#lassiie's

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.

You pull back gasping.

"Jake—our families. They're waiting. They'll question—"

He scoffs with a smirk, eyes completely blown.

"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

@eemchaee @gunilsguns @ashayein @1-800-peakyblinders @choeryyxyz @simj4ke @heavenlyjake @heeevangelizesmevangelizesme @heeseung64 @sotyphoonyouth @mheretoreadff @heejunluvr @choeryyxyz @hoonprksung @schniti-is-in-the-house @ii2sanrio @woniedoyouloveme @saeris-world @gonorrheaisme @soobiverse @ikeubae @wonarchy @04angelbaby

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 you're 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, 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 asked, 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 if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for one of the most prestigious 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 you in his hands, to force you to speal the tea. “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. The sub text was clear enough for him. And 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.

I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.

That guy needed to be out of your life.

Now.

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 near by. You needed air, music, and drinks, a lot of them.

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.

What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What?

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.

On Heeseung’s side: He was a panting mess by just a look. 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, pour every drop inside that godess cunt. In that chair. Just like that.”

You moaned, eyes fluttering shut, but you forced them open, locking onto the lens like it was him.

Another message:

“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it. Mine.”

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, hm?” 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.”

"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.

MASTERLIST

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

XO

© 2025 Lassiie. All rights reserved. No reproduction, distribution, or translation permitted without prior written consent. Protected under international copyright law.

Sex!addict!Jake who lies to himself that it’s just a phase, just hormones, just temporary. But every time he sees you smile shyly at someone else, a new dark, possessive spike of jealousy surges through him, and suddenly he’s fantasizing about cornering you later.

Sex!addict!Jake who humps his mattress at 2 a.m. after failed prayers, biting the pillow so no one hears him groan your name.

Sex!addict!Jake who secretly gets off on your inferiority complex. hopping he can gets you on your knees in the church study room and make you swallow load after load until you finally believe you're the only one that make him like this.

Sex!addict!Jake who tries to “reset” by doubling his prayer time, kneeling longer, running longer, just anything to exhaust the body so his mind quiets. But the more he denies it, the more vivid the fantasies get.

Sex!addict!Jake who excuses himself from his friends mid-sentence, ducks into the nearest empty bathroom stall, locks the door with shaking hands, and yanks his pants down before he can think—stroking himself furiously to the fresh image of you bending over burned into his brain.

Sex!addict!Jake who tucks a stray hair behind your ear during debate prep, fingers lingering just a second too long, voice gentle as he murmurs “you’ve got this,” looking at you like you hung the stars, while his pulse hammers with thoughts of tugging that same hair later.

Sex!addict!Jake who starts “training” you in private : every time you bite your nails, slipping two fingers between your lips, holding them still while you drool around them. “My good girl. See? No more bad habits when you’re busy with somthing else.”until you forget why you ever bit your nails.

Sex!addict!Jake who, after you’ve swallowed every drop he pumps down your throat, pulls out slick and glistening, wipes the mess across your swollen lips, then kisses your forehead softly. “See? All better now. Next time you feel the urge… you come find me. I’ll stuff you full again until the habit’s gone for good.”

Sex!addict!Jake who blushes bright red and stammers when you compliment his violin playing, ducking his head with that shy puppy smile, because your praise hits him harder than any fantasy. And hates how badly he wants both your gentle words and your desperate moans.

Sex!addict!Jake who finally admits this isn’t a phase. It’s him now, and you’re the only thing feeding the fire.

Sex!addict!Jake who offers you his jacket when you shiver in the church basement, draping it over your shoulders with careful hands and a soft “can’t have you cold,” smelling like clean laundry and him, while he silently prays you never notice how hard he gets just from the proximity.

Sex!addict!Jake who borrow your favorite lip balm from another girl, and “casually” buys the same one for himself, claiming it’s for dry lips, just so he can imagine tasting it on you when he finally gets the courage to close the distance.

You can’t actually see him. The lights are too bright, the crowd too dense. But for a split second, it feels like you’re looking at him. Through him. Like you know exactly who he is. And performed for him. Like you’ve already decided what that secret meeting meant. 

It guts him. 

The applause detonates, snapping everyone else out of their trance, but Sunghoon doesn’t clap. His fists are already clenched so tight his knuckles burn.

By the time he reaches the doors, his hand crashes into the wall with a hollow, bone-jarring thud. Pain blooms up his arm. Blood smears the pristine paint behind him. But he rushed so fast out, he didn't stop to look.

Sunghoon barely knows you. But he already knows he’s going to hate you. Maybe more than he hates himself.

You don’t come back to yourself until the applause detonates. The lights warm and bloom across the theater, resurrecting reality. People stand. People cheer. They clap until their palms sting, but none of them feel real — like a mirage conjured just to watch you. Compliments fly like rose petals. Flowers land in your arms. You smile, bow, let them paint you in praise.

Your instructor kisses your cheek with wet lips that make your skin crawl. Hands — always too many hands — land on your hips, on your shoulder blades, as strangers purr, “Exquisite control.” “You really feel the music.” “Such a shame about the Bolshoi opportunity… your mother should’ve pushed harder.”

You smile. You thank. You nod like a good girl.

And you would be lying if you said you didn’t love it a little. The thrill. The hunger in their eyes. The way your name hangs in the air like smoke, like perfume, like a promise.

Until she appears.

Your mother glides toward you in a gown that costs more than your tuition, with a smile you know was cut and stitched together in front of a mirror. Her arm snakes around yours, grip deceptively light for something bruising. “Your foot rolled on the last turn,” she whispers, lips curling in a way the cameras will think is maternal. “Not bad enough for them to notice. But I noticed.”

Her nails dig in deeper than her praise ever has.

“The cry thing wasn’t bad, though,” she adds with a laugh that’s real in the ugliest way. “Almost felt real. My daughter might become an actress, who knows.”

It takes you a moment to realize she’s not even talking to you anymore. She’s talking to them. Always them. The plié of benefactors and critics she adores more than her own blood.

And then she leans closer. The fake smile doesn’t move. “Your future father-in-law brought his son tonight. You better play it well.”

Your eyes do the speaking for you. She hates that. “Stop overreacting,” she hisses. “Just… make a good impression. He’s been generous with our family. We owe him that much.”

You don’t say it. How owing men anything has never ended well for her. Or especially for you.

But still, dating the CEO of her company seems to be serving her well enough. For now.

It takes ten minutes and a polite excuse to pry yourself out of her talons. Ten minutes before you’re weaving through a labyrinth of sharp suits, fine linen, fine lighting, fine dining, the suffocating finery choking you as badly as her touch.

You need air. Loneliness. And maybe a bandage for the foot you’re definitely walking on broken.

By the time you reach the elevator, your hands are shaking. You stare at your reflection in the mirrored walls and don’t recognize yourself. The girl in the glass is someone your mother built.

The doors slide open.

And you see him.

A boy around your age. Black suit, black hair, black gaze. His eyes are wet in a way that makes you freeze—but not from softness. From something else. Something heavier. He looks at you half surprise half like he could cut you open with a glance.

Fuck.

You hesitate. But not stepping in would be stranger. You wipe at your eyes quickly and step inside. The rooftop button’s already lit.

The silence is practically unbearable. You steal glances at him from the corner of your eyes. His hand is bruised, scraped raw, blood drying at the knuckles.

“Y-your hand…” you blurt. “It’s—”

“I know,” he responded, flatly.

And now you’re here, huh. Sunghoon thoughts. Why did you have to appear where I wanted you gone?

Too-close in a gilded elevator, smelling faintly of a familiar expensive perfume and sweat from the stage. Your eyes are red, and on the verge of breaking into tears, but your chin is up like you’re trying to hide it for good figure. You loser. He wants to press you back against the wall just to see if that chin would stay there.

And now he knows something dangerous: you’ve been crying for some reason he might use.

But which one?

—

The rooftop air tastes different. Less expensive. Colder on that thin silk dress.

He sits at the far end of a bench, posture loose but coiled, like a lonely soul that wants to be left alone. You. You hover near the exit for a moment, the polite thing would be to leave him alone— but something about him refuses to let you.

You gather the scraps of your courage and walk over. “You should clean that,” you say, holding out the little emergency bandage kit you carry for yourself.

His gaze drops to it, then to you. Curious, but acting unimpressed. “I don’t need—”

“Take it,” you insist, softer than you intend to.

He must say no. But he doesn’t. He takes it, almost irritated in his move, but the way he fumbles with it like a kid, almost makes you laugh.

“Do you… want help?” You smirk.

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t stop you when you kneel beside him, and even lends you his hand. You eye him and it’s like being with a black stray cat. It looks like he might bite but still let you do.

Your fingers are delicate, careful as you sanitize and wrap the bandage around his knuckles, avoiding the rawest parts. You don’t notice his stare, the way he studies your bent head, your flushed cheeks, the tremble in your lashes as you concentrate on touching him without hurting him. You don’t notice the way his jaw flexes when he imagines those same careful small fingers trapped in his bigger, stronger hands.

He hates this kindness of yours. He hates you. He hated you before you even spoke. Hated when he met you in the elevator. And hated when you spoke to him. 

And yet.

You’re so close he can smell the faint perfume clinging to your hair. You look so delicate right now, so breakable, so fucking sincere and simple it’s weird, but so pretty with those wet bambi eyes.

“Why were you crying?” His voice slices through the quiet, blunt and uninvited.

You flinch. “That’s… I-I didn’t—”

Sunghoon likes the way you flinch.  “You don’t have to tell me. But you clearly were.”

You swallow. “I… I just thought… I just wished… I didn’t have to live by my people's choices.” The words come out before you can catch them. “I’m supposed to meet someone important tonight. But I’m scared. If I don’t please them… They, can be… Very…”

“Cruel?” he offers.

You nod, after a second of hesitation.

Sunghoon wants to laugh. The little prodigy with the sad eyes—more like him than expected. And he says something that surprises you. 

“Then fuck them. Go do or find what pleases you.”

You look at him, startled, and find no sarcasm in his face.

“And you ? Why are you here?” you ask softly.

He hesitates, smirking as he lets his head fall back. “Avoiding someone. Didn’t work.”

“Oh.”

“But it wasn’t all bad,” he adds. I found something interesting in the meantime.” And it almost sounds like he means you.

The silence stretches. Your eyes drift to his hand for a bit of time. “You were crying too?” you say smug's.

He leans back, jaw tight. “One of my parents died recently…” Your smirk drops. “And the other… replaced them. And me, I guess... Came home one day and I didn’t recognize my family anymore.”

Your throat closes, your face crumples like you felt it. “That’s so… unfair.”

“Yeah.” He laughs, dropping his eyes to you, just to surprisingly find you sobbing. “Hey…” 

You don’t even notice it at first—the way you look at him all tears gather in your lashes, threatening to spill, until it finally does. His hand moves before you can flinch away. Fingers cold, calloused, pressing to your cheek with a touch that’s far too intimate for a stranger. He doesn’t just wipe it away—no, Sunghoon drags his thumb slowly through the wetness, spreading it, smearing it like he’s testing the texture.

“Thought you were holding it good.” His voice drips with quiet mockery, but his touch… it’s too careful to match his words. “... Guess I was wrong.”

“Why are you even crying for now, huh?”

You should pull back. But you don’t. 

“That’s just…” you’re a mess, that even speaking is complicated. “It’s so sad,” you hiccup. “I feel so sorry for you…that’s…Fuck…”

He laugh and nod, “Hm, Fuck.”

And for one sharp, dizzying second, you’re caught in the feeling of his skin against yours—rough, unyielding—and the heavy, unreadable look in his eyes as he studies the evidence of your weakness like it’s something rare and valuable.

You want to tell him you know what that feels like. That you’ve been replaced by a version of yourself too, but even that doesn’t feel as sad as his story.

“Why do we have to… Live like this?” you hiccup. “Why do we have to live up to their choices?”

For the first time, he doesn’t answer like he has something sharp to say.

You sit together for almost half an hour, two strangers on the edge of the city, quietly sharing pieces of yourselves neither of you meant to really give away. 

It hits him as you avoid his gaze, fiddling with your dress like it’ll shield you.

He misjudged you.

You’re not what he expected you to be. There’s something coiled in you, restrained and begging to snap. And Sunghoon’s very good at making things snap. Maybe you’re not worthless after all. Maybe you’re valuable. 

And valuable things?

He always keeps them close… 

Until he’s bored.

—

When you realize how long you’ve been gone, you panic. You stand so quickly you nearly trip, mumbling a goodbye.

But before you leave, you rush back and grab back his bruised hand. “I hope we both find our escape,” you say, giving him a shaky little “fighting~” gesture.

His lips almost twitch into a smile. 

When you’re gone his thumb finds his lips. Caressing the salt of tears on the verge of his tongue. 

His mind remembering how you cried for him. Then his eyes catch something in the corner of the bench. You forget your purse.

A smirk traced his lips, maybe it’s not gonna be this boring having a new family.

You come back from the restroom — lipstick touched up, smile rehearsed, every part of you adjusted into place — and stop.

The dining table feels like a trap now.

Your mother, dazzling like a diamond with teeth. Your stepfather, smug with wine and wealth. The chandelier casting everything in golden judgment.

And him.

Park Sunghoon.

Not the boy you knelt beside on a rooftop, wrapping his bruised knuckles. Not the boy who wiped your tears like he wanted to taste them. No.

The CEO’s son.

He sits at the table like he was born in that chair. Crisp suit. Bored posture. A prince in exile who decided the kingdom could burn.

“Ah—” your mother’s voice snags you by the throat. “There you are. Sit, darling.”

He turns his head lazily, like you’re background noise. But his eyes — God, his eyes — cut through you like you’re still kneeling there in the dark, still bleeding confessions.

He extends his hand across the table. Perfect stranger.

“Nice to meet you.”

You take it. Pretend your pulse isn’t rabbiting in your neck.

“Nice to meet you too.”

And just like that, the rooftop vanishes. Packed up and buried where no one else can touch it.

Dinner is suffocatingly civil. Your stepfather drones about quarterly earnings, your mother performs the role of charming wife. Sunghoon cuts his steak with surgical precision, silent but present, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Then your mother turns her performance on you. “She’s been improving,” she says sweetly, the kind of sweet that hurts. “But her landing was sloppy last week. She needs discipline if she wants to impress the right people.”

You laugh it off. Like you always do. Like you were taught.

And then Sunghoon speaks.

“I liked it.”

The words are mild. But the room tilts.

All eyes swing to him. His face doesn’t move. His voice is almost lazy. “I’ve been incorporating dance into my skating. Her movements… they were... hypnotic.”

Hypnotic?

You can’t breathe.

Your mother blinks, knocked off balance for once. “That’s… generous of you, Sunghoon.”

He shrugs. Stabs another piece of steak. Like he didn’t just pull you out from under her heel with a single, lazy sentence.

But when dessert arrives, he leans in — close enough you smell his cologne, expensive and sharp.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he murmurs, low enough for only you.

And then he pulls back like nothing happened.

The weeks after are worse.

No one talks about the rooftop. No one mentions that night. But his words—Go find what pleases you—rot in your head.

Your parents fade out of the house almost entirely. All the conversations become indirect: “Dad said.” “Mom sent this.” You don’t see them except when they need you polished and pretty. The house becomes Sunghoon’s — or maybe it always was.

There’s not a single picture of his mother. Not in the halls, not on the mantle. The only face staring down at you is his father’s.

And Sunghoon. The actual one and only.

Front stranger to stepbrother, he became a storm you can’t read.

One day he ignores you like you’re furniture. The next, there’s a package on your bed: a dress your mother would call “inappropriate,” with a handwritten note — For your next recital. Don’t embarrass big bro. Hwaiting~ He offer help on day, than suddenly leaves in the middle of a party you know no one. Enter your room without being invited but also brings you soup when your sick and cancel his training to stay with you sitted at the foot of your bed.

Yeah, that type of shitty guy...

And you want to be angry. But can’t find yourself speaking up. Something about him makes you weaker than usallly.

One night, before a gala, you’re standing in your room struggling with the zipper of a dress. You curse under your breath, twisting your arm uselessly when you hear a knock.

“Come in,” you say, distracted.

The door opens. Sunghoon.

You freeze. “I—I thought it was—”

“Your mom?” He half smirks, closing the door behind him without waiting for an invitation. “She’s waiting downstairs.”

Your back is to him. You don’t know whether to run or stay still.

“Need help?”

You should say no. Actually you were about to, but then—

You feel him step closer, his heat behind you, and then, with feather-light fingers, he brush your bare back. Slow, deliberate, as he takes hold of the zipper and drags it up, teeth by teeth, until the dress is tight against your skin.

But he doesn’t stop there. His fingertips, they skim up your spine, barely there, until they rest at the nape of your neck.

“Better,” he murmurs, looking in the mirror. His breath grazes your ear. “You should thank me, little one.”

You can’t speak. You can’t even look up or turn. And when you finally do, he’s already walking away like nothing happened.

You find yourself changing your training complex, waiting for him after practice. Pretending it’s convenient. When really, you just want to watch him.

He’s… 

Magnetic. The way he glides across the ice, sharp and fluid at once, like he’s cutting the world open and stitching it back together. You learn the names of his jumps, the rhythm of his breathing. It makes something ache in you, watching him free in a way you’ve never been.

And then he starts showing up to your training. Always at the back, just a shadow. He never says anything. But he’s there, waiting for you too.

And then, small things begin.

In the training complex’s hallway, you would pass each other and his fingers would graze the inside of your wrist. Light. Too fucking light. And when you turn around he doesn’t even look at you, still laughing at his friends.

At breakfast, he would take food off your plate without asking, pop things like strawberries into his mouth, and smirks when you glare. “What? You weren’t eating it.”

Once, you found a new pair of skates in your room. The exact ones you’d been eyeing online to begin skating. No note this time. But you knew it’s him.

And then there’s the worst one.

You’re sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase, hair still a bit wet, scrolling your phone half-asleep, when his shadow blocks the light of the sunset. He crouches down to your level, elbows on your knees.

“You’re always zoning here,” he says, voice soft. “Like a cat waiting at the door.”

You roll your eyes. “I live here, Sunghoon.”

He smiles—the slow, predatory kind. “So do I…”

And then he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Just like that. Like it means nothing. Like he doesn’t notice the way your breath stops, the way you blush and look down.

“You should be careful,” he adds. “You’ll catch a cold like that. Come downstairs, I'll dry your hair.”

And he did. 

He towels you off like it’s nothing. Like it's a domestic routine. The fabric against your skin makes you shiver, or his hand lingering at your shoulders, the way he seems to love grazing the back of your neck and massaging it.

“You should take better care of yourself.”

You can’t look at him. You can’t breathe. You can’t understand his games. When you finally meet his eyes, there’s nothing to read there.

Nothing but that quiet, infuriating smirk.

You get used to it. The moods, his provocations. The way he lingers in doorways like he’s deciding whether to bite.

Sometimes he’s protective. He cut off boys who made a crude joke about you at the rink when you waited for him—didn’t even raise his voice, just said his name, low and cold, and the boy stammered out an apology.

At your performances when he showed up, he would stay next to you making sure no one could come close enough for unwanted touch and comments. He had it in him, that thing that made people respect him anywhere anytime. 

But sometimes he was cruel. “You cry too easy..." he told you once when you teared up after a mistake. “Stop asking for it,” He told you after some dance partner made a move on you. He wouldn’t talk to you for weeks. Then sometimes he was… almost kind, and even soft in his moves toward you.

But you can never tell which version of him you’ll get.

And the worst part?

It was for his pure enjoyment, you weren’t naive enough not to snap out of it most times. But… God… You actually enjoyed it a bit… Maybe a bit too much sometimes...

You try to tell yourself it’s innocent. That you’re just a girl with a small crush, the way everyone your age have.

How long has it been since someone touched you in a way that pleased you? In a way you wanted? What experience do you have with these things?

But then he catches you staring, and you get shy. And he smirks like it’s a private joke. And sometimes you think—no, you feel— that he’s staring too. And that’s when it gets dangerous.

Because you can’t tell anymore if he’s protecting you. Or hunting you.

Or both… 

But like the rest you got used to it.

For exemple, today.

The garden was blinding in its prettiness.

Perfect hedges. Perfect white chairs. Perfect little patch of sunlight you’d claimed like a starving animal. You were curled up on one of the loungers, pajamas thin like joke, hair messy, pretending your book mattered more than the rare chance to actually do nothing and feel the sun on your skin.

And then his shadow fell over you.

“You look ridiculous,” Sunghoon’s voice cut in, flat and amused.

You didn’t look up. “Don’t you have training or brooding to do?”

He ignored that. “Pajamas in the garden? You’re going to burn.”

“I’ll be fine.”

His foot nudged the lounger. “Go inside.”

“No.” You clung to the book like it was proof you belonged there. “It’s called touching grass, Sunghoon. Try it sometime.”

He crouched so you had no choice but to see his face—that pretty, infuriating face, half-shadowed, hair falling into his eyes. “I’m telling you. You’re about to regret it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not moving.”

The smirk sharpened. “I warned you.”

he counted. 3. 2. 1.

And then, with a hiss of pipes, the auto-sprinklers kicked on.

Cold water exploded from every corner of the garden, drenching you in seconds. Your book wilted in your hands. Your pajamas clung to every inch of your body.

“Fuck!” You scrambled to your feet, dripping and sputtering. “Are you serious?!”

Behind you, Sunghoon laughed. Really laughed. Low and pleased.

You bolted for the house, leaving your book to die in the grass, and tore through the hall to the downstairs bathroom. It was a sanctuary of white marble and gold fixtures — too pristine for how frantic you were as you grabbed at a towel, patting yourself uselessly.

You didn’t even hear him until he spoke.

“Told you.”

You spun. He was in the doorway, also soaked, his white loose shirt clinging obscenely to his chest. He peeled it off in one motion, tossing it over the towel rack like he's the owner.

“Don’t look so smug,” you snapped, flustered and shivering.

His grin widened. “You make it too easy.”

“Why didn’t you just warn me?”

“I did,” he said simply, stepping inside, shutting the door as he took a towel.

Both of you were small laughing stocks until you faced each other. His smirk softened into something quieter—heavier—as his eyes, still lit with laughter, dropped slowly. He traced over you like he wasn’t allowed to, but did it anyway, memorizing every place that thin fabric kissed your skin.

You tried for a scoff, some defense. “You’re... really... an—”

But it faltered as he let the towel on his head fall off to put back on your shirt strap as he stepped forward.

The faint laugh between you both died slow. Like a flame burning out. And then there was nothing but the sound of your breathing heavier and heavier. And that water, dripping off you both, dotting the tile.

You didn’t notice you were backing up until your hips hit the edge of the marble sink. He didn’t stop coming until you were perched on it, barefoot and trembling.

His gaze met yours. For a second, the world narrowed to that—two pairs of eyes locked, neither looking away, both daring the other to admit what was happening.

And then his hand lifted.

Fingertips on your lips tracing them.

Then pushing your hair back, slowly, fingers grazing your temple, trailing deliberately down to your neck. Light. Feather-soft. Cruel in how delicate it felt when everything in him wanted to grip bad.

You swallowed hard. The bathroom felt too small suddenly, too white, too quiet for this.

“Hey… Please, Hoon…”

Your voice. Barely above a whisper. Weak. Like it cracked open something in you you didn’t want him to see.

He froze. Then—cupped your face in one hand, his thumb brushing over your lips, slow and deliberate.

Not outwardly, not violent, but something broke, where the coil of restraint he always wore so well pulled taut. The sound of his name on your lips like that… it wasn’t innocent. Not to him. It sounded like a plea.

And maybe you didn’t even know it, but to Sunghoon it felt like you were begging.

Begging him to close the distance even more, between your thighs. Begging him to ruin you like he does every time he pictured you since that night he saw you.

His hand slid lower, from your neck to your shoulder, grazing your collarbone, the inside of your arm, until both of his palms framed your hips.

And then he pulled you flush against him. You jolted, breath ticking.

The grind was slow. Obscene. Deliberate. From him first, or you… None of you really knew. 

But it felt like he wanted you to feel exactly what you were doing to him in his eyes, what he could do to you if either of you stopped pretending this was just some game.

You gasped—shaky, surprised at yourself.

Was he dick the massive bulge humping you?

Fuck it's scary.

His head dipped, lips hovering dangerously close to yours, almost caressing over his thumb. His breath fanned your cheek. His eyes were heavy, blackened with something dark and raw, tracking every twitch of your lips, every quiver of your body like it was his private show.

To him, you looked like a vision you didn’t even understand you were offering. Breakable. Naive. Too soft for the monster in the room with you.

And that made it worse. Because Sunghoon lived for dangerous things recently.

His thumb brushed the side of your mouth under his desireful gaze. His breath hitched when your hips unconsciously rolled harder, chasing friction.

“Do you even know,” he murmured, so low you barely heard it, “how dangerous it is… around me?”

You couldn’t answer. You shaked your head as much as he allowed it.

And then the footsteps.

Someone was calling faintly from the hall.

You tried to jerk like you’d been electrocuted. But he kept you there. Gripping at the back of your neck and hip, humping faster and messier searching for something he knew was coming. 

“Sunghoon—St—”, then his hand clapped at your mouth, shushing your moans. When you jolted, a filling filled your belly, something new and raw, you shoved off the counter as he stepped back both of you heavy breathing, almost tripping.

By the time the maid’s voice grew closer, he had his wet shirt back on and no practiced smirk plastered to his face anymore, just realisation of what happened.

He slipped out without a word, leaving you, still shaking, soaked, and achingly aware of how far that almost went.

The bathroom incident should have changed everything.

But instead, it changed nothing. Or maybe it changed too much.

For days after, you and Sunghoon circled each other like nothing had happened—only everything had. The touches stayed unspoken, the breathless almost-kiss buried under silence, but it lived in the air between you.

Glances lingered too long. Passing each other in the hallway felt like stepping on live wire.

And somehow, that strange moment had made you… closer.

You ate breakfast together without speaking, him scrolling his phone at the counter, you pretending to read. He'd hand you the honey jar without you asking, and you’d notice his fingers brushing yours deliberately—or maybe accidentally.

But it also made you farther.

You didn’t talk about it. Didn’t even look directly at him for too long, because when you did, it felt like inviting trouble.

And now, with both your parents finally home for a stretch of time, the house felt suffocating in a different way.

You threw yourself into preparations for the year’s big event. Your mother’s words still echoed in your head: “This is your season to prove yourself. No excuses.”

It meant late nights at the studio, hours of practice, and—as if to twist the knife—meeting your new partner for the performance.

He was handsome, talented, and disarmingly passionate. The kind of boy who threw himself into the music without reservation, who learned your rhythms quickly, who held you like you were meant to be held when the choreography demanded it.

And yet, every time his hand slid to your waist or your shoulder, every time his breath fanned your cheek in a turn, you thought of Sunghoon.

The ache Sunghoon had left in you that night didn’t fade. Of his fingers in your hair. Of his voice in your ear. Of that massive rock.

If anything, it only grew. How many times had you tried to recreate that friction—only to fall short, never building it enough to actually make yourself come?

“Would you… maybe like to grab dinner tomorrow?” your partner asked one evening after practice, scratching at his neck, trying to look casual but failing. "Like... A date."

“Okay!” you blurted, too quickly, like agreeing would keep you from thinking too hard about it. About what Sunghoon would say if he knew. About why you cared what Sunghoon would say at all.

That’s how you find yourself throwing dresses around like none of them are good enough.

They all were. But none of them felt right.

Too demure. Too flashy. Too much like your mother’s taste, too little like your own. Until your eyes landed on it.

The one Sunghoon bought you.

That burgundy back-ribbon dress your mother hated. The one you’d only worn once, just to piss her off.

You pull it out, smoothing the fabric over your bed like it’s nothing — like you’re not aware of what you’re doing.

But you are.

Fuck.

Even you know what you’re trying to do. You tell yourself it’s because it’s the perfect dress. That it matches the restaurant’s mood. It's short and fun but still classy.

But the truth?

You’re thinking about what Sunghoon's face will look like when he sees it on you. And that’s how you end up zipping yourself into the softest rebellion you’ve ever worn — Sunghoon’s choice, Sunghoon’s taste — curling your hair just enough, painting your lips cherry-gloss sweet.

Perfect.

Perfect enough to strike Sunghoon silent? No, no, no, for your date...

___

You didn’t mean to run into him. Not like this.

The clack of your heels against marble betrayed you first, and then he appeared—Sunghoon—fresh from the gym, hair damp, shirt loose over broad shoulders, a towel slung lazily around his neck like he owned every inch of this house.

His gaze hit you like a hand. Lingering. Slow. From your ponytail to the exposed ribbon-tied back, down your bare legs.

“The hell is that?” he asked finally, voice too casual to be real.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself under his stare. “A dress.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dinner,” you said, breezy, trying to walk past.

He shifted. Blocking the doorframe without touching you. A wall of quiet, unreadable boy.

“With who?”

You tilted your chin up. “Someone.”

His jaw twitched. “A date? Tch...”

You rolled your eyes. “You told me once to go find what makes me happy. So—”

“Don’t.” He cut you off, voice low. “Don’t throw my words at me like you even understand, or remember them.”

You tried to move past him. He didn’t budge.

“What are you trying to find?” he asked, and the way he said it wasn’t a question. It was a knife. “A dude who’s gonna crave you? Someone who’ll sit there the whole night wondering how fast he can get you alone ? Fuck you first date ?”

“Excuse me ?”

He leaned down, his words suddenly against your ear, dark and deliberate.

“‘Cause that’s what I’d be thinking. If you walked in wearing that for me.”

Your breath caught.

His hand rose—not touching—but close enough to graze the dangling ribbon at your back.

“I’d be wondering how easy it would be to untie this,” he murmured, “and watch it slip off your shoulders. How your back would arch if I touched it a litlle. How that ponytail would bounce when—”

“Stop!” Your voice cracked.

He smiled—not kind. “Find your own thing, right? That what you told yourself?”

You hated how your knees felt weak. How your heartbeat tripped over itself.

And then he stepped back. Just like that.

“Go on, then,” he said, that smirk sharpened to cruelty. “Let’s see if he’s worth my..."

"Dress...”

You left before he could see your hands shaking.

—

You hated yourself for it.

For the way his words followed you. Sat across from you at the table, louder than the music in the restaurant, drowning out the voice of the perfectly nice boy sitting across from you.

“Someone who’ll crave you.” “Wondering how fast he can get you alone.” “I’d be thinking about untying that ribbon.”

You could still feel his breath in your ear. The ghost of his words crawling down your spine.

Your date—Eunwoo, right?—was good. Handsome. Sweet. Polite. He complimented your dress in the safest, most boring way imaginable. He held the door. He laughed at your jokes.

He didn’t touch you. Not once. Not a hand on your lower back. Not a brush of his fingers when he took your menu. Even when you stood too close outside the restaurant, post-wine warm, hoping for something— actually anythin he just gave you a soft smile and chaste kiss on your cheek.

And that was it.

Your mom would love him. She would approve the hell out of Eunwoo. But you didn’t want your mom’s approval. You wanted the thing Sunghoon had put in your head in that hallway. You wanted ugly. You wanted to be wanted.

By the time you got home, you were more than tipsy, your cherry lip gloss smudged a bit and sadly not from a kiss, your heels dangling from your fingers. And you were depressed. Actually pouting. Like some teenager with a crush. All because : safe boy didn’t even try.

You hated it.

But most of all—you hated how you couldn’t stop replaying Sunghoon’s voice, low and sure and dangerous :

"If you walked in wearing that for me…"

You yanked open the fridge, grabbed the first bottle of anything cold, and made your way to the living room.

Sunghoon was there.

Loose pajama pants. A plain t-shirt. Lounged like sin itself had found a couch and decided to stay a while, eyes lazily tracking the screen of some movie you couldn’t care less about.

Yeah. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home like him. It would’ve saved your feet. And your pride.

Big girl adventure to the big world: 0–1.

You plopped on the couch as far from him as you could get, dropping your head back like you were waiting for the ceiling to swallow you whole.

He glanced over, a smirk playing on his mouth. “What? Didn’t go how you expected?”

You hated him for that.

For the way he made you feel sexy and still caused you shame. For being the one person you wanted to lean on and vent to. For making it all feel like a game you were never going to win.

“No,” you muttered, too tired to lie. “You were right.”

“Poor little girl.” He chuckled.

But you didn’t join him. For the first time, you were unreadable—head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. And drunk too...

“I had to tell him what to do,” you said finally, voice light, casual, but your heart was hammering. “It was… cute.”

It wasn’t smart. Lying to him.

But God, you wanted to see that composure of his break.

And it worked—his smirk faltered, the tiniest twitch in his jaw. You almost smiled in triumph.

“What?”

You shrugged lazily, feigning innocence. “He was so shy about touching me. You know… since it’s our first date.” You let the words hang, soft and teasing, and then added with a sly curl of your lips, “It actually turned me on.”

That did it.

His head turned fully now, eyes sharpening, tracking you like a predator zeroing in.

“Really?” His voice dropped—slow, deliberate, dangerous. “And what did you do then?”

You smirked back, alcohol making you bolder, reckless. “Why so curious?”

“Indulge me,” he said, each word bitten off, a demand dressed as a request.

You tilted your head, studying him through your lashes, savoring the burn of his stare. And then you told him.

A fake story.

One where you’d taken Eunwoo’s hand under the table, dragged it high up your thigh, your skirt hitched just enough to make him stutter. Where you’d leaned in close enough that your lip gloss smeared on his cheek, smiling sweetly while your words dripped filth into his ear. Where you led him outside after dinner, shoved him into his car, kissed him until he couldn’t breathe, until he forgot his own name. Where your fingers toyed with his belt, rolling your hips into him until you felt him hard through his slacks, whispering every dirty little thought you’d never dared say out loud.

“And then,” you said, smiling like you’d just confessed something scandalous, “I kissed him goodnight. Because good girls don’t go all the way first date.”

You laughed softly, wicked and tipsy, like you weren’t spilling this just to watch Sunghoon unravel.

His jaw flexed.

Sunghoon didn’t move for a long moment. He just stared at you, his gaze molten, dark.

Then he shifted forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance until you could feel the heat of him.

“Cute,” he said finally, voice a low rasp. “You really expect me to believe that?”

You tilted your chin up, unflinching. “Believe what you want.”

His hand moved before you could flinch—fingers brushing your jaw, then dragging lazily across your bottom lip. He pressed there, thumb grazing the soft gloss like he owned it.

“You let him kiss you with this mouth?” he murmured, eyes fixed on your lips. “Let him touch you with his clumsy little hands?”

Your breath hitched. “Why do you care?”

His thumb pressed harder, enough to still your words. “Because I think you’re lying.”

You tried to pull back, but his other hand caught your wrist. “Sunghoon—”

“What else?” he cut you off, leaning closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Did you grind on him like you’re telling me? Did you make him think he was special? Did you let him put his hands all over you…” His fingers trailed deliberately down your neck, to your collarbone, where the ribbon strap met your skin. “…here?”

You couldn’t answer. And that’s when he snapped out of enjoyment.

In one swift move, he dragged you across the couch, onto his lap like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands braced against his chest, your knees straddling him.

“Sunghoon—!”

He tilted his head, studying you like a predator. “Did it feel that good? Is that why you’re all smug now? Smiling like you’ve figured something out?”

You tried to twist away, but his grip on your hips tightened.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low and rough, “did he make you feel like me?”

You didn’t even know what to answer. Because the truth was, no. No one made you feel like this.

He felt your hesitation. Smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

And then his hands were moving, slow and possessive, tracing your thighs under the hem of the dress, dragging up until his fingers grazed dangerously close to where you were already trembling.

You whimpered, breathless, “Stop—”

But your hips betrayed you, rocking once, needy, against him.

His head dropped to your neck, lips brushing your skin as he exhaled hard. “Don’t stop,” he corrected in a low growl. “Not when you’re like this. I’ll take care of everything you need. Keep going.”

And when his fingers finally found you, hot and desperate, the rest of the world blurred until it was only you and him, lost in the kind of secret pleasure that felt too good to name.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, the sound guttural, like it was pulled out of him. “You don’t even know what you’re doing...”

“Sunghoon—I…”

“S-say my name like that again,” His voice was sharp, command-like, his teeth grazing your jaw before his lips brushed it in the softest kiss that made you shiver. “It sounds like begging.”

You shuddered, hips stuttering against him. And then he couldn’t take it anymore.

You heard the rasp of his zipper before you felt him—hot, heavy, freed from his pants. He hissed as he gripped himself once, twice, and then pressed forward, grinding against you through the soaked fabric of your panties.

The drag of him against your clothed core made you cry out, the friction unbearable, filthy. He groaned into your ear, rutting slow but deep, deliberately angling his hips so you felt every thick inch of him through the thin barrier.

“God—” his voice broke, harsh and low, “—you’re so fucking wet. Through the fabric. For me.”

He pressed harder, grinding against you like he wanted to force himself inside without even bothering to move the panties out of the way.

Your breath hitched when his tip caught right at your entrance, the thin lace clinging to your skin, sticking between you and him like a boundary begging to be broken.

For one wild second, you felt him hesitate—felt him still—like he was about to push forward, about to bury himself inside you and never stop.

He almost did. He almost gave in.

For one wild second, you felt it—his cock pressed right against your entrance, like he was seconds away from shoving himself inside and taking what he wanted. But then he pulled back with a ragged breath, head falling back, his whole body trembling with restraint.

You couldn’t help yourself. You rocked against his lap again, harder this time, desperate for more of that unbearable friction through the thin layers separating you.

“Sung...hoon,” you breathed, his name spilling out like a prayer, shameless and needy.

His breath hitched, sharp and guttural. “Keep moving like that,” he growled, low and dangerous.

His hand slid lower, finding you through the damp fabric of your panties. He stilled, almost as if he needed a moment to process the state you were already in.

“Already this fucking wet?” he muttered, his voice hushed and laced with awe. “Didn’t need him at all. You realise now.”

A humiliating sound left your throat as you buried your face against his, but he wasn’t done. He hooked a finger under the soaked fabric and dragged it aside, letting the cool air kiss your swollen skin before his fingers touched you directly.

You jolted at the contact, a choked cry escaping.

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, deceptively gentle. “I’ve got you.”

And then he pushed inside—two fingers at once, stretching you open in one deliberate, relentless motion that made your whole body seize.

“Ffffuck,” you gasped, the sting morphing quickly into raw, liquid heat.

His other arm tightened around your waist, locking you against him as his fingers drove deep, slow at first, but with purpose—each curl hitting something that made your vision blur.

“Ride my hand,” he murmured into your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. “Show me how badly my little virgin needs it. My poor, neglected girl. My fucking charity case.”

Your hips moved before your brain could catch up, grinding down against his hand like you were built for it. Every time his fingers curled, pleasure tore through you like lightning, your walls clenching tight around him.

“That’s it,” he praised, his tone dark and soft, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this. “Just like that. Use me.”

Your thighs quivered as he shifted, his thumb finding your clit over your panties and rubbing slow, deliberate circles that sent shockwaves up your spine.

You whimpered, broken and lost, unable to form words.

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, fingers buried so deep you felt every pulse of his hand inside you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, his voice breaking into a low, dangerous growl.

“Just imagine it,” he hissed, hips rolling up into you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was through his pants. “The day I fuck you open with my cock. No fingers. No teasing. Just me, stretching this perfect little pussy until it can’t take anything else from how i'd leave you gapping.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ll ruin you,” he went on, harsher now, like he couldn’t stop himself. “Ruin you so much that when you even think of getting off, it’s me you see. Me you feel. Me you come to. No one else will ever make you this wet. No one else will ever fucking fit ever again.”

His teeth grazed your neck, a soft bite that made your hips jerk.

He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you wider, deliberately opening you as his cock kept grinding against your entrance through the soaked fabric—every thrust a filthy promise of what he’d do when he finally replaced his fingers with himself.

“I’ll keep you like this forever,” he whispered against your ear, voice trembling with obsession. “Dripping. Open. Mine.”

That was it. That was all it took. Pleasure slammed into you so hard it stole your breath, tearing you apart as his fingers worked you through it—slow, relentless, milking every twitch and spasm out of you while he held you down, whispering filth you couldn’t even process through the ringing in your head.

When you came down, breathless and shaking, he didn’t let go.

His fingers stayed inside you, slow and possessive, curling deep, gathering every tremble, every shiver you couldn’t hold back. When he finally pulled them free, it wasn’t to release you—it was to bring them to his lips. His tongue traced every drop, slow and hungry, tasting you like you were his addiction.

“God,” he breathed, voice rough and raw, “you taste like you were made for me.”

You blinked, dazed and drunk, a soft laugh slipping out, slurred and uneven. “Y-you’re crazy…”

He smirked, but there was nothing light in his eyes. “Crazy for you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you turned your head into his shoulder, mumbling nonsense, words tumbling out fast and messy, “S-Sunghoon, you can’t just… you can’t do that, makes me feel all fucked up.”

“Good fucked up,” he corrected, sliding his hand up your thigh again, stretching the thin fabric of your panties tight.

You whimpered, embarrassed but unable to hide the way your hips pressed into him.

His mouth brushed your ear, low and dangerous. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you slurred.

“That you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath caught, your body betraying you with a tiny gasp. “S-Sunghoon…”

He ground into your soaked panties harder, voice dropping to a growl, “You love being drunk, shaking, begging for me. You fucking crave it.”

You whimpered, broken and raw. “I… I like you. I really like you… so much it hurts.”

Something inside him snapped. A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips as he leaned in—his mouth hovering just over yours, not quite a kiss but more than a breath.

It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t affection. It was a warning. A promise.

You didn’t pull away.

God, he could’ve had you right then—dragged you across the line you’d been circling, ripped you into the depths of his desire and drowned you there.

But then, just like that, your body gave out.

One second your eyes were locked on his, lips parted, begging him silently to take you—

The next, you were limp.

Dead asleep.

Sunghoon froze.

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to wake you, to finish what he started, to claim what was his by right of how badly you wanted him. The image of it—of dragging you back into consciousness just to make you moan for him—clawed at his skull.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Instead, he gathered you carefully, like you were something fragile and irreplaceable, and lowered you onto the couch as though it were an altar and you were his offering. His hand stayed buried in your hair far longer than it should have, combing through soft strands with a tenderness that felt like it belonged to another man entirely—one who didn’t fantasize about ruining you.

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, but the words rang hollow. They didn’t match the weight in his chest—the hot, unbearable ache that burned every time you breathed near him.

He should’ve left. Should’ve walked out before this became something he couldn’t walk away from.

Instead, he stayed.

Sat back down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the faint smudge of cherry lip gloss staining the corner of your mouth—the one you’d put on for someone else—and thought about how he’d lick it off slow, taste the last trace of your sin, and leave you with nothing in your mouth but him.

And that was when he knew, you’d already ruined him.

I’ll use anyone to remind you how badly you need me—because you belong here…no matter what.

—

After that night, he couldn’t stop.

Watching you. Thinking of you. Wanting you so badly it made him restless, made him reckless.

At first, it was subtle. Eunwoo stopped texting. Stopped showing up early to practice, stopped lingering after, stopped smiling at you like he used to. When he did look, it was from across the studio, wary, like someone who’d been warned.

Sunghoon hadn’t touched him. He didn’t need to. A quiet word in the parking lot was enough.

No one else would hold you. No one but him.

And so, piece by piece, he made sure of it. No lingering touches from others. No easy smiles you could mistake for more. He closed the world off around you until there was only him. A packed schedule he could accommodate and him. Yeah, people like Sunghoon could do this much to have something they want around them.

Even if you were good at pulling people in—like sunlight, like gravity. Sunghoon? He was better at playing games. Better at making sure no one stuck.

But even as he tried to make it about control, about winning, it was crumbling inside him.

Because he wasn’t sure anymore who was pulling who. He didn’t understand why he lingered in doorways during your rehearsals, why he stayed late, silent at the back of the studio just to watch you move.

Why the thoughts came—vivid, consuming. That’s how she’d move on me. That’s how she’d look if I told her to let go.

And it wasn’t just lust. God, how he wished it were only that.

It was the way you looked at him when you thought no one saw. Wide-eyed awe when he was on the ice, soft and quiet, like you were keeping that version of him to yourself.

The way you laughed at his jokes when no one else even understood them.

The way you kept showing up—bright, infuriating, stubbornly good—until you were woven into every corner of his life.

You brought flowers to his events. Woke up early, hair a mess, barely awake, just to have breakfast with him. You pushed back when he was an ass. You stayed silent when silence was what he needed.

You’d become a habit. Then a need. And now you were an ache he couldn’t soothe, a hunger he couldn’t feed without breaking both of you.

And still, he wouldn’t name it.

Obsession?

Love?

It didn’t matter. Because you always came back. And maybe he always fell to you. The lines blurred until neither of you knew who reached first.

—

It started small.

A brush of fingers in passing. A glance that lingered too long, carrying a weight neither of you would name. Then one night, his hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you into the shadowed hallway. He pressed you against the wall—not rough, but like the space between you was unbearable.

His mouth hovered over your neck, his breath warm against your skin as if he was memorizing the shape of you before he even kissed you. And then finally, his lips on yours.

That first kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was devastatingly careful, as if he needed you to remember every second of it. I’ll be your first. And your last. His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his forehead pressed to yours when he finally pulled back. He breathed like he’d been underwater for years and you were the first air he’d ever tasted.

But restraint is a fragile thing. And that first careful kiss only made the next ones hungrier.

Soon, it was late nights on his couch. The glow of the television filling the room, though neither of you were watching. He’d study you when you weren’t looking—how the light curved over your collarbone, the way you curled up with your knees pulled close, always unaware of how completely you undid him.

Sometimes he thought he loved you most like this: from a distance, before you even touched him, when he could see all of you and know none of it belonged to anyone else but him.

His hand would slide beneath the blanket, tracing along your arm until it rested on your thigh. You’d pretend you didn’t notice, but then you’d give up pretending and climb into his lap. He’d kiss you slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you, but no patience to wait.

It wasn’t just hunger. It was knowing that no one else would ever get to see you this way. Laughing softly between kisses, whispering things you’d never say in daylight. Letting him unspool every wall you’d built and trusting he wouldn’t break what he found there.

And sometimes, he wouldn’t even move. He’d just hold you, forehead to forehead, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him steady.

Other times, you couldn’t wait. You’d drag him to your room, leaving a trail of clothes and caution behind.

And then came that night—after his skating win—when you climbed into the car, buzzing with adrenaline. He didn’t even start the engine. He pulled you straight into his lap, hands gripping your waist like you were already his prize.

“Give me my reward,” he murmured against your lips, already kissing you again like his victory didn’t mean a thing compared to this.

It stopped being simple somewhere along the way. It wasn’t just sex education, or heat between two lonely young-adults, or whatever excuse you both tried to tell yourselves. It was him burying his face in your neck, breathing you in like a prayer. It was his fingers digging into your skin like he could anchor himself to you. It was you clawing at his back, leaving marks that would stay until the next time you saw each other.

To him, you weren’t just a body beneath his hands. You were a world—a place he didn’t want to leave, didn’t know how to.

“You never stop, Hoon…” you teased, voice hoarse, fingers still curled into his shirt. He kissed your temple, lips brushing your skin like a vow. 

“You have no idea,” he whispered.

And he meant it. Not just about the wanting. But about everything.

You.

You didn’t hate yourself. Not exactly. But you weren’t the same anymore.

Still technically untouched in the way people whispered about innocence, because he waited for you to beg for it apparently. Yet, you were deeply altered, you barely recognized yourself. It wasn’t your body that had changed—it was something quieter, more treacherous.

You felt it in the way you carried yourself like nothing mattered from others pov anymore. the way your chest tightened only at the sound of his footsteps in the hall, how you counted time not in hours or days but in the stretches between his glances, his hands, his words. How you measured your worth by how much he told you about late at night, after representation...

And he gave you more than you ever thought you’d have.

The smile that only came out when no one else was around. The low, unrestrained laugh that made his whole body shake. The long, sprawling conversations where the two of you forgot where they started, drifting in and out of everything and nothing, until time didn’t exist.

He was already filling the void. You didn’t have to beg for it. He’d done it from the start—slipping into all your hollow places like he’d been made to fit them. He gave you pieces of himself that didn’t belong to the world. Pieces that felt like they only belonged to you.

And you let him.

You let him feed you every part of himself you weren’t supposed to have. His attention. His softness. His fire. His love, in every shape it came in, even when he wouldn’t say the word out loud.

It stopped being about curiosity or stolen kisses. It wasn’t “fooling around.” It was belonging—dangerously, completely—to someone who could never fully be yours.

And maybe that was what terrified you. Not the competitions. Not your parents’ expectations. Not the weight of your future pressing in like a storm.

Not even what he was doing to you. But how much you wanted it to keep going.

Until everything crashed.

It started with the realization that gutted you like glass.

That night at the dinner table, his father’s voice cold and unbending— "It’s time you stop wasting yourself, Sunghoon. We need to start arranging a proper engagement. Someone who will fit this family.”

And Sunghoon, the boy who owned every inch of your heart and every part of your body you’d dared to give him, said nothing. Just stared at his plate.

You stared at him until it burned, waiting for him to fight. To say something—anything.

But he didn’t.

And that’s when it hit you, hard and rough: how short this thing could survive. How stupidly, naively, you’d been treating it like forever.

You changed.

Stopped waiting for him in the kitchen. Stopped texting first. Stopped letting him touch you whenever he wanted like you belonged only to him. You smiled more at other people. You wore your confidence like armor—back straighter, words sharper, laugh louder.

If you were going to break, you would do it looking unshakable.

It worked.

He noticed.

He noticed when recruiters came to speak to you about opportunities. How your polite, delighted nod came too easily, how you glowed for people who weren't him. Not like you ever stopped. But now you weren’t pondering as long as before. Wasn’t shy anymore.

It made him spiral.

This wasn’t you you. Not his girl who came apart in the back of his car, who sobbed his name while his mouth was between your thighs. Now you were untouchable. Punishing him with kind smiles, polite and stand-offish.

And for the first time in his life, Sunghoon felt desperate.

You were already deep in practice when you felt it—the weight of his gaze in the mirror.

The private room you’d booked was empty except for you, the faint smell of rosin and sweat in the air, the music soft as you moved through the routine you’d been building in secret. Your hoodie was tossed to the side, leotard clinging to you, hair sticking damply to your neck.

When you stopped to catch your breath, he finally stepped inside.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said without turning, reaching for your water.

“And yet,” Sunghoon drawled, shutting the door behind him. His voice was low, like gravel. “You didn’t lock it.”

You gave him a pointed look through the mirror. “Did you need something?”

His answer came with a step closer, then another, until you could feel the heat of him at your back. “You’re working on something new.”

“Maybe.” You sipped, unbothered.

“Let me help.”

You laughed quietly. “Help? You think you can keep up?”

“I think,” he said, leaning down so his mouth brushed just beside your ear, “you’ve been avoiding me. And this is the only way I can get close.”

You turned slowly, letting your gaze drag over him, unhurried. “So you’re begging to be my partner now?”

His jaw tightened. “If that’s what it takes.”

You tilted your head, savoring the shift—the way he looked restless, desperate under your calm. “Fine,” you murmured. “But my routine. My rules.”

His eyes darkened. “Always yours.”

The music started again, low and pulsing. You placed his hands exactly where you wanted them—on your waist, not too high, not too low—forcing him to follow your lead. Each movement deliberate, teasing. Your body brushed his with every turn, your breath steady while his came rougher, uneven.

“This is what you wanted?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp, lips curving. “To be close?”

“Closer,” he rasped.

You stepped forward until your forehead nearly touched his, feeling the tremor in his grip, the way he was holding himself back. “Then keep up.”

It was intoxicating—how he let you guide him, how the boy who used to take whatever he wanted now only took what you gave.

But when he finally leaned in, lips hovering over yours, you turned your head, letting the rejection linger like a slap.

He froze. Then laughed bitterly, stepping back. “Right. That’s right. Better stopping now, huh.”

But his eyes—God, his eyes looked wrecked.

A few nights later, outside the luxury hotel where his parents’ matchmaking dinner was held, you sat with him in his car. Neither of you moved.

“You’ll be fine,” you said softly, trying to convince yourself too.

He turned to you slowly, jaw tight, and something in him snapped. His hand came up, rougher than usual, cupping your jaw like he didn’t trust himself not to break you. Then he kissed you—hungry, bruising, a kiss that tasted like grief and possession all at once.

And you didn’t stop him.

Sunghoon grabbed you by the waist, dragging you into his lap with a kind of desperation that made your breath catch. “Don’t make me go in there like this,” he rasped against your mouth, but his hands didn’t stop—already under your skirt, shoving your panties aside like they were in his way. He bit your throat hard enough to leave marks, like proof, like a warning.

Then he looked at you—eyes dark, unblinking—and slid down the seat. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice low, wrecked. Before you could answer, he was between your thighs, tearing you open with his mouth.

He didn’t close his eyes. He ate you out like he wanted to memorize you, slow and deliberate at first, then rough, tongue and teeth working until you were gasping his name, your hands clawing at his hair. You tried to look away, but he growled, pinning your hips, forcing your gaze back to his as his tongue buried itself deeper. He wanted you to watch. Wanted you to know exactly what you did to him.

You came hard, trembling and leaking against his mouth, and he didn’t let go—didn’t leave your eyes even as you sobbed his name and tried to push him away. He only stopped when you were shaking so badly you could barely stay upright.

Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, licked his fingers like he was tasting the last of you, and pocketed your panties like a trophy.

“Now,” he said, voice low and controlled in that terrifying way that meant he wasn’t, “I can face them.”

He walked into that dinner like nothing happened, blank-faced and cold.

The night blurred—polished laughter, his parents’ friends sizing him up, pretty girls with perfect smiles and empty eyes, and you sitting at the edge of it all like you weren’t burning alive.

He should’ve been beside one of them. He should’ve been smiling for them. Instead, Sunghoon sat next to you, defying the place cards like he owned the table. Blank-faced, untouchable.

You felt his hand under the table first—just resting on your knee. Then higher. Then higher still.

You shot him a warning glance, but his expression didn’t change. And when his fingers slid beneath your dress and pushed into you—slow, deliberate—you bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

Your nails dug into the tablecloth, knuckles white as you fought to keep your composure. He didn’t care. He wanted you like this—silent, trembling, forced to take it while he played the perfect son for everyone else in the room.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear so gently it felt like mockery. “They want me to pick a wife,” he whispered, his fingers moving inside you with obscene patience. “But I already belong to you.”

Your eyes snapped to his, desperate to stay unfazed, but you were unraveling under his touch.

“You know that, right?” he murmured.

You nearly cried from how much you believed him.

But days later, he presented someone.

A girl—a little older, bright and naive, clinging to his arm like she’d been born to fit there. And Sunghoon smiled that old, cruel smile, the one that gutted you every time. The one that made you feel like you were just another one of his games.

It worked. You were jealous.

So you made him pay for it.

You skipped your rendezvous, fed him excuses so flimsy they were insults, and when he came crawling anyway, you told him exactly where to find you.

He missed brunches. Skipped meetings. Lied to his in-laws. You knew it. He didn’t care. He left you reeking of his cologne, his jaw shining with your taste, and pretended he was still invested in family, in his future. But you both knew—this was his altar, and you were his ruin.

The games escalated—spinning faster, darker, with no brakes.

He brought her to your galas like a prize on his arm, her bright naive smile like a slap across your face. She was a living, breathing insult, and every time she laughed or touched him, it felt like knives carving you open.

But all night, he was elsewhere—his eyes never really on her, his fingers twitching beneath the table, fingers tapping on your leg or slipping inside your thigh when no one was looking. His phone buzzed nonstop with your messages, tiny threads tying him to you in a web only you could see.

Then you appeared—wearing that burgundy dress. The one he told you never to wear again, the one that made his jaw twitch and his eyes darken.

He didn’t look away.

Not once.

By the time the gala was dying down, he’d found you—cornered you in the shadowy hallway, breath hot and rough against your ear, a low growl vibrating in his throat as he slid a cold key into your hand.

“This is yours,” he whispered.

Hours later, you were in his secret apartment—the one he called your hide.

You followed him silently down the narrow hallway, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

His apartment felt lived in but untouched—like a place that existed only for him to breathe when the rest of the world demanded his suffocation.

And then you saw them.

Pictures.

Not just him.

Of you two.

Your recital poster, pictures frozen in a frame on the shelf. A candid from some forgotten gala, you mid-laugh next to him, like he’d stolen the moment for himself. And there, beside them : photos of him and his mother…

She was beautiful, like him. Her hand on his cheek. His bright smile beside her proud one. Pieces of him he’d never shown anyone, now laid bare in front of you.

Your throat ached. “You… kept these?”

He didn’t answer at first, just watched you, just nodded, his expression unreadable and raw.

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because they’re mine,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Because you’re mine.”

You turned to him slowly, your breath shallow.

“I didn’t know…” you said, voice trembling. Your heart broke for him. You stepped closer, until your forehead pressed against his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath your skin.

“God, I’m so tired…” you whispered.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you still. “Me too,” he breathed.

You tilted your head up, and your lips brushed his collarbone—soft, trembling, like you were begging for him without saying it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted. “How to be with you when everything around us feels like it’s trying to rip us apart.”

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if memorizing it. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice shaking. “Not like I lost her. Not like I’ve lost everything else.”

You blinked up at him, tears threatening. I want you. Even if it hurts.” you whispered. “And it really fucking does.”

He lowered his forehead to yours, closing his eyes like the weight of the words was too much to bear.

“I want only you,” he said, his voice hoarse, breaking with the force of it. “Every goddamn part of you. Body and soul.”

You gasped softly, and then his mouth was on yours.

A kiss—messy, desperate. His hand at the back of your head, tilting you just so. His other arm wrapping around your waist, crushing you against him like he could fuse you into his bones if he just held you tightly enough.

You kissed him back, frantic, clawing at his shoulders, feeling the shudder of his breath as his lips moved to your jaw, your temple, your cheeks, kissing away your fear.

“Don’t—” he breathed between kisses, “don’t pull away. Don’t disappear on me.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, breathless. “Promise me—promise we won’t let go.”

His eyes opened, dark and unrelenting, and his lips found yours again—slower this time, bruising in its devotion. “I promise,” he said against your mouth. “You’re the only thing that’s real for me now.”

And you let him kiss you again, and again, until neither of you knew where one ended and the other began—until the world outside no longer existed.

—

You told no one about the overseas offer. Not your mom. Not your friends. Not even him.

But Sunghoon found out anyway—a passing comment from someone who didn’t know it would shatter him.

That night, he drove you home after rehearsal.

You fell asleep in his lap in the backseat, your cheek pressed to his thigh, ballerina bun half-undone, breathing soft and unguarded. You didn’t see the way his hand hovered above your hair, trembling, before finally settling there. Didn’t feel the quiet violence of his grip on his own knee as he stared out the window, teeth grinding, date forgotten, phone buzzing unanswered in his pocket.

He was burning, silently, the whole ride.

But what destroyed him—what truly gutted Sunghoon—was the moment he confronted you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was low, too calm, the kind of calm that’s more dangerous than shouting.

You stood there in your ballerina robe, hair still damp from your shower, hugging yourself like that would keep you from splintering. “Because it doesn’t matter,” you whispered. “Maybe this… maybe this is all we’ll ever be. You can marry her. Forget me in time.”

That’s when something in him snapped.

His jaw flexed, his eyes blackened with something sharp and uncontainable, and before you could blink, he’d crossed the room.

“Don’t say that.”

It came out guttural. A warning.

And then he lost it.

He slammed you against the mirrored wall, the robe falling open as your gasp was muffled by his hand over your mouth. His other hand gripped your hip so hard you’d bruise, pinning you there as if the glass could keep you from running.

His breath was ragged against your ear—hot, uneven, almost feral.

“Say you’ll leave again,” he growled, voice shaking with fury and something far darker, “and I swear, the only stage you’ll dance on is my lap.”

You squirmed, but his body pressed you flat against the mirror, his chest crushing against yours. The glass chilled your bare back, every nerve screaming awake, every inch of you alive under the weight of him.

His lips brushed your temple, then your jaw, then hovered at your mouth—so close it was torture. “You’re mine,” he whispered, each word deliberate, a vow wrapped in a threat. “I’ll chain you to me if that’s what it takes.”

And God, you believed him.

Because his hands weren’t gentle—they worshiped like punishment. His mouth moved over your skin with a hunger that was all-consuming, breaking you down and claiming you in the same breath. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate—a boy on the edge of losing everything, holding the only thing he couldn’t afford to.

You couldn’t tell where pain ended and pleasure began.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

When it was over—when the storm had passed and the room was quiet except for the sound of both of you breathing like you’d been drowning—he finally spoke.

“You know,” he said, voice low, almost tender now, “I never planned on this. On you. I wanted simple. I wanted distance.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling.

“But then you showed up,” he continued, cupping your face like he was trying to memorize it, “and everything just… shifted. You weren’t just someone passing through. You became the only thing I couldn’t let go of. I didn’t choose to make you special—it just happened.”

His thumb brushed your lips, slow, aching.

“I think it was meant to be,” he added, quieter, like a confession meant for no one else.

You’ve really changed.

The old you would be a crying mess right now.

Or maybe you’ve just finally seen yourselves for what you are—two broken people clinging to each other like lifelines, bleeding into each other just to feel whole for a moment.

Your knees give out first. You don’t even realize you’re falling until you’re on the floor with him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. You graze your nails gently across his scalp, soothing the tremors in him as much as in yourself.

You lie there together between half-packed piles—clothes you chose to keep, clothes you were ready to leave behind—and wonder which one he is.

Should you keep him?

Should you leave him?

The thought presses into you like a bruise, deep and aching, with no easy answer.

He shifts closer, curling against you like he can sense the war in your head, silently begging you to choose him.

“Please,” he whispers again, so quiet you almost miss it. “Don’t put me in the pile you walk away from.”

And you don’t answer, because you don’t know when you’re with him. Not yet. Not tonight.

You’ll leave… but not without a goodbye.

One last thing. Like a gift. Like a memento to your first meeting.

An original piece. Dedicated to your first love.

To Sunghoon.

You lock yourself in the studio, pouring every ounce of yourself into it—every memory, every wound, every brush of his fingers against yours. You choose a partner who moves like him—not the same, but close enough to help you tell the story. Your story. His story.

You choose a song that aches with everything you can’t say out loud. Cellophane by FKA twigs.

— 

It’s the final night.

Sunghoon sat frozen in the front row, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a storm he couldn’t escape. The golden light bathed you—his world—turning your trembling form into something both fragile and fierce. You weren’t just performing for the crowd; you were performing for him, and only him.

He could feel the music sinking deep, each note dragging up memories he tried to bury. Your dance wasn’t just movement. It was a confession, raw and unfiltered, burning through the silence between you.

“Didn’t I do it for you?” Your body spoke the words he couldn’t say.

“Why don’t I do it for you?” You reached for something beyond the stage—beyond the crowd—to him.

“Why won’t you do it for me?” The ache in your voice cracked his heart wide open.

Tears slipped down his cheeks—silent, uncontrollable. He tried to blink them away, but they fell anyway, warm and real, blurring the golden light like rain on glass. The world around him dissolved until it was just the two of you—no audience, no noise—only you, right there in front of him, dancing through his thoughts.

Every movement you made echoed inside his mind. He could almost feel your breath, hear the quiet catch in your throat, smell the faint trace of your perfume mixed with sweat. Your skin, painted gold, glimmered under the lights as if you were some kind of fragile flame he was desperate not to lose.

“But I, just want to feel you’re there And I don’t want to have to share our love I try but I get overwhelmed When you’re gone, I have no one to tell.”

The ribbon slipping loose at your throat felt like a final breaking of barriers—bare, exposed, real. When you mouthed those words, I love you, it wasn’t just a whisper—it was a scream wrapped in silence, tearing through the distance between you.

“They’re waiting. They’re watching. They’re watching us. They’re hating. They’re waiting. And hoping. I’m not enough.”

For a heartbeat, Sunghoon felt the weight of the whole world lift, and he almost reached for you. Almost stood. Almost closed that impossible gap. But then the lights died, plunging everything into darkness. The moment shattered like glass.

And yet, even in the dark, you were still there—in his head, in his heart—the only thing keeping him alive as tears continued to fall, unbidden and relentless. It had always been just the two of you, hadn’t it? No matter how far you ran, no matter the silence or the pain, you were his truth.

He stayed seated, broken and trembling, because you—you—had danced your soul straight into his, and nothing would ever erase that.

You slipped away from the applause, avoiding the cameras, the congratulations, your mother’s fake smile, his dad's catalogue of people to sit with. 

Only Sunghoon’s phone buzzed once, with a message: 

Meet me at our place.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t even breathe right when he got there—just stormed in like a man still drunk on you, on that stage, on the sight of you bleeding your soul out under the spotlight. His lungs burned like he hadn’t stopped running since the curtain fell, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You sat on the couch, still in that golden dress, the paint smeared, the ribbon loose around your neck like a noose someone had already cut. You didn’t even flinch when he stopped in front of you, looming, silent.

For a long moment, he just stared. His chest heaved. His eyes were red—not just wet, but raw, swollen, like the tears had started at the theater and hadn’t stopped.

Then he was on you.

No words. No hesitation. His hands grabbed you like he was terrified you’d vanish—digging into your arms, your waist, your hair. He kissed you like it hurt, like every touch was a scream, crushing his mouth to yours so hard your teeth clicked. It was messy, wet, and desperate.

"I love you," he hissed between kisses, but it didn’t sound like love—it sounded like a curse, like something choking him alive. 

"I love you, I fucking love you, you hear me?"

The dress tore—not slid, not slipped—tore in his fists as if he couldn’t stand anything between you and him. He shoved you back against the couch, the cushions biting at your shoulder blades, his weight caging you in, unrelenting.

"No one gets you like this," he growled, voice low and broken, like the last thread of him was snapping. "No one but me. No one. You’re mine—do you get that? Mine."

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. He didn’t give you room to. His mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your throat, biting until it burned, marking you like he needed the world to see.

It was rough. Frantic. Almost punishing. His hips slammed into yours, each thrust so deep you gasped for air, but he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. Every movement screamed stay, screamed don’t leave me, screamed all the words he couldn’t say without destroying himself.

"You think you can dance like that for me and walk away?" His forehead pressed to yours, sweaty hair falling into his eyes, his breath jagged and hot. "You think you can leave me like that? I can’t—" His voice broke. "—I can’t survive you leaving me."

You felt him tremble against you, the sound of him unraveling—a ragged, animalistic thing—as if he’d rip himself open before he let you go.

"I don’t care if it’s wrong," he gasped, a broken prayer as his teeth grazed your shoulder. "I don’t care if it ruins me."

And then softer, hoarse, almost childlike in its helplessness: "You’re all I have. You’re… you’re home to me."

He didn’t even let you get a word out before he dragged you beneath him, the couch groaning under the force of it, his body pinning you like a weight you couldn’t escape—not that you wanted to. His hands were everywhere, gripping your wrists, your thighs, your face like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first.

You fought him—not to push him away, but to pull him closer, twisting and clawing at him, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss. You rolled him over, straddling him, golden paint smearing against his skin, and slammed yourself down on him like you wanted to break both of you open.

"Don’t let me go," you gasped, voice shaking, forehead pressed to his as you moved over him with a pace that was more defiance than rhythm. "Don’t you fucking let me go, Sunghoon."

His grip was bruising on your hips, fingers digging in like claws. "I can’t," he bit out, thrusting up into you so hard you lost your breath. "I won’t. You’re not leaving me—not after this. Not ever."

"Good," you choked, grinding down on him, chasing that unbearable mix of pain and pleasure that only he gave you. "Make me never forget. Do you hear me? Never. I don’t want to find anyone else good after you. I don’t want anyone else—just you. Just you."

That snapped something in him.

He grabbed the back of your neck, yanking you down so his mouth was at your throat. "You want me to ruin you?" he growled, voice so low it scraped against your skin. "You want to be mine forever? Say it."

"Mark me," you begged, raw and shaking. "Do it. Mark me so I never forget you."

He bit you—deep. No hesitation. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of your shoulder, hard enough to make you cry out, the pain and pleasure blurring until you couldn’t tell which one was making you tremble.

"Mine," he whispered against the bite, breath hot and ragged. "You’re fucking mine. And I’m never letting you forget it."

You rode him harder, nails digging into his chest, the two of you moving like you wanted to consume each other whole—like this wasn’t love or even lust, but survival, the only way to keep breathing in a world that had already taken too much.

He didn’t stop at one mark.

The first bite left a deep welt, skin swelling under his teeth, but Sunghoon didn’t even lift his head—he kept his mouth on you, licking the bite, then sinking his teeth in again, lower this time, near your collarbone. You arched into it, letting him carve himself into you with his mouth, with his hands, with every brutal thrust of his hips.

"More," you sobbed, voice shaking apart. "Do more. Don’t stop. I want to feel you everywhere."

His breath hitched at that, almost like a sob, and you felt it—the tremor in his chest, the way his body shuddered under yours. You pulled back just enough to see his face, and it wrecked you: tears streaming down his cheeks, wetting his lashes, raw grief and need carved into his features.

"You’re crying," you whispered, half-broken yourself.

"Shut up," he choked, pulling you back down so your mouths met, his tears smearing against your lips as he kissed you like a man on the edge of falling apart. "You don’t get it—I can’t lose you. I can’t. If you leave, I’ll fucking die."

"Then don’t let me," you gasped against his mouth, grinding down on him, every movement rougher, more desperate. "Keep me here. Hurt me if you have to. Just make me yours. All the way."

Something inside him shattered at that. He flipped you onto your back, the couch creaking, and drove into you like he was trying to brand his shape into your body, his tears falling onto your face, mixing with your own. He kissed them away, then bit your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, until your skin was a map of his possession.

"Mine," he kept saying, voice breaking between thrusts. "Mine. Mine. Say it."

"Yours," you sobbed, clawing at his back, leaving deep red streaks. "Only yours. Please—don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you."

He bit you again—your shoulder, your chest, the soft skin just under your jaw—marks that would stay for days, reminders you couldn’t wash away. His pace was ruthless, unrelenting, until you were sobbing beneath him, shaking, unable to tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began.

When you came, it felt like drowning, like falling off the edge of the world, and he followed right after, collapsing onto you, shaking so hard you had to hold him in place. He buried his face into your neck, his tears wet against your skin as his breathing slowed into ragged, broken gasps.

"Don’t leave," he whispered again, quieter this time, like a prayer. "Don’t leave me."

You held his head against you, fingers in his sweat-soaked hair, kissing the crown of it. "I won’t," you promised, even if you both knew it was a lie.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, shaking, forehead pressed to your shoulder as if his body needed to remember what it was like to breathe. When he finally pulled out, it wasn’t to leave you—it was to scoop you up.

Sunghoon gathered you in his arms, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious he couldn’t risk dropping. His steps were unsteady, his chest still heaving, but he carried you through the dim apartment until you reached his bedroom. He laid you down carefully on the bed, the gold of your smeared costume glowing faintly in the low light, then climbed in behind you.

"On your hands and knees," he said, voice hoarse, still raw with tears.

You obeyed, body heavy, but his hands softened, gliding up your spine—slow, reverent. He traced the curve of your back with his fingertips, down to the small of it, almost like he was memorizing the lines of you. You shivered at his touch, and he couldn’t help but think about how it used to be the other way around—how you once trembled beneath him because you were scared of how much he wanted you. But now?

Now he was the one trembling.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he rasped, leaning forward so his lips brushed the nape of your neck. "You think I’m in control, but I’m not. I’m fucking lost in you."

You pushed back against him, arching just enough for him to slide back into you. He groaned—broken, guttural—and sank in to the hilt, holding there like he needed to feel every inch of you wrapped around him.

"Please," you whispered, voice cracking, "don’t stop. Make me remember. Make me never want anyone else."

His grip tightened on your hips. "You’ll never forget me," he said, each word deliberate, a promise and a threat. He pulled back, then drove into you hard enough to make the bed creak, setting a brutal, claiming pace.

"You want me to mark you?" he growled, leaning over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.

"Yes—God, yes," you gasped, pressing your face into the sheets. "Bite me. Claim me. I want to feel you for days."

He bit you again, deeper than before, until you cried out—his tears wetting your skin as his mouth lingered on the mark. He was trembling so badly now you could feel it in every thrust, every kiss pressed between his broken whispers.

"Say it," he demanded, voice wrecked. "Beg for me."

"Please," you sobbed, reaching back to clutch at his hand where it gripped your hip. "Please, Sunghoon. Don’t pull out. Cum in me. Make me yours. I need it—I need all of you."

That undid him. He snapped, slamming into you harder, rougher, until the room filled with the sound of your bodies colliding and your broken voices tangling together. He buried himself deep as he came, groaning against your ear, his whole body shuddering as if the release tore something out of him.

He stayed like that—inside you, pressed against your back—panting into the hollow of your shoulder, his tears soaking your skin.

"You’re mine," he whispered again, quieter now, like he was trying to convince himself. "Even if it kills me, you’ll always be mine."

And you reached back, threading your fingers into his hair, whispering, "I know."

—

The morning sun felt cruel.

Sunghoon woke to the pale wash of light spilling through half-closed curtains, the sheets still warm where your body had been. He reached for you instinctively, hand brushing only cool fabric.

His stomach dropped.

The quiet was too sharp. No shower running, no soft hum of you moving in the kitchen. Just emptiness.

He sat up too fast, head pounding, hair a chaotic mess that fell into his eyes. His body ached everywhere—especially his collarbone, a sharp sting that made him flinch when his fingers brushed it. He pushed the collar of his shirt aside and saw it: a deep crescent of teeth marks, swollen and raw. You had marked him, too.

"Fuck," he muttered, heart climbing into his throat.

He stumbled out of bed, barely bothering to throw on a hoodie, bare feet hitting the cold floor as he made his way through the apartment. It felt foreign without you, like he’d woken up somewhere unfamiliar.

Then he saw it.

On the coffee table, beside an empty glass you’d used the night before, sat a single envelope. His name—just Sunghoon—in your handwriting.

His chest tightened.

He didn’t open it right away. He couldn’t. His fingers hovered over the paper, frozen. As if touching it might make this real. Finally, he tore it open with trembling hands.

Hoon,

If you’re reading this, it means I left. It means I didn’t have the courage to wake you and see your face when I said goodbye. You would’ve stopped me, and I would’ve let you.

I love you. God, I love you so much it eats me alive. From the moment you first touched me on that rooftop, I stopped being an empty object and became yours, almost mine. You didn’t just fill the emptiness in me.You made me feel alive. Brave. Like I was worth the attention.

But I can’t stay. Not now. If I do, we’ll burn each other until there’s nothing left. And yet leaving feels like ripping out my own heart.

You once told me to, “Go. Find what pleases you.” huh ? 

So I’m going to try. For me, for once. Even though all I want is you.

This isn’t the end, let’s hope. One day, I want to meet you again. On a different stage, as different people. Versions of us who can love each other without destroying everything around us and hurt people. 

Until then, I need you to let me go. Don’t come looking. Please. If you love me the way I love you, let me be brave.

I left you something, a piece of me. A Polaroid of your mark. It hurts for now and I love it, Sunghoon. I want to keep feeling it for as long as I can, because it means I’m still yours. And when the numbness comes and I know it will. I’ll cling to the hope that you won’t forget me like I’ll never forget you.

We were both paranoid somehow. We both need to grow up. To become decent adults. But maybe that’s why it mattered. Maybe that’s why it will always do. You were my first, and you’ll be my most memorable love.

I love you Sunghoon.

Yours. Always Yours.

—-

He read it once.

Twice.

A third time, the words blurring as his vision burned.

Sunghoon sank to the floor, the letter dangling from his hand, his back pressed to the cold leg of the couch. He sat there for hours, the world moving outside his apartment while his stayed frozen, your words ricocheting inside his skull.

"I will always be yours."

He traced the bite mark on his collarbone, pressing it hard until the sting bloomed—proof you’d been here, proof you’d been real.

And still, you were gone.

It was the end.

For how long ?

part.2

MASTERLIST

Thank you so much for reading, my loves!!! I know this dropped later than expected—sorry for the wait! It’s actually my longest fic yet, originally split into three parts but I decided to merge it into one big plunge (might write a second part if you guys want it). I didn’t get to proofread so if it’s a bit chaotic... maybe that’s part of the story. The playlist? A little slice of my that inspired me. I hope it hit you just right.

I’m still anxious, though... I wanted the emotions to land the way they felt inside me while writing. Both Sunghoon and the MC carry their own scars, and I leaned into that heaviness—into trauma bonding, lust as a distraction, desire as escape. Messy, flawed, maybe not healthy… but deeply human. This story is a reflection of something I believe deeply: even the darker moments help shape us. They may not be pretty, but they’re real. And real things have a way of leaving marks. So if it stirred anything in you—don’t just lurk. Reblog, comment, talk to me.Show me you were here with me

Yours dearly Lassie

© 2025 Lassiie. All rights reserved. No reproduction, distribution, or translation permitted without prior written consent. Protected under international copyright law.

But none of that ever happens.

Because in reality, Jake is a coward. A gorgeous, trembling, painfully nice coward who sits quietly, worshiping you with slight glances, calling it professionalism. Hoping—foolishly—that one day, you’ll notice him not as a coworker, not as a man, but as the thing he wants to be: your property. Your toy.

So Jake found himself lucky to get to travel with you in the name of the company, even if it’s more like you got to travel with him.

You’ve always had a thing for rooftop dinners. Velvet skies, free-flowing wine, fairy lights strung above your head like some Pinterest board fever dream. You’re halfway through a glass of red you can’t pronounce, listening to a group of executives over-intellectualize Shark Tank, when you realize Jake’s gone.

Not that you noticed right away. You were too busy being charmed by some VP with a Rolex and too much cologne. But on the way to the restroom, your steps slow.

There—by the bar your ex-manager stands. The one who should’ve been fired, but instead got quietly "transferred"l. He’s hunched over a whiskey glass, already too loud for the setting, and—of course—he’s found Jake. And Jake’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. You don’t catch the whole thing, but what you do hear lands like a slap.

“She’s cold, huh? Don’t take it personal, new guy. That bitch just needs a firm hand. Or maybe some good dick to set her straight.”

Classy.

You’re not fragile. You’ve sat through worse. But the worst part isn’t him. It’s Jake. Jake—who’s supposed to be different. Jake, who’s tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Your heart doesn’t break. It just… 

Lowers its expectations. Because of course. Of course the one man you thought might actually get it—the one who made fumbling attempts to earn your respect instead of demanding it, and the one who seemed like he worked as hard as you did to get where he was—turns out to be made of the same recycled garbage as the rest.

You almost walk away. Almost. When Jake moves. Your ex-manager lifts his glass for a toast to misogyny, and Jake spills it all over him. Deliberately. 

No apology. No more honorifics. He just, like that, made the golden boy vanish.

“Let me tell you something, you piece of shit,” he says, voice flat.

“She’s one of the most capable, intelligent, and dedicated professionals I’ve ever met. If you think she owes you warmth just for existing in her line of sight, maybe that’s why you’re no longer her superior. Or anyone’s, really.”

And suddenly, the bar quiets a bit.

“God forbid a woman doesn't tolerate bullshit. She’s earned more than the team’s respect. She’s earned admiration. Mine. And the higher-ups’, too. So here’s some advice: next time you think about speaking her name, do us all a favor and don’t.”

Your ex-manager, predictably puffs up like a drunk peacock about to throw a punch.

That’s your cue. You stride over, grab Jake by the wrist, and step between them. Not for Jake. Not even for the ex. But for you. Because you’re done letting men discuss your worth like it’s a goddamn cocktail special.

“You’re going to shut your fucking mouth.”

It leaves your lips like a knife thrown with perfect aim—smooth, deadly, no hesitation.

“No one here wants to hear the rot that curdles in whatever’s left of your brain.”

He blinks. “You—”

Stunned. Good. Let him choke on it. He always feared you a little, but now? Now that he’s been stripped of rank, status, relevance? Now that he’s nothing but a cautionary tale with a half-empty drink? He’s pathetic. And god, it suits him.

So you smile, slow and cruel, like you’re savoring it. 

Because you are.

“Your career didn’t end because women stopped smiling. It ended because you couldn’t keep your dick zipped and your mouth shut. And now look at you—bitter, balding, washed-up in a suit that screams clearance rack. Shit, I’d feel bad for your wife if I didn’t know she was already contemplating divorce papers.”

You step closer, watching his throat bob like he’s trying to swallow the truth—but it sticks.

“How about I send her your HR file?” you murmur, voice dropping low and poisonous. “Maybe she’d enjoy seeing the long list of every intern you've “mentored”. Wouldn’t your kids just love knowing daddy’s a predator with a pattern?”

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His face curdles, and that’s enough for you.

You turn, already done with him, gripping Jake’s wrist like an afterthought—like he’s yours to take with you. And he lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. He just follows, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, dragged up to your rooms’ floor like a kid being led to bed.

Once the elevator dings and you’re back on solid carpet, you realize: you’re still holding onto him. Tightly. Nails half-embedded into his skin.

You drop his hand like it burned you. “Shit—I didn’t mean to grip that hard. Sorry—”

And then he whimpers.

A real, breathy, aching sound that does not belong to a man sober in thought. His hand is trembling, but it’s not from the pain. No. You think that’s Jake’s flushed. His eyes are glassy; his lips parted like he’s seconds from begging; and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

Actually, he’s still stuck in the bar, at that moment. Still reeling from the version of you that stepped in, grabbed him strongly. The version that protected him while threatening to ruin someone else.

And fuck, he liked it.

He could fall to his knees right here, in the hallway, under the hum of those fancy hotel lights, in front of the security cameras, the staff or any stranger possibly walking by from their own room—and he wouldn’t care. He’s hard. Pulsing through his slacks. You can see it. Can you ? Fuck he hopes you can’t.

He’s too drunk… Past his limit for sure, since he never really drinks. But this isn't just alcohol.

This is you.

“Mr. Sim?” You call for him again, in his daze.

Why the hell are you so pretty tonight ? And why’re your nails so clean? Why do they gleam under the light like they were made for him to fidget with ? To leave marks on his back? On his throat?

He's a man standing on the edge of fantasy, and you—well, you’re just standing there, breathing, and it’s too much.

“Mr… Jake?”

His eyes dart.

“S-sorry, have a good night, m-miss.” He stammers it out, then bolts like he’s escaping a fire. Or running from a wet dream that got too real.

And you just stand there. Stunned. What the hell was that?

🕗

You’d showered. Paced. Changed into something softer—something that didn’t scream professional, but still whispered respectable enough to knock on your boss’s door past midnight.

And now, here you stood in front of Room 707 with a travel-sized first aid kit and a mind spiraling in loops.

You told yourself this was about the wrist. About decency. About clearing the weird air that was left behind. Not about the way Jake’s eyes had clung to you like you were divine retribution in heels. Not about the ache under your ribs every time you replayed the way he stood up for you like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely about the wrist.

You knocked—firmly, like you weren’t praying he didn’t answer. But of course, he did. 

And god help you.

Jake’s shirt : rumpled, sleeves : shoved to his elbows, no tie, no belt, just that top button undone like a tease. He looked half-finished or  half-undressed. Either way, your brain short-circuited for a half-second too long.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the kit like a peace offering. “Thought I’d fix your wrist. Since I mauled you earlier.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly and nodded before stepping aside to invite you.

Inside, it felt strange—quiet, warm, domestic in a way that shouldn’t have felt intimate but absolutely did. Jake moved around like he was trying to impress you in silence: fluffing the cushions, adjusting the lights, even pouring you water like it mattered, with that cute stressed expression.

You sat. He sat closer. And you started dabbing the ointment gently on the red welts your nails left behind.

“Sorry again,” you murmured. “Didn’t mean to dig in that hard.”

Jake just hummed, with the softest voice, almost a moan. Like the pain was holy now.

Then he asked, barely louder than a breath:

“You okay?”

And somehow, that cracked it all open.

You didn’t mean to spill. But it poured out anyway. Every time your ex-manager had belittled you, laughed too loud at meetings, but still stolen your credit. Every time his eyes lingered too long. Every time you’d swallowed the rage, because you couldn’t afford to be seen as “too emotional” in a room full of mediocre men who failed upward.

Jake listened. Like, really listened. He’d heard some of it. But your version made him exhale like he couldn’t take it.

“I should’ve broken that asshole’s nose,” he muttered, low and taut.

You stilled. The words hit deeper than they should have. Not because of the violence, but because of the intent. Jake wasn’t trying to play savior. He was just... angry for you.

Your hand lingered on his wrist softer now. “Thank you. For earlier. For saying all that. I know I act like it’s whatever, but it... wasn’t.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on you like you were speaking scripture.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said. “I saw the kind of woman you are from day one. You’re smart. You don’t kiss ass. Guys like him can’t handle that. Because they don’t have the vocabulary for powerful.”

Something tugged tight in your chest. And lower. Warmer.

“I really should’ve punched him,” Jake said again, more to himself now. “No man like that deserves to say your name.”

You let out a laugh—one that tasted like relief.

“Honestly? I should’ve done it. Slapped him. Right in the face. Just once. Not even for like, feminism or justice or anything—just for me, for the satisfaction.”

You were smirking before you even realized it. Jake was grinning too, loose and genuine, like this moment was undoing all the knots inside him and you. Then something flickered behind his eyes. A wild idea taking root.

“How… How about you try it.” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Slap me,” he said, voice light but firm. “Come on. Let it out.” He smacked his own cheek lightly, then grinned at you like a lunatic.

Your jaw dropped. “Mr. Sim—”

“You’ll feel better.”

His cheek was pink now. His eyes dared you.

And your hand... your hand actually rose, by instinct. You stopped halfway. Fist clenched, nails digging into your palm. What the fuck were the two of you doing? Was it the adrenaline? The leftover fury? The wine? The way Jake looked at you like you were both priest and punishment? Either way, your heart pounded. Your hand hovered. Very much tempted, but terrified. And Jake just sat there, unblinking. Waiting for you. No, begging for it.

Jake’s hand wraps around yours like it’s his first taste of something forbidden—gently, reverently, like he’s convinced himself your fingers are a gift he doesn’t deserve but still needs to worship. He doesn’t just hold your hand. No—he kisses it softly, unfolds it, spreads your palm. His voice, when it comes, is low, breathless, and so fucking sincere it borders on stupid.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing your open hand to his cheek like some sacrificial lamb ready to be offered up. “I don’t mind. Say what you want. Slap me how you want. Curse me. Pretend I’m him—I’ll take it. I’ll be him, just this once. For you.”

And god help you—something about the way he says it, all shaky and soft-spoken, makes your jaw tighten and your thighs twitch. Because of course he’d say that. Of course Jake fucking Sim would offer himself up like a stand-in for your trauma with bedroom eyes.

You hesitate for a second, because sanity demands you to—but then your palm lifts and falls.

The first slap is light, really. Nothing to write home about. But the way Jake shivers under it? The way his breath stutters and his eyes flutter half-lidded like you just whispered something obscene directly into his bloodstream? That reaction alone makes something dangerous spark inside you.

And when you laugh—half from nerves, half from the ridiculousness of the whole thing—he laughs too, like he’s high off the sound. Like you just gave him a hit of something addictive.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” you whisper, almost shy to curse him but the words feel good leaving your mouth, like steam venting from a pressure cooker.

SLAP. 

“You ever do your own work? Or just ride other people’s backs while jerking off to the sound of your own voice?” 

SLAP. 

“Useless piece of shit—god, you couldn’t lead a fucking team of toddlers without crying.”

SLAP.

Jake’s mouth parts like he’s drowning and your voice is air. His hips twitch beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a reflex he can’t hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, like a prayer with cracked knees. “I’m… I’m sorry.” The way he says it—shaky, shame-drenched, utterly sincere—does something awful to your insides. Your cunt clenches around nothing

“Sorry?” you echo, voice rising just enough to cut the air like silk pulled taut. “You think that’s gonna cut it, you filthy little fuck?”

SLAP.

“Yes!” Jake gasps, and his voice is so wrecked, so gone, it nearly makes you moan. “Yes—I’m sorry!”

And then suddenly—without any warning—he pulls you on top of him, like his body just knows where you belong. You straddle him instinctively, the move so fluid it feels choreographed, and now you’re above him, your dress riding up your thighs, your weight grounding him to reality like some punishing fever dream.

The couch creaks a bit under you, but neither of you care. Jake lies back like an offering, eyes half-lidded and lip trembling, hips pressing up in slow, helpless thrusts like he’s trying to fuck through his slacks and into your core without permission.

Every slap now lands with purpose, with rhythm, your palm stinging and his face pinked with marks that scream I want this. And he’s moaning for each one—hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like he’s trying to burn your shape into his memory.

“P-please,” he whines, eyes rolling back just a little, “please, don’t stop, keep going—fuck—”

You realize then you’re grinding into him rhythmically, like your body figured out what it needed long before your brain caught up. Your panties are soaked, dress bunched above your hips, and his cock—hard, thick, fucking twitching—presses up against you in the most delicious way.

And god, the sight of him?

He’s ruined.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like it’s been gripped and yanked—by you—his face flushed, eyes glazed over, lips parted like he’s seconds from begging with tears in his lashes. He looks like a man hanging on by a thread, and you’re the one holding the scissors.

Your hand finds his throat. Not to squeeze—just to touch, trying to own. Your fingers brush that frantic little pulse at the base of his neck, and Jake gasps—one of those sharp, gut-punched sounds—and tilts his head back without hesitation, baring himself like he’s got no shame left. And maybe he doesn’t.

Your thighs clench around him, hips still grinding slow and firm, your smile turning downright predatory now, because fuck, this man is beautiful like this. Ruined, desperate, and utterly yours.

And the sickest part? The part that makes heat pool in your stomach and twist behind your ribs like fire licking up your spine?

He’s smiling too. Like he’s finally found where he belongs.

You're straddling the line of a terrible mistake, and you know it. Jake Sim—your boss—is now lifting you as your legs close around him, carrying you through his room, to his bed, just to kneel between your thighs like a worshipper at the altar, and somehow, you’re the one in control. Not because you should be. Because he needs you, he wants you to be.

His lips brush your ankle, soft and trembling like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His kiss isn't a declaration—it’s a plea. And you let him. You let him, because deep down, you've always known Jake didn’t want a woman who waited for his command—he wanted one who would ruin him.

You cock your head, letting the silence stretch. “So that’s what you like, Mr. Sim?” The mockery in your tone is gentle, like silk hiding a knife. “You want to be punished? Humiliated?”

His body jerks. Visibly. Shamefully. He nods, almost moaning from the idea of it. The sound is broken, needy, and completely unfiltered. He nods—frantic. Eyes wide, pupils blown, gorgeous lips parted like he’s about to confess something filthy and forbidden.

“Undress.” you order, and the sight of this grown man stumbling on unbuttoning and getting out of his pants is the cutest shit you ever saw suddenly.

You lift your heel to his cheek when he knelt back—still tender, pink from earlier—and drag the sharp arch of it down his throat, tracing the vein pulsing beneath skin. He doesn’t recoil. He leans into it, breathless. Then, with a shift of your leg, you press the sole of your shoe directly against his chest and push. Hard.

He gasps, then groans—like he wants to beg but can’t choose between pain and praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, increasing the pressure.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he pants, squirming under your foot. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Your gaze drops to the dark patch blooming at the front of his boxers. Pre-cum stains the cotton, making it cling to every thick vein and curve of his cock. He’s twitching—throbbing—with desperation. It’s obscene, really. You haven’t even touched him, not really, and he’s already soaked like a teenager with a forbidden crush.

"God," you exhale, voice thick with amusement. "You’re soaking through for me, aren’t you, Jake?"

He chokes on a moan. The sound is pitiful. His hips jerk against the heel of your foot like he’s hoping for just enough friction to make him cum like a dog. And when he starts to kiss your leg—soft, reverent kisses that trail from your ankle to your thigh—you freeze him with a single word.

“Stop.”

He stiffens instantly. His face—red—jerks up, guilt shining in his eyes. You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at him. Let him writhe in the silence.

“Take my shoes off. Now.”

He obeys immediately—scrambling like a man whose life depends on it. Kissing the strap, whispering apologies as he unbuckles each heel. His fingers shake the whole time. You can practically feel how hard he is without looking.

Once bare, you remove your panty, spreading those legs, letting him see exactly what he’s begging for. His eyes darken instantly. Mouth falls open. He looks ruined already—and you haven’t even let him taste.

“Eyes on me, Jake.”

Fuck keep using his name. He loves it.

He nods slowly, almost reverent, eying you and your cunt like he couldn’t choose who gave the orders. His hands ghost up your thighs—asking silently, needing permission like his life depends on your mercy. You don’t grant it, but don’t stop him either. You just watch as his fingers reach closer and closer producing that electric feeling, till he reaches your folds, his breath catches audibly. 

Fuck, You’re soaked. His eyes flutter shut, like the sight alone sends him reeling. But the second his fingertips twitch forward—

“No fingers,” you say.

He freezes. His voice is nearly a whimper. “C-can I use my mouth?”

You pause, mischievous. Tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. Like the wet heat of your pussy throbbing for him isn’t already an answer enough.

“You can try. But you stop when I say. Understood?”

“Yes. Anything.”

And then he dives in. There’s no finesse. No gentle buildup. Just hunger. Jake eats you like a man starved, no like a freaking golden retriever—face buried between your legs, licking and sucking like every inch of your pussy is holy and he’s dying for it. His moans vibrate against your clit, tongue sliding in messy, frantic circles, sloppy and chaotic like he can’t think straight.

He’s a total mess, with like, no experience. And it’s perfect.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mutter, thighs trembling and back arching despite the insult. “Is this how you always eat pussy, Jake? Like some starved dog?”

The moan he lets out is devastating. Deep, guttural. He shoves his tongue into you like he’s trying to answer with action, not words. You curse, “fuck, FUCK !” His big nose grinds against your clit with every thrust, and the heat building inside you is blistering.

Then he breaks the rhythm—again. Too desperate. Too frantic, trying to breathe a bit. And you almost came by being denied. You want him in you. Now. 

“Jake—stop.”

But he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locks you in place, and devours you some more. His hips are literally fucking helplessly into nothing but thick air. His mouth chants his devotion, tongue trembling from the effort as he fucks you with it, drowning in your slick.

And your orgasm hits you like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, raw. You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head suffocating him, voice cracking on his name like a command and a curse all at once.

"Stop! Jake! Fuck!"

He doesn’t. He moans against your cunt like he’s proud of breaking you, lips and chin soaked, tongue still lapping at the mess you made for him.

You shove him back with a kick—heart still thundering. He looks up at you, dazed and smiling like a boy who just won the lottery. His face is wrecked. Hair a mess. Cock visibly leaking like he might’ve come just a little from tasting you.

You grab him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up, your lips cruel inches from his.

“You didn’t listen, Jake.”

He winces. Nods. But his cock twitches. He freaking loves this.

“I told you to stop,” you say, voice hot, “You didn’t, so…” You smile slowly and mercilessly. “You don’t get to come.”

His face crumples. “What? Please—please, I just wanted to make you feel good—”

You lean in, let your lips brush his.

“No. Good night Jake.”

Jake looks pathetic. Absolutely wrecked, lips swollen, cheeks flushed like he’s run a marathon instead of just begging to come. His hand darts out, trembling like he’s on the verge of cardiac arrest, and he wraps his finger around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice shredded. “You don’t have to touch me. Just… stay. Please. I won’t ask for anything.”

Right. Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

You glance down. He’s sprawled out like a cautionary tale—cock twitching uselessly, leaking against the waistband of his briefs. His hair is damp and curling at the edges, eyes wide and wet. And, God, the way it turns you on should be illegal in at least five states.

You sigh. It’s performative, but you let it be. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m showering first.”

“I’ll do it,” he blurts. Too fast and desperate. “I-I’ll wash you. Please.”

You should say no. You should. But instead, you tilt your head, curious. Maybe it’s the power trip still humming in your bloodstream. Maybe you just want to see how far he’ll go. So you let him follow.

You undress—slow, deliberate, aware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You’re not shy, not really, but there’s something oddly fragile about it. Like this version of you—this one he sees—is a new animal altogether. Jake touches you with his desperate eyes. He watches, jaw slack, eyes like you’re the first woman he ever saw.

In the water, he’s reverent and very careful. Lathers your shoulders, your back, your gorgeous breast. His hands shake when they reach your thighs. But he never slips. Never tries. Not where you ache. Not where he’s dying to be.

It's sick, how good that makes you feel. And it pleases him like nothing else to see you like that, breathing heavily at every touch. Holding onto the bathtub when his hand slides down your thigh.

When it’s over, sadly, he helps you into a robe. Like some kind of tragic gentleman. But his cock—still hard, still untouched—presses against your ass as he wraps the fabric around you. Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t flinch,don’t comment, cause of course you’re dying to have it in you right now. But of course, he panics.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice flat, pretending you don’t really care. Jake nods into your shoulder like a punished schoolboy. “It’ll die anyway,” he mutters.

Spoiler alert : it did not. After shower, in his new briefs, he’s doing a poor job hiding just how painfully alive he still is. He crawls into bed next to you, still like this. He doesn’t try anything, doesn’t speak. Just folds himself against your side, forehead to your belly, arms wrapped around you like you’re some human security blanket. You card your fingers through his hair, lazy, soothing. Like he’s a dog you’re rewarding for good behavior.

“I love this,” he whispers, voice raw, earnest. “I love being under you…”

You don’t respond right away, you just keep stroking. Letting the silence stretch. Then, finally you speak : “I guess this makes us dom and sub now, huh?”

His head snaps up. Eyes huge. Like you’ve just freaking proposed to him. “Y-yes! I mean—only if you allow it. If that’s what you want.”

You look at him. Really look. This man—flushed, panting, cock caged and aching—would probably crawl across glass if you asked right now. And he always felt… Different. So…

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “But I’m not… Like… very… experienced, you know ?”

He lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Believe me,” he says, “you really, really are a natural.”

And that's how it started. The very next day you woke up like being a dom was a task on your to-do list. You made sure to tell Jake that nothing would happen until you were prepared. And “prepared” had its own definition for you. You documented, watched a lot of porn and blogs about it, visited shops after specialised shops to buy some accessories. For you it was serious, or at least you wanted it to prove to him you where. But three days became a week. And a week two, clueless of how pant up Jake was, waiting, observing you from so close but not even sparing him a glance.

Until he booked a meeting with you. a five minute before hour. It almost made me laugh. How many grammar faults he made and how the hour was strangely badly chosen. still you clicked on “accept”, and added a comment :

Be prepared. It’s gonna be the real thing.

🕗

And that night when you enter his office, Jake is on his knees.

Literally. Hands clutching his thighs like his own body might betray him at any second, head bowed low. You pause at the door, heels clicking against polished tile, and glance behind you—because what if it wasn’t you standing there? What if some clueless intern wandered into this fever dream instead?

It’s almost tragic how far gone he is. Almost...

He hasn't even looked up. Poor baby’s probably been like this for twenty minutes, edging himself in anticipation alone. All because you told him this meeting would be the real deal. That today would be official. He must’ve short-circuited from the promise alone.

Well, time to step into your role.

You close the door gently behind you. The satisfying click echoes like a gunshot in the quiet office. Your black dress is obscene — tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, short enough to start a scandal, and paired with the same high heels he once moaned into as he kissed each pointed toe like a prayer.

and Jake? He’s visibly hard from the sound of your footsteps alone.

You walk toward him, and his thighs tense at the sight. He doesn't dare look up. Doesn’t need to. He knows who it is. You crouch down beside him, slow, calculated, a predator humoring her prey. Your fingers thread through his hair and gently pat.

“Good boy.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. You smirk when you feel the full hardness beneath his slacks with your hand..

“Pathetic,” you murmur, clicking your tongue in his ear. “Getting hard just from the sound of my heels?”

“I’m sorry…”

Your voice drops. “Are you in your right mind, Mister Sim? Should we reschedule this meeting for a time when you’ve got some self-control?”

“No, no, no—I-I’ll behave, I promise,” he rushes out.

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “Come here.”

You stride to his desk—his desk—and make yourself at home in the chair he usually owns like a throne. Now, It’s yours. He stands, hesitant, and when he sees you sitting there, legs crossed, perfectly composed—his expression crumples with want. Fuck he wants to crawl to you directly under the desk to serve you, but he walks and sit in front of you.

You reach into your branded bag and produce a thin stack of papers and two small boxes.

Back to business.

“Here’s the contract,” you say, voice clipped and professional, like this is just another quarterly strategy meeting. “I marked everything I’m willing to do or try in blue. You’ll go through it, mark your interests in green, and we’ll see where we align. I’ve included safeword options, conditionals, limits... all the usual.”

He blinks at the paper like it’s his acceptance letter into heaven. He takes it, reverent, then actually starts reading — not just flipping through, but really absorbing it. You watch his mouth part slightly at the sight of all your “X”s. Fuck keep it together, you need to look cool.

Bondage:Leash and collar – X.

Gag – X.

Cuffs – X.

Genital cage and toys– X.

Impact and Sensation Play:Biting. Hair pulling. Slapping. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. All X. All yes.

And when he skims to the intimacy section, his whole posture shifts — hips twitch, breath hitches.

Unprotected sex. Orgasm. Kissing. Fluids. All marked. You didn’t even flinch.

But the part that breaks him?

The "I want to feel like..." and "I don’t want..." pages. You were for real. Letting him feel vulnerable out in clear, responsible terms. The aftercare checklist is long, thoughtful, even tender.

It’s the final confirmation: you didn’t do this on a whim. You mean it. You want him. Like this. His eyes shimmer slightly. Your boss. On the edge of crying from a form. Then he hesitates shyly. Circles two spots you left uncrossed.

You lift a brow as he gives back the form for you to consider.

“Golden shower and Exhibition “ you sight “I’m… not sure… But we can discuss it later.” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he replies too fast, nodding like a bobblehead on a bumpy ride. “That’s—totally fine.”

You hand him the smaller of the two boxes.

He opens it. A sleek, delicate pair of glasses. Not prescription. Just a look — something dignified, calm, an elegant reminder of his submission. “You wear those when you’re mine,” you say. opening the second box, “The collar’s only for play. But the glasses? That’s the symbol for our daily life.”

He slides the glasses on immediately — no hesitation, no second thoughts. They sit perfectly on his face, softening the sharpness in his jaw, giving him the exact look you imagined: cute, obedient, and just a little wrecked.

“So… that means I’m yours now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hope. It’s the kind of question you’ve already answered a thousand times without words by now, but you nod anyway — slow, steady, deliberate.

Pride blooms in your chest when his whole body slumps in relief.

He rises to his feet with shaky hands and then—without warning—sinks again. This time not to kneel, but to wrap both arms around your leg, hugging it with childlike desperation. And maybe it's the shortness of your dress. Maybe it’s just the way he clings, forehead resting against your thigh like it’s his new religion.

But when he shifts slightly… his face buries right against your heat. And you forgot one crucial detail.

No underwear.

You hear the shaky gasp he lets out when his lips brush against bare skin. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

Then he’s groaning. Mouthing at you through the fabric, or lack thereof, completely unhinged, trying to kiss your cunt like a happy dog. His hands tighten on your hips. One thumb hooks the edge of your dress and tries to push it up like he has to see it—like looking might kill him but not looking is worse.

He moves back a little and what he does almost kills you from chock. He literally starts to act like a dog, tongue out, heavy breath. heavy leed begging eyes. his tongue licks your thighs, giving eyes to your cunt, sending the message.

“Let me give you pleasure mistress—” he pants like a dog, “I’ll be good.”

God, you want to. Your legs twitch with the effort to stay composed. But instead, your hand fists in his hair and tugs him back—not roughly, just enough.

“Drive me home. Now.”

The tension follows you too in the elevator. He takes your hand— this time with fingers laced with yours. As if the act alone might earn him another kind word. Halfway down, his head dips into the crook of your neck and stays there. You hear the shaky breath he takes, then another.

“You smell like... so good,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And you smell like desperation.”

He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when his arms wrap around you from behind— tight, possessive —and his hips press into you instinctively. Grinding a bit, even. Like he can’t help himself anymore, he wants you so bad.

“Jake,” you warn, as he jerks back. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I... Didn’t mean— I just—”

You don’t look at him, but your smirk is visible in the elevator’s reflection. He wants it so bad.

In his car, he speeds.Of course he does. Your legs are crossed in his passenger seat, the scent of you still thick in the air, and his hands tap on the wheel like he’s one red light away from losing his mind entirely.

“I'll gag you if you keep speeding.” The words drop just to tease him for your fun. And you don’t need to look to know his cock twitches.

“You’re still speeding, Jake.”

“I—”

“Keep going and you’re going to be punished for real, just telling...”

🕗

Jake's practically vibrating out of his skin the second you walk through the door.

Eyes locked on you like a dog waiting for the bell to ring, panting through his nose, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t get your hands on him in the next thirty seconds, he might combust right there in your hallway.

And maybe he would. Maybe you should let him. Instead, you toss your bag to the side and kick your heels off without ceremony, not sparing him a glance. His cock’s already hard. You can see it straining under his slacks like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

Pathetic.

“Bedroom,” you say without looking. “Now.”

He scrambles. Actually stumbles. Nearly trips over the threshold like his legs aren’t working right — and you, patient thing that you are, grab him by the tie and spin him around so hard his back ends up smacking open the door of your room.

He gasps.

You don’t give him time to recover. One hand in his hair, the other squeezing his jaw until his mouth opens like instinct, and then you're kissing him like punishment — bite, tongue, zero softness. You bite his bottom lip until he whines, and it’s only then you really look at him.

Glasses crooked. Tie wrinkled. Pupils blown out like he’s five seconds away from begging.

You smile. Good.

“You said you’d behave,” you say, dragging the tie like a leash, walking him toward the bed like you’re guiding a fucking lamb to slaughter.

“I tried,” he pants, already flushed. “I—I swear, I tried. I Didn’t touch myself once. Not since last time. Not since” you grab his hard on, “—fuck—please—”

He’s babbling.

You shove him flat on the mattress and climb on top of him in one smooth motion, thighs framing his hips, your weight pressing down on his cock. He bucks up like a reflex. Dumb move. You slap his cheek — not hard, but enough.

He gasps. Blinks. Nods.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tone razor sharp. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break them.”

He doesn’t even argue. Just melts. Spreads his arms out above his head like he wants to be tied down. So you do —his belt. You grab, and tie him up. His breathing’s already shaky, cock twitching where it presses against you. You lean down, letting your tits graze his face. His tongue sticks out like instinct, trying to lick, suck, anything— but you yank back. Now he can’t move.

“No.”

He whines. Actually whines. It’s disgusting.

“You wanna touch?” you ask, voice sweet and awful. “Want it?”

“Please,” he chokes. “Please, I’ll be good. Let me—fuck—let me leave marks, I want you bruised, I want to fucking bite you—”

You laugh, throwing your head back. “You?” you mock, grinding down against his cock. “You can barely speak without begging. You think you’re gonna do anything without my permission?”

He moans. Loud. His cock twitches violently under you, and you can see the panic settle in his eyes. He’s close. Way too fucking close.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “And you’re already about to cum like a virgin on prom night.”

“I—fuck, I can’t help it—please, if you slow down—just a second—”

You plant your knees on either side of his head and sit on his face. He cries out with a smile on his face— muffled, frantic — and latches on like he’s starving. His tongue is wild, sloppy, more desperation than technique, and you grind against his mouth like it’s yours — because it is.

“This is where you belong,” you groan, hips rolling. “Under me. Crying. Leaking. Useless unless I’m using you.”

He moans, so loud it vibrates through your whole body. His cock? Red and angry and twitching untouched. He thrusts into the air, desperate for friction, and you just press down harder on his face. He chokes. It’s beautiful.

You ride his tongue until he’s crying and slows down.

Then you finally slide off, and he gasps like he’s coming up for air after drowning—because he was. His face is wrecked. His glasses are somewhere on top of his head. His mouth’s slick with spit and slick and somehow pride. His chest heaves.

You grab his face with your hand, waking him from his daze.

“Focus.”

He moans like you kissed him and you untie him.

“Collar,” you demand.

He fumbles for it with shaking hands, holding it out like a fucking offering, like you’re a god he’s trying to appease. “C-can you put it on me ?”

You snap it around his throat without ceremony. He shivers.

“Good. Now lie back and don’t move.”

You climb up, pull your dress over your head, bare and wet and glowing, and he’s practically crying just from looking.

His cock leaks like it’s apologizing. You press your foot down — slow, cruel — on his cock and balls, and he howls.

“W-wait—please—don’t—if you—if you keep doing that, I’ll—I’ll cum—!”

You press harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not until I tell you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m trying—”

You lean in — breath warm against his ear, one hand wrapped around his throat, firm but teasing, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you, tie you up, and edge you for a fucking week,” you whisper, slow and mean. “No cumming. No touching. Just my voice in your ear while I whip you until you cry for it.”

He whimpers. It’s not even a sound anymore — just breath and broken vowels. His eyes roll back, his cock leaking like it’s begging to be used, untouched and pulsing like it could burst if you so much as looked at it too long.

You spit in your palm, rub yourself raw until you’re soaking, then sink down in one brutal drop.

He screams.

Not a moan. A scream. The sound punches out of him like you knocked the wind from his lungs.

And then you ride.

Hard. Fast. Messy. Punishing. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like your orgasm is more important than his survival. His hands are useless — clawing at the sheets, at the air, at nothing — because you haven’t let him touch you, and he knows better than to break that rule now.

He’s moaning too loud. Too desperate. You slap a hand over his mouth just to muffle the chaos spilling from him. Your hips don’t stop — bouncing, rolling, dragging him to the edge with every ruthless grind. His cock’s buried so deep you can feel it in your gut, and the way he looks up at you — glassy-eyed, mouth stuffed full of your palm, pure reverence — it’s enough to send your stomach twisting.

And then it shifts. Something flips in the air. You catch yourself leaning in, just a little too close. You’re still in control — you always are — but something about the way he’s watching you now, fucked-out and worshipping, makes your rhythm falter. Just once.

Jake sees it. Of course he does.

You see the exact second he realizes: you’re falling, too.

And he fucking loves it.

He’s chasing your orgasm now like it’s the only thing that matters. Like if he gives it to you, maybe — just maybe — you’ll kiss him.

You don’t say it. Don’t ask for it. But he knows.

He flips you with shaky hands, your legs locked tight around his waist before you even land. He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind — sloppy, desperate thrusts, slamming into you like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m close— fuck— I want you to cum too—”

“Me too,” you gasp, wrecked and ragged. One hand slams against the headboard as the other claws at his back. “Harder— Jake, please—”

And he delivers.

His rhythm turns frantic, almost cruel. You’re a mess beneath him, crying out, moaning his name in broken syllables.

“C-can I stay inside?” he begs, barely able to speak. “Please— I— fuck—”

You nod, frantic. “Kiss me.”

And he does.

He dives in like he’s starving for it, lips crashing into yours, moaning into your mouth as he cums — thick, hot spurts, wave after wave, his hips stuttering through it, unable to stop. The kiss is wet, messy, all teeth and breath and desperation. His cock twitches inside you, still buried to the hilt, still pushing in shallow little thrusts that make you shake.

It’s too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too full.

And it tips you.

You cum on his cock with a strangled cry, nails digging into his arms, your mouth still on his, tasting him, gasping into him as your whole body tightens and then breaks.

But you don’t stop kissing. Not even then.

His lips stay on yours through the aftershocks. Sloppy, slow, still trembling. His head dips to your neck, mouthing at the skin, soft kisses, little groans as he licks at your pulse.

You twitch under him every time his mouth moves, still too sensitive. He hisses at the way your walls pulse around him even now.

“Was I good?” you ask, breathless.

He nods into your neck like a kid, voice hoarse, cracked. “Yes. You— You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

You grin. Can’t help it. Can’t hide it.

“So fucking perfect, huh?” you echo, teasing. And he kisses you again. And again. And again. Little kiss bombs, dotting your cheeks, your lips, your jaw — and you finally grab his face and still him.

Your smile twists into something darker.

“This is only the start,” you purr, your voice all breath and promise, panting into his mouth. “I have so many things I want to try.”

He nods — fast, frantic — like he needs it.

Like he wants to be wrecked. Used. Owned. And maybe, if he’s lucky — loved.

You’re going to give it to him. Every filthy, fucked-up fantasy.

Again. And again. And again.

Part.2

MASTERLIST

Author’s Note:

Finally here for the comeback, lol!! It took me so long to post this because I kept second-guessing if I really loved every part of it... But then I thought: just do it, fighting girl! 💪💗@veilstqr — knowing you were waiting for it seriously helped me push through and finish it~ Hope I didn’t disappoint!

Don’t just lurk, darling. Reblog it. Leave a comment. Let me feel you. Your silence is not nearly as thrilling as your reaction.

So go on... show me you're watching.

You follow heels sharp on the tile, sliding the lock with a metallic click that might as well have sealed his fate. You don’t speak. Just turn around and corner him, pressing close — so close your chest brushes his tie, your perfume curling around his brain like a noose.

“Pants,” you murmur, voice soft but razor-sharp.

He obeys. Too fast. Belt unbuckled, zipper down, trousers around his knees. You catch a glimpse of the tip — flushed, already leaking. Boxers thin and helpless, no barrier at all.

And then you lean in.

Your hand slides between you — slow, casual — until your palm cups him through the fabric. And god, he whimpers.

Your fingers flex around his cock, pressing, not stroking — just reminding him who owns it. Who decides what he gets, and when. He jerks in your hand like it’s the first time anyone’s ever touched him.

You lean closer, lips against the shell of his ear, and smile.

“You think I brought you in here to suck you off like you were good?”

He twitches. “I—I thought—”

“Oh, baby,” you purr. “You’re so far from good.”

From your bag, you pull out a device — a sleek little ring of black silicone and a small chrome design, smooth and sexy. Jake recognizes it immediately. His breath stutters. He looks like he might cry from hope.

“Boxers off.”

They hit the floor instantly.

You kneel, slide the ring over his cock and balls in one practiced motion. And he gasps high and wrecked, nearly collapsing against the stall door. Then you reach into your bag again and lift your phone — screen glowing, the app already open.

His eyes blow wide.

“You’ll wear it through the rest of the day,” you say, tapping the setting labeled 'steady pulse', watching him twitch in real time as the gentle hum starts low. “Meeting starts in ten. If you can hold it together...”

You glance up from beneath your lashes, smile wickedly.

“Dinner’s on me.”

He blinks, almost breathless. Gasping at your finger working the app.

“And tonight,” you whisper, licking your lips just to fuck with him, “you can ask for anything.”

He nods too fast, “Anything?”

You smile.

“Anything your little broken brain can think of, mr. Sim.”

You kiss the tip of his cock, just once to tease him. Enough to make him moan through his gritted teeth.

“Then pull it together,” you whisper, stepping back. “And fix your pants. You’re late.”

Then you leave him there, red-faced and straining, cock caged, soul on fire.

And at 4:05 sharp, Jake Sim enters the conference room with his tie too tight, his glasses perfectly straight, and his eyes locked on the PowerPoint like it’s the only thing keeping him from whimpering.

And you? You take your seat across from him. And just before the first slide clicks onto the screen, you reach for your phone.

Tap.

And watch him flinch. Like he lives for it.

Jake lasts.

Somehow.

Through the entire finance review, even when you tap the “pulse” setting mid-sentence while asking for clarification on Q3 projections — his voice hitching slightly, just enough for only you to notice.

He even makes it through the all-hands. Barely. Sweat beading at his temple, legs clenched tight, knuckles white where he grips his own wrist under the desk like he’s seconds from buckling. You watch him like a hawk, occasionally flicking your phone open just to see that tiny icon still glowing in the corner of the screen. Active. Synced. Steady.

At one point, you accidentally hit the "randomized wave" setting while stirring your coffee. His pen snaps. Just cracks in half, ink bleeding onto his neat notes, a quiet fuck under his breath that no one but you hears.

By the end of the day, he’s twitchy. Soft-eyed. Glazed.

The moment 6:04 hits, your phone buzzes.

🕛 Mr.Sim Jake (Work): I’ll wait in my office Please

No “Miss.” No punctuation. Just that one word, begging inside its own silence. Please.

You don’t respond. Just close your laptop, smooth your blouse, reapply your lipstick like you’re heading into a negotiation — because in a way, you are. He thinks this is his reward. That he’s about to be used, broken, maybe allowed release if he grovels right.

But you’re not done yet.

You step into his office without knocking, and what greets you nearly makes you laugh.

Jake Sim — polished, professional, always composed — is on the fucking floor.

On. The. Floor.

Suit jacket gone, tie loose and twisted, hair disheveled, pants unbuckled, boxer-briefs pulled taut around his thighs, cock flushed violently red and still caged in that perfect black ring. He’s clutching the carpet like it’ll ground him, gasping, hips twitching like he’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

And the second he sees you?

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Pathetic.

You shut the door behind you and tilt your head like a curious cat.

“You couldn’t even wait on your feet?”

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— I just— I can’t—”

You wave a hand. Dismissive. “No time for that, baby. I still have work.”

He blinks, like you slapped him with math.

You walk past him — slow, commanding, letting your heels click like a countdown to chaos — and sink onto the couch near the side wall, crossing your legs as if you’re just here to decompress.

From your bag, you pull a slim folder of papers.

“Come here,” you say, tapping the floor in front of the coffee table. “You’re still my superior, aren’t you? Gotta review these before I file.”

Jake crawls.

He actually crawls.

And kneels beside the low table, hands resting obediently on his thighs, lips parted as if he might start panting again. His cock twitches visibly in its ring — red, aching, wet at the tip. You ignore it.

Open the folder.

“You’re going to validate each paragraph for me, Mr. Sim. Verbally.”

He nods quickly.

You start reading aloud. Slowly. Bored, almost.

“Based on the Q2 metrics, we project a 12.4% increase in productivity following the onboarding of—”

“Yes,” he breathes.

One paragraph down.

You scroll your thumb across your phone. Vibrations hum through him.

Next one.

“The reduction in turnaround time aligns with adjusted expectations from last quarter—”

“Yes—” he gasps. A little too breathy.

And then you flick to a new setting. One you’ve been saving.

You hit “Voice Sync Mode.”

Jake twitches violently.

“Oh, right,” you say casually, tapping again. “Almost forgot. New feature. Vibrates based on… voice modulation. Funny, huh?”

You lower your tone, let it dip low and rich.

Jake bucks. Just slightly. Eyes wide, mouth open.

“Say yes for this one.”

“Yes,” he moans.

It triggers again. His hips stutter.

You keep reading. Keep your voice smooth, varied, slightly sing-song in parts just to fuck with him. Every line, every syllable — translated into chaos below the belt.

And he starts losing it.

“Yes,” he pants after every paragraph. Louder. Shakier. More breath than voice now. His hands twitch off his thighs, one dragging toward his cock before he jerks it back with a choked sob like he knows the rules.

By paragraph five, his voice cracks. By seven, he’s humping the air — subtle at first, then not. His head drops to your thigh like it’s the only safe place left on Earth, and he starts rubbing his cheek there. Like a cat in heat. Like a man desperate for grounding in a world that’s unraveling by the second.

You keep reading.

“Final page. If you can make it through—”

But he can’t.

He shudders.

One strangled, broken cry leaves his throat, and you feel the warmth of it — the twitch, the helpless thrust — and then he’s gone. Cumming in his briefs, thick and shameful, whimpering into your thigh, his whole body trembling like a fault line.

You don’t say anything.

Just gently stroke his hair.

Let him breathe.

Let him twitch and shake and sigh into the afterglow like a man who just gave up every ounce of pride he had left and didn’t even want it back.

And when the silence settles, heavy and warm, you finally speak — voice soft, back to that dangerous kind of care that feels more intimate than any orgasm ever could.

“You tried your best,” you murmur, brushing his hair off his forehead. He nods against your leg, ruined.

“Good boy.” Another whimper.

You glance at the clock. Pick up your folder.

“I’m heading home,” you say lightly, gathering your things. “Sleep. Hydrate. Lock the door if you’re gonna clean up here.”

And then you left him there kneeling, soaked, still wearing your ring, like the good little office pet he is.

You couldn’t play on Saturday.

Not because you were too busy, or tired, or felt the shift in the weather deep in your bones — though the forecast did have the nerve to threaten rain just as you left the office. No. You couldn’t play because Saturday, in some inconvenient act of cosmic irony, was your birthday.

A day you kept quiet. Deliberately. Not out of shame, or fear of getting older — god, no. You wore your age like you wore everything else: sharp, polished, with just enough bite to make people hesitate before asking anything too personal. You didn’t need celebration. You had plans to do absolutely nothing. Maybe a glass of wine. Maybe an orgasm. Maybe both at once. Alone.

But Jake, your painfully attentive, painfully eager, painfully good boy Jake… caught on.

You didn’t tell him.

He just knew.

And on Sunday, he asked if you’d still be willing to play. But — and this was where it got suspicious — he asked if you’d have dinner with him first. “Before the session,” he said, too casually. “Just us. I’ll text you the address.”

You agreed. Not thinking much of it.

Until you got there.

Until your heels clicked down the pristine marble hallway of a hotel that had no business being that opulent on a Sunday evening, and the concierge greeted you by name.

Until the elevator opened onto a private suite, and the door — already slightly ajar — creaked open with a whisper.

And there it was.

The dining table, perfectly set beneath dimmed golden lights, with soft music curling through the room like warmth in smoke. Low candles. A bouquet of white orchids. A bottle of red you’d once mentioned liking, twice, months ago. And at the center of the table — a cake. Small. Elegant. Iced in cream. With a single candle.

Jake stood by the far wall, hands behind his back, nervous in a way that didn’t suit him — cheeks pink, eyes flicking toward you like he’d been rehearsing this and still thought he’d fuck it up.

And then.

He sang.

Voice soft, slightly off-key, barely above a whisper — like it wasn’t meant to echo off the chandelier or the crystal glasses. Just for you. Just between the two of you.

Happy birthday to you.

You blinked once. Then again. A breath caught somewhere near your collarbone.

He smiled when he finished. And when you didn’t respond right away, he stepped forward, one hand awkwardly lifting the cake toward you like a shy waiter on his first day.

“It’s got that cream you like,” he said quietly. “Not too sweet. Just—like you.”

And you laughed. You had to. Because this man, this man who moans at your feet with your heel on his throat, just called you not too sweet like that was a compliment.

The dinner was incredible, of course. Not because of the food — though it was excellent — but because of him. Because Jake was attentive in a different way tonight. Still soft. Still sweet. But a little... lighter. He let himself be funny. Made you laugh twice so hard you had to cover your face. His hands trembled when he refilled your glass.

And when dessert came — after the cake, after a gentle toast, after your walls had lowered inch by inch without you realizing — he handed you a gift box.

Long. Sleek. Heavy.

You opened it, and froze.

Thin, stiletto-pointed, patent black high heels.

The expensive kind.

The fucked-up expensive kind.

The kind you’d once pointed at in a store window, laughed, and said, “The only way I’d justify those is if I was allowed to use them to stomp on someone. Otherwise, that price tag is a war crime.”

Jake hadn’t forgotten.

“I remembered,” he said, eyes wide and proud and so goddamn hopeful. “I know it’s kind of dramatic, but you—you said it. And I thought maybe…”

You raised a brow.

“You bought me shoes so I’d step on you?”

He flushed. “N-not just that. I mean—yes. But also… I thought you’d look good in them.”

You stared at him. At the shoes. At the man sitting across from you in a tailored shirt and a slightly shaky smile like he just handed you his throat in a velvet box.

And then you laughed. Low. Delighted.

“Oh, Jake,” you sighed, sliding one heel out of its bed of tissue paper. “You’re so easy.”

His breath hitched.

“You want me to try them on?”

He nodded. Fast. Almost trembling.

So you did. Slowly. Letting the heel dangle on your finger like a weapon before lifting your leg, extending it toward him under the table.

He didn’t even have to be asked. He slid to his knees beside your chair and took your foot in both hands — reverent. Careful. Slipping the shoe on like a prince in a fucked-up fairytale, except he was the one being ruined.

The heel clicked against the floor when you set it down.

He shuddered.

“Do the other,” you murmured, tone already turning silkier, darker.

He obeyed. You leaned back in your chair, legs crossed, watching him fumble slightly with the strap, his breath shallow, fingers lingering just a little too long at your ankle.

You reached down — ran your fingers through his hair, soft and slow — and he melted into the touch like you’d blessed him.

“You’re so predictable,” you whispered, dragging a nail against his scalp. “You see me in new shoes and your first thought is: God, I hope she steps on my cock with them.”

He whined. Whined.

“You’re disgusting,” you added, voice lowering to that tone that made him squirm. “And I’m going to ruin you for thinking you deserved them.”

His eyes fluttered shut and his lips streached in a soft smile. But your fingers didn’t stop stroking. Didn’t stop soothing.

They moved gently through Jake’s hair — soft little passes, nails grazing his scalp. And he leaned into it without thinking, without pride. Just instinct. Like his head was meant to be there, pressed against your thigh, like your hand had become some sacred thing in his world—the thing that settled him, grounded him, reminded him he was owned.

You watched him breathe.

Watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, the trembling hush in his chest — like he couldn’t tell if this was aftercare or the beginning of something worse. And quietly, without words, something warm started to bloom beneath your ribs.

It wasn't just the usual heat and lust. Not the thrill of control you usually fed off of. No, this was quieter, closer to peace. And it wasn't the first time the past two month...

Like, somehow, this— the candlelight, the new shoes, his mouth against your thigh— was exactly where you were supposed to be.

You almost thought it aloud... But no... Nevermind...

Instead, you hummed softly and let your other hand trail down to his cheek, tilting his chin up so he is forced to look at you. He did. Of course he did. Eyes wide and glassy, like something holy had cracked open inside him and spilled out right onto the hotel carpet.

“Remember what I said on Friday?” you murmured. “About rewards?”

Jake blinked, dazed. “Y-yes." His lips parted.

“I said if you were good, you could ask for anything.”

He nodded quickly, eager, already breathing faster.

“And tonight?” You smiled. “You were very, very, very good. Jake.”

Jake’s breath caught, fuck he loves it when you drop the mr. Sim act.

His hands— those shaky, fidgeting, obedient sexy hands— lifted toward his own lap, smoothing his pants like he was trying to behave, trying to stay calm, but already failed. His gaze dropped. He tried to keep eye contact, you know, tried to stay confident. But the moment you gave him permission— real permission— to speak his wants out loud?

He cracked.

“I… um… if I’ve really been good,” he whispered, voice a little pitched, “C-can I…” He hesitated. Swallowed, his eyes on your thighs adjusting himself like it prevented you from seing his hard on.

“Can I eat you out again? it's been ages... I want to make you cum, like before. But like, now. On the floor. Or the couch. Or the bed. Wherever. Please—I'll be good, I promise.”

You raised an eyebrow, and smile streached.

“Is that your first wish?” He nodded hesitant. But then his mouth opened again.

Of course...

“And maybe—maybe I could wear the collar? While I do it? Like... Just the collar and nothing else... Like your—your birthday toy.” Y-you can even put me on a leash if you want— please, I’ll be good, I won’t hump your leg unless you let me—”

You bit your bottom lip, just to keep from smiling even more. Man, his brain had slipped its leash the second you gave him permission. It made you wet straightaway.

“And can I… can I touch myself? Not cum, just—just stroke while I do it. Just feel how hard I get from tasting you. And when I finish, you don’t even have to let me cum, you could just—just spit in my mouth and call me your good little fuckhole—”

You didn’t answer. Just kept petting his hair. But he can read you better than you do to him. You don't realise how turned on your face is. Even your grip on his fluffy hair got harder. Fuck, Jake loves you.

Yeah... I love you. Jake bit his lip.

“Or—or you could make me jerk off onto the floor while you watch, and make me beg to make love with you. Like I’m disgusting. Like I don’t even deserve your attention unless I earn it—Or maybe… if I’m really good—”

He stop.

You press your fingers to his lips and he trailed off, eyes fluttered. slidding your finger inbetween his shy plump lips. It was like even saying it was too much. Like he didn't already write the whole fiction of tonight in his head.

“Tell me, Jake.”

He looked down again, cheeks flushed, voice almost too small to hear.

“Can I... Call you Mommy tonight?”

Silence. Tense. Heavy. Drenched in anticipation.

"I know it's not really your thing..." he blabered, "But I was wondering—if maybe... We could try tonight.

Then—

You leaned in, brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, and smiled.

“Oh, my cute puppy,” you purred, letting the word drag like honey down your throat. “You’re going to get everything you asked for.”

He whimpered. Like the word alone undid him. His breath came hot and shaky against your palm. His eyes looked up at you, fully gone — feral, hungry, a little stupid with need. Like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and beg for permission to exist there.

You sank back into the chair like it was your throne — one leg draped over the other in a lazy cross, elbow resting along the back like you had all the time in the world, like you weren’t already wet just from the look on his face — and without a word, you lifted your foot, the sharp new heel catching the light as it hovered by his lips, until he opened up like a trained thing and started mouthing at the pointed tip, desperate, reverent, like kissing your shoe might earn him oxygen.

“Jake, take off your clothes.”

He scrambled.

Shoes. Shirt. Pants. Everything peeled off with frantic sexiness, like each layer was an offense to the role he was meant to play — until he was kneeling there, naked and flushed, chest rising fast, ears pink, cock already half-hard from nothing but the sound of your voice.

And fuck, his body — God, his body — lean and sharp like he was carved from something meant to bleed for you, muscles smooth but defined, not bulked but taut beneath skin that showed every line, every ridge, every twitch. His back, deceptively broad, flexed as he shifted onto his knees, and you caught the way his arms looked almost too toned for someone who claimed to be helpless— the way his veins ran like threads of promise down to those shaking, obedient hands. And when he reached into his bag— of course he brought it, because your good boy always comes prepared— and pulled out his collar without being asked, you nearly sighed, because it was all too much.

Too perfect. Too fucking yours.

He held it out like an offering. And you put it on him. You dragged your heel along his shoulder. He shivered.

“You wanted to worship Mommy tonight?”

He nodded, mouth agape. “Then come show me, be a good dog.”

And when he crawled forward on hands and knees — panting, eyes blown wide, mouth open — you knew : You were going to let him have everything.

Because you loved seeing him like this, loved it... Your game... You... loved him ?

Maybe...

He reached your knees. And then he groaned. Loud and wrecked.

Your panties — soaked. He buried his face in them immediately, moaning into the fabric, licking you through it like he’d been starved for days and finally stumbled upon a feast. You stayed still, head tilted, watching him degrade himself with quiet fascination.

And then he used his teeth — gently at first, then not — dragging the lace aside, tearing holes in the delicate fabric just to get to you, to taste you raw, no barriers, no patience.

The moment his tongue touched your pussy, he let out the most pathetic sound — a sob disguised as a moan — and you saw it in his whole body: the way his arms trembled, the way his shoulders rolled forward, the way his hips twitched helplessly against the carpet.

Like worship was killing him.

He licked with hunger first. Frenzied. Like he couldn’t get enough. His mouth moved fast — messy circles, tongue flattening, then curling, lips sucking at your clit with zero grace. No rhythm. Just need.

You almost laughed. “Jake,” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair. “You’re making a fucking mess.”

“M’sorry,” he panted. “Tastes too good. Can’t stop—can’t—”

You yanked his head closer in answer. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he didn’t.

He buried himself deeper, tongue working in tighter, sharper patterns. He found rhythm then. Purpose. His hands came up, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider. He let your heel rest against his shoulder, the other curling behind his neck like a leash, and you let yourself fall back against the couch with a long, low moan — head tipping, mouth parting, hips beginning to twitch.

You were close. Too close.

And he felt it. The tension in your thighs. The way your breathing shifted.

So he slowed.

The fucking bastard slowed.

“Jake,” you growled, but he just hummed into your clit, tongue drawing soft little circles now — featherlight. Infuriating. And then, just when you were about to command him again—

He sucked. Hard.

You came.

Fast. Violent. A sharp, hot surge that slammed into your spine and rolled through your body like a goddamn earthquake. You moaned, bit your bottom lip to keep from crying out, hips stuttering against his face as your hands fisted in his hair like you were drowning.

And he didn’t stop.

Not for a second.

He groaned into your cunt like it fed him. Like your orgasm gave him oxygen. He sucked through it, licked every aftershock, every twitch, every whimper that escaped you. And then — when your thighs trembled and your hips tried to retreat — he shifted.

One hand — previously gripping your thigh like a man clinging to salvation — slid down.

Between your legs.

And without asking, without hesitating, he pressed two fingers against your soaked entrance, teasing first, just circling — and then he shoved them in.

You gasped — hard.

“Jake—”

He curled them immediately. Like he knew. Like he’d memorized the blueprint of your body and knew exactly what would shatter you. He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just fucked his fingers into you fast and deep, knuckles slick with your first orgasm while his mouth stayed latched to your clit, sucking like a man possessed.

Your body jolted — thighs trying to close, hips stuttering against his face, your hands flailing for something to grab, anything — the armrest, his hair, your own wrist.

“Jake, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he mumbled, voice low and hot and buried in your cunt. “Let me. Please, Mommy—let me make you come again.”

And fuck, you did.

The second orgasm ripped through you — louder, messier, wetter — your walls clenching around his fingers as he kept driving them into you, his palm slick, heel of his hand grinding against you as you moaned so hard it felt like you might pass out.

"Holy fuck—" you cried, legs spasming.

But he still. Didn’t. Stop.

Your voice broke. "I said stop—"

He pulled back from your clit for one second, just long enough to moan against your folds, "I'll make you feel good—"

Then went right back to it.

His fingers curled harder now, precise, brutal. Three now — you didn’t even know when he added a third — but you felt it. Deep. Full. Your body couldn’t tell where the pleasure ended and pain began, everything smearing together into one long, mindless scream that echoed through the room as your third orgasm crashed into you like a fucking freight train.

You shoved him off, finally — heel pressing into his chest just enough to make him stumble back, fall onto his ass, panting and glassy-eyed and soaked with your slick. He blinked up at you like he didn’t even know where he was.

You were still shaking, legs trembling from the overload, breath ragged. You sat there — limp, fucked, worshiped — and stared at the man who’d just made you come like that with nothing but his tongue, and fingers and a death wish.

You’d never felt this safe. This powerful. This wanted. And he crawled back forward. Pressed his cheek to your thigh. Didn’t say anything. Just breathed against you.

You reached down and pulled him into a kiss — wet, sloppy, tongue-first and desperate, all teeth and spit, and god, he melted into it. Of course he did. You were still soaked from what he did to you, thighs a mess, cunt twitching with aftershocks — and he was the one trembling.

You pulled back and let your palm curl around his cock, rough and flushed and leaking across your fingers like it had been hurting for attention. He hissed when you touched it, and then groaned — loud, helpless — when you dragged your heel down, pressing it gently at first into his balls before slowly, firmly, crushing down.

“Mm. You look like you’re suffering right there,” you murmured, voice all syrup and sin.

He nodded, panting through clenched teeth.

“Is eating me out really getting you this excited?” you purred, cocking your head like it actually surprised you.

He nodded again. Hissed when you pressed harder with your heel. “Yes, Mommy—fuck, yes—it’s so much, I can’t—”

You let go of his cock.

“Touch yourself.”

He froze.

“I didn’t say you could cum,” you added lazily. “But I want to see you do it. Look at you. A grown man on the floor, balls bruised, begging for permission to jerk off in front of the woman who just came on his face.”

Jake’s hand moved fast — too fast — and you could already tell he was on edge. He gripped himself tight, started stroking, sloppy and aching, cock bobbing under his own frantic rhythm. But his eyes were locked on you.

You leaned back, legs still spread, panties ruined somewhere under the couch, slick still glistening on your thighs.

And you smirked.

He whimpered.

“Oh, god—” he gasped, jerking himself harder. “Please, just—just watch me—watch me, Mommy, please, I want you to see me—”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

He blinked. Swallowed.

“Say it.”

“Because—” he choked, “because I look pathetic—and… you’re still so perfect and I’m just here, jerking off on the floor like a freak—”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drift over him slowly, from his flushed face to his slick stomach to the veins in his arms flexing with every stroke.

“You think I’m enjoying this?” you asked flatly, voice bored. “You think I want to see you make a mess of yourself like some shameless animal?”

He moaned.

“I—I hope s—”

“You hope so?”

He bit his lip. His hand never stopped. He was panting now, eyes burning into your body.

“And you like being watched?” you asked. “Even like this?”

He nodded, voice breaking. “I like when you see how bad I want you. How stupid I get. I-I-I want you to know what you do to me. I want to look at you and see your thighs and your cunt and your attitude and know I’m not allowed to have any of it—unless you let me.”

You hummed.

“And what do you want me to do to you, Jake?”

His eyes glazed over. “Everything—” Hips jerking.

“No. Be specific.”

He whimpered.

“I want you to hit me when I cum—open palm, across the face, hard enough that I feel it later. I-I-I want you to spit in my mouth again, like last time, and tell me I’ve earned it. I want you to put that heel back into my cock until I’m shaking—until I can’t move without permission. I want you to laugh when I beg, call me pathetic, make me say what I am. I want you to choke me—tight—long…hng… Long enough that I have to ask to breathe—and wh-when you let go, I want to thank you. I want your slick on my face, dried down my neck, smeared over my mouth like a collar—and I want to sleep in it. Don’t let me clean up. Make me keep it…”

You watched him stroke harder, hips twitching, spit almost sliding down his chin from how hard he was panting.

“I want you to ruin me and then hold me after… I….  Want to make you cum again and again until I cry. I want you—to never… Never stop looking at me.”

You leaned forward. And he shuddered. You didn’t say a word. Just watched.

And when he came — loud, messy, too fast and too much — he cried your name. again. and again. and again.

You reached down and pulled him into a kiss — wet, tongue-first, needy. Sloppy and lost. And he melted. Of course he did. His mouth opened instantly, like instinct, like prayer. His lips were soaked from your cunt, and yours still tasted like his worship, so the whole thing was just spit and sin and heat. He groaned into it, soft and broken, like the kiss alone was enough to undo him.

You were still a mess — slick between your thighs, muscles twitching from the high he forced out of you, panties ruined and forgotten — and yet he was the one shaking. 

shit it felt good !

You broke the kiss first, dragging his bottom lip between your teeth until it snapped free. Then your hand dropped — right to his cock. Hard. Leaking. Angry-red and trembling in your palm like it had been hurting for you. You curled your fingers around it with practiced ease, thumb smearing his mess along the head just to make him whimper.

And then your heel dragged between his legs. Slowly.

You pressed into his balls — lightly at first, then firmer — until he gasped, jaw tightening, hips frozen like he didn’t know whether to rut forward or flinch.

“Mm.” You let your voice drip with amusement. “You look like you’re suffering right there.”

He nodded fast. Too fast. Shoulders tense. “Yes, Mommy—yes, it hurts—but it’s so good—I need more—please—”

You gave his cock a lazy stroke. Nothing to write about but enough for him to jolt.

“Is eating me out really what did this to you?” you murmured. “Made you this hard?”

He nodded again—practically whining.

“Mommy, it’s you, it’s always you—I get like this when you look at me, when you talk to me—fuck, fuck, fuck, even your voice makes my cock hurt.”

You smiled. Let go.

“Touch yourself.” He froze.

“You don’t get to cum,” you added, like an afterthought. “You cum without permission, and I walk out of this room. Leave you like this. Understand?”

He nodded, mouth open, eyes wet. “Yes. Yes, Mommy.”

He reached for himself instantly—like he’d been waiting hours for that command. His hand wrapped around his cock and started stroking hard, fast, filthy. His other hand trembled on his thigh, like he didn’t know what to do with it. His whole body was tight, twitching, sweat glistening down his chest and veiny arms. You could see every muscle working just to keep himself upright.

But he was looking at you. Your body, your gaze. Never looked away.

You leaned back into the couch, legs still spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Slick still shone between your thighs. You didn’t say anything. Just watched, and played with the sound your own wetness.

Jake moaned immediately. “Please—please keep watching—please, I—I want you to see me like this—”

“Why?” you said flatly.

He swallowed, hard.

“Say it.”

“Because—because I look like a mess,” he whimpered, stroking faster without thinking. “Because I look fucking pathetic, and it’s only for you—you did this to me—your pussy, your voice, your fucking eyes, everything—”

You tilted your head.

“You think I enjoy watching you jerk off like some pathetic little mutt on the floor?”

“I—I hope you d—” he gasped. “maybe I hope you don’t—maybe I hope you think I’m disgusting. Because I am, Mommy. I’m a disgusting pervert for you. No one else gets to see me like this. No one can. Just you—Just you.”

You exhaled slowly, like you were watching an experiment spiral into something deliciously ugly.

“And what do you want me to do to you, Jake?”

His hips jerked forward like the question alone hit his prostate. “Everything,” he moaned.

You narrowed your eyes. “No. Be specific.”

He looked up at you like he was about to cry.

“I want you to slap me when I cum,” he whimpered, “hard. Across the face. Make me feel you for days. I want you to spit in my mouth again—please, like last time—while I’m begging. I want you to wear those heels and step on me. Make me thank you while you do it. Tell me I’m nothing. Laugh when I fuck you and swear to me.”

His stroking grew faster — slick, loud, hips twitching like he was fighting to stay in his body.

“I want you to choke me until I have to ask to breathe,” he gasped. “And when you let go, I want to thank you. Like a good boy. Like your property.”

He was shaking now.

“I want to sleep in your slick. Face coated in it. Neck wet. Chest marked. Don’t let me wash it off—please, I want to wear it. Like a collar. Like a proof.”

You said nothing. Just stared. And he broke.

“I want you to ruin me. And then hold me after. Kiss my forehead like I’m not broken. Make me make you cum again until I’m crying from how much I need you. Mommy, I swear to god—” he sobbed, “no one else can do this to me. It’s you. It’s always been you. I’m think of you—your body, your voice, your pussy—I want to live under you—”

your thighs were twitching. His breath was ragged. His whole body trembled like it was about to shut down.

“Please look at me when I cum,” he begged, “please—please see me—please, I need you—”

You nod and almost moan in your breath, And he came.

Loud. Raw. A broken, choked sob of your name as cum spilled over his knuckles, painting his abs, his thighs, the floor. He kept stroking through it, messy and wild, eyes locked on yours even as tears welled up in them. He looked wrecked. Ruined.

He cried out again. Your name again. and again and again. Whispered like a prayer, repeated like a compulsion — quieter each time, like he couldn’t stop saying it, like it was the only thing left tethering him to reality. And when the last of his orgasm spilled over his wrist and onto the floor, his body simply… slumped.

Collapsed at your knees now closed.

Shaking, silent, mouth open but not speaking anymore — breath coming in little broken bursts as if the air around him had gotten too thin. And for a moment, you just watched him. Not as a dom. Not as a goddess. Just… watched the boy you adored fall to pieces in front of you.

Then you moved. You slid down from the couch to the carpet, kneeled in front of him — with him — and reached out. He flinched at first, not from fear but fragility and maybe self consciousness.

But you cupped his face anyway. Held him gently, thumbs brushing across his hot, damp cheeks, and leaned in to press a soft kiss just under his eye.

“Shh,” you whispered, voice low. Warm. Real. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.” Jake’s eyes fluttered shut. His body leaned into yours like gravity had given up. And then — quietly, barely audible — he sniffled.

“I’m sorry,”

You froze. “Why?”

He swallowed hard. Still wouldn’t open his eyes. “For saying too much. For… being too much of a sub.”

You pressed your lips to his forehead. Then his temple. Then his cheek.

“You weren’t too much,” you said, kissing between words. “You were honest. Perfect. Mine.”

He whimpered— a small, broken sound— and then his arms wrapped around your waist, so tight, so desperate, like he didn’t care about the mess or the sweat or the fact that he was naked and half-crying on a hotel room floor.

You held him. Stroked his hair. Kissed behind his ear. Whispered things only he was allowed to hear.

“My good boy.” “My perfect thing.” “You did so well for me.”

Minutes passed like that. Or hours. You weren’t sure. The quiet felt infinite, like the world had shrunk down to the warmth of two bodies pressed together under dim light and the soft scent of sex and sweat and trust.

Eventually, he pulled back — reluctantly — just far enough to look at you. His eyes were sleepy, still red. But he smiled, small and exhausted.

“…Can we—” he hesitated. Bit his lip looking at you. “Can we sleep here?”

You raised a brow. “We don’t have anything packed.”

“I know.” He blinked. “I just don’t want you to leave. Not tonight. I wanna fall asleep with you... Please.”

You looked at him for a moment. Then nodded.

“Okay,” you said softly. “But first, let’s clean up.”

Jake followed you wordlessly to the bathroom, still trembling a little, wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe you were really going to stay.

The water ran hot, steam blooming fast as you stepped under it together — skin on skin, sticky and marked, your bodies pressed close in the quiet rush of heat.

You reached for the soap, lathered slowly, and started with his chest.

He gasped — not from the temperature, but from the way you touched him. Like he was something precious. Something yours.

You washed him soft. Careful. Thumbs running down his ribs, lips brushing over his shoulder once, twice. His hands stayed on your hips like he didn’t know what else to do — until you turned, smiled lazily over your shoulder, and offered him the bar.

“Your turn.”

He took it like a gift.

And then his hands were on you — warm and slow, fingers sliding over your skin like he was worshiping you in silence, like rinsing the sweat and slick off you was the most important job he’d ever been given. He kissed your neck. Your shoulder. Your lower back. You felt it in your knees.

By the time the water turned lukewarm, he was panting softly behind you, hard again without a word spoken, cock brushing your thigh like a question.

You didn’t answer it. Not yet. You just turned, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Bed.”

And he followed you, lifting you, dripping and obedient, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

He didn’t let go of you, not even when you reached the bed. You both collapsed into the blankets, half-covered in nothing but the weight of each other.

And then — quiet giggle in his chest, warm kiss on your neck — Jake tugged you closer. And called your name.

You smiled into his collarbone. “Hmm?”

“…Can I fuck you sweet?”

You looked at him. He looked nervous. Flushed. But serious.

“…Not rough. Not a scene too. Just… I wanna make you feel good. Wanna be in you. Close.” His eyes did that triangle thing that made you smile.

Ans your heart did a weird thing in your chest. You didn’t say anything, just kissed him. Slow. Deep.

He slid into you like it was meant to happen in silence. No teasing. No commands. Just soft hands and warm breath and your legs curling around his hips, pulling him in like he belonged there— Oh he did.

You moved together like something practiced.

His forehead pressed to yours. His eyes never left your face. It wasn’t the kind of sex that left bruises. It was the kind that stayed under your skin for days.

And when you both came — whispering each other’s names, holding on like sleep might take you too soon — you didn’t bother separating. Just tangled yourselves up tighter under the blankets, legs and arms everywhere, breath syncing until the air went quiet.

Jake fell asleep first from exhaustion . Still inside you. Face tucked into your neck, hand resting on your hip and over your head, smile barely there.

And you followed. One last kiss to his hairline. One last thought, whispered only in your head.

Maybe I love you, Jake.

🕰️

Monday came too soon.

The city clicked back into motion like it hadn’t been on its knees three nights ago — like you hadn’t spent the weekend riding high on power and orgasm, like Jake Sim hadn’t buried his face between your thighs and cried your name like it was a gospel, like nothing in your bed had shifted something irreversible between you. But here you were. Blazer sharp. Hair tied up like a noose. Coffee in one hand, to-do list in the other. Face clean. Voice calm. And Jake?

Jake was perfect. Of course.

Golden manager. Corporate fantasy. Tie straight. Shoes polished. Smile polite, crisp, neutral — as if he hadn’t begged to sleep in your slick two nights ago. As if his mouth hadn’t broken you open like prayer.

He passed your desk at 9:02. On time. Silent. But his eyes flicked toward you — fast, hot, reverent — like he was starving for permission to even look.

Yeah. Not subtle.

The week dragged. Deadlines. Briefings. Emails that made you want to cry. A dozen little brushes of Jake’s arm at meetings, a few too-long looks across the conference room. Nothing said. Everything felt.

And then Wednesday came. And Jay walked in like a plot twist.

Jay — from the international branch. Jay who hadn’t changed a bit except in jawline and confidence. Tall, lean, just the right amount of cocky, with that you-can-trust-me grin and rolled-up sleeves that said he wasn’t here to play humble. You knew that walk before he even reached your side of the office. And you smiled before he even said your name.

“Holy shit,” he laughed, arms open, warm and loud and exactly the same. “Is that you?”

You stood to greet him, surprising the whole office, and for a second it was easy to forget anything else existed.

Jay had been your twin at your first job — the only rookie who matched your speed and fire, the one who helped you learn the ropes while you taught him how to cheat the system without getting caught. You’d shared too many late-night reports and too many energy drinks in parking lots to pretend this wasn’t real.

You hugged. Tight. No hesitation. His hand curled behind your neck like he’d missed you properly. “Good to see you.” he whispered.

“I didn’t even know you were stationed here,” you said into his shoulder.

“Temporary,” he replied, pulling back, smiling like trouble. “Two weeks. Project lead on cross-regional integration. Had to say yes when I heard who was running one of the teams.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Still charming.”

“Still bossy,” he said, looking you over with a spark you didn’t bother flinching from. “God, you look good.”

Across the room, Jake watched the whole thing, leaning on a co-worker desk for a review. And if there had been a heart rate monitor clipped to his tie, it would’ve flatlined.

To everyone else, he looked as normal as the rest of this office watching. But his jaw was tight. His hand had stopped scrolling his subordinate mouse. Because Jay wasn’t just some regional project lead— he was Jake’s old friend. One of the few people he trusted, who knew things about him from years ago, who used to sleep on his couch in between overseas rotations and share shitty bar ramen and management rants.

And now he was here. Shaking your hand. Pulling you into hugs. Looking at you like he’d found something. And worse — you looked happy to see him. Not performative-happy. Not polite. Actually happy. You leaned in to talk. You laughed, like… Twice.

Jake couldn’t hear the conversation. He didn’t know Jay had just told you that Jake was famous in the international branch — that half the floor still referred to him as “the one who doesn’t fuck up.” He didn’t know that you’d laughed and said, “He’s still like that,” or that you’d softened when Jay said, “Honestly, I’m not surprised you two haven’t killed each other. You always scared me a little more than him anyway.”

Jake didn’t know that your giggles weren’t flirtation. They were about him.

All Jake saw was the closeness. The familiarity. The way Jay’s hand brushed your arm when he made a point. The way you didn’t flinch. The easy rhythm between you. And then, just to gut him further, Jay turned around during a meeting break and dapped Jake up like a brother.

“Still as stiff as ever,” Jay said, grinning, leaning against Jake’s desk like no time had passed.

“Still can’t read a brief without fucking the formatting,” Jake shot back. They laughed. It was real. Jake wanted to be happy to see him.

But his eyes kept flicking past Jay’s shoulder. Back to you. Because even if Jake and Jay were old friends — you and Jay looked like something else.

Jay invited the team to dinner that Friday. Said it was casual. Team bonding. International-branch hospitality. You said yes before Jake could even pretend to be indifferent. Like postponing your session was nothing.

Jake sat through the rest of the week in silence. Smile plastered on. Voice tight. His keyboard clicks a little too sharp. His jaw clenched every time Jay walked past your desk.

It wasn’t that he thought Jay was a threat. It was that you seemed… open around him. Relaxed. Familiar. The kind of open Jake had only seen when you were half-naked, straddling his thigh, calling him names while riding his face.

And now?

Now you were laughing at another man’s joke. Jake spiraled. Quietly. Painfully.

🕰️

By the next wednesday morning, Jake was unraveling like a ribbon since you texted him.

Cannot make it this week… Let's wait for next friday, mr. Sim

Mr. Sim ?? Mr. Sim ??

You called Jay by his first name even in the office. Joking about his korean name, in team dinners. But even in texts Jake stayed “Mr. Sim”, if it wasn’t a scene you never called him Jake. If it wasn’t in a bedroom, never let him touch you like Jay did.

He was mad. 

Oh, he hid it well — always did. The tie still sharp, the voice still calm when he led meetings like a man who hadn’t spent the week watching you share private smiles with someone who knew you from before he did. Someone you hugged without hesitation. Someone who called you by your first name with that easy kind of familiarity Jake had only ever earned through submission.

You weren’t ignoring him. Not really. But you weren’t touching him either. No texts. No sexy glances. No little cruel reminders of what he was to you. Just distance. Controlled and professional. Like the weekends together hadn’t happened.

And Jake? Jake was starving for the leash. And your presence, he missed the intimate you. 

So when the elevator opened that morning, and you stepped in, followed by two project leads and someone from HR, he took his chance.

Jake slipped in last. Stood at your side. And said nothing, even after exchanging cute eye contact with him.

The numbers ticked up. Floors grew away. One by one, everyone stepped out.

Until it was just…  You and him.

He stepped closer. Just a little too close. You didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet. Cause recently it had been hard on you pretending you weren’t in love with him. Pretending in front of his long time friend and yours there was nothing between you two. But you felt it — his body tight with restraint, his breath catching just a little louder than it should.

“I-I don’t care if you don’t want me recently,” he said, voice low, barely audible.

Your brows lifted about to turn around but he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“You’re still my Mistress.” 

You turned then, expression unreadable.

He didn’t flinch. He exhaled. And then—he took your hand. Just your fingers. Slipped something cold and small into your palm and curled your fingers shut around it.

A key. You stared at it. Felt the weight.

“Friday can’t come fast enough,” he whispered, voice shaking just a little now. “It’s already hurting. I can’t stop thinking about you. I put it on last friday night. Haven’t touched myself since. Not even once.”

Your eyes snapped to his desperate, hot, worshipful bulge he made you palm, moaning to the contact of your unsure fingers, his forehead falling on yours.

He almost smiled — a little unhinged.

“I locked myself for you. Because I needed to remember. Because I needed you to own me.”

The elevator chimed. He stepped back. Straightened his tie. Smoothed his jacket.

Turned to you like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into your hand.

“I’ll be waiting until you want me again Mistress,” he said, voice calm again, composed. Just a touch sad.

Then he walked out. And left you there. Alone. With the key to his cock clenched in your fist.

And the knowledge that he’d caged himself for you, for days, just to suffer in silence until you decided he was worth your attention again. Fuck only holding it made you wet.

🕰️

Jake caught Jay by the coffee machine an hour after that— late enough in the day that the fluorescent lights made everything look a little harsher, even your name in conversation.

“Hey,” he said, low, casual. Actually not casual at all. “You and… her.”

Jay turned slightly, brow raised. “Yeah?”

Jake swallowed. “You’re not—” his voice caught, and he rolled his shoulders, tried again. “You’re not trying to… go for her, right?”

Jay blinked, the idea of playing his naive ass dying after one second of thinking,  then he smiled — not sharp, not smug. Just knowing.

“Nah, man. She already said no.”

Jake stilled.

Jay took a sip from his paper cup. “Told me she’s into someone else, a complicated situationship.”

That should’ve settled it. Should’ve made something inside him untwist.

But it didn’t.

Because Jay glanced over his shoulder, toward the open floor where you stood— and added, tone lower now, not cruel, just honest:

“If it were me, I’d stop hiding behind roles and secrets and all that shit going on and just tell her. Straight up.”

Jake didn’t move.

Jay looked at him again. “She’s into you, bro. That’s obvious… From what I understood.” He clapped Jake’s shoulder once — firm, not teasing. “Only thing left is whether you’ve got the spine to stop waiting for her to drag it out of you.”

🕰️

Fuck.

Jay was right.

This thing between you — the structure, the sessions, the rules he clung to like they made him safe — it was never meant to hold forever. It worked because it was clean. Controlled. Because you both pretended it didn’t mean more, didn’t bleed more. But Jake had already gone too far, and every time he knelt, every time you touched his jaw and made him beg like something sacred, he fell harder into something that wasn’t just powerplay anymore — it was love. Messy. Real. Suffocating.

And now?

Now he couldn’t stop thinking.

What if you started dating someone?

Would he still get his sessions — or would you say it wasn’t “appropriate” anymore?

Would you let him keep watching you from across the meeting room — or would he have to pretend you were just his superior again, like you hadn’t screamed his name while grinding on his face four nights ago?

Would he be allowed to touch you? At all? To kiss your ankle while you read? To hold your thigh under the table just because he needed to feel you?

Would lazy Sunday mornings in bed be cancelled — would the books, the wine, the home-cooked meals and terrible documentaries turn into someone else’s life with you?

Would he still be allowed to look at you the way he did?

To smile at you like you were the only thing that had ever been his?

Or would you pull away the next time he leaned in?

Would Jake go back to “Mr. Sim”?

Would your voice lose that edge when you said his name?

Would you take your laugh with you? Your eyes? Your mouth?

That smug little smirk when you wore heels that bruised his ribs and made him say thank you for it?

That cold, commanding tone that shattered him?

That soft, dangerous warmth when you licked his tears off your knuckles after he came shaking in your lap?

What if it all disappeared?

What if he lost not just the kink — but you?

All versions. The hard one. The gentle one. The funny, brat-taming, snack-sharing, throat-grabbing, book-reading, leash-holding, rule-breaking you.

What if he lost the one person who saw all of him — and didn’t flinch?

What if he had to start calling you “miss” again, just to keep from saying mine?

No.

He wasn’t going to survive another week of pretending. Not another goddamn day of acting like giving you his body wasn’t also handing you his heart.

It had to be tonight.

He texted you one line, with a pin to the address:

“Come here tonight. 9PM. Please.”

You arrived right on time.

And the address — when you reached it — wasn’t a hotel. Wasn’t a suite. Wasn’t the clean, clinical setting where you usually got him on his knees and made him sob.

It was a house.

His house.

You blinked.

Then walked in.

Jake opened the door like he’d been pacing behind it for an hour — sweater soft, hair undone, eyes wide and helpless and shining like he had no idea how you were going to respond to any of this.

The first thing you noticed was how expensive everything was — the dark wood, the subtle lighting, the quiet warmth of real money used by someone who didn’t need to show it off. The second thing was his dog — tail wagging, greeting you like you’d been here a thousand times before.

The third?

Family photos.

Jake as a kid. In school uniforms. With his mother in Seoul. With classmates. With some awful international branch birthday cake, and that smile — the smile, just smaller, softer, untouched.

You turned slowly. Took it all in.

He watched you like a man watching a dream walk through his bedroom.

“You like it?” he asked, unsure.

Your answer was in your eyes — in how slowly you moved, in how carefully you touched the edge of a frame, in the way you smiled and looked back at him for detailed comparaisons.

“You’ve never let me in here,” you said. “That's… New.” you smiled.

“Yeah,” he murmured. That was the problem. he thought. 

Dinner was tense. Not because anything was wrong, but because everything was shifting — plates warming your hands while your eyes stayed fixed on his face, red wine sweet on your tongue while you waited for the dam to crack. 

Jake broke first. “It’s not homemade,” he said, sheepish. 

“Unless you want to end up in the hospital.” 

You laughed. And then — you turned to him, voice like a knife sliding in slowly.

“Are you really wearing it?”

He swallowed. His jaw twitched. Then he nodded half looking at your reaction.

“I bought a smaller one,” he whispered, like it hurt to admit. “The one that hurts when I get hard.”

You didn’t blink. Just tilted your head, like the predator you were.

“And when did you?”

Jake leaned forward, voice raw, fingers twitching by the number of times he passed them through his hair before hiding in his palm?

“Monday,” he said. “When you wore the heels I gave you” then he whispered, “I remembered the way they left marks on my back while I tasted you— I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was hard all day… It ached.”

You crossed your legs, slowly. Grin flickering.

“Wednesday, I saw your thighs,” he added, faster now, like he couldn’t hold it in. “Bare under your skirt — just a glimpse, but I kept wondering where they stopped. If they were warm. If they were sticky with someone else’s mouth.”

Your breath hitched, but your face didn’t change.

“T-thursday,” he said, almost breathless, “when I saw you smile at Jay, and I wanted you to snap. I wanted you to pull me by the collar and spit in my mouth in front of everyone just so I could feel claimed.”

And then softer.

“Y-yesterday… I thought about kissing you in the hallway. About grabbing you and just… giving it away. Not caring who saw. Not hiding anymore.”

You let it hang.

Then:

“What?”

Jake’s hands trembled.

“I was jealous,” he said. “You looked so comfortable with him. Like he was allowed to see parts of you I only get when you’ve got your hand around my throat. And I couldn’t say anything — because I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not your partner. I’m just the guy who comes when you tell him to. If he’s lucky.”

You leaned in, voice cool and soft.

“And?”

He met your gaze like it burned.

“And I thought maybe… I wasn’t worth more. That everything I’ve shown you — the crying, the leash, the begging — maybe that made me… disposable.”

Silence.

Heavy.

You stared at him like you were looking at something precious. Fragile. Real.

Then you smiled.

Blush blooming over cheekbones, hidden behind the wine glass.

“What should I do, Jake…” you said, low, sultry, devastating. “You made me too ruined to date anyone else now.”

Jake made a sound. Half-sob, half-laugh, and really looked at you, your validating beautiful eyes. Then, he stood. Walked over. Grabbed you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he waited one more second.

And kissed you like it hurt.

“I love you,” he breathed against your lips. “I’m in love with you.” He kissed again, “I’ll give you everything.”  kissed again, “I’ll let you ruin me for the rest of my life and beg for more, I swear.”

You laughed in his embrace and looked at him with sudden dare.

“Prove it Jake.”

He stripped for you like he was peeling away fear itself. and you did the same messily kissing.

Quiet obedience. Until he stood naked inch from you, flushed, forehead against forehead, trembling, cock caged and faintly purple, swollen from days of frictionless ache. It looked smaller, pulled tight by metal and denial. Beautiful in its own way — his way. His whole body looked like it was waiting for permission to feel again, all veiny and hot.

You dropped to your knees.

Unlocked him with the little silver key.

And the second the cage clattered to the floor, he moaned — not from pleasure. From pain. His cock sprang out — red, angry, twitching like it didn’t know if it was free or dying.

You reached forward, wrapped your hand around it, and he came instantly.

“F-fuck—Hng, no, no, no—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—please—” he gasped, whole body convulsing, cum spilling down your wrist in helpless pulses. “I didn’t mean to—it’s been d—I didn’t want to—please—”

You smiled. God, you loved it. all cruel and loving on him.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, rising to kiss his cheek. “That was just the appetizer.” And he kept coming with slow strokes on your thighs now like it was his first time.

In his bedroom, you tied him up with smooth, sure hands— wrists to headboard, thighs wide, legs restrained too with ropes he prepared— and then climbed on top of him 

He was still trembling. Still leaking. Still whispering your name like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then, just when he thought he might get softness —

You leaned in and blindfolded him. And your voice made him tremble.

“Jake,” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Do you think Jay would’ve made me scream like you do?”

His breath hitched. You grinned.

“Do you think he’d eat me better than you?” you asked, tongue flicking against his earlobe as he twitched under you. “Would he cry when I ride his face? Would he beg for my spit too?”

Jake whimpered. His cock jerked. You pressed down harder against him.

Moaning in the most outrageous way.

“Would he fuck me better than the boy leaking into his sheets right now?”

“Stop—please—no,” he gasped, face trying to find your lips with shame and heat.

You laughed. Gently.

“Then make me never want to find out,” you said. “Be a good boy. Show my pussy, Jake.”

And he did. You pulled on the ropes and realized him.

He fucked you like a man possessed. Getting inside your wetness in one go. Like a man breaking out of something. Like he’d die if you didn’t keep screaming his name. He thrust with raw need, face twisted in love, in agony, in fucking reverence.

He came again. And again. Still hard. Still inside you. Still trying to earn you with every snap of his hips. His cum painted your thighs, your cunt, your stomach — you didn’t want to stop. And he didn’t stop.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you[...]” He kept moaning on  your lips, in your neck, mouth at your tits.

And when he finally collapsed into you, ruined, panting, completely undone? You kissed him and whispered : 

“I love you too.”

🕰️

You did it on the floor next.

Then against the wall.

Then the window. Then the shower. Then the kitchen table while his dog slept soundly in the living room like nothing sacred was happening in the next room.

No rules. No safe words. No games.

Just “I love you” in every thrust, every bite, every knot of fingers in hair and bruises bloomed in the shape of home.

You didn’t fuck like dom and sub that night . You fucked like people who’d been starving for each other in plain sight — and finally broke the lock.

MASTERLIST

Thank you so much for reading Part 2 of Power Play I rushed this one out early just for @ri4-lovesenha, @raven-unkind & @bambiihee I promised, more sub!Jake 💗 Our sub!Jake and boss x co-worker chaos has officially evolved—now it’s not just a dom/sub dynamic... it’s real romance too💗

I’d love to hear what you thought, so don’t be shy—drop your feedback, scream with me, anything!! P.S. Yes, Part 3 is already in the works… get ready !!! xoxo

© 2025 Lassiie. All rights reserved. No reproduction, distribution, or translation permitted without prior written consent. Protected under international copyright law.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who swapped out your vibrator for a hacked one he controls—so now your orgasms don’t belong to you, they belong to him.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who programmed your vibrator to sync with your webcam activity—so the moment he can enjoy with you.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who has an encrypted file labeled “every time she came” — full of timestamps from every night you touched yourself.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who tracks your cycle and only texts you during ovulation with messages like: “Would you let me breed you if I asked nicely? Or do I need to ruin you for anyone else first?."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t need to. Not when you keep your curtains cracked, and your thighs parted, and your breathing shallow at 1:22 a.m.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets you date other guys—but only so he can hack them, stalk them, and wait until they slip up. Then he sends you the evidence like a love letter. “See? I protect what’s mine.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you masturbate and types “slower” into your open Notes app. And almost cum when you actually listen.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who learned the way your breathing changes before you come and trained his own body to sync to it—until you finish together, apart, every single time.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who knows you touched yourself wearing his hoodie and rewatches the footage every night—hand wrapped tight on his dick, whispering “you filthy little sister.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who buys you lingerie and mails it anonymously to the house—no card, just your size, your taste… and the scent of his cologne already soaked in.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who fucks girls mean when he’s mad at you—gripping too tight, biting too hard, fucking too deep.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets a girl ride him—face blank, screen lit—while your live shower feed plays like his personal porno.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to escape—so he pinned you to the bed, forcing you to watch your crush hacked laptop when he's gaming, as he fucked you hard, growling, "Let him hear how good you sound when you’re mine."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you called a creep—yet now you sit with legs parted in front of your screen, waiting, aching, praying the webcam light will flicker.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you told to stop—yet you started dressing for him. Walking slower in front of his door. Leaving your webcam uncovered. Secretly hoping he couldn’t stop.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who corrupted you so gently, so thoroughly, that now when he types "Be good. Leave the door unlocked tonight," you obey. Without question. Without panties.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to forget—but he replaced your lock screen with a photo of you on your knees, mouth open, eyes glazed—and captioned it: "My good little stepwhore."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who forced you to admit it—fingers buried inside you, voice low and dangerous: "Say it. Say you want to be my dirty little stepsister. Say you like it when I ruin you."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who finally snapped—after weeks of playing nice—dragged you to his room, stripped you down in front of your own hacked camera, and fucked you, whispering, "You belong to me. I’ve owned you since the first time you came here."

Will be out on sunday 15.06 I just know you’re gonna love it... almost as much as you’ll be slightly terrified by it. Because, well, the topic is a teensy bit... let’s say... intrusive.

Reblog, comment, scream into the void—give this post the attention it craves! Be bold. Be nosy. I dare you. 😘

You started to notice the way he lingered when you helped him with his classes. Always a little too close. Breathing a little too shallow.

Eyes flicking to your thighs, boobs, your mouth — quickly, then guiltily when you almost caught him slacking.

You’d wear your softest perfume on purpose. Sweet, honeyed, monoi impossible to ignore in close spaces. 

And Jake? He tried so hard not to breathe you in.

But you saw him. You saw the way his throat worked, the way that sinful Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed you down like a craving. His fingers clenched against his thigh, desperate to be somewhere else every time your shoulders collide. The way his pretty eyes pleaded with you, full of guilt and need.

And that bulge. Oh dear, it looked so fat. Pressing against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, twitching like it had a mind of its own. He was trying so hard to be good. To be polite. And that’s exactly what made you want to break him.

Jake made you curious — hungry. How much would it take? How far could you push until that last fragile piece of restraint snapped inside him?

It became a game for years. A delicious one. You played it filthier with each passing month, even when it felt like you were the one balancing on the edge of his palm.

You made sure he knew you weren’t some innocent girl. When he got home late, you started leaving your bedroom door cracked open just enough for the sound to leak. Those high, broken little moans — fake at first, but later… not.

And then the mirror ? You angled it perfectly. So if he even looked toward your room while walking down the hall, he'd see you.

One night you were on your knees at the foot of the bed, legs spread. His oversized hoodie hanging loose over your hips — not to hide anything, just to tease. Your panties soaked and pushed to the side. Your fingers working fast, fucking yourself. Messy. Sloppy. Your water gushing everywhere.

You didn’t call his name, but you knew he’d hear it anyway. You almost heard him yelp on the other side of the wall — barely muffled, strained. Then moans.

And when your orgasm hit, your walls clenched so tight it hurt, you weren’t touching air anymore. You were clenching around the idea of him.

And you got bolder.

Another time, your curiosity won. It happened at times you'd find yourself lazily walking around the house, entering his room looking around his books and computer, playing his games. Then… You found a file on his laptop — half-hidden in the Bluetooth sharing folder.

A video.

The timestamp? Right down to the hour and day you remembered arching your back and crying into your pillow, a dildo vibrating where it felt the best. You clicked on it. The screen lit up with you. Your body. That same mirror. That same damn dildo. He’d recorded the whole thing.

Poor boy. 

You didn’t delete it. 

You let him keep it.

Because the thought of him doing unspeakable things to that video every night?

It made you wetter than anything.

It really went too far the night you decided to test him. To really test him.

You weren’t even into the guy you invited over that day. This peer from uni was not your type. Too talkative, too flirty, too easy. But he served a purpose. You needed a body. A voice. A laugh. Something for Jake to see until it was two in the morning. And he made sure to always have an eye on you guys, even if he had class that day. You stopped counting the number of time he got out of his room for water and snacks, texted you “you ok ?”, “need something ?”, heard his door opening just to listen to your flirting session.

He saw how you sat close to your guest. Laughed a little too hard. Let your fingers linger when you handed him his glass. Tilted your head when he made a joke. Let him have his hand on your inner thigh. Heard the sound of loud kissing.

And when you walked him to the door, your body angled toward him just enough for Jake to imagine something — anything, you almost burst laughing.

“Text me when you're free” you said, soft but clear, just loud enough.

“Ok princess.” your unwanted guest smiled.

You didn’t even close the door right away. You let it hang open while you adjusted your shirt, as if you’d just been touched.

You felt Jake watching from the stairs.

And the next morning? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at you. Jaw locked. Shoulders stiff. He practically radiated that stormy silence. And you drank it in. You were already wet before the day ended. playing with the friction of your tights at the new idea of an angry Jake, bending you over some desk and fucking you dumb.

That night, he knocked. Not loud, neither confident. Just a soft, almost guilty tap — like he hated himself for even standing there.

“Movie ?” His voice almost cracked, thin and so hesitant. Like he regretted the word the second it left his mouth. You didn’t look up right away — your eyes glued to your notes — but when you did, you offered him a small smile. Soft. Painless.

“Sure.”

And you dressed the part.

Cotton shorts with cute patterns— soft and clingy, short enough they might as well be sin. No bra. Just his hoodie. Oversized, too familiar, the neck too wide, sliding off your shoulder like it belonged there. Like you belonged in his clothes.

You curled beside him on the couch, the way temptation curls around the spine — warm and impossible to ignore. Your thigh brushed his. Close enough for your breath to touch his skin. Close ²enough to burn.

The movie flickered on, but neither of you really watched it, you could bet on it. He was too busy pretending not to want you. not to look at you from the corner of his eyes. And you… you were too busy pretending not to know.

Every time you moved, it was calculated. Subtle.

The lazy stretch of your limbs. The soft roll of your hips when you shift to get "comfortable." The way your hoodie rose and fell, teasing bits of skin like secrets he wasn’t allowed to touch.

And Jake… poor Jake… He was unraveling. Silently. Inch by inch.

You could feel it — the tension in his body each time your skin brushed his. The way his breath caught when your nipple grazed his arm beneath the fabric.

His composure was a dam with cracks spider webbing through it. And you were the water, pressing harder every second.

Then, your voice — low and sugar-sweet — slid into the space between you two like a knife.

“Jake… You don’t want me to bring boys over, huh?”  You tilted your head, blinking up at him with faux innocence.  “You looked pretty mad…”

His jaw tensed. His shoulders twitched. He looked at you like you’d lit a match and tossed it onto his bed.

“I just…”  He swallowed. “I don’t think it’s smart. Some guys… Just want…”

“Want?” you echoed, soft as silk, a dangerous little smirk tugging at your lips. “…To do me?”

The way you said it made him flinch — like the words physically hit him.

You laughed, sweet and syrupy, pretending not to notice how he clenched his fists.

“I wish…” you murmured. “But I don’t think I’m the kind of girl guys want to really fuck, you know?”

You were sure he’d shatter. Right there. He turned to you, and for a second, he looked like something fragile cracking. His eyes searched your face — pained ? reverent ? Almost angry at you for not seeing what you meant to him.

His hand came up, hesitant at first, and gently patted your head, adjusting your hair, like he didn’t know what else to do with the burning inside him.

“That’s not true,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re… you’re gorgeous.”

You didn’t laugh this time. Because suddenly… something about the way he said it felt real. Too real.

And it settled into your stomach like a fire and confusion.

So you stood — a little too fast — pretending it was nothing.

You stretched, arms overhead, the hoodie lifting just enough to reveal the sweet curve where your shorts clung between your thighs. You felt his gaze like heat — devouring. Silently begging.

“Want some popcorn?” Your voice was casual, light. But the silence that followed was not.

You turned to glance back — and there he was, still seated, still staring. His lips parted, breath uneven. His knuckles pale from how tightly he gripped the couch cushion. His eyes were glassy with something halfway between hunger and heartbreak.

He wanted you. So badly it hurted him. And you…

You didn’t know what you wanted. But it was starting to feel like it might be him.

He blinked, like you’d just woken him from a dream. Swallowed. Then nodded — barely.

“…Yeah. Sure…” Jake’s voice was thin and shaky. 

🕛

When you returned, he was sitting on the carpet closer to the screen —but he looked… Rigid. You slid beside him again, close. Pressed in. The look in his eyes disappointed like he expected you to go back to the couch and abandon him on the big fluffy rug.

And at some point, you must’ve fallen asleep. Or pretended to. You weren’t sure when his arm slipped around you too, but it happened somehow.

You only knew you woke up spooned tight against his chest, the glow of the TV flickering counting down on the last two minutes before shutting down. The air was cool, but his body behind you was so hot.

His breath brushed your neck. And then —you felt it.

Hard. Thick. Pressed flush to the curve of your ass. You froze. Not in fear. In calculation. 

The slow grind of his cock against your back was not an accident. Or was he asleep too ? 

No. This wasn’t a sleep twitch… This was rhythm. Friction. 

You stayed still. Barely breathing. He was holding you like he needed to be inside you just to keep breathing. His arm clutched your waist like he thought you might vanish.

And that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that you could hear the noise he made.

A low, strangled groan.

Your name — whispered so faintly, so pathetically — like he was praying.

You bit your lip, hard. Your panties clung to you, soaked from how hot your core had gone. You could feel your own pulse between your legs, fast and desperate. And when you shifted your hips ever so slightly and faintly— to relieve the wetness, nothing more — his mid asleep mind took it as permission.

His hips ground forward. Almost hard. Controlled.

The way his cock dragged between your asscheeks through the fabric had your eyes rolling shut. It was clumsy, hungry, dry humping like he didn’t care what dignity he had left.

The arm pillow under your head shifted, to press against your throat. to cage you. Not choking. Not violent. Just there. To keep you. To claim you.

His body was all over you now.

The humping turned to rutting — fast, erratic. and his grip started to strangle you slightly. He was panting into your hair to your ear almost licking like an animal, his breath sticky and messy, hips chasing release like it hurt to hold it back.

You couldn’t help it, you moaned. Quiet. Barely there. But enough.

And he froze. Just for a second.

But you didn’t move. Didn’t open your eyes. You let him think you were still asleep. And just like that— 

He started again.

Rougher now. Curious, or gone crazy. Because he lifted your thigh over his leg like he wanted you open, more accessible, more his. 

his hand ended up cupping your pussy and you almost wine at him fiding you’re wet as fuck. “Holly sh…” he whisper.

He ground into your ass like he was fucking you through his short, like he was losing his mind just from the feeling of your body under him. His mouth brushed your neck, and you heard your name again.

Muttered. Broken. Like a secret. Like a prayer. Like a sin.

And still, you didn’t stop him. You let him use you. Let him melt against you. Let him rut like a dog in heat.

Because you knew what came next. He was already ruined. And this was just the beginning.

🕜

You don’t open your eyes until the room is quiet. Until his breathing slows.

Until the soft pad of his footsteps retreats across the carpet, shaky and shameful.

He leaves you there — half-dressed, flushed, wrecked — with a blanket tucked around your body like penance. As if warmth could erase what he did. As if the trembling in your thighs wasn’t already permanent. As if you didn’t feel every hot, ragged grind of his cock rutting through his shorts like he was trying to breed you in his sleep.

And the kiss. God, that stupid trembling kiss. Soft. Barely there.

Pressed to your forehead like an apology. Like he knew he crossed a line but couldn’t help himself. And the whisper, hoarse and frantic:

“’m sorry… ‘m sorry… I didn’t mean to. I swear, I just—fuck, I’m sorry.”

As if that made him better than what he really was. As if that erased how soaked your panties were from the way he used you. You wait. Wait for the creak of the stairs. Wait for the soft click of his door.

And then — you move.

Your body curls in on itself like it’s starving. You’re fucking shaking. Your hand dives straight between your thighs, fingers pressing through the soaked cotton, trembling.

It’s so, so, so wet. Disgustingly wet. The fabric sticks to your folds like glue, like your cunt wanted to keep his shape. You bite down on the throw pillow, knuckles white, grinding against your hand like it might make you feel whole again. But it won’t. Not really.

Because he touched you. Because he left you. Because he thinks you slept through the way he rutted against you like a feral fucking animal, like you didn’t feel every ragged thrust of his hips desperate to paint you with cum, guilt and heat.

He thinks you didn’t know. Didn’t felt it. Didn’t want it.

But you did. You let it happen. You fucking invited it.

And now?

He’s upstairs, hiding upstairs like he didn’t just violate every boundary between you, fucking his mattress to the memory of you, into the same fucking shorts he creamed earlier.

Because he can’t help it. Because you’re in his blood now.

You giggle. It’s breathy, drunk, delirious — because it’s true.

He’s the one ruined. He’s the one haunted.

He came so hard trying not to wake you — and now he can’t stop imagining it. 

And you… What about you ?

You climb the stairs slowly. Steady. Dripping.

You were headed to your own room. You really were. But then you hear it. The soft creak of his mattress.

That familiar, low grunt — choked and desperate, barely audible but so damn needy.

You pause. Bare feet planted on the hallway carpet. Heart pounding. Your body buzzes, strung tight as wire. You move closer. Silent. Curious.

Then you hear it. Really hear it.

The unmistakable slap of skin on skin. The low wet rhythm of his hand fisting his cock in the dark, probably red and raw from how many times he’s edged himself on your name.

And underneath? That tiny, cursed sound.

That video.

The one he shouldn’t have. The one you let him keep.

The one of you — legs spread, mouth open, giggling as you played with yourself just for him that one night, not knowing he hit record.

You never mentioned it. You never stopped him. Because deep down, you wanted him to keep it.

To ruin himself with it. Over and over and over.

But you’re just as pathetic. Your fingers are between your legs again before you even register it. The cotton is useless now. Sopping. You slide past it like it’s not even there, middle finger sinking into heat, other hand flat on his door as you grind your hips into your palm.

Then you hear it — your name. Again. Again. And again. He is obsessed for sure. He sob. Choked out like a fucking prayer as the mattress groans under him.

“Fuck, I need you—I need to be inside that fucking—fuck, please—let me fill you, let me breed you, I’ll give you everything, just—please— please—”

You moan against his door, the sound of it mixing with the video, forehead pressed to the wood, thighs clenched around your own wrist. Your cunt clenches hard around your fingers, and you feel it start to build — fast, brutal, like you’ve been edging since he left you in the living room.

And still he goes on — pathetic little noises, bed frame creaking, the wet slap of his fist around his wet cock echoing through the door.

On the other side of the door. His face is flushed. His glasses crooked and hair plastered to his forehead. Jaw tight. Shirt rolled-up in his mouth, abs twitching. The thick head of his cock leaking down his wrist as he fucks into his hand like it’s you — his other hand still wet from where he cupped you, fingers slick with your essence, and the way he brings it to his mouth — then tasting you, like he can’t get enough, savoring the remnants of you on his skin. The same shorts he ruined earlier — still damp, pushed down just enough for him to get his dick out.

He’s fucking filthy. He’s yours. Your filthy Jake.

Your orgasm hits — sharp, dirty, brutal.

You clamp your mouth shut, panting silent against the doorframe as your whole body trembles, bending on your tiptoes, fingers twitching deep inside, cunt pulsing so hard it aches.

And still — he doesn’t know.

You sink to your knees, ruined, wet, wrecked, gasping against the wood. Just in time to hear him fall apart. The gasp. The cry. The broken sob of your name as he cums for the second time tonight.  And you can hear it. The wet slap of it coating his hand, the hiss through his teeth as he tries not to scream.

You smile.

The next week felt like punishment. On the very next day you wake up to your dad and wife coming back home. Your dad pesters you for not going to your mom’s like they planned.

He keeps treating you like a kid even if you’re now 22. You hear him talk like you’re 5. You get along with him and leave the same day with him to join your mom’s family for their trip. where nothing felt like yours, with two loud and intrusive big brothers : Jay and Heeseung, not even a third as kind as Jake. You spent most days fantasizing about getting back to your father’s house. The silence. The chill in the air. The presence of that needy Jake. 

You booked an earlier flight back the moment you realized the date: his birthday !

You knew he’d be at Sunghoon’s place — the infamous party, the rowdy crowd, his loud-ass friends. You thought about showing up, joining the cheers, maybe giving him a gift. But instead, you went home first.

You wanted to look good. No — you wanted to look like a tentation. And when you showed up, fashionably late, hair curled into a sharp ponytail, lips glazed, your little black dress hugging you like it knew every secret Jake ever fantasized about — you found him.

On the stairs. Outside his own party.

Drunk. Gloriously fucked up. Head in his hands, murmuring to himself like the air had answers. When he looked up and saw you, his eyes locked like he couldn’t believe you were real. That you’d shown up for him. That you looked like that.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, standing on shaky legs and staggering toward you like you were gravity and he was finally done resisting. He hugged you, his arms slipping around your waist like they had every right. His mouth found your neck under the guise of a greeting, inhaling you like perfume could get him high. His fingers slid a little too far down your bare back.

You stepped away, pulse thrumming.

“Jake… are you okay?”

He blinked, all glassy-eyed and helpless. “You came,” his voice was thick with liquor and longing. “Fuck, I missed you. I missed your smell. Missed you everywhere.”

You didn’t have time to answer before a car pulled up. Sunghoon stepped out, smiling politely, playing the good host. He explained the mess Jake had made — got too drunk waiting for you, tried to get home alone, and ended up just sitting out here like a sad hot mess. You thanked him, brushed off his offer for a ride, your cab was still waiting.

Sunghoon helped Jake into the back seat. And the second that door shut, chaos took root.

Jake slumped into you, lips grazing your collarbone, breath hot and sloppy. His hand found your thigh, fingers pressing in slow, lazy circles like your skin was his drug. You flinched when he crept too high, but he didn’t stop — not until you caught his wrist.

“You ok ? Jake ?” 

He blabber incoherently, but you understand the most : he is so happy you made it, he’s so happy you’re here with him, he wished you didn’t get back to your mom, how lonely he was. How your scent started to not linger anywhere. His eyes are begging but not like any other day. You stop his hand halfway to your panty, again, while trying to keep composure. Lucky you, it was peach night, all the car's lights were down and you’re sitting behind the driver.

You now understand why Jake refuses to drink. It makes his real persona oblivious.

You feel his head tilt from your shoulder to your neck making you weak, extending his tongue  trying to catch a limp of your taste while murmuring excuses and plea. Even drunk he knows how to turn you on. 

By the time you got home, he was practically glued to your back. You had a cake box in one hand and one very needy Jake humping your ass like it was his emotional support animal. You shoved him onto the couch, frustrated and flustered, his name already a warning on your tongue.

“Jake,” you snapped. “You reek. Go shower.”

He groaned.

“Jake…”

He sat up finally—

And then, with zero hesitation — yanked you down onto him. His thigh pressed up between your legs. His hands gripped your hips like handles. His lips? All over you. Jaw. Ear. Neck. One kiss after another, slurred and sensual.

Then pulled you under him with no force left in your body to resist. But he’s such a kiddo right now you can help but not to take him too seriously.

The couch gave way as his weight pinned you, his thigh pressing exactly where it shouldn’t. His breath hot on your cheek, smell of liquor, his mouth leaving soft, open kisses down your jaw.

“I wished you’d wear… that purple lace,” he breathed, almost begging for it. “I came…” kiss “...so hard in those.” kiss “I- I Didn’t mean to. Wanted to give them back” kiss. “But… I kept sniffing them. And I— fuck, I’m so sorry.” kiss.

His tongue flicked your earlobe and your hips arched before you could stop.

“Hey kiddo—”

“I’ll buy you new ones.” kiss. “The exact same.” kiss. “I'll buy you ivory ones.”  kiss. “Just let me see them on you.” kiss “Please. I’ll be good.” kiss “I’ll— I’ll clean up.”

You shoved him off you with more effort than expected and dragged him down the hall toward the bathroom, him still pawing at your hips, nuzzling your chest like a cat in heat.

The second the cold water hit him, he screamed like the devil himself got baptized.

You laughed — hard, doubling over.

You burst out laughing for a while. While his expression got lost in his wet hair, he was silent. soaked in his cloth, his sexy hand suddenly backing up his hair. And then you saw his dark expression—he grinned. He hit the button. The shower switched to rain mode — and your clothes were soaked in seconds. Water clung to your skin like hands. His chest pressed to yours in seconds.

The world stilled for a second when your eyes locked. He stares at your lips like they were scripture. Like one kiss could save him from damnation. And when he leans in—

You step back.

His lips hovered in the air, helpless, lost. Your smile was too sweet to reject him. Too knowing. you murmure against his ear under the loud sound of falling water. 

“Get your shit together. Wash up. Then come eat your cake.”

Your fingers slid beneath your dress, His eyes dropped instantly. When your hand reappeared, you were holding your purple lace panties — the exact pair he stole. The ones he came in. The ones you let him keep.

His lips trembled.

But you said nothing else. He understood your message. You turned, wrung out your hair, And without a word, you walked away. Peeled your drees off, Leaving a trail of wet footprints and temptation so thick he couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t look back. Just unzipped the dress, let it fall. Bare ass, bare back. Nothing.

And you lived with a smile. Jake adored this. No, he worshipped you.

That’s why he stayed in that shower, panting, fists clenched, cock throbbing, brain screaming. Because backing off when you said no? That was pure respect. But watching you walk away like a siren wrapped in silk and defiance, and do nothing ?

That was torture.

The cold water didn’t sober him. You did. It vanished the second you pulled away from his kiss. That one step back — it slapped clarity into his brain harder than any ice bucket ever could. And as he watched you leave, he finally realized:

You gave him a show. You knew. You fucking knew. And the worst part ? You wanted him to know that you were aware of his behavior. As if you liked it.

You weren’t his sister. Not really “family”. You were his. And he was done pretending. 

That's what he kept thinking while showering.

That he’d follow you to the edge of reason. Crawl through every of your rules to get to you. Fuck his reputation. Fuck his guilt. Fuck the whisper of wrong in the back of his skull.

He didn’t want to protect you anymore. Now he wanted to pin you down. He wanted to fuck you against the kitchen island until you cried. He wanted to ruin you.

And when he did?

You’d thank him. Because you’d been begging for it too, all along.

Once showered and dressed in warm, cozy clothes, Jake made his way down the stairs. But he stopped halfway. Froze.

You.

You were in the kitchen — bathed in the dim golden glow of the pendant lights — wearing that ivory tank top that barely clung to your chest, nipples brushing against the fabric, teasing shadows, and that long cotton skirt hugging your hips like it was made to be pulled up. You were slicing cake on the kitchen island, licking a thick ribbon of cream off your fingertip like you didn’t know he was watching. Or maybe you did. God, maybe you always did.

Jake watched you like he’d never seen a woman before.

Like he’d never seen you before, not like this.

Every flick of your wrist, every sway of your hips, the little twitch of your tongue tasting frosting—it was a fucking performance. For him.

And when he realized that, really realized it, it hit him like a goddamn wrecking ball.

He liked watching you.

No—he loved it.

Loved how brushing your teeth could turn him hard. How folding laundry made his mouth dry. How watching you apply lotion had once made him jerk off so violently he had to lie down after. It broke something in him. Snapped it in two and rewired it all wrong.

Hours of porn? Worthless. Cam girls? Useless.

You—doing absolutely nothing—had become his favorite fucking show. And he was the most devoted, depraved audience.

And those pajamas you’re wearing now ? He remembered them.

The first night you moved in. Your hair was shorter, your eyes wide, your smile unsure.

You wandered that big duplex like a lost lamb, bumping into corners, unsure of where to go. You’d smiled at him when you got turned around, laughing at yourself.

Jake had probably fallen for you right then. That simple, soft moment where you looked just as displaced and unclaimed as he always felt.

He told himself he’d be good to you from that day on. He recognized something in you. A mirror. Two kids shuffled from house to house, two pieces of pretty furniture passed down and placed where others decided.

But you were walking into his cage. Not the other way around. And God, he wanted to decorate it for you. Make it soft. Make it warm. Make you stay.

So Jake vowed—he'd make you feel safe, even if it meant pretending. Pretending to suck at school. Pretending he needed help picking out new sheets just to buy the softest, girliest ones for your bed. Pretending to be sick so you'd spend the day with him on the couch. Pretending he didn’t know how to cook, just to watch you make pancakes in your pajamas.

He wanted you from the first second. You healed him in ways.

And in others, you broke him wide open. Made him into a pervert. A voyeur. A stealer.

He knew the moment he started skipping outings, leaving parties early, racing home just to catch the scent of you in the hallway. That faint trace of perfume clung to everything you touched — the couch cushions, his hoodie, the sheets. You smelled like a fucking sin. And smiled like temptation wrapped in faux innocence.

He tried convincing himself you were just being polite tho. That you were older. Uninterested. That you saw him as this shy, harmless boy who needed help with coursework and still blushed too easily.

That you didn’t know what you were doing to him. But you actually did… Wow. Not everything sure, but still…

Did you know ? That in private, he did very real things. He’d pick up the panties you “forgot” with shaking hands every time. Always lacy. Most times he resisted. Actually, he didn’t. No, he pressed them to his face and breathed in your scent like it was oxygen. Fisted his cock so hard on them to the thought of you bending over his bed, he distorted them a bit.

And you never said a word. You just kept smiling. Kept laughing at his dumb jokes. Kept running your fingers through his hair while letting him lay his head in your lap, until his brain went quiet.

You called him “kiddo” in that soft, mocking tone that made him want to shove you down and make you choke on him until you forgot that word.

There wasn't a single place in this house he hadn’t imagined ruining you on. The sofa. The kitchen island. Wanted to fuck you breathless in the hallway without caring who walked in. Bent you over the balcony railing, your thighs trembling, your voice wrecked. Raw in your room. His cum leaking from your pussy like it belonged there in the bathroom.

He imagined gaming with you riding him, headset slipping off while he whispered filth. He pictured you sitting on his face, shocking him silent with how good you tasted.

Fuck, he wanted you now.

His body moved before his mind did. Down the stairs, across the room — straight to you. You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes must have said everything, because you froze.

But it was Jake. And Jake was your sweet boy.

He didn’t jump you, he dropped to his knees. Wrapped his arms around your waist like a lifeline and buried his face in your stomach.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you murmured, shivering at the feel of his lips.

He tilted his head up, puppy-eyed, and pressed soft, slow kisses to your belly, licking where your skin was bare.

He smiled at your reaction.

"...Making you feel good..." he mumbled, voice thick with want.

The shift in him — from predator to worshipper — scratched something deep in your brain. The submission in his voice sent heat racing down your spine.

You laughed, trying to stay grounded. "Get up. Let’s eat your cake. It’s still your birthday.”

But Jake didn’t move. He tightened his hold.

“What about my gift?”

You blinked at him, half amused, half breathless. The look on his face wasn’t as childish as his attitude —it was dark, intense, almost dangerous in how calm he was about wanting you.

"What do you want?" you asked, voice soft, laced with heat.

He didn’t answer.

He moved. Slid between your thighs. Pressed his face into the soft spot between them. Rubbed himself against your heat like an animal, breathing so heavy you could feel it through the layer of your skirt and panty. His grip hurted, but you loved it. Because he was unraveling.

He moaned your name into your thigh.

“Jake—” you gasped as his grip bruised into your skin, desperate, clumsy and intoxicating.

He was trembling. Hard. Leaking through his pants. You shoved him back gently, but not far. Just enough to meet his eyes.

"You have to tell me what you want for your birthday," you said, tone suddenly sultry, dominant.

Jake’s hands slid under your skirt, gliding up your calves, slow and reverent. He stopped just before your thighs, as if asking for permission with his touch.

“Please,” he moaned. “Please let me have you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want me to. I swear—”

God. You loved when he begged. So you lifted his flushed face with your knee.

“If I let you have me,” you whispered, “what are you gonna do to me?”

He whimpered your name like it hurt. One hand slid up to grab your panties and the hem of your skirt in one fist.

“I wanna eat you,” he said, kissing your thigh. “Wanna fuck you on this island until you scream, and beg.”

you hum.

“Wanna fucking lick that pussy until your legs give out.

Wanna watch you fall apart, over and over, on my cock until you forget how to walk.”

Wanna fill you so deep you feel me for days.

“I want this pussy. I want it to take my shape,” he said, voice wrecked. “And ache for my cock whenever I’m gone.”

His words burned.

You climbed onto the kitchen island, spreading your legs like you were displaying for him.

“Fuck, Jake, do it,” you exalted. “Happy twenty-one…”

He slid your skirt up so freaking fast, smirking. Kissed the inside of your thigh like it was his last meal. When his tongue finally touched your soaked lace, he groaned like he’d been starved.

“You taste like… fuck— there’s nothing like it,” he muttered, already pulling the lacy fabric in his mouth. His tongue felt thick and ungraceful, so messy, licking like he was trying to consume you, not please you.

He groaned against your folds, loud and vulgar, smiling like he’d found the secret to life in the taste of you.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re even sweeter than I imagined,” he breathed, dragging his tongue up your slit again, messy and deep, slurping you into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough.

And then, he ripped your panties.

Didn’t even slide them off — just grabbed the damp lace and tore it with a grunt, like it offended him to be kept away from what he wanted.

You gasped, jolting when his tongue returned to your clit with zero control, his lips and chin glistening, sloppy, aggressive — but hungry, so hungry it made your stomach twist.

“Hold still,” he muttered, though he was the one moving like a man possessed, hands fumbling on your hips, trying to anchor you and explore you at the same time.

He was learning your body with every stroke of his tongue, every misstep that made you twitch, every accidental graze of teeth that made you jolt and whimper. But the more you reacted, the crazier he got. Each sound you made made his cock throb in his sweats. He kept going, like he was chasing your high just to see what it would do to you.

“C’mon, let me—fuck—let me hear it,” he groaned, pressing his tongue flat against your clit, sucking harshly, noisily, spit mixing with slick, until you couldn’t help the moan that spilled from your lips.

Your back arched hard. Too hard. The pain bloomed in your spine but you didn’t care. Not when he was doing this — devouring you like you were his first and last, one hand splayed against your belly to keep you down as your thighs began to tremble.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered into you. “The way you move—like you’re gonna break. I’m gonna break you, yeah ?”

You whimpered, shaking more, lost — too far gone to process the feral glint in his eyes.

He was memorizing every twitch of your body. Every flutter of your lashes. Every ragged inhale. Your pleasure became his experiment — and he was failing, adjusting, trying again, obsessed with getting it just right, obsessed with watching you crumble.

“You feel everything, don’t you?” he murmured, dragging his tongue down, then up again in a filthy line. “You’re so fucking sensitive. Look at how your hips move, how your legs shake—”

He pushed two fingers into you without warning, a little too rough, but your body swallowed him so eagerly that his jaw dropped.

“Oh god —fuck. You’re so tight, so warm—God, you’re—” he couldn’t finish.

Because you cried out. Because your head fell back. Because your mouth formed his name like a prayer and your thighs clenched around his head.

And it broke him.

His cock bounced, twitching uncontrollably in his pants, and he let out a pained moan, as if the sight of you like that — undone because of him — hurt more than it healed.

“Say it again,” he gasped, fingers now curling just right inside you. “Say my name like that.”

He was trembling. Worshipping. Grinding his hard length on air like a dog in heat, like he couldn’t stop himself. His mouth returned to your clit with vengeance, tongue swirling, sucking, licking—too rough, too clumsy, but desperate.

Your entire body was spasming now. Jolting. His nose bumped against your folds, fingers curling deep, knuckles wet, palm slick as he fucked you with his hand and his mouth at once.

It was too much. And he was watching. Eyes locked on you, wide and greedy, like he was filming the entire thing in his mind.

Then, in a shaky whisper, he asked:

“Can I really do anything to you?”

The words came soft, begging— but beneath them was a dark edge, a simmering madness just barely caged.

You didn’t hear it. Or maybe you were too far gone to understand it.

Because your mouth fell open, your mind blank, every nerve shredded and sparking as your orgasm built in a violent wave.

“Y-yeah, JAKE, JAKE, JAKE !!” you breathe out, barely coherent, nodding so frenetically it’s almost pitiful.

Jake doesn't wait.

Like a switch has flipped, he slips out from between your legs and props himself beside you on the kitchen island, his thigh brushing yours, one arm braced over your head against the cabinets. He stares down at your soaked center with eyes wide, dazed, reverent—and then he shoves his fingers into you. Hard. Deep.

You jolt so violently your back slams against the cupboards.

The squelch is immediate, obscene, echoing like wet slaps in the wide silence of the room—and so loud it drowns your breathless cries.

“Please—please say it again—say my name. I wanna see your eyes roll. Wanna see you fucking cry. Wanna ruin you so good you forget your own name.”

“Jake—!” you choke, your hands scrambling for purchase—his arm, his shirt, anything—before your fingers end up clawing at the collar of his tee, yanking him closer until your foreheads collide. He’s flushed, trembling, his mouth parted and panting as he watches the way your body thrashes against his hand.

And then he does it harder.

His palm starts slapping your clit on every drive, a sloppy wet percussion that sends you screaming through gritted teeth. He’s moaning with you now, completely enthralled, forehead against yours, sweat sticking between your skins. He’s watching every twitch of your mouth, every tear in your lashes, like you’re his goddamn religion.

“Y-yes, yes—fuck, don’t stop! Jake !” you beg, voice breaking as your hips roll helplessly against the rhythm.

“You’re mine,” he whispered in your ear. And your eyes plead for a kiss—anything to ground you—but Jake is gone. Lost in the ruin he's causing.

It’s only when you sob his name again, needy—“Jake—” a shattered sound— that he seems to come back to himself. He crashes his mouth into yours like a man who’s about to die without it. The kiss is messy, desperate, teeth clashing and tongues tangled, like he’s memorizing how you taste before he’s allowed to devour you again.

And you come.

So violently the island creaks under you. So fast it blinds you.

Your body convulses around his hand and he holds you through it like he’s proud of breaking you. Like he’ll never get enough of it.

He pulls back to look at the mess on his fingers, his lips parted in awe, and then—moaning—he licks them clean, slow and trembling, savoring you like something holy.

“I swear,” he rasps, “I could eat nothing else for the rest of my life.”

His cock is leaking now leaving a patch of wetness, pushing hard against his waistband like it’s about to burst. And his restraint ? Gone.

Jake scoops you up in his arms, bridal style, despite how unsteady he is—lips dragging kisses on your throat, cheek, temple as he carries you into his room.

The second you hit the mattress, he’s on you.

He undresses you in between wet kisses—pulling at your clothes like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting his whole life for. His hands are shaking. His teeth nip. He murmurs how pretty you are. How perfect. How soft.

Your panties? Gone.

“ That’s mine,” he whispered under his breath, fingers slipping through your folds again, already obsessed with how wet you still are. “Fuck…”

Then he undresses, cock springing out—thick and flushed and leaking so much it shines. Not too long, but wide. Thick enough that your thighs tense up on instinct. It twitches as he catches you staring.

“You okay?” he asks—but he’s already pushing your thighs apart, not waiting. Not anymore.

He lines up and slides in too fast—only halfway—and you cry out, back arching with a jolt.

“Too much?” he gasps—but his hips twitch forward another inch like he can’t stop himself. “You’re squeezing so tight—shit—it’s like your cunt doesn’t wanna let go—”

You’re trembling under him, moaning through your teeth, barely able to breathe around the stretch.

Jake looks like he’s losing it—jaw clenched, eyes glassy, watching every twitch of your mouth like he’s chasing the moment you break.

“I—can’t move yet,” he grits. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You nod weakly, adjusting your hips—but it’s too slow for him. He shifts, trying to pull back, but your body sucks him in deeper. His knees buckle.

“Fuck. Fuck. I’m gonna…”

When you finally push him to lie back and straddle him—easing yourself down inch by fat inch—his head falls back with a groan so loud it shakes your chest.

“God, yes—ride me, ride me. Take it—please—I’ll be good—just move—just fuckin’ move on me—”

You grind down slow, gasping every time the stretch hits a new edge, your gummy walls gripping him like fire. And Jake? He watches with wide, disbelieving eyes, like he’s never going to recover from this. Trying to touch every patch of skin he can touch.

He doesn’t last long.

By the time you start bouncing, it’s over for him—his hands gripping your hips too tight, his head dragging against your chest, hips punching up into yours like he’s trying to leave a mark inside you. He moans your name again and again, like a curse.

He finishes inside you, painting you with the thickest load you ever felt. He barely pauses before flipping you onto your back in front of him, and lining up again.

You try to speak—protest, tease, something—but then he’s thrusting back in raw, and your body seizes under him with a high scream.

“Oh my god—Jake—”

His cum is still slicking your walls. He groans, watching the mess.

“You’re gonna take it all,” he moans, fucking deeper, slower. “Gonna keep it warm for me—let me fill you again.”

He keeps going—harder, deeper, wetter. His rhythm is messy, almost frantic. He’s not careful anymore. He’s not pretending. He grabs your hips like handles and slams in, again, again, again—

“Want this pussy loose from my cock,” he groans. “Want it to miss me—want it dripping so bad it calls for me in the middle of the night—”

You scream his name again, legs kicking as the next orgasm builds too fast. He watches you come undone with wild, manic pride—like every second of your pleasure feeds something dark and bottomless in him.

It's too freaking fast for you, but it’s too good to stop.

When he pulls out, his cum drips from your stretched, fluttering hole, and Jake stares like he’s been hypnotized.

“…It’s perfect,” he whispers.

He dips down. Licks your lips clean. Moaning, tasting himself on your cunt like he’s tasted salvation. You suddenly feel his fingers scissoring you just to measure the new gape he created. “Fuck, I hope it stay like that… Mine only.”

You chuckle, regaining a stable breath. And when you think he might be done, might finally let you breathe, he climbs back over you again. Cocks already twitching back to life.

“You said I could do anything I wanted, Yeah ?” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You nod with questioning eyes—still dazed, spent—and Jake smiles.

That smile? It’s not shy anymore. It’s hungry and deeply perverted.

Your body’s still trembling when Jake pulls you up by the hips, flipping you like a ragdoll. You barely have time to whimper before he yanks your ass up, knees under you, back arched high—exposed, dripping, ruined—and so perfect for him.

He grabs your ass with both hands, spreading you wide. His cock, still wet from the last round, nudges your slit again.

“Fucking look at this,” he breathes, voice shaking. “God—you’re still gaping. I can see where I came in you. You’re still so open waiting for me.”

Jake’s fingers tighten around your hips, he’s yanking you upright by the arm—his other arm circling under your chest, palming your breasts like they’re sacred and obscene all at once. Then he trusts again, slow but brutal, every fat inch meeting with your convulsing gummy wall.

“Look,” he pants into your neck, breath scalding, hips still twitching. “Look at how full you are—fuck, you’re dripping, it’s leaking down your thighs, and it’s still warm in—” He groans, not even finishing the thought as he runs his fingers down to catch it, spreading the slick mess over your lower stomach before pressing it back into your folds like he can’t stand to waste a drop. “You were made to be full like this.”

He thrusts his hips forward once—just to feel the bulge press against your stretch again—and exhales something close to a sob.

“I want to keep you like this. Plugged.”

You barely catch your breath before he shifts again, guiding you back to all fours, but not letting go of your breast, tweaking the sensitive peak as your spine arches.

“Want to stretch you wider, ok ? ‘m gonna push deeper than last time. Make it stick.”

He presses into you again—slower this time, but deeper—and you feel every fat inch of him slide back inside, your walls fluttering around him in overstimulated spasms.

He groans loud, needy. “So fucking warm. So tight. You’re perfect. You know ? You were made for me— You take it so good— I could die.”

You whimper into the mattress, already unraveling.

“I’ll ruin this cunt until it remembers me,” he growls, losing himself in the thrust. “Every time you sit.” He goes harder, “Every time you walk.” Again, “You’ll feel me.”

He thrusts hard—brutal and fast now—slapping into you with the force of a fevered obsession. His hand claws at your hip, pulling you back into him like he can’t bear even a millisecond of distance.

“Tell me I can fill you again,” he begs, voice cracking. “T-tell me you want it—fuck—tell me I can keep going until there’s nothing left.”

“Jake—” You gasp, trying to push up on shaky arms, but he shoves you back down, pressing between your shoulder blades with possessive weight.

“Say it,” he groans. “Please, say I can wreck you. That you want it.”

“I—” your voice breaks as he hits a spot next to your cervix, so deep your toes curl. “Yes! Fuck, yes, Jake—don’t stop—!”

He loses it. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your waist so hard it bruise. He pounds into you, groaning curses and sweet nothings between breathless cries of your name, like he’s chanting a prayer.

“God, I’ve thought about this—fucking obsessed. Couldn’t sleep. Had to jerk off just thinking about this ass bouncing on me, this pussy milking me dry. You don’t know what you do to me—what you make me into.”

Every thrust feels like a claim. Every sound he rips from your throat is one more piece of you handed over. You thought he was prey—but he’s devouring you. He’s been playing the long game. And now that he’s got you?

He’s never letting go.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, voice splintering with madness, like it’s the only truth keeping him tethered. “Tell me you’ll take it all again. I’ll pump you so full you’ll forget your name—only know mine. Tell me.”

“Jake—”

He snarls, hips slamming into you with dizzying rhythm, cock hitting a spot so deep your vision spots. “Tell me you want me to fill you until this tight little cunt can’t forget me. Until it stays open for me. Until no one else can even fit.”

Your whole body spasms. You reach back, fingers blindly digging into his hip, trying to hold onto something.

“I love it,” you cry out, head lolling back. “I love what you’re doing—I love you ruining me—Jake—fuck, I love it—!”

You feel him twitch inside, feel the moment he breaks again—spilling inside you like it’s the only thing he was ever meant to do. He stays buried deep, shaking, moaning, pressing his hips against you with frantic desperation still spilling the remaining seeds, like he wants to seal it inside.

He collapses forward, chest against your back, kissing your neck like a sinner desperate for mercy.

And then, softly—shattered and breathless—he begs again: 

“You love it ?”

Your voice is wrecked, but you find it. “I-I love it, good boy— I love what you do to me.”

He exhales, trembling, and chuckling darkly into your skin. “Then I’m never stopping.”

And you believe him. Because you’re not the one holding the leash anymore. You never were probably. You just didn’t know how good it would feel to be the one hunted.

Your eyes flutter open to the soft drag of warm fabric between your thighs.

He’s there.

You blink the haze from your eyes, watching through half-lidded lashes as Jake crouches at the edge of the bed, his face pink and still damp, hair sticking to his forehead, shirtless, the early haze of dawn casting soft shadows on his skin. He’s focused, wiping you clean with shaking hands and too much gentleness for someone who left you gasping and broken just hours ago. Every inch of your body aches in places you didn't know could feel pleasure, And he’s biting his lip—focused, like touching you now requires permission.

You stir, but he doesn’t flinch. Just looks up at you slowly. His eyes are red-rimmed but not tired. They're quiet. Obsessively quiet. Like he’s holding himself back from crawling up and kissing every bruise he left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I—I went too far. I got lost. I couldn’t stop. You were so—” He breaks off, clenching the cloth in his fist. “I need you to know I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blink. Not because you’re afraid. But because something in you knew. Deep down, you wanted to provoke this side of him. But still… you didn’t expect it to be so uncontainable.

So overwhelming.

So real.

“I’m okay, Jake” you say softly. He lets out a breath like it’s the first air he's had all morning. You reach for him—touch his jaw gently. He leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

“You ruined me,” he mumbles, kissing your hand slowly, voice low and trembling. “You don’t even know it. I can't think straight anymore. Can’t stop needing to make you feel everything I feel.”

Suddenly, you pull yourself up, trying not to look too exhausted. Your feet now set themselves on his thighs. Seeing him in this position, kneeling under you makes you exalted.

His Head bowed, hands folded in his lap, waiting. The silence is electric. His breath stutters, when your legs slowly part just enough for his eyes to drift upward.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, voice steady, even if you’re burning on the inside.

His eyes close for a second like it physically hurts to contain it. He nods with shame.

“Y-you know I do. P-please. I’ll do anything. You—you can hurt me, use me, ignore me—I don’t care. Just don’t make me stop loving you like this.”

Something in you softens and sharpens all at once.

You grip his jaw tighter. “Then show me what that looks like when I’m the one in control.”

He hesitated a bit. Then kneels his head on the floor—beautiful, trembling. You let him simmer for some minutes, then, you tilt his chin up, slowly, watching the way his eyes glaze the second you touch him. “If you want me,” you say quietly, “you’ll have me. But only on my terms. You’ll kneel like this. You’ll ask for everything. You’ll learn to wait.”

His breath catches. His hands dig into his thighs, and his gaze—still glassy—locks on yours with desperate intensity.

“And if I say no?” you ask, teasingly.

He leans forward without thinking, resting his cheek on your thigh, voice small and broken:

“Then I’ll wait until you say yes. Even if it kills me.”

Your fingers thread through his hair, stroking him, calming him—but also owning him. His eyes flutter shut, his breath syncing with yours, his whole body melting into that position like it’s where he was always meant to be.

You smile.

He doesn’t know it yet—but you’re going to let him have you again. You want him too.

But next time ? You’ll tame him just enough to remind him who he belongs to.

And if he snaps? God, you almost hope he does.

Because nothing has ever felt more like home than the arms of the beast who chose to kneel.

Thank you so much for reading, love🖤

Would you believe this is my first time posting? My drafts folder is basically a den of sins at this point but this idea wouldn’t leave me alone. And with the Enha comeback hitting like a fever dream, I finally gave in and said, “Fuck it—let’s give them something to crave.”

What was supposed to be a filthy little one-shot spiraled into something bigger (don’t we love when that happens?). So I split it into three parts—because each boy deserves his own twisted spotlight:

HUNTED — Jake TRAPPED — Heeseung CHAINED — Sunghoon

This is me fully unhinged, no plot, just need—so if you liked it... don’t lurk in silence. Talk to me. Reblog, comment, scream in my inbox I want to hear you. Your pleasure is mine!!!!

MASTERLIST

© 2025 Lassiie. All rights reserved. No reproduction, distribution, or translation permitted without prior written consent. Protected under international copyright law.