RUINED 𓊆ྀི sim. jake𓊇ྀི
RUINED ─ snippet of ‘nettles’ going solo was never part of the plan— neither was jake sim, your younger brother’s best friend.
❪ 6102 ❫ ｡ jake 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 brother’s best friend ✿
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ! ʚɞ : smut - sub!jake, nerd jake, soft dom reader, use of “noona”, semi public sexual interaction (gym), whimpering, teasing, sexual tension, handjob (thru clothes), reader is just a tease, ruined orgasm, cum in pants. 𓏻
NETTLES ON WATTPAD ( this is a snippet of my book- context lacks but it doesn’t impact anything. ) ♯ younger brother’s best friend ♯forbidden love ♯ idol x idol
▬▬ THE GYM IS in the basement.
Three floors down from the break room, which sounds simple enough except the Hybe building has the elevator logic of a fever dream- you press B1 and it takes you to B1- but through a route that involves stopping at 2 for no goddamn reason.
You stand in the elevator with your bag and your water bottle- in the mirror you check your figure, it's true that you've lost a bit of weight, which is probably not the healthiest motivation but is at least— a motivation.
The doors open at 2 and nobody gets on. You stare at the gap for a bit before it closes back again.
You arrive at B1 forty-five seconds later, walk down the corridor, badge your way through the frosted glass door and push into the gym.
It's mostly empty at this hour, which is what you'd counted on— a few pieces of equipment running, one staff member at the far end getting ready to leave.
So you drop your bag on the bench by the entrance, pull your hair up, put your earphones in.
And then you see him.
Jake is on the treadmill at the far end— earphones in, eyes forward, moving at a pace that tells he's been here for a while already— his jacket is off and draped over the handle.
Of course he's here.
Of fucking course.
You stand by the bench for approximately three seconds doing a very quick internal calculation: 'leave', which would be weird and noticeable; or 'stay', which is fine— this is a company gym, you're allowed to be here, you're a professional.
You stay.
You pick a treadmill four machines down from his, set your water bottle in the holder, and start your warmup without looking in his direction.
For about six minutes, this works just fine.
You find your pace, settle into it, and stare at the wall in front of you, trying to focus on a true crime podcast that honestly— doesn't even go past your ears.
Then the aircon kicks up a gear.
The basement gym is always cooler than the rest of the building but right now it tips from cool into 'actually kind of cold' —getting into your shoulders when you're not moving hard enough to compensate for it. You're in a short-sleeved training top— arms covered in goosebumps— which is a deeply unpleasant sensation.
You slow the treadmill, step off, and rummage in your bag for a jacket.
Which you don't have, because you left it in the break room earlier and apparently Nishimura Riki is too focused on being a dork to notice your black jacket splayed on the couch.
Fantastic, you think. Fucking great.
You stand there for a second weighing your options— get back on the treadmill and just suffer through it, go back upstairs for the jacket which defeats the entire purpose, or—
"Here."
You look up.
Jake is beside you, which —you hadn't heard him approach over your earphones, and your heart does one involuntary loud beat. He's holding out his zip-up— the Nike one that had been on the treadmill handle — already extended toward you, not quite meeting your eyes.
"I'm done with it," he says. "I run hot."
You look at the jacket.
He's looking at a point somewhere near your left shoulder, expression neutral, his hair is messy, beads of sweat running down his neck to his sharp collarbone.
"I'm fine," you shake your head.
"You're freezing," he insists, to your left shoulder.
"I'm not—"
"Na-ri." He says it quietly, just your name. Not noona.
You take the jacket— partly because you don't want to argue but also because you're terribly freezing at the moment. Like 'about to die' freezing.
"Thank you," you test the fabric in your hands.
It's a a grey Nike tech fleece— when you put it on, it's warm like it's been worn recently, and it's big on you— Jake is considerably broader than you, which you are not going to think about.
You zip it up to the collar and get back on the treadmill. It has a specific smell of laundry detergent- the kind that reminds you of your childhood soap, comforting in a way— a little bit like Jake.
You work out in silence for the next twenty minutes. Jake moves to the weights- you move to the mat for stretching.
At some point you're both just existing in the same space, doing separate things, and it's almost normal except for the awareness that is always, always present when Jake is within thirty feet of you.
You’re busy stretching your sore limbs when the podcast you were totally focused on instantly cuts. You think it's your phone at first- but it's sitting on the floor, untouched, so you reach for your earphones instead.
You pull them out, look at them uselessly when you see the little red light flicking — and cast around for somewhere to put the devices while you finish the cooldown stretch.
Your pockets— your own pockets, the ones in your training sweats— are too small, just the tiny decorative kind that fit approximately one airpod, not the whole box.
The jacket pockets, though.
You push the earphones into the left pocket of Jake's zip-up but the second you do, your fingers brush something.
You pause, wrapping your digits around the foreign object and pull your hand back out slowly.
When you look down at your palm, it's a small flower that you see.
Yellow.
Then another one, slightly crushed, same color. Small and bright and definitely not yours —you hadn't packed any, and they're not from the pink and white batch in your bag, they're a completely different color.
They're the kind that— you know for a fact had been in the photoshoot mix, the ones that had been left out of the box at reception.
Left out deliberately.
Because someone had sorted through the box and separated them. The yellow ones on one side and the pink and white ones on the other.
Jay, you'd thought, when the box arrived. Obviously Jay.
Jay who doesn't even know your favorite colors— if you're being completely honest. Jay who would've grabbed the whole box without opening it.
You look up slowly.
Jake is at the weights bench, back partially to you, and you watch the exact moment he registers the silence- and the shift in the room's energy, which makes him glance over.
The second he sees what's in your hand, everything about him goes very still.
The flush starts immediately, the one that begins at his neck and moves upward with absolutely no chill, he sets the weight down with slightly more care than necessary.
"Was it you?" your voice comes out a little breathless.
He doesn't answer— which is also an answer.
You stand up from the mat, the little yellow flowers still in your palm, and cross the gym toward him. Jake tracks your approach in his peripheral vision and does absolutely nothing about it— doesn't move, doesn't deflect, just stands there.
You stop in front of him and he looks at you for a second, then back at the wall.
Then you drop your head forward with a long, slow exhale through your nose— you're not angry exactly, you're something more complicated than angry — and when you look back up your voice comes out quiet and a little tired.
"The magazine," you say. "And now this." You hold the flowers up slightly. "What's going on with you, Jake."
It comes out condescending. You know it does- not cruel, but with an edge to it.
Jake's jaw tightens slightly— still he doesn't look at you properly.
"It's just flowers," he mutters, quietly.
"It's not just flowers and you know that."
Jake doesn't answer right away. He just stands there in front of the weight bench, chest still rising and falling from his set, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. His eyes flick from the little yellow flowers in your palm to your face, then back down again like he can't decide which is safer to look at.
Finally, he speaks, voice low and careful.
"I saw them when they were sorting the photoshoot leftovers," he says, almost like he's confessing to a crime. "The yellow ones... they reminded me of that one stage outfit you wore for Coachella. The one with the pink accents on the sleeves. You looked really happy that day. And so— since it's your favorite color, i thought i'd just leave the pink ones. And- well... the white ones are because I remember you said you couldn't find white flowers."
The words land softly, but they hit like a fucking truck.
He remembered. Not just the colors. Not just the flowers.
He remembered a specific stage outfit from years ago and the offhand comment you made once about liking white flowers.
You feel something dangerous twist in your chest.
This is not good.
"Jaeyun," you say, voice quieter now.
He straightens a little at the way you say his full name, eyes wide and attentive— almost endearingly like a puppy waiting for instruction.
You take one step closer. Then another. Until you're standing right in front of him, close enough that you can see the way his pulse jumps in his throat.
Jake doesn't move, he just looks down at you, breathing shallow, waiting. His hands are clenched at his sides like he's physically stopping himself from reaching out.
Then you lift your hand slowly and press the yellow flowers against his chest, right over his heart.
He inhales sharply at the contact— like it pains him.
"You keep doing things like this," you murmur, voice low. "Bringing me food at 3 AM. Sorting flowers for me. Showing up when I'm falling apart. What am I supposed to do with you, huh?"
"I know... i know i shouldn't have... but I couldn't stop thinking about how happy you looked wearing that color. I just wanted you to have something that made you feel that way again."
The words hit somewhere deep and tender and extremely inconvenient.
Sim Jaeyun needs to stop making you feel these things.
You stare at him, the small yellow flowers still warm from your palm against his chest- his heart is hammering so hard you can feel it through the thin, damp fabric of his shirt.
You're close- too close. But you still take one step closer because too much is never enough.
There's almost no space left between your bodies now, your hand stays pressed to his chest for a second longer before it slides slowly upward, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone.
Jake's breath catches sharply at the contact- his skin is fever-hot, slightly damp, and you feel the rapid flutter of his pulse when your fingertips reach the side of his neck.
And before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, low and rough:
"If you weren't Jay's best friend ... I'd really want you, Jaeyun."
For a second he just stares at you, stunned, lips parted. Then, in that soft, nerdy, slightly rambling tone he gets when he's nervous, he starts:
"Well...technically Jay isn't my best friend. I'm- closer to Heeseung-hyung these days. We've been rooming together longer— we have more overlapping schedules and we talk about music production stuff more... and we share the same skincare routine now and—"
Sim Jaeyun is quite literally trying to distract himself with words— typical. Maybe he thinks that his explanation is magically going to bypass every single moral you have- maybe he thinks that— just because he's technically closer to Heeseung, it's gonna make it all okay.
"Stop with the scientific reasoning," you cut him off, voice husky.
Jake shuts his mouth instantly, looking down at you like he'd do anything you told him to.
The silence stretches between you thickly and you can quite literally feel the heat pouring off his body in waves.
You don't kiss his mouth. You won't. His mouth feels too intimate— like the door to his soul.
So you just lean in, tilting your head until your lips are hovering barely an inch from the side of his throat. You breathe there —slow and warm. The air from your mouth ghosts over his skin, raising goosebumps instantly.
Jake shifts desperately.
You stay right there, breathing against his neck, letting the heat of your exhale drag slowly over his pulse point.
Jake makes a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat -barely audible, but it vibrates against your lips and sends heat rushing through you.
He shifts again, hips twitching forward once, helplessly, before he forces them still. You can feel the tension in every muscle, the way he's fighting so hard to stay good for you even while falling apart.
You move your mouth a fraction closer, lips brushing his skin without quite kissing him yet— just breathing torturously slow.
Jake's head tilts back slightly, offering more of his neck without a single word— and you enjoy every second of it- dragging it out like seeing him undone is your favorite thing in the world.
His breathing has turned ragged now, warm puffs of air brushing the top of your head with every shaky exhale.
Only then do you press your lips to his neck —open-mouthed and agonizingly slow.
Jake whimpers quietly, the sound vibrating against your mouth; skin tastes like salt and faint cologne as you kiss lower, dragging your lips down the column of his throat, savoring every tiny tremor that runs through him.
His hands finally settle on your waist — light, respectful, barely holding on, like he's terrified of gripping too tight; his fingers flex helplessly against the fabric of his own jacket that you're still wearing.
"You're not allowed to touch me more than that. Understand?" you whisper against his skin.
Jake nods frantically, fingers flexing against your waist but not tightening. He can't even get the words out.
When you suck gently at the sensitive spot where his neck meets his shoulder— his whole body jolts, a soft, needy sound escaping him before he bites his lip hard to contain it.
You feel the way his thighs tremble, the way his hips twitch forward again, seeking any kind of friction before he forces himself still.
You slide one hand under the hem of his shirt, palm flat against his stomach and his muscles tense and tremble violently under your touch, skin scorching hot and slightly slick with sweat.
You drag your nails lightly downward, stopping just above the waistband of his sweats— and his forehead drops until it almost rests against yours.
"Breathe, Jaeyun," you murmur against him, voice low and teasing. "I can hear how fast your heart is going."
His mouth is so close- lips brushing the corner of yours with every ragged exhale - but you turn your head at the last second and kiss the sharp line of his jaw instead.
Your thigh slides lightly between his legs, and that's when you feel it - the hard, throbbing heat of him pressing insistently against your thigh through his sweats.
He's so hard it has to be aching.
His hands stay exactly where you told him- resting lightly on your waist, trembling with the effort of not gripping harder.
You can feel every tiny twitch of his fingers, every shaky breath, every helpless roll of his hips as he tries (and obviously fails) to stay still against your thigh.
You bite down gently on his collarbone and Jake moans— soft, needy, and so fucking pretty it makes heat pool low in your stomach.
You soothe the spot with your tongue, then move higher, sucking a slow, deliberate mark just under his ear.
Your hand— slides lower, fingertips brushing just above the waistband of his sweats.
Jake's breath hitches, his whole body shuddering- as you press your palm flat against his lower stomach, feeling the way his muscles clench and tremble under your touch.
Then, slowly, you drag your hand down and cup him through his pants.
Jake's knees nearly buckle.
A broken, needy whimper escapes him as your hand presses against the hard, throbbing outline of his cock. He's burning hot even through the fabric, thick and straining desperately against your palm.
You rub him slowly, firmly, feeling every twitch and throb as he jerks into your touch.
"Noona-" His voice cracks, hoarse and wrecked. His forehead drops fully against your shoulder now, breathing hot and fast against your neck. "Please... I- fuck-"
You squeeze him gently through his sweats, stroking the full length of him with slow, deliberate pressure. Jake's hips stutter forward, chasing your hand, but he catches himself and forces them still again, whimpering softly into your shoulder.
"What's wrong puppy?" you look up at him doe-eyed.
His hands are still on your waist, fingers digging in just a little harder now, but he doesn't move them any further.
He's trying so hard to be good.
Jake lets out another shaky, mortified sound at the pet name, his forehead pressing harder against your shoulder like he needs the support to stay upright. You can feel the heat of his breath soaking through the fabric of your hoodie, warm and uneven, each exhale trembling.
"I— I can't... it's too much," he whispers, voice muffled against you. "Fuck i can't..." He trails off into a quiet whimper as you stroke him again, slower this time, dragging your palm from base to tip with firm pressure.
You feel everything. The way his cock throbs heavily against your hand, the faint damp spot growing under your palm where he's leaking for you, the way his thighs tremble every time you squeeze him.
"But you’re being so good for me already, Jaeyun."
You don't even know what possesses you to say these things, but you're so consumed with need that it doesn't even matter.
You feel every tremor that runs through his body, the way his stomach muscles clench under your other hand, the way his thighs shake as he fights the urge to rut against your palm.
You press your thigh a little firmer between his legs, giving him more pressure while your hand keeps stroking him slowly, torturously. Jake's head drops lower, lips brushing the side of your neck as he pants against your skin.
He doesn't kiss you.
He just breathes there, warm and shaky, completely overwhelmed.
"Noona... please," he whispers, voice hoarse and broken. "It feels so good... I— I'm trying so hard not to—"
Every stroke pulls another broken whimper out of him. His cock twitches hard against your hand, leaking steadily now, the damp spot under your palm growing warmer and slicker with every pass.
You can feel how close he already is— the way he throbs, the way his hips keep stuttering forward in tiny, helpless movements before he forces them still again.
"You're so close already, Jaeyun, look at you," you murmur against his neck, lips brushing his heated skin. "Just from my hand"
Jake lets out a mortified, needy sound, his fingers digging harder into your waist. "I— I can't help it... Noona, please— it feels too good..."
The gym is completely silent except for the wet drag of your hand over his clothed cock and his ragged, desperate breathing. The risk of someone walking in makes everything feel dangerous.
Jake's thighs are shaking now, his whole body trembling against yours as he fights to hold back.
"I'm- I'm sorry," he whimpers into your shoulder, voice cracking. "I'm trying not to- but you keep— fuck, Noona, I can't—"
The friction of your palm is relentless, a heavy, rhythmic pressure that has Jake completely unmoored— his breath coming in short, broken stabs that sound like he's sobbing without the tears.
He's so close, so painfully close, that you can feel the frantic, rhythmic pulsing of him against your hand, the heat of him almost searing through the fabric.
Just as you feel the tension in his thighs reach a breaking point; just as his hips begin to lurch upward in a final surge—
The heavy sound of a door swinging open echoes from the far end of the hallway.
The sound of approaching footsteps, casual and rhythmic, cuts through the heavy air of the gym like a blade.
You freeze. Your eyes snap toward the entrance, your heart leaping into your throat. You immediately pull your hand away, the sudden loss of contact making Jake's entire body lurch as if he's been dropped from a great height.
"Ah—" The sound is caught in his throat, a stifled, strangled noise that he desperately tries to swallow.
Because you let go right at the precipice, his orgasm doesn't come with a release; it comes as a frantic, uncoordinated spasm.
Without your hand to guide the friction or your body to absorb the impact, Jake's hips jerk once, twice, a violent, helpless twitching. He bites his lip so hard his knuckles turn white, his eyes squeezed shut, his face contorting in a mix of intense pleasure and frustration.
He cums in his sweats, the sensation sudden and jarringly incomplete— it's a ruined, messy release a heavy, pulsing throb that has nowhere to go, leaving him feeling hollow and achingly sensitive.
He shudders violently, a silent, body wracking tremor that leaves him limp and trembling against you, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder as he tries to regulate his breathing before the footsteps get any closer.
The dampness is immediate, a warm, spreading weight in his pants that feels humiliatingly obvious in the sudden quiet of the room.
"Jake?" a voice calls out from the hallway, muffled but approaching. It sounds like one of the staff members.
"I'm sorry," he breathes, the words barely a ghost of a sound, thick with the shame of how much he needed you to finish what you started.
He looks like a puppy that's been scolded, yet there's a dark, lingering hunger in his gaze that tells you— he'd let you do it all over again just to feel you near him.
It takes you about 40 seconds to regain your consciousness, it's almost like you were under artificial drugs— shame incapable of entering the fortress of your mind.
"Thank you for the flowers Jaeyun." you take off the jacket and hand it to him— as if you pressed a switch all of a sudden. "Forget this happened, yeah?"
And you leave.
▬▬ taglist : @jakeycakeys @justpassingdontworry @crypticscarrift @ja4hyvn @taelvvrzz @heejakexx68 @kienhawon @jinniepilled @eczlipse @wxnizz @cupcakeangel9 @yuudaiinhs @xysza. @lcvemonth @acaibowl37 @jjujjukeukeu @sinmiedoalamor @jjuhoonn @inadazeee @naiasayo @boundlesselixirflux @miles4eva @cinnamon-koo @theyluvcece00 @boxofchocolatessss
