hip, he pulls your chin back towards him, forcing eye contact.
"seongie," you whine, a tinge of embarrassment in your voice. "you promised we wouldn't go all the way."
"and you're making a mess all over my cock, baby. just give in. you know you want to." he doesn't say it like he's pleading or trying to convince you. he says it like it's a fact, which might be worse.
actually, it is worse.
because he can read your body. he can read the tremble in your voice as you try to hold your ground. the hitch of your breath when his tongue flicks against your nipple.
even now, when he's barely more than an inch into you, he doesn't miss the way you're squeezing him, practically trying to suck him in. and with how wet you are, it'd be so easy to just slip right in.
"i—i don't know," you stammer out, or try to, as he rubs slow circles onto your clit, smearing your messy arousal all over your thighs. you part your lips, like you're about to protest, but all that comes out is a moan.
"but we're friends—" you bite out, your arms around his neck, instinctively pulling him closer.
"so what? we'll be friends that fuck. or more, if that's what you want. that's what i want. we can work out the details later, can't we?"
the word more rings in your ears, and jongseong can hear the gears shifting in your cock-drunk mind.
"hey, hey. don't worry your pretty little head about that right now. just let me take care of you. it'll be the best you'll have."
you nod once, barely interceptable, but he shakes his head. "words, sweetheart. use your words for me, hm?"
you feel heat creep up your neck, but you nod again anyway. "yes, seongie. i... i want you to fuck me."
god, you really don't have to tell him twice.
it's when he finally bottoms out, that he has to stop and go though a roster of formula 1 teams, in order not to cum.
after all, might not have kept his initial promise, but he would be the best fuck of your life.
SIM JAEYUN ── "please, angel. fuckin' hell... you need this as bad as i do, don't lie."
jake's eyes are so innocent, though the intent behind them is anything but. his gaze, set firmly on you, makes heat pool in your stomach, adding to the wet mess on the sheets beneath you.
sure, you and jake had fooled around before. it wasn't rare. if anything, it was a daily occurrence. you'd humped him mindlessly on the couch before, sucked him off in his studio, and let him finger you for hours at a time. but this?
this wasn't the same. actually fucking him felt like crossing a line. like stepping over an already blurry boundary.
but he's adamant. so adamant. he's got his heart dead-set on this, pouting at you with those pretty pink lips, slightly swollen from kissing. as mentioned, however, it's anything but innocent.
he's spent the better part of an hour marking you up, leaving hickeys and bite marks all over your body. your neck, your chest, your thighs. shades of pink and red have bloomed all over your skin, and he's never looked prouder.
"jakey, 's not that i don't wanna," you say, soft and shaky. because of course you want to. it's all you've ever wanted. to feel his cock inside your cunt, for him to fuck like a dog in heat. "it's that i don't wanna mess this up."
"mess what up? us? angel, you could never. no matter what, okay? you seriously can't get rid of me that easy," he assures you, both efficiently and kindly. and in case his words aren't enough to soothe your doubt, he leans down to press a kiss to your lips, quick but lingering.
"really?"
"really. will you let me feel all of you now? hm? let me fuck you the way you deserve?"
"please," you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes. that's all it takes for him to ease into you slowly, like he's trying to memorize this moment and keep it with himself forever. the groan that jake lets out at hearing your soft whimpers—it's straight up pornographic.
"this pussy is so much fuckin' better than my fist."
PARK SUNGHOON ── "you're leaking all over my dick, and still... you're going to say you don't want me?"
one thing park sunghoon always found joy in was teasing you. it didn't matter what for.
whether it was pointing out every time you'd stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, or still bringing up that one time from a year ago when you'd accidentally put the cereal in the fridge and the milk in the pantry—he was relentless when he wanted to be.
like now. especially now. just... instead of sidewalks and cereal boxes, it was the way you were a teary, needy mess, and still insisting that you didn't want any more than the tip of his thick cock.
you shake your head, trying to fight back a moan when he pinches your clit. "d—don't be mean, hoonie."
"i'm not being mean, sweets," sunghoon chides, but he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose nonetheless. "if anything, you're the one being mean. you're such a pretty little thing, thighs spread, all dripping for me... and you expect me not to want to fuck you all the way?"
he clicks his tongue, pushing a little further into you. he watches your eyes hit the back of your head, the cutest, breathiest sound leaving your mouth.
"please," you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"please, what? i can't even tell what you're begging for, baby. 'please, hoonie, fuck me?' is that what you're begging for?"
"fuck—yeah," you blurt, before you can even process the words that are leaving your mouth. it seems to surprise him just as much, because his eyes go a little wide, and for someone who's spent the last thirty minutes with sharp, quick responses, he seems a little speechless.
"well, damn, baby. thought we'd be going back and forth a little while longer," he chuckles, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. "not really complaining, though."
when sunghoon fucks into you, it's so him. harsh and cruel, but with loving intention. the pace he sets is rough, and he really doesn't show you any mercy.
turns out, being a little mean can get you a long way.
KIM SUNOO ── "so insistent on playing this game, huh?"
"sun, it's not... It's not like that," you protest weakly, but the way sunoo's looking at you—like a man who's got the world at his fingertips and knows it—has the rest of your sentence dying on your tongue.
"what is it like, then? you just feel like being a brat?" sunoo's words are sharp, they always are, but never sharper than the feeling of his teeth nipping at your collarbone. he doesn't seem annoyed by the waiting game. a little impatient? well, yes.
not annoyed, though. not frustrated. just... bored. it isn't disinterested-bored. more like give-in-already-so-we-can-cut-to-the-chase-bored. it's different. it's cocky. because he knows you'll end up submitting to him.
the feeling of his tip pressing against the entrance of your wet heat makes you flinch, and it takes everything in you not to beg him to fuck you right then.
"i—i feel," you stutter, "like not losing us over some sex."
sunoo's head snaps up. "some sex?" he asks, almost sounding offended. no, scratch that, he does sound offended. "you're seriously underestimating how good of a fuck i am."
"that's not the point!" if he didn't have your hands pinned together above you, you'd hit him, because he's being so... sunoo. misinterpreting your words on purpose, teasing you, seeing how far he can push you until you snap. and both of you know you're already reaching your breaking point.
he lowers his head to the crook of your neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your chest. his lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and biting, committing your soft whimpers to memory.
"nothing'll happen to us just 'cause we had some earth-shattering sex. i mean it. if anything, you'll just become more obsessed with me," he snickers, dropping a hand between your legs to slip his fingers between your folds.
"fuck you."
"i'm clearly willing."
you're silent for a beat, but the sheer need for him, for wanting to get fucked dumb on his cock, is overwhelmingly loud. "fine," you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. he laughs, condescending, but it just makes you clench.
he pushes into you, and his dick fills you up, makes you feel so good, so full. sunoo's hips snap against yours, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. every thrust makes you cry out, and he drinks up the sweet sound.
"i'll show you some sex," he scoffs.
YANG JUNGWON ── "i know, pretty girl. i know. but you won't regret it."
his words are entirely too convincing. they fall from jungwon's mouth, easy and honey-sweet. there's a soft sheen of sweat on his skin, and the curve of his lashes has you melting into his touch.
"wonnie..." you whisper, soft and uncertain. like there's more you want to say, but can't find the words for.
jungwon just kisses you, his lips slotting against yours. and because he's him, your best friend for ages, you kiss him back. he tastes like strawberries and your coffee that he stole sips from.
he's already more than an inch in anyway, waiting for you to let him in all the way. "you're thinking s'loud," he murmurs, pulling away, a thin line of saliva connecting his mouth to yours. "i can hear you from here. don't overthink it. haven't even fucked you yet, and you're already squeezing around my cock."
his voice dips to a lower register, and he leans down by your ear, his breath hot. "just let yourself have it." the tone jungwon uses makes your face flush, and your heart skips a beat in your chest.
he always looks so gentle about everything, but there's a mocking lilt in his tone right now that makes you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
the movement makes him slip deeper into your cunt, and he groans, "fuck—fuck, princess. give a guy a warning, yeah? gonna make me cum just from that." jungwon's hips stutter as he readjusts, and he shifts his angle, needing more of you.
"sorry," you breathe, looking up at him. his hair is tousled, slightly unkempt from you running your hands through it. "i just... um, i like you. this. us. whatever 'us' is."
"yeah? same here, baby. i care about you too much to ever do anything to jeopardize us." he pauses, tucking hair behind your ear. "do you trust me?"
you don't hesitate. "yeah, wonnie. i do."
"good," he says, his lips meeting your temple. he looks at you, silently acknowledging what he's about to do. when you nod, he bottoms out, pushing himself all the way in. his cock drags against your walls, stretching you out on himself.
"mm—won—" you moan, grasping his arms to steady you.
"shit, you're such a good girl. feels nice, right? didn't i say it would?"
NISHIMURA RIKI ── "screw that promise, baby. to hell with it. this pussy's so perfect, s'begging to get fucked by me."
so far, riki's been true to his word. he's only an inch deep, but you know it's better than anything you've ever had before. he knows that, too—it's what makes him so confident.
"'ki, but you said—"
"angel, i say a whole lotta things. i definitely don't mean them all," he snorts, reaching down to rub your clit with his thumb. it makes your frown melt into an expression of bliss, the kind you only get from pleasure.
it doesn't help that riki's so pretty, and surely it doesn't make any of this easier. because he's the smug kind of pretty. the kind where he's fully aware and doesn't hesitate to use it to his own advantage.
it’s the way he looks at you like he already knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s just waiting for you to trip over your words first. it’s not even that he’s trying too hard; it’s just there, in that little tilt of his head or the way he lets a silence stretch out just a second too long.
he knows it gets under your skin. he knows it makes it impossible to actually stay mad at him, which is the worst part. you want to call him out on it, but then he smiles that specific way, and suddenly you’re the one who’s on the defensive.
trembling, you shake your head, though your resolve is wearing away. "friends don't fuck," you say, your tone hush.
"friends don't do whatever this is, either. if you're worrying about crossing some sort of line, i think we're a little far past that point."
you groan, burying your face in your hands. riki always has to go and make everything harder, doesn't he? in response, he just kisses your tit, and then your jaw, before finally pulling your hands into his.
"that doesn't make me feel better," you mumble.
"it wasn't really supposed to. i'm being honest, sweets. we're gonna be fine. we're gonna be okay."
finally, you sigh, "well, okay. i guess—"
you're cut off by his cock abruptly slamming straight into you, without so much as a warning. you cry out, back arching up as you sink your nails into the biceps of his arms.
mid-moan, you gasp, "what the fuck, riki!"
"sorry, fuck, sorry," he grunts, but by the way he isn't slowing down, you don't know if he means it. "ripped the bandaid off, angel."
riki leans down to capture your lips in a sloppy, wet kiss, swallowing the noises you make. with every ram of his hips against yours, you can feel his dick kisses your cervix, the way he throbs inside you, how his pelvis grinds against your clit.
he groans against your lips, "gonna make you cum so good, you'll forget to be mad at me."
˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.
paid! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI !
inspired by 10 things i hate about you !
wc: 30451
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (but can be a standalone)
Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.
What he didn't understand though, were your laws.
No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.
No driving without adult supervision.
No going out past 10PM.
No girlfriends until eighteen.
No accepting rides from people he didn't know.
No staying out without answering his phone.
The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.
You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy.
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.
"Don’t drink." you state.
Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"
You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."
He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"
You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."
You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."
He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it.
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"
Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”
“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”
The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.
Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.
You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.
He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”
They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”
Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”
That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy?
“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.
Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”
“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.
The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.
It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.
Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.
Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.
"Why are you looking at me like tha —"
“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”
Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction.
“No.”
“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
Jake shakes his head, “What?”
“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”
“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.
Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”
Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.
Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.
The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.
Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”
By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.
"You're a good man, Jake."
"I'm aware."
"No, like, a really good man."
"Thank you."
"The best."
Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.
"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."
Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough.
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.
“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”
“No.”
Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”
Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”
“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.
You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”
“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.
It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes.
You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”
You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.
For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door.
That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.
Wow. Okayyy.
You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
“Hey.”
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.
He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.
For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.
“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”
You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”
Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”
That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”
You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”
“No.”
He frowns. “So it’s personal.”
“No.”
Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.
“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.
Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.
You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.
Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.
Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.
Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.
Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”
Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
“It had the best lighting.”
“It has me.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.
You don’t look up. “No.”
Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”
Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”
He blinks. “So?”
“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”
“You know my grade?”
“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”
It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”
“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”
Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”
“You asked for help.”
“I asked for economics.”
“And I gave you something useful.”
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.
You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.
For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.
“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.
Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it.
“No.”
Riki stares. “No? Jake.”
“No.”
Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”
Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.
“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you.
“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.
Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella.
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary.
“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”
Jake groans. “No.”
“Please.”
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him.
Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.
A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.
The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”
Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.
It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.
After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.
“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.
Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”
His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”
He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”
His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”
“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”
You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”
You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”
“I have coffee at home.”
For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”
You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.
He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”
You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.
The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes.
You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.
The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.
You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
"Wow."
You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.
Specifically you.
"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.
His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.
"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom.
You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."
"Right."
"I do."
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.
He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"
You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"
You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.
The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.
You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."
You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner.
You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”
You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”
For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.
Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”
You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.
Then you look up to see Jake.
“What the hell?” you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”
You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.
“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”
He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.
“No.”
“Then one.”
“Jake.”
“You can yell at me outside.”
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.
The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.
The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”
You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”
Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally.”
“About me?”
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.
You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Well, yes.”
You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.
You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”
“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”
You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”
“So yes.”
“No.”
“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”
“You are.”
You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.
He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”
“No.”
“Board member?”
“No.”
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”
Your head snaps up. “A guy?”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”
You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”
“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good.”
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“You’re being weird.”
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.
He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.
“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”
For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.
A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.
Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”
You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”
Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”
You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”
For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”
You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.
You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”
He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.
You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”
“No.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.
His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”
“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”
Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”
“You called him Chicken.”
“Because his name is Chicken.”
“Which is insane, by the way.”
You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”
“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”
For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.
“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”
He glances at you. “I did.”
You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”
“I said hey.”
“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”
He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”
He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”
You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.
His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”
“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”
For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face.
“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”
You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”
The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.
Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.
Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.
“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”
“I know what I said.”
Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.
His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.
You clear your throat. “I should go back.”
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”
You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”
His mouth curves. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.
“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.
“In front of everyone?”
“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”
“Okay.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore.
The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.
One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a dress shirt.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.
“Just wear it.”
The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.
You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.
You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”
“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.
For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again.
It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.
By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.
That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.
Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.
There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.
At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.
Riki had paid him.
Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.
It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty.
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”
He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”
“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”
Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”
“A date.”
There is silence — one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”
“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”
Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.
“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”
“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”
By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.
You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”
His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?
You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”
You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”
“Come with me.”
The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.
Then he says, “Okay.”
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.
“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.”
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”
Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”
There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.
You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”
The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”
Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.
Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.
His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.
You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car.
The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him. The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.
You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.
“Come on,” he says.
Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.
At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.
He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”
“People are walking.”
“Badly.”
Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.
He catches himself at the last second. “What?”
You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.
“I’ve been craving dumplings.”
The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.
For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”
You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.
You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”
“Was that gratitude?”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.
You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.
You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.
You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.
Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”
He picks it up. “It does.”
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
“Put it back.”
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”
“No, why did you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does.
The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.
For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.
Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.
You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.
You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.
You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”
He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.
Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”
He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.
You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.
“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”
You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.
“Are you blushing?” you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”
“You are.”
“It’s cold.”
You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.
So you stay.
He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.
You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.
“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.
You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.
By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether.
He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.
When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.
“I can carry my own stuff,”
“I know.”
He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.
Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”
You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.
“A little,” you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I feel greedy.”
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze.
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.
“Only tonight.”
“Because of the market?”
“Sure.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.
He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”
You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says. Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.
That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Neither are you.”
You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.
It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.
He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.
You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.
“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”
You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.
“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”
His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.
Then you kiss him.
He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.
“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.
Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again.
Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”
For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.
“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”
“That’s your excuse?”
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”
You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.
“Then let me do better,”
You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.
When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.
You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”
His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.
For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.
You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.
He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.
The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.
He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”
His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.
Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.
Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”
His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.
And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.
Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.
When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”
“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions.
In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.
You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”
You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.
Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.
For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.
“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”
“You usually have more to say.”
His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck.
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.
You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
“You’re very careful.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”
You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”
He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.
“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.
But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it.
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”
He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.
He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.
He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently.
“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.
His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.
“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.”
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark.
He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer.
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.
With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head.
He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.
“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.
His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.
He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles.
The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”
“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?”
He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.
He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.
Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets.
“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.
You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.
He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.
Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed.
He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”
You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”
He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.
His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “
If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact.
“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip.
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.
“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.
He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.
“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.
“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “
He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.
Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does.
“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”
You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”
He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”
Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”
“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”
You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.
Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds.
“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.
The next few days have been… a turn.
Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.
The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.
You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.
The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.
Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.
You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.
After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.
Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough.
One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”
With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.
Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.
When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”
You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.
He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.
Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.
Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.
The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.
Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.
You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”
“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”
He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing.
His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).
Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize.
For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.
Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter.
You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”
For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers.
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.
A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”
“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
“Taming the lion,” someone says.
Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.
The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”
“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”
“What?” Jake asks, distracted.
Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.
“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”
Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.
He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.
And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.
You turn and walk.
Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.
You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.
“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”
The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.
You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.
He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.
Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”
“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”
Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”
You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.
That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”
Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge.
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
“Is that true?” you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”
You stare at him.
“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”
He goes still.
That is the answer.
You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.
You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”
The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”
“I thought you chose me,” you say.
“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”
Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”
His breath catches. “Please.”
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in.
“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.
You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.
You hate men.
Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.
Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning.
Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.
But history is dead. Men killed it.
Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.
By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.
On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus.
“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.
Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.
“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.
By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing.
At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.
Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”
Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.
At eight minutes, you sit up.
At nine, your feet touch the floor.
At ten, you stay where you are.
Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.
The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary.
That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.
“What?”
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”
“I don’t want delivery.”
“Then make something.”
“I want to go out.”
You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”
Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”
You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.
“It’s late,” you say.
“I know.”
“And you have Jake, apparently.”
He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.
He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”
The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark.
When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.
Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.
For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”
You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?
Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”
You look at him, face unreadable.
“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”
Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”
He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”
The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.
You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.
“I really am sorry,” he says.
When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.
“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”
You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.
For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.
“You’re so stupid.”
“A dumbass, I know.”
You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.
“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.
You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”
Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”
Your eyes narrow at him.
“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”
The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.
He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”
“Riki.”
“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”
You hate him a little for saying it.
You hate him more because it makes you think.
The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it.
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”
“I know.”
You look at him.
He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.
Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”
Your mouth almost curves.
“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.
That night, you cannot sleep.
It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.
You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.
You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.
The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.
When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.
The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”
You nod once. “Right.”
“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.
You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.
“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.
You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.
He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”
You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.
“Okay.”
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”
He goes still.
“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you still hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”
He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.
“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”
You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.
Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.
Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.
“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”
He does not answer.
“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”
For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.
He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.
“Can I?” he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.
You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.
“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”
Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”
“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.
His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”
For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.
Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”
He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.
Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”
The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”
He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.
“I want you,” he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.
For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.
Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe
“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”
You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.
For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.
His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”
“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.
His mouth softens. “Yeah.”
You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.
His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”
You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.
The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.
Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.
“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.
He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.
When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.
“Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”
For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.
Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”
His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.
You hate him. You hate him a lot.
You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”
He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖✽//an: first time writing mommy kink fic, kinda nervous. 😳
๋࣭⭑ jake tossed and turned in bed, unable to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. it had been like this all night and he just couldn't figure out why he couldn't fall asleep. he turned to look at your sleeping face, your arm resting over his chest.
he smiled to himself as he admired your face. you looked so cute and serene. he faced you and moved closer, wrapping his arms around your middle. you felt so warm in his hold, although his brain still wouldn't shut off for the night. he still loved being so close to you though, your scent and presence bringing him comfort.
he had missed you all day and he felt like he had hardly seen you lately. both you and him were busy with work of course, but you were busier and that left him at home, suffering the withdrawals of your closeness. the abandoned comforter lay loosely at your calves, exposing your plush thighs, only wearing panties and his shirt. the scene was so domestic and comforting, he could hardly believe he was viewing it with his own eyes.
he thought you looked so pretty and your skin felt so soft…jake found himself starting to get embarrassingly hard at the inappropriate thoughts trying to enter his wandering mind; you made him so easily aroused.
he shook his head gently as if that would make them go away. he buried his face in the crook of your neck to try and compose himself, but it only made his arousal grow. he felt your steady pulse thump beneath his lips and the smell of your lotion you always put on before bed hit his nose. a content sigh breezed from his mouth as he pecked a kiss to your neck, then to your jaw.
he didn't want to trouble you by waking you up. it was also so pathetic how quickly he had gotten hard from just you sleeping next to him. he kissed your neck more, sweet and light, trying not to wake you but also to satisfy himself, satiate his desire in the still midnight.
began to softly suck on your neck, leaving temporary marks that would fade by the next day. jake loved to kiss and suck on your neck and lose himself, relax his brain. but currently, he couldn't relax. he frowned in your skin as he found himself in a dilemma—to leave it alone or to give in to his desires.
both you and jake had discussed doing sleep stuff and agreed that it was fine. but when you came home that night, you were so exhausted that jake had to help you bathe, which he gladly did most of the time anyway. he felt bad but his cock started to ache with a growing need and lust fogged his brain… as long as he was careful and quiet and didn't disturb you, you should still be able to rest.
a trail of light kisses was left in his wake as he moved down your body, hands cradling your torso, traveling around your sleeping figure. his fingers skimmed under your shirt; over your back, your breasts, your ass. he relished in your closeness. pulling your hips closer as his lips reached just above your panties.
your boyfriend glanced at your resting face while he tugged your panties down your legs. he bit his lip as his fingers brushed over your clit, softly massaging it before he lifted your leg and positioned his head in between your thighs. he placed soft kisses to your clit and kitten licks, trying to be as gentle and light as possible so not to disturb you.
his tongue licked a stripe up from your hole to your clit, suckling on it softly. he felt your dormant thigh twitch, heavy on top his head like an anchor holding him in place.
you weren't even awake, yet it felt like you were squeezing his head with your thighs. he moaned a little too loudly with his lips around your clit still, your thighs continually flinching as he kneaded them gently. he felt enshrouded in you, in the darkness of the night.
jake took notice of you squirming above him, eyebrows furrowed and breathing getting more deep and rough. he groaned as he desperately licked at your hot, now leaking, cunt, your sweet essence coating his tongue and smearing around his mouth.
he lapped at your pussy and the bridge of his nose bumped your clit, each lick making him more needy and addicted to your taste, it was like the sweetest honey to him. he quickened his pace when he noticed how wet you were getting , feeling your syrupy cunt drip more and more around his tongue.
honestly, he wished you were awake—he knows how much you loved watching him eat you out. especially when he looked up at you with his pretty puppy eyes, watching how he made you feel on his mouth.
he felt himself getting painfully harder at the thought and he accidentally whimpered loudly into your pussy, making you faintly whine, your thighs clenching around his head. he pulled away with a smack, your juices making his lips glossy. his chest was heaving and heart thumping as he gazed at your sweet expression, now seemingly frustrated and unsatisfied.
"it's okay, babe. i'll help you feel good." he whispered as he tried his hardest to gently turn you over on your other side so he could spoon you from behind,
and when he thought he was successful, he heard your sleepy rasp and froze, "jakey? what time is it?" you slowly tried to lift your head, searching for jake's face in the dark room.
he shushed you and stroked your arm, kissing your neck. "shhh it's okay, baby. go back to sleep."
you let out a weak laugh, too tired to turn over and face him, "jake, are you seriously hard right now?"
he paused, too embarrassed to admit it out loud. "n-no…well yeah. but i couldn't sleep, baby. i needed you…" god, that sounded so pathetic coming from his mouth. "sorry for waking you up. go back to sleep, okay?" he sighed, feeling flushed and awkward that he had woken you up because of his own selfishness and lust.
"…are you going to do something about it? i want you, jake. please." you whispered, on the brink of sleep but also excited, heart beating in anticipation. he got you all riled up, too roused to fall back asleep. especially with the wetness marinating between your legs. a shiver knocked up his spine as he swallowed thickly, a strained whine following.
with his heart stuttering, he moved up behind you and placed a hand on your thigh, thumb smoothing over he skin. "yeah…yeah, i'll give myself to you. that's what you want right?" after your voice confirmed, he pulled his pants down, his big, thick cock hard against your leg and already leaking so much precum from the tip. a soft whimper broke from his lips as he pushed his cock in between your plush thighs, his other hand firmly holding your waist.
your dripping cunt felt so good sliding over his cock, your slick coating his length and smearing all over the front of your thighs. you moaned as his tip bumped against your clit so good. jake thrusted slowly, focused on the feeling of your thighs stroking his cock so sweetly. he lifted his head to peer over your shoulder, a high-pitched moan leaving him when he saw the tip of his dick appear and disappear in between your legs.
the wet, slippery feeling soon began to burn, making his eyes roll at the delicious friction. he started to speed up his movements, your hushed whimpers riling him up even more. wet noises got more and more louder and prominent as he continued, his hips driving into your soft, sticky thighs.
god, you felt so good… so wet and warm. jake paused when he heard you gasp and felt your back arch, and that's when he realized he had accidentally slipped inside you, just the tip. he moaned as he pushed his twitching cock into you more, shuddering at the sensation of partially being inside of you.
you clenched around his tip, your cunt feeling like it was sucking him in. it made him go nuts, pulling out and rutting his slick tip against your clit again, slick and messy, pulling a string of whines from you from the enhanced stimulation. he gradually plunged back inside you, addicted to the way your cunt drooled and pulsated around his cock.
a broken moan left his mouth as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. he lifted your leg up from under the knee, reaching deeper inside your velvet walls. a loud ass moan came from him as he pulled out and plunged back into, obsessed with the whiny noises you made and the delicious sight of watching his cock being buried in your sweet cunt. jake slowly started thrusting into you, savoring in the heavenly way your warm wet pussy pulsed around his cock, getting wetter with every plunge.
jake admired your body as the pale moonlight illuminated your smooth skin. he kissed your shoulder that was clothed by his shirt, teeth biting it and pulling at it as he got a whiff of your perfume. the situation was too unbearable for him, he felt so desperate for you despite you being right in his reach.
"faster, puppy. please" you whined and ground your hips back against him, unsatisfied with the painfully slow thrusting. the pet name made his brain glitch, and you were well aware of its effect on him. he lost all composure as he started rutting into you like a desperate needy mutt, rough grunts and whimpers spilling from his lips. the bed creaked with every rough drive into your sopping cunt, strings of loud moans echoing in the room.
your leg dangled in the air as he held it high in the air and began fucking you harder. he panted and whined into your neck, "you feel so good, mommy. mph — i love making my pretty girl feel good." he choked out a sob on your skin while his hips found a pace that left the both of you dizzy. he was so fucked out he didn't even notice that he called you mommy. but you didn't care, it just made your breath catch and tremble as his grip on you tightened.
the position had him hitting the sweetest spot inside of you and you felt a belt of pressure build in your gut, head reeling at the rolls of his hips. you moaned and turned to look at him behind you, his brain utterly disoriented with lust and his face twisted into one of pure pleasure. you would giggle at how cute and focused he looked if he weren't making you feel insane right now.
you took his his chin in your hand, lightly tapping he side of his face with your fingers. he dazedly opened his eyes, glaring at you with a drunken expression, pupils blown wide but flooded with devotion. he just gazed into your eyes, his pace unfaltering but more tender. you brushed his hair back to see his face, flushed and damp with sweat. you scratched beneath his chin gently, "come inside of me, okay baby?"
he let out a sob and lodged his face in your neck, vigorously quickening his pace, making the bed shift and scrape against the floor. "ah~ah okay. wh-whatever you want, mommy. whatever you want, fuck you make me feel so good" the way he sounded so ravaged and fucked out made your pussy quiver around him so good. the feeling of you around him making him arch into you, his hips twitching and hold on your leg waver.
the sound of his skin slapping yours sounded in the room, which began to feel humid and far away with the way jake made you feel surrounded in him. but it couldn't compare to how you made him feel. he was completely gone, ramming his thick cock into you like no tomorrow. nonstop thinking about you and your fluttering saccharine cunt squeezing him so good it stung.
"that's it, yunie. cum for me, cum inside me. that's it, that's it" the sound of your voice hit him like a siren song. he started rutting into you harder and faster, squelching sounds getting louder and seemingly more obscene and filthy than before. you experimentally added, "can you do that for mommy?"
he hyperventilated against your skin and pounded into you at an insanely fast pace as he cried, "yes! yes i'll come inside you, mommy. i'll come for you." he babbled, voice cracking as high pitched whimpers flew from his mouth. "just for you. i'm yours" his thighs trembled as he felt your cunt convulse around him, your orgasm approaching fast.
jake's entire body tremored as he came inside of you, moaning loudly in your ear as you felt hot spurts of his milky cum fill your silky cunt. his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body shook as he continued his thrusts, overstimulating himself so he could help you cum as well.
your orgasm hit you hard as you creamed all over his dick. your body jerked in his hold, fingers grabbing at his hands that still had that strong, bruising grip on you. he was still cumming inside of you with short spurts. as he slowed his hips, a mixture of your cum and his created a white ring around the base of his cock, gushing out while he pumped into you.
you and jake panted and attempted to come down from the insane high you just had, warm and buzzing from your orgasms in each other's hold. he absentmindedly pressed shaky kisses along your neck and face, his sticky skin hot against yours. you weren't looking at his face, but you could tell that his mind was numb from the strong orgasm.
he faintly whimpered while he slowly pulled his pulsing cock out of you and set your leg down. you sighed at the emptiness, feeling the thick gooey cum spill out of your cunt, soiling the sheets beneath.
outside the sky staretd to lighten and the sound of birds tweeting melded with you sweet sighs of ease and bliss. jake moaned and nuzzled into you, pulling as close as possible to him.
"are you sleepy now, baby?" you softly laughed and lied on your back, jake quickly finding his place on top of you with his face in your chest. feeling his droopy eyelashes flutter on your collarbone, he nodded. "it's almost sunrise now, we'll have to get up pretty soon."
he squeezed your hip firmly "who says we're getting up?" he paused for a moment before lifting his head, his hair tustled and damp and his face exhausted from the intense sex you just had. "wait. did i say... something weird earlier?"
you ran your fingers through his hair, nails scratching his scalp, tugging on it and shaking his head. "what do you mean, yunie?"
he quickly shook his head and buried his head into you again. "nevermind. i thought i said something weird…" you could hear the embarrassment in his mumbling, rugged voice.
"what's wrong?" you gently raised his head up by his hair, making him wince as he let you "it looked like you really liked calling me mommy"
a shaky breath left him then a weak moan as you felt his now soft dick twitch on your thigh. "mn fuck… i didn't even realize i said that in the moment." he sheepishly smiled, hoping you would forget he called you that ever "i'm sorry, you just felt so good."
playing with his hair, you cooed in his ear "it's okay, baby. in fact, i really really liked it." you bit your lip and smiled as you watched his expression, his eyes looking up at you from your chest. his pupils dilated a little and you felt his heart skip a beat. "…and i definitely wouldn't mind if you called me that more often."
he kissed the curve of your breast, eyes never leaving you "okay, i will…mommy." despite himself, he smiled and delicately nipped at your skin, leaving faint marks. "sorry for disturbing your sleep. you seemed so tired from work… and i was just being horny."
"it's fine, jakey i got plenty of rest. and we still have some time to sleep… or do something else." his sleepy eyes shot to you, astonished that you would even suggest going for a second round.
trailing kisses on your body, he simply held you tighter and whined. "baby, that felt like three fucking rounds just now and you're not tired?" you shook your head no, reminding him that while he was tossing and turning, you had been deep in dreamland.
he lay on his back, smirking amusedly with his eyes closed. "come sit on my face then, mommy."
💤🌜💫. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖✽//an: i kinda hate how short this is… and there's some mistakes sigh.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ summary :: being single in your teenage years made you miss out on many things, one of them being the kissing game with the soda flavored lipsticks. so, now that you finally have a boyfriend, you decide to play it. however, the game quickly escalates into something more...
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ genre :: smut (mdni!)
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ tags :: fingering, small fluff, missionary, p in v, jake is head over heels for y/n, squirting, small to no plot, pwp, kissing, making out, overstimulation, masturbation, protected sex, nicknames, cum eating, finger sucking, dry humping (kinda)
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ wc :: 3.1k
now playing :: kiss it better — rihanna
With the plastic box tugged under your arm, you typed in the message quickly as you were waiting for the traffic lights to turn green so you could finally rush home.
you : i got the thing. ill be home in probs like 5 mins.
You couldn't deny the nervousness that took over your body. The lights finally changed, and you snatched the box out from under your arms and threw it in your tote bag. You made your way to the other side of the road with quick steps, getting lost in the big New York crowd.
Just another busy Friday morning. Every person has a different goal. A different place they go to. Most probably go to work, but who knows? Maybe they are on their way to one of their loved ones in the hospital, or they are going on a date (even though it's eleven in the morning).
Personally, you were on your way to your new apartment. You freshly moved out of the college dorm to your own apartment, and it was pretty hard to pretend like you felt sad for your roommate while she was sobbing in your arms when you told her the news. The truth was that you were straight up cheesing inside the whole time. You couldn't wait to have your own personal space, without anyone interrupting your study sessions or series binge sessions. But the best part : you finally had enough time to be with your boyfriend alone.
Jake was your first ever boyfriend, which was a kinda embarrassing thing to admit at the age of twenty. However, you felt like you just entered your youth, even if it was late. You tried to ignore that part. People usually do cringy teenager type of things when they are sixteen, but you missed out on that.
You weren't the type to complain a lot, but one day you found yourself spilling your heart out to Jake about it while your head was in his lap, his fingers caressing your head as he nodded understandingly.
That's where the idea came from : the lipsmackers, now tossed in your bag next to your breakfast you got from the bakery on the corner of the street.
It was Jake’s idea. He said, and I quote “We should start doing those ‘cringy’ things, then”
You wanted to say ‘no’ so bad, because still, you are in college, a twenty year old independent woman who has a successful career in front of her. You almost did say no, but thinking it through, it can't hurt, right?
So, Jake made you write a list of things you missed out on when you were a teenager. The things your friends would brag about to you, knowing damn well you are a lonely loser. The things that made you so insecure you couldn't stop scratching your arms.
Lip Smackers were on top of the list. It was so nostalgic, at a time they were all over the stores. Well, you never had anyone to do it with. Until now.
You push down the bell next to your apartment door. Jake should be there, because he spent last night with you. You binged all the three Maze Runner movies, and neither of you noticed how much the time passed. By the time you finished, it was already four am.
Soon, the door opens and the most gorgeous boy you have ever seen in your life smiles at you. Then he steps closer and wants to press a kiss on your lips, but you stop him.
“Remember, no kissing” you say, teasingly. You and Jake decided to not kiss until you got the lipsticks. It was anticipating, because you made the list two days ago, and you kiss, like, all the time.
He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips are tugging upwards “Someone is strict” he comments, leading you in the apartment and closing the door behind you.
You set your bag down by the table, pulling your breakfast and the plastic box out of it. Jake glances at it, then his eyes find you again. “So? When do we start? I don't think I can handle another day without kissing you”
He steps closer, grabbing you by your waist. And he moves dangerously close, his lips breezing your skin ever so slightly.
You look up at him, smiling “We can do it now”
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
You fiddle with the box a bit before you can open it, your hands shaking. Jake is sitting on the bed in front of you, and you could tell he just can't wait, because his back is perfectly straight and he has his hands on his knees as they are crossed.
Your heart is thumping in your chest. You don't even know how to play this game properly. It sounds so dumb — a grown woman being anxious to play a kissing game with her boyfriend. It's straight up ridiculous. But the lipsticks bring back so many memories, and most of them being bad, you just can't help your feelings.
When you finally manage to get the lipsticks out of the box, you look up at Jake.
“Okay. Cover your eyes. And don't cheat” You tell him, and he nods as he lowers his head and buries his head in his hands.
You look down at the six different lipsticks, indicated in vivid colors. You end up picking the sprite one first. As you apply it on your lips, you taste it a little bit, the sweet flavor getting on your tongue. It tastes horrible, like every candy from the 2000s. It's not much of a surprise.
You throw the green bottle back to the other ones, mixing them together.
“You can look now,” You insist.
Jake looks up faster than the speed of light, his eyes landing on your glistening lips. He's so freaking cute when he's all excited but can't get what he wants yet.
You smile softly “You are really excited”
“I am” he doesn't deny it, he gets on his knees so he can crawl towards you.
He moves slowly, almost hesitant like it's your first kiss ever. Like it's his first kiss ever. He gulps nervously, Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. Jake leans down and presses his soft lips onto yours. He doesn't move at first, and you don't either, because you have no idea what to do.
After a few moments, you feel his tongue darting out and licking your bottom lip. He grabs onto your shoulders and pulls you closer to taste it better, but his tongue only licks your lips and he's very careful with it.
He pulls back, looking up for a moment. “Hm” he humms, thinking “I think… Sprite? Maybe?”
You nod heavily, feeling your cheeks getting red. “You got it right on the first try. That's good”
“Alright, next one” He hurries, lowering his head again.
You let out a small laugh, picking out the next lipstick. You hesitate for a moment, should it be Coca Cola or Fanta? Coca cola is an iconic flavor, he would get it fast, meaning he wouldn't kiss you for long… But Fanta is his favorite. Maybe he would get that even faster.
But again, Fanta is his favorite. Bingo.
You pick up the neon orange bottle with more confidence now, smearing it all over your lips. Once. Then twice. Then thrice.
“I'm done” You smile and close your eyes, this game is so fun after all.
You keep your eyes closed but hear the bed creaking under his weight as he crawls closer again. He's so so slow, it makes you want to pull him closer as fast as possible. It feels like he's doing it on purpose.
He leans down, your eyes are still closed. You feel his hot breath hitting your skin, your slick lips offered to him. His lips feel softer this time on yours, he kisses you like he's trying to hold back. You know it, it happened before. It makes you feel a little more excited, knowing he's trying his best to control himself.
He licks your lips again. Once, then twice. Jake tilts his head slightly and licks your lips once again, this time he licks into your mouth. It's a bit awkward, he’s hesitant with it, but you let him. His hands find the side of your burning hot cheeks, and he tilts your head upwards for more availability. The angle feels better now, and you straight up make out at this point. His tongue finds yours continuously, and his lips are moving hungryly on yours.
He kneels between your legs, but you feel him crawl closer, gesturing you to move back. And you do, until your back hits the bedframe. The kiss never breaks, his movements are far away from hesitant. Jake moves his hands from your cheeks to your waists, squeezing it slightly.
“This one is… good…” he manages to spit out, then he dives onto the softness of your lips again.
Jake bites down your bottom lip, and you can't stop a small moan from getting out. You let your hands wander and you ran them through his soft brown hair, grabbing onto the back of his head to push him closer.
His hands feel hot against your skin as he pushes your shirt upwards.
He breaks the kiss, and you finally open your eyes to meet his. His pupils are blown wide and his whole face is red like he's tipsy, drunk on your lips. Not to talk about his glossy lips, the lipstick messily smeared all around his mouth, some of it on his cheeks.
“Can I take this off?” He asks softly, tugging your shirt.
You nod and help him, then your eyes flick to his yellow-black striped shirt. A silent gesture, but he gets what you want immediately and takes it off. He tosses both of the shirts aside and fiddles with his zipper. Your eyes track his every movement.
“Fuck” he cusses when he finally unbuttons his jeans and pulls it down, throwing it aside.
The next thing you know is that he’s on your neck, sucking on the smooth skin. It will probably leave marks later.
He works his way down with his mouth, and you take a deep sigh before you look down at his back, watching how his back muscles flex with every movement, every time he leans lower and every time he moves his hands on your hips.
“Jake… Please” you beg. He looks up at you, his fingers hooking onto your pants as he pulls them down without teasing.
His tone is soft when he asks “Please what, angel?”
You swallow, squirming in your place “I want you”
He smirks up, and moves back up to kiss you. As he kisses you, he still feels the vague taste of the Fanta on his tongue. He grinds his hips down, you feel his bulge against your panties, fabric to fabric.
“What do you want from me? Be specific?” He tilts his head, looking at you with those big puppy eyes.
You are sure you are about to melt. Why is he soft and cute, but also so handsome and hot at the same time? How is that possible?
You lick your lips, looking down at his body hovering above you. “I want you inside of me, please, Jake” you whisper.
He smiles, grinding down again. His bulge presses to your wet panties, the fabric is — gosh — so thin.
“Hm, what a nasty girl…” he mumbles, kissing on your cheek. “I gotta prepare you for that, then, because I don't think you can take it right away”
He drags a line with his index finger across your chest, between your breasts, across your stomach, and then he plays with the lace of your panties for a while. Jake sees the anticipation on your face, and it makes him nearly laugh. He ends up letting out a small giggle as he pulls the panties down.
How could he ever tease you rudely when you look at him so softly?
He circles on your wet clit, and you let your head fall back on the bedframe. When you are about to catch your breath and get yourself together, you feel two of his long fingers sliding inside your dripping hole. Your hand flies to grab his muscular arm, letting out a moan.
“Jake!” you scream when he curls his fingers inside, just the right way. He moves them fastly, setting up a rhythm. You clench around his fingers, the stretch makes you see stars when he scissors his fingers impatiently.
As he plumps his fingers inside with his right hand, he holds you in place with his other one, his thumb caressing your stomach.
When you are about to burst, your mind going dizzier than ever, he pulls his fingers out.
You take deep breaths, chest rising and falling heavily. He moves his hand up to your face and pushes his fingers inside of your mouth suddenly, forcing you to suck on them. Your mind is already so fucked up that you just do whatever he tells you to do. “Good…good girl” he mumbles, the sight of you sucking on his digits and tasting yourself turning him on more than it should be.
“Do you think you are ready now?” Jake asks but he's already pulling his boxers down, out of breath.
You nod, and watch him as he reaches to the bedside table and pulls out a condom and lube. He rolls up the condom and smears lube over his cock, making it slippery. Jake lines up against your entrance and he sucks his breath in as he pushes in. He always does this, you’ve noticed it already.
You moan as your muscles tense, grabbing the sheets next to you to keep yourself steady. He stops, a small whine leaving his mouth.
“Are you okay?” He eyes you up and down, and his gaze sets on your face. You look at him, your eyes half lidded and your gaze hazy.
“Yeah” you breath, barely audible.
But Jake hears it, and he starts to move slowly. Even though he stretched you out with his fingers, you still feel like your walls are about to break at any moment.
You arch your back as he pushes again and bottoms out slowly. You feel him slightly shaking, a sign that he's still trying to control himself.
His shaky breaths caresses your skin.
“Jake” you mumble out, and he immediately looks at you. “You can go faster” you add.
You don't need to tell him twice, he picks his pace up and starts going in a faster rhythm, kneeling up on the bed so he can fuck inside you deeper.
You moan out his name as he spreads your legs wider and lifts your hips. This angle makes it better to reach your G spot with every thrust, his movements getting smoother, the lube helping him out a lot.
“So pretty and tight for me” Jake digs his nails onto your calves and moves them around his waist, gesturing you to lock them around him so he can get deeper. And you do it, trying to ignore the fact that your legs are beginning to give up and tremble.
Jake moves effortlessly in and out of you, and you open your teary eyes to look up at him, watching as he bites down his bottom lip. His muscles tense and flex with every move, and he keeps his eyes on your smooth wetness between your legs. The lube is mixed with your juices by now, and he can't get enough of the sight.
The bed creacks every time he bottoms out, the bed frame hitting the wall progressively. You grab the sheets like your life depends on it, the lipsticks slowly rolling to the edge of the bed until they fall down on the floor with a thud.
You feel how you are falling apart slowly, your legs are undeniably trembling. Jake moves his hands from under your thighs to the curve of your ass, caressing in slightly.
“Take it” he commands, thrusting hard.
“Shit, Jake I’m going to—” without being able to finish the sentence, it happens. It's so sudden that you don't even realize what happens.
Not until Jake stops his movements and pulls out. He leans down and presses a kiss on your neck, giggling “I didn't know I could make you squirt”
You widen your eyes, the adrenaline still rushing through your body when you look down at your legs. Jake kneels up again and starts to stroke himself, looking at your pussy being covered in your juices you squirted out. Jake is also covered in it, his dick and abdomen glistering.
Jake whimpers as he strokes himself, biting down his bottom lip. He comes into the condom with a whine escaping his lips a few moments later. He spanks your cunt with his dick, slightly pushing it between your wet folds. Then, he collapses onto the bed and steadies himself by putting his palms next to you on the bed.
You are still dizzy and high by your enormous orgasm, probably your biggest one yet. You are also kinda shocked and embarrassed by how you ruined the sheets, but it seems like Jake isn't bothered by it.
He lays down next to you, exhausted. You both turn to look at each other on the bed, just watching each other gasping for air.
“I'm… sorry” you say after a few silent minutes, referring to the way your sheets are all wet now.
“Sorry? You don't have to be sorry” Jake smiles at your awkwardness. “This was probably our best session yet, if you’d ask me”
You can't help but smirk at that. “Yeah?”
Jake nods “Yes. Next time we play this guessing game we should spice it up a little”
You cock an eyebrow “Spice it up? This wasn't spicy enough?”
“What I mean is that next time you should put it on your other lips”
Your jaw nearly drops, and you hit his arm playfully. You try to hide how the idea doesn't make you disgusted at all, no, you will probably even think of it more than you should later.
“You are such a freak, Jake Sim”
“But you love it” he leans closer, pressing a kiss on your forehead.
And you smile, feeling blessed that you have such a good boyfriend you can do things like this with. “I do”
──── in which ︵ you always thought jake was the shy, inexperienced type; quiet, nerdy, awkwardly innocent compared to you and your chaotic dating life. so when teasing turns into tension during a late-night study session, you expect a hesitant first time at best. instead, jake completely flips the script, leaving you overwhelmed, speechless, and realizing way too late that maybe he was never as innocent as you made him out to be.
✩now playing - the party & the afterparty | the weeknd | - ✩viewmasterlist to check out my other works!
you met jake during your freshman year of college, back when gen eds still had lecture halls packed with hungover students and you were too busy flirting with the guy behind you to pay attention to the syllabus.
jake sat in the front row, always on time, always typing faster than the professor could speak. you didn't talk to him at first. he was quiet, soft-spoken, a little awkward—but sharp as hell, and once you were grouped for a project in psych, you realized he wasn't shy so much as selective.
you, on the other hand, were loud, social, and unapologetically open about everything—your opinions, your hookups, your weekend party plans. you weren't ashamed of how many people you'd been with. if anything, you liked watching jake blush when you casually mentioned fucking someone in the backseat of their car or getting eaten out in the frat house laundry room. he'd adjust his glasses, press his lips together, and look anywhere but at you.
now, sophomore year, you and jake were close. close enough to hang out late in his dorm with your legs in his lap. close enough to let your jokes get borderline inappropriate. close enough that you thought you knew him. in your mind, jake was textbook virgin material—never talked about sex, never mentioned a body count, always deflected when you asked.
he didn't have a girlfriend, didn't flirt, didn't date. so naturally, you assumed he hadn't gotten around to it yet. maybe he was waiting for someone special.
maybe he was nervous. maybe he just didn't have the confidence.
either way, the idea of jake having any real experience never even crossed your mind.
you were very, very wrong.
jake wasn't a man-whore. he wasn't the type to sleep around for sport, and he didn't brag. but he wasn't inexperienced either.
seven bodies, each one intentional. a handful of casual flings, one almost-relationship, and more than enough practice to know what he was doing. he just didn't feel the need to talk about it—not to anyone. especially not you. not when he could tell how much you liked playing the dominant one in the friendship. you liked teasing him, liked pretending he didn't know anything. and jake? he liked letting you think that.
which brings you to now—sprawled out in his one-person dorm room, papers scattered across his bed, half studying and half talking shit like usual. the desk light is on, casting a soft yellow glow across the room, and the sound of some random playlist hums quietly in the background. you're dressed comfortably—stretchy shorts that ride up every time you shift and a big tee that covers just enough to make it unfair. jake, as always, looks effortless in his nerdy little uniform; black sweatpants that sag a little too low on his hips and a tight, long-sleeve compression shirt that clings to every lean muscle in his upper body.
he's leaning against the wall, long legs stretched out, eyes flicking back and forth between a printout and his notes. you're not paying attention. you haven't been for at least twenty minutes.
"sooo… i slept with that guy from my art history class,"'you say suddenly, voice light and smug as you stretch out across the mattress.
jake doesn't look up. just hums softly in response, the sound low in his throat. you roll onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows so you can watch him while you talk.
"he was cute. decent mouth, boring fingers. kinda soft. i had to fake it twice." his pen keeps moving. steady. unaffected. you narrow your eyes.
"you never tell me about your sex life. like, ever. i could probably name your gpa, your favorite protein bar, and the order of your morning routine, but i have no idea what you're like in bed."
"maybe that's not somethin' you need to know," he says without missing a beat. you scoff, smiling. "so you do have one." jake just shrugs, not even looking at you. and that makes you grin wider.
"what?" you tease. "scared to tell me you're a virgin?" that gets him. not visibly—not in any dramatic way—but his pen pauses for just a second too long. his shoulders stay relaxed, but his eyes finally lift to meet yours. "you think so?" he asks, calm. flat. you nod, teasing lilt in your voice. "one hundred percent positive you're a virgin."
he stares at you. you stare right back. and the tension, usually playful, suddenly shifts.
still light, but dense enough to press against your chest. his lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a frown—and then he says it: "wan' see what a virgin can do?" your breath catches. for a second, you think you misheard him. but the look on his face tells you otherwise. he's serious. composed. like this has been sitting in his back pocket for weeks, waiting for you to finally test him hard enough. you lean back, settling against the headboard, raising a brow. "you're serious?"
jake doesn't respond. doesn't need to. he sets his notebook aside, pushes the last of his notes away, and shifts toward you without breaking eye contact. his hands find your hips first—strong, certain—and he pulls you gently, slowly, until you're flat on your back beneath him. his knees settle between your thighs, spreading them slightly as he leans down. your shirt rides up, shorts tugged tight around the tops of your thighs, but jake doesn't even glance down. his eyes stay locked on yours as he dips in, kisses you softly.
you kiss him back, waiting for the awkward tongue or messy pressure, but it doesn't come. it's gentle, yeah, but not unsure. his lips part yours like he knows exactly how he wants to take his time, and his hand comes up to cradle your jaw as he deepens it. it's a kiss that says he's not in a hurry. not at all.
you break the kiss first, smirking as you look up at him. "typical virgin," you mutter. he doesn't react. doesn't even blink. he just lowers his head to your neck, lips brushing softly along your skin.
"you don't have to be gentle with me, you know," you add, almost challenging. he hums, breath warming the dip beneath your ear. "i know."
you scoff under your breath, cocky and unimpressed. "clearly not…" and that's when he sinks his teeth into your neck, hard enough to make you gasp—hands tightening around your hips like he's just made up his mind. his bite lingers just long enough to leave heat throbbing under your skin, and when he pulls back, his voice is lower than it's ever been.
"y'know," he says, tilting his head, "i've really had enough of the attitude. i think s'time i shut you up, yeah?" your smirk returns instantly. you roll your eyes as if he hasn't just made your heart skip. "you can try, virgin boy."
he doesn't rise to it—not with words, anyway. he just hums. quiet and calm, like he's already halfway to somewhere you can't follow.
then he moves, pushing off the bed and standing at the edge with that same slow, deliberate control that's suddenly making you nervous. his hands reach out for your hips again and this time, he doesn't pull you gently—he drags you down the mattress until your thighs are hanging just slightly off the edge, knees bent, body sprawled under him like he's setting up a game he's been dying to play.
his voice comes again, firmer now: "ass up." and you listen. you shift to your stomach without a second thought, lifting your hips and arching your back into position, cheek pressed into the sheets.
you feel the air hit your thighs as your oversized t-shirt rides up, and your breath catches when jake slides your shorts down to your thighs and pauses.
"no panties?" he says, voice dropping further. "been plannin' this, haven't you?" you don't answer. your face is already warm and your body is buzzing, and part of you wants to keep playing it cool—keep pretending this isn’t throwing you off balance.
bad idea.
his palm lands on your ass, fast and loud. the smack makes you jolt and hiss, more from surprise than pain, and he doesn't waste a second before rubbing over the sting with a gentle sweep of his hand. "i asked you a question, didn't i?" he says, calm but sharp.
you swallow and nod. "yeah," you breathe. "been wanting it." he lets out a soft, breathy laugh, one that sounds more like satisfaction than amusement. "mm. such a slut." his knees hit the floor behind you, and the next thing you feel is his hands—wide, steady, practiced—gripping both of your ass cheeks, spreading them apart without hesitation.
the room goes quiet except for your breathing and the shift of fabric and skin, and then jake hums again, deep and almost pleased.
"hm. look at that," he murmurs, staring down at your soaked cunt.
"fuckin' drippin' f'me." and then he's leaning in. no warning, no teasing.
his tongue meets you with full intention, licking through your folds and groaning into your skin like he's waited months for this. his hands keep you spread open while he eats—sloppy and slow at first, then precise, mouth focused on your clit until you're grinding back against him in desperation. his tongue drags up and down before circling, sucking, licking again until your arms shake from holding yourself up.
you moan loud enough that it fills the room, and jake doesn't stop. doesn't pause. he just buries his face deeper and lets you cry out, fingers digging into your ass to keep you still. you feel the tip of one finger, then two, slip inside—easing in with a slow stretch that has your mouth falling open, eyes fluttering closed.
he pumps them gently while his tongue stays locked on your clit, and it's all too much, too fast, too good. your stomach tightens and your thighs begin to tremble, that pressure building deep and low—until he pulls away. everything—his mouth, his fingers, his warmth—gone.
you whine before you can stop yourself, pushing back toward him with your hips, but he's already standing up again, towering over you with a fresh edge to his voice.
"aw," he says, feigning sympathy, "you wanted to cum?" you whimper in response, breath shaky. your legs are sticky with slick and your skin's hot all over. he smacks your ass again, harder than before. "use your words like a big girl."
"y-yeah," you stammer, eyes squeezed shut. "please, jake. please…" you hear the shuffle of fabric—his sweatpants sliding down, the low groan that leaves his throat when his dick springs free. your hips twitch involuntarily, needing something to touch, to feel, and then his hand is on your back again, pressing you down into the bed. "stay just like that," he mutters. "don't fuckin' move."
his dick is hot and heavy as he runs it through your slick, dragging the head over your folds, letting it catch against your entrance again and again. he lets out a quiet groan at the wet sound it makes, then finally—finally—he presses in. not soft. not gentle. he sinks into you in one rough thrust, and your mouth drops open with a strangled moan.
he's big, thick, filling you all at once without a single pause to let you adjust. your hips jerk forward from the force of it, knees nearly slipping on the sheets, and jake groans behind you—low and filthy, like he's been holding back all night.
he doesn't move. just holds there, deep inside, his palm still planted on the small of your back. "still a virgin?" he asks, voice thick. you try to speak—try to throw another jab, keep the upper hand—but all that comes out is a broken moan. you manage half the sentence: "yeah, you're s-still a virg—" and he pulls out halfway, then slams back in. you cry out, thighs shaking, arms barely keeping you upright.
"since you wan' be a lil fuckin' brat," jake mutters, hips still, dick buried to the base, "you'll do the work yourself."
you whine, low and desperate, hips squirming in his grip like you're trying to retreat—but there's nowhere to go. he's still buried inside you, thick and unyielding, his palm pressed to the small of your back keeping you locked in place. you feel every inch of him, the stretch still fresh and sharp, your walls fluttering around his dick as your body tries to adjust. it's overwhelming. too full, too deep, too sudden. you shift slightly, trying to roll your hips to find some kind of rhythm, some relief—but jake doesn't move. doesn't help. he just stands there behind you, breathing heavy, watching.
"what're you waitin' for?" he says after a moment, voice flat and laced with quiet challenge. "go on. do the work. this is what you wanted, right?" you turn your head against the mattress, eyes half-lidded and lips parted as you suck in a shaky breath. you want to mouth off—want to say something smug, something cocky, keep the upper hand—but your body betrays you. your thighs tremble when you start to move, back arching deeper as you pull forward slightly, then push back onto him in a slow, testing grind.
the stretch is brutal, even with how wet you are. his dick drags against every sensitive spot inside you as you try to fuck yourself on him, try to show him you can handle it. you do it again, a little faster, trying to establish a rhythm. it's messy and uneven, but it's something. your hands claw at the sheets as you rock back again, your ass slapping softly against his pelvis.
"mm, yeah," jake hums above you, his hand sliding from your lower back to your hip, fingers digging into the flesh there as he watches you fuck yourself on his dick. "that's what i thought." you don't answer.
your breath comes out in gasps, each roll of your hips making it harder to think. you're doing exactly what he told you to, but it's not enough. not really. your pace starts to falter after a few minutes, your thighs burning and your arms weakening beneath you, and jake notices. he can feel it—the way your movements slow, the way you sink lower into the mattress with each tired thrust. and instead of helping you, instead of rewarding the effort, he tsks under his breath like he's disappointed.
"already gettin' tired?" he mutters. "but you were talkin' all that shit earlier, weren't you?" you start to whimper, hips stuttering as you try to keep going, but he cuts you off with another sharp smack to your ass—this one harder than the rest. your body jolts forward with the impact, a moan ripping from your throat as your walls clench around him involuntarily.
"pathetic," jake says, his tone flat but dripping in mockery.
"thought you could handle a 'virgin,' right? what happened to all that attitude, huh?" you try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a garbled sound—a half-broken sob against the sheets. your body feels hot all over, skin tingling, your cunt aching and tight around him. you need him to move. need him to do something.
he leans forward without warning, his chest brushing your back as his hand slides up your spine and tangles in your hair. he grips it tight, forcing your head back just enough so your cheek lifts from the mattress, and his other hand reaches around, fingers prying at your lips until two of them slip into your mouth. "open," he says, voice low and steady. "tongue out."
you obey instantly, tongue pressing against his fingers as he slides them deeper, thumb flattening on your tongue while the others rest inside your mouth. it's filthy. controlling. it leaves you drooling onto the sheets as your mouth stretches around him, throat vibrating with every sound you try to make. you moan around his fingers when he finally starts to move behind you—slow, grinding thrusts that feel impossibly deep with the way he angles his hips down.
each push forward punches a breath out of your lungs, and every retreat makes you cry for more.
"mm," jake groans behind you, his voice closer now, his hips pressing harder. "fuckin' tight. y'feel that, baby? feel how good you grip me?" you moan again, louder this time, and he just pushes his fingers down harder on your tongue to shut you up. your eyes roll back, body twitching as he begins to thrust harder, rougher, fucking you like he's trying to prove a point. his hand on your hip keeps you steady, dragging you back to meet every slam of his dick, the sound of skin against skin echoing off the walls of his tiny dorm. your thighs shake uncontrollably now, and you're practically drooling around his fingers as your body starts to break apart beneath him.
"yeah?" he pants, voice ragged with effort. "feels so good, doesn't it, baby? this what you needed? needed me deep inside you? thrusting into you all rough like that?" all you can do is sob—no real words, just broken, desperate sounds as your body trembles under the force of it all. your pussy flutters around him, tight and wet and throbbing, and jake groans deep in his chest when he feels it.
"i know, baby," he murmurs. "i know."
he pulls his fingers from your mouth and lets them trail down your chin, your spit glistening on your skin. his hand finds your throat next—not squeezing, just resting there, heavy and warm—as he keeps fucking into you at a punishing pace. you're so far gone you can't tell where your body ends and his begins, your vision blurred and your mind clouded with heat and sound and scent. his dick is so deep it feels like he's splitting you in half, like you'll never be able to think straight again without remembering what this felt like.
you thought you could handle him.
you thought he was soft.
you thought he was a virgin.
you were so, so wrong.
you don't know when your moans turn into full blown cries—somewhere between his dick slamming deep inside you and the sharp press of his hand around your throat, your body crosses a line. your legs aren't just shaking now—they're folding under you. your arms gave up minutes ago, chest collapsed into the mattress, spine arched in a perfect curve while he keeps holding you in place like he owns you. your mouth is open, your eyes squeezed shut, and everything feels tight and slick and heavy, like your body's been split into pieces and jake is the only one holding them together.
he's breathing hard now, jaw clenched above you as he fucks into you like he's possessed—deep, brutal thrusts that make your whole body jerk with each impact. his grip on your hip is so tight it might bruise. his palm slides from your throat to your jaw, forcing your face to the side so he can see the mess you've become. your spit's on your chin, your mascara smudged, and there's a thin sheen of sweat sticking your shirt to your back. he doesn't say anything for a moment. just watches. breathes. thrusts.
and then, low and clear in your ear: "you still think m'a fuckin' virgin?" you try to shake your head, but it's weak, barely a twitch.
your voice comes out as a slurred moan—something like no, but not quite human. "mm. that's what i thought," he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. "you run your mouth like a brat, but look at you now—barely takin' me, gettin' ready to tap out."
you feel his hand slide down, fingers slipping between your legs until they find your clit again—sensitive, swollen, already throbbing from being teased. the second he touches you there, you cry out, body jolting in overstimulation. "you close?" he asks, like it's casual. like he doesn't already know the answer from the way your cunt clenches around him every time he grinds against your sweet spot.
you nod frantically, almost sobbing. "yes, yes, please—" but it's too easy. he pulls his fingers away. slows his thrusts to an agonizing roll of his hips, dragging his dick out slowly before snapping back in hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. "yeah, no," he mutters. "not yet."
“jake,” you sob, back arching, toes curling into the sheets. "please—"
"should've thought about that before you ran your fuckin' mouth," he snaps, and suddenly the rhythm picks back up again. he fucks into you harder this time, like punishing you for every word you've said since the moment you walked into his room. "call me 'virgin boy' again. go on. say it."
you're incoherent. your lips move, but the only thing you can manage is a gasp, a plea, your hands grabbing at the blankets like they might save you. he laughs. fucking laughs. low and mean. "yeah. not so mouthy now, are you?" his fingers return to your clit, fast and rough, rubbing tight circles that make your hips buck against his. you're begging without words now, just high, desperate noises, whimpering into the mattress as your orgasm coils tighter and tighter until you're seconds away from snapping—and again, he stops.
you whine, full-body shaking, face crumpling against the sheets. you're soaked. trembling. ruined. “jake,” you cry, voice raw.
"please. i-i can't—" he grabs your hair again, pulls your head up so your ear is near his mouth. "yes you can," he says, cruel but quiet.
"you wanted this to happen, you begged for this to happen, so now you have no other choice but to take it."
then he pushes your face back down. hand back on your hip. cock slamming into you again like he's trying to make you forget your own name. every thrust punches another moan out of you, rough and desperate, your body grinding into the mattress, thighs soaked and shaking as he gives you no space to recover. no escape. just him. inside you. everywhere.
"gonna cum," you choke out, voice high and broken. "go ahead," he says, voice thick with arousal. "cum all over my fuckin' dick, mama." and you do. hard. your whole body seizes under him, every nerve on fire, pussy clenching so tight around him that he groans—loud and deep—like the sound gets dragged out of him from somewhere in his chest.
your orgasm crashes over you in waves, dizzying and uncontrollable, your cries muffled by the sheets, thighs twitching violently as you come harder than you ever have in your life.
"fuck—there you go," jake grits through his teeth. "just like that. look so fuckin' good when you fall apart." he doesn't stop. he keeps fucking you through it, deep and relentless, using your spasming cunt to chase his own high. he's not even trying to hold back now—his grip turns bruising, his breathing ragged, dick slamming into you at a brutal pace until you're crying all over again.
"shit—gonna—" jake cuts himself off with a groan, then slams into you one last time and holds there, buried deep, his dick twitching as he spills inside you. the heat of it floods your already-sensitive body, and all you can do is moan, breathless and wrecked. jake stays still for a few seconds, head tipped back, chest rising and falling as he comes down from it.
then he slowly pulls out, careful with your oversensitive body, your hips jerking as his dick leaves you. his cum leaks down your thighs almost immediately, and you can barely move. your body is limp, shaking, forehead pressed into the sheets as you gasp for air. he bends over you, fingers brushing your lower back, light now.
reverent. "you okay?" he whispers, voice softer again. real.
you nod weakly, and he presses a kiss to your spine. then another to your shoulder. and finally one to the base of your neck, right where he bit you earlier—like sealing it. like claiming it. you don’t say anything for a while. you don't need to.
P: Camp Counselor!Jake X Camp Counselor!Reader (MDNI 18+)
Warnings: Prolonged Pining, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Teasing, Mutual Attraction, Oral Fixation, Begging, Big Dick!Jake, Praise Kink, Pussy Drunk!Jake, Attempted Humor, Needy!Jake, Body Worship, Tit Play, MESSY AND SLOPPY, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Dry Humping, Masturbation, Light Humiliation, Belly Bulge, Creampies, Marking, Heeseung being a W wingman.
Wordcount: 22,9k
Synopsis: Jake was the camp’s golden boy, everybody loved his sunshine energy. But around you? He was wrecked. Hopelessly, stupidly whipped. Always hovering, stealing hungry little glances. He wanted to tell you— “I’m in love with you. I want you so badly it hurts.” —but the second you brushed against him or laughed at something he said, his brain shorted out. One touch and he was done for, stuck wondering how much longer he could keep his feelings—and his desire—from exploding.
a/n: Hey! for once its not a dark fic :D but pure filth! so buckle up.. we all remember what that woman said about Jake. REBLOGS AND COMMENTARY IS APPRECIATED!
Jake Sim had never been lucky in love. Not once. Not even by accident.
It was almost comedic at this point: girls loved him at first—sweet, polite, helpful Jake—but by month two they would look him straight in the eyes and say something gentle and devastating like:
“You’re perfect… just not for me.” or “I think I need someone more exciting.” or, the personal favorite: “You’re too nice. It’s boring.”
Then they’d leave him with a broken heart and a playlist full of songs he couldn’t listen to anymore without wincing. After the last breakup—four months ago, six dates in, she’d left him “for someone with more edge”—Jake had sworn off relationships entirely
Jake felt something. Mainly humiliation.
So now he sat on Heeseung’s floor, sprawled on an unrolled sleeping bag even though there was a perfectly fine couch available, groaning loudly into a throw pillow that smelled faintly like beer and laundry detergent.
“I swear, man,” Jake mumbled into the cushion, “I must be cursed. Like—I don’t know—romantically hexed or something.”
Heeseung, who wasn’t listening in the slightest, hummed a vague, noncommittal sound. He was too busy packing: rolling shirts, stuffing toiletries into a bag, misplacing his water bottle six times in three minutes.
Jake didn’t see the suitcase at first.
He didn’t see anything.
He was too busy wallowing.
“I treat them well, right? I’m nice. I try. I’m not a jerk. I’m respectful. And somehow, they still leave. Every. Single. Time. So clearly the common denominator is me—”
“Mhm.”
“So maybe relationships just aren’t in the cards for me. Maybe I should take a break. A long break. Like a… celibate monk arc or something.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
Jake lifted his head. “I’m dramatic! I’m heartbroken!”
Heeseung zipped up his duffel bag with one hand and tossed a pair of sunglasses in after it. “Then come be a camp counselor with me this summer.”
Jake blinked. “What?”
Heeseung shrugged. “Fresh air. No dating apps. No situationships. No exes. Just kids, nature, and free meals. Might fix your brain.”
Jake stared.
Heeseung continued stuffing socks into corners of the bag.
Jake stared harder.
Heeseung wasn’t kidding, was he?
Jake sat up straighter. A distraction. A purpose. Something new. Something healthy. A break from the heartbreak factory his dating life had become.
He latched onto the idea like a lifeline.
“You know what? You’re right.” Jake sprang to his feet with renewed determination. “I’ll do it.”
Heeseung snorted. “Bro, I was just—”
Too late.
Jake was already gone.
The next morning Heeseung opened his door—and froze.
Because on his porch stood Jake Sim:
Two duffel bags slung over his shoulders.
A bright orange life vest buckled proudly over his shirt.
Sunscreen unevenly smeared in streaks across his face.
A crooked baseball cap.
Sunglasses too big for his head.
A whistle hanging around his neck.
Hiking boots untied.
And the most earnest, determined expression imaginable
“Nope!” Jake stepped forward cheerily, boots thudding on the wooden porch. “Signed up, got accepted, printed the forms, even watched a knot-tying tutorial.”
“But—but I wasn’t serious—”
“Too late! I’m already mentally in nature mode.”
Heeseung ran a hand down his face. “Jaeyun, you look—ridiculous.”
“Prepared,” Jake corrected, beaming.
And prepared he was—prepared enough that when they arrived, he accidentally impressed the camp director by already knowing the emergency protocols, showing his whistle-usage demonstration unprompted, identifying poison ivy correctly and shaking everyone’s hand like he was running for office.
Within an hour, he was given a standard camp uniform, a set of keys, and a shared hut assignment with Heeseung.
Heeseung had mourned.
“Great,” He sighed dramatically, tossing a string of condoms into his drawer. “There goes my bachelor hut. No more bringing hot counselors back here.”
Jake blinked. “…Hot counselors?”
He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought about women at all, actually.
The whole point was to get away from them. Reset. Recalibrate. Heal.
But then—
Then he walked into the staff orientation meeting.
And he saw them.
Women his age. Attractive women. Very attractive women.
Sun-kissed skin. Short shorts. Uniform shirts tied at the waist or stretched across curves. Laughs that carried across the field. Smiles bright as the July sun.
Jake’s brain short-circuited.
Heeseung slapped his back. “Forgot to mention that part. Oops.”
Jake choked. “You—you brought me to temptation island?!”
“It’s literally just a summer camp, bro.”
There was nothing “just” about it for Jake.
He tried his best—really tried—to stay focused. To be professional. To avoid unnecessary touching or staring. To keep his voice steady when talking to female counselors.
He failed often.
But all those attempts shattered the moment you walked in.
You had years of experience written in confident steps. A clipboard under your arm. Hair pulled back loosely, with strands falling in the sun. Two top buttons of your uniform undone, enough to make Jake swallow hard. A glint of a lacy bra edge that seared itself into his retinas and soul. Little pins decorating your shirt pocket. Bandages sticking out of one cargo pocket. A smile that made the kids run to you like you were the sun itself.
You kneeling to tie a child’s shoelaces? Lethal. You laughing when a little boy told you you were “the prettiest lady ever”? Fatal. You twirling a strand of hair while listening to another counselor? Catastrophic.
Jake had been doomed before you even looked at him.
And when you did look at him—eyes bright, lips curved in a friendly hello—Jake felt his knees weaken so dramatically he nearly collapsed into the nearest picnic table.
Heeseung, of course, noticed.
“Ah,” he said smugly. “Found your distraction.”
Jake didn’t answer, because for the first time in a long, miserable stretch of heartbreak…
He felt something spark. Something warm. Something like desire. Something like falling.
And unfortunately for him—
It was happening fast.
It was happening hard.
And it was happening with you.
Jake Sim had survived three breakups, one allergic reaction to a cat he tried to impress a girl with, and a disastrous blind date where the woman only talked about her ex’s crypto investments.
But you?
You were the first thing to genuinely terrify him.
Which is exactly why he spent the next few days avoiding you like you were trained specifically to hunt down boys with fragile hearts. And luckily—miraculously—the kids kept him occupied enough to make avoidance a legitimate battle plan.
Jake made sure his entire schedule left no space for accidentally brushing shoulders with you.
Archery practice? He volunteered. Canoe supervision? Signed up. Arts and crafts? Already promised the kids he’d make them braided bracelets. Bug safety presentation? He memorized the handout and delivered it with genuine enthusiasm.
It helped that thirty-six children seemed determined to orbit him like satellites.
“Jake hyung! Jake hyung! Can you help me find my water bottle?”
“Jake! Tie my shoe!”
“Jake, can you do the whistle thing again?”
Heeseung, watching from across the field, looked like a man witnessing a strange phenomenon.
“Dude,” he said, leaning beside him, “you’re like… dad-coded.”
Jake wiped sweat from his forehead. “Perfect. The more dad-coded I am, the less chance I have of embarrassing myself in front of—” He abruptly clamped his mouth shut.
Heeseung smirked. “Ah. Avoiding that counselor, are we?”
Jake reddened. “I’m not avoiding anyone. I’m being productive.”
Heeseung pointed across the field.
You were kneeling beside a little girl helping her braid wildflowers into a crown, hair glimmering in the sun, shirt loose enough that the breeze caught it.
Jake immediately turned around and pretended to fix a crooked signpost.
Heeseung laughed for a full thirty seconds.
Jake perfected the art of being physically present but socially absent.
When you entered the dining hall? Jake exited stage left, carrying a stack of napkins he didn’t technically need.
When you walked toward the docks? Jake suddenly remembered he left sunscreen in his cabin and sprinted away.
When you greeted him with a warm, friendly “Good morning, Jake!” He panicked, waved too fast, nearly dropped his tray, then escaped into a group of eight-year-olds debating whether frogs could fall in love.
Jake’s system of avoidance worked flawlessly—until nature decided to betray him.
It happened during a swimming rotation.
Jake was teaching a small group how to float on their backs, explaining the basics with gentle encouragement. The sun was warm, the water cool, the kids giggling.
He was happy. Stable.
And then he heard your voice behind him.
“Jake! Can you help me with something?”
Every muscle in his body tensed.
Slowly—agonizingly—he turned.
You were standing at the edge of the dock, clipboard against your chest, sunglasses perched on your head, uniform shirt half-unbuttoned because of the heat.
Jake forgot what language he was speaking for a moment.
“One of my campers is scared of getting in. You’re great with the nervous ones. Mind giving her a demonstration?”
“Sure,” he croaked. “Happy to help.”
You guided the shy camper forward and knelt beside her, encouraging her gently.
Jake’s heart clenched.
God, you were sweet. Sweet in a way that made him ache. Sweet in a way that made him terrified of falling again.
He moved into the shallow water, demonstrating calmly, voice soft, arms open.
And it worked.
The little girl eventually stepped into the lake, holding onto Jake’s hands, trusting him completely.
You glanced at him, smiling warmly.
Jake forgot to breathe.
As you praised the camper who had conquered her fear, Jake found himself staring.
Not in a “wow, she’s nice” way. But in a “I am absolutely, undeniably screwed” way.
The sun hit your damp shirt in a way that made it cling, outlining the curve of your waist. Your hair was messy from the lake breeze, strands stuck to your cheek. You brushed them back casually and—
Jake swallowed.
He turned back to the kids, voice several octaves too high.
“GREAT JOB EVERYONE, LET’S—uh—float!”
It had started small. Then it got worse.
You had a habit of scribbling notes on your palm when you lost your pen. Jake noticed the ink smudge once and spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what you had written. What you were thinking. What you cared about.
Every day, it felt like you were leaving breadcrumbs without even knowing it.
Breadcrumbs Jake kept picking up like an idiot. He often found himself watching you from across the field—telling himself it wasn’t weird, he was just… aware. Vigilant. Noticing. Except it was weird, because he wasn’t noticing anyone else. Only you.
The way you pushed your hair out of your face when the wind blew. The way your shirt rode up when you bent over to pick up stray sports equipment. The way your hands moved when you talked—soft but animated. The way your laughter rolled across the lawn, making the younger kids giggle just because you did.
He tried to stop.
He really did.
But every time you smiled at someone—even a kid—Jake felt that awful, sinking heat curl in his stomach.
At night in the hut, Jake lay on his back, staring at the wooden ceiling while the darkness pressed in around him.
He remembered the way your shirt clung to your back when you came in from the heat, the thin fabric damp and outlining things he had absolutely no business noticing. He could still see it when he closed his eyes. He remembered the moment you stretched to hang a sign above the craft table, your uniform lifting just enough to reveal the soft line of your waist. He’d looked away immediately—too fast, too guilty—yet the image stuck to the inside of his skull like honey.
He remembered your voice going low and warm when you comforted a kid who scraped their knee. It wasn’t meant for him, not even close, but it still sank under his skin, unraveling him from the inside out. He remembered walking behind you on the trail, watching how the breeze tugged at the hem of your shorts—how he’d forced himself to stare at the trees instead, counting them like that would save him.
Each memory hit him with the force of something he wasn’t prepared for, something he couldn’t guard against no matter how hard he tried.
And he hated—truly hated—how quickly his thoughts slipped into places they shouldn’t go. Places that made his breath hitch and heat rise under his skin.
This summer was supposed to save him. Give him distance. Help him reset.
A clean slate. A distraction. A break from feeling too much.
But all it took was you—just you—and Jake was already spiraling. Falling again, harder than ever.
Jake groaned low in his throat, the sound muffled against the crook of his elbow as he rolled onto his stomach. The thin camp mattress creaked under him like it was judging every pathetic shift of his hips.
The fan whirred uselessly on the nightstand, pushing lukewarm air across his bare back. It did nothing for the heat crawling under his skin—nothing for the way his pulse had taken up permanent residence between his legs.
He pressed his forehead harder into the pillow, trying to smother the images that kept flashing behind his eyelids.
You, laughing after that cannonball contest with the older kids. You, bending to tie a little girl’s shoelace, the curve of your ass filling out those damn camp shorts like they were custom-made to torture him.
He imagined what it would feel like to slide his palms up under that damp shirt, fingers splaying wide over your ribs, until you arched into him.
Imagined pinning you against the boathouse wall after lights-out, your legs hooked around his waist, while he ground against you—slow at first, then desperate, fabric dragging over his leaking cock until you were both shaking.
His hips rocked once, involuntary, into the mattress. The friction sent a sharp jolt straight up his spine. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.
“Fuck,” he whispered into the dark.
He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t.
But his hand was already moving—sliding down his stomach, past the elastic of his boxers, wrapping around the thick, aching length of himself. He was so hard it hurt; the head flushed dark and slick, smearing precome across his palm the second he touched it.
One slow stroke and his breath punched out of him.
He pictured your mouth instead—soft, parted, tongue flicking out to taste him. Pictured the way your eyes would widen when you realized just how big he was, how you’d have to stretch your lips around the head, cheeks hollowing while you tried to take more. Pictured the little whimper you’d make when he hit the back of your throat, the way your thighs would press together like you were already soaked just from having him in your mouth.
Another stroke—tighter this time, twisting at the crown—and his hips jerked up off the bed.
He imagined flipping you onto your stomach on this very mattress, yanking your shorts down just enough, spreading you open with his thumbs. Imagined the way you’d gasp when he nudged the fat head against your entrance—teasing, barely dipping in—before sinking in until your back bowed and you sobbed his name into the pillow.
“Jake—”
He choked on a whine at the fantasy of you saying it like that—breathless, wrecked, needy.
His fist sped up. The wet, filthy sound of skin on skin filled the tiny cabin, louder than the fan, louder than his breathing. He didn’t care anymore if Heeseung woke up in the next bunk. Didn’t care about anything except chasing the image of you clenching around him, milking him, begging him to come inside, to fill you up.
Heat coiled low and vicious in his gut.
He turned his face into the pillow, muffling the broken moan that tore out of him as he came—hot, messy pulses spilling over his knuckles, soaking into the sheets. His hips bucked through it, chasing every last aftershock, thighs trembling.
Jake lay there for a long minute after, chest heaving, sticky hand still curled loosely around his softening cock. The fan kept droning like nothing had happened. The cabin smelled faintly of pine, sweat, and sex.
He dragged himself up on shaky legs, boxers half-down his thighs, come already cooling on his fingers and streaking the inside of his shorts. He hissed at the mess, at himself, at how pathetic this had become.
The bathroom was just a small stall tacked onto the side of the counselors’ hut— row of sink, flickering bulb, mirror that made everyone look like a zombie at 2 a.m. Jake flicked the light on and winced at his own reflection: flushed cheeks, wild hair, pupils blown wide like he’d been drugged. He looked wrecked. He felt worse.
He turned the faucet to cold and shoved his hand under the stream, scrubbing at the tacky evidence with furious little jerks. Soap foamed pinkish-white down the drain. He kept scrubbing long after it was gone, like he could wash the thoughts out too.
But they came back anyway. Uninvited. Relentless.
His cock twitched against his thigh—already half-interested again, traitor that it was.
“Stop,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the sink edge so hard his knuckles bleached. “Just—fucking stop.” He splashed cold water on his face. It dripped down his neck, soaked the collar of his tank top. Didn’t help. The images kept looping: your thighs parting for him, your fingers in his hair pulling him closer, your voice cracking on his name while he licked into you until you were shaking.
He groaned, low and defeated, forehead thunking against the cool mirror.
He was hard again. Not fully—yet—but enough that the waistband of his boxers tugged uncomfortably. Enough that he could feel the slow, heavy throb returning, insistent, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was supposed to be over.
“You’re disgusting,” he whispered to himself.
The door creaked open behind him.
Jake’s eyes snapped to the mirror.
You.
Standing there in the doorway like a fever dream he hadn’t earned the right to have.
Tiny sleep shorts—barely more than cotton underwear with legs—riding high on your thighs, the hem frayed from too many washes. A thin, worn tank top clinging to you from the humid night air, straps slipping off one shoulder, the fabric so soft and faded it was practically see-through under the shitty bathroom bulb. Your hair was a wild, sleep-tousled mess, strands sticking to your neck from the heat. Flip-flops slapped softly against the tile as you took one hesitant step inside.
You froze when you saw him.
“Jake?” Your voice was sleepy, soft, and surprised. “I—I thought everyone was asleep. I just needed to… brush my teeth or something. Sorry, I didn’t—”
You stopped talking.
Because you’d noticed.
The way he was braced over the sink, shoulders rigid, tank top rucked up from where he’d been gripping the counter. The flush that hadn’t left his cheeks. The obvious, obscene tent in his boxers—thick outline straining against the thin cotton.
Your eyes widened, pupils blowing out in the dim fluorescent light.
For a split second, the world narrowed to just the two of you: the hum of the fan outside, the drip of the faucet, and the way Jake’s cock twitched visibly under your stare, the fat head pushing insistently against the waistband like it had a mind of its own.
“Shit—fuck—wait—” Jake scrambled, voice cracking high and panicked. He spun half-away from you, one hand flying down to cup himself through the boxers while the other snatched the nearest thing—a thin, ratty hand towel hanging off the rack—and tried to hide it over his crotch like that would somehow erase the last thirty seconds.
The towel was too small. It barely covered anything.
“I—I wasn’t— I mean, this isn’t— fuck, I was just— washing my face! Yeah! Washing my face and— and thinking about— about tomorrow’s schedule! Canoe races! Kids! Lots of kids! Totally innocent!”
The words tumbled out in a frantic, breathless rush. His face was scarlet, ears burning, eyes darting everywhere except your face. He kept shifting his weight, trying to angle his body away, but the mirror betrayed him—every desperate twitch of his hips reflected right back at both of you.
You just stood there, your gaze dropped again to where his hand was futilely trying to shield the bulge. You watched the way his fingers flexed, knuckles white, like he was fighting not to stroke himself right there in front of you.
Jake’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice wrecked. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t— I’ll go. I’ll just— I’ll leave. Right now. You can— you can have the bathroom. I swear I won’t—”
Jake took a hesitant step forward, trying to sidestep you toward the door, but the bathroom was small and you were right there, blocking the narrow path like you’d grown roots into the tile.
He froze mid-motion, arms hovering awkwardly at his sides. Every inch of him screamed to bolt, but moving meant brushing past you—meant feeling the heat of your body, the soft brush of your bare arm against his, and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t trust himself not to shatter if he touched you right now.
So he stood there. Frozen. Breathing too fast. The air between you thick.
You still didn’t move.
“Uh—” His voice cracked. “Can you—please—just—” He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the door, then back to you.
You tilted your head, just a fraction. Still silent. Still watching.
The silence stretched until it hurt.
Finally, desperation won.
Jake reached out—gentle, careful, like you were made of glass—and placed one trembling hand on your upper arm. His fingers curled lightly around your bicep, warm skin under his palm, soft and fever-hot from the humid night.
The contact hit him like a live wire.
He pushed—just enough to ease you sideways, creating the barest sliver of space—and slipped past you in one frantic, clumsy movement. His shoulder grazed yours. Your arm slid against his chest for half a second. The scent of your skin—coconut, lake water—flooded his lungs.
The door banged shut behind him as he stumbled out into the cool night air. Flip-flops forgotten somewhere on the bathroom floor. Bare feet slapping against the wooden path as he half-ran, half-staggered back toward the hut.
He could still feel you.
The exact imprint of your arm under his palm—soft, yielding, alive. The ghost of your heat lingered on his skin like a brand. Every nerve ending in his hand tingled, replaying the texture, the warmth, the way your muscle flexed just slightly under his touch.
He burst into the hut, door slamming louder than he meant. Heeseung’s soft snores came from the other bunk—thank fuck he was still asleep.
Jake collapsed onto his mattress face-first, heart hammering so hard it hurt.
He pressed his hand—the same hand that had touched you—against his cheek, trying to cool the flush there.
It didn’t work.
Because now all he could think about was how close he’d been. How easy it would’ve been to pull you against him instead of pushing you away. How your skin had felt like silk under his fingers.
His cock throbbed painfully against the mattress, still hard, still leaking, still aching for the one thing he’d just run from.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice muffled and broken. He was never going to sleep tonight.
Not after… that.
So the next morning, Jake implemented Operation: Avoid you at all costs with military precision.
And he meant it.
He avoided you like you were a live wire and he was barefoot in the rain.
The first new rule: Never be alone with you.
He woke up early—before Heeseung, before the kids, before the mosquitoes even had the decency to start buzzing—just to leave the hut before you could walk by on your usual morning route.
At breakfast, he positioned himself strategically between two tablefuls of kids, knowing you’d never be able to squeeze into the chaos.
During activities, he always made sure another counselor was nearby—someone loud, someone distracting, someone who would prevent you from stepping within arm’s reach.
It worked.
For a few hours.
Then the universe remembered Jake was its favorite target.
And the main problem: You were everywhere.
You walked into the arts-and-crafts cabin to grab paint just as he was slipping out the door. Jake swerved so hard he crashed into a rack of hula hoops.
You laughed softly behind him and Jake nearly ascended into the stratosphere from shame.
Jake was supposed to be supervising the canoe station.
Supposed to be.
Instead, he stood rooted to the dock, gripping his paddle so tightly his knuckles whitened, because across the shoreline—just a few feet away—you were kneeling in the grass helping three little campers tie their life vests.
And the heat was brutal today.
Which meant the camp uniform—already a questionable sin—looked even worse on you. Your shirt clung to every curve. Your shorts were barely shorts at all. Your legs caught the sunlight like it had a personal vendetta against him.
Jake swallowed hard. No—he choked on air.
God, he was so screwed.
You leaned closer to one of the kids, brushing hair from their face. Your shirt dipped. Jake saw far more than he should’ve. His brain immediately short-circuited, crashing like a cheap computer overloaded with images he had no business imagining.
And then his body responded.
Fast. Painfully. Predictably.
Jake inhaled sharply and discreetly tugged his paddle lower, shielding the very visible problem forming in his shorts.
“Dude.”
Heeseung’s voice came from behind him like a death sentence.
Jake jumped. “Wh–what?”
Heeseung leaned his elbow on Jake’s shoulder, smirking like the menace he was.
“You’re staring so hard I’m shocked her clothes haven’t caught fire.”
“I—I wasn’t staring,” Jake stammered, sweating harder than the sun could account for.
“You’re literally drooling.”
“I’M NOT—”
Heeseung just laughed, clapping him on the back. “Bro, you’re gone. Like, beyond gone. NASA couldn’t retrieve your dignity at this point.”
Jake groaned into his hands. “Shut up.”
But it was too late. Heeseung had seen everything—Jake’s flushed face, blown pupils, and the way he kept subtly angling his paddle to hide the mess in his shorts.
Heeseung whistled low. “Wow. She bends over one time and you’re ready to propose marriage?”
“I’m NOT— it’s not— dude, stop talking.”
Heeseung leaned closer, voice dropping. “Then stop looking at her like you want to get on your knees in the middle of the camp.”
Jake choked on his own saliva.
“HEESEUNG!”
“What? I’m just narrating what I’m seeing.”
Jake was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. Preferably with a life vest.
Jake, still recovering from the verbal assault that was Heeseung’s commentary, made the single worst mistake of his entire existence.
He looked back at you.
And you were already staring at him.
Not glancing politely. Not half-looking. Not scanning the field. You were focused. Eyes on him like he was something worth noticing—worth studying. Your brows lifted the barest amount, lips soft and parted, like you’d caught him mid-thought… mid-stare… mid-sin.
Jake’s brain detonated.
Full catastrophic system failure.
His throat tightened. His hands numbed. His pulse skyrocketed so violently he wasn’t sure if he was dying or being reborn in the worst possible way.
Because you weren’t just looking at him. You were looking into him.
He felt heat explode across his cheeks, racing down his neck, blooming under his shirt. His heartbeat slammed hard enough to rattle his ribs.
You saw him. You saw him staring. You saw the mess he was trying so desperately, pathetically, humiliatingly hard to hide.
Beside him, Heeseung made a choked noise of triumph—like a man who had just spotted Bigfoot and gotten it on video.
“Oh my GOD,” he whispered, gleeful as sin. “She’s LOOKING at you—”
And that was it.
Jake panicked. He panicked like someone had just shouted “SHARK!” in knee-deep water.
His grip spasmed.
The paddle slid out of his hands.
“No no no no—” Jake lunged for it.
“DON’T—!” Heeseung snapped, reaching out.
But Jake was already in motion. Already doomed. His foot caught the edge of the dock. His balance tipped backward. His whistle swung up and smacked him in the chin. His sunglasses—how were they even still on—flew off into the air.
Jake grabbed wildly at nothing—truly nothing—because the paddle bounced away from him like it had been training for this moment its whole life. He went down hard, arms flailing, knees buckling, legs pinwheeling like a newborn deer.
And then—
SPLASH.
The sound burst across the entire lake like a small tidal wave.
Kids shrieked. Counselors gasped. Birds took flight in a panicked cloud overhead. Even the lake seemed offended.
Heeseung made a sound like he was being physically strangled by laughter.
Jake sank beneath the surface with all the grace of a bowling ball. For one long second, he sat there at the bottom of the shallow lake, bubbles drifting up around him as he contemplated every decision that had led to this moment.
Then he kicked up, resurfacing in a violent gasp, sputtering, coughing, eyes wide, looking like a drowned cat that simultaneously regretted every life decision.
But it got worse. Much worse.
Balanced perfectly on top of his head— as if placed there by the comedic gods themselves— was a bright green lily pad.
A lily pad.
On his head.
And sitting comfortably on that lily pad, blinking slowly… was a frog.
A frog.
Jake Sim—camp golden boy, heartbreak survivor, current emotional disaster—was treading water with a literal frog crown.
Kids started laughing. One screamed, “JAKE IS KING OF THE FROGS!”
Heeseung folded onto the dock, wheezing, nearly crying from how hard he was laughing. “Oh—my—god,” he gasped between breaths. “This is the best day of my LIFE.”
Jake spit out lake water. “This isn’t—! I didn’t—! GET IT OFF ME!”
The frog did not get off. It simply adjusted itself, as if settling more comfortably into its throne.
Jake, sputtering and panicked, swiped his hand over his head in a frantic attempt to knock the frog off.
“GO—SHOO—LEAVE ME ALONE—!”
The frog blinked once, unimpressed. Then, with the dignity of a royal being dismissed by an incompetent servant, it hopped off the lily pad and launched itself into the lake beside Jake.
PLIP.
A small, perfectly aimed splash hit Jake right in the face.
Jake shut his eyes, jaw clenching.
Great. Perfect. Amazing.
There went any hope of impressing you. Straight to the bottom of the lake with the lily pad.
He groaned under his breath and swam—miserably—toward the metal ladder bolted to the dock. The water felt colder now, mocking him with each stroke. He grabbed the rungs, dragged himself up rung by rung, boots heavy, clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Dripping. Humiliated. Confidence somewhere downstream, probably floating next to the frog.
The moment he reached the top, two adult counselors rushed over, shoving towels at him.
“Oh my god, Jake, are you hurt?”
“Are you okay?”
“That was a fall, man.”
“I’m fine,” Jake muttered, rubbing water from his eyes. He was fine.
Physically.
Emotionally? He had the confidence level of a damp crouton.
A couple of the other male counselors snickered behind their hands, whispering to each other. Jake didn’t have to hear the words to know exactly what they were saying. They weren’t exactly subtle. One mimed falling off a dock. Another did a frog ribbit.
Jake’s jaw tightened. Great. Just great.
He was the newest counselor. The one who was already trying to prove he wasn’t a total walking disaster.
This definitely helped.
Not.
Of course. He couldn’t even fall into a lake normally…
But none of that mattered.
Because suddenly—
You were there.
Right in front of him.
Where did you even come from? Had you teleported? Materialized from thin air just to make his pulse explode?
“Jake?” you asked softly, stepping closer. “Hey. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Jake forgot how to breathe. He forgot how to stand. He forgot everything.
Because you were looking at him with real concern—warm eyes scanning his face, brow furrowed just a little. Not laughing. Not mocking.
Worried.
About him.
Jake’s heart did a full somersault. And before he could react, you reached up and gently tugged the towel onto his head, fingers brushing his temples.
“Here,” you murmured. “You’re freezing.”
Jake made a strangled noise.
You started blotting water from his hair, using both hands, the towel rustling softly. You leaned in slightly to reach the back of his head—completely unaware of how absolutely, catastrophically close you were.
Jake went rigid.
Your scent drifted over him—clean laundry, sunscreen, something sweet he couldn’t name. His face hovered dangerously close to your shirt, just inches from your chest, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from you.
His brain ceased all function.
Thoughts: gone.
Language: deleted.
Motor skills: offline.
He stared ahead helplessly, praying he wasn’t shaking.
You kept drying his hair, completely focused, completely gentle. “Hold still,” you whispered. “You’ll catch a cold like this.”
Jake tried to respond. He really did. He tried to say, “Thanks,” or “I’m okay,” or literally anything that resembled human speech.
What came out was:
“Ah—gu—h—”
You giggled softly—quiet, warm, like the sound was meant only for him.
The little puff of laughter brushed against his forehead, and Jake’s entire nervous system short-circuited all over again.
You kept drying his hair, gentle fingers working through the wet strands at the back of his head, tugging the towel this way and that. Every small movement seemed to pull you closer. Or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe the universe had decided to personally torture him today.
But no—no, he wasn’t imagining it.
Your chest was definitely inching nearer.
The soft swell of your breasts, barely contained by that thin, slightly damp camp shirt, hovered closer with every careful swipe of the towel. Close enough now that he could see the faint freckles scattered across your collarbone. Close enough that the fabric stretched just a little tighter across your skin. Close enough that when you leaned in to reach the stubborn wet patch at his crown, the very tips of your breasts brushed—barely, feather-light—against his cheek.
Jake’s brain flatlined.
A strangled, high-pitched noise escaped his throat—something between a whimper and a prayer.
Your giggle turned into a soft hum of amusement. “Relax, Jake,” you murmured, voice low and teasing, warm breath ghosting over his temple. “You’re so tense. I’m not gonna bite.”
He wanted to die.
He wanted to live forever.
He wanted both at the same time.
His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, fingers curling into fists so he wouldn’t do something stupid like grab your waist and pull you the rest of the way against him. His face was burning so hot he was sure the lake water was evaporating off his skin in little puffs of steam.
Jake’s eyes squeezed shut.
He was going to pass out.
Right here.
In front of the entire camp.
He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears, in his throat, lower—his shorts suddenly way too tight despite the cold water still dripping down his legs.
You finally pulled back—just enough to look at him, towel still draped over his head like a sad, soggy crown. “There,” you said, smiling that soft, devastating smile. “All better.”
Jake opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“…Th-thanks,” he managed, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old’s.
Your eyes sparkled with something dangerously close to mischief.
“Anytime, Jake.” Then you gave the towel one last gentle pat—right on top of his head—and turned to walk away, hips swaying just enough to make sure he watched every step.
Jake stood there, dripping, red-faced, towel askew, heart trying to claw its way out of his chest.
After that towel incident, Jake’s dick officially declared independence.
It had a sixth sense for you now—like a goddamn compass needle snapping toward north the second you walked into a fifty-foot radius. Full traitor mode. Uncontrollable. Radar-locked to your presence like some feral heat-seeking missile.
You walked into the mess hall for lunch? Instant throb in his shorts before you'd even crossed the threshold, straining against the zipper like it could smell your coconut lotion from twenty feet away. He'd cross his legs under the picnic table, fist clenched around his fork, pretending to focus on his mystery meat while visions of bending you over that very table flashed behind his eyes.
You laughed during arts & crafts, that husky ripple carrying across the field? His balls tightened. Cock swelled heavy and hot, leaking into his boxers so fast he felt the wet spot bloom. He'd mutter excuses—"Gotta piss"—and bolt to the nearest bathroom stall, slamming the door and yanking his shorts down. Fist wrapped tight around his throbbing length—veins pulsing, head flushed purple and slick—stroking furious and sloppy while he bit his lip bloody to stay quiet. Imagining your thighs spread wide on the craft table, your pretty cunt clenching around his fingers.
He'd come with a muffled groan, ropes of thick cum splattering the toilet rim, knees buckling as he slumped against the wall. Only then—only after painting his hand white—would the ache finally ebb enough for him to face the world again.
The worst was the day Heeseung walked in.
Jake had bolted to the hut after free swim, your bikini top had slipped just enough while you adjusted a strap, flashing a sliver of underboob that sent him spiraling. Jake thinking he had the hut to himself — curled on his bunk, shorts shoved to his knees, hand flying over his dick as he pictured you on your knees, tiny shorts pooled at your ankles, mouth stretched wide around his girth. Drool dripping down your chin. Eyes watering as you gagged, taking him deeper.
He was so close—thighs trembling, precome slicking his palm when the door banged open.
Heeseung froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, eyes wide.
Jake yelped—high-pitched, mortified—scrambling to yank the sheet over his lap.
"SHIT—HEESEUNG—FUCK—SORRY—"
Heeseung slapped a hand over his eyes, but not before that perv glanced down—clocking the sheer size of it.
“DUDE! WE SHARE THIS SPACE! THERE ARE RULES! AT LEAST WARN A GUY!”
"I'M SORRY—OH GOD, I'M SO SORRY—" Jake babbled, rolling off the bed in a tangle of sheets, cock flopping heavy against his thigh as he tried to hide like a cornered animal, trying to tuck himself away while babbling apologies like a broken record. "It won't happen again—swear—I'll go outside—I'll jerk off in the lake—PLEASE DON'T TELL ANYONE—"
Heeseung backed out, still shielding his eyes, laughing so hard he wheezed. "Chill, virgin! I'm not telling the whole camp you're blue-balling over her. But boundaries, bro! Boundaries!"
Heeseung peeked through his fingers, then dropped his hand with a dramatic sigh. “Bro. You’re jerking it like three times a day now.Your dick’s gonna file for workers’ comp.”
“I know! I know! I’m disgusting! I’m sorry—”
“Bro. Listen to me. You are not disgusting. You are tragically horny. There’s a difference.”
Jake dragged both hands down his face, smearing come across his cheek in the process. He didn’t even notice. “I came in my shorts during swim lessons yesterday. Just—watching her adjust her whistle. I had to dive into the lake to hide it.”
Heeseung barked another laugh. “Classic.”
“No it's not!” Jake wailed, flopping backward onto the floor like a starfish of despair. “I tried thinking about baseball. Taxes. My grandma’s knitting club. Nothing works. It’s like my brain is just… her. All the time. Her smile. Her laugh. The way her hair sticks to her neck when she’s wet from the lake. The way her thighs look when she’s sitting on the dock. I’m gonna die, Heeseung. I’m actually gonna die.”
“Okay, drama queen. First: breathe. Second: you need to do something about this before you actually combust. Or before you get caught jerking it in the supply closet again.”
Jake’s head snapped up. “You know about the supply closet?”
“Dude. Everyone knows about the supply closet. There’s a rumor you’ve christened every shelf in there.”
Jake made a sound like a dying animal and pulled the sheet over his head.
Heeseung snorted, leaning against the doorframe, suddenly way too amused. “You know what the funniest part is?”
Jake groaned into his hands. “Please don’t.”
“She’d probably love your little buddy.”
Jake’s head snapped up. “What?”
Heeseung grinned like the devil. “I’m saying, if she knew how whipped your dick is for her, she’d probably be flattered. Might even wanna meet it. Personally.”
Jake’s brain blue-screened.
With a wordless yell, he launched himself across the room—full football tackle—crashing into Heeseung and sending them both tumbling onto the nearest bunk in a tangle of limbs.
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—”
Heeseung cackled underneath him, arms up in mock surrender while Jake tried (and failed) to smother him with a pillow. “Okay okay! Truce! Truce! I’m just saying—she’s got you by the balls, man! Literally!”
Jake groaned—long, defeated, the sound of a man who’d lost every battle with his own dignity—and rolled off Heeseung, collapsing face-first onto the bunk mattress like he’d been shot. The pillow stayed clutched to his chest like a shield.
Heeseung sat up, still grinning, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “You done trying to murder me?”
Jake’s voice came out muffled into the fabric. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t. You love me. I’m your emotional support wingman.” Heeseung poked him in the ribs with his foot. “Come on, bro. You can’t keep living like this. You’re one accidental brush of her hand away from coming in your shorts in front of the entire camp.”
Jake lifted his head just enough to glare. “I’m handling it.”
“You’re not handling it. You’re jerking off six times a day and jumping me like a feral cat every time I mention her tits. That’s not handling it—that’s a cry for help.”
Jake buried his face again. “Shut up.”
Heeseung sighed dramatically, flopping back onto his own bunk and staring at the ceiling like a philosopher. “Look. I’m saying this as your best friend who has seen you suffer more than any human should: confess. Or at least do something. Ask her to help you ‘check the boathouse inventory’ after lights-out. Corner her behind the craft shed. Hell, just tell her you’ve been thinking about her non-stop since day one and your dick won’t give you a single peaceful moment.”
Jake made a strangled noise.
“I’m serious,” Heeseung pressed. “She’s been looking at you like she knows exactly what’s going on in that horny little head of yours. The towel thing? The eye-fucking across the lake? The way she ‘accidentally’ brushes up against you every five minutes? She’s teasing you, man. She wants you to crack. She’s waiting for you to man up and take what you both clearly want.”
Jake rolled onto his back, staring at the wooden beams overhead. His chest rose and fell too fast. “And what if I’m wrong? What if she’s just… being nice? And I make it weird and ruin everything?”
Heeseung snorted. “Dude. She dried your hair like a mom while her tits were literally in your face. That’s not ‘nice.’ That’s foreplay.”
Jake groaned again, dragging both hands down his face. “Fuck.”
“Exactly. Fuck. Her. Preferably soon. Before your balls explode and we have to explain to the camp director why there’s a crater where you used to be.”
Jake was quiet for a long minute. Then, quieter:
“…What if she says no?”
Heeseung sat up again, suddenly serious. “Then at least you’ll know. And you can stop torturing yourself. But Jake—” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not paying attention. The way her eyes linger. The way she bites her lip when you talk to the kids. She’s not saying no. She’s waiting for you to say yes.”
Jake swallowed hard. His heart was hammering again—not from embarrassment this time, but from something sharper. Hope. Terror. Want.
Heeseung kicked his foot lightly. “So what’s it gonna be, lover boy? Keep hiding? Or finally grow a pair and go get your girl?”
Jake stared at the ceiling for another beat.
Then he sat up slowly, jaw set, eyes a little wild.
“…I’m gonna do it.”
Heeseung’s grin returned full force. “Atta boy. Tonight?”
Jake exhaled shakily. “Tonight?”
The hut suddenly felt too small, the air too thick with the scent of pine and his own unresolved tension. He was still flushed from head to toe, cheeks burning, cock giving a traitorous twitch in his shorts at the mere idea of finally confessing—of touching you, kissing you, burying himself so deep inside you that neither of you could think straight. But first, he had to actually get you alone. How hard could that be? He’d spent the last week dodging you like a pro; reversing it should be easy, right?
Heeseung, sensing Jake's hesitation like a shark smelling blood, hopped off his bunk and grabbed a crumpled notepad from the nightstand—the one they used for doodling dumb canoe race strategies. "Alright, lover boy, let's strategize. We're not sending you in blind. This is Operation Get Jake Laid—er, I mean, Confessed. Whatever..."
Jake rubbed his palms on his thighs like he could wipe away the nervous sweat. "Okay. Plan. Good. What's the move?"
Heeseung paced the narrow space between the bunks, tapping the notepad with a chewed-up pen like he was a general mapping out a battlefield. "First things first: timing. Tonight's the bonfire sing-along after dinner. Everyone's gonna be there—kids roasting marshmallows, staff pretending not to hate 'Kumbaya' for the hundredth time. That's your window. Chaos equals opportunity. You slip away early, say you're grabbing extra firewood or some bullshit. I'll create a distraction—maybe 'accidentally' knock over the s'mores station. Kids go nuts, staff scrambles, and boom—you pull her aside to the boathouse path. It's dark, secluded, romantic as fuck with the lake view. Confess there. Worst case, if she rejects you, you can jump in the water and drown your sorrows."
Jake nodded slowly, picturing it. The boathouse—dim moonlight filtering through the trees, the soft lap of water against the dock. You standing there, close enough to touch, your eyes widening as he finally spilled it all: how he couldn't stop thinking about you, how every brush of your skin made his brain melt and his cock ache, how he wanted to drop to his knees and worship you until you were the one begging. His breath hitched. "Yeah. That... that could work. But how do I get her to follow me? Just... ask?"
Heeseung snorted. "Subtlety, man. Walk by her during the fire, lean in close—like, whisper something about needing help with 'inventory' in the boathouse. Make it sound urgent but flirty. You've got that puppy-dog charm; use it. Girls eat that shit up. And if she hesitates, flash those dimples. Bam. She's hooked."
Jake ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "Okay. Distraction. Whisper. Boathouse. Got it." He stood again, pacing now himself. "What if someone's with her? She's always got a kid hanging off her or one of the other counselors chatting her up. Remember yesterday? She was braiding hair for like six girls at once during free time."
Heeseung waved it off. "That's why the bonfire's perfect. Everyone's scattered. I'll scout ahead—make sure the path's clear. If there's interference, I'll run blocker. Pretend I need her friend's help with something dumb, like fixing the guitar strings. Easy."
They spent the next twenty minutes hashing out contingencies: If the bonfire ran late, pivot to the morning hike trail before breakfast. If rain hit (unlikely, but summer storms were sneaky), use the supply shed as backup—cozy, private, full of ropes and tarps that Jake's filthy mind immediately twisted into fantasies he had to shove down before Heeseung noticed his shorts tenting again. Heeseung even drew a crude map on the notepad: X for bonfire, arrow to boathouse, stick-figure Jake with hearts for eyes confessing to stick-figure you.
By the time they finished, Jake felt a fragile buzz of confidence. "Alright. This is solid. Thanks, man."
Heeseung fist-bumped him. "Go get cleaned up. And hey—don't chicken out. You've got this."
Jake nodded, grabbing a fresh towel and heading to the showers. Under the lukewarm spray, he tried to psych himself up, but his hand drifted south anyway—wrapping around his half-hard cock, stroking slow as he imagined your reaction. Your lips parting in surprise, then curling into a smile. Your hands pulling him closer. Your thighs wrapping around his waist as he pinned you against the boathouse wall, cock sinking into your tight heat until you were whimpering his name. He came with a choked groan, cum mixing with the water swirling down the drain. Tonight, he promised himself. No more running.
But as dinner rolled around, the plan started crumbling like a stale graham cracker.
You were at the head table, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling preteens who'd apparently declared you their queen. They were all over you—handing you plates, showing off friendship bracelets they'd made "just for you," dragging you into their drama about who kissed who. Jake hovered at the edge of the mess hall, plate in hand, watching like a creeper. Every time he thought about approaching, another kid popped up. Heeseung shot him a thumbs-up from across the room, mouthing "After eating."
Post-dinner cleanup? You volunteered to help the kitchen staff, elbow-deep in soapy water with two other female counselors, chatting and laughing about some inside joke. Jake lingered outside the window like a stalker, pretending to tie his shoe for the third time. Heeseung wandered by, whispering, "Abort. Bonfire next."
The bonfire crackled to life as the sun dipped low, casting orange glows over everyone's faces. Kids clustered around the fire pit, staff scattered on logs and blankets. Jake scanned the crowd—there you were, sandwiched between a hyper ten-year-old boy telling ghost stories and one of the senior counselors, a chatty guy named Sunghoon who kept leaning in way too close to "share" his marshmallows. Jake's jaw clenched. Fuck. He circled once, twice, trying to catch your eye for the whisper ploy, but every approach was blocked: a kid running by with sparklers, the camp director calling everyone for the first song, Heeseung's distraction (a fake spill of chocolate syrup that only drew more people over).
"Pst—Jake!" Heeseung hissed from behind a tree as the group launched into a off-key "The Wheels on the Bus."
"New plan: Wait 'til s'mores wind down. I'll lure Sunghoon away—say I need help with the canoes for tomorrow. You swoop in then."
Jake nodded, heart pounding. But s'mores time turned into chaos: Sticky fingers everywhere, kids demanding seconds, you organizing a impromptu "s'mores assembly line" with half the staff involved. By the time it quieted, the director announced lights-out in fifteen, and you were already herding your cabin group toward the bunks, arms linked with two girls who wouldn't let go.
Jake deflated against a log, watching your silhouette disappear into the trees. Heeseung plopped down next to him, clapping his back. "Tough break. Tomorrow, then. Early bird gets the worm—or the girl alone."
But tomorrow was worse.
Morning hike: You were at the front of the pack with the lead guide, pointing out birds and plants to an enraptured cluster of kids. Jake hung back, trying to work his way forward, but the trail was narrow, and every time he got close, someone needed water or a bug bite check. Heeseung tried distracting the guide with questions, but it backfired—drawing you into the conversation instead.
Arts and crafts: You were manning the bead station, kids swarming like bees. Jake "casually" wandered over to the paint area nearby, but before he could signal, a little girl dragged you away to judge her macaroni necklace.
Swim time: You were on lifeguard duty with three others, perched on the dock in that red one-piece that hugged every curve, whistle around your neck. Jake swam laps to "cool off," planning to ask for your help with "equipment" after. But post-swim, you got roped into a volleyball game on the beach—surrounded by laughing staff and kids spiking the ball like noobs.
By lunch, Jake was fraying. He and Heeseung huddled in the hut during siesta, notepad out again. "This is insane," Jake muttered, head in hands. "It's like the universe is cockblocking me now! She's never alone. Avoiding her was easy enough—getting her isolated? Fucking impossible!!"
Heeseung tapped the pen thoughtfully. "She's popular. Kids love her, staff loves her. We need stealth. New plan: Fake an injury during archery this afternoon. Nothing bad—twisted ankle or some shit. Ask her specifically to help you to the first-aid cabin. It's private, got that cot in the back. Confess there. I'll cover your group."
Jake's eyes lit up. "That's... genius. Yeah. Let's do it."
Archery rolled around. Jake "tripped" mid-demo—dramatic groan, clutching his ankle like he'd been shot. The kids gasped; staff rushed over. "I'm good, just—ah, shit—twisted it. Hey, can someone grab Y/n? She's great with this stuff."
But fate laughed. You were already there, kneeling beside him with concern etching your pretty face—but so was half the camp. The director insisted on two people helping him limp to the cabin, and a nurse volunteer tagged along. Inside, it was a circus: Ice packs, questions, kids peeking in the door. No alone time. The "injury" fizzled out fast—Jake had to fake recovery to avoid real medical attention.
Dinner: More crowds.
Evening games: You refereed capture the flag, untouchable, no time alone.
By nightfall, Jake was back in the hut, collapsed on his bunk, cock throbbing painfully from a day of near-misses and pent-up fantasies. Every glimpse of you—bending to tie a shoe, laughing with wind-tousled hair—had him hard and leaking again. He'd jerked off twice already, once in the woods mid-hike (hiding behind a tree, fist flying as he imagined pinning you against it, rutting into your soaked pussy while you muffled moans into his neck), once in the shower (coming to the thought of you on that lifeguard chair, legs spread, his face buried between them until you squirted on his tongue).
Heeseung flopped down, undeterred. "Alright, Plan Z: Tomorrow's the talent show prep. She's emceeing. I'll sign us up for a 'duet' or something dumb—get you backstage with her. Private green room vibes."
Jake groaned, rolling over. "If this doesn't work, I'm quitting camp. Moving to Antarctica. Penguins don't tempt me."
Heeseung laughed. "Hang in there. She's worth the blue balls."
But as Jake drifted off, dick still half-chubbed under the sheets, he wondered if he'd survive another day of this torture. Getting you alone wasn't just hard—it was a goddamn quest. And he was more desperate than ever to win.
The talent show prep turned out to be another spectacular disaster in Jake's ongoing saga of blue-balled misery. He and Heeseung had signed up for a "duet"—some half-assed acoustic cover of an old camp song that Jake could barely strum through without his fingers shaking from nerves. The plan was simple: Get backstage with you during rehearsals, where you'd be organizing the lineup. The "green room" was really just a curtained-off corner of the main pavilion, cluttered with props and folding chairs—private enough for a quick confession, or at least a stuttered invitation to talk later. Heeseung would "forget" his guitar picks or something, leaving Jake alone with you for those precious few minutes.
But reality? A shitshow. The pavilion was packed with hyper kids practicing their acts: Little girls twirling batons, boys doing awkward magic tricks, a group of teens attempting a rap battle that devolved into giggles. You were in the thick of it, clipboard in hand, directing traffic like a pro—smiling that soft, devastating smile as you adjusted a kid's costume or gave a thumbs-up to a nervous singer. Jake lurked at the edge, guitar slung over his shoulder, heart hammering so loud he was sure the strings were vibrating from it. When Heeseung finally nudged him forward during a break, Jake approached, mouth dry. "Hey, uh..." he managed, voice cracking like he was back in puberty. You straightened up, turning with that warm gaze that made his knees weak. "Need help with... with the script? Or something?"
You blinked, then laughed softly—god, that sound went straight to his balls. "Actually, yeah! Can you hold this for a sec?" You thrust the clipboard at him, your fingers brushing his in the handoff. Electric. His dick twitched hard, thickening instantly like it knew exactly who was touching him. But before he could stammer out anything resembling a confession, a swarm of kids descended: "Miss, my hat fell off!" "Can I go next?" "Look at my dance!" You were pulled away in a whirlwind of tiny hands and excited chatter, leaving Jake standing there with the clipboard pressed awkwardly against his crotch to hide the growing bulge. Heeseung shot him a sympathetic shrug from across the room, but the moment was gone. Rehearsal ended with Jake barely exchanging three words with you beyond "Here you go" when you reclaimed the board.
That night, back in the hut, Jake jerked off furiously under the sheets—fist pumping his thick cock in brutal strokes. He came with a muffled groan, cum spilling hot over his knuckles, but the relief was temporary. Hollow. He needed the real thing.
The next day brought more failures, each one chipping away at Jake's sanity like a dull axe. Morning yoga session by the lake: You were leading a group stretch, and Jake "casually" joined, positioning himself in the back row for a view that nearly killed him—your body bending into downward dog, ass up, shorts clinging to every curve. His cock went rock-hard in seconds, throbbing painfully against his thigh.
The plan was to linger after, ask for "private tips" on his form. But as the group dispersed, Sunghoon—that tall, smug bastard with the perfect hair and easy charm—sauntered over, slinging an arm around your shoulders like he owned the place. "Hey, great class. Wanna grab coffee from the mess hall? I could use some pointers too." You laughed, nodded, and walked off with him, leaving Jake frozen.
Afternoon canoe races: Heeseung rigged it so Jake's team "needed" your help as a spotter on the dock. But the races turned chaotic—kids capsizing, laughter echoing, and you ended up knee-deep in the water, helping flip boats and towel off soaked campers. Jake paddled close, ready to "accidentally" bump your section and pull you aside, but Sunghoon appeared again, "helping" by lifting you out of the water with his hands on your waist—your wet shirt clinging transparently to your breasts. Jake's vision tunneled red. Alarms blared in his head: Red zone. Danger. Back off. He paddled away furiously, beaching the canoe and disappearing into the boathouse for a frantic wank.
Evening campfire stories: Heeseung's new ploy—start a "scary tale" chain and "need" you to sit next to Jake for "moral support." But you arrived flanked by staff, including Sunghoon, who plopped down beside you first, sharing a blanket and whispering something that made you giggle. Jake sat across the fire, staring daggers, his dick traitorously hardening at the sight of your lips curving into that smile—even if it was for someone else. The alarms in his head screamed louder: He's too close. Touching her knee. Fuck him.
Jake excused himself early, claiming a headache, and jerked off in the hut.
The failures piled up like a cruel joke.
By mid-week, Jake was a wreck—eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. Heeseung was fraying too, his pep talks turning exasperated. "Dude, this is ridiculous. She's like a magnet for people. And Sunghoon? That guy's orbiting her like a fucking moon. Saw him 'accidentally' bump her during volleyball yesterday—hand on her ass for a second too long. If you don't do something soon, he's gonna beat you to it."
Possessive heat curled low in his gut, twisting with jealousy until he felt physically sick.
“I’m done, man,” he mumbled, voice cracking. “I’m done. She’s too busy. Too liked. Everyone wants a piece of her—kids, counselors, fucking Sunghoon. I can’t even get close without someone interrupting. Penguins in Antarctica sound better than this torture. They don’t have perfect tits and laugh like angels and make my dick try to escape my body every five seconds.”
Heeseung flopped backward onto his own bunk, arms spread wide, staring up at the wooden ceiling beams like they held the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.
“Maybe,” he conceded, tone dry. “But watching Sunghoon get closer? That’s the cherry on top of this shit sundae. Alarms are blaring for a reason, bro. Red zone. Full red alert. If he makes a move first…”
Jake’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles bleached white. The thought hit him like a punch to the solar plexus—Sunghoon’s perfect, smug face leaning in, lips brushing yours, hands sliding under your tank top to cup your breasts while you arched into him with that soft little gasp Jake had only heard in his filthiest dreams. Sunghoon’s cock—probably average, probably nothing like Jake’s—pushing into your perfect, tight, dripping pussy, stretching you open while you moaned his name instead of Jake’s.
The image was so vivid Jake could almost hear it: the wet slap of skin, your breathy whimpers, Sunghoon’s low groan as he bottomed out inside you. Jake’s vision tunneled red while his heart hammered with a mixture of murderous jealousy and bone-deep despair.
“I can’t,” he whispered, voice raw. “I can’t watch him touch her. I can’t watch him make her smile like that. I can’t—I’ll fucking die, Heeseung. I’ll actually die.”
Heeseung watched Jake unravel for a long moment—fists clenched, eyes glassy, breathing too fast—like the guy was one wrong word away from either punching a wall or bursting into tears. Finally, Heeseung sighed, long and dramatic, and flopped back onto his bunk with the air of a man who had officially thrown in the towel.
“Alright,” he said, voice flat, resigned. “Fine. You win. She’s untouchable. Sunghoon’s probably already got his tongue down her throat behind the craft shed or whatever. Let’s just… move on. There are other fish in the lake, right? Plenty of hot counselors who aren’t currently being fought over by every breathing person in a ten-mile radius.”
Jake didn’t respond. He just stared at the ceiling, jaw so tight it looked painful.
Heeseung kept going anyway, ticking names off on his fingers like he was reading from a mental catalog.
“There’s Minji from the arts cabin—tall, legs for days, always smells like vanilla and paint thinner. She’s got that whole ‘quietly unhinged artist’ vibe. Could be fun.”
Nothing from Jake. Just a slow blink.
“Or Yuna,” Heeseung continued, undeterred. “Lifeguard duty with her would be a religious experience. She’s got abs you could grate cheese on and that little mole right under her left eye? Deadly. She smiled at me once during relay races and I forgot how to swim.”
Still nothing. Jake’s breathing was shallow, like he was trying not to hyperventilate.
Heeseung rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand. “Chaeryeong’s single now, too. The one with the short black hair and the lip piercing? She’s got that ‘I could ruin your life and you’d thank me’ energy. Probably bites. You like biting, right?”
Jake’s voice came out small, cracked. “Stop.”
Heeseung ignored him.
“Or hell—go for someone completely different. Jiwoo from the mess hall. She’s sweet, makes those killer brownies, always smells like cinnamon. Zero drama. Zero competition. She’d probably bake you cookies after you fuck. Low stakes. Safe.”
Jake’s fists clenched harder. His knuckles were white.
Heeseung kept listing, voice getting flatter with each name.
“Soojin. The one who teaches archery. Quiet, deadly accurate, thighs that could crush a watermelon. She’d probably pin you to the target board and have her way with you. Hot, right?”
Jake’s breathing hitched.
“Or Hyein. Blonde, always in those little sundresses, giggles at everything. Easy. No baggage. She’d probably blush the whole time and call you ‘oppa’ while you—”
“Stop.”
The word ripped out of Jake like a gunshot.
Heeseung finally went quiet.
Jake sat up slowly—elbows on his knees, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold in on himself.
“None of them are her,” he whispered, voice raw and trembling. “None of them laugh the way she does. None of them smell like coconut and lake water and summer. None of them look at the kids the way she does—like they hung the fucking moon. None of them make my chest hurt just by existing in the same zip code.”
He dragged his hands down his face, hard enough to leave red marks.
“I don’t want Jiwoo’s brownies or Yuna’s abs or Chaeryeong’s lip piercing or any of it. I want her. I want her smile. I want her teasing me across the mess hall. I want her thighs wrapped around my waist. I want her moaning my name. I want to wake up every morning and see her marks on my neck and know I put them there.”
He looked up at Heeseung—eyes red-rimmed, voice cracking on every word.
“And if Sunghoon gets there first… if he touches her, if he kisses her, if he makes her come… I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna fucking break. Because she’s supposed to be mine. She’s always been mine. And I’m too much of a coward to do anything about it.”
Jake's life really sucked sometimes.
Jake’s blood ran hot and cold at the same time.
Fifteen minutes after lights-out, the camp had fallen into that soft, cricket-laced quiet. He was supposed to be in his own hut, following Heeseung’s latest desperate plan: wait until tomorrow’s canoe trip, “accidentally” capsize near you, then use the chaos to pull you aside on the far shore. Simple. Safe. Controlled.
Instead, he was crouched behind the big pine tree that overlooked the girls’ row of huts, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out.
Because he’d seen you.
You stepping out of your cabin door, hair loose and messy from the day, wearing that oversized camp hoodie that swallowed your frame and those tiny shorts that barely existed. And Sunghoon right there beside you—close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when you laughed at whatever smooth bullshit he’d just said. The two of you lingered on the porch for what felt like an eternity: heads bent together, your hand brushing his arm once—twice—before he leaned in and murmured something that made you smile that soft, devastating smile.
Jake’s stomach twisted into a green, burning knot.
Then Sunghoon gave you a lazy, smug little wave—fingers lingering in the air like he owned the right to touch you—and sauntered off toward the boys’ side, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like a man who knew he was winning.
You watched him go for a second.
Then you turned, slipped back inside your hut, and closed the door.
Jake didn’t think.
He just moved.
His feet carried him across the pine-needle path before his brain could catch up. Every step felt like stepping off a cliff. Alarms blared louder in his head—not the jealous ones this time, but the: “this is insane, you’re going to get fired, you’re going to ruin everything” ones.
He ignored them.
The door to your hut was in front of him, he tested the handle—quiet, careful—and it gave easily under his palm.
He pushed the bug net aside with trembling fingers and slipped inside.
The air hit him like a drug.
Warm. Sweet. Coconut sunscreen mixed with vanilla body lotion and the faint smoky trace of the bonfire that had clung to your clothes all night. Candles flickered on the small wooden table near the window—three of them, soft golden light dancing across the walls, turning everything hazy and intimate. The scent of melting wax and you wrapped around him so completely he nearly groaned out loud.
And there you were.
Standing with your back to him.
Undressing.
The oversized hoodie was already off, pooled at your feet. You were shimmying out of the khaki shorts, letting them slide down your legs until they puddled around your ankles.
All that was left were the tiniest pair of lacy panties—white, delicate, the kind with little satin ribbons. The fabric hugged the perfect curve of your ass, barely covering anything, the lace so sheer he could see the shadow of skin beneath.
You reached for the thin cotton sleep top folded on the edge of your bunk. No bra. Nothing underneath. Just soft, bare skin and the gentle sway of your breasts as you lifted your arms to pull the top over your head.
Jake’s mouth went dry.
He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.
You hadn’t noticed him yet.
You were humming softly under your breath—some little tune from the campfire—completely unaware that he was standing in the doorway, staring like a man starved.
The green monster in his chest roared louder than ever.
She was alone.
No Sunghoon. No kids. No staff. Just you. In lace panties.
And Jake—desperate, defeated, possessive, aching Jake—finally snapped.
He stepped forward.
The floorboard creaked.
Your humming stopped.
You froze, hands still tangled in the hem of your sleep top.
Slowly—agonizingly—you turned.
Your eyes widened when they landed on him.
“Jake…?” Your voice was barely a whisper, soft and surprised and a little breathless.
He didn’t move. Every muscle was locked tight, gaze raking over you like he was trying to memorize every inch before you screamed or told him to get out.
Your nipples were visible through the thin cotton of the top—hard little peaks that made his mouth water. The lace panties clung to you, the fabric already darkened slightly between your thighs.
You didn’t cover yourself. You didn’t scream.
You just stared back at him—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushing a deep, telling pink.
And then, so quietly he almost missed it:
“…You’re not supposed to be here.”
But you didn’t tell him to leave.
And Jake—heart in his throat, cock throbbing so hard it hurt—took another step closer.
“I know,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay away anymore.”
Jake took that final, trembling step forward, crossing the threshold completely into your hut. The wooden door swung shut behind him with a soft, definitive thud that echoed in the quiet space like a heartbeat.
He reached back without looking—fingers finding the simple metal latch—and slid it home.
Click.
The sound was small, but it rang out sharp and clear in the candlelit hush. No one could walk in now. No interruptions. Just the two of you.
Your breath caught audibly—a tiny, startled hitch that made Jake’s cock jump hard in his shorts. He watched the way your eyes widened fractionally, pupils blowing out in the flickering light. Your lips parted on a soft, involuntary exhale. You didn’t move to stop him. Didn’t protest. If anything, your body language shifted—shoulders relaxing just a touch, thighs pressing together almost imperceptibly.
The thrill of it surged through him like lightning.
You liked the sound of that lock.
You liked being trapped in here with him.
Jake’s pulse roared in his ears. His hands flexed at his sides, aching to touch you, but he forced himself to stay still for one more second, drinking in the sight of you like a man who’d been starving for years.
Jake’s voice came out rough, almost broken. “You didn’t tell me to leave.”
Your gaze flicked to the locked door, then back to his face. Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip and Jake nearly groaned out loud at the sight.
“I know,” you whispered, voice soft and a little shaky, but there was heat underneath it. “I… I didn’t want to.”
Another step. Closer now. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off your body, smell that intoxicating mix of coconut and vanilla and you.
His eyes dropped to your chest again—couldn’t help it—watching the way your breasts rose and fell with each quick breath. Then lower, to the lace clinging to your hips. “I’ve been going fucking insane,” he rasped, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Every time I see you… every time you smile, or laugh, or bend over, or just exist… I get so hard it hurts. I can’t think straight. I can’t sleep… I can’t stop wanting you.”
Your thighs pressed together and a tiny, needy sound escaped your throat.
Jake took one more step. Now he was close enough to touch. Close enough that if either of you leaned forward even slightly, your bodies would meet. He lifted one shaking hand, hovering it near your cheek—giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
Instead, you tilted your head just enough that your cheek brushed his palm. Soft. Warm. Perfect.
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and reverent.
“I saw you with Sunghoon tonight,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “Laughing. Touching his arm. Smiling at him like that. It fucking killed me. I wanted to drag him away and show him you’re mine.”
Your eyes fluttered half-shut at the rough edge in his voice, but the corner of your mouth curled—just a tiny, wicked little tilt that made Jake’s heart stutter.
“Yours?” you echoed softly, voice breathy and teasing, like you were tasting the word. Your cheek stayed pressed to his palm, nuzzling ever so slightly into his touch. “That’s a pretty big claim, Jake… especially when you’ve barely said two words to me all week.” You tilted your head further, letting your lips brush the pad of his thumb—barely a kiss, more like a ghost of one. Just enough to make his breath hitch audibly. “I mean,” you continued, voice dropping lower, silkier, “if I’m yours… then why did Sunghoon get to make me laugh tonight? Why did he get to walk me back to my hut? Why did he get to touch me right—” You lifted your hand and traced one fingertip down the length of his forearm, following the tense line of muscle. “—here?”
Jake’s entire body locked up. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest—half growl, half plea.
You leaned in closer, lips hovering just shy of his, so close he could feel the warmth of your breath against his mouth. “Were you jealous, puppy?” you whispered, the pet name slipping out sweet and cruel at the same time. “Did it hurt watching him get so close? Did you imagine ripping him away and fucking me right there on the porch so he’d know who I really belong to?”
That was it.
The last thread of Jake’s restraint snapped like a cheap string. With a broken, desperate groan he surged forward—hands clamping around your waist like iron bands, yanking you flush against him so hard your feet left the floor for a split second. His mouth crashed down on yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle.
It was filthy. Starving. All teeth and tongue and weeks of pent-up obsession pouring out at once. He kissed you like he was trying to devour you—lips bruising yours, tongue plunging deep to taste every corner of your mouth, swallowing the soft, surprised moan you let out. One hand slid up your back, fingers tangling roughly in your hair to angle your head exactly how he wanted.
His other hand slid down your body with rough, greedy purpose—fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass through the thin lace of your panties. He squeezed hard, kneading the curve like he was trying to imprint himself into your skin.
A low, broken groan vibrated against your lips as he rolled his hips forward—slow at first, testing, savoring—then harder, more insistent. The thick, heavy length of his cock dragged against your lace-covered pussy with every grind, the rigid heat of him pressing right where you were already soaked and aching.
“Fuck—” he gasped into your mouth, voice wrecked and trembling. “You feel that? That’s all for you. Been like this for weeks.” He ground again—deeper this time, hips snapping forward in a filthy rhythm that made your clit throb against the swollen head of his cock through the layers.
Jake’s control was unraveling fast. His brain was gone—completely hijacked by the pulsing, aching need between his legs. His dick had taken over like some feral puppet master, yanking every string, making his hips buck harder, faster, more erratic. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. “Shit—shit, baby—” he panted, forehead dropping to your shoulder, teeth scraping over your collarbone. “Can’t—can’t think—need you so bad it hurts—fuck, you’re so wet, I can feel it through everything—”
He was shaking now—whole body trembling with the effort of holding back, but his hips wouldn’t listen. They kept grinding, kept fucking against you like he was already inside, like he could come just from this alone. One particularly hard thrust had you gasping and Jake whimpered. A real, broken, needy sound that he couldn’t swallow back.
“S-sorry—fuck, I’m sorry—” he babbled against your neck, but he didn’t stop. “Just—need to feel you—need to—gonna come like this if you don’t stop me—please—”
You didn’t stop him.
Instead, you leaned in closer—lips brushing the shell of his ear—and whispered, soft and wicked, “Come like this, Jake. Right here. Make a mess for me.”
That was all it took.
He came hard—so hard—hot, thick pulses spilling into his shorts, soaking through the fabric in heavy, obscene spurts. A long, wrecked moan vibrated against your neck, muffled into your skin as he shuddered through every wave, hips stuttering, cock jerking with each rope of cum that painted the inside of his shorts. “F-fuck—oh god—baby—” he babbled, voice cracking, tears pricking the corners of his eyes from how intense it was.
When the last pulse finally ebbed, he sagged against you—forehead dropping to your shoulder, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon.
You didn’t let him catch his breath.
Your fingers tightened in his hair again—harder this time—and you pulled his head back just enough to crash your mouth against his in a deep, filthy kiss.
Jake moaned into it—loud, devastated, the sound vibrating against your tongue. He kissed you back desperately, sloppy and needy, letting you lead. His tongue slid against yours, tasting faintly of salt and desperation, and when you tugged his hair again—sharp, possessive—he made the most broken, wrecked noise from the back of his throat. You pulled him with you, guiding him backward step by stumbling step until the backs of his knees hit the edge of your bunk.
One firm push, and he went down.
He landed on the mattress with a soft oof, legs splayed, chest still heaving. The kiss broke with a wet, obscene sound—strings of saliva connecting your lips for a heartbeat before snapping.
Jake stared up at you, dazed and utterly ruined. His hair was a wild mess—strands sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyes huge and glassy with that big, pleading puppy look that made your stomach flip. Drool glistened on his swollen, kiss-bitten lips and ran in a thin line down his chin. His cheeks were flushed dark red, pupils blown so wide they were almost black.
And between his legs—
The incriminating wet stain on his shorts was massive. Dark, spreading across the front, clinging to the thick outline of his cock. Even now—after coming so hard he’d nearly blacked out—there was still a heavy, obscene bulge there. His dick hadn’t gone down at all. If anything, it looked even thicker, twitching visibly under the soaked fabric like it was already begging for more.
You slid down slowly, your knees hitting the worn wooden floor of the hut with a soft thud that seemed to echo, Jake’s breath punched out of him in a sharp, shaky exhale as he watched you settle between his spread thighs, your hands resting lightly on the tops of his knees.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or grip the sheets to keep himself grounded.
You looked up at him through your lashes—eyes dark, lips parted—and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his ruined shorts. The fabric was soaked through, clinging obscenely to his skin, the dark stain spreading from the thick outline of his cock all the way down his inner thighs.
You tugged.
Jake lifted his hips on instinct, helping you drag the shorts and boxers down in one pull. The elastic caught for a second on the swollen head of his dick before snapping free, and then he was bare—springing up against his stomach with a wet slap.
His cock was thick, veiny, flushed an angry dark pink at the base and deeper at the tip where precome still leaked in steady, glistening beads. The length curved slightly upward, heavy and throbbing, the slit weeping openly. Cum from his earlier release still streaked the shaft in pearly ropes, mixing with fresh precome to make everything slick and shiny.
You gasped involuntarily, eyes widening as you took him in fully.
Jake’s entire body tensed. His face flushed deeper, a wave of self-consciousness crashing over him even as his dick twitched violently at the sound. “Shit—sorry—I know it’s… it’s a lot, I get it, I can—” The words tumbled out in a frantic, breathless ramble, hands fluttering like he wanted to cover himself. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I can go if it’s too much, I don’t want to—” His babbling choked off into a strangled, high whimper the second your fingers wrapped around him.
Your grip was warm and perfect, circling the thick base where your thumb and fingers barely met. You gave one slow, experimental stroke upward, and Jake’s hips jerked up off the mattress like he’d been shocked.
Then you leaned in.
And kissed the tip.
Just a gentle press of your lips to the swollen, leaking head, tasting salt and him on your tongue.
Jake’s head fell back against the pillow with a broken, devastated moan—long and raw, the sound tearing from deep in his chest. His hands flew to the sheets, knuckles bleaching white as he gripped them hard enough to tear fabric.
You lingered—lips still brushing the sensitive slit, letting your tongue flick out in a swipe to collect the fresh bead of precome that had welled up the moment your mouth touched him. The taste of him burst across your tongue: salty, musky, unmistakably Jake.
A high, broken whine tore from his throat—raw and helpless—and his hips bucked upward, pushing the swollen head past your lips just enough for you to feel how hot and velvet-hard he was against your tongue. “F-fuck—oh god—please—” His voice cracked, trembling on every syllable. Veins pulsing along his forearms where his hands gripped the sheets like a lifeline. Knuckles white. Fingers shaking.
You hummed softly around the tip—barely a vibration—and Jake’s head snapped forward. His eyes flew open, glassy and wide, pupils blown so huge they swallowed the hazel entirely. He looked wrecked: cheeks flushed dark, mouth hanging open, drool shining on his chin, messy hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. That big, pleading puppy stare locked onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
“Baby—shit—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
You pulled back just enough to speak—lips still brushing the head, breath hot against the slick skin. “Shh,” you murmured, voice low and soothing, almost teasing. “I’ve got you.”
Then you took him deeper.
Just the tip at first—lips wrapping around the fat, flushed crown, tongue swirling slow circles over the slit while your hand stroked the base in long, firm pulls. Jake’s moan was immediate and devastating—long, ragged, breaking into little whimpers every time your tongue flicked the sensitive underside.
“Oh fuck—oh fuck—your mouth—baby, your mouth—” The words dissolved into another whine as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently, letting your tongue press flat against the underside and drag back up in one slow, wet stroke.
Fresh precome flooded your mouth. His cock throbbed so hard you felt it against your tongue, thick veins pulsing under your grip. You could taste how close he already was again—how the earlier orgasm had done nothing to take the edge off, only made him more sensitive, more desperate.
One of his hands flew to your hair—fingers tangling gently at first, then gripping tighter as he fought not to push. “Please—please—don’t stop—gonna—gonna come again—fuck, I’m sorry, I can’t—”
You answered by taking him deeper still—half his length sliding into the wet heat of your mouth, lips stretching wide around his girth. Your tongue worked relentlessly—swirling, pressing, lapping at the underside while your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit.
Jake’s back bowed off the mattress. A strangled cry ripped from his chest—high and broken—and his thighs trembled violently around you.
“Baby—oh god—gonna—gonna come—”
He tried to warn you. Tried to pull back.
But you didn’t let him.
You sucked harder—hollowing your cheeks, tongue flicking the slit one last time—and Jake shattered.
His hips snapped up, burying another inch deeper as he came with a long, wrecked moan that echoed off the cabin walls. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your mouth—pulse after pulse, so much it spilled past the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin in messy streaks.
Jake collapsed back against the pillows with a shuddering exhale, his entire body going limp as the last weak pulses of his orgasm ebbed through him. His head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth open in a dazed, wrecked expression—like he’d just been hit by a truck and loved every second of it.
You pulled off him slowly, lips swollen and glistening, a soft, wet pop echoing in the quiet hut as the head slipped free from your mouth. Thick strings of cum and saliva stretched between your tongue and the flushed, still-throbbing tip—glistening, obscene, snapping one by one as you leaned back. A final bead of his release clung to your lower lip before you licked it away with a slow swipe of your tongue.
“Your turn now,” he rasped suddenly, voice wrecked but burning with intent. “Been dying to taste you—been dreaming about it every fucking night.”
Before you could respond, he surged up—hands strong despite the way they still shook—and pushed you onto the mattress. You landed on the soft sheets with a quiet gasp, hair fanning out around your head like a halo. Jake climbed over you instantly, caging you beneath him with his broad shoulders and trembling arms.
He kissed you deeply—messy, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue and groaning into your mouth like the flavor drove him insane. His lips were swollen, breath ragged, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he poured everything into the kiss: gratitude, obsession, raw need.
Jake’s hands roamed—sliding up your sides, under the hem of your thin sleep top. His palms were warm, calloused from weeks of camp work, and they trembled slightly as he pushed the fabric higher. Inch by inch, he revealed you: the soft curve of your stomach, the dip of your waist, the underside of your breasts. He broke the kiss just long enough to drag the top over your head and toss it somewhere behind him, only to immediately descend—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down the column of your throat like he was starving and you were the only thing that could feed him.
When he reached the swell of your breasts, he paused, breath ragged and hot against your skin, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Can I…?” he whispered, voice hoarse, almost pleading.
You nodded, fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging gently. “Please, Jake… touch me. Taste me. I want you to.”
Jake groaned and dove in like a man who’d finally been given permission to worship. His mouth closed around one nipple, hot and wet, tongue swirling slow circles around the hardened peak before he sucked—hard, greedy, pulling the sensitive bud deep into his mouth. His hand cupped your other breast, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple in perfect rhythm with his tongue.
You arched into him with a soft, needy moan, back bowing off the mattress. “Oh god—Jake, yes—just like that…”
The praise hit him like a drug.
He moaned against your breast and switched sides, giving the other nipple the same devoted attention. “Fuck—you taste so good,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled and wrecked. “So perfect—been dreaming about these tits every night—wanted my mouth on them so bad—”
You threaded your fingers deeper into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him whimper around your nipple. “You’re so good, puppy,” you breathed, voice trembling with pleasure. “So good with your mouth—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
His hands roamed everywhere—kneading, squeezing, thumbs flicking your nipples until they were swollen and aching. He buried his face between them, groaning deep in his throat as he nuzzled the soft valley, then dragged his tongue up the underside of one breast in a slow, filthy stripe before latching on again.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick with awe. “So fucking beautiful.”
He shifted lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your stomach, worshipping every inch. His tongue dipped into your navel, swirling lazily before he pressed a lingering kiss just above it. His hands followed—palms sliding up your sides, thumbs tracing your ribs, fingers splaying wide across your waist like he was trying to hold all of you at once.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, voice cracking with emotion. “Every single part of you—fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted to touch you, taste you, make you feel how much I—” His hands slid down to your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle pressure, thumbs stroking the soft inner skin in slow circles.
He looked up at you again—eyes shining, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and glistening.
“I love you,” he whispered, raw and shaky, like the confession had been ripped out of him. “I’m so fucking in love with you it hurts. Every smile, every laugh, every time you look at me—I’ve been gone for you since the first day. And now you’re here, letting me touch you… letting me love you…” His voice broke on the last word. A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away—he just leaned down and pressed his forehead to your stomach, breathing you in like you were oxygen.
Your breath caught at the trembling confession—his words sinking into you like warm honey, sweet and heavy and almost too much to hold. “Jake…” you whispered, voice soft and thick with emotion. “Look at me.”
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes—his own wide, glassy, shining with something so vulnerable it stole your breath.
“I love you too,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, but steady. “I’ve loved you since the first time you smiled at me across the mess hall and tripped over your own feet. I’ve loved you every time you played with the kids and made them laugh, every time you looked at me like I was the only person in the world. I’ve loved you through every single one of your shy glances and every time you blushed so hard I thought you’d catch fire.”
A fresh tear slipped down his cheek. He let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh—half sob, half joy—and turned his head to press a desperate kiss to your palm.
“Baby…” he choked out, voice wrecked. “You… you love me too?”
You nodded, smiling through the tears gathering in your own eyes.
“I love you so much it hurts,” you whispered. “So please… don’t hold back anymore. I want everything. I want you.”
“You mean it?” he whispered, voice barely audible, cracking on every syllable. “You really want… everything? All of me?”
“I mean it,” you breathed. “I want all of you, Jake. No holding back. No hesitation. I want you to take me—love me—the way you’ve been dying to. I’m yours. Completely.”
The last thread of restraint snapped.
He trailed kisses down the crease where thigh met hip, then lower still, until his lips found the plush, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He kissed one thigh, then the other, alternating back and forth like he couldn’t decide which one deserved more attention.
Every time his mouth moved, his breath ghosted over your soaked panties, making you squirm. You moaned softly—fingers tightening in his hair—and the sound made him whimper against your skin, hips twitching helplessly against the mattress.
“Jake…” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please…”
He pulled back just enough to look.
And stare.
“Look at this pretty fucking pussy,” he rasped, voice raw with devotion. “So wet she’s crying for me…I’ve dreamed about this—imagining.. And now you’re letting me see it… letting me have it…”
You couldn’t take it anymore. The ache between your legs was unbearable—every word, every hot exhale making you clench around nothing.
“Jake…” you breathed, voice trembling, hips lifting just a fraction off the mattress in desperate search of contact. “Please… please, just taste me. I need your mouth on me—now.”
That single, pleading “please” snapped something inside him. With a low, guttural groan that sounded like it had been torn from his soul, Jake smashed his face against you.
No hesitation.
His nose pressed right to your clit through the lace—inhaling deeply, greedily, like he was trying to drown himself in your scent. A long, broken moan vibrated straight through your core as he breathed you in—once, twice, three times—his whole body shuddering with how good you smelled.
Then he opened his mouth.
Wide.
And dragged his tongue flat and hard up the entire length of your soaked slit through the lace. The rough texture of the fabric dragged deliciously over your swollen folds, catching on your clit with every pass. He licked again—broader this time—tongue pressing firm and hot, soaking the already drenched lace even more with his spit.
“God—taste so fucking good,” he mumbled between licks, voice wrecked. “Even through this… so sweet… so wet… can’t get enough—never gonna get enough—” His hands gripped your thighs tighter—fingers digging in possessively—as he smushed his face deeper, cheeks flushed and slick with your arousal, chin glistening.
“Tell me you love it,” he pleaded against you, words muffled and frantic. “Tell me my tongue feels good—please, baby—tell me I’m making you feel so fucking good—”
“Yes—fuck, Jake—your mouth is perfect—don’t stop—please don’t stop tasting me like that—”
Jake was utterly gone.
“Jake—please—” you gasped, voice breaking on a whine. “Please… take them off. I need your tongue on me—properly. Need to feel you—please, puppy, I can’t take it anymore—”
“Anything,” he rasped, voice trembling. “Anything for you.” With shaking hands, he hooked his fingers under the soaked lace at your hips and tugged the fabric down your thighs.
You were spread open for him—glistening, swollen, blooming like the prettiest flower he’d ever seen. Your folds were dark and slick, clit throbbing visibly, entrance fluttering with every shaky breath you took. A fresh trickle of arousal slipped free, sliding down toward your ass, and Jake made a low, devastated sound in the back of his throat before he dove back in—face-first, no hesitation, no lace in the way this time.
The first real taste of you made him groan so deep it vibrated through your entire body. His hands gripped your thighs harder, spreading you wider, holding you open as he buried his face between your legs like he never wanted to leave.
And god almighty—he never wanted to.
His mouth worked messily, greedily, with no trace of restraint left. Long, sloppy drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, lapping up every drop of your arousal like he was dying of thirst and you were the only thing that could save him.
The sounds were filthy.
Wet. Obscene. Disgusting in the best possible way.
Every time his tongue plunged back into your dripping entrance, there was a lewd shlick—the slick glide of his tongue through your folds, followed by the wet slurp as he sucked your arousal straight from the source.
Then his hands moved. He slid both palms up the backs of your thighs, fingers hooking under the soft, swollen lips of your pussy before he pulled them apart—spreading you wide open, exposing every inch of your glistening, fluttering core to his hungry gaze.
He didn’t even give you time to feel shy. He dove right back in—face buried even deeper now, tongue thrusting inside you, fucking you while his nose ground against your clit.
“Jake—oh god—Jake—yes—right there—fuck—”
Your hips rolled shamelessly against his face, grinding your clit against his tongue, smearing your arousal across his cheeks, his chin, his nose. He was soaked—face glistening, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut in pure ecstasy as he devoured you like a man who’d never eat again.
Then—while his lips were sealed tight around your throbbing bud, tongue flicking fast and relentless—two of his fingers slid down through your dripping folds.
He teased your entrance first—slow circles around the fluttering hole, collecting your slick before pressing the tips inside. Just the first knuckles—enough to make you gasp—then deeper, until both long fingers were buried to the hilt.
The moment Jake’s fingers sank fully inside you—long, thick, curling perfectly against that spongy spot deep within—your whole body seized.
A sharp, broken shout tore from your throat—“Jake—oh fuck—!”—and then you were coming.
Hard.
Your walls clamped down around his fingers like a vice, fluttering and pulsing in violent, rhythmic waves as the orgasm ripped through you. Slick gushed around his knuckles, coating his hand, dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets. Your back arched off the mattress, fingers yanking at his hair so tightly you were sure it hurt, but Jake only moaned louder.
When the first brutal wave finally began to ebb, Jake pulled back from your clit with a loud, wet pop—lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping with your release. He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. He crawled up your body in one fluid motion as he settled between your legs. His fingers never left you—still buried deep, still curling lazily inside your fluttering walls.
Then his mouth crashed down on yours.
You moaned helplessly into him, arms wrapping around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, arms wound tight around his neck, nails raking down the backs of his shoulders, leaving stinging little trails he’d feel tomorrow and love.
Minutes passed like that. Maybe longer. Time dissolved into nothing but heat, wet sounds, and the feeling of Jake consuming you from the inside out.
Then—reluctantly—he pulled his mouth off yours. A thick string of spit connected your bottom lip to his for a heartbeat before it snapped.
“Need to taste you again,” he rasped, voice ruined. “Everywhere.”
And then he started moving down. Open-mouthed kisses. Hot. Hungry. Worshipful.
He kissed the corner of your mouth to your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a fresh bruise into the skin he’d already marked earlier. Lower. Lower. His mouth found your tits again—immediately latching onto one nipple. At the exact same moment, you felt pressure at your entrance.
A third finger.
He didn’t force it—just nudged, teasing the slick, fluttering rim, letting your own arousal coat the tip while he waited.
You answered instantly.
Your thighs fell open wider, hips canting up in a silent, desperate plea.
He moaned against your breast—vibrating the sensitive bud—before he started pushing in.
Slow.
So fucking slow.
Just the tip at first, letting you feel the stretch, then deeper, until all three thick fingers were buried inside you, spreading you open, filling you so perfectly your eyes rolled back. Your walls fluttered wildly around the new fullness, clenching and releasing as he curled them gently, stroking that perfect spot over and over.
The stretch of his three thick fingers inside you was overwhelming—perfect, burning, delicious. They filled you so completely, knuckles brushing every sensitive wall as he pushed in slow and deep, then dragged back out with agonizing patience before thrusting in again. Every time he curled them—hooking right against that spongy, electric spot—your walls fluttered wildly around him, clenching down like you were trying to keep him buried forever.
“Jake—oh god—fuck—” Your fingers tightened in his hair, yanking him closer to your chest while your other hand cradled his face like he was something precious.
Jake never wanted to let go.
His mouth stayed latched to your breast—specifically that one perfect, swollen nipple. Every few seconds, he let his teeth graze—just a gentle scrape, a soft chew—nothing hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your whole body jolt. He’d nibble lightly at the tender flesh around the areola, then soothe it immediately with his tongue, sucking the nipple back between his lips like he couldn’t bear to be parted from it even for a second.
He had always had a thing for keeping something in his mouth.
A pacifier when he was little. A pen cap when he was nervous. His own fingers when he was deep in thought.
And now—you.
The taste of your skin, the weight of you on his tongue, the way you filled his mouth so perfectly—it was everything he’d ever craved without knowing it.
You didn’t hate it.
Not even close.
Your reactions told him everything.
Every time his teeth grazed, you gasped—sharp and needy—hips bucking up against his thrusting fingers. Every time he chewed softly, nibbling like he was savoring the softest candy, your thighs trembled and squeezed around his head, trapping him there. Your fingers in his hair tightened to the point of pain, yanking him closer, pressing his face deeper into your chest like you were trying to smother him with your tits—and god, he would have happily died like that.
His mouth stayed locked on that one perfect breast—the right one, the one that seemed to fit his lips like it was made for him. It throbbed under his attention—dark, puffy, flushed an angry pink. It pulsed against his tongue with every heartbeat, swollen and hypersensitive, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight between your legs every time he drew it deeper.
“Jake—fuck—yes—don’t stop—suck harder—please—”
The desperate whines spilling from your lips, the way your body arched and shook, the way you clung to him like you’d die if he pulled away—it was too much.
Jake felt it—the perfect moment.
With a low, muffled groan against your breast, he shifted his hand. Three fingers were already stretching you wide—curling deep, stroking that perfect spot over and over—but he needed more.
You needed more.
He was big. Far too much to take without preparation. And he refused to hurt you. He wanted you ready. Desperate. Begging for every inch when the time came.
He kept his mouth working to keep you distracted, keep you lost in the pleasure. At the same time, a fourth finger nudged at your entrance—sliding through the dripping slick, teasing the already stretched rim before he pushed in.
The stretch was intense—burning, overwhelming. Four thick fingers spreading you wide, filling you so completely your walls fluttered wildly around him, clenching and releasing in helpless little spasms. He curled them gently—stroking that perfect spot in slow, deep drags—while his thumb found your clit and started rubbing circles.
You were a mess of high, needy sounds—whimpers turning into broken sobs, hips rolling up to meet every thrust, fingers yanking at his hair so hard it had to sting. Your other hand cradled his cheek, thumb stroking over the flushed skin as you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.
Only when your pleas turned truly desperate—when you were practically sobbing his name, begging for his cock, hips bucking wildly against his hand—did he finally decide you were ready.
With a reluctant whine he pulled his mouth off your breast—leaving the nipple dark, swollen, glistening with spit and throbbing in the cool air.
Then agonizingly, he slipped his fingers out of you.
A thick, wet string of your arousal connected his knuckles to your entrance before it snapped, dripping down onto the sheets. Jake stared at the mess he’d made—your pussy gaping slightly, fluttering around the sudden emptiness, slick coating his hand from wrist to fingertips—and groaned like a dying man.
Without hesitation, he brought his dripping fingers to his mouth. He sucked them in deep—eyes fluttering shut, cheeks hollowing as he licked every trace of you off his skin.
You watched him—breathless, mesmerized—watching the way his tongue swirled around his knuckles, the way his eyes rolled back a little, the way he drooled over his own hand like he couldn’t get enough.
Then his gaze flicked back to you—dark, hungry, adoring. He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop and brought them to your lips instead. “Open,” he whispered, voice trembling.
You did—immediately—parting your lips so he could slide his slick fingers inside. You tasted yourself on his skin and sucked eagerly.
Jake’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped lower—to your open, dripping pussy, folds swollen and glistening, entrance fluttering like it was begging for him. And god—it was begging. Winking at him. Opening for him. Practically pleading for his cock.
Jake groaned and pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. He wrapped his hand around the thick base of his cock—veins pulsing visibly under the flushed skin, head swollen dark and leaking a steady stream of precome that dripped in slow, silvery strands. He lined himself up, the fat, blunt tip kissing your entrance—hot, slick, pressing insistently against your fluttering hole.
He watched—completely entranced, eyes dark and glassy—as he started to push in.
The first inch was already a challenge.
Your pussy opened for him, stretching around the impossibly thick head like it was being forced to learn how to accommodate something so massive. Your walls fluttered wildly, clenching and spasming around the intrusion, trying to adjust to the sheer girth that was splitting you open. It felt like he was carving out new space inside you, reshaping you to fit only him.
You couldn’t breathe properly. Every shallow inhale came out as a shaky whimper. Your thighs trembled around his hips, muscles jumping with the effort of staying open for him.
“Fuck—baby—” Jake choked out, voice wrecked and trembling. “You’re so tight… so fucking tight… trying to take me… god, look at you—trying so hard to let me in…” The head popped past your entrance with a soft, wet sound, and your walls clamped down hard around him in reflex. A sharp, high gasp tore from your throat—half pleasure, half overwhelmed sting—as the thick ridge stretched you wider than you’d ever been stretched before.
“Jake—oh god—” you whimpered, voice cracking. “You’re so big—too big—it’s—fuck—it’s stretching me so much—”
“Shh—shh, baby—I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking with both restraint and awe. “You’re doing so good… taking me so perfectly… just breathe for me… let me in… let your pretty pussy open up for my cock…” He rocked forward another fraction—barely an inch—and you cried out softly, nails digging into his shoulders. The stretch burned hotter now, your walls fluttering desperately around the thick intrusion, trying to accommodate the impossible girth. You could feel every vein, every ridge as he sank deeper—slow, torturous, filling you so completely it felt like he was reaching places inside you no one else had ever touched.
“Fuck—look at that,” he groaned, eyes fixed on where your bodies joined. “Look how your little pussy is stretching around me… taking my fat cock… so greedy for it… so wet and hot… god, you’re perfect… made for me…”
Another inch.
Your back arched, a broken moan spilling from your lips as the head nudged against that deep, sensitive spot inside you. The pressure was everywhere—filling you so full it felt like he was rearranging your insides, claiming every inch of space as his. “Jake—please—” you sobbed, voice trembling. “It’s so much—so deep—stretching me so wide—feels like you’re gonna break me—”
You couldn’t take it anymore.
The sound of his voice pushed you right to the edge of sanity. With a soft, needy whimper you slid both hands up to cradle his face—thumbs brushing the sharp line of his jaw—and pulled him down into a fierce, hungry kiss. The moment your lips crashed against his—fierce, hungry, desperate—Jake’s entire world narrowed to that single point of contact and his restraint shattered like glass.
His hips snapped forward in one brutal, perfect thrust.
The last thick inches drove into you hard—burying him to the hilt so deep the fat, swollen head slammed right up against your cervix with a force that punched the air from your lungs.
You screamed into his mouth—high, startled, overwhelmed—back bowing off the mattress, thighs clamping around his hips like a vice.
“You took me—” he rasped, voice cracking with awe and disbelief. “All of me—all of me—god, look at you… stretching around my cock like you were fucking made for it… so tight… so hot… I can feel you squeezing me—milking me—fuck, baby, you’re perfect… so fucking perfect…” The overwhelming heat, the tight, rippling grip of your walls clenching around every pulsing inch of him—it was too much. Too perfect. Too everything.
“You’re squeezing me so good… feels like you’re trying to keep me inside forever…” He started rocking into you—shallow thrusts. Just a few inches back and forth, never pulling out too far, never giving you a second without feeling him. The wet, filthy schlick of him moving inside you filled the room, mixing with your shared breaths and soft moans.
Then—he made the mistake of looking down. He only meant to admire your tits but his gaze drifted lower.
And he froze.
There—right above your pubic bone—was the unmistakable bulge of his cock. Every slow rock made it shift—his thick head pressing up against your lower belly, the outline visible under your skin like a brand.
Jake’s breath punched out of him in a strangled groan.
“Oh… fuck…”
Something primal snapped inside him. With no warning—no hesitation—he pulled all the way out. Until only the fat, leaking tip remained nestled against your entrance.
Your walls clenched around nothing—aching at the sudden emptiness—and you whimpered, hips lifting instinctively.
Then he thrusted in. Hard. Deep. One brutal stroke that buried him to the hilt again.
Your back arched off the mattress with a raw, broken scream “Jahke—!”
His mouth found your throat—teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to mark—while his hands flew to your waist, gripping your waist like handles, fingers digging into the soft flesh, using the leverage to yank you back onto his cock every time he pulled out. “Look at how deep I am inside you… look at this fucking bulge—see it? See how my cock stretches your little belly every time I bottom out? That’s me. That’s my dick rearranging your insides, making you feel me in places no one else ever has.”
He made sure you felt every thick, veiny inch drag against your fluttering walls before slamming back in with a wet smack. “Sunghoon could never fuck you like this,” he snarled, the name dripping with venom. “He could never fill you this deep. Never make you scream like that. Never leave you shaking and dripping and marked the way I do. He’d be done in two minutes—average little cock barely touching the sides—while I’m here splitting you open, ruining this perfect pussy for anyone else.” Another brutal thrust—hard enough to make your tits bounce, hard enough to punch a raw cry from your throat. “He’d never make you cry from how good it feels,” Jake continued, voice shaking with triumph. “Never make you come so hard your legs stop working. Never pump you so full of cum that it leaks out for hours. He’d never look down and see his own cock bulging in your stomach like this—like I’m branding you from the inside. You’re mine. This pussy? This body? All mine. Not his. Never his.”
He leaned back just enough to look down—eyes locked on the obscene outline of his cock moving under your skin—watching it shift with every deep, claiming thrust. “That’s me. That’s how much bigger I am. That’s how much better I fuck you. He could never do this. Could never make you take every fucking inch like you were born for it. Could never make you sob my name while your tight little cunt milks me dry.” He slammed in again—harder—making the bulge rise sharply under your lower belly. “Say it,” he demanded, voice low and dangerous, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Tell me who owns this pussy. Tell me who fucks you like this. Tell me who you belong to.”
You could barely speak—voice wrecked, breath punched out of you with every thrust—but the words spilled out anyway, broken and desperate. “You—you, Jake—only you—fuck—only your cock—only yours—”
He groaned—deep, guttural, victorious—and fucked you even harder, hands bruising your waist, hips snapping forward like he was trying to imprint himself into your very core. “Damn right,” he snarled against your throat.
Then—without warning—Jake’s hands slid under your ass. Strong arms flexed under your thighs, biceps bulging as he lifted you clean off the mattress in one smooth, powerful motion. The world tilted for a heartbeat—your back leaving the sheets, your weight shifting entirely onto him—as he pulled you up and settled you firmly in his lap, legs draped over his hips like you belonged there.
You sank down hard—gravity and his guiding hands forcing you onto his cock in one brutal, breathtaking drop. The thick length speared into you deeper than before, the angle hitting new, untouched places inside you that made your vision blur and a raw, high-pitched cry rip from your throat. He was too big, too deep, too everything.
He set a punishing rhythm immediately: slow on the upstroke, lifting you with those powerful hands until only the thick, flared head remained nestled just inside your entrance, then he yanked you back down, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke that punched the air from your lungs. Your ass met his thighs with a sharp, wet slap that echoed through the cabin, followed immediately by your broken, high-pitched moan as he filled you completely once more.
Again. And again.
Each time he yanked you down, your breasts bounced heavily—full, flushed, marked with the dark red-purple blooms of his bites and the faint indents of his teeth. The soft, bruised flesh jiggled with every rough drop, practically begging for attention.
And Jake?
Jake needed his mouth busy.
Always had.
The sight of your tits bouncing right in front of his face—close enough to taste—was the most tempting invitation he’d ever been given.
With a low, broken groan that sounded more animal than human, Jake surged forward.
His mouth crashed onto your right breast like a starving man finally allowed to feast. No preamble, no teasing—he simply opened wide and took the swollen, dark nipple deep into the wet heat of his mouth, lips sealing tight around the areola as he sucked hard enough to hollow his cheeks.
His free hand slid up cupping the underside of your other breast. He lifted it, squeezed, then slapped—hard enough to make the flesh jiggle. The sharp smack echoed through the room, followed immediately by your high, broken moan. He watched, utterly fascinated as the red bloom of his handprint bloomed across the pale skin. Another slap—harder—watching the flesh move in hypnotic ripples.
“Jahykeee—” The sound came out high and needy, open-mouthed, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your head fell back. You couldn’t form full sentences anymore—just his name, over and over, moaned like a prayer.
Everything was wet.
Disgusting.
Perfect.
You were babbling now—incoherent, desperate little sounds that barely formed words. “gonna come—oh god—”
A few more brutal thrusts—deep, punishing, hips snapping up to meet every downward slam—and Jake broke. With a raw groan that vibrated against your breast, he buried himself to the hilt one last time and came. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep inside you—pulse after violent pulse—filling you so full you could feel every spurt painting your walls.
The sheer volume of his cum filled you so completely you could feel it sloshing gently with every tiny shift of your hips, warm and heavy, some of it already leaking out around the base of his cock in slow, creamy rivulets that dripped down his balls and onto the sheets beneath you. Neither of you moved to pull apart.
You didn’t want to. He didn’t want to.
His mouth stayed latched to your swollen nipple—nursing with slow, lazy pulls that made the tender bud throb against his tongue. Every few seconds he’d give a tiny, gentle suck—like he was drawing comfort, drawing life from you. He gnawed softly at the areola, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you shiver, then returned to nursing with quiet, contented hums vibrating against your chest.
You let your own hands drift up—fingers threading gently through his damp, messy hair. You smoothed it back from his forehead, petting him slowly, lovingly, nails scratching lightly over his scalp in soothing little circles.
“Good boy,” you whispered, voice soft and wrecked. “Filled me up so perfectly…”
That made him melt.
A high, broken whimper escaped around your nipple as his hips gave a tiny, helpless roll beneath you. The motion dragged his still-hard cock against your sensitive walls, stirring the thick load he’d just pumped deep inside you.
You gasped—sweet and soft—at the sensation.
“Good boy… look at you—still so hard for me… still filling me up…”
Jake’s entire body trembled against yours—shaking like a leaf in a storm—his face buried so deep between your breasts that his nose pressed into the soft valley, inhaling you like you were the only air he needed. His arms wrapped around your waist tighter, hands splayed wide across your lower back, fingers digging in just enough to keep you locked against him. He wasn’t thrusting anymore—not really. He was just… moving. Like his body couldn’t bear to be still inside you.
“Please say it again… please…” He sounded so small, so utterly wrecked. The filthy boy who’d just fucked you senseless was gone. In his place was this trembling, desperate thing.
You cradled his face gently between your hands, thumbs brushing over the flushed apples of his cheeks, feeling the way he trembled under your touch. His eyes—big, glassy, and completely lost—lifted to meet yours, pupils blown wide with need and adoration.
“My sweet puppy,” you murmured, voice soft but firm, lips brushing his forehead. “You’ve been so good for me. You can fuck me again, baby. You have my permission, puppy. Take what you need.”
A broken, grateful whine tore from his throat—high and shaky—like the words alone were enough to unravel him completely. “Thank you—thank you—” he choked out, voice cracking as he nuzzled into your neck for a heartbeat before lifting his head.
You tilted his chin up with gentle fingers, guiding his mouth to yours.
The kiss started soft—slow, deep, tender. You led at first, tongue sliding against his in lazy, loving strokes, swallowing the little whimpers he let out every time you nipped his bottom lip. He melted into it—letting you take control, letting you set the pace—hands trembling where they gripped your hips like he was afraid to move without your say-so.
But Jake was needy.
Desperate.
And he could only hold back for so long.
A low moan slipped out against your mouth as his tongue plunged deeper—still following your rhythm at first, but growing hungrier, chasing every slide of your tongue like you were pure nectar he’d die without. You could taste the salt of his tears, the faint musk of your earlier release still lingering on his tongue, and it made you moan softly into him.
You started moving—lifting yourself up his thick length with agonizing slowness, letting him feel every dragging inch as your walls clung to him, fluttering and squeezing around his girth. When only the swollen head remained inside you—stretching your entrance wide—you sank back down in one smooth, deep drop, taking him to the hilt again.
Jake’s entire body jerked beneath you, and his hands on your hips tightened, fingers digging in just enough to help guide your rhythm, lifting you just enough on the upstroke, then guiding you back down with gentle pressure, making sure you took every inch. But he didn’t thrust up into you. He didn’t dare. He just… assisted. Letting you use him exactly how you wanted.
Eventually you could feel it building again—slow, hot, inevitable. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his waist, breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the pressure crested. “Jake.. gonna—gonna come—” you sobbed, voice breaking into a high, desperate whine.
The second the words left your lips, something shifted in him. His hands—previously only guiding, tightened. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave fresh marks over the old ones, and he took over.
No more teasing rhythm. No more letting you lead.
He surged upward driving his cock deep inside you in one smooth, punishing stroke that punched the air from your lungs. Your back arched violently, a raw cry tearing from your throat as he bottomed out again. One hand slid up your side cupping the heavy curve of your breast, thumb flicking over the swollen, spit-slick nipple before pinching it hard enough to make you gasp. His other hand slipped between your bodies—fingers finding your clit immediately, rubbing fast little circles, then pinching the sensitive bud between his fingers, rolling it gently before flicking it hard enough to make your hips buck.
“Gonna come so pretty for me, aren’t you? Gonna cream all over my dick while I fill you up again—”
You shattered.
Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave—walls clamping down around his cock in violent, fluttering spasms. Your thighs squeezed his hips so tight it hurt, toes curling, vision whiting out at the edges.
You went limp beneath him, your arms flopped weakly to your sides, legs splayed open around him, chest heaving with ragged breaths. You could barely think, barely move—just lay there, wrecked and panting, letting him use you as he chased his own release. And with a few more desperate grinds, he broke.
With a muffled cry, he came again—hot, thick ropes flooding deep inside you, mixing with the first load until you felt impossibly fuller.
You both stayed like that—locked together, trembling—for long minutes. Jake’s hands roamed lazily over your body, petting your sides, squeezing your ass, like he was memorizing every curve.
Then slowly—ever so slowly—he shifted, with a soft, reluctant whine—he started to pull out.
You winced at the feeling—sharp and empty—as his cock dragged against your oversensitive walls. A gush of his cum followed immediately, spilling out of you in a warm, thick flood that ran down your ass and pooled on the sheets. The sudden loss made you whimper, thighs twitching.
But before you could even process it— Jake’s mouth was there, strong hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide—and buried his face in your pussy.
You shouted—high and startled—“Jake—fuck—too much—!”
Overstimulation hit like lightning—your hips bucking up instinctively, hands flying to his hair to push him away as his tongue dragged flat up your leaking slit.
But Jake didn’t budge.
His tongue pushed past your swollen folds, lapping at the creamy mess he’d left inside you: his thick cum mixed with your slick, warm and salty-sweet on his tongue. He scooped every drop with broad swirls—moaning low against your pussy like the flavor was pure ecstasy.
“Gotta clean you,” he mumbled against your folds, voice thick and wrecked, lips moving wetly as he spoke. “Gotta taste us…”
He ate you thoroughly—relentlessly—tongue curling inside you, swallowing with a low hum—throat working visibly, nose nudging your swollen clit with every deep thrust of his tongue.
You tried to push at his head, but he wasn’t having it. He grabbed both of your wrists in one large hand and pinned them to your stomach—holding you down, while his other hand clamped harder on your thigh, thumb stroking the soft inner skin in slow, soothing circles.
“Stay still, baby,” he rasped between licks, voice muffled and dripping with need. “Let me clean you… I’m not done yet… not even close…”
He kept going—tongue plunging deep, then dragging up to your clit before sucking the swollen bud between his lips with gentle insistence. He nursed on it softly—sucking, licking, humming in quiet bliss.
He kept going until your pussy was clean, glistening only with his spit now, fluttering weakly around nothing.
He gave one last long, savoring lick from your entrance all the way up to your clit—collecting the final traces—before pulling back with a low, wrecked groan.
He crawled up your body until his face hovered over yours.
Then he kissed you.
Deep. Slow. Filthy.
His skin was flushed and sweat-slicked, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, but his eyes never left yours—dark, glassy, shining with something so raw and tender it made your heart stutter.
When his face finally hovered over yours—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the salt and musk of sex clinging to his skin—he paused for one heartbeat, just breathing you in.
Then he kissed you.
His mouth sealed over yours like he was trying to crawl inside you all over again—lips soft but insistent, parting yours with a gentle nudge before his tongue slid in, hot and thick and unhurried. The first taste hit you immediately: the heady, salty-sweet mix of both of you—his cum still lingering on his tongue, thick and musky, blended with the slick tang of your own arousal that coated every inch of his mouth. It was obscene, intimate, utterly filthy in the most perfect way—evidence of everything he’d done to you, everything you’d let him do, still warm and fresh on his tongue.
You moaned into the kiss and he groaned back—low and wrecked—swallowing the sound like it was nectar, his tongue sliding deeper, curling around yours in slow, lazy drags that made your toes curl against the sheets.
The kiss was sloppy, unashamed—filthy in the best way.
He shifted slightly—weight settling more firmly over you—and one of his hands slid down your body with intent. Rough fingertips trailed over your ribs, your stomach, until they reached the space between your thighs. He cupped your pussy in one big palm—hot, calloused, fingers splaying wide to cover every inch of your swollen, sensitive folds.
Your thighs clamped around his hand instantly—reflexive—trapping him there. The wet heat of you was obscene— still swollen and tender from everything he’d done to you.
Without breaking the kiss, his ring and middle fingers slipped inside you easily—two thick digits sinking deep into your heat with a soft, wet schlick. Your walls fluttered around them immediately, still sensitive, still clenching like they were trying to pull him deeper. He curled them slowly—hooking against that perfect spot inside you—while his thumb brushed feather-light over your swollen clit, circling once, twice, then pressing down just enough to make your hips buck. Your own hand came down to cover his—fingers wrapping around his wrist, not to stop him, but hold on, feeling the flex of his tendons, the way his forearm tensed every time he pushed deeper.
He worshipped you like this for long, unhurried minutes—fingers massaging slow and deep, thumb circling your clit with perfect patience, mouth moving against yours in lazy, loving strokes. You could feel yourself climbing again, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly despite the oversensitivity. But Jake felt it too. He felt the way your walls started fluttering faster, the way your breath hitched against his mouth, the way your fingers tightened around his wrist.
With a soft, reluctant groan he finally eased his fingers out carefully, curling them one last time against that perfect spot before sliding free.
He broke the kiss just enough to press his forehead to yours—breathing hard, eyes glassy and dark with adoration.
“Don’t wanna push you too far, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. “You’ve already given me everything.” He pressed one last, soft kiss to your swollen lips—gentle this time, then collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his arms, chest to chest, legs tangling, his face immediately burying in the crook of your neck. His breath came in shaky, happy little puffs against your skin as he nuzzled closer, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, the other resting possessively on your hip.
“Mine…” he whispered, voice hoarse and drowsy, lips brushing your pulse point. “All mine…”
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your throat—then another, and another—like he couldn’t stop tasting you even now.
You hummed—soft, content—fingers threading gently through his damp hair, petting him slowly while your other arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close.
Completely, blissfully content.
The next morning dawned bright and mercilessly hot, the kind of summer day that turned the entire camp into a shimmering haze. You stood in front of the tiny mirror in your cabin, trying—and failing—to cover the evidence of last night.
The marks were everywhere.
Dark, blooming hickeys and faint bite marks painted your throat like a collar of bruises. A constellation of red-purple blooms trailed down your collarbone, over the tops of your breasts, and disappeared beneath the neckline of your top. Your inner thighs were mottled with finger-shaped imprints and suction marks, and your hips bore the faint outline of Jake’s hands where he’d gripped you like he never wanted to let go.
You tried a scarf—ridiculous in this heat. A high-collared shirt—immediately discarded when sweat beaded on your neck within minutes. Long sleeves? Impossible. The sun was already brutal, and the thought of layers made you feel like you were suffocating.
So you gave up.
You tugged on your usual camp uniform and stepped outside. Immediately, the heat pressed against your skin like a living thing, but more noticeable than the temperature was the way your body moved.
You were limping.
Not dramatically, but enough that every step sent a dull, delicious ache radiating from between your thighs. Your pussy still felt swollen, tender, stretched in a way that made you clench involuntarily every time you shifted your weight. And your skin—god, your skin—glowed. That unmistakable post-sex flush clung to you, making you look like you’d been thoroughly, repeatedly ravished.
The female counselors noticed first.
They were gathered near the mess hall, sipping lukewarm coffee, when you limped past.
“Holy shit,” Minji—choked on her drink, eyes widening as she took in the full display. “Girl, what the hell happened to you? Did you get attacked by a vacuum cleaner?”
Chaeryeong—leaned forward, grinning wickedly. “No, no, look at those marks. That’s not a vacuum. That’s a whole-ass man. Who fucked you so good you look like you got mauled?”
You laughed—hoarse, a little breathless—and tried to shrug it off, but the movement pulled at a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, making you wince.
“Someone got carried away,” you said, voice still a little raspy from all the moaning and screaming the night before.
“Carried away?” Yuna echoed, eyes sparkling. “Babe, that’s not carried away. That’s claimed. Look at your thighs—those are handprints. Plural. Who is this man and does he have a brother?”
The male counselors, meanwhile, were noticeably quieter.
They glanced over—then quickly looked away. Some flushed red. Others suddenly found the ground very interesting. Sunghoon, in particular, was standing near the canoe rack pretending to check ropes, but his ears were bright pink and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes.
The kids were… less subtle.
A group of eight-year-olds ran up while you were trying to help set up the morning activity board.
“Whoa, Miss, what happened to your neck?” one little girl asked, pointing openly at the dark hickey just below your jaw.
Another boy gasped dramatically. “Did a bear get you? Or a tiger? You look like you got mauled by an animal!”
You crouched down—wincing slightly—and ruffled his hair. “No bears, promise,” you said with a grin. “Just… a very enthusiastic mosquito.”
The kids blinked, clearly unconvinced, but ran off to tell their friends about the “mosquito attack.”
The adult staff—counselors and the camp director included—mostly just stared at you like you’d grown a second head. A few raised eyebrows. A couple of knowing smirks. One of the older female staff members muttered something about “kids these days” while pointedly looking anywhere but at your neck.
But none of it really bothered you. Not when Jake was trailing behind you like a lovesick shadow.
He hadn’t let you out of his sight since breakfast—still a little dazed, still a little sore, still glowing. He carried your water bottle without being asked. He hovered while you handed out activity schedules. He practically vibrated with pride every time someone’s eyes flicked to your marks and then to him.
And when Sunghoon tried to approach you near the craft table—casual, friendly, like nothing had changed—Jake was suddenly right there, sliding an arm around your waist, chin resting possessively on your shoulder.
Sunghoon blinked, glanced at the obvious handprints on your hips peeking out from under your top, then at Jake’s smug little smile—and backed off without another word.
Jake practically preened.
By evening, the bonfire crackled high, kids roasting marshmallows, counselors scattered on logs and blankets. Jake was sitting on one of the bigger logs, legs spread, looking every inch the smug, satisfied man who’d finally gotten his prize.
You didn’t even hesitate.
You walked straight over—limp still noticeable—and plopped right into his lap. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling your back flush against his chest. His chin hooked over your shoulder, nose brushing your neck right over one of the darkest hickeys.
“Hi, baby,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and content, just for you.
Kids giggled and whispered. Counselors exchanged looks—some amused, some scandalized, most just resigned. Sunghoon stared into the flames like they’d personally offended him.
Jake didn’t care.
He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck—right over a particularly dark mark—and sighed like the happiest man alive.
You were perfectly content right where you were: settled sideways across Jake’s lap, back resting against his chest, legs draped lazily over one of his thighs. His arms were wrapped around your waist like he was afraid someone might try to steal you away if he let go for even a second. His chin rested on your shoulder, nose occasionally brushing the side of your neck where the darkest, most obvious hickey bloomed like a bruise-colored flower.
You weren’t doing anything.
Just sitting.
Breathing.
Existing in his arms.
And that was more than enough. Because beneath you Jake started to harden.
You felt it happen in stages: the first subtle thickening against the underside of your thigh, the way his cock twitched once, then again, as if waking up. Then the gradual swell, pressing insistently against your ass through the thin layers of your shorts and his. He shifted once—barely a movement, just trying to adjust—and the motion only made him harder, the thick ridge of him settling right between your cheeks.
A soft, involuntary groan slipped from his throat—barely audible over the fire, but you heard it. Felt it rumble against your back. You tilted your head just enough to whisper against the shell of his ear, voice low and teasing, lips brushing the sensitive skin.
“Getting hard just from me sitting on you, puppy?” you murmured, letting your breath ghost over his earlobe. “Poor thing… can’t even control yourself around me anymore, can you?”
Jake’s whole body jerked. “Baby—fuck—” he breathed against your neck, voice wrecked and trembling. “Don’t—don’t say that—please—I’m trying to be good—”
But he wasn’t being good.
Not at all.
His hips gave another tiny, helpless roll—grinding his aching length against you—just enough to make you feel every thick inch. His breath came in short, shaky pants against your throat, lips brushing the bruise he’d left there like he couldn’t help himself.
Across the fire, Heeseung was watching the whole thing with the stupidest, most shit-eating grin on his face.
When Jake’s eyes flicked up—wide, panicked, pleading—Heeseung just raised both thumbs in an exaggerated double-thumbs-up, wiggling his eyebrows like he was at a comedy show.
Really helping the situation.
Jake buried his face deeper into your neck with another pathetic whine, hips twitching again despite his best efforts to stay still. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna lose it right here if you keep talking like that…”
You only smiled—slow, wicked—and shifted just enough to press your ass down a little harder against his straining cock.
“Shhh,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear again. “Be good for me, puppy. Or everyone’s gonna know exactly what you’re thinking about right now.”
Jake’s only answer was a low groan, broken, and completely wrecked.
a/n: i wrote most of this while at work. so sorry its shit.
─── in which a mandatory company dinner becomes a lot more interesting when the guest of honor turns out to be jake sim, the nobody you went to high school with who somehow spent the last ten years becoming the hottest man you've ever seen.
jake sim x fem!reader ; wc: 7.1k. MDNI. oneshot. smut with plot. fingering. oral (m & f receiving). multiple orgasms. riding. creampie. overstimulation. begging. cum eating. hair pulling. dirty talk. pet names. soft dom/sub. unprotected sex (don't). jake yearns for reader.
inspired by "when did you get hot?" by sabrina carpenter.
my masterlist.
⋆˙⟡ a/n :: i just spent the last 4 hours in a flow state writing this, and i think i got a little carried away lol. this is probably my favorite thing i've ever written. please enjoy ;)
“You’ll never guess who’s going to be speaking at the company dinner tonight!”
You glanced up from your computer screen to your best friend and secretary, Eunkyung, who had just burst into your office. You were working on finishing a report that you needed to have done before you left work for the day, and you took a deep breath to remind yourself that it was not the end of the world to be interrupted.
“Who?” you asked, trying to make yourself sound intrigued. The large corporation you worked for had a few company-wide dinners a year, and they always hosted them in the most elaborate venues in Seoul. You knew from a memo that had been sent out that morning that tonight’s venue was a ballroom inside a five-star hotel. You always expected the worst part of each company dinner to be having to talk to people you couldn’t care less about, but somehow, the worst part was always the speaker they brought in.
“It’s someone we went to high school with.”
This piqued your interest, and you focused your full attention on Eunkyung. “What? Who?”
“Sim Jaeyun.”
You let out an amused scoff at that. “You mean Jake? I haven’t thought about him in ten years.”
“I know,” Eunkyung gushed, stepping forward and sitting in one of the two chairs in front of your desk. “I overheard some interns talking about it in the copy room, and they sounded very excited about it.
“Excited about Jake?” you laughed under your breath, raising your eyebrows before returning your eyes to your computer. “Wasn’t he a huge dork? And I don’t remember him being particularly cute, either.”
“I think he was on the soccer team,” Eunkyung said, placing a finger on her chin as she tried to remember as much about him as she could. “He was definitely smart, but that’s really all I remember. He was never one of the boys that caught my eye.”
“That’s surprising considering that every single boy caught your eye,” you mused, your eyes flicking to your friend’s face.
“Yah! They did not!” Eunkyung exclaimed, standing back up and glaring at you before making her way to the door. “Whatever, y/n. I’ll see you tonight. Wear your black dress–I’m sure Jake will love it.”
“Why the hell would I try to impress Jake Sim?”
“I don’t know, those interns sounded very excited about being able to see Jake tonight.”
“Yeah, well, they’re young. As long as a man has a pulse, they’ll fawn over him.”
Eunkyung cast you an amused look before stepping out of your office. “Whatever you say. Bye.”
You watched her go before returning your eyes to your report. Even if the thought of seeing Jake Sim after ten years intrigued you, you were sure that he was still the same dorky kid he had been in high school. You smirked before beginning to type once more.
–
When you stepped into the ballroom that evening, you paused in the archway to take it in. Vaulted ceilings gave way to tiered crystalline chandeliers, bathing the space in a warm, intimate glow. Spread throughout the room were circular tables, all black and decorated with ornate floral centerpieces that you knew must have cost a fortune. Against the back wall, a stage rose elegantly above the ground, and the space where Jake would speak was framed by even more florals. You wondered if these extravagant decorations would outshine the man who was supposed to be the center of the evening.
“Y/n? Are you coming or not?” Eunkyung whispered in your ear. You turned your head to the right, laying eyes on her. She was dressed in a fabulous gown of deep emerald green, and you gave her a small smile before nodding.
“Sorry, just got distracted,” you told her, allowing her to grasp your wrist in her gloved hand. She tugged you toward the seating chart, and you were pleased to find that you had been placed at the same table as your best friend. However, as you scanned the long list of names, a frown found its way onto your face as you realized who else would be sitting at your table.
Just below Eunkyung’s name, in large gold letters, read: Sim Jaeyun, guest of honor.
It appeared that Eunkyung had noticed the same thing, because she looked at you with wide eyes. “Do you think they did that on purpose?”
“How would they know that we all went to high school together? I doubt we’re paying our event planner enough to discover those sorts of connections.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said, and you both made your way to your table. You weaved through a variety of people, both familiar and unfamiliar, and you gave them all your famous smile and a small bow as you passed. Part of the reason you had been so quickly promoted was due to your ruthless work ethic, but you also knew exactly how to charm whoever necessary to get exactly what you wanted.
Once you and Eunkyung had sat at your table, she glanced around and then smiled. “Do you think he’s here yet?” she whispered.
You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of the champagne that had just been poured for you by one of the many servers. “Why should I care? I have more important things in my life to think about than Jake Sim.”
“You don’t think it’s exciting?” she asked, continuing to look around at the people milling about the ballroom. “Finally seeing someone you haven’t thought about in ten years at a company dinner? And the difference now is that you’re a sexy, grown-ass woman who was recently made an executive at her company?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Eunkyung, what are you getting at?”
“I don’t know,” she giggled, giving you a slight nudge. “You always talk about how you need to get back out there, and this feels like the perfect opportunity.”
“You’re such a hopeless romantic,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. However, a small hint of a smile found its way onto your face. “Even if I did want to meet someone, why the hell would I want it to be some guy that I went to high school with?”
Just as you finished speaking, you noticed that Eunkyung’s gaze was now focused on something just behind you, and her eyes widened. Before you even had the chance to speak, you heard a smooth voice come from behind you. One that had just a hint of an Australian accent that you could’ve sworn sounded familiar.
“Is this seat taken?”
You turned toward the voice, lifting your gaze. Once you laid eyes on him, your breath caught in your throat.
The man staring at you now was perhaps the most handsome person you had ever seen. Plump lips, black hair styled just enough to look effortless, a chiseled jawline, a black suit perfectly tailored to highlight the broad shoulders and muscular frame of his body… and the thing that enticed you the most: his confidence in the way he held himself.
You couldn’t look away.
“No,” you said breathlessly. “It’s all yours.”
He gave you a pert smile before raising a hand to pull out the chair, and your lips parted slightly at the defined veins you found there. As you watched him sit down, his movements more graceful than you knew possible, you noticed that there was something slightly familiar about him. You frowned as you watched him, and you shook your head slightly. There was no way you would forget someone like him.
Who the hell was this man, and how had you never met him before? You wished you had spent more time looking at the names of those you would be sitting with instead of worrying about Jake Sim.
“Is this glass mine?” he asked as he gestured toward a champagne flute, and you realized with embarrassment that you had been staring at him. You cursed internally, begging yourself to pull it together. Nobody made you react like this. Ever.
“Yes,” you told him, your voice cool. “I believe they poured it just before you came over here.”
“I see.” He grasped the delicate glass in his slender fingers, and you forced yourself to look away, lest you look like a fool again. “I don’t usually care for champagne, but when in Rome.”
“I don’t either,” you responded, your own perfectly manicured fingers still wrapped loosely around the stem of your own glass. “But I feel like I’ll get judged if I don’t drink it. You never know who's watching.”
He eyed you curiously as he lifted the flute to his lips and took a sip. You watched the column of his neck as he swallowed, and your gaze lingered on him for a moment too long. Once he set the glass back down, he tilted his head slightly and looked you up and down. “Have we met before?”
“Not that I know of,” you responded with a shrug. You hoped that you still appeared detached—uninterested. “But it’s a pleasure to finally meet you—ah, I never asked your name.”
He looked as if he were about to speak, but at that moment, an older man approached him and murmured something in his ear. He nodded and stood before looking down at you. “I apologize, I’ll have to get your name later. There’s something I need to do first.”
You nodded, and you watched him adjust the cuffs of his suit before he disappeared into the crowd. Once he was gone, you glanced at Eunkyung, who looked as if she were about to burst with excitement. You gently kicked her under the table, shaking your head almost imperceptibly.
“He is totally into you!” she hissed, clapping her hands together quietly. “The way he looked at you… Jesus Christ, if someone looked at me that way, I’d be pulling them into the closet.”
“Eunkyung, this is why I can’t take you anywhere,” you said, but you knew you were smiling. She grasped your shoulder in her cool hand and shook you slightly, and you let out a small huff of a laugh.
“When he gets back over here, I expect you to lay your claim on him immediately,” she said, glancing at the people who were beginning to take a seat at your table. “You and I both saw how fucking hot he is. You don’t want anyone else getting to him before you.”
“I know, I know.”
You noticed that the talking that had filled the room just a moment ago had quieted into a soft murmur, and you craned your neck to see if Jake had made his way to the stage yet.
“Do you see him?” Eunkyung whispered to you as the lights in the ballroom dimmed.
You could tell that a figure was now standing on-stage, but the spotlight had not yet turned on. A few curious voices filled the air, wondering why the speaker had been left shrouded in darkness—and mystery.
Then, the spotlight slowly turned on, illuminating the man who now stood on the stage.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said, flashing a dazzling smile at the crowd. “My name is Sim Jaeyun, and I am honored to be here with you all.”
Sim Jaeyun. Your eyes widened as the realization hit you.
“When I was invited by the Young Group to speak here tonight, I was flattered. To be featured as the guest of honor at an event hosted by a prestigious company such as the Young Group is a wonderful gift. If I'm being honest, I spent too many hours figuring out exactly what I wanted to say to a group of lovely people such as all of you.”
Scattered laughter sounded throughout the room, but you didn’t even notice–you were still frozen.
“As I rewrote this speech more times than I care to admit, I realized that, ten years ago, I did not think that someone like me would ever be the one to speak at an event like this. I was never the person that anyone expected to be here. I was never the loudest in the room growing up, and I actually struggled to feel as if I belonged in any room at all. However, I learned quickly in my career that you don’t need to be the loudest in any room–you just need to be the most consistent.
“And that is what I would like to speak about tonight: consistency. As I’m sure you’re all aware, our life in business is never linear. There will always be setbacks, unexpected challenges, and hurdles that you must be able to combat. Now, you may ask, how do we respond to these complications?”
Jake smiled, and you could have sworn that his eyes landed on yours for just a moment. “With a company as successful as the Young Group, I’m sure you have all figured out the answer to this question, but I would like to share my thoughts with you regardless. If you were to ask me, I would say that the key to success is being consistent and tenacious in the way that you face each challenge. In my six years in the industry since I graduated top of my class from Seoul National University, it has been my consistency and discipline that has gotten me into rooms such as this one.”
He paused for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips, and you could almost feel the draw of the audience as they waited for his next words.
“In business, failure is inevitable. If you’re not failing, you’re frankly not trying hard enough. Everything we do is a calculated risk, and there will always be errors. What truly matters at the end of the day is what you do with those errors. Will you allow them to define you? Will you allow them to make you give up? Or will you use them as a stepping stone to eventual success?
“Now, I won’t speak for much longer, as I’m certain I just heard someone’s stomach growl–” more laughter echoed through the room. “But I want to challenge you to reflect on something tonight: what do you do when you face setbacks? Do you give up, or do you allow it to hone you into the best version of yourself you can be? Thank you, and enjoy your evening.”
Thunderous applause immediately broke out throughout the ballroom as he exited the stage, but it was as if you couldn’t hear it. Your eyes were still glued to the spot where Jake had just been standing, and you couldn’t formulate a single thought. Your mind flashed back to the Jake Sim you had last seen ten years ago, and you couldn't fathom that he had turned into the man who had just spoken on stage. Evidently, a lot could change in ten years.
“Your speech was incredibly well done,” you heard a voice say. You shook your head slightly in an attempt to return to reality, and you noticed that Jake had effortlessly slid into the seat beside you once again. As those at the table around you congratulated him on a job well done, servers began to place steaming entrees on each table. There was so much going on around you that you couldn’t focus—a rare loss in composure that you weren’t used to. You noticed that Eunkyung had excused herself to use the restroom, which forced you to focus on something besides the swirling thoughts inside your head.
After a moment, Jake turned to you and gave you a small smile. “Well, you now know my name. Do I get the pleasure of knowing yours in return?”
You took a breath and collected yourself before sitting up straight and raising the corner of your mouth. “My name is Kim Y/n.”
You watched as he tried to place the familiar name, and once he did, his lips parted into a warm smile. “Y/n? We went to high school together, didn’t we?”
“I believe we did,” you responded, tracing your finger along the rim of your champagne glass. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t recognize you until you were up on stage.”
Jake’s gaze tracked the movement of your finger, and you saw a slight twitch in his neck. “I didn’t recognize you, either. I suppose we’ve both changed a lot, haven’t we?”
“I guess we have.”
You simply stared at each other for a moment, neither speaking, before Jake glanced away and grabbed his fork. “So, y/n, how have you been? What do you do for Young Group?”
“I was actually just promoted to be the Director of Corporate Strategy last month," you said, taking your own fork in your hand. “It’s been an interesting shift, but I truly love what I do. Where are you working now?”
“I recently became the Managing Director of Lee Group’s Asia-Pacific operations.” He carefully pierced a piece of tender steak with his fork before lifting it to his mouth. “I spend a lot of time abroad due to my position, but I love being able to travel across the region freely. It’s been a great way to combine work as well as pleasure.”
As the word pleasure left his lips, you felt a warmth spread through your chest. You watched as he ate the piece of steak, his jaw flexing each time he chewed, and you found that you couldn’t look away.
“I’ve always wanted to travel for work,” you said, looking down at the salad in front of you. “I’ve been given the opportunity to visit the States a couple times, but that’s it. I think it would be enthralling to be able to travel as much as you do.”
“It definitely broadens your horizons, which is especially helpful after a sheltered childhood,” he said. “Growing up both here and Australia was fun, but there’s so much more to the world. I pity anyone who hasn’t gotten to experience it.”
“Do you pity me, then?” you asked, cocking your head to the side. “Compared to you, I’ve seen so little.”
“I don’t know, y/n—would you like to be pitied?” he asked, his words tantalizing to you in a way that was unfamiliar. “Because you don’t strike me as the type of woman who does.”
“If being pitied gets me what I want, then I don’t mind at all.”
“And you strike me as someone who always gets what she wants.”
At that moment, Eunkyung returned from the restroom—interrupting the increasing tension of your conversation with Jake.
“Jaeyun, I don’t know if you remember me, but I also went to high school with you,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “My name is Park Eunkyung.”
“Eunkyung? No way!” he laughed, his perfect teeth showing yet again. “We had biology and chemistry together, didn’t we?”
“I think so,” she responded. “Have you two been catching up while I was gone?”
Jake eyed you, and your heart throbbed at the way his gaze lingered on you. “Something like that.”
As the three of you finished your dinner, you all continued reminiscing on your awkward high school years. Everything Jake said seemed effortless, dripping in charisma and humor that drew you to him more with every word he spoke. After dinner concluded, the plates were cleared away, more champagne was poured, and the mingling that you usually avoided began.
“Would you like to make the rounds with me?” Jake asked you, standing and offering you a hand. “I have a list of people I need to greet, but I honestly hate getting stuck in conversations without someone to help me escape if I need to.”
You let out a laugh at this and glanced at Eunkyung, who had a huge smile plastered on her face. You nodded, grabbing Jake's hand and allowing him to pull you to your feet. As you stood, you were wobbly on your stilettos due to the alcohol coursing through your veins, but Jake quickly steadied you by placing a hand on your lower back. His touch was more intoxicating than any drink you had ever consumed, and you tried to pretend that the small gesture did affect you as much as it did.
As Jake made his way through the ballroom with you by his side, you realized more and more just how respected he was within your company. He was congratulated on his new promotion as well as declared the target of much admiration, and as you watched him converse with ease, you couldn’t help but admire him, too. This was not the Jake Sim you remembered, but you were extremely grateful that you had been given the chance to see him again after all this time. He was magnetic, and you were drawn to him more than you cared to admit.
As the evening inevitably marched towards its conclusion, Jake stopped by the back wall and gazed at the sea of people in front of you. “Well, I think that was everyone.”
“That was… impressive,” you said as you watched people slowly say their goodbyes before filtering out of the ballroom. “I usually leave right after dinner, but you managed to talk to every single person in this room.”
Jake gave you a small smile. “You know, I only did that because I was the guest of honor. They’d never invite me back if I spoke and left.”
“Good point.” You shrugged, glancing up at Jake’s face. Despite the intense nature of the evening, he still looked as effortlessly handsome as he had the first moment you had laid eyes on him hours ago. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
He eyed you curiously. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” you started, searching for the right words. “You’re just so… different now. So accomplished. It’s impressive, I guess.”
“Are you one of the people I mentioned in my speech who doubted me ten years ago?”
You reddened, looking away. “Of course not! We were just so different back then, I guess I never imagined… this.”
“Y/n, I’m kidding,” he said. He grabbed your chin lightly and tilted it upward so that you were looking at him again. “Even if you had been, I don’t care. You heard what I said up there–I never needed anyone to tell me they believed in me or thought I could do whatever I wanted. I’ve always believed in myself, and that’s always been enough.”
Your head swam at the intensity in Jake’s eyes, the way his glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose and how he had rolled the sleeves of his suit up at some point during the night. Nothing turned you on more than a man who was confident and self-assured. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the fact that you hadn’t been with anyone in awhile, but your body lit up with Jake staring at you the way he was. Like you were something to be devoured.
“Y/n,” Jake breathed. “I’m glad I ran into you tonight.”
“Me too.” A pause, and you wondered if you would regret the boldness of your words. “Until tonight, I never realized how badly I wanted you.”
You could tell from the way that he looked at you that his entire body was taught with desire, and he took a deep breath before taking your wrist in his hand and pulling you into the empty corridor just beyond the ballroom. You glanced behind you, checking that nobody had seen you disappear, before Jake dragged you into an empty, dimly lit supply closet.
“Jake?” you whispered as he locked the door behind you. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I can’t wait any longer, y/n,” he exhaled, backing you against the door and leaning down to connect your lips. His kiss was hungry–hungrier than you knew to be possible, and his hand immediately found its way to your chest. The black satin gown you were wearing was low-cut yet elegant, with a deep v that went down to your ribcage. When his fingers found your hardened nipples, he let out a low groan before biting your lip.
You let out a soft cry, wrapping your arms around Jake’s neck. You parted your lips to allow him to explore your mouth with his tongue, and he took no time at all to accept the invitation. Your tongues clashed in a passionate dance, the sweet taste of the champagne finding its way onto your tongue. He kissed you with reckless abandon, and every cell in your body screamed your desire.
As you and Jake continued to kiss feverishly, you slowly rocked your hips into his. You were encouraged by the hardness you found there, and you gripped his lower back in an attempt to draw him even closer to you despite the layers of clothing between your bodies.
“Oh, baby,” Jake groaned against your mouth. His hips moved against yours roughly, both of you breathing heavily as you rubbed your most sensitive parts against each other. “Feels so fuckin’ good when you grind against me like that.”
Jake’s hand found its way beneath the top of your dress, and he grasped your right breast in his warm hand. You quickened the rolling of your hips, throwing your head back so that it hit the door behind you. “J-jesus!” you forced out. “Jake, p-please, I need you so bad.”
The intensity of Jake’s moves only increased for just a moment before he suddenly paused. You were both panting heavily, your body still pressed flush to his. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?” you breathed, running your hand through Jake’s hair as you gazed up at him. He already looked so wrecked for you.
“I can’t fuck you for the first time in a supply closet,” he said, swallowing. “I want to do this right.”
“Where do you want to go instead?”
“We’re in a hotel, y/n,” he said before kissing you briefly. “Let’s just get a room for the night.”
“What if someone notices?” you asked, worry etching its way across your face.
“Who cares?” he whispered, his eyes earnest. “I need you so fucking bad, baby. Please.”
You thought for a moment, weighing your options. Your body sang with desire for Jake, and you didn’t think you would ever forgive yourself if you didn’t spend the night with him, and from the way he looked at you, you knew he was desperate for you to say yes. You sighed before pushing him away lightly, running your fingers through your tousled hair. “Fine. But I’m waiting by the elevators while you get the room.”
Jake grinned at you. “Deal.”
You both made sure the other looked presentable before stepping out of the supply closet. Mercifully, the corridor was empty, and you allowed Jake to lead you toward the lobby. Once you reached the gorgeous room, you stepped away from Jake and made your way to the elevators while he worked on reserving a room. You leaned against the cool marble of the wall, hoping you weren’t still flushed from your escapade in the supply closet. You gave a small, cool smile to everyone who passed by.
As Jake walked over to you, room key in hand, you pretended to not know him. You smoothed your features into unimpressed boredom, and as you and Jake stepped into the elevator, you made your way to the opposite side as him. A few people were still mingling in the lobby, and the last thing you needed was for your carefully constructed demeanor to be jeopardized by your late-night rendezvous with Jake Sim.
Once the doors had closed and the elevator began to ascend, your eyes flicked to Jake. Before you even knew what was happening, he had closed the gap between you, his lips on yours again. Your eyes fluttered closed as he palmed your ass through your dress, letting out a soft moan against his mouth. As the elevator shot up to the top floor, you and Jake entwined yourselves again, and it was almost torturous having to separate again as you reached your floor.
Once the doors opened, you took a deep breath and stepped into the beautifully decorated corridor. Jake gestured for you to follow him, and you looked around briefly before following him. Luckily, the floors were covered in a surprisingly plush carpet, which muffled the sound of your heels as you followed him to your room. Jake unlocked the door quickly and pushed it open so that you could enter.
When you stepped into the room, you realized that Jake hadn’t just gotten you any room. He had booked the notorious Presidential Suite, with a kitchen, sitting room, conference table, and massive bedroom. It seemed as if every wall of the suite was covered in windows that allowed you to see the extensive skyline of Seoul as it stretched out before you.
“Jake, this is crazy,” you said, turning around so that you could see him. “You really want me that bad?”
Your eyes landed on Jake to find that he had already removed his shoes, and he was in the middle of loosening his tie before stripping off his suit jacket.
“You have no fucking idea,” he growled, stalking towards you with a look in his eyes that made you even more wet than you already were. His lips captured yours again, but his kiss was different now. Instead of being in a supply closet, Jake had you alone in the nicest hotel suite in Seoul, and he was going to make use of every square inch of space to show you just how badly he needed you.
Jake’s mouth only lingered on your lips for a moment before he made his way down to your neck, and you gasped sharply as he immediately began to suck on the soft flesh there. You grasped his muscular bicep, arching you back from the hunger with which he ravished you. It was only another second before Jake’s hand found its way into the slit of your dress, and his fingers grazed the wetness between your thighs.
“So wet for me,” Jake’s ragged voice came, his fingers slowly beginning to rub the sensitive bundle of nerves at your apex. “Fuckin’ love how wet you are for me, baby.”
You whimpered at the variety of different sensations, from Jake biting and sucking on your neck to his fingers working between your legs. It had been so long since you had been with someone in this way, allowing someone to see you at your most vulnerable. You spent all your time focused on your career, as you had set your sights on your current position years before it even became available. You were cunning, ambitious, and you had completely neglected this side of you–the side that loved to spend a night having your body worshipped by someone else. You had never expected the first person you slept with in a year to be Jake Sim, but you had always loved surprises.
Jake’s fingers continued to stroke against your clit before he slowly pushed two of his fingers inside you. You let out a cry at the feeling of him inside you, his digits curling and rubbing just right against the spot that had you seeing stars. His fingers worked within you for a moment, your breath repeatedly catching in your throat, before he pushed you onto the couch with his fingers still inside you. As your back hit the plush leather, Jake leaned forward and continued to mark your chest and neck as he fucked you with his fingers.
You had half a mind to feel embarrassed for how quickly you felt your orgasm rising in you, but you realized you didn’t care. Jake was doing everything he could to pleasure you, and he somehow knew all the spots that would send you over the edge faster than you could blink. You began to writhe underneath him as your orgasm threatened to crash over you.
“Baby, I’m g-gonna cum,” you whined, your body convulsing from the pleasure of everything Jake was doing to you.
“I need you to cum for me, angel,” Jake said against the fresh love bite that he had just left on your breast.
That was all it took. You found your peak against Jake’s fingers, and the shockwaves that rocked through your body had your vision going black at the edges. However, as you rode out your climax, Jake did not stop pumping his fingers inside you. He continued on with the same ferocity.
“Jake,” you gasped. “It’s too much. Baby, it’s too much.”
However, Jake kept going. You had never experienced anything like this before, and you cried out from the overstimulation of Jake’s relentlessness.
“B-baby, holy fuck!” Your legs spread even wider, your hips lifting into the air as wet noises filtered into your ears. “I can’t–Jaeyun, baby, p-please! I can’t take it!”
Before you knew it, another orgasm wracked your body. You screamed as it tore through you, and you roughly pushed Jake off of you as you continued to tremble.
“Jesus Christ,” you panted, sitting up and raising your eyes to Jake’s.
“Jaeyun?” Jake smirked. “Nobody ever calls me that unless I’m in a meeting.”
You stood, grabbing Jake’s tie and tightening it against his neck. “That’s what you get for overstimulating me, you asshole.”
“Don’t lie–you loved it. You could’ve stopped me.”
You snarled at how proud he seemed of himself, but you knew he was right. Even if it had been a lot, you loved every fucking second of it. Nobody had ever dared to take control of you in the bedroom like that, and it turned you on more than you cared to admit. “Fuck you, Sim Jaeyun.”
“That’s the goal, isn’t it?” he smiled. You narrowed your eyes at him before stripping his tie off and quickly unbuttoning his dress shirt. He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Is this something you do often? You seem to have a lot of practice.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you growled, pushing him into the bathroom. You flicked the light on carelessly before shoving him against the wall so that he was looking into the mirror, taking in the curve of your back and hips in the reflection.
“What are you gonna do now, princess?” Jake hummed.
“Are you always such a cocky asshole during sex?” you asked, tearing his belt away. “Because at the dinner, you were quite the charmer.”
“I already did the hard part of charming you, so now I get to enjoy how pissed off you get when I tease you.”
You glared at Jake as you lowered yourself to the floor, your face directly in front of his bulge. You tugged his pants down before gazing up at him through your lashes and using your teeth to remove his underwear. He swore viciously, his length springing free. His cock was already flushed and glistening, and you slowly dragged your tongue along it as you continued to stare at him.
“This is what you get for being an asshole,” you said before taking his twitching cock into your mouth. You hummed in satisfaction at the noises that left his lips, as they were so different from his growled commands. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and licking every inch of him, a string of high-pitched whimpers filled the air.
You traced your fingers up and down Jake’s bare chest, your mouth sloppily moving around him. You used your other hand to grasp the part of his cock that your mouth couldn’t reach, and you pumped slowly up and down as you continued to fuck him with your mouth. His moans were music to your ears, and they only encouraged you to continue.
As your movements grew sloppier, Jake gathered your hair into his fist and bucked his hips into your mouth. You gagged slightly at how far his cock went into your throat.
“You look s’ fucking good takin my cock like that, angel,” Jake whimpered, hand still tightly grasping your long hair. The sensation of him pulling your hair made your pussy throb, and you knew that you couldn’t wait much longer to have Jake inside you. You removed your lips from his cock with a pop before standing up. Jake immediately grabbed your hips and turned you around, pressing you to the sink and grinding his wet cock into your still-clothed ass as he pressed a hot kiss to your mouth.
“This dress needs to go,” he murmured against your lips, using one hand to undo the zipper. It dropped to the floor in one fluid movement, resting in a beautiful pool of black satin surrounding your feet. The second you felt the cool air hit your skin, Jake’s hand smacked your ass. He grasped your left tit with his other hand, and he brought his mouth to your ear. “How badly do you want me to fuck you, baby?”
“So bad,” you mumbled, your words barely audible between your moans. However, it seemed that this did not satisfy Jake, as he turned you around and grasped your jaw lightly.
“What’d you say, princess? I couldn't hear you.”
“I want you to fuck me so bad, Jaeyun,” you ground out.
He smirked, and you could tell that he adored it when you called him by his Korean name. You could also tell that he was satisfied with your answer, as he picked you up and tossed you on his shoulder before carrying you out of the bathroom. He smacked your ass a few more times before plopping you down atop the conference table, pressing a hungry kiss to your lips.
“Gonna fuck you on this conference table, baby.”
“Ah–f-fuck!” you cried as he thrust into you in one swift motion. He buried himself deep within you, not moving for just a moment before he began to roll his hips into yours. Every time the tip of his cock rubbed against your gummy walls, you let out a broken noise. His cock was bigger than his height suggested, and you regretted the last ten years you had spent not fucking Jake Sim every chance you got. You were already addicted to the feeling of him inside you, and you had no idea how you had survived for so long without him.
Jake’s pace was rapid, relentless, and you didn’t even realize that you were scratching up his back with your freshly manicured nails. The only thing you knew was the feeling of his body pressed against yours and the sensation of his cock snapping into you repeatedly. He was even more turned on by you scratching him, which only led to him quickening his pace.
“Pussy s’ fuckin’ good,” he groaned, throwing his head back in pleasure. “I fuckin’ love this pussy so fuckin’ much, angel. You’re never gonna sleep again–I’m g-gonna fuck you forever.”
Stars swam across your vision as Jake repeatedly hit your cervix, and the sensation accompanied by the way his hand still played with your nipples made you nauseous. You pressed your eyes closed, whimpering.
“Mmmph, fuck.” Jake’s voice was a rumble that came from deep within his chest, and you knew he was getting close. From the way his movements became more vigorous, goosebumps erupting across his chest, it was only a matter of time until he went over the edge.
“Cum inside me, Jaeyun,” you gasped out, your body rocking as Jake continued to thrust into you. “I-I’m on the pill, so p-please fill me with your cum baby. I need it s-so fuckin’ bad. I need all your cum.”
Jake placed both hands on your shoulders, holding you steady as he thrust into you harder than you knew to be humanly possible. Clipped cries left your lips, and it only took a moment before Jake began moaning your name.
“Y/n, fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum,” he whimpered, and he let out a loud moan as his hips stilled, pumping you full of his cum. His body pulsed with each ejaculation, and you couldn’t help but gasp as he came deep within you.
“That was... crazy,” you breathed, gazing at Jake through half-lidded eyes. He nodded, still trying to regain his breath. After a moment, his eyes found yours.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
You didn’t even have time to ask what he was doing before Jake had you pressed against the window behind the conference table, your leg hooked over his shoulder as he licked your pussy. The area between your thighs was an absolute mess, covered in remnants of saliva, your arousal, and his cum, but Jake didn’t care. He sucked at your folds like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
You rocked your hips against Jake’s tongue as it flicked against your clit, and you lifted a hand above your head before pressing it to the window. Your other hand found its way into Jake’s soft hair, and he gazed up at your fucked-out face as he worked his tongue against and inside you. If Jake’s goal had been to give you a night you would never forget, he had exceeded all of your expectations. Over the past ten years, nobody had made love to you like Jake, and you never wanted another person in your bed but him.
As you reached your third climax of the evening, Jake kept his mouth clamped to your pussy to ensure that he didn’t miss any liquid coming out of you. He lapped up every drop before swallowing it hungrily, and he made sure your orgasm was fully over before standing and kissing you.
“Holy shit, Jaeyun,” you said, your body feeling completely limp. “That was fucking insane.”
“I’ll be ready to go again in fifteen minutes,” Jake murmured, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
Your eyes flew open, and you huffed a laugh. “Seriously?”
“I would never joke about anything as serious as this.”
You stared at him in disbelief for a moment before you realized he was entirely serious. “Where do you get your stamina from?”
“It comes from remembering that I lost out on ten years of fucking you, and now I need to make up for lost time.”
You laughed, truly laughed, and pressed your forehead to Jake’s. You weren’t sure if you and Jake were ever going to make up for the ten years together that you had missed, but you were certainly going to try.
ᨒ ོ ☼ ── WHAT IS IT LIKE, TO BE LIKED? ⋆ SIM JAEYUN。
⋮ ⌗ ┆概要 ⨾ a trip to the mountains with your boyfriend entails a lot more than bargained for as a pit-stop for petrol chances you upon a fortune reader. a lady who reads you tales of great prosperity and a satifying weekend ahead.
沈载伦 𝔁 𝒻 .ᐟ读者 ── 12.6k
explicit content ⋆ smut (mdni)、(condenscending) dom!jake、sub!reader、established relationship、degradation/humiliation、alcohol consumption、oral (f. rec)、face sitting、unprotected sex (don't do this)、creampie、breeding kink、dacryphila、praise kink、cum swallowing (m. & f.)、tit job、hair pulling、marking、breathplay、panties used as a gag、multiple orgasms、squirting、 overstimulation (f. rec)、spit kink、hints of a pain kink (pussy smacking)、mirror sex、exhibitionism、(brief) panty fucking、(brief) cockwarming、(brief) nipple play、doggy & lotus position、petnamed used: baby、bunny、love、pillow princess、pretty、sweet girl、sweetheart.⌇ℳ.list
⋮ ⌗ ┆便条 ⨾ this...😭 i can't even begin to express how much sanity and dignity i lost writing this. what started off as friendly conversation became this hot, flaming pile of filth 🙏🏾 i at least hope through this, some enjoyment is found and that i can find the marbles i lost....jake, you got me after this icl 😭 special thanks to my ari for sprinting with me and making sure this got done! 😭 writing is always better alongside you :3 comments are always appreciated, much loveeeee! <333
"You have nothing to worry about, the promotion is yours."
What should be assuring words from your boyfriend, do little in dismissing the ongoing doubt burrowed in your chest.
Objectively speaking, he's right. You, a corporate slave, who for the most part shuts up and does their work, should be a shoe-in for the latest high-up position in your glassed office. You're friendly enough for colleague early morning smiles, firm enough to stick up for sheepish juniors, who thank you with pastries from your city's finest. You're dilligent and a force to be reckoned with, perfectly capable and deserving of the stepping stone in your endless ambition.
But the promotion isn't just offered to you. Instead it's proposed as 'healthy competition' between you and the worst human alive.
Some self-entitled, rich prick who if he couldn't have any more wrong with him, is a raging misogynist. With a knack for charading and flaunting generational wealth, Hajoon easily bypasses barriers the rest of your colleagues were sanctioned to through hardwork and ungodly overtime hours. Everyone is beneath him, especially you as every win he earns (buys) is directed at you, through piano key veeners and his 'improved' hairline.
He also loves to ass-kiss, disgused as niceness as he invites your boss to the life he dreams of: exclusive golf tours, high-end dinner reservations ─ all for the sake of discussing 'business.' It's a flimsy excuse, seen when your boss at least has the decency to be embarrased about. Yet, it doesn't stop him for pitting you together in a race that's already set.
"Let's hope Hajoon doesn't take him to the masters," you scroll through your song library, swiping indiscriminately. "There's only so much prestige I can offer."
"Your work speaks for itself, pretty," Jake chances a glance at you, comfort moulded in his lips. "You mopped the floor with him in that last presentation. It's yours,"
"Besides," he starts, country road stretching past the dust-speckled windshield. "If your boss is so horribly mistaken to choose him, I'd personally bake them a shit pie for their troubles."
You smile despite yourself, a snicker from him triggering yours as their shared volume overrides the murmured engine roar.
"You're right. About the shit-eating too but," you chuckle, phone dropped into your lap to peer through the window, watching the rustic landscape pass you by. "Things have been so hectic and I think I've placed a lot importance on this than what's good for me."
"It's good to be driven, love. It's one of your many best traits," just briefly, your eyes catch, the tenderness in his enough to turn your head away. "But this is what this weekend is about. A step back to center yourself, because regardless of what happens, you deserve to put yourself first."
He changes gears, movement second-nature beforer his hand overlaps your thigh, broadly splayed over your jeans with rosy-knuckles and firm grip. Stable, like you've always known him to be.
Your hand folds over his, a squeeze given to extend your gratitude where words fail. But he knows, knows you in all the pieces given through the six months you've known each other.
He says this trip to the mountains is a celebration of the milestone, but you know better. You're well aware he's seen you at your most exhausted, still showing up for him and others because contrary to cynic's beliefs, your loved ones come first. He's seen the frustation sear the white of your knuckles, jaw clinched at Hajoon's insults, a loser you don't dignify with a response, letting your work speak for itself. And through it all, he shows up for you. Constantly, but especially now.
The soft smile on your face doesn't waver as the car eats away at miles travelled, nearing halfway through your journey as Jake pulls into a rest-stop. Humble in size, the establishment offers a string of fast-food restaurants, petrol pumps and an old jungle gym with 'Unsafe. Do Not Enter' sign hanging off it. Before you're able to browse the convenience store to line your stomach, peaked neon lights capture your attention.
Tucked away on the outskirts of the property stands a store half the size of all others, a neon sign of the evil eye lending out a helping hand glowing in hues of violet and rouge. The windows line themselves in the same violet colour, drapes as the backdrop for meticulously placed crystals, tarot cards, singing bowls and the like. Your focus then falls to a poster plastered to the front door, adorned in gold stars over the graphic red curtain background.
Readings available. Learn your destiny here!
Something tugs at you, halts you in step to stare the store down, the lull of car passengers' dulling to nothing. You aren't a stranger to the occult, the centre of many readings your university friends' enticed you into, taking frequent trips with them to your town's crystal shop whilst running errands, only to leave with a set of your own. And when things got dark, you carried a blunt rose quartz in your bra in the hopes your dining hall crush would miraculously notice you. He did, but he wasn't your person for a whole host of reasons, reasons you never lowered your standards for ever again.
In any case, you are receptive. Open to any messages you feel aligned to and with the ticking seconds hinging on suspense, you give in.
"I'm gonna go check that store out," your thumb hikes over your shoulder, hand shielding the glare of afternoon sun. "I'll be back."
Jake's head lifts from the fuel filler neck, finding the store then your figure. He doesn't say anything, familar with your bedroom's shelf of collected crystals, incense and tarot cards, flashing you a small smile as he replies, "Take your time. I'll get us snacks."
You thank him in a wink, one sent. back to the affect of a spring in your step, wind blowing in your hair as you tug at the end of your sleeves, jitters alive and well.
The door chimes with your entrance, tranquill sounds of running water filling your ears as curiosity soaks up the shop's interior. Glass shelves lined with their bigger crystal collection: pendulums, palm stones and moldavite necklaces barricaded away. In the singular aisle waist-high is a long, dusted table with woven baskets, an assortment of smaller crystals grouped by purposes, labelled as such. Tiny string lights lace racks, an entanglement of feathered-dream catchers and veined greenery. The opposite wall, identical in decor, holds various tarot and oracle decks, all breath-taking alongside scrying tools taken straight from the Gothic age, marvelled at in quiet astonishment.
The high of getting away swindles your intentions of only getting a reading done, the mould of a rose-quartz cat, curled peacefully in sleep is craddled in your hand, never let go until you're at the till, clearing your throat for the clerk.
In their late teens, the midnight-haired clerk manages the entire interaction without a single look your way, sighing heavily when interrupted through her Kerrang! magazine flip-through. When everything's said and done, a similar feeing to pulling teeth gnaws as you ask for where the readings are done.
"Through the beads," she drawls, smacking her cherry bubblegum. She nodes behind her at the open doorway, behind the plexiglass countertop.
Fortunately, the counterspace doesn't dominate the entire space, leaving leeway for you to amble past. Her figure remains unmoved, only triggered as her chipped nail polished-fingers drag across a picture of Kellin Quinn, a sigh full of dreams echoed.
Nostalgia shapes your expression, hands separating an opening through the assortment of crystals stringed from the doorway's top frame, cuts of aquamarine, angel aura quartz and rhondonite welcoming you into the space. Notes of lavender breeze past as you step further into the sacred four walls, incense wafting in the sunlight peeking through high windows. Lush rugs and blankets fold over a nearby couch and display shelves, occult trinkets sprinkled around in a personal touch immediately relaxing you. What looks like serves as a breakroom, positions itself for readings with a lone table in its middle, short candles lit with decks spread across the constellation tablecloth.
The reader, mid-shuffle, deserts her cards at your presence, piled onto the edge of her table as she stands, tugging her turquoise shawol over her shoulders.
"Good, another traveler ─ welcome, welcome," the lady in her early fourties gestures to the vacant seat opposite her, clearing her table of dust as her infinite rings clinck together. She wears wisdom on her face, the warmth of her smile luring you in as your legs settle despite inital nerves, "Make yourself at home."
Complying, you seat quietly in the space too cosy to be disturbed, briefly scanning the room before her bracelets sound again.
"What kind of reading you looking for? I've lived long enough to give you options," she beams, rubbing her hands together. "Tarot spreads, astrology-based readings, face readings ─ whatever you're called to."
So, you pick. Called to the option you've never explored. "A face reading, please."
"You strike me more as the tarot type," she smirks, nifty hands shuffling her cat-themed deck like second nature. Which you suppose is embedded in her, her eyes never leaving yours as no card spills from the speedy movement, neatly packed away with a knock to the table. "Am I wrong?'
"Wait, let me guess ─" her eyes brim in elation, only cast aside inbrief ponder before a wrinkled index finger points your way. "Three of cups, that's your favourite card, right?"
The tattoo inked into your back heats at the chilling remark, an abrupt flush crawling up your neck as your figure seizes in fridigness. You're well aware to carry a healthy amount of suspicion going into this. Not giving away what the readers knows what you want to hear but with irrelevant your covered tattoo to the area of the reading, you can't help but blink. Wide-eyed and slowly, attempting a too-late cover-up when all the colour returns to your face.
"No need to be embarrassed. I've developed a talent for these things," she muses, pointed nails drumming into the table. "Certainly wouldn't make a living otherwise."
She chuckles, in a way that's reminscient of quiet Saturday afternoons on your aunty's back garden, swaying wherever the hammock took you as you sketched to the melodies of birds. She'd religiously keep her avain population feed through bulk-buys of the finest bird food, cracking piastachio nuts with her legs crossed as her eyes observed them, seeing the same freedom in their wings as she had, the only difference being when their bellies were full, they flocked away together while she remained alone. It's something you try not show on your face.
"You have a lot of moles," she observes, her expression void of sentiment. "Very telling for the kind of life you live,"
"It seems a bit lonely, your familal life," she notes, a blink all you muster to her truth. "Things were almost never stable financially, which you took upon yourself to manage along with everything else you did alone,"
A vacant house, parents working to make ends meet with the throat-stifle to make better of your home amounts to this, your youth saving pennies not for Barbie dolls but contributions to a microwave that warmed food twice as long. Summer and part-time jobs spent wistfully looking out windows at people your age, tanned and smiling from their boat days while the only Sun you ever see is on your breaks. A social life forgone with your head buried in books, affording yourself scholarship-funded education that when it comes time to toss your cap, you give your gown and sash to your parents for photos, their teary-eyes coupled with your wobbled smile.
"You're a smart and capable lady, destined to gain respect and nobility for those who see you for who you are. A lot of satisfaction awaits you," the reader's voice breaches your lazy mirage, watchful eyes grazing over your features. A knit sews her caramel eyebrows loosely, lines of her forehed speaking of the countless times she'd made the expression. "It's long overdue. A life spent living for others. You second guess your displays of affection because you think they don't suffice, but I see you. There's enough care given to loved ones that there's almost never the chance for them to think of paying the favour back,"
Aversion demands your eyes to direct elsewhere in the store ─ her Chinese lucky cat, arm waving to spread wealth and propserity, her snoozing black cat affectionately named Jiji on their back snoring to high heavens ─ anywhere to offload the impending feel of being seen. Plucked back through your onion-layers to the core where you lay.
"Some people depise that of you. Being so permanently in your lane and headstrong," you could roll your eyes, already pinpointing the association to Hajoon. "They may obstruct your path, but there's nothing that can come between destiny,"
Finally, a smile breaks out onto her face, chin in her palm. "There are others who adore you for those same traits and more. Have spent many moons counting their blessings your heart remains set on them."
A memory surfaces. A few, some flashes of late nights holding cherished friend's hands in yours as they recount their gratitude for your presence in their life, teary-eyed because you keep choosing them. Warmth blossoms in your chest, felt in the tips of your fingers interlocked in your lap. A memory lingers longer than the rest, three months exactly into seeing Jake where he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, slopes of his angular face bathed in moonlight while he looks at you like the stars above are in your eyes, saying:
"I want to continue choosing you," he speaks just above a whisper, not bothering with how bare he sounded. "If you'll let me."'
You gulp, hands running against the grain of your jeans.
"It's not going anywhere soon, the high on your horizon," she relays, drumming gel nails against her clear quartz palm stone. "Blessings will come in, fast and plentiful ─ think Ace of Cups and Eight of Wands,"
"In all aspects of your life," you don't miss the emphasis in her voice. How could you with the wink she does? "This is very inspiring. And a rightful change. I'm happy for you."
And she genuinely means it, smile mirroring that of a long-time friend, melting the ice freezing your rigid shoulders.
"Thank you. I really appreciate─"
Your words evaporate with the chimes of crystals together, head turning to see Jake's polite, beaming face. Brightness gleams in his eyes, fondness curving the edge of his smile at you before it falls behind you, teeth bared in a hint of awkwardness.
"Hi, sorry for interrupting. The clerk said I could come in," his eyes track back to yours. "Should I come back later?"
"No, we actually just finished," softness blends in your limbs at his presence, an outstretched hand instantly in his as he squeezes yours before you get the chance. He has the gall to wink your way like you don't have an audience, playfulness rolling your eyes right to your audience. "Thanks again for the reading. It was really insightful."
For the first time since you'd come through those same crystals, the reader lacks words. Her expression washes over in a quiet stint of merriment, lips parting with a gaze very much directed over your shoulder. At Jake who's a good sport about being oogled, closed mouth grin present while his thumb ghosts over your knuckles. The rise of your eyebrow cues her back to reality, a flush engulfing the timid bunch of her cheeks, abruptly standing to gesture your way out despite it being the same one you walked through.
"Yes, yes, of course. Come again if you ever happen upon our town," the words rush out of her a mile a minute, courteous chuckles huffing out yours and Jake's mouths. "I'm sure you've got all you're looking for though."
The rushed comment isn't missed either, lip bitten to only spill in the confinements of the car. The same sentiment's shared by Jake who casts you a quick glance, catching his laughter in a fist.
"I'll just make my payment at the front, if that's okay."
"Oh, don't worry about it," Jake interjects, pushing the bend of his lips down. "I already paid."
"Jake,"
"Give me an earful in the car," he jokes. "Better head out before it gets dark."
Well into the afternoon with the cabin still miles away, you lapse into agreement, brimming gratitude at the reader before you're following in Jake's footsteps out the doorway.
A call for your name turns your head, quiet enough for Jake's ears not to catch on as the crystal curtains close behind his figure, leaving you in the quiet hum of the reader's room, vibrational music nothing but a faint buzz.
She scurries over to you with alert eyes, stealing a look through her crystal curtains before her gaze centers back.
"I don't usually feel compelled to say these things. Especially since I can acknowledge such matters have the chance of making patrons…uncomfortable,"
You're bracing yourself to whatever may come from her mouth, something to be taken or pushed aside, curiousity getting the better of you as you lean into her hushed words.
"He was what I was talking about ─ satisfaction," she stresses, fingers pinched together. "He will make you very happy, as I'm sure you already know,"
"But," her eyes avert again, like you imagine yours did during the reading. She fiddles with the rings on her weathered fingers, metal circled around loose skin in an attempt to self-soothe. "There are other areas he will satisfy you,"
"He─his appetite," she says like she can't believe the words on her tongue. "Knows no end. His greed will take you places your mind cannot begin to conceptualize."
Your stance goes rigid, a silent part of suprise in your lips.
"I'm sorry, what?" you squint your eyes as if it'll help you hear better. "Are you…are you talking about─"
"Yes," she admits, colour rushing to her cheeks. "There are many things a face can encapsulate; we are mere pages in the book of our past, present and future. Values, destiny and personality ─ we wear our life's story on our face."
Your hands come up to drag against your cheeks, trying a grasp at comprehension.
"And his is a high sex drive…?" you utter the words slowly, unsure where the heartfelt sentiment's gone.
"He is insatible. Plays his part as doting, sweet boyfriend because those are qualities he truly posses," her throat bobs, eyes cut to the front door in a wild flare. "But he brings other qualities when called to, when the timing is right. Things that will bring forth the kind of chemistry equal to a house on fire."
Her hands brace against your tensed shoulders, bracelets jangling with the seriousness she laser-beams into your eyes. "Please darling, load up on electrolytes," her blinks come hard and fast, replicated in the rhythm of her breath. "Stretch and just pray you'll make it out alive."
Ill-manners aren't part of your social palette, real expressions hidden by the jaded niceness society peers at you through. But in the feverish and apparently delirious rant the reader has forced onto your shoulders, they tremble with the building laughter buzzing through your chest, muffled by pressed lips not really doing their part. Evident in the surprise unfolding her scrunched expression, hand coming over your mouth to wish the laughter away as you get out a quick, "Noted. Thank you again."
It doesn't come from a bad place, but when you're back outside, trekking back to the car some guilt exists with the tremble in your chest, putting a plug in it by drumming a palm to your torso.
"Everything good?" Jake asks once you're back in the car, strapping himself in. "Reading went okay?"
Where do you even begin? It did go great until he showed up and apparently rocked the reader's world, who then expressed how much he would rock your world. Agreed, Jake does a good job in the bedroom but the concept of him being an insatible beast when called upon? While plausible, the circumstances surrounding its revelation push snickers out your nose.
"Yeah, a lot of fortune's on its way. Finally," you strap yourself in too, cracking your knuckles to mask your giggles. "Lots of uhm, satisfaction too."
It's a loaded end to your answer, one you communicate in a bitten back smile Jake goes on to replicate, letting out the bit of amusement he tucked away back in the store.
"Happy to hear that, baby," he laughs, fist over his lips, licking them over when his hands extend to the steering wheel. "You deserve good fortune coming your way,"
He kisses your cheek over the console, the press sweet and delicate. A reality where it's bruising and lust-driven flashes briefly.
Hovering close to you, his voice dips in volume, eyes peered up at yours with a teasing glint. "Could've told you that for free though."
"I thought it was gonna be insighful!" you shove his shoulders, mellow laughter filling the vehicle. "It was but─"
"Just joking, pretty. I'm sure you got what you needed from the reading," sincerity shines in his eyes, accented by the peppered kisses he does against your cheek, the last one on your temple. "Let's get going, yeah?"
Your agreement blends in with you turning on the car radio, reconnecting to the aux where Geese's '3D Country' thumps through its bass intro, engine roaring to life as you get back on the road, leaving the minute rest-stop and tarot shop in the dust. You're meant to carry what resonates through her reading and that you do, the miserable grey anxiety cloud in your chest clearing knowing your hardwork will be rewarded. Knowing that the love you put into the universe will find itself back to you. Not because in the end, you wished to serve yourself, but because you always hoped the goodness you met others with could pour into others' lives too.
But something else lingers. The grip she had on your shoulders, the look on her face when Jake joined you two, her remark about electrolytes. Priding yourself on being an open person, you welcome her perception of Jake through an impartial lens ─ there's only so much sex to have since you two started dating, a precaution exercised courtesy of your therapist. Exhausted by empty hookups and abrupt endings lacking promise, she challenged you to find human connection elsewhere. Be as vulnerable as you could because dating was somehow more horrifying than being naked in front of a stranger. At least then, you spoon-fed them bits of yourself ─ all in self-interest ─ and when they ultimately left, because they got what they wanted, they didn't take your heart with them. You'd never given it to them in the first place. Dating, however, if you were after what your heart desired, entailed an honesty you had to sit with. A partner who you could really be yourself with ─ all the neat and messy bits you've perfected hiding behind a pretty bow ─ and through trials and tribulations, tug of wars due to your attachment style, you found your Jake. Someone you could be yourself with, and someone who you know reflects that back to you. No charades, no secrets, just sincerity that's maybe charmed you into rose-tinted lenses.
Then again, she did say it was a matter of calling it 'upon him.'
Time would tell, eventually.
That time comes sooner than expected.
Tucked away in the mountains breathing crisp air, is the luxury cabin Jake so kindly splurged on for your weekend getaway. Upon seeing your scandalised face, the cedar and oak structure built with love and wealth in the addition of a hot tub, he ducks his head, sheepish in his grin as he says, "Guess I caught that deal on a good day."
Like the gentleman he is, he deals with all your luggage as you climb the steep-rocked driveway, head on a swivel as the mountains stretch on for miles. With spring creeping in, the moutain peaks have lost their snow blanket, sprinkled in scarce flakes that still have your breath visible before you. You inhale, letting the clear air fill your lungs then exhale, the city left behind a distant memory as Jake opens the cabin's front doors.
It's every bit of lush as its' exterior, hanging warm lights and wooden halls seemingly going on forever. It earns Jake a sidelong glance, a guilt-free shrug his answer before he catches you in his arm, pulling you close in a kiss on top of your head.
"It's ours for the weekend," he whispers, hazelnut and oak notes wafting in his presence. "Let's play house."
So, you do. Once all luggage's been put in the bedroom, suitcase left open for easy access, you tread through the halls with heated floors, into the kitchen where Jake makes a start on the store-bought tortellini. Side by side, you make the sauce, joking bumps of the hip dished between each other as your blended playlist hums in the background, serenading the sweet plate Jake's face lights up at once he's tasted the food. He commends your skills even when you have none, yet you smile. Because there's always a genuineness about him, a happiness built on something stable you allow yourself to fall back into, only proven by your suggestion to crack open a bottle of wine in the hot tub.
"Is that a new swimsuit?"
Lowering into the buzzing water, you chance a glance at Jake, a blank canvas if not for the evident bob his Adam's apple does, his spread fingers threading through the current.
"A new bikini, yes," you settle opposite him, reaching for and sipping on white wine without a break in eye-contact. "Like it?"
He's the first to break, giving you his sharp side-profile with a smile that's all knowing. The chestnut waves of his hair frame his face perfectly, falling like curtains around his eyes as they gravitate back to yours.
"Yeah, I do. A lot."
Your time is spent like this, toeing the line of flirtation and dare, enough physical space spared if not for the stifling conversation, nothingness spoken of to the build-up of whatever festers underneath the surface.
The thought had crossed your mind over dinner ─ when Jake's none the wiser, happily humming with pasta sauce dipped into his lip corner ─ the reader's words and her conviction. However cagey you may have been, Jake's always been respectful of your boundaries, never pushing when he knows the walls will fall when ready, a pattern of forthcomingness observed in the little time you've had. Yet, with a work schedule meant to kick your ass and social obligations shifting him to second priority, not much time is spared. Not enough to talk, not enough to explore…whatever things Jake supposedly brings to the table.
With the nagging prickle in mind, the night's event unfold into destiny. When your fingers have pruned, three glasses of wine polished off, you dry off to slip into one of his shirts and a pair of underwear plenty purposeful. An agenda noticed in Jake's expression as he enters back into the bedroom, patting down his face.
He doesn't make any comment, only laughs to himself before he resumes his bedtime ritual, coming back to you eventually as a starfish on the bed, your Kindle long forgotten.
His chin perches onto the arms folded onto your stomach, peering through his brows. "Feel relaxed?"
Automatically, your fingers find their way into his hair, teasing the soft strands with your fingertips. "Yeah. The wine helped."
He smiles, a brief hide of his face to conceal his mirth. "I don't know how you drink that stuff."
"You had just as much as I did!"
"I only started to enjoy it like, halfway through the second glass," he concedes, feigned exasperation coming out you in a sigh. "Definitely needed that energy drink as a palette cleanser."
Ah, yes. The one with electrolytes, one he'd bought for you too. The irony is not lost on you.
"We'll get more in town tomorrow," your eyes drift to the alarm clock on the bedside table, time incorrect but the late hour evident. "What you got planned?"
He tosses his head to simulate careful pondering, bottom lip jutted under his finger. "Lots of pampering and shopping ─ only the best for my girl,"
The bunch of your cheeks turns your head sideways, body restless beneath his to a point of his body moving off yours. It doesn't take a second of contemplation, positions switching to your thighs straddling his hips, his hand fanned across your lower back as you stare down at him, watching him become more pupils than eyes.
"Anything else?"
The invitation hangs in the air, gulped down by Jake who scoffs softly, putting a hand behind his head with veins lining his arm. The loss of your gaze when circled back to him makes his lip corner lift, horribly smug.
"I've got a few ideas," he husks, his hips shifting beneath you, something other than bone brushed against your ass.
"Budge up," he coaxes, you immediately complying. "More,"
You laugh, hands braced at your sides. "Jake, I'm halfway up your chest. Not sure that's an optimal for kissing."
"Who said anything about kissing?"
He says it easily, like it doesn't make every fragment of your spine click into place. Besides the brief stiffen of your muscles, your brain starts working again to brace hands against his chest, wandering.
"You're trouble."
"Yeah? That what you think I am?" his hands, veined and cold relief against your thigh, graze in what's meant to be absent nature. You can't help but suspect purpsefulness on his own end when he kneads the flesh the closer they inch to your ass. "Did she tell you that?"
A missed heartbeat marks the blaring silence permeating his statement, splayed hands hinged on his shoulders wrestling with the material of his shirt as you rack your brain. Thinking if you should mention it.
"You could be her disciple," the joke doesn't really land like you want it, tasting more bitter on your tongue. "Yes, she did."
His hand cease agaisnt your thighs, kickstarting contemplation of whether you've spoken too much.
"So that's what that was about," he smirks, hand over his eyes like he's been caught. The stretch of his lips does little to dissipate your 'healthy skepticism.' "It's like the energy shifted when I came in."
"It kind of did," laughter puffs out, a bit breathless on your end. His hands fall back to your hips, feeling yours shift for comfort. "She got a good look at you and I walked out with a 2-for-1 deal,"
His head cocks to the side, curious. "What'd she say?"
Amusement breaks out onto your face, bitten back.
"She made some hints at you holding yourself ─ poor choices of words," you backpedal, sorting through your vocab of empathy. "She said something along the lines of, if maybe I breached the topic with you, things could be different…"
"In terms of?" he prompts, asking for clarity.
But there's a curve to his lip, a shit-eating grin held back. You're starting to have more faith in all the reader's words.
"Sex," you couldn't say the word any softer, comfortable being sexually open amongst friends but in the quiet of the mountains, with nothing but Jake beneath you, you cower into your skin. "She said you could be different."
"Hungry?"
"Insatible is the word she used, but I'm pretty sure she said hungry too," a form of reluctance pushes air out your chest, hand raised to scratch the flush building on your neck. "I, of course with every reading I get, took that with a pinch of salt because I mean, it all happened so fast and sometimes readings can be influenced by other factors like─"
"She's not wrong."
A pin could drop. It could hit the heated-hardwood floors and sound like a crashing boulder, an avalanche descending from the mountain's peak with no end in sight.
Perhaps you shouldn't be so taken aback. It's not like Jake knows everything about you six months into knowing you ─ he may know about how you like your eggs cooked and how you failed your driver's test three times before getting your license. He didn't know about the complications weaving your parental relationship and he certainly didn't know you had a spit kink. Could've guessed it, but it was never an admission on your part. Not everyone in your life - even those close to you - needed to know every part of your soul and in a relationship, things would reveal themselves in time. He didn't need to know everything to love bomb or use against you. He would never, but the cynism of your heart is hard to beat.
You don't speak. Your mouth refuses to croak out, "What do you mean?"
So, you simply watch him with a smile that's more anticipatory-curiousity with ears waiting on his next words.
"I mean, it's normal to not show all your cards at once, right?" What's meant to be a remark laced with slivered awkwardness, apparent in the gnaw he embeds into his bottom lip, also comes with the permanent fixture of a smirk. He can't hold his enjoyment back, that much is apparent to you.
"I'm sure you haven't told me everything you're into," his fingertip traces against your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "What makes you shake."
His eyes flutter up to yours, the mirth-advantage of the situation gone with the wind whistling past the bedroom french doors. He only has you in his sights, the heat rising from him edging you into dizziness.
"It never was a matter of secrecy," he makes known, possessive with his grip on your hip. You buck into his touch. "Gauging what you're comfortable with and knowing what you can take has always been a priority to me."
Tingles run like critters all over you, a twitch of the hand given before your grip solidifies against his shoulder, finger slid beneath the collar of his shirt. Your skin sizzles pressed against his.
"But if you wanna push and try something new, who am I to get in the way?"
There's something undeniably sexy about how he commands the situation, gentle with the patience of a saint, tenderness in his guidance towards what you realise you've been too scared to voice.
"Do you want to?" he asks, head ducked to meet your hung head. "See how far you can go?"
Apprenhension will always be there, bubbling in the pits of your stomach with the accompanying voice at the back of head posing more questions than answers. But you know, you've known for a long time there wasn't anything scary if Jake was beside you. The sail to your boat, the roots to your tree, your branches free to grow how ever sky high you desired.
You only had one answer, smiles to your faces as your fingers thread together, a squeeze against yours for good measure.
"Now budge up," his cheeks take on a rosy tint, satisfaction in his grin. "It's time to put my mouth to better use."
Your body runs like a motorboat's engine, feather-light brushes tickling your chest as your legs operate on auto-pilot, wild eyes peering down on Jake's. Cinnamon brown are their hue, decked in a sweetness sharp enough to gulp down the cotton ball lodged your throat, breath wethered as his hands hover hollowly on your hips, making sure you're in place.
It's only then, when your clammy hands grapple onto the elegant carve of the wooden headboard, that you remember.
"My underwear,"
You go to take them off, only for your hand to be eclipsed by Jake's, a hot brand against your skin.
"Don't," he gruffs out, eyes lingering on your core for longer than what's polite, a slow drawl to your eyes, his pupils fully blown. "Keep them on."
The lacy lilac crotchless thong, 'not' purposely packed for this trip, remains on, pushed further apart with his finger and the bite of your lip, eyes fluttering closed as you wish for yourself not to buckle. Despite his wishes, the idea of perching all your weight on him remains a legalty you'd rather not take chances with, knees embedded into the mattress all the support you give yourself for a polite hover.
His lips press against your inner thigh, possessive and hefty, contact slowly unwinding the tension-hike your shoulders have done to your earlobes, muffled moans in your mouth as he takes his sweet time with niceities. Small and measured kisses against skin you wished he'd gloss over, the press of his lips along your pelvis bone shuddering a broken breath out of you, desperate hands anchoring for the stability you're quickly losing. Cognition starts to haze over the lazy clouds populating your brain, thoughts only sharp enough to register the anticipation racing through you, the high-strung bundle of knots in your stomach dangling above a bottomless pit.
"Baby," he calls, voice thick and strained. "You're so fucking wet, I don't know what to do with myself."
Your personality is hard-wired enough for a retort. "Eat me out then."
He huffs, singular and devastating to the strength you've been summoning in the warmth of your bedroom, warm air puffing against your core to make you groan. His own one follows right after as his arms abruptly bring your hips forward, a yelp short-lived as his lips brush against your glistening folds, a whimper verberating through your own lips clamped together for the sake of your dignity.
"That's the last I hear out of you besides my name." he promises, stern before he dives in.
He steals your breath with you, air pushed out your weak lungs as he tastes every crevice of you, from your slicked entrance begging for an inch of him to the top of your clit, suckling on the bundle of nerves. Nails are introduced to the headboards' craftmanship, scratched at in long draw marks that should spell out alarm, if not for the sheer bliss conjured between your legs. Jake is purposeful with every thing he does, groaning into you like it pains him for you to taste so sweet, licking up all the facet-run slick pouring from you, further echoed by your thighs until it's all you hear. Your moans and his mouth, working with gradual abandonment, hands pressing into your skin to make you melt.
"Always taste so good for me, pretty," he murmurs against you, a moment not on you a moment wasted. "Can't get enough of how you shake,"
His moan vibrates against your folds, your knee slipping beneath you to lower further onto him, ass grazing the stubble you've been actively avoiding with the cross of your legs, a high keen out your throat as he sucks on your clit.
"Jake," you whine, your head swarming with enough lust to weighh heavy on your shoulders. "Fuck, don't stop."
"Baby, I'll be here for hours," he resplies back, prying your mouth open with a soundless gasp. "Nothing's getting between me and this pretty pussy right here."
Your body curls in on itself, willing the building pleasure in your stomach to cease, senses running wild to a point where all your mind can pinpoint is the man between your thighs, eating you out like it's his last meal. Esctacy is no stranger to the time spent on your back, Jake plucking all the right chords to have you seeing stars but this feels different. He has his mouth on you like a man long deprived, securing his arms around your thighs with non-existent space, holding you down as if his last tether to Earth. It shatters you from the inside-out, blowing any far-gone perception of pleasure out the window, attaching yourself to here and now as he moans around your clit, sloppy with his tongue drags as you drip down his chin.
"You dripping all over me, baby," he has the gull to chuckle into you, tracing his tongue around your entrance in the aftermath of the warmth breath blown against you, your sanity dwindling in alarming amounts. "Tell me how good you feel. Tell me who gets you wetter than this."
"So good," you can't help but mewl, one hand slithering down to him, fingers carding through his hair for a tug. "It's only you, only you."
"Sound so good when you're desperate for me," he sucks hard on your clit just to hear you break, walls squeezed impossibly tight. "Go on, grind on me. Take what you can get."
It should make you feel small, stringed to his words like a puppet but if they align with your buried wants, who are you to say no? So, you comply, staple both hands against the headboard and grind, tentatively at first when he's allowed your thighs more space. Then, he sets the tone, pushing you a force that has your clit knocking into his nose, lace fabric dragged along to make you putty in his hands.
"There you go," Jake grins against you, a hopleess moan escaping you as he gives you a few more helpful nudges, your voice crying out at more pleasure. "Didn't you say you loved my nose? Put it to good use then."
You could cry, you're willing yourself not to, teeth so far into your bottom lip the marks may never leave. You're melting like ice-cream on the hot plain of Jake's skin, your hips sheepish but gaining momentum, humping yourself against his face as he smothers himself between your thighs.
Breaths cycle through you, deep and slow then short and fast, voice edged to the end of the Earth where you feel yourself inching dangerously close to, the sole mission of getting yourself off diminshing any decorum you so stupidly clung to. Hips moving back and forth, the structure of estasy so expansive in you, your body feels like it'll collapse with it.
In the haze of your motions, you chance a look down at Jake, finding his eyes rolling back with the look of eroticism mapped all over his flushed face, eyebrows knitting together as he laps up all the slick you can't seem to stop. The image, forever imprinted in your mind, brings you impossibly close, croaking a tortored whine high up to the sky, hips moving with enough force to make the bed creak while you chase your release.
"You're close," he pants, sparing himself a breath before tasting you on his tongue. "That's it, baby. Let go for me. Let go for Jake."
A scream unknown to you unleashes, ripped right out your chest and vibrating off the walls soaked in your moans, your body collasping in a series of long, stationary shivers. All your weight is now on Jake as your mouth dries, forehead banged against the headboard. You're too lightheaded to feel its impact, body overtaken by the sensations raving your body from the depths of its core, shaken with no way out but through.
An unknown amount of time passes, the furtherest thing from what's meant to be your mind, rattled beyond rational thought. The only thing grounding you is the the eventual slow of your breath, decelerating to normalcy as you start to feel human again. Jake is…still persistent, gradual this time but making sure he has every drop of you, your taste embedded to his tongue before you summon enough energy to lift your leg over him, body falling limp into a fetal position before you tip over onto your back.
"Was it good, sweet girl?" Despite your muffled hearing, you can hear the smugness drenched in his tone, a secondary observation of the bed shifting under his moving weight. "Got what you were hoping for?"
To completely rewrite the concept of a good orgasm was not what you were hoping for, but Jake knows that win belongs to him, chuckling to himself in a dark hum licking want up your spine. You think your body is yet to recover, but signs point out an otherwise.
Breathing is what you dedicate your attentin to, body horribly feverish as your brain attempt to grapple with the overcast of your thoughts, fog dense from that. Somewhere in your daze, your body moves free of your own doing, handled with great care as Jake displays you for his viewing pleasure, an abrupt hold in your plea for oxygen as something hot slides against your cunt.
A feathered hiss shoots through bared teeth, haze blinked back through thick lashes as your view centers back to Jake. His briefs are pulled down enough for him to free his cock, tip large and flushed as it beads precome against your underwear. Yours and his clothing isn't even all the way off, the crop of his t-shirt revealing the definition of his v-line, pelvis marked by veins and a trimmed trail to what he grinds against you, underwear slick-stuck to you as he lets out a starved grunt.
"Fuck," he falls forward, arms bracketing your body as his eyes flicker down to where you meet, filthy and desperate. "This what you wanted? Me so gone for you, I'll take you anyway I can?"
"Jake," you moan, shiver wracked up your spine as his tip nudges against your clit, brief friction scrambling words in your brain. "Off. Take them off."
"What's the point when I can get you needy like this?" his chuckle comes out breathy, eyes finding yours. "You're so wrecked. I haven't even put it in yet."
"Put it in then," you strain, frustation bucking your body, a notch to the clit bowing your body off the mattress. "Please,"
"Feels good, hm baby?" His smirk is full of triumph, not an ounce of sympathy for the poor body beneath him, clawing at any inch of him. "You could come from this, I could too. Paint your pretty thong before I fill you up,"
Your walls cave in, clenching around nothing but slick as it pushes back onto Jake's cock that has a better glide, a keen at the height of your throat while arms overlap your eyes, condemned to darkness.
"Did you just get wetter?" incredulous are how his words come, a harder grind into you coming with the echo of your entrance, undeniably lined in slick. "Pretty, if you wanted me to come in you, all you had to do is ask."
Timidty flames your cheeks, claws of desires scraping at your chest to be released. "I─fuck, I want─"
"Say the word and they're off." are his last words, the decision yours to make.
One that doesn't take much contemplation.
"Please," the request comes, sounding just as desperate as your ears hate to hear. "Take them off. Come in me…please."
"I'll do right by you, pretty," he reminds you, fingers already hooked underneath their band. "Won't have to worry your head about anything. Just lay back and look pretty like you always do,"
"And when I'm done with you, you'll have everything you ever wanted."
He pushes in. Anticipated to a point where your entrance closes in on his tip immediately, a whine let out to push back against the rush at bay before you open up for him again, the glide smooth and uninterrupted as he buries himself to the hilt. Full doesn't begin to scratch the surface of how you feel, lungs pushed up to your struggling throat as your nails sink into the duvet, scratching into fabric as his tip rests against the spongy spot that has you squirming, body shying away from the sensery overload only for a smack to bounce off the cabin walls.
Your body jolts with it, a dull tingle searing through your clit marked by the palm of his hand, a croak coming out your throat, dying with a whine that shows you for what you are.
"You liked it," he has to say, more surprised than smug. "You clenched around me─fuck, you're so tight."
His teeth bury into his bottom lip, in no way deterred as his hand stables itself on your knee, spreading your legs wider.
"Look at how much I'm learning about you," his voice carries air backed by a condescending nature, his ego only affirmed as you moan to his building thrusts. "At the end of this, I might know your body better than you do,"
You keen again, sinking deeper into the molasses of pleasure he engulfs you, practiced precision of what you like most as he dedicates every thrust to that one spot, eyebrows scrunched to the building pit of your stomach.
"Just tell me what you like, pretty," he sings like a siren in your ear, hand cupped over your cheek to graze a thumb over a stray tear, licking his thumbpad clean before his hand falls back to your knee. "And I'll make it worth your while."
"Fuck me," comes out rough in your pressed voice, hand directing his to your clit. "Harder."
Seemingly impressed, he only grins with a dipped head, his last words being, "Yes, Ma'am."
It's all moans and wet squelches from then onwards, gratitude set aside for no nearby neighbours as Jake puts you through the mattress, hitting the deepest parts of you that have you singing his praisies, the only competiting sounds being the ongoing flood of slick where you meet and the creaks of the bed. The auditory input spins your head around, whines endless out of your mouth as harsh smacks of skin drum against your ears, the bundle of pleasure in your belly constantly hit with the wrath of Jake's pistons. He's taken it upon himself to comb over everything you've loved in bed, sparing every heightened sob and moan special attention as he deals you his hand, rubbing lazy circles on your clit before the smacks come. They build in intensity, low-level hip-buckles extending to full-body convulsions, letting the tears flow as the pain marries so sweet with the low-pain.
"Seems like my pillow princess likes a bit of pain," he observes, devastatingly handsome when he's cocky. He pushes hair out his face as his fingers run over the dulled simmer of your clit, your lips in a pout. "Does its' job considering how much you're clenching around me,"
"What? Can't speak?" he questions, purposely leaning in to get himself deeper, a shift amounting to the wobbly sobs you hum. "Fucked too good? Want me deeper, sweetheart?"
You're mindllessly nodding, moisture grouping your lashes together as you can only accept the fate of going after your orgasm, using all means to bring it into reality.
"You're cute when you can't speak," he muses, hiking your legs onto his shoulder one after the other. "Gotta keep your mouth filled, know how much you love that."
His degradation does something to your brain chemistry, his cock inching into places you have no words for, slick splashing back onto his cock as he pistons further, lodging himself further into you as he leans forward with his weight. Now reaching parts of you untouched, you're at a loss for your mind and what to do, arms enveloping the muscles of his back as your nails drag against the expanse.
"Might have a thing for pain too," he chuckles, biting down on his lip, a wild look in his red-rimmed eyes as his world boils to only you. "Love when you mark my back, love. Lets me know how good I've got you,"
Thighs braced against you, he hits deeper than you can keep up with, mouth ajar as it serves as a vessel for missed breaths. Your tongue runs dry, lips smacked in a half-hearted attempt but it doesn't land right. You need more. You know you need more but the mere thought scrunches your face, esctasy blooming behind closed eyes.
"What you need, bunny?" Jake's voice is jaw-droppingly sweet, a kiss pressed above the corner of your lip. "My mouth?"
"Spit," it comes out with a whimper, eyes squinting as you will your wish into existence. "In my mouth. Now."
His thrusts only misses a beat, a shaky breath echoing after your words before he plunges deeper, taking your voice with you.
"You're dirty, you know that?" he muses, brows knitted like it kills him to experience such gratification. "My come isn't enough for you? Want every bit of me, huh?"
Your brain is elsewhere, a distant theory for whatever's melted between your ears, a nod coming from within you. "Want it, want it bad, Jake."
"Where's your manners, sweetheart?" he coos, laughing when you're flailing against him, thrashing around like the spoiled princess you are. "You're usually so polite for me. What happened?"
"Jake," your hand finds his jaw, finding the strength to wire him to you. "Spit. Now,"
"No." he laughs. "I'm not doing it until you beg."
An attempt is made to pry his jaw open, but to no avail, his playful headshakes meant to haunt you long after this is over.
Whenever that is.
"Jake, I need it─I," shame floods your being, not stopping the request. "Please. Just once, I only need it once, pretty please?"
His hips topple over their rhythm, stuttered against the flesh of your thighs as restraint crumples his face, a pleading breath sent to the ceiling before he locks eyes with you again.
"Do you know how pretty you sound begging for me? Shit," he curses, swatting your hand away to mirror the same gesture on yours, jaw dropped with your tongue laid out. "Here you go, since your filth comes with manners,"
The spit lands square on your tongue, a mewl so dirty from you there's no coming back, your walls closing around Jake's cock like a vice as you taste him ─ spearmint with a hint of that energy drink ─ and swallow, humming all the way down.
"Holy shit," his voice tremours with wonder, swiping the hair out your face so you have a good look at him when he says, "Get on your knees. Right now."
The euphoric mist clouding over from his spit still remains, crumpling your expression with confusion, quickly switching to surprise as Jake hauls himself off you. He pulls you along for the ride as he manhandles you into position, your body now facing the french doors of your bedroom, the wilderness all your hazy eyes see. Horror creeps up on you, your bodies in plain view in the bedroom lowlights, watching your mouth fall ajar as Jake pushes in from behind, your toes curling as he fills you.
He thrusts like he never stopped, the fast tempo making skin slaps ring in your ears, your arms moving in a slow buckle as you struggle to hold yourself upright.
It takes a miracle to movenur your arm behind you, tapping Jake's arm. "Jake,"
Your head motions to the french doors, which leave nothing to the imagination ─ your lewd actions on full display for anyone's viewing pleasure.
"The curtains," aren't drawn, you want to say, but can't choking on a moan when Jake hits deepest in you. "P-people will see,"
"They've been open this whole time. Let them," he gruffs, firming his grip on your hips. "Don't want them to know how dirty you are? How good you are at taking at cock?"
In the reflection, you lay witness to him lower down to your back, thrusting into you with no end in sight as he whispers in your ear. "It's too late, baby. We both know your dirty secret. Just be good and take it."
Your arms give in, hopeless against constructs you're trying to hold yourself to when Jake's given nothing but freedom to be you. In all the ways you've shyed away from, collasping under the brute force of everything coming at you ─ the shame, the pleasure, the hopeleness, the satisfaction ─ it all hits you at once, releasing the cry deeply buried of his name as you come.
All the cells in your body simultaneously shatter and become whole again, drifting into another realm you don't bother acknowledging, centered on the full-blown euphoria blown past your eyes, raving you whole. You cry into your arms, voice having no limits with your nonsensical babble while you try coming down from your orgasm, Jake having enough sympathy to fuck you slow until you're back together again, hunched over in a near hysterical state.
Since when were things like this? Since when did the man who brought you bliss bring you this close to deconstruction?
It'd have to be an afterthought as Jake's palm soothes down your bent spine, heel pressing in to exaggerate your arch before he kneads the flesh of your ass, getting off on the constant whines at the mere hover of his fingers.
"You with me, baby?" tongue in cheek, he questions, still sliding in and out of it, slick dribbling down to the duvet cover. "You did so good coming for me. Ready for another?"
Your head snaps to his, mildly offended. "Another one?"
He giggles, sporting a boyish grin. "Insatible, right?" your eyes roll on on their own, head burying into your arms. "I'm just owning up to it now,"
"Besides," he starts, his hips jumpstarting to as he makes deliberate knocks into you, deep and forceful, moving you up on the bed. "Weren't you the one begging to be filled?"
"Let me grant your wish, baby," he coos, addiction laced in his voice, his hand smoothing over the curve of your ass and hip. "Let me fill you."
You agree, because there's no end to your need too.
He gets back to it. Thrusting without abandonment, fingertips indenting into your hips as he fucks the cries out of you, expression so bliss-blown in the reflection, the building pressure in your stomach starting again.
You've got enough energy in you to prop yourself up again, helped by Jake who moments before, held your hands behind your back to pound into you. The stretch pulls your searing cheeks as your teeth bare, plucked apart by your low-hanging jaw. He coos, with all the condescending nature he's masked, making his way into your ear.
"Pity I can't fill your mouth like this," he muses, his hand over the column of your throat, applying pressure that translates to the squeeze of your walls. "I'm only one man ─ I can't keep all your holes occupied,"
You groan against his hand, high keens your trademark as he plows into you without interruption. Then, you witness brillance spark across his face, the hand he had on your hip vacating to pull you closer, his tip blunting against your sweet spot to the release of your sobs. In the time you arch for a loud-mouthed cry, it's abruptly cut-off by lace material filling your mouth.
Disbelief floods you, your reflection evident as what projects to you is something you couldn't bring yourself to wrap your head around.
Your excuse of a thong stuffed square in your mouth, all the while Jake pounds into you, the picture of amusement.
"There you go," he smiles like he's struck gold, giving the courtesy of departing from your throat to have two hands on your hips. "All full now."
Disgrace tries to involve itself in the humid air starting to fog against the doors, no room to go when you're moaning into the material, the taste of him and you on your tongue, twisting your insides in the shape of a tangled web. How you don't buckle escapes you, so fixated on watching Jake behind you, enamoured by the deep bow of your spine that your eyes simply cannot pry.
Incessant attention eventually pulls him away from his view, making eye-contact with a commitment for not breaking it. His hands anchor down your hips as he drills further into you, pounding with a force engulfing all your sobs and moans into your thong, expression permnanently creased.
"Have no idea how beautiful you look, baby," he groans, met with a whimper. "God, I'm gonna fucking come if you keep─"
You clench around, feeling that familar pressure tick to single digits, holding onto the duvet cover for dear life while you can do is brace for impact.
"I'm close too, pretty," Jake sympathisizes, face expression pulled, eyes never leaving yours. "You gonna come like a good girl? Gonna watch us come?"
The response is caught in your cotton-mouth, eyes forced shut as your body takes over, deliriously nodding along as you fall back onto folded arms, willing your orgasm to swallow you whole.
"Come on, princess. Eyes on us."
Motivated by nothing but his voice, your head manages the lift to a vision permanely burned into your corneas. Jake pistioning into you, curls messy and untamaed, glowing in soft bedroom light bouncing off the deep arch of your back, senses pushed into overload as the image sends you off the edge.
White streaks across your vision, a lapse in everything known to you as you cry out, loud and long, claws sunk into the duvet for salvation. The dam breaks, the yell for mercy wreched out your throat ending with pressed gasps, mouth run dry as you coat Jake's cock, force splashing back against his abdomen and your thighs, shivering as his voice breaks through the echo chamber.
"Oh baby, you're made for me," he drawls, on his last legs as his thrusts turn erratic, high on you and your release. "So perfect, I'm gonna give you what you want. I'm gonna─hmph!"
In one last meet, you hinge desperately onto the edge of the bed, hoarse voice on its last legs as you twine into your limbs, feeling the rush of Jake fill you with an inch of your life. Your walls flutter to keep him there as his hips glue to you, figure toppling overs yours as his arms bracket your quivering torso, vision black with eyes closed to focus back on your breath, ragged and spent.
Sweat and sex lingers in the air, a sense you only access when you've gathered a small percentage of working brain cells, blinking back to reality. Your whimper bleeds into the thong as Jake gradually starts to pull out, cunt closing behind him as he leaves, a slow dribble trailed out your entrance, down to the duvet and along your cunt.
After a few moments, your body manages to lift its head, your stuffed mouth and stray hair all you see. Salvaging the last of your dignity, you pull the thong out, drenched in saliva tossed aside to smooth your hair back, slumping back in a dramatic flop.
Chuckles sound behind you, casting your eyes sideways.
"Come sit, baby," he purrs, a tender smack bruised against your ass. You buck, groaning as your body starts to prop itself up, come trailing steadfast to your entrance. "On my lap."
Your hand hovers it, a illogical attempt to keep him there.
"It's gonna leak." you croak.
"Better keep you plugged then," you turn your head, your boyfriend leaned back with his palms against the bed, expression offering you some sympathy. "Come here."
An exhale prompts your steady pace as you inch your way to Jake, shaking your head with an open smile as his half-hard cock glares in between his crossed legs. His lax posture gravitates to you, hands secured around your waist as assistance while you throw your thigh over his, one hand on his shoulder while the other splays over his length, molten stirring in you at his groan. Hovering over his tip beading precome, the come between your legs starts to halo around him, eyes locked where you feed his cock into yourself.
"Nice and easy, that's it baby," he praises, watching with dark eyes. "There you go."
A wistful sigh breezes past your lips as he fills you again, legs circling his back when he's all in, the stretch knocking on overstimulation's door. It's dampened by your endless need to consume him, obssessed with the fullness of him as you dissolve into a sack of hungry bones, chin hooked over his shoulder, holding him close.
"You're crazy." you murmur.
His chesty chuckle vibrates into you, airy. "Only about you,"
Hands on your back, one moves to soothe across the expanse of your spine, a chaste kiss pressed into your shoulder. "You good? Comfy?"
You try find the words, your nails scraping into his skin. "Feels─hmph,"
"Good?" he supplies, an edge of teasing to his tone. "Feel full?"
"Yeah," you agree anyways, accepting your fate with the burial of your mouth into your arms, ease blown through your nose.
"It's okay, sweetheart. You can grind on me," the comment draws your attention, perking at the slow grind your hips have unknowingly started. "Just want you close. C'mere."
He captures you in a slow, passionate kiss, savoured by the slow motions of your lips gliding without hurry, simply enjoying the press of each other. Skin to skin, your arms looped around his shoulders with his hands braced against your ribcage as you grind. The friction to your clit pours moans into his mouth, his grip going tighter as he kneads into your skin, drunk off every inch of you as you lose yourself in his embrace, rocking to the sounds of you together.
You stay like this for what bleeds into forever, intimacy and friction simmering from a spark to a raging fire, the pit in your stomach accompained by the helpless pry of your lips, his teeth pulling your bottom lip to make you shudder.
Your hips build in a volatile nature, grinding with a hitch amplifying the mess between your legs of legs. The fill and presence of Jake radiates esctacy right down to your fingertips, harsh tugs of his hair rewarded with drawn out moans, his lips glossed as his lips follow yours with endless need.
The burn in your thighs starts to dial back your pace, wounded whimper bypassing your lips. It's solved by an assured circle around your back, Jake's other hand wedging between your plastered bodies to find your clit, circling it in motions bringing you closer.
"M' gonna come," he whimpers, lips brushing against yours. "Gonna come, baby?"
You yelp against him, the feeling too much.
"Squeeze good around me and I'll give you another load," he coaxes, ruining you to microscopic pieces. "Come on, sweet girl. Make me proud."
Instead of an earth-shattering crash, comes a flood of relief. Bacing your hands woven into Jake's locks, you expel a pitched keen in your throat, blending into a deep exhale, body slumping with your come down. Still, your body demands to be closer. Closer to him until space ceases to exist, pressing yourself so firmly into Jake's that when your embrace threatens to tip you over, you're secured. Anchored in Jake's arms as he kisses you one last time, tasting the moan of your name on his tongue as he comes, spilling over with excess dipping down onto the soaked duvet, the material tomorrow's damage.
"You're a bit of an airhead when you're like this," Jake comments later when you blink back the lazy film coating your eyes, your face pulled back to his view. He's enamored with a dazzling smile, thumb running over the moles around your lips. "Have I fucked all the sense out your pretty head?"
"Want a break?" he muses, cooing when you nod into his palm cupping your cheek. "Okay, princess. I'll help you."
And he does, carrying your singing body back to the plush cloud of the mattress, muscles unwinding into its comfort. Your arm casts over your line of sight, a brief break from stimulation before you're restless enough to peek above the flesh, your boyfriend's sihoulette moving slowly, a lone pillow propped up beneath your feet.
Affection starts in your chest, flourishes in those silent moments where you co-exist in something so simple, your mind spared from all the games and noise coming with life. It prompts the outreach of your hand, the gentle call of his name bringing him to you at lightning speed, lips and bodies together again.
You don't know how long time ticks on, but you know you spend it with him, every inch of your skin kissed by his lips, filled by him over and over again. Your brain doesn't bother keeping up with how many times you pour over the edge, your only source of attention the man before you, giving himself to you, choosing you each and every time. In the mix, tears spill from your eyes and he kisses them away, easing the heft in your chest before that telltale feeling washes over you, drowning you in endless bliss.
Birds start to chirp when the dust settles, you starfished on the bed with a rising chest you force cycled-breaths through, exhaustion seeping deep into your bones, synched with the euphorica grin you only manage to pull with the last of your strength.
"Beautiful," you hear him say, distant on the edge of the bed. "You're so beautiful, love."
Then he comes into eyeline, crawling his way to you.
"You looked so fucking good coming all over my cock," he says, hair a mess ─ stuck to his forehead with a chest laboured enough to warrant rest. Yet, he continues, inching himself to straddle your chest with his half-hard cock nestling between your breasts, nudged to shake his body in a tremour. "Want you covered in my come. In you isn't enough."
He's a madman. You're a dating a madman because in what world is the end for him? Time is a mere concept to you, but you're sure you've been at this for hours. He's stretched you every way but loose, pumping an amount of come into you you're not sure birth control can intervene with, moaning his name over and over again.
And he's hard. Again?
That reader was so fucking right about him. So right it hurts.
"You don't have to do anything," he assures you, cock coated with yours and his come sticking to the valley of your breasts, the snug fit providing him the relief he needs. "Just let me use you."
You're exhausted. Had your fill and then some, so there should be no reason why you're like this, feeling the familar flames of arousal warm you. Nothing but greed is writing the code to your actions as you push your breasts together with your hands, fingers running over your nipples with a pained moan.
Some sick person you must be, so drunk on lust you're ruled by it, letting gluttony get the best of you as Jake collapses in praises of your name and yesyesyes', cock gliding back and forth, unhurried in a slow tempo where he can savour the feel of your flesh. Eyes weigh heavy but your selfishness keeps them open, watching Jake above you. Like this, the man who pulled everything out of you is drastically different, ruined beyond measure that he can't keep himself together. He's a mess in the best possible way, quivering body bathed in soft orange, wearing sweat on his skin with his brows scrunched. His jaw hangs, gasping for air as the sweetest whines pour out of him, so sensitive but still chasing release, a version of himself you wrestle yourself over.
It doesn't take him long to come, spent in a way he can't make his hips to buck any faster, hands gripping the duvet covers eitherside of you with the last of his strength, moved to tears as his glossy eyes find yours. So wrecked.
"Let me hear it one more time," he pleads, every bit of desperate you've been. "Pleasepleaseplease, bunny. Fuck, just need to hear you one more time."
"Jake," your voice, the last curtain call. "Come for me."
And he does. Hitting a wall hard and fast, body beautifully wound before he falls apart, head falling back with a cry to the moon as drips of come scatter against your skin, all over your chest and under your chin too. His body falls forward, so fast you're scared he'll forget you're even beneath him, only for his strength to be supported by the headboard, muscles flexing with dark shadows as he whines himself back to equilibrium. Sympathy blankets over you, your hand reassuring against his shaking thigh as your thumb caressses him to tranquility, Jake finding his breath and sense of self again in the early hours of what's been a long night.
With his head hung, he unlatches them to a view of you, exhaustion in your smile but still looking at him with every bit of love your heart's been harbouring for him. The same fondness reflects back in him, a foolish giggle half coming out of him before he moves.
Clean-up in mind, you anticipate him making his way over to the bathroom as he always does, a warm rag used to clean debris but his methods stray. Only move him inches up your torso until he's afforded enough space, lowering himself so his tongue can trace around your come-covered nipples. You whine, watching silently as he makes slow work of clean up his mess, using the excuse of giving your boobs attention with slow swirls and teasing tugs, your chest eventually covered in his saliva instead.
The last of it smears against his two fingers, fingertips on your lips parted open to taste him, tongue gliding over every crevice to lick him clean.
Only then does he collapse onto you, a huff pushing out of you with the loopy chuckles you exchange.
"I need to tip that reader on our way back," you croak, voice hoarse.
Jake's head moves with your laughter, lifting to get you in his sights. "Hey, I put in all the work here!"
"I know, I know," you respond, smitten regardless as your fingers weave into his loose curls, calm hums vibrating into your skin. "You signed up for it when you met me though."
"I'm getting the sloppiest road-head on our way back," he mumbles, yawning. "Compensation for a job well done."
"Is that what you wanted? For me to pet you and tell you did good?" It's entirely rhetorical, your question, but the light blooming into Jake's features unearths an amused snicker, enthusiastic nods sent your way. "Okay, okay. You did good, you did well, Jake. My good boy,"
Again, the last part is said as a joke. But it's received as anything but when you feel something twitch amidst the joking scratches you do under his chin, his smile too blissful to be innocent.
"Jake!" you yell, not believing this man. This myth of a man you've somehow shacked up with. "I don't know if you need a time-out or an exorcism. That's enough! Use your fucking hand."
"Doesn't feel good as you though," he pouts, trying to shuffle his way up too, denied by your outstretched hands. "You know being called that gets an reaction out of me."
You shuffle up for comfort against the pillows, Jake's body following soon after. "I did not know that, actually."
Surprise raises his brows, lip corners downturned before he shrugs, beaming a closed mouth beam at you that's hard to not fawn over. "Well, now you know,"
"More information for next round," he winks, then promptly receives a pillow to the face.
Laughter bleeds into the early hours of morning, your break in the mountains providing every bit of satisfaction, a destiny incapable of change.
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