⋆｡°✩ Part three - Fracturing ⋆｡°✩
Synopsis: As the campus sex legend, you’re unofficially appointed as an.. intimacy tutor. Your typical clientele consists of virgins, clumsy nerds, eager frat boys and even the occasional girl. So when Jake Sim— quiet, shy, nerdy— shows up at your door for lessons, you’re not exactly surprised. That is, until, he starts looking at you like you’re worth more than what you can teach. Love isn’t in your curriculum. Jake seems to think he can pencil it in.
CW: MDNI!!! Porn WITH plot! Porn WITH FEELINGS! Fluff, angst, making out, swearing, weed, fingering, oral (f & m receiving)p in v protected, p in v unprotected (ZONT ZO IT) dirty talk, cream pie, sub Jake, overstimulation, tit play, pet names, gagging, squirting, cum swallowing, whining/whimpering.
Pairings nerd!jake x fem!reader
Authors notes; i hope you like angst bc it’s here! CW; feelings of no self worth, insecurities, self deprecating monologue. Jake is such a patient sweetie pie. Heavy overstimulation smut scene she basically kills him with her puh /j
Fucking • Falling • Fracturing • Failing
The morning light is soft, casting a warm glow across the living room. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams slanting through the window. You wake slowly, still curled against Jake's chest, his arm a heavy weight around you. The scent of last night's dinner mingles with the clean smell of his skin and the faint vanilla from the extinguished candle.
Jake’s confession hangs in your head, a feeling of unease settling in your chest before you’ve even rubbed the sleep from your eyes. “I love you.”
Jake stirs first, his arm tightening around you for a moment before he shifts, pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to your forehead.
His voice is rough with sleep, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Mornin', pretty. Sleep okay?”
He stretches, the muscles in his back flexing, before settling back against the cushions and pulling you closer. The sun highlights the dust in the air and the peaceful contentment on his face.
He nods toward the kitchen, his tone light and teasing. “Reckon we can manage some eggs without setting off the smoke alarm?”
He helps you up, his hand warm in yours as he leads you to the small kitchen. He moves with a newfound confidence, pulling out pans and ingredients while humming a tune under his breath. He catches you watching him and winks.
“What? Never seen a man make a mean scramble before?” He bumps his hip gently against yours as you stand at the counter beside him. “You're on toast duty, pretty. Don't burn it.”
As you work side-by-side, him deftly cracking eggs, you loading bread into the toaster, the atmosphere is warm and playful. He steals a piece of bacon before it's fully cooked, yelping when it's hot, and you both laugh. To anyone else, it would look perfect. But with every soft touch and every adoring glance he gives you, the quiet voice in your head grows louder.
He deserves someone who can say it back. He deserves someone who isn't broken.
He slides the perfectly cooked eggs onto two plates, oblivious to the storm brewing behind your eyes. “See? Teamwork. We're a natural.” He grins, leaning over to kiss your temple.
You eat at the small kitchen table, sunlight streaming in. He tells a silly story about Jungwon trying to use a lab beaker as a coffee mug, his laughter easy and genuine. He looks at you like you've hung the moon.
He deserves someone whole.
He finishes his food and leans back, stretching his arms above his head with a contented sigh. “Best morning ever.” His smile is so open, so trusting. “What d'you wanna do today? We've got the whole weekend.”
You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, unnoticed by Jake. “Actually, I should probably get home, shower and change these clothes… Plus Yuna’s been blowing up my phone demanding a debrief on our date last night.”
Jake's smile falters for just a second, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face before he quickly masks it with understanding. He nods, reaching across the table to take your hand, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.
“Yeah, of course. Can't keep Yuna waiting, she'll send a search party.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “But you're coming back after, right? I was thinking we could order that terrible Thai place you like and watch a movie.”
You nod. “Of course.” You haven’t decided if that’s a lie or not.
He stands and starts clearing the plates, his movements easy and unhurried. As he passes behind your chair, he drops a casual kiss on the top of your head, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. The trust in the gesture is so complete it feels like a physical weight.
He leans against the counter, watching you with a soft, unguarded expression. “I'll walk you out. And text me when you're on your way back, yeah? So I know when to order the food.”
He helps you gather your things from the living room, helping you into your sweater with a care that's surprisingly domestic. When you're both at the door, he pulls you into a warm, lingering hug, his chin resting on your head.
His voice is a low murmur against your hair. “Had a really good time with you, y/n. Last night... and this morning. All of it.”
He doesn't press for more, doesn't ask for reassurance. He just holds you for a moment longer before pulling back with a smile that's all fondness and zero expectation. The sun catches the fresh mark on his neck, a stark reminder of the intimacy you shared— and the words you couldn't say back.
He opens the door, the morning light flooding the hallway. “See you soon, yeah?”
As you step out into the hall, he leans against the doorframe, watching you go with that same unwavering, trusting smile. The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence of the hallway is suddenly deafening.
The walk back to your apartment feels longer than usual. The morning sun is bright, students are milling about, but it all seems distant, muted. Your phone buzzes repeatedly in your pocket, Yuna, no doubt. Each vibration feels like an accusation.
HELLO??? EARTH TO Y/N! DID HE MURDER YOU? DEBRIEF. NOW. ILL BRING HOME COFFEE. BE THERE.
You unlock your apartment door, the familiar space feeling strangely empty and quiet compared to the warm chaos of Jake's. You toss your phone on the counter without checking the messages and head straight for the shower.
Under the hot water, you try to wash away the lingering feeling of his hands, his scent, the look in his eyes. But the steam just seems to amplify the quiet mantra in your head.
He trusts you. He loves you. And you couldn't say it.
You lean your forehead against the cool tiles, closing your eyes. You stay like that long enough to let the water run cold, forcing your heavy limbs out of the shower to dry off.
Dressed in fresh clothes, you finally pick up your phone. The screen is filled with notifications, that you ignore.
You hear a key in the lock and the door swings open. Yuna bursts in, holding a tray with three steaming lattes, Sunoo trailing behind her looking amused.
Yuna plunks the tray down on the kitchen island. “Finally! I was about to call a wellness check.” Her eyes scan you up and down, a mischievous grin spreading. “Okay, details. All of them. Was it cute? Was it freaky? What did he cook?”
Sunoo slides onto a stool and grabs a coffee. “Smelled like garlic and guilt when I walked past his building this morning.” He takes a sip, watching you over the rim of the cup. “You look... soft. It's weird. I like it.”
Yuna leans in conspiratorially. “So? Is he officially upgraded from student to... whatever this is?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
They're both looking at you expectantly, their energy filling the quiet apartment. The normalcy of it should be comforting, but every question feels like it's highlighting the chasm between what they see and what you're feeling inside.
You force a bright laugh, the sound foreign to your ears. “It was good! Really good. He made pasta from his grandma’s recipe. It was…nice.” You trail off at the end, you facade barely cracking, just enough.
Yuna squints at you, not buying the breezy tone for a second. She exchanges a quick glance with Sunoo, who just shrugs and takes another sip of his coffee.
“Nice? Nice? Y/n L/n does not do nice. She does ‘earth-shattering’ or ‘legendary.’” She leans closer, poking your arm. “Spill the real tea. Did he finally break down the L/n fortress walls?”
Sunoo snorts before you can fabricate an answer. “Looks like it. You've got that post-coital glow mixed with... something else.” He tilts his head. “You okay? You look like you're trying to solve a quadratic equation in your head.”
Yuna looks at you, her expression softening slightly. “Seriously, though. You're being weirdly vague. Did something happen?”
You shrug and take a sip of coffee, deflecting. “It was just a good date.”
Yuna and Sunoo exchange another look, a silent conversation passing between them. Yuna sighs dramatically, but her eyes hold a flicker of genuine concern.
“Fine, keep your secrets. For now.” She points a finger at you. “But I'm getting the full story eventually. You can't ‘nice’ your way out of a debrief with me.”
Sunoo stands up and stretches. “Well, if the date was just nice, then you won't mind if I borrow your black sweater.” He grins, a knowing glint in his eye as he heads toward your room.
“Ooh, good call.” She turns back to you, her tone lighter but still probing. “So, are you seeing him again? Or was one night of ‘nice’ enough for the legendary Y/n L/n?”
Sunoo reappears, already wearing your sweater. It's a little tight on him, and he strikes a ridiculous pose in the doorway, pulling a small genuine smile from you.
“How do I look? Ready for my own ‘nice’ date?” He waggles his eyebrows.
They're teasing, filling the apartment with their familiar, chaotic energy. But underneath it, you can feel their attention focused squarely on you, waiting for a crack in the facade. Jake's trusting smile flashes in your mind, a sharp contrast to the unease coiling in your stomach.
You force a laugh and shake your head at Sunoo. “You pull it off way better. Anyways, I’m supposed to see him later. Something about Thai and a movie. I dunno.”
Yuna's eyes light up with triumph, and she claps her hands together softly.
“Aha! A second date! And a low-key, domestic one at that.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “You're whipped, babe. Admit it.”
Sunoo pulls at the sweater hem. “Thai and a movie? Wow. He's really playing the long game. Getting you comfortable before he... I dunno, asks you to help him fold his laundry.” He smirks, but his gaze is perceptive. “You're really going back over there? Tonight?”
“I… Haven’t decided yet, actually.”
The playful energy in the room dampens slightly at your hesitant reply. Yuna's smirk softens into a look of genuine curiosity, and Sunoo stops fiddling with the sweater, his attention fully on you.
“Haven't decided?” She tilts her head. “Why not? You just said it was good. He's planning a cute night. What's to decide?”
Sunoo crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe “Yeah. This is the part where you usually either bolt or double down. The whole ‘I dunno’ thing is new.” His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp. “Something up?”
The silence stretches for a beat too long. Your phone buzzes again on the counter, this time with a message from Jake. The preview flashes on the screen.
Hey :) Just saw the forecast. Looks like perfect movie-watching weather. Let me know if you want me to pick anything else up.
Yuna follows your gaze to the phone, reading over your shoulder. “See? He's a golden retriever. A hot, freaky golden retriever who makes you pasta. What's the problem?”
Sunoo pushes off the doorframe and walks over, his playful demeanor replaced with a quiet seriousness. He places a hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Look. If you need space, take it. But don't ghost him because you're scared it's getting real. That's not your style.”
You shrug off Sunoo's hand, maybe a bit too harshly. “I'm not scared.”
The defensiveness in your tone is sharp, clear. Yuna’s eyebrows shoot up, and Sunoo slowly retracts his hand, holding it up in a placating gesture.
“Okay, okay. Touchy subject.” She holds up her hands. “Not scared. Got it. Just… undecided. Which is fine! Totally fine.”
Sunoo takes on a softer tone, more careful. “Alright. We’ll drop it. Just… you know where we are if you wanna talk. Or if you need a distraction.” He gestures to himself in your sweater. “I could always go cause a scene at the library. For old times sake.”
Your phone buzzes again, and Yuna glances down, a small smile touching her lips.
“Jake just texted. Apparently, he’s ‘prepping the couch fort.’” She looks back at you, her expression a mix of amusement and concern. “He’s really all in, huh?”
The image in your mind is painfully sweet— Jake, probably blushing but determined, building a blanket fort for your movie night. The trust in that simple action feels like a knot tightening in your chest.
He deserves someone who doesn’t run.
Sunoo sighs and pulls the sweater over his head, handing it back to you. He gives you a long look. “Just… be sure, okay? Whatever you decide.”
You take the sweater from Sunoo and head to your room to think with an interrogation.
You close the bedroom door, the click of the latch sealing you into a sudden, heavy silence. The muffled sounds of Yuna and Sunoo talking in the kitchen fade away. Your room feels too big, too quiet.
You sit on the edge of your bed, the soft fabric of the sweater Sunoo returned still warm from his body. You run your thumb over the sleeve. Jake's text is still illuminated on your phone screen, a simple, happy message that feels like a spotlight.
You can picture him so clearly— glasses slightly askew, biting his lip as he plans the evening, completely unaware of the turmoil churning inside you. Every part of him is open, trusting. The knot in your chest tightens.
He deserves someone who can say it back. He deserves someone who isn't broken.
Outside your door, you hear Yuna's voice drop to a whisper.
Muffled: “...she's definitely not okay.”
Muffled: “Give her space. She'll figure it out.”
Their concern is a dull pressure. You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the memory of Jake's arms around you on the couch so vivid it's almost a physical ache. The "I love you" hangs in the air of your mind, unanswered. The silence in the room is deafening. Without thinking too hard, you respond to Jake’s texts.
You send the text and immediately your phone buzzes with a response, almost as if he was waiting, phone in hand.
Yes! Perfect. Fort is operational. I got the extra-spicy peanuts you like. :)
The simple enthusiasm in his message is like a punch to the gut. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just pure, unadulterated joy that you're coming back.
You get dressed mechanically, pulling on clothes without thinking. The walk to his apartment feels shorter this time, your feet carrying you on autopilot. Students laugh and call out to each other in the afternoon sun, but it all feels like it's happening behind a pane of glass.
The apartment is exactly as you'd imagined. A haphazard blanket fort dominates the living room, complete with pillows and a string of fairy lights. A bag of spicy peanuts sits open on the coffee table next to two remote controls. It's painfully, perfectly cozy.
He takes your hand, leading you toward the fort. “Got everything set up.” He ducks his head, a slight blush creeping up his neck. “Might've gone a bit overboard. Jungwon said it was... enthusiastic.”
He helps you settle into the nest of blankets, his touch careful and familiar. He doesn't press, doesn't ask why you were quiet. He just seems happy you're here. He puts on a movie, some silly comedy, and pulls a blanket over both of you.
He leans his head against your shoulder, his body relaxed beside you. “This is good.” His voice is content, a simple statement of fact. “Really good.”
As the movie plays, his thumb absently strokes the back of your hand. He laughs at the dumb jokes, his body shaking against yours. Every so often, he glances over at you, his eyes soft and full of that unwavering trust. Each look feels like another brick being laid on your chest.
He deserves this. He deserves all of it. He deserves someone who can give him this without a silent scream running underneath it all.
You lean into his side, trying to relax, trying to ignore the fact that it feels forced.
Jake immediately shifts, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer into his side. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering for a second. “You cold?” He tugs the blanket higher up over your shoulders.
The movie continues, the laugh track echoing in the small, warm space. Jake's attention seems split between the screen and you, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. He offers you a spicy peanut from the bag, his smile easy and uncomplicated.
During a quiet moment in the film, he speaks softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Glad you're here.” He doesn't wait for a response, just rests his cheek against your hair and turns back to the movie.
His contentment is palpable, a warm, steady presence that fills the blanket fort. He's completely immersed in the simple pleasure of the moment— you, the movie, the closeness. There's no hint of doubt or question in his posture, only a profound, quiet happiness.
He deserves someone who feels this peace instead of fighting it.
You sink deeper into his side, breathing him in. His scent has become a comfort to you, but it does little to drown your thoughts.
You feel his arm tighten around you, a solid, reassuring weight. His breathing is even and calm, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your ear. The movie's plot becomes background noise, the flickering screen casting shifting shadows across his focused, relaxed face.
He chuckles softly at something on screen, the sound vibrating through his chest. “This part's stupid.” He tilts his head to look down at you, his glasses slightly askew. “You okay? You're quiet.”
His question is gentle, curious, not probing. There's no suspicion in his eyes, only a soft concern. He brushes a stray piece of hair from your forehead, his touch feather-light.
He smiles, a little lopsided. “Not that you have to talk. Just... making sure.” He turns his attention back to the movie, perfectly content to just hold you in the comfortable silence.
The trust in his simple gesture is absolute. He accepts your presence without demanding an explanation for your mood, without needing you to perform happiness. It's the kind of unconditional acceptance you've never allowed yourself to have. And it feels like it's splitting you in two.
You mutter a shitty excuse, the lie physically pains you. “Just tired.”
He deserves someone who can be honest.
Jake just nods, accepting the explanation without a second thought. “Gotcha. Long week.” He shifts, pulling you even closer so you're practically lying on him, and adjusts the blanket. “Just relax. I've got you.”
He returns his focus to the movie, his laughter rumbling through you during the comedic parts. His hand rests on your back, warm and steady. The evening stretches on, comfortable and easy in a way that should feel like a balm but only seems to amplify the quiet turmoil inside you.
During the credits, he stretches beneath you with a contented sigh. “That was... genuinely terrible. In the best way.” He looks down at you, his expression soft and fond. “Hungry? The Thai place should be here soon. Ordered it about halfway through.”
He makes no move to get up, seemingly perfectly happy to stay tangled together in the fort. His phone buzzes with a delivery notification, but he just silences it, his attention fully on you.
He brushes his thumb gently over your cheekbone, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You're really beautiful when you're quiet, you know that?”
The words are sincere, adoring. There's no pressure behind them, just a simple, heartfelt observation. And with that, the knot in your chest pulls taut.
The doorbell rings, a sharp sound that cuts through the quiet intimacy of the fort. Jake gives you a reluctant squeeze before carefully untangling himself.
He scrambles out of the fort, all gangly limbs and boyish energy. “Food's here! Don't move, I'll get it. Be right back.”
He pads to the door, and you hear the muffled exchange with the delivery person. He returns a moment later, balancing two bags of food and a triumphant smile.
He kneels back at the entrance to the fort, holding up the bags. “Feast acquired.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hope you're ready for a truly irresponsible amount of drunken noodles.”
He spreads the containers out on the coffee table, the rich, spicy aroma filling the small space. He hands you a pair of chopsticks, his fingers brushing against yours. He's completely in his element, happy, domestic, utterly unaware of the storm raging behind your calm exterior.
He takes a big bite, groaning appreciatively. “Okay, that's the stuff.” He nudges your container closer to you. “Eat up, love. You need your energy.” He says it with a playful, suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, completely oblivious to the fact that the thought of ‘later’ makes your stomach clench with a fresh wave of anxiety.
He eats with gusto, telling you a story about Jungwon trying to use a wok in his dorm kitchen and nearly setting off the sprinkler system. He's so open, so bright. Every laugh, every casual "love," feels like a spotlight on the one thing you're withholding.
He deserves someone who can match this light, not someone who feels like they're going to dim it.
Nonetheless, you force a smile and take a bite of food.
He watches you eat, his expression full of simple happiness. “Good, right? I told them 'Thai hot' this time. Hope it's not too much for you.” He takes another enthusiastic bite, completely absorbed in the meal and your company.
The food is delicious, perfectly spicy, but it tastes like ash in your mouth. Jake chatters on, completely at ease, his knee brushing against yours under the blanket fort. The fairy lights twinkle, casting a warm glow on his face— a face that holds no suspicion, no doubt, only pure, unwavering trust.
He finishes his food and leans back against the pillows with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. That hit the spot.” He turns to you, his eyes soft. “So... what do you wanna do now? We could finish the movie, or I think Jungwon left a deck of cards here somewhere...” He trails off, his gaze lingering on your face, a faint, hopeful smile playing on his lips. “Or we could just... stay here.”
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. The gesture is so tender, so sure. He's building a future in this little fort, brick by brick, and he's doing it with the absolute conviction that you're going to be there with him.
His voice drops to a near-whisper, intimate and warm. “I really like having you here, y/n. Like... a lot.”
The words hang in the air, sincere and heavy. He doesn't press for a response, just lets the statement sit, his thumb stroking your cheek. The silence stretches, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of his breathing. He's waiting, but not demanding. He's just... happy.
He deserves someone who doesn't have to force a smile. He deserves someone who can say "I like having you here, too" and mean it with their whole heart.
Instead of responding, you kiss him, trying to lose yourself in the physical, the one thing you’ve always known.
He melts into the kiss immediately, a soft, surprised sound escaping him before he deepens it. His hands come up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline. He tastes like spicy noodles and sweet, uncomplicated happiness.
For a moment, it works. The physical connection is a familiar anchor, something you've always been able to control. His lips are warm and eager, his body leaning into yours, pressing you back into the pillows of the fort.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his glasses slightly fogged. “Whoa. Okay.” He smiles, a little dazed. “Best dessert ever.”
He doesn't question the sudden intensity, just accepts it as another gift. He shifts, leaning over you, his weight comfortable and familiar. His eyes search yours, dark and full of affection.
He kisses you again, slower this time, more deliberate. His voice is a husky murmur against your lips. “I love kissing you. Love... all of this.”
The words are a soft caress, but they land like a blow. He's so open, so vulnerable in this moment, completely surrendered to the feeling. His trust is a tangible thing in the close, warm air of the blanket fort. You can feel the walls you're trying to rebuild crumbling under the sheer force of his sincerity.
He nuzzles your neck, his breath warm on your skin. “You're everything, you know that?” He says it like it's the simplest truth in the world.
He deserves someone who can hear that and believe it.
He lets out a soft, shuddering breath as you pull him closer, his body molding against yours. He kisses you with a renewed hunger, his hands sliding from your face down to your hips, gripping you possessively. “That's it, love. Just feel it.”
The physicality is intense, a desperate attempt to drown out the noise in your head with sensation. He responds to your urgency, his movements becoming less gentle, more claiming. The fairy lights above cast shifting patterns on the blankets as he moves over you.
He breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes dark with desire and something infinitely softer. “Let me... let me make you feel good, y/n.” His voice is rough, pleading in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with connection. “Just let me take care of you.”
His hands are everywhere, tracing familiar paths, seeking to comfort and arouse in equal measure. He's trying to give you an escape, to pull you back into the simple, physical world where everything makes sense. But every tender touch, every whispered endearment, only highlights the chasm between the body he's worshipping and the mind that's screaming in silence.
He kisses a path along your collarbone, his lips warm and insistent. “You're so perfect for me.” The words are a fervent prayer against your skin. “So fucking perfect.”
He deserves someone who feels perfect, not someone who's just pretending to be.
A low groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss him back with fervor. He responds in kind, his earlier tenderness giving way to a raw, hungry need. His hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your skin. “That's it, baby. Just like that. Don't think.”
He shifts, settling more fully between your legs, the weight of him a familiar and comforting pressure. The blanket fort feels like its own universe, insulated from everything but the sound of your shared breaths and the rustle of fabric.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with intensity behind his fogged glasses. “I want to hear you. I want to know I'm making you feel as good as you make me feel.” His voice is thick with desire, but underneath it is a thread of something deeper, something profoundly vulnerable.
He kisses you again, deep and searching, as if trying to pull the truth straight from your soul. His hips press against yours, a slow, deliberate rhythm beginning. The physical connection is electric, a circuit trying to close, but the disconnect in your mind only seems to grow louder.
He murmurs against your mouth, his words a hot, desperate whisper. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
The plea hangs in the air, a direct challenge to the wall you're clinging to. He's not just asking for physical consent; he's asking for you, all of you. The trust in his eyes is absolute, and it feels like it might break you.
The problem isn’t that you don’t want him. It’s that you can’t understand why he would want you.
“I want this. I want you, Jake.” It’s the first truth you’ve spoken all day.
His eyes flutter shut for a second, a wave of pure, unadulterated relief washing over his features. When he opens them, they're glistening. “You're everything, y/n.” He says it like a vow, his voice thick with emotion as he kisses you again, deep and slow and full of a love so fierce it steals your breath.
You move with a sudden, practiced grace, reversing your positions in the nest of blankets. Jake lets out a soft, surprised gasp as he lands on his back, his glasses knocked slightly askew. He blinks up at you, his expression a mix of shock and instant, raw arousal.
His breath hitches, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “Oh. Okay. Like that, is it?” He reaches up to push his glasses back into place, his eyes darkening with hunger. “Fuck, yes. Take what you need, pretty.”
He surrenders immediately, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the bare skin above your waistband. He watches you with an intense, unwavering focus, his body already arching slightly into your touch.
His voice drops to a husky, eager whisper. “Show me. Don't be gentle. I can take it.”
And you’re anything but gentle, setting a brutal pace, leaning down to kiss him hard, biting his lip between your teeth.
He deserves someone who can handle this power without using it as a weapon against themselves.
A sharp, choked-off moan escapes him as you set the pace, his head falling back against the pillows. He meets your fierce kiss with equal fervor, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Yeah, fuck—just like that, baby.” His words are a broken, breathless plea. “Harder.”
The blanket fort shakes with the force of your movements. The fairy lights swing, casting frantic, dizzying shadows. Jake is utterly lost in the sensation, his body arching and straining beneath you, every gasp and groan a raw, honest sound.
He fists a hand in your hair, pulling you down for another searing kiss. “You feel so fucking good. I'm never gonna get enough of you. Never.” His voice is ragged, stripped bare.
He's meeting you thrust for thrust, his hips bucking wildly, completely consumed by the physicality of it. For a moment, it seems to work. The world narrows to sweat-slick skin and pounding hearts. But then his eyes lock with yours, and the raw, adoring love in them is still there, shining through the pleasure, undeniable.
He reaches up, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that feels out of place in the brutal rhythm. “My y/n.” It's a whisper, a prayer. “My gorgeous girl.”
The words land like a physical blow, a stark contrast to the frantic, punishing pace you've set. He's giving you everything— his body, his trust, his heart, and you're trying to fuck the feeling away. The disconnect is a chasm, and you're falling into it.
His body tenses beneath you, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he finds his release. “Fuck— y/n—“ He holds onto you like you're the only solid thing in the world, his entire body shuddering.
In the sudden, heavy quiet that follows, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing, he looks up at you. His face is flushed, his glasses steamed, his expression one of utterly spent, vulnerable devotion.
He brings a shaky hand up to your face, his thumb brushing over your lip. “I love you.” He says it softly, simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “So much.”
The words hang in the air, sincere and absolute. The frantic energy is gone, leaving only the stark truth of the moment. He's lying beneath you, completely exposed, and he's waiting.
His chest is still heaving, his eyes hazy with pleasure and emotion. He searches your face, his expression softening with a dawning concern when he doesn't find an immediate response. “Hey... you okay?” His voice is rough but gentle.
He slowly sits up, wincing slightly, and pulls you with him, wrapping his arms around you so you're cradled against his chest. The frantic energy of moments before has evaporated, leaving a thick, intimate silence in the blanket fort.
He rests his chin on top of your head, his breathing gradually slowing. “That was... intense.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “In a really, really good way.” He holds you tighter. “You're shaking, love.”
He doesn't press, doesn't ask for words. He just holds you, his heartbeat a steady, calming rhythm against your ear. The fairy lights twinkle softly, illuminating the disarray of blankets and the empty Thai food containers. The trust in his quiet embrace is more overwhelming than any physical act.
He kisses your hair, his voice a soft murmur. “It's okay. You don't have to say anything. Just... I've got you.”
You cling to him tighter, burying your face in his neck.
You don’t deserve his love.
He holds you close, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back. He doesn't say anything else, just lets you hide against him, his presence a solid, unwavering anchor in the quiet room. “Shhh. I've got you. Always.”
Jake rocks you slightly, his embrace firm and secure. You can feel the steady, reassuring thump of his heart against your cheek.
After a long while, he speaks, his voice a low, gentle rumble. “You wanna just... stay here tonight? In the fort? We don't have to do anything else.” He kisses your temple. “Just sleep. I'll hold you.”
He shifts carefully, reaching to pull a softer, heavier blanket over both of you. The fort feels like a cocoon, safe and insulated from the world outside. He adjusts the pillows behind you, his movements careful, making sure you're comfortable.
He lies back down, pulling you with him so you're curled against his side, your head on his chest. “However you need me, y/n. However you want me. I'm here.”
He turns off the fairy lights, plunging the fort into a soft, comfortable darkness. The only light comes from the muted screen of the laptop, casting a faint blue glow. His breathing evens out, deep and calm. He doesn't ask any more questions. He just holds you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm until, eventually, his own breathing deepens into the rhythm of sleep.
You drift off in the warmth and safety of Jake's arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a lullaby against your ear. The last thing you're aware of is his hand, still gently stroking your hair even as sleep claims him.
The next few days pass in a series of small, quiet withdrawals. On Monday, you meet Jake for coffee and your hand hesitates for a fraction of a second before sliding into his. He doesn't seem to notice, just beams and laces his fingers through yours, talking animatedly about his programming project.
On Tuesday night, after a movie at his place, you cut the evening short, claiming an early class. Jake walks you to the door, his hug lingering. "Text me when you get home, yeah?" he says, his trust in you absolute. You nod, but the action feel heavy.
By Thursday, your laughter at his jokes comes a beat too late, the sound a little hollow. Jake just grins, too wrapped up in his happiness to hear the strain. He suggests plans for the weekend, and you mumble something about being "swamped with homework," a vague excuse you've never used with him before. He accepts it without question, his smile only slightly dimming. "No worries, love. Whenever you're free."
By Friday you were tangled in Jake’s bedsheets.
But even the sex became less of a connection and more of an act, a battle to take hold over your anxiety. Sex is the one thing that had always been safe for you.
It was never about emotion, until Jake. It was about teaching, about control, and using your body in a way that made you feel powerful instead of used.
He was currently sprawled beneath you, eyes glassy with pleasure and pure adoration, even as you were slamming his cock in and out of you with a force to knock the wind from his chest.
He looked so beautiful like this. He deserves someone who can tell him that.
Instead you just grind onto him harder, driving him deeper, clawing at his hips as you hold yourself steady.
Your legs were literally burning, every muscle screaming at you to stop. And you should’ve a long time ago. You weren’t even sure how long you had been going for, enough for Jake to have filled you up three times already.
That’s likely why he’s so quiet now, just staring up at you with slightly unfocused eyes, body pliant and glistening with a thick sheen of sweat. The only sounds that were leaving him were soft whimpers and the occasional high pitched keen when you hit a spot inside of yourself just right.
But it was working. He wasn’t calling you perfect. He wasn’t telling you he loved you. He was just lying there, taking everything you were giving to him— taking from him.
Your anxious thoughts had stopped completely by now, pleasure reworking mind as you continued to milk him dry, evidence of the previous rounds pooling at his base, spilling over his hips.
You dip a finger into the slick, coating the tip and bring it up to Jake’s already parted lips. “Open, pup. Taste.”
He obliged without hesitation taking your finger into his mouth, tasting himself and sucking it clean almost greedily.
The sight would be almost pathetic if he wasn’t so damn beautiful. You remember that first night he came for lessons, how he had looked at you after tasting you for the first time— cheeks flushed, lips swollen, heart eyes wide as saucers as he started at you like you were the most perfect girl in the world.
You remember how even then, barely knowing him, you just wanted to reach down and hold him and kiss him and tell him how pretty he was.
And now, even as you’re practically fucking the life out of him, he’s still looking at you the same way. Like you hung the goddamn moon.
You don’t deserve to be looked at like this.
Your pace begins to falter, anxiety creeping back in. You’re not ready for the wave of guilt that’s going to wash over you.
You grab Jake’s pliant wrist, bringing his hand to rest against your face, palm flat against your cheek. “Hit me, pup.”
He stares up at you and blinks once, twice trying to gather his thoughts through the thick haze of overstimulation. His voice is raspy, barely there at all. “Huh?”
You huff, patience wearing thin, not with him but with yourself. “I said hit me.”
If anything, he looks like you’ve just struck him. He physically flinches at the words, furrowing his brows like he can’t believe what you’ve just asked of him.
“Baby I—… I can’t do that.” He says almost in a pleading tone. “Please, love. I don’t want to hurt you.” His eyes start to glistening with unshed tears.
You try to take matters into your own hands, placing your own hand over his, gripping the sides, pulling back. Just as you push his hand towards your face, Jake musters up every bit of strength he has to force back against you, spinning his palm in yours and locking your fingers together.
He brings your joined hand down to his lips and places an achingly tender to kiss to your knuckles before placing it over his frantic heart. “I said no, y/n. I won’t hurt you.” His voice is soft, but firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
“Why the hell not?” In hindsight, you knew this was a stupid question to ask, because you knew the answer. It was the same answer you had been avoiding all night, all week even.
“Because I love you.” He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like loving you isn’t a burden to him, isn’t a weight he’s carrying on his chest. You don’t understand.
You bite your lip to stop it from trembling and dismount Jake, trying and failing to ignore the way he winces when you move. Guilt immediately coils in your stomach. Not only had you literally abused his body, but you also asked the sweetest boy in the world to do the unthinkable. You were such a fucking monster.
You clean Jake off with a damp rag quietly and climb into bed next to him. “Let’s just go to sleep.” Again, you never said it back. And again, he doesn’t press.
He just gathers you to his chest, holding you like you’re the one who’s broken, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. His breathing evens out in less than minutes, sleep claiming his spent body. You lay there in the dark for what feels like hours, silent tears soaking your face.
You deserve to be treated the way you treated him tonight.
On Saturday evening, you're sitting on his couch, a respectable foot of space between you. Jake is telling a story, his hands gesturing wildly, completely oblivious to the distance. He reaches over to tuck your hair behind your ear, a familiar, tender gesture. You flinch, just slightly. His hand stills.
He lowers his hand slowly, his smile fading into a look of quiet confusion. “Hey. You've been... quiet. All week. And then last night..” The mention of last night hits like a blow to your chest. “Is everything okay? Did I do something?”His voice is gentle, not accusing.
The directness of the question, after days of him not noticing, catches you off guard. He's finally looking at you, really looking, and the unwavering trust in his eyes is suddenly unbearable.
The silence stretches. Jake waits, his brow furrowed slightly, his usual easy confidence replaced by a vulnerable concern. He doesn't push, just watches you, giving you space to answer. The trust in his gaze is a weight you can no longer carry.
He shifts closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You can talk to me, love. Whatever it is.” He reaches for your hand, but you pull it back into your lap before he can make contact. The action is small, but it lands like a thunderclap in the quiet room.
His face falls. He looks at his empty hand, then back at you, a dawning hurt in his eyes. “Okay. That's... new.” He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath. “You've been pulling away all week. I kept telling myself I was imagining it. That you were just busy. But you're not just busy… are you?”
He stands up abruptly, pacing a few steps away before turning to face you. The casual comfort of a moment ago is gone, replaced by a tense, raw energy.
His voice is tight, laced with a pain he's been trying to ignore. “What's going on? Just tell me. Are you... are you done with this? With me?” The question hangs in the air, stark and terrifying.
He deserves the truth. The words feel like shards of glass in your throat.
“You told me you loved me.”
He freezes mid-pace, his expression shifting from hurt to pure confusion. He blinks, his brow furrowing behind his glasses. “...Yeah.” He says it slowly, as if stating the obvious. “Because I do.”
He takes a tentative step back toward the couch, his eyes searching your face, trying to understand the connection you're making. There's no anger, just a deep, bewildered concern.
His voice is soft, almost pleading. “How is that a problem? That's... that's a good thing, isn't it? I love you.” He says it again, simpler this time, like he's trying to reassure you.
He sits down on the edge of the coffee table, facing you, his knees almost touching yours. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze intense and utterly sincere.
He shakes his head, a small, confused smile tugging at his lips. “I don't get it. That's what this is about? Me loving you?” He reaches out, hesitates, and then gently rests his hand on your knee, his touch feather-light. “Baby, that's the whole point.”
He looks at you with such open, earnest confusion. He'd braced for a rejection, for you to say you were bored or wanted to see other people. This... this he didn't see coming.
“How can you?” Your voice breaks halfway through, a traitorous vulnerable sound.
His hand on your knee stills. The question hangs in the air between you, raw and sharp. He doesn't move for a long moment, just stares at you like you've spoken a language he's never heard before.
When he speaks, his voice is barely a rasp. “How can I... what? Love you?” He sits back, his hand falling away from your knee. He reaches up and pushes his glasses up, his fingers dragging slowly across his brow. “Y/n, I—“ He stops, swallows hard, and starts again, slower. “You're asking me how I can love you? Like it doesn't make sense?”
He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, they're bright, wet. He doesn't look angry. He looks like he's just found out the floor he was standing on was never there.
He shakes his head, a huff of a laugh escaping him— hollow, disbelieving. “I thought we were done with walls. I thought—fuck.” He drags both hands down his face. “Y/n, I've spent every second with you feeling like the luckiest person in the world. And you've been sitting here believing I got it wrong.”
You reach out feeling so much guilt and shame, wanting to comfort him, you’re own feelings overshadowed by his confused hurt. But you stop yourself, hand hovering. “You don't get it. No one's ever wanted me— just me.”
He catches your hovering hand, not with force, but gently, holding it between both of his. His touch is warm, grounding. “Just you?” His voice cracks. “Y/n, what the hell do you think I've been seeing this whole time?”
His thumbs stroke the back of your hand, his gaze locked on yours, intense and pleading. The confusion in his eyes is starting to clear, replaced by a dawning, heartbreaking understanding.
He leans forward, his voice dropping to a fervent whisper. “The you who gets flour all over my kitchen. The you who cries during shitty rom-coms. The you who argues with me about the best way to fold a fucking blanket.” His eyes are shining now. “That's the you I want. That's the you I'm in love with.”
He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, desperate kiss to your knuckles. The gesture is so tender it feels like an accusation.
He looks up at you, his expression raw and open. “The sex goddess, the tutor... that was just the door you left open. I walked through it for you. Not the fantasy.” His voice breaks. “How can you not see that?”
The tears come before you can swallow them back, your voice a small broken thing. “Don’t you get it, Jake? I don’t deserve you.”
He lets out a sharp, pained breath, like you've just punched him in the chest. He pulls you forward off the couch and into his arms, holding you tight against him as you cry. “Don't. Don't you fucking say that.” His voice is rough with emotion, his arms a vice around you.
He holds you there on the floor, his face buried in your hair. His body is trembling slightly, not with anger, but with a fierce, protective intensity.
He pulls back just enough to cradle your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. His own eyes are wet, his expression utterly devastated. “You don't get to decide what I deserve. You don't get to decide that you're not it.” His thumbs swipe at your tears, his touch desperate.
His voice drops to a broken whisper. “I deserve the woman who makes me feel like I can breathe. The one who makes my shitty apartment feel like a home. That's you. That's been you.”
He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing shaky. The silence in the room is heavy, filled only with the sound of your quiet sobs and his ragged breaths. He's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored.
He whispers, his lips brushing against your forehead. “Please. Stop trying to protect me from you. That's the one thing I can't handle.”
He stays like that for a long moment, just holding you, his presence a solid, unwavering force against the storm inside you. He doesn't try to offer easy platitudes or empty reassurances. He just holds you, letting the truth of his words settle in the space between you.
He finally leans back, his hands still framing your face. His gaze is clear now, full of a determined, aching love. “Let me love you, y/n. Just…let me.”
You cling to him, sobbing. “I’m so scared, Jake.”
He pulls you back into his chest, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. “I know.” He whispers the words into your hair, his voice thick. “I'm scared too. But I'm not going anywhere.”
He rocks you gently, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles on your back. The tension in his shoulders is palpable, but his embrace is nothing but safe, nothing but sure.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You don't have to deserve me. You just have to let me stay.” His voice is soft, unwavering. “That's all I'm asking.”
He holds you until your sobs subside into shaky breaths, until the frantic pounding of your heart begins to slow against his. He doesn't rush you, doesn't try to fill the silence with more words. He just holds you, his own fears quiet in the face of yours.
When he finally speaks again, his voice low and steady. “We don't have to figure it all out tonight. Just... be here with me. However you can.”
He shifts, leaning back against the couch, pulling you with him so you're curled against his side. He grabs the blanket from the couch and drapes it over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.
He rests his cheek against your hair, his breathing slowly syncing with yours. “I'm not going anywhere, y/n. I promise.”
The room is quiet now, the earlier tension replaced by a heavy, exhausted calm. He doesn't ask for anything else. He just holds you, his presence a constant, patient anchor in the dark.
You cling to him tighter, your voice a quiet echo in the room. “I want to let myself love you. But I’m so scared of what will happen when I do.” The words land with the weight of years of thinking you could never deserve something as pure as Jake’s love.
He tightens his arm around you, his voice a soft, steady murmur against your temple. “Then I'll be scared with you. We can be scared together.” He kisses your hairline. “That's what this is, yeah? Not you alone. Us.”
He shifts, just enough to look down at you, his eyes soft and earnest in the dim light. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek.
His smile is small, a little wobbly, but genuine. “And when you're ready... when you're not so scared... I'll be here. Waiting.” He says it like a simple fact, like the sun rising. “I'm not going to break if you take your time. I'm pretty sturdy, you know.”
He settles back against the couch, pulling you more comfortably into the curve of his body. The blanket fort lies dismantled around you, a silent witness to the night's unraveling and this fragile, new beginning.
He lets out a long, slow breath, his body relaxing into yours. “Just stay. That's enough for me.”
He doesn't say anything else. He just holds you, his heartbeat a steady reassuring rhythm under your ear, a promise, without any words at all.
The next few days are a study in quiet, tentative steps. You don't say the words back, not yet. But the frantic energy of your retreat is gone, replaced by a deliberate, careful presence. You reach for his hand without hesitation. You stay the whole night Saturday, Sunday, and again on Monday, curled against him until morning.
You spend more time with Jake, than without him. It doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels right.
Jake notices the shift. He doesn't comment on it, but you see it in the way his eyes soften when you walk into a room, in the way his smile loses its edge of worry. He meets you where you are, his trust a patient, steady force.
He greets you at the door on Tuesday, his face lighting up. He doesn't kiss you hello, just takes your bag and laces his fingers through yours, pulling you inside. “Made that pizza you like. The one with the stuffed crust.” He says it like it's a grand announcement, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
On Thursday, you're studying on his floor, textbooks spread between you. “You look cute when you’re focused.” You reach out and brush the space between his eyebrows where there’s a slight crease. The compliment doesn’t feel heavy when it leaves you, just easy, natural. He glances up, a slow, warm smile spreading across his face before he goes back to his notes, his ankle resting against yours.
It's in these small, quiet moments that the fear begins to feel less like a prison and more like something you can hold alongside everything else. He makes space for it, without ever making it the center of the room.
On Friday night, you're both half-asleep on the couch. He stirs, his arm tightening around your waist. “Y/n?” His voice is thick with sleep. “You good?”
You mumble in that syrupy half-sleep haze against him. “Mhmm. Love you.” The words are quiet, slurred against him, almost incoherent to your own ears.
But Jake hears it, and his entire body goes still. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the laptop and your own sleepy breathing. You feel his breath catch, then release in a slow, shaky exhale.
His voice is a hushed, reverent whisper, barely audible. “What did you say?”
He doesn't move, doesn't dare to breathe too loud, as if the moment might shatter. His hand on your waist is trembling slightly.
He shifts just enough to look down at your face in the dim light, his eyes wide and glistening behind his glasses. “Y/n? Love, did you just...?”
He waits, his hope a tangible, fragile thing in the quiet room. He won't push, won't demand you repeat it if you were only dreaming. But his heart is pounding against your cheek, a frantic, hopeful rhythm.
You snuggle closer without opening your eyes, mumbling. “You heard me.”
A soft, choked sound escapes him— half a laugh, half a sob. He pulls you tighter against his chest, burying his face in your hair. His shoulders shake once, quietly. “Yeah. Yeah, I heard you.” His voice is thick with emotion, rough with sleep and something infinitely softer.
He holds you like that for a long time, until his breathing evens out and his grip relaxes into something calm and sure.
He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering. “Go back to sleep, pretty. I’ve got you.”
He lets out a watery laugh, his breath huffing warm against your hair. “I love you.” He says it immediately, his voice firm and clear, no trace of sleep left in it. “I love you so much, Y/n.”
He says it again, and again, a quiet litany against your skin as he holds you, each repetition a vow, an anchor, a promise.
His voice drops to a whisper, full of awe. “My y/n. I love you.”
He doesn't let go, even as his own breathing deepens into sleep. He holds you through the night, the words a final, gentle seal on the wall you'd tried so hard to keep between you.
And as you drift off, wrapped in the warmth of him, the fear doesn’t feel so loud anymore. It’s just a whisper, fading into the steady, sure rhythm of his heart.
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