#down to their movements and routines...
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1634 + shared dreams
Credits: Marina Tsvetaeva | Mark Blinch | Behind the Maple Leafsâ franchise-changing draft selection of Mitch Marner | Matthews: It's a dream come true | Rebecca Lindenberg, âLove, An Indexâ | NHL: Auston Matthews was born for this | Marner on wanting to continue playing for the Maple Leafs | H.G. Wells, The Time Machine over Lee Balterman, Steve Russell | The Hockey News over Steve Russell | Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena over Kevin Sousa (1) (2) | Leaf's (former) goal song: You Make My Dreams by Hall & Oates | TSN Unique Opportunity graphic | Jeff O'Neill on TSN The Quiz Panel | Two young Leafs join a pair of all-time Leaf greats | Hall & Oates again | Matthews thrilled to be committed to Maple Leafs | Kevin Sousa | Mitch Marner has another gear in him. | Frank Bidart, âTo the Deadâ on Mark Blinch (1) (2) (3) | Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart | Mark Blinch
#toronto maple leafs#mitch marner#auston matthews#web weaving#hockeyedit#kinda but i edited some pics so fkldjsf#long post#1634#eedits#listen.........#they make me so emotional. this is a lil all over the place but thinkin of them as kids with the same dream. a miracle they even made it#to now theyve made it their BUSINESS to create the same dream. like to share that with someone is such a special.......#there are so many places u could go wiht this in terms of their temperaments and their specific wants but really#they want to build a winning team together and be able to pass the cup to each other.#theyve made each others careers historic already like. its so intertwined . everything is so shared.#down to their movements and routines...#manifesting them good nights tonight they deserve it#NOT COHESIVE BUT TAKE IT BEFORE I PUKE. OK bye
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GYM CRUSH SIMON
sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just âŠhappened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you werenât entirely in control of.
youâd made a new yearâs resolution to get in shapeâ because health, discipline, all that crapâ and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasnât an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt⊠weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternativeâ going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other studentsâ dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, youâd nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the nextâ there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed aâ not a crushâ an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
âitâs a crush,â your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. âitâs not.â
âit is. iâm fit too, but i donât see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.â
you made a disgusted noise. âjesus, shut up.â
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. âiâm just saying. the fact that you havenât even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
âi do not know his entire workout routine.â
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. ââŠhe does back and legs on tuesdays.â
his brow lifted higher.
ââŠand arms on thursdays.â
silence.
âright.â
âshut up.â
youâd considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didnât exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like heâd rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you werenât some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? âhey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?â heâd call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasnât entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
âyouâre paying for a full gym membership,â he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, âand youâre not even using the weight room?â
âi use it,â you protested.
âyou walk through it.â
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
youâd done your researchâ watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, andâ nothing.
the bar didnât budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heavedâ
"yâneed a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. closeâ heâs close, and jesus, heâs even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like heâs already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but thereâs something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it liftsâ barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but youâre stubborn. you have it. almost.
"youâre about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falterâ just for a secondâ but thatâs all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. heâs strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesnât step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that youâve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is⊠fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simonâ you learn his name by the third day!â slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadnât expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesnât know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, youâre there. always. not in an overbearing way. you donât talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, youâre surprisingly easy to be around. and worseâ comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadnât expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to⊠this. hadnât expected that youâd still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at armâs length, really, he does.
but youâre not loud. you donât force yourself on him. you donât pry or try to push past his wallsâ you just exist, alongside him, like itâs a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesnât even notice heâs talking until heâs already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like heâd forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "thatâs not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how âeveryone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,â but drop itâ he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. youâre content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
itâs little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when youâre sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesnât. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of itâs alright." you just shake your head at him like heâs beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("whenâd you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "sânot a fuckinâ fashion show."
and thenâ of courseâ you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. âokay, but why?â you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. âyou know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?â
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. âtheyâre my only pair.â
you freeze. your face twists, and thereâs this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. âsimon... are you... homeless?â your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like youâre afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. âwell, i donât know,â you mumble.
âyou wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-â
âdrop it.â
â-you donât even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-â
âdrop it.â
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesnât want to talk. doesnât want to be seen. and youâ you notice. you donât come up to him, donât pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
itâs unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that wonât go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, heâs groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. âfor fuckâs sake, just get over here already.â
you grin like youâve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesnât know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like itâs some kind of foreign object. he doesnât even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "sâonly fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. âwhatâs in it?â
he scoffs. "fuckinâ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. âsmells like peanut butter.â
his eye twitches. âjust drink it.â
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other somethingâ coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell heâs running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
youâre exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but youâre pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. âi got it.â
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesnât argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slippingâ
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesnât let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. iâve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and thenâ "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and heâs right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, heâs all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"donât-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "donât do that."
simonâs brow lifts, lazy. "donât do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you youâre doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, thereâs nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, donât you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing iâm right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approvingâ
"bet thatâs why you pushed so hard," he continues, like heâs musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simonâs eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.â
âplease.â
the rest of the gym is a blur. you donât even register leaving, donât remember how you end up outside, only that simonâs hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simonâs truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everythingâ the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance downâ and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"thatâs it." heâs almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckinâ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment youâre grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
heâs big. not just in lengthâ though fuck, heâs long enough to make your stomach clenchâ but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess youâve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew youâd like that.â
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch youâre about to takeâ
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..â simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
âlook at that,â he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. âgonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?â
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. âstill want it?â
you canât nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. âyes-â
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesnât take his time, doesnât teaseâ just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like theyâre nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. âhow long have you been sittinâ here all wet for me, huh?â
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. âfeel that?â he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. âsoaked for me. filthy girl.â
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. âyou always this wet?â
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. itâs obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
âjust for me then?â he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything youâve given him. âi kind of like that.â
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. âgonna let me in now, yeah?â
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where theyâre spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches youâ just the tip, barely an inchâ and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but youâre too tight, squeezing around him like youâre trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where itâs barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, andâ
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. youâre not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "iâm sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? donât want you cryinâ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckinâ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"sânot fair," you mumble.
"lifeâs not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "donât want you breakinâ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until youâre loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes inâ
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckinâ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deepâ then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "mâpressing right up against your cervix. canât go any deeper."
but itâs not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you donât know what youâre askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckinâ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around himâ the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takinâ me all the way? filthy fuckinâ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
itâs slow at firstâ just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but youâre already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though heâs holding you down, even though youâre already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where heâs so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckinâ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"canât even talk, can you? too fuckinâ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "thereâs my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckinâ mess youâre makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sightâ your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckinâ leaking all over me- ruininâ my fuckinâ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. donât need you thinkin."
then he fucks you properly.
#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost x reader#ghost#ghost x reader#cod x you#cod x y/n#cod mwii#cod modern warfare#cod x reader#cod mw2#ghost cod#call of duty#cod#simon riley smut#simon riley#simon ghost smut#simon ghost fluff#simon ghost x you#simon riley x y/n#đ simon
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gojo likes watching porn.
not in that weird, pervy wayâ actually, letâs retract that statement. he doesnât watch it to fuck his fist to the girls getting dicked down by some scrawny guy.
he uses it as a reference.
oddly enough, he gets aroused by the thought of doing it to you. he memorizes the way the girlâs legs were pushed up to her chest, the pillow placed below her lower back, the angle the guy was hitting it from⊠he just canât wait to try it out with you.
gojo follows his usual routineâ stuffing two fingers up your wet cunt and swirling them around in that torturous circular movement that had you squirming in seconds, squelching noises almost becoming louder than your own moans before shoving his dick into your needy hole.
his hands wrap around the back of your knees, spreading your legs just enough for him to slot himself in between them. the small tuft of hair at the base of his cock brushes against your swollen and sensitive bundle of nerves with every move of his hips, each thrust carefully thought out to maximize your pleasure. the tip of his cock constantly pushes against your g-spot, brushing against your cervix and causing you to gush all over him.
gojoâs never heard you moan this loud beforeâ and neither has he felt you squeeze around him so good.
#jjk smut#7hursday#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#gojo smut#gojo x reader#gojo x y/n#satoru gojo x y/n#gojo satoru x y/n#satoru gojo smut#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru#jjk x reader smut#jjk gojo
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CHERRY TREES
arranged husband!Jungwon x trophy wife!reader - confronting cold arranged husband on your first anniversary.
ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI, Angst, fluff, a second chance, the smut is crazy im ngl to u but the angst is worse, he actually goes insane like insane he loses it.
-
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five times, its deep resonance echoing through the marble corridors of your estate. Without opening your eyes, you knew Jungwon was already awake. The mattress dipped slightly as he carefully extracted himself from beneath the Egyptian cotton covers, his movements deliberately gentle to avoid disturbing you. You kept your breathing steady, maintaining the pretense of sleep as you had so many mornings before.
Through barely-parted lids, you watched his silhouette move through the predawn darkness. Jungwon's routine never variedânot on weekends, holidays, or even the morning after your anniversary celebration when he'd had perhaps one glass of ChĂąteau Margaux too many. Five a.m. meant feet on the floor, regardless of circumstance.
He disappeared into the expansive en-suite bathroom, closing the door with practiced quietness before the shower began to run. You rolled over to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, abandoning the charade of sleep. Outside, the manicured gardens remained dark and still, mirroring the atmosphere that permeated your mansion despite its immaculate decoration and luxurious furnishings.
One year of marriage. Three hundred and sixty-five mornings of this same choreographed dance.
By the time Jungwon emerged from the bathroom, you had straightened your side of the bed and donned your silk robe. He nodded in acknowledgment, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
"Good morning," he said, voice pleasant but neutral. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."
"No, I was already awake," you lied, the response automatic after months of repetition. "Will you be joining me for breakfast on the terrace today?"
He checked his watchâthe elegant Patek Philippe you'd given him on your six-month anniversary. "I have an early meeting. I'll grab something at the office."
You nodded, expecting this answer. Despite your chef preparing an elaborate breakfast spread every morning, Jungwon rarely sat down to eat it. You'd long since stopped taking it personally, instead viewing it as simply another aspect of your peculiar marriage.
"Madame," came a soft voice from the doorway. Your personal maid stood waiting respectfully. "The blue gown has been pressed for tonight's charity auction, and Mrs. Yang called to confirm your appointment at the salon at two."
"Thank you. Please tell the chef I'll be down shortly."
Jungwon's expression softened momentarily with what might have been gratitude. "The blue gown is a good choice. It matches the sapphires."
The brief warmth in his eyes vanished so quickly you questioned whether you'd imagined it. He dressed efficiently, selecting the navy suit you'd suggested earlier in the week. You busied yourself reviewing the day's schedule on your tablet, giving him space while maintaining the illusion of comfortable domesticity.
"I'll send the car for you at six," he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. Perfect Windsor knot, as always. "The auction starts at seven, but your mother-in-law suggested we arrive early to greet the host committee."
"I'll be ready," you assured him. "The blue complements the sapphires your family gifted me last Christmasâperfect for the society photographers."
He nodded approvingly. "Perfect. The Yangs must maintain appearances."
The phrase hung in the air between you, a reminder of what truly bound you together. Not love or passion or even friendship, but appearances. The Yang family name and reputation, upheld through generations and now entrusted to Jungwonâand by extension, to you.
Before leaving, he stopped at the bedroom door. "The new arrangement in the grand foyerâthe one with the peonies and orchids. My mother asked for the name of your florist."
"I'd be happy to share their contact information," you replied, surprised that he'd noticed the flowers at all.
He hesitated, as if considering saying something more, then simply nodded and left. Moments later, you heard the soft purr of his car starting in the circular driveway below.
The suite fell silent, save for the continuing measured tick of the antique clock.
By eleven, you had completed your morning inspection of the household: reviewing the dinner menu with the chef, approving the landscaping plans for the east garden, and confirming that the linens for Friday's dinner party had been properly pressed. The mansion operated with clockwork precision under your supervision, a showcase of domestic perfection that visitors frequently praised.
Your phone chimed with a text message from Mrs. Yangâyour mother-in-law.
The charity auction tonight is a perfect opportunity to connect with the Singhs. Their daughter returned from Oxford and has taken over their foundation. Jungwon could use their support for the new community project.
You typed a gracious reply, assuring her you would make the introduction. This was part of your unspoken role: social facilitator, network cultivator, the charming counterbalance to Jungwon's more reserved demeanor in public. Mrs. Yang had explicitly voiced her approval of your social graces during the marriage negotiations, though she'd phrased it more delicately at the time.
In the solarium, you sipped tea and reviewed correspondence on your tablet. The household staff moved efficiently around the estate, their presence indicated only by the occasional distant voice or the soft closing of a door. This cocoon of luxury and service had become your domainâa gilded cage, perhaps, but one you managed with impeccable skill.
The charity auction venue sparkled with crystal chandeliers and the gleam of expensive jewelry. You stood beside Jungwon, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm as he conversed with an important international investor. Your blue gown complemented the subtle blue in Jungwon's tie, a coordinated detail that Mrs. Yang had encouraged early in your marriage.
"And what do you think of the market's new direction?" the investor asked, unexpectedly turning to include you in the conversation.
Without missing a beat, you offered a thoughtful response based on fragments you'd gathered from Jungwon's rare comments about business. Your husband's arm tensed slightly beneath your handâin surprise or approval, you couldn't tell.
"You've got yourself a perceptive wife, Yang," the man laughed, clearly impressed. "Better be careful or I'll recruit her for my advisory board."
Jungwon smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his handsome face. "I'm very fortunate," he agreed, turning to look at you with apparent pride.
For a momentâjust a momentâthe warmth in his eyes seemed real. Then a passing waiter offered champagne, and the connection broke as he reached for two glasses.
The evening continued in this manner: introductions, small talk, strategic conversations with selected guests, and the careful maintenance of the image you projected as a couple. Jungwon's hand occasionally rested at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with gentle pressure. To anyone watching, the gesture appeared intimate and caring.
"Your work with the children's literacy foundation has been inspirational," commented Ms. Singh as you were introduced. "My father is quite impressed."
You played your part flawlessly. Laughed at the right moments. Showed appropriate interest in business discussions. Made mental notes of important names and connections to record later in your planner. You orchestrated the introduction to the Singh family that appeared completely spontaneous, fulfilling your mother-in-law's request with such subtlety that even Jungwon seemed unaware of the manipulation.
During a lull in the event, you excused yourself to visit the ladies' room. Standing before the mirror, you studied your reflection: perfectly applied makeup, not a hair out of place, the picture of a successful young wife. Other women came and went, exchanging pleasantries, complimenting your gown or asking about upcoming social events.
"You and Jungwon always look so happy together," sighed a fellow socialite as she applied fresh lipstick. "My husband can barely remember which events are on our calendar, let alone coordinate his tie with my outfit."
You smiled politely. "Jungwon is very attentive to details."
When you returned to the main hall, you spotted your husband across the room, engaged in conversation with the Singh patriarch as you had arranged. His posture was relaxed, confident, his expression animated as he discussed something that clearly interested him. You rarely saw that expression at home.
As if sensing your gaze, he looked up and met your eyes across the crowded room. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. He excused himself from the conversation and made his way to your side.
"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.
"Of course," you assured him. "Mr. Singh seems interested in your project."
He nodded. "Yes, thank you for the introduction. He mentioned you'd spoken highly of the initiative."
"That's what wives do, isn't it?" you replied, the words emerging more wistfully than you'd intended.
Jungwon studied your face, his brow furrowing slightly. "Are you tired? We can leave if you'd like."
"No," you said quickly. "Your mother would be disappointed if we left before the final auction lot."
The mention of his mother was enough to settle the matter. Jungwon nodded and offered his arm again, leading you back into the social whirl. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of smiles and small talk, your practiced responses on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.
The mansion was quiet when you returned just after midnight, though a few lights remained on for your arrival. The night butler opened the door as the car pulled up.
"Welcome home, Madame, Sir," he greeted with a respectful bow. "May I bring anything before you retire?"
"No thank you," Jungwon replied, loosening his tie. "That will be all for tonight."
As the butler disappeared, Jungwon turned to you in the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming under the soft chandelier light. "Successful evening," he commented, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "The Singhs have invited us to their summer compound next month."
"That's wonderful," you replied, slipping off your heels with a small sigh of relief. "Your mother will be pleased."
He set down his keys and looked at you directly, something he rarely did at home. "You don't need to keep mentioning my mother. I'm capable of recognizing business opportunities on my own."
The unexpected sharpness in his tone surprised you. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise."
He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disheveling it slightly. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
The apology hung awkwardly between you. Jungwon rarely expressed irritation, maintaining the same polite distance whether discussing dinner plans or household accounts.
"It's late," you said finally. "We're both tired."
He nodded, the momentary crack in his composure already repaired. "I have some work to finish. Don't wait up."
You watched him retreat to his home office, the door closing firmly behind him. In the kitchen, you found the chef had left a covered plate of small desserts and a pot of tea keeping warm. The thoughtful gestureâunderstanding your tendency to skip dinner at formal eventsâbrought an unexpected lump to your throat.
The mansion was beautifulâspacious, elegantly decorated, with every luxury and convenience. The marriage looked perfect from the outside: handsome, successful husband; accomplished, supportive wife; respected families united through a beneficial alliance. You wanted for nothing material.
And yet.
Upstairs, your nightwear had already been laid out and the bed turned down. In the adjoining bathroom, you methodically removed your jewelry and makeup, the familiar routine requiring no thought. Your reflection stared back, younger without the carefully applied cosmetics but somehow sadder too.
When you finally slipped between the cool sheets, Jungwon's side of the bed remained empty. You knew from experience that he might not come upstairs for hours. Sometimes you woke briefly in the night to feel the mattress dip as he joined you, maintaining a careful distance even in sleep.
As exhaustion pulled you toward unconsciousness, you wonderedânot for the first timeâwhat thoughts occupied your husband's mind during his late-night work sessions. Whether he ever questioned the arrangement that had brought you together. Whether he ever wished for something more than this immaculate, empty performance you both maintained.
Outside, a gentle rain began to fall against the panoramic windows, drops catching the moonlight like silver tears against the darkness.
-
The first anniversary dinner had been your mother-in-law's idea.
"A small celebration," she'd said during your weekly tea. "Nothing extravagant, of course. Just family to commemorate the successful first year."
You'd nodded and smiled, playing your part. "I'll coordinate with the chef for a special menu."
A successful first year. The phrase echoed in your mind as you supervised the staff arranging peonies and orchids in the dining roomâJungwon's mother's favorites. The crystal gleamed under the chandelier light, the silver polished to mirror brightness, the napkins folded into perfect swans. Success measured in appearances, in business connections forged, in social obligations fulfilled.
Not in moments of genuine connection, in shared laughter, in the casual intimacy of a hand brushing hair from your face. Those metrics of success remained conspicuously absent from your marriage ledger.
"The wine selection has been brought up from the cellar, Madame," said the butler. "And the chef has prepared the appetizers exactly as you specified."
"Thank you," you replied, adjusting a place setting minutely. "Mr. Yang will be home by seven, and his parents will arrive at seven-thirty."
The butler nodded and withdrew, leaving you alone in the perfect dining room of your perfect mansion in your perfect marriage that was, somehow, entirely empty.
Jungwon arrived precisely at seven, as predictable as the sunrise. You heard the familiar sound of his car, followed by his measured footsteps in the foyer. When he appeared in the doorway of the dining room, he was already dressed in the suit you'd laid outâthe charcoal gray Tom Ford that his mother once commented made him look distinguished.
"Everything looks lovely," he said, surveying the room with appreciative eyes. "You've outdone yourself."
"Thank you," you replied, accepting the compliment with practiced grace. "Your mother mentioned Mr. Kim might join them. I've set an extra place just in case."
Something flickered across Jungwon's faceâannoyance, perhaps. "He wasn't mentioned to me."
"He's the family attorney. Perhaps there's business to discuss."
"On our anniversary dinner?" The edge in Jungwon's voice surprised you. "Some things should remain separate from business."
You studied your husband's face, wondering at this unusual display of emotion. "Would you prefer I call your mother and inquire?"
"No," he said, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place. "It doesn't matter."
But it did matter, and the tension in his shoulders told you so. This was newâthis momentary crack in the facade. You wanted to press further, to understand what had triggered this response, but years of social conditioning held you back.
Instead, you said, "There's time for a drink before they arrive. Would you like something?"
He nodded, following you to the sitting room where the bar cart awaited. You poured him two fingers of the Macallan 25-year he preferred, your movements precise and practiced. When you handed him the crystal tumbler, your fingers brushed hisâan accidental touch that shouldn't have felt significant but somehow did.
"One year," he said quietly, staring into the amber liquid.
"Yes," you agreed, pouring yourself a small measure of the same. "It's gone quickly."
The silence between you stretched, filled with all the words neither of you knew how to say. Jungwon seemed on the verge of speaking when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of his parents.
The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.
Dinner progressed with the same choreographed precision as every family gathering. Mrs. Yang complimented the decor, inquired about your recent charity work, and dominated the conversation with updates on various family connections. Mr. Yang, stern and reserved like his son, contributed occasional comments about business or politics. And Mr. Kim, who had indeed accompanied them, observed it all with the calculated interest of someone evaluating an investment.
"The first year is always the most challenging," Mrs. Yang declared over the entrée, smiling at you and Jungwon with evident satisfaction. "And you two have managed it beautifully."
"Indeed," agreed Mr. Kim, raising his wine glass in a small toast. "The Yang family's standing has only strengthened. Your partnership has proven most advantageous."
Partnership. Not marriage. The distinction wasn't lost on you.
"And the foundation gala last month," Mrs. Yang continued. "Several board members commented on how impressive you both were. The Choi family was particularly taken with you, dear." She directed this last comment at you. "Mrs. Choi mentioned how fortunate Jungwon is to have found such an accomplished wife."
"I am fortunate," Jungwon agreed smoothly, the response automatic. He didn't look at you as he said it.
"Now, about the expansion into renewable energy," Mr. Yang began, turning to his son. "The board is meeting next week to discuss the proposal."
Business at the anniversary dinner, just as you'd predicted. You caught Jungwon's eye across the table, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. For once, it felt like you were truly on the same side, united in your recognition of the situation's irony.
As the men discussed business, Mrs. Yang leaned closer to you. "You know, dear, I've been meaning to ask... it's been a year now. Any news you'd like to share? Any... expectations?"
The delicate emphasis made her meaning clear. You felt heat rise to your face, embarrassment mingling with a deeper discomfort.
"Not yet," you replied quietly, maintaining your composure despite the intrusive question.
"Well, there's still time," she said, patting your hand. "Though of course, an heir is important for the Yang legacy. My husband's grandmother used to say, 'A tree without new leaves withers.'"
You nodded politely, taking a sip of wine to avoid having to respond further. Across the table, you noticed Jungwon's shoulders tense, though he gave no other indication of having overheard.
The rest of the evening passed in a similar veinâdiscussions of business, thinly veiled inquiries about family planning, and reminiscences about the wedding that focused primarily on its beneficial outcomes for the Yang family interests.
Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.
After seeing his parents and Mr. Kim to the door, Jungwon returned to the sitting room where you were nursing a final glass of wine. The house felt unnaturally quiet after the departure of the guests, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"My mother was pleased," he said, loosening his tie and pouring himself another whiskey. "She said the dinner was perfect."
"Of course she did," you replied, a hint of bitterness seeping into your voice despite your best efforts. "Everything about us is perfect on the surface."
Jungwon looked at you sharply. "What does that mean?"
The wine, the emotional strain of the evening, the accumulation of a year's worth of silencesâsomething inside you finally cracked.
"It means this," you gestured between the two of you, "isn't a marriage. It's a business arrangement with living quarters."
His expression hardened. "That's unfair. I've given you everything you could want."
"Everything except yourself," you countered, your voice rising slightly. "We live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, but you might as well be a thousand miles away."
"I don't know what you expect," he said stiffly. "We both understood the nature of this marriage from the beginning."
"Did we? Because I didn't agree to a lifetime of politeness and distance. I didn't agree to be nothing more than the perfect hostess and social coordinator for your business connections."
Jungwon set down his glass with careful precision. "You've never complained before."
"When would I have complained, Jungwon? During the three minutes of conversation we have each morning? Or perhaps during our public performances where we pretend to be a loving couple?"
He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling its perfect arrangement. "I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement. You manage the household, attend the events, fulfill your responsibilitiesâ"
"Responsibilities?" The word struck like a match against your accumulated frustration. "Is that all I am to you? A set of responsibilities to be fulfilled?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean? Please, enlighten me about my role in this arrangement, since clearly I've misunderstood."
His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."
"Your wife," you repeated, the word suddenly sounding hollow. "And what does that mean to you? Because from where I stand, I might as well be your assistant or your housekeeper for all the genuine connection between us."
"You're being dramatic," he said dismissively. "Perhaps you've had too much wine."
The condescension in his tone was the final straw. A year of suppressed emotionsâloneliness, frustration, yearningâerupted like a volcano too long dormant.
"Don't you dare dismiss me," you snapped, rising to your feet. "I have spent a year of my life walking on eggshells, trying to be perfect, trying to please you and your family, and for what? A thank you when I select the right tie? A nod of approval when I make the right business connection?"
Jungwon stared at you, clearly taken aback by your outburst. "I don't understand where this is coming from."
"Of course you don't! You've never bothered to see me as anything more than a convenient addition to your perfectly ordered life. Wake up at five, ignore wife, go to work, come home, work more, sleep. Repeat until death."
"That's not fair," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Isn't it? When was the last time you asked me about my day? Or shared something personal about yours? When was the last time you looked at meâreally looked at meânot as the 'Madame' of this house or as an accessory at a business function, but as a woman? As your wife?"
The color drained from Jungwon's face, but you were beyond stopping now. The floodgates had opened, and a year's worth of unspoken thoughts poured forth in a torrent.
"We haven't even consummated our marriage, Jungwon! One year, and you've never once reached for me in the night. Never once kissed me with anything resembling passion. Do you have any idea how that feels? To lie beside someone night after night, wanting to be touched, to be desired, and meeting nothing but polite distance?"
His eyes widened in shock at your bluntness. "IâI thought you preferred our current arrangement. You never indicatedâ"
"Indicated?" You laughed, the sound brittle. "Would it have mattered if I had? You barely look at me when we're alone together. You keep yourself locked in your office until I'm asleep. Tell me, Jungwon, are you repulsed by me? Is that it?"
"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. "That's not it at all."
"Then what? What keeps you at arm's length? Because I can't live like this anymoreâthis half-life of appearances and politeness with nothing real beneath it."
You moved closer, anger giving you courage you'd never had before. "How do you satisfy your desires, Jungwon? Do you have someone else? Some mistress in an apartment downtown who gets to see the real you? Who gets to feel your touch, your passion?"
He looked genuinely shocked. "There's no one else. I would neverâ"
"Then what?" Your voice broke slightly. "Are you simply that cold? That disconnected from your own body, your own needs? Because I refuse to believe a healthy man in his prime feels nothing, wants nothing."
Jungwon's jaw tightened. "This conversation is inappropriate."
"Inappropriate?" You were nearly shouting now. "We're married! This is exactly the conversation we should have had months ago! Do you have any idea what it's like to wonder if there's something wrong with you? To lie awake wondering why your husband never reaches for you? To start believing that maybe you're fundamentally undesirable?"
"That's notâ" he began, but you cut him off.
"I've started inventing stories in my head, Jungwon. Elaborate scenarios to explain why my husband treats me like a porcelain doll. Maybe you're secretly in love with someone from your past. Maybe you prefer men. Maybe you have some medical condition you're too embarrassed to discuss. I've considered everything because the alternativeâthat you simply feel nothing for meâis too painful to bear."
His face had gone pale. "It's none of those things."
"Then help me understand," you pleaded, anger giving way to raw vulnerability. "Because the silence is killing me. The wondering is killing me. Are you like this with everyone? This... removed? This contained? Or is it just me you can't bring yourself to touch?"
Jungwon paced away from you, his composure cracking visibly. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat to his officeâhis usual escapeâbut instead, he stopped at the window, staring out at the darkness.
"I live in my head," he said so quietly you almost missed it. "Always have. Physical... intimacy... doesn't come naturally to me."
"Have you ever let yourself feel something?" you asked, your tone softer now. "With anyone?"
He was silent for so long you thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was strained. "There was someone in college. It ended badly. I lost control, became... emotional. My father said it was embarrassing. Unbecoming of a Yang."
The confession surprised you. This tiny glimpse into his past felt like more intimacy than you'd experienced in a year of marriage.
"And since then?"
"Since then I've learned to be careful. Controlled." He turned to face you. "I thought I was respecting your space. Your independence."
"Respecting my space?" You stared at him incredulously. "There's a difference between respect and indifference, Jungwon."
"I'm not indifferent to you," he said quietly.
"Then what are you? Because from my perspective, I might as well be living alone for all the emotional connection between us."
He turned away again, his shoulders rigid with tension. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"This." He gestured vaguely. "Marriage. Intimacy. I wasn't raised for it."
"Neither was I," you countered. "But I'm trying. I've been trying for a year while you've been hiding behind work and politeness and duty."
You moved to stand beside him at the window, close but not touching. "Do you ever look at me and feel anything, Jungwon? Anything at all? Because sometimes I catch you watching me when you think I won't notice, and there's something in your eyes that disappears the moment I turn toward you."
He swallowed visibly. "I notice everything about you," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "The way you arrange flowers according to your mood. How you always leave the last bite of dessert. The small sigh you make when you're reading something that touches you."
The revelation stunned you. "Then whyâ"
"Because wanting leads to needing," he interrupted, his voice suddenly raw. "And needing makes you vulnerable. My father taught me that. The moment you need someone, you've given them the power to destroy you."
The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of truths finally spoken aloud. When Jungwon finally turned back to face you, his expression was uncharacteristically vulnerable.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, and for once, the question seemed genuine.
The simplicity of the question momentarily deflated your anger. What did you want? It was a question you'd asked yourself countless times during sleepless nights.
"I want a husband, not a housemate," you said finally. "I want to know the man behind the perfect facade. I want to feel wanted, desired, known. I want the possibility of love, even if it's not there yet."
Your voice cracked on the last words, and you felt tears threatening. "Sometimes I think if I sleep with you once and let you get me pregnant, at least I won't be so damn lonely. At least I'd have someone who needs me, truly needs me, not just for appearances or social connections."
"A child deserves better than to be born from desperation," Jungwon said softly, surprising you with his insight.
"And a wife deserves better than emotional abandonment," you countered. "I look at other couples sometimesâeven the arranged marriages in our circleâand I see moments of genuine tenderness. A hand on a shoulder. A private smile. Small intimacies that say 'I see you, I choose you.' We have none of that, Jungwon."
He flinched as if struck. "Is that what you think? That I only see you as a means to an heir?"
"How would I know what you think?" you demanded. "You barely speak to me about anything that matters. For all I know, you've mapped out our entire future in that methodical mind of yoursâthe optimal time for children, their education, their role in continuing the Yang legacyâall without once considering what I might want, what I might need as a woman, as a person."
"That's not true," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
"When have you ever shared your fears with me, Jungwon? Your hopes? Your dreams beyond the next business deal or family obligation? When have you ever asked about mine?"
He had no answer, and his silence was damning.
"I can't do this anymore," you said, suddenly exhausted. "I can't keep pretending that this empty performance is enough. I need more than politeness and perfect appearances. I need connection. I need intimacy. I need to at least feel that there's the possibility of love someday."
"And if I can't give you that?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
The question hung in the air between you, a challenge and a plea at once. You met his gaze directly.
"Then this marriage is already over, regardless of what we show the world."
The words fell like stones into still water, ripples of consequence expanding outward. Jungwon's face paled, and something like genuine fear flickered in his eyes.
"You would leave?" he asked, the question revealing more vulnerability than he'd shown in a year of marriage.
"Not in body, perhaps," you replied. "The scandal would devastate both our families. But in spirit? I'm already halfway gone, Jungwon. Every day of polite distance pushes me further away."
He sank onto the sofa, looking suddenly lost. This wasn't the composed, controlled man you'd lived alongside for a year. This was someone elseâsomeone real and raw and unsure.
"I don't know how to be what you need," he admitted finally.
"I'm not asking for perfection," you said, your anger giving way to a profound sadness. "I'm asking for effort. For honesty. For the chance to build something real together, even if it's difficult. Even if we don't know exactly how."
Jungwon stared at his hands, his wedding ring catching the light. For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally looked up, his eyes held a complexity of emotion you'd never seen before.
"I need time," he said. "To think. To... process all of this."
The request was reasonable, but it still stung. Even now, faced with the potential collapse of your marriage, he couldn't give you an immediate response.
"Fine," you said, suddenly bone-weary. "Take your time. You know where to find me."
You turned to leave, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion, when his voice stopped you.
"Where are you going?"
"To the blue guest room," you replied without turning. "I think we both need space tonight."
He made no move to stop you as you left the sitting room, your anniversary dress rustling softly with each step. The grand staircase seemed longer than usual, each step an effort. Behind you, you heard the clink of glassâJungwon pouring another drink, perhaps, or simply moving restlessly in the silent house.
The blue guest room was immaculate, as was every room in the mansion, but it felt cold and impersonal. You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your evening dress, too tired even to cry. The confrontation had drained you completely, leaving nothing but a hollow ache where hope had once resided.
From the nightstand, your phone chimed with a message. Mechanically, you reached for it, expecting perhaps your mother-in-law with some post-dinner comment.
Instead, it was Jungwon.
I do want you. I always have. That's what frightens me.
You stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as you read them over and over. A text messageâthat was what it had taken to finally glimpse the man behind the mask. Not a conversation, not a touch, but characters on a screen.
Another message appeared below the first.
I'm sorry. I should have said this to your face.
I'll be in the study when you're ready to talk. No matter how late.
The formality, even now. The careful distance maintained even in apology. You placed the phone back on the nightstand without responding, a weariness settling over you that went beyond physical exhaustion.
For a moment, you sat motionless on the edge of the guest bed, the weight of the past year pressing down on your shoulders. The perfect house with its perfect furnishings suddenly felt suffocatingâevery object a reminder of the performance your life had become.
You rose and moved to the window, pressing your palm against the cool glass. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the night remained dark and close. The mansion grounds, usually so meticulously maintained, seemed oppressive in their perfection. Even the garden paths were laid out with mathematical precision, every plant and stone exactly where it should be.
Like you. Exactly where you should be. The proper wife in her proper place.
The realization came suddenly, with absolute clarity: you couldn't stay here tonight. Not in this guest room, not in this house, not with Jungwon waiting in his study for a conversation that would likely end with more careful words and measured promises.
You needed air. Space. A place where you could remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.
With deliberate movements, you changed out of your evening dress and into simple clothes. Packed a small overnight bag with essentials. Found your personal credit cardâthe one not connected to the Yang family accounts.
You hesitated only when it came time to write a note. What could you possibly say that wouldn't be misinterpreted or dismissed? In the end, you kept it simple:
I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.
You left it on the bed, where it would surely be found when someone came looking for you. Then, silently, you made your way down the service stairs and through the side entranceâavoiding the main foyer where you might encounter Jungwon.
The night air hit your face as you stepped outside, cool and clean and startlingly fresh. You took a deep breath, perhaps the first real one in months, and felt something inside you loosen just slightly.
You didn't call for the driver. Instead, you walked down the long driveway and past the gates, your heartbeat quickening with each step that took you farther from the mansion. Only when you reached the main road did you order a rideshare, giving the address of an old friendâone who predated your marriage, who had no connection to the Yang family circle.
As the car pulled away, you glanced back at the houseâa magnificent silhouette against the night sky, lights burning in the study window where Jungwon waited for a conversation that wouldn't happen tonight.
Tomorrow would bring complications, explanations, perhaps reconciliation. But tonight, for the first time in a year, you were choosing yourself.
Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.
Are you coming down?
You turned off the notifications and watched the mansion recede in the distance, growing smaller until it disappeared from view entirely.
-
The city lights blurred through your tears as the car wound its way through the quiet streets. The driver, sensing your distress, maintained a respectful silence, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror with concern. You kept your face turned toward the window, watching as elite neighborhoods gave way to more modest surroundings.
When the car finally pulled up outside Leah's apartment building, you sat motionless for a moment, suddenly uncertain. It was past midnight. What if she wasn't home? What if she had company? What ifâ
"We're here, ma'am," the driver said gently, interrupting your spiraling thoughts.
"Thank you," you managed, gathering your small bag and stepping out into the night.
Leah's building was nothing like the Yang mansionâa six-story pre-war structure with a faded charm that stood in stark contrast to the sleek modernity you'd grown accustomed to. You hesitated at the entrance, then pressed her apartment number on the intercom.
After a long moment, a sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"
"Leah," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "It's me. I'm sorry it's so late, butâ"
"Oh my god!" The sleepiness vanished instantly. "Are you okay? I'm buzzing you up right now."
The door clicked open, and you made your way to the third floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Before you could even knock, Leah's door swung open, revealing your oldest friend in mismatched pajamas, her curly hair wild around her face.
"What happened?" she demanded, then stopped as she took in your appearanceâthe elegant makeup now streaked with tears, the designer clothes hastily exchanged for whatever you'd grabbed, the overnight bag clutched in your trembling hand.
"Oh, honey," she said, simply opening her arms.
Something inside you broke. You stumbled forward into her embrace and the tears you'd been holding back for monthsâperhaps for the entire year of your marriageâfinally erupted. Great, heaving sobs that shook your entire body, that made it impossible to speak or breathe or think.
Leah didn't ask questions. She simply guided you inside, closing the door behind you, and held you while you fell apart. Her apartment was cluttered and lived-in, books stacked on every surface, half-finished art projects leaning against wallsâthe complete opposite of your sterile perfection at the mansion.
"I can'tâ" you tried to speak, but the words dissolved into more tears.
"Shh," she soothed, leading you to her worn but comfortable couch. "Just breathe. That's all you need to do right now."
You don't know how long you criedâlong enough for your eyes to swell, for your throat to grow raw, for Leah's shoulder to become damp with your tears. Eventually, the storm subsided enough for you to become aware of your surroundings again. Leah had wrapped a soft blanket around your shoulders and was pressing a mug of hot tea into your hands.
"Small sips," she instructed, settling beside you. "It has honey for your throat."
You obeyed, the warmth spreading through your chest, momentarily calming the chaos inside you.
"I left him," you said finally, your voice hoarse from crying.
Leah's eyebrows shot up. "Jungwon? You left Jungwon?"
"Just for tonight. Maybe a few days. I don't know." You shook your head, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions. "I couldn't breathe there anymore, Leah. In that perfect house with its perfect things and its perfect emptiness."
"I always wondered," she said cautiously, "if you were really happy. You stopped talking about the real stuff after the wedding. It was all charity events and dinner parties, but never... you know. The actual marriage part."
"There was no marriage part," you confessed, fresh tears threatening. "That's the problem. We live side by side like strangers. Polite, distant strangers who happen to share the same address."
Leah reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. "Did something specific happen tonight?"
You nodded, the evening's confrontation flashing through your mind in painful fragments. "We had our anniversary dinner with his parents. And after they left, I just... broke. All the things I've been holding back for a year came pouring out."
"Good for you," Leah said firmly.
"Is it?" You looked at her, uncertain. "I said terrible things, Leah. I accused him of seeing me as nothing but a showpiece, a means to an heir. I asked if he was repulsed by me. If he was sleeping with someone else."
"And what did he say?"
"He was shocked, mostly. I don't think anyone's ever spoken to him like that before." You took another sip of tea, gathering your thoughts. "But then he said something about... about wanting me but being afraid of needing someone. Of being vulnerable."
Leah nodded thoughtfully. "That actually makes a strange kind of sense. Your husband always struck me as someone who keeps himself under tight control."
"You've met him twice," you pointed out with a watery smile.
"Twice was enough." She grinned briefly, then grew serious again. "So what happens now?"
You shook your head, feeling utterly lost. "I don't know. I just knew I had to get out of there tonight. To remember what it feels like to be... me. Not Mrs. Yang, not the society hostess, just me."
"Well, you came to the right place," Leah said, gesturing around her chaotic apartment. "Nothing perfect or polished here. Just real life in all its messy glory."
For the first time that night, you felt a small laugh bubble up. "I've missed this. I've missed you."
"I've been right here," she reminded you gently. "You're the one who got swept up into the Yang universe."
The observation stung because it contained truth. After the wedding, you had gradually withdrawn from your old friendships, immersing yourself in the role expected of Jungwon's wife. It hadn't been a conscious choice, but rather a slow submersion into a new identity that had eventually consumed the person you used to be.
"I don't know who I am anymore," you confessed, the realization dawning as you spoke it. "I've spent so long being what everyone else needed me to be that I've forgotten what I actually want."
"Then maybe that's what this time away is for," Leah suggested. "To remember."
You nodded, exhaustion suddenly washing over you. The emotional release had drained what little energy you had left after the confrontation with Jungwon.
"The guest room is a disaster area right nowâart supplies everywhere," Leah said apologetically.Â
"The couch is perfect," you assured her, overwhelmed.
"Shut up, you'll sleep next to me,"
-
Jungwon sat in his study, crystal tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him, as he stared at his phone screen. The message showed as delivered, but not yet read. He refreshed the screen again, a gesture he'd repeated dozens of times in the last hour.
Are you coming down?
The timestamp mocked him. It had been nearly two hours since he'd sent it, and still no response. Unease had gradually transformed into concern, then alarm when he'd finally ventured upstairs to find the blue guest room empty, save for a handwritten note on the perfectly made bed.
I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.
The words had hit him with physical force. He stood there staring at the note, reading it over and over as if the sparse sentences might reveal some hidden meaning. Space to breathe. Had he really been suffocating you all this time without realizing it?
Now, back in his study, Jungwon fought against his instinct to actâto call security, to track your phone, to send drivers searching the city. You had asked for space. Following you would only prove that he couldn't respect your wishes, your independence. The very thing he'd convinced himself he'd been protecting all this time.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Jungwon picked up his phone again, debating whether to try calling. His thumb hovered over your contact information before he set the device down with a sigh of frustration. What would he even say if you answered? The right words had eluded him for an entire year of marriage; they weren't likely to materialize now, in the middle of the night, after the worst fight of your relationship.
A relationship. Was that even the right word for what you had? You had called it a "business arrangement with living quarters," and the brutal accuracy of the description had left him speechless.
Jungwon ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it completely. The careful composure he maintained at all times had crumbled the moment he'd found your note. Now, alone in his study, there was no one to witness his distress, his uncertainty, his fear.
Fear. That was the emotion he'd denied for so long, burying it beneath layers of control and duty. Fear of needing someone. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of repeating his father's cold, loveless existence.
And in trying to avoid his father's mistakes, he had made his own. Different in method, perhaps, but identical in result: a wife who felt unseen, unwanted.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two in the morning. Jungwon hadn't slept, had barely moved from his position at the desk. The silence of the mansion pressed in around him, no longer the peaceful quiet he'd always preferred, but an emptiness that echoed your absence.
On impulse, he rose and left the study, walking through the darkened house toward the master suite. Inside the bedroom, everything remained exactly as you'd both left it hours earlierâyour perfume bottle on the vanity, your book on the nightstand, your robe draped over a chair. He moved to your side of the bed, sitting down carefully on the edge, and picked up the book you'd been reading.
A collection of poetry. Jungwon hadn't even known you liked poetry.
What else didn't he know about the woman he'd married? What interests, dreams, fears had you kept hiddenâor worse, had tried to share only to be met with his characteristic reserve?
He opened the book to where a silk bookmark held your place. The poem was circled lightly in pencil:
Between what is said and not meant, And what is meant and not said, Most of love is lost.
The simple lines struck him with unexpected force. Jungwon stared at the words, wondering how many times you had tried to tell him what you needed, how many signals he had missed or misinterpreted.
From his pocket, his phone buzzed with an incoming call. His heart leapt as he fumbled to answer, but the caller ID showed his father's name, not yours.
"Father," he answered, struggling to keep his voice even. "It's very late."
"Where is your wife?" Mr. Yang's voice was sharp, cutting through the pretense of pleasantries.
Jungwon tensed. "How did youâ"
"Mrs. Park saw her getting into a taxi. Alone. After midnight. She naturally called your mother with concerns."
Of course. The gossip network never slept. "She's visiting a friend," he said carefully.
"In the middle of the night? Without you?" His father's skepticism was palpable. "Do you take me for a fool, Jungwon? What's going on?"
A familiar pattern attempted to reassert itselfâthe urge to placate his father, to maintain appearances, to ensure the Yang family reputation remained unsullied. For a moment, he almost slipped into the expected response.
But the circled poem caught his eye again. Most of love is lost. He couldn't lose any more.
"We had a disagreement," Jungwon said finally, the admission feeling like ripping off a bandage. "She needed some space."
"A disagreement?" His father's tone grew icier. "Serious enough for her to leave the house? To risk being seen by others, creating speculation? What were you thinking, allowing this?"
The word "allowing" ignited something in himâa flicker of the same defiance he'd felt when his father had demanded he end his college relationship.
"I wasn't 'allowing' anything, Father. She's my wife, not my subordinate. She made a choice, and I'm respecting it."
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Never in his adult life had Jungwon spoken to his father with such open opposition.
"This is unacceptable," Mr. Yang said finally. "You will resolve whatever childish spat has occurred and bring her home immediately. The gala next weekâ"
"Is not as important as my marriage," Jungwon interrupted, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice.
"Your marriage? Suddenly you care about your marriage?" His father's laugh was without humor. "For a year you've treated it exactly as I advisedâas a beneficial arrangement. Now you're telling me you've developed feelings? Become sentimental?"
The contempt in the older man's voice was unmistakable, but instead of cowering as he might have in the past, Jungwon felt a strange calm settle over him.
"Yes," he said simply. "I have feelings for my wife. I always have. And I've been wrong to hide them."
"This is disappointing, Jungwon. I expected better from you."
"I'm beginning to think your expectations are precisely the problem, Father." Jungwon took a deep breath. "I need to go now. It's late, and I have some thinking to do."
"Don't you dare hang up onâ"
Jungwon ended the call, staring at the phone in mild disbelief at his own actions. Then, with deliberate movements, he silenced the device and set it aside.
Returning to the poetry book, he carefully noted the page number of the circled poem, then moved through the house to your closet. There, among the designer clothes and accessories, he searched for some clue to the woman behind the perfect facadeâthe woman he'd married but never truly allowed himself to know.
In the back of a drawer, he found a small wooden box, simple and clearly personal. For a moment, his ingrained respect for privacy warred with his desperate need to understand you. Privacy wonâhe couldn't begin rebuilding trust by violating itâbut the box's existence gave him hope. There were parts of yourself you'd kept separate from your arranged life, a core identity preserved despite the pressures of being Mrs. Yang.
Jungwon returned to the study, his earlier paralysis replaced by a growing resolve. He wouldn't chase youâyou'd asked for space, and he would respect that. But he could prepare for your return, could begin the work of becoming someone worthy of a second chance.
The task seemed monumentally difficult, decades of conditioning standing in opposition to what he now knew he needed to do. He had no model for the kind of husband he wanted to become, no example of vulnerability balanced with strength.
But for the first time since you'd walked out, Jungwon felt something like hope. If you gave him the chance, he would find a way to be better. To be real. To tear down the walls he'd built over a lifetime of emotional suppression.
Dawn was breaking outside the study windows when he finally drafted a message, simple and without expectation:
I understand you need space, and I respect that. I'll be here when you're ready to talkâwhether that's tomorrow or next week. I'm sorry for a year of silence. I'm listening now.
He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then set the phone down and moved to the window. Outside, the gardens were beginning to emerge from darkness, the first light revealing dew on the perfectly manicured lawns.
For once, Jungwon didn't see the perfection. Instead, he noticed how the morning light caught in a spider's web between two branches, transforming the fragile structure into something beautiful and strong. Perhaps there was a lesson there, in vulnerability's unexpected resilience.
As the mansion gradually woke around himâstaff arriving, coffee brewing, the day's preparations beginningâJungwon remained at the window, watching the light change and wondering if you, wherever you were, might be watching the same sunrise.
-
The mansion felt impossibly silent as Jungwon moved through the darkened hallways, your poetry book clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Sleep had become not just elusive but impossible, the vast emptiness of your shared bed a physical manifestation of what had been missing between you for a year. The sheets still carried your scentâa subtle perfume that he'd never properly acknowledged until now, when its absence made the fabric seem cold and lifeless.
He couldn't bear to remain in that room, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand nights spent in careful distance. Instead, he found himself back in his study, the room that had been his refuge from intimacy for so long. Now it felt like a prison of his own making, walls lined with business achievements that suddenly seemed hollow.
With trembling hands, he placed your book on his desk and opened it once more to the marked page, the one with the circled verse that had first pierced his carefully constructed armor:
Between what is said and not meant,
And what is meant and not said,
Most of love is lost.
His fingers traced your handwriting in the marginâsmall, delicate notes that revealed more about your inner thoughts than a year of careful conversation had. Next to this poem, you'd written simply: Us? with the question mark trailing off like a fading hope.
One word, followed by a question mark. So much longing contained in those three small letters. Had you written this recently, or months ago? Had you been silently questioning the emptiness between you while he maintained his facade of contentment?
Jungwon turned the page, discovering more of your markings. Some poems had stars beside them, others had entire stanzas underlined. Some had exclamation points, others question marks. It was like finding a secret language, a code he should have deciphered long ago.
A poem about two rivers running parallel without ever meeting carried your annotation: This is what marriage feels like. So close yet never touching.
His breath caught. When had you written that? While lying beside him in bed, bodies carefully not touching? While sitting across from him at breakfast, exchanging polite comments about the day ahead?
He continued reading, unable to stop himself now. Each page revealed more of your hidden inner life. A poem about seasonal changes had reminds me of childhood summers before expectations written in the margin. Another about distant mountains carried the note wish we could travel together somewhere without his family or business associates.
Each annotation was a window into desires you'd never expressed, dreams you'd kept hidden. Why had he never asked what you wanted? Where you longed to go? What made you happy?
The night deepened around him, but Jungwon barely noticed. He was falling into your world, glimpsing for the first time the woman behind the perfect wife he'd taken for granted.
Then he found a page with the corner folded down, a poem about physical love:
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Your handwriting beside it was more hurried, almost feverish: too much to hope for? would he ever lose control enough?
Jungwon's throat tightened painfully. All those nights lying beside you, maintaining a careful distance, while you marked poems about passion and wrote desperate questions no one would see. How many nights had you lain awake, wanting him to reach for you? How many times had you considered reaching for him, only to retreat in fear of rejection?
He turned more pages, finding increasingly intimate selections. Next to Pablo Neruda's words:
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes
You'd written: I dream of his mouth on my skin. Would he be disgusted by such thoughts?
The pain that shot through him was physical. Disgusted? How could you think that? But then, what else could you think when he'd maintained such careful distance, when he'd retreated to his study each night rather than face the vulnerability of desire?
Another poem, this one about hands tracing the geography of a lover's body, carried your note: I've memorized the shape of his hands during dinner parties, imagined them on me instead of on his wine glass.
Jungwon looked down at his own hands, remembering all the times they'd almost touched youâpassing dishes at dinner, handing you into the car, the brief contact when giving you a giftâand how he'd always pulled back just slightly too soon. What would have happened if he'd let his fingers linger? If he'd given in to the urge to trace the line of your jaw, to feel the softness of your skin?
Hours passed as he lost himself in your secret thoughts. Some poems had tear stains, barely perceptible wrinkles in the paper where droplets had fallen and dried. Those broke him most of allâthe tangible evidence of your solitary tears, shed perhaps just feet away from where he sat working, oblivious to your pain.
One poem about loneliness had simply: I am disappearing inside this house, inside this marriage, becoming nothing but "Mrs. Yang" scrawled across the bottom in handwriting that shook with emotion.
Dawn found him still at his desk, eyes burning from reading and from tears he hadn't realized he was shedding. The morning staff moved quietly through the house, shocked to see him disheveled and unshaven, the immaculate Yang heir looking like a man undone.
He ignored their concerned glances, your poetry book still open before him. But it wasn't enough. One book couldn't contain all of you. He needed more.
"Sir," the housekeeper approached hesitantly as Jungwon emerged from his study, still in yesterday's clothes, "would you like your breakfast now?"
"No," he replied, his voice hoarse from a night without sleep. "I need to see all of Madame's books. Every book in this house that she's ever touched."
The housekeeper exchanged a worried glance with the butler. "All of them, sir?"
"Every single one. Novels, poetry, anything with her handwriting in it. Bring them to the library."
He moved with feverish purpose to the library, pulling books from shelves himselfâany that showed signs of your touch. Dog-eared pages, bookmarks, the slight cracking of spines that indicated frequent opening to favorite passages.
Throughout the day, the staff delivered more and more booksânovels from your nightstand, reference books from the sunroom shelves, journals from your writing desk. Jungwon created careful piles around him, transforming the library floor into a map of your mind.
He found a travel book about Greece with dozens of Post-it notes marking specific locations. The private cove where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked read one note that made his heart race. Another, beside a picture of a small village: No social obligations, no family expectationsâheaven.
You'd been dreaming of escape. From the mansion, from the Yang name, from him? The thought was unbearable.
In your copy of Jane Eyre, he found your underlining of Rochester's passionate declaration: "I have for the first time found what I can truly loveâI have found you." Beside it, your handwriting: To be truly SEEN by someone. What would that feel like?
"Oh god," he whispered, the words escaping involuntarily. "You've never felt seen."
How could he have failed so completely? He, who prided himself on his attention to detail in business, had missed everything that mattered about the woman who shared his home, his name, his bed.
As afternoon turned to evening, Jungwon discovered a small leather journal tucked between larger books on a bottom shelf. He hesitated, knowing this was crossing a line from reading your notes to reading your private thoughts. But his need to know you, to understand what he'd missed, overrode his sense of propriety.
The journal wasn't a diary but a collection of poems you'd written yourself, clumsy in places but raw with emotion:
I practice conversations with you in my head
Witty things I might say that would make you look at me
Really look at me
But when you enter the room
My words evaporate like morning dew
And we speak of dinner parties and business associates
Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes
Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice
Jungwon felt his careful composureâthe mask he'd worn his entire adult lifeâshatter completely. You had seen him watching you. Had known there was something beneath his polite facade. But he'd never given you enough to be sure, had never been brave enough to let you see his wanting.
Another poem, dated just two months ago:
Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass
Accidental touch that burned through my skin
I wonder if you felt it too
That current between us, electric and dangerous
Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection
For any sign that beneath your perfect suit
Beats a heart that could want me
As much as I want you
He had felt it. Every accidental touch, every brush of your hand, every moment when you stood close enough that he could smell your perfume. He had felt everything and denied it all, retreating into work and duty and the expectations drilled into him since childhood.
The worst entry was the most recent, written just days before your anniversary:
One year of marriage
Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him
Listening to his breathing
Wondering if he's awake
Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me
Of breaking through the invisible wall between us
One year of perfect Mrs. Yang While the woman inside me slowly suffocates
Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once
If I was brave enough to cross that divide
But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me
That still believes I'm worthy of being
Wanted.
Jungwon closed the journal, his vision blurred with tears. You had been silently begging for him to reach across the divide while he had been congratulating himself on respecting your independence. The magnitude of his failure crushed him.
He didn't eat that day. Didn't change clothes. Didn't acknowledge the increasingly concerned staff who hovered at the library's periphery. Instead, he immersed himself in your hidden world, learning you through the books you'd loved, the passages you'd marked, the words you'd written when you thought no one would see.
Dawn arrived, but Jungwon had lost all sense of time. The library floor was covered with open books, each one containing fragments of your soul. He had read himself into a state of emotional exhaustion, discovering more and more evidence of your loneliness, your desire, your gradual loss of hope.
A desperate energy seized him. Reading wasn't enough. He needed to act, to change, to create physical evidence of his awakening before you returnedâif you returned.
He summoned the head gardener, ignoring the man's shocked expression at his disheveled appearance.
"I need every peony on the estate moved to the front garden," he announced, his voice rough from disuse. "Every single one. From all the gardens, the greenhouse, everywhere."
"Sir, that would be hundreds of plants," the gardener protested. "And the formal designâ"
"I don't care about the design," Jungwon interrupted, thinking of a note he'd found beside a picture of a wild garden: Why must everything be so ordered? So perfect? I long for beautiful chaos. "I want them arranged naturally. The way they would grow if they chose their own placement."
"But sir, your mother's landscape planâ"
"Is no longer relevant." Jungwon's eyes flashed with an intensity that made the gardener step back. "The peonies were always her choice, not my wife's. I want a garden that reflects what she loves."
"This will take all day, possibly longer," the gardener warned.
"Then start immediately. And I need something else. The bookshelves from the east parlorâbring them to the east garden. All of them."
The staff exchanged alarmed glances, but Jungwon was beyond caring about their concerns. He continued issuing instructions, driven by the need to transform the mansionâto break the perfect mold that had trapped you both.
"Sir," the butler ventured cautiously when the others had gone to carry out these strange orders, "perhaps you should rest. You haven't slept or eatenâ"
"How can I rest?" Jungwon's voice broke with emotion. "Do you know what I've discovered? She's been living here for a year, lonely and unfulfilled, while I congratulated myself on being a proper husband. I've failed her completely."
The butler, who had served the Yang family for decades, had never seen the young master in such a state. "Sir, if I may... it's never too late to change course."
Jungwon looked at him sharply. "Have you seen her? Has she contacted anyone?"
"No, sir. But knowing Madame, she's not one to leave matters unresolved."
With renewed determination, Jungwon returned to the library. He selected dozens of books containing your most revealing notes and had them brought to the east garden. As the shelves were positioned on the grass, he began arranging the books, creating a physical testament to what he'd learned.
The gardeners worked throughout the day, transplanting hundreds of peonies to the front garden in a naturalistic arrangement that would horrify his mother but, he hoped, would speak to you. The once-formal approach to the house transformed into an explosion of your favorite flowers, arranged with the organic randomness of nature rather than the rigid precision of Yang tradition.
By late afternoon, Jungwon had created an outdoor library in the east gardenâthe private corner of the grounds where you often walked alone. He placed books on the shelves and opened others on the grass around him, creating a circle of revelations.
He had sent the staff away, needing to be alone with the evidence of his awakening. His phone buzzed repeatedlyâhis father, his mother, business associates all demanding attention. He ignored them all.
Instead, he picked up your poetry journal again, reading and rereading your most vulnerable confessions. The precise handwriting becoming more jagged with emotion. The careful Mrs. Yang breaking through to the woman beneath.
As sunset painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, Jungwon sat amidst the books, surrounded by the fragments of you he'd collected, feeling more alive and more terrified than he had ever been. What if it was too late? What if you had already decided that the year of emotional solitude was too high a price for the Yang name and fortune?
He wouldn't blame you. How could he? He had offered you everything except himself.
Night fell, and still he remained in the garden, under stars you had once described in a margin note as witnesses to all our silent longings. He read your words by the light of lanterns the staff had silently provided, losing himself in the labyrinth of your unspoken desires.
In the faint light, he reread the poem that had started his journeyâthe one about love lost between what is said and not meant, what is meant and not said. He traced your question mark with his finger, feeling the slight indentation in the paper where you had pressed the pen, perhaps harder than you intended, the physical evidence of your frustration.
"I see you now," he whispered to the empty garden, to the books that held pieces of your soul. "I see you, and I'm terrified it's too late."
The night deepened around him, but Jungwon remained among the books, keeping vigil, waiting, hoping you would come homeâand fearing you would not.
-
Five days since you'd left. Five days of freedom from the perfect imprisonment that had become your life. Five days to remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.
On the morning of the sixth day, as you sat on Leah's small balcony with a chipped mug of coffee, your phone lit up with a text from Jungwon's personal assistant.
Mr. Yang has canceled all appointments for the foreseeable future. The household staff reports concerning behavior. If you could contact them, they would be grateful.
You stared at the message, rereading it several times. Jungwon never canceled appointments. Even when he'd had the flu last winter, he'd conducted meetings by video rather than reschedule. His schedule was sacred, immovable.
"What's wrong?" Leah asked, noticing your expression.
You handed her the phone. She read the message and raised her eyebrows.
"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."
"Jungwon doesn't have breakdowns," you said automatically, then paused. The man you'd confronted before leavingâthe one who'd admitted his fear of vulnerability, who'd texted you his feelings rather than say them aloudâperhaps that man did have breakdowns after all.
"Are you going to go check on him?" Leah asked.
You sighed, setting down your coffee. "I have to, don't I? At the very least, I need to get more of my things." You'd left with only a small overnight bag, having no plan beyond escape.
"Want me to come with you?"
"No," you said, more decisively than you felt. "This is something I need to do alone."
As you showered and dressed, you tried to prepare yourself for what awaited. Would Jungwon be coldly angry, his moment of vulnerability already locked away? Would he have summoned his parents, ready for a united front to convince you of your duties? Or would he simply be absent, buried in work as a shield against emotion?
In the rideshare on the way to the mansion, you rehearsed what to say. You would be calm but firm. This wasn't about blame anymore but about whether a real marriage was possible between you. You needed honesty, vulnerability, true partnershipânot just the performance of marriage you'd endured for a year.
But as the car approached the gates of the estate, your carefully prepared speech evaporated. The formal gardens that had always greeted visitors with mathematical precision had been transformed. Instead of the orderly rows of seasonal blooms, there was a riot of peoniesâyour favorite flowerâplanted in natural, wild groupings that looked almost as if they had grown there spontaneously.
"Wait here," you told the driver. "I may not be staying."
As you walked up the long driveway, your heart hammered against your ribs. The front door opened before you reached it, the butler appearing with an expression of profound relief.
"Madame," he said, bowing slightly. "Thank goodness you've returned."
"I'm not staying necessarily," you clarified, stepping into the foyer. "I just came toâ" You stopped, noticing more changes. The formal floral arrangements that always occupied the entryway tables had been replaced with wild, exuberant bouquets of peonies and wildflowers. "What's happening here?"
"Mr. Yang has been... making adjustments to the household," the butler replied diplomatically. "He's in the east garden. He's been there nearly two days now."
Two days? "Is he... is he all right?"
The butler hesitated. "I believe he's waiting for you, Madame."
You made your way through the house, noting more changes as you went. Books that had always been perfectly arranged on shelves now sat in haphazard stacks on tables, many open to specific pages. Your books, you realized, from your private collection.
When you reached the doors leading to the east gardenâyour favorite part of the grounds, where you often walked aloneâyou paused, gathering your courage.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.
The garden had been transformed into an outdoor library. Bookshelves stood on the grass in a semicircle, filled with booksâyour booksâmany open to display specific pages. And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the ground surrounded by open volumes, was Jungwon.
You'd never seen him like this. His usually immaculate appearance was completely undoneâhair disheveled, several days' stubble on his jaw, clothes rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He was reading intently from what you recognized as your private poetry journal, his expression a mixture of pain and wonder.
He looked up as your shadow fell across the page, and the naked hope and fear in his eyes made your breath catch.
"You came back," he said, his voice rough as if from disuse.
"What is all this?" you asked, gesturing to the surreal scene around you.
Jungwon carefully closed your journal and set it aside. He rose slowly to his feet, a man moving carefully so as not to shatter something fragile.
"I've been trying to find you," he said. "The real you. The one I should have been looking for all along."
You stepped closer, picking up one of the books from the grass. It was your copy of Neruda's love sonnets, open to a page where you'd scribbled Would he ever touch me like this? in the margin.
Heat rose to your face. "You've been reading my private notes?"
"Yes." Jungwon didn't try to justify or excuse it. "I needed to understand what I'd missed, what I'd ignored. I needed to see youâreally see you."
You should have been angry at the invasion of privacy, but something in his broken expression stopped your protest. This wasn't the controlled, perfect Jungwon Yang you'd married. This was someone else entirelyâraw, desperate, real.
"Do you have any idea," he continued, taking a step toward you, "how much you've wanted? How much you've needed? All these books, all these words you've underlined, notes you've writtenâthey're full of longing I never acknowledged."
You remained silent, unsure what to say as he moved closer, stopping just short of touching you.
"I found your poem about lying beside me at night, wondering if I was awake, wondering if I ever thought about touching you." His voice broke slightly. "I did. Every night. I lay there wanting you, terrified of reaching for you, convinced that maintaining distance was the same as showing respect."
Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he must hear it. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I almost lost you." The simple truth hung in the air between you. "Because I realized that the thing I feared mostâvulnerability, need, the possibility of rejectionâwas nothing compared to the emptiness of letting you walk away without ever knowing how much I want you. How much I've always wanted you."
To your shock, Jungwon suddenly dropped to his knees before you, looking up with eyes that held none of his usual composure.
"I don't deserve another chance," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "I've been a coward, hiding behind duty and family expectations. But if you're willingâif there's any part of you that believes we could start againâI swear I will spend every day trying to be worthy of you."
You stood frozen, overwhelmed by his declaration, by the sight of Jungwon Yangâheir to an empire, always in perfect controlâon his knees before you, walls finally shattered.
"I want to build a life with you," he continued, the words spilling out as if he couldn't contain them any longer. "A real life, not this performance we've been trapped in. I want mornings where we don't pretend to sleep through each other's routines. I want to hear about your day and tell you about mine. I want to take you to that cove in Greece where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked."
Your cheeks flamed at the reference to your private note in the travel book.
"I've read every word you've written in the margins," he confessed, his voice dropping lower. "I've memorized your poetry. The ones you circled, the ones you starred. Neruda's wordsâ'I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees'âI understand them now. I feel them in my veins."
His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.
"I dream of you. Of being inside you. Of knowing nothing but the depth of your eyes when you look at me. Of drowning in your skin until my mind forgets every lesson in restraint I've ever learned." His voice shook slightly. "All those nights I lay beside you, rigid with control, while you wrote of desire in book marginsâit was never indifference. It was fear. Fear of how completely I would surrender to you if I allowed myself a single touch."
You couldn't breathe, couldn't speak as he continued, years of suppressed desire breaking through the dam of his composure.
"I found where you wrote 'would he ever lose control enough?' The answer is yes. God, yes. Every moment of every day I've wanted to lose myself in you. To press you against walls, to taste every inch of your skin, to hear my name in your voice when I'm buried so deep inside you that we can't tell where I end and you begin."
He trembled visibly now, hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching for you.
"I want children who know their father can feel, can love," he went on, his voice breaking. "I want to be the man you deserveânot the perfect Yang heir, but a husband who sees you, hears you, wants you exactly as you are."
Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. This was what you'd wantedâwasn't it? The real man beneath the perfect facade. But now that he was here, raw and vulnerable, you found yourself terrified of your own power to hurt him, to be hurt again.
"I don't know if I can trust this," you admitted softly. "What happens when your father calls? When your mother visits? When business demands return? Will you retreat back behind those walls you've built over a lifetime?"
Jungwon nodded, acknowledging the fairness of your question. "I already told my father I won't be controlled by his expectations anymore. I hung up on himâ" He gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "I actually hung up on him when he tried to order me to bring you back for appearances' sake."
Your eyes widened. In the Yang family hierarchy, defying the patriarch was unthinkable.
"I can't promise I'll never struggle," Jungwon continued. "A lifetime of conditioning doesn't disappear in a week. But I can promise to try. To talk instead of withdraw. To let you see meâall of me, even the parts I was taught to hide." He swallowed hard. "And I can promise that no business meeting, no family obligation, nothing will ever be more important to me than you are."
The morning sunlight filtered through the garden trees, casting dappled light across his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability in his expression. In that moment, all the trappings of wealth and status fell away, leaving just a man asking a woman for another chance.
"I love you," he said quietly, the words clearly strange on his tongue. "I think I have from the beginning, but I didn't know how to show it, how to say it, how to let myself feel it without fear."
Your carefully constructed walls began to crumble. The honesty in his eyes, the tremor in his voiceâthis wasn't another performance. This was real in a way nothing between you had been before.
You took a deep breath, making a decision that would change everything.
"Stand up," you said softly.
Jungwon rose slowly, uncertainty in every line of his body. He stood before you, not touching, waiting.
"I need time," you said finally. "Not away from youâI think we've had enough distance. But time here, together, building something real. Day by day. No quick fixes, no grand gestures, just... honest effort."
Relief washed over his face. "Anything. Whatever you need."
You reached out slowly, your hand trembling slightly as you placed it against his cheek. The stubble was rough under your palmâa tangible sign of his unraveling, his transformation.
"We start again," you said. "As equals. As partners. As two people choosing each other every day, not just fulfilling an arrangement."
Jungwon covered your hand with his own, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yes," he agreed simply. "That's all I want. The chance to choose you, and to be chosen by you, every day."
You stood there in the garden surrounded by the evidence of his awakeningâthe books, the wildflowers, the breaking of perfect order that had defined your lives together. Nothing was resolved yet, not really. The real work of building a marriage would take time, patience, courage from both of you.
But as Jungwon's fingers tentatively interlaced with yours, you felt something you hadn't experienced in a very long time: hope.
Not the desperate hope that had led you to mark passages in poetry books, dreaming of connection. But a quieter, stronger hope built on the foundation of truth finally spoken, of walls finally breached.
A beginning, at last, after a year of beautiful emptiness.
-
The transformation didn't happen overnight. Real change never does. But it began with small, deliberate stepsâeach one a silent promise, a brick in the foundation of what you both hoped would become something genuine and lasting.
The first week was tentative, both of you navigating an unfamiliar landscape of honesty. You moved back into the master bedroom, but Jungwon slept on the chaise lounge across the room, respecting your need for physical space while closing the emotional distance. Each night, you talkedâsometimes for hoursâabout everything and nothing. Your childhoods. Your dreams. The books that had shaped you. The places you longed to visit.
"I never knew you wanted to see Greece so badly," Jungwon said one evening, sitting cross-legged on the chaise, looking younger and more relaxed than you'd ever seen him. "We could go. Whenever you want."
"It's not just about going," you explained, hugging your knees to your chest as you sat against the headboard. "It's about going somewhere simply because we want to, not because it's expected or beneficial to the family business."
He nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "A trip just for us. No schedules, no business meetings disguised as vacations..."
"Exactly."
Two days later, you found a travel guide to the Greek islands on your pillow, with a note in Jungwon's precise handwriting: Pick the places that call to you. No expectations. No time limit. Just us.
-
The second week brought the first real test. Mrs. Yang arrived unannounced, sweeping into the foyer with the authority of someone who had never been denied entry.
"I've heard disturbing reports," she announced, eyeing the wildflower arrangements with thinly veiled distaste. "The garden completely rearranged. Appointments canceled. Your father says you're not taking his calls. And now this..." She gestured to the informality of the house, the books scattered on surfaces, the general disruption of the perfect order she'd helped establish.
In the past, Jungwon would have immediately adjusted his behavior to appease her. You braced yourself for his retreat back into the perfect son role.
Instead, he surprised you.
"Mother," he said calmly, "we're in the middle of some changes here. I should have called to tell you it's not a good time for a visit."
Her eyes widened. "Not a good time? Since when do I need an appointment to visit my own son's home?"
"Since now," Jungwon replied, his voice gentle but firm. "We're working on our marriage, and we need space to do that properly."
Mrs. Yang turned to you, expecting you to be the reasonable one, to smooth over this unprecedented friction. "Surely you understand that family obligationsâ"
"Are important," you finished for her, "but not more important than our relationship. Jungwon and I are learning to put each other first."
Her mouth opened and closed, momentarily speechless. "This is your influence," she finally said to you, her voice sharp. "My son has never been so disrespectful."
You felt Jungwon tense beside you, but before he could speak, you placed your hand on his arm. A silent communicationâI've got this.
"It's not disrespect to establish healthy boundaries," you said, maintaining a respectful tone despite the accusation. "We both value you and Mr. Yang, but we're building something here that needs protection and care."
Mrs. Yang looked between the two of you, noting the united front, the way Jungwon stood slightly closer to you than necessary, the casual intimacy of your hand on his arm. Something in her calculation shifted.
"I see," she said finally. "Well. Call when you're ready to rejoin society. The foundation gala is in three weeks, and people will talk if you're absent."
"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.
After she left, you turned to Jungwon, studying his face for signs of regret or anger. Instead, you found him looking almost relieved.
"That was the first time I've ever said no to her," he confessed with a shaky laugh. "It feels... terrifying. And right."
You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."
"Not perfect," he corrected. "Real. There's a difference."
-
By the third week, physical barriers began to dissolve. Jungwon moved from the chaise to the bed, though always maintaining a careful distance. But one night, half-asleep and cold from the air conditioning, you instinctively shifted closer to his warmth. Without fully waking, he draped an arm over you, pulling you against him with a contented sigh.
You froze, suddenly wide awake, your heart racing at the casual intimacy. His breathing remained deep and even, clearly still asleep. Slowly, you relaxed into the embrace, allowing yourself to feel the solidity of him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth that radiated through his thin t-shirt.
It was the first time you'd slept in each other's arms. In the morning, when you both woke to find yourselves entangled, there was a moment of awkward uncertainty before Jungwon smiledâa genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face.
"Good morning," he said softly, making no move to pull away.
"Good morning," you replied, marveling at how natural it felt to be here, in this moment, with him.
That day, the staff noticed the shift between youâthe lingering glances, the casual touches as you passed each other, the private smiles. The mansion seemed to exhale, as if the building itself had been holding its breath, waiting for life to finally fill its rooms.
-
A month after your return, Jungwon came to you with a proposal.
"I've been thinking about the house," he said over breakfast, which you now took together every morning before he left for work. His schedule had been completely reorganized, with strict boundaries between work and home time. "It's beautiful, but it's never felt like ours. It's been my family's vision of what our home should be."
You nodded, understanding immediately. "It's always felt like living in a museum."
"Exactly." He pushed a folder across the table. "What would you think about this?"
Inside were architectural plans for a new houseâsmaller, more intimate, designed around shared spaces and natural light.
"You want to move?" you asked, surprised.
"I want us to build something that belongs to us," he clarified. "Something that reflects who we are together, not who everyone expects us to be."
You studied the plans more carefully, noting the library with two desks facing each other, the open kitchen designed for cooking together, the master bedroom with windows that would catch the sunrise.
"There's room for a nursery," you observed quietly, looking up to gauge his reaction.
His eyes softened. "I thought... someday... if we decided..." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I want children with you. Not for the Yang legacy, but because I can't imagine anything more beautiful than creating a family with you. But only when we're ready. Only when our foundation is solid."
You reached across the table, taking his hand. "I'd like that. Someday."
He squeezed your fingers, a simple gesture that had become precious in its newfound ease. "So, the house?"
"Yes," you decided. "Let's build something that's truly ours."
-
Two months into your new beginning, you attended your first social event as a changed couple. The charity auctionâironically, the same type of event where you'd played your roles so convincingly beforeânow became the stage for your authentic selves.
When you entered on Jungwon's arm, the subtle changes were immediately apparent to the careful observers of high society. The way his hand rested at the small of your backânot for show, but because he liked the connection to you. How he kept you within his sight even during separate conversations. The private smiles you exchanged across the room, small moments of complicity in the public setting.
Mrs. Singh approached you during a lull in the evening. "There's something different about you two," she observed shrewdly. "You seem... happier."
You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room. He was engaged in conversation but looked up at that exact moment, as if sensing your gaze, and smiled back with undisguised affection.
"We are," you replied simply.
Later, when the dancing began, Jungwon led you to the floor. Unlike the choreographed movements you'd performed at countless events before, this time he held you closer, his cheek occasionally brushing against your temple, his hand warm and secure against yours.
"Everyone's watching us," you murmured, feeling the weight of curious eyes.
"Let them," he replied, his lips close to your ear. "Maybe they'll learn something."
The evening continued, but unlike before, you weren't simply playing a part. The genuine connection between you was unmistakable, and as the night progressed, you felt something shift in the atmosphere around you. The calculated social maneuvering gave way to something more genuine, as if your authenticity had granted others permission to drop their own facades, if only slightly.
When you returned home that night, the tension that had always accompanied these performances was absent. Instead, there was a shared sense of accomplishment, of having navigated the social waters together without losing yourselves in the process.
"That wasn't so bad," Jungwon admitted as you both prepared for bed. "Being real in public."
"It was actually nice," you agreed, sitting at your vanity to remove your jewelry. "Though I think your mother nearly fainted when you declined the board seat Mr. Lee offered."
Jungwon laughed, the sound still new enough to delight you. "The old me would have accepted immediately, even though we both know it would have meant even less time at home." He moved behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "I have different priorities now."
He reached for the clasp of your necklace, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helped you remove it. The simple intimacy of the gestureâone that might have seemed ordinary in most marriages but was revolutionary in yoursâmade your breath catch.
When he finished, his hands remained on your shoulders, thumbs gently caressing the exposed skin above your dress. Your eyes met in the mirror, and the desire you saw thereâno longer hidden or deniedâsent heat cascading through you.
"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.
It wasn't your first kiss since the reconciliationâthere had been gentle pecks, cautious explorationsâbut something about this moment felt different. More significant.
You turned to face him, rising from the vanity bench. "Yes."
He cupped your face with reverent hands, studying you as if committing every detail to memory, before leaning in slowly. The kiss began gentle but deepened as months of carefully banked desire kindled between you. His arms encircled your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the rapid beating of his heart against yours.
When you finally separated, both breathless, Jungwon rested his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispered, the words no longer strange or difficult but natural, necessary.
"I love you too," you replied, the truth of it filling every part of you.
That night, for the first time, you truly became husband and wifeânot through social obligation or family expectation, but through choice. Through desire. Through love that had fought its way past barriers of conditioning and fear to find expression at last.
-
Six months after your confrontation, the new house was completed. It stood on a hillside overlooking the city, modern in design but warm in execution, with natural materials and spaces designed for living rather than showcasing wealth.
The move was symbolic in more ways than oneâleaving behind the mansion with its rigid expectations and cold perfection, stepping into a home created specifically for the life you were building together.
On your first night there, after the movers had gone and the essentials were unpacked, Jungwon opened a bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses as you both stood in the expansive living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city lights spread below.
"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.
"To us," you added, clinking your glass against his.
After you both drank, he set his glass aside and reached for your hand, his expression turning serious.
"I want to ask you something," he said, leading you to the sofa. When you were both seated, he took both your hands in his. "This past yearâthese six months especiallyâhave been the most transformative of my life. I feel like I'm finally becoming the person I was meant to be, not the perfect heir my father designed."
You squeezed his hands encouragingly. "I'm proud of you. The changes you've made, the boundaries you've setânone of it has been easy."
"It's been worth it," he said simply. "And I want to keep growing, keep becoming better. With you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "Which is why I want to ask you to marry me. Again. For real this time."
He opened the box to reveal a ring nothing like the elaborate diamond he'd given you during your engagement. This one was simpler, more personalâa band of intertwined gold and platinum with a small sapphire that matched the color of your favorite flowers.
"Our first marriage was arranged for us," he continued. "I want this one to be chosen by us. No families planning, no strategic alliances, just two people who love each other deciding to build a life together."
Tears filled your eyes, but unlike the lonely tears you'd shed in that first year, these were born of joy, of wonder at how far you'd both come.
"Yes," you whispered, watching as he slipped the ring onto your finger, alongside the formal engagement diamond you still wore. The contrast between themâone chosen for appearance, one chosen for meaningâperfectly symbolized your journey.
"I thought we could have a small ceremony," Jungwon said, pulling you close. "Just us and a few people who truly care about our happiness. On that Greek island you've been reading about."
You laughed through your tears. "Your mother would never forgive us."
"She'll survive," he said with a smile. "This isn't about the Yang family or social connections or business advantages. It's about you and me, choosing each other. Every day. For the rest of our lives."
As you kissed to seal this new promise, you marveled at the journey that had brought you hereâfrom empty performance to authentic partnership, from silent longing to expressed love, from arranged marriage to chosen commitment.
The road hadn't been smooth. There had been setbacks, moments when old patterns threatened to reassert themselves. There would be more challenges ahead, more work to maintain the vulnerability and honesty you'd fought so hard to establish.
But looking into Jungwon's eyesâeyes that now held nothing back from youâyou knew with absolute certainty that the difficult path was worth it. That true connection, once found, was worth fighting for. That love, real love, could grow even from the most barren beginnings, if only given the chance to breathe.
-
The most shocking transformation in your renewed marriage wasnât the tenderness.
It was the hunger.
Jungwon, who used to sleep with a polite space between your bodies, now touched you like he couldnât bear even a millimeter of distance.
The man who once bowed his head before kissing your hand now dropped to his knees and begged to taste you.
It was as if years of restraint had finally snappedâlike some tight, internal knot had come undoneâand he was feral from the release.
The first night you truly became intimate, you realized just how much heâd been suppressing.
His hands, once always tucked in his lap, now gripped your thighs like a lifeline, dragged you down onto the sheets with a growl. He shook when he touched you, but not from nervesâfrom sheer fucking relief.
His mouth, which had always only spoken in formal tones and quiet dinner conversation, now whispered against your skinâ
âIâve dreamed of spreading your legs and living between them.â
You gasped. He kissed lower. His breath hot between your thighs.
âEvery night beside you, pretending I didnât hear how you breathed heavier when I got too close. I wanted to fuck you so bad I used to take cold showers just to stop myself from humping the fucking mattress.â
You were already soaked, trembling.
You cupped his face, forced him to look up. âYou donât have to hold back anymore.â
His pupils were blown wide. He licked his lips, nodding.
âI donât think I could if I tried.â
He broke.
He devoured your pussy like it owed him rent. Like it was his first and last meal.
No teasing. No patience. Just his tongue, buried deep, moaning into you like your taste was the only thing that ever made him lose his composure.
You came once on his mouthâfast and loudâand he didnât even let up.
âAgain,â he groaned, âfuck, again, I want to feel you fall apart.â
And when he finally hovered over you, flushed and trembling and naked between your legs?
âTell me,â he whispered, cock dragging through your soaked folds, âtell me what you want. What youâve been aching for. Let me ruin you the way Iâve dreamed about.â
So you did.
You told him all of it. The fantasies. The positions. The filthy little things youâd only ever written down in notebook margins when he was still cold and distant.
And Jungwon?
Did. Not. Flinch.
He nodded, breath shaking, and saidâ
âYou want to be face down? Crying? Begging? Iâll give it to you. Just know when I start, I wonât stop until youâre fucked stupid.â
And he meant it.
He took you face down on the mattress, hips locked in place by his grip, his cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. He growled things youâd never imagined him sayingâ
âThis pussyâs mine. All fucking mine. You think I donât know how wet you get when I talk like this?â
âLook at youâslutty little wife, dripping down your thighs like youâve been waiting to be treated like a whore.â
âHow many times you make yourself cum thinking about me breaking like this, huh?â
You choked on your moans. You were sobbing by the time he made you cum again, legs shaking, jaw slack, vision blurry.
He kissed your spine afterward. Slowly. Tenderly. Like he hadnât just rearranged your insides.
Pulled you into his arms and whispered, âI used to leave the room when I got too hard just looking at you. I thought wanting you like this made me weak. My father always said a Yang man should control his urges.â
He paused. Smiled against your neck.
âIâve never been so happy to disappoint him.â
-
In the weeks that followed your first night together, the shift between you became impossible to ignore. And impossible to contain.
Jungwon couldnât stop touching you.
He didnât even try. His hand found yours under the breakfast table.
His palm slid across your lower back when you walked past him in the hallwayâlingering there, possessive.
He stole kisses while you were brushing your teeth, while you answered the door, while you loaded the washing machine.
It was as if his body was always reaching, always chasing, making up for a year of self-denial all at once.
You gave in to him every time.
One afternoon, he came home early from the office to find you kneeling in the garden, soil smudged on your knees, digging holes for the last peony bush youâd saved from the mansion.
You didnât hear him approach.
But you felt itâthe change in the air. The heat behind you. The sound of breath catching.
Hands on your waist. A sharp inhale. And a low, devastating voice.
âThatâs what I come home to?â
You turned your head, startledâand then flushed under the weight of his gaze.
He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.
Already breathing too hard.
âJungwonââ
He hauled you to your feet. Didnât flinch at the dirt. Didnât care about the sunlight.
Just gripped your waist, pulled you close, and kissed you like youâd been killing him in his dreams. You gasped against his mouth, hands braced on his chest, heart pounding.
âWhat was that for?â
His eyes were black with need. He didnât let you go.
âBecause I can,â he said. âBecause I spent a year not touching you. Not letting myself want you. Not letting myself want to bend you over every surface in our house.â
You trembled.
He pulled you closer.
âI refuse to waste another fucking day.â
The peonies were forgotten.
He dragged you inside, dirt on your hands, sweat beading on your spineâand kissed you again against the door.
His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.
Then his belt, as he backed you into the living room like a man possessed.
When your knees hit the rug, he dropped with you.
Didnât even bother removing your clothes properlyâjust shoved your dress up and pulled your underwear down like it offended him.
âHere,â he growled, palming your ass as he pressed you forward onto all fours. âHere on the floor, where I can see every inch of you. Where I can fuck you raw and you can scream for me.â
You moaned, breath hitched.
âGod, I wanted to do this the first night I married you. I wanted to wreck you. I wanted to see what sounds youâd make with my cock in you.â
You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.
No teasing. No patience. Just one smooth thrust that made you cry out, already clenching.
âSo fucking tight,â he hissed. âSo wet and hot and mine.â
He fucked you hard, fast, hips slapping against your ass as your moans echoed through the empty house.
You didnât care. You let him take everything.
He gripped your hips, pulled you back onto him harder, chasing your high like heâd been dying for it. You came shaking on him, and he groaned, low and broken, before following with a curse buried into your shoulder.
You collapsed to the rug in a tangled heap, both of you breathless, glowing in the afternoon sun. Later, still half-naked, your cheek resting on the rug, he lay beside youâhead on your stomach, smiling like a teenager.
âMy father would be appalled,â he murmured. âThe Yang heir behaving like this. Desperate. Loud. Fucking his wife on the floor.â
You laughed, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
âAnd what do you think?â
He tilted his head. Kissed your bare hip, then lower.
Then smiled.
âI think we should do it again in the kitchen.â
A pause.
âThen the stairs. Then the study. Then maybe the floor again.â
You didnât even get a chance to answer. Because his hand was already sliding between your legs again.
-
What amazed you most was his attentiveness. Jungwon, who had once seemed completely disconnected from physical needs, now anticipated yours with an almost uncanny perception. He noticed when tension gathered in your shoulders and appeared with warm hands to massage it away. He registered which touches made your breath catch and revisited them with deliberate intent. He cataloged every sensitive spot, every preference, every response with the same meticulous attention he'd once reserved for business reports.
"How did you know?" you asked one evening when he drew you a bath exactly when you needed it, complete with the lavender oil you preferred when tired.
"Your left eyebrow tenses slightly when you're exhausted," he explained, kneeling beside the tub to wash your back with gentle hands. "And you roll your shoulders every few minutes. Plus, you've been on your feet all day with the interior decorator."
The fact that he noticed such small detailsâthat he paid such close attention to your physical comfortïżœïżœmoved you deeply. This wasn't just passion; it was care, consideration, genuine desire for your wellbeing.
One night, as you lay tangled together in the afterglow of particularly intense lovemaking, Jungwon traced patterns on your back with his fingertips, his expression thoughtful.
"I used to think that needing someone physically was a weakness," he confessed. "That it gave them power over you. My father warned me about itâhow desire could cloud judgment, make a man vulnerable."
"And now?" you prompted, propping yourself up to look at him.
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features in a way that still took your breath away. "Now I think vulnerability is its own kind of strength. The courage to need someone, to show them exactly how much you want them..." He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I've never felt stronger than when I'm completely undone in your arms."
-
The physical transformation in your marriage rippled outward, affecting every aspect of your lives together. Jungwon, once rigid in his schedules and plans, now embraced spontaneity. He would cancel meetings to spend the day in bed with you, laughing as you expressed shock at his newfound willingness to prioritize pleasure over work.
"The company won't collapse if I take a day off," he said, pulling you back under the covers when you suggested he shouldn't neglect his responsibilities. "And thisâ" he kissed you deeply "âis a responsibility too. To us. To what we're building."
Even in public, the change was evident to anyone with eyes to see. Though still mindful of appropriate boundaries, Jungwon couldn't seem to stop himself from small touchesâhis hand at the small of your back, his fingers laced with yours, the way he would occasionally lean down to whisper something in your ear that made heat rise to your cheeks.
At a corporate gala, Mrs. Yang cornered you by the refreshment table, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Your husband's behavior has become rather... demonstrative lately," she observed acidly. "It's unseemly for a man of his position to be so openly affectionate."
You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room as he spoke with investors. Even engaged in business conversation, his eyes sought you out regularly, as if making sure you were still there, still his.
"I disagree," you replied calmly. "I think it shows remarkable strength for a man to be secure enough in himself to express his feelings openly."
Your mother-in-law's lips thinned, but before she could respond, Jungwon appeared at your side, his hand automatically finding yours.
"Mother," he greeted her with polite warmth. "I see you've found my wife. I hope you'll excuse usâthis is our song."
There was no song playing that held any special meaning, but Mrs. Yang couldn't know that. With a small bow, Jungwon led you to the dance floor, pulling you closer than was strictly proper for such a formal event.
"Rescued you," he murmured against your ear, his breath sending delicious shivers down your spine.
"My hero," you teased, relaxing into his embrace. "Though your mother might never recover from the shock of seeing the Yang heir so besotted with his own wife."
"Let her adjust," he replied, his hand splayed possessively against your lower back. "This is who I am now. Who we are together."
Later that night, he touched you like heâd been holding it in all dayâlike the hours of careful, public restraint had coiled inside him, pressing tight under his skin, begging for release.
Now, with you spread beneath him in your shared bed, every breath he took seemed heavy with need.
His thrusts were deep, deliberate, dragging moans from your throat with each slow roll of his hips.
He didnât rush. He didnât look away. He studied you.
His dark eyes locked onto yours, watching every flicker of expression, every twitch, every gasp, like he wanted to memorize the exact second you shattered.
âWhat are you thinking?â he asked, voice low, tight, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.
You blinked up at him, dazed, overwhelmed. âThat I hardly recognize you sometimes.â
His rhythm stutteredâhips faltering, jaw tensing.
His brows drew together. âIs that⊠disappointing?â
You couldnât help the breathless laugh that escaped you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and pulled him closer, arching up to meet him.
âNo. Quite the opposite.â
Your fingers slid into his hair, your voice thick with wonder and arousal.
âIâm amazed that all of thisââ
Your hands trailed down his chest, to where your bodies met, to the heat and slick and stretch between your legs,
ââwas hidden inside that perfect, restrained man.â
Relief washed over his face, followed by a crooked, mischievous smileâso at odds with the version of him youâd once known that it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.
âI have years of self-control to make up for,â he said, lowering his mouth to your throat, his voice a warm rasp against your skin. âYou donât think Iâve imagined this? Every night. Every day. Watching you walk around like you didnât know how badly I wanted to fuck you into the mattress?â
You whimpered, breath catching.
âYou think I didnât notice how soft your thighs looked in those dresses? Or how your voice changed when you said my name?â
His tongue flicked over a sensitive spot just below your ear, and your back arched without thinking.
âI used to jerk off in the shower,â he whispered, filthy now, âbiting my lip so you wouldnât hear. Palming my cock like a coward while I imagined you moaning for me just like this.â
You gasped as he pinned your wrists above your head, not rough, just firmâcontrolling, possessive. His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with devastating precision.
âYouâre mine now,â he said against your collarbone. âI donât have to hide it anymore. Donât have to pretend I donât want you crying and shaking under me every night.â
The need in his voice made your toes curl.
âI donât think anyone could be prepared for this version of you,â you managed to gasp, hips bucking as his thumb pressed harder.
He chuckled darkly. âGood. I like catching you off guard.â
Then his lips ghosted over your pulse, and he murmured:
âI like knowing no one else gets to see you like this. Just me. The mess. The begging. The way you moan when I hit you right there.â
His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.
âI like owning this version of you. The version that melts under me. That asks for more even when Iâm already inside.â
The sheer possessiveness in his voiceâraw and reverentânearly undid you.
Your whole body clenched, eyes wide, breath gone. âOnly you,â you whispered, completely wrecked. âAlways you.â
He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.
And when you came again, shaking apart in his arms, you knew:
Youâd never seen the real Jungwon before this.
Afterward, as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you reflected on the journey that had brought you here. From polite strangers sharing a bed without touching, to lovers who couldn't bear even the smallest distance between them. From a marriage of appearance to a union of body, heart, and soul.
Jungwon's arm tightened around you, even in his sleep unwilling to let you go. The man who had once feared needing someone now embraced that need without reservation, transforming what he'd been taught was weakness into his greatest strength.
As you snuggled closer to his warmth, you silently thanked whatever courage had prompted you to finally break the silence between you, to demand more than the empty performance your marriage had been. The risk had been terrifying, but the rewardâthis man who loved you without restraint, who showed that love in every look and touch and whispered wordâwas beyond anything you could have imagined.
Epilogue: Aegean Dreams
The light breeze carried the scent of salt and wild herbs through the open French doors of your villa, perched on the cliffs of Santorini. Dawn had just begun to paint the horizon in shades of gold and rose, the Aegean Sea below reflecting the spectacle like a mirror. You stood on the private terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, drinking in the view that had once been nothing more than a wistful note in a travel book margin.
Warm arms encircled you from behind, and Jungwon's lips found the curve where your neck met your shoulder.
"I woke up and you were gone," he murmured against your skin. "For a second, I panicked."
You turned in his embrace, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. No product kept it in place hereâjust like no tailored suits or carefully crafted personas had made the journey to this small Greek paradise.
"Just wanted to see the sunrise," you explained, smiling at the vulnerability he no longer tried to hide. "Old habits. Though I'm not used to you noticing when I slip out of bed."
"I notice everything about you now," he said, tightening his hold. "Especially when your warmth disappears from beside me."
Two years had passed since that fateful anniversary night when everything had broken open between you. Two years of learning each other, rebuilding trust, discovering what it meant to truly choose one another every day. The small, intimate wedding you'd held on this very island six months ago had merely formalized what your hearts had already decided.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Jungwon asked, noticing your contemplative expression.
"I was just thinking about that travel book," you said, leaning into him. "The one where I marked all those Greek islands, never believing I'd actually see them."
"And now you've seen five of them in three weeks," he replied with a smile. "With three more to go before we have to think about heading back."
The itinerary for this trip had been deliberately open-endedâa luxury neither of you had ever permitted yourselves before. No business calls, no social obligations, not even a fixed return date. Just the two of you moving at your own pace through the islands you'd dreamed of.
"Remember that cove I mentioned in my notes?" you asked, a mischievous glint in your eye. "The one where 'no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked'?"
"How could I forget?" Jungwon's voice dropped lower, his hands sliding down to your waist. "It's circled on the map in our bedroom. I've been wondering when you'd bring it up."
"The boat captain said he could take us there this afternoon. Completely private, accessible only by sea."
His eyes darkened with desireâa look that still thrilled you, even after months of uninhibited passion. "I'll tell him we'll double his fee if he drops us off and doesn't return until sunset."
You laughed, stretching up to kiss him. "Always the efficient businessman."
"Only when efficiency serves pleasure," he countered, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless.
When you finally pulled apart, the sun had fully crested the horizon, bathing the white-washed villa in golden light. Jungwon led you to the small table on the terrace where he'd already set up breakfastâfresh fruit, local yogurt, honey, and coffee prepared exactly the way you liked it.
"I have something for you," he said, reaching into the pocket of his linen pants as you both sat down.
He placed a small package wrapped in simple brown paper on the table between you. His expression held an endearing mix of anticipation and nervousness that reminded you how far he'd come from the controlled, emotionless man you'd married.
"What's this for?" you asked, picking up the package. "It's not my birthday or our anniversary."
"Do I need a reason to give my wife a gift?" he countered with a smile. "Open it."
You carefully unwrapped the paper to find a leather-bound journal, its cover soft and supple. When you opened it, you discovered it was filled with poemsâsome typed, others handwritten in Jungwon's precise script.
"I've been collecting them," he explained, watching your face closely. "Every poem that made me think of you. The ones that helped me understand what I was feeling when I didn't have the words myself."
You turned the pages, eyes widening as you recognized some of the poems you'd once secretly marked in your books, now preserved in this new collection. But there were others you didn't recognizeâcontemporary pieces, older classics, even what appeared to be original works.
"Did you... write some of these?" you asked, looking up in surprise.
A flush crept up his neckâthe unguarded reaction still so different from the controlled man he'd once been. "I tried. They're probably terrible, but..." He shrugged, a gesture of vulnerability that would have been unthinkable in the old Jungwon. "I wanted to find a way to tell you what you mean to me that wasn't borrowed from someone else's words."
You found one of his original poems, dated from the early days of your reconciliation:
I lived behind walls so high
Even I forgot what lay inside
Until your voice broke through
And light flooded places
I had kept dark for so long
I had forgotten they could shine
Tears pricked your eyes as you continued reading. The progression of the poemsâfrom hesitant early attempts to more recent, confident expressionsâmirrored the journey of your relationship.
"This is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me," you said finally, closing the journal and holding it against your heart.
"There's one more thing," Jungwon said, reaching across the table to take your hand. "I've been thinking about what you said last week, about not being ready to go back to real life yet."
"I was just being silly," you assured him, though the thought of returning to schedules and obligations did fill you with a certain dread. "We can't stay on vacation forever."
"Why not?" He smiled at your startled expression. "Not forever, but... longer. I've been working on something." He pulled out his phoneârarely used during the trip except for taking photosâand showed you a property listing. "It's a small villa on Paros. Nothing extravagant, but it has a garden for you and a study for me with a decent internet connection."
"You want to buy a house here?" you asked, stunned.
"I want us to have a place that's just ours. Not tied to the Yang name or business or social expectations." His eyes held yours, serious despite his smile. "A place where we can come whenever we need to breathe. Where no one expects anything from us except being ourselves."
"But your workâ"
"Can be managed remotely for extended periods," he interrupted gently. "I've been talking with the board about restructuring my role. Less day-to-day management, more strategic direction. It would mean fewer hours, more flexibility."
You stared at him, processing the magnitude of what he was suggesting. The old Jungwon would never have considered stepping back from his corporate responsibilities, would never have prioritized personal happiness over professional ambition.
"What about your father?" you asked, knowing that Mr. Yang would view such a move as a betrayal of family duty.
"He'll adapt," Jungwon said with surprising calm. "Or he won't. Either way, I'm not living my life to meet his expectations anymore." He squeezed your hand. "What do you think? Not about himâabout the villa."
You looked out at the endless blue of the Aegean, then back at the man who had transformed himself for love of youâwho continued to transform, to grow, to choose your shared happiness over prescribed obligation.
"I think," you said slowly, a smile spreading across your face, "that I'd like to plant bougainvillea along that terrace wall in the photos."
His answering smile was radiant. "Is that a yes?"
Instead of answering with words, you stood and moved around the table, settling onto his lap. His arms came around you automatically, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in his worldâwhich, you knew now, you were.
"It's a 'you make me happier than I ever thought possible,'" you said, framing his face with your hands. "It's a 'I love the life we're building together.'"
"Even if it scandalizes my mother?" he asked, laughter in his eyes.
"Especially then," you replied, leaning in to kiss him as the Greek sun climbed higher in the sky, warming your skin, illuminating the future stretching before youâunplanned, unprescribed, and gloriously your own.
Behind you, the pages of the poetry journal fluttered in the sea breeze, open to the last entry, written in Jungwon's hand just days before:
Once I thought perfection meant control
Now I know it's the moment you laugh
Head thrown back, eyes dancing
Completely unguarded in my arms
The sound of your happiness echoing
Through rooms once filled with silence
This is the music I want to hear
For all my remaining days
fin.
-
TL: @addictedtohobi @azzy02 @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @zzhengyu @somuchdard @annybah @ddolleri @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 @jakewonist
#enhypen smut#enha smut#enhypen#enha#enhypen jungwon#jungwon x reader#jungwon x you#jungwon x y/n#jungwon smut#jungwon scenarios#jungwon imagines#yang jungwon smut#yang jungwon x reader#yang jungwon imagines#yang jungwon enhypen#jungwon enhypen#jungwon#yang jungwon#yang jungwon x you#yang jungwon x y/n#enhypen x reader#enhypen x you#enhypen x female reader#enhypen x y/n#enha x reader#enha x you#enha x y/n#jungwon enha#jungwon fic#jungwon hard thoughts
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Simon Riley wasnât a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes. And right now, those actions consisted of him sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, arms resting on his thighs, watching you like a man utterly engrossed in the most intense thriller of his life. His sharp, brown eyes followed every single one of your movements with laser focusâso much so that you had to stop and arch a brow at him through the mirror.
âYouâre staring,â you mused, dragging a cotton pad soaked in toner across your skin.
Simon didnât even blink. âYeah.â
âThatâs all youâve got to say?â
A slow shrug. âYou do this every night, and it still feels like watchinâ a bloody mission unfold.â
You snorted, shaking your head at his dramatics. âItâs just skincare, Si.â
âTo you,â he countered, tilting his head as you reached for your serum. âTo me? Itâs an operation. Youâve got phases, precise steps, different solutions. Looks like chemical warfare.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât help the smile tugging at your lips. Simon, this big, lethal man, who faced warzones and threats on a daily basis, was utterly captivated by something as mundane as your skincare routine. He never complainedânot once. In fact, you were convinced he could sit there for hours if given the chance.
As you dropped a few dots of serum onto your cheeks, his fingers twitched. You caught it immediately. âYou wanna do it?â
He exhaled through his nose, pretending to contemplate, but the answer was obvious. âYeah.â
You turned to him, holding out the dropper. âBe gentle.â
His bare hand wrapped around the bottle as he squeezed out a tiny amount. His touch was surprisingly delicate as he smoothed the serum over your skin with slow, deliberate motions.
âThere,â he murmured, voice low, like he had just completed something of grave importance. âGood?â
You hummed, leaning into his touch. âPerfect.â
Simon nodded, satisfied, before leaning back to watch the rest of your routine unfold. His girl, in her element. Nothing in the world could pull him away from this.
The door slammed openâwell, as much as it could with Simon catching it at the last second, his reflexes kicking in. You stumbled in, barely managing to toe off your heels, giggling at absolutely nothing. The room swayed around you, the effects of one too many drinks wrapping around your mind like a thick haze.
Simon, ever the patient man, just sighed. âYouâre pissed.â
You blinked up at him, your pupils blown wide. âMânot.â
âYou are.â He exhaled sharply, stepping forward just as your knees buckled. One strong arm wrapped around your waist before you could faceplant onto the floor. âAlright, câmon, love. Letâs get you sorted.â
You melted against him, cheek pressing against the hard planes of his chest. âYou smell good,â you murmured, voice muffled.
Simon huffed out a small chuckle. âYeah, yeah.â
He guided you toward the bed, setting you down with an ease that made you feel weightless. As soon as your body hit the mattress, exhaustion washed over you in waves, your limbs heavy, your mind sluggish. But just as you were about to succumb to sleep, Simonâs voice cut through the haze.
âYou gotta clean your face first.â
You whined, attempting to burrow into the pillows. âDonât wanna.â
âDoesnât matter.â There was no room for argument in his tone, but there was something else there tooâsomething soft, something⊠fond.
Through half-lidded eyes, you watched as he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of cabinets opening and closing filling the space. When he returned, he had a small cotton pad in one hand and your bottle of micellar water in the other. Your sluggish brain could barely comprehend what was happening as he crouched in front of you, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he cupped your jaw.
âHold still,â he murmured, voice low, as if afraid to startle you.
You hummed, too dazed to do anything but comply. With careful precisionâlike he was handling something fragileâhe pressed the damp cotton pad against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your foundation. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was performing some sort of sacred ritual.
The cool sensation against your skin was oddly soothing, and you sighed, leaning into his touch.
Simon shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. âDidnât think Iâd be doinâ this, but here we are.
You smiled sleepily. âTaught you well, huh?â
âThat you did.â His thumb brushed over your cheekbone before he continued, working his way down to your chin, your forehead, even swiping a fresh pad over your lips with the utmost care.
When he reached your eyes, he hesitated. âClose âem for me, love.â
You did as he asked, feeling the gentle sweep of the cotton against your lids, ridding them of mascara and eyeliner. His touch never faltered, never rushed.
By the time he was done, your skin felt fresh, clean, and your body⊠impossibly heavy. Sleep tugged at you, lulling you into a warm, blissful state.
Simon sighed, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. âAlright, bed.â
You barely registered the blankets being pulled over you, barely noticed the way he lingered for just a moment longer, watching over you like a silent guardian.
But just before sleep fully claimed you, you mumbled, âLove you, Si.â
A beat of silence. Then, a quiet, barely-there response.
âLove you too, sweetheartâŠâ
#iâm in love.#Heliâs writing á¶» đ đ° .á#simon ghost riley#task force 141#simon riley x you#sab0dssey#simon riley x reader#simon ghost fluff#task force x reader
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kickin my feet and shi thinkin abt husband! katsuki not leaving without his goodbye kiss from his wife, even after an argument.
you stood by the kitchen counter with your arms crossed, still fuming from the argument that had erupted the night before.
katsuki, equally stubborn, was getting ready for work, his movements a little harsher than usual as he shoved his phone into his pocket and grabbed his keys.
neither of you had really spoken since the fight. it was stupid, reallyâsomething about schedules and plans.
"gotta go."
you heard the jingle of his keys as he walked toward the door. for a moment, you thought he was just going to leave. good. let him leave. maybe a day apart would cool both of you down.
but then, he just stopped.
you didnât turn around, but you felt his presence by the door, unmoving. you were about to glance over your shoulder when his voice broke the silence.
âwhereâs my kiss?â
your heart stuttered. slowly, you turned to face him. "excuse me?"
"you heard me," katsuki grumbled, his ears tinged pink. "you always give me a kiss before i leave. so... where is it?"
your lips parted in disbelief. âwe just argued for the whole night and you want a kiss?"
"yeah, and? doesnât mean you can skip it."
the audacity. the nerve. you opened your mouth to tell him off, but the stubborn, almost childlike look on his face made your resolve crack.
he was dead serious. this man could be furious with youâcould spend hours brooding in stony silenceâbut he still needed his goodbye kiss like it was a non-negotiable part of his day.
"katsuki, iâm still pissed at you."
"and iâm still pissed at you," he shot back, brows furrowing. "but we donât leave without a goodbye kiss. thatâs our thing and iâm not leavinâ without it."
he looked genuinely annoyedâand not just because of the argument.
ever since youâd started dating, no matter how bad the fight, you never let each other leave without a kiss. this was the kind of annoyance he reserved for things that threw him off his routine.
and apparently, your daily goodbye kiss was part of that routine.
still, you stayed put, stubborn as fuck. he shifted, gripping the keys tightly in his hand like it was the only thing stopping him from marching across the room.
you saw the conflict flash in his eyesâpride battling something softer.
"just...â he finally muttered, voice low and rough. âcâmere. please.â
that single, reluctant please just broke you.
with an exasperated sigh, you stomped over to him. he watched you carefully, guarded but hopeful. you stopped just inches away, folding your arms.
âthis doesnât mean iâm not still mad,â you mumbled.
âi know,â he said softly.
you placed your hands on his chest and stood on your tiptoes, giving him a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. or at least, you tried to. as you pulled away, his hand shot out, cupping the back of your neck.
âoi,â he said, voice losing its earlier irritation. âthat ainât a real kiss.â
you glared up at him, ready to argue, but the intensity in his eyes made your heart stutter. his thumb brushed the side of your neck as his grip softened.
"even if we fight," he muttered, voice lower now, "i still love ya. and i still want my kiss."
your chest tightened. damn him for being sweet after pissing you off.
you leaned in again, pressing your lips to his more firmly this time. he responded immediately, mouth warm against yours, his hand cupped the back of your head, deepening the kiss.
it wasnât soft or tentativeâit was desperate, almost punishing. his teeth scraped your bottom lip, and his tongue pushed into your mouth like he was trying to kiss the fight right out of you.
when you pulled away, his expression had softened, the hard lines of frustration melting into something quieter.
"i love you." he kissed your forehead, then straightened. âwell?â
you raised an eyebrow. âwell, what?â
his gaze darkened. âsay it.â
you roll your eyes dramatically. "say what?"
his jaw clenched. "say you love me too. you donât get to leave me hanginâ after all that kissinâ shit.â
a smirk tugged at your lips. oh, he was really fishing for it now. âi love you too, okay?â
the words barely left your mouth before his hand shot out, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you toward him.
"good," he muttered, before slamming his lips against yours in another kiss that left you breathless. it wasnât sweet or gentleâit was hungry, desperate, like he was trying to make up for lost time.
âwait, katsuki, youâre gonna be lateââ you gasped against his mouth as his hands roamed down your body.
âfuck work. iâm late anyway," you tried to speak again, but he kissed you so hard it left no room for words.
the argument? forgotten. work? completely irrelevant. all that mattered was the way he was making you feel in that moment, pulling you closer, making your head spin.
his hands tugged at your clothes with an urgency that told you he wasnât planning on letting you go anytime soon.
âgot better things to do while my girl is pissed at me.â
ââ§âËâ§[ it's me, kia ! ]â§Ëââ§ ïœĄïŸâąâê°á ⥠à»ê±ââą ïœĄïŸ ââ§âËâ§[ more of katsuki ! ]â§Ëââ§
âËàż kia's note Ëâ hi everyone!! js wanna put this out as a thank you for the 2k follows, oh my gosh i am beyond happy i made it this far. hope yall stick around for more^^
#bakugou x reader#bakugou katsuki x reader#katsuki bakugo mha#bnha bakugou#katsuki bakugou#bnha bakugo katsuki#mha#mha bakugo katsuki#mha bakugou#bnha#bakugo fluff#bakugou fluff#mha fluff#bnha fluff#bakugo katsuki#katsuki bakugo#bakugou katsuki#bakugo katsuki x reader#bakugo x reader#bnha x reader#katsuki bakugo x reader#mha bakugo x reader#x reader#bakugou imagine#bakugo x you#bakugou x you#mha imagines#mha x reader#mha x you#bnha katsuki
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Creep

Warnings: Creepy/stalker behavior, breeding kink, pussydrunk behavior, cumflation, stomach bulge, subspace, premature ejaculation, orgasms
~
You know it's wrong, so wrong to enjoy the attention of a creep.
At least, that's what people call him. But through the snickers and sidelong glances that surround him, there's something about him that intrigues you, attracts you, something you can't seem to get out of your head.
It starts off small, letting him eye you from across the room and flashing him a small smile. Then you notice he starts to get bolder, more confident in his advances. As the days pass, his presence becomes a constant in your routine. He waits for you after class, catches you alone in elevators, leans in closer during conversations, and even starts to find excuses to touch your arm or shoulder. Each interaction feels like a challenge, a test of boundaries that seems he's all too willing to push.
In the beginning, you almost listen to the unease flickering in the back of your mind, warning that maybe you are playing with fire. But as the tension builds, you find your resolve slowly melting, small touches on your arm turn grazes against your ass and the quick glances evolve into him blatantly checking you out.
So only you can be blamed for the situation you're in right now. Only you can be blamed for letting it get like this.
His hips snapped so fast you can't think, you can breathe. Pleasure courses through your body in electric flesh arrows and you could feel your pussy clench around his length in a futile attempt to adjust for his massive size. How could a creep like him be so big? Jesus, you could feel his mushroom tip press against your cervix every time he slammed into you. Countless loads of cum dripped from where you two were connected onto the white sheets below. At any given time he'd blow his load right into you and without much of a stutter fuck the liquid back into you, until he reached his high again and started the cycle over again.
"Mine," he grunts out, his breath hot against your cheek from the brutal mating press he has you in. The bed shook with every thrust, the head board banging against the wall from the way your cervix was getting absolutely abused. The friction, the way he filled you up so perfectly, his hot skin against yours, it was too much, too overwhelming, and your brain couldn't handle the pleasure. You could feel the euphoria absorb your body, making your toes curl and uncurl from the sheer pleasure.
"G-gonna cum in you again" He says through a moan, peppering kissed along your jaw. "Gonna fill you up, make you feel so so good." He doesnât slow his movement, instead picking up one of your legs and throwing it over his shoulder so he can reach even deeper. He places his other hand on your belly, rubbing your skin with his thumb.
"You feel me?" He coos, pressing down on your stomach, intensifying the pressure of his cock inside you and making your moans grow even louder.
"I can feel you, I can feel you squeezing me, feel so good, better than my fist." He chuckles and grabs your throat, squeezing it so your brain goes fuzzy with the slight light of oxygen.
His breathing becomes jagged and with a soft whimper followed by a silent "oh-fu", he blows his load into your battered pussy. There is no warning when cums into you, only the slight stutter of his hips that does nothing to deter his brutal pace. You are soaked down there, his sticky cum leaking out of you as he pushes into you over and over again. But you couldn't be bothered to look right now, you couldnât open your eyes and ignore the colors you were seeing behind your eyelids. Everything was good - so, so, so good. Your skin was buzzing, mind cloudy, and the only thing you could focus on was the throbbing that was taking over your body.
"You gonna cum?" He coos into your ear, punctuating his words with an extra sharp thrust. "Cum for me, please."Â
As if on cue, you gasp, and let your orgasm wash over you. He doesn't stop his movements, instead, he fucks you through your orgasm until your crying for him to stop.
"Not gonna stop, gonna fuck you until m' shooting blanks okay?"
SHIGARAKI, YUUTA OKKATSU, L LAWLIET, SHINSO, KENMA, GYUTARO
#shigaraki x reader#shigaraki smut#yuuta smut#yuuta x reader#yuuta okkotsu#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen headcanons#jjk smut#l x reader#l smut#shinso x reader#kenma x reader#kenma smut#gyutaro x reader#gyutaro smut#kny smut#kny x reader
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âš HOW TO ACTUALLY START A BOOK

(no âšvibesâš, just structure, stakes, and first-sentence sweat)
hello writer friends đ so you opened a doc. you sat down. you cracked your knuckles. maybe you even made a playlist or moodboard. and then⊠you stared at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.
hereâs your intervention. this post is for when you want to write chapter one, but all you have is aesthetic, maybe a plot bunny, maybe a world idea, maybe nothing at all. hereâs how to actually start a book, from structure to sentence one.
â
đ¶ïž STEP 1: THE SPICE BASE ~ âWHATâS CHANGING?â
start with this question:
what changes in the protagonistâs life in the first 5â10 pages?
doesnât have to be earth-shattering. they could get a letter, lose a job, run late, break a rule, wake up hungover in the wrong house. what matters is disruption. the opening of your book should mark a shift. if their day starts normal, it shouldnât end that way.
đ opening chapters are about motion. forward movement. tension. momentum. if nothing is changing, your story isnât starting, youâre just doing a prequel.
â
âïž STEP 2: THE CRUNCHY BITS - CHOOSE AN ENTRY POINT
there are 3 classic places to start a novel. each one works if youâre intentional:
The Day Everything Changes most popular. you drop us in right before or during the inciting incident. clean, fast, efficient.
pro: immediate stakes con: harder to sneak in worldbuilding or character grounding
The Calm Before the Storm starts slightly earlier. show the characterâs ânormalâ life, then break it. useful if the change wonât make sense without context.
pro: space to introduce your characterâs routine/flaws con: risky if it drags or feels like setup
The Aftermath drop us in after the big event and fill in gaps as we go. works well for thrillers, mysteries, or emotionally heavy plots.
pro: instant drama con: requires precision to avoid confusion
đ pick one. commit. donât blend them or youâll write three intros at once and cry.
â
đ§ STEP 3: CHARACTER FIRST, ALWAYS
readers donât care about your setting, your magic system, or your cool mafia politics unless theyâre anchored in someone.
in the first scene, we need to know:
what this person wants
whatâs bothering them (externally or internally)
one trait they lead with (bold, anxious, calculating, naive, etc.)
thatâs it. just one want, one tension, one vibe. no bios. no monologues. no âthey werenât like other girlsâ essays. put them in a situation and show how they act.
â
âïž STEP 4: OPEN WITH FRICTION
first scenes should create questions, not answer them.
there should be tension between:
what the character wants vs. what theyâre getting
whatâs happening vs. what they expected
whatâs being said vs. whatâs being felt
you donât need a gunshot or a car crash (unless you want one). you need conflict. tension = momentum = readers keep reading.
â
âïž STEP 5: WRITE THE FIRST SENTENCE - THEN IGNORE IT
okay. now you write it.
no pressure. youâre not tattooing it on your soul. this isnât the final line on the final page. you just need something.
tricks that work:
start in the middle of an action
start with a contradiction
start with something unexpected, funny, or sharp
start with a small lie or a weird detail
đŹ examples:
âThe body was exactly where sheâd left it - rude.â âHe was already two hours late to his own kidnapping.â âThere was blood on the welcome mat. Again.â âThey said donât open the door. She opened it anyway.â
once youâve got it? keep going. donât revise yet. donât edit. just build momentum.
you can come back and make it âšiconicâš later.
â
đŠ BONUS: WHAT NOT TO DO IN YOUR OPENING
donât start with a dream
donât info-dump lore in paragraph one
donât give me three pages of your OC making toast
donât try to sound like a Victorian cryptid unless itâs on purpose
donât introduce 7 named characters in one scene
donât start with a quote unless you are 800% sure it slaps
be weird. be sharp. be specific. aim for interest, not perfection.
â
đ TL;DR (but make it âšusefulâš)
something in your MCâs life should change immediately
pick a structural entry point and stick to it
give us a person, not a setting
friction = good
first lines are disposable, just make them interesting
and if you needed a sign to just start the damn book, this is it.
đ love, -rin t.
P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages đ you can grab it here for FREE:
#writeblr#writing advice#writing help#how to start a novel#writing tips#writers on tumblr#amwriting#creative writing#writing resources#writeblr community#on writing#writing#writers block#how to write#thewriteadviceforwriters#writers and poets#novel writing#fiction writing#romance writing#writing blog#writing characters#writing community#writing ideas#writing inspiration#writing guide#writing prompts#writing a book#writing reference#writing tips and tricks#writers
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đđđđ đđđ đđđđđđđđđ ⯠đđđđ đđđ đđđđđ đđđ đđđđđđ/đđđđđđ
đđđđđđ
You wake up early, stretching lazily before grabbing Xavierâs hoodie from where it hangs on the rack like itâs routine. Heâs still sleeping soundly as you slip out of the bedroom. The hoodie envelops you completely, sleeves hanging past your wrists, carrying his distinct, comforting scent.
In the kitchen, you prepare a simple breakfast for yourself, and a plate for Xavier that you know will likely go cold. The morning news plays quietly on the TV as you settle onto the couch, legs tucked underneath you, swimming in the soft fabric of his hoodie, feeling wrapped in Xavierâs presence despite his absence.
Movement catches your eye as Xavier appears in the doorway. His eyes find you immediately, taking in the sight of you wearing his clothing.
âGood morning,â you say, offering him his plate. âI made you breakfast.â
Xavier glances at the food but doesnât take it. Instead, he shifts closer, arm sliding around your shoulders to pull you against his side. âLater,â he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep.
His fingers trace absent patterns on your arm through the fabric of his hoodie, and you can feel him breathing in deeply, as if taking in the sight of you wrapped in something that belongs to him.
You nestle closer, and within minutes, his breathing becomes more even. Looking up, you find his eyes have drifted closed, his posture completely relaxed. You smile, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw. Even in sleep, his arm remains securely around you, keeping you close as if unwilling to let you go now that heâs found you this wayâcomfortable, content, and wrapped in his clothing.
đđđđđ
The mission had been longer than expected, and youâre exhausted as you make your way back home. Zayne had returned from his shift a few hours ago, and youâve been looking forward to seeing him after days apart. Youâre wearing his jacketâthe black one with the subtle white trim that youâd taken from his closet before leaving. Itâs become a comfort object during your mission, the lingering scent of his cologne providing reassurance during stressful moments.
You stop at the corner store for snacks before finally unlocking the apartment door. The place is quiet but warm as you kick off your shoes and pad toward the living room.
You find Zayne on the couch with journals spread around him. He looks up as you enter, his eyes immediately locking onto his jacket draped over your frame. Given his preference for professional coats, his collection of casual jackets and hoodies is small and meticulously maintainedâmaking the absence of even one immediately noticeable to someone as detail-oriented as him.
âSo thatâs where it went,â he says. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he sets aside his work, creating space beside him.
You drop down next to him with a tired sigh. âFound me out.â
Zayne reaches out, fingers brushing against the collar of his jacket where it meets your neck. The touch is gentle, almost reverent. âIt suits you better than me,â he murmurs.
His hand moves to your shoulder, pulling you closer to his side. âNext time,â he says, voice low near your ear, âtake more than one. You know I donât mind.â
His arm remains around you, a subtle but clear indication that while you may have his jacket, heâs pleased to have you.
đđđ
đđđđ
The gallery opening had been exhaustingâtoo many people packed into too small a space, all of them wanting a piece of Rafayelâs attention. Youâd smiled and nodded and played your part perfectly, but by the time you returned to his seaside home, you were completely drained.
Rafayel had stayed behind to handle some business with Thomas, insisting you go ahead without him. Youâd grabbed one of his hoodiesâthe soft blue one with white pattern of wavesâand changed into it the moment you got home. Now, curled up on the couch with the artsy duckie plushie heâd won for you clutched against your chest, youâd finally found peace in the quiet of the evening.
The sound of the door opening and closing barely registers as you drift between sleep and wakefulness. You vaguely hear the soft footsteps approaching, then a delighted sound that could only come from Rafayel.
âOh, look at you,â he coos, his voice soft. âAbsolutely precious.â
You hear the click of his phone camera and crack open one eye to see him standing above you, a fond expression on his face as he takes another photo to set it as his home screen later.
âAre you documenting my crime?â you mumble sleepily.
âIâm documenting perfection,â he corrects, sliding his phone into his pocket. âMove over a bit.â
You comply, and he squeezes onto the couch beside you, pulling you half onto his chest. His fingers thread through your hair, and you feel the tension in his body from the event slowly release.
âDid Thomas give you a hard time about leaving early?â you ask, voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt.
âThomas always gives me a hard time,â Rafayel replies with a dismissive wave. âBut Iâd rather be here with you.â
You snuggle closer, the artsy duckie plushie squished between you, and feel him press a kiss to the top of your head as you both settle into the comfortable silence.
đđđđđ
Snow falls in thick flakes outside the window, blanketing the forest view in pristine white. You stand before the floor-to-ceiling glass, mesmerized by the winter snow cascading from the gloomy sky. Sylusâs dark jacket envelops you like a protective shell, the sleeves long enough that you can curl your fingers into them. It smells like himâa blend of expensive cologne and something uniquely hisâand wearing it feels almost like being wrapped in his embrace.
Youâve been standing there for nearly twenty minutes, lost in thought, when you hear the door to the residence open and close. You donât turn, knowing exactly who it is from the footsteps entering the room.
âEnjoying the view?â Sylus asks, his voice closer than you expected.
You glance over your shoulder to find him watching you with an expression that makes your heart rate quicken. His eyes track from your face down to the jacket youâre wearing.
âItâs peaceful,â you reply, turning back to the window. âEverything looks so quiet from up here.â
âIndeed,â he agrees, though you can tell from his reflection in the glass that heâs not looking at the snow at all. He moves to sit behind you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. âThough I must say, my jacket looks better on you than it ever did on me.â
You smile, watching his reflection. âItâs warm.â
âIf itâs warmth youâre seeking,â Sylus says, his hands coming to rest lightly on your shoulders, âperhaps I could offer something more comforting than a piece of fabric?â
You turn to face him, still wrapped in his jacket. âIs that an offer or a command?â
His lips curve into that familiar smirk as he pulls you closer. âWith you? Always an offer.â
đđđđđ
The DAA jacket is practically a relic nowâCaleb hasnât worn it in years, not since he became Colonel in the Farspace Fleet. But it still hangs in the closet of your shared place, and on the nights when heâs away on missions, you find yourself reaching for it.
Tonight is one of those nights. The bed feels too big, too empty without him, and the jacket is a poor substitute but better than nothing. Youâve wrapped yourself in it, breathing in the faint traces of his scent that somehow still cling to the fabric after all this time.
Youâre reading through reports on your tablet when the door slides open unexpectedly. You look up, startled, to see Caleb standing in the doorway, still in his Fleet uniform, a day earlier than scheduled.
âCaleb! You werenât supposed to be back until tomorrow,â you say, sitting up straighter.
His eyes immediately zero in on the jacket youâre wearing, and a slow, teasing grin spreads across his face. âWell, well. What do we have here? A thief in the house?â
You roll your eyes but canât help smiling. âHardly stealing when itâs been hanging untouched for years.â
Caleb fully enters the room and sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out to finger the fabric of the jacketâs collar. âI donât know,â he says, voice dropping lower. âLooks like theft to me. I should probably report this.â
âIâll give it back,â you offer, starting to shrug it off.
âDonât you dare,â he says quickly, catching your hands with a grin. âIt looks better on you anyway.â He pauses, then adds with mischief, âIn fact, I think you should raid my entire closet. Take it all. Every last shirt and sock.â
You laugh, leaning forward to kiss him. âWelcome home, Caleb.â
âHome is wherever you are,â he replies, pulling you closer. âStolen jacket and all.â
Based on this request.
#âMission Report.#âFull Orbit.#âMindwaves.#love and deepspace#lads#lnds#l&ds#loveanddeepspace#xavier#zayne#rafayel#sylus#caleb#lads xavier#lads zayne#lads rafayel#lads sylus#lads caleb#xavier x reader#zayne x reader#rafayel x reader#sylus x reader#caleb x reader#love and deepspace xavier#love and deepspace zayne#love and deepspace rafayel#love and deepspace sylus#love and deepspace caleb
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morning routine â ft. sylus
before you read: established relationships ; gender neutral reader ; sleepy clingy sylus ; banter ; fluff and cheesiness i apologize in advance
âHere we go,â you hum to yourself, rolling your eyes with a knowing smile curled loosely on your lips as soon as Sylus starts to shift in his sleep. âLike a hermit crab,â you tease to his unconscious figure, âno wonder youâre so pale. Do you even remember what the sun looks like?â
âDo you always talk to sleeping people?â
You still at the sound of his voice, hand freezing in the middle of stroking through his hair. He doesnât like that, eitherâhis head presses up into your fingertips, a silent demand for more.
âYou should be sleeping,â you scold gently, fingers returning to their earlier movements. You scratch lightly at his scalp and he shivers, humming in content. Like a cat, you think fondly, purring in your arms at the slightest show of affection.
Your morning routine starts with the same valiant effort every day: protecting Sylus from the sun. Itâs honest work: he already doesnât sleep very much through the night, and if he doesnât sleep through the day because of a mild setback either, you think a number of poor victims would suffer the consequences of his tired, grouchy attitude.
So, you protect him as he falls asleep while the sun rises, beams of light slipping through the cracks of the blinds a little more with every minute. You watch himâwith equal parts amusement and equal parts fondness, you watch every morning as he slowly shifts in his sleep. It starts with him inching closer and closer towards you, and ends with his head buried into your chest and his body curled around you like youâre a shield for the cruel light that disturbs him.
You like this routine, though. Itâs the perfect chance to admire him, to bring a hand to trace over his relaxed featuresâthe slightly crooked slant of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the defined edge of his jawline. And, of course, your favorite part: the soft, plump curves of his lips. He never does anything to indicate heâs awake, either. Nothing to even hint that he feels you, breathing slow and soft puffs of air peacefully nestled against you.
He looks delicate in slumber. Vulnerable. So agonizingly soft and fragile in a way he normally doesnât look. (Oh, but does he feel soft, you always think. Sylus always feels so inexplicably soft.)
âI would be sleeping,â he finally grumbles, but itâs playful as he shifts to hide his face deeper into your chest while his nose presses against your collarbone. âBut someone disrupted my efforts.â
âNo, I protect you,â you huff, âwith the way you avoid the sun in your sleep, youâd think the vitamin D would poison you.â
âIf it was poisonous, then Iâd be dead,â he sighs dramatically, cracking a crimson eye open and looking at you like heâs wounded. âYou do a terrible job at keeping me shielded.â
âMaybe Iâm trying to kill you in your sleep,â you wink, âever think of that?â
He chuckles, voice low and still laced with the evidence of sleep from the raspiness of it. You smile softly at the sound, pressing a chaste kiss to his head while he moves to bury it into the crook of your neck. Thereâs something oddly comforting about itâholding him like this. Holding him while he hides into your body, melts against your skin, sinks weight onto you because you take it and he can.
âGo back to sleep,â you murmur sweetly, rubbing a slow, soothing hand up and down his bare back and tracing his spine. âIâll make sure the sun knows not to bother my big, sleepy, vitamin D deficient baby.â
âIâm not vitamin D deficient,â he huffs.
âSo you agree youâre a big, sleepy baby?â
He snores dramatically, pulling a giggle from your lips. A kiss presses to the skin of your neck, and they come from a pair of lips that feel suspiciously curledâlike theyâre smiling. You wrap your arms around him a little tighter, because close just doesnât feel close enough when itâs him.
âLetâs hope I wake up without being poisoned,â he hums, half-asleep once more as you trace a finger along the sharp, muscled curves of his back.
You press one more kiss to his head before murmuring, âIâll see what I can do.â
He lets out a gentle snore again, real this time. Heâs sound asleep with his body molded against yours, routine like it is every morningâyou protecting him from the sun, and him falling into your arms.
I just want to hold him while he peacefully rests and hide him away from the sun so he can sleep well like he deserves because heâs a BABY
To me heâs a baby :(
#sylus x reader#sylus x mc#sylus x you#sylus x y/n#sylus fluff#love and deepspace x reader#love and deepspace fluff#lds x reader#Lds fluff#l&ds x reader#l&ds x you#l&ds fluff#lads x reader#lads fluff#lads x you#meowdei.writing
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PROSTHETIC ARM SIMON
sfw + nsfw. overstimulation & premature ejaculation (simon). his metal arm has a vibrator function. unprotected sex.
mr. riley is a new regular.
hulking, broad-shouldered, always hunched like he's trying to fold himself into something smaller. dirty blonde hair, hoodies that swallow his frame, gloves that never come offâ not in winter, not when the air conditioning is broken, not when itâs so hot outside that the pavement wavers under the sun. you see him come in once during a heatwave, sweat beading at his temples, looking like he just came from hell itself. but the gloves stay.
always.
heâs quiet. doesnât talk much unless he has to. keeps his answers clipped, never makes small talk, never lingers longe,ur than it takes to grab his order and leave. you mightâve found him intimidating if it werenât for the fact that his dog, riley, was the exact opposite.
big, fluffy, and absurdly well-behaved. the kind that made strangers stop and coo when they passed by, all soft ears and wagging tail. an instant favorite among customers. an absolute menace to simon.
because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specificallyâ he likes you.
so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks youâre about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.
"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"
simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.
"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"
the man sighs. âheâs gonna get fat.â
but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.
riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.
you slide simonâs order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.
he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like heâs trying to will it into his grasp.
nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they wonât close.
you see itâ the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like heâs biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.
âmr. riley?â you ask carefully.
his scowl deepens. he tries againâ too hard, too fastâ his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.
you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesnât.
he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.
âshit- hang on-â you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. âjesus, are you- your hand-â
âsâfine,â he grunts.
his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the otherâ the one that had crushed the cupâ stays frozen, unmoving.
you donât believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.
you freeze.
metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.
no. this is old. dull, scratched, wornâ something thatâs clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.
your mouth opens. closes. opens again. â⊠huh.â
his brow lifts slightly. âthat all you got?â
you blink, tilting your head. âkinda thought thereâd be⊠more wires. sparks. terminator shit.â
a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.
âdisappointed?â
âa little.â
you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.
âhas it⊠uh, been this iffy for a while?â you ask, glancing up.
simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. âyeah. thingâs temperamental.â
âlike you,â you mutter before you can stop yourself.
his brow arches slightly, but he doesnât deny it.
you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.
âso, uh- iâm an engineering student,â you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. âand⊠i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?â
his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if youâve just crossed a line you hadnât realized was there.
â⊠you want to mess with my arm?â
ânot mess! i mean- help. like⊠itâs kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics arenât that different. probably.â you wince. âunless youâre, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and iâm about to get black-bagged or something-â
âyou talk a lot,â he deadpans.
ânerves,â you shoot back, cheeks warming. âso⊠yes? no? totally fine if itâs weird.â
he exhales through his nose, staring at you like heâs trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. thenâ
â⊠got tools?â
your face lights up. âback in my car!â
âfigured.â he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. âfine. but if you break it worse-â
âi wonât,â you grin, already grabbing your keys. âtrust me.â
âdonât say that,â he calls after you. âfamous last words.â
âŠ
simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.
because after that first fixâ crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayerâ he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.
no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.
it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasnât been for a long, long time.
so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.
"tell me your full name. i donât wanna keep calling you mr. riley."
simon stares at you like heâs weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains himâ "simon."
you laugh. âyou look like a simon.â
âŠ
he doesnât try to make it a habit, coming to you.
really. he doesnât.
but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and heâs not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics wonât touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, canât help ya), and he sure as hell isnât stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like heâs a cutting-edge science project.
so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.
he ignores it. itâll be fine. he can live with it.
it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.
then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like itâs dragging behind the rest of him.
not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and itâs a fucking liability.
he caves.
simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the cafĂ© is empty and youâll have a second to spare.
he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesnât wait long.
the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved handâ how his fingers can't even curl anymoreâ your expression drops.
your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like youâre about to scold him before you even know whatâs wrong.
"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.
before he can so much as blink, youâre untying your apron.
"break," you toss over your shoulder.
your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.
simon exhales through his nose. he shouldâve just ripped the damn thing off himself.
your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.
riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.
simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driverâs side door with a little more force than necessary.
youâre fuming.
he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.
he glances down. yeah. even he has to admitâ it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like itâs gummed up with sand and bad decisions.
"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"
his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."
you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"
riley lifts his head from where heâs sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.
"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"
"didnât wanna bother you."
you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"
"managed."
"you shouldnât have to âmanage.â thatâs the point of a prosthetic!"
simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.
riley rests his chin on the back of simonâs seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.
"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.
"good. let it sink in."
riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simonâs neck with his nose.
simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."
the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.
you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."
"gettinâ ganged up on," simon mutters.
riley whines. you donât even look up.
"good.
his mouth twitches. he tells himself itâs a muscle spasm.
you donât look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.
heâs sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and youâre bent over the mess of wiring like heâs not even in the room. like heâs just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.
itâs unsettling. not youâ no, youâre fine. better than fine. competent. but itâs been a long time since someoneâs handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.
to you, itâs just broken. something that needs tuning.
he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.
his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasnât felt this natural in weeks.
"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.
he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.
you nod, already packing up, already moving on.
he watches you.
then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. âdonât worry about it.â
simon doesnât blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.
he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light thatâs been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.
he drums his fingers against his knee. âiâll fix your car.â
you argue about it, of course. insist itâs fine, like you donât hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesnât argue back. doesnât need to. just asksâ whenâs the last time you had it looked at?â and watches you press your lips together.
thought so.
âtwo days, at least,â he tells you.
your horror is almost funny. âtwo days?â
âmaybe three.â
you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.
he pats the dashboard. âiâll do what i can to keep it alive.â
it takes one day. he calls while youâre still half-asleep. âyour carâs a lost cause.â
you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.
you listen. donât talk much, donât get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternatorâs failing, the batteryâs shot, the brake pads are goneâ and yeah, heâs still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engineâs practically running on fumes.
you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.
âi need my car,â you grumble. âi have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-â
âiâll drive you.â
you stop. blink. âwhat?â
âiâll drive you,â he repeats, like itâs obvious.
you look at him, wary. âdonât you have work?â
âon break.â
âfriends?â
he shakes his head. ânot really.â
âfamily?â
he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.
something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like thereâs something you want to say but donât know how.
simon doesnât let you say it.
âtell me your schedule.â he shuts the hood like the matterâs settled. âtext me when you need a ride. iâll be there.â
you cross your arms. âso i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?â
he flexes his fingers. âyou underestimate how much these cost.â
you roll your eyes. âyou act like i replaced the whole thing.â
âyou might as well have,â he mutters. âdamn thing actually works now.â
you sigh, shifting on your feet. âyou really donât have plans?â
âif you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.
so he starts picking you up.
at first, itâs straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, eitherâ just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, itâs just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.
simon doesnât mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesnât even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.
but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable âcan we stop by-â
simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.
you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.
ââŠwhatâs this?â
he puts the truck into drive. âbreakfast.â
âthanks,â you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.
âdoes he want some?â
simon doesnât even look. âhe always wants some.â
you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him
simon snorts. âyouâre gonna spoil him.â
âheâs cute. he deserves it.â
âheâs a liability.â
âyouâre just jealous âcause i donât feed you by hand.â
you look up, realizing what you just said.
simonâs looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.
heat licks at your neck. âi- i didnât mean-â
riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and youâve never been more grateful for a dogâs terrible sense of timing.
he hums, turning back to the road. âthought so.â
âŠ
this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each otherâs lives like youâve always been there.
you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.
and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.
but this timeâ
you slide into the passenger seat and donât say anything.
no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like youâre still processing something.
simon frowns. ââŠwhat?â
ââŠmy project is on prosthetic arms.â
his head snaps toward you. he doesnât say anything. doesnât ask if itâs because of him. because thatâ that feels too dangerous.
your hands grip your sleeves. âcan i design you a new prosthetic arm?â
he doesnât answer right away. doesnât move. his fingers flex against the wheel.
you donât look at him, and he doesnât look at you, and itâs the first time in a long time he really feels like heâs made of metal and wire and things that arenât his own.
you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.
andâ ââŠyeah,â he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
a beat.
ââŠall right.â
âŠ
simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottleâ just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.
riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.
simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about âyouâd think i donât feed you.â riley wags his tail in betrayal.
the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isnât disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and thereâs a laundry basket in the corner thatâs almost full but not quite.
and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.
you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.
his stomach twists a little when you say itâ
âi want to make you a new arm with all of that.â
simon doesnât answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you itâs unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that heâs fine.
but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and itâs... itâs good.
itâs really fucking good.
and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced modelsâ the ones that felt like real limbsâ were laughably out of reach.
âitâs expensive,â he says, voice flat. Itâs not a question.
you hesitate. shift your weight. ââŠthe university gave me a budget.â
he watches you. waits. ââŠand is it enough to cover the costs?â
you donât answer.
he sighs and pulls out his phone.
you blink. âwhat are you doing?â
âmaking a call.â
simon doesnât ask for favors. he doesnât like owing people. doesnât like being in someoneâs debt. But thisâ this isnât only for him.
itâs for you too.
he doesnât hesitate when he dials priceâs number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. âthis better be good, ghost.â
it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.
âit is,â he says. âneed a favor.â
a pause. not because price is surprisedâ simon doesnât ask for favors often, but when he does, itâs never something small. Itâs never something for him.
âgo on.â
simon glances at you. youâre watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. âneed a sponsor.â
another pause. then, dry as hellâ âwhat, you starting a football team?â
he rolls his eyes. âno.â
âboxing, then?â
âprice.â
the humor fades. a quiet sigh. âwhoâs it for?â
he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesnât know what to sayâ because he doesnât know why heâs saying it. âsheâs building a prosthetic,â he says finally. âone I need.â
one i want, he doesn't say.
âyour arm acting up?â
âyeah.â
âso get it fixed.â
âthis is better.â
price doesnât say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.
then: âshe good?â
siimon glances at you again. youâre shifting through your notes now. he exhales. âyeah.â
he hums, considering. âyou trust her?â
thatâs what it comes down to. trust.
simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:
1. his mother. until she was gone.
2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.
3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.
and now, thereâs you. he wouldnât be making this call if he didnât. ââŠyeah,â he says.
and thatâs all price needs to hear.
you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.
but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. âexplain.â
you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. âalright, kid. sell me on it.â
you freeze.
âoh my god, i hate you,â you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.
price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and thenâ âalright. send me the details. iâll see what i can do.â
you blink. âwait- so-?â
âiâll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.â
you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.
âjust make sure it works, yeah?â
you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a âthank you so much, sir,â before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.
simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasnât a big deal at all.
you gape at him. âwho even was that guy?â
âsomeone you donât want to owe a favor.â
your eyes narrow. âand you do?â
simon shrugs. âalready owed him one.â
and thatâs true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didnât deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought heâd run out.
if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.
âŠ
you learn more about simon throughout the months.
he doesnât like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him heâs being dramatic.
he doesnât sleep much. thatâs another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone whoâs gotten a full nightâs rest. sometimes, when heâs sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like heâs somewhere else, mind miles away. you donât ask where.
he doesnât like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesnât matter where you areâ your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall dinerâ he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you donât do it again.
he fixes things when heâs anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesnât say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like itâs the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers arenât just from weaponsâhe knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.
he doesnât like closed doors. doesnât like feeling boxed in. when heâs at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think itâs just a habit, but one night youâre in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you donât say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when heâs around.
one day, youâre working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. itâs finally starting to look like an arm.
simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesnât flinch, doesnât shift, doesnât do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.
âany discomfort?â you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.
he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. âno.â
you glance up. âare you sure?â
he snorts, a short breath of amusement. âyou want me to make somethinâ up?â
âno, i want you to tell me if it hurts.â
his lips twitch, but he doesnât argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. âfeels good,â he says finally.
you nod, make a note. âgood.â
rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late itâs gotten.
simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.
you hesitate.
simon notices. lifts a brow.
âwhat?â
you swallow, shifting in your seat. âwould you like to stay over?â
thereâs a beat of silence.
simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.
ââŠyou sure?â
you nod, maybe a little too fast. âyeah. itâs late. roads are bad.â you clear your throat. âand- i mean. itâs not like you sleep much anyway, right?â
he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.
âalright,â he says finally. âbut iâm takinâ the couch.â
you roll your eyes. âobviously.â
he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about âbloody dogâ but doesnât move him.
the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.
simon stays.
âŠ
months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to thisâ the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.
itâs a work of art, even if heâd never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.
he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.
thenâ a flicker in the system.
it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.
âhuh,â he muses, tone is as dry as ever. âwell. could be a vibrator.â
your brain short-circuits. âwhat-â your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. âthatâs- no. absolutely not.â
he tilts his head, studying you like heâs just found something interesting. âwas this meant-â
âno!â you blurt, too quick, too loud.
simon is skeptical. âbe honest.â
your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. ââŠi just- i thought itâd be good-â
his brow arches. âgood for what?â
âyou look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?â
thereâs a beat of silence.
simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. âis that so?â
before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.
his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. thereâs no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.
you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.
he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.
the prosthetic hums again.
before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.
your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.
simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.
âsince you built it,â he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, âmight as well test its full range of function, yeah?â
his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. youâre already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before heâs even put his hands on you properly.
his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you donât slip away.
not that you would. not that you could.
his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.
"si-"
"oh, sweetheart.â he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."
simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.
"shakinâ, love. that bad, huh?"
his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.
"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takinâ off your jeans? christ, love, thatâs pathetic. you really need it that bad?"
your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives youâ no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.
simon tsks, shaking his head like itâs funny, like he isnât already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.
"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makinâ a fuckinâ mess all over it."
his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.
his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didnât you?"
heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesnât matter. not when heâs right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldnât think, couldnât breathe, couldnât do anything but come apart on him.
your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesnât move. doesnât acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.
you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, andâ god, his face.
the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.
you donât get long to stare.
his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.
his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.
thenâ a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.
your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.
you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesnât let you.
simonâs arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.
"fuckinâ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "youâre soaked."
his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.
his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.
you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.
"jumped like a scared little rabbit.â Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.
his hand stills.
his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesnât move. doesnât push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"
your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.
"no runninâ," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckinâ give you."
pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.
the vibration shiftsâ harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.
your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesnât let up. doesnât ease up.
simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. âatta girl,â he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.
his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.
"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i havenât even started.â
a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get awayâ but thereâs nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.
simonâs head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. youâre open for him, spread wide, cunt glisteningâ slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.
he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.
"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makinâ a fuckinâ mess just for me."
his tongue flicks outâ soft, fleetingâ not enough.
you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.
he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."
you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but thenâ
he pulls away.
your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.
you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.
you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.
the clink of his belt.
your breath hitches.
he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enoughâ
his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. heâs obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.
simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.
his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.
he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.
a whimper breaks from your throat.
simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"
you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.
he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he canât believe you.
"fuckinâ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess iâll just have to fuck it all out of you."
you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.
"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takinâ me so good."
simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.
your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes overâ
his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.
a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.
his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.
"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."
your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasnât even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.
"oh my god.â your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"
he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.
"jesus christ..â he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your faceâ tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, iâm sorry, itâs been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"
he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but youâre still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.
and fuck, you deserve better than that.
he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull outâ let you laugh at him if you want.
but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he canât.
his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.
"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckinâ hell.â his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, youâll feel me for days."
you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.
"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"
"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takinâ it so good- fuck, squeezinâ me so tight."
you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.
"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesnât care, doesnât give a fuck if it hurts.
"câmon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."
and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.
"there it is, fuck, there it is-"
heâs so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takinâ me so well, so fuckinâ perfect-"
"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"
you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.
simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.
"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckinâ girl-"
and then he's spilling into you again, sobbing into your skin, wrecked and shaking and completely fucking gone.
#simon riley smut#simon riley#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon riley x you#ghost x reader#ghost cod#cod modern warfare#cod mw2#cod x reader#cod x y/n#cod mwii#cod x you#call of duty#cod#cod simon riley#cod simon ghost riley#simon ghost x you#ghost#đ simon#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you
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Sitting on LaDS lap
Xavier
Physical contact is nothing new for you two. You trust Xavier with your life on the battlefield and when you're fighting the evening commute.
The train is packed on your way home after fighting Wanderers all day but Xavier doesn't notice until he sits down and realizes the person sitting next to him isn't his partner.
But before he can give up his seat for you, you're sitting across his lap and resting your head on his shoulder. He watches you settle, amused and flustered by your boldness to do something like this in public.
"I don't think this is allowed for safety." He says gently, not wanting to wake you. "But if you're that tired..."
Xavier holds you close, making sure you don't fall off his lap from the movement of the train, and peacefully dozes with you until you're home.
Rafayel
âYouâre supposed to be my bodyguard â why arenât I sitting on your lap?â
Rafayel pouts mostly for show and so he doesnât come across as too eager. Heâs barely holding back from squeezing you in a tight hug, he didnât expect you to be so soft.
But he also didnât expect what he said would make you self conscious. Rafayel quickly pulls you back down when you try to get off of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, making sure you stay put.
âRelax, cutie. I was just joking. You can stay for as long as you want.â
But he will expect you to return the favor whenever he wants in the future. Especially if itâs at an event and he wants to rub your relationship in other peoplesâ faces.
Zayne
His reaction depends on where you are and what the situation is.
If you sit on his lap while waiting to be seated at a restaurant, heâll be unimpressed by the PDA but allow it so youâre both not sore from standing.
In the privacy of his or your apartment, youâre welcome to do whatever you like.
Every time you come near him in the early evening while heâs reading a book, he secretly hopes youâll curl up on his lap. Your warmth is just the balm he needs after his shift at the hospital.
Zayne always worries about his evol in the back of his mind. What if his body temperature is too low and being so close is unpleasant for you? The only thing thatâll stop him from fretting and relax is if you play with his hair.
Sylus
Your ass hasnât touched an actual chair in this manâs presence since you made your relationship official.
The first time you tried, he stopped reading his intel to ask, âWhat are you doing all the way over there, sweetie?â and patted his thigh. It couldnât have been more obvious what he wanted.
Wonât stand for any âIâm too heavyâ nonsense. Heâs genuinely offended when you say that. Have you seen his physique? He waits until youâve decided to give it a shot and then he's manhandling you onto his lap.
Pavlov dogs you into this routine until one day you just sit on his lap, completely unprompted, and he gives you the most infuriating, self-satisfied grin when you realize what youâve done.
Heâs won this small victory and he wonât let you forget it.
#sylus might call mc kitten but iâll bark for him#love and deepspace#love and deepspace x reader#lads x reader#love and deepspace xavier#love and deepspace rafayel#love and deepspace zayne#love and deepspace sylus#my writing
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GOLDEN BOY!
golden boy hard dom!Jake x masturbation addict f!reader
ENHA HARD HOURSSSSSSSSSSS 18+ MDNI: masturbation so much of it, really not suitable for work, weed smoking, temp play, filming, ass play, vibrator. this is the filthiest shit i have ever written in my life type shit. but also fluffy so its fine. plot? what plot
your mornings follow a strict routine: wake up. Ignore your alarm. Spread your legs and ruin yourself to the thought of Jake Sim. he doesnât know you exist. star student, always on time. you stumble into class late, wrecked, barely holding it together. you get paired up for a project. when he figures out why youâre always late? youâre fucked. literally.
You woke up soaked. Literally, fucking soaked, the sheets beneath you damp with sweat and slick from how hard youâd been grinding against them in your sleep. It was always like thisâan unbearable need that gripped you before you were even fully conscious. And you knew exactly who caused it.
Jake Sim.
The moment your hazy mind conjured up his name, your pussy gave a hard throb, as if your body was starved for him. It didnât matter that youâd never even held a real conversation. All that mattered was that he existedâperfect, unattainableâand you were so pathetically desperate for him that youâd turned it into a daily routine.
With a shaky sigh, you slid your hand under the thin waistband of your panties, fingers pressing into the sticky mess already pooling there. You hissed out a curse at how sensitive you were, thighs twitching as your digits smeared your own arousal around your clit.
âFuck,â you whispered, voice breaking, as your eyes fluttered shut and your mind fed you the same filthy fantasies it always did. In them, Jake was every bit the cocky bastard you imagined him to beâtowering over you, smirking with that lazy confidence, telling you to spread your legs wider so he could see just how ruined you were for him.
You could practically hear his voice:
âThatâs it, baby. Show me how wet you are.â
A guttural moan fell from your lips. Your fingers trembled as you sank them deeper, sliding between your folds until you were massaging the swollen, throbbing knot of nerves that made your back arch off the mattress. Every movement sent sparks racing up your spine, and you chased the friction like a fucking addictâbecause thatâs exactly what you were: addicted to the thought of him.
Your other hand fumbled for your phone, nearly dropping it on your face in your clumsy rush. The screen glowed to life, and you immediately opened that private folder. The nerve-wracking thrill of seeing your own explicit videos made your pulse throb.
Your finger hovered over the most recent one for half a second, heart hammering. Then you pressed play.
Instantly, the room filled with the ragged sounds of your recorded moans. On the screen, you were splayed out, hips rolling in a shameless rhythm as you fucked your own fingers like your life depended on it. The memory of that moment made your cheeks burn, but it also made you fucking wetter.
âJake⊠please⊠fuckââ your recorded voice whimpered, your cheeks flushed and your tits bouncing with each thrust of your own hand.
The real you let out a choked noise, clit pulsing under your insistent fingertips. You drove them harder against your flesh, trying to match the frantic pace youâd seen in the video. A filthy squelch echoed in the room, your soaked folds giving you away, and you bit your lip to stifle a cry.
God, you were so damn desperate. It made you feel dirty as hellâand yet, you couldnât stop. In your mind, you pictured Jake looming over you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. Heâd probably sneer down at you, that smug grin twisting his gorgeous mouth, telling you how pathetic you looked, cumming all over your own damn fingers just for him.
âSuch a fucking slut,â you imagined him saying, and your body convulsed.
You rammed your fingers harder against your slick heat, each drag of your knuckles sending you spiraling higher. Your recorded moans continued to play on loop, mixing with your real ones until you couldnât tell which was which. Every muscle in your body tensed, bracing for the orgasm that was cresting in your gut like a tidal wave.
âJake,â you whimpered. It was a half-sob, half-prayer. âJake, oh Godââ
And then it hit.
Your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wrenching. Your hips jerked off the bed, your thighs squeezing around your hand so tightly you could barely move. A harsh, broken sound tore from your throat as your body locked up, wave after wave of bliss rippling through your core. You ground your fingers against your clit one last time, milking every second of the high until you thought youâd black out.
Finally, you collapsed, trembling, onto the mattress, breath sawing in and out of your lungs. Your vision blurred with unshed tears from the sheer intensity. Slowly, the quivering in your limbs began to subside, and you eased your damp fingers from between your legs, wincing at how oversensitive you already were.
For a moment, all you could do was lie there, the sticky remains of your orgasm coating your inner thighs, your mind still buzzing with echoes of Jakeâs name. You felt disgusting, you felt euphoricâyou felt alive in a way that made you crave more.
But reality crashed down the second you glanced at the time on your phone. Fifteen minutes until class started.
âShit,â you whispered, bolting upright so fast your head spun. Your legs wobbled when you tried to stand, a dull ache centered between your legs reminding you of just how hard youâd gone. You grabbed the first hoodie you saw, yanked it over your head, and fished around for a pair of rumpled jeans from the floor. There was no time to shower, no time to even catch your breath.
As you dashed out of your room, the remnants of your orgasm still clung to your thighs, a humiliating reminder of why you were late in the first place. You couldnât help but picture what Jake would say if he ever found out the real reason you stumbled through that lecture hall door every day, hair a mess and cheeks still flushed from your obscene morning routine.
Heâd probably smirk, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. âCouldnât get enough of me, huh?â
The thought made your cheeks flare with shameful heat as you tore across campus, trying not to trip over your own feet. Youâd never let him find outâyou were certain it would kill you. Yet, a tiny voice in the back of your mind wondered what it would be like if he did know. If he whispered filthy praise in your ear about how you were always late because you were too busy drenching your sheets for him.
Your core clenched at the mental image, and you forced yourself to shove it down. There was no time for daydreamsâyou were late enough as it was, and your professor was already on the verge of losing his patience with you.
Still, no matter how many times you told yourself you couldnât keep doing this, you knew you would.
Tomorrow morning, youâd wake up soaked again, thighs trembling, and youâd inevitably plunge your fingers back into that slick warmth while moaning Jakeâs name. The filthy cycle would continue, and you wouldnât be able to stop it, because nothing else felt as good as imagining him breaking you into a moaning, dripping mess.
As you reached the lecture hall, panting and disheveled, you couldnât help but wonder: what ifâjust what ifâJake Sim ever saw exactly how bad you had it for him?
But that was a thought for another day, another dirty, mind-shattering morning.
Because you both knew: this wouldnât be the last time you came undone at the mention of his name.
-
You were already a mess when you stumbled through the lecture hall doors, breath ragged and heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You were late. Again. The professorâs disapproving glare followed you as you practically crashed into your usual seat in the back row, muttering a hastily whispered apology under your breath.
God, you probably looked like youâd rolled straight out of bedâwhich, letâs be honest, you basically had. Not that youâd been sleeping. No, youâd spent your precious morning minutes rubbing out a frantic orgasm, fueled by thoughts of Jake Sim and all the ways he could ruin you if he ever laid a hand on your needy, desperate body.
Your clit still throbbed with the memory.
You tried to steady your breathing, force your mind to focus on the lecture happening around you. But your professorâs words were just a dull roar in your ears. You caught phrases like âgroup projectâ and âsemester-long assignment,â but your brain refused to process them, still half-fogged from the wave of pleasure youâd torn out of yourself not fifteen minutes ago.
Then the professor called your name.
You blinked, snapping out of your daze just in time to see that he was pairing you off with someone. The rest of the class fell silent, heads turning toward you as you awkwardly cleared your throat, cheeks warming under the sudden attention.
âJake Sim,â the professor said, scanning the attendance sheet. âYou and Jake will be partners for the entire project.â
Your entire body stiffened.
Jake Sim.
Jake fucking Sim.
Your clit gave a punishing pulse at the mere mention of his name, so strong it sent a hot jolt of need straight through your core. You barely managed to swallow a gasp, thighs clenching under the desk as if that might calm the ache.
Across the room, Jake lifted his head. He had been taking notes, or maybe doodlingâhell if you knew. He looked up when he heard his name, and his eyes flicked briefly over to you. He didnât seem particularly surprised or amused. He justâŠnodded. Like it was no big deal.
Meanwhile, you sat there, completely frozen, trying not to let your face betray the fact that your cunt was literally fluttering at the prospect of spending hoursâhoursâwith him on this project. Your mind spun with a million frantic thoughts: how were you supposed to look him in the eye when you had fingered yourself that same morning while moaning his name?
You almost wanted to run.
But there was nowhere to go, and the professorâs gaze was still locked on you, waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. So you forced a nod, swallowing hard, your pulse thundering in your ears.
When class finally ended, you practically bolted up from your seat, gathering your things in a clumsy rush. All you could think about was escaping before you did something mortifyingâlike spontaneously combusting from the intensity of the situation.
But you werenât fast enough.
Jake Sim stood waiting for you in the aisle. You noticed, with a sinking sensation in your stomach, that he was even taller up close, shoulders broad under that signature hoodie, a slight quirk to his full lips as he watched you fluster about.
âHey,â he said, his voice low but clear in the post-lecture murmur. âGuess weâre partners, huh?â
Your heart just about crawled up your throat and died there. You couldnât form coherent words. Instead, you let out some pathetic sound halfway between a squeak and a cough.
Jakeâs brows rose a fraction, and that quirk at the corner of his lips deepened. âYou okay?â
No. Absolutely not. Your palms were sweating, your cheeks were on fire, and your core was still buzzing with the aftereffects of your morning orgasm. Knowing he was so closeâclose enough to smell the faint hint of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodieânearly made your knees buckle.
âUh, yeah,â you managed, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. âJustâtired.â
âTired,â he echoed, giving you an appraising once-over. âRough morning?â
You swallowed, a traitorous flush creeping up your neck. He had no idea just how rough.
âSomething like that,â you muttered, pretending to rummage in your backpack to avoid meeting his gaze.
Jake shrugged. âWell, we should probably figure out a time to meet up for the project. Professor wants a proposal next week.â
He said it so matter-of-factly, soâŠnormal. Meanwhile, your head was spinning because you were about to be in a room alone with him, studying economics, while your body screamed for him to fuck you senseless.
âUh, yeah,â you repeated, feeling like a malfunctioning robot. âWeâŠshould definitely do that.â
God, you wanted to slap yourself. Could you be any more awkward?
Jake tilted his head, brown eyes flicking over you again, a subtle curiosity in his gaze. âHow about tomorrow? Afternoon?â
Tomorrow. That meant you had less than twenty-four hours to get your shit togetherâto not end up a quivering puddle of arousal at his feet. Less than a day to build up some sort of immunity to his existence.
But you nodded anyway, because what else could you do? âSure. Works for me.â
He gave a little smile, just a quick curve of his mouth, but it was enough to make your stomach tighten painfully. âCool. Iâll, uhâtext you, I guess?â
âYeah. Text. Right.â
Your tongue felt leaden and stupid, and your heart hammered wildly against your ribcage. You wondered if he could hear itâwondered if heâd notice the pulse beating in your throat or sense the way your entire body vibrated with the memory of your morning orgasm.
But Jake just nodded again, hands sliding into the pockets of his hoodie. âSee you tomorrow, then.â
He turned and left, effortlessly blending into the crowd of students filtering out the door. You stood there like an idiot, your mind replaying the conversation, analyzing every second for hints of pity or amusement on his part.
He didnât seem weirded out. Didnât seem suspicious of why you were soâŠflustered. Heâd probably forget about you the moment he headed to his next class.
Meanwhile, you?
You tried to breathe, leaning heavily against one of the desks as you clutched your notes to your chest. Your thighs pressed together, a pitiful attempt to quell the ache that refused to leave you alone. It was as if your body recognized him on some primal level and refused to let go of the fact that he was standing right in front of you.
He had no idea how badly you wanted himâno clue you literally jacked off to his name almost every morning, that you were always late because you were too busy chasing orgasm after orgasm in a delirious haze of lust.
Well, now youâd have to fake itâpretend that you were normal, that you werenât some perverted mess drooling over him in secret. You just hoped you could keep it together, especially once you were locked in a study room together, going over spreadsheets and supply-demand curves while your body screamed for something entirely different.
And worst of all, you had the sinking feeling that tomorrowâs routine wouldnât be any different. Youâd probably still wake up, still stroke your throbbing clit to the thought of Jakeâs voice, Jakeâs hands, Jakeâs cockâŠ
But maybe, just maybe, youâd manage not to be late this time.
Fat chance.
-
Studying with Jake Sim was a fucking nightmareâin the filthiest, most torturous way possible.
He had this infuriating habit of showing up in the laziest outfits imaginable, usually some combination of sweatpants and a hoodie. You mightâve thought the casual attire would make him look approachable or less intimidating, but it only did the opposite. He wore those gray sweats like a second skin, settling into his chair with an ease that bordered on sinful. His legs spread obscenely wide, claiming space that shouldnât be his to claim.
The hoodie was somehow worse. It clung to his broad shoulders, emphasizing the sharp line of his collarbones and the solid build of his chest. And since he alwaysâalwaysârolled his sleeves up to the elbows, you were treated to the tantalizing sight of his forearms: faint veins tracing a path over lightly tanned skin, muscles shifting whenever he flexed his fingers or picked up a pen.
It drove you insane.
Every time he tilted his head in thought, his hair would slip across his forehead, drawing attention to the dark, intense eyes beneath. Sometimes he licked his lipsâabsently, like he wasnât even aware he was doing itâand every time it happened, a low, pulsing heat rippled through your stomach.
But the worst part? Jake had a thing for tits.
You first noticed it in the little stuff: the way his gaze drifted south whenever you leaned over your notes, the split-second hesitation in his voice if your shirt happened to be cut too low. His eyes would flick to your chest, then dart away so quickly youâd think youâd imagined itâexcept the slight tension in his jaw proved otherwise.
He tried to hide it. Tried to keep himself polite and focused on the assignment, but the more you studied together, the more obvious it became. He had to physically force himself not to stare, clenching his jaw or gripping his pen with a little too much force whenever your shirt shifted in just the right way.
Eventually, you decided to test him.
One night, you showed up at his place wearing a tight little tank topâno bra underneath, of course. The fabric hugged your curves, thin enough that your nipples peaked through whenever the room got too cold. You pretended to be completely oblivious, scrolling through your laptop as though there wasnât a very obvious reason Jakeâs gaze kept snagging on your chest.
His reaction was immediate. The second you walked in, his eyes darkened, pupils dilating as they betrayed his interest. He coughed, cleared his throat, and busied himself with the project notes, but he couldnât hide the subtle tremor in his voice when he asked, âSo, um, ready to start?â
You dragged a chair up to the small desk, taking care to sit opposite him so heâd have an unobstructed view. For a while, you both pretended to workâtyping away, sorting through textbooks, exchanging random facts about supply and demand. But every time you spoke, his attention drifted down, no matter how hard he tried to stay focused on your face.
Your heart pounded every time you caught him looking. Desire coiled low in your belly, and your nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric, practically begging for him to notice. Your entire body thrummed with this heady mixture of confidence and need, and you couldnât help but push it further.
âUgh, itâs so hot in here,â you sighed dramatically, arching your back to stretch. The movement sent your breasts straining against the tank top, and you saw Jakeâs jaw clench, the tendons in his neck standing out as he forced himself not to stare directly at you.
He tried to keep his cool, but his next words came out more clipped than usual. âI can open the window.â
You shrugged, letting the straps of the tank top slide a fraction of an inch down your shoulder. âNah,â you said, voice laced with feigned innocence. âDonât worry about it.â
The tension in the air was palpable, an almost electric charge crackling between you. Your thighs pressed together beneath the desk, desperate for some kind of friction. You could practically feel his gaze lingering on your chest when you looked away, fueling that simmering warmth between your legs.
Finally, Jake snapped.
âYou do that shit on purpose, donât you?â he muttered, voice pitched low and tight enough to send shivers skittering down your spine.
You fought the smirk threatening to curve your lips. Your stomach flipped with excitement and arousal. âDo what?â you asked, feigning obliviousness, even though your heart was about to hammer out of your chest.
He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the tank top that was barely containing your chest. âYou know what,â he ground out, then made a visible effort to calm himself, dragging his gaze to your face.
It took everything in you not to let out a triumphant laugh. You could see the frustration warring with desire in his dark eyes, saw the way his fingers curled into fists as if he had to physically restrain himself. There was a fine tremor in his forearmsâthose fucking forearmsâthat made your insides clench with a perverse satisfaction.
Your own arousal pulsed, nipples practically aching as they brushed against the fabric. There was this suffocating urge to crawl into his lap, to press your tits against his chest and see just how fast you could break that composure. But you held back. Because that wasnât the plan. Not yet.
âIâm just trying to study,â you said, tone as sweet as sugar, batting your eyelashes in an overdone performance of innocence.
Jakeâs stare hardened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something brashâsomething that would make the air sizzle. But he merely set his jaw, took a long, measured breath, and turned back to the notes.
âRight. Study,â he mumbled, jaw working like he was trying to chew through nails.
You bit your lip to smother a grin, your pulse still thrumming in your ears from the pure, uncut tension between you. Your nipples were so stiff they practically throbbed; you had to shift in your seat to accommodate the constant, nagging ache in your core.
Nothing else happened that nightâno heated kisses, no tangled limbsâbut it didnât need to. The filth was already there, simmering beneath every glance, every roll of his shoulders, every suppressed flick of his gaze toward your tits. You could sense the unspoken hunger radiating off him like heat waves, matching the relentless heartbeat pounding in your own chest.
And that was more than enough to leave you soaking by the time you finally left.
-
You woke up with a pounding need at the base of your spine. It was deeper than usual, an ache that gnawed at you relentlessly, demanding satisfaction. The worst part? You already knew exactly who you were going to picture to take the edge off:
Jake Sim.
Every nerve in your body thrummed with anticipation, remembering the way heâd looked at you during your last study sessionâeyes flickering from your face down to your chest, jaw clenched like he was fighting some internal battle. Youâd left his dorm with slick thighs and your mind racing, your entire body aflame.
Today, you wanted to push your usual routine even further. Your fingers alone wouldnât cut it. With your teeth worrying your bottom lip, you slipped out of bed and rummaged through your nightstand until your hand closed around the small, discreet vibrator youâd impulsively bought a few weeks ago. It was sleek, silicone-coated, made for exactly the kind of play you were craving.
You bit back a trembling sigh and grabbed your phone, propping it against a pillow at the foot of your bed. The little red light began to blink, capturing you in all your messy, unmade-bed gloryâhair tangled, cheeks still carrying the warmth of sleep, and a fiercely determined look in your eyes.
âI canât believe Iâm doing this,â you whispered, half to yourself, half to the imaginary version of Jake you conjured whenever you got off.
But you didnât hesitate. You shed your oversized T-shirt, tossing it aside to expose bare skin. Your nipples peaked in the cool air, and you ran a hand over one breast, giving it a light squeeze before trailing your palm down over your stomach. You settled into the pillows, propping your hips up slightly so the camera had a perfect view.
âJake,â you murmured, letting your thighs fall apart, âI canât stop thinking about you.â
Your free hand teased your clit, already slick with arousal, while the other clutched the vibrator. The buzzing anticipation in your veins intensified as you clicked it on, feeling the soft hum rattle against your palm.
Normally, youâd sink it straight into your cunt, but today, you were craving something more depraved. Your breath hitched at the thought of that taboo stretch you barely ever indulgedâyour ass. The mere idea of Jake guiding it inside you, watching you squirm as you took it deeper, was enough to send a fresh gush of heat through your body.
âFuck,â you mumbled, heart hammering as you angled the toy behind you. âJake, I want youâŠwant you here.â
Carefully, you smeared your own wetness over the silicone, letting your middle finger gather some of the slick so itâd slide in smoothly. A gasp broke from your throat the moment you pressed the vibratorâs tip to that tight ring of muscleâjust the tiniest bit of pressure made your nerves light up like a live wire.
You couldnât help the shameless moan that echoed off your bedroom walls. Even though it was just the tip, the sensation had you delirious. You spread your cheeks with one hand, guiding the buzzing silicone in a fraction of an inch, your body tensing and then relaxing around it. A ragged whine tore from your lips.
You could almost feel Jakeâs hands there, big and warm, whispering filth in your ear:
âRelax. You can take it. Just like thatâfuck, look at youâŠâ
Your other hand found your clit, rubbing messy circles that turned your moans into broken sobs of pleasure. Each slow push of the vibrator inched deeper, stretching you in a way that made your eyes roll back.
âNnghâJake, please,â you babbled, voice shaking as you tried to push it just a bit further. âWish it was your cockâŠwish youâd pin me down and shove it all the way inâŠâ
You couldnât hold back. The pressure and vibration melded into something explosive, your clit throbbing under your frantic fingertips. Every muscle in your body coiled tighter, lungs seizing as you hovered on the precipice. The camera recorded it allâthe sweat beading at your temples, the flushed curve of your cheeks, the wet, filthy sounds filling the room.
Then it hit. Your orgasm came crashing down, ripping a strangled scream from your throat. Your legs shook, your ass clamping around the toy, your cunt pulsing in sympathy. You writhed against the sheets, half-blinded by the force of it, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming relief.
It felt like forever before you could breathe again, the buzz in your nerves slowly receding. You eased the vibrator out, wincing at the hyper-sensitivity, then stopped the recording with a trembling hand. On the screen, the thumbnail showed a glimpse of you with your mouth open in a silent cry, body arched off the bed, pure rapture etched on your face.
Fuck. If Jake ever saw thatâŠ
But there wasnât time for guilt or second thoughts. A glance at the clock made your heart plummetâit was late, and you had to scramble to get to class before your professor threatened to fail you for tardiness. Again.
You only managed a quick wipe-down, barely rinsing the toy and tossing it in a drawer, before you yanked on clothes and sprinted out the door, phone still warm in your pocket from the video youâd just recorded.
The lecture hall was already half-full when you snuck in. You found your seat, cheeks still hot from both the run across campus and the memory of the vibrator filling your ass less than an hour ago. You avoided Jakeâs eyes completely, which was easy because he was focused on the front of the classâthough you could still feel the tension that seemed to magnetize you whenever he was close.
Throughout the lesson, your mind wandered, replaying the moment of penetration, the hum of the toy, the fantasy of Jakeâs hands gripping your hips. You clenched your thighs under the desk, wishing you could burn the images out of your head.
Little did you know, in just a few hours, your world would implode in the filthiest way imaginable.
That evening, you met Jake for a study session in his dorm. The room was small but cozy, a lived-in space with a single bed in the corner, textbooks piled on the floor. He greeted you at the door, wearing a fitted T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that made your pulse flutter.
âHey,â he said, stepping aside so you could walk in. âLetâs try to knock out the rest of the research tonight.â
You nodded stiffly, mouth dry. You were always too aware of himâhis scent, the way the muscle in his jaw worked when he concentrated, the slight furrow of his brows. It didnât help that youâd spent your morning taking a vibrator in your ass, moaning his name like you were possessed.
You settled at the small desk with your laptop, while Jake sat on the bed flipping through a shared Google Doc on his phone. The tension was thick enough to taste. Sometimes you swore you caught him watching you from the corner of his eye, but every time you glanced over, he was scrolling or typing, expression neutral.
After about twenty minutes, the soda youâd chugged on your way over came back to haunt you. You needed the bathroomâbadly.
âIâll be right back,â you muttered, closing your laptopâs lid but not fully locking it. Nerves and bladder pressure made you forget the simplest precaution: youâd left a minimized window open from transferring your new âvibrator videoâ into your private folder.
Jake just nodded. âSure. Down the hall, last door on the left.â
You slipped out of the dorm, heart still fluttering, mind on autopilot. The hallway was dimly lit, and you disappeared into the bathroom, exhaling a relieved sigh once the door clicked shut.
Alone in the room, Jake glanced at your laptop, noticing the faint glow beneath the lid. Curiosityâmixed with something deeperâbubbled in his chest. Heâd been suspecting something was up with you, ever since you arrived late looking thoroughly wrecked every morning. The tension you carried around him was obvious, and heâd caught glimpses ofâŠsubtle clues.
With a swift move, he lifted the laptopâs lid. The screen flickered back to life, revealing a folder half-tucked behind your research notes. A folder labeled something simple, but ominous: âPrivate.â
He shouldâve stopped. Shouldâve told himself it was none of his business. But a stubborn, electric thrill spurred him to open it. A series of video files stared back at him, each with a plain nameâthings like âVid001,â âVid002.â And the most recent one? Time-stamped that morning.
His heart thudded. He clicked on it.
What loaded made his blood run hot.
You. Naked. Bent back on your bed with a vibrator in your ass, face scrunched up in a mix of pain and pleasure as you eased it deeper. The audio kicked in, and Jakeâs eyes went wide when he heard your moans:
âJakeâŠGod, I want you so deep in meâŠwanna be stretched by your cockâŠâ
His pulse roared in his ears. The image on the screen was so explicit it felt like a punch to the gut. You whimpered, back arched, your hand working your clit with desperate speed, all while the vibrator buzzed between your spread cheeks. And the filthy things you were sayingâhow you wanted him to shove it all the way in, how you wished it was his cock instead of cold silicone.
Jakeâs cock twitched in his pants, heat pooling low in his gut. He watched, transfixed, as your face contorted in a mind-blowing orgasm, your body jerking, thighs trembling. You were screaming his name through it all.
A low, shaky exhalation left his lips. He couldnât believe what he was seeing. Sure, heâd suspected you had some kind of thing for him, but this? This was on another level. You were a wrecked, filthy, ass-play-obsessed mess, and all of it was for him.
He paused the video at the peak of your orgasm, hand nearly trembling with adrenaline. Blood pounded in his ears, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Part of him wanted to keep watching, to see every second of your depravity, but he had to be quick. Youâd be back any minute.
With an almost reverent care, he closed out of the folder and gently lowered the laptopâs lid. Then he dragged in a ragged breath, trying to get his heart rate under control.
His mind raced. You were a shy presence at times, stumbling over words, blushing whenever he looked at you too long. Yet behind closed doors, you were filming yourself stretching your ass with a vibrator, moaning his name like he was the only person in the world.
Jake could barely contain the predatory thrill that coursed through him. He tried to shove the arousal down, adjusting his position on the bed so he didnât look painfully hard if you walked in that second. But there was no ignoring the fact that everything had changed.
You had no idea what youâd just handed him, and Jake was more than ready to see how youâd squirm now that he had proof of just how desperately you wanted him.
-
You barely made it through class without combusting.
Your skin felt too hot, every nerve in your body on edge, a lingering burn still coiled between your thighs from the morningâs routine. As if that wasnât bad enough, every time Jake so much as shifted in his seat, your body reactedâtrained by weeks, months, of late mornings spent getting yourself off to the very thought of him.
And then, class ended.
The moment you stepped into the hall, still shaken, still barely holding it together, Jake was waiting for you.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking infuriatingly calm while you felt like you were on the verge of collapsing. His dark eyes flicked over you, a slow drag, lingering just long enough to make your stomach tighten. He wasnât just looking at youâhe was studying you, examining you, as if piecing together a puzzle that had finally clicked into place.
A slow curl of heat unfurled in your belly. Something about the way he held your gaze, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, made you feel exposed. Laid bare.
Something was wrong.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides, breath uneven as you tried to keep your face neutral. âWhat?â you asked, attempting to sound indifferent, but your voice betrayed you, cracking slightly on the single word.
Jake didnât answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, dragging his tongue over his lower lip in thought. His fingers twitched against his arms where they were crossed over his chest, and his gaze dipped lowerânot just over your body, but like he was seeing straight through you.
Your stomach clenched. He knew something.
âDidnât sleep well?â he finally asked, voice deceptively casual.
Your heart lurched. He was playing with you.
You forced yourself to scoff. âWhat are you talking about?â
Jake hummed, tilting his head slightly, and your stomach sank at the knowing glint in his eyes. You felt yourself locking up, body screaming at you to flee, but it was too late.
âI wonderâŠâ he mused, tapping his fingers against his arm. âIs that why youâre always late?â
The world tilted beneath you.
Your throat closed, fingers twitching at your sides, because he didnât say it like an accusationâhe said it like a revelation.
Jake took a step closer, and you swore your knees almost buckled.
âYouâre always late,â he murmured, voice smooth as sin, laced with amusement. He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours as he leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. âAlways looking like youâve just been fucked.â
Your breath hitched. Your pulse roared in your ears.
âWhatââ Your voice barely worked, caught between panic and something even deeperâsomething raw, electric, dangerous.
Jakeâs lips curved, dark amusement flashing across his face. âYou get off before class, donât you?â
Your entire body went up in flames. Your thighs clenched so tightly that you swore he could see it, see the way his words wrecked you from the inside out.
Jake didnât wait for you to answer. He already knew. He had proof.
The realization crashed into you like a truck. The video.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Your laptop. The folder. The fucking recording from that morning.
The vibrator. The way you moaned his name. The way you begged for it to be him.
Jake had seen it.
Oh my god.
He had fucking seen it.
A low chuckle vibrated from deep in his chest, his lips twitching upward at the sheer horror that must have been written all over your face. His eyes darkened, filling with something lethal, something triumphant.
And then came the final blowâthe words that shattered you, sent that familiar ache between your legs into something unbearable.
âYou couldâve just asked me to help, baby.â
Your stomach dropped. Your knees almost buckled.
You were done for.
The world tilted on its axis. Everything else around youâthe bustling students, the muffled sounds of conversations, the faint scraping of chairs against tileâblurred into meaningless background noise. All that existed was him. His smirk. His words. The absolute certainty in his voice that left no room for denial.
Your mouth opened, some kind of weak protest forming on your tongue, but Jake moved closer, shutting you down before you even had a chance to breathe. His presence was overwhelming, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, his scentâclean, musky, laced with something so distinctly himâfilling your senses, making your knees weak.
âYou get off before class,â he repeated, softer this time, almost teasing, like he was savoring the confession he had yet to hear from your own lips. His voice dropped lower, becoming something dark, possessive. âAnd you think about me when you do it, donât you?â
Your lungs seized. You couldnât move. You couldnât breathe.
Jake tilted his head, studying you, watching the way your fingers twitched at your sides, the way your lips parted in a silent gasp, the way your thighs pressed together instinctivelyâas if that would do anything to stop the inevitable, the brutal ache between your legs that he had just made ten times worse.
âTell me Iâm wrong.â His voice was smooth, dripping with mocking confidence, because he knew you couldnât.
Your brain scrambled for an escape. For an excuse. For anything that might get you out of this, because if you admitted itâif you said it out loudâthere would be no turning back. Youâd be his. Completely. Utterly.
Jake was too close now, his breath fanning over the shell of your ear, his tone taunting. âWhat is it, baby?â His fingers ghosted along your wrist, not quite touching but close enough to drive you insane. âCat got your tongue? Or are you too busy thinking about the way you spread your legs for me every morning?â
Your breath left you in a shattered gasp.
You shouldnât have reacted. You knew better. But your body betrayed youâyour thighs clenched harder, your nipples tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, your entire core clenched around nothing, desperate for the friction you had been denying yourself all class.
Jake saw it. He saw everything.
He chuckled, voice dark and satisfied. âOh, you really are a filthy little thing, arenât you?â
Your body burned.
Jake smirked. His fingersâstrong, veined, perfectâfinally reached you, just the barest brush of his knuckle against the inside of your wrist, but it sent a violent shudder through you.
And now, he fucking knew it.
âIâll see you tonight,â he said smoothly, turning away like he hadnât just left you a trembling, soaking mess in the middle of the hallway.
-
You spent the entire day in a state of absolute wreckage.
After Jakeâs confrontation in the hallway, after his words had wrapped around you like a noose, you had barely functioned. Your thoughts were a mess, your body useless, stuck in a constant loop of shame, arousal, and anticipation. He had seen it. He had seen youâspread out, stuffed full, moaning his name like a desperate, filthy thing. And now, tonight, you had to face him again.
Your stomach flipped violently as you stood in front of your bathroom mirror, gripping the sink, forcing yourself to take slow, measured breaths.
You had to get it together. You had to act like you werenât already falling apart before you even stepped into his dorm.
But the problem wasâyou were. You so were.
The moment you let your mind wander, it all came rushing back. Jakeâs voice, low and taunting. His gaze, dark and knowing. The way his fingers had hovered so close to your skin, how he had whispered filth into your ear like he already owned you.
And now, tonight, he would.
Your breath shuddered. Your thighs clenched.
You couldnât go to him like this, already weak and needy. You needed to take the edge off, just enough to think clearly, just enough to face him without completely unraveling the second he looked at you.
Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts before you could think twice.
You sighed, the relief instant as your fingers slid through the ridiculous mess between your legs. You were soaked, soaked, had been all day. It was humiliating, how little it took. The heat, the tension, the memory of him catching youâit had left you dripping, thighs sticky and aching since the moment he walked away from you in that hallway.
But tonight, you needed more than your fingers.
Your eyes flicked to the cool bathroom sink, and your breath hitched.
You turned around, hands bracing against the counter, angling yourself just right before slipping your fingers behind you, dragging them through your folds from the back, teasing your entrance in a way that made your legs tremble.
A gasp ripped from your throat as you pressed two fingers inside, stretching yourself open while your hips rocked forward, grinding your clit against the cold, smooth porcelain. The sensation was overwhelmingâthe deep, slow stretch inside you paired with the delicious friction against your swollen, aching clit.
âF-Fuck,â you whimpered, forehead pressing against the mirror as you humped the sink, fingering yourself deeper, imagining it was Jake standing behind you, one big hand on your hip, the other sliding down between your legs to keep you in place while he filled you up.
Your breath came ragged, hips stuttering, thighs quivering as you rode the edge, grinding your clit down harder, fucking your fingers deeper, thinking about how Jake would hold you still, how heâd groan against your ear, whispering, âYouâre such a needy little thing, arenât you?â
Your stomach tightened, the orgasm coiling, building, about toâ
And then your phone buzzed.
You froze.
Your heart stopped. Your stomach plummeted. Your fingers stilled immediately, guilt crashing over you in suffocating waves.
You scrambled for your phone, unlocking it with shaking hands.
Jake: Donât. Touch. Yourself.
Your blood ran cold.
You swallowed, staring at the text, heart pounding as another one came through.
Jake: Youâll do that when youâre here.
Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, thighs clenching involuntarily at the absolute authority in his words. You couldnât move, couldnât breathe, could only sit there, fingers still buried inside yourself, aching, trembling, waiting.
Thenâ
Jake: And when you get here? Youâre going to show me just how much you need it.
Your entire body shuddered.
Your clit pulsed beneath your untouched folds, but you didnât dare move. Not now. Not when you were seconds away from finishing, and Jake had just ripped that privilege away from you.
Another text buzzed onto the screen.
Jake: If youâre even a second late, Iâll make you wait even longer.
You swallowed a whimper. You had to go. Now.
Your legs felt like they barely worked as you stumbled up from the sink, heart hammering, stomach twisting into knots of frustration, anticipation, arousal so thick you could choke on it.
You had no idea how you were going to survive this night.
-
You hesitated outside Jakeâs door, hands clammy, thighs pressed together so tightly it almost hurt.
Your body wasnât over it.
Not even close.
The bathroom incident had left you on the brink, your body still buzzing, still needy, still aching for something you werenât allowed to have until you stepped inside. You could still feel itâthe cool sink against your clit, the way your own fingers had stretched you open from behind, the way Jakeâs texts had snapped you back to reality at the worst possible moment.
And now you were here.
You wiped your palms on your thighs, forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to knock even though every part of you screamed run.
The door opened almost immediately.
Jake stood there, leaning against the frame, one hand braced above his head, the other resting casually in the pocket of his sweatpants. His eyes raked over you, scanning your body like he already knew what kind of state you were in.
Like he could smell it on you.
You swallowed hard, barely holding back a whimper.
âCome in.â
His voice was smooth, deep, dripping with something dangerous. He stepped aside, leaving just enough space for you to squeeze past him. The second you moved, his hand brushed against your lower backâa simple touch, barely even there, but it felt like a brand.
Your breath hitched.
The door clicked shut behind you.
You were alone with him now.
The air felt thick, suffocating, charged. You could hear your own pulse pounding in your ears, the faint sound of your breath coming in quick, uneven puffs. Your nerves were a mess, anticipation tangling with embarrassment becauseâ
You knew why you were here.
And so did Jake.
You took a shaky step forward, barely processing the way Jake moved behind you. Slow. Calculated.
âSo,â he murmured, the heat of his breath suddenly right at your ear. âAre you gonna tell me how close you were?â
Your entire body seized up.
He wasnât touching youânot yetâbut his presence alone was suffocating, pressing against you like a heavy weight.
You licked your lips, swallowed hard. âW-what?â
Jake chuckled.
âDonât play dumb, baby.â His fingers ghosted over your hip, just enough to make you tremble. âI told you not to touch yourself. And yetâŠâ
You sucked in a breath as his other hand trailed up, dragging two fingers over your exposed throat, pressing just lightly enough that your head tipped back on instinct.
âYou couldnât help yourself, could you?â
Your thighs clenched.
His touch was barely there but it was too much. Too much, because you were already soaked, already aching, already at the point where youâd do anythingâ
But he wasnât giving it to you.
Not yet.
Instead, he pressed his fingers just a little more firmly against your throat, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to look at him. His dark eyes held yours, and the corner of his mouth curled.
âBe honest with me.â
You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your thighs.
Jakeâs fingers brushed down your throat, slow, teasing, until they rested just beneath your collarbone. His thumb dragged lower, just barely dipping beneath the neckline of your shirt.
You could barely breathe.
You shouldnât have been this turned on just from a few words. Just from the way his thumb traced your skin, from the way he was looking at you like he already owned you.
But then he leaned in, so fucking close, lips just barely brushing against your ear as he whisperedâ
âHow close were you when I told you to stop?â
A whimper escaped you before you could stop it.
Jake groaned, low and satisfied. His fingers tightened, just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your body scream for more.
âI bet you were close.â His breath was hot, his tone mocking. âI bet you were right there, fingers dripping, about to make a mess of yourself.â
You bit your lip hard enough to sting, trying to stop the truth from slipping out.
Because if he knew the full truthâif he knew what youâd actually been doingâ
Grinding against the bathroom sink, rubbing your clit against the cool porcelain like some desperate, shameless thingâ
Youâd die on the spot.
Jake must have sensed it. Felt it. Because his fingers curled against your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes searched yours, his smirk deepening, his voice dropping even lower.
âWhat else?â
Your pulse skipped. âW-what?â
His lips nearly brushed yours. âYou were doing more than just touching yourself, werenât you?â
You couldnât breathe. Couldnât think. Your silence was a dead giveaway.
Jake chuckled, dark and knowing. His grip on your chin tightened. âTell me.â
Your stomach dropped.
âIâIâŠâ The words got stuck in your throat.
His smirk widened. âYouâre gonna say it out loud, baby. Or Iâll make you.â
Your breath shook, your entire body on the verge of collapse. You wanted to fight it, wanted to pretend you still had some dignity left, but Jakeâs gaze was relentless.
And he wouldnât let you go until you gave him what he wanted.
A deep, humiliating heat spread over your body as you finally whispered, âIâI wasâŠgrinding against the sink.â
Jake inhaled sharply, his entire body going still.
His grip on your chin tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might snap. He didnât move, didnât speakâjust processed what youâd just admitted.
Then, slowly, so deliberately that it made your stomach flip, he let out a low, dark chuckle.
âFuck,â he muttered, his free hand flexing at his side. âThatâs what you were doing?â
You nodded weakly, shame pooling in your stomach.
Jake exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching, and suddenly, his hand slid from your chin to your throat, holding you thereânot squeezing, just keeping you still.
âYouâre a filthy little thing, arenât you?â
You didnât answer. You couldnât.
Jake smirked, something dangerous flashing in his gaze, something calculated.
âYouâre gonna show me,â he murmured. âLater.â
Your breath hitched.
âAnd Iâm gonna take a video.â
Your knees nearly gave out.
Jake sat back on his bed, legs spread wide, leaning against the headboard with an ease that only made the situation worseâor better, depending on how you looked at it. His hoodie was gone, discarded somewhere in the room, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin, the sharp lines of his collarbones, the toned muscles of his chest, and the faintest trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
But what really ruined you was the bulge straining against the soft fabric of his grey sweats.
It was⊠big. Heavy. Obscene. The kind of size that made your stomach clench with something dangerously close to desperation. He wasnât even touching himself, wasnât even adjustingâjust sitting there, watching you like he had all the time in the world.
And then he did something that made your breath stutter.
He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his phone, unlocking it with a single flick before tilting his head at you, smirk lazy, expectant.
âIâm filming this,â he murmured, voice dripping with authority. âStart stripping.â
Your stomach flipped.
Your body burned.
You should have hesitatedâshould have felt embarrassed, should have tried to argueâbut the only thing you felt was a deep, thrilling pulse between your legs.
You didnât even question it.
Your hands moved before your brain caught up, fingers gripping the hem of your shirt, peeling it up slowly, dragging it over your stomach, higher, teasing yourself as much as you were teasing him. The air felt thick, charged, electric as you bared more skin, the camera recording every second.
Jake hummed approvingly. âGood girl. Keep going.â
The shirt hit the floor. You reached for your shorts next, hooking your thumbs into the waistband, dragging them down inch by inch, knowing exactly how much of a show you were giving him.
By the time you stood before him, stripped down to nothing but your soaked panties, Jakeâs smirk had sharpened into something dangerous.
âLose those too,â he ordered, tilting the phone slightly to capture your every movement.
Your breath hitched, but you didnât stop.
You slid your hands down, curling your fingers beneath the waistband, peeling them down agonizingly slow, letting the fabric drag over your thighs before stepping out of them completely.
Now you were bare.
Jake exhaled through his nose, pleased. His free hand dragged over his own thigh, fingers flexing, his grip tightening the moment you stepped forward, fully exposed, completely his.
âTouch yourself,â he commanded. âLet me see what you do when you think about me.â
You obeyed instantly, trailing your fingers over your stomach, your thighs, your hipsâeverywhere but where you needed it most. Your breath came in slow, teasing gasps as you let your fingers finally slip lower, grazing your clit, a sharp whimper escaping as you made contact with the aching heat between your legs.
Jake groaned, the sound low, filthy.
âLouder.â
You whimpered, fingers pressing deeper, moving slower, dragging the pleasure out just to tease him, just to see how long heâd let you keep control.
âLouder,â he said again, voice darker this time. âI want to hear every filthy little sound you make.â
Something inside you snapped.
You moaned. Loudly.
Then again. And again.
It was like you couldnât stop. The moment the first shameless, desperate noise slipped past your lips, your mouth wouldnât close, your voice wouldnât stop spilling every thought you had.
âJakeâfuckâI think about you all the timeââ
Your fingers slid deeper, your hips rocking into the pressure.
âI think about your hands, how big they are, how rough theyâd feel on meââ
Jake let out a low, ragged groan, his fingers twitching against the bed.
âI think about your mouth, how youâd ruin me with it, how youâd hold me still and make me take itââ
Your breath hitched as you spread your legs wider, rubbing yourself faster, your mind a mess of filth.
âI think about your cock,â you gasped, your fingers slick, sliding in and out shamelessly. âHow big it is, how youâd stretch me open, how youâd fill me so fucking deepââ
Jake exhaled sharply, his jaw locked, his knuckles turning white against his thigh.
Then, in an instant, he moved.
You barely had time to react before his hand wrapped around your throat, gripping firm, dominant, unrelenting as he dragged you forward. Your breath caught, a choked gasp escaping as he pulled you right into his lap, forcing you to straddle him, the heat of his body pressing against you.
His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it.
âStop pretending,â he growled, his breath hot against your lips, his other hand pushing between your thighs, feeling how soaked you were. âYou want to act like a shy little thing? Like youâre so innocent?â
His fingers dragged through your slick, making you tremble, making you whimper as your hands gripped his shoulders for support.
âEnough of that.â His thumb pressed against your throat, tilting your head back, his gaze dark, dangerous. âStart acting like the filthy little slut you actually are.â
Something in you broke open.
You whimpered, thighs clenching, your fingers digging into his skin as your hips rolled forward, grinding against his sweatpants, against the huge, heavy bulge pressing against you.
Jake groaned, his grip on your throat flexing, his lips twitching into something darkly amused as you completely fell apart for him.
âThere she is,â he murmured. âThatâs what I wanted.â
Your mouth ran wild, the words spilling before you could stop themâ
âI want you to ruin me, Jakeïżœïżœâ
You rocked against him, panting, desperate, his hand tight in your hair now, keeping you in place, making you take it.
âWant you to spread me openâmake me take every inch of youââ
Jake groaned, low and wrecked, his hands gripping your hips, holding you against him as you rubbed yourself raw against his cock, soaking his sweatpants with how desperate you were.
You did exactly that.
You pulled your fingers out, spreading your slick between them, before shifting positionsâ
Turning around.
Bending over.
Spreading yourself open for him.
A sharp, gritted curse came from behind you.
Jakeâs fingers flexed against his thigh, his entire body going rigid as he took in the sight before himâyour ass up, your fingers teasing at your entrance, the shameless, dripping mess you were making of yourself.
He let out a slow, heavy breath, one that sounded so ragged, so fucking strained, that you almost moaned just from hearing it.
âJesus fucking Christ,â he muttered, voice low, wrecked.
And that was the moment you knew.
Jake was going to destroy you.
Jake let the silence stretch, let the weight of his gaze sink into you, let you feel just how much he was holding backâbarely.
You were still bent over in front of him, still spreading yourself wide, still waiting, dripping, panting, desperate, while he sat back and took his time.
His voice, low, rough, taunting:
âYou think this is how Iâd fuck you?â
Your stomach plummeted.
Jake exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his jaw before shaking his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.
âThatâs cute, baby,â he murmured, shifting forward until you could feel his heat against you, his presence looming over your back, his breath hitting your spine.
But thenâ
He grabbed your hips, both hands firm, controlling, and yanked you back against him. Your breath hitched, a choked gasp slipping from your lips at the sudden contactâyour bare, slick heat pressing against the thick, hard outline of his cock.
Jake groaned, low, deep, wrecked, his fingers tightening, his chest heaving as he held you there, perfectly still, completely at his mercy.
âFirst mistake,â he muttered, voice rough against your ear. âYou wouldnât be in charge of how fast or slow I fuck you. Thatâs my job.â
A shudder ran through you, your hands clenching against the sheets as Jakeâs grip ground you against him, making you feel every inch of his cock through his sweatpants.
âSecond mistake?â he continued, dragging his fingers over the curve of your ass, featherlight, teasing. âYou think Iâd let you touch yourself first?â
Your breath caught as his hand moved lower, closer, his touch just barely skimming over your soaked entrance, not enough, not even close, just a tease.
His fingersâelegant, veined, strongâdragged through your slick, gathering it, smearing it over you, spreading you open, making you tremble.
âIâd have you like this first,â Jake murmured, voice silk and gravel, his breath hitting the nape of your neck as his fingers teased, circled, prodded, but never gave you what you needed. âDripping. Begging.â
His fingers brushed over your tight, untouched entrance, slicking it up with your own mess, and you whimpered, hips jolting forward on instinct, trying to escape the sensationâ
But Jake just chuckled.
âOh?â His tone was mocking, amused. âThat got your attention?â
Your whole body seized, heat flaming through your spine, burning at your core, becauseâ
He was still teasing your ass.
Just barely, just the pad of his fingertip, smearing your slick in slow, lazy circles, pressing, nudging, teasing, but not pushing inside.
And he wasnât letting you run from it.
His free hand pressed into your lower back, keeping you right where he wanted you, keeping you spread, exposed, open.
âYou think about this too?â he murmured, voice dark, edged with pure sin. âYou think about my fingers stretching you out?â
Your throat closed, your body burning, your breath hitching in a desperate, humiliated whimper, becauseâ
Yes.
Yes, you did.
Jake chuckled, pleased, tilting his head as if piecing it all together.
âOh, baby,â he whispered, his fingertip pressing just a little more insistently, not pushing in yet, just teasing, just threatening to. âYou shouldâve seen yourself.â
Your pulse pounded.
âI bet you donât even know how messy you looked,â he continued, mocking, condescending. âWhimpering, drooling all over your pillow, fucking yourself open for me.â
Your entire body jerked, because you knew exactly what video he was talking about.
Jake just laughed under his breath, slow, deliberate, dragging it out.
âI donât even think you knew what you were saying, baby,â he murmured, voice almost affectionate, like he was reminiscing. âKept whining about how you wished it was my cock stretching you open, stuffing you full.â
A wrecked, desperate moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.
Jake groaned, low, pleased.
âThere it is,â he murmured. âThatâs what I wanted to hear.â
His finger pressed harder, circling, coaxing, never giving you enoughâjust teasing, just pushing your body past what it thought it could take.
His other hand moved.
His fingers found your clit, pinching, rolling, flicking over the swollen bud with zero mercy.
You gasped, your legs nearly giving out, your moan high, broken, utterly wrecked.
Jake groaned at the sound, his own restraint hanging by a thread, but he wasnât done yet.
âStick your tongue out,â he ordered, voice deep, commanding.
You barely had time to process the words before your mouth obeyed, tongue slipping out, slick and needy, desperate for whatever heâd give you.
Jake exhaled through his nose, satisfied.
He shoved his fingers inside your mouth.
You whined, head tilting back as he pressed deeper, letting you taste the salt of his skin, letting you soak them, letting you understand exactly what he was about to do.
âSuck,â he murmured, and you did, your lips wrapping around his fingers, your tongue laving over them, your moans vibrating through your chest.
Jake cursed under his breath, his cock twitching hard beneath his sweatpants, his control hanging on by a fucking thread.
He pulled his fingers out, slick, wet, dripping with your spit.
And then he shoved that same finger inside you.
Your whole body jerked, your breath stuttering, your mind blanking completely as the wet stretch burned, as your body took him, clenched around him, pulled him deeper.
Jake groaned, his free hand slamming onto your lower back, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.
âGod,â he muttered, voice strained. âLook at you.â
His finger slid deeper, fucking into you, spreading you open, filling you slowly, deliberately, ruining you.
âYou were made for this, werenât you?â he murmured. âMade to be filled.â
Your moans shattered, your legs trembling, your hands gripping the sheets, your whole body unraveling under him.
Jake just smirked, watching you come apart.
âThatâs okay, baby,â he murmured, his lips curling against your ear. âIâm gonna make sure you take it better than that next time.â
Your stomach dropped.
Next time.
Jake just smirked.
âOh,â he murmured, voice lethal. âAnd donât forgetâIâm filming the next one.â
Jake had had enough.
Enough of teasing, enough of waiting, enough of holding back while you squirmed, while you whimpered, while you dripped all over yourself without him even needing to try.
Now he was going to ruin you.
His fingers slid out of you slowly, deliberately, letting you feel every inch of the slick drag, letting your body clench around nothing, aching, desperate for more.
You whined, shifting, pushing back instinctively, chasing friction, but Jakeâs hands were already on you, pushing you down, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion.
Before you could even catch your breath, he was on you.
His grip locked onto your thighs, spreading you wide, forcing your legs apart so you had no choice but to bare yourself to him completely.
Your pulse roared in your ears.
Jake exhaled slowly, his eyes dark, hungry, his gaze locked onto the messy, dripping heat between your legs.
âFuck,â he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers flexing against your thighs, holding you open like you belonged to him.
Your stomach flipped. Your breath hitched. Your body throbbed.
âBe a good girl and show me how bad you want it.â
Your brain blanked.
You knew what he meant. Knew he was testing you. Knew he wanted to see if you were still pretending, still holding back, still playing shy when you were already dripping for him.
He would stop.
He would kick you out.
His voice was low, slow, unforgiving when he spoke again. âIf you donât act like the whore I know you are, Iâm gonna stop. And Iâm gonna make you leave.â
Your breath shattered.
The weight of his words hit you like a slap to the face.
No more hesitation. No more nerves. No more pretending.
Your whole body flushed hot, heat spreading from your cheeks down to your core as you swallowed your pride, swallowed your shame, and did exactly what he asked.
You let your thighs fall even wider, your hands sliding down your stomach, past your hips, until your fingers spread yourself open for him, letting him see everything.
Jakeâs breath left him in a ragged curse.
âThatâs it,â he muttered, almost to himself. âThere she is.â
His mouth latched onto you immediately, tongue dragging through your folds, hot and wet and messy, licking up every bit of slick that had spilled from you since he started his torment.
You screamed.
Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, pulling, gripping, holding on for dear life as Jake ate you alive.
He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core, making your hips buck, making you writhe beneath him.
But Jake was ready for it.
His arms hooked under your thighs, locking them over his shoulders, his hands gripping your hips tight, pinning you down as he worked you over with his tongue, messy and relentless, like he was trying to drown in you.
âOh my fuckingâJakeââ
You gasped, sobbed, choked on your own moans, because he wasnât just licking you,
He was devouring you.
Sucking, flicking, rolling his tongue over your clit, dipping lower to fuck you with it, groaning into you every time your walls fluttered around the slick muscle.
Your body twitched, overwhelmed, shaking under the pressure of his grip, the raw, unrelenting pace of his tongue.
He was merciless.
No teasing. No holding back.
Just Jake, consuming you, controlling you, wrecking you.
Your thighs tensed, your stomach tightened, your breath coming in short, sharp, desperate gasps, and Jake fucking felt it.
He knew you were close.
So he got mean.
He pulled away just enough to whisper against your swollen, drenched foldsâ
âMake a mess of my face, baby.â
Your stomach dropped.
He sucked your clit into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it hard.
Everything snapped.
Your whole body bowed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your vision blurring, blanking, as pleasure slammed into you, violent and unforgiving.
You came hard, your body convulsing, your legs trying to snap shut around his head, but Jake just held you there, kept you wide open, kept his tongue right where you needed it, licking you through it, dragging it out until you were a shaking, sobbing mess beneath him.
When it finally became too much, when your whimpers turned into soft, wrecked sobs, Jake eased up, pressing slow, teasing kisses against your oversensitive clit before finally pulling away.
Your chest heaved, your skin flushed, your whole body buzzing, as you blinked up at the ceiling, completely wrecked, ruined, destroyed.
Jake sat back, grinning, his lips and chin shiny, slick, messy with you.
His voice was smug, satisfied, when he finally spoke.
âThatâs my girl.â
You were still panting, still trembling, your body wrecked from the brutal pace of his tongue. But Jake wasnât done with you yet.
Not even close.
Before you could recover, before you could even think, his hands were on you again, flipping you onto your stomach with zero effort, pressing his weight down against you, his body hot, heavy, overwhelming.
You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt it,
The thick, hot length of his cock pressing between your thighs, dragging through your slick, coating himself in the mess heâd made of you.
Your whole body shuddered.
âGonna fuck you now,â he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice dark, dangerous. âYou ready for me, baby?â
You barely managed to nod, your hips tilting up, your back arching, offering yourself up to him in the filthiest display of submission.
Jake groaned, his breath shuddering against your shoulder.
âYeah, you are,â he muttered, almost to himself. âYouâve been ready for me since day one.â
Your breath hitched when he pulled back, when you felt him shift, when you felt him line himself up,
You felt it.
The thick, heavy weight of his cock sliding between your folds, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance, spreading you open inch by inch, but not pushing in yet.
You whimpered, a wrecked, frustrated sound, trying to push back, trying to take him, but Jakeâs hands were on your hips immediately, holding you still.
âNot yet,â he murmured, voice taunting, smug. âYou feel that?â
Your whole body tightened as he dragged himself over your entrance again, so close but still not giving it to you.
âFeel how big I am?â
You nodded furiously, eyes blown wide, unfocused, needy, trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of his cock stretching you open already before he was even inside.
Jake chuckled, one hand leaving your hip, gripping the thick base of himself, dragging the fat, swollen head against your entrance over and over, smearing your slick across his length.
âBet you thought about it, huh?â he murmured, his free hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing you further into the mattress. âBet you imagined how deep Iâd be.â
A wrecked, whiny little moan tumbled from your lips.
Yeah. You had.
And now you could feel it.
Jake was thick. Heavy. Long enough that you knew he was going to ruin you completely.
The head of his cock was flushed a deep, angry red, already slick with precum and the mess youâd made of yourself. A thick vein ran down the underside, pulsing against your entrance as he dragged himself over your folds again and again, teasing, taunting, letting you feel every single inch of what was about to wreck you.
Your thighs shook, your hands fisting the sheets, your whole body fighting to stay still.
Jake smirked.
âWant it that bad?â
You nodded frantically, whimpering, pressing back against him, desperate to be filled.
Jake groaned, low, dark, lethal.
He spat directly onto your asshole.
Your whole body jerked violently, your breath choking out of you, a sharp, desperate gasp breaking from your throat at the filthy, messy sound of it.
Jake chuckled darkly, rubbing the wetness into you with his thumb, spreading it over your tight entrance, teasing, circling, smearing it with your own slick.
âThought about this too, huh?â he murmured, pressing just the tip of his thumb against it, making your thighs tremble, making your stomach flip, making you whine.
But he didnât push in.
Noâhe dragged his spit-slicked thumb down, tracing it between your folds, pressing it against your clit in a slow, taunting rub just as he finallyâ
Pushed inside.
Your mouth fell open in a wrecked, silent scream, your entire body going taut, because Jake didnât ease in.
He split you open.
A long, low groan rumbled in his chest, his fingers tightening on your hips, his breath shaking as he forced you to take every inch.
âFuck, baby,â he hissed, his voice strained, wrecked, strained as he buried himself to the hilt. âSo fucking tight.â
Your fingernails dug into the sheets, your legs shaking, your breath completely gone, because the stretch was unbearable, overwhelming, perfect.
Jake didnât move right away.
He let you feel it.
Feel how deep he was, how full he made you, how there was no more space inside you for anything else but him.
He pulled back,Â
And slammed back in.
Your whole body jolted forward, a sharp, shocked moan spilling from your lips as Jake set a brutal, punishing pace immediately.
âYouâre gonna take it like a good little slut, yeah?â he growled, his voice low, rough, filthy. âGonna take it just like you do in those videos?â
You sobbed, whimpered, nodded frantically, barely able to form words, barely able to breathe.
Jake groaned, watching you fall apart, watching you drool all over his cock, watching your mouth fall open in perfect, wordless pleasure.
He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear, his pace never faltering, pounding into you so deep you saw stars.
âPush back on it,â he ordered.
You barely even registered the commandâjust obeyed immediately, rocking back against him, meeting every thrust, taking him like you were made for it.
Jake growled, his grip tightening, watching the way his cock slid in and out of you, watching the way you took every inch, watching the way you spread yourself open for him completely.
âGood girl,â he gritted out, sweat dripping from his temples, his breath ragged. âThatâs it, baby. Show me what a good little whore you are.â
His fingers slid back down, toying with your clit, rubbing it in tight, filthy circles, his thrusts getting harder, deeper, meaner.
Your vision blurred.
Your body shook violently.
âJakeâfuckâI canâtââ
He chuckled darkly, leaning over you again, his lips brushing your ear as he ruined you completely.
âYes, you can.â
âBe a good girl and come all over my cock.â
Your whole world shattered.
The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and everything filthy youâd just done.
Your body was still shaking, your limbs still boneless, every nerve still buzzing from the way Jake had just completely, utterly wrecked you.
His hands were on you again.
Gentle.
You barely registered the shift at firstâtoo dazed, too exhausted, too blissed out to notice the way Jakeâs grip had softened, the way his rough, dominant touch had turned into something careful, careful, careful.
You blinked, still coming down, still floating, as Jake slowly eased himself out of you, hushing you immediately when you whimpered at the loss.
âI know, baby,â he murmured, his voice softer now, a stark contrast to the filthy, merciless way heâd been talking to you minutes ago.
Your brows furrowed in confusion.
Because Jake sounded different.
You barely had time to process it before he moved, scooping you up effortlessly, pulling you into his lap like you were the most precious fucking thing in the world.
Your stomach flipped.
âJakeââ
âShh.â
His lips brushed your forehead.
Your heart skipped. Your breath caught.
Because Jake had kissed you.
For the first time. But not on your lips.
Not yet.
His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles over your back, his voice a quiet murmur against your skin. âAre you okay?â
You blinked at him, completely thrown. Because what the fuck?
Where was the cocky, filthy-mouthed Jake who had just spent the past hour ruining your entire existence?
Where was the smug, insufferable bastard who had made you beg for it, who had spat on your ass, who had laughed while you drooled all over his cock?
Because the guy holding you now? Was someone else entirely. His hands were warm, steady, grounding. His gaze was soft, searching, real.
Your lips parted, still stunned, but before you could say anything, Jake let out a quiet, almost nervous chuckle.
âFuck,â he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at you. âI shouldâve kissed you first.â
Your breath hitched.
Jake exhaled, shaking his head. âBefore all of that.â His fingers traced light, delicate patterns up and down your spine. âDidnât want the first time I kissed you to be during sex.â
Something in your chest ached. You didnât know what to say.
Because this wasnât what you expected.
Jake had spent weeks taunting you, teasing you, pushing you past your limitsâ Now he was holding you like he never wanted to let go. You swallowed, watching him carefully, studying him, trying to understand.
âWhy?â you whispered.
Jakeâs lips curled into a small, almost sheepish smirk.
His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to his.
âBecause I wanted it to mean something.â
Your entire body stilled. Your pulse roared in your ears.
Jake held your gaze, serious now, voice soft but firm.
âI donât share,â he murmured.
Your stomach plummeted.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Jake tilted his head, his fingers sliding up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, so gentle, so intimate, so fucking real.
âI donât want this to be a one-time thing,â he continued, his voice low, steady, certain. âI donât want you fucking anyone else.â
Your breath shuddered. Jakeâs eyes flickered down to your lips, slowly He finally kissed you.
Slow. Deep. Consuming.
And just like that, you knew you were done for.
-
Jakeâs words from that first night still haunted you.
âYouâre gonna show me later.â
You were.
The bathroom lights were dim, the mirror already fogging up from the heat of the room, but none of that mattered. Not when Jake was standing behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other holding his phone, recording every filthy, desperate second.
Your palms were pressed against the edge of the sink, your body bent forward, the cold porcelain digging into your clit as you grinded against it, mimicking exactly what he had caught you doing before.
Only this time, Jake was fucking you through it.
His cock dragged in and out of you, slow at first, deep and deliberate, splitting you open, making you feel every thick, devastating inch as you rocked your hips forward, rubbing yourself against the sink just like you had before he ever touched you.
Now, Jake was watching.
Now, Jake was inside you.
His breath was hot against your neck, his free hand trailing up your spine, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades, pushing you further down against the sink, making you spread your legs wider, making you take more of him, making you completely his.
âThatâs it, baby,â he murmured, his voice wrecked, low, approving, his free hand digging into your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. âJust like that. Just like you did for me before I ever fucking touched you.â
Your moans were high, gasping, desperate, bouncing off the tile walls, growing louder and louder as Jakeâs thrusts grew faster, sharper, filthier.
âLook at yourself,â he growled, angling the phone so you could see the reflectionâsee the way your face was contorted with pleasure, see the way your tits bounced with every thrust, see the way his cock disappeared inside you, stretching you wide, filling you completely.
You locked eyes with him through the mirror, and something snapped.
A slow, wicked smirk curled on your lips, and suddenly, the whimpering mess you had been was gone.
You arched your back further, pushing your ass back against him, grinding onto his cock, fucking yourself onto him even harder, your mouth spilling filth without hesitation.
âYou see that, baby?â Your voice was thick with sin, sultry and commanding. âSee how good your cock looks inside me? Stretching me open like I was fucking made for it?â
Jake groaned, dark and wrecked, his grip tightening on your hips.
âOh, you like that?â you cooed, deliberately clenching around him, making him hiss through his teeth. âLike watching me fuck myself on you?â
He gritted his teeth. âJesus Christ.â
âThought about this for so long,â you purred, rolling your hips. âThought about you taking me like thisâfilming meâshowing me what a good little slut I am for you.â
Jake cursed under his breath, his thrusts growing harder, faster, deeper, his control shattering as he pounded into you, forcing you against the sink, making you feel every fucking inch.
âYou wanna keep talking, baby?â he gritted out, his hand snaking up to grip your throat, making you hold his gaze in the mirror. âOr do you wanna fucking come?â
Your moan broke, your whole body trembling, your legs shaking violently.
âIâI want both,â you gasped, a shameless, breathless mess. âWanna come all over your cock while you fucking record it. Wanna make the dirtiest fucking video for youâso you can watch me fall apart over and overââ
Jake groaned, his restraint snapping completely.
His hand slid between your thighs, rubbing you mercilessly, his cock slamming into you faster, harder, filthier, and before you could even process itâ
You were screaming, your orgasm ripping through you violently, your whole body convulsing, shaking, breaking apart.
Jake got every second on video.
-
Jake liked to smoke weed after long days.
He liked to do it while wrecking you.
The air was thick with smoke, the room hot, hazy, suffocating in the most intoxicating way. You were sprawled out on his bed, your thighs spread wide, your wrists pinned beside your head as Jakeâs tongue dragged lazy, filthy circles over your clit, lapping at you with zero urgency, completely unbothered by how fucking desperate you were getting.
In his free hand? A joint.
Burning slow. The smoke curling through the air, weaving between your tangled bodies, seeping into your skin, into your mind, into your bones.
Every nerve in your body was on fire. Every slow, teasing flick of his tongue felt magnified, every inhale he took deepening the fog that was swallowing you whole.
You moaned, squirming, your fingers digging into the sheets as your hips lifted, chasing his mouth, trying to get more, but Jake just chuckled darkly, pinning you down, refusing to let you take control.
He lifted his head slightly, blowing a long, slow stream of thick, warm smoke over your drenched, swollen clit.
Your body jerked violently, a sharp cry breaking from your throat, the sensation too much, too overwhelming, too fucking filthy.
âFuckâJakeââ
He groaned, lazy, satisfied, licking his lips before dragging his tongue through your folds again, so slow, so teasing, so fucking unbearable.
âSensitive, baby?â His voice was thick, taunting, dripping with amusement. He took another deep inhale from the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs, letting his fingers slide through your wetness, teasing, circling, rubbingâbut never giving you enough.
He exhaled another thick, slow drag of smoke, letting it roll over your heat, watching as the wisps curled around your trembling thighs, your stomach, your completely wrecked, ruined body.
A wrecked, filthy moan spilled from your lips.
Jake smirked against your inner thigh, watching you twitch, tremble, shake, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly, watching the way your fingers clawed at the sheets, desperate for more.
âYou like that, baby?â he murmured, his fingers sliding deeper, pressing inside you so fucking slow, dragging against your walls, curling just right.
You whimpered, back arching off the mattress. âYesâfuck, yesââ
Jake hummed approvingly, the sound low and sinful, his lips dragging over your inner thigh, nipping at the soft flesh, teasing, taunting.
He did something unholy.
He brought the joint down,
And pressed the burning tip directly to your clit.
It didnât hurtâit was barely a graze, the heat of the ember just close enough to send a violent shockwave of pleasure-pain through your entire fucking body.
You screamed, your legs snapping closed around his head, but Jake just growled, gripping your thighs and spreading them wide again, forcing you open for him.
âAh, ah,â he tutted, bringing the joint back to his lips for another slow, deep pull. âKeep those legs open, baby.â
Your chest heaved, your mind spinning, every part of you hypersensitive, overstimulated, teetering on the fucking edge.
Jake watched you, eyes blown, hungry, dark, as he reached between your thighs again, his fingers finding your swollen, overstimulated clit, rubbing messy, lazy circles, smearing your slick, keeping you right there, right on the brink.
He exhaled another cloud of smoke, letting it roll directly over your heat.
Your moan broke, a sharp, wrecked sob, your body tensing, shaking, fighting the unbearable pressure building inside you.
âOh, baby,â Jake mocked, his voice thick with sin, his fingers never stopping, never slowing. âYouâre gonna fucking come just from this, arenât you?â
You nodded frantically, whimpering, writhing, your whole body fighting to hold itself together.
Jakeâs lips twitched, his cock straining against his sweats, his own control slipping as he dragged the joint over your soaked folds, rubbing the tip against your clit, watching you jerk, watching your legs tremble, watching you fall apart for him.
You said it.
Your voice was high, wrecked, desperate.
âPlease, Daddy.â
Jake froze.
He let out a deep, low groan, something dark flashing in his eyes. His grip on your thighs tightened, his body tensed, his restraint snapping completely.
His voice was rough, strained, wrecked beyond recognition.
âSay that shit again.â
You whimpered, grinding against nothing, teetering right on the edge of something violent.
âPlease, Daddy,â you repeated, voice syrupy sweet, dripping with sin. âMy pussy wants a hit too it needs it. Need you to make me come so fucking hard I forget my own nameââ
Jake growled, his entire body shuddering, his control obliterated.
He took another slow inhale,
He pressed the joint back to your clit, the heat searing, shocking, sending a violent shudder through your entire body.
Your legs spasmed, your stomach tensed, and suddenly you were gushing, soaking his face, his chest, the sheets beneath you, every single muscle in your body seizing as you squirted all over him.
Jake groaned loudly, his hand gripping your thigh bruisingly tight, his tongue lapping up the mess you made, drinking you down, humming against your dripping folds like heâd just found his new favorite way to get high.
Jake took the joint, still damp from where heâd pressed it against your soaked heat, brought it back to his lips, and took one final, slow hit.
His exhale was slow, deep, pure sin as he looked down at you, wrecked, spent, twitching beneath him.
He leaned in, grabbed your jaw, and kissed you.
Filthy. Deep. Destroying.
Smoke still lingered on his tongue, on his breath, invading your lungs, intoxicating you more than any drug ever could.
His teeth tugged at your lower lip, his hand gripping the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
And as he pulled away, leaving you breathless, ruined, completely fucking gone, he grinned against your lips, voice nothing but a low, wrecked murmur.
âBet you taste even better than the high, baby.â
-
The bathroom was already steaming, condensation rolling down the glass shower door, the air thick with humidityâand the sounds of Jake fucking you senseless.
Your body was pressed against the glass, the cool surface a stark contrast to your feverish, flushed skin, your nipples dragging against it with every brutal thrust, leaving streaks of your desperation across the fogged-up surface.
Jakeâs hands were everywhereâone gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your throat, holding you in place, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
Fucking lethal.
âYou wanted this, huh?â he growled, his breath hot against your ear, his cock slamming into you from behind, deep, ruthless, unforgiving. âWanted Daddy to take you like this?â
You whimpered, your forehead pressing into the glass, your nails scraping uselessly against it, because you had no control over anything anymore.
Jake wasnât just fucking you. He was owning you.
His hand on your throat tightened, forcing you to lift your head, making you stare at your own fucked-out reflection in the glass.
âLook at you,â he murmured, his tone condescending, filthy, dripping with amusement. âYou see yourself, baby?â
Your mouth hung open, your lips puffy, swollen, wrecked, your body shaking with every deep thrust, your nipples dragging against the slick surface of the glass, leaving desperate little streaks with every movement.
Jake chuckled darkly. âSo fucking dumb for me, huh?â
You tried to speakâtried to say something, anythingâbut all that came out was a wrecked, helpless little sob.
Jake groaned, his free hand sliding down, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to keep looking.
âYou wanted to fuck me in the shower?â he mocked, his hips snapping forward, burying himself so deep you saw fucking stars. âNow you can barely even stand.â
Your whole body convulsed, your walls clenching tightly around him, and Jake felt it.
Felt how fucking wrecked you were.
Felt how close you were.
And he wasnât having it.
Not yet.
His thrusts suddenly slowed, the brutal, relentless pace shifting into deep, slow, torturous rolls of his hips, dragging his cock out of you so slowly, before slamming back inside.
You sobbed, the glass fogging up from your panting, helpless gasps.
âOh, you donât like that, baby?â he taunted, his grip on your jaw tightening, his thumb pushing into your mouth, forcing it open. âThought you wanted Daddy to fuck you. What happened, huh?â
You whimpered around his thumb, your tongue lapping at the rough pad, sucking instinctively, needing something to hold onto before you fucking lost your mind.
Jake groaned, his pace picking up again, faster, harsher, filthier, his cock hitting deep, devastating spots inside you that made your legs buckle beneath you.
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, high, gasping little cries that bounced off the tile walls, mixing with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the shower running, the heavy panting of both of you completely fucking falling apart.
Jake leaned in, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his hand on your jaw sliding down, wrapping fully around your throat.
âYouâre gonna take everything I give you,â he murmured, low, dark, dangerous.
You nodded frantically, whimpering, your hands bracing against the glass, leaving messy little fingerprints in the condensation.
Jake groaned, watching you lose yourself, watching the way your body responded to him, the way you trembled, the way you fucking fell apart for him.
âGo ahead, baby,â he murmured, his thrusts turning erratic, ruthless, brutal, perfect. âCome for me.â
Your whole body snapped.
A shattered, broken moan spilled from your lips as your orgasm slammed into you, your walls clenching, pulsing, milking him, your body shaking violently as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Jake cursed, his grip tightening, his own breath shattering against your ear as he thrust into you a few more times, then he buried himself deep, groaning through gritted teeth, coming inside you, his body tensing, shaking, completely fucking wrecked.
The only sound left in the room was your panting breaths, the steady patter of the shower, the faint creak of the glass as your bodies pressed against it, spent, ruined, completely fucking gone.
Jakeâs hands slid to your hips, his grip softening, pulling you back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you as his forehead pressed against the back of your neck.
A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped him. âDamn, baby.â
You laughed, weak, fucked-out, completely ruined.
âNext time,â he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. âYouâre riding me.â
-
Jake had never been gentle.
Not really. Not when it came to you.
Because you pulled something reckless, desperate, uncontrollable out of him.
Tonight was different.
The candles flickered softly, the scent of warm vanilla filling the air, mixing with the faint traces of Jakeâs cologne on his sheets. The playlist he made for you played quietly in the background, soft, slow, achingly sweet.
Jake was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
His hands were slow, careful, reverent as he traced your body, fingertips ghosting over your bare skin, leaving shivers in their wake.
He hovered over you, his gaze heavy, intense, the way he always looked at you when he was about to ruin you.
Tonight, he was going to love you.
âHappy one month, baby,â he murmured, brushing his lips over yours, soft, teasing, unbearably tender.
Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down, needing more.
Jake chuckled against your mouth, letting you kiss him, letting you taste the slow, burning affection behind every drag of his lips.
âYou always so needy for me, huh?â he teased, grinning against your mouth, teasing but soft, always so soft.
You pouted, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, slower.
Jake groaned, his body pressing into yours, his warmth wrapping around you, completely engulfing you.
And when he finallyâfinallyâpushed inside you, it was the slowest thing youâd ever felt.
A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, your head falling back as Jakeâs body sank into yours, inch by inch, stretching you, filling you completely.
âFuck,â he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.
You clenched around him, your thighs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper, needing more,
But Jake just smirked, shaking his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw.
âNot rushing tonight, baby,â he murmured, voice low, gentle, soothing, but firm. âGonna take my time with you.â
Your chest ached, your breath shaking, your fingers sliding down his back, gripping onto him, holding him close.
Jake moved slowly, agonizingly so, rolling his hips into yours in long, deep strokes, his body pressed flush against you, his lips tracing every inch of your skin.
It was everything.
The way he whispered against your lips, soft, teasing, murmuring about how perfect you felt, how much he loved being inside you.
The way he kissed you between every word, slow, messy, deep, like he needed you to feel every bit of how much he wanted you, adored you, fucking loved you.
The way his hands caressed your body, memorizing every inch of you, fingertips dragging over your waist, your ribs, your thighs, like he needed to burn you into his skin.
It was soft.
It was overwhelming.
It was Jake, giving you every single piece of himself.
âYouâre so fucking beautiful,â he whispered, voice thick, wrecked, raw, his lips pressing against your temple, your cheek, your jaw, before finding your lips again.
And when he finallyâfinallyâpushed you over the edge, it was like drowning.
Your orgasm hit slow, deep, all-consuming, your whole body melting into his, your fingers gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth.
Jake followed right after, burying himself deep, shuddering, groaning into your mouth, completely fucking lost in you.
When you were spent, ruined, completely wrapped up in him, he didnât move.
Didnât pull away. Didnât let you go.
Instead, he cupped your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek, soft, tender, adoring.
He kissed you.
Slow. Lingering. Perfect.
âI Love you,â he murmured, lips still pressed against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart skipped.
Your breath hitched.
When you whispered it back, Jake smiled against your mouth.
-
Jake had been staring at you for a full ten minutes.
Not subtly. Not in passing. Full-on, pouty-lipped, arms-crossed, lovesick puppy-dog-eyes staring.
You had noticed, of courseâyou always noticed when Jake was desperate for attentionâbut you had been trying to see how long he would hold out before cracking. You scrolled through your phone lazily, sipping from your water bottle, pretending to be completely oblivious to the fact that your boyfriend was sulking next to you like you had just broken his heart.
A deep, dramatic sigh.
You smirked, tilting your head just slightly to catch him in your peripheral. Sure enough, he was still pouting, still glaring at you like you had done something terrible.
You raised a brow. âWhat?â
Jake let out another, even heavier sigh, rolling onto his side to face you, his arms curling around your waist, pulling you against him like you were his last source of oxygen.
âYou havenât kissed me yet,â he muttered, muffled against your shirt.
You blinked. âWhat?â
Jake lifted his head, his expression pure devastation.
âYou havenât kissed me,â he repeated, dead serious.
You couldnât stop the laugh that bubbled up in your throat. âJakeââ
âJakey,â he corrected, pointing to his cheek expectantly.
You bit your lip, eyes glimmering with amusement, but leaned in anyway, pressing a soft, slow peck to his cheek.
Jake let out the happiest sigh, his lips curling into the softest, sweetest little smile, eyes fluttering shut like he had just been granted salvation.
âMmm,â he hummed, squeezing you tighter. âBetter.â
You shook your head, laughing softly, trailing your fingers through his hair, but before you could pull away, he was tilting his chin up, tapping his other cheek.
âMissed a spot.â
You rolled your eyes, but indulged him, pressing another gentle kiss to his other cheek.
Jake sighed even deeper, his hands tightening around your waist, his grin growing even wider.
âGood girl,â he murmured, pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in.
You bit your lip, heart melting at how soft, sweet, and completely in love he was. Jake had his moodsâhe could be cocky, insatiable, dominant, but this? This was your favorite.
He nuzzled against you, sighing softly. âYou know, Iâve been thinking about our wedding.â
Your breath hitched. âOh?â
Jake just nodded, his smile so content, so blissful.
âYeah. Iâve got it all planned out,â he mused, tilting his chin up expectantly again.
You smirked. âWhat?â
Jake pointed to his lips.
You giggled, leaning down, kissing him slow, savoring the soft little hum he let out, the way his fingers curled tighter into your sides.
When you pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot.
âOkay, so,â he started, eyes glimmering. âItâs gotta be on a beach. You in some flowy-ass dress, looking like a literal angel.â
You smiled at the thought, pressing another kiss to his temple.
Jake sighed, eyes slipping shut for a moment, his body completely relaxed, completely wrapped up in the idea.
âAnd our honeymoon?â he continued, his voice getting even softer, even dreamier. âBora Bora. Or the Maldives. Somewhere I can keep you in bed for a whole week.â
You gasped, swatting his chest playfully. âJakeââ
âJakey,â he corrected again, glaring immediately.
You sighed dramatically, leaning down and pressing a peck to his nose.
Jake sighed, so blissed out he could barely speak for a second.
âGod, I love you,â he murmured, pressing tiny kisses to your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.
You smiled against his skin, your lips still ghosting over his temple. âLove you too.â
Jake hummed, shifting so he could press his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back.
âYou know,â he started, his voice lower, softer, full of something even deeper. âI was thinking three kids. Two boys, one girl.â
You smiled. âOh yeah?â
âOr,â he continued, grinning, âwhat if we get twins? Like, one of each?â
You kissed his cheek. âYouâre ridiculous.â
Jake huffed, tugging you closer, burying himself into your warmth. âNot ridiculous. Just in love.â
He closed his eyes, sighing. âYouâre gonna stay home, right? Take care of the house, the kids, let me take care of you?â
Your chest tightened. âYouâd be okay with that?â
He snorted, pulling back to look at you like you had lost your mind. âBaby, Iâd love that. Iâd spoil you rotten.â
Your stomach flipped.
âThink about it,â he murmured, his voice turning lower, teasing. âYou, waiting for me when I come home, wearing one of my shirts, telling me how much you missed me.â
You felt hot all over.
He smirked. âGod, youâd be the best little housewife.â
You pressed your face into his chest, flustered, overwhelmed, completely wrapped around his finger.
Jake just laughed, holding you so tight, so safe, so his.
âAnd the house?â he murmured, squeezing your waist. âWe need something big, but cozy. A huge kitchenââcause I know you love to cook. A fireplace, maybe? A backyard for the kids. A big-ass bed so I can keep you all to myself.â
You whined, squeezing your eyes shut. âJake, stop.â
Jake grinned. âJakey,â he corrected one last time, tapping his lips.
You rolled your eyes but leaned down anyway, kissing him slow, soft, deep.
He sighed into it, his fingers curling into your hair, holding you there, kissing you like he had all the time in the world.
And when you pulled away, breathless, hearts pounding, he whispered against your lips, âYouâre gonna marry me.â
Your chest ached.
You couldnât wait to. âYeah, Jakey. Iâm gonna marry you.â
-
The morning had started innocent enough.
At least, as innocent as waking up naked and tangled with Jake Sim could be.
You were supposed to get up early. You were supposed to go to class on time for once. But then Jake shifted, his warm, bare skin pressing into yours, his breath heavy against your ear, his hand already sliding between your thighs before you were even fully awake.
âMorning, baby,â he murmured, raspy, teasing, completely unbothered by the fact that you were already running late.
You lost all track of time.
Jake didnât need to touch you to ruin you.
Sometimes, all it took was his voice.
âYouâre not gonna make it to class, are you?â he mused, low and smug, his lips brushing against your ear.
You shuddered, squeezing your eyes shut as you pressed your thighs together, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to just his words.
Jake chuckled, shifting so he was propped up on one elbow, looking down at you like he was already planning how much worse he was going to make it. Slow, teasing, torturously confident.
âYou always do this,â he murmured, tracing lazy patterns along your stomach. âPretend youâre gonna leave. Act like youâre strong enough to walk away from me.â
You swallowed hard, gripping the sheets, your chest rising and falling too quickly.
Jake smirked. He noticed.
âWhatâs wrong, baby?â His voice was taunting, almost sympathetic. âAlready shaking and I havenât even touched you yet?â
You exhaled sharply, squeezing your legs tighter together.
Jake tsked. âOh, sweetheart.â
His hand ghosted down, his fingers dragging over your hip, down the outside of your thigh, barely there, completely teasing.
âYouâre already soaked, arenât you?â
You whimpered, biting your lip, refusing to answer.
He hummed, shaking his head. âSo easy for me.â
You turned your head, hiding your face against the pillow, but Jake wasnât having that.
âLook at me,â he murmured, low and firm, the kind of tone that made your stomach flip.
You hesitated, but turned back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, heavy, filled with pure amusement.
âThereâs my good girl,â he murmured, running a finger down your cheek, his voice turning softer, but still full of that unbearable smugness.
You swallowed, trying to keep your breathing even, but Jake could see right through you.
âYou donât wanna go to class,â he whispered, pressing his lips to your jaw, so soft, so slow. âYou wanna stay right here, let me ruin you all over again.â
Your fingers dug into the sheets.
âSay it,â he coaxed, his hand sliding lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. âTell me youâd rather be late.â
Your lips parted, your breath shaky.
Jake smirked, running his nose along your cheek, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.
âYou wanna be good for me, donât you, baby?â
You whimpered, your resolve crumbling.
And thatâs all it took.
Jake chuckled, shifting over you fully, pressing you back into the mattress.
âThatâs my girl.â
-
By the time you both finally dragged yourselves out of bed, you were already doomed.
Jake smirked as you struggled to stand on shaky legs, his grip on your waist firm as he steadied you, smug as ever.
âCareful, baby,â he murmured, biting his lip as he took in the mess he had made of you.
You shoved him, grumbling under your breath as you pulled on your sweater, knowing full well that no amount of adjusting was going to hide the way you looked thoroughly ruined.
Jake didnât even try.
He pulled on the first hoodie he could find, rubbing a hand through his already-mussed-up hair, his lips still swollen from kissing you senseless.
By the time you actually left, you were beyond late.
Your professor narrowed his eyes immediately.
Jake grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders like it was no big deal, guiding you to your seats with zero shame, zero regret.
âNice of you to finally join us,â your professor said dryly, crossing his arms, glancing between the two of you.
You swallowed hard. âUh, yeah, sorry,â
Your professor raised a brow. âYou both look⊠disheveled.â
You felt your entire body heat up, shifting in your seat as Jake just smirked.
âMustâve been the wind,â Jake said smoothly, kicking his feet up under the desk, looking completely unbothered.
Your professor wasnât convinced.
He squinted, glancing at you, then at Jake, then back at you.
âUh-huh,â he said slowly. âThe wind.â
Jake grinned wider.
Your professor exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. âYou know what? Forget it. I donât want to know.â
You nearly collapsed in relief, but Jake?
Jake was having way too much fun.
He leaned over, whispering in your ear, his voice low, teasing, smug.
âBaby, I think weâre getting too obvious.â
You resisted the urge to kick him under the desk.
From then on, every time you and Jake showed up late to class, looking like an absolute messâ Your professor just sighed, shook his head, and looked the other way.
fin.
-
TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @naurwayyyyy @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @annybah @zzhengyu @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
#enhypen#enhypen x reader#enhypen scenarios#enhypen fanfic#enhypen imagines#enhypen au#enhypen fluff#enhypen smut#smut#jake sim x reader#jake sim#jake x reader#sim jake#jaeyun#sim jaeyun#sim jaeyun x reader#sim jaeyun x you#sim jaeyun x y/n#sim jake x reader#sim jake smau#sim jake enhypen#sim jake x you#sim jake imagines#jake enhypen#enhypen jake#jake sim smut#jake sim fanfic#jake sim fluff#jake sim imagines#jake sim fic
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Your best friend Bakugo kisses you in your sleep..
Itâs weird, yeah, but he doesnât seem to want to stop himself.
All, because of ONE kiss you both shared after graduation. Your lips were soft and sweet as cotton candy, so plush and pillowy he almost caught himself getting mad when you pulled back.
It was a simple action, you both agreed it was just something that was the heat of the moment since you both never had a first kiss, it really didnât mean much
Or so Bakugo thought.
He nearly became secretly obsessed with your lips, the lip combos you wore he paid more attention, sometimes buying you new glosses to try and leaving them on your desk, the way they curve when you smile, he doesnât even do eye contact that much with you anymore he just steals glances at your pretty little mouth. He hated it.
He hated how much he wanted another kiss. It was like an irking craving he was conflicted to satisfy.
He would always sleep in your dorm on weekends, wanting to relax even though some may argue he is just your little Velcro bestie. You fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie and while reaching over to grab a blanket his lips brushed against yours.
Bakugoâs movements stilled. Your lips were just as soft as they were 2 months ago. He was still obsessed, it was as if he got a taste of Heaven, and your kisses was from an angel.
So he dipped his head again with caution. Nearly holding his breath as his lips landed on yours. You didnât wake up.
Bakugo rubbed his soft warm hand on your cheek while his became hot, mumbling on how stupid he is to do such a thing without you knowing. He had a mind to kiss you harder, maybe youâll wake up and catch him. Slap him back into some sense because he wasnât making any.
And he did, but you still didnât budge.
Eventually it became a routine, heâd come over, you dose off before he does and he steals small pecks here and there while you slept beside him, he wasnât the best kisser so he practiced. Some nights he would wake up just to kiss you again.
Pecking his lips on your cheek down to your lips and kissing you, it helped him become softer with his touches towards you as well. He liked doing it.
Eventually he will tell you, he doesnât want to keep up this routine especially if youâre both arenât in a relationship, he usually holds you tightly against him, admiring your face before he leans in.
Many mornings you wake up on his chest or buried in his neck. Grinning, kissing his cheek as he was a deep sleeper himself.
You liked all the kisses he gave you while you slept too.
#mha#bakugo katuski#bakugou katsuki#bnha bakugo katsuki#bnha bakugou#katsuki bakugo mha#mha bakugou#bakugo x black reader#bakugou x reader#bakugou x y/n#bakugou x you#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugo#virgin bakugo#bakugo headcanons#bakugo x black female#bakugo x reader#bakugo x y/n#bakugo x you#mha x black female reader#bakugo x female reader#bakugo smut#bakugo fluff
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SHE'S SWEET LIKE CANDY!

synopsis. you spot something when you're out at the mall with tara. you cant help but think about your boyfriend who's at work doing the best he can, so why not give him a little gift?
cw. fem! reader, unprotected, praise, dirty talk, fingering, squirting, face fucking, cunnilingus, making him whine, petnames, make him beg for you girl, well its caleb so he a lil nasty icl, nicest I've written caleb
add ons. THIS LITERALLY CAME INTO MY HEAD WHILE LISTENING TO THE SONG OHH MY GODDDD GUYSSSHEBDHEB
wc. 2.9k

it wasnât everyday you wore lingerie. actually, you didnât even wear it. you thought the clothing was cute - sexy even! it just.. wasnât something you were much into. well that was until you saw the set hanging up in a store you passed with tara. you couldnât take your eyes off it - everytime you found yourself circling around back to the store at the mall, tara now being annoyed with you.
âi thought you werenât that into lingerie?â she nudges you. she was rightâ you werenât, but the thought of you putting it on, spreading yourself on the bed, waiting for him to come home and devour you. the sensation. you needed to buy this - it was a sign.
âi wasnâtâ you retorted. sure, you didnât really think of yourself as the type of woman to put on a show, but you couldnât help but think about how heâd look at you. maybe heâd slowly glide your hands over the baby doll shaped dress, his hands would gently fondle your tits until your moaning for him - maybe his mouth would kiss all around you while he told you how gorgeous you looked in your newly bought clothes.
you needed that matching set.
âbut trying something new wouldnât hurt, right? itâs pretty cute too âtarsâ you nudged her back. your eyes flickered away from the glass that so proudly showed off the matching set going to your friend. tara glanced from you, to the set, back to you. her eyes scrutinizing you, her gaze watching your movements, face and even posture. it went until a moment after she moved her hands to her mouth. her face contorting into a shocked expression.
âyouâre trying to impress - no, show out for someone!â tara yelled in a hush. this wasnât a question, it was pure fact to her. oh how you hated how correct she was too, fine. you were trying to show out for someone. she wasnât going to know that. she wouldnât let you live it down. for sakes it was for caleb after all! part of you thinks he does deserve a little sweet treat for all the hard work heâs been doing for you.
âwhaaaaaat? no! what makes you think that? iâm just.. getting more comfortable in my skin yâknow?â you tried to avoid her gaze. it was scary how accurate she was on most things, like, crazy accurate. maybe you should cut her off from those spiritual classes, they were obviously working horrible wonders for her.
tara tried to hide the snicker that was coming from her. her hands returning back to her sides before she grabbed your wrist. âfine fine, letâs go get you fitted in the set youâre eyeing. iâll pay for it - think of it as a celebration! iâve been waiting for this moment!â you could only sigh.
this was going to be a long while.
when you finally returned home, you thanked tara before rushing up to your door and making your way inside. you could admit, you were partly excited. you couldnât see yourself fully in the set but based off taraâs inputs you looked âtotally sexy!â whatever. you checked your phone and looked at the text that caleb sent you, your face in a smile.
âbe home soon pipâs! canât wait to see what you bought back home! hopefully you got me a gift :)â
oh, you got him a gift. you sure did. you couldnât help the excited kicks you did before getting the house ready. you started the shower and made sure to get your good razor and body scrub. your washing routine being extra careful. you got out, now scrambling to dry off and get the set.
it took you a minute but you got it on, you rushed back to your bathroom and started to do your hair and makeup, making sure it was subtle but enough to give you a little boost. oh and were you were feeling yourself. anxiously, you made your way to your mirror. your gaze glancing over your body, your face, hair. you looked put together.
you giggled to yourself, striking a pose or two and taking a photo. did you want to surprise caleb when he got home? yes, yes you did. but could you contain yourself? no. no you couldnât. you set up your room and cleaned up the house a bit before making your way to your bed and settling down. you whipped out your phone and sent a pretty little text to caleb.
âi got you a little something on the side too, wanted to show you now. i canât wait til you come home, hurry :(â - 1 photo attached.
your bit your finger anxiously. he read it. no response. your mind wandered, what if he didnât like it? is he weirded out now? did he not want to see you like this? god were you anxious. you couldnât stand waiting; especially since he didnât reply to you.
it didnât take long until you heard the rattling of your door, your head perking up as you got back into the position you were in. heâs home. you scrambled around while the rattling stop and sounds of footsteps filled the air, getting closer and closer to your room.
your door creaked open, caleb stood there, his gaze unwavering from you. his eyes fixed on you while a smile creeped on his face. âso i didnât imagine it.â he said softly. âwelcome home, honey.â you said back oh so sweetly.
caleb didnât take any time when it came to you, his hands finding their way around your body, his lips kissing every part of you that he could feel. how euphoric this was for both you and him. you were so sweet for him, he could almost cry. âso,â he said whispering, his head digging into your neck. âwhat made you get dolled up for me? hm? did i do something good?â his voice was intoxicating. how he spoke with such urgency but he was so gentle.
âhmm.. well youâve been working so hard for me. you deserved something.â you smiled, your hands finding his. caleb felt like he could melt. just for him? for working like heâs always done? oh fuck, it was enough to make his cock twitch with eagerness.
âwho am i to deny something so sweet? especially since itâs a gift from you.â he grabbed your hips, turning you over so he could see you on top of him. you were beautiful. his hands roamed around your body, he couldnât get enough of you. your curves, the way you swayed your hips, how you arched so naturally for him, how you were made for him.
your hands found their way to his face, and he couldnât help but lean into them letting out a soft moan. âyou look really pretty, and I mean âfuckin gorgeous.â his words were shaky. his eyes dawned on you. your hands making their way to his jaw, then to his lips. glazing over them slightly before you bent down to give him kisses. such a good idea to wear lipstick.
your lips stained his body, it was proof. proof on how you owned him, how he was yours forevermore. caleb couldnât help but snicker. âyou having fun there?â and you nodded. you reached for his uniform, undoing it and tossing his clothes to the side. your pussy throbbed at the sight of him like this. he was so fucking pretty, like a puppy. the way his eyes looked up at you in a way where he was pleading you to let him ruin your body. the way your lipstick matched such a perfect shade for his skin and how messy his lips looked.
he looked fucking messy, and you havenât even started.
caleb gripped your thighs, âcmon baby donât be like that, Iâm dying here.â his hips rolling - sending a shiver down your spine. you let out a moan, your hands running down his exposed chest. âi know babyâ you coo. your hands moving back, finding his cock and palming it through his pants. you could drink up this sight of him and it was one of the days where his robotic arm was exposed? you were in heaven.
âfuck, fuck fuck fuck, that feels good - real good, please,â his hips bucking up. your hands sliding away while his moans turned into pleas. caleb squeezed on your hip. âno, no no no please baby let me, Iâve been a real good boy.â oh fuck did that do something to you. his face soft with an sad expression. he was so so cute you couldnât help but tease him. your cunt throbbed from negligence. you leaned down and kissed him again, smiling. âthen be a good dog and eat me out.â
you settled your body on his face, not sitting fully but enough for him to taste you. caleb let out a scoff before grabbing your thighs and tugging you down, pushing all your weight on him. âoh cmon baby, i wanna taste all of you.â and thatâs what he did. caleb licked your folds and sucked on your nub, his tongue licking your slit and drinking up your arousal. he was eating you out like a starved man.
your hands gripped on his hair, your hips swayed on his lips to his nose. oh fuck did he feel good. caleb used his hands to feel your bra. it was nice, pretty. it suit you so fucking well, fuck you were his pretty girl. he whimpered, allowing you to ride his face. whatâd they say? save a plane & ride a pilot? whatever it was, this was fucking it.
caleb placed sloppy kisses around your entrance, using his evol to keep you down while he was able to continue touching you. âif you keep moving baby, i canât eat my dinner properly.â he chuckled. his tongue finding itself inside your dripping cunt, you couldnât help but let out a loud moan. fuck he was a natural. you twitched while calebs mouth worked wonders on you.
âcaleb â caleb âm gonna, oh oh please make me cum make me cum,â you whined. his mouth picking up speed as he kissed and licked you. fuck did he make you stupid. caleb placed his last kiss before he felt you twitch. his evol letting you move freely while he flipped you both. âlook at your panties baby, theyâre all soaked now.â he teased.
you couldnât help but push him a little. caleb snickered before removing his gloves, his fingers now freed while he kissed your chest. âgonna make you cum a few more times âkay?â he smiled. before you could respond his fingers disappeared and your stomach does flips. his fingers big, and long, making your toes curl. âoh fuck, youâre so good caleb â so fucking good for me.â
caleb couldnât deny, hearing you praise him make his cock throb. he wanted to make you feel like heaven and earth combined. his fingers curling upward making your gasp for air, his thumb rubbing circles on the nub of your clit. âaw baby, i really make you feel that good?â he teased. you grabbed his arm nodding and whining. you wiggled under him - your eyes glistening.
âgonna cum? cmon say you are.â he cooâd. you moaned, body shaking as you tried to at least form a sentence. âyes yes yes âm close please please pleaseâ god you sounded pathetic under him. he loved it. your walls clenched on his fingers as he stretched you and kissed you. âokay, cum for me then pretty baby.â
you did exactly that. coating his fingers with your juices. you felt weak, and caleb sat up. âwhat about me baby? i need to cum to.â he said sadly. his cock practically imprinting on his pants. you couldnât just leave your dear boyfriend like this. you got up, pulling on his waistband and revealing his dick. did he seem.. bigger???
âfrom all the teasing youâre doing to me. not to mention this cute little outfit you got on.â his face wide in a smile. his tip was swollen, pink and veiny. curling up just enough to hit every one of your sweet spots. you saw the pre-cum that leaked from his slit and you couldnât help but give it kisses.
âoh, fuck. thatâs it baby.â caleb moaned, his hand making its way around your hair, and rubbing your chin.
you looked up at him, swirling your tongue around his tip. fucking perfect. was all he was able to think before you used your other hand to start pumping his cock.
he was big, it took a minute for you to relax your lips and jaw around his head, but once you felt okay; your mouth slammed on him. caleb cried out when he felt you start sucking him. his hands that were once gentle and soft now rough; grabbing your hair and bucking his hips up.
you let your tongue relax while caleb grabbed your head and rammed his cock in your mouth, abusing your throat. âi canât help it âm sorry please you feel so good - so tight.â he pleas. your eyes on him while he looks completely drunk off you. he was such a pretty fucker.
his cock tightened, and your throat slacken. caleb looked down at you and moved his hands to your face. plugging your nose.
it didnât take long for caleb to be slamming into your mouth aimlessly. his hips spurt and a âpop!â sound comes from your mouth, calebâs dick hitting your face while he came all over it. you gasped and moan. âthaaaatâs it pretty girl.â
caleb moved behind you, his hands cupping your bra then moving to the straps, undoing the clips and taking the bra off. âthe sheer gown stays on.â he kisses your neck. âyou look so pretty in it.â
he pushed you down gently, bringing your ass up and aligning his cock with your entrance. caleb bit his lip, âneed you to relax up a little okay?â he asked, and then he eased his way in. you felt so fucking warm. the way you clenched around his cock so nicely - how he stretched you even after prepping you. it was delicious.
caleb thrusted into you, hitting your cunt in all different ways. his pace picking up speed while he groaned. âgot all pretty for me, do you know how hard it was to keep my composure at work?â he whined, snapping his hips back to you. his abs rocking against you. âcouldnât even jerk myself, fuck fuck, I came home as soon as I could just for you baby.â
he was mean. his tip kissing your cervix over and over again making you into a wobbly slobbering mess of cries and moans. caleb brought his hand down right between your thighs, rubbing circles over your already crying cunt. âreeeaal nasty girl you got here baby.â he teased you, placing a kiss on your back.
caleb grabbed your hips, slamming into you continuously. you couldnât help but rock your hips attempting to match his pace. fuck did he like the view. his pretty baby, who once was dolled up now defiled into a pathetic whiny mess. âcaleb - caleb,â you whined in your pillow. makeup smearing everywhere, nice one. now you have to buy a new pillow set.
you felt yourself getting close.
it was coming fast.
you lifted your head, moaning at the feeling of calebâs cock burying itself back into your walls and out again. euphoric. âi feel weird. so weird baby please ââ
caleb hushed you âi know baby itâs okay, im close too, yeah? come on baby come on.â he cooâs. calebâs hips snapped and you felt a little âpop!â and then a nudge near your stomach. he was in. fully. you moaned and gripped your sheets, tears streaming down your face as caleb fucked you like he was in heat.
caleb nipped at your tits, he fucking loved them. how perky and sensitive they were, how everytime he kissed them you whined in response, hell, caleb loved everything about your body. when it came to you he wanted to touch and explore you. his pretty doll.
he grabbed your arms, bringing you up and kissing your neck. âcum for me baby, cmon you can do it.â he hummed. oh how those words felt like heaven for you. it wasnât until you started twitching as caleb now thrusted slower into you, and then it happened.
you sprinkled out a clear liquid on his cock. twitching and moaning while it dripped everywhere, you panted and whined. your body relaxing as you collapse while caleb came right inside your cunt. grunting, watching the little show you gave him.
caleb pulled out of you in awe. âdid you just squirt all over me?â he teased you. you heaved, letting out small âm sorryâs. caleb could only chuckle at the sight.
âitâs fine baby, it was a show for me. felt good!â he smiled. caleb could see you were tapping out, breathing heavily as your lingerie was now messy with sweat, cum and what he liked to call âpussy juice.â he smiled, his eyes looking over you and then placing a kiss on your cheek as you flopped to your side.
âiâll get the water running, this was a nice gift princess. i might start buying you more lingerie sets from now on.â he chuckled before walking out the room.
yeah, maybe you could get used to this.

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being on katsukiâs back while heâs doing push-ups
when you received a text from katsuki telling you to come over, you sat up in your bed without hesitation. you texted a quick reply and walked to his dorm, then knocked. he quickly opened it with a small grin, then placed his large, rough hand on the back of your head, and kissed your forehead. you closed the door with your foot and placed your lips against his, then pulled away with warm cheeks.
he walked to the center of his room, only wearing a black tank top and sweatpants, then crossed his arms. you asked, âwhy did you text me katsuki? you made me think there was an emergency, but thereâs not.â
he huffed and averted his gaze, âi need to work out. lay down on my back and tell me about your day or whatever. wrap your arms around my torso if you need to.â
you tilted your head at the sudden command but didnât think much of it. he probably just needed some extra pressure during training. the truth was, he just wanted more time with you.
so once he lay on the ground and propped his hands up, you lay down with him and kissed his neck, emitting a hum from the blonde. he began to go up and down, lifting you with him when he did push-ups. you began to giggle, loving how he felt a little odd on your body.
âdid you do anything fun today, katsuki?â you asked, laying your cheek against his muscular back, arms comfortably against your sides.
he did many push-ups without difficulty, not even breaking a sweat until you began to talk to him. he replied with another question, âdidnât i tell you to tell me about your day?â
you grinned and nodded, âyeah, but i wanna see how long you can last while doing three things. push-ups, carrying me, and replying to my questions. if you canât do that then itâs fine, it may just be too hard for you.â you teased him at the end, and he felt your lip twitch.
katsuki frowned and mumbled, âdamn brat,â before going off about how he beat shoto when they were training together. you knew he saw him as a threat to his climb to be the number-one hero, so you applauded him.
you praised, âgood job, katsuki. iâm really proud of you, you know?â
his focus faltered and he staggered with his movements. the tips of his ears turned pink and he mumbled something under his breath, almost too inaudible. you always knew how to catch him off guard, and he loved that about you. the blonde tried to keep the smile from forming on his face but failed, and let out a nervous chuckle.
he tried to flaunt his talent and rolled his eyes, âicy-hotâs real good but i beat him. took a while though, you know?â
you nodded, âis that why i heard screaming and crashing for around an hour?â
he nodded and tried to muffle his groans and pants, wanting to not make any noise besides words. you smiled and decided to tease him more, âyouâre doing great, katsuki, just a little more.â
âs-shut up,â he groaned, making you blush at the sounds.
after you giggled once more, he gently slid you off his back. he claimed that was the one and only time he would let you lay on his back during training due to your reaction. of course, that was a total lie. you became part of his daily routine.
sorry if this wasnât as fluffy or anything i js had this idea idk! iâm trying so hard to make this not too suggestive
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