🔓TRAPPED. Hacker!stepbro! Heeseung x reader
Your antisocial new stepbro pretends he’s not obsessed while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you’ll use it.
🔓REFLECTION. Twins!Heeseung x Bff!reader
After Heeseung's twin death, His touch should felt different... Something else lingers behind those doe eyes. Every kiss, every brush of skin makes you question who’s really here. Heesu or Heeseung? You thought you knew them both. You were never more wrong... ⚠️TW: Death & Thriller Elements⚠️ Interactive fic with 2 endings
🔓 SPECIAL FAN SERVICE fan!Heeseung x Camgirl!Reader x fan!Jay
You’re a popular camgirl. You drop a conquest : a private challenge to see who deserves one night alone with you. Hee and Jay ? They apply. Together! And god, the way they look, all desperate for you. One hotel room. Two obsessive, subby fans aggressively turned on. One night they’ll never forget… and never fully recover from. Just like you...
🔒PRETTY BOY. (upcoming) virgin!softboy!heeseung x first love reader
Heeseung’s still the awkward boy who once whispered he loved you — just with broader shoulders, softer eyes, and a quiet ache to be enough for you. He’ll do anything to earn your heart, if you’ll just let him try.
🔓POWER PLAY. sub!boss Jake x Co-worker!dom reader
The one where Jake is the picture-perfect boss — everything you claim to hate, but can’t bring yourself to touch. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like you're divine. Or maybe it’s the way he drops to his knees, begging for your slap like he’s been dreaming of it forever.
🔓 Part 2
🔓HUNTED. virgin!stepbro!Jake x afab perv!reader
You didn’t just get a new family — you got Jake. Your wide-eyed, too-sweet stepbrother, always watching like he’s starving. Painfully innocent. And maybe it’s time you gave him something to dream about. he’ll make the perfect little revenge.
🔓SAINT'S DREAM - Sex!addict!Jake x ChurchGirl!ReaderThe one where Jake the perfect saint of your youth group hides a filthy obsession for you behind his soft smile and popular image. He enjoy turning your anxious quirks into his favorite triggers, and love secretly toying with you until he realise you're just as fucked up.
🔓CHAINED. stepbro!sunghoon x dancer reader
The one where your stepbro new Sunghoon becomes obsessed after the night you cried for him. Now, he won’t let you breathe without him — not until your trembling feet find only safety on his stage. You were born to be a ballerina. He was made to break you beautifully.
🔓PART.2 (would recommand not to read it lol not my best)
🔓SUMMER CLASS. OnlineStranger!SunghoonxVirgin!reader
You weren’t supposed to match with him. Now it’s 2 a.m., and the cold-eyed stranger is in your phone, in your head, and under your skin—asking questions that make your thighs press together and promising things that should make you block him. You don’t. This isn’t flirting. It’s foreplay with no safe word.
🔒FAMILIAR. (upcoming) old!vamp!sunghoon x new!vamp!reader
The one where Sunghoon finds you : a hungry newborn vampire, still tasting the sting of Heeseung’s bite, and takes you for himself. He tears you from Heeseung’s grasp with a promise: that if you're going to crave blood, you’ll crave his.
🔒OFF-LIMITS streat!racer!brother's bestfriend x f!reader
Your brother's best friend—your dad's prized apprentice—has more on his plate than just saving the garage's reputation. He has to handle you: troublemaking, reckless, and way too close to rival racer Jungkook. It pisses him off. He acts cold. But fuck—he wants you so bad it hurts.
🗝SPECIAL FAN SERVICE ! fan!Heeseung x Camgirl!Reader x fan!Jay
The one where you’re popular camgirl. You drop a conquest : a private challenge to see who deserves one night alone with you. Hee and Jay ? They apply. Together! And god, the way they look, all desperate for you. One hotel room. Two obsessive, subby fans aggressively turned on. One night they’ll never forget… and never fully recover from. Just like you...
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🔓TRAPPED. Hacker!stepbro! Heeseung x reader
Your antisocial new stepbro pretends he’s not obsessed while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you’ll use it.
🔓REFLECTION. Twins!Heeseung x Bff!reader
After Heeseung's twin death, His touch should felt different... Something else lingers behind those doe eyes. Every kiss, every brush of skin makes you question who’s really here. Heesu or Heeseung? You thought you knew them both. You were never more wrong... ⚠️TW: Death & Thriller Elements⚠️ Interactive fic with 2 endings
🔓 SPECIAL FAN SERVICE fan!Heeseung x Camgirl!Reader x fan!Jay
You’re a popular camgirl. You drop a conquest : a private challenge to see who deserves one night alone with you. Hee and Jay ? They apply. Together! And god, the way they look, all desperate for you. One hotel room. Two obsessive, subby fans aggressively turned on. One night they’ll never forget… and never fully recover from. Just like you...
🔒PRETTY BOY. (upcoming) virgin!softboy!heeseung x first love reader
Heeseung’s still the awkward boy who once whispered he loved you — just with broader shoulders, softer eyes, and a quiet ache to be enough for you. He’ll do anything to earn your heart, if you’ll just let him try.
🔓POWER PLAY. sub!boss Jake x Co-worker!dom reader
The one where Jake is the picture-perfect boss — everything you claim to hate, but can’t bring yourself to touch. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like you're divine. Or maybe it’s the way he drops to his knees, begging for your slap like he’s been dreaming of it forever.
🔓 Part 2
🔓HUNTED. virgin!stepbro!Jake x afab perv!reader
You didn’t just get a new family — you got Jake. Your wide-eyed, too-sweet stepbrother, always watching like he’s starving. Painfully innocent. And maybe it’s time you gave him something to dream about. he’ll make the perfect little revenge.
🔓SAINT'S DREAM - Sex!addict!Jake x ChurchGirl!ReaderThe one where Jake the perfect saint of your youth group hides a filthy obsession for you behind his soft smile and popular image. He enjoy turning your anxious quirks into his favorite triggers, and love secretly toying with you until he realise you're just as fucked up.
🔓CHAINED. stepbro!sunghoon x dancer reader
The one where your stepbro new Sunghoon becomes obsessed after the night you cried for him. Now, he won’t let you breathe without him — not until your trembling feet find only safety on his stage. You were born to be a ballerina. He was made to break you beautifully.
🔓PART.2 (would recommand not to read it lol not my best)
🔓SUMMER CLASS. OnlineStranger!SunghoonxVirgin!reader
You weren’t supposed to match with him. Now it’s 2 a.m., and the cold-eyed stranger is in your phone, in your head, and under your skin—asking questions that make your thighs press together and promising things that should make you block him. You don’t. This isn’t flirting. It’s foreplay with no safe word.
🔒FAMILIAR. (upcoming) old!vamp!sunghoon x new!vamp!reader
The one where Sunghoon finds you : a hungry newborn vampire, still tasting the sting of Heeseung’s bite, and takes you for himself. He tears you from Heeseung’s grasp with a promise: that if you're going to crave blood, you’ll crave his.
🔒OFF-LIMITS streat!racer!brother's bestfriend x f!reader
Your brother's best friend—your dad's prized apprentice—has more on his plate than just saving the garage's reputation. He has to handle you: troublemaking, reckless, and way too close to rival racer Jungkook. It pisses him off. He acts cold. But fuck—he wants you so bad it hurts.
🗝SPECIAL FAN SERVICE ! fan!Heeseung x Camgirl!Reader x fan!Jay
The one where you’re popular camgirl. You drop a conquest : a private challenge to see who deserves one night alone with you. Hee and Jay ? They apply. Together! And god, the way they look, all desperate for you. One hotel room. Two obsessive, subby fans aggressively turned on. One night they’ll never forget… and never fully recover from. Just like you...
Saint’s Dream - Sex!addict!Jake x ChurchGirl!Reader
Content & Trigger Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Mention of religion and sins, our boy discover he's an obsessed sadist, reader with inferiority complex and anxiety/Panic attacks, coercion smh, fingering, dry humping/grinding, cum play, Two-faced Jake Sweet → Menace, Obsessed Jake/reader, sub/dom dynamics, soft dom, degradation+praise, kink mention of paraphilia, Overstimulation (r), Slight mind-breaking (r),public, edjing, Dubcon? (mostly in Jake’s head), messy heads, tits lover, marking, breedingkink m, morally gray jake, blasphemous language
WC: 13k~ (didn't really proof read I was sleepy and ovulating on top...enjoy)
You hate Jake Sim. Oh god how you hate this man.
Obviously you do. Because if you didn’t, then every humiliating, small, invisible thing you feel around him would just be…
You.
It’s a thing as old as the day both of you met. This strange inferiority thing you have, that made his kind gestures poison. Cause he’s just so… Jake coded. “Need a hand?” this. “Let me do it for you.” that, always said with that hand-over-heart sincerity. Like some benevolent little saint sent down to rescue the less fortunate. Which, apparently, is you.
And you…
You never refused. or gave him attitude. Cause refusing a guy like Jake would require admitting you resented him. That something about you was wrong.
That you can’t stand the way he outshines you without even trying. That you feel defective standing next to him.
After all, saints are meant to be loved. And Jake was loved by everyone. Everyone, except maybe by you. And eve’ this is not his fault.
It’s yours.
Because that poor Jake was charming in that infuriatingly unconscious way. Soft smiles, careful manners, a body sculpted like God spent extra time on him. Handsome, but acting like he has no idea. Perfect, but almost apologetic for it. Like: Sorry I’m everything you’re not.
He says your name when people praise his grades. Bumps his shoulder against yours when he takes first place and you settle for second. As always.
He leans in too close and murmurs, “Next time, for sure,” with those earnest, pity-puppy eyes, while you fell the anxiety eat you alive.
Even his family, is so aggressively perfect it almost feels satirical.
Rich, but the kind that doesn’t flaunt it because they don’t have to. The kind that somehow raises children with “healthy expectations” instead of generational trauma. No dramatic pressure to be extraordinary. No threats of disappointment. Just effortless excellence, passed down like heirloom silver.
Of course he’d turn out like this.
Perfect.
A saint.
A saint who’s soccer team captain. Your science club president. First seat in violin after school, always a damn chair ahead. Debate club’s crowned prince. The only person you can’t out-argue no matter how long you stay up preparing weeks before. First on the merit board like it’s a birthright to be above yours.
Choir member. Church darling. While you’re just… there. Another girl in a modest skirt trying not to sing off-key.
Even most cited youth volunteer. Which is impressive. Truly. Especially considering you were the president for the past two years.
Two years…
And still it’s his name the pastors say during sermons. “Well, look at Jake,” they’ll say, smiling at him in the third pew. “That’s the kind of young man you should all aspire to be, bla, bla, bla…”
And everyone nods.
You nod too.
Because what else are you supposed to do?
It’s not his fault he excels at everything you bleed for. It’s not his fault people light up when he walks in. It’s not his fault that when you stand next to him, you feel like a smudge on a polished surface.
But it’s easier to think it just is. And in some kind of outragious way it is, because Jake doesn’t even try. That’s the worst part.
He just exists. And somehow, that’s enough to eclipse you.
Because Jake is just everywhere your eyes linger. Everywhere, that’s the problem.
Everywhere you try to excel, every space you polish yourself into something worthy of praise, he appears with effortless and radiant victory, just to cut the grass you were saving for yourself. That brief, intoxicating thrill of being seen, favored, recognize? He reaps it first. Always… first.
You wanted to be him somehow. You mean like him. Perfectly perfect. Still being around him too long made you feel sick—like you were about to throw up and spiral straight into a panic attack.
You were just too much obsessed by him to realize your own outstanding value and charms.
For you, if Jake is virtue, then you are an inventory of sins. If he is modesty, you are secret pride. If he look content, you are greedy.
And if he is purity, sealed neatly behind that chastity ring gleaming on his finger and cross on his neck, then you are pure lust on any kind of attention you could get.
The kind that makes you reckless especially.
The kind that pushes you toward the forgettable fuckable boys at debate regionals. That you let stand a little too close, just to prove you can be wanted too.
The kind that makes you accept wandering hands because it feels good. Because being desired, even just cheaply … Is still being desired?
Sunghoon, for example.
The priest’s youngest assistant. The youth center instructor. Technically too old to look at you the way he does.
But he does. Just now, from the side of the nave, while Father prepares his sermon, his gaze drags over you like he’s already decided he’ll need help moving furniture later at youth session, as always.
You readjust the thin strap of your summer dress, whipping sweat from your neck, boxed into the corner of a wooden pew near the aisle, in that too hot, too old damn of a church in that too small of a town.
The priest clears his throat. Then, almost ceremonially says:
“Anyone under seventeen is dismissed.”
Wood creaks. Shoes scrape. A ripple of confused laughter moves through the congregation as teenagers are herded out, faces pink from heat, whispers louder and louder.
The doors close. The lock sounds heavier than it should. The priest lifts his head.
“Tonight,” he says, “we will speak of the subject of sexuality.”
Your fingers freeze mid-twist in the hem of your dress. Mindlessly exposing your knees.
Half the room low gasps. Someone snorts. Others laugh a bit too loudly, people your age crane their necks, searching for accomplice in embarrassment. Even you turn your head, looking for your friends to share an amused, disbelieving smile with.
And all of you are suddenly curious and aware, and maybe a little dumb.
After it’s the kind of subject we only speak about once a year.
That’s when you see , him. Jake. From the corner of your eye.
Jake’s sited two rows back across the aisle, just behind your friends and their families. Spine straight. Hands clenched on his thighs. Face calm, reverent, unreadable. The saint at rest.
Except—
He look a bit more tired than usual. His eyes dip, just for a second—
To your knees.
To the wrinkled fabric you’ve been worrying on. Then his gaze snaps up, colliding with yours. you don’t even stand it a second and just directly turn back around, that “sorry for existing typa behavior” that you hate about yourself.
It couldn’t have been more than two seconds. Two awkward, desert-dry seconds.
When you risk a quick glance, His attention is back to the priest like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t been looking at you at all. Like you imagined it.
Jake? No way. He doesn’t look at you like that. He actually doesn’t look at anyone like that.
Suddenly you feel wrong. Like maybe your dress is stained and no one told you. Maybe there’s something on your face. Maybe your knees look awkward. Too bare. Too obvious. Too much.
You resist the urge to check. To wipe at your mouth. To smooth your dress again. To twist around and confirm whether Jake’s still looking — or if he ever was.
Good girl. Be still. Be quiet. You don’t turn around. You don’t look for Jake. At Jake. You don’t ask yourself why your pulse hasn’t settled.
Because the priest has begun.
“Desire,” he says, as you take your deepest breath, “is not a sin in itself. It is a trial.” His voice is calm and practiced. “The body,” he continues, “is a battlefield. What you do with it determines whether you rule it or whether it rules you.”
You swallow, lowering your eyes fading in your cogitations.
“There is submission,” he says, “and there is domination. Both exist in God’s design. The danger lies in confusing control with righteousness.”
Your thighs press together before you realize you’ve moved, wrinkling the white fabric of your dress some more.
“Purity,” the priest continue, “is not ignorance. It is discipline.”
You listen.
But do you really? Yeah, god made everyone imperfect, yeah there’s a plan. yeah, the doctrine. Original sin and all that. Maybe yours is that ugly, gnawing need to be wanted. To be looked at and not overlooked. To be desired down to the bone.
And somewhere between the pulpit and the pew—wedged awkwardly between your faith and that gnawing little knot of guilt in your chest—you start to wonder if you’re really the only one here fighting off thoughts that have absolutely no business being inside a church.
Surely not. Statistically, that would be ridiculous. But—-your eyes scan discretly around you—if there are secret perverts sitting politely between the hymnals and the folded hands, and somehow it isn’t you… then who, exactly, is it?
You caught the priest assistant, Sunghoon lingering a look on you at that right fucking moment, as you regain consciousness and stop bit your lower lip. He’s giving you that one look that tells : you’re doing a remarkably poor job of pretending purity princess.
You’re asking for it, huh, he’s probably thinking.
You try to get it together, while your thoughts misbehave. Spectacularly sharing them thru eyes contact with that Sunghoon guy.
Maybe you’re ovulating. That has to be it. Because why else would your mind go there—imagining him in those same church clothes he’s wearing now, backing you into the confessional, crowding that small space until there’s nowhere left for you to escape. Just to force his hand under your already humid and smiring with anticipation panties, like he has some right to check. To make sure you’re still what you’re supposed to be. Still a good girl. Still unprepared, unready, unstretched.
Just to leave you, legs parted, wanting more, with your juice drying on his finger for his own fun.
you can almost feel those cold, veiny hands on you—enough to make your back oh so lightly arch before you can stop yourself.
Reality comes crashing back the moment your parents stand up. The sudden rustling of people around you breaking your… very unchurchlike train of thought.
Incredible. Truly. Your brain picks church—of all places—for that.Fucking get a grip.
Most of it, you missed. You rise in a too quick move, smoothing your dress with hands that are too sweaty, slipping into the current of families clustering together, voices overlapping in familiarity.
You’re fine with this part. This is not the reason you take three type of diferent pills to calm your anxiety. You greet people automatically. Smile where expected. Nod at the right moments. Ask polite questions you don’t really care about.Your normal social self.
It’s only when you notice who your parents are greeting now that something in you tightens.
Jake’s parents.
Of course…
Your mother hugs his with the kind of warmth she reserved for people she’s already decided are good and above, and his father easily laughs with yours.
And you? You angle your body away on instinct, already planning your escape to the youth group, when your mother’s voice cuts in.
“Don’t just hover,” she says. “Say hi, love.”
“Ms Sim, Mr Sim” you reply smoothly bowing your head, with that shy smile, greeting and chatting as you try hard not to look at Jake, “…I’ll go catch up with friends, have safe trip home.” You bow, almost excusing yourself.
but your mom raises an eyebrow.
“You’ve been ‘catching up’ for weeks. Stay here. It’s impolite.”
Before you can try countering, Jake’s mother steps closer as elegant and unhurried as always, smiling like she knows exactly how things are supposed to go.
“Jake,” she says gently, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. “Why don’t you to go join the group too. Walk her over, okay?” It’s perfect. Kindness, handled exactly how you wished you mom would have.
His mother gives you the“good girl eye” the one in between “if I had a daughter like you…” and “my poor child…” you’re used of reiveving from her since childhood.
Jake turns to you. You meet his eyes too late, then look away too quickly.
There it is. This, is the part you’re bad at. Not people. Not conversation. Just him. Just Jake freaking Sim.
Because around Jake, you’ve always felt this… The gap. Since middle school. Since spelling bees and gold stars and teachers comparing you with soft smiles.
Your effort, his ease, you studying until 2 a.m, and him just existing.
“Sure,” he says, like there was never another option.
Shit, shit, shit. You start feelling it… The anxiety.
Jake falls into step beside you down the aisle, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, shoulders close enough to look friendly, far enough to stay saintly, just socially acceptable. An d you only want one thing : get away. Just to calm that thing that is going on in your stomach.
You don’t realise, but Jake can feel your tension radiating like heat. Your shoulders rigid, your eyes everywhere except on his face, and your stomach probably hollowing out with that familiar unconfortable churn you get whenever he’s near.
He’s memorized it by now: the way you try to straighten your spine, pretend you’re fine, pretend he doesn’t make you want to puke from nerves and something else.
God, it’s pathetic.
And it’s perfect.
You, are so perfect.
He sees everything you try to hide, enjoy every little bit. The awkward fidget, the way your eyes dart anywhere. Every stutter, every forced smile, he catalogs it all.
Fuck, Jake wants to do you so bad it hurts; wants to shove you against the nearest pew, yank that dress up, and fuck until you’re crying his name instead of choking on it.
Keep it together, Jake. Golden boy. Church darling. You can’t let the mask crack.
“You alright?” he asks, voice light—like he’s just the nice guy checking in, as if he wasn’t getting off on your every reaction.
“Hm?” You blink up at him, wide-eyed, caught off guard.
It’s brilliant, that deer-in-headlights thing you do, it just, never gets old.
His gaze drops. Lower. To those fingers you’ve been white-knuckling since the sermon started. “You’ve been clenching your hands all night.”
Your eyes snap down. Fingers guilty half-second too late. And your anxiety rize. Jake can practically see it takes form…
Good.
“I… didn’t realize,” you mumble, voice barely there, with that akward smile.
“I know...” Jake is mesmerized, he watches your breath hitch. You’ve been doing this all service, twisting those fingers like they’re your only anchor. And yeah, he’s been watching. Longer than tonight actually. Longer than you’ll ever guess. “I mean,… I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well,” he continues, “You looked tense.”
A small, strangled laugh escapes you—like you’re one wrong breath from vomiting. Fuck. That sound shoots straight to his cock. He wants to push harder, make it a bit worse, make you dizzy with it maybe. But he need to control himself, If you ever realise, if you ever guess that he’s getting off on your disconfort it’s the end.
“No, I—it’s just a bad habit.” Your hands flap uselessly. Awkward smile plastered on. Stop, he imagines you screaming internally. He almost smirks.
He hums instead. “You should stop.” Another beat. Thin and charged. “I mean…” his eyes drop to your dress. “Look here.”
Jake brushes the threadbare spot you’ve been torturing. Two fingers. That’s all. No grab, no force, just the lightest graze, and your reaction is immediate.
He watches it ripple: pressure sinks through fabric, heat blooms, shiver rockets up your thigh. Goosebumps explode across your legs. Breath snags hard. Thighs twitch in the slightliest way together, desperatly, before you clamp them still.
Fuck. He wants to spread those thighs so bad right now, make you twitch for hours—-Stop! Keep it together, Jake. Control it.
He should stop, he need to. But teasing you is so addicting. “Look,” he murmurs, with that softer smile tilting, almost fond. “its thinner here… than here.”
His veiny hands doesn’t retreat. His fingers slide, slow, deliberate, along the curve of your thigh. Fabric bunches between histhumb and forefinger. His knuckles drag bare skin for three perfect, torturous second. Warm and rougher than you expected from him.
You hadn’t noticed the wear. But he did. On every spot of every cloth you were around him.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Right…” You say taking a step back.
hm? Are you trying to get away? Maybe he did go a bit far, he think. but…
“You’ll stop?” Jake say gently enough to make you doupt if it is a question or a soft command.
And you nod, more like a reflexive. But to him it’s like you’re being obedience, a pathetic state of you that make his dick twitch. You, doing everything he order you to.
He doesn’t move. Tempted to try a bit more.
“Don’t just nod.” It’s almsot imperseptible but his voice drops lower.
“Say yes.”
Your mouth goes dry—he sees the swallow stick. Another traitor nod slips out that make him wanna grab on your jaw, but the word scrapes free finally.
“Y—yes.”
Fuck, Jake fucking loves it. His smile blooms full. The polite one everyone love, yeah. But in this case, he’s just satisfied. Pupils flaring wide for half a heartbeat.
His hand twitches toward your head, like he wants to pat you, like a good pet, but suddenly he snaps out of his little ego trip and reroutes it to your shoulder, remembering he’s not supposed to be this blatant… but oh how he wants it.
Fuck it. It’s not the agreement that gets him half hard. Not even close. It’s the surrender in your personality. The way you surrender without a word, without a fight. How can you be this submisive, angel ? The way you don’t fight back. The way those doe eyes almost beg him to leave you alone… somehow that makes him go harder. Makes him need it.
At first, he didn’t get it. Why this pulls him in so much. Why the simple fact that you’re uncomfortable makes his brain—and apparently his dick—start running the show.
You too don’t get it yet.
Key word : yet.
To say all of this started with pity-hatred would be putting it mildly.
It was the first time in his entire fucking life Jake’s ever felt something so disgustingly potent crawl inside his chest. He still remembers the exact second you got him hopelessly addicted to the sick thrill of having power over you.
Two years ago, at the regional spelling bee auditorium, behind the scenes while everyone was rehearsing—the perfect little prodigy with your too-neat hair and modest knee-length skirt who was supposed to be untouchable— was in some other school senior's arms, pressed against a dark corner backstage’s curtain. His mouth on the side of your neck, leaving wet marks.
His hand shoved so far up under your skirt Jake could see the skin of your inner thigh flexing. And you moaned, a shy whimpering that punched straight through Jake’s balls, as your hips rocked forward shamelessly chasing for more.
That was that. The day Jake realized hate and want could live in the same heartbeat and feel exactly the same.
His first public hard-on. Right there sitting on folding chairs in front of hundreds, cock throbbing painfully against the zipper of his khakis while he watched you sitting down silently next to him. You, the only girl he’d ever really wanted, who got finger-fucked like she was starving for it minutes ago, and then spelling: Floccinaucinihilipilification.
You were his first real crush. His stupid, innocent puppy love.
His first heartbreak.
And—most importantly—his first real taste of rage.
How could you fucking dare give those sounds toa stranger. For days he observed you, just to realise his pure crush on you turned you into an angel you actually weren’t.
Those moans looped in his skull for weeks. The way your cheeks flushed such a violent pink. The glassy, faraway look in your eyes right before you came. The shuddering, thighs trembling, the tiny, broken cry slipping out as you soaked that bastard’s hand.
Jake came so hard that night he saw stars. Ropes of thick cum painting his stomach while his brain short-circuited, replaying nothing but your wrecked face over and over.
First time he’d ever jerked off thinking about someone specific.
First time he experienced the pleasure of rolling over and fucking a pillow thinking of a girl inner thighs while begging for repentance.
And first time he understood what it meant to want to own someone.
From that day forward it stopped being about trophies, debate medals, perfect report cards, or the endless parade of “suitable” playdates his mom tried to arrange. None of it hit the same as the urge to touch you.
Nothing got him stupidly, painfully hard like the fantasy of finally cornering you—maybe in the back stacks of the library where you always fall asleep with your cheek smushed against an open textbook, or in an empty chem lab after hours.
He daydreamed to wash your mouth out with his tongue until you tasted like him. Wanted to bruise the skin that should’ve always belonged to him.
Wanted to be the first—and only—one to rip new sounds and reactions out of that pretty face. He wished to experiment his new obsessions on you.
And suddenly he realised that every time he smiled that gentle, angelic, good-boy smile while quietly dismantling your confidence, your eyes would go glassy, stomach visibly clenching like you were trying not to cry right there.
And fuck, that made him leak in his briefs.
It was weird. And it was scary. The thought of being purposely bad to someone was against everything he believed in.
Still, no award ceremony, no valedictorian speech, no other girl ever gave him that same feral rush. Nothing got him harder, faster, than watching you shrink under his saintly cruelty.
It’s your fault. He persuaded himself. You, turned him into a sinner.
By the time you reach the youth group, voices overlap and the moment dissolves. You both join your friends suddenly aware of your own body in a way that feels like a low vibration under your ribs.
The group is seated in a loose circle, attention focused on Brother hoon, who sits on a low chair at the end of the circle, hands folded, expression impassive.
“As Father mentioned tonight,” he says, “desire is not something to fear. Strong feelings do not make us bad people.” He smiles softly. “They make us human. What matters is how love and understanding the path of god guides them.”
He looks around the circle.
“Does anyone have a passage they think speaks to that?”
Silence.
People avoid eye contact. Someone shifts. But Jake raises his hand without hesitation.
“John 3:16,” he says evenly. “It reminds us that love is intentional. Chosen. Sacrificial. And that sacrifices vanish a lot of sins.”
Nods ripple through the group. You hesitate, then speak before you can stop yourself.
“First Peter,” you say quietly. “4:9.” You swallow, then continue. “It says that above all, we should have fervent love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins.”
Brother Sunghoon's smile deepens.
“That’s very good,” he says looking at you, “both of you.” You lower your gaze, warmth creeping into your face. Heat floods your cheeks. Oh, how pathetic it feels to crave that tiny scrap of recognition, like a dog waiting for a pat on the head. But from him? It's everything. You drop your gaze to your lap, fingers twisting the hem of your dress, a stupid smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
Across the circle, Jake watches. He sees it all: the way your eyes light up for Sunghoon, the flush that creeps up your neck, the shy curve of your mouth.
Head over heels, aren't you? For that guy?.
Jake's jaw tightens. Your lips... His nails dig into his palms without him realising until he feels the warm trickle of skin tiring. Your lips, could smile at him instead. Why couldn’t they he’s always so good to you. So gentlmen. You could at least thank him for always having you in his mind. those same soft lips of yours you btting nervously could be parted around his cock as a thank you, no? You could look at him with those same shy eyes, through those long lashes, begging for that guidance he will surely give you better than anyone else. He’d be so good to you if you letted him. He clenches harder.
You have no idea the storm you're stirring in him, do you? All innocent and fluttering for the wrong man. Fuck he’s doing it again…
Jake reajust himself in the chair, hopping no one noticed, and study keep going until brother Sunghoon claps his hands once, gentle but decisive.
“Let’s do this, for this week exercise” he says. “I want you to pair up with someone,” he gesture, encouraging. “talk together about a desire, something, anything. that is stuck within you and let the other one show acceptance and understanding. It’s about recognizing when it isn’t ours to indulge, and how understanding it helps us accept it, then guide it. Not repress it as a danger. But how to dominate it.”
Murmurs spread. People already turn toward safe friends, prepping harmless confessions: I procrastinate so much…, I love junk food, I desire to skip Bible study sometimes, oops, haha. You do too, wayving at your friend, already scripting something bland and forgivable in your head. Something oh so harmless, that anyone could say “it‘s okay! How about journaling about it?” to.
Then Brother Sunghoon adds, almost offhand adds“Let’s keep it simple… I’ll pair you.” He starts calling names. Your heart drops with each one. Until he reaches you.
“You… With… Jake.” He smiles.
NO.
No,no,no,no.
Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. The room tilts a little. Why you? What could you possibly tell him? Something safe, or... God, what if anything slips out? He’s that good at talking people thru… Your hands tremble, chest tightening like a shrinked shirt. Air feels thin. It’s is a trap, isn't it? Another way for him to see how beneath him you are—frumpy little you, with your buttoned-up blouses and anxious fidgeting, spilling your soul to perfect Jake. Why does it have to be him? Your pulse hammers in your ears, vision blurring at the edges. Breathe. Just breathe. But your lungs won't cooperate, and the panic coils tighter.
He flashes that pure, trustworthy smile everyone melts for, raises his hand in a small, casual hi~ wave. Your friends shoot you those smug, giddy looks—“You’re so lucky!”—like this is some divine rom-com moment.
For one wild second you consider faking illness. Clutching your stomach, bolting for the bathroom, anything. God must be punishing you. This is divine retribution dressed in flannel and soft brown eyes. Or maybe Jake engineered it, whispered to Sunghoon, pulled strings. No, that's paranoid. But the thought makes your stomach churn harder.
“Keep in mind,” Sunghoon adds brightly, “accept with open arms. Show your partner grace. Try to find healthy paths forward together.”
Open arms…
Everyone stands.
You hesitate half a beat too long—long enough that Jake notices—then force your legs to move. Chin up. Shoulders squared. You flash him the smile you’ve practiced in mirrors a hundred times: sweet and polite, that you think look effortless. No one would ever guess how much it costs you, how your heart's racing like it's trying to escape your chest.
You meet him halfway across the room.
“So,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that his voice stays private, “where do you wanna do this?”His tone is light. Curious. As if the answer doesn’t matter at all. and some jaleous girls side eyes you.
But, the answer genuinely doesn’t matter,.
No it actually does.
It matters so much your throat is closing around it. You need open space. People. Fresh air. A clear line of sight to the bathroom so you can bolt when the panic claws up your esophagus and you have to puke your shame into a toilet stall. Anywhere but—
“I think…” You chew the inside of your lower lip raw, teeth catching skin. Your hand drifts up, nails slidding between your teeth before you even register the motion. Bite. Release. Bite again. You scan the room like there’s an escape hatch nobody told you about. “Anywhere. Anywhere’s fine…”
Jake watches the whole pathetic performance. A second too long. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the soft brown until they look almost black. He’s already picturing it: those same nervous teeth replaced with something thicker, your lips stretched and glistening, shy eyes flicking up at him while you choke on praise and drool. Fuck. He’ll break that nail-biting habit one day. Replace it with better habits. On your knees. Swollen mouth. Full of him.
“Study room, downstairs then.”
No.
No!!
The word screams in your head but your mouth stays shut. Those coffin-sized side rooms. No windows. No air that isn’t recycled through his lungs first. No witnesses. Bathroom a whole hallway away. You’ll suffocate. You’ll die in there. You’ll—
You nod too fast. Legs move on autopilot. You trail half a step behind him like a scolded puppy…
Inside, the room is smaller than you remembered. Sterile. Dim. One lamp throwing long shadows. Just a table against a the wall. Two chairs. Jake fucking Sim.
And your heart hurts. You want to go home…
Jake let's you go in first and the room is small you can just smell the clean cotton of his shirt and the faint cedar of whatever cologne he wears. He pulls out your chair, oh so gnetlemenly, and you drop into it so fast the legs scrape. You curl your hands into fists so he won’t see the trembling.
When Jake joins and sit… he’s too damn close. His knees bracket yours, because there isn’t anywhere else to be. You decide to make an exercice out of trying to keep yours sealed tight long enough not to touch his.
You fold your hands on the hem of your dress and suddenly flash back to when Jake told you to stop hits.
You stop.
He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. And you stastically are. Because it’s hard to calm your heart by pointing at five things in a room where the. things you see are a lamp and Jake. The silence settles, not really awkward. but as present as a third person you almost count.
Your eyes locks on the door handle behind him. He locked it. Of course he locked it. Why did he locked it? And why is there no window in the room. why is there no ventilation too? No other sounds than your breathing slowly catching.
Your vision blur in the corners.
Shit, shit, shit.
Jake tilts his head, gets closer, concern creasing his brow in that perfect, practiced way. “Hey… you okay? You look…” He pauses, voice dropping softer. “You look a bit stressed.”
Liar. He’s not concerned. He’s enjoying every seconds. You can’t feel it too much in your own head, to see the way his gaze drags over your flushed cheeks, your bitten lip, the slow frantic rise and fall of your chest. Your panic is turning him on and he hates himself for it and he loves it more.
“I—I’m fine,” you whisper. Your tongue feels thick. “Just… It’s hot. In here.”
fuck it’s almost summer, and the church can’t have a window or some kind of fan in a corner.
“You sure?” He leans forward. Elbows on the table. Closer. “Your hands are shaking. You’re pale.” His fake worry drips from every syllable like honey. “Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”
You want to scream leave me alone. Instead your mouth opens and closes like a dying fish. His finger shyly catch on chin to makes you look at him. And nausea surges, hot climbing your throat. The room spins. You lurch to your feet.
Bad idea, angel.
Your legs give out like wet paper. You don’t even stumble gracefully, you literally crumple forward, knees hitting the floor hard between Jake’s spread thighs, nails scraping at the wood between his leags. The impact jars up your spine, but the real pain is the way your chest locks tighter, air refusing to come in more than frantic little sips.
He freezes for half a heartbeat. Eyes wide. Then something darker flickers across his face.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Hey—hey, I-I think you’re having a panic attack.”
He should call for Sunghoon. He knows he should. Yell. Open the door. Get the saintly brother in here to lay hands and pray he can calm your allergy to him.
But he doesn’t move.
Instead his hands shoot out.One clamping around your jaw, firm enough to tilt your face up to his, the other slids to cradle the back of your neck just like he’s been rehearsing in his dreams for months.
“Easy,” he murmurs, thumb stroking once along the edge of your lower lip—almost tender. “Breathe for me, okay? You’re safe. Just breathe.”
You try. God, you try. But your lungs are made of stone. Your vision swims. Tears already sting the corners of your eyes because everything feels too loud, too close, too him.
Jake’s jaw ticks. His voice drops lower. “Come here.”
He hauls you up, not roughly, but with purpose, straight into his lap so you’re straddling him face-to-face. Your knees bracket his hips on the narrow chair; your dress bunches high on your thighs. His hands stay where they are: one still gripping your jaw, the other curled possessively around the back of your neck, keeping you from looking away.
You’re close enough to see the flecks of brown in his dark irises, the tiny scar on his upper lip, the way his pupils have blown wide. Close enough to feel every ragged exhale fan across your mouth.
“Still not breathing right,” Jake says, voice low, almost disappointed. His thumb strokes once along the seam of your lips, “open your mouth, angel.”
Your lips and eyes tremble, stay sealed. Terror and humiliation glue them shut.
He exhales sharply through his nose. Then two thick fingers push past your teeth without preamble. They hook over your tongue and press, stretching the soft inner skin of your cheeks until they pull tight, until your jaw screams from the angle. You gag hard, helpless, the sound is wet and obscene in the room you’re ashamed.
“Fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once beneath you. His cock is already straining against his jeans, pressing insistently against your core through thin fabric. “Breathe, thru your mouth. In through your nose… out slow. Come on.”
You try—God, you try—but every inhale shoves his fingers deeper, every failed exhale drags more saliva spilling over his knuckles, dripping down your chin and his hand. Your tears stream freely now and a choked, broken whimper vibrates around the intrusion.
He groans low in his throat, head dropping back a bit to enjoy the show.
“You’re fucking killing me like this.”
His free hand slides down—under the hem of your dress and you jolt when it goes past the lace edge of your panties, until his palm flattens over your lower belly. Big. His hand is big. Spanning so much skin you feel tiny, fragile and kind of owned. He presses firm rhythmics. Up on the inhale, down on the exhale. Forcing your diaphragm to obey.
“Like that,” he whispers, breath mingling with yours. “Good girl. Follow my hand. In… out…”
The pressure make your insides wierd, his fingers stretching your mouth, petting your tongue like something precious turn your brain mushy. His palm grinds slightly more possessive, close enough to the fabric of your panties that your clit drags on the friction you can’t ignore. His head tips; his lips brush your temple once barely there.
“If you need to puke,” he rasps, voice cracking with restraint, “tell me, I don’t give a fuck.”
The words hit meaner than he usually speaks. He’s diferent more dominating. A soft, shattered sound tears from your throat: half sob, half plea. Drool glistens on his fingers, strings of it connecting to your swollen lips when he finally, agonizingly, slowly, withdraws them.
Three minutes. Maybe four. Your breathing stuttered, catched, steadied and now ragged gasps smooth into something almost even.
His hand stays splayed on your belly. You feels your hands again finally, resting on your thighs, when you look at them you catch on the buldge of is cock throbing beneath you with every shaky inhale you take. But you don’t look away, and not at him.
And jake doesn’t speak for a long beat.
Then, barely audible he says: “Better?”
Your tongue still tastes like the salt of his skin. You can’t answer too everwelmed, and suddenly fresh tears slip down your cheeks.
His thumb strokes once over your lower stomach, just gentle now.
“Shhh, Good girl,” he breathes. And the praise sinks into you like a cold patch on your fever, even as you tremble in his arms, with nowhere left to hide, “There you go,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed, post-crisis soft. “You’re okay, angel. Just breathe. It’s alright. Everything’s alright.”
Jake speak in the same tone people use on scared puppies or crying kids. Like he handed you a participation trophy for almost blacking out in his lap.
You’re calm(ish). Breathing steady. Heart still hammering, sure, but no longer trying to punch through your ribs.
Jake, though?
Jake is not calm.
The thick, insistent ridge of him presses up against your core through his jeans and your bunched skirt. Hard enough that every tiny shift of your hips drags a low hiss from between his teeth. You feel it twitch when you swallow. Feel it throb when your breath hitches. He’s leaking through the fabric—you’re almost sure of it—and the realization makes fresh heat flood your face.
You can’t look at him.
Not for the next two minutes that stretch into a miserable eternity.
So you do the only thing your body knows how to do when cornered: you tuck your face into the warm crook of his neck. Hide there. His skin smells like cedar and clean sweat and something faintly metallic—like he’s been biting the inside of his cheek too. Your nose presses against his pulse. It’s racing faster than yours.
His hand slides up. Fingers card gently through your hair—slow, soothing strokes from crown to nape. Petting you like you’re fragile porcelain.
His other hand drops and settles high on your bare thigh, thumb resting just under the hem of your panties. Not moving. Just… there. Claiming space. Testing how long you’ll let it stay
How the fuck are you this cute? Jake thinks, jaw tight. Hiding in his neck like a scared little cat. All flushed and messy and still trying to be good.
But the next thought comes faster and uglier:
How do he turns this into you coming completely undone under me?
He turns it over in his head like a Rubik’s cube he already knows the solution to. Every angle. Every justification.
You’re already so wet. Jake can feels it. you’re shaking because you wants it too, you’re just too shy to admit it. I could fix that. He thinks. I could make you need me so bad you’d forgets how to breathe without my permission. Make you crawl. Make you beg. Make you thank him for every things.
This is toxic as hell.
But what if it’s good for both of you?
What if Jake could give you exactly what you’r too scared to ask for, and once he’d you experience it, maybe these sick thoughts will finally shut the fuck up? Like finally playing that one game you’ve been obsessing over for years, beating it in one all-nighter, and then never touching it again because… meh. Done. Satisfied.
Yeah… He’s bad at lying to himself…
“You feel better?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your temple.
You nod against his neck. Tiny. Barely there.
He exhales like he’s been holding the breath for centuries.
“You know…” His voice drops lower, almost confessional. “I get like that too. Around you.”
You freeze.
“Not… not exactly like that,” he adds quickly. “But I feel… off. Not myself. Wired. Like my skin’s too tight.”
Silence. But you can hear his heartbeat so distinctly.
You shift barely an inch, and realize too late how it looks: the straps of your dress fallen off your shoulders, hair a wrecked halo, cheeks stained and humid. You look fucked already and he hasn’t even kissed you nor touched you.
Jake’s bangs are messy now, falling into his eyes. He looks… different. Maybe hungrier. Less like the golden youth-group Jake and more like some guy who’s been starved and have his. first meal in front him.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Jake half-smiles anf it’s devastating. You never saw him like that.
The thoughts flood back so fast he almost groans out loud.
He never really watched porn. Didn’t need to. But his brain’s been running a private channel starring you for months. You biting your lip when you’re nervous? Jake wants those lips on his cock instead. You tugging your hair when you’re frustrated? Jake want his fist wrapped in it while he fucks you till you cry. You fidgeting with your skirt hem? Jake wants to flip it up, spread you open, pull out dripping and smear the mess across your panties until you’re glazed and whimpering his name.
Jake’s fingertips graze a stray strand from your cheek. Your breath stutters. He smirks every time your eyes dart away.
“You’re uncomfortable around me, hm?”
You shake your head so violently your hair whips his chin.
He chuckles softly and dark. “It’s okay.” His humb traces your cheekbone now, slowly, deliberatly, cataloging every twitch. “I don’t mind. Actually… I kinda like it.”
His eyes follow his own touch like he’s hypnotized.
“You hate me?”
Another violent head shake.
“I won’t believe you if you don’t speak, angel.”
“I…” Your tongue darts over dry, bruised lips. You swollow dry.“I don’t hate you…” The whisper is so quiet it barely exists.
But it’s enough.
He readjusts under you. A deliberate grind that makes you gasp. and he smiles, soft and so fucking fond it hurts.
“You know…” His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part it. “I tried everything to not think of this. Doubled prayer time, knelt till my knees bruised. Ran till I puked. Anything to exhaust my body, starve my mind. But the harder I tried to kill it… the clearer the pictures of you got. You. Just you. Every fucking time.”
“…What?” you whisper.
“I’m doing the exercise right now,” he says, voice cracking just a little. is head drops to your neck this time. He inhales deep your perfume, your fear-sweat, your arousal. “Fuck, it’s weird saying it out loud.”
Your heart skips a beat painfully.
“It’s just… I keep fantasizing. Obsessing. You’re the only one I think about when I—” He cuts himself off, lips brushing your skin. “I don’t know what to do. What should I do, hm? Tell me.”
Brother Sunghoon’s voice echoes in your skull like divine intervention gone wrong: Accept with open arms. he said Show your partner grace. he said. Try to find healthy paths forward together. He said.
Your hands fly to his shoulders gripping like he’s rock on your chest.
“You… what kind of thoughts?”
He fights the grin. Loses. It spreads slow and victorious across his face.
Got you.
He leans in until his mouth ghosts your ear.
“When you bite your lip? I want to replace your teeth with mine. Want to suck that plump little mouth till it’s swollen and you’re whimpering into my tongue.”
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“When you chew your nails? I want them scratching down my back while I’m buried so deep you forget your own name.” You swallow. “Want to see those same fingers wrapped around my cock, slick and trembling, guiding every inch down your throat till you gag and swallow every drop I pump into you.”
His hand slides higher on your thigh—fingertips grazing the damp edge of your panties. Fuck what a pool.
“When you tug your hair? I want my fist in it. Pulling just hard enough to make your eyes water while I fuck your mouth slow. Pull out to wipe the mess across your lips like the lips balm you always put on and ends up licking. I want to make you taste how wrecked you make me.”
Jake’s touching you everywhere he shouldn’t under your dress. Grazing his way up your hips, teasing the small of your back, mapping out every spot he’s dreamed about ruining.
“Ahhh, sorry… it’s probably just wierd,” he lies smoothly, voice shy and coaxing. “I think it’s like, hormones and curiosity. Once I… do it. Once I get it out of my system, it’ll stop. I’ll be normal again.”
So that what it is. That’s what Sim Jaeyun had in his head all allong.
“You’ll accept this part me, hm?”
“Hm?”
He’s eyes are doing this puppy thing “…That’s what the exercise is for, right?”
Fuck… The exercice…
Your panties are soaked. You can feel it all hot and sticky, more than the fabric can hold. Your clit throbed in time with his words and he just don’t shutted up. You’re dizzy again, but for a different reason.
Maybe you’re trying to help. Maybe you’re just that far gone. Maybe you just want that buldge that much… And it’s okay.
Cause love and acceptance erase a lot of sins, no?
“You… want to try?” you whisper.
Jake thrives. His eyes darken and travel everyplace he want to touch, mark and own. “Will you let me?”
For a second you almost see that shadow behind the soft dark of his eyes, the part you never saw before, and think not anyone ever saw.
You’re too wet, too shaky and too lost in the heat radiating between you, to be able to think twice so—-
You nod.
“Say it.” His eyes beg, lips tasting your with a graze.
“Ok…Yes.”
He exhales like the war is finally over and he’s the only soldier left standing. “Good,” he breathes, thumb dragging slow across your bottom lip one last time, bitting his, like he’s sealing a contract.
And just like that, his daydream becomes reality.
Jake’s eyes go black, his pupils swallowing everything soft and church-boy-ish about him. They rake down your body like he’s already mapping every place he wants to bruise, bite, own. His hands flex and fingers twitching with the too many impulses that come at him in once: rip that dress? pin your wrists? spread you wide? make you cry his name? God itself shouldn’t witness the thoughts he’s having right now.
He’s still trying to convince himself that, this, is just hormones. Just a phase. Just the exercise.
But the lie is thinning fast as his dick take control over his brain.
“It’s your fault… I wasn’t like that before you,” he mutters, voice low and cracked. “You sat there with your smile, biting your lip, tugging your hair, fidgeting like a nervous little thing—and it’s like you’re begging me—to… Take control. You think that’s fair?”
You blink up at him, chest heaving. “Wh… why am I the problem? It’s your—”
He cuts you off by hauling you up effortlessly, spinning you until your ass hits the edge of the table. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, lays you flat on the cold wood. and yanks one of your legs high, hooking it over his shoulder.
He bites down on the inside of your calve and you iss, teeth sinking just enough to make pain bloom brightly and hot.
You yelp, and the sound bounces off the walls. He smirks against your skin, tongue flicking over the fresh mark. “Why so uncomfortable around me, hm? Allergic?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Shaking your head. Too shy. Too overwhelmed. Too wet. He lets your leg fall. Steps in closer, with one leg on the table, and leans down for your mouth.
You panic, your hands fly up, palms flat against his mouth, pushing him back an inch.
“What?” His voice drops dangerously soft against your palm.
You shake your head again. No. Not that. Not yet maybe.
“You said I could try anything,” he reminds you, eyes narrowing like a sad puppy.
“Not… not that.”
He looks unhappy. Jake jaw ticks, then his hand shoots to your jaw firmly, tilting your head to the side.His lips find the nape of your neck instead and sucks hard. He marks you, and you feel the bruise blooming already.
“I’ll make you beg for a kiss,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I’ll make you crawl for it.”
His fingers hook the thin straps of your summer dress and with one smooth tug the fabric slides down your arms, pools at your waist, then drops to the floor entirely. You’re left in nothing but damp cotton white panties and your red Converse and white socks, shivering.
His palms cover your breasts too hard at first. You wince, brows pinching. He watches your face like it’s scripture. Adjusts. Squeezes again. Just a bit softer. Then harder. Jake is testing and learning every twitch, every hitch in your breath.
You finally open your eyes and meet his.
To realise he’s gone. Gone gone.
Not Jake anymore. Something trance-like. Pupils blown. Breathing shallow. Mouth parted like he’s receiving a vision.
“Jake…?”
“Let me see,” he rasps. “All the kinds of faces you can make.”
He drops his mouth on your nipple with his dark eyes on you. ANd feel his thick lips, fangs grazing. Tongue swirling slow, then flicking sharp. He captures everything: the way your fingers dig into his shoulders to push him away, the helpless rock of your hips against his bulge, the little space between your parted lips where silent cries keep slipping out.
He’s addicted.
He tries for your mouth again. And you block him. Again. He growls like an unhappy dog in his throat. Grabs your hips and jsut forces them down hard against his cock to make grind you along the length until you yelp and yelp and yelp again.
His thumb traces your lips. Slips inside. Hooks your cheek. Fuck, he loves this view: your brows bending in that perfect needy arch, eyes watering, lashes clumping. His favorite expression. The cry-baby you.
“God bless you for being such a perfect little cry baby,” he mutters. “He made you for me. Look at you. You’re built to fall apart under my hands, hm?”
Your brain short-circuits. What the hell is he saying? This isn’t Jake. This is—
Three fingers shove past your lips. Stretch your mouth wide. He hyperfixates—watching the way your tongue flattens, the drool that pools, the way your throat works around the intrusion.
“I always see it,” he says, voice wrecked. “You biting your crayons, your nails, your lips... Every little anxious quirk. Makes me want to replace them all. Want to fuck your mouth until you’re choking on me instead of anything else .”
You hear his zipper.
He’s stroking himself now, slowly, his head bumping against the drenched cotton between your thighs. Soft whimpers escape you both.
He stops everything. Focuses on the wet patch. The sticky mess you’ve made.
“Fuck… how can you be this wet?”
His thumbs presses and stroke everywhere you wet yourself, traces the shadow of your entrance through the fabric, firmly, slowy. And you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes darting to the door.
“Jake—someone could—”
He doesn’t hear you. He’s too far gone.
He keeps smearing your slickness, adding his own leaking precum until the white cotton is translucent, clinging, buried between your folds.
Both your breaths come faster, heavier.
“I want to fuck you so bad.” He notches the head against your clit with forces pressure. You jolt—whole body arching.
You stare at him, and a sudden realization hits: he’s touching a pussy for the first time. No?
He’s acting like he want to force it inside, but he doesn’t even know where and what it really looks like up close. He’s on instinct, hunger mode.
It’s thrilling. And it’s terrifying. He won’t listen. Won’t stop. So your trembling hand slides down. Brushes him. He’s veiny, swollen. So hard it hurts to touch.
He snarls. Grabs your wrist. Forces your fingers around his shaft. Makes you strock it.
“Fuck—”
You line him up—head nudging your entrance, with only the soaked fabric between.
He thrusts so shallow and desperate. The head pushes in stretching the cotton, stretching you. You arch violently. His breathing is obscene, so freaking loud and ragged.
“I’ll fuck you… fuck, I wanna fuck you so bad.”
He slams a palm on the table beside your head.
“Fuck—we can’t—” he say, but doesn’t stop. His thrusts turn erratic. Wet sounds fill the room rhythmic. Every shallow push forces the fabric deeper, almost tearing, almost letting him in.
“I want inside—fuck—I want to fuck you so bad.”
“I want to go so deep you scream.”
“I want to feel your clench around me.”
You’re close—too close—from the friction, from his wrecked expression, from the way he’s losing every shred of control. You grab his wrist, with your still trapped between his hand and his cock’s hand, and guide his fingers.
He follows. And memories flash him: the day he caught you getting fingered in secret. The way your hips bucked. The sounds.
He laughs dizzy, “I forgot… you’re a little slut, right?”
Two fingers shove inside you. No preamble. He just fuck your inside roughly. He curls. Scissors. Pumps. No pattern. Just chasing every reaction. Every flutter. Every jolt.
“How can a dick even fit in here, hm?” he mutters, completely out of his mind. “Fuck—”
Your orgasm builds terrifyingly fast. You try to fight it. Try to stay quiet. But the more you clench, the harder it hits. Your legs snap shut around his hand.
He watches from above, literally transfixed, as your body contracts, back bowing, thighs trembling.
Right when you’re about to tip over—
He pulls out. Completely.
You jolt. Thrash. Palm slams the table. Other hand clamps over your mouth. Legs convulse, and you see white for a second. The denial is stronger than any full orgasm you’ve ever had. And Jake drinks in every second—your arched back, your shaking thighs, the way you’re offering yourself without words.
Your back…
He grabs your leg. Flips you onto your stomach, the cold table shocks your nipples.
“Wait—”
He yanks your panties up so hard you’re forced onto tiptoes.
His cock slides between your fabric and ass. Its hot, thick, fucking the crease hard. Jake’s palm clamps the back of your neck and it cuts oxygen just enough to make your brain fuzzy, make everything narrow to the drag of him against you.
He grinds. Strokes your clit with the soaked cotton pulling. Faster. Faster. Meaner.
You both break at the same time. He groans and bites on the arm that hold you down, as hot and thick ropes of cum paint your back. Your legs buckle a bit a,d your orgasm crashes as silently as possible, shattering, legs trembling so hard you almost collapse.
Both of you are shaking. Breathing like you’ve run marathons.
It’s over.
But he grabs your arm. Pulls you down. You fall to your knees. “Let me see your face.”
He brushes sweat-damp hair back. You look exactly like his dream: wrecked. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy.
He towers over you. Cock still half-hard and leaking. You lean forward. Press your lips to the head, with your tongue flat against the thick vein underneath.
“Ahh—-” he snaps. One hand fist your hair. Thrusts shallow, fucking the last of his cum into your mouth, to gradually fuck the back of your throat.
You gag. Tears spill. And he loses it completely, watching the tears track down your cheeks, feeling your throat work around him.
“Fuck… that’s it. Take it all.”
ANd you take it all. Every shallow thrust into your mouth, every pulse against your tongue, every drop he spills down your throat, he watches like it's the holy prouf that he’s in fact one of god’s favorite. Your eyes water and tears track hot down your cheeks. You gag softly once, twice, but you don't pull away.
Jake groans low, wrecked, fingers tightening in your hair. "I love you," he rasps, voice cracking on the words like they've been clawing at his throat for months. "Fuck—I love you so much it hurts. I want you bad. So fucking bad."
He releases with one last shudder, flooding your mouth. You cough, choke a little, saliva and cum dripping from the corner of your lips as you gasp for air. Before you can even wipe your chin, he yanks your head back by the hair, sharp enough to make you gasp, and tries to crashes his mouth to yours—-
Then his phone buzzes—sharp, insistent, vibrating against the table like a slap back to reality. He. literally freezes. His lips one millimeter away.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He wanted this to never end. He pulls back slowly, breathing ragged, passing a frustrated hand in his hair and answers the call with shaking fingers.
You sink back onto your knees, dazed, chest heaving, trying to piece yourself together while the world rushes back in too loud, and too fast. You can't hear Jake’s conversation: just muffled voices, his low "yeah, Mom," "okay, got it." His free hand reaches for yours, squeezing once, grounding.
He mouths at you silently, puppy eyes soft again: You okay? With his phone still hooked between ear and shoulder, he reaches out, rearranges your tangled hair with careful fingers, wipes the tear tracks and spit from your cheeks with his thumb and sleeve. Jake helps you too, tug your dress back up over your shoulders like nothing happened.
The call ends, and you don’t even realise it. There’s only that strange feeling of calm in you, like the anxiety is gone. And maybe too much of Jake’s presence. There’s nothing. You just don’t think anymore. And it feels somhow so pleasing.
"Hey." Jake’s hand slides to the back of your neck, with a gentle pressure turning your face to his. "My mom called. Your parents got an emergency thing from work. We're taking you home."
"Hm?"
He studies your expression, you’re in the stars right now, and oh how he wish he could keep you there. A soft, fond smile tugs at his mouth. His eyes drop to your lips. He bites his own. Leans in. But you suddnely flinch, almost dodge again.
But he goes for your cheek instead. With a soft, chaste kiss. Just a brush of lips.
"It's okay," he murmurs against your skin. "I won't do anything you don't want me to." He shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over your shoulders. Leans close again, breath warm against your ear. "Sorry… for your back."
And the rest of that. damn night is blurs. Like a lucid dream.
You vagly get the church bathroom mirror, your lips swollen, neck marked you hidded under his jacket, the sticky mess on your lower back cooling under. If this wasn't church, if it wasn’t jake… And you, anyone with eyes would know exactly what happened.
The ride home… you don't remember words. Just the echo of Jake's mom asking if you have a fever, calling you "angel" in that sweet-mom voice while your thighs stick together and your pulse won't settle.
One solid fact was that he slipped a Snickers bar into your pocket—his pocket, technically his yeah, since you forgot to give his jacket back when you bolted from the car and ran hometo shower.
It's still on your nightstand weeks later. Melting slowly in its wrapper. Proof the fever dream was real. That the reasons your wetting your panties since, is Jake. Jake and the way used you.
And if you thought that one night would kill the anxious buzz you get whenever Jake's within five meters… Wrong.
Now it's worse. One look from him across the youth group room and you're rushing to the bathroom to wipe the insane rush of wetness between your thighs. And the slapping the idea of literally eating your nails in front of him with the expectation that he ends up fucking you hard some place.
Jake's side isn't better.
That night he slept better than he ever had. First weeks of summer felt golden. He thought he had you and basta. But you went from anxious-around-him to full avoidance. If it weren't for church services, the country club brunches, the upcoming youth group trip—he wouldn't even catch your shadow.
The dreams came roaring back. but Stronger. More vivid. More real.
He needs to see you. Hold you. Now.
The country club brunch is packed, linen tablecloths, clinking silverware, parents laughing too loud. And jake half-hard, eyes in void thinking of fucking you doggy style and bend you until you scream for him to stop.
You see him first. He catch you second trying to regain consciousness with his meter long eyespack. You’re across the lawn, through the crowd, eyes locked. Neither of you looks away. But in Jake head it might as well be an halucination.
His mom calls yours over and he snap. You’re here, like really here. More plates are insisted upon. "We need another setting—Jake, scoot over, sweetheart."
Your heart slams so hard you taste copper. By some divine cruelty (or blessing), you're seated right next to him at a table too small for five. Everyone chats: weather, golf scores, your perfect tenis perfs, college plans for both of you.
And—-
Jake's hand slides under the table. Under your tennis skirt. You freeze mid-sentence. His palm is bigger than you remember, rougher, hoter from whatever secret workouts he does to punish himself.
He squeezes your thigh hard. And you know what it is. A punishment. You try to keep your face neutral. Smile at someone's joke. His hand creeps higher. You yank his wrist away and bolt upright.
"Sorry—restroom."
You walk—fast—to the farthest one possible. When a hand catches your wrist near the doors. He drags you into some ladies' room stall. Locks it.
"Jake—what are you—"
"Why are you avoiding me?"
You're stunned silent.
Why? WHY?!
"You're even avoiding me now…" He crowds you against the wall. The stall is spacious and tiny at the same time. His body heat is everywhere. "I accepted you. You accepted me. For who we are. So why avoid each other?"
"What… what are you talking about?"
He bends. Mouth at your ear. "That you're a needy little slut…" Voice calm, natural, like he's reading the weather. "And I have weird… fucked-up desires about you."
You meet his eyes. And the scariest part is that he's not even trying to hide it. Just says it like fact.
"Are you… Jake…"
His head drops to your shoulder, kissing your neck. a hand slides to your hip. "I'm hard."
Your brain short-circuits.
"I still dream about you. It didn't go away. I fuck my hand remembering your throat squeezing me. Your insides clenching. I even got hard in the last days of school just because you finally stopped biting your nails."
You're breathing too loud and he straightens and locks eyes. His thumb grazes your lips. "Have you let someone else touch you?"
Head shake.
"Sunghoon?"
Shake.
"Any of the guys at the club?"
Shake.
His smile blooms slowly, victorious. "I knew it. So we're good to each other?"
"Hm?"
"I've been thinking about it, angel. About God's plan. Maybe we're meant for each other. Don't you think?"
You bat your lashes in pure incomprehension. He slides a hand around your neck, gently but possessive.
"I like to bully you…" He says as his thumb strokes your pulse. "And you love it when I use you. Right?"
He looks at you like a kid begging for the one toy he can't live without. And now the toy… Is you.
You've circled it in your head too. Mostly terrified he'd tell his friends, or confess it to father or any brother from the church. But once the panic faded with rationality… you realized… That, maybe, you never hated him.
You just wanted to be special. To someone. To him. The person everyone loves, and you couldn’t reach. To have something only you get from Jake. His dark dreams. His secret desires. Let that be yours. Only yours. The saint's secret dreams.
You nod.
He smirks. "Say it."
"…Yes."
His expression lights up brighter than when he won valedictorian last spring.
"You'll be mine?"
You shy half-nod. Eyes on his. "…hm."
"Good girl. My angel." He attacks, soft kisses everywhere except your mouth. Jaw. Cheek. Temple. Collarbone. Throat. Shoulder. Each one reverent. Worshipful. You melt. Your legs get weaker and weaker, but Jake wedges a thigh between yours to hold you up. He stops at your lips, with his thumb traces them.
"Why won't you let me kiss you?"
You whisper: "I… wanted to give my first kiss to my boyfriend."
He clicks with starry eyes, searching. "You've never been kissed?"
Another head shake. His pupils blow dark. Saint Jake is gone.
"Let me kiss you then."
"Why would I?"
"Let's date." He almost order you simply and logical. "How can I let someone else have you if you're mine? Let's tell our parents later. Let's tell everyone—so no one tries anything. wierd with you."
Very rich coming from him.
"I'll take such good care of you." He kiss your jaw. "I'll let you have anything you want." Kiss your neck. "I'll reward you when you're good. I'll help you with… everything…"
Anything? Really anything?
"Would you…” you hesitate, “Would you withdraw from head of youth group? Give my name?"
Jake smirks. "If you're mine… anything."
He closes the toilet lid and sits. Drags you forward slowly by the wirst. "Then… will you let me kiss you?"
You half-nod, but then whisper: "…Okay."
You lean in for a peck, but he pulls back.
"I want to see you on your knees. Come here… and beg me for a kiss."
Your heart jackhammers. But the idea… You don't hate it. So you execute. You sink on your knees on cold tile, yyes up at him. And just like that he exhales hard. Head falls back against the wall for a second.
"God… your eyes from this angle." His hand runs through your hair until his fingers find the rubber band and he slides it off. Jake twists it around his own wrist like a trophy. "I love how wrecked you look already."
You beg him for the first time, shy and softly trembling. "Please… kiss me."
He don’t even makes you wait of act up, Jake just pulls you up. And gives you your first kiss. His. No one else's. He's hungry. Hungrier. His lips bite yours, all gentle then sharp. His tongue sucks yours into his mouth like he's starving. It’s wet, and you try to move and wipe your mouth, with one hand Jake cups your jaw. The other fists your hair.
"No one would ever believe what's happening right now. Because it's me. And it's you."
He doubles down. Grabs the unspent hem of your skirt—the one you didn't realize you'd stopped fidgeting with, and stuffs it into your mouth.
"They could never imagine you're about to show me how wet you are by sliding these panties down and spreading your legs for me, right angel?"
"Or that you're gonna fuck yourself on my hand after."
an electric shock runs through your whole body. "And after I taste you… I'll keep your panties. So when I miss my angel, I can remind myself until I catch you again. Hm?"
He sits back. Stroking himself slow. Pulling your hair just enough to keep your eyes on his.
No one would ever guess.
He's right.
The end ~
Afterstory :
Just note that these two Never go all the way until their wedding night lmao. They got very creative but never really do it! (And yes five years into marriage, during one very drunk games night with the boys, Jake get cocky, lost a bet, and “lent” his wife to Jay for like… 15 minutes. He watched. He hated it. Never happened again. Lesson learned: some fantasies look better in his head than in real life. And keeps her all to himself like the possessive prayer-boy he still is. 😏
Anyway thanks for riding this rollercoaster with me at first the plot was reader turns 18 and can suddenly hear people desires (any cherrymagic lover in the room???) but then one day she try to wake up sweet pure ikeu and discover he's obssesed by her and somehow it turned into this shit tada.
Sleep tight, dream dirty love y'all and can't wait to hear you hehehehehe 💕
I'm tired... Lassiie...
MASTERLSIT
I summon the holy TG : Thk u so so much to my girlypop @jayjw16enxp@nithxhoon, @ikeuatic @puphees @raven-unkind @hoondrop @heekolazz @thesundys @w2hoonki @jaerisdiction @keuri @v-irtujake @moasshi @wonnies-girl @seungiesdoll @jakeintoit @s4eungie @scarett-lover23 @loveminlive @isagistar @aarriiaa1
The one where your antisocial stepbro pretends he's not obsessed—while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you'll use it.
BEST TO READ IN DARK MODE FOR EFFECTS
CONTENT ↠ nsfw! mdni!, smut, angsty toxic Heeseung, obsessive, psychosexual dark vibes step bro Heeseung, stalker heeseung, if I can't have you no one can typpa heeseung, deep voyeurism kink, needy/pervy/manipulative reader, strong depiction of fantasies, sexual tension, consensual edging, p in the v, overstimulation, , light choking, public act, bad behavior's reader.
WORDCOUNT ↠ 9k (not proof read enough.. damn...)
Was literally obsessed with those two songs when writing this : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/album/4OFZVvqlg84Czl7td7XddK?si=rakigTTnSJyY8CnPyp8A7w
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Heeseung barely glanced up the first time you met.
Not when your mom introduced you, her laugh sharp and grating over the clink of designer glassware. Not when she called you her little angel, like she hadn’t spent the last decade ignoring your existence—like a piece of cloth begging to be brought back just because it’s trendy now. And definitely not when you smiled at him like you actually meant it.
He just slouched further into his hoodie—hood up, sleeves covering half his hands like armor. Said something that might’ve been “hey,” but it sounded more like: I don’t give a shit.
You smiled anyway. Quiet, composed. Like you didn’t notice he hadn’t met your eyes yet, hadn’t even registered the color of his irises. He had a good face, for sure. And a nice name. Heeseung. Hee—seung.
Let’s try not to forget it…
He’s Heeseung—the one who doesn't match the luxury flooring or manicured smiles. Heeseung, who looked more interested in his phone screen than the pricey piece of steak he’d just been served.
You—
You were different. And Heeseung noticed.
Because other girls—especially the daughters of his father’s revolving door of Stepford wives—always played the same game: almost flirty, too fake, self-obsessed, and excited to be part of the family.
You… you were calmer. Almost shy. Ashamed to even call your mom “Mom.” You were also interested in his presence—lightly tapping his foot with yours, giving him those apologetic doe eyes, like: Sorry that my shameless mom got a grip on your already-married dad just to milk him dry…
But it’s not like he divorced his mom for yours. And it’s not like you were the first one. Generally, the other step-siblings never asked about him. Never cared to know what lay beneath the hoodie-tortured-kid style he wore like armor.
You?
You looked at him like he was a person. Like you saw something he didn’t even believe was still there.
And with months—and then a year—maybe… you liked what you saw.
You asked questions. Not the fake kind. Real ones.
“You coded that game on your own?”
“You really won a national contest?”
“That glitch mechanic you added… did you write it from scratch?”
He wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Not anymore.
You leaned over his laptop one afternoon, wide-eyed, genuinely impressed. Your breath was warm on his shoulder, the scent of vanilla and soft detergent clinging to your hoodie—one he was almost sure used to be his.
“You’re kind of a genius,” you’d said, and smiled that smile. Soft. Easy. Like you weren’t afraid of him.
Because why would you be? You were always so nice and caring to him. You’d bring him a plate of food when his dad never cared to check even once. Leave Post-its with sweet pep talks before exams—ones that made him smile for the first time in a decade. Sit silently beside him after he got scolded for placing second on the honor board. Your hand, always soft and peach-scented, would stroke his hair like he wasn’t eight months older. And your eyes—so sweet when they met his.
You weren’t supposed to make him feel things.
And he wasn’t supposed to want someone like you.
But there you were. Not just prim—but infuriatingly so. You weaponized it. You made being stuck-up look like a goddamn virtue. All perfect posture and polite smiles. Still, something was off. Like how you made him open up to you, but never really talked about yourself—your life, your past. Always mysterious, always evasive when he got curious, always turning the tables on him.
You… you made him feel watched. Seen. Known.
And he didn’t like not knowing you back. Because he needed to know everything. It was pathological. Every variable that could disturb his life. Every secret.
And you—you were the unknown variable. The only one he couldn’t figure out.
And the worst part?
Heeseung couldn’t match you. He wasn’t good with people. Never had been. Getting you to open up? Never happening. He even got tense in crowds. Even if girls liked him, he couldn't maintain relationships beyond hookups. He could throw a punch, sure—but he'd rather let the other guy walk off with a smirk, too bored to bother.
But he was good at something: systems. Code. Surveillance.
So he broke the rules he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—with you.
He hacked your devices.
He shouldn’t have connected to them. Shouldn’t have hijacked your phone. Shouldn’t have hacked your webcam feed like it was just another game level to conquer.
It started innocent—ish. Really. Just some harmless digital snooping. New mother, new stepsister, weird vibes, potential threat to his peace and privacy—totally justifiable.
But your passwords were laughable. The kind of thing a middle schooler could crack.
Seriously. “Bookworm123”?
Please.
After all he was Mr. Cybersecurity Prodigy. Award-winning code monkey. VPN for his VPN, two-factor-auth god.
And he peeked. Just a little…
Your instagram private account, that your mom swore you didn’t have because “socials medias was too destructive for her future doctor of a child.”
Your spotify. Pinterest boards. You’re files.
like essays about behavioral neuroscience and a note named “journaling” : Plans. Rage. Angry rebellion written between textbook reviews. Your escape plan : college far away, control of your own life, zero influence from Barbie and her string of Stepdads. How you craved more. Your identity crisis, GPA fetishist, and how competitive you were to the point of mania. Basically, a mirror of Heeseung in the shape of someone who tried to play the hero of his narrative.
Then, it got worse.
Because curiosity became fixation. He was too deep for it not to be.
On sleepless nights, Heeseung discovered things he absolutely shouldn't.
That his straight A’s and volunteering hours stepsister — was actually sneaking off to frat party with her friends, just feel alive, get waisted and let some sophomore finger her.
The music you fall asleep to, your “fuck” playlist too — the one you wouldn’t admit to owning even under threat of death.
That habit of yours to flirt with strangers like you had a death wish or just want to be ruined so badly being jailed would be for your own good.
That you send cropped pics, no face — just enough tits and thighs, to creeps then ghost them when they beg to meet, just to feel seen.
And he knew the kind of porn you watched on school nights, after wishing him sweet dreams. Earphones on, lips between your t-shirt collar like you’re scared someone might hear you in that big mansion. And what killed him is how fucking rough it is. Spit. Hair-pulling. Throat-fucking. Girls like you weren’t supposed to want that. Girls like you were supposed to blush and look away, like when he got too close. You’re supposed to be horrified at things like that — not get off to it at 1:38 a.m.
He discovered your texts with that secret boyfriend of yours. How badly he treated you—and how you let him, just to feel owned, loved. He knew when you snuck in those late-night FaceTimes, shirt half-off, hand between your thighs, playing the loyal girlfriend for him and his pathetic dick.
And Heeseung? He was obsessed with that version of you—the one he didn’t even dare to fantasize about, yet you handed to him on a silver plate.
Your self-care sessions got him hard under his desk. Got him jerking off to the way your fingers curled around your own throat in the dim hue of your bedroom, playing at power, pretending you didn’t crave being broken open.
You were too good at pretending. Sitting across from him, blouse crisp, smiling like a poetry award was the climax of your week.
What a goddamn lie.
But at least he’d seen you now. Most of you. And he understood better. Understood your issues. But something in him snapped.
Because this wasn’t just about obsession anymore.
It wasn’t about lust.
Or even protection.
It was about you.
And how you made him feel real again.
How you gave him a purpose.
You didn’t flinch when he glared. Didn’t avoid him at dinner. You just smiled, slid him your extra fries, and asked about the AI competition like it mattered. You looked at him like he was a person.
Not a project. Not a problem.
Not a hacker. Not a delinquent.
Not some mistake his father regretted.
And that… made you dangerous.
Because now you were a necessity. Something—someone—he cared about.
He did want to protect you.
But he also wanted to own you.
To erase the line between your bedroom and his. Between your thoughts and his access. Between your gasps at night and his name.
You weren’t supposed to get close.
You weren’t supposed to care.
And he wasn’t supposed to fall for you.
Fall for you?
...
But now what ?
You were the virus in his system.
The girl who said “good job” when he didn’t ask for praise. Who laughed when no one else did. Who touched his shoulder once—just once—and left him with a twitch in his fingers he couldn’t debug.
But you were a line of code he couldn’t rewrite. A live feed he couldn’t turn off.
And maybe, if he watched long enough—if he memorized every breath, every sigh, every single unguarded look—you wouldn’t disappear like the others.
Maybe, if he learned your pattern…he could break you open before you broke him.
And maybe, just maybe, you’d want him to. Even if it meant losing something. Even if it meant pulling you into the dark with him… and never letting you go.
Now you were sitting across from him. You spare him a glance while structuring your salad like a freak, with those doe eyes and he’s hard. Hard at a family dinner while they talked business.
Suddenly his breath catches your feet touching under the table. Like questioning, you good ?
Yeah it’s me, Heeseung. That sweet voice of yours haunting his head.
His foot slides slower in between your legs mindlessly and when you almost jolt, he realizes.
“gotta go sleep.” he blurred, rushing off the table. “Tomorrow is exam day.”
Fuck, he wants more. More of your secrets.More of you—the real you.
So he turned on your webcam, night after night, and your phone’s, and tab. like you were his favorite streamer, his favorite radio mc, the best sound to sleep. Like you wanted him to fantasise, think of it every night…
You were stretched across your bed, laughing into your phone, wearing nothing but a tank and panties, circling your finger on your belly mindless. The way girls do when they forget they’re being watched.
You laid out your clothes for the next day like some little honor-roll princess—giggling when your friend called you a chaebol, and you shrug her off.
But the way you lingered on the lace you never wear… the silk you only sleep on alone… the sheer pieces he has never seen— holding them up to your chest, slow movements like the reflection was his to tell you what to wear. It was fucking foreplay. You were a fucking siren, with your fucking hair finally down, and those dumb big scare glasses off.
And him ?
Heeseung…
He was already crashing on the rocks. He was a black-hat addict no-full-blown cyber-pervert. rock hard, mindlessly stroking his bulge at the sheer form of you in unmatched underwears.
So innocent. So mine.
Some days later, you knocked on his door while your parents were off circling the globe, allergic to stillness and obligations. Your hair was tied up but messier than usual, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes almost red—like you’d cried.
God, if someone made you cry… I’d kill them.
You held two glasses of soda, dripping with condensation. No way you could deny you’d been pacing by his door for the last hour.
“What are you up to, genius? I’m bored,” you said, voice half-curious, half-something else.
Heeseung—fool, addict, liar—let you in. Let you get too close. Showed you things he shouldn’t because you asked with that look that made him feel like a god, not a glitch. But also made him wonder who had made you sad enough to want to change your mind.
Still, you smiled at his screens like they were art. Touched his keyboard like it was sacred. No step-sister had ever looked at him like that before—hell, no one actually had. Fuck, he needed to focus. Focus on you, not you.
“You really made all this?”
He nodded, trying not to smirk, trying not to shake. His fingers danced across the keys like a seduction.
“Wanna see something fun?”
A window blinked open. He typed some commands, and grainy footage appeared: the neighbor’s yard. Middle-aged man with hedge clippers, snipping bonsai like manicuring his soul.
He tapped more keys. Suddenly, sprinklers roared to life. The neighbor shrieked, dropped the shears, and bolted.
You burst out laughing, collapsing into him, palm against his chest. That sound—reckless, sweet—made something snap inside him. It wasn’t just pride. It was possession. You weren’t weirded out. You liked it. Liked him. Not the fake polite way. The way that made him want to caress your cheek and kiss those red eyes.
But he was a coward—or your strongest soldier, as he liked to call himself. One who wanted you close, for good, not some fling you’d regret like the others he barely tolerated. No, he wanted you for life—and he was in the perfect position, as long as your parents behaved.
Then your eyes met. Dangerous idea sparking. You dared him with your gaze, then dashed out of his room.
“Try it on my bedroom camera!” you shouted, disappearing down the hall, hoodie flapping like a flag.
Fuck. If only you knew he was already connected.
Moments later — Cam03: Her Bedroom Feed lit up.
You stood in front of the lens—he used to fuck himself to thoughts of you—starry-eyed as he purposefully reactivated the red dot, signaling it was on. Made a mental note to re-enable it later.
You waved. Smiled like sin. Mouthing: “See me?”
He choked. Because yes—he saw you. Always had. But now? Now you saw him.
Like you always knew.
You reached for your top, lifted the hem just enough to flash bare skin, then darted out of frame, laughing like it was a game.
His chest burned. Panic and arousal mixed in his bloodstream like a drug. Heeseung’s brain broke.
But he didn’t shut it down. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave in. His trembling fingers dimmed your room’s lights, shifting godspeed to soft pink. He knew it was your favorite. Knew too much.
Then he started your playlist—the one with soft beats, gentle melody, moonstruck, your favorite.
You paused in the doorway. Turned just enough for the camera to catch you again. Smiled with pure fascination, like a kid. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t.
You looked at the cam again, really looked, like he was the sweetest boy, and you didn’t care much what he was capable of—because it was him.
You walked back to his door, dripping sunlight and mischief.
“That was so cool,” you said, high-fiving him like your heart wasn’t thundering. Like you hadn’t just exposed the darkest part of him and come back wanting more. “Can you, like… track people? Their phones or whatever?”
Heeseung blinked. “I-if their GPS is on. Or if they ping the network.”
You tilted your head. Bit your lip. “…Wanna play hide and seek?”
He scoffed in disbelief, but there was a glint behind his eyes—half challenge, half thrill. Like he’d just been dared to play a game he already knew the rules to.
He grabbed his laptop. The mansion was too big. Too full of shadows, quiet corners. A maze of marble, high ceilings, inherited guilt.
Heeseung sat somewhere, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
You texted him: “find me.” One signal. One flare. Then silence.
He tracked you through your phone GPS—chose not to use the hallway cams, even though he easily could have. Something intimate, invasive, about watching your little red dot move on his map. Every time he walked to you was an ode to the game only you two could play.
Library.
“Checkmate. You’re here.”
“Wow! So you really can!”
West Wing.
“If I’m facing a mirror, it’s too easy… not even fun.”
“Fuck…”
Wine Cellar.
“If you’re trying to get drunk, pick the 2007 Bordeaux.”
You laughed.
The pool.
He stuck to the GPS. The red dot blinking. Stalling. Then disappearing.
You texted: “find me now.”
His screen dimmed like the whole house was holding its breath.
Heeseung’s pulse quickened. GPS cut out. No new pings. He tried again. Twice. Three times. Nothing.
Every nerve in his body was a wire of curiosity. The air heavy with chlorine and humidity as he stepped toward the pool deck, leaving his computer by the bar.
Then he found it—your phone, face down on the stone near the pool.
But you, where—
“Got you!” You leapt.
Laughter, bare legs, hoodie off. Heeseung didn’t have time to react before you crashed into him—both of you tumbling into the water with a splash that shattered the silence.
You surfaced first, grinning like a devil. “You can’t find me if I don’t want you to, huh?” you teased, flicking water at him.
Heeseung stared at you, laughing mid-cough. Clothes heavy. Hair plastered to his forehead. The water clung to your skin in a way that made his hands twitch under the surface. You floated closer then. Then reached out and hooked your fingers in his bangs, stroking them like you always did. Then tugging gently.
“How about I cut your hair?” you whispered, too close to him not to have his eyes linger on your lips. “We’re starting university soon. Can’t show up like some code-goblin, right?”
He snorted. But you two didn’t move. Just watched each other's souls for too long. Heart hammering. Skin burning. You were in his pool. In his arms now. In his system.
“Are you okay?”
He, with the most considering eyes a family member ever gave you. But you just nodded to his biggest displeasure. Something was wrong, yeah.
Actually, everything was wrong. And surely something was wrong with you. You felt trapped. In your studies, in your relationship, in these always-new families, in your boring unstable life. You wanted more. More attention, more love, more recognition, more freeness, just more…
You weren't special like Heeseung. You couldn’t clap your fingers and get that video back from your so-called boyfriend—he threatened to leak it if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for university, and couldn’t clap your fingers to make you go to your best choice without the biggest loan you can think about.
But it was better to tell him everything was okay. Because if you didn't fake it… you’d be dead by now.
And maybe it’s the weather, or his concerned look, or his trembling hands on your ribs—not too low, not too high. But it felt good being with Heeseung, even better seeing the way he looked at you—you really had a problem.
“Can you… like… if I ever asked you…”
“What?” He came closer, almost locking in his hands. “Tell me…”
“If someday I needed you, would you… like… help me if I have something very complicated to solve... like… you know, math.” You laughed it off like you weren't about to ask him to get that sextape back.
He nodded so obediently it hurt. Fuck, you had him in the palm of your hand without doing anything more than just letting him watch. Deny his ever-growing desire. Playing this game you caught him in.
Yeah… maybe you really were what your mom made out of you… sadly.
After that, Heeseung was like a man on a mission. He hacked every piece of info he could find on that deep shit. Until he found it… your complicated math exercise…
A tap of you and him. Filmed like you weren’t aware of it. Heeseung couldn’t find the courage to watch it…
Until he did.
And it was everything he ever fantasized doing with you.
He could frame him for anything he wanted. Crash his Tesla. His mind was spiraling as he bit on his nail, replaying that video again and again and again. Zooming on you.
I’ll protect you.
First, you needed an escape. Easy—that guy already cheated on you with so many girls, it was easy for you to catch him. So he wrote a fantasy he hoped you’d fall for. He drafted messages from your bf’s phone. A fake date. Something sweet, just enough like your boyfriend to pass.
“Meet me tonight baby girl. Just us. Let’s talk. 9PM. My room.”
“Baby girl…” you hated that name, but still couldn’t refuse him. And now Heeseung understood.
You saw it, and for a second, you believed. He watched you re-read it, then start getting ready—lip gloss, that fluttery dress, even that nervous little smile like it still meant something.
Meanwhile, your boyfriend was across campus, buried in someone else. Moaning her name. Careless, as always.
Heeseung watched it all—your hope fading when you opened that door, his betrayal, his choke. Your silence. Her grasp. One earbud in, one eye on every camera feed you both could offer.
You left the place in a rush, your phone starting to buzz as Heeseung watched every message your now-ex boyfriend sent you. You found yourself drifting in a club. You needed air, music, and drinks.
The music wasn’t even that good, your drink, not that strong. You didn’t plan to dance. And you didn’t plan for some no-brain guy with smooth hands to hit on you.
And you almost let him have his way near the bathrooms. Just to forget the sound of your phone. Forget that you had to go back to that guy until he decided he’d had enough or leaked the tape.
Almost.
Until Heeseung’s hand was on your wrist, showing up out of nowhere to pull you away.
“Heeseung?”
He got you out of the club, his hand digging into your wrist. The car ride was dead silent. Heeseung looked pissed. You were hollow, but not dumb. And you let him snap.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
You didn’t answer.
“... Don’t you have a bf?”
Still silent. Tears welled up before you could blink them back, and Heeseung was at a loss for words. Yeah, it was that easy to shush him—crocodile cries easy.
“Stop crying…” he muttered, but he looked panicked now. Like your tears were acid on his skin. “Tell me what’s going on?”
Like he didn’t know.
But you had to play it well. Make him do it tonight, and no other night.
“He cheated…”
“Then leave him…”
“I can’t…” Hee looked at you with fake wonder. “He filmed me once… and…”
He nodded, enough to tell you you didn’t need to keep going.
When you got home, Heeseung took your hand before you stormed into your room, and he watched you—really watched—and got in a hug. Caressing your hair, getting closer to your ear, “I'll help you.”
You almost feared he could feel your smile. You detached your head with the saddest questioning expression.
“I’ll protect you,” he said, the heaviest stare he ever gave you.
You just nodded like you weren’t expecting much. When you actually wanted exactly what he gave you.
Back in your room, you kept re-seeing Heeseung’s expression. Almost mad, almost dangerous.
And you. You wanted more. You wanted everything—not just protection, but revenge. Revenge for the time you lost on that guy, for your virginity you couldn’t bring back, for the stress… for everything.
So you opened your laptop. Placed your phone next to it like it’s part of the performance. You know he’s watching.
You know.
Heeseung, on his part, got in his room ready to execute the next part of his plan when the ping of your camera alerts him. But tonight is not the night. After seeing you like that, he doesn't want to do that.
So he started to undress. Until—
“Heeseung?”
His head snapped to his monitor. WTF.
“You’re here, no? I mean, you’re watching.”
He almost fell on the ground, unable to walk straight to his computer.
The webcam light doesn’t flicker on right away when you open it.
You look at your reflection. This webcam is better than the last time you used it. Wide-angle. Pretty high-def. You can see almost your entire room. Bed. Closet. Console. The mirror angled just right to show the bathroom.
God. You made it so easy for him.
You let your fingers lazily drift to your dress straps. In a slow reveal. You watch yourself in the camera—legs tucked just right to keep mystery intact. Eyes locked on the return. You open your—
“You like it when I do that?” You looked almost innocent doing it. What the fuck were you doing, Heeseung’s mind screamed. “You want more?”
Heeseung was stunned. Too many questions. Too many desires.
He didn’t even respond, his hand mindlessly disconnecting your camera’s red dot and reconnecting again like Morse.
“Then ruin him for me. Make him as ashamed as I was.”
You were pulling his obsession like strings. A puppet master in silk cloth. The light on the webcam flickered once again.
You smiled, slowly nodding. “Good night, Heeseung.” Shut it all down.
By morning, half the campus was infected with a juicy little virus: dozens of very compromising photos of your now-ex, including a special feature of him being pegged by none other than his mom’s best friend.
Iconic.
The breakup text? Already sent. Blocked him before your brain even had a chance to process.
You didn’t see him all day. No dinner, no open door when you brought snacks. Nothing.
Maybe you really fucked up. Poor Heeseung, thinking you were innocent, only to find out you were just like everyone else—grey, messy, complicated.
But just before bed, your phone lit up. A note. Your password written clear on the screen.
You sat frozen, eyes flickering between the note that started typing on its own, and the webcam pointed right at you.
“I’ll always protect you.”
Then, an mp4 file popped up. Your lips curved into a shy smile.
You almost said something, but instead, you tapped beneath his words:
“Thank you, Heeseung. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there.”
The cursor blinked, paused—like he was thinking hard about what to say next.
“I protect what’s mine.”
Your eyes drifted to the webcam. “Am I?”
“Aren’t you?”
Your gaze dropped shyly, biting your lip to keep the smile from slipping out. Fuck, it was hot—this obsessive, protective boy who’d kill for you.
“I am…” you breathed, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress.
“Maybe?”
Slowly, you peeled it off. No bra. No panties. Just you—bare, glowing in the soft light of your screen.
Heeseung’s side: panting mess. Trembling. Rock hard. Watching was always intense, but this? His brain shorted out. Every movement you made poured fuel on the fire in his chest—the way you loosened your hair, slid off your glasses, shy but teasing.
Your voice slipped through his headphones like a spell.
“Tell me what you want,” you breathed. “I’ll do it. As a thank you.”
He was nearly feral, watching you perched like a dream made just for him. But now you wanted him to take the lead. For once, you wanted control handed over.
And for a long, heavy moment, silence.
Then, a new line in your notes:
“Anything?”
You nodded, lips parting.
Another line.
“Touch yourself.”
“For me.”
You rose, heading for your bed.
Then:
“No. Here.”
You sat back down. Fully exposed. The chair never felt colder. The electricity on your skin was undeniable—the weight of someone watching, devouring every move.
You shivered. Something folded inside, vulnerable but not scared.
Then your screen flickered.
A video opened.
Porn.
But not just any porn. A girl like you—same frame, soft lighting. She was in a gaming chair, legs parted, cat headphones, a pink toy buzzing between her thighs. Moaning like she’d been waiting for eyes to watch.
You blinked. The message was loud and clear.
Your breath caught—not shocked, but challenged.
Back to the webcam—doe eyes, tempted. Your fingers traced lower, hips shifting, copying her exact position. Mimicry never felt so twisted.
You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers moved.
Heeseung watched like it was a live confession. Pupils dilated, chest heaving, gripping himself tight, trying not to explode too soon.
A message appeared:
“Slower.”
You obeyed, breath shaking, already slick with every stroke.
Another message:
“Fuck, you’re shaking.”
You were. Legs twitching, spine arching against the chair.
You never thought you’d go this far, but he was puppeteering you with his commands.
Then:
“I’ve never seen you like this. Fuck. I want to cum in you. In that chair. Just like that.”
You groaned, eyes fluttering shut, but forced them open—locking onto the lens like it was him.
Another message:
“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it.”
You moaned, fingers freezing.
“I’m yours,” you whispered.
“Say it again,” he typed.
“I’m yours, Heeseung.”
The pressure built—right at the edge—
Then:
“Stop.”
“Don’t cum.”
Your breath hitched. You froze mid-stroke, legs trembling.
Another line:
“I said stop. If anyone makes you cum tonight—it’s me.”
Your fingers hovered, shaking. The ache burned deep in your thighs, stomach taut.
But you stopped.
Because his word mattered more than your desire now.
Your screen blinked.
“Get your toy.”
You swallowed, nodded, reached into your drawer.
The vibrator was familiar—sleek, pink, faintly scented from your date-night oil. You rubbed it, coating it with your wetness, then slid it slowly inside, breath heavy.
Then the toy buzzed. Flickered. Came alive.
You gasped—he was controlling it.
Before you could say a word, it pulsed hard. Your body jerked, chair creaking beneath you. Your grip tightened on the arms as pleasure rolled through you like a whip.
“That’s it,” he typed. “Don’t touch it. Just take it.”
You moaned—too much, too fast—your body trembling, legs spreading without control. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate.
Heeseung’s fingers typed again.
“Grip the chair.”
You obeyed.
The toy buzzed harder, relentless and cruel.
“Look at the camera.”
Tears pricked, but you held his gaze—through that little glowing lens. Your thighs trembled, breath catching—
He knew.
He memorized every sound, every gasp, every twitch.
Your climax hit like an explosion—so fierce your back arched from the chair. Toes curled, lips parted in a silent cry.
If only you could hear it—the gasp, the groan, the shuddering moan from his room. Rooms apart, perfectly synced.
You collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving.
The toy powered down. The room fell silent but electric. Only the Notes app stayed open. One final line appears:
“I know your body better than anyone ever will.”
You smile, eyes rolling, calming yourself. You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes.
Unknown Caller.
You smirk. Answer it without hesitation.
Hee,” you whisper, lazy satisfaction dripping from your tone.
You hear him—shaky, panting, like the edge nearly broke him. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck… You’re so pretty. So fucking pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
His voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint. You picture him—still burning from his climax, hand resting low, skin flushed.
“You drive me insane. Every breath you take, every moan...” He watches you lift your thighs, tucking yourself shyly behind them like a girl playing innocent. “It’s mine. You’re mine. Don’t you get it? I want you so bad I—fuck—I can’t even—”
You cut in softly.
“Heeseung,” you murmur, voice smooth like silk sliding over a blade. “I never said I was yours...”
Silence.
You lean in, sugar-sweet, doe eyes locked on the lens, like you don’t quite know what you’re doing.
“You think this makes me yours?”
He breathes hard. You swear you hear the tension in his throat—how he swallows that growl.
“Then what?” he whispers. “What do I have to do?”
You hum, hiding your face in your thighs, thoughtful. “I’ll know.”
Heeseung almost chokes. “You’re playing with me.”
You tilt your head.
“Of course I am, Hee. Isn’t that what you like? What we always did? Playing games.” Your voice softens, teasing, the tone that always breaks him. “You’re obsessed, Hee. But to own me?” you shake your head slowly. “You’ll have to do more than just watch me cum on camera.”
A pause. You let it hang, let it burn. Then, low and teasing:
“If you really want me,” you whisper. “Stop being a coward. Show me.”
His breath catches. You almost feel the stillness on his end.
Click.
You hang up.
Still smiling, you toss your phone aside.
“Good night, Heeseung,” you murmur to the camera before shutting everything down.
Heeseung hadn’t heard your voice in three days.
Not on the phone, not through the headphones, not even that little intake of breath when you tiptoe around your room late at night.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours of silence.
No webcam flickers. No Notes app replies. No little “good night, Hee” teasing him through pixels.
Nothing.
He tapped at your IP like a lunatic. Pinging dead signals. Checked your cloud for new files. Scraped your cache for cam logs, anything—anything—that might prove you were still playing.
But you weren’t. You’d shut him out completely. Blocked him, in every way that mattered—except the one that destroyed him the most: in person, you were still perfect.
Because in real life, you were still her.
Still the step-sister who sat next to him at dinner, nudging his arm, sipping from his glass like it meant nothing. Still in those stupid soft modest dresses that smelled like your vanilla lotion and innocence. Still saying his name in that sweet voice that didn’t match the girl who once whispered “I’m yours” for a night, while fingering herself in his favorite dress.
Still shy smilling in front of the parents, like he wasn’t slowly going fucking insane of you ghosting him in the cruelest way possible.
Heeseung clenched his jaw until it hurt. His fists, tighter. You were torturing him. Training him with your silence. Denying him touch, sound, ownership—making him feel like just another loser watching from a screen.
And worst of all? You liked it.
He could see it in the way you smiled at him when no one was looking. Like the devil behind a halo. Like the dom who knew her puppy would crawl the moment she said good boy.
You knew what you were doing. And you knew he was starving.
He watched you meet someone new through your messages—tracked him from his first DM. The second the guy sent a heart emoji, Heeseung had full access to his cloud, laptop, phone, and location history.
So when you showed up at that guy’s place in that same dress as that night, Heeseung went feral. watching you through the guy’s hacked MacBook camera. Front-row seat. 1080p. Wide angle. Clear sound. Perfect view.
You didn’t even try to hide untapping your phone camera, angling it for him. But he was already there.
He watched the way you swayed when you walked into the room. That skirt was short—barely legal. Hair done like you were on a mission to ruin him. Lip gloss like you were asking to be kissed. Or owned.
Heeseung’s fists dug into his thigh. You let the guy kiss you. Hands on your hips. Heeseung scoffed in fury. The guy went down on you and Heeseung leaned forward—eyes glued to your face smiling at him. Not for the man.
Only for him.
You mouthed his name, Heeseung, made that sound again—that sweet gasp that cracked every nerve in his body—and his hands were already down his pants before he even realized it. Stroking slowly. Angry.
Then the guy started fucking you. It was… pathetic.
You looked bored. Pretty. But not wrecked. Not how Heeseung would have done you—needed you. Not how you looked when he edged you, whispering commands through your notes.
He texted :
He’s not even close to making you cum.Why are you with him?Stop.
Now.
Please.
You didn’t stop. You got louder. Not for performance, because knowing hee was watching, unleashed you.
Heeseung’s hand stuttered. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard it bled. You were performing. For him, not the other guy. You had to be. And yet you didn’t stop when he begged you.
Heeseung didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t call a friend.
He texted one of the girls who’d been orbiting him since he entered university—some pretty, pouty girl with no idea what she was walking into.
She came fast. Obedient. Heeseung fucked her like punishment.
Shoved her onto his lap, dragged her skirt over her hips without a single word. Didn’t ask if she was ready. Didn’t even pretend to care. Just spread her thighs, lined himself up, and buried in—rough, silent, merciless.
She moaned his name, kissing his neck. Heeseung kept his eyes on the screen. Because on the monitor behind her?
You were still live. Fucking someone else. His airpods were in. And he was moaning your name under his breath.
The girl was clueless to much overwhelmed by his deep, rough trust. Riding him like she thought she was doing a good job for him to be so feral.
Heeseung touched her the way he would have to you, controlling. forcing her in position trying to reach her deepest part, as he watched your hips roll on screen. Your nails dig into someone else’s back.
“Grippe my back. leave marks.” he ordered her.
He hiss, mouthing along with your sounds like a prayer.
“Fuck—Louder. Just like that... Just like that—fuck.”
The girl on his lap whimpered, “does it feel good, Hee?”
Heeseung stared at your body—your lips, your tits, your sweat-shined thighs.
“You’re so perfect,” he muttered. “Fuck—you…”
His climax came hard, violent. He choked your name on the exhale and came inside the girl like she didn’t matter—because she didn’t.
When the girl left, he stared at the screen for an hour. Watched you dress. Watched you check your phone. Smiling.
Not once did you reply to his messages.
You were killing him. Starving him. Making him beg. He slammed the laptop shut, chest heaving, hatred and love boiling into the same sick ache.
You were right. He was a coward. But not for much longer.
You found it on your bed. No card. No note. No sender. Just a black box, wrapped in a ribbon you never heard arrive. Inside: lingerie. Lace. Sheer. Decadent. Your exact size. Your exact taste. Lightly soaked in a scent you could recognize in your sleep—his cologne.
Your fingers trembled when you held it up to the light. No message. But then again, he never needed words.
Heeseung didn’t ask. He tried to command.
So, you didn’t text. Didn’t thank him. You just wore it.
That night, when the webcam light blinked to life, you were already sitting pretty in front of your laptop. Sheer fabric draped over your body like a sin begging to be confessed.
You leaned into the camera, eyes soft, voice sweeter.
“Goodnight, Genius. Hope uni’s not eating you alive.”
And then—
You logged off. Just like that.
Left him starving. You knew he’d pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried, bless him.
He texted the next day, like it was nothing. Invited you to his university party. Like this wasn’t war. Like he wasn’t already losing.
Of course, you went. Dressed in red. Not the lingerie—something sharper. Something that made his friends stare a little too long.
Heeseung barely spoke to you that night. Slipped back into his old self—like he hadn’t spent the week watching you like a man possessed. But he was in his element, charming his nerdy circle, and you were happy just watching him thrive.
Then, it changed.
He didn’t introduce you as his stepsister. That alone cracked the air between you. His hand found your back, fingers tracing lazy nothings while he laughed with his friends, eyes on you like you were art.
You liked seeing him smile. Liked knowing you made it easier.
And then—he excused you both. His friends wished you luck with admissions. So polite. So clueless.
He walked you up a narrow hallway, like it was nothing. A quiet corridor, half-lit.
Then he locked you in a hug.
And kissed your neck.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, hands already exploring.
“You too,” you murmured, smiling. “New haircut? You kept it long in the back. Looks good.”
“You said I should, so...”
You smiled harder, went in for a kiss—your first. His lips were maddening. Soft, sure, and hungrier than you expected. He kissed like he’d waited for years. Like he’d decided waiting was over.
"Untie your dress," he whispered against your mouth, voice low.
You raised a brow, smirking. “Thought you liked watching from afar.”
His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”
You let the ribbon fall, letting the dress slip open. Underneath—his gift. His breath caught.
“You like it?” you teased.
He didn’t answer. He spun you, pressed you into the wall, and his hand was already between your thighs—finding you soaked.
His mouth brushed your ear, voice cracking with restraint.
“Fuck. You’re so wet for me. I’ve waited so long.”
“Say it,” he growled.
“What?”
His thrust was sharp—two fingers deep.
“Say you want me to ruin you. Say you like it.”
You whimpered, arching into his hand. “I like it when you ruin me.”
“Say it right.”
You licked your lips. “I want to be yours, Heeseung. Ruin me.”
His exhale was jagged—like something inside him broke.
Then came silence. Just heat. Breathing. Fingers moving in and out of you as he grinded against your body, shameless and reckless in a hallway anyone could walk into.
And just before you came—he pulled away.
“No,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”
“Home?”
“No. My room.”
His dorm was massive, dark except for the red glow of a snoozed monitor. His roommate was nowhere. Probably never real to begin with. You practically jumped on him. Messy kisses. Wandering hands. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your back—and then—
Your hand brushed his desk. The monitors flared to life. And there you were—your webcam feed, glowing on the screen.
Recording. Your name as the file.
“You always make me watch,” he whispered, stripping you down to the lingerie. “Now watch yourself.”
He pulled you onto the bed, body still facing the screen.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, spreading your legs for the camera. “I’ve owned you since the first time you stepped into this house.”
On screen—your reflection trembled. Moaned. Melted in real-time.
He eased fingers inside you again while holding you in his lap, pinching a nipple until you gasped, breath tangled.
“I know what you fantasize about when you’re bored,” he whispered.
He started humping you, slow and heavy.
“I know what kind of porn you scroll past—then go back to.”
Thrust.
“I know which songs you loop when you touch yourself. I synced your playlist.”
You choked on a gasp.
“I know you changed your passwords, just to make me mad.”
His hand curled lightly around your throat.
“But I like it. I like when you pretend.”
He never slowed—just kept pushing you higher, mean and relentless.
And when you moaned his name?
He broke.
“I’m going to give you every twisted thing you’ve ever typed,” he growled. “Every fantasy you deleted. Every filthy draft you couldn’t finish. I’m going to make them real.”
Your climax slammed into you, shuddering through your bones—but he didn’t stop.
“I’ll tie you up in the library when no one’s looking,” he said, voice wicked. “Bend you over your best friend’s bed and leave a bruise only I’ll recognize.”
He laughed.
“I’ll make you cry my name with someone else inside you—just to remind you no one will ever ruin you like I do.”
You turned and kissed him, wild and unhinged.
He kissed back like a claim. Like he was branding your soul.
Then he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. Reached for a condom.
You stopped him.
“It’s safe today, Hee. Do me raw.”
His pupils darkened. Something dangerous sparked.
He freed himself and dragged his cock against your wetness, teasing your entrance. You moaned each time the head kissed you. His smile was smug. Addicted.
“Heeseung. Please.”
He nodded—and slid in all at once.
You gasped, overwhelmed, stretched so good it hurt in the most perfect way.
He rocked into you deep and slow, biting your neck, lips pressed against skin he couldn’t stop worshipping.
Then he pulled you upright—still inside you.
“You like this position, huh?”
You nodded, dizzy, undone. He studied you like he’d been preparing for a test. He always aced those.
Then—his thrusts changed. Not faster. Just deeper. Harder.
“Hee—”
“Like that, yeah?”
You nodded again, mouth open, breathless at every delicious, punishing thrust.
He looked so fucking good like this—hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, eyes glazed with need. You went for another kiss and he gripped your neck, slid to your hair, pulling until your back arched.
“Like that?”
“Yeah—yeah—fuck—don’t stop—”
He sucked your tits, relentless now, chasing both your highs. You clenched down so hard his groans turned ragged. He bit your nipple, then folded you in half, throwing your legs over his shoulders.
And then—he lost it.
He didn’t slow.
Not even as your body bucked under him, shaking.
He buried himself deeper, fingers biting into your hips, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucked you like he wanted to unmake you.
The monitors kept rolling. Your name flashing on screen, over your own moans.
You reached for him—some desperate grasp for balance—but he pinned your wrists above your head, fucked you harder. One of your legs slipped off his shoulder, and he yanked it back up with a grunt.
“Keep it there,” he snarled, breath ragged. “Don’t move unless I say.”
You didn’t.
You couldn’t.
You were already too far gone.
You felt yourself stretch around him again, again, again—your walls pulsing and fluttering with every brutal thrust. It was filthy, unrelenting, and it wasn’t enough.
Heeseung's voice was in your ear, low and wrecked.
“This how you like it?” he panted. “Getting used like this—getting ruined on camera for me?”
You sobbed a yes—high and gasping—and he growled. His hips snapped forward again, this time shoving you higher on the bed.
“Fucking take it.”
He leaned in, biting your lip, grinding deeper. The rhythm turned meaner—each thrust slamming into you with brutal precision.
“You like knowing I’ll replay this?” he whispered. “Jerk off to it when you’re not around?”
You moaned helplessly.
“Want you to. I want you obsessed.”
“Oh, I am,” he said. “You made me this.”
His rhythm stuttered—he was close. You could feel him twitch inside, groaning against your mouth.
Then—
He came.
Hard.
Buried deep.
His whole body went taut over yours, shuddering as he emptied himself, hips rolling slower, deeper. You felt the heat inside you, the stickiness, the way his cock throbbed even after the high.
And still—he didn't pull out.
He kissed your collarbone, your throat, lazily now. Worn out. Quiet.
The screen behind him kept glowing.
Your body was wrecked, your heart pounding against his chest.
He pulled you close, like he wasn’t finished. Like he never would be.
The next morning, the sun barely broke past his blackout curtains. You were still half-naked in his sheets when you heard his fingers tapping at his laptop. A fresh hoodie hung off his shoulder, hair a messy halo.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
You groaned into the pillow. “Already working?”
He smirked. “Coding clears my head. Better than coffee.”
You rolled over. He looked too good like this. Soft around the edges. Eyes warm.
“I wish you could come here,” he said. “To my university.”
You blinked, suddenly alert. He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “You did apply, right?”
“…Yeah.”
He nodded like he already knew. “But you didn’t tell me…pfff.”
Your stomach turned, just a little, as you smirked. “I didn’t want you to be happy for something so unsure.”
“I know.”
Silence. He got back typing.
“You really think I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “You think I’d just… let you leave somewhere else?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
He smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”
Your heartbeat slowed. Thick. Smiling unsure.
“Heeseung...”
He stood, walking over. Calm. Barefoot. Still smelling like last night and wanting more.
“I didn’t touch your application,” he said softly. “But I might’ve nudged the scholarship committee. You’re exceptional, after all.”
You froze. “Why?”
“Because you belong here, in that prestigious place and nowhere else.”
His fingers grazed your chin. Tender. Possessive.
“...With me.”
You swallowed. He tilted your face up to his, eyes half-lidded.
“You would've turned it down if you knew,” he murmured, getting his lips closer, smooching slowly. “You’re too proud for that kind of help. Too proud to admit you want to be kept.”
Your voice caught in your throat. “That’s not why I applied.”
“I know why you applied, just like me.”
His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.
“That’s why I made sure you’d stay. to be free.”
A flicker of something dangerous passed between you. Or maybe it had always been there. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“You think you’re playing me right now, huh,” he whispered, “but—what if I like being used, if it means I get to keep you?”
Your breath hitched. And he smiled. Like he’d already won. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe you’d just let him believe he had.
Author’s Note:
Babies~ here it is!! 💗 The second part of my enha stepbro AU (first one was HUNTED).
I really hope this one pleased you… did it??? 🥺
I worked so hard on this piece to match the exact vibe I had in mind. Like—why was I waking up at 3 AM with wild ideas for scene effects that were borderline impossible to execute?! 😭🌀
This one definitely has a different flavor! While HUNTED leaned into soft, needy sub!Jakey energy (bless him), I wanted TRAPPED to explore the more intoxicating side of obsession—but not so far that we start hating our sweet little Heeseung~ Just a touch of crazy, y’know?
I really hope the mood translated well, because after rereading it 500 times, I fully lost that "first read magic" feeling I’m not super proud of this draft yet—kinda wish I had more time to proofread and polish it up. I’ll probably update it later (perfectionist problems 😭).
Next up is Part 3, which is supposed to be Sunghoon’s! Let me know if you want anything special in it—I’m all ears... and pervy brain. Just know it’s gonna involve dacryphilia, so bring tissues… for various reasons
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The one where your antisocial stepbro pretends he's not obsessed—while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you'll use it.
BEST TO READ IN DARK MODE FOR EFFECTS
CONTENT ↠ nsfw! mdni!, smut, angsty toxic Heeseung, obsessive, psychosexual dark vibes step bro Heeseung, stalker heeseung, if I can't have you no one can typpa heeseung, deep voyeurism kink, needy/pervy/manipulative reader, strong depiction of fantasies, sexual tension, consensual edging, p in the v, overstimulation, , light choking, public act, bad behavior's reader.
WORDCOUNT ↠ 9k (not proof read enough.. damn...)
Was literally obsessed with those two songs when writing this : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/album/4OFZVvqlg84Czl7td7XddK?si=rakigTTnSJyY8CnPyp8A7w
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Heeseung barely glanced up the first time you met.
Not when your mom introduced you, her laugh sharp and grating over the clink of designer glassware. Not when she called you her little angel, like she hadn’t spent the last decade ignoring your existence—like a piece of cloth begging to be brought back just because it’s trendy now. And definitely not when you smiled at him like you actually meant it.
He just slouched further into his hoodie—hood up, sleeves covering half his hands like armor. Said something that might’ve been “hey,” but it sounded more like: I don’t give a shit.
You smiled anyway. Quiet, composed. Like you didn’t notice he hadn’t met your eyes yet, hadn’t even registered the color of his irises. He had a good face, for sure. And a nice name. Heeseung. Hee—seung.
Let’s try not to forget it…
He’s Heeseung—the one who doesn't match the luxury flooring or manicured smiles. Heeseung, who looked more interested in his phone screen than the pricey piece of steak he’d just been served.
You—
You were different. And Heeseung noticed.
Because other girls—especially the daughters of his father’s revolving door of Stepford wives—always played the same game: almost flirty, too fake, self-obsessed, and excited to be part of the family.
You… you were calmer. Almost shy. Ashamed to even call your mom “Mom.” You were also interested in his presence—lightly tapping his foot with yours, giving him those apologetic doe eyes, like: Sorry that my shameless mom got a grip on your already-married dad just to milk him dry…
But it’s not like he divorced his mom for yours. And it’s not like you were the first one. Generally, the other step-siblings never asked about him. Never cared to know what lay beneath the hoodie-tortured-kid style he wore like armor.
You?
You looked at him like he was a person. Like you saw something he didn’t even believe was still there.
And with months—and then a year—maybe… you liked what you saw.
You asked questions. Not the fake kind. Real ones.
“You coded that game on your own?”
“You really won a national contest?”
“That glitch mechanic you added… did you write it from scratch?”
He wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Not anymore.
You leaned over his laptop one afternoon, wide-eyed, genuinely impressed. Your breath was warm on his shoulder, the scent of vanilla and soft detergent clinging to your hoodie—one he was almost sure used to be his.
“You’re kind of a genius,” you’d said, and smiled that smile. Soft. Easy. Like you weren’t afraid of him.
Because why would you be? You were always so nice and caring to him. You’d bring him a plate of food when his dad never cared to check even once. Leave Post-its with sweet pep talks before exams—ones that made him smile for the first time in a decade. Sit silently beside him after he got scolded for placing second on the honor board. Your hand, always soft and peach-scented, would stroke his hair like he wasn’t eight months older. And your eyes—so sweet when they met his.
You weren’t supposed to make him feel things.
And he wasn’t supposed to want someone like you.
But there you were. Not just prim—but infuriatingly so. You weaponized it. You made being stuck-up look like a goddamn virtue. All perfect posture and polite smiles. Still, something was off. Like how you made him open up to you, but never really talked about yourself—your life, your past. Always mysterious, always evasive when he got curious, always turning the tables on him.
You… you made him feel watched. Seen. Known.
And he didn’t like not knowing you back. Because he needed to know everything. It was pathological. Every variable that could disturb his life. Every secret.
And you—you were the unknown variable. The only one he couldn’t figure out.
And the worst part?
Heeseung couldn’t match you. He wasn’t good with people. Never had been. Getting you to open up? Never happening. He even got tense in crowds. Even if girls liked him, he couldn't maintain relationships beyond hookups. He could throw a punch, sure—but he'd rather let the other guy walk off with a smirk, too bored to bother.
But he was good at something: systems. Code. Surveillance.
So he broke the rules he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—with you.
He hacked your devices.
He shouldn’t have connected to them. Shouldn’t have hijacked your phone. Shouldn’t have hacked your webcam feed like it was just another game level to conquer.
It started innocent—ish. Really. Just some harmless digital snooping. New mother, new stepsister, weird vibes, potential threat to his peace and privacy—totally justifiable.
But your passwords were laughable. The kind of thing a middle schooler could crack.
Seriously. “Bookworm123”?
Please.
After all he was Mr. Cybersecurity Prodigy. Award-winning code monkey. VPN for his VPN, two-factor-auth god.
And he peeked. Just a little…
Your instagram private account, that your mom swore you didn’t have because “socials medias was too destructive for her future doctor of a child.”
Your spotify. Pinterest boards. You’re files.
like essays about behavioral neuroscience and a note named “journaling” : Plans. Rage. Angry rebellion written between textbook reviews. Your escape plan : college far away, control of your own life, zero influence from Barbie and her string of Stepdads. How you craved more. Your identity crisis, GPA fetishist, and how competitive you were to the point of mania. Basically, a mirror of Heeseung in the shape of someone who tried to play the hero of his narrative.
Then, it got worse.
Because curiosity became fixation. He was too deep for it not to be.
On sleepless nights, Heeseung discovered things he absolutely shouldn't.
That his straight A’s and volunteering hours stepsister — was actually sneaking off to frat party with her friends, just feel alive, get waisted and let some sophomore finger her.
The music you fall asleep to, your “fuck” playlist too — the one you wouldn’t admit to owning even under threat of death.
That habit of yours to flirt with strangers like you had a death wish or just want to be ruined so badly being jailed would be for your own good.
That you send cropped pics, no face — just enough tits and thighs, to creeps then ghost them when they beg to meet, just to feel seen.
And he knew the kind of porn you watched on school nights, after wishing him sweet dreams. Earphones on, lips between your t-shirt collar like you’re scared someone might hear you in that big mansion. And what killed him is how fucking rough it is. Spit. Hair-pulling. Throat-fucking. Girls like you weren’t supposed to want that. Girls like you were supposed to blush and look away, like when he got too close. You’re supposed to be horrified at things like that — not get off to it at 1:38 a.m.
He discovered your texts with that secret boyfriend of yours. How badly he treated you—and how you let him, just to feel owned, loved. He knew when you snuck in those late-night FaceTimes, shirt half-off, hand between your thighs, playing the loyal girlfriend for him and his pathetic dick.
And Heeseung? He was obsessed with that version of you—the one he didn’t even dare to fantasize about, yet you handed to him on a silver plate.
Your self-care sessions got him hard under his desk. Got him jerking off to the way your fingers curled around your own throat in the dim hue of your bedroom, playing at power, pretending you didn’t crave being broken open.
You were too good at pretending. Sitting across from him, blouse crisp, smiling like a poetry award was the climax of your week.
What a goddamn lie.
But at least he’d seen you now. Most of you. And he understood better. Understood your issues. But something in him snapped.
Because this wasn’t just about obsession anymore.
It wasn’t about lust.
Or even protection.
It was about you.
And how you made him feel real again.
How you gave him a purpose.
You didn’t flinch when he glared. Didn’t avoid him at dinner. You just smiled, slid him your extra fries, and asked about the AI competition like it mattered. You looked at him like he was a person.
Not a project. Not a problem.
Not a hacker. Not a delinquent.
Not some mistake his father regretted.
And that… made you dangerous.
Because now you were a necessity. Something—someone—he cared about.
He did want to protect you.
But he also wanted to own you.
To erase the line between your bedroom and his. Between your thoughts and his access. Between your gasps at night and his name.
You weren’t supposed to get close.
You weren’t supposed to care.
And he wasn’t supposed to fall for you.
Fall for you?
...
But now what ?
You were the virus in his system.
The girl who said “good job” when he didn’t ask for praise. Who laughed when no one else did. Who touched his shoulder once—just once—and left him with a twitch in his fingers he couldn’t debug.
But you were a line of code he couldn’t rewrite. A live feed he couldn’t turn off.
And maybe, if he watched long enough—if he memorized every breath, every sigh, every single unguarded look—you wouldn’t disappear like the others.
Maybe, if he learned your pattern…he could break you open before you broke him.
And maybe, just maybe, you’d want him to. Even if it meant losing something. Even if it meant pulling you into the dark with him… and never letting you go.
Now you were sitting across from him. You spare him a glance while structuring your salad like a freak, with those doe eyes and he’s hard. Hard at a family dinner while they talked business.
Suddenly his breath catches your feet touching under the table. Like questioning, you good ?
Yeah it’s me, Heeseung. That sweet voice of yours haunting his head.
His foot slides slower in between your legs mindlessly and when you almost jolt, he realizes.
“gotta go sleep.” he blurred, rushing off the table. “Tomorrow is exam day.”
Fuck, he wants more. More of your secrets.More of you—the real you.
So he turned on your webcam, night after night, and your phone’s, and tab. like you were his favorite streamer, his favorite radio mc, the best sound to sleep. Like you wanted him to fantasise, think of it every night…
You were stretched across your bed, laughing into your phone, wearing nothing but a tank and panties, circling your finger on your belly mindless. The way girls do when they forget they’re being watched.
You laid out your clothes for the next day like some little honor-roll princess—giggling when your friend called you a chaebol, and you shrug her off.
But the way you lingered on the lace you never wear… the silk you only sleep on alone… the sheer pieces he has never seen— holding them up to your chest, slow movements like the reflection was his to tell you what to wear. It was fucking foreplay. You were a fucking siren, with your fucking hair finally down, and those dumb big scare glasses off.
And him ?
Heeseung…
He was already crashing on the rocks. He was a black-hat addict no-full-blown cyber-pervert. rock hard, mindlessly stroking his bulge at the sheer form of you in unmatched underwears.
So innocent. So mine.
Some days later, you knocked on his door while your parents were off circling the globe, allergic to stillness and obligations. Your hair was tied up but messier than usual, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes almost red—like you’d cried.
God, if someone made you cry… I’d kill them.
You held two glasses of soda, dripping with condensation. No way you could deny you’d been pacing by his door for the last hour.
“What are you up to, genius? I’m bored,” you said, voice half-curious, half-something else.
Heeseung—fool, addict, liar—let you in. Let you get too close. Showed you things he shouldn’t because you asked with that look that made him feel like a god, not a glitch. But also made him wonder who had made you sad enough to want to change your mind.
Still, you smiled at his screens like they were art. Touched his keyboard like it was sacred. No step-sister had ever looked at him like that before—hell, no one actually had. Fuck, he needed to focus. Focus on you, not you.
“You really made all this?”
He nodded, trying not to smirk, trying not to shake. His fingers danced across the keys like a seduction.
“Wanna see something fun?”
A window blinked open. He typed some commands, and grainy footage appeared: the neighbor’s yard. Middle-aged man with hedge clippers, snipping bonsai like manicuring his soul.
He tapped more keys. Suddenly, sprinklers roared to life. The neighbor shrieked, dropped the shears, and bolted.
You burst out laughing, collapsing into him, palm against his chest. That sound—reckless, sweet—made something snap inside him. It wasn’t just pride. It was possession. You weren’t weirded out. You liked it. Liked him. Not the fake polite way. The way that made him want to caress your cheek and kiss those red eyes.
But he was a coward—or your strongest soldier, as he liked to call himself. One who wanted you close, for good, not some fling you’d regret like the others he barely tolerated. No, he wanted you for life—and he was in the perfect position, as long as your parents behaved.
Then your eyes met. Dangerous idea sparking. You dared him with your gaze, then dashed out of his room.
“Try it on my bedroom camera!” you shouted, disappearing down the hall, hoodie flapping like a flag.
Fuck. If only you knew he was already connected.
Moments later — Cam03: Her Bedroom Feed lit up.
You stood in front of the lens—he used to fuck himself to thoughts of you—starry-eyed as he purposefully reactivated the red dot, signaling it was on. Made a mental note to re-enable it later.
You waved. Smiled like sin. Mouthing: “See me?”
He choked. Because yes—he saw you. Always had. But now? Now you saw him.
Like you always knew.
You reached for your top, lifted the hem just enough to flash bare skin, then darted out of frame, laughing like it was a game.
His chest burned. Panic and arousal mixed in his bloodstream like a drug. Heeseung’s brain broke.
But he didn’t shut it down. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave in. His trembling fingers dimmed your room’s lights, shifting godspeed to soft pink. He knew it was your favorite. Knew too much.
Then he started your playlist—the one with soft beats, gentle melody, moonstruck, your favorite.
You paused in the doorway. Turned just enough for the camera to catch you again. Smiled with pure fascination, like a kid. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t.
You looked at the cam again, really looked, like he was the sweetest boy, and you didn’t care much what he was capable of—because it was him.
You walked back to his door, dripping sunlight and mischief.
“That was so cool,” you said, high-fiving him like your heart wasn’t thundering. Like you hadn’t just exposed the darkest part of him and come back wanting more. “Can you, like… track people? Their phones or whatever?”
Heeseung blinked. “I-if their GPS is on. Or if they ping the network.”
You tilted your head. Bit your lip. “…Wanna play hide and seek?”
He scoffed in disbelief, but there was a glint behind his eyes—half challenge, half thrill. Like he’d just been dared to play a game he already knew the rules to.
He grabbed his laptop. The mansion was too big. Too full of shadows, quiet corners. A maze of marble, high ceilings, inherited guilt.
Heeseung sat somewhere, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
You texted him: “find me.” One signal. One flare. Then silence.
He tracked you through your phone GPS—chose not to use the hallway cams, even though he easily could have. Something intimate, invasive, about watching your little red dot move on his map. Every time he walked to you was an ode to the game only you two could play.
Library.
“Checkmate. You’re here.”
“Wow! So you really can!”
West Wing.
“If I’m facing a mirror, it’s too easy… not even fun.”
“Fuck…”
Wine Cellar.
“If you’re trying to get drunk, pick the 2007 Bordeaux.”
You laughed.
The pool.
He stuck to the GPS. The red dot blinking. Stalling. Then disappearing.
You texted: “find me now.”
His screen dimmed like the whole house was holding its breath.
Heeseung’s pulse quickened. GPS cut out. No new pings. He tried again. Twice. Three times. Nothing.
Every nerve in his body was a wire of curiosity. The air heavy with chlorine and humidity as he stepped toward the pool deck, leaving his computer by the bar.
Then he found it—your phone, face down on the stone near the pool.
But you, where—
“Got you!” You leapt.
Laughter, bare legs, hoodie off. Heeseung didn’t have time to react before you crashed into him—both of you tumbling into the water with a splash that shattered the silence.
You surfaced first, grinning like a devil. “You can’t find me if I don’t want you to, huh?” you teased, flicking water at him.
Heeseung stared at you, laughing mid-cough. Clothes heavy. Hair plastered to his forehead. The water clung to your skin in a way that made his hands twitch under the surface. You floated closer then. Then reached out and hooked your fingers in his bangs, stroking them like you always did. Then tugging gently.
“How about I cut your hair?” you whispered, too close to him not to have his eyes linger on your lips. “We’re starting university soon. Can’t show up like some code-goblin, right?”
He snorted. But you two didn’t move. Just watched each other's souls for too long. Heart hammering. Skin burning. You were in his pool. In his arms now. In his system.
“Are you okay?”
He, with the most considering eyes a family member ever gave you. But you just nodded to his biggest displeasure. Something was wrong, yeah.
Actually, everything was wrong. And surely something was wrong with you. You felt trapped. In your studies, in your relationship, in these always-new families, in your boring unstable life. You wanted more. More attention, more love, more recognition, more freeness, just more…
You weren't special like Heeseung. You couldn’t clap your fingers and get that video back from your so-called boyfriend—he threatened to leak it if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for university, and couldn’t clap your fingers to make you go to your best choice without the biggest loan you can think about.
But it was better to tell him everything was okay. Because if you didn't fake it… you’d be dead by now.
And maybe it’s the weather, or his concerned look, or his trembling hands on your ribs—not too low, not too high. But it felt good being with Heeseung, even better seeing the way he looked at you—you really had a problem.
“Can you… like… if I ever asked you…”
“What?” He came closer, almost locking in his hands. “Tell me…”
“If someday I needed you, would you… like… help me if I have something very complicated to solve... like… you know, math.” You laughed it off like you weren't about to ask him to get that sextape back.
He nodded so obediently it hurt. Fuck, you had him in the palm of your hand without doing anything more than just letting him watch. Deny his ever-growing desire. Playing this game you caught him in.
Yeah… maybe you really were what your mom made out of you… sadly.
After that, Heeseung was like a man on a mission. He hacked every piece of info he could find on that deep shit. Until he found it… your complicated math exercise…
A tap of you and him. Filmed like you weren’t aware of it. Heeseung couldn’t find the courage to watch it…
Until he did.
And it was everything he ever fantasized doing with you.
He could frame him for anything he wanted. Crash his Tesla. His mind was spiraling as he bit on his nail, replaying that video again and again and again. Zooming on you.
I’ll protect you.
First, you needed an escape. Easy—that guy already cheated on you with so many girls, it was easy for you to catch him. So he wrote a fantasy he hoped you’d fall for. He drafted messages from your bf’s phone. A fake date. Something sweet, just enough like your boyfriend to pass.
“Meet me tonight baby girl. Just us. Let’s talk. 9PM. My room.”
“Baby girl…” you hated that name, but still couldn’t refuse him. And now Heeseung understood.
You saw it, and for a second, you believed. He watched you re-read it, then start getting ready—lip gloss, that fluttery dress, even that nervous little smile like it still meant something.
Meanwhile, your boyfriend was across campus, buried in someone else. Moaning her name. Careless, as always.
Heeseung watched it all—your hope fading when you opened that door, his betrayal, his choke. Your silence. Her grasp. One earbud in, one eye on every camera feed you both could offer.
You left the place in a rush, your phone starting to buzz as Heeseung watched every message your now-ex boyfriend sent you. You found yourself drifting in a club. You needed air, music, and drinks.
The music wasn’t even that good, your drink, not that strong. You didn’t plan to dance. And you didn’t plan for some no-brain guy with smooth hands to hit on you.
And you almost let him have his way near the bathrooms. Just to forget the sound of your phone. Forget that you had to go back to that guy until he decided he’d had enough or leaked the tape.
Almost.
Until Heeseung’s hand was on your wrist, showing up out of nowhere to pull you away.
“Heeseung?”
He got you out of the club, his hand digging into your wrist. The car ride was dead silent. Heeseung looked pissed. You were hollow, but not dumb. And you let him snap.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
You didn’t answer.
“... Don’t you have a bf?”
Still silent. Tears welled up before you could blink them back, and Heeseung was at a loss for words. Yeah, it was that easy to shush him—crocodile cries easy.
“Stop crying…” he muttered, but he looked panicked now. Like your tears were acid on his skin. “Tell me what’s going on?”
Like he didn’t know.
But you had to play it well. Make him do it tonight, and no other night.
“He cheated…”
“Then leave him…”
“I can’t…” Hee looked at you with fake wonder. “He filmed me once… and…”
He nodded, enough to tell you you didn’t need to keep going.
When you got home, Heeseung took your hand before you stormed into your room, and he watched you—really watched—and got in a hug. Caressing your hair, getting closer to your ear, “I'll help you.”
You almost feared he could feel your smile. You detached your head with the saddest questioning expression.
“I’ll protect you,” he said, the heaviest stare he ever gave you.
You just nodded like you weren’t expecting much. When you actually wanted exactly what he gave you.
Back in your room, you kept re-seeing Heeseung’s expression. Almost mad, almost dangerous.
And you. You wanted more. You wanted everything—not just protection, but revenge. Revenge for the time you lost on that guy, for your virginity you couldn’t bring back, for the stress… for everything.
So you opened your laptop. Placed your phone next to it like it’s part of the performance. You know he’s watching.
You know.
Heeseung, on his part, got in his room ready to execute the next part of his plan when the ping of your camera alerts him. But tonight is not the night. After seeing you like that, he doesn't want to do that.
So he started to undress. Until—
“Heeseung?”
His head snapped to his monitor. WTF.
“You’re here, no? I mean, you’re watching.”
He almost fell on the ground, unable to walk straight to his computer.
The webcam light doesn’t flicker on right away when you open it.
You look at your reflection. This webcam is better than the last time you used it. Wide-angle. Pretty high-def. You can see almost your entire room. Bed. Closet. Console. The mirror angled just right to show the bathroom.
God. You made it so easy for him.
You let your fingers lazily drift to your dress straps. In a slow reveal. You watch yourself in the camera—legs tucked just right to keep mystery intact. Eyes locked on the return. You open your—
“You like it when I do that?” You looked almost innocent doing it. What the fuck were you doing, Heeseung’s mind screamed. “You want more?”
Heeseung was stunned. Too many questions. Too many desires.
He didn’t even respond, his hand mindlessly disconnecting your camera’s red dot and reconnecting again like Morse.
“Then ruin him for me. Make him as ashamed as I was.”
You were pulling his obsession like strings. A puppet master in silk cloth. The light on the webcam flickered once again.
You smiled, slowly nodding. “Good night, Heeseung.” Shut it all down.
By morning, half the campus was infected with a juicy little virus: dozens of very compromising photos of your now-ex, including a special feature of him being pegged by none other than his mom’s best friend.
Iconic.
The breakup text? Already sent. Blocked him before your brain even had a chance to process.
You didn’t see him all day. No dinner, no open door when you brought snacks. Nothing.
Maybe you really fucked up. Poor Heeseung, thinking you were innocent, only to find out you were just like everyone else—grey, messy, complicated.
But just before bed, your phone lit up. A note. Your password written clear on the screen.
You sat frozen, eyes flickering between the note that started typing on its own, and the webcam pointed right at you.
“I’ll always protect you.”
Then, an mp4 file popped up. Your lips curved into a shy smile.
You almost said something, but instead, you tapped beneath his words:
“Thank you, Heeseung. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there.”
The cursor blinked, paused—like he was thinking hard about what to say next.
“I protect what’s mine.”
Your eyes drifted to the webcam. “Am I?”
“Aren’t you?”
Your gaze dropped shyly, biting your lip to keep the smile from slipping out. Fuck, it was hot—this obsessive, protective boy who’d kill for you.
“I am…” you breathed, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress.
“Maybe?”
Slowly, you peeled it off. No bra. No panties. Just you—bare, glowing in the soft light of your screen.
Heeseung’s side: panting mess. Trembling. Rock hard. Watching was always intense, but this? His brain shorted out. Every movement you made poured fuel on the fire in his chest—the way you loosened your hair, slid off your glasses, shy but teasing.
Your voice slipped through his headphones like a spell.
“Tell me what you want,” you breathed. “I’ll do it. As a thank you.”
He was nearly feral, watching you perched like a dream made just for him. But now you wanted him to take the lead. For once, you wanted control handed over.
And for a long, heavy moment, silence.
Then, a new line in your notes:
“Anything?”
You nodded, lips parting.
Another line.
“Touch yourself.”
“For me.”
You rose, heading for your bed.
Then:
“No. Here.”
You sat back down. Fully exposed. The chair never felt colder. The electricity on your skin was undeniable—the weight of someone watching, devouring every move.
You shivered. Something folded inside, vulnerable but not scared.
Then your screen flickered.
A video opened.
Porn.
But not just any porn. A girl like you—same frame, soft lighting. She was in a gaming chair, legs parted, cat headphones, a pink toy buzzing between her thighs. Moaning like she’d been waiting for eyes to watch.
You blinked. The message was loud and clear.
Your breath caught—not shocked, but challenged.
Back to the webcam—doe eyes, tempted. Your fingers traced lower, hips shifting, copying her exact position. Mimicry never felt so twisted.
You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers moved.
Heeseung watched like it was a live confession. Pupils dilated, chest heaving, gripping himself tight, trying not to explode too soon.
A message appeared:
“Slower.”
You obeyed, breath shaking, already slick with every stroke.
Another message:
“Fuck, you’re shaking.”
You were. Legs twitching, spine arching against the chair.
You never thought you’d go this far, but he was puppeteering you with his commands.
Then:
“I’ve never seen you like this. Fuck. I want to cum in you. In that chair. Just like that.”
You groaned, eyes fluttering shut, but forced them open—locking onto the lens like it was him.
Another message:
“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it.”
You moaned, fingers freezing.
“I’m yours,” you whispered.
“Say it again,” he typed.
“I’m yours, Heeseung.”
The pressure built—right at the edge—
Then:
“Stop.”
“Don’t cum.”
Your breath hitched. You froze mid-stroke, legs trembling.
Another line:
“I said stop. If anyone makes you cum tonight—it’s me.”
Your fingers hovered, shaking. The ache burned deep in your thighs, stomach taut.
But you stopped.
Because his word mattered more than your desire now.
Your screen blinked.
“Get your toy.”
You swallowed, nodded, reached into your drawer.
The vibrator was familiar—sleek, pink, faintly scented from your date-night oil. You rubbed it, coating it with your wetness, then slid it slowly inside, breath heavy.
Then the toy buzzed. Flickered. Came alive.
You gasped—he was controlling it.
Before you could say a word, it pulsed hard. Your body jerked, chair creaking beneath you. Your grip tightened on the arms as pleasure rolled through you like a whip.
“That’s it,” he typed. “Don’t touch it. Just take it.”
You moaned—too much, too fast—your body trembling, legs spreading without control. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate.
Heeseung’s fingers typed again.
“Grip the chair.”
You obeyed.
The toy buzzed harder, relentless and cruel.
“Look at the camera.”
Tears pricked, but you held his gaze—through that little glowing lens. Your thighs trembled, breath catching—
He knew.
He memorized every sound, every gasp, every twitch.
Your climax hit like an explosion—so fierce your back arched from the chair. Toes curled, lips parted in a silent cry.
If only you could hear it—the gasp, the groan, the shuddering moan from his room. Rooms apart, perfectly synced.
You collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving.
The toy powered down. The room fell silent but electric. Only the Notes app stayed open. One final line appears:
“I know your body better than anyone ever will.”
You smile, eyes rolling, calming yourself. You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes.
Unknown Caller.
You smirk. Answer it without hesitation.
Hee,” you whisper, lazy satisfaction dripping from your tone.
You hear him—shaky, panting, like the edge nearly broke him. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck… You’re so pretty. So fucking pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
His voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint. You picture him—still burning from his climax, hand resting low, skin flushed.
“You drive me insane. Every breath you take, every moan...” He watches you lift your thighs, tucking yourself shyly behind them like a girl playing innocent. “It’s mine. You’re mine. Don’t you get it? I want you so bad I—fuck—I can’t even—”
You cut in softly.
“Heeseung,” you murmur, voice smooth like silk sliding over a blade. “I never said I was yours...”
Silence.
You lean in, sugar-sweet, doe eyes locked on the lens, like you don’t quite know what you’re doing.
“You think this makes me yours?”
He breathes hard. You swear you hear the tension in his throat—how he swallows that growl.
“Then what?” he whispers. “What do I have to do?”
You hum, hiding your face in your thighs, thoughtful. “I’ll know.”
Heeseung almost chokes. “You’re playing with me.”
You tilt your head.
“Of course I am, Hee. Isn’t that what you like? What we always did? Playing games.” Your voice softens, teasing, the tone that always breaks him. “You’re obsessed, Hee. But to own me?” you shake your head slowly. “You’ll have to do more than just watch me cum on camera.”
A pause. You let it hang, let it burn. Then, low and teasing:
“If you really want me,” you whisper. “Stop being a coward. Show me.”
His breath catches. You almost feel the stillness on his end.
Click.
You hang up.
Still smiling, you toss your phone aside.
“Good night, Heeseung,” you murmur to the camera before shutting everything down.
Heeseung hadn’t heard your voice in three days.
Not on the phone, not through the headphones, not even that little intake of breath when you tiptoe around your room late at night.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours of silence.
No webcam flickers. No Notes app replies. No little “good night, Hee” teasing him through pixels.
Nothing.
He tapped at your IP like a lunatic. Pinging dead signals. Checked your cloud for new files. Scraped your cache for cam logs, anything—anything—that might prove you were still playing.
But you weren’t. You’d shut him out completely. Blocked him, in every way that mattered—except the one that destroyed him the most: in person, you were still perfect.
Because in real life, you were still her.
Still the step-sister who sat next to him at dinner, nudging his arm, sipping from his glass like it meant nothing. Still in those stupid soft modest dresses that smelled like your vanilla lotion and innocence. Still saying his name in that sweet voice that didn’t match the girl who once whispered “I’m yours” for a night, while fingering herself in his favorite dress.
Still shy smilling in front of the parents, like he wasn’t slowly going fucking insane of you ghosting him in the cruelest way possible.
Heeseung clenched his jaw until it hurt. His fists, tighter. You were torturing him. Training him with your silence. Denying him touch, sound, ownership—making him feel like just another loser watching from a screen.
And worst of all? You liked it.
He could see it in the way you smiled at him when no one was looking. Like the devil behind a halo. Like the dom who knew her puppy would crawl the moment she said good boy.
You knew what you were doing. And you knew he was starving.
He watched you meet someone new through your messages—tracked him from his first DM. The second the guy sent a heart emoji, Heeseung had full access to his cloud, laptop, phone, and location history.
So when you showed up at that guy’s place in that same dress as that night, Heeseung went feral. watching you through the guy’s hacked MacBook camera. Front-row seat. 1080p. Wide angle. Clear sound. Perfect view.
You didn’t even try to hide untapping your phone camera, angling it for him. But he was already there.
He watched the way you swayed when you walked into the room. That skirt was short—barely legal. Hair done like you were on a mission to ruin him. Lip gloss like you were asking to be kissed. Or owned.
Heeseung’s fists dug into his thigh. You let the guy kiss you. Hands on your hips. Heeseung scoffed in fury. The guy went down on you and Heeseung leaned forward—eyes glued to your face smiling at him. Not for the man.
Only for him.
You mouthed his name, Heeseung, made that sound again—that sweet gasp that cracked every nerve in his body—and his hands were already down his pants before he even realized it. Stroking slowly. Angry.
Then the guy started fucking you. It was… pathetic.
You looked bored. Pretty. But not wrecked. Not how Heeseung would have done you—needed you. Not how you looked when he edged you, whispering commands through your notes.
He texted :
He’s not even close to making you cum.Why are you with him?Stop.
Now.
Please.
You didn’t stop. You got louder. Not for performance, because knowing hee was watching, unleashed you.
Heeseung’s hand stuttered. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard it bled. You were performing. For him, not the other guy. You had to be. And yet you didn’t stop when he begged you.
Heeseung didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t call a friend.
He texted one of the girls who’d been orbiting him since he entered university—some pretty, pouty girl with no idea what she was walking into.
She came fast. Obedient. Heeseung fucked her like punishment.
Shoved her onto his lap, dragged her skirt over her hips without a single word. Didn’t ask if she was ready. Didn’t even pretend to care. Just spread her thighs, lined himself up, and buried in—rough, silent, merciless.
She moaned his name, kissing his neck. Heeseung kept his eyes on the screen. Because on the monitor behind her?
You were still live. Fucking someone else. His airpods were in. And he was moaning your name under his breath.
The girl was clueless to much overwhelmed by his deep, rough trust. Riding him like she thought she was doing a good job for him to be so feral.
Heeseung touched her the way he would have to you, controlling. forcing her in position trying to reach her deepest part, as he watched your hips roll on screen. Your nails dig into someone else’s back.
“Grippe my back. leave marks.” he ordered her.
He hiss, mouthing along with your sounds like a prayer.
“Fuck—Louder. Just like that... Just like that—fuck.”
The girl on his lap whimpered, “does it feel good, Hee?”
Heeseung stared at your body—your lips, your tits, your sweat-shined thighs.
“You’re so perfect,” he muttered. “Fuck—you…”
His climax came hard, violent. He choked your name on the exhale and came inside the girl like she didn’t matter—because she didn’t.
When the girl left, he stared at the screen for an hour. Watched you dress. Watched you check your phone. Smiling.
Not once did you reply to his messages.
You were killing him. Starving him. Making him beg. He slammed the laptop shut, chest heaving, hatred and love boiling into the same sick ache.
You were right. He was a coward. But not for much longer.
You found it on your bed. No card. No note. No sender. Just a black box, wrapped in a ribbon you never heard arrive. Inside: lingerie. Lace. Sheer. Decadent. Your exact size. Your exact taste. Lightly soaked in a scent you could recognize in your sleep—his cologne.
Your fingers trembled when you held it up to the light. No message. But then again, he never needed words.
Heeseung didn’t ask. He tried to command.
So, you didn’t text. Didn’t thank him. You just wore it.
That night, when the webcam light blinked to life, you were already sitting pretty in front of your laptop. Sheer fabric draped over your body like a sin begging to be confessed.
You leaned into the camera, eyes soft, voice sweeter.
“Goodnight, Genius. Hope uni’s not eating you alive.”
And then—
You logged off. Just like that.
Left him starving. You knew he’d pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried, bless him.
He texted the next day, like it was nothing. Invited you to his university party. Like this wasn’t war. Like he wasn’t already losing.
Of course, you went. Dressed in red. Not the lingerie—something sharper. Something that made his friends stare a little too long.
Heeseung barely spoke to you that night. Slipped back into his old self—like he hadn’t spent the week watching you like a man possessed. But he was in his element, charming his nerdy circle, and you were happy just watching him thrive.
Then, it changed.
He didn’t introduce you as his stepsister. That alone cracked the air between you. His hand found your back, fingers tracing lazy nothings while he laughed with his friends, eyes on you like you were art.
You liked seeing him smile. Liked knowing you made it easier.
And then—he excused you both. His friends wished you luck with admissions. So polite. So clueless.
He walked you up a narrow hallway, like it was nothing. A quiet corridor, half-lit.
Then he locked you in a hug.
And kissed your neck.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, hands already exploring.
“You too,” you murmured, smiling. “New haircut? You kept it long in the back. Looks good.”
“You said I should, so...”
You smiled harder, went in for a kiss—your first. His lips were maddening. Soft, sure, and hungrier than you expected. He kissed like he’d waited for years. Like he’d decided waiting was over.
"Untie your dress," he whispered against your mouth, voice low.
You raised a brow, smirking. “Thought you liked watching from afar.”
His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”
You let the ribbon fall, letting the dress slip open. Underneath—his gift. His breath caught.
“You like it?” you teased.
He didn’t answer. He spun you, pressed you into the wall, and his hand was already between your thighs—finding you soaked.
His mouth brushed your ear, voice cracking with restraint.
“Fuck. You’re so wet for me. I’ve waited so long.”
“Say it,” he growled.
“What?”
His thrust was sharp—two fingers deep.
“Say you want me to ruin you. Say you like it.”
You whimpered, arching into his hand. “I like it when you ruin me.”
“Say it right.”
You licked your lips. “I want to be yours, Heeseung. Ruin me.”
His exhale was jagged—like something inside him broke.
Then came silence. Just heat. Breathing. Fingers moving in and out of you as he grinded against your body, shameless and reckless in a hallway anyone could walk into.
And just before you came—he pulled away.
“No,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”
“Home?”
“No. My room.”
His dorm was massive, dark except for the red glow of a snoozed monitor. His roommate was nowhere. Probably never real to begin with. You practically jumped on him. Messy kisses. Wandering hands. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your back—and then—
Your hand brushed his desk. The monitors flared to life. And there you were—your webcam feed, glowing on the screen.
Recording. Your name as the file.
“You always make me watch,” he whispered, stripping you down to the lingerie. “Now watch yourself.”
He pulled you onto the bed, body still facing the screen.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, spreading your legs for the camera. “I’ve owned you since the first time you stepped into this house.”
On screen—your reflection trembled. Moaned. Melted in real-time.
He eased fingers inside you again while holding you in his lap, pinching a nipple until you gasped, breath tangled.
“I know what you fantasize about when you’re bored,” he whispered.
He started humping you, slow and heavy.
“I know what kind of porn you scroll past—then go back to.”
Thrust.
“I know which songs you loop when you touch yourself. I synced your playlist.”
You choked on a gasp.
“I know you changed your passwords, just to make me mad.”
His hand curled lightly around your throat.
“But I like it. I like when you pretend.”
He never slowed—just kept pushing you higher, mean and relentless.
And when you moaned his name?
He broke.
“I’m going to give you every twisted thing you’ve ever typed,” he growled. “Every fantasy you deleted. Every filthy draft you couldn’t finish. I’m going to make them real.”
Your climax slammed into you, shuddering through your bones—but he didn’t stop.
“I’ll tie you up in the library when no one’s looking,” he said, voice wicked. “Bend you over your best friend’s bed and leave a bruise only I’ll recognize.”
He laughed.
“I’ll make you cry my name with someone else inside you—just to remind you no one will ever ruin you like I do.”
You turned and kissed him, wild and unhinged.
He kissed back like a claim. Like he was branding your soul.
Then he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. Reached for a condom.
You stopped him.
“It’s safe today, Hee. Do me raw.”
His pupils darkened. Something dangerous sparked.
He freed himself and dragged his cock against your wetness, teasing your entrance. You moaned each time the head kissed you. His smile was smug. Addicted.
“Heeseung. Please.”
He nodded—and slid in all at once.
You gasped, overwhelmed, stretched so good it hurt in the most perfect way.
He rocked into you deep and slow, biting your neck, lips pressed against skin he couldn’t stop worshipping.
Then he pulled you upright—still inside you.
“You like this position, huh?”
You nodded, dizzy, undone. He studied you like he’d been preparing for a test. He always aced those.
Then—his thrusts changed. Not faster. Just deeper. Harder.
“Hee—”
“Like that, yeah?”
You nodded again, mouth open, breathless at every delicious, punishing thrust.
He looked so fucking good like this—hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, eyes glazed with need. You went for another kiss and he gripped your neck, slid to your hair, pulling until your back arched.
“Like that?”
“Yeah—yeah—fuck—don’t stop—”
He sucked your tits, relentless now, chasing both your highs. You clenched down so hard his groans turned ragged. He bit your nipple, then folded you in half, throwing your legs over his shoulders.
And then—he lost it.
He didn’t slow.
Not even as your body bucked under him, shaking.
He buried himself deeper, fingers biting into your hips, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucked you like he wanted to unmake you.
The monitors kept rolling. Your name flashing on screen, over your own moans.
You reached for him—some desperate grasp for balance—but he pinned your wrists above your head, fucked you harder. One of your legs slipped off his shoulder, and he yanked it back up with a grunt.
“Keep it there,” he snarled, breath ragged. “Don’t move unless I say.”
You didn’t.
You couldn’t.
You were already too far gone.
You felt yourself stretch around him again, again, again—your walls pulsing and fluttering with every brutal thrust. It was filthy, unrelenting, and it wasn’t enough.
Heeseung's voice was in your ear, low and wrecked.
“This how you like it?” he panted. “Getting used like this—getting ruined on camera for me?”
You sobbed a yes—high and gasping—and he growled. His hips snapped forward again, this time shoving you higher on the bed.
“Fucking take it.”
He leaned in, biting your lip, grinding deeper. The rhythm turned meaner—each thrust slamming into you with brutal precision.
“You like knowing I’ll replay this?” he whispered. “Jerk off to it when you’re not around?”
You moaned helplessly.
“Want you to. I want you obsessed.”
“Oh, I am,” he said. “You made me this.”
His rhythm stuttered—he was close. You could feel him twitch inside, groaning against your mouth.
Then—
He came.
Hard.
Buried deep.
His whole body went taut over yours, shuddering as he emptied himself, hips rolling slower, deeper. You felt the heat inside you, the stickiness, the way his cock throbbed even after the high.
And still—he didn't pull out.
He kissed your collarbone, your throat, lazily now. Worn out. Quiet.
The screen behind him kept glowing.
Your body was wrecked, your heart pounding against his chest.
He pulled you close, like he wasn’t finished. Like he never would be.
The next morning, the sun barely broke past his blackout curtains. You were still half-naked in his sheets when you heard his fingers tapping at his laptop. A fresh hoodie hung off his shoulder, hair a messy halo.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
You groaned into the pillow. “Already working?”
He smirked. “Coding clears my head. Better than coffee.”
You rolled over. He looked too good like this. Soft around the edges. Eyes warm.
“I wish you could come here,” he said. “To my university.”
You blinked, suddenly alert. He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “You did apply, right?”
“…Yeah.”
He nodded like he already knew. “But you didn’t tell me…pfff.”
Your stomach turned, just a little, as you smirked. “I didn’t want you to be happy for something so unsure.”
“I know.”
Silence. He got back typing.
“You really think I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “You think I’d just… let you leave somewhere else?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
He smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”
Your heartbeat slowed. Thick. Smiling unsure.
“Heeseung...”
He stood, walking over. Calm. Barefoot. Still smelling like last night and wanting more.
“I didn’t touch your application,” he said softly. “But I might’ve nudged the scholarship committee. You’re exceptional, after all.”
You froze. “Why?”
“Because you belong here, in that prestigious place and nowhere else.”
His fingers grazed your chin. Tender. Possessive.
“...With me.”
You swallowed. He tilted your face up to his, eyes half-lidded.
“You would've turned it down if you knew,” he murmured, getting his lips closer, smooching slowly. “You’re too proud for that kind of help. Too proud to admit you want to be kept.”
Your voice caught in your throat. “That’s not why I applied.”
“I know why you applied, just like me.”
His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.
“That’s why I made sure you’d stay. to be free.”
A flicker of something dangerous passed between you. Or maybe it had always been there. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“You think you’re playing me right now, huh,” he whispered, “but—what if I like being used, if it means I get to keep you?”
Your breath hitched. And he smiled. Like he’d already won. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe you’d just let him believe he had.
Author’s Note:
Babies~ here it is!! 💗 The second part of my enha stepbro AU (first one was HUNTED).
I really hope this one pleased you… did it??? 🥺
I worked so hard on this piece to match the exact vibe I had in mind. Like—why was I waking up at 3 AM with wild ideas for scene effects that were borderline impossible to execute?! 😭🌀
This one definitely has a different flavor! While HUNTED leaned into soft, needy sub!Jakey energy (bless him), I wanted TRAPPED to explore the more intoxicating side of obsession—but not so far that we start hating our sweet little Heeseung~ Just a touch of crazy, y’know?
I really hope the mood translated well, because after rereading it 500 times, I fully lost that "first read magic" feeling I’m not super proud of this draft yet—kinda wish I had more time to proofread and polish it up. I’ll probably update it later (perfectionist problems 😭).
Next up is Part 3, which is supposed to be Sunghoon’s! Let me know if you want anything special in it—I’m all ears... and pervy brain. Just know it’s gonna involve dacryphilia, so bring tissues… for various reasons
Saint’s Dream - Sex!addict!Jake x ChurchGirl!Reader
Content & Trigger Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Mention of religion and sins, our boy discover he's an obsessed sadist, reader with inferiority complex and anxiety/Panic attacks, coercion smh, fingering, dry humping/grinding, cum play, Two-faced Jake Sweet → Menace, Obsessed Jake/reader, sub/dom dynamics, soft dom, degradation+praise, kink mention of paraphilia, Overstimulation (r), Slight mind-breaking (r),public, edjing, Dubcon? (mostly in Jake’s head), messy heads, tits lover, marking, breedingkink m, morally gray jake, blasphemous language
WC: 13k~ (didn't really proof read I was sleepy and ovulating on top...enjoy)
You hate Jake Sim. Oh god how you hate this man.
Obviously you do. Because if you didn’t, then every humiliating, small, invisible thing you feel around him would just be…
You.
It’s a thing as old as the day both of you met. This strange inferiority thing you have, that made his kind gestures poison. Cause he’s just so… Jake coded. “Need a hand?” this. “Let me do it for you.” that, always said with that hand-over-heart sincerity. Like some benevolent little saint sent down to rescue the less fortunate. Which, apparently, is you.
And you…
You never refused. or gave him attitude. Cause refusing a guy like Jake would require admitting you resented him. That something about you was wrong.
That you can’t stand the way he outshines you without even trying. That you feel defective standing next to him.
After all, saints are meant to be loved. And Jake was loved by everyone. Everyone, except maybe by you. And eve’ this is not his fault.
It’s yours.
Because that poor Jake was charming in that infuriatingly unconscious way. Soft smiles, careful manners, a body sculpted like God spent extra time on him. Handsome, but acting like he has no idea. Perfect, but almost apologetic for it. Like: Sorry I’m everything you’re not.
He says your name when people praise his grades. Bumps his shoulder against yours when he takes first place and you settle for second. As always.
He leans in too close and murmurs, “Next time, for sure,” with those earnest, pity-puppy eyes, while you fell the anxiety eat you alive.
Even his family, is so aggressively perfect it almost feels satirical.
Rich, but the kind that doesn’t flaunt it because they don’t have to. The kind that somehow raises children with “healthy expectations” instead of generational trauma. No dramatic pressure to be extraordinary. No threats of disappointment. Just effortless excellence, passed down like heirloom silver.
Of course he’d turn out like this.
Perfect.
A saint.
A saint who’s soccer team captain. Your science club president. First seat in violin after school, always a damn chair ahead. Debate club’s crowned prince. The only person you can’t out-argue no matter how long you stay up preparing weeks before. First on the merit board like it’s a birthright to be above yours.
Choir member. Church darling. While you’re just… there. Another girl in a modest skirt trying not to sing off-key.
Even most cited youth volunteer. Which is impressive. Truly. Especially considering you were the president for the past two years.
Two years…
And still it’s his name the pastors say during sermons. “Well, look at Jake,” they’ll say, smiling at him in the third pew. “That’s the kind of young man you should all aspire to be, bla, bla, bla…”
And everyone nods.
You nod too.
Because what else are you supposed to do?
It’s not his fault he excels at everything you bleed for. It’s not his fault people light up when he walks in. It’s not his fault that when you stand next to him, you feel like a smudge on a polished surface.
But it’s easier to think it just is. And in some kind of outragious way it is, because Jake doesn’t even try. That’s the worst part.
He just exists. And somehow, that’s enough to eclipse you.
Because Jake is just everywhere your eyes linger. Everywhere, that’s the problem.
Everywhere you try to excel, every space you polish yourself into something worthy of praise, he appears with effortless and radiant victory, just to cut the grass you were saving for yourself. That brief, intoxicating thrill of being seen, favored, recognize? He reaps it first. Always… first.
You wanted to be him somehow. You mean like him. Perfectly perfect. Still being around him too long made you feel sick—like you were about to throw up and spiral straight into a panic attack.
You were just too much obsessed by him to realize your own outstanding value and charms.
For you, if Jake is virtue, then you are an inventory of sins. If he is modesty, you are secret pride. If he look content, you are greedy.
And if he is purity, sealed neatly behind that chastity ring gleaming on his finger and cross on his neck, then you are pure lust on any kind of attention you could get.
The kind that makes you reckless especially.
The kind that pushes you toward the forgettable fuckable boys at debate regionals. That you let stand a little too close, just to prove you can be wanted too.
The kind that makes you accept wandering hands because it feels good. Because being desired, even just cheaply … Is still being desired?
Sunghoon, for example.
The priest’s youngest assistant. The youth center instructor. Technically too old to look at you the way he does.
But he does. Just now, from the side of the nave, while Father prepares his sermon, his gaze drags over you like he’s already decided he’ll need help moving furniture later at youth session, as always.
You readjust the thin strap of your summer dress, whipping sweat from your neck, boxed into the corner of a wooden pew near the aisle, in that too hot, too old damn of a church in that too small of a town.
The priest clears his throat. Then, almost ceremonially says:
“Anyone under seventeen is dismissed.”
Wood creaks. Shoes scrape. A ripple of confused laughter moves through the congregation as teenagers are herded out, faces pink from heat, whispers louder and louder.
The doors close. The lock sounds heavier than it should. The priest lifts his head.
“Tonight,” he says, “we will speak of the subject of sexuality.”
Your fingers freeze mid-twist in the hem of your dress. Mindlessly exposing your knees.
Half the room low gasps. Someone snorts. Others laugh a bit too loudly, people your age crane their necks, searching for accomplice in embarrassment. Even you turn your head, looking for your friends to share an amused, disbelieving smile with.
And all of you are suddenly curious and aware, and maybe a little dumb.
After it’s the kind of subject we only speak about once a year.
That’s when you see , him. Jake. From the corner of your eye.
Jake’s sited two rows back across the aisle, just behind your friends and their families. Spine straight. Hands clenched on his thighs. Face calm, reverent, unreadable. The saint at rest.
Except—
He look a bit more tired than usual. His eyes dip, just for a second—
To your knees.
To the wrinkled fabric you’ve been worrying on. Then his gaze snaps up, colliding with yours. you don’t even stand it a second and just directly turn back around, that “sorry for existing typa behavior” that you hate about yourself.
It couldn’t have been more than two seconds. Two awkward, desert-dry seconds.
When you risk a quick glance, His attention is back to the priest like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t been looking at you at all. Like you imagined it.
Jake? No way. He doesn’t look at you like that. He actually doesn’t look at anyone like that.
Suddenly you feel wrong. Like maybe your dress is stained and no one told you. Maybe there’s something on your face. Maybe your knees look awkward. Too bare. Too obvious. Too much.
You resist the urge to check. To wipe at your mouth. To smooth your dress again. To twist around and confirm whether Jake’s still looking — or if he ever was.
Good girl. Be still. Be quiet. You don’t turn around. You don’t look for Jake. At Jake. You don’t ask yourself why your pulse hasn’t settled.
Because the priest has begun.
“Desire,” he says, as you take your deepest breath, “is not a sin in itself. It is a trial.” His voice is calm and practiced. “The body,” he continues, “is a battlefield. What you do with it determines whether you rule it or whether it rules you.”
You swallow, lowering your eyes fading in your cogitations.
“There is submission,” he says, “and there is domination. Both exist in God’s design. The danger lies in confusing control with righteousness.”
Your thighs press together before you realize you’ve moved, wrinkling the white fabric of your dress some more.
“Purity,” the priest continue, “is not ignorance. It is discipline.”
You listen.
But do you really? Yeah, god made everyone imperfect, yeah there’s a plan. yeah, the doctrine. Original sin and all that. Maybe yours is that ugly, gnawing need to be wanted. To be looked at and not overlooked. To be desired down to the bone.
And somewhere between the pulpit and the pew—wedged awkwardly between your faith and that gnawing little knot of guilt in your chest—you start to wonder if you’re really the only one here fighting off thoughts that have absolutely no business being inside a church.
Surely not. Statistically, that would be ridiculous. But—-your eyes scan discretly around you—if there are secret perverts sitting politely between the hymnals and the folded hands, and somehow it isn’t you… then who, exactly, is it?
You caught the priest assistant, Sunghoon lingering a look on you at that right fucking moment, as you regain consciousness and stop bit your lower lip. He’s giving you that one look that tells : you’re doing a remarkably poor job of pretending purity princess.
You’re asking for it, huh, he’s probably thinking.
You try to get it together, while your thoughts misbehave. Spectacularly sharing them thru eyes contact with that Sunghoon guy.
Maybe you’re ovulating. That has to be it. Because why else would your mind go there—imagining him in those same church clothes he’s wearing now, backing you into the confessional, crowding that small space until there’s nowhere left for you to escape. Just to force his hand under your already humid and smiring with anticipation panties, like he has some right to check. To make sure you’re still what you’re supposed to be. Still a good girl. Still unprepared, unready, unstretched.
Just to leave you, legs parted, wanting more, with your juice drying on his finger for his own fun.
you can almost feel those cold, veiny hands on you—enough to make your back oh so lightly arch before you can stop yourself.
Reality comes crashing back the moment your parents stand up. The sudden rustling of people around you breaking your… very unchurchlike train of thought.
Incredible. Truly. Your brain picks church—of all places—for that.Fucking get a grip.
Most of it, you missed. You rise in a too quick move, smoothing your dress with hands that are too sweaty, slipping into the current of families clustering together, voices overlapping in familiarity.
You’re fine with this part. This is not the reason you take three type of diferent pills to calm your anxiety. You greet people automatically. Smile where expected. Nod at the right moments. Ask polite questions you don’t really care about.Your normal social self.
It’s only when you notice who your parents are greeting now that something in you tightens.
Jake’s parents.
Of course…
Your mother hugs his with the kind of warmth she reserved for people she’s already decided are good and above, and his father easily laughs with yours.
And you? You angle your body away on instinct, already planning your escape to the youth group, when your mother’s voice cuts in.
“Don’t just hover,” she says. “Say hi, love.”
“Ms Sim, Mr Sim” you reply smoothly bowing your head, with that shy smile, greeting and chatting as you try hard not to look at Jake, “…I’ll go catch up with friends, have safe trip home.” You bow, almost excusing yourself.
but your mom raises an eyebrow.
“You’ve been ‘catching up’ for weeks. Stay here. It’s impolite.”
Before you can try countering, Jake’s mother steps closer as elegant and unhurried as always, smiling like she knows exactly how things are supposed to go.
“Jake,” she says gently, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. “Why don’t you to go join the group too. Walk her over, okay?” It’s perfect. Kindness, handled exactly how you wished you mom would have.
His mother gives you the“good girl eye” the one in between “if I had a daughter like you…” and “my poor child…” you’re used of reiveving from her since childhood.
Jake turns to you. You meet his eyes too late, then look away too quickly.
There it is. This, is the part you’re bad at. Not people. Not conversation. Just him. Just Jake freaking Sim.
Because around Jake, you’ve always felt this… The gap. Since middle school. Since spelling bees and gold stars and teachers comparing you with soft smiles.
Your effort, his ease, you studying until 2 a.m, and him just existing.
“Sure,” he says, like there was never another option.
Shit, shit, shit. You start feelling it… The anxiety.
Jake falls into step beside you down the aisle, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, shoulders close enough to look friendly, far enough to stay saintly, just socially acceptable. An d you only want one thing : get away. Just to calm that thing that is going on in your stomach.
You don’t realise, but Jake can feel your tension radiating like heat. Your shoulders rigid, your eyes everywhere except on his face, and your stomach probably hollowing out with that familiar unconfortable churn you get whenever he’s near.
He’s memorized it by now: the way you try to straighten your spine, pretend you’re fine, pretend he doesn’t make you want to puke from nerves and something else.
God, it’s pathetic.
And it’s perfect.
You, are so perfect.
He sees everything you try to hide, enjoy every little bit. The awkward fidget, the way your eyes dart anywhere. Every stutter, every forced smile, he catalogs it all.
Fuck, Jake wants to do you so bad it hurts; wants to shove you against the nearest pew, yank that dress up, and fuck until you’re crying his name instead of choking on it.
Keep it together, Jake. Golden boy. Church darling. You can’t let the mask crack.
“You alright?” he asks, voice light—like he’s just the nice guy checking in, as if he wasn’t getting off on your every reaction.
“Hm?” You blink up at him, wide-eyed, caught off guard.
It’s brilliant, that deer-in-headlights thing you do, it just, never gets old.
His gaze drops. Lower. To those fingers you’ve been white-knuckling since the sermon started. “You’ve been clenching your hands all night.”
Your eyes snap down. Fingers guilty half-second too late. And your anxiety rize. Jake can practically see it takes form…
Good.
“I… didn’t realize,” you mumble, voice barely there, with that akward smile.
“I know...” Jake is mesmerized, he watches your breath hitch. You’ve been doing this all service, twisting those fingers like they’re your only anchor. And yeah, he’s been watching. Longer than tonight actually. Longer than you’ll ever guess. “I mean,… I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well,” he continues, “You looked tense.”
A small, strangled laugh escapes you—like you’re one wrong breath from vomiting. Fuck. That sound shoots straight to his cock. He wants to push harder, make it a bit worse, make you dizzy with it maybe. But he need to control himself, If you ever realise, if you ever guess that he’s getting off on your disconfort it’s the end.
“No, I—it’s just a bad habit.” Your hands flap uselessly. Awkward smile plastered on. Stop, he imagines you screaming internally. He almost smirks.
He hums instead. “You should stop.” Another beat. Thin and charged. “I mean…” his eyes drop to your dress. “Look here.”
Jake brushes the threadbare spot you’ve been torturing. Two fingers. That’s all. No grab, no force, just the lightest graze, and your reaction is immediate.
He watches it ripple: pressure sinks through fabric, heat blooms, shiver rockets up your thigh. Goosebumps explode across your legs. Breath snags hard. Thighs twitch in the slightliest way together, desperatly, before you clamp them still.
Fuck. He wants to spread those thighs so bad right now, make you twitch for hours—-Stop! Keep it together, Jake. Control it.
He should stop, he need to. But teasing you is so addicting. “Look,” he murmurs, with that softer smile tilting, almost fond. “its thinner here… than here.”
His veiny hands doesn’t retreat. His fingers slide, slow, deliberate, along the curve of your thigh. Fabric bunches between histhumb and forefinger. His knuckles drag bare skin for three perfect, torturous second. Warm and rougher than you expected from him.
You hadn’t noticed the wear. But he did. On every spot of every cloth you were around him.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Right…” You say taking a step back.
hm? Are you trying to get away? Maybe he did go a bit far, he think. but…
“You’ll stop?” Jake say gently enough to make you doupt if it is a question or a soft command.
And you nod, more like a reflexive. But to him it’s like you’re being obedience, a pathetic state of you that make his dick twitch. You, doing everything he order you to.
He doesn’t move. Tempted to try a bit more.
“Don’t just nod.” It’s almsot imperseptible but his voice drops lower.
“Say yes.”
Your mouth goes dry—he sees the swallow stick. Another traitor nod slips out that make him wanna grab on your jaw, but the word scrapes free finally.
“Y—yes.”
Fuck, Jake fucking loves it. His smile blooms full. The polite one everyone love, yeah. But in this case, he’s just satisfied. Pupils flaring wide for half a heartbeat.
His hand twitches toward your head, like he wants to pat you, like a good pet, but suddenly he snaps out of his little ego trip and reroutes it to your shoulder, remembering he’s not supposed to be this blatant… but oh how he wants it.
Fuck it. It’s not the agreement that gets him half hard. Not even close. It’s the surrender in your personality. The way you surrender without a word, without a fight. How can you be this submisive, angel ? The way you don’t fight back. The way those doe eyes almost beg him to leave you alone… somehow that makes him go harder. Makes him need it.
At first, he didn’t get it. Why this pulls him in so much. Why the simple fact that you’re uncomfortable makes his brain—and apparently his dick—start running the show.
You too don’t get it yet.
Key word : yet.
To say all of this started with pity-hatred would be putting it mildly.
It was the first time in his entire fucking life Jake’s ever felt something so disgustingly potent crawl inside his chest. He still remembers the exact second you got him hopelessly addicted to the sick thrill of having power over you.
Two years ago, at the regional spelling bee auditorium, behind the scenes while everyone was rehearsing—the perfect little prodigy with your too-neat hair and modest knee-length skirt who was supposed to be untouchable— was in some other school senior's arms, pressed against a dark corner backstage’s curtain. His mouth on the side of your neck, leaving wet marks.
His hand shoved so far up under your skirt Jake could see the skin of your inner thigh flexing. And you moaned, a shy whimpering that punched straight through Jake’s balls, as your hips rocked forward shamelessly chasing for more.
That was that. The day Jake realized hate and want could live in the same heartbeat and feel exactly the same.
His first public hard-on. Right there sitting on folding chairs in front of hundreds, cock throbbing painfully against the zipper of his khakis while he watched you sitting down silently next to him. You, the only girl he’d ever really wanted, who got finger-fucked like she was starving for it minutes ago, and then spelling: Floccinaucinihilipilification.
You were his first real crush. His stupid, innocent puppy love.
His first heartbreak.
And—most importantly—his first real taste of rage.
How could you fucking dare give those sounds toa stranger. For days he observed you, just to realise his pure crush on you turned you into an angel you actually weren’t.
Those moans looped in his skull for weeks. The way your cheeks flushed such a violent pink. The glassy, faraway look in your eyes right before you came. The shuddering, thighs trembling, the tiny, broken cry slipping out as you soaked that bastard’s hand.
Jake came so hard that night he saw stars. Ropes of thick cum painting his stomach while his brain short-circuited, replaying nothing but your wrecked face over and over.
First time he’d ever jerked off thinking about someone specific.
First time he experienced the pleasure of rolling over and fucking a pillow thinking of a girl inner thighs while begging for repentance.
And first time he understood what it meant to want to own someone.
From that day forward it stopped being about trophies, debate medals, perfect report cards, or the endless parade of “suitable” playdates his mom tried to arrange. None of it hit the same as the urge to touch you.
Nothing got him stupidly, painfully hard like the fantasy of finally cornering you—maybe in the back stacks of the library where you always fall asleep with your cheek smushed against an open textbook, or in an empty chem lab after hours.
He daydreamed to wash your mouth out with his tongue until you tasted like him. Wanted to bruise the skin that should’ve always belonged to him.
Wanted to be the first—and only—one to rip new sounds and reactions out of that pretty face. He wished to experiment his new obsessions on you.
And suddenly he realised that every time he smiled that gentle, angelic, good-boy smile while quietly dismantling your confidence, your eyes would go glassy, stomach visibly clenching like you were trying not to cry right there.
And fuck, that made him leak in his briefs.
It was weird. And it was scary. The thought of being purposely bad to someone was against everything he believed in.
Still, no award ceremony, no valedictorian speech, no other girl ever gave him that same feral rush. Nothing got him harder, faster, than watching you shrink under his saintly cruelty.
It’s your fault. He persuaded himself. You, turned him into a sinner.
By the time you reach the youth group, voices overlap and the moment dissolves. You both join your friends suddenly aware of your own body in a way that feels like a low vibration under your ribs.
The group is seated in a loose circle, attention focused on Brother hoon, who sits on a low chair at the end of the circle, hands folded, expression impassive.
“As Father mentioned tonight,” he says, “desire is not something to fear. Strong feelings do not make us bad people.” He smiles softly. “They make us human. What matters is how love and understanding the path of god guides them.”
He looks around the circle.
“Does anyone have a passage they think speaks to that?”
Silence.
People avoid eye contact. Someone shifts. But Jake raises his hand without hesitation.
“John 3:16,” he says evenly. “It reminds us that love is intentional. Chosen. Sacrificial. And that sacrifices vanish a lot of sins.”
Nods ripple through the group. You hesitate, then speak before you can stop yourself.
“First Peter,” you say quietly. “4:9.” You swallow, then continue. “It says that above all, we should have fervent love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins.”
Brother Sunghoon's smile deepens.
“That’s very good,” he says looking at you, “both of you.” You lower your gaze, warmth creeping into your face. Heat floods your cheeks. Oh, how pathetic it feels to crave that tiny scrap of recognition, like a dog waiting for a pat on the head. But from him? It's everything. You drop your gaze to your lap, fingers twisting the hem of your dress, a stupid smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
Across the circle, Jake watches. He sees it all: the way your eyes light up for Sunghoon, the flush that creeps up your neck, the shy curve of your mouth.
Head over heels, aren't you? For that guy?.
Jake's jaw tightens. Your lips... His nails dig into his palms without him realising until he feels the warm trickle of skin tiring. Your lips, could smile at him instead. Why couldn’t they he’s always so good to you. So gentlmen. You could at least thank him for always having you in his mind. those same soft lips of yours you btting nervously could be parted around his cock as a thank you, no? You could look at him with those same shy eyes, through those long lashes, begging for that guidance he will surely give you better than anyone else. He’d be so good to you if you letted him. He clenches harder.
You have no idea the storm you're stirring in him, do you? All innocent and fluttering for the wrong man. Fuck he’s doing it again…
Jake reajust himself in the chair, hopping no one noticed, and study keep going until brother Sunghoon claps his hands once, gentle but decisive.
“Let’s do this, for this week exercise” he says. “I want you to pair up with someone,” he gesture, encouraging. “talk together about a desire, something, anything. that is stuck within you and let the other one show acceptance and understanding. It’s about recognizing when it isn’t ours to indulge, and how understanding it helps us accept it, then guide it. Not repress it as a danger. But how to dominate it.”
Murmurs spread. People already turn toward safe friends, prepping harmless confessions: I procrastinate so much…, I love junk food, I desire to skip Bible study sometimes, oops, haha. You do too, wayving at your friend, already scripting something bland and forgivable in your head. Something oh so harmless, that anyone could say “it‘s okay! How about journaling about it?” to.
Then Brother Sunghoon adds, almost offhand adds“Let’s keep it simple… I’ll pair you.” He starts calling names. Your heart drops with each one. Until he reaches you.
“You… With… Jake.” He smiles.
NO.
No,no,no,no.
Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. The room tilts a little. Why you? What could you possibly tell him? Something safe, or... God, what if anything slips out? He’s that good at talking people thru… Your hands tremble, chest tightening like a shrinked shirt. Air feels thin. It’s is a trap, isn't it? Another way for him to see how beneath him you are—frumpy little you, with your buttoned-up blouses and anxious fidgeting, spilling your soul to perfect Jake. Why does it have to be him? Your pulse hammers in your ears, vision blurring at the edges. Breathe. Just breathe. But your lungs won't cooperate, and the panic coils tighter.
He flashes that pure, trustworthy smile everyone melts for, raises his hand in a small, casual hi~ wave. Your friends shoot you those smug, giddy looks—“You’re so lucky!”—like this is some divine rom-com moment.
For one wild second you consider faking illness. Clutching your stomach, bolting for the bathroom, anything. God must be punishing you. This is divine retribution dressed in flannel and soft brown eyes. Or maybe Jake engineered it, whispered to Sunghoon, pulled strings. No, that's paranoid. But the thought makes your stomach churn harder.
“Keep in mind,” Sunghoon adds brightly, “accept with open arms. Show your partner grace. Try to find healthy paths forward together.”
Open arms…
Everyone stands.
You hesitate half a beat too long—long enough that Jake notices—then force your legs to move. Chin up. Shoulders squared. You flash him the smile you’ve practiced in mirrors a hundred times: sweet and polite, that you think look effortless. No one would ever guess how much it costs you, how your heart's racing like it's trying to escape your chest.
You meet him halfway across the room.
“So,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that his voice stays private, “where do you wanna do this?”His tone is light. Curious. As if the answer doesn’t matter at all. and some jaleous girls side eyes you.
But, the answer genuinely doesn’t matter,.
No it actually does.
It matters so much your throat is closing around it. You need open space. People. Fresh air. A clear line of sight to the bathroom so you can bolt when the panic claws up your esophagus and you have to puke your shame into a toilet stall. Anywhere but—
“I think…” You chew the inside of your lower lip raw, teeth catching skin. Your hand drifts up, nails slidding between your teeth before you even register the motion. Bite. Release. Bite again. You scan the room like there’s an escape hatch nobody told you about. “Anywhere. Anywhere’s fine…”
Jake watches the whole pathetic performance. A second too long. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the soft brown until they look almost black. He’s already picturing it: those same nervous teeth replaced with something thicker, your lips stretched and glistening, shy eyes flicking up at him while you choke on praise and drool. Fuck. He’ll break that nail-biting habit one day. Replace it with better habits. On your knees. Swollen mouth. Full of him.
“Study room, downstairs then.”
No.
No!!
The word screams in your head but your mouth stays shut. Those coffin-sized side rooms. No windows. No air that isn’t recycled through his lungs first. No witnesses. Bathroom a whole hallway away. You’ll suffocate. You’ll die in there. You’ll—
You nod too fast. Legs move on autopilot. You trail half a step behind him like a scolded puppy…
Inside, the room is smaller than you remembered. Sterile. Dim. One lamp throwing long shadows. Just a table against a the wall. Two chairs. Jake fucking Sim.
And your heart hurts. You want to go home…
Jake let's you go in first and the room is small you can just smell the clean cotton of his shirt and the faint cedar of whatever cologne he wears. He pulls out your chair, oh so gnetlemenly, and you drop into it so fast the legs scrape. You curl your hands into fists so he won’t see the trembling.
When Jake joins and sit… he’s too damn close. His knees bracket yours, because there isn’t anywhere else to be. You decide to make an exercice out of trying to keep yours sealed tight long enough not to touch his.
You fold your hands on the hem of your dress and suddenly flash back to when Jake told you to stop hits.
You stop.
He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. And you stastically are. Because it’s hard to calm your heart by pointing at five things in a room where the. things you see are a lamp and Jake. The silence settles, not really awkward. but as present as a third person you almost count.
Your eyes locks on the door handle behind him. He locked it. Of course he locked it. Why did he locked it? And why is there no window in the room. why is there no ventilation too? No other sounds than your breathing slowly catching.
Your vision blur in the corners.
Shit, shit, shit.
Jake tilts his head, gets closer, concern creasing his brow in that perfect, practiced way. “Hey… you okay? You look…” He pauses, voice dropping softer. “You look a bit stressed.”
Liar. He’s not concerned. He’s enjoying every seconds. You can’t feel it too much in your own head, to see the way his gaze drags over your flushed cheeks, your bitten lip, the slow frantic rise and fall of your chest. Your panic is turning him on and he hates himself for it and he loves it more.
“I—I’m fine,” you whisper. Your tongue feels thick. “Just… It’s hot. In here.”
fuck it’s almost summer, and the church can’t have a window or some kind of fan in a corner.
“You sure?” He leans forward. Elbows on the table. Closer. “Your hands are shaking. You’re pale.” His fake worry drips from every syllable like honey. “Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”
You want to scream leave me alone. Instead your mouth opens and closes like a dying fish. His finger shyly catch on chin to makes you look at him. And nausea surges, hot climbing your throat. The room spins. You lurch to your feet.
Bad idea, angel.
Your legs give out like wet paper. You don’t even stumble gracefully, you literally crumple forward, knees hitting the floor hard between Jake’s spread thighs, nails scraping at the wood between his leags. The impact jars up your spine, but the real pain is the way your chest locks tighter, air refusing to come in more than frantic little sips.
He freezes for half a heartbeat. Eyes wide. Then something darker flickers across his face.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Hey—hey, I-I think you’re having a panic attack.”
He should call for Sunghoon. He knows he should. Yell. Open the door. Get the saintly brother in here to lay hands and pray he can calm your allergy to him.
But he doesn’t move.
Instead his hands shoot out.One clamping around your jaw, firm enough to tilt your face up to his, the other slids to cradle the back of your neck just like he’s been rehearsing in his dreams for months.
“Easy,” he murmurs, thumb stroking once along the edge of your lower lip—almost tender. “Breathe for me, okay? You’re safe. Just breathe.”
You try. God, you try. But your lungs are made of stone. Your vision swims. Tears already sting the corners of your eyes because everything feels too loud, too close, too him.
Jake’s jaw ticks. His voice drops lower. “Come here.”
He hauls you up, not roughly, but with purpose, straight into his lap so you’re straddling him face-to-face. Your knees bracket his hips on the narrow chair; your dress bunches high on your thighs. His hands stay where they are: one still gripping your jaw, the other curled possessively around the back of your neck, keeping you from looking away.
You’re close enough to see the flecks of brown in his dark irises, the tiny scar on his upper lip, the way his pupils have blown wide. Close enough to feel every ragged exhale fan across your mouth.
“Still not breathing right,” Jake says, voice low, almost disappointed. His thumb strokes once along the seam of your lips, “open your mouth, angel.”
Your lips and eyes tremble, stay sealed. Terror and humiliation glue them shut.
He exhales sharply through his nose. Then two thick fingers push past your teeth without preamble. They hook over your tongue and press, stretching the soft inner skin of your cheeks until they pull tight, until your jaw screams from the angle. You gag hard, helpless, the sound is wet and obscene in the room you’re ashamed.
“Fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once beneath you. His cock is already straining against his jeans, pressing insistently against your core through thin fabric. “Breathe, thru your mouth. In through your nose… out slow. Come on.”
You try—God, you try—but every inhale shoves his fingers deeper, every failed exhale drags more saliva spilling over his knuckles, dripping down your chin and his hand. Your tears stream freely now and a choked, broken whimper vibrates around the intrusion.
He groans low in his throat, head dropping back a bit to enjoy the show.
“You’re fucking killing me like this.”
His free hand slides down—under the hem of your dress and you jolt when it goes past the lace edge of your panties, until his palm flattens over your lower belly. Big. His hand is big. Spanning so much skin you feel tiny, fragile and kind of owned. He presses firm rhythmics. Up on the inhale, down on the exhale. Forcing your diaphragm to obey.
“Like that,” he whispers, breath mingling with yours. “Good girl. Follow my hand. In… out…”
The pressure make your insides wierd, his fingers stretching your mouth, petting your tongue like something precious turn your brain mushy. His palm grinds slightly more possessive, close enough to the fabric of your panties that your clit drags on the friction you can’t ignore. His head tips; his lips brush your temple once barely there.
“If you need to puke,” he rasps, voice cracking with restraint, “tell me, I don’t give a fuck.”
The words hit meaner than he usually speaks. He’s diferent more dominating. A soft, shattered sound tears from your throat: half sob, half plea. Drool glistens on his fingers, strings of it connecting to your swollen lips when he finally, agonizingly, slowly, withdraws them.
Three minutes. Maybe four. Your breathing stuttered, catched, steadied and now ragged gasps smooth into something almost even.
His hand stays splayed on your belly. You feels your hands again finally, resting on your thighs, when you look at them you catch on the buldge of is cock throbing beneath you with every shaky inhale you take. But you don’t look away, and not at him.
And jake doesn’t speak for a long beat.
Then, barely audible he says: “Better?”
Your tongue still tastes like the salt of his skin. You can’t answer too everwelmed, and suddenly fresh tears slip down your cheeks.
His thumb strokes once over your lower stomach, just gentle now.
“Shhh, Good girl,” he breathes. And the praise sinks into you like a cold patch on your fever, even as you tremble in his arms, with nowhere left to hide, “There you go,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed, post-crisis soft. “You’re okay, angel. Just breathe. It’s alright. Everything’s alright.”
Jake speak in the same tone people use on scared puppies or crying kids. Like he handed you a participation trophy for almost blacking out in his lap.
You’re calm(ish). Breathing steady. Heart still hammering, sure, but no longer trying to punch through your ribs.
Jake, though?
Jake is not calm.
The thick, insistent ridge of him presses up against your core through his jeans and your bunched skirt. Hard enough that every tiny shift of your hips drags a low hiss from between his teeth. You feel it twitch when you swallow. Feel it throb when your breath hitches. He’s leaking through the fabric—you’re almost sure of it—and the realization makes fresh heat flood your face.
You can’t look at him.
Not for the next two minutes that stretch into a miserable eternity.
So you do the only thing your body knows how to do when cornered: you tuck your face into the warm crook of his neck. Hide there. His skin smells like cedar and clean sweat and something faintly metallic—like he’s been biting the inside of his cheek too. Your nose presses against his pulse. It’s racing faster than yours.
His hand slides up. Fingers card gently through your hair—slow, soothing strokes from crown to nape. Petting you like you’re fragile porcelain.
His other hand drops and settles high on your bare thigh, thumb resting just under the hem of your panties. Not moving. Just… there. Claiming space. Testing how long you’ll let it stay
How the fuck are you this cute? Jake thinks, jaw tight. Hiding in his neck like a scared little cat. All flushed and messy and still trying to be good.
But the next thought comes faster and uglier:
How do he turns this into you coming completely undone under me?
He turns it over in his head like a Rubik’s cube he already knows the solution to. Every angle. Every justification.
You’re already so wet. Jake can feels it. you’re shaking because you wants it too, you’re just too shy to admit it. I could fix that. He thinks. I could make you need me so bad you’d forgets how to breathe without my permission. Make you crawl. Make you beg. Make you thank him for every things.
This is toxic as hell.
But what if it’s good for both of you?
What if Jake could give you exactly what you’r too scared to ask for, and once he’d you experience it, maybe these sick thoughts will finally shut the fuck up? Like finally playing that one game you’ve been obsessing over for years, beating it in one all-nighter, and then never touching it again because… meh. Done. Satisfied.
Yeah… He’s bad at lying to himself…
“You feel better?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your temple.
You nod against his neck. Tiny. Barely there.
He exhales like he’s been holding the breath for centuries.
“You know…” His voice drops lower, almost confessional. “I get like that too. Around you.”
You freeze.
“Not… not exactly like that,” he adds quickly. “But I feel… off. Not myself. Wired. Like my skin’s too tight.”
Silence. But you can hear his heartbeat so distinctly.
You shift barely an inch, and realize too late how it looks: the straps of your dress fallen off your shoulders, hair a wrecked halo, cheeks stained and humid. You look fucked already and he hasn’t even kissed you nor touched you.
Jake’s bangs are messy now, falling into his eyes. He looks… different. Maybe hungrier. Less like the golden youth-group Jake and more like some guy who’s been starved and have his. first meal in front him.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Jake half-smiles anf it’s devastating. You never saw him like that.
The thoughts flood back so fast he almost groans out loud.
He never really watched porn. Didn’t need to. But his brain’s been running a private channel starring you for months. You biting your lip when you’re nervous? Jake wants those lips on his cock instead. You tugging your hair when you’re frustrated? Jake want his fist wrapped in it while he fucks you till you cry. You fidgeting with your skirt hem? Jake wants to flip it up, spread you open, pull out dripping and smear the mess across your panties until you’re glazed and whimpering his name.
Jake’s fingertips graze a stray strand from your cheek. Your breath stutters. He smirks every time your eyes dart away.
“You’re uncomfortable around me, hm?”
You shake your head so violently your hair whips his chin.
He chuckles softly and dark. “It’s okay.” His humb traces your cheekbone now, slowly, deliberatly, cataloging every twitch. “I don’t mind. Actually… I kinda like it.”
His eyes follow his own touch like he’s hypnotized.
“You hate me?”
Another violent head shake.
“I won’t believe you if you don’t speak, angel.”
“I…” Your tongue darts over dry, bruised lips. You swollow dry.“I don’t hate you…” The whisper is so quiet it barely exists.
But it’s enough.
He readjusts under you. A deliberate grind that makes you gasp. and he smiles, soft and so fucking fond it hurts.
“You know…” His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part it. “I tried everything to not think of this. Doubled prayer time, knelt till my knees bruised. Ran till I puked. Anything to exhaust my body, starve my mind. But the harder I tried to kill it… the clearer the pictures of you got. You. Just you. Every fucking time.”
“…What?” you whisper.
“I’m doing the exercise right now,” he says, voice cracking just a little. is head drops to your neck this time. He inhales deep your perfume, your fear-sweat, your arousal. “Fuck, it’s weird saying it out loud.”
Your heart skips a beat painfully.
“It’s just… I keep fantasizing. Obsessing. You’re the only one I think about when I—” He cuts himself off, lips brushing your skin. “I don’t know what to do. What should I do, hm? Tell me.”
Brother Sunghoon’s voice echoes in your skull like divine intervention gone wrong: Accept with open arms. he said Show your partner grace. he said. Try to find healthy paths forward together. He said.
Your hands fly to his shoulders gripping like he’s rock on your chest.
“You… what kind of thoughts?”
He fights the grin. Loses. It spreads slow and victorious across his face.
Got you.
He leans in until his mouth ghosts your ear.
“When you bite your lip? I want to replace your teeth with mine. Want to suck that plump little mouth till it’s swollen and you’re whimpering into my tongue.”
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“When you chew your nails? I want them scratching down my back while I’m buried so deep you forget your own name.” You swallow. “Want to see those same fingers wrapped around my cock, slick and trembling, guiding every inch down your throat till you gag and swallow every drop I pump into you.”
His hand slides higher on your thigh—fingertips grazing the damp edge of your panties. Fuck what a pool.
“When you tug your hair? I want my fist in it. Pulling just hard enough to make your eyes water while I fuck your mouth slow. Pull out to wipe the mess across your lips like the lips balm you always put on and ends up licking. I want to make you taste how wrecked you make me.”
Jake’s touching you everywhere he shouldn’t under your dress. Grazing his way up your hips, teasing the small of your back, mapping out every spot he’s dreamed about ruining.
“Ahhh, sorry… it’s probably just wierd,” he lies smoothly, voice shy and coaxing. “I think it’s like, hormones and curiosity. Once I… do it. Once I get it out of my system, it’ll stop. I’ll be normal again.”
So that what it is. That’s what Sim Jaeyun had in his head all allong.
“You’ll accept this part me, hm?”
“Hm?”
He’s eyes are doing this puppy thing “…That’s what the exercise is for, right?”
Fuck… The exercice…
Your panties are soaked. You can feel it all hot and sticky, more than the fabric can hold. Your clit throbed in time with his words and he just don’t shutted up. You’re dizzy again, but for a different reason.
Maybe you’re trying to help. Maybe you’re just that far gone. Maybe you just want that buldge that much… And it’s okay.
Cause love and acceptance erase a lot of sins, no?
“You… want to try?” you whisper.
Jake thrives. His eyes darken and travel everyplace he want to touch, mark and own. “Will you let me?”
For a second you almost see that shadow behind the soft dark of his eyes, the part you never saw before, and think not anyone ever saw.
You’re too wet, too shaky and too lost in the heat radiating between you, to be able to think twice so—-
You nod.
“Say it.” His eyes beg, lips tasting your with a graze.
“Ok…Yes.”
He exhales like the war is finally over and he’s the only soldier left standing. “Good,” he breathes, thumb dragging slow across your bottom lip one last time, bitting his, like he’s sealing a contract.
And just like that, his daydream becomes reality.
Jake’s eyes go black, his pupils swallowing everything soft and church-boy-ish about him. They rake down your body like he’s already mapping every place he wants to bruise, bite, own. His hands flex and fingers twitching with the too many impulses that come at him in once: rip that dress? pin your wrists? spread you wide? make you cry his name? God itself shouldn’t witness the thoughts he’s having right now.
He’s still trying to convince himself that, this, is just hormones. Just a phase. Just the exercise.
But the lie is thinning fast as his dick take control over his brain.
“It’s your fault… I wasn’t like that before you,” he mutters, voice low and cracked. “You sat there with your smile, biting your lip, tugging your hair, fidgeting like a nervous little thing—and it’s like you’re begging me—to… Take control. You think that’s fair?”
You blink up at him, chest heaving. “Wh… why am I the problem? It’s your—”
He cuts you off by hauling you up effortlessly, spinning you until your ass hits the edge of the table. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, lays you flat on the cold wood. and yanks one of your legs high, hooking it over his shoulder.
He bites down on the inside of your calve and you iss, teeth sinking just enough to make pain bloom brightly and hot.
You yelp, and the sound bounces off the walls. He smirks against your skin, tongue flicking over the fresh mark. “Why so uncomfortable around me, hm? Allergic?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Shaking your head. Too shy. Too overwhelmed. Too wet. He lets your leg fall. Steps in closer, with one leg on the table, and leans down for your mouth.
You panic, your hands fly up, palms flat against his mouth, pushing him back an inch.
“What?” His voice drops dangerously soft against your palm.
You shake your head again. No. Not that. Not yet maybe.
“You said I could try anything,” he reminds you, eyes narrowing like a sad puppy.
“Not… not that.”
He looks unhappy. Jake jaw ticks, then his hand shoots to your jaw firmly, tilting your head to the side.His lips find the nape of your neck instead and sucks hard. He marks you, and you feel the bruise blooming already.
“I’ll make you beg for a kiss,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I’ll make you crawl for it.”
His fingers hook the thin straps of your summer dress and with one smooth tug the fabric slides down your arms, pools at your waist, then drops to the floor entirely. You’re left in nothing but damp cotton white panties and your red Converse and white socks, shivering.
His palms cover your breasts too hard at first. You wince, brows pinching. He watches your face like it’s scripture. Adjusts. Squeezes again. Just a bit softer. Then harder. Jake is testing and learning every twitch, every hitch in your breath.
You finally open your eyes and meet his.
To realise he’s gone. Gone gone.
Not Jake anymore. Something trance-like. Pupils blown. Breathing shallow. Mouth parted like he’s receiving a vision.
“Jake…?”
“Let me see,” he rasps. “All the kinds of faces you can make.”
He drops his mouth on your nipple with his dark eyes on you. ANd feel his thick lips, fangs grazing. Tongue swirling slow, then flicking sharp. He captures everything: the way your fingers dig into his shoulders to push him away, the helpless rock of your hips against his bulge, the little space between your parted lips where silent cries keep slipping out.
He’s addicted.
He tries for your mouth again. And you block him. Again. He growls like an unhappy dog in his throat. Grabs your hips and jsut forces them down hard against his cock to make grind you along the length until you yelp and yelp and yelp again.
His thumb traces your lips. Slips inside. Hooks your cheek. Fuck, he loves this view: your brows bending in that perfect needy arch, eyes watering, lashes clumping. His favorite expression. The cry-baby you.
“God bless you for being such a perfect little cry baby,” he mutters. “He made you for me. Look at you. You’re built to fall apart under my hands, hm?”
Your brain short-circuits. What the hell is he saying? This isn’t Jake. This is—
Three fingers shove past your lips. Stretch your mouth wide. He hyperfixates—watching the way your tongue flattens, the drool that pools, the way your throat works around the intrusion.
“I always see it,” he says, voice wrecked. “You biting your crayons, your nails, your lips... Every little anxious quirk. Makes me want to replace them all. Want to fuck your mouth until you’re choking on me instead of anything else .”
You hear his zipper.
He’s stroking himself now, slowly, his head bumping against the drenched cotton between your thighs. Soft whimpers escape you both.
He stops everything. Focuses on the wet patch. The sticky mess you’ve made.
“Fuck… how can you be this wet?”
His thumbs presses and stroke everywhere you wet yourself, traces the shadow of your entrance through the fabric, firmly, slowy. And you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes darting to the door.
“Jake—someone could—”
He doesn’t hear you. He’s too far gone.
He keeps smearing your slickness, adding his own leaking precum until the white cotton is translucent, clinging, buried between your folds.
Both your breaths come faster, heavier.
“I want to fuck you so bad.” He notches the head against your clit with forces pressure. You jolt—whole body arching.
You stare at him, and a sudden realization hits: he’s touching a pussy for the first time. No?
He’s acting like he want to force it inside, but he doesn’t even know where and what it really looks like up close. He’s on instinct, hunger mode.
It’s thrilling. And it’s terrifying. He won’t listen. Won’t stop. So your trembling hand slides down. Brushes him. He’s veiny, swollen. So hard it hurts to touch.
He snarls. Grabs your wrist. Forces your fingers around his shaft. Makes you strock it.
“Fuck—”
You line him up—head nudging your entrance, with only the soaked fabric between.
He thrusts so shallow and desperate. The head pushes in stretching the cotton, stretching you. You arch violently. His breathing is obscene, so freaking loud and ragged.
“I’ll fuck you… fuck, I wanna fuck you so bad.”
He slams a palm on the table beside your head.
“Fuck—we can’t—” he say, but doesn’t stop. His thrusts turn erratic. Wet sounds fill the room rhythmic. Every shallow push forces the fabric deeper, almost tearing, almost letting him in.
“I want inside—fuck—I want to fuck you so bad.”
“I want to go so deep you scream.”
“I want to feel your clench around me.”
You’re close—too close—from the friction, from his wrecked expression, from the way he’s losing every shred of control. You grab his wrist, with your still trapped between his hand and his cock’s hand, and guide his fingers.
He follows. And memories flash him: the day he caught you getting fingered in secret. The way your hips bucked. The sounds.
He laughs dizzy, “I forgot… you’re a little slut, right?”
Two fingers shove inside you. No preamble. He just fuck your inside roughly. He curls. Scissors. Pumps. No pattern. Just chasing every reaction. Every flutter. Every jolt.
“How can a dick even fit in here, hm?” he mutters, completely out of his mind. “Fuck—”
Your orgasm builds terrifyingly fast. You try to fight it. Try to stay quiet. But the more you clench, the harder it hits. Your legs snap shut around his hand.
He watches from above, literally transfixed, as your body contracts, back bowing, thighs trembling.
Right when you’re about to tip over—
He pulls out. Completely.
You jolt. Thrash. Palm slams the table. Other hand clamps over your mouth. Legs convulse, and you see white for a second. The denial is stronger than any full orgasm you’ve ever had. And Jake drinks in every second—your arched back, your shaking thighs, the way you’re offering yourself without words.
Your back…
He grabs your leg. Flips you onto your stomach, the cold table shocks your nipples.
“Wait—”
He yanks your panties up so hard you’re forced onto tiptoes.
His cock slides between your fabric and ass. Its hot, thick, fucking the crease hard. Jake’s palm clamps the back of your neck and it cuts oxygen just enough to make your brain fuzzy, make everything narrow to the drag of him against you.
He grinds. Strokes your clit with the soaked cotton pulling. Faster. Faster. Meaner.
You both break at the same time. He groans and bites on the arm that hold you down, as hot and thick ropes of cum paint your back. Your legs buckle a bit a,d your orgasm crashes as silently as possible, shattering, legs trembling so hard you almost collapse.
Both of you are shaking. Breathing like you’ve run marathons.
It’s over.
But he grabs your arm. Pulls you down. You fall to your knees. “Let me see your face.”
He brushes sweat-damp hair back. You look exactly like his dream: wrecked. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy.
He towers over you. Cock still half-hard and leaking. You lean forward. Press your lips to the head, with your tongue flat against the thick vein underneath.
“Ahh—-” he snaps. One hand fist your hair. Thrusts shallow, fucking the last of his cum into your mouth, to gradually fuck the back of your throat.
You gag. Tears spill. And he loses it completely, watching the tears track down your cheeks, feeling your throat work around him.
“Fuck… that’s it. Take it all.”
ANd you take it all. Every shallow thrust into your mouth, every pulse against your tongue, every drop he spills down your throat, he watches like it's the holy prouf that he’s in fact one of god’s favorite. Your eyes water and tears track hot down your cheeks. You gag softly once, twice, but you don't pull away.
Jake groans low, wrecked, fingers tightening in your hair. "I love you," he rasps, voice cracking on the words like they've been clawing at his throat for months. "Fuck—I love you so much it hurts. I want you bad. So fucking bad."
He releases with one last shudder, flooding your mouth. You cough, choke a little, saliva and cum dripping from the corner of your lips as you gasp for air. Before you can even wipe your chin, he yanks your head back by the hair, sharp enough to make you gasp, and tries to crashes his mouth to yours—-
Then his phone buzzes—sharp, insistent, vibrating against the table like a slap back to reality. He. literally freezes. His lips one millimeter away.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He wanted this to never end. He pulls back slowly, breathing ragged, passing a frustrated hand in his hair and answers the call with shaking fingers.
You sink back onto your knees, dazed, chest heaving, trying to piece yourself together while the world rushes back in too loud, and too fast. You can't hear Jake’s conversation: just muffled voices, his low "yeah, Mom," "okay, got it." His free hand reaches for yours, squeezing once, grounding.
He mouths at you silently, puppy eyes soft again: You okay? With his phone still hooked between ear and shoulder, he reaches out, rearranges your tangled hair with careful fingers, wipes the tear tracks and spit from your cheeks with his thumb and sleeve. Jake helps you too, tug your dress back up over your shoulders like nothing happened.
The call ends, and you don’t even realise it. There’s only that strange feeling of calm in you, like the anxiety is gone. And maybe too much of Jake’s presence. There’s nothing. You just don’t think anymore. And it feels somhow so pleasing.
"Hey." Jake’s hand slides to the back of your neck, with a gentle pressure turning your face to his. "My mom called. Your parents got an emergency thing from work. We're taking you home."
"Hm?"
He studies your expression, you’re in the stars right now, and oh how he wish he could keep you there. A soft, fond smile tugs at his mouth. His eyes drop to your lips. He bites his own. Leans in. But you suddnely flinch, almost dodge again.
But he goes for your cheek instead. With a soft, chaste kiss. Just a brush of lips.
"It's okay," he murmurs against your skin. "I won't do anything you don't want me to." He shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over your shoulders. Leans close again, breath warm against your ear. "Sorry… for your back."
And the rest of that. damn night is blurs. Like a lucid dream.
You vagly get the church bathroom mirror, your lips swollen, neck marked you hidded under his jacket, the sticky mess on your lower back cooling under. If this wasn't church, if it wasn’t jake… And you, anyone with eyes would know exactly what happened.
The ride home… you don't remember words. Just the echo of Jake's mom asking if you have a fever, calling you "angel" in that sweet-mom voice while your thighs stick together and your pulse won't settle.
One solid fact was that he slipped a Snickers bar into your pocket—his pocket, technically his yeah, since you forgot to give his jacket back when you bolted from the car and ran hometo shower.
It's still on your nightstand weeks later. Melting slowly in its wrapper. Proof the fever dream was real. That the reasons your wetting your panties since, is Jake. Jake and the way used you.
And if you thought that one night would kill the anxious buzz you get whenever Jake's within five meters… Wrong.
Now it's worse. One look from him across the youth group room and you're rushing to the bathroom to wipe the insane rush of wetness between your thighs. And the slapping the idea of literally eating your nails in front of him with the expectation that he ends up fucking you hard some place.
Jake's side isn't better.
That night he slept better than he ever had. First weeks of summer felt golden. He thought he had you and basta. But you went from anxious-around-him to full avoidance. If it weren't for church services, the country club brunches, the upcoming youth group trip—he wouldn't even catch your shadow.
The dreams came roaring back. but Stronger. More vivid. More real.
He needs to see you. Hold you. Now.
The country club brunch is packed, linen tablecloths, clinking silverware, parents laughing too loud. And jake half-hard, eyes in void thinking of fucking you doggy style and bend you until you scream for him to stop.
You see him first. He catch you second trying to regain consciousness with his meter long eyespack. You’re across the lawn, through the crowd, eyes locked. Neither of you looks away. But in Jake head it might as well be an halucination.
His mom calls yours over and he snap. You’re here, like really here. More plates are insisted upon. "We need another setting—Jake, scoot over, sweetheart."
Your heart slams so hard you taste copper. By some divine cruelty (or blessing), you're seated right next to him at a table too small for five. Everyone chats: weather, golf scores, your perfect tenis perfs, college plans for both of you.
And—-
Jake's hand slides under the table. Under your tennis skirt. You freeze mid-sentence. His palm is bigger than you remember, rougher, hoter from whatever secret workouts he does to punish himself.
He squeezes your thigh hard. And you know what it is. A punishment. You try to keep your face neutral. Smile at someone's joke. His hand creeps higher. You yank his wrist away and bolt upright.
"Sorry—restroom."
You walk—fast—to the farthest one possible. When a hand catches your wrist near the doors. He drags you into some ladies' room stall. Locks it.
"Jake—what are you—"
"Why are you avoiding me?"
You're stunned silent.
Why? WHY?!
"You're even avoiding me now…" He crowds you against the wall. The stall is spacious and tiny at the same time. His body heat is everywhere. "I accepted you. You accepted me. For who we are. So why avoid each other?"
"What… what are you talking about?"
He bends. Mouth at your ear. "That you're a needy little slut…" Voice calm, natural, like he's reading the weather. "And I have weird… fucked-up desires about you."
You meet his eyes. And the scariest part is that he's not even trying to hide it. Just says it like fact.
"Are you… Jake…"
His head drops to your shoulder, kissing your neck. a hand slides to your hip. "I'm hard."
Your brain short-circuits.
"I still dream about you. It didn't go away. I fuck my hand remembering your throat squeezing me. Your insides clenching. I even got hard in the last days of school just because you finally stopped biting your nails."
You're breathing too loud and he straightens and locks eyes. His thumb grazes your lips. "Have you let someone else touch you?"
Head shake.
"Sunghoon?"
Shake.
"Any of the guys at the club?"
Shake.
His smile blooms slowly, victorious. "I knew it. So we're good to each other?"
"Hm?"
"I've been thinking about it, angel. About God's plan. Maybe we're meant for each other. Don't you think?"
You bat your lashes in pure incomprehension. He slides a hand around your neck, gently but possessive.
"I like to bully you…" He says as his thumb strokes your pulse. "And you love it when I use you. Right?"
He looks at you like a kid begging for the one toy he can't live without. And now the toy… Is you.
You've circled it in your head too. Mostly terrified he'd tell his friends, or confess it to father or any brother from the church. But once the panic faded with rationality… you realized… That, maybe, you never hated him.
You just wanted to be special. To someone. To him. The person everyone loves, and you couldn’t reach. To have something only you get from Jake. His dark dreams. His secret desires. Let that be yours. Only yours. The saint's secret dreams.
You nod.
He smirks. "Say it."
"…Yes."
His expression lights up brighter than when he won valedictorian last spring.
"You'll be mine?"
You shy half-nod. Eyes on his. "…hm."
"Good girl. My angel." He attacks, soft kisses everywhere except your mouth. Jaw. Cheek. Temple. Collarbone. Throat. Shoulder. Each one reverent. Worshipful. You melt. Your legs get weaker and weaker, but Jake wedges a thigh between yours to hold you up. He stops at your lips, with his thumb traces them.
"Why won't you let me kiss you?"
You whisper: "I… wanted to give my first kiss to my boyfriend."
He clicks with starry eyes, searching. "You've never been kissed?"
Another head shake. His pupils blow dark. Saint Jake is gone.
"Let me kiss you then."
"Why would I?"
"Let's date." He almost order you simply and logical. "How can I let someone else have you if you're mine? Let's tell our parents later. Let's tell everyone—so no one tries anything. wierd with you."
Very rich coming from him.
"I'll take such good care of you." He kiss your jaw. "I'll let you have anything you want." Kiss your neck. "I'll reward you when you're good. I'll help you with… everything…"
Anything? Really anything?
"Would you…” you hesitate, “Would you withdraw from head of youth group? Give my name?"
Jake smirks. "If you're mine… anything."
He closes the toilet lid and sits. Drags you forward slowly by the wirst. "Then… will you let me kiss you?"
You half-nod, but then whisper: "…Okay."
You lean in for a peck, but he pulls back.
"I want to see you on your knees. Come here… and beg me for a kiss."
Your heart jackhammers. But the idea… You don't hate it. So you execute. You sink on your knees on cold tile, yyes up at him. And just like that he exhales hard. Head falls back against the wall for a second.
"God… your eyes from this angle." His hand runs through your hair until his fingers find the rubber band and he slides it off. Jake twists it around his own wrist like a trophy. "I love how wrecked you look already."
You beg him for the first time, shy and softly trembling. "Please… kiss me."
He don’t even makes you wait of act up, Jake just pulls you up. And gives you your first kiss. His. No one else's. He's hungry. Hungrier. His lips bite yours, all gentle then sharp. His tongue sucks yours into his mouth like he's starving. It’s wet, and you try to move and wipe your mouth, with one hand Jake cups your jaw. The other fists your hair.
"No one would ever believe what's happening right now. Because it's me. And it's you."
He doubles down. Grabs the unspent hem of your skirt—the one you didn't realize you'd stopped fidgeting with, and stuffs it into your mouth.
"They could never imagine you're about to show me how wet you are by sliding these panties down and spreading your legs for me, right angel?"
"Or that you're gonna fuck yourself on my hand after."
an electric shock runs through your whole body. "And after I taste you… I'll keep your panties. So when I miss my angel, I can remind myself until I catch you again. Hm?"
He sits back. Stroking himself slow. Pulling your hair just enough to keep your eyes on his.
No one would ever guess.
He's right.
The end ~
Afterstory :
Just note that these two Never go all the way until their wedding night lmao. They got very creative but never really do it! (And yes five years into marriage, during one very drunk games night with the boys, Jake get cocky, lost a bet, and “lent” his wife to Jay for like… 15 minutes. He watched. He hated it. Never happened again. Lesson learned: some fantasies look better in his head than in real life. And keeps her all to himself like the possessive prayer-boy he still is. 😏
Anyway thanks for riding this rollercoaster with me at first the plot was reader turns 18 and can suddenly hear people desires (any cherrymagic lover in the room???) but then one day she try to wake up sweet pure ikeu and discover he's obssesed by her and somehow it turned into this shit tada.
Sleep tight, dream dirty love y'all and can't wait to hear you hehehehehe 💕
I'm tired... Lassiie...
MASTERLSIT
I summon the holy TG : Thk u so so much to my girlypop @jayjw16enxp@nithxhoon, @ikeuatic @puphees @raven-unkind @hoondrop @heekolazz @thesundys @w2hoonki @jaerisdiction @keuri @v-irtujake @moasshi @wonnies-girl @seungiesdoll @jakeintoit @s4eungie @scarett-lover23 @loveminlive @isagistar @aarriiaa1
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I remember my first fic I've read of heeseung on this app was your stepbrother hacker hee fic and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever read, and when hee left a fewndays later I redownloaded tumblr went on my super secret geek account and reread it and it was still one of the best things I've read on here🤔🤔🤔🤔
okay confession made☝️☝️
Oh so you’ve basically been obsessed with me since day one, that’s what I’m hearing 🫠🫠🫠 need to know that geeky username !!!
yeah I’m never shutting up about that actually But no genuinely that’s so disgustingly sweet to tell me 😭 like you have no idea how hard that just hit me in the chest. The fact that you remembered it, redownloaded the app, hunted it down, and still loved it after rereading??? Oh I'm soooo in love thank you!!!!
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I have nothing to say today, I’m completely captivated by your new theme I’m TWERKING the pink cyber punk theme is so cool who gave you permission to be this creative and cool 😩😩
WIFEYYYYY be so serious 😭 why are YOU so nice to me when I’m literally spiritually on airplane mode 94% of the time 😭💗 also I live you soooo bad !!!
And EXCUSE me??? how are you out here sending asks every day like some kind of emotionally organized princess when I can’t even consistently remember to drink water and have a vitamin 😭 meanwhile you really sat there and sent me all those “reasons you love me” asks like okayyy biggest simp award goes to YOU actually 💗💗💗
ALSO don’t gas my theme too hard because I lowkey hate her 😭 I love this shade of pink but the final result is giving “she had a vision and then got jumped 3 am weirdness” 💔😭
unfortunately you did feed my ego a little bit I fear 😔💗