#Sim Jake | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kbunzzi2oa · 1 day ago

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Thread of the beast - S.J

Synopsis -__-> Jake Sim a golden boy, a man who had many flaws and troubles. A man who had you on your knees for a second of him speaking with that deep warm Australian voice. Well of course it did make your knees buckle when it wasn't supposed to.

Contains -__-> slow burn, suggestive, mentions of murder, mentions of sex, fingering, masterbation (f.receving), unprotected sex, slow burn, hard tension ect.

Word count -__-> 20.831k

NEF NOTES -__-> finally posted ladies and gentlemen, I had fun writing Jake's part, I think I might post sunghoons part later..but yeah hope yall enjoy this! As always likes, reblogs or a comment is enought if you want to be tagged be sure to tell me in the comments!! Sending kisses!

Prisoner 32. Sim Jaeyun.

Nationality: Australian.

Sentence: Life without parole.

Convictions: Six confirmed murders. Possibly more.

Modus operandi: Claws—metallic, custom-modified, always retrieved post-crime.

Psychological classification: Unstable. Manipulative. Highly intelligent.

You closed the file slowly.

You knew his kind.

But after what happened with Jungwon… it wasn’t the diagnosis that made your skin crawl—it was how familiar the danger had begun to feel. It was like a fever, crawling under your skin. And something in your gut whispered again that you liked it.

That terrified you most.

You inhaled sharply and grabbed your tablet, walking briskly through the linoleum halls of Sector 6. The guards didn’t question you—they knew your face by now. Doctor Y/N, young but not fragile, clinical but not cold. The one who had been too close to Prisoner 09—Jungwon—until they had him moved.

You hadn’t seen Jungwon in three weeks. But you still remembered his voice like a song stuck in your head.

Still remembered the way he smiled when your hand lingered too long on his.

Still remembered what he whispered the last time you visited his cell:

"You’ll come back. They all come back to me. But next time... you’ll bring your knees with you."

You clenched your jaw and pushed the thought away as the scanner beeped. Jake’s cell door unlocked with a mechanical hiss.

You stepped inside.

It wasn’t like Jungwon’s solitary block—this cell was cleaner, roomier. A behavioral reward for those who played nice. Jake lay on his cot, one leg propped over the other, reading a book upside down.

He didn’t even glance at you.

"You’re late," he muttered, flipping the page with his pinky.

"You weren’t expecting me," you replied, voice crisp. "This is your psych assessment."

Jake slowly lowered the book. His eyes met yours—hazel and sharp. Like he’d already disassembled your entire personality in five seconds and found it boring. Or maybe hungry.

"Therapist day," he drawled, dragging the syllables. "Finally. I was worried they’d keep sending the old guy who smells like pepperoni."

You sat down across from him. “Do you prefer younger therapists, Jake?”

He smirked, sitting up slowly, letting his long legs spread just wide enough to feel inappropriate. "I prefer ones who don't pretend they aren’t curious."

"About what?"

"About what it's like to be me."

You didn’t blink. "You kill people with claws."

He grinned. “And you give therapy to monsters. So who’s sick?"

▄︻══━一 ♡

You walked into his cell and instantly felt it—that presence.

Sim Jaeyun was a quiet kind of dangerous. Not loud or erratic like the others. No, his threat was measured. Calm. The kind that watched you too long, memorized how you moved, and used silence like a weapon.

He tilted his head and dragged his eyes across you—slow and bold—until they reached your throat and lingered.

“You’re not like the rest,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel dipped in honey.

You arched an eyebrow. “Because I don’t scream when you look at me?”

“No,” he said, leaning forward. “Because you don’t run.”

You sat, forcing your expression neutral. “I’m not here to run from you, Jake. I’m here to understand you.”

“Oh?” His smile widened. “Then you’re already braver than your file said.”

You flipped open your tablet. “Let’s start with your earliest memory of violence.”

“Mm,” he murmured, eyes flicking over your lips as if they were a more interesting answer. “Does it have to be mine, or can I use one I liked watching?”

“Yours.”

He leaned back, elbows on his knees, voice dropping. “Okay then. I was seven. My dog died. Mom said it got hit by a truck. I knew she was lying.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“She killed it,” he said casually. “It bit my father when he raised a hand to her. So she poisoned it. Didn’t want any protection left for me.”

You scribbled a note.

Jake glanced at it. “You always do that? Take notes when someone tells you their pain?”

You met his gaze. “I take notes when people tell me who they really are.”

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip. “And what am I?

You considered the question. “A man who uses charm to hide violence. Intelligence to mask need. But underneath, you’re still the boy who lost his dog.”

Silence bloomed.

Then—he laughed. A low, rich sound that made your skin prickle.

“I like you,” he said. “You talk like a knife.”

“I’m not here to be liked.”

“Oh, baby,” Jake whispered, voice darkening. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

▄︻══━一 ♡

One Week Later

You told yourself you wouldn’t think about him outside work hours.

But you were lying to yourself.

It started with the little things—remembering how his eyes dropped when you asked about his childhood. Noted how he watched your mouth when you spoke. How he’d gone from sitting lazily to leaning forward during every session.

And then it became worse. You began dressing differently. Subtly. A different blouse. A more fitted skirt. Just in case he noticed.

You hated yourself for it. But you didn’t stop.

He noticed, of course.

“I see we’re wearing red today,” he murmured, voice almost a purr.

“Coincidence,” you said, not meeting his gaze.

“No such thing,” Jake replied. “Red means hunger.”

“Does it?”

He smiled lazily. “It does when you wear it.”

You swallowed.

“Do you like being watched?” he asked suddenly. “Because you know every man in this wing notices when you walk in. But me? I notice the things they don’t. The way you breathe before asking a hard question. The way your fingers twitch when you lie.”

You exhaled shakily. “Jake, this is therapy. Not flirting practice.”

“And yet,” he leaned in, voice thick, “you keep showing up like you want me to taste your boundaries.”

▄︻══━一 ♡

Two Weeks Later

He sat differently now. Closer. Eyes darker.

You could feel the change in him.

Jake didn’t just want to talk anymore—he wanted to unravel you. Wanted you off balance.

And you were.

It became harder to focus. Your notes got sloppier. You’d replay entire sessions in bed, his voice echoing in your ears.

One night, after three glasses of wine, you let your fingers slip lower in the dark while whispering his name to no one.

You felt filthy.

And alive.

▄︻══━一 ♡

It was late. The prison was dim. You’d stayed late for paperwork. That’s what you told yourself.

Jake’s cell was down the hall. His guards were off shift. The wing was quiet.

Too quiet.

You told yourself you were just walking past.

You stopped in front of his cell.

He was awake. Sitting on the edge of his bed. Shirtless. Muscles flexed with each breath. His eyes snapped up—and then lit like fire.

“I knew you’d come.”

You stared. “This isn’t part of protocol.”

“No,” he said, standing slowly. “But you broke that the moment you let me crawl into your head.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did. You think about me. At night. Alone.” He was at the glass now. “I bet you say my name when you come.”

Your knees weakened.

“You don’t scare me,” you whispered.

He smirked. “Good. Because I don’t want to scare you. I want to ruin you.”

You turned to leave—and then froze.

“Ask,” he said.

“What?”

“Ask me what I’d do to you if this glass wasn’t here.”

You shouldn’t.

But you did.

He stepped closer.

“I’d press you against this wall,” he growled, “and make you beg with every inch of your perfect mouth. I’d whisper every filthy thing I’ve dreamed about while watching you scribble notes like a good girl. Then I’d bend you over and show you how monsters make women moan.”

You choked on a breath.

He chuckled, low and triumphant.

“You’re wet right now, aren’t you?”

Slap. Your hand hit the glass. His eyes widened—then narrowed.

You stared at him. “You’ll never touch me.”

“But you’ll think about it,” he said, darkly. “You’ll ache for it.”

And you did.

▄︻══━一 ♡

Three Weeks Later

You were assigned to another patient for a few days.

But your mind never left Jake.

You read over his transcripts. Reread your notes. Your dreams became darker. In them, Jake wasn’t locked up. He was free. And you were beneath him, writhing.

He’d taken root inside you like rot.

So when you finally returned to his cell, you both knew something had changed.

“Come to confess?” he asked.

You said nothing.

“Or to surrender?”

Still nothing.

He grinned. “Then sit down. Let’s begin the session, doctor.”

It was subtle.

You dropped your pen, and when you bent to pick it up, Jake knelt faster—his hand brushed yours.

Warm. Strong. Dangerous.

Neither of you moved.

You looked up.

He was closer than he should be. So close you could smell him—dark musk, soap, something primal.

You should’ve pulled back.

You didn’t.

“You felt that?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you are.”

He straightened slowly, knuckles dragging lightly across your wrist.

You let out a breath that sounded too much like a moan.

His eyes flashed.

From that day forward, it was all teasing, all tension.

Jake made you drop your professionalism, inch by inch.

He talked about your lipstick color. Asked how you liked being touched. Told you how he’d take you apart piece by piece, with his fingers, his mouth, his voice.

You stopped fighting.

One night, you snuck into the surveillance room and turned off his camera for 15 minutes.

You entered his cell.

You don’t remember how you got against the wall, only the heat of his body pressing into yours.

He didn’t kiss you at first. He just hovered.

“Say you want me,” he breathed.

You didn’t answer.

He chuckled and started to pull back.

“Wait.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth crashed onto yours—possessive, punishing. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you up until your legs wrapped around him.

There was nothing slow about that kiss. It was years of hunger crashing together. You clawed at him. He groaned into your neck.

And then—

You pulled away.

“Not here,” you gasped. “Not yet.”

He licked your lip. “Then next time, I want all of you.”

▄︻══━一 ♡

There was a night when you gave in completely.

A storm raged outside. You came soaked through. Jake watched you strip off your jacket, hair dripping.

He said nothing.

Until you stepped into the cell without a word and climbed onto his lap.

No more games.

He took you apart with hands that had once destroyed lives—but now worshiped every inch of your skin. He undressed you like unwrapping sin. He touched you like you were 0

And when he finally filled you, it felt like damnation and salvation in one.

“Mine,” he groaned into your neck.

You didn’t correct him.

Because he was right.

Your wrists rest in the cold curve of the chain, iron pressing lightly against your skin—a reminder, not a threat. He hasn't locked you in. You could pull free. You won’t.

Jake watches you like a man standing at the edge of something sacred and sinful. His chest rises and falls beneath you, slow and controlled, but the heat in his eyes gives him away.

He drags his hands up your thighs—firm, steady, reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through his palms alone. You tremble as he reaches your hips, his thumbs grazing the place where skin softens and heat gathers. He leans forward, brushing his lips across your sternum. Not kissing. Tasting.

“You trust me,” he whispers, half in awe, half in disbelief. “Even now.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The fact that you’re here—straddling him, wrists chained loosely above your head, heart exposed in more ways than one—is all the answer he needs.

He moves one hand between your thighs, spreading you slowly with the pads of his fingers. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tease. His touch is deliberate, exploring the folds of you with a kind of focus that steals your breath.

You gasp when he slips one thick finger inside—slowly, deliberately—and curls it upward. Your hips buck, straining against him. The chain clinks above, your arms tightening as you brace against the flood of sensation.

“There,” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your jaw. “Right there.”

His other hand spreads across the small of your back, anchoring you to him. His finger withdraws, then presses in again—slow, deeper this time, drawing a moan from your throat. Then another joins it. He stretches you with care, watching every twitch of your body, every falter in your breath.

“You’re perfect like this,” he growls. “Soft. Dripping. Open.”

You cry out when his thumb finds your clit, circling slow and firm. The chain above your head groans with your movements. You can’t think. You can't breathe. All you can feel is the rhythm of his hand and the heat building like a tidal wave inside you.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he says, voice fraying. “Just from this.”

And you do.

Your orgasm hits like a silent scream, your body shuddering around his fingers. Your back arches, your thighs clench, your arms pulling hard against the chain as you cry his name into the damp air. He never stops touching you. He draws it out, rides the tremors with you, until you collapse, panting, trembling, undone.

He holds you while your body calms, one hand sliding up your back, the other tangled in your hair. He doesn't rush. He lets you come back to yourself. To him.

Then he lifts you.

Your legs barely work, so he guides you, settling you again over the rigid length of him. His cock presses against your entrance, thick and hot, and your breath hitches at the promise of what's coming next.

He doesn’t thrust.

He sinks into you.

Slow. So slow it feels like he’s branding you from the inside out. You’re still wet from his fingers, from your release, but the stretch makes you gasp. He fills you inch by inch, groaning against your collarbone as he bottoms out.

There’s nothing hurried in the way he moves. His hands grip your hips, guiding you to rock in time with him, your bodies rolling together like the ocean in a storm’s wake—calm, but dangerous.

You brace against the chain, your arms taut, your spine arching as he thrusts up into you. Every drag of his body inside yours is perfect agony. Deep. Raw. Desperate.

“You feel too good,” he says, voice cracking. “I can’t— I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to.

Your movements sync, hips grinding in a rhythm that feels ancient, instinctual. Sweat beads on your skin. The scent of rain and sex and something more primal fills the cell. The storm outside fades into a distant hum, eclipsed by the storm inside your own body.

Jake’s hands trail up your waist, along your ribs, over your heart. He cups your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burn.

“Say it,” he pleads. “Tell me you’re mine.”

And though you never thought you’d give yourself to anyone—especially not him—you whisper, “I’m yours.”

He thrusts into you harder, deeper, but still slow. Still deliberate. Like he’s making love to every part of you that’s ever been broken and piecing it back together.

When the second orgasm takes you, it’s not violent. It’s pure. A rush of heat and light and surrender, your entire body melting into his.

He follows, burying himself deep as he spills inside you with a sound that breaks something open in your chest.

Then silence.

Except for your breathing. His heartbeat. The chain gently swaying above your head.

And the certainty between you—thick and unspoken.

This wasn’t just sex

It was surrender.

It was claiming.

It was everything.

You don’t move at first.

Neither of you do.

Your body rests against his, trembling and warm, limbs half-asleep, muscles slack with the ache of pleasure and surrender. Jake’s chest rises beneath yours, slower now, steadier. You feel every heartbeat thrum through your own ribcage, as if the two of you have synced without trying.

The storm outside is a ghost of its former self. Rain taps gently against stone, a lullaby compared to the chaos it once was. Inside the cell, there’s only breath. Skin. Sweat cooling on your back. The distant creak of the chain above as it sways in time with your breathing.

Jake doesn’t say anything. He just holds you.

One arm around your waist. One hand cradling the back of your head. His fingers stroke through your damp hair, slow and aimless, like he’s grounding himself in the texture of you. As if touching you helps convince him this is real.

You shift your wrists, gently sliding them free of the chain. The iron leaves a faint indent on your skin—no pain, just memory. You rest your arms around his shoulders instead, curling in closer, pressing your cheek to the side of his neck.

His stubble scrapes lightly against your temple as he exhales.

Neither of you is in a rush to speak. There’s no need to fill the quiet. Everything important has already been said, or shown, through skin and breath and the tremble of your bodies.

Still, there’s a weight in your chest.

Not fear. Not regret.

Just the terrifying realization that something in you has shifted—and it won’t shift back.

Jake finally breaks the silence.

His voice is rough. Barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

You close your eyes. “I didn’t think I would either.”

He nods like he understands, even though that confession hurts. Maybe it should. Maybe that’s the point.

His arms tighten around you a little more. Protective. Possessive. Like if he holds you close enough, long enough, you won’t vanish with the morning.

“Was it real?” he asks.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes. There’s no mask there. No armor. Just a man laid bare by touch and trust and a thousand things neither of you have dared to say out loud.

You don’t flinch.

“Yes.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile, more like a wound trying to close.

He brushes a thumb along your jaw. “You undo me.”

And you realize something: he may have claimed you, but you’ve ruined him in return.

Together, you are chaos wrapped in quiet. Storms finding stillness. Two broken pieces that, for one impossible night, fit.

You shift off of him slowly, carefully, every inch of your body sore in the best way. He lets you go, but only barely—his hands still lingering, like letting go completely might tear something vital.

You lie beside him on the stone floor, finding his hand with yours. Fingers entwined. Palms warm.

No words. Just breath.

And somewhere, beneath it all, the first whisper of something that might grow in the ruins.

Not forgiveness. Not peace.

But something raw and real.

Something like us.

When you went home..you felt different..this was bad..you slept with two prisoners, will this continue will this just go on until someone finds out or till you're fired?...

#inbox open #kpop #imagine #enhypen imagines #kpop x reader #enhypen #jake x reader #jake sim #enhypen jake #sim jake #jake x you #jake smut #jake smau

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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

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hoonipies · 4 days ago

Note

reader wearing a sexy lingerie and pulled her panties to her side to play with herself & fondle her breast and asked loser nerd jake to sit and watch not touching. After sometime, reader gave jake the green light and he went FERALLLL

loser nerd jake OMGGG YESSS

警告: subby Jake, lingerie, masturabtion, crying, cumming untouched eh that’s all 𝒱 … I see the audience is liking loser nerd Jake…hmmm @ri4-lovesenha this is for you

Sim jaeyun x fem reader

The dimly lit room casts shadows on your body, legs on either side. The lingerie clung onto your body like skin, the perfect fit. The heat of the room only heightened the tension between you and Jake. Who was sitting on the edge of the bed watching you.

Your hands slowly play with the wetness at your pussy—“fuck Jake, you see how wet you get me?” His breath hitches cock striking in the confinds of his jeans. The heat surrounding the room makes the room feel even more suffocating— makes Jake even more on edge. Waiting for the green light.

You slowly push one of your fingers inside your throbbing hole “fuck” Jake’s eyes trail down your body. Watching your chest heave as you close your eyes- adding another finger inside your pussy.

“Please” he mutters out “please, can I-“ he says louder this time. “Please let me touch you” he whimpers out breathless. “Please what?” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair “pleaseplease let me touch you”

You close your eyes focusing on the feeling of your fingers filling you up, “mmpf” .

Jake’s knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping the sheets. “I’ll be so good just- PLEASE” he whispers the last part.

You hesitantly pull your fingers out and climb to Jake on the edge before pushing your fingers past him plump lips. He closes his eyes moaning from the taste of you.

His spit coats your fingers from how messy he’s being, how desperate he looks. You pull your fingers out of his spit covered mouth, a string of salvia from the pad of your finger to his lips. Jake’s a mess his face flushed, looking at you with wide eyes, how is he supposed to keep his hand to himself when you look like that?

You spot the wet spot forming in his pants and coo “aww jakey… you really want to fuck me?” You make him feel dizzy like sometimes all he can think about is you, and right now all he can think about is fucking you.

You rub your thighs together as you wipe the tears rolling down his face before nodding at him—giving him the green light.

Jake’s eyes go wide as he gropes your tits through the lace material grinding his leg on your thigh. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou-“ he whimpers against your lips.

And with that Jake is sooo messy when he finally gets to push his cock inside of you- whimpering and rolling his eyes back, at some point he even cries because he is so so so sensitive when from all the waiting. Keeps fucking into you even after you came filling up your pussy with his cum :33

400 notes · View notes

afterheese · 3 hours ago

Text

With you, always - Park Jong-seong x F!Reader

“So…” Jay’s voice cut through the stillness. “Are you gonna tell me the real reason you’re leaving?” Your fingers froze mid-scroll. You didn’t look up. “What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb, your voice stiff around the edges.

content warnings - dark!jay, noncon, workplace harassment, boundary crossing, unsettling behavior, slow escalation of discomfort, daddy kink (its jay it fits), hair pulling, degradation, creampie, breeding kink, lots of dirty talk and physical violence.

word count - 4.7k

this was requested

One more day. Just one more miserable day until you could finally leave this godforsaken job.

You were so happy when you got it. You worked so hard to make the perfect impression, nailed every question in the interview, and walked out beaming. You thought you’d made it. Thought you’d found a place where you could grow. But month by month, your excitement withered. Not because of the work. Not because of the hours.

Because of Park Jong-seong.

At the beginning, it was nothing. Harmless. Innocent, even. He brushed past you in the hallway, too close but not close enough to call out. A hand on your waist to maneuver around you in the copy room, just a little too familiar but still, you told yourself, maybe that’s just how people are here. Then it got... weird.

You’d just landed a massive client, one the team had been chasing for months. There was a celebration, naturally. Drinks after work. A cozy bar with loud music and coworkers packed into a sticky leather booth.

He sat across from you. Too many beers in, his tie loose, his eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on you like you were the only one in the room. At first, the questions were fine. He asked about your family. Your pets. Your weekend plans. Then his voice dropped, soft but sharp enough to slice through the music. “So, how’s your sex life?”

You laughed. Reflex, not amusement. You glanced around the table for someone to back you up. But no one did. They just kept sipping their drinks, scrolling their phones, as if he’d asked about the weather. The silence stretched, and you could feel the peer pressure pressing in, trapping you. If you pushed back, you’d be the one who "couldn’t take a joke." The one who "made it weird." So you lied. Smiled like it didn’t bother you. “It’s great.”

His head tilted, and something cold flickered behind his eyes. “Oh? I wouldn’t have guessed that.” The way he said it, made you feel icky. After that, the air felt wrong. The room felt smaller. The music, distant. You stood, grabbing your bag with a shaky laugh. “I’m heading out. See you guys Monday.”

You could feel his gaze drilling into your back as you slipped out of the bar. On the walk home, the streetlights buzzed and the night air felt too tight around you. The city, usually familiar, suddenly seemed like a maze you couldn’t quite escape. That was weird, you told yourself. Just weird.

But your skin prickled the whole way home.

“Hey, can you come to my office?”

You heard your name snap from somewhere behind you, sharp and clipped. You’d barely set your coffee on your desk before you were already moving toward Jay’s office, heart ticking a little faster for reasons you couldn’t explain. “Good morning,” you offered as you stepped inside.

“Close the door.” He didn’t even look up. His eyes stayed pinned to the stack of papers in front of him, his pen tapping in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Sure,” you murmured, easing the door shut with a soft click. Without preamble, he handed you a document.

“What are these?” You took it, skimming the bold header. It was the contract you’d finalized late last night, the one you’d sent over right before you left. “Oh, this is the Mr. Kim contract,” you said, handing it back. His eyes finally lifted, peering at you over the top of his glasses. “Did you proofread it before sending it to me?”

You straightened under his stare. “I did, sir.” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “Clearly, you didn’t. There are typos. Lots of them. You’re lucky I caught it before it went into the database.” He slid the contract into a folder with slow, deliberate movements and shoved it back into your hands. “Fix this. I want it back by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir.” You left the office feeling smaller than when you’d entered. And from that day forward, it was as if something shifted. Jay made you feel less like a colleague and more like his personal assistant. No it was less than that. Like you were a fly he was tolerating until he could find the right moment to swat you away.

He dismissed your ideas in meetings with a wave of his hand. He talked over you, corrected you mid sentence, made a spectacle of pointing out even the smallest errors. And when he found one, he didn’t whisper about it in private. No he called you out in front of the entire office, his voice loud, his words sharp, carving you down to size in real time.

So you adapted. You started triple-checking your work. Then quadruple-checking. Every email, every decimal, every line. You combed through them like your job depended on it because now, it did.

And that’s when you knew something was wrong. The next day, he made a scene over a report you’d scoured the night before. You’d reviewed it meticulously, certain it was flawless. But somehow, he found an error. A glaring one.

You couldn’t understand it. You’d checked it. You knew you had. And yet he stood there, brandishing the page like evidence, his voice cutting through the office like a blade. It didn’t make sense. Unless…. someone else was tampering with your work. Unless he was.

It scared you. Not just the humiliation. Not just the constant belittling or the sting of his words in front of the entire office. No but what terrified you was that you couldn’t figure out why. Why would Jay do this? Why you? There was no reason. You combed through every interaction, every possible slight, but you found nothing. No trigger. No explanation.

It made it worse, not knowing. After months of verbal abuse, of being treated like shit, you came to the only conclusion that made sense. You couldn’t fight it. You couldn’t fix it. So you quit. You didn’t hand your resignation to Jay. You went over his head, straight to his boss.

“So sad to see you go,” Mr. Lee said as he scribbled his signature at the bottom of your resignation letter. He barely glanced at it, like this happened all the time. “If you need a recommendation, I’d be happy to write one for an employee like you.” Your chest eased, just a little. “Thank you, Mr. Lee.” He smiled. “You’re welcome.” You walked out of his office feeling lighter, like you’d finally cracked a window in a suffocating room. You were free. Until you saw Jay.

He stood in his office doorway, staring at you. His expression unreadable. You dropped your gaze, ducking your head, and slipped past him to your desk. One more day. Just one more day. And then you’d never have to see him again.

You buried yourself in your work, the clock spinning faster than you realized. By the time you looked up, it was nearly 8 p.m. “Shit,” you muttered, stretching back in your chair until your spine cracked in protest. You hit save, deciding to finish the rest in the morning. Computer off. Desk lamp off. Jacket on. Bag over your shoulder. You moved on autopilot, too tired to think, your focus already on tomorrow, the final day.

The elevator pinged as you pressed the button. You stepped inside, thumb hovering over the ‘Close Door’ button, eager to leave. The doors began to slide shut. Then a hand shot between them. You flinched, a sharp inhale snagging in your throat.

You let out a weak laugh as the doors reopened. Just the nerves. The laugh died in your chest when you saw him. Jay. He stepped into the elevator, nodding at you once, silent. You didn’t say a word. You just stared at the glowing floor numbers, silently begging the elevator to close faster.

The doors slid shut. The descent began. And you were trapped. Alone. With him.

“I heard you quit.” Jay’s voice fractured the silence, low and flat, echoing off the metal walls of the elevator. Your eyes shot wide, but you kept them forward, pinned to the glowing floor numbers. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him. “Yeah,” you said, quick, almost too quick. “Why?” He asked.

“I got a new job.” The lie slipped out, smooth and practiced. You didn’t even know where you’d go after this, but anything was better than staying here. “You did?” His surprise didn’t sound faked. “Yeah,” you repeated, sharper this time, hoping the conversation would die there.

And for a moment, it did. The elevator hummed softly as the floors ticked down. Almost to the parking garage. Almost out. Then— A jolt. The elevator shuddered violently, pitching you to the side as the lights blinked out. Total darkness. You caught your breath, heart hammering. Seconds later, the emergency lights flickered on, washing the space in pale yellow.

“Damn it,” Jay muttered, slamming his palm against the panel. “What—what just happened?” You tried to keep your voice steady, but the crack in it gave you away. “Looks like it’s stuck.” He jabbed at the buttons, but nothing happened. No movement. No sound. You stepped forward, pressing the call button, but it buzzed weakly, then died.

Jay sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “And we’re the only ones left in the building.” You swallowed. The weight of that landed hard in your chest. “So…it’ll be a while before someone comes to fix it?” He nodded, almost too calm. “Yeah. Could be hours.”

You stared at the elevator doors, cold creeping up your spine, wishing more than anything that they’d just open. Wishing you weren’t trapped. Wishing you weren’t trapped with him.

You stared down at your phone, pretending to doom scroll, desperate to distract yourself from the crushing silence. From him. From this boxed-in nightmare. The glow of the screen steadied your breathing. Made you feel less trapped. “So…” Jay’s voice cut through the stillness. “Are you gonna tell me the real reason you’re leaving?” Your fingers froze mid-scroll. You didn’t look up. “What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb, your voice stiff around the edges.

“I mean—” You finally looked at him, and that was your mistake. He was already moving toward you. He didn’t stop until he was inches away. One hand came up, pressing flat against the wall beside your head, boxing you in. He leaned in, his face so close you could feel the heat of his breath.

His eyes locked on yours, steady. “I know you didn’t get a new job.” Your throat tightened. “How would you know that?” you managed, forcing the words out. His mouth quirked, like he was enjoying this. “You have this tell when you lie. Your nose scrunches up, just a little.” Your stomach flipped. “What?!”

Your voice cracked, too loud in the small metal box, but Jay didn’t flinch. He just kept looking at you like he could see straight through your skin. Like he’d been watching you much more closely than you ever realized.

“Jay, can you back up?” you said, your voice strained, trying to wedge space between you. “Why?” His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Do I make you nervous?” His face dipped closer, his breath hot against your lips. Too close, way too close. Without thinking, you shoved him hard in the chest.

He stumbled back a step but instead of getting angry, he laughed. It echoed through the metal box like it had nowhere else to go. “I always knew you were a stupid little bitch,” he spat, the venom in his voice hitting harder than his usual taunts. Jay had called you stupid before. Had called you incompetent. Had called you worthless. But he’d never called you a bitch. Never crossed that line.

“God, Jay. You’re such a miserable jerk,” you snapped, spinning away from him, trying to put distance between his words and your skin. “Someone should teach you some fucking manners.” If he wanted a fight, fine. You’d give him one. “No,” you hissed, turning back to him. “Someone should slap the fuck out of your dumbass.”

You barely finished the sentence before his hand was around your throat. It happened so fast you didn’t have time to process it one second you were talking, the next your back slammed into the cold elevator wall with a bone-rattling bang.

Your toes barely scraped the floor. His grip was iron, crushing, your nails clawing at his wrist as your eyes went wide, panic detonating in your chest. “Jay—” you choked out, but the man in front of you didn’t look like Jay anymore.

His face was tight, cold, unfamiliar. It wasn't the same person who used to taunt you in the hall, who used to lean over your desk with a smirk. His eyes were empty. Unrecognizable.

Your nails dug into his skin, clawing hard, desperate to pry him off you. His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, his thumb pressing hard enough to send lightning bolts of pressure shooting through your skull.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, drowning out the sputtering hum of the trapped elevator. Your legs kicked out, searching for ground, for balance, for anything. You scraped the toe of your shoe against his shin, a useless attempt to knock him off, but he didn’t flinch.

“Jay—” your voice came out broken, barely a whisper. “Let me go—” His stare was ice. Unblinking. Like he wasn’t even hearing you. Or maybe he was. Maybe that was the point. You swung your bag at him, a desperate move. It smacked against his ribs, and something flickered in his expression not pain, but annoyance.

“Shut up,” he muttered, pressing you harder into the wall. “You think you can just walk away? You think you can just leave?” His other hand came up, grabbing your chin, forcing your face toward his. “Say it again,” he hissed. “Say you’re leaving.”

Your throat burned under his crushing grip. Your vision blurred at the edges, a creeping darkness trying to pull you under. But you weren’t going out like this. You twisted, wrenching your arm free enough to drive your elbow into his side, sharp and hard. He grunted, and you felt his grip falter just enough for you to yank your head forward and slam it into his.

The crack of bone against bone echoed in the small metal box. Jay stumbled back, cursing, one hand clutching his forehead. You gasped, clutching your throat, gulping air like you were drowning.

Your body burned but adrenaline shoved you forward. You rammed your shoulder into him, sending him crashing into the opposite wall. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” Your voice shredded through the silence, raw and shaking, but you meant every word.

Jay wiped a smear of blood from his eyebrow, his breathing ragged, but his smile came back twisted. “Feisty,” he muttered, his gaze still pinned to you. “This is gonna be fun.”

You launched yourself at him again, swinging wildly, your fists catching his shoulder, his ribs, his arm anywhere you could reach. You were fast, but he was faster. Stronger. Jay caught your wrist mid-swing and twisted hard. You screamed, pain flashing white-hot up your arm. Before you could wrench free, he yanked you forward, spinning you so your back slammed against his chest.

His arm snaked across your collarbone, locking you in place, his forearm pressing tight just under your throat. His other hand pinned your arm behind your back in a brutal hold. You thrashed, kicked, shoved your weight backward, but it only tightened his grip, his body solid against yours. Your breathing came in ragged gasps, his breath hot and steady against your ear.

“Calm down,” he growled, his lips brushing your skin. “You’re not going anywhere.” Your heart hammered so hard it felt like it would punch through your ribcage. You dug your nails into his arm, twisting, clawing, but he didn’t even flinch.

“Stop fighting me,” he whispered, his voice calm now, almost gentle but the steel in his grip betrayed the lie. “You made this so much harder than it had to be.” You threw your head back, trying to catch him in the face, but he jerked his head just out of reach. “Still fighting?” His grip tightened across your chest, cutting off your air just enough to make your head spin. “You can’t win this fight babe.”

You let out a strangled gasp, your free hand slamming against the elevator wall, searching blindly for anything emergency buttons, loose panels, anything. “You know what your problem is?” he whispered, his voice a soft pulse against your ear. “You thought you could just leave me.”

His hand slid from your pinned wrist up to your face, his fingers pressing against your jaw, forcing your head to the side, forcing you to look at the dark reflection in the elevator’s metal wall. “Look at us,” he breathed. “Just look.” Your own wide, panicked eyes stared back at you. His face hovered over your shoulder, his smile sharp and dangerous.

His palm pressed over your lips, firm and suffocating, his fingers curling around your cheek. That was his mistake. You bit down. Hard. Your teeth sank into the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger, tearing through skin until you tasted metal the blood blooming hot and bitter on your tongue.

Jay roared, jerking his hand back, but you didn’t let go until he ripped it free. “You little—” Before you could twist away, his other arm banded across your chest, yanking you backward. His palm slammed against the back of your head, and he drove you forward hard into the elevator wall.

Your forehead cracked against the cold steel with a dull, sickening thud. The impact rattled your vision, white sparks flashing behind your eyes. Your knees buckled, but his grip didn’t let you fall. “Fucking bitch,” he snarled, his breath seething against your ear, his free hand shaking with rage as he cradled his bleeding palm. “You just don’t learn, do you?”

Your pulse screamed in your ears. Your head throbbed, the sharp ache spreading down your spine, but somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the dizziness, the fight still burned. Your nails dug into his arm again, scrabbling for leverage, for space, for something you could use to shift this back in your favor.

You tried pushing back at him, but he was so strong. He held you there. “Stop fighting, baby,” he murmured against your ear, voice low and edged with warning. “You’re only making it harder for yourself.” You shoved against him one more time, desperation clawing its way up your throat until you heard him groan.

That’s when you realized. Something hard was pressing against your lower back. Your lungs forgot how to work. Your body went rigid. That’s when you realized why he was doing all of this. “Jay, please…” your voice broke. “L-Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I-I’ll quit. I’ll pretend none of this happened.”

His laugh was sharp, guttural, and anything but kind. “The reason this is happening,” he whispered, his nose buried in your hair, “is because you tried to leave me.” The instinct to retreat fired through you. “I can’t let that happen,” he said, voice flat and final. “Hands on the wall.”

“Jay, please…” “I said—hands. On. The. Wall.” His hand wrapped around your wrist, and with one violent jerk, he slammed them against the cold steel. “If you want this to hurt more than it has to,” he breathed against your neck, “go ahead. Keep fighting but if you want to be a good girl…” his grip tightened, “then listen.”

Right now, that was the only choice you had.

You could feel his hands sliding up your legs, slow and deliberate. The cold metal of the elevator behind you was nothing compared to the chill crawling up your spine. You regretted wearing a skirt today.

Tears slid down your cheeks, silent and hot. He didn’t try to be gentle not even for a second. His fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt and shoved it up roughly, exposing you to the stale, flickering light above. Then came the sharp tug. He yanked your panties down in one swift, brutal motion.

“Step out of them,” he said, voice low and unwavering. Your eyes dropped. You stepped out of the crumpled fabric, your legs trembling. He picked them up, turning them over once in his hand like they were something delicate.

You didn’t want to know what he was going to do with them.

Jay's eyes flicked from your trembling legs to the panties in his hand. He let out a dark, humorless laugh before stuffing the fabric into his back pocket. “You really shouldn’t have worn something so easy to tear off, baby,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s like you wanted me to ruin you.”

His hand came up rough, practiced fingers threading through your hair. And then he yanked you head back. You gasped, your neck bending back as he forced your gaze up.

“Look at you,” Jay growled, his grip unrelenting. “You don’t get to cry and act like a scared little bitch.” He shoved you hard against the elevator wall. The metal was cold, the corners biting into your chest, but you barely noticed through the adrenaline flooding your veins.

You opened your mouth to speak to beg but he silenced you with his arm wrapped around your throat, pressing just enough to steal control. “Quiet,” he snapped. “You’ve already said too much tonight.” You whimpered, but he didn’t care. His arm left your neck only to push your skirt higher, exposing everything every trembling inch of skin you wished you could hide.

Then you felt him. Hot, thick and hard against the inside of your thigh. “You feel that?” he hissed into your ear. “That’s what happens when you try to leave me.” He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need one. His hand dropped between your legs, rough fingers sliding against your folds just long enough to feel how wet you already were.

Jay chuckled. “Filthy little slut. You like being treated like this, don’t you?” You shook your head, but your body betrayed you. “Liar,” he growled. “Fucking liar.” Then he grabbed your hips, and with one thrust, he slammed into you.

You cried out, nails scraping uselessly at the wall. He didn’t slow down. Not for a second. “God, this tight little cunt was made for me,” he groaned against your ear. “Say it. Say it belongs to Daddy.” You tried to speak, but he pulled your hair back so sharply that all you could do was scream.

“Say it!”

“Yours—Daddy—yours!”

“Damn right it is,” he snarled. “You’re mine now. Every inch of you.”

He drove into you again and again, brutal and relentless. His grip on your hair never loosened. His hips pounded into you with vicious rhythm, every slap of skin echoing in the silent metal box like a punishment. “You’ll never leave me,” he growled. “No one’s going to save you. You’re Daddy’s now.”

The elevator groans, a metallic whine of protest, as he fucks you harder, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. The walls are too close, the air too thick, and the flickering overhead light casts jagged shadows across his face sharp enough to cut. You whimper, nails scraping against the stainless steel in front of you, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. His breath is hot against the back of your neck, mocking, as your body betrays you, trembling toward a climax you don’t want but can’t stop.

"That’s it," he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. "Let go." You choke back a sob as it hits you, wave after wave of unwanted pleasure, your knees buckling. But before you can even catch your breath, his grip tightens, yanking you back into the present. "Oh, kitten," he purrs, lips brushing your ear. "You didn’t really think it was gonna stop there, did you?" A cruel laugh, dark as the elevator shaft beneath you. "You still haven’t made me cum."

Your stomach drops. The realization hits like a punch. "Believe me," he continues, fingers tracing the back of your thighs, "you are not leaving this elevator until you’ve made me cum like the good little slut I know you are."

A beat of silence. The hum of dead machinery. The drip of sweat down your spine. "Turn around." Your body moves before your mind can refuse. "Face me." The command is a blade pressed to your throat. You obey. "Lemme lift your legs up." His hands are already on you, hoisting you like you weigh nothing, pressing you against the cold metal. "Wrap your legs around me."

A hesitation just a fraction of a second and his voice drops, dangerous. "I said wrap your legs around me." You do. His hand digs into the soft flesh of your thighs, fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises. His mouth moves against your skin, whispering filth, promises, threats words that slither into your ears and coil tight in your stomach. You turn your face away, refusing to look, refusing to see what he’s doing to you.

"Now look at me." The slap cracks sharp in the confined space. Your head snaps to the side, the sting blooming hot. "Open your eyes." Another slap. Your vision blurs. "I said fucking look at me.” You listen.

"Good girl." His voice gentles, a velvet stroke over raw nerves. "Oh, look at you, kitten. So beautiful and bruised. All marked up from my hands." His thumb traces the ache along your jaw. "You know I love you, don’t you?”

A kiss, slow and possessive. Your lips taste like salt, like tears. "Even when you make me angry," he murmurs, "even when you make me hurt you... I still want you." The elevator groans around you, a mechanical sigh, but you don’t notice. All you feel is him the relentless drag of his body against yours, the way he steals your breath and replaces it with his.

"Fuck, you feel so good." His groan is low, rough, vibrating through your bones. Your fingers scrabble against the cold metal wall. There’s nowhere to go. "You’re mine now, kitten." His teeth graze your throat. "Don’t you ever fucking forget it. Your smiles, your cries ah—they all belong to me."

The elevator lurches. A flicker of light. He doesn’t stop. "I’m not letting you go." A promise or a threat. "Ever."

His grip bites into your thighs, pulling you hard against him as his hips stutter. You feel it the tremble in his thighs, the ragged break in his breathing. He’s close.

“Jay, don’t—” Your voice cracks, the panic sharp. Jay doesn’t stop. His fingers dig in harder, a low laugh slipping against your ear, velvet-wrapped malice. “Not inside me. Please.” He leans in, lips grazing your throat. “Think you’d make a great mom,” he breathes, dark, sticky, dangerous. “Let’s make it happen.”

The words freeze you. Ice creeps under your skin. “No.” You twist, you fight, the panic swelling in your chest. You shove at his arms, but his grip tightens, unrelenting. His hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back until your throat is bare. The elevator groans under the slam of your back against the wall.

“None of that now,” he whispers, his voice a blade dragged across skin. “I told you. I’m gonna put a baby in you.” His hips jerk against you, desperate, claiming. “Then you’ll never get rid of me.”

“Jay, please—” Your breath shatters. You’re trembling, from fear and the spiraling chaos of it all. “Want to quit? Too late, sweetheart.” His teeth scrape your neck, a violent tenderness. His groan breaks loose, hot and breathless. “Fuck—I’m gonna cum.”

“Jay—noo—” Your scream bounces off the elevator walls. His hips stutter, and you feel it. A claim that leaves something inside you that you can’t shake loose.

The elevator doors open with a soft hum swallowed by the silence. Jay kisses your throat, slow, almost tender now, his whisper sliding like a noose around your neck. “Now you can never leave me.”

You don’t speak, you don’t move. There’s nothing left inside you.

You can never get rid of him.

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