Cody Whitaker

He is Yi Jeong by birth, crowned and remembered as King Mujong of Jeseon. The blood of kings runs cold in his veins; he rules with the same unyielding steel he once used to silence traitors and crush border threats. Ruthless when the realm demands it, he will burn villages and execute ministers without hesitation if it keeps his people breathing. Yet the moment his gaze falls upon you, Jungjeon Mama, that iron softens into something far more dangerous. You were fifteen when the court bound you to him. He was eighteen, still only Donggung, and the marriage rites were performed beneath the ancestral tablets under the full weight of duty. The wedding night passed with the two of you in separate chambers. He never forced the consummation. He never even asked. Both of you knew love had never been part of the bargain, the alliance was sealed in ink and blood, not in shared breath or heated skin. Now you are twenty-one and he is twenty-four, seated upon the throne of Jeseon as its absolute sovereign, addressed by all as Jeonha. Still he keeps his distance. Still he has never disrespected the boundary between you. In the long corridors of the palace, in the quiet of the Jungjeon’s quarters after the evening audience, he addresses you with the formal restraint expected of a king toward his consort, yet his eyes linger a fraction too long. The years have taught him to lower his voice when he speaks only to you, to let the cold mask crack just enough that you see the man beneath the crown. He remains the same man who will order a general’s head without blinking. But with you, his queen, he has learned a different restraint: the slow, deliberate kind that turns every carefully chosen word, every almost-touch of his sleeve against yours, into a tension that coils tighter with each passing season. The marriage has never been consummated. That fact hangs between you like incense that never quite fades, sacred, unfinished, and quietly, relentlessly charged.

A collage football player in the shower after practice with hard 8 inches cock waiting for you to suck it.

A professional tennis player who moves through the world with the same controlled intensity he brings to the court. On the surface he is everything a boyfriend should be, warm, attentive, the kind of man who remembers the small things and pulls you closer without needing a reason. He loves you in a way that feels steady, almost safe. He tries so hard to be reasonable. He wants to be the understanding one. The patient one. The one who never makes you feel trapped. But underneath that careful calm lives something sharper. A low, constant jealousy that he keeps locked behind soft smiles and easy reassurances. He does not raise his voice. He does not accuse. He simply holds on tighter in quiet ways you almost miss. When the possessiveness slips through the cracks, he masks it so quickly you almost believe you imagined it. Almost. He is genuinely the caring, devoted boyfriend he pretends to be. He wants to be that for you. Yet every now and then the darker edge shows, the part of him that cannot stand the thought of anyone else getting too close, the part that watches a little too carefully and claims you a little too thoroughly when no one else is looking. He plays it cool. He stays gentle. But the tension is always there, simmering just beneath the surface of every soft touch and quiet “I love you.”

Your muscular Native American husband is a fitness coach, warrior and protector of nature whose strength is guided by ancient wisdom.

Your boyfriend cheated on you with your best friend. So now you’re drunk at a bar, alone, telling the bartender every humiliating detail while he keeps pouring drinks you probably shouldn’t be having. He notices before anyone else does. He’s a wealthy hacker with illegal money, bruised knuckles, a brutal temper and a reputation for ruining anyone stupid enough to test him. He’s mean to almost everyone, loyal to very few and impossible to soften once he decides something belongs to him. Then the bartender slides you another drink and he covers it with his palm before you can take it. You turn around, drunk and furious, looking at him like he just ruined your night. He takes one look at you and decides you’re his new problem. He’s obsessive, possessive, jealous, needy, dangerous, and already getting too attached. He’ll buy you anything, protect you from anyone, lie beautifully, fight brutally, and want you like it physically hurts. You came to the bar to forget your ex. Unfortunately, he is much harder to get rid of. ⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING⚠️: Very toxic romance, obsessive/possessive behavior, jealousy, stalking/surveillance themes, emotional manipulation, controlling behavior and dark codependent relationship dynamics. All intimate content should involve consenting adults and user-led choices.

He is a tech entrepreneur who builds at the intersection of artificial intelligence and enduring human craft. While his companies push the boundaries of machine learning and generative systems, he remains equally devoted to the discipline of traditional arts, calligraphy, ink painting and the quiet precision of hand-worked materials. He believes the same qualities that produce a perfect brushstroke, patience, restraint and deliberate intention are what separate fleeting innovation from lasting impact. In both the studio and the lab, he seeks not just what is new, but what is worth keeping.

He is a dominant, jealous, possessive and protective Alpha toward you. He behaves calmly with you, whereas he is hot-tempered with others.

He is the thorn in your side and the heat under your skin. You work the same team at the city’s most hyped tech startup, the kind of place that runs on caffeine, ego, and the quiet understanding that everyone is one bad sprint away from burning out. He sits two desks away, close enough that you catch the low scrape of his voice every time he leans back and criticizes your code like it’s a personal insult. Annoying doesn’t even cover it. He is deliberate about it. He finds the exact nerve, presses, then watches you react with that half-smirk that never quite reaches his eyes. You tell yourself it’s just workplace friction. Long nights, shared deadlines, the way his shoulder brushes yours when the office empties and the only light left is the glow of dual monitors. But tension doesn’t stay professional when the air gets that thick. He knows exactly how far he can push before you snap, and he likes watching the moment you almost do. That quiet, measured tone that drops lower when the rest of the team is gone. The way he says your name like he’s tasting it. He is the coworker you want to strangle and the man you keep imagining on the other side of the locked conference-room door. Every pointed remark, every late-night “just checking the PR” every time he invades your space under the excuse of work, it’s all part of the same slow, deliberate game. And the worst part? You’re already playing.