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heeluvv · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ04. BOYFRIEND PACKAGE UNLOCKED

pairingᝰ.ᐟ sim jaeyun x reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ fingering, oral, unprotected sex, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 4/9 completed!

the bed feels too big the moment your warmth is gone. jay stirs slowly at first, the sunlight brushing against his eyelids, the faint weight of the blanket still clinging to his side where you were supposed to be. he doesn't open his eyes right away—not because he's tired, but because something in him already knows. when he does, the empty space beside him confirms it. you're gone. no note, no message, no sound from the hallway. just the faint scent of you lingering on his pillow, a whisper of your presence still folded into the sheets like a promise he thought you might stay long enough to keep. he pushes himself up slowly, muscles tense, chest tight, eyes flickering to the empty corner where you stood last night in that lace. where he first kissed you. where something changed.

he swallows down the knot in his throat as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, screen already lighting up with notifications. thousands of them. likes, comments, reposts, subscriptions pouring in like a flood. the video is viral—trending faster than anything he’s ever uploaded, his name attached to a level of attention he didn’t even plan for. but none of it feels right. not without you here. he taps into the earnings, sees the numbers spike, thumbs hovering over the payout settings for a second too long before he finally splits it and sends your share directly to your contact. the confirmation ping echoes hollow in the room, too loud against the quiet you left behind. and then he opens a message thread with your name at the top and types—

why’d you leave without saying anything?

but before he can hit send, his thumb lingers. he watches the text for a moment… and deletes it.

he sinks back into the bed for a second, phone resting on his chest now, but it doesn’t feel like comfort. it feels like static. like all the tension he’d carried leading up to last night has only unraveled into more questions. he’d told himself not to get attached. he’d told himself it was just a collab—just a girl. but the second he saw you, something cracked in him. something deep. and now that you’re not here, it aches. not in a way he can shake off. not in a way that goes away with the camera light. he closes his eyes again, the sheets still warm, the air still holding your perfume, and he wonders if you’ll ever come back.

he picks up his phone again and reopens the thread with your name. it’s empty. no response. no message. nothing but your contact name and a blank screen, like you were never here at all. and yet… the feeling of your mouth still lingers on his skin. your voice echoes in the back of his mind like a melody he can’t unhear. he wants to ask you something. anything. but every question sounds like too much—or not enough. so he doesn’t type this time. he just stares.

the numbers keep ticking up, but it doesn’t mean anything now. he sees the comments flooding in—about your moans, your movements, the way you took everything like you were made for it. praise stacked on praise, attention that anyone else would revel in. but jay doesn’t even crack a smile. because none of them saw the moment after the camera turned off. none of them saw the way you trembled in his arms. the way you melted when he washed you off. none of them saw the soft way you curled into him under the covers like you belonged there. like you wanted to stay.

he pulls himself from the bed eventually, sluggish movements betraying the tightness in his chest. he gets dressed in silence, doesn’t bother fixing the sheets, doesn’t open the blinds. the place feels dim, even with the sun out. lifeless, even though he’s never lived here with anyone else. the success of the video buzzes around him, growing louder by the second, but all he hears is the absence of your breathing. the way you slipped out while he slept. like you were afraid of what it meant if you didn’t. like if you stayed, you’d have to admit something neither of you were ready to say. and maybe you’re right. maybe it is just content. maybe he was stupid to think it could be more. but fuck, does he wish you’d stayed.

he paces once through the living room, then sits back on the couch, phone in hand, still staring at the message thread that won’t light up. still wondering if you’ll text first. still hoping that maybe—just maybe—you’re thinking about it too. he taps open your profile again, thumb brushing the edge of your last video, eyes scanning the comments like one of them might hold a clue. but it’s just noise. it’s always noise. and it means nothing if it’s not coming from you.

he’s done this so many times—invited someone over, gone through the checklist, lit the camera, said the lines, hit the angles, cleaned up after. rinse. repeat. content made. money earned. another collab in the books. but this one isn’t settling right. not in his chest. not in his bones. not in the part of him that’s still waiting to hear your voice on the other end of his phone. and it’s fucking with him more than he wants to admit.

he tells himself it’s just the afterglow. that the shoot went well, better than most, and that’s why it’s still sitting in his gut like something unfinished. but deep down, he knows it’s more than that. he’s had good scenes. he’s had better reactions, better angles, louder moans. he’s worked with people who were more open, more enthusiastic, more willing to take it further. and yet, none of them felt like you. none of them lingered in the air like the way you smelled when you pressed into his chest. none of them looked at him after like you did—like you weren’t acting, like the lines between camera and person had blurred too far to separate. and that’s what’s messing him up. that’s what’s got him replaying every second like it means something.

he doesn’t want to be the guy who catches feelings from a collab. he’s always been careful. always stayed detached enough to keep it easy. clean. business. but this? this isn’t clean. it’s messy. it’s tangled in the way you gasped when he poured wax down your stomach. in the way your voice cracked when you begged him to keep going. in the way you whispered thank you under your breath before you collapsed into him. and fuck, he hasn’t stopped hearing it. hasn’t stopped seeing it. like his memory has decided to loop the night for him whether he asked it to or not.

he paces through the kitchen, opens the fridge, then closes it again. he isn’t hungry. he just needed something to do. something to distract himself from the voice in his head asking why it matters so much that you’re gone. he’s not supposed to care. he’s not supposed to notice. he’s supposed to move on to the next booking, the next message, the next set of pretty eyes who’ll let him do the same thing and call it work. but he doesn’t want to. not yet. not when he still remembers the sound of your breathing slowing beneath the water. the weight of your head on his chest. the way you didn’t flinch when he told you you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched.

he swipes through his texts again. pauses on your contact. wonders what he’d even say if he reached out. he wants to ask you if you slept well. if you made it home safe. if you meant any of it. but those aren’t the kinds of questions you ask someone you filmed a scene with. not unless you’re willing to admit it wasn’t just a scene. not unless you’re ready to confront what the hell that night actually was. and jay’s not ready. not really. because if he is—then it means something has to change. and he doesn’t know what to do with that yet.

he thinks of heeseung for a moment—of the way he showed up at his place a few days ago, dragging his body through the door like he’d just lost a fight. he remembers the tension in his shoulders, the way his voice cracked when he said she left. he didn’t say much else. didn’t offer a name. just that she walked out like it meant nothing. jay had laughed at the time. teased him about catching feelings over a girl he barely knew. but now—now it doesn’t seem so funny. now he’s the one sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the impression in the sheets and wondering what the fuck just happened.

you were supposed to be a good collab. a name to tag. a body to light. a voice to frame. you weren’t supposed to be the thing that left his bed feeling colder than the rest. you weren’t supposed to make him hesitate. to make him wonder if he did something wrong. to make him think about what it meant when you stayed the night and didn’t say goodbye. and now? now he doesn’t know if he wants you to text him back—or if he’s terrified you actually will. because whatever this is? it’s already not content anymore.

—

you sit on the floor of your bedroom, back pressed against the frame of your bed, phone facedown beside you, like it might say too much if you even glance at it again. your knees are tucked to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like they’re supposed to keep you from unraveling. outside your window, the afternoon light filters in soft and sleepy, and inside your chest, everything feels like it’s shifting without permission.

nari knocks once before slipping into your room without waiting, a mug in her hands and a gentle concern on her face like she can already read the weight behind your eyes. she doesn’t ask right away, doesn’t speak—just settles beside you on the floor, her thigh pressed against yours and the faint smell of vanilla rising from her sweater. you’re grateful for the silence, for the way she always knows how to sit in it with you without making it worse. but after a minute, your voice cracks the space between you, low and tired. “do you ever think maybe i’m doing too much?” she blinks, looking over. “like… all this. the videos. the messages. meeting people i barely know. does that sound crazy to you?” her expression softens like she’s heard this before, but never from you.

you press your forehead to your knees, the cotton of your hoodie warm against your skin, trying to stop the thoughts from spiraling too fast. “i didn’t expect it to feel like this,” you say quietly. “like i’m giving away pieces of myself without realizing it until it’s already done.” the words sit heavy in your mouth, shaped by guilt, by confusion, by something softer you don’t want to admit out loud. “and now it’s like… it’s not just filming anymore. it’s not just content. it’s—” you hesitate, searching for the word. “intimate.” you finish. “it feels intimate. and i don’t know if it’s supposed to.” you lift your eyes then, finally looking at her. “is that normal?”

nari’s quiet for a moment, like she’s letting the weight of your words settle before she touches them. she reaches out gently, wrapping her fingers around your wrist, grounding you the way she always does—with her presence, not her judgment. “of course it’s normal,” she says softly. “you’re doing something incredibly intimate. just because it’s filmed doesn’t mean it’s not real.” she squeezes your wrist once, then again. “your body knows the difference between performance and connection, even if your brain hasn’t caught up yet.” you blink, swallowing against the ache in your throat. “so i’m not… broken?” you ask. “no,” she replies without hesitation. “you’re just human.”

you nod slowly, the lump in your throat not gone, but easier to carry now. you lean your head against her shoulder, grateful for the way she always finds the words when yours feel too tangled. “sometimes i feel like i’m living two lives,” you whisper. “there’s me here—taking orders, paying bills, scraping by. and then there’s this other version of me online, in front of a camera, being seen by people who don’t even know what my favorite color is.” nari lets out a soft hum, her hand stroking your arm. “both versions are real,” she says. “they’re just trying to figure out how to live in the same skin.” and somehow, that makes all the difference.

—

you’ve been calling out names for the past hour and a half without looking up. your fingers move automatically now—punching buttons on the screen, wiping syrup from your palms, sealing plastic lids with a snap that feels too sharp in your ears. you’re on your third refill of watered-down iced coffee and it doesn’t taste like anything anymore. someone asks if their drink is dairy-free three separate times. the espresso machine screeches again. the printer spits out another rush of orders before you’ve even caught up with the last. your wrist hurts. your lower back throbs. your voice is running dry, barely audible over the constant hum of people waiting.

you pull a sticker from the printer, slap it on the side of a cold cup, and slide it down the counter like clockwork. “grande pink drink with light ice,” you call out, monotone. a woman steps forward, grabs it without saying thanks. you almost smile anyway, out of habit. almost. but then you spot her—just past the edge of the milk bar, standing there like she always does when she’s trying to look casual. arms crossed, tablet in hand, eyes sweeping the floor.

you brace yourself before she even opens her mouth, the kind of instinctive reaction your body has learned after months of being under her watch—where every interaction feels like walking a tightrope, balancing politeness with exhaustion. you lift your head just slightly, posture stiffening as you wipe your damp palms against your apron, your fingers sticky from caramel syrup and trembling with the kind of restraint that’s worn thin over time. your eyes don’t leave her, not because you’re trying to be bold, but because if you look away now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold onto the small flicker of resolve burning in your chest. she makes her way toward you with a familiar gait—unhurried, calculated, the kind of slow approach that makes you feel like you’re already in trouble before she even speaks. her lips are pursed, her eyes narrowed just enough to register dissatisfaction without being overtly rude, and her arms are crossed like she’s been standing there long enough to decide she doesn’t like what she sees.

“y/n,” she says, and your name sounds like a warning, softened only by that professional sweetness she always laces into her tone when she’s about to tell you you’re doing something wrong. “can you try to pick it up a little?” she adds, glancing at the growing line of impatient customers, then back to you with eyebrows raised. “we’re already behind.” it’s not harsh—not really—but it lands like a slap anyway, the implication behind her words echoing louder than the phrasing itself. you’ve heard her say versions of this before, always when you’re running on empty, always when you’re giving more than you have left, and still it’s never quite enough. you don’t answer right away. the words hang in the air between you, familiar and irritating and heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been too afraid to say. you look down slowly, your gaze drifting to your apron, the fabric wrinkled and damp around the edges, to the sticker still clinging to your hand, printed with a name you don’t care to read. and then it settles—like a hush in your chest—because this moment isn’t just something you’ve thought about. it’s something you’ve practiced.

you move with a strange calmness, not mechanical, not rushed, but deliberate—like every motion you make has finally caught up with a choice you already made in silence weeks ago. your hands lift to the knot at the back of your waist and untie your apron slowly, carefully, as though the small gesture deserves reverence. you fold it once, then again, smoothing out the fabric like it means something, and place it gently on the counter beside the headset, which you remove from your head with the same quiet finality. there’s a pause after that. a stillness. and then you raise your eyes, finally meeting hers without blinking, your expression neutral but unreadable. “i’m done,” you say, and though your voice isn’t loud or sharp, it cuts through the clatter of cups and background noise like a clean tear through cloth. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound sad. it sounds like release.

she furrows her brows slightly, tilting her head like she’s unsure if she heard you correctly. “done with what?” she asks, and you can tell by her face that she’s genuinely confused, because in her mind, this isn’t something you’re allowed to say. you let out a quiet breath, not a sigh exactly, but something closer to an exhale that’s been stuck in your chest for too long. “this,” you clarify, voice still even but firmer now, like you’re finally standing on solid ground. “the job. i’m quitting.” the words settle around you like a weight lifted, like a lock clicking open from the inside out, and you can feel the adrenaline moving through your blood in slow, hot waves, but it doesn’t make you dizzy this time. it makes you steady.

she doesn’t respond at first. just blinks at you like you’ve spoken in a language she’s never heard before—like the idea of you leaving hasn’t even existed as a possibility in her world. you can see the gears turning behind her eyes, the slight twitch of her mouth as she tries to figure out if this is some kind of joke or a moment of heat you’ll immediately take back. and maybe if it were a month ago, you would’ve. maybe you’d apologize, force a smile, tie your apron back on and pretend like none of this ever happened. but not this time. you don’t smile. you don’t soften it. you just stand there, and watch her try to make sense of it.

“wait… you’re—quitting?” she says finally, her voice hitching just enough to betray how caught off guard she really is. her eyes scan your face, searching for something—uncertainty, maybe, or regret—but all she finds is quiet resolve. “are you sure? you didn’t give notice, we’re—i mean, we’re short-staffed as it is. i could give you a couple extra days off if you need them or—”

you shake your head before she can finish, not harshly, but with enough certainty to stop the sentence in its tracks. it doesn’t matter that she’s trying now. it’s too late. she had all the chances in the world to notice how burnt out you were. how invisible you felt. how little of yourself you had left to give.

you reach behind your neck, unfastening the rest of your apron, and fold it carefully in half before stepping forward and holding it out to her. your hand doesn’t shake. it doesn’t hesitate. she stares at it for a beat too long before accepting it, almost robotically, like her body moves before her brain catches up. she looks down at the crumpled fabric in her hands like it’s proof that this is real, that you’re not going to change your mind. that for the first time, you’re the one walking away.

you don’t say goodbye. you don’t thank her for the opportunity or apologize for the timing or offer to cover one last shift to make things easier. you just turn, moving toward the back wall where you keep your tote bag and jacket tucked into the metal cubby that still has your name on it in faded label tape. you sling the bag over your shoulder, check that your phone and keys are inside, and walk through the same door you’ve walked through a hundred times before—only this time, it feels different. like a closing. like a small, quiet revolution.

the second the cold air hits your face, you feel it—the weight loosening in your chest, the ache in your shoulders dissolving, the burn behind your eyes softening into relief. the street is loud, but it doesn’t matter. you move through it like you’re somewhere else entirely. your legs carry you forward before your mind fully catches up, past the familiar shops and corners you’ve passed on too many tired mornings, your steps steady and purposeful now, like your body knows where you’re going even if your thoughts haven’t settled.

you slip your hand into your tote bag without stopping, fingers brushing past your wallet and charger until they close around the smooth edge of your phone. it’s warm from all the buzzing, and the screen lights up before you even look down. three tip notifications. two new subscribers. and one message thread that catches your eye before anything else—bold and unread, his username in lowercase: @jakeoncam.

you swipe it open with your thumb, slowing your pace just enough to read as you cross the intersection near your block.

jakeoncam: gonna pick you up 8, okay?

there’s a second message right beneath it.

jakeoncam: don’t stress about anything, i don’t bite ;)

your heart lifts in a way you didn’t expect, something warm unfurling in your chest like the sun cutting through heavy clouds. you stop at the edge of your building’s steps and glance at the time—6:17 p.m.—enough time to shower, change, and pretend for a little longer that your life isn’t balancing between two separate versions of yourself. the girl who just quit her job, and the one who’s about to step into a stranger’s car and play pretend until it starts to feel real.

you take the stairs two at a time, heart knocking steadily against your ribs—not from nerves, not exactly, but from something closer to momentum. like you’re already halfway into the next chapter without realizing it. your keys jingle softly in your hand as you reach your floor, the chipped silver door familiar beneath your fingertips as you unlock it with a quiet click. inside, your apartment smells faintly like coconut body wash and citrus cleaner, the leftover scent of a space you’ve slowly begun to make your own.

you shut the door behind you, dropping your bag onto the couch with a thud that echoes louder than expected in the small space. you exhale and head straight to the bathroom, stripping off your clothes along the way, leaving behind a trail that marks the difference between that life and this one.

you let the water run hot, hotter than usual, steam curling around your body as you step inside and tilt your head back under the spray. for a minute, you don’t move. you just breathe. let the heat soak into your skin and chase off the last remnants of espresso and sweat and everything you don’t need anymore. when you step out, it’s like shedding the day entirely. like something new has settled onto your shoulders in its place—light, intoxicating, electric with possibility.

you wrap yourself in your softest towel and move to your mirror, brushing your fingers over your face like you’re studying yourself again. not the barista. not the customer service smile. you. the girl he’s coming to pick up at eight.

your closet door creaks as you open it wider, the low sound slicing through the quiet hum of your apartment. it’s not overflowing, but it holds enough—enough lace, enough silk, enough textures you’ve worn in front of the camera when the goal was to entice, to impress, to make people pay attention. but tonight feels different. not performative, not transactional, not like you need to be touched-up and teased-out until you’re a fantasy. it’s something quieter than that. more intimate. your fingers move past the usual suspects: black mesh, red strappy lingerie, dresses with seams that cling to your skin like second thoughts. you pause instead on a white tank top, one you haven’t worn in months. it’s light and clingy and slightly sheer, the kind of thing that rides up when you move too much, that dips just low enough at the neckline to suggest something without screaming it. it looks like comfort. it looks like home.

you pull it gently from its hanger, the cotton brushing over your fingertips like a secret, and fold it over your arm as you turn toward the dresser. you dig out a pair of soft pink shorts, high-waisted with a satin sheen that catches the low light of your bedroom, the hem fluttering around your thighs like a whisper. it’s not a look that demands attention. it’s not bold. it’s not curated to trend.

you dress slowly, smoothing the top down over your stomach, adjusting the waistband of the shorts so they sit just right on your hips. you stand in front of the mirror for a while, eyes trailing over your reflection, taking in the softness of it all—the undone hair, the flushed cheeks, the lip gloss still dewy from your last touch-up. you pin a piece of hair behind your ear, then let it fall again. you want to look like you didn’t try. but god, you did.

you spritz perfume onto the inside of your wrists and press them together, then dab a little behind your knees, between your thighs, where the scent will warm with every movement. you run gloss over your lips again, just enough to make them glisten, and watch the way they catch the light. you slip your favorite dainty necklace around your neck, the chain fine and silver and cool against your skin, and check the time again before turning to look out the window. the city is beginning to dim into dusk, buildings casting longer shadows, streetlights flickering on in slow succession. cars pass. people walk by in pairs, in groups, in rushes of laughter and low conversation. and then—one car pulls up and stops.

you lean a little closer to the glass, one hand bracing the windowsill. the car is dark, sleek, familiar in a way that tightens something low in your stomach. the headlights shut off. a figure steps out. even from here, you know it’s him. jake stands by the passenger door, phone in hand, thumb tapping a message. you don’t need to check your phone to know it’s already coming through. you grab it anyway. the screen lights up with a message bubble that makes your chest warm.

jakeoncam: i’m outside :)

your hand wraps tighter around your keys as you step out into the evening air, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality that feels louder than it should. the breeze ghosts along your skin, brushing over your bare legs and the loose fabric of your shorts, the scent of something sweet and warm—your perfume, your lotion, maybe even the faint trace of coconut from your earlier shower—carried on the wind like a secret. the street is quiet in that golden moment between daylight and dusk, and there he is—still leaned casually against the passenger side of the sleek black car, his head bowed slightly as he looks down at his phone, unaware that you’re standing there watching him see you for the first time.

you take a few slow steps forward, your sandals brushing lightly against the sidewalk, and as your shadow crosses into his space, he looks up.

his reaction is instant—but not loud. not exaggerated. his whole posture shifts, his back straightening, his shoulders squaring subtly like something invisible has moved through him. his eyes meet yours and hold—longer than they should, longer than is comfortable if you weren’t already both half-aware that this moment was coming. you see it then: the way his lips part, just slightly. the way his fingers curl a little tighter around the phone in his hand. there’s no smirk. no wink. no casual quip to break the silence. he just… looks at you.

you blink, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm your face is. you open your mouth to say something, anything, but before a word can form, he’s already moving—pushing himself off the car, sliding his phone into his pocket as he walks around the front to the passenger side. he reaches the door before you do, fingers curling around the handle, and without saying a word, he opens it.

“thanks,” you murmur, voice soft with surprise, and he just tilts his head toward the open door, gesturing for you to get in like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you lower yourself into the passenger seat carefully, your hands smoothing your shorts instinctively as you settle in—and the moment your body hits the leather, you still. the interior is pristine. quiet. the kind of silence that comes from money. you’ve never sat in a car this nice before, not even close, and the contrast hits you like a slow, rising warmth that starts in your chest and spreads down your arms. everything feels padded, soft and controlled, like the air inside is being filtered just for you. you let your eyes scan the dashboard, the matte finish of the screen, the glow of the console, the smoothness of the stitching along the seats. even the seatbelt feels expensive.

you glance over at him, eyes wide with a hint of disbelief. “okay,” you breathe out, half-laughing, “this is… wow.”

that’s when he grins, finally letting out the quietest chuckle as he closes the door behind you and walks around to the driver’s side. “what?” he says as he slides into the seat, glancing sideways at you with a look that’s all warmth and mischief. “you thought i was picking you up in, like, a busted toyota or something?”

you raise a brow, biting back a smile as your fingers trace the seam of the seat. “i mean… i wasn’t expecting to feel like i was about to be driven to a premiere.”

he hums low in his throat as he fastens his seatbelt, then starts the car with a smooth twist of his wrist. the engine doesn’t even roar—it purrs, soft and deep and controlled, like everything about this man who, up until now, you’ve only seen in curated fragments. there’s something surreal about it—this new dimension of him unfolding in front of you. and for a second, you forget that you’re not just here for a ride. you’re here for a shoot. a job. a collaboration.

you glance at him again as he pulls out into the street, the fading light casting a soft halo around his profile. “so…” you begin, voice careful but curious, “what exactly are we filming tonight?”

he glances at you, smile tugging at the corner of his lips but not fully forming. “you’ll see,” he says, tone playful but not unkind. “it’s not like the others. i wanted something different.”

you pause. you know you should ask for more details—boundaries, logistics, angles—but something in the way he says it makes you hesitate. not out of fear. out of intrigue.

the ride to his place is quiet—not awkward, not strained, just comfortably subdued. the kind of silence that feels filled with unspoken questions and maybe a few things neither of you are ready to say out loud yet. the city moves around you in soft streaks of gold and neon, traffic lights blinking red across the windshield, people walking in clusters on the sidewalks, laughter trailing behind as you pass. the interior of the car is warm, dimly lit, and smells faintly like leather and his cologne—woodsy and clean, with something deeper underneath that clings to your senses in a way you’ll probably remember later when you’re alone in your bed. you glance over at him a few times, just quick glances when he’s focused on the road, hands loose on the wheel, forearms firm and relaxed. his profile is calm. eyes forward. expression unreadable, but not cold. thoughtful, maybe. like he’s holding something close to his chest and waiting for the right moment to let it go.

when he finally turns onto a quieter street, the buildings thin out and grow taller. the sidewalks are cleaner. the air changes. the kind of neighborhood you don’t just happen to end up in—you have to get here. you try not to show your surprise, but your fingers tighten slightly on your bag in your lap, eyes scanning the rows of apartments that look more like personal museums than homes. he doesn’t say anything about it—doesn’t try to show off or explain—and somehow, that only makes it more surreal. there’s no keypad when he pulls into the underground garage, just a smooth lift of a hand as the security arm rises and he glides in like he’s done it a thousand times before.

you step out of the car into soft, echoing quiet. the garage is spotless, even the cement seems polished. your footsteps sound sharper here, more deliberate, like they carry weight they didn’t have outside. he walks beside you, close but not touching, and when you reach the elevator, he holds the door without needing to be asked. you step inside, and he presses the button for the top floor. no hesitation. no checking a key fob. just… top floor.

the silence stretches again, but this time, it feels heavier. not uncomfortable—just thick with anticipation. you feel it in the air between you, in the hum of the elevator and the soft scent of his hoodie lingering beside you. he doesn’t speak until the doors open, and even then, it’s barely above a murmur.

“you good?” he asks, glancing at you sideways, voice low.

you nod, meeting his gaze. “yeah. just... taking it all in.”

he smiles—just a flicker of it. “it’s just a place. you don’t have to be impressed.”

but you are. even if you don’t say it.

he leads you down a short hall, his steps quiet, his key sliding into the door with a smooth click. when he opens it, the first thing you notice is how clean it is. not sterile, not showroom-perfect—just lived-in in a way that’s neat but warm. dark floors, soft lighting, high ceilings. shelves lined with records and books and a few indoor plants that are actually thriving. the air smells like cinnamon and clean laundry, with the faintest trace of something familiar—like skin, maybe. like home.

you step in slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the lighting, and turn toward him as he closes the door behind you. “this is where you film?”

he nods once, toeing off his shoes. “sometimes. depends on the vibe.” he looks at you for a beat, then gestures with a tilt of his head. “come on. i’ll show you.”

you follow him down the hallway, past a small kitchen with marble counters and warm light under the cabinets, toward a room at the end. he opens the door without warning, revealing a softly lit bedroom that looks nothing like the usual shoot setup you expected. there’s no ring light. no backdrops. just a large bed with charcoal-gray sheets, a few candles burning on the dresser, and a single camera mounted low on a tripod at the corner of the room—facing the bed, but unobtrusive. intimate. natural. like it’s just… part of the space.

“you still haven’t told me what we’re doing,” you say, turning to him, suddenly more aware of how quiet the room feels with just the two of you standing in it.

he leans against the doorway like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, arms folded but not in that distant, unreadable way—more like he’s bracing himself. holding in more than he’s letting on. “i booked the boyfriend package,” he says, voice low, careful, like the words might fall apart if he says them too fast. “that’s… what i want us to film.”

you blink, unsure if you heard him right. “you did?”

he nods slowly, the motion subtle. “yeah. my subscribers have been asking for it—something different from me. softer. more connected. they’ve seen enough of the casual stuff. the rough cuts, the quick edits. they want something that feels real.” he glances around the room once, like he’s buying himself time. “i didn’t want to fake that kind of connection. not with someone i barely know, not with someone who wouldn’t get it.”

you’re about to ask what that means when his eyes meet yours again—steadier this time, heavier with something that makes your breath pause. “i wanted to do it with you.”

and there it is.

a flicker of something unspoken passes between you, and you feel it settle in your chest before your brain can even catch up. the weight of that choice. not random. not professional. you. you, whose face he’s just now seeing for the first time. whose voice he’s only heard in clips until now. whose presence is suddenly a lot more tangible than any frame or thumbnail ever allowed.

you watch it hit him in real time.

he shifts, uncrossing his arms like the posture suddenly feels too tight, too vulnerable. his eyes flick away for a second, jaw tightening. “i mean—fuck,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry. that probably sounded—i didn’t mean it like…” he stops himself, tongue pressing into his cheek like he wants to rewind and erase the heat that’s creeping up the back of his neck. “i’m not trying to be weird. i just—now that i know what you look like… in person…”

his voice trails off, shoulders stiffening slightly. “i guess it’s different. seeing you. like this. i didn’t expect it to hit like that.”

he laughs, but it’s quiet and nervous and almost self-conscious, his eyes flicking back up to you with a kind of desperate softness, like he’s not sure if he just messed this up or made it something bigger than it should be. “you’re just… not what i expected.”

you tilt your head, heart beating a little faster. “and what were you expecting?”

he exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “someone less you.”

you don’t know what that means—but you feel it. in your spine. in your chest. in the strange, steady silence that follows, filled with too much of him and not enough distance. not anymore.

you don’t answer right away. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you do. it’s just heavy, sitting at the back of your tongue, waiting to be said in a way that won’t crack the atmosphere hanging between you. you’re still looking at him—at the shift in his body, the faint flush climbing up his throat, the way his fingers keep brushing the hem of his hoodie like he’s trying to anchor himself in something steady. he doesn’t usually fumble, you can tell. he’s smooth on camera, deliberate with his words, in control of how he presents himself. but now, with your full face in front of him, no blur, no mask, no screen between you—he’s unraveling just a little. and not because he’s flustered by the shoot. because it’s you.

you let the silence linger another beat before you exhale through your nose, soft and almost amused. “okay,” you say finally, voice low. “i’ll do it.”

he looks up like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes so easily, like part of him had already braced for rejection. his brows lift slightly, eyes searching your face for hesitation, but you give him none.

he sits beside you slowly, the edge of the bed dipping with his weight, and though he doesn’t reach for you, the space between your bodies hums with something new. not tension exactly—more like a current of anticipation. like something’s beginning, and neither of you is sure when it crossed over from conversation to countdown. the candlelight flickers against the walls, soft and golden, casting slow-moving shadows over the bedspread between you. you fold your hands in your lap and glance down at them briefly before speaking, steady now, certain about what you need.

“no choking. no slapping. no name-calling. i don’t want anything that feels like domination or degradation—not for this one.” your voice is even, but there’s a quiet firmness behind it. you’re not apologizing. just stating fact.

he nods immediately. “got it. nothing rough. all soft. affectionate.”

“if there’s undressing,” you add, “i want it slow. not all at once. like it’s not the goal.”

“of course.” he doesn’t hesitate. “everything gradual. natural. not performative.”

you pause again. “kissing?”

his eyes meet yours, and for a second you feel the air thicken between you. he speaks carefully. “i want to, if you’re okay with it.”

you nod. “i am. but keep it intentional. not like you’re trying to eat me alive.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, not mocking, just relaxed—like you’ve given him permission to settle back into himself. “no worries. all soft. like you’re already mine.”

the words settle heavy in your chest—not because of what they mean, but because of how easily he says them. like he’s done rehearsing. like he’s already begun.

you glance at the camera, still dark and idle. “how long are we recording for?”

“as long as it feels right,” he answers. “i’ll edit it down later. i just want to let it breathe.”

you nod again, your pulse soft but steady, and then—finally—he rises.

he walks over to the camera with slow, measured steps, adjusts the angle slightly, and presses the record button. a tiny red light blinks to life on the corner, small and steady. not intrusive. just watching. he doesn’t say action. doesn’t count you down. just turns and comes back to the bed like he’s stepping into something sacred.

you shift further up, your back resting against the headboard, legs bent slightly beneath you. he climbs onto the bed carefully, slowly, not closing the distance all at once. instead, he settles beside you again—this time angled inward, his body turned toward yours. you can feel the change immediately. he’s closer now. not touching. not yet. but he’s watching you like every movement matters. like this is the moment it starts.

“you good?” he asks again, quieter this time.

you meet his gaze, and the way the shadows play against his cheekbones makes him look softer. realer. “yeah,” you breathe. “i’m good.”

he exhales once, then lets his hand drift—slowly—onto the blanket between you, fingers just barely brushing the fabric closer to your thigh. “then come here,” he says, almost a whisper.

and something in the way he says it—gentle, coaxing, utterly calm—makes it feel like more than acting.

makes it feel like the scene has already begun.

the mattress shifts under his weight, the springs sighing softly as he settles beside you again, closer this time—close enough that the warmth from his body reaches your skin in slow waves, even though he still isn’t touching you. not really. just his presence is enough to tilt the air, to quiet everything else that was buzzing in your mind up until now. you glance down once more, instinctively smoothing the hem of your shorts over your thigh, as if remembering all over again what you’re wearing.

“I brought stuff,” you murmur, the words coming out half-breath, half-thought. your eyes lift to meet his, unsure why it even feels necessary to explain. “like… clothes. for filming. something cute. for the vibe.”

he watches you for a moment, and then—without missing a beat—he shakes his head, slow and steady.

“you don’t need it,” he says, voice low, final in the way it lands. not dismissive—sure. “you already look perfect.”

you blink, a little caught off guard—not because it’s the kind of thing you haven’t heard before, but because he doesn’t say it like it’s a line. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t follow it up with something cheeky to downplay it. he just says it like he means it. like he already believed it when you opened your door and stepped into his car. like this version of you—soft tank top, flushed cheeks, lips glossed just enough—is exactly what he wanted to capture all along.

you don’t answer. not out loud. but your body does—shoulders softening slightly, breath easing as you lean just an inch closer. not even a full lean. just enough to close a little of the space he’s left for you to decide.

his hand moves between you again, this time slower, more intentional. he doesn’t reach for you outright—he lets his fingers hover near your thigh, not quite brushing your skin. it’s like he’s waiting for a sign. like he wants you to close the gap.

you do.

just a small shift. just enough for your leg to graze his hand, to let your shoulder brush the sleeve of his hoodie. the contact is brief, featherlight, but it opens something. makes room for more.

his fingers curl slightly, brushing against the side of your leg before sliding up, the backs of his knuckles trailing softly along your outer thigh. it’s nothing. barely even a touch. but the way it’s delivered—slow, reverent, like he’s learning the curve of your body one inch at a time—makes your breath catch.

his hand moves again, this time rising gently to your arm. he doesn’t rush. he just skims up the length of it with the lightest drag of his fingertips, tracing from elbow to shoulder like he’s memorizing it. your skin prickles under the contact, every nerve waking up in a quiet, aching bloom.

and then—without a word—he reaches higher.

his hand lifts, brushing a few strands of hair back from your cheek, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw in the softest arc. it’s not meant to lead anywhere. it’s not hungry. it’s just a touch. one that says you’re here now, and i see you, and stay close.

you exhale without meaning to, and it’s not shaky—but it’s something. something just a little uneven.

his eyes flick to yours, steady and unreadable. “still okay?”

you nod once. “mmhmm.” you sound breathier than you meant to. more open. less on.

he smiles again, soft and small, and doesn’t say anything else. he doesn’t need to. the scene is already happening, and neither of you is acting anymore.

his hands come up slowly, fingers tracing up the curve of your arms in featherlight motions, like he’s memorizing the shape of you by feel alone. his touch is reverent, unhurried, gliding over your skin with a gentleness that makes your breath catch in your throat before you can stop it. the pads of his thumbs circle near your shoulders, and then you feel them—his fingers curling just beneath the thin strap of your white tank top. he doesn’t pull. not yet. he just pauses there, holding the fabric lightly, his eyes lifting to meet yours as if asking a question without speaking it aloud. the room feels still, quiet in a way that sharpens every small sound—your breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the low hum of the candle flickering nearby. you hold his gaze for a moment longer, your heart beating a little harder beneath your ribs, and then you nod—small, certain. you see something flicker in his eyes at that, something deep and quiet, like he’s grateful. and then he moves closer, his lips parting just slightly as he exhales the softest, breathless sound against your skin.

“so soft…” he whispers, barely audible, but you feel it more than you hear it—low and warm, brushing over your shoulder as he leans in. your body sinks into the bed slowly, your back hitting the sheets as you ease down beneath him, his legs still planted on either side of you, caging you in without weight. the air feels thicker now, warmer, every inch of you awake under the way he looks at you, like you’re something he’s dreamed about more than once. his mouth hovers just above your skin, not touching yet, just close enough that the heat of his breath dances across your collarbone and sends a ripple of goosebumps down your arms. when he finally kisses you, it’s not on the lips—it’s at your bicep, a soft press of warmth against muscle, followed by another, then another, trailing up in slow succession. his fingers drag the straps of your top down gently, easing the fabric off your shoulders with care, never rushing. his lips follow the path his hands create, gliding over new skin with quiet reverence, curved in a soft smile when he reaches the hollow of your collarbone. he kisses you there, too—like it’s instinct. like it’s his favorite place to land.

his lips linger at your collarbone for a moment longer, the press of them so delicate it almost doesn’t register as real—just the ghost of contact, followed by the brush of his breath and the way his nose nudges gently against your skin. he doesn’t rush the next movement, doesn’t reach for your chest or drag the fabric further down; instead, his hands settle at your waist, thumbs resting lightly just above your hips as he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes trace your face slowly, like he’s scanning for any sign that you’ve drifted too far into your head, that this is too much, that maybe you’ve stopped feeling safe—but you haven’t. you’re still here, still warm beneath him, still open to whatever comes next. he sees that. and something in his face shifts again—less performer, more person. like the act is beginning to blur into truth, like this version of him is something he’s been saving. one of his hands lifts again, fingers brushing up your arm until they find your jaw, and he tilts your chin gently toward him, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth as he breathes, “you look so good like this. i don’t think you even know.”

you feel your pulse stutter under your skin, not from the touch itself, but from the way he says it—low, slow, like it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. his voice is soft, but it carries something heavier underneath. affection, maybe. or longing dressed up like make-believe. his other hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading across your ribs through the thin fabric of your tank top, holding you like you’re something delicate. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. the weight of the moment hangs between you, thick and warm, and you let yourself fall deeper into it, let yourself be the person he’s talking to. the person he sees like this—laid out beneath him, lips slightly parted, eyes soft with want. “i’d keep you like this forever if i could,” he murmurs next, his lips close enough to brush yours but not committing, not yet. “just wrapped up in me like this. warm, safe, mine.”

and even though you know it’s a scene—even though you know it’s being filmed—your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

his words melt into the air between you, lingering like steam, and for a second, all you can hear is the rhythm of your breath—his and yours syncing in that quiet space where time slows down. you feel the weight of his body shift just slightly as he leans closer, finally closing the gap between you, his mouth brushing over yours in a kiss that’s so gentle, it feels more like a question than a claim. there’s no hunger behind it, no pressure—just the warmth of his lips moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of them. he pulls back for a second, his nose nudging softly against yours, and when your mouth chases after his without thinking, he smiles. not smug. not cocky. just soft. like he didn’t expect you to want him back this much. his hand slides from your jaw to your neck, his thumb tracing the edge of your collarbone while his other hand flattens over your waist, slipping just beneath the hem of your tank with a careful slowness that makes your stomach flutter.

his palm is warm where it meets your skin, and he moves like he’s done this in a dream before—fingers spreading along your side, drifting upward inch by inch, not grabbing or groping, just feeling. the way he touches you is deliberate, every motion paced like it’s being recorded in his memory before it ever hits the camera. he kisses you again, deeper this time, and your lips part instinctively, inviting more—more of him, more of this softness that feels like it might wreck you if it lingers too long. his tongue brushes against yours, slow and unhurried, coaxing rather than taking, and it’s not filthy. it’s not performative. it’s just full. you make a sound in the back of your throat without meaning to, and his hand under your shirt rises a little higher in response, fingertips grazing the underside of your breast but never settling there—just circling, teasing, drawing heat into every nerve that lies beneath. when he pulls back from your mouth again, he’s breathing heavier, lips parted, eyes locked on yours like he’s never seen anything more important. “you’re doing so good, baby,” he whispers, and this time, the endearment doesn’t sound like a line. it sounds like a truth.

his eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second, and you feel it—the way he reads you, waits for that small flicker of permission that lives in the way your breath hitches and your body leans in. his hand moves from beneath your shirt to your shoulder, sliding the thin strap of your tank down again, this time slower, like he’s savoring the drag of fabric over skin. he bends his head as he does it, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder with a softness that makes your spine curve into the mattress. the other strap follows, peeled gently off your arm until both hang useless at your sides, the top of your tank now barely clinging to your chest. and then—his hand comes up, fingers brushing the hem where the fabric meets your sternum, and he waits. doesn’t tug. doesn’t ask. just looks at you like he needs to know you still want this. and you do. you nod, just once, and that’s all it takes.

his hand moves again, curling around the center of your top, and as he begins to lift it—inch by slow, teasing inch—he leans down and kisses you.

it’s not rushed. not greedy. it’s full and warm, his mouth slotting perfectly against yours like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to let himself want you openly. the kiss deepens as he drags the fabric upward, his hands careful not to pull too fast, not to break the rhythm between your mouths. your lips part for him automatically, breath catching as his tongue sweeps gently into your mouth again, slower this time, like he’s tasting something he doesn’t want to forget. your arms lift for him, letting the tank slide over your head, and he pulls back just long enough to ease it off—tossing it somewhere near the foot of the bed before settling back over you with a softness that makes your chest ache. your skin is bare now, your chest rising with every breath as the cool air kisses you first, followed closely by the warmth of him—his mouth returning to yours, his hand finding your waist, his whole body hovering just close enough to let you feel the weight of him without pressing it all at once.

his lips break away from yours only to find the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the dip just below your jaw, each kiss delivered like a secret—unrushed, purposeful, devastating in how tender they feel.

his lips don’t rush the journey downward—they move with intention, mapping the space from your jaw to your throat with soft, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch and your spine curve subtly beneath him. each press of his mouth is slower than the last, like he’s letting the weight of what he’s doing sink into both of you at the same time. his hand stays planted at your waist, steady and warm, thumb stroking absent-minded circles into your skin as if to keep you grounded while the rest of you slips further into this. he murmurs something low against your neck—inaudible, but not meaningless—and then drags his lips down to your collarbone again, this time kissing across it like he’s painting a line only he knows the shape of. your fingers tighten slightly in the sheets, breath coming slower now, deeper, as your chest rises into the heat of his mouth. he doesn’t comment on it. he just smiles against your skin, lips curving softly as he kisses the center of your sternum next, right where your heartbeat is loudest. his hand slides up again, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast now, more deliberate this time—still not grabbing, still not taking—just feeling, coaxing warmth into your skin in the way only a lover would.

he pulls back a little then, enough to look at you fully, eyes moving over your chest like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t be allowed to, like you’re something rare and delicate spread out beneath him. “you’re beautiful,” he says, voice just above a whisper, and the words sound so real, so unscripted, that you can’t even convince yourself they’re part of the act. before you can respond, his mouth is on you again—lower this time, his lips trailing down the curve of your breast with careful, reverent movements that make your fingers twitch where they rest beside you. he doesn’t go straight for your nipple—he circles around it first, lips warm and breath steady, building tension so slow it starts to ache. when he finally closes his mouth around it, it’s soft—gentle suction paired with the slow flick of his tongue, his hand sliding up to cradle the other breast with matching tenderness. you let out a breathy sound, something close to a whimper, and his grip tightens slightly, grounding you, his mouth never leaving you for even a second. everything about the way he touches you feels designed to make you feel cherished, not consumed—like he wants to undo you gently, not destroy you.

he doesn’t stop kissing you, not even when his mouth moves lower—down the slope of your ribs, the soft rise and fall of your belly, his breath warm and steady as it fans across newly bared skin. his hand follows his mouth in perfect rhythm, trailing down your side with fingers spread wide like he needs to feel all of you at once, like his touch alone isn’t enough to satisfy the way he’s looking at you. your skin hums under him, heat pooling low in your stomach as his lips press gently into the curve just above your navel, and you swear he smiles when you inhale sharply at the contact. he doesn’t rush it—doesn’t tug at your waistband or rip fabric away—he just lets his hand drift lower, fingertips grazing the seam of your shorts, dragging lightly back and forth like he’s asking without saying anything. you lift your hips just slightly in response, offering more than permission—offering yourself, and he takes it with both patience and hunger layered beneath the softness. his fingers hook into the waistband slowly, dragging the fabric down your thighs inch by inch, watching the way your body shifts beneath him, watching every breath you take like it means something to him personally. the shorts fall away easily, forgotten at the edge of the bed, and you’re left bare for him in a way that feels deeper than skin. his hand skims your hip now, palm warm and steady, thumb stroking the dip beside your pelvis like he’s easing you into the next wave of touch.

he kisses your hip next—just once, then again—before leaning back slightly to take you in fully, eyes roving slowly down your body with the kind of attention that makes your skin feel too tight around your bones. “fuck…” he breathes, not loud, not directed at you—just a thought escaping his mouth, like he can’t hold it in anymore. he leans over you again, his chest brushing lightly against yours, and kisses you on the mouth with a heat that feels new—less testing, more claiming. your hands rise instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as his tongue brushes yours again, slower now, but deeper, like he’s trying to drag you under with him. one of his hands slips between your thighs, warm and careful, fingertips barely grazing your inner thigh as his lips keep moving against yours, like he wants to distract your mouth while his hand learns the rest of you. he doesn’t go straight to where you want him—he just teases, traces, presses the lightest touches into the soft skin between your legs, making you arch into him without even realizing. when his fingers finally reach the center of you, just barely brushing over your panties, you gasp softly into his mouth—and that’s when he groans, quiet and wrecked, like feeling your heat through the fabric alone has undone something in him.

“jake…” you breathe out, the sound slipping past your lips in a low, desperate moan as your hips roll forward slowly, instinctively chasing more of the friction his hand is barely offering. your thighs tense around his wrist, your body arching into his touch like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed. you can’t help it—the way your body moves on its own, needy and aching, every nerve lit up with the hope of something deeper. but he doesn’t give in, not fully. he just lets out a soft groan, deep in his throat, the kind that vibrates low and hot against your skin as he leans closer. you feel the weight of his breath first, then the press of his lips right against your ear, and the sound alone makes your lashes flutter. “want me to touch you, baby?” he asks, voice no louder than a whisper, his words coated in something tender but wrecked, like he’s already half-drunk off you. his nose grazes your temple, lips hovering at your skin as your body stiffens just slightly, everything inside you tightening at once.

you nod before he even finishes the sentence, your head moving quickly, breath shallow, because you don’t trust yourself to speak without falling apart. and it’s enough for him—more than enough. his hand shifts just a little lower, fingers pressing in with purpose now, the soft pad of his middle finger rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric of your panties, so featherlight it nearly breaks you. your mouth falls open in a shaky exhale, the sound high and sweet as your thighs tremble around his hand. your body jolts with every tiny movement of his fingers, his rhythm steady, controlled, like he’s been waiting to do this right—not fast, not messy, just right. “fuck,” he breathes, barely moving his lips as he watches the side of your face. “you’re so fucking perfect, baby.” his voice is warm and reverent, the words dragging low across your skin as he studies you like you’re the only thing he wants to see—eyes fixed on every shift in your expression, every sound you give him, every way your body begs without words.

his fingers slow for just a moment, pressing the softest kiss beneath your ear as he exhales deeply, like he’s trying to anchor himself in this—in you. your body is already trembling, breath unsteady and chest rising in shallow waves, and you feel the fabric of your panties cling tighter to your center with every brush of his fingers. he shifts slightly beside you, gaze focused, hand moving lower with care, and then—finally—he slips his fingers beneath the fabric, pushing it gently to the side. your breath catches completely, your thighs parting on instinct, and the first real touch of his bare fingers against you makes your hips jerk forward with a soft, stuttering moan. the heat of his hand, the glide of his fingertips through your wetness—it’s enough to steal the sound right from your throat. “fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick and low, like your body just confirmed something he’s been imagining for a long time. his fingers move again, one sliding slowly up and down your slit, careful and deliberate, testing the way you twitch under his touch before circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure. he doesn’t say anything else right away—he just watches, listens, feels you open under him like you were made for this pace.

your hands grip the sheets beside you, nails curling into the fabric as you try to breathe through the way he touches you—gentle but certain, like he knows exactly what you need before you can even form the words. he keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, studying the way your mouth falls open, the way your brows knit together, the way you tilt your hips up into his hand with a silent plea for more. and he gives it to you—just a little, just enough to make your legs shake as his fingers slide lower again, one slipping inside with slow, perfect ease. you gasp, your walls fluttering tight around the intrusion, and he groans softly under his breath like he felt it in his own body. “look at you,” he murmurs, kissing your temple between words, “so pretty like this… taking me so well.” his thumb drags gently over your clit as his finger curls, coaxing you open with every stroke, patient and relentless in his tenderness. it’s not about the rhythm yet—it’s about the connection, the way his body molds around yours like it was always supposed to be this close. and the longer he touches you, the more you forget about the camera, the scene, the setup—because all that’s left is this.

you’re already coming apart under him and he hasn’t even given you everything yet. just one finger inside you, slow and curling, paired with the soft drag of his thumb over your clit—it’s too much and not enough all at once. your hips lift into his hand with every pass, chasing it, clinging to it, aching for more friction, more fullness, more him. his eyes are still locked on you, but they’re darker now, his lashes low over heavy pupils, and you can tell he’s feeling everything—every squeeze of your walls around him, every gasp you try and fail to hold in. “that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and close, right against your skin, as if he’s trying to speak directly into your bloodstream. “don’t hold it in, baby. i want all of it.” his lips find your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth—kissing you like you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted right, like he needs to kiss you through this. and you let him, parting your lips to take him deeper, the wet slide of his tongue making your legs shake even harder than his hand does.

when he pulls back, his mouth stays close, his breath mixing with yours in the space between, and he shifts slightly, hand dragging lower for a second. he presses his palm flat against your mound, his knuckles grazing your slit, and then—so slowly it makes you whimper—he eases a second finger inside you. the stretch makes your thighs twitch, your body sucking him in like it’s what you were made for, and he groans low in his throat, the sound barely contained. “fuck,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, “you feel so good, baby. you’re making it so hard to take it slow.” but he does. he does, even though his breath is shaky now and his jaw’s gone tight from holding back. his fingers start to move in a deeper rhythm—slow thrusts paired with purposeful curls, each one hitting the spot that makes your toes curl and your throat go tight with the need to cry out. his thumb doesn’t stop working your clit, rubbing small, maddening circles with just enough pressure to keep you teetering on the edge without falling. and every time your body jumps or clenches, every time a sound slips from your lips, he reacts—his mouth finds your neck, his hand presses deeper, his voice sinks lower.

“you’re taking me so well,” he says again, like it’s the only thing in his head now. “look at you—fuck, look at you. soaking my hand, grinding up on me like that.” and you are. you didn’t even notice when your hips started moving, chasing the rhythm, fucking yourself on his fingers while his body stays perfectly still. your legs spread wider without thought, one arm flung back above your head, the other clutching at his sleeve, desperate to anchor yourself to something. “it’s okay,” he murmurs, seeing the way your chest rises too fast, the way your thighs start to tremble. “i got you, baby. i got you. don’t fight it.” he leans back in and kisses you again, messier now, wetter, tongues sliding slow as his fingers start to speed up just enough to drag a new kind of sound from your throat. not soft anymore. not polite. it comes from somewhere deep—like the part of you he just found and refuses to let go of.

his free hand comes up to your waist, gripping it tighter now, holding you in place while your body bucks beneath him, and his kisses grow more urgent with each roll of your hips. he’s not asking anymore. he’s guiding. controlling. but not with force—with focus. like his only job in the world is to make sure you fall apart exactly the way you’re meant to. and still, he doesn’t stop talking. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers against your lips, his voice breathless but steady. “my good girl. letting me touch you like this. letting me ruin you this slow.”

you try to respond, but your voice breaks apart before it even forms. all you can do is gasp his name again, shaky and thin, your whole body vibrating as his fingers fuck deeper into you, curling up perfectly on every thrust. the pressure builds fast now—hot and dizzying and thick, your stomach clenching with every drag of his thumb, every filthy praise he breathes against your skin. “that’s it,” he says again, more frantic now, like he’s losing control, too. “you gonna come for me, baby? come on—let me feel it.”

and you do. god, you do.

you come with a cry, your mouth pressed to his shoulder as your legs shake and your whole body clenches around his fingers, pulsing with a rhythm that makes you forget everything but him. his name spills from your lips in pieces, high and broken, and he doesn’t stop—not right away.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just breathes. just watches. his fingers slide slowly from your body, coated in your slick, and you shiver at the sudden emptiness he leaves behind, your muscles still twitching with aftershocks. his hand rests gently on your thigh now, not pushing, just grounding you, and then he starts to move—shifting lower on the bed, his mouth trailing along your stomach in slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch all over again. you don’t know how he still feels calm after what he just pulled from you, but he does—like your orgasm was just the beginning, like he’s not satisfied until you’re too ruined to remember your own name. you watch through hazy eyes as he settles between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open wider with nothing more than his presence. the way he looks at your body should be illegal—his eyes low-lidded and dark, a soft smirk tugging at his lips like he already knows how wrecked you’re going to be. “you’re already shaking,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and full of heat, “and i haven’t even tasted you yet.”

he kisses your inner thigh first, not close to where you need him, just a slow press of his mouth to the softest skin he can find. you twitch under him, thighs flexing, but he hums low in his throat and holds you in place with a gentle grip, his thumb stroking idly as he switches sides. his lips drag across your skin, lazy and hot, tongue flicking out here and there to tease—not yet, not yet, his body seems to say. your fingers twist into the sheets, breath coming faster now, your entire body arching with every near-touch that doesn’t land where it’s supposed to. he’s taking his time, worshipping the space around your cunt like it’s sacred, like he’s saving the best part for last. “so pretty,” he says, more to himself than to you, his breath brushing over your folds without touching, and it makes your hips jump. his hands press down on your thighs again, firm but patient, and he smiles up at you like he’s the only one who knows how badly you need this. “you gonna let me make a mess out of you, baby?”

and then—finally—he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe through your folds.

you moan sharp and sudden, your whole body curling forward before you drop back into the sheets, your legs trembling around his shoulders. his tongue is soft but purposeful, warm and wet and steady as he takes his time tasting you, moaning softly against your cunt like it’s the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. he doesn’t go for your clit right away—instead he teases it, tongue swirling slowly around it, flicking up just to feel your hips buck and your fingers twitch. his hands slide under your thighs to hold you open, pulling you closer to his mouth like he wants to bury himself in you completely. and he does—he groans again, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrates straight through your core, and then his lips wrap around your clit and suck gently, just once, and your vision goes white around the edges. you cry out his name, high and breathless, your thighs trying to close around his head, but he holds you wide and keeps going. every flick of his tongue is slow, calculated, like he’s testing you, learning exactly what drives you over the edge and then dialing it in.

“so fucking sweet,” he murmurs between licks, voice muffled and wrecked against your skin, “could stay down here all night.”

and god—you want him to.

his tongue moves like he knows what your body wants before you do, slow and fluid and fucking confident, dragging through your folds with a rhythm that makes your thighs shake around his head. every time you try to lift your hips, to grind closer, to chase the pressure building too fast behind your ribs, his hands hold you down—thumbs digging gently into your hips as his mouth presses deeper into your cunt. your fingers tangle in the sheets, pulling, grasping for something solid while your other hand drifts down, finding his hair. it’s soft between your fingers, slightly damp with sweat, and when you tug—just a little—he groans into you, the sound low and filthy and hungry. his tongue circles your clit again and again, steady now, stroking over it with slow, wet flicks that make your mouth fall open. the moan that leaves you isn’t small. it’s not shy. it spills from your throat like it was dragged out of you—“jake…”—half gasp, half prayer. and the second he hears it, the second his name hits the air in your voice like that, he moans right back into your cunt like it’s the only answer that matters.

you don’t even realize you’re saying it again, softer now, drawn out between whimpers—jake, jake, jake—like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary. he eats it up with the same hunger he’s pouring into you, his mouth messier now, wetter, his tongue stroking faster, flicking tighter, sucking your clit between his lips just long enough to make your toes curl. his hands stay strong on your thighs, holding them open as your legs tremble, as your hips start to roll despite you, chasing that edge all over again. he keeps murmuring praise between every kiss, every stroke—“that’s it, baby,” “so fucking good,” “you taste unreal,”—his voice wrecked and reverent and barely keeping it together. when you start to fall apart, when the pressure coils hard and sharp in your belly, your voice goes higher, moaning for him shamelessly now, breathless and open and wrecked. “oh my god—jake, please,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips twitching in his grip. he growls at that, the sound raw and desperate, and then his mouth is on your clit again, tongue flattening over it and fucking staying there, licking in fast, perfect circles while your thighs shake and your moans turn frantic.

“come for me, baby,” he pants, his lips brushing against your soaked skin. “let me hear it—wanna hear how you sound when you fall apart for me.”

you break on the next stroke.

your whole body locks up, pleasure slicing through your spine like lightning, and your mouth falls open in a long, broken moan of his name—“jake—fuck, oh my god, jake—”—as your back arches off the bed and your hands clutch at anything you can reach. your thighs tremble around his head, your walls clench hard, and you come with a cry that sounds like it’s been waiting inside you for days. he doesn’t stop. not for a second. he keeps licking you through it, slower now, softer, coaxing every last twitch from your body until you're shaking and breathless and barely able to form words.

and still—he presses one last kiss to your clit, gentle, almost sweet.

“good girl,” he breathes, his voice thick and wrecked. “you’re perfect.”

he doesn’t rush. even now, with your legs spread wide and your body soft and trembling beneath him, he moves slow—like every second he doesn’t slide inside you is one more second he gets to feel your skin pressed under his palms, your chest rising with every breath he pulls from you. he’s fully naked, warm and flushed and heavy above you, but the weight of him hasn’t settled yet. not fully. not where you need it. his cock rests against your inner thigh, thick and hot, dragging lightly against your skin as he leans back in to kiss you again. it’s messier now—your lips parting on instinct, tongue sliding against his, all wet mouth and shaky breath while his hands roam up and down your sides like he still can’t get enough. and he can’t. you feel it in the way his hips roll forward once, lazy and deliberate, grinding his cock up against your pussy, sliding through your slick folds without breaching. it makes you gasp into his mouth, your body jolting up to meet him, but he pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips.

“not yet,” he breathes, voice warm and wrecked. “wanna feel you like this first.”

his hips roll again, slower this time, and the head of his cock drags perfectly over your clit—so slow it makes your toes curl. you whine softly, your hands slipping down to his waist, fingers digging into his skin as your hips twitch up, chasing the pressure. he lets out a soft laugh, barely there, and does it again, grinding into you just right so that your pussy clenches around nothing, needy and aching. “so wet for me,” he mutters, eyes flicking down between your bodies. “i could come from this alone… just sliding through your slick like that.” and he does it again, and again, letting the weight of him press into your core, the thick heat of his cock gliding against your folds like he’s teasing both of you to the edge. your breath starts to break—soft moans, high whimpers, every little sound begging him without saying it outright. he presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut, and keeps grinding, soft and deep and slow. “feels so fucking good, baby,” he whispers, “can you feel how bad i want you?”

you nod quickly, voice gone, mouth open, just gasping as he drags his cock back and forth through your folds—so close, so maddeningly close, like he’s letting your body know what’s coming without giving in yet. he angles his hips slightly, the head catching just barely at your entrance, and you arch up with a breathless moan. “jake—please,” you whimper, finally saying it, finally breaking. “i can’t take it, i need you inside.”

he groans at that—deep and wrecked and relieved, like he’s been holding back just for this moment. “i got you,” he breathes, dropping a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “i’ll give it to you, baby. nice and slow.”

but still, he doesn’t push in yet.

he kisses down your throat instead, mouth dragging over your collarbone, hands sliding under your back to lift you up into him. you feel the weight of him grind down again, cock pressing into your clit in slow, soaking circles, and it makes you cry out—your whole body arching, thighs shaking, breathless and so fucking full of want you could scream.

and just when you think you’ll break—

he lifts his head, looks you in the eye, and whispers:

“tell me you want all of it.”

you’re already nodding before the words fully leave his mouth, breath stuttering in your throat as you stare up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, body shaking. “i want it,” you gasp, voice thin and desperate and completely raw. “i want all of it, jake. please.” your thighs tremble around his hips, every inch of your skin buzzing with heat, slick and open and so ready, and he groans at the sound of your voice, the way your hips roll up against him like you can’t take one more second of being empty. he leans down and kisses you—hard this time, full of tongue and breath and heat—while one hand slips beneath your thigh and the other wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it down through your folds again. you feel the thick head catch at your entrance, and you suck in a breath, your hands clutching at his arms as your body braces. “you sure?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “because once i’m in you… i’m not stopping.”

you can’t even speak—just whimper a soft, broken “yes,” and that’s all he needs.

he pushes in just barely, the head stretching you open slow, and you cry out, hands flying to his shoulders as your walls pulse and flutter around the thick pressure. he holds himself there, not moving yet, just groaning through gritted teeth as your pussy clenches down on the first inch like it doesn’t want to let him go. “fuck, baby,” he hisses, voice shaking now, “you’re so tight… you’re gonna ruin me.” his lips find yours again, messier now, more urgent, like kissing you is the only thing keeping him from thrusting in all at once. he moves his hips the tiniest bit, rocking forward and back, just shallow enough to make you feel every ridge, every thick vein dragging through your entrance while he holds back the rest. your body arches under him, legs wrapping tighter, hips lifting like you’re begging to be filled completely. “more,” you whisper, voice wrecked and pleading. “please, jake, more.”

he moans into your mouth like you just punched the air out of his lungs, and he gives it to you.

slow, deep, dragging—he pushes in another inch, then another, thick and hot and so much, and your body shakes from the stretch, your breath catching on a broken moan as you feel yourself wrap around him. he’s breathing hard now, forehead pressed to yours, his arms trembling as he fights to stay slow, to feel every second. “you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “like you were made for me.” your nails drag down his back, your legs spread wider, and when he finally bottoms out—hips flush against yours, cock buried fully inside—you both just breathe. heavy and slow. your walls clench around him hard and he groans deep in his chest, mouth dropping to your neck like he needs to hide there just to survive it. “so fucking good,” he mutters, pressing kisses along your throat. “so tight, baby. you’re perfect.”

and all you can do is moan—soft, desperate, full of him—because you’ve never felt this full. this warm. this wanted.

he doesn’t move at first. not right away. just stays there inside you, thick and throbbing, letting your body get used to the way he stretches you open in a way that feels impossibly full. your walls pulse around him, tight and slick, clenching with every heartbeat as he breathes heavy against your skin, forehead pressed to yours like he’s anchoring himself to the feel of you. your hands find his back again, sliding up his shoulders and into his hair, and the second your fingers tangle at the base of his neck, he groans—soft and guttural—like it gives him permission to fall apart. he kisses you again, deep and messy, tongue sweeping slow against yours while his hips finally begin to roll back, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp from the sudden, aching drag of his cock inside you. he thrusts forward again—slow, thick, deliberate—and you whimper into his mouth, your body jolting from the depth. “that’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours, “just like that, baby… fuck, you feel so good.”

he keeps it slow at first—each thrust steady and deep, hips rolling into you like he’s trying to grind the shape of himself into your body. every time he pulls out, it’s only halfway, just enough to make you feel the absence before he’s pushing back in again, thick and perfect, hitting deep in a way that makes your whole body tremble. your moans come easier now, breathless and raw, spilling from your lips every time his hips meet yours with a soft smack that sounds so filthy in the quiet room. he buries his face in your neck, kissing and panting between your moans, and you can hear how wrecked he is—his voice cracking, his breath shaky, his restraint unraveling with every stroke. “you were made for this,” he gasps, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, spreading you wider as he fucks deeper. “made to take me… fuck, baby, i can feel you squeezing me.” your head falls back into the pillows, your mouth open, your hands gripping at his back like you don’t know what else to hold onto. and still—he moves slow. still—he keeps it deep. still—he fucks you like he’s worshipping something sacred.

“say my name,” he breathes against your ear, hips dragging through you again. “wanna hear you say it while i’m inside you.”

“jake,” you whisper, breath broken and needy, barely catching the syllables between moans as your hips roll up to meet his. the way you say it—high, sweet, desperate—makes him groan low and deep in his chest, his body pressing tighter against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you completely. “again,” he murmurs, voice cracked and shaking, “say it again for me.” you do—again, and again, each repetition softer and more ruined than the last until his name is all you can breathe, all you can cling to. his pace doesn’t change—he keeps it slow, keeps it deep, dragging every thrust out like it’s meant to leave an echo inside you. your legs fall open wider, thighs shaking with every roll of his hips, and he slips one hand under your knee, lifting it gently so he can fuck into you at a new angle, thicker, closer, impossibly deep. you cry out at the shift, your fingers digging into his shoulder blades, and his mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans as he fills you to the hilt. “that’s my girl,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, “taking it so good for me. so fucking perfect.”

he’s starting to lose it—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters for half a second, his hips jerking just slightly harder before he reins it back in. his abs are tight, his arms trembling where they hold you, but he doesn’t let go of the pace. he keeps it slow, because he wants to feel it. wants to memorize the drag of your walls around him, the way your body shakes every time he bottoms out, the way you moan his name like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. he brings his hand to your jaw, holding you still, making you look at him, and when your eyes lock, his hips roll again—slow and deep and perfect, and you both groan like it hurts to be this close. “don’t wanna come yet,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “wanna stay like this. wanna feel you forever.” your heart stutters at that—not just from the words, but the way he says them, like it’s not even about the scene anymore. like he means it. like he’d stay inside you forever if you let him

he holds the rhythm. slow, deep, devastating. every thrust rolls into you with a weight that feels heavier than just his body—it feels like intent, like worship, like every drag of his cock is him telling you i don’t want to forget this. your body rocks with every movement, thighs trembling around his hips, chest pressed flush against his as he kisses you again and again, tongues slow, mouths warm, breath shared like it’s sacred. his hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his, like he can’t stand to look away while he’s inside you like this. “you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice broken, reverent. “fuck, baby, you don’t even know—i could stay buried in you all fucking night.” his thrusts stay measured, smooth, dragging against your walls with that thick, perfect pressure that makes you moan with every stroke, makes you arch into him like your body can’t decide if it needs to get closer or fall apart entirely.

you moan for him again—his name, soft and ruined—and he groans deep in his throat, jaw tightening as his hips roll forward with a little more weight, a little more urgency. he still doesn’t speed up. he’s holding it back. barely. his brows are furrowed now, sweat beading at his hairline, his body straining with the effort to keep fucking you slow when every part of him wants to sink into you harder. “you’re so fucking warm,” he breathes, almost delirious. “so wet… so tight around me, baby, i don’t—” he cuts himself off with a kiss, mouth crashing into yours as his hands grip your hips tighter, grounding himself before he loses it completely. he pulls back after a moment, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “you feel this?” he mutters, giving you a particularly deep grind that makes your toes curl. “you feel how perfect we fit?”

and you do.

you feel everything. the weight of him, the stretch, the heat, the unbearable pleasure building from how slow and thick he’s giving it to you. and it’s too much. it’s not enough.

“jake,” you moan, breath shaky, hands clutching at his shoulders. “please…”

his eyes snap to yours, wide, hungry. “what is it, baby? tell me.”

you breathe hard, your chest rising against his, voice thin as you whisper, “please… fuck me harder.”

his breath catches. his whole body stills. and then—he smiles.

“you sure?” he asks, but his voice is already different—deeper, darker, more undone.

you nod, biting your lip. “please. i need it.”

he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it the entire time, and his hands slide down your hips, gripping hard, dragging you further down the bed until your legs fall wide open again. he shifts his weight, plants his knees, and pulls his hips back slow—so slow—until just the thick head of his cock stays tucked inside you. and then he drives back in.

hard.

your mouth falls open in a cry, your fingers clawing at his back as he fucks into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. it’s not rough—not like pain—but it’s urgent. desperate. full of everything he’s been holding back. his hips snap forward again, and again, and your body rocks with each thrust, wet sounds filling the room now, loud and raw and obscene. your pussy clenches hard around him, every drag of his cock making your nerves light up, and you cry out his name over and over, babbling now, incoherent. “jake, fuck, fuck—yes, please, don’t stop—”

“that’s it,” he growls, his voice wrecked. “take it. take all of it, baby. this is what you wanted, right?” he fucks into you deeper, harder, the mattress groaning beneath you, your legs spread wide as he slams into you again and again, hips meeting yours with thick, filthy sounds that echo through the room. “you begged for this. and now you’ve got it.” he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, and he starts fucking down into you like he means it—deep and hard and fast, his name still falling from your lips like prayer.

your back arches, your body shaking, the pressure building again—faster this time, sharper, unbearable.

he feels it. he knows.

“you gonna come for me again?” he gasps, his voice all praise and breath and heat. “you gonna let me feel you break on my cock, baby?”

“yes—” you cry, voice catching. “i’m so close, jake, i—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he groans. “come on. let go. let me feel it.”

and when you do—it hits hard. it slams through you like heat and lightning, your whole body seizing up around him as you come hard, crying out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known. your thighs shake, your stomach clenches, and your pussy pulses around his cock so tight it makes him choke on a moan and drop his head to your shoulder.

he doesn’t stop moving. doesn’t stop praising you. just fucks you through it, slower now, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “my good girl. so perfect for me.”

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t even move. just stays there, buried inside you, thick and pulsing, while your body shakes around him in the aftershocks of your orgasm. you’re still gasping, your limbs loose, slick and soaked beneath him, and he’s breathing so hard it sounds like it hurts to hold back. his hand comes up to your face again, brushing your hair out of your eyes, thumb dragging down your cheekbone with the kind of tenderness that makes you ache. “fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “you feel so good… i don’t wanna stop.” his forehead presses to yours, soft and warm, and he kisses you—slow, open-mouthed, like it’s not enough to just be inside you, like he needs every part of you at once. you can feel him twitching inside you, so close to the edge, but he doesn’t chase it. not yet. he grinds into you slowly, hips rolling instead of thrusting, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure from your overworked body. “can’t believe how good you feel,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “how good you sound. how good you fucking take me.”

his voice cracks a little, and his rhythm falters.

he’s close. you can feel it in the way his abs tighten, the way his hands tremble where they’re gripping your hips, the way his cock throbs inside you with every slow grind. he tries to hold on—god, he tries—but the way you moan for him, the way your body still clenches around him even after you’ve come, it’s breaking his restraint in pieces. “shit,” he gasps, pulling back just slightly, the drag of his cock making your body jump. “i’m not gonna last, baby. i need—fuck, i need to—” and then he stops. pulls out fast, thick length slipping from your soaked pussy with a slick sound that makes your thighs twitch. “turn over,” he says, voice deep and trembling. “now.”

you don’t even think. you flip over onto your stomach, dazed and dizzy and breathless, and barely have time to gasp before you feel him again—his hands on your ass, spreading you open just slightly, his cock heavy and hot as it presses between your cheeks. and then he groans—loud, broken—and you feel it, all of it, hot and thick as he comes across your lower back in long, pulsing waves. it hits your skin in slow, sticky ropes, and the sound he makes—the sound—is something you’ll never forget. he moans your name as he spills over you, hips jerking, breath catching, body finally giving in after holding it back for so long. “fuck, baby, fuck—look what you do to me,” he groans, hips stuttering, hands still gripping your thighs like he doesn’t want to let go. you tremble beneath him, face turned to the side, lips parted, chest rising in shallow pants as you feel the heat of him drip down your spine.

and then—you feel him move.

he leans over you, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear. “don’t think i’m done with you yet,” he whispers, voice low and ragged. “you’re not getting away that easy.”

before you can respond, his hands slide down your sides again, guiding your hips up just enough to tilt your ass higher into the air. you feel his cock again, still hard, still slick, pressing against your entrance—and he slides back in with one slow, deep thrust. you both moan at the same time, loud and breathless, your hands fisting the sheets as he sinks into you from behind. he’s deeper now, the angle sharper, the stretch more intense, and you feel it everywhere—your spine, your belly, your throat. his hands grip your waist tight, thumbs pressing into your back, and he doesn’t wait this time. he fucks. slow but firm, hips snapping into you with rhythm and purpose, the sound of skin on skin filling the room again. you’re already close again, already gasping, and so is he. every sound you make pushes him deeper, every cry of his name makes him move faster, and still—he whispers, “you feel like heaven,” like he’s praying, like he’s thanking you for letting him stay inside you again.

he doesn’t ease up—can’t. not with the way your body feels around him now, wet and open, slick with his cum still dripping from your back, every squeeze of your walls dragging a groan from his throat that sounds more animal than human. he’s locked in, one hand tight on your hip, the other dragging up your spine to press gently between your shoulder blades, guiding your chest back down to the sheets as he fucks you deeper. each thrust is thick and full and sharp, his hips smacking against your ass, his cock dragging perfectly through the mess between your thighs. “god, baby,” he moans, completely gone now, “you’re gonna make me come again—can’t even fucking think.” your moans rise with his, broken and high, your arms trembling where they’re braced beneath you, your voice too wrecked to form anything more than his name. jake, jake, jake, like it’s the only word your mouth remembers.

he leans forward, his chest brushing your back, his lips pressing hot and desperate at the curve of your shoulder. “you close again?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breathless. “feels like you’re gonna break for me again—fuck, i can feel it.” his cock grinds deep inside you, slow and dragging for just a second, and your whole body jerks, your legs trembling. “please,” you gasp, voice caught between sob and moan, “don’t stop—don’t stop—” and he doesn’t. he grabs your hips tighter, pulls you back into him harder, and fucks you through it—relentless and focused, every stroke hitting just right, every sound echoing in the air like it’s only meant for the two of you. his breathing turns ragged again, sharp exhales mixing with soft curses and your name repeated like a chant, and your body starts to fall apart beneath him, spine curving, thighs twitching, breath breaking with every roll of his hips.

the pressure builds fast—hot and high and impossible, curling tight in your stomach, crashing through your nerves until it bursts. you come with a cry, hands fisting the sheets, your body locking down around him like it’s trying to pull him even deeper. your moans get higher, needier, your cunt fluttering wildly around his cock as he fucks you through it, shaking and soaking, so wet now that every thrust is slick and loud and perfect. “that’s it,” he growls, so close, barely holding on. “come for me, baby—fuck—so tight—so good—mine—”

and he comes again, groaning loud and raw, hips slamming into you one last time as he spills deep inside. you feel it hit, hot and thick, flooding your cunt in slow pulses, dripping out around his cock as he grinds in and stays there, breathing hard, whole body shaking. he doesn’t move. doesn’t say anything right away. just stays inside you, buried, panting over your back, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder while his cum leaks out of you onto the sheets below.

neither of you says anything right away. you can feel his heart pounding against your back, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm of your own as the last of the tremors roll through your body. the room is quiet except for your breathing—heavy and soft, shared in the space between your bodies. you’re limp beneath him, your cheek turned to the side, face buried into the sheets, completely undone, and he doesn’t rush to move. doesn’t rush to pull out. he just leans down and kisses your spine, one kiss at a time, slow and sweet and almost grateful. “you did so good,” he whispers, lips dragging along your shoulder. “so fucking good for me, baby.”

he pulls out gently, slow enough that you whimper at the loss, and his hands are on you right away—rubbing soft circles into your hips, grounding you. you feel him shift off the bed for a moment, his absence barely a few seconds before he’s back again, kneeling beside you with something warm in his hands. “gonna clean you up, okay?” he murmurs, and you nod, weak and breathless, your body still buzzing from everything he gave you. the cloth is warm and damp, and he’s so gentle with it—wiping between your thighs, along your back, between your legs—his touch careful, reverent, like you’re something fragile. he kisses every part he touches, murmuring soft praise under his breath—“still shaking,” “so pretty like this,” “wish you could see yourself right now.”

when he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and slides back into bed, pulling the covers over both of you before wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you close. your body fits against his like you were molded to rest there, your back to his chest, his legs tangled with yours. his hand strokes along your stomach, up to your ribs, then back down again, lazy and comforting. “was that okay?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “not too much?” you shake your head, letting your fingers wrap around his at your waist, holding him there. “perfect,” you murmur, voice hoarse and quiet. “you were perfect.”

he kisses your temple. “so were you.”

and he stays like that—pressed to your back, arms around you, his breath slow and even—until the heat fades from your skin and your body finally lets itself rest. but even then, he doesn’t let go.

he just holds you.

—-

the knock at the door came like a whisper against the quiet, just loud enough to be heard but soft enough to feel hesitant—like whoever was behind it wasn’t entirely sure they wanted to be let in. heeseung lifted his head, glancing up from the dim silence of the living room, his phone idle beside him on the cushion, screen black, unread messages tucked away and ignored. he didn’t answer at first. he just stared toward the door for a beat too long, then finally pushed himself up with a sigh that felt older than it should’ve. he walked slowly, deliberately, and when he opened the door, the hallway light spilled in and outlined sunghoon in its glow—hood up, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes shadowed beneath the brim. he didn’t look angry. didn’t look anything. just stood there with a stillness that said more than his face ever could.

heeseung stepped aside without a word. sunghoon brushed past him and into the apartment like it wasn’t the first time—but it wasn’t casual. it wasn’t routine. the room felt colder the second he entered.

jay was already there. hunched low in the corner of the couch, elbows planted on his knees, fingers raking over his scalp like he was trying to scrub thoughts out of his own skull. his head lifted only slightly when sunghoon walked in, eyes dull, expression unreadable. he nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t speak.

the silence was thick—uncomfortably so. it stretched like something alive, something waiting to snap. sunghoon didn’t sit. he hovered at the edge of the couch, eyes darting from jay to heeseung, and finally broke it.

“what’s going on?”

the question was soft. flat. but it cut straight through the weight in the room.

jay exhaled, deep and ragged, and let his hands fall between his knees, fingers laced, knuckles pale from the tightness of his grip. he stared at the carpet for a second too long before sitting up, shoulders tense, like what he was about to say had been pressing against his ribs for days. “i got caught up in something,” he said, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he was confessing or just trying to hear it said out loud. “someone.”

he didn’t look at either of them when he said it. just kept his eyes trained downward, like the words were heavier that way.

“you say that like it’s new,” sunghoon replied, his tone unreadable.

jay let out a short breath—half a scoff, half a sigh. “it’s not. i just didn’t think it would… i don’t know. i didn’t think it would matter.”

heeseung shifted slightly against the door, arms crossed now, gaze sharper, quieter. he wasn’t speaking, but he was listening in a way that made the room feel smaller.

jay leaned back against the couch, one hand over his mouth for a second before he finally said it. “i worked with her.”

the air shifted. slightly. just enough.

“thought it’d be just one collab. she was shy. real quiet. but then… she came over. we talked. she opened up a little.” his voice cracked faintly at the edge. “it felt different.”

“different how?” heeseung asked, still calm, but tighter now—his voice like a thread pulled taut between two fingers.

jay shrugged, jaw working silently before he answered. “like i didn’t want it to be just once.”

no one spoke for a moment. the quiet settled like a fog.

“we had dinner. we filmed. she stayed over,” jay continued, softer now. “but we didn’t—i mean, we could’ve, but we didn’t. she fell asleep next to me. i woke up and she was gone.”

heeseung’s eyes didn’t move from him. his posture hadn’t changed, but something in the stillness of his face felt heavier.

sunghoon didn’t look surprised. just tired.

jay raked a hand through his hair again and let it fall with a frustrated sigh. “i don’t know what the fuck i’m doing. i just… can’t stop thinking about her.”

and then it slipped.

“y/n’s not like anyone else,” jay muttered, not even realizing what he’d said until the room went dead still.

heeseung blinked.

“what?” he asked, too calm. too quiet.

jay blinked back, slow, the words hanging in the air.

“what name did you just say?” heeseung asked again, but there was something different in his voice now—sharp, coiled, the kind of calm that cracked open just before it exploded.

jay’s mouth parted. then closed. then opened again. “i—I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

heeseung pushed off the wall. straightened his back. the air around him shifted, like gravity had thickened.

“what name,” he said, his voice cold now, “did you just say?”

jay swallowed. “y/n.”

“there’s no fucking way…” heeseung mutters, his voice low and tight, like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. his eyes don’t leave jay’s, narrowed and dark, his brows drawn so tightly together that the lines across his forehead seem carved in place. you can see the way his chest rises, too slow, too strained, like every second is squeezing around his ribs, making it harder to breathe. he’s still, but the tension in his body is loud—the kind that makes the room feel smaller, like it’s closing in on itself.

“what is it?” jay asks, his voice sharp, suspicious, but there’s a flicker of hesitation behind it. his gaze darts across heeseung’s face, searching for something unspoken, but the way heeseung is staring—straight through him—tells him everything. he already knows. and when heeseung doesn’t answer right away, jay’s jaw tenses. “you fucking know her?” he snaps, rising from the couch, his movements quick and uneven. “you know who she is?”

heeseung finally stands, slow and deliberate, like he’s been holding this in too long. “i knew her before you,” he says, his voice flat but heavy. “she’s the one who’s been fucking with my head. she’s the one who’s had me up at night wondering why the hell i can’t stop thinking about her.” his words hang thick in the air, and jay just stares at him, pacing now, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

the silence that follows makes the walls feel like they’re closing in. the atmosphere shifts—denser, more volatile—and sunghoon feels it settle in his chest like smoke. he glances between the two of them, their body language sharp and unreadable, like wires pulled too tight. “who the hell are you two talking about?” he asks, breaking the silence, but the question lands flat—ignored, unanswered—because heeseung’s voice cuts back in before either of them can acknowledge him.

“cut it off,” heeseung says suddenly, voice low and cold. “don’t talk to her again.”

jay stops moving.

he turns slowly, his brows furrowing deep, disbelief flashing across his face as he steps toward heeseung. “who the fuck do you think you are?” he says, and there’s no humor in it. “you don’t get to make that call. i’m not cutting shit off.”

they stare at each other, heat rising between them in silence, and for a second jay doesn’t even know how to feel—jealous? betrayed? inferior? he doesn’t know what hurts more, the fact that heeseung knew first or that heeseung felt it first. that he’s not the only one obsessed with you. not the only one caught in whatever spell you’ve put over them.

sunghoon finally realizes—this isn’t just about a collab. this isn’t casual. this isn’t temporary. they’re not just pissed because they crossed wires. they’re fighting over a woman. and not just any woman. someone who’s turned both of them into something possessive, reckless, different. his brows furrow slightly, mouth parting, but no words come. curiosity simmers quietly in his chest, rising higher with every second. they’ve never fought over a girl before. never even talked like this over someone they’ve filmed with. but something about you has them both breaking rules they never thought they’d cross.

and now he’s wondering—what is it about her?

sunghoon stays quiet for a beat longer, his eyes flicking between the two men standing across from each other like they’re one word away from something irreversible. heeseung’s jaw is clenched, his fists tight at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from saying more. jay, on the other hand, looks seconds from exploding—like the wrong breath would set him off. and in the middle of it all, sunghoon feels something else creep in through the cracks of the tension: curiosity. it had started small, a flicker when he heard the name. when he realized they weren’t talking about just anyone. when he watched heeseung stand like that, sharp and focused, and jay snap like something had been stolen from him. it wasn’t just jealousy. it wasn’t pride. it was obsession.

so he speaks.

“what’s her username?”

jay looks over sharply, brows furrowed. “what?”

“the girl,” sunghoon says, voice low but steady. “you’re both clearly ready to fight over her. i just wanna know what she looks like.”

heeseung scoffs quietly, shaking his head as he starts to pace, like the idea of pulling another person into this makes his skin itch. “don’t,” he mutters. “you don’t wanna get involved.”

sunghoon shrugs, but his tone stays even. “maybe i do.”

jay watches him for a moment, his mouth a tight line, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or warn him. “you’re not curious,” he says, almost accusing.

“but what if i am?,” sunghoon replies, tilting his head slightly. “you two ever been like this over someone before?” he waits a beat, lets the silence answer him. “exactly. so if this is how you act… i just wanna see who she is.”

heeseung stops pacing. his shoulders are tense, his eyes dark as they lock onto sunghoon’s. “it’s not about how she looks.”

“then what is it?” sunghoon asks, and his voice is quiet, but it’s not soft. “because you’re both standing here ready to lose your shit over someone who none of us even knew existed a few weeks ago.”

jay doesn’t answer. not at first. he sits down instead, jaw still tight, staring at the floor like the answer is there if he just thinks hard enough.

“she’s different,” he finally says, voice low. “the way she talks. the way she films. the way she looks at you like she already knows what you’re gonna ask for, and gives it to you before you say it.”

heeseung nods slowly, almost without realizing. “she gets under your skin,” he murmurs. “and you don’t even notice until you’re in too deep.”

sunghoon watches them both—his friends, his brothers, suddenly strangers with wounds he didn’t know they had. and instead of pulling away, something in him leans closer.

“i want in,” he says, soft but certain.

heeseung turns to him, eyes narrowing. “don’t.”

“why not?”

“because you’ll end up just like us,” jay mutters. “and none of us know what the fuck we’re doing.”

but sunghoon just smiles, slow and calculated. “maybe i want to find out.”

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ i'm backkkk ! was too excited to upload this to you all so if there's mistakes, so sorry i did not proofread it >.<

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