#enha jake

[jaysbaefie]

the pushover | sjy

synopsis: in which jake sim finally stops letting you run the show—only to prove he’s always known how to handle you.

genre: childhood best friends au

pairing: childhood best friend!jake x bratty!reader

warnings: softdom!jake, bratty!reader, reader is so annoying but jake loves it, cornering, bantering, jake scolds reader often, jake is in loveeee, manhandling, spanking ass + pussy, oral (f.rec), spit play, tit play, unprotected p in v, clit play, biting..i think that’s it??

wc: 16.5k+

a/n: ayeee guess who’s back! this fic won on the poll so here i am delivering. this is also my 3k followers thank you post hehe!! thanks to each and every one of you guys that have been reading and supporting my work 😘 keep an eye out i’ll be putting out another pole soon. as always comments, notes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy reading :3

𓂃

you and jake sim grew up three houses apart on a street where everybody's moms knew everything and everybody's dads pretended they didn't. you were the loud one—the kid who rang doorbells like you were collecting taxes, who demanded attention with the confidence of someone who'd never been told no.

which you hadn't.

meanwhile jake... poor jake. he was the sweet, soft-spoken boy who trailed after you like a golden retriever with a bowl cut and velcro spiderman sneakers. he always had crumbs on his face, always carried your backpack without being asked, and always—always—laughed at your jokes, even when they weren't funny.

they were rarely funny.

you'd yell his name across the street, and he'd come running. you'd shove the glittery lip gloss you stole from your cousin into his hand and say "hold this," and he would. you'd call him "my assistant" during your bossy childhood games, and he accepted the demotion.

once, you made him cry because he didn't run fast enough during tag. you didn't apologize—instead you loudly declared, "omg, relax, you got tagged ONCE. big deal."

jake sniffled, you stomped away. and five minutes later he followed you again, because that's just how he was.

but somewhere around the end of high school, the world started pulling you in different directions. you were busy being dramatic, discovering tinted lip oils, complaining about your parents rules, and posting instagram stories from the passenger seat of other people's cars.

jake was busy doing things like... assignments. group projects. extracurriculars. things you mockingly called "nerd behavior."

he didn't go out much. he didn't chase chaos. he didn't orbit your life the way he did when you were younger. and you—in a classic act of emotional immaturity—pretended not to care.

at eighteen, you chose a college far away purely because the campus looked "aesthetic in fall," packed up your entire personality into two suitcases, and left without saying a proper goodbye. you waved at jake from the car window as your mom pulled out of the driveway and yelled something ridiculous like:

"don't let anyone bully you except me!"

he laughed. that soft, warm, dimpled laugh that used to follow you everywhere.

and then you were gone.

𓂃

college turned you into an even worse version of yourself—aggressively iced-coffee-dependent, chronically late, allergic to responsibility, and thriving in an environment where chaos was practically currency.

your life became a rotation of parties, spontaneous shopping, soft-launching people you weren't even dating, and pretending every bad decision was "character development."

you went through roommates like seasonal flavors. every semester someone new moved in, and every semester someone new moved out with a complaint that you were "a lot" or "messy" or "kind of terrifying when woken up."

you didn't disagree.

jake became a distant memory, the boy who sometimes liked your posts from an account with a profile picture you swear was five years old. you'd smile for half a second when his username popped up, then go right back to ignoring three overdue essays and online shopping for shoes you absolutely didn't need.

your worlds didn't touch anymore.

until life, rude as always, decided to intervene

it started with your roommate announcing she was "basically moving in" her new boyfriend. you thought she meant he'd be around more. no, he was actually moving in. toothbrush, clothes, gaming chair, ugly LED lights—the whole infestation.

he hogged the bathroom. he cooked shirtless at inappropriate hours. he once ate your leftover pasta and shrugged, "it was mid anyway."

you saw red. you didn't commit a crime, but it was close.

you decided to move out.

your landlord, a man whose personality could best be described as "human expired raisin," decided this was the perfect time to raise your rent by five hundred dollars.

you stared at the email. then you screamed. not a cute scream—a guttural, operatic wail that made the downstairs neighbor bang on their ceiling.

you called your mom, pacing through the disaster zone that was your half-packed room.

"i'm going to die," you said dramatically. "i'm literally going to die. you're going to have to identify my body by my lash extensions."

your mom sighed the sigh of someone who'd raised you for twenty-three years. "sweetheart, calm down—"

"don't tell me to calm down, my life is in ruins. ruins, mother."

"you're not in ruins."

"i'm going to be homeless."

"you're not going to be homeless."

"i'm going to have to live in my car—"

"oh honey," she cut in, "why don't you stay with jake?"

you froze mid-rant. "...jake?" his name unfamiliar on your tongue.

"yes! jake sim! he's back from finishing his degree. he bought a nice apartment downtown. he told his mother he has a spare room."

you stared into space, horrified. "jake sim? bowl-cut jake? used-to-cry-when-i-yelled jake?"

"he didn't cry," she corrected. "he teared up. once."

"mom. be serious."

"i am. you two were inseparable."

"when we were twelve!"

"well, he's always liked you."

"as a person?" you asked skeptically. you seriously doubted that anyone who was sane liked you as a person. yes, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware.

she made a vague noise, you didn't like the noise.

"i'll text his mother," she decided, and you instantly regretted calling her.

two minutes later, your phone buzzed.

mom: jake says you're welcome to stay anytime.

you stared at the text. it felt unreal. absurd. borderline comedic.

but you were desperate. and dramatic. and the universe clearly hated you.

so you said yes. because of course you did.

you packed your things with the confidence of someone who absolutely believed jake sim was still the same soft, shy, easily-managed boy who used to trail after you in elementary school.

you were so, so sure.

and you were so, so wrong.

𓂃

you hype yourself up in the elevator.

it's just jake.you think to yourself, the image of 12-year old him fresh in your mind.

you've known him your whole life. he once cried because you told him clouds were solid and he fell off the playground trying to "sit on one."

you are not nervous. you are annoyed.

annoyed that your lease fell apart. annoyed that your mother thinks you're still friends. annoyed that jake, sweet, soft, bowl-cut jake, is your only housing option unless you want to sleep in your car.

the elevator dings.

you're ready to see scented-candle bachelor hell. dirty laundry. possibly raccoons.

you knock and the door swings open. and your soul leaves your body.

because the man standing there is definitely jake—but upgraded. taller, broader, stupidly handsome, and sporting a smile that used to be pure golden retriever sunshine. except now it's... toned down. slower. like he knows exactly what it does to people.

"hey," he says, his eyes dropping down to take in your form and your hot pink suitcases. "come in."

come in? come in? no shocked gasp? no "wow you're back"? no nervous babbling?

you narrow your eyes suspiciously. "wow. no bowl cut." you admit, not the best choice of first words to say to your childhood best friend who you hadn't seen in years. but it was fitting.

he laughs—actually laughs—and steps aside. and you walk into the biggest personal betrayal of your adult life.

his apartment is spotless.

not "i cleaned because company is coming" clean. "i am a fully functioning adult who alphabetizes spices" clean.

the air smells like sandalwood and laundry detergent. plants sit by the window like they've never known suffering. there are no pizza boxes, no dirty plates, no gamer chair.

this is not jake's apartment.

"is this staged?" you demand. "did someone professionally sanitize this because you knew i was coming?"

"nope," he says, grabbing one of your suitcases. "i live like this."

you blink owlishly. "on purpose?"

he snorts, looking at you with an unidentifiable expression on his face. "on purpose."

you want to throw something, no, you want to throw up.

but instead, you drop your bag on the couch like an entitled raccoon and flop dramatically across it. "i'm making myself at home."

he glances at your shoes on the carpet. "i can see that."

he takes a seat in the armchair across from you— calm, collected, not even a little frazzled— which is insane, because you're very clearly being a handful on purpose. you call that, asserting dominance. like the old days.

you clear your throat. "so. rules. house agreements. i assume you're gonna ask me to clean something? or, like... wash a dish? or close a cabinet? if so, i'll need written notice."

jake smiles. not the "aww she's being annoying again" smile you expect. no, this one is deeper. amused. knowing.

"sure," he says easily. "we can talk rules."

that throws you off. he's supposed to be flustered, scrambling to keep up. not leading the conversation like he owns the apartment—which, annoying fact, he does.

he leans back, forearms resting casually on his knees. your eyes almost pop out of their sockets when you notice how veiny his hands and arms were.

"okay," he starts, "rent is six-fifty a month. i already talked to your mom about it—she said she'd help out until you get settled again."

you cough on pure embarrassment. "she did what?"

he suppresses a grin. "it was cute, actually. she kept saying, 'jake honey, please don't let her be homeless, she can be... a lot.'"

you sit up. "i will literally burn my house down before i let you repeat anything my mother said about me."

"her words, not mine," he says, holding up his hands. his beautiful, god crafted, veiny hands. "anyway—utilities included. chores are pretty simple. i cook, so you can take trash and recycling. laundry we do separately. shared spaces stay clean."

"define clean."

"not a biohazard."

"rude."

"accurate."

you throw a pillow at his head. he catches it one-handed without breaking eye contact.

you actually stop breathing for a second.

since when can jake do that? since when is he coordinated? since when does he have forearms like that?

you scowl to cover the fact that your brain just short-circuited. "fine. anything else?"

he tilts his head. "yeah. don't steal my hoodies." you blink innocently. "why would i steal your hoodies?"

his gaze drops to your suitcase—where three of his old ones that you had 'borrowed' back in highschool are hanging out the side. proof that you struggled to pack all your belongings in two measly suitcases.

traitors.

"uh-huh," he says. "point is, don't steal them."

"i don't steal," you lie.

"you do."

"i borrow."

"indefinitely." you cross your arms. "well, maybe if you didn't buy hoodies that look good on me—"

"they look good on me," he corrects smoothly. "you're just annoying enough to steal them."

you're going to scream.

you stand, stalking toward the kitchen just to regain power. "i'm eating your snacks as payment for emotional damages."

he follows at a leisurely pace, because apparently he's immune to your chaos now. you yank open the fridge. it's organized. color-coded. there are vegetables.

"who are you?" you whisper, horrified. "where is the boy who ate a fruit roll-up off the sidewalk?"

"buried him," jake answers, grabbing a bottle of water and handing it to you. "grew up. got a job. graduated. learned to mop."

you squint at him. "did you join a cult?"

he laughs again—warm and low. "no. i just stopped being twelve."

"you were twelve for like ten years."

"and you're still twelve," he shoots back calmly. "so at least one of us stayed consistent."

you gape. "you're so— so—"

"accurate?"

"i was gonna say insufferable."

he leans on the counter across from you, arms folded, gaze steady.

"you were expecting me to be exactly the same, weren't you?"

you freeze. he's right. he knows he's right and you hate that he knows he's right.

before you can respond, he adds—lightly, but with something underneath, "don't worry. i still remember everything."

your heartbeat trips.

"everything?" you repeat.

he smiles. slow. devastating. "everything."

you look away first. you hate that too.

you grab chips from the pantry—loudly, aggressively—and announce, "i'm gonna walk around in tiny shorts and leave my stuff everywhere."

"go for it," jake says, opening a cabinet above your head to grab a mug. "i don't scare that easily."

"i wasn't trying to scare you!"

"sure."

"i wasn't—!"

he takes a sip of water like he didn't just psychologically annihilate you.

you feel your face heat. you hate him. you hate that he's changed. you hate that he hasn't changed in the ways that matter. you hate that he's taller and calm and unbothered and smells like pine and laundry and maybe a little bit like heartbreak.

and you really hate the traitorous thought sneaking into your brain: you might be in trouble.

after the unexpected back forth between you and jake, jake kindly showed you to your room which was much nicer than the one at your old apartment.

"i'll let you settle in, i'll be back in a few. gym." and with that he slips through the door and out of your sight.

since when did he go to the gym? since those veiny arms blessed your sight.

you huff while unpacking, taking in the clean space as a foreign feeling takes place in your chest.

what the fuck are you going to do?

𓂃

you hear the door before you see him.

a heavy, warm thud of sneakers hitting the entry rug. the quiet clink of keys. then the low, tired exhale of a man who just returned from the gym and doesn't realize he's about to emotionally ruin someone.

you peek over the couch. and yeah, he's sweaty.

like—sweat running down his neck, shirt stuck to his chest, hair pushed back with a damp curl kind of sweaty.

your brain forgets basic motor functions. he looks up and catches you staring, a unrecognizable glint in his soft eyes. 

"hey," he says, voice rougher than usual. "you're still awake?" awake? you're clinically deceased, but sure.

you sit up, flipping your hair like you didn't just get jump-scared by his forearms. "yeah. couldn't sleep. your... stomping woke me up."

"i didn't stomp," he says, amused. "i walked in."

"well it was loud."

"you were watching tiktoks on full volume."

you glare, chucking your phone on the other couch. "stop knowing things."

he smirks and heads to the kitchen for water, pulling his shirt up to wipe his face.

you get a full view of toned stomach. abs. v-line. you stop breathing somewhere around ab #3.

okay. enough. you're not going to let him win tonight. this morning he made you flustered. tonight? you're fighting back.

you hop off the couch and follow him to the kitchen, wearing the tiniest sleep shorts you own and his hoodie—you know, for psychological warfare.

"so," you announce, hopping onto the counter, crossing your legs slowly. "long workout? you look... tired."

he opens the fridge. "yeah. leg day."

you hum. "maybe you should let me massage them. you know. as a housewarming gift."

he doesn't choke. he doesn't blush. he just closes the fridge, sets down the water bottle, and looks at you with that infuriating, slow-lingering gaze that makes your stomach flip like a dying fish.

"you wanna massage my legs?" he asks softly, his brow quirking up before his gaze drops down to your bare legs and your small frame which was swallowed by his hoodie.

your throat closes. "i— i mean— maybe— if you—"

he takes a step closer. then another. until he's right in front of you, standing between your knees, but not touching you. not even a brush of skin. just close enough that you swear you can feel the heat rolling off him.

your brain: DEAD. ABSOLUTELY GONE.

he places his hands on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in—without touching you once.

your breath catches. everything in you goes still.

"you offering charity massages now?" he murmurs, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. "that doesn't sound like you."

your voice cracks. "why not?"

"you don't do things out of kindness." his tone is teasing, warm. "you do things because you want attention."

your entire nervous system sets on fire.

"i— excuse— i don't—"

"it's okay," he continues, leaning just an inch closer, his nose almost brushing yours. "i don't mind giving you the attention."

you swallow hard. "move."

"you sure?" he asks quietly. "you seem pretty comfortable."

you are not comfortable. you are a molecule vibrating out of your own skin.

you shove a hand at his chest—bad idea, he's solid—and babble stupidly, "i'm fine. you're weird. stop being tall at me."

jake laughs under his breath. it's warm. dangerous. affectionate in a way that makes your stomach curl.

he leans in like he might actually touch your cheek, lips, something and you freeze. but he doesn't. at the last second, he dips his head past yours and reaches behind you to grab a mug from the cabinet above.

you nearly scream. he pulls back slowly, the corner of his mouth tilted in a knowing smirk.

"relax," he says softly. "if i actually cornered you, you'd combust."

you glare at him, cheeks on fire. "i hate you."

"no you don't." he taps your knee with a finger, the only touch, light, teasing, devastating. "but you can keep pretending."

you nearly fall off the counter trying to escape.

he watches, amused, taking a sip of water like he didn't just send you through all five stages of grief.

"goodnight," he says casually, heading to his room.

you stare after him, emotionally damaged.

"i'm not massaging your stupid legs!" you call out.

his voice drifts back, "you offered."

you bury your face in your hands. you are so, so screwed.

𓂃

you wake up to the smell of something heavenly.

warm. buttery. slightly sweet.

you blink at the ceiling.

no way. no way jake is up early being...competent.

you stomp down the hall dramatically, ready to insult him for being a functional adult at 8:12 a.m.

and you freeze. because jake is shirtless. shirtless. in his kitchen. your now shared kitchen.

his back muscles shift as he flips pancakes. his sweatpants hang low. his hair is messy in the exact way that suggests he just rolled out of bed and looked inhumanly good by accident.

you forget why you entered the kitchen. or how to inhale.

he glances over his shoulder. "morning."

the audacity. “you—" your voice cracks. "you're— you're not wearing clothes."

he looks down, confused. "i'm wearing pants."

"that's not the point!"

"sounds like it is."

you hate him. you hate him so much your eye twitches. he plates a pancake and nods toward the stove. "there's extra batter if you want to make your own."

you puff up, offended. "i CAN cook."

jake raises an eyebrow. "do you want to say that again? slowly?"

you march to the fridge, grab random ingredients you probably won't need, and announce, "watch and learn."

"i'm watching." his voice is annoyingly amused. "not sure i'll be learning."

you ignore him, crank the stove on too high, and pour way too much batter in the pan. it spreads like a sad, beige puddle.

jake strolls over, sipping coffee, watching like he's observing wildlife.

"that's... thick," he comments.

"it's called fluffy," you snap back, your eyes finding his before dropping down to his chest and stomach. oh god why did you do that? jake catches your vision, a smirk playing on his lips.

fuck you.

"oh. okay. it's very... fluffy."

"shut up."

the pancake starts smoking aggressively. you start panicking aggressively.

"um— is it supposed to—"

WHOOSH.

flame kisses the edge of the pan. you shriek. "OH MY GOD—" jake moves instantly, reaching past you to turn down the burner.

and suddenly—he's right behind you. his chest against your back. his arms braced around you as he grabs the pan. his voice low, right by your ear, "hey. relax. i got it."

your brain vacates the premises.

his hands move with confidence, fixing your disaster pancake. his breath brushes your neck. he's close—too close—and yet he's acting like this is normal.

"you're gonna start a fire," he says softly, almost teasing.

"i— i didn't— the burner— your stove is— i— shut up," you whisper, mortified.

he laughs quietly, the sound warm against your skin.

"you're cute when you panic," he murmurs, not moving away. you seize up when you feel his warm breath brush against the shell of your ear, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

you clutch the counter for emotional support. "can you—can you back up?"

"why?" his tone is innocent. way too innocent. "you seemed fine last night when i was close."

you almost combust like the pancake.

"that was different!"

"how?" he asks, dipping his head just enough that you feel the brush of his hair against your cheek.

you have no good answer. because the truth is humiliating, last night you were flustered. now you're flustered and underprepared and wearing pajama shorts shaped like licorice strings.

you grab a spatula and use it like a weapon to push him away.

"move," you hiss, your face burning red.

he steps back, hands up, grinning like a menace. "yes, chef."

"don't call me chef."

"okay. fire hazard."

"JAKE."

he laughs a full, bright laugh that makes your stomach twist and heads back to his own plate. you plate your uneven, charred pancake with defeated silence.

and jake, the infuriating man, sets another golden, perfectly round pancake onto your plate.

you blink. "what's this?"

"a real breakfast," he says, pouring syrup for you like you're a child. "because you nearly burned the apartment down trying to prove a point."

you glare at him. "i was doing FINE."

"sure," he hums. "and i'm a ballerina."

you stab your pancake.

he watches you with that soft, amused smile again—the one with something deeper behind it.

then he adds, "you know... it's kind of nice having you here."

your fork slips out of your hand. "...what?" like you had said earlier, you're a lot of things but one thing you definitely are is self aware. you are not nice to have around, and you know it.

he shrugs, easy. "just saying."

you stare at him, face warming in a way you refuse to acknowledge. you mumble into your syrup, "i hate you."

he smiles, slow and knowing. "no you don't."

and the worst part? he's right.

the first week in jake's apartment goes... fine. dangerously fine.

it should've been easy to fall back into the old dynamic: you, the bossy menace; him, the soft puppy trailing after you with a shy smile and an unlimited tolerance for your nonsense.

except—he doesn't trail. he doesn't melt. he doesn't fold. and that pisses you off more than you'd ever admit.

the chaos starts small.

your makeup begins multiplying across the bathroom counter like it's staging a coup. lip glosses in a neat little line beside his toothbrush; your setting spray sitting directly in front of his razor; your glitter eyeshadow palette open—because closing it would've taken effort, obviously.

jake doesn't complain. he doesn't even sigh.

he just walks in one morning, towels slung over his shoulder, hair damp from the gym, and pauses at the counter.

"is this all yours?" he asks.

you don't look up from your phone. "hm? oh. yeah. i need space. don't be selfish."

jake nods slowly, like he's taking notes on you for a research study. "right. selfish. of course."

you ignore the way that makes your stomach twist.

you up the ante. you start asking—no, demanding—rides.

"jake," you call from your bedroom one morning, "can you take me to get coffee?"

"there's a café two blocks away," he says, leaning on your doorframe, wet hair dripping onto his hoodie.

you gasp like he's suggested you walk barefoot through snow. "that's uphill."

"slightly."

"jake. it's morning. i'm fragile."

he snorts and tosses you his car keys. "fine. you drive."

you blink at him like he had grown a second head. "i was... i was asking you to take me."

"yeah," he says, already walking away, "and i'm telling you to take yourself."

you stare at the keys like they've personally insulted you.

then there's the pizza incident. you take the last slice. obviously. you don't even feel bad. you're sitting on the couch when he walks in, box in hand, looking for the missing piece.

he lifts an eyebrow—that stupid, infuriatingly calm eyebrow—and glances at the empty plate on your lap.

"you didn't eat the last slice, did you?"

"no," you say immediately, even though the evidence is literally smeared on your mouth.

he looks at you. really looks. slowly. knowingly. lips tugging upward. "right," he says softly. "of course you didn't."

then he reaches forward, thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth—not touching, but close enough that the heat of him brushes your skin.

your body locks up.

his voice drops, warm and amused, "you've got sauce right here."

you nearly stop breathing. and then he pulls back, smiling like nothing happened.

you want to strangle him. or kiss him. or both.

but it's the blanket situation that finally pushes you over the edge.

his blankets are better. obviously they are. he's responsible and orderly and uses fabric softener. you're a tired disaster with a credit card.

so you drag his nicest throw blanket into your room one night without asking.

in the morning, he finds you on the couch wrapped in it like a human burrito, scrolling through your phone.

he laughs—this low, warm sound that makes something traitorous flutter in your chest.

"you know," he says, "you have blankets."

"yeah but yours are... softer."

he tilts his head, walking behind the couch. "so your solution was theft?"

"i don't see you complaining."

"i'm not complaining." he leans down behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath by your ear. "i'm just observing."

you freeze. again. you're starting to hate how often that happens.

"why're you so jumpy?" he murmurs, voice like honey.

"shut up," you whisper.

he only chuckles, watching your face turn a pretty shade of pink.

and then comes the night you push too far.

you're irritated for no real reason—maybe because he didn't react the way you wanted, maybe because he's not the boy you expected, maybe because his quiet confidence does something to you you can't explain.

you snap at him. something stupid. something about the air conditioner and his "stupid, organized, obsessive thermostat rules."

he's standing in the kitchen drying dishes when you say it. you expect him to fold, apologize, let you roll over him like you always have.

instead—he sets the plate down. slowly. carefully. like he's placing a piece in a chess game he's already winning.

then he turns and walks toward you. the air changes, it thickens, until you swear you can feel it press against your skin.

you retreat one step, he follows. you bump lightly into the counter. he doesn't touch you. he doesn't need to.

he braces one hand on the counter beside your hip, leaning in just enough that your heart slams painfully against your ribs.

his voice is warm, but the firmness beneath it is unmistakable. "don't talk to me like that."

heat crawls up your neck, "i wasn't— i didn't—"

"no," he says, soft and steady, "you did."

his eyes flick down to your lips for half a second—half a heartbeat—before meeting your eyes again.

"i let you get away with that stuff when we were kids," he continues. "but i'm not that guy anymore."

your pulse stutters. his face is close enough that you see the gold flecks in his eyes. "you don't get to talk to me like that," he says.

a beat.

"not anymore."

you swallow so hard it hurts. you open your mouth—to apologize, to argue, you're not sure—but nothing comes out.

jake watches you, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. not cruel. not mocking. just... knowing. then, gently, he pushes off the counter and steps back.

"good," he murmurs, turning away to finish the dishes. "i'm glad we understand each other."

you stand there, dizzy, cheeks burning, knees genuinely weak. you've never shut up so fast in your entire life.

and you hate—absolutely hate—how much you liked it.

𓂃

you don't realize when it starts.

or maybe you do, and you're just pretending you don't, because acknowledging it would mean admitting something absolutely unacceptable: that jake sim—golden retriever, former bowl-cut disaster, childhood doormat—is becoming the gravitational pull of your entire stupid life.

and you hate that.

you REALLY hate that.

it happens on a friday night.

you're out with a few friends—the fun, chaotic ones who think your bratty personality is "endearing" and "so girlboss of you." you're half-done a drink, leaning over the bar to talk to some tall, kind-of-cute guy who'd been eyeing you for the last ten minutes.

he's laughing at your jokes. you're flipping your hair and pretending you're not checking your reflection in the chrome beer tap.

it's going great.

until you hear the voice that's been in your dreams for the last few months, "hey."

you don't even have to turn around. your stomach recognizes his voice before your brain does.

jake.

you freeze, hand still hovering mid-gesture, and the guy in front of you lifts a curious eyebrow.

the asshole actually smiles at jake when he approaches, like they're suddenly in a friendly competition he's about to lose without knowing why.

jake leans against the bar beside you like he's been invited, like he belongs there—tall, warm, annoyingly good-smelling. his hand is on the small of your back, not touching, but close enough that you feel heat radiating through your shirt.

you hate that your heart triple-flips.

"hey," you say, pretending not to care, though your voice is a little too high. "what are you doing here?"

jake shrugs lightly. his eyes flick once—just once —to the guy you were flirting with. "came to pick you up."

"i didn't ask you to."

"your phone's dead."

you blink. you check your phone...your phone is, in fact, dead.

god, that's so annoying.

the cute guy clears his throat. "you two... know each other?"

before you can answer, jake does, with the most harmless, friendly voice you've ever heard, "yeah. she lives with me."

the guy's smile collapses.

your jaw drops. "jake—that's not—"

"roommates," he adds, finally throwing you a look that says better? but it's too late. the guy is already pulling back, suddenly very uninterested in continuing the conversation with a girl who apparently has a six-foot wall of muscle as a roommate.

"he's just—he's exaggerating," you say desperately, but the guy is already lifting his drink in a goodbye gesture. "nice meeting you," he says—to jake. not you.

he leaves. just like that.

you whirl on jake. "what the hell was that?"

jake looks genuinely confused. "what was what?"

"you—you scared him off!"

"i didn't do anything." his voice is maddeningly calm.

you shove his arm. it does nothing except hurt your hand a little. "you know what you did."

jake tilts his head, pretending to think, then steps closer, way closer, bending slightly so his face is level with yours. "if he got scared because i exist, maybe he wasn't that interested."

"you're insufferable."

"you're welcome for the ride home," he says, smiling like the world's sweetest problem.

you want to push him again.

you also want to grab him by the stupid lapel of his stupid jacket and kiss him until he can't talk like that anymore.

it's infuriating.

and it keeps happening.

you're out for brunch with friends and jake drops by to hand you the cardigan you "accidentally" stole again and suddenly the guy who'd been trying to get your number excuses himself.

you're buying ice cream at a street vendor, jake appears behind you because he was "in the neighborhood," and the guy working the cart instantly stops flirting with you mid-sentence.

you're at the bookstore, a cute grad student is recommending a title, and the moment jake walks up beside you to say, "hey, thought you wanted that coffee?" the grad student's smile just... dies.

every time, jake acts like he has no idea why.

every time, you want to scream.

one evening, you're sitting on the couch scrolling, pretending not to watch the clock, wondering when he's going to get home.

you hate that you miss him. you hate that his absence feels like silence filling the apartment too heavily.

the door unlocks. your heart jumps. you immediately scowl at yourself.

he steps in—hair messy from the wind, gym bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a fitted hoodie that absolutely shouldn't fit him that well.

"you're late," you snap, even though he isn't.

jake lifts a brow. "didn't know i had a curfew."

you huff. "whatever."

but he's already walking past you, and your eyes, traitors, follow him. the way his shoulders move. the way he reaches up to put his keys on the hook. the way his shirt lifts just slightly as he stretches.

you look away too fast and nearly drop your phone.

he notices. of course he notices. jake always notices.

he walks back toward the couch, slow, amused, hands in his pockets. you're about to make up some snarky comment when he stands directly in front of you, blocking the TV, blocking everything, and says gently:

"hey."

you blink up at him. you didn't even realize you'd been frowning.

"rough night?" he asks, voice warm, soft, impossibly soothing.

"none of your business," you mutter, crossing your arms.

but you don't move away when he leans down a little, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside your head—not touching you, just close enough that you feel caged in.

"you know..." he says slowly, eyes dropping to your lips for one devastating second, "you don't have to act tough with me."

your throat closes. your brain refuses to function.

then—as if that wasn't enough torture—he adds, quieter, "you know i'm not the kid you used to boss around. you see that now, right?"

you hate how hot your face gets. you hate how your pulse spikes. you hate that your breath catches in your chest like you've been punched. and you really hate how much you want him to say it again.

before you can fire back, before you can regain control, jake pushes off the couch and steps away, giving you space again.

like he didn't just ruin your entire week.

"i'm gonna shower," he says simply, like he didn't just mentally dismantle you. "order dinner if you're hungry."

you stare at him. you stare through him. then you finally breathe.

your voice comes out small. "jake?"

he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes soften in that way that makes your stomach flip inside out.

you swallow. "why do people keep assuming we're... y'know... together?"

he smiles—slow, deep, knowing.

"maybe," he says, "they're seeing something you're not ready to see yet."

your heart stops. you want to scream. you want to hit him. you want to kiss him until your knees give out. but you can't say any of that. so instead you throw a pillow at him. "shut up."

he laughs—warm, gentle, absolutely insane-making and disappears into the hallway. leaving you on the couch, heart sprinting, stomach twisted, entire world tilted sideways...

and realizing, for the first time, that you might be in very, very dangerous territory.

𓂃

you don't plan on getting jealous. you really don't. it just kind of... ambushes you, like a flying brick to the head.

the whole thing starts because your friend group decides to have a little saturday picnic in the park—very "we're adults now," very "bring something homemade," very "let's pretend our lives aren't falling apart."

you drag jake along because obviously. he has a car and you don't feel like ubering. plus, he always carries things for you without complaining, and you plan to bring at least four bags despite it being a two-hour outing.

he agrees without hesitation, because of course he does.

the morning of, he comes out of his room wearing a white t-shirt, grey sweats, a backward baseball cap, and that infuriating golden retriever smile that makes your stomach do embarrassing gymnastics.

you pretend not to notice. you absolutely notice.

"you ready?" he asks, grabbing the cooler like it weighs nothing.

you squint at him. "you're wearing that?"

he glances down at himself. "...yes?"

"to a picnic?"

"is this not... picnic attire?"

"you look like a catalogue model for 'athletic boyfriend who loves you.'"

he grins. "so i look good? i fit the part?" you blush furiously at his words, choosing to roll your eyes so dramatically it should win an award. "i didn't say that."

"but you didn't deny it."

"jake."

"yes?"

"shut up."

he just laughs and ushers you out the door with a hand on your lower back—casual, familiar, too natural.

you hate how your heart stutters. you want to be annoying on purpose, just to punish him. you succeed by making him carry every single one of your bags.

he still keeps that stupid gentle smile.

you hate it. you love it. you hate that you love it.

the picnic starts fine. your friends adore him—which annoys you for reasons you refuse to examine.

"jake's so sweet," one of them says while he helps set up the blanket.

"jake's so tall," another sighs dreamily.

"jake's so—"

"okay!" you cut in, a little too loudly. "we get it. he's perfect. shut up." everyone stares. you pretend you didn't say anything weird.

jake just throws you an amused little look like he knows exactly what's happening in your brain and is choosing to spare you.

which somehow makes it worse. then she arrives.

the problem. the villain. the enemy.

your friend's coworker—invited last minute—named mia, with perfect hair and a perfect smile and an offensively cute sundress. she spots jake instantly, like a moth to a glow-in-the-dark lantern.

"oh my god, hi," she chirps, stepping right into his space. "we haven't met yet. i'm mia."

jake stands, polite, warm, annoyingly charming. "hey. i'm jake."

you watch from your corner of the blanket, chewing a strawberry like you're trying to murder it with your teeth.

mia laughs at everything he says. she touches his arm at least twice. she calls him funny—funny, jake, the man who laughs at his own dad jokes and says "oopsies" when he drops things.

your eye twitches. and jake... doesn't pull away.

worse, he's being his usual self—easygoing, kind, listening fully, that soft focused attention he gives people when he genuinely likes them.

you have never hated being conscious more. your friends keep giving you meaningful looks.

you keep ignoring them. except then mia leans in closer, tiny sundress fluttering, and says, "so, are you seeing anyone?"

you nearly choke on air. jake doesn't seem fazed. "uh... i—"

"jake!" you snap, way too quickly, way too loud.

everyone stops. jake turns toward you with slow amusement raising his eyebrows. "yeah?"

"you— uh..." your brain abandons you. it packs its bags and literally leaves the continent. "you forgot to... um... help me with something."

he looks at the fully assembled picnic. "help you with what?"

"something," you repeat, sweating. "very important."

mia blinks. "oh, we can finish our conversa—"

"NOPE," you say, grabbing jake's wrist and yanking him off the blanket so fast he practically trips. "no need. bye. go touch grass or something."

you drag him behind a tree like a deranged cartoon burglar. he follows, mostly because he's trying not to laugh.

"you good?" he asks softly.

"i'm fine," you snap, glaring at him.

"you sure? because you look—" "if you say 'jealous' i'm going to drown you in the lake."

he smirks. "i was going to say 'cute,' but okay."

your brain fries like an egg on asphalt. "shut up," you whisper, but it comes out breathless.

he steps closer—not touching, but close enough that the tree is behind you and he's in front of you, warm and solid and taller than you remember.

"you dragged me away from someone mid-flirt," he murmurs, voice dropping into that low warm register that goes straight to your knees. "so i'm gonna need you to explain."

you glare up at him. "i did not. she wasn't flirting."

"she asked if i was seeing anyone."

"she was just being friendly."

"she touched my arm."

"maybe she's friendly with arms." god, you want to be friendly with his arms. "you pulled me across the park."

"i felt like walking."

"you growled." your face burns. "i did not!"

he grins—slow, devastating. "you definitely did." you shove his shoulder, which does absolutely nothing because he's built like a wall now. "you're imagining things."

"am i?"

"yes."

he leans in, inches from your face, eyes ridiculously soft and warm and knowing. "then tell me why you're mad."

you open your mouth. nothing comes out. your throat works around a sound that isn't a word.

jake watches all of it with that maddening patience—like he's been waiting years for this exact moment and can give you all the time in the world.

then, barely above a whisper, "you know i'd drop anyone the second you wanted me to... right?"

your heart stops. actually stops. you physically forget what breathing is.

and he smiles—that deeper, slower version he only gives you now—before stepping back, giving you space like he didn't just vaporize your entire soul.

"come on," he says, gentle. "before your friends think you murdered me." he starts walking back. you stare after him, stunned, furious, flustered, painfully alive.

you hate him. you really, really like him. you hate that you really, really like him.

and when mia tries to talk to him again later, he doesn't even notice—because he's too busy watching you out of the corner of his eye, like you're the only person in the park.

and that's when you know, you're doomed.

𓂃

the day starts stupidly normal, which should've been your first warning.

it's saturday. the sun is too bright. jake's already up—as always—making breakfast like some domestic prince charming he has no right to be. you stumble into the kitchen in one of his hoodies, hair a mess, mascara from last night smudged like war paint.

he glances over his shoulder, amused. "morning, trouble."

you roll your eyes because your heart does a weird little tap-dance. "you're loud."

"i haven't even said anything."

"you existing is loud."

he laughs—soft, warm, like he thinks you're hilarious even when you're being awful and goes back to cooking.

you sit at the counter, chin in your palm, watching him move around like he owns every inch of this kitchen. he does, technically, but you hate how good he looks doing it. the rolled sleeves that expose his delicious looking forearms. the concentration. the way he pushes his hair back when it falls over his forehead.

you look away before he catches you staring. he sets a plate in front of you a moment later, eggs, toast, fruit. stupidly wholesome.

you poke at it. "jake..."

"mm?"

"i need your car today." your car had been in the shop for the last few days, leaving you stranded at home majority of the day.

he pauses. not dramatically. not in a way meant to provoke you. just... pauses. "for what?"

"i need to run errands," you shrug. "grocery store, nail appointment, whatever."

he leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing. "you can take the bus. i need the car."

you blink. blink again. "...the bus?"you say it like he suggested you swim across the pacific ocean.

"yeah," he says simply. "the 14 stops right outside the building. it's not hard."

you stare at him and he stares back. somewhere deep inside your spoiled, bratty, slightly feral soul, a fuse lights.

"you're being dramatic," you declare.

"i'm being practical."

"you're supposed to help me."

"i do help you."

"not right now!" he exhales, patient but firm. "my car isn't your personal uber."

your pride twists sharply. you feel it—that hot, impulsive, immature spark that always gets you in trouble.

"wow," you snap, standing from the stool. "you get a couple muscles, a salary, and suddenly you're too good for me?" his brows lift, surprised—not offended, not angry—just surprised that you'd go for that. "i didn't say that."

"you're acting like it!"

you don't mean the words. not really. they spill out because you're flustered and embarrassed and you hate how stable he is when you're wobbling all over the emotional place. you fold your arms, chin lifted in that signature i'm-right-even-when-i'm-wrong posture.

"i'm asking for one tiny thing, jake. one. and you're giving me attitude? seriously?"

he doesn't flinch. "you're not asking," he says quietly. "you're demanding."

your pulse kicks up—defensive, stubborn. "because you're supposed to say yes!"

"why?" you hate that he says it without raising his voice. hate how calm he is while you're practically vibrating.

"because you always have!" you blurt. "you always listened to me! you always—"

"i was a kid," he says, tone low but steady. "you treated me like i didn't know how to have my own life. and back then? maybe i didn't."

you freeze. his expression softens—not pitying, not mocking —soft in the way someone looks when they finally decide to stop letting you run from something. "but i'm not that kid anymore," he says. "and you can't talk to me like i am."

your throat tightens—sharp, sudden. it's stupid how much it hits you, how fast your anger collapses into something hot and guilty.

he steps closer. not threatening. just... present.

closer than you expected. closer than your heart can handle without short-circuiting.

your voice shrinks. "i wasn't— i didn't mean—"

"yeah," he murmurs, eyes steady on yours. "i know. but you said it anyway."

you swallow. hard. jake looks down at you like he's seeing every version of you at once, bossy eight-year-old you, dramatic teenager you, chaotic adult you, and none of them scare him. none of them push him away.

"i'm not the one who needs to grow up," he says, softer now. "and i'm not trying to fight you. but i'm not here to be ordered around." the room feels too quiet suddenly. the only sound is the faint sizzle of the pan cooling on the stove and your own uneven breathing.

"i... didn't know i was doing that," you whisper.

"yeah," he says again, but gently. "that's the problem."

you look away, frustrated with yourself more than with him. and then he reaches out—slow, careful—and hooks a finger under your chin to tilt your face back up. not forceful but impossible to ignore. his voice drops just a little. warm. real. a little too intimate.

"i'm not going anywhere," he says. "i never have. but you can't keep pretending i belong to you just because i used to follow you around."

the words hit you dead center. because the truth—the horrible, humiliating, painfully raw truth—is that you didn't treat him like he was below you.

you treated him like he was yours. and somewhere along the way, he learned to walk without trailing behind you. you blink fast, trying not to let your eyes shine too much. "i... i just thought..."

"i know," he murmurs. "but that's why we're having this conversation."

you nod, small. awkward. vulnerable in a way you hate being. jake steps back slowly, giving you space without breaking eye contact.

"you can still take the bus," he says lightly. "i'll even google the schedule for you." you glare. but it's weak. he smiles, that stupid warm smile that ruins you every time. and for the first time, your bratty instinct doesn't flare up. instead, something quieter settles in your chest.

you're not sure you like it. you're very sure it has everything to do with him.

𓂃

it starts on a lazy sunday afternoon—the fake kind of lazy where you're doing nothing but somehow jake is doing everything.

he's folding laundry, humming, looking offensively good in a plain white tee, while you lie on the couch upside down, legs over the backrest, scrolling on your phone like a disgruntled cat.

you're bored. dangerous.

"jake," you call, voice dramatic, "i'm craving entertainment. entertain me." he doesn't even glance over. "i'm folding your shirts. that's entertaining."

"no, that's domestic," you correct. "you're like a husband in a detergent commercial."

"at least i smell nice?" he shrugs. you pause. he does. annoyingly so. you ignore the flutter in your stomach and point your toes at him from the upside-down position.

"tell me a story," you demand. "like bedtime story vibes. something juicy. something chaotic. something where i'm the main character—" "—which you always are," he finishes for you, snorting. "okay. fine. let's do memory lane."

you lift your head just enough to squint at him. "that sounds suspiciously sentimental."

"you're the one who asked." you flop your head back. "proceed, peasant."

he finally looks at you—that slow, amused, golden-retriever-who-knows-your-game look. "alright. remember grade four?"

"i choose not to."

"too bad," he says, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, folding the last shirt. "you announced to the whole class that we were getting married."

your phone drops onto your face. "i what—?"

he laughs, warm and full, like it's a memory he's kept safe. "yeah. you stood on a chair during recess and yelled, 'jake is gonna be my husband because he listens!'" you bury your face in your hands. "oh my god."

"you even made me a ring out of twist ties."

"stop talking."

"and then you made me swear an oath—"

"NO YOU DID NOT JUST SAY OATH—"

"—that i'd carry your backpack forever because i was 'stronger' and 'built for it'." you groan so loudly that he laughs again.

"you loved bossing me around," he says, softer now. "i still do," you shoot back, kicking his shoulder lightly with your foot. he catches your ankle. not tight, but just enough for your breath to hitch.

"i know." his voice is lower. "you were kind of terrifying."

"i was adorable," you argue, rolling his eyes.

"you were a tiny tyrant with pigtails."

"and you followed me everywhere," you retort, letting your foot rest in his hold because pulling away feels too much like losing.

"yeah," he says quietly, thumb brushing just once over your ankle before he realizes and lets go. "i did." you freeze. he doesn't look flustered, but the way he moves—slow, controlled, pretending nothing happened—tells you he definitely felt something too.

so you clear your throat and switch the subject recklessly. "well, remember when you glued your hand to a desk?" the corner of his mouth twitches. "you told me it would make me smarter."

"and you believed me!" you cackle.

"you said the glue had 'knowledge properties,'" he defends, pointing an accusing finger at you. "you said einstein invented it!"

you're laughing so hard you almost fall off the couch. he tries to stay serious, but your laugh is contagious and he ends up leaning back against the couch, head tipped against your knee as he laughs too.

you go still. his head. on your leg. like it's natural. like it's always been that way. your laugh fades into a stubborn little silence you can't name.

he notices. he always notices. "hey," he murmurs, chin tilting up just a little so he can see your upside-down face. "what's with that look?"

"what look?" you whisper, too fast.

"the one where you pretend you're annoyed but you're actually... i don't know." he searches your expression. "thinking."

you scoff. "i don't think."

"yes you do."

"nope."

"you definitely do."

"stop accusing me of intelligence!" he laughs again, but this time something softer lingers under it — something warm, something knowing. the air shifts. you hate it. or maybe you don't, maybe that's the problem.

"okay, next memory," you say quickly, tapping his forehead with your foot to break the moment. "tell me something where i look cool."

he smirks. "that never happened."

"JAKE—"

"kidding, kidding." he nudges your leg. "there was that time you punched a boy in the nose because he called me 'jakey-wakey.'"

you blink. "oh yeah. classic me."

"classic you," he echoes, smiling to himself in a way that makes your chest feel tight. and then, quietly, "you always had my back." the room goes still. your heart stutters—because he means it. because he remembers it. because he says it like it mattered.

"don't get sentimental on me, golden boy," you mumble.

"too late," he says, voice warm, teasing, but edged with something real. "you brought up memory lane. i'm just walking it."

you swallow. the dynamic tilts again—just slightly, just enough to make you feel like you're standing on the edge of something big.

so you do what you do best. you kick him lightly in the shoulder. "get up. i'm bored again." he stands, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt.

"fine," he says. "let's go get ice cream."

"you're paying, right?" he sighs. "i always do."

you grin. and he does too, like he wouldn't have it any other way.

𓂃

it starts stupidly. you're not even fighting.

you're tipsy—not blackout, not sloppy, just warm and giggly after a night out with friends. you called jake because your uber bailed and your phone was dying, and he showed up in ten minutes flat, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, looking unfairly good for someone dragged out of bed at 1 a.m.

you slid into the passenger seat, all smug. "aww, jakey. did i wake you?"

he didn't even look at you. "put your seatbelt on."

ugh. infuriating. for the entire drive, you tried to poke at him— literally and figuratively—but he kept dodging with that maddening calm.

by the time you walk into the apartment, and by walk you mean jake carrying your flailing body—you're buzzing with irritation that isn't... really irritation.

not exactly. you kick your shoes off dramatically. "you didn't have to come get me, y'know."

he locks the door behind you. "you called," he says simply, shrugging off his hoodie. "i wasn't gonna leave you outside alone."

"i can take care of myself." he gives you a slow, deliberate once-over—the skirt, the smudged makeup, the slightly-wobbly stance.

"sure you can." you make an offended noise, fully ready to start something stupid—but he walks past you toward the kitchen.

which pisses you off more. so you follow him. obviously. he's pulling a water bottle out of the fridge when you step right into his space, eyebrows raised, chin tilted up like a challenge.

"you're ignoring me," you accuse.

"no," he says calmly. "i'm choosing not to indulge you." your stomach actually drops. oh, that tone. that new tone you still haven't learned how to handle.

you scoff. "wow. someone got confident."

"someone had to," he says. and then—god help you—he steps closer. not touching you, just closer.

your back meets the counter, cold through your shirt. he sets the water bottle beside you but doesn't move away. he's right there—warm, solid, taller, broader than he ever was as a kid—and he's looking at you like he can see every thought you're trying to hide.

"you good?" he asks softly. that should be a normal question. but it isn't.your throat goes tight. "i'm fine." he inhales once, slow, like he's counting to five because of you. "you're doing that thing again."

"what thing," you snap too quickly.

"pretending you don't want something," he murmurs, "just because you don't wanna admit i'm the one you want it from."

your breath actually stops. you hate how your hands grip the counter; you hate how your pulse stutters; you hate that he can hear it, probably feel it, with how close he is.

"you think i want something from you?" you manage, trying to sound bored. he leans in, not touching. but close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

"i think," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have called me tonight if you didn't." your voice comes out small. "i called because my uber bailed."

he smiles. slow. knowing. devastating. "sure," he says. "if that's the lie you wanna stick to."

you actually shove him. well—you try. your hands hit his chest, but he doesn't budge an inch. he just looks down at you with that infuriating calm, like you're cute for even attempting it.

"don't—" your voice breaks, and you hate that too. "don't talk like you know everything."

he corners you fully now, one hand resting on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting—slowly, giving you time—until his fingers hover under your jaw. not touching. just waiting.

"i'm not the one pretending here," he says softly. "i'm not pretending anything."

"yeah?" he whispers. "then look at me." you do. you shouldn't have.

his eyes are warm and dark and unbearably sure of you—like he's known this moment was coming since you were both twelve and you bossed him into giving you the last popsicle on the block. like he's been waiting for you to catch up.

"you can be a brat to everyone else," he says, barely above a murmur. "but you don't get to lie to me." your chest pulls tight, breath shaking, and you don't realize you've gone still until he tilts his head, studying you.

"there it is," he whispers. "finally." finally what? finally you stop running? finally you stop pretending you don't want him? finally you admit you're not the one with the power anymore?

you don't know. you just know your voice is barely a whisper, "...jake." something changes in his face. not anger. not triumph. just... relief. warm and deep and terrifying.

he leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours and his voice drops, low and steady, "i'm not gonna kiss you tonight," he says. "you're drunk."

you swallow hard, embarrassed and grateful and furious all at once. "but tomorrow?" he adds, eyes flicking to your mouth for half a second.

your knees actually go weak, tomorrow? "tomorrow," he says, "you don't get to run." and he steps back. leaving you breathless, cornered by nothing but your own heartbeat.

you wake up with your skull splitting in two, your mouth dry, and the horrifying, slow–motion realization that you remember every single thing that happened last night.

the way jake lifted you off that sidewalk like you weighed nothing. the way he held you steady while you tried to unlock the door and failed miserably.

the way he said it—low, warm, devastating, "you can be a brat to everyone else. but you don't get to lie to me." and worst of all, the way he looked at you afterward. like he was two seconds away from kissing you senseless against your own doorway.

you roll onto your back, throw an arm over your face, and groan.

"oh my god i hate it here," you mutter into your pillow. "i should move out. i should join a monastery. i should fake my death."

a soft knock hits your door. your entire soul leaves your body. "hey," jake's voice calls, maddeningly gentle. "i made breakfast." you consider leaping out the window. instead you croak, "i'm... busy."

"you're hungover."

"busy being hungover." he laughs—that warm, breathy laugh that you hear way too clearly through the door.

"come eat. i won't bite." liar, you think, dragging yourself out of bed. you almost did. you trudge down the hall in an oversized hoodie and socks, praying he looks terrible so you can at least feel morally superior.

he does not look terrible. he's standing at the stove in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, hair damp, shoulders broad, forearms flexing as he plates food. the apartment is stupidly bright, the sun hits him like it's personally in love.

you want to die. you try to sneak to the fridge for water and pretend he doesn't exist. he turns just in time to catch you.

"morning," he says. you nearly drop the bottle. "...hi."

he raises an eyebrow. "that's it? no yelling? no demands?" you glare at him weakly. "i'm on sick leave."

"mhm." he sets a plate in front of you. "how's the headache?"

"big."

"water's on the table."

"i know."

"you didn't drink it."

"...i was getting emotionally prepared," you mumble. he smiles—soft, amused, slightly pitying—and sits across from you.mthe silence is unbearable. you poke at your eggs like they personally offended you. "so. about last night."

"yeah," he says calmly, sipping his coffee. "about last night." you brace yourself. you don't know what you're expecting—a lecture? a joke? him pretending it didn't happen?

what you don't expect is him leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking over your face like he can see every thought you're trying to drown.

"you were pretty honest," he says softly. you choke on air. "i— what— honest how?" he tilts his head. "you kept grabbing me."

"NO I DID NOT—"

"you did," he says, annoyingly unbothered. "kept saying i 'smelled stupidly good' and that i 'ruined guys' for you." you want the earth to open up and swallow you. "i was drunk," you whisper.

"i know." he nods. "that's why you didn't lie." your heart stutters. his voice drops, the same tone he used last night—warm, steady, too real.

"you don't have to freak out," he murmurs. "i'm not asking for anything." you stare at him. "you're being... weirdly nice."

"i'm always nice to you."

"you're being extra nice." his lips twitch. "you're hungover."

"i don't trust it."

"that says more about you than me," he says, and you actually consider throwing your fork at him. but then... he pushes his chair back. stands. walks around the table. you freeze as he stops right beside you. not touching you, he never touches first, but close enough that your entire body tenses.

"look at me," he says quietly. you do, because what other choice do you have. his eyes hold yours, steady and dark and impossibly sure.

"what i said last night wasn't because you were drunk." a beat. "i meant it." your breath catches. your fingers curl around the edge of your chair. "jake..."

he leans down just a little—not enough to cross the line, but enough that you feel him, warm and solid at your side. "you can avoid me all you want today," he murmurs. "hide in your room. glare at me. pretend you don't remember."

your heart is hammering so loudly you're scared he can hear it. "but we're not going back," he finishes. "not after last night." you can't speak. you can't move. you can't breathe. he straightens slowly, like he knows exactly what he just did to you, and steps back.

"eat your breakfast," he says lightly, already turning toward the sink. "you need your strength." you stare at his back, absolutely feral with confusion and panic and want.

because he's right. everything has changed and you're the one who feels ruined.

the rest of the day is... hell. you hide in your room because you're a coward with a hangover and a heart that won't stop doing gymnastics. you scroll on your phone. you pretend to nap. you dramatically throw yourself on your bed like a victorian widow.

unfortunately, your bedroom shares a wall with the living room.

which means you hear everything. you hear jake laughing softly at his phone. you hear him moving around, cleaning, humming, doing dishes. you hear him existing like the universe didn't tilt on its axis last night.

and every time he shifts, every time the floor creaks, your stomach flips like it's auditioning for a reality show.

around 5 p.m., you crack. you storm out of your room under the noble excuse of "checking if he replaced the Brita filter," which is a lie, but you're committed to the bit.

jake is on the couch. hair damp again from the gym. black t-shirt stretched over his shoulders. sweatpants hanging too low for god's favorites, let alone you, god's forgotten middle child.

he looks up the second you appear.

"hey." so casual. so normal. so illegal.

you fold your arms. "why are you acting weird?"

he blinks. "...i'm literally sitting."

"you're sitting weird." he bites back a smile. "okay. how does one sit weird?"

"like that!" you snap, gesturing vaguely at his whole body. "all... confident."

"i'm sorry?" he laughs, leaning back. "you want me to slouch more?"

"i want you to stop—" you choke on your own words. "—being like... this."he tilts his head. "like what?" you should walk away. run. escape. join witness protection. instead you stomp closer. "stop being smug about last night." his eyebrows lift. "i'm not smug."

"you are," you fire back. "you're doing the eyes."

"...the eyes?"

"yes! the—" you wildly point at his face "—'i know something you're not admitting' eyes." his lips twitch. "maybe because you are avoiding something."

you freeze. he didn't say it sharply. or cruelly. just... plainly. softly. like he's stating the weather.

"i'm not avoiding anything," you lie.

"okay." he pats the couch. "come sit, then." you scoff. "no."

"why not?"

"because." because you don't know what will happen. because you don't trust your own body around him. because his voice last night is still echoing in your bones. "because?" he repeats gently.

you glare. you hate him. you hate that he's winning. you hate that he's not even trying to win. "fine," you snap, and drop onto the couch beside him.

the space between you is legal... but barely. jake doesn't move. doesn't lean in. doesn't touch. he simply turns his head and looks at you.

slowly. openly. like he's reading a book he's already memorized. your pulse stutters. "what?" you demand.

his voice is quiet. "you still look upset."

"i'm not upset."

"you're doing the eyebrows."

you gasp. "I DO NOT—"

"you do," he murmurs, and the tone—god, that tone—almost makes you shake. "you always do when you're overwhelmed." you hate how he knows that. you hate how he knows anything. you hate how safe he makes it feel to be known.

"jake," you say, trying to sound sharp. "stop... looking at me like that."

"like what?"

"like you're—" you swallow "—waiting for me to break." he's quiet for a beat. then, "i'm not waiting," he says softly. "you already are."

your breath catches. he doesn't smirk. he doesn't tease. he just watches you—steady, patient, unbearably gentle. and something in you snaps. "you think you know everything," you whisper.

"no." he shakes his head once. "i just know you."

your throat tightens. you push up from the couch —too fast, too dramatic, too you—but before you can escape, his hand closes around your wrist.

not hard. not forceful. just enough, enough to stop you. enough to pull a tiny gasp from your mouth. enough to make your knees weaken embarrassingly fast.

you stare at him and he stares right back.

"don't run," he murmurs.

"i'm not—"

"you are." his hand slides down, fingers brushing yours. "why are you scared of me?"

"i'm not scared of you," you whisper.

"then look at me." you do and that's your mistake. because he stands and steps into your space. not touching, but close enough that your breath stumbles. your legs buckle beneath you and you find yourself sitting on the sofa again.

your back presses into the sofa without you thinking, his body following, not pinning you, but caging you all the same—one arm braced above your head, the other still holding your wrist like he's reminding you he could've touched more, but chose restraint instead.

his breath ghosts your cheek. "this is what you wanted last night," he says quietly.

your stomach flips so violently you almost fold.

"i— you— i was drunk," you manage.

"you're sober now."

you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. his forehead drops to yours—barely touching, barely there, but it feels like a strike of lightning.

"say it," he murmurs, voice dropping to that devastating low. "just once. stop lying to me." you swallow so hard it hurts. "jake..."

his thumb skims the back of your hand—the first real touch—slow and devastating and enough to make heat coiling in your stomach spike.

"say it," he repeats, even softer now. "and i won't make you wait anymore." you gasp. you could feel your chest press in and your thigh clench together, an action that doenst go unnoticed by jake's sharp eyes.

your whole body trembles under his breath, his closeness, his voice and he feels it, oh he absolutely feels it. he smirks, barely. and then, in a tone that is not patient anymore, not gentle anymore—a tone that is pure control, "don't make me ask again."

your mouth parts. your pulse jumps. the line is right there—the moment before the moment—and you know if you speak, if you admit one more thing, everything you've been holding back is going to break wide open.

and he's waiting. breathing with you. holding you still. letting you fall on your own.

your mouth opens, but the only sound is a shaky, pathetic little gasp. your brain is screaming at you to shove him, to run, to do something—anything—but your body is a traitor. it's melting. sinking into the wall of the couch, arching just the tiniest bit toward him, like a flower leaning into the sun.

his thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner wrist, a slow, deliberate circle that feels like a brand. "i'm waiting," he murmurs, and his voice isn't gentle anymore. it's low. rough. it's the voice of someone who's done waiting.

"i—" you try, but the word dissolves. your pride is a flimsy shield against the sheer force of him. he's not just jake anymore. he's the boy who memorized your every whim, who learned your tells, who grew up and sharpened all that quiet observation into a weapon aimed directly at your defenses.

"look at me," he says again, and you do. you have to. his eyes are dark, pinned on yours, and there's no escape in them. there's only the truth. "say it."

"i hate you," you whisper, and it's the most honest thing you've ever said. a slow, vicious smile spreads across his face. it's not triumphant. it's relieved. "no you don't," he breathes, and then he closes the last inch of space.

the first kiss is a collision. it's not soft. it's not hesitant. it's a punishment. his mouth is firm on yours, bruising, and before you can even process it, his teeth are sinking into your bottom lip, a sharp, stinging bite that makes you cry out.

he licks over the hurt immediately, a hot, possessive swipe, and then he's kissing you again, all teeth and tongue, a messy, hungry claim. he's devouring you, and you're letting him. you're arching into him, your free hand fisting the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

he breaks the kiss, leaving you panting, your lip tingling. his forehead rests on yours, his breathing just as ragged. "see?" he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. "not so hard, was it?"

you want to snap back, but all you can manage is a weak, breathless glare.

he chuckles, a dark, warm sound. "still got that look in your eye," he says, his thumb stroking the side of your neck. "like you're planning my murder."

"maybe i am," you whisper, dazed out of your mind.

"good luck with that," he says, and then he's manhandling you. his hands grip your waist, and he's spinning you, pushing you forward until your knees hit the edge of the couch. he bends you over the arm, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down. the position is obscene, your ass in the air, face pressed into the couch cushions.

"these," he says, his voice low and rough as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts, "have been driving me crazy for a week."

he tugs them down, slowly, deliberately, and you lift your hips to help him, a silent surrender that feels more powerful than any argument you've ever won. he tosses them aside, his gaze dropping to the thin lace of your panties.

"so much for being subtle," he murmurs, and you flush, because he knows. he knows you wore them for him. you always do.

then his hand is gone from your back for a second, and you hear the sharp sound of it cutting through the air before it connects with your ass. a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp into the cushions.

"that's for being a fucking tease," he growls, his hand rubbing the sting into your skin. another slap, this one on the other cheek. "and that's for making me wait."

he yanks your panties down, and the cool air hits your dripping pussy. you're so wet it's embarrassing. "look at this," he breathes, and then you feel it—a sharp, stinging slap right against your folds. you jolt, a choked moan tearing from your throat. it's a different kind of pain, sharper, more intimate.

"so fucking wet for me. you wanted this just as bad as i did, didn't you?"

he doesn't wait for an answer. he's on his knees behind you, his hands gripping your ass cheeks and spreading you open. you feel his hot breath a second before his mouth is on you. he doesn't start slow. he licks a broad, flat stripe from your clit to your entrance, a messy, hungry taste before his lips close around your clit and he sucks. hard.

your knees buckle, but his grip on you is iron. he's a man possessed. he eats you out like he's starving, his tongue fucking into you, his nose pressing against your ass, his teeth scraping your inner thighs. he bites down on the sensitive skin there, hard enough to leave a mark, and you sob, pushing back against his face. he's obsessed. he's consuming you.

he groans at the taste of you, his tongue messy yet precise as he slide down your folds making your squirm. "jake, please," you gasp, your hands fisting the couch cushions.

he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice muffled by your cunt. "please what? beg for it."

"please, i need—"

"need what?" he demands, landing another sharp slap to your pussy. the sting mixes with the pleasure, a dizzying cocktail. you feel his fingers tease your clenching hole, not quite pushing in but instead dip in slightly before running over to rub at your swollen clit.

"your cock," you sob, completely broken. "please, jake, i need your cock."

he groans, a deep, guttural sound of victory. he stands up, and you hear the rustle of his jeans. then he's grabbing you, flipping you over onto your back on the couch like you weigh nothing. he looms over you, his shirt gone, his chest heaving. his eyes are wild, feral.

"open your mouth," he commands, his hand reaching between your legs to rub tight circles around your clit while you struggle to keep your legs open.

you do, without thinking. he leans down, spits directly onto your tongue. it's filthy, degrading, and it sends a bolt of pure lust straight through you. "swallow it," he orders, and you do, your eyes locked on his.

his expression morphs into one of pure bliss, his hand wrapped around his thick aching cock as he jerks himself slightly. he watches your needy mouth pull into a whine when his fingers press harder on your clit, pleading for him to fuck you.

originally, he was going to tease you. have you begging and crying for his cock, but he overestimated his ability to hold back when he realized how good you looked fucked out.

"good girl," he murmurs, and then he's lining himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. he doesn't wait. he pushes into you in one hard, deep stroke, and you both groan. he's big, stretching you, filling you completely, and it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

he starts to move, his hips slamming into yours, a brutal, punishing rhythm. each thrust is deep, deliberate, designed to break you apart. he leans down, sinking his teeth into the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, a hard, possessive bite that you know will leave a dark bruise.

"mine," he growls against your skin, his pace quickening. "you've always been mine." his hands fumble to pull up your shirt, eyes bright when he realizes that you weren't wearing a bra. his greedy hands grab at you tits, pinching and squeezing as he watched your face scrunch in pleasure.

"so fucking pretty." he mummers, his cock pounding into you strong before his mouth reach's down to take in one of your nipples—sucking hard.

you whine in response, hands clawing at his shoulders as you arch unnaturally against the couch.

"been waiting for this day for years." he confesses, between kisses that he's leaving on your chest. your heart beats faster at his sudden confession, moaning louder when his cock brushes against that all get area that many of your ex's had trouble finding.

the coil in your stomach tightens, impossibly fast. he can feel it too, can feel the way you're clenching around him, and he reaches down, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.

"cum for me," he commands, his voice a low growl. "now."

you shatter. a blinding, all-consuming orgasm rips through you. you scream his name, your body arching off the couch as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. he follows you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, spilling himself into you.

you shudder at the feeling of his warm cum in you, feeling him twitch inside you as he helped you ride out your high.

he collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you're both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing.

for a long moment, neither of you speaks. you just lie there, tangled together, the aftermath of the storm settling around you.

finally, he pushes himself up, his arms braced on either side of your head. he looks down at you, his expression soft, his eyes filled with a terrifying amount of adoration. he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to the bite mark on your neck.

"still hate me?" he murmurs, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

you look up at him, at the boy you've spent a lifetime fighting, and feel something inside you crack open. "no," you whisper, and it's the truest thing you've ever said.

the room is still warm.not from the heater, not from the blankets—from him. from the way he touched you. from the way you touched him back.

you're lying on your back, hair messy, chest still rising too fast, your skin flushed in a way you hope isn't obvious... but you know it is. jake's spread out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily resting across your stomach like he claimed the space there without even thinking about it.

you don't speak at first. neither does he. your breathing gradually falls back into something human, and eventually something soft and unbearably embarrassing curls into your voice.

"so," you mumble, staring at the ceiling because looking at him might actually kill you. "um. that happened."

jake turns his head toward you slowly—so slowly your pulse skips like it's trying to escape your body.

he doesn't tease. he doesn't joke. he doesn't even smirk. he just looks at you, eyes dark and soft and deeply certain in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"yeah," he says quietly. "it did."

you swallow. his fingers move—not leaving your stomach, just tracing lazy, slow circles like he's memorizing the shape of you now that he's allowed to.

"are you..." his voice dips, warm and low, "okay?"

you shut your eyes for one humiliating second before answering.

"i'm fine."

"you sure?"

"yes."

"positive?"

"jake, please," you groan, dragging your hands over your face. "i'm fine, you're fine, everything's—whatever."

he laughs, soft and breathy, and his hand slides higher on your torso—warm palm resting just beneath your ribs without pushing, without restraining, just there.

and the worst part? you lean into it without thinking.

he notices—of course he notices—because his thumb presses lightly, intentionally, like he's acknowledging the way you reacted.

your voice comes out embarrassingly small. "stop acting like you know everything."

"i don't," he murmurs. "i just know you."

you turn your head sharply, finally meeting his eyes—which was a mistake, because he's already looking at you like he's been waiting for you to do it.

and he holds your gaze. fully. openly. no hesitation left whatsoever.

god, he's bold now. not arrogant. not smug. just... sure.

sure of you. sure of himself. sure of what he wants.

"i meant what i said," he says, the slightest rasp in his voice. "you don't get to lie to me anymore."

you swallow, throat tight. "i wasn't—"

he cuts you off with nothing but a look. a look that tells you exactly what he heard in your voice earlier, in your breathing, in the way you clung to him.

"you don't have to pretend," he adds quietly. "not here. not with me."

your chest squeezes.

no one has ever said that to you before—not like that, not with that kind of certainty, not with that kind of gentleness that feels like he's handing you permission you didn't even know you craved.

so you whisper—barely audible, "i'm not pretending."

his breath catches. barely, but you hear it. then he shifts—not climbing over you, not pulling you in —just rolling onto his side, facing you fully, his leg brushing yours under the blanket that he has pulled over you two.

his voice drops to something dangerously soft.

"good," he murmurs. "because I'm not pretending anymore either."

you blink. "pretending what?"

he leans in, just enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, his nose brushing the corner of yours.

"that I don't want you," he says simply.

your stomach drops straight through the mattress. he keeps going, voice steady, tone low but honest in a way that shakes you more than anything else tonight.

"i'm done acting like I don't think about you all the time," he whispers. "i'm done holding back because I thought it was what you wanted."

your lips part, but nothing comes out.

his thumb grazes your hip under the blanket— slow, barely there, but intentional. grounding. claiming. reassuring.

"i'm done pretending you're just my friend."

your pulse jumps so hard you swear it echoes.

you stare at him—dazed, breathless, overwhelmed.

"jake..."

he just watches you, eyes soft, voice steady.

"you don't have to say anything tonight," he murmurs. "you don't owe me anything. i just need you to know."

you whisper, "know what?"

he holds your gaze like he's anchoring you in place.

"that I want you."

your breath stops.

"that I'm not scared of it."

his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip. "that I'm not scared of you."

you tremble.

"and that I'm not going anywhere."

the room feels too small. too warm. too full of everything you've been running from.

you look at him, really look, and something cracks open in your chest. you don't know what to do with it. you don't know how to breathe around it.

but he does. he reaches up, cups the back of your neck with a gentleness that ruins you more than anything else tonight, and he tugs you in just a little—not kissing you, just touching foreheads, sharing breath.

"we'll talk tomorrow," he murmurs. "when you're less in your head."

you want to argue. you want to push him away. you want to pull him closer.

you end up doing none of those things—instead you melt, slowly, helplessly, into the space he holds open for you.

he pulls the blanket up. shifts closer. lets your head rest on his chest when you finally, silently, give in.

his hand stays on your back.

steady. warm. sure.

and for the first time, it hits you—painfully, beautifully, terrifyingly, you're not the only one who fell.

𓂃

you wake up before him.

which is unfair, honestly, because you absolutely deserve to sleep in after what he did to you.

your legs ache in that humiliating, delicious way. your throat is dry. your body is warm, too warm, because jake's arm is still around your waist, lazy and heavy and possessive even in sleep.

his breath ghosts the back of your neck. your, his, hoodie that he had helped you slip on last night was now halfway off your shoulder because of him. your pulse is still not normal.

you lie there, staring at the ceiling of the divining room, trying not to combust.

you should be embarrassed. you're not. you should be panicking. you are.

but underneath all of that—buried under the adrenaline and the dizzy aftershocks—there's this new, terrifyingly soft awareness sitting in your chest.

you want him.

in a way that isn't just physical. in a way that isn't just bratty competition. in a way that makes your stomach twist because you know it didn't start last night.

it started way, way before that.

your brain drifts—uninvited, unstoppable—right back to the beginning.

flashback — age 9, the playground

you're wearing a sparkly t-shirt and a crooked ponytail because you cut your own hair with safety scissors. jake is sitting in the sandbox, building something horrifyingly ugly but he swears it's a castle.

you stomp up to him, hands on hips, full attitude, even back then.

"you're doing it wrong," you announce.

he doesn't even look up. "hi to you too."

"jake. that's not a castle. that's a blob."

"it's abstract."

"it's ugly."

he sighs—that tiny, patient sigh that would become his trademark. "okay. what do you want me to do?"

"move over."

you don't wait. you physically shove him two scoots to the left and plop down beside him like you own the sandbox.

he moves. he always moves.

you grab his bucket. "we need more water."

he blinks at you, confused. "um... then go get some?"

you fix him with the most dramatic stare your nine-year-old face can manage.

"...i don't want to."

he laughs—that same soft little huff he still does —and stands up, brushing sand off his shorts.

"fine. i'll go."

"thank you," you say, like you're the queen of england.

when he comes back carrying a wobbly, half-filled bucket, you beam. you don't say thank you again, but he sees it in your face.

he hands you the bucket. but you don't take it.

you tilt your head and say, completely serious, "you pour it."

he should argue. he should tell you to do it yourself. he should tell you you're bossy. instead, without hesitation, he kneels and does exactly what you want.

and you lean closer—too close—watching him work, feeling weirdly fluttery and warm because jake listens to you in a way no one else does.

you don't know what it means at that age.

you just know it feels special.

later, when a group of older kids tries to take over your half-finished castle, you puff up, ready to argue—but jake steps in first.

"this is ours," he says firmly.

the kids back off and you stare at him like he's a superhero.

you don't understand your feelings, not then. but years later, lying in his bed with his arm around you, remembering the way nine-year-old jake defended your ugly sandcastle like it mattered?

you finally get it. it started there. it always started there.

back to present

you wake fully with a heavy breath and a heavier realization, you want to tell him. you want to admit it. you want to say something terrifyingly real like i think i've liked you since we were kids or i don't want last night to be a one-time thing or i want you.

and that's the problem.

because wanting is easy. saying it out loud is not.

so when jake shifts behind you, murmuring softly into your hair, "morning..." in that gravelly, post-sleep voice.

you panic. full feral panic.

you slip out of his arms, ignore his sleepy protest and practically flee the room.

you don't make eye contact during breakfast. you don't sit near him. you don't let him touch you, even though he tries—a hand on your waist, a brush of his fingers, small things that make your breath hitch.

he notices. of course he notices. he doesn't push, though. he just watches you with that calm, frustrating, evolved-from-childhood patience.

"everything okay?" he asks at one point.

you say, "yep!" like an idiot and then walk away before you faint.

cowardice: 1 you: 0

you're on the couch later, pretending to scroll your phone, doing a terrible job of acting normal. jake is in the kitchen, on speakerphone, fixing something near the sink.

you're not listening. until you are. because a girl's voice floats through the speaker—bright, flirty, familiar.

"so you're free this weekend?"

you freeze. jake hums. "yeah, probably."

the girl laughs. "good. i was hoping we could go out again."

again? AGAIN??

your vision goes sharp. hot. you sit up so fast your neck cracks.

jake notices the sound and glances over his shoulder—but you're already looking at him with an expression that could kill crops.

he mouths, 'what?' you don't answer.

the girl keeps talking. "my friends keep asking about you," she giggles. "they think you're cute."

you go still. silent. dangerously silent.

jake's eyes flick to your face and something about your expression makes him stand up straighter, makes his brow pull slightly together.

"uh—" he clears his throat. "can i call you back?"

"sure! text me later."

he hangs up and the kitchen goes too quiet. he wipes his hands on a towel and steps toward you slowly, cautiously, the way someone approaches a wild animal that might bite.

"hey," he says softly.

you don't respond. you just stare at him, jaw tight, heat ticking under your skin in a way that feels feral.

"that was... a friend," he offers.

you blink once. just once. but your eyes are sharp and possessive and nothing like the bratty irritation he's used to handling.

he stops walking. "what's going on?" he asks gently.

and that's when it hits him—the realization flickers across his face.

your posture. your eyes. the way you're holding your phone like you want to throw it at the wall.

you're jealous. not playful jealous. not the type of jealousy you showed at the park when mina, mona, mia whatever the fuck her name is was hitting on him. not petty jealous. real, territorial, chest-tightening jealous.

and jake has never seen you like that. his breath changes. his shoulders straighten. his whole energy shifts—calm, sure, controlled, like something in him clicks perfectly into place.

"come here," he says quietly.

you don't move. your throat is tight. your stomach is hot. everything in you is wound too tight to speak.

"come here," he repeats, firmer this time but still soft.

you finally stand. slow. tight. bristling with emotion you don't know how to name yet.

you walk toward him until you're only a foot away, eyes burning into his. he looks down at you—and there's something in his gaze you've never seen before.

something knowing. something claiming. something like, finally.

and then—you can feel him watching you. that stupid half-smirk, that stupid relaxed posture like he didn't just back you against the counter a few days ago, hands on your waist, voice warm enough to melt your spine. like he didn't murmur things that have been replaying in your head nonstop.

and what makes it worse? he looks so unbothered. like he knows something you don't. he always does.

"you're awfully quiet," he says from the couch, leaning his head back like he's bored. "you only shut up when something's bothering you."

you glare at him. "nothing's bothering me."

"mm." his eyes drag lazily up your legs, slow enough to make you want to throw something at him. "so it's just your attitude that's loud today."

"jake."

"what?" he grins. "you get weird whenever someone gets too close to the truth. you always have."

you cross your arms, heat rushing to your cheeks. "don't start."

he sits up like he's been waiting for that. "start what? pushing you?" a shrug. "you like when i do that."

you hate how your pulse jumps. you hate how he hears it. "you're so full of yourself."

"no," he says softly, "i just know you."

and the way he says it—warm, sure, familiar—makes your stomach twist in that embarrassing way you can never hide from him.

you turn away, but he laughs under his breath.

"see? there it is." he shuffles and steps in front of you, tilting his head. "that little flinch. the one you get when you're about to run your mouth but you don't know how to without admitting something."

"i don't have anything to admit," you snap—too fast, too sharp, too obvious. he raises a brow.

"okay," he murmurs, stepping closer, "then tell me why you've been avoiding looking at me since i had you pinned against that sofa with my cock deep inside of you."

you almost choke at his vulgarity.

"i— that— that was—"

"yeah," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "exactly."

you push his shoulder, out of pure panic. "shut up."

he laughs, catching your wrist midway, gentle but firm. "that's what i mean."

your breath stutters. "you've always been like this," he says, voice low. "bratty, loud, impossible. acting like you're the one in charge. you'd push me around, yell at me, boss me around—" his thumb brushes your pulse. "—and i loved every second of it."

your heart stops. you meet his eyes, stunned, and he smiles like he's been waiting years for that reaction.

"you liked that?" your voice cracks.

"of course i did." his tone warms, softens. "i loved that you treated me like i was yours without even realizing it."

your face burns and you whisper, "then why won't you let me do it anymore?" he steps in—close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

"because," he murmurs, "i finally realized something." your throat tightens. "what?" his eyes drop to your mouth, slow... deliberate.

"it's fun being pushed around by you," he says, "but it's even more fun watching you fall apart when i push back."

your knees go weak. he notices—of course he does—and his hand slides to steady your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch.

"see?" he whispers. "this is why i don't mind waiting for you to confess." you swallow hard. "i'm not confessing."

"you already are."

"no i'm—"

"you are." he smirks. "and you'll say it any minute now." your eyes narrow. "you're impossible."

"mm. and you like me."

your face flames. "shut up." he leans in, lips brushing your cheek—not a kiss, but close enough to ruin you.

"say it," he murmurs. "c'mon. you've been holding it in for years." you shove him again—weakly this time. "god, jake, you're so—"

"annoying?" he offers.

"cocky."

"you like that too."

you groan in frustration. "fine! okay? i like you. i've liked you for a long time. happy now?"

his breath hitches—barely—but you feel it. then he smiles—slow, victorious, soft around the edges.

"very."

you try to look away but he catches your chin with two fingers. "hey," he whispers, "look at me."

you do and his voice drops—deeper, rougher. "you think i didn't know?" a slow shake of his head. "i've always known."

your pulse pounds. "and i didn't say anything," he admits, "because you... being like this? all flustered and mouthy and stubborn? it's the cutest thing in the world."

your knees actually wobble and his grip tightens.

"and now that i know you want me too..." he leans in, lips barely brushing yours—never quite touching. "...i'm gonna enjoy every second of this."

and then he kisses you. not careful. not patient. like he's been holding himself back for years and finally lets the dam break.

your back hits the counter, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. he drinks in the little gasp you make, smirking against your mouth like he knew it'd happen.

you try to kiss him harder, try to take control, but he catches your wrists—pinning them lightly above your head, just enough pressure to make your stomach flip.

"see?" he murmurs against your lips. "told you. it's fun pushing you around." you whimper—quiet, involuntary. his lips curve. "there she is."

he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, his mouth warm and sure and maddeningly steady. like he wants you to feel every second of it.

when he finally pulls back, your wrists are still caught in his hand, your chest rising and falling too fast.

he brushes his nose against yours, smiling softly—smug, but affectionate. "you can push me around later," he says, "but right now... let me have this."

you bite your lip, trying not to melt.

"jake?"

"yeah?"

"don't stop."

his smile is lethal. "wasn't planning to."

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[one-and-onlee]

MINORS DNI- ENHA JAKE (Audio #10)

MINORS DNI

[audreyyyml]

can i have a whiny jake or niki plssssssss

One whiny puppy coming your way princess (˵•̀ᴗ - ˵ )

NSFW! 18+ Sim. Jake audio!

*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ

Sub!SJ } Maybe... Overstimulating your puppy boyfriend a little more then normal.. using toys to send him over the edge..

*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ

𝘙𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥!

*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ*:..｡₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ

[twocupsofsuga]

pretty wet petals 🥀˚₊‧꒰ა🍒໒꒱🌹‧₊˚

jake's brain chemistry gets altered after he sees you covered in rose petals while taking a bubble bath with him.

w.c: 5.9k

themes: WARNING: smut, p in v, grinding, cursing, gf!reader, bubble baths, jake gets aroused seeing you wet and is obsessed with your chest, breast sucking, reader being a tease, kinda dom!jake putting you in your place, this is my first smut idk how to tag this sobs

author's note: i wrote this fic a while ago but this is the revised and improved (?) version & i decided to just repost it. this is a gift for my girl @simjakedly cuz i love her sm (everyone plz plz plz check out her works they're SO good). hope u like itttt nanda thanks for being my #1 on tumblr these past few months have meant a lot <3 (more notes at the end) (masterlist) absolutely NO plagiarizing my work.

sim jaeyun has a problem.

at least he thinks he does. he's definitely gonna have to search this up online somewhere to check if this was normal or not.

his eyes travel up and down your neck that's in full view with your hair tied up, across your shoulders, and the cleavage and swell of your chest as far as his eyes could travel on, before being obscured by the soapy suds from the bubble bath you had forced him to take with you.

but it wasn't seeing you wet from the bath and covered in suds across from him that got to him.

well, that too. but what got him really twitching underneath the water... was seeing the rose petals that he had gotten you for date scattered across the water and resting allll over your skin, some big some small, marking you like moles that he just wanted to kiss over and over again.

you raised an eyebrow at him. your boyfriend had been quiet for a while, just staring intently at you with that look for a while, the look he gets when he doesn't know what to do with himself when you look so delicious and warm for him (which honestly, was all the time for jake).

you gave him a small smirk. "you ok over there?" you called out teasingly.

that seemed to snap the man momentarily out of his thoughts. the boy blinked, eyes travelling up from the rose petals and suds around your neck, coming up to meet your eyes.

jake huffed out a sigh, leaning back against the edge of his side of the tub and sinking a little bit beneath the water, legs opening to go on either side of your waist where you sat opposite to him.

he gave you an annoyed look.

"why the hell are you sitting all the way there? why aren't you on my lap?" he grumbled.

you let out a small hum as you lifted your arms up from the water. stray, wet red petals sticking to your skin as you stretched them above your head, arching your back and puffing out your chest a little as you let out a small moan.

"but i'm so comfortable on this side~" you said in a teasing tone, acting innocent despite the cheeky smile you made no effort of hiding on your face

jake's eyes immediately went up to your arms before immediately falling back to your chest. your nipples were so, so close to being revealed, but the darn bubbles still kept you barely hidden from his hungry eyes.

your smirk widened. your boyfriend was just so obvious sometimes.

you brought your hands down slowly to caress your neck and shoulders before floating over your chest.

"besides, i think you like the view from rightttt over there, hmm~?" you chuckle, dragging the petals down your skin and over the swell of your chest, bringing them over your nipples and giving your right breast a little squeeze, lifting them over the bubbles so that he could get a better look.

jake's eyes darkened and his breathing and heart rate stuttered, eyes narrowing and darkening as he let out a little growl.

"the fuck are you doing?" he snarls, feeling his member twitching beneath the water, the telltale signs of him getting hard.

"hmm?" you feign, sitting up straighter and tilting your head at him. "i'm just relaxing jakey. are you not right now? is the water too hot for you?"

jake's eye twitched. "don't act like you don't know what you're doing." he said accusingly. "your sitting there all wet, covered in the roses i bought you for our date today, and you think my mind isn't screaming at me right now?"

you slowly traced his calf under the water next to you, running your fingers up and down his leg.

"and just what is your mind screaming at you exactly?" you tease, licking your lips, his gaze falling on the shine of your lips.

the ends of jake's mouth tugged down into a scowl, the top half of his body moving up to grab you.

"why don't you get over here so i can show yo-"

he's suddenly cut off as you bring your right leg up, placing it on his chest and stopping him from leaning towards you, your smile widening as you felt him freeze. you leaned back on the tub's other edge and gently applied pressure on his chest with your feet, making him lean back.

"hasty aren't we?" you tsk, watching the restraint in his eyes waver. he let you push him back, his eyebrows furrowing even more. you ran your foot down his chest, feeling it heaving, warm breaths falling over your foot as you dragged it down and down, stopping right over his member that you knew would be hard.

jake gave you a look that screamed 'watch it', before you're gently pressing down on him. you gave a sly smirk at the groan that escaped him and watched the water slosh around from the movement of his hips bucking up, watching him lean forward and hang his head, breathing in and out faster now.

he staggered in another shaky inhale as he looked at you through his hair that fell over his eyes.

"you think you're funny?" he hissed, yet made no move to move you, his hand coming down to massage your foot resting on his dick. "'think it's my turn to laugh now baby."

you tilted your head, feeling yourself become wetter between your own legs despite the water surrounding you. you sat up and grabbed a petal floating between you two. without breaking eye contact, you lifted it and gave it a slow, soft kiss. jake's eyes followed the movement, grip tightening on your foot.

your other hand lifted and brushed away the petals over your chest, now giving your boyfriend a full view of your wet breasts, bringing down the petal you kissed to caress over one of your nipples, feeling it harden and perk up at the softness of the flower.

you heaved out a sigh, bringing it back up and then flicking it at his face. you tried not to laugh at the stunned look on jake's face.

"that funny enough for you?"

you let out a yelp as your suddenly dragged forward by your foot, falling chest to chest against jake, the soapy water sloshing back and forward and spilling a little over the edge of the bathtub.

jake slams his lips over you before you could tease him any further, one arm going behind your head to grip your hair and the other winding low around your waist, moving you to forcefully grind down on his hard member.

you gasp against his lips and jake growls, diving back into you with his tongue, licking your lips and tongue furiously and just as furiously bucking his hips up into you, feeling your thick wetness seeping out and coating him. you whimper at the feeling, arms winding around his neck as you kissed him back harder, letting him take the lead.

he pulled your hair to tug your face away from him, tilting it upwards so that he could look down at you with a flushed, angry look.

"not laughing anymore huh? cat got your tongue?" he snarled. his eyes fell from your blushing cheeks down to your neck and chest where a few petals remained stuck on your skin. he's tilting your head back even more and opened his mouth to bite you right where the roses where, tongue coming out in between bites and kisses to lick at them as he began placing hickies on your warm skin.

he grinded you down harsher, growling at every little shaky mewl and whine that fell from your lips.

"god you look so fucking good." he groaned. "so wet and pretty, covered in roses. just for me, yeah baby? gonna let me cover you in marks the same colors as the roses, won't you?"

you let out another high pitched moan as you felt jake's sucking increase, feeling him playing with the petals over every patch of skin he sucked hickies over.

his dark eyes are hazy with lust, tracking every shift of your body through half-lidded gaze. watching as rose petals cling to your damp skin before he claims each spot with his teeth.

his voice is wrecked as he speaks.

"fuck. riding me like this while i mark you up? so pretty covered in wet roses baby... ughh..."

his hands grip your hips tighter when you grind down particularly hard, a groan tearing from his throat as water sloshes over the edge. the bathwater does nothing to hide how badly he wants you, not with his cock twitching under that perfect heat between your thighs.

he leans forward to catch a petal stuck to your collarbone between his teeth before sucking another bruise right over it.

"gonna make sure... every petal leaves a mark." he nips at your pulse point. "my fucking artwork."

jake pulls back just enough for you both to watch one single red petal drift between where your bodies are nearly joined, only for him snap his hips up sudden and rough, sending it swirling away in the ripples before sealing his mouth over yours in filthy claim.

the bathroom is thick with steam, the scent of roses and vanilla scented bubbles clinging to the damp air. jake leans back against the sloped tub, water sloshing gently as your thighs bracket his hips, fingers tracing idle patterns over your slick skin where rose petals stick like temporary tattoos. his eyes are black with want, tracking how each slow grind of your hips makes more petals float around in soapy ripples.

his voice is almost a ruined rasp. "look at you… fucking showing off now." his palm splays possessively over your stomach when you arch into another roll of your hips. "pretty girl putting on a whole damn performance-"

the words cut off in a hissed curse as you grind down again on him, bubbles frothing between where your bodies are joined. one of his fingers trace a petal near your perked nipple before he's slowly leaning down and licking it before encasing the bud with his lips, using his tongue to drag it towards your nipple so that he could clamp his lips around it and sucking hard, causing you to let out another drawled whimper as you grind down in jerks.

jake's heart skips a beat as he feels your body respond, of your whimper vibrating against his lips still sealed around your nipple. the bathwater sloshes wildly as you jerk against him, sending petals swirling in chaotic circles around your tangled forms. his mouth is still working at your skin, voice muffled and rough as he chokes out, "fuck, that's it- squirm on me. justtt like that…"

his free hand slips between you, but not before snagging a stray floating petal, thumb finding your clit with ruthless precision and using the petal to press over your pearl while his teeth scrape over the pebbled peak he'd just been sucking. the dual sensation has you gasping and eyelids fluttering, hips stuttering in ragged little circles as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

you took in a deep breath and scoffed, leaning forward to be chest to chest and wrestling your arms around his neck, causing him to pause his rubbing on your clit as he gives you a suspicious look.

"careful now," you whispered leaning into his ear, right hand lifted to slowly twirl his hair with your fingers. "we wouldn't want you to be alone in this tub now do we?"

jake's jaw tightened and he clicked his tongue in annoyance. "try leaving this tub and see where that gets you. i fucking dare you." he said in a low tone, clear warning laced in his tone.

you let out a little giggle, giving another slow rock over his member that had him clenching his fists. leaning over to hold your face above your boyfriend's, lips skimming his in a near kiss.

"oho~ is that a challenge?~" you purred, tugging on his hair with the hand that was twirling the strand.

nostrils flaring, the boy's dark eyes flashed with a dangerous mix of arousal and irritation at your teasing. that little tug on his hair sent a shockwave straight to jake's cock, making him twitch beneath you in the water. his jaw clenched tighter, instincts bristling at being taunted.

"you think this is funny, testing me?" he rumbled through gritted teeth.

letting out a him and pretending to think with a tilt off your head, you looked down at him with a sly smile. "well, just a teeny tiny bit." you leaned back down to litter his face with kisses, shivering a little as the movements caused you to grind over his fingers that were still frozen over my nub.

one second you were peppering his face with kisses, the next you were being yanked forward. jake's lips crashed against yours in a searing, possessive kiss that stole your breath, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting before his tongue invaded. the water sloshed violently as he hauled you fully onto his lap, one hand gripping the back of your neck like a vice while the other slid down to squeeze your ass roughly.

he broke the kiss to growl heavily on your lips

"teasing me? bad fucking idea."

then without warning, he flipped you around so fast bubbles flew everywhere. now it was your back pressed against jake's chest as the steamy air hit exposed skin for half a second before his mouth latched onto that sensitive spot where shoulder meets neck and sucked bruise after bruise into existence over where rose petals stuck there earlier.

he kissed up your neck and bit your ear lobe, opening his eyes to spot another stray petal floating in the water and grabbed it in a flash with his left hand with ease, bringing it back down to your clit where his thumb began rubbing the rose petal in slow, maddening circles, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble but never enough to truly push you over. his other hand splays possessively across your hipbone, fingers digging in just shy of painful when you gasped and tried to grind down for more friction, one hand of yours gripping his thigh and the other ineffective holding the wrist off the hand that was running the petal on you.

he tutting mockingly into your ear. "aww, what's wrong? thought you could tease me all night and now this is all it takes?" his free hand drags up your ribcage to flick an exposed perked nipple.

the petal finally shreds from the relentless friction against your clit, leaving a smear of pink pigment on flushed skin. jake doesn't miss a beat, replacing it immediately with two fingers pressed together tight, resuming that same torturous pace while his cock throbs neglected beneath the water.

a broken moan escapes you, confidence suddenly diminishing as you jerk on his lap, grinding yourself down more on his now fully erect heard on.

jake felt your sudden shift, the way your teasing bravado crumbled into desperate, shuddering need against him. a dark, satisfied smirk curled his lips as he watched the back of your neck flush pink with every drag of his fingers over that oversensitive bundle of nerves.

"look at you… whining for me now." jake said, voice dripping with condescension and lust. "where'd all that sass go?" he bit down on the slope of your shoulder. not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you jerk.

his two-fingered torture continued mercilessly; circles so light they were almost a taunt until finally he pressed down, firm and unrelenting while simultaneously grinding his hips up in one rough thrust beneath the water, letting you feel exactly how painfully hard he was. the friction alone had him gritting teeth.

the petal remnants floated around the two of you like pink confetti as steam rose off your bodies. jake's breathing ragged behind you while you squirmed pathetically between tortured pleasure he controlled entirely.

you turned around in his lap and leaned forward, draping your heaving wet chest against his and breathing hard, stuffing your face into his neck and beginning to pepper slow kisses into his neck, not pausing in your squirming but grinding down harder onto his fingers and wrapping wet hands around his neck.

you dragged your plump lips up his neck and kissed his ears that you knew were sensitive, nipping at his right ear lobe.

"sass is still there handsome." you breathed into his ear, threading and twirling your fingers through his hair and giving it a sharp tug, warmth blooming through your body from him hissing sharply and feeling his fingers twitch beneath your legs, loosing their rhythm. "bet you wanna fuck it righttt outta me, dontcha~"

jake's breath hitched violently the second your teeth grazed his earlobe, that one spot that always wrecked him. his fingers stuttered against you, rhythm breaking completely as a sharp hiss escaped through clenched teeth. the tug on his hair sent electric jolts down his spine, making every muscle in his body lock up for half a heartbeat.

"fuck-" his hips jerked upward involuntarily, chasing friction where he badly he needed it.

the smugness radiating off you was maddening. he loved it, loved how bold and bratty you got when teasing him. but right now? it was fucking lethal. his eyes burned into the side of your face as steam curled between you two; water sloshing wildly with each restless shift of either of their bodies.

you giggled, actually giggled at him.

jake's pupils dilate.

you brought a hand down to grasp the one teasing your clit, lifting it into the exposed air between you two, kissing his fingers one by one, nuzzling into the digits.

"my man really was such a gentleman today." you whispered lovingly, a genuine smile replacing my smug one this time. "took such good care of me, didn't you jakey?~"

jake's chest tightened at the sudden shift in your tone. the teasing edge melting into something softer, sweeter. the way you kissed each of his fingers so tenderly made something warm and possessive unfurl in his gut.

his thumb brushed your lower lip, watching with quiet intensity as water droplets slid down your cheeks from damp hair. the rose petals were wilting around you both. pink blooms sinking sadly into cloudy bathwater.

he cleared his throat, gulping.

"yeah… i-i did."

you hummed, taking his thumb tracing your lips into your mouth, licking it before giving it a harsh suck.

a trail of saliva connected between his thumb and your lips as you took it out of your mouth, looking at him from beneath lashes.

"hmm... thinking of giving him a reward. buttt i still wanna tease him a little. maybe i should leave him alone in this bathtub so he couldd take care of himself. does seeing me in wet petals do the trick for you jakey? is that all it takes?~"

jake's breath stuttered, his entire body going rigid as he watched the obscene string of saliva stretch between your lips and his thumb. his dark eyes tracked the glistening connection. hypnotized by it until you broke it with your words and that sinful little smirk.

for a second, jake just stared.

then something in him snapped.

the hand that you had been kissing and sucking went to grip your neck, a surprised gasp escaping your lips as you felt his fingers tighten, thumb pressing into your pulse point.

he pulled you forward, looming over your face as you stared up at him wide eyed.

a raw, dark look fell over his features, and you gulped this time in nervousness.

jake flexed his fingers around your throat, and he felt it bob up and down from unsurety. his grip tightened just slightly. not enough to hurt, but enough that you felt the promise of control in his hold. his gaze dropped to your throat, watching the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingertips like a predator mesmerized by prey.

no words. just heat. just possession.

the water lapped quietly around you both as jake slowly but deliberately leaned down until his lips hovered a hair's breadth from yours, breath mingling with yours in thick tension.

the air between you crackled. every second stretched thinner and thinner with anticipation.

he looked over you, eyes half lidded now. there was a few seconds of silence before his lips moved.

a simple, hushed, "okay" was all you heard, and before you could process or question anything, his other free hand gripped your waist before he's suddenly slamming you down on his dick.

the sudden, brutal thrust knocked the air from your lungs. jake's cock sinking into you in one punishing motion.

water sloshed violently over the tub's edge as his grip on your waist turned bruising, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks while he held you flush against him.

jake didn't speak.

he just moved.

hips jerking up sharply beneath you with zero finesse, pure control taking over. the wet slap of skin on skin echoed off tile walls as steam curled around both of your bodies. jaw clenched tight, eyes screwed shut like he was fighting not to lose it completely right then and there.

every ragged breath escaped through gritted teeth. the pleasure almost too much after teasing each other for so damn long.

his control was hanging by a thread. each upward snap of your boyfriend's hips drove you deeper into winding pleasure, waves crashing against the tub's porcelain sides with every rough thrust. his free hand, the one not still circling your throat, gripped your waist, veins popping along his forearm from restraint.

he wasn't gentle. this wasn't sweet or slow. it was claiming. every ragged breath that punched out of him sounded like a growl. every time he bottomed out inside you, it sent ripples through both your bodies and splashed more rose petals onto wet tile floors.

the bath had long since lost its relaxing atmosphere. now it just felt feverish and electric between panting breaths.

jake's breath came in short, controlled grunted gasps, each one hot against your damp skin as he continued to pound into you with relentless intensity as he chased the friction.

his thumb stroked your throat, not squeezing anymore, just a possessive touch while his other hand slid down to grip your ass hard, helping each brutal thrust upward. every time he bucked his hips up like this? it sent a shockwave through both of you. the wet slap echoing louder than before.

you gasped at the intense pounding, both hands clattering to grip the one squeezing your neck. "j-jake!" you moaned, whining as he squeezed slightly. "nghhh... w-wait!"

but he still didn't say anything.

jake ignored your pleas. not out of cruelty, but because his mind was drowning him. the way you gasped his name like that? the desperate whine in your voice? the wet roses he oh so charmingly brought for you clinging onto your skin reminding him of the hickies he loved leaving on your skin? all that only fueled the fire.

his grip on your throat tightened a fraction while his other hand clamped down harder on your ass, forcing you to take every single punishing thrust with no reprieve. water sloshed onto the floor in messy waves. half of the bubbles long since dissipated from all movement.

he was lost. lost in the heat of skin and water and sweat. lost chasing that high only your body could give him.

no words came from the boy… just guttural sounds tearing from his chest with each snap of hips upward.

the rhythm of hulk of his body beneath you became erratic. thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate as the coil in jake's stomach tightened to a breaking point. the grip on your throat loosened entirely now, hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head instead, fingers tangling in wet hair.

he brings his face even closer, and you think you're about to kiss but then he stops just a shy breath away from connecting your lips. he just tilts his head towards you until your forehead connects, noses touching but still not fucking kissing you.

"you gonna tease me again?" he asks in a low and deep, serious tone, making you feel the vibrations as you lose your mind, clutching desperately at his chest.

you tried to keep eye contact, but the feeling of your orgasm creeping up and the way he was fucking into your body knocked all air out of you. "w-what- hnnngghhh ughhhhh!!" you get cut off by a harsh and deep pound that bounced you hard on his lap, grinding onto him more as your pussy clench harder around him.

jake's lips curled into something feral, a smirk that wasn't quite a smile, more of a predator baring teeth. the second you clenched around him like that, his entire body shivered.

he felt it. felt the way your walls fluttered, the telltale tension coiling in your belly that you were close. and jake? he was going to make damn sure you fell first.

without breaking eye contact or foreheads, he shifted just slightly, adjusting the angle so his next thrust hit even deeper, right where it would wreck you most, making you cry out. at the same time, his free hand slid between your bodies and pressed two fingers hard against your clit again. not teasing this time, but ruthless. rubbing tight circles with perfect pressure while still pounding into you from below.

the water trembled violently with each movement and jake let out a deep sigh that ended with a growl.

"i said..." a harder thrust "you gonna tease me again? my baby gonna give me what i want next time? or am i gonna have to punish her?"

his voice was pure gravel. low, dangerous, and vibrating with the weight of his dominance. each word punctuated by another brutal thrust that made your vision blur at the edges.

the threat in his tone wasn't empty. he could see it. the way your body trembled on the edge, how every nerve ending sparked from overstimulation. but he wanted words. wanted you to admit you'd tease him again… or beg for forgiveness.

either way? you were gonna get it.

his fingers on your clit pressed harder, enough that it burned in a good-bad way. and when he spoke again? it came out as a dark purr right against your lips.

"answer me y/n."

you shivered at the power that rolled over him, deciding that caving in right now seemed better then denying either of yours' release any longer.

you choked, lips trembling to get the words out. "gonna.... mmhmm... g-gonna be good. n-no more... huhhh... fu-uchkkk teasing- j-jake. please... im s-so close!"

the second those desperate, pleading words left your lips, jake's entire expression shifted. something primal and satisfied flashing in his dark eyes. that was all the confirmation he needed.

he rewarded you immediately.

the hand on your clit switched from punishing to perfect. fingers moving in slick, quick circles that matched the brutal pace of his hips. every thrust now aimed directly at that sweet spot inside you. every snap of his pelvis calculated to push you closer and closer to the edge.

a rough groan tore from jake's chest as he felt how tightly you clenched around him. your body betraying just how close it really was. steam still curled off both sweaty bodies, the water long gone lukewarm but neither cared.

jake felt the exact moment you shattered, your body tensing like a bowstring before snap, a broken cry tore from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you, waves crashing over every nerve. jake didn't slow down. not even for a second. he rode it out with you, hips still pistoning upward to milk every last shudder and twitch from your overstimulated body. but he wasn't far behind. the way you clenched around him in those aftershocks and the desperate little whimpers spilling from swollen lips sent him hurtling closer toward his own release with zero mercy.

his thrusts grew jagged, less controlled and then suddenly, he was flipping the both of you over, the front of your chest crashing into the edge of the tub with your hands gripping the edge and head dangling over, breasts pressed to the cool porcelain as jake grasped your hips from behind, lifting them up and looming over you, continuing his pounding to chase his release.

jake's breathing was ragged, his muscles coiled tight as a spring with the effort of holding back, just long enough to savor the way your body yielded beneath him. water dripped from his bangs onto your shoulder blades as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the tub's edge while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.

the sound of skin hitting wet skin echoed off tiles, alongside jake's guttural groans right by your ear every time hips collided.

his release hit him like a lightning bolt, white-hot and electric. a strangled groan ripped from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering wildly just as his orgasm tore through him, finishing and dumping everything he had inside you.

for a few heartbeats, he just shuddered above you, every muscle locked tight as pleasure wracked his body.

he didn't pull out. not yet. instead, jake slumped forward, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades and panted against your damp skin like a man who'd just run miles without stopping.

the silence that followed was thick… only broken by heavy breathing and occasional drips echoing in steamy bathroom air.

he stayed like that for a long moment. forehead resting against your back, both yours breathing slowly evening out as the aftershocks of pleasure subsided. the water had gone completely still now, just quiet.

eventually, jake pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. then another to the curve of your spine. just affection in the form of light touches while catching his breath. the steam had long since dissipated leaving just warm humid air between both bodies, but your boyfriend made zero move pull away yet.

you felt him begin to slowly press kisses on your neck and shoulder blades, before he's finally pulling out.

the australian exhaled a slow, content sigh as he finally eased out of you, careful to avoid any sudden movements that might startle or overwhelm. his lips trailed one last kiss up the slope of your neck before straightening slightly.

the water was getting cold.

he reached over to turn on the faucet again, adjusting the temperature back to warm so fresh water could fill in where it had been displaced from all movement earlier. bubbles started reforming on surface, and rose-scented steam curling upward once more.

jake trailed his hands down your body till the landed on your hips, and gently turned you around, his hands warm and careful as they guided your body to face him. his dark eyes, still slightly hazy with lingering pleasure, scanned your face, taking in every detail. the flush on your cheeks till the damp strands of hair stuck to forehead.

you both looked at each other for a few seconds in silence, before he lowers his eyes down to your slow heaving chest, watching it rise up and down, eyes locking onto the bubbles and what's left of the rose petals clinging to your skin like a lifeline.

without a word, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. and then he's burying himself slowly into you again.

the kiss started gentle, almost sweet. but jake couldn't resist deepening it. his lips moved against yours with quiet hunger, the taste of water and shared breath mixing between you. one hand cradled the back of your head while the other slid down to press against your lower back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between.

you broke the kiss with a groan, feeling your walls weakly flutter and grip him, still wonderfully sensitive. "easy boy." you scolded him like you would a dog, flicking his forehead.

jake scrunched his nose at the forehead flick but ignored your scolding.

instead of easing up like a sane person would, he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing over damp skin as he inhaled deeply. the rose scent clung to both of you now; sweet and floral mixed with sweat.

then he's lifted your right leg slightly, hooking it over hip so he could kiss down your jawline then lower.

lips traced a slow, worshipful path down your collarbone, each kiss lingering just a second longer than the last. his teeth grazed lightly over your shoulder

a full-body tremor ran through you at the sensation that had jake smirking against your skin. smug bastard. he knew exactly what he was doing. knew how sensitive you were post-orgasm.

his hands slid around to grip either side of waist as continued mapping kisses lower down then dipping toward chest with no hurry whatsoever.

he took his time. kissing every inch of exposed skin like he was memorizing it. when he reached the curve of your chest, his lips hovered just above one peaked nipple, breath warm against damp skin.

then finally he closed the distance. a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your nipple first, then a teasing lick. not quite sucking yet. just tasting an savoring how sensitive you were after everything that had happened.

his hands squeezed gently at your hips all while doing this, keeping you anchored close as steam curled lazily around both bodies once more.

you sighed in bliss, eyes closing and tilting your head to lean comfortably on the tub and running my hands through his hair, letting him do what he wanted.

jake melted into your touch. the way your fingers threaded through his damp hair sending little shivers down his spine. it felt nice, like something out of a daydream.

his lips finally sealed over one nipple, sucking gently at first, testing the sensitivity before gradually increasing pressure with each pull.

the warm water lapped around you both once more.

one of jake's hands slid up to cradle your neglected right breast, thumb brushing in slow circles while his mouth worked on the left one. the other hand remained on your hip, thumb absently stroking skin there in quiet rhythm. he switched to your other nipple after a few moments, treating it with the same devoted attention. kisses, licks, and soft sucks. every now and then he'd nip lightly with his teeth just to hear the little gasp it pulled from you.

at some point, jake leaned back slightly. only enough so he could press a proper kiss right on your lips again, softer this time. a slow brush of mouths that tasted like shared breath and love.

"next time..." he starts, leaning his whole body weight on top of you, grinning slowly as you scrunched your face at the feeling of himself nudging himself deeper inside, "just sit on my lap when i tell you to."

"sigh... yes sir...."

maybe next time you can beg jake to see him covered in wet petals too.

author's note: BAHAHAHA i'm actually so embarrassed right now GOODBYE- it's not that good it's my first time writing smut but i've really been wanting to write this one soooo yeah. idk how other writers write smut so well. hopefully this was good enough T_T

reblog, like and comment if you liked this!

-twocups

(⁄ ⁄•⁄-⁄•⁄ ⁄)

[lassiie]

Saint’s Dream - Sex!addict!Jake x ChurchGirl!Reader

Content & Trigger Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Mention of religion and sins, our boy discover he's an obsessed sadist, reader with inferiority complex and anxiety/Panic attacks, coercion smh, fingering, dry humping/grinding, cum play, Two-faced Jake Sweet → Menace, Obsessed Jake/reader, sub/dom dynamics, soft dom, degradation+praise, kink mention of paraphilia, Overstimulation (r), Slight mind-breaking (r),public, edjing, Dubcon? (mostly in Jake’s head), messy heads, tits lover, marking, breedingkink m, morally gray jake, blasphemous language

WC: 13k~ (didn't really proof read I was sleepy and ovulating on top...enjoy)

You hate Jake Sim. Oh god how you hate this man.

Obviously you do. Because if you didn’t, then every humiliating, small, invisible thing you feel around him would just be…

You.

It’s a thing as old as the day both of you met. This strange inferiority thing you have, that made his kind gestures poison. Cause he’s just so… Jake coded. “Need a hand?” this. “Let me do it for you.” that, always said with that hand-over-heart sincerity. Like some benevolent little saint sent down to rescue the less fortunate. Which, apparently, is you.

And you…

You never refused. or gave him attitude. Cause refusing a guy like Jake would require admitting you resented him. That something about you was wrong.

That you can’t stand the way he outshines you without even trying. That you feel defective standing next to him.

After all, saints are meant to be loved. And Jake was loved by everyone. Everyone, except maybe by you. And eve’ this is not his fault.

It’s yours.

Because that poor Jake was charming in that infuriatingly unconscious way. Soft smiles, careful manners, a body sculpted like God spent extra time on him. Handsome, but acting like he has no idea. Perfect, but almost apologetic for it. Like: Sorry I’m everything you’re not.

He says your name when people praise his grades. Bumps his shoulder against yours when he takes first place and you settle for second. As always.

He leans in too close and murmurs, “Next time, for sure,” with those earnest, pity-puppy eyes, while you fell the anxiety eat you alive.

Even his family, is so aggressively perfect it almost feels satirical.

Rich, but the kind that doesn’t flaunt it because they don’t have to. The kind that somehow raises children with “healthy expectations” instead of generational trauma. No dramatic pressure to be extraordinary. No threats of disappointment. Just effortless excellence, passed down like heirloom silver.

Of course he’d turn out like this.

Perfect.

A saint.

A saint who’s soccer team captain. Your science club president. First seat in violin after school, always a damn chair ahead. Debate club’s crowned prince. The only person you can’t out-argue no matter how long you stay up preparing weeks before. First on the merit board like it’s a birthright to be above yours.

Choir member. Church darling. While you’re just… there. Another girl in a modest skirt trying not to sing off-key.

Even most cited youth volunteer. Which is impressive. Truly. Especially considering you were the president for the past two years.

Two years…

And still it’s his name the pastors say during sermons. “Well, look at Jake,” they’ll say, smiling at him in the third pew. “That’s the kind of young man you should all aspire to be, bla, bla, bla…”

And everyone nods.

You nod too.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

It’s not his fault he excels at everything you bleed for. It’s not his fault people light up when he walks in. It’s not his fault that when you stand next to him, you feel like a smudge on a polished surface.

But it’s easier to think it just is. And in some kind of outragious way it is, because Jake doesn’t even try. That’s the worst part.

He just exists. And somehow, that’s enough to eclipse you.

Because Jake is just everywhere your eyes linger. Everywhere, that’s the problem.

Everywhere you try to excel, every space you polish yourself into something worthy of praise, he appears with effortless and radiant victory, just to cut the grass you were saving for yourself. That brief, intoxicating thrill of being seen, favored, recognize? He reaps it first. Always… first.

You wanted to be him somehow. You mean like him. Perfectly perfect. Still being around him too long made you feel sick—like you were about to throw up and spiral straight into a panic attack.

You were just too much obsessed by him to realize your own outstanding value and charms.

For you, if Jake is virtue, then you are an inventory of sins. If he is modesty, you are secret pride. If he look content, you are greedy.

And if he is purity, sealed neatly behind that chastity ring gleaming on his finger and cross on his neck, then you are pure lust on any kind of attention you could get.

The kind that makes you reckless especially.

The kind that pushes you toward the forgettable fuckable boys at debate regionals. That you let stand a little too close, just to prove you can be wanted too.

The kind that makes you accept wandering hands because it feels good. Because being desired, even just cheaply … Is still being desired?

Sunghoon, for example.

The priest’s youngest assistant. The youth center instructor. Technically too old to look at you the way he does.

But he does. Just now, from the side of the nave, while Father prepares his sermon, his gaze drags over you like he’s already decided he’ll need help moving furniture later at youth session, as always.

You readjust the thin strap of your summer dress, whipping sweat from your neck, boxed into the corner of a wooden pew near the aisle, in that too hot, too old damn of a church in that too small of a town.

The priest clears his throat. Then, almost ceremonially says:

“Anyone under seventeen is dismissed.”

Wood creaks. Shoes scrape. A ripple of confused laughter moves through the congregation as teenagers are herded out, faces pink from heat, whispers louder and louder.

The doors close. The lock sounds heavier than it should. The priest lifts his head.

“Tonight,” he says, “we will speak of the subject of sexuality.”

Your fingers freeze mid-twist in the hem of your dress. Mindlessly exposing your knees.

Half the room low gasps. Someone snorts. Others laugh a bit too loudly, people your age crane their necks, searching for accomplice in embarrassment. Even you turn your head, looking for your friends to share an amused, disbelieving smile with.

And all of you are suddenly curious and aware, and maybe a little dumb.

After it’s the kind of subject we only speak about once a year.

That’s when you see , him. Jake. From the corner of your eye.

Jake’s sited two rows back across the aisle, just behind your friends and their families. Spine straight. Hands clenched on his thighs. Face calm, reverent, unreadable. The saint at rest.

Except—

He look a bit more tired than usual. His eyes dip, just for a second—

To your knees.

To the wrinkled fabric you’ve been worrying on. Then his gaze snaps up, colliding with yours. you don’t even stand it a second and just directly turn back around, that “sorry for existing typa behavior” that you hate about yourself.

It couldn’t have been more than two seconds. Two awkward, desert-dry seconds.

When you risk a quick glance, His attention is back to the priest like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t been looking at you at all. Like you imagined it.

Jake? No way. He doesn’t look at you like that. He actually doesn’t look at anyone like that.

Suddenly you feel wrong. Like maybe your dress is stained and no one told you. Maybe there’s something on your face. Maybe your knees look awkward. Too bare. Too obvious. Too much.

You resist the urge to check. To wipe at your mouth. To smooth your dress again. To twist around and confirm whether Jake’s still looking — or if he ever was.

Good girl. Be still. Be quiet. You don’t turn around. You don’t look for Jake. At Jake. You don’t ask yourself why your pulse hasn’t settled.

Because the priest has begun.

“Desire,” he says, as you take your deepest breath, “is not a sin in itself. It is a trial.” His voice is calm and practiced. “The body,” he continues, “is a battlefield. What you do with it determines whether you rule it or whether it rules you.”

You swallow, lowering your eyes fading in your cogitations.

“There is submission,” he says, “and there is domination. Both exist in God’s design. The danger lies in confusing control with righteousness.”

Your thighs press together before you realize you’ve moved, wrinkling the white fabric of your dress some more.

“Purity,” the priest continue, “is not ignorance. It is discipline.”

You listen.

But do you really? Yeah, god made everyone imperfect, yeah there’s a plan. yeah, the doctrine. Original sin and all that. Maybe yours is that ugly, gnawing need to be wanted. To be looked at and not overlooked. To be desired down to the bone.

And somewhere between the pulpit and the pew—wedged awkwardly between your faith and that gnawing little knot of guilt in your chest—you start to wonder if you’re really the only one here fighting off thoughts that have absolutely no business being inside a church.

Surely not. Statistically, that would be ridiculous. But—-your eyes scan discretly around you—if there are secret perverts sitting politely between the hymnals and the folded hands, and somehow it isn’t you… then who, exactly, is it?

You caught the priest assistant, Sunghoon lingering a look on you at that right fucking moment, as you regain consciousness and stop bit your lower lip. He’s giving you that one look that tells : you’re doing a remarkably poor job of pretending purity princess.

You’re asking for it, huh, he’s probably thinking.

You try to get it together, while your thoughts misbehave. Spectacularly sharing them thru eyes contact with that Sunghoon guy.

Maybe you’re ovulating. That has to be it. Because why else would your mind go there—imagining him in those same church clothes he’s wearing now, backing you into the confessional, crowding that small space until there’s nowhere left for you to escape. Just to force his hand under your already humid and smiring with anticipation panties, like he has some right to check. To make sure you’re still what you’re supposed to be. Still a good girl. Still unprepared, unready, unstretched.

Just to leave you, legs parted, wanting more, with your juice drying on his finger for his own fun.

you can almost feel those cold, veiny hands on you—enough to make your back oh so lightly arch before you can stop yourself.

Reality comes crashing back the moment your parents stand up. The sudden rustling of people around you breaking your… very unchurchlike train of thought.

Incredible. Truly. Your brain picks church—of all places—for that.Fucking get a grip.

Most of it, you missed. You rise in a too quick move, smoothing your dress with hands that are too sweaty, slipping into the current of families clustering together, voices overlapping in familiarity.

You’re fine with this part. This is not the reason you take three type of diferent pills to calm your anxiety. You greet people automatically. Smile where expected. Nod at the right moments. Ask polite questions you don’t really care about.Your normal social self.

It’s only when you notice who your parents are greeting now that something in you tightens.

Jake’s parents.

Of course…

Your mother hugs his with the kind of warmth she reserved for people she’s already decided are good and above, and his father easily laughs with yours.

And you? You angle your body away on instinct, already planning your escape to the youth group, when your mother’s voice cuts in.

“Don’t just hover,” she says. “Say hi, love.”

“Ms Sim, Mr Sim” you reply smoothly bowing your head, with that shy smile, greeting and chatting as you try hard not to look at Jake, “…I’ll go catch up with friends, have safe trip home.” You bow, almost excusing yourself.

but your mom raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve been ‘catching up’ for weeks. Stay here. It’s impolite.”

Before you can try countering, Jake’s mother steps closer as elegant and unhurried as always, smiling like she knows exactly how things are supposed to go.

“Jake,” she says gently, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. “Why don’t you to go join the group too. Walk her over, okay?” It’s perfect. Kindness, handled exactly how you wished you mom would have.

His mother gives you the“good girl eye” the one in between “if I had a daughter like you…” and “my poor child…” you’re used of reiveving from her since childhood.

Jake turns to you. You meet his eyes too late, then look away too quickly.

There it is. This, is the part you’re bad at. Not people. Not conversation. Just him. Just Jake freaking Sim.

Because around Jake, you’ve always felt this… The gap. Since middle school. Since spelling bees and gold stars and teachers comparing you with soft smiles.

Your effort, his ease, you studying until 2 a.m, and him just existing.

“Sure,” he says, like there was never another option.

Shit, shit, shit. You start feelling it… The anxiety.

Jake falls into step beside you down the aisle, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, shoulders close enough to look friendly, far enough to stay saintly, just socially acceptable. An d you only want one thing : get away. Just to calm that thing that is going on in your stomach.

You don’t realise, but Jake can feel your tension radiating like heat. Your shoulders rigid, your eyes everywhere except on his face, and your stomach probably hollowing out with that familiar unconfortable churn you get whenever he’s near.

He’s memorized it by now: the way you try to straighten your spine, pretend you’re fine, pretend he doesn’t make you want to puke from nerves and something else.

God, it’s pathetic.

And it’s perfect.

You, are so perfect.

He sees everything you try to hide, enjoy every little bit. The awkward fidget, the way your eyes dart anywhere. Every stutter, every forced smile, he catalogs it all.

Fuck, Jake wants to do you so bad it hurts; wants to shove you against the nearest pew, yank that dress up, and fuck until you’re crying his name instead of choking on it.

Keep it together, Jake. Golden boy. Church darling. You can’t let the mask crack.

“You alright?” he asks, voice light—like he’s just the nice guy checking in, as if he wasn’t getting off on your every reaction.

“Hm?” You blink up at him, wide-eyed, caught off guard.

It’s brilliant, that deer-in-headlights thing you do, it just, never gets old.

His gaze drops. Lower. To those fingers you’ve been white-knuckling since the sermon started. “You’ve been clenching your hands all night.”

Your eyes snap down. Fingers guilty half-second too late. And your anxiety rize. Jake can practically see it takes form…

Good.

“I… didn’t realize,” you mumble, voice barely there, with that akward smile.

“I know...” Jake is mesmerized, he watches your breath hitch. You’ve been doing this all service, twisting those fingers like they’re your only anchor. And yeah, he’s been watching. Longer than tonight actually. Longer than you’ll ever guess. “I mean,… I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well,” he continues, “You looked tense.”

A small, strangled laugh escapes you—like you’re one wrong breath from vomiting. Fuck. That sound shoots straight to his cock. He wants to push harder, make it a bit worse, make you dizzy with it maybe. But he need to control himself, If you ever realise, if you ever guess that he’s getting off on your disconfort it’s the end.

“No, I—it’s just a bad habit.” Your hands flap uselessly. Awkward smile plastered on. Stop, he imagines you screaming internally. He almost smirks.

He hums instead. “You should stop.” Another beat. Thin and charged. “I mean…” his eyes drop to your dress. “Look here.”

Jake brushes the threadbare spot you’ve been torturing. Two fingers. That’s all. No grab, no force, just the lightest graze, and your reaction is immediate.

He watches it ripple: pressure sinks through fabric, heat blooms, shiver rockets up your thigh. Goosebumps explode across your legs. Breath snags hard. Thighs twitch in the slightliest way together, desperatly, before you clamp them still.

Fuck. He wants to spread those thighs so bad right now, make you twitch for hours—-Stop! Keep it together, Jake. Control it.

He should stop, he need to. But teasing you is so addicting. “Look,” he murmurs, with that softer smile tilting, almost fond. “its thinner here… than here.”

His veiny hands doesn’t retreat. His fingers slide, slow, deliberate, along the curve of your thigh. Fabric bunches between histhumb and forefinger. His knuckles drag bare skin for three perfect, torturous second. Warm and rougher than you expected from him.

You hadn’t noticed the wear. But he did. On every spot of every cloth you were around him.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Right…” You say taking a step back.

hm? Are you trying to get away? Maybe he did go a bit far, he think. but…

“You’ll stop?” Jake say gently enough to make you doupt if it is a question or a soft command.

And you nod, more like a reflexive. But to him it’s like you’re being obedience, a pathetic state of you that make his dick twitch. You, doing everything he order you to.

He doesn’t move. Tempted to try a bit more.

“Don’t just nod.” It’s almsot imperseptible but his voice drops lower.

“Say yes.”

Your mouth goes dry—he sees the swallow stick. Another traitor nod slips out that make him wanna grab on your jaw, but the word scrapes free finally.

“Y—yes.”

Fuck, Jake fucking loves it. His smile blooms full. The polite one everyone love, yeah. But in this case, he’s just satisfied. Pupils flaring wide for half a heartbeat.

His hand twitches toward your head, like he wants to pat you, like a good pet, but suddenly he snaps out of his little ego trip and reroutes it to your shoulder, remembering he’s not supposed to be this blatant… but oh how he wants it.

Fuck it. It’s not the agreement that gets him half hard. Not even close. It’s the surrender in your personality. The way you surrender without a word, without a fight. How can you be this submisive, angel ? The way you don’t fight back. The way those doe eyes almost beg him to leave you alone… somehow that makes him go harder. Makes him need it.

At first, he didn’t get it. Why this pulls him in so much. Why the simple fact that you’re uncomfortable makes his brain—and apparently his dick—start running the show.

You too don’t get it yet.

Key word : yet.

To say all of this started with pity-hatred would be putting it mildly.

It was the first time in his entire fucking life Jake’s ever felt something so disgustingly potent crawl inside his chest. He still remembers the exact second you got him hopelessly addicted to the sick thrill of having power over you.

Two years ago, at the regional spelling bee auditorium, behind the scenes while everyone was rehearsing—the perfect little prodigy with your too-neat hair and modest knee-length skirt who was supposed to be untouchable— was in some other school senior's arms, pressed against a dark corner backstage’s curtain. His mouth on the side of your neck, leaving wet marks.

His hand shoved so far up under your skirt Jake could see the skin of your inner thigh flexing. And you moaned, a shy whimpering that punched straight through Jake’s balls, as your hips rocked forward shamelessly chasing for more.

That was that. The day Jake realized hate and want could live in the same heartbeat and feel exactly the same.

His first public hard-on. Right there sitting on folding chairs in front of hundreds, cock throbbing painfully against the zipper of his khakis while he watched you sitting down silently next to him. You, the only girl he’d ever really wanted, who got finger-fucked like she was starving for it minutes ago, and then spelling: Floccinaucinihilipilification.

You were his first real crush. His stupid, innocent puppy love.

His first heartbreak.

And—most importantly—his first real taste of rage.

How could you fucking dare give those sounds toa stranger. For days he observed you, just to realise his pure crush on you turned you into an angel you actually weren’t. 

Those moans looped in his skull for weeks. The way your cheeks flushed such a violent pink. The glassy, faraway look in your eyes right before you came. The shuddering, thighs trembling, the tiny, broken cry slipping out as you soaked that bastard’s hand.

Jake came so hard that night he saw stars. Ropes of thick cum painting his stomach while his brain short-circuited, replaying nothing but your wrecked face over and over.

First time he’d ever jerked off thinking about someone specific.

First time he experienced the pleasure of rolling over and fucking a pillow thinking of a girl inner thighs while begging for repentance.

And first time he understood what it meant to want to own someone.

From that day forward it stopped being about trophies, debate medals, perfect report cards, or the endless parade of “suitable” playdates his mom tried to arrange. None of it hit the same as the urge to touch you.

Nothing got him stupidly, painfully hard like the fantasy of finally cornering you—maybe in the back stacks of the library where you always fall asleep with your cheek smushed against an open textbook, or in an empty chem lab after hours.

He daydreamed to wash your mouth out with his tongue until you tasted like him. Wanted to bruise the skin that should’ve always belonged to him.

Wanted to be the first—and only—one to rip new sounds and reactions out of that pretty face. He wished to experiment his new obsessions on you.

And suddenly he realised that every time he smiled that gentle, angelic, good-boy smile while quietly dismantling your confidence, your eyes would go glassy, stomach visibly clenching like you were trying not to cry right there.

And fuck, that made him leak in his briefs.

It was weird. And it was scary. The thought of being purposely bad to someone was against everything he believed in.

Still, no award ceremony, no valedictorian speech, no other girl ever gave him that same feral rush. Nothing got him harder, faster, than watching you shrink under his saintly cruelty.

It’s your fault. He persuaded himself. You, turned him into a sinner.

By the time you reach the youth group, voices overlap and the moment dissolves. You both join your friends suddenly aware of your own body in a way that feels like a low vibration under your ribs.

The group is seated in a loose circle, attention focused on Brother hoon, who sits on a low chair at the end of the circle, hands folded, expression impassive.

“As Father mentioned tonight,” he says, “desire is not something to fear. Strong feelings do not make us bad people.” He smiles softly. “They make us human. What matters is how love and understanding the path of god guides them.”

He looks around the circle.

“Does anyone have a passage they think speaks to that?”

Silence.

People avoid eye contact. Someone shifts. But Jake raises his hand without hesitation.

“John 3:16,” he says evenly. “It reminds us that love is intentional. Chosen. Sacrificial. And that sacrifices vanish a lot of sins.”

Nods ripple through the group. You hesitate, then speak before you can stop yourself.

“First Peter,” you say quietly. “4:9.” You swallow, then continue. “It says that above all, we should have fervent love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins.”

Brother Sunghoon's smile deepens.

“That’s very good,” he says looking at you, “both of you.” You lower your gaze, warmth creeping into your face. Heat floods your cheeks. Oh, how pathetic it feels to crave that tiny scrap of recognition, like a dog waiting for a pat on the head. But from him? It's everything. You drop your gaze to your lap, fingers twisting the hem of your dress, a stupid smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

Across the circle, Jake watches. He sees it all: the way your eyes light up for Sunghoon, the flush that creeps up your neck, the shy curve of your mouth.

Head over heels, aren't you? For that guy?.

Jake's jaw tightens. Your lips... His nails dig into his palms without him realising until he feels the warm trickle of skin tiring. Your lips, could smile at him instead. Why couldn’t they he’s always so good to you. So gentlmen. You could at least thank him for always having you in his mind. those same soft lips of yours you btting nervously could be parted around his cock as a thank you, no? You could look at him with those same shy eyes, through those long lashes, begging for that guidance he will surely give you better than anyone else. He’d be so good to you if you letted him. He clenches harder.

You have no idea the storm you're stirring in him, do you? All innocent and fluttering for the wrong man. Fuck he’s doing it again…

Jake reajust himself in the chair, hopping no one noticed, and study keep going until brother Sunghoon claps his hands once, gentle but decisive.

“Let’s do this, for this week exercise” he says. “I want you to pair up with someone,” he gesture, encouraging. “talk together about a desire, something, anything. that is stuck within you and let the other one show acceptance and understanding. It’s about recognizing when it isn’t ours to indulge, and how understanding it helps us accept it, then guide it. Not repress it as a danger. But how to dominate it.”

Murmurs spread. People already turn toward safe friends, prepping harmless confessions: I procrastinate so much…, I love junk food, I desire to skip Bible study sometimes, oops, haha. You do too, wayving at your friend, already scripting something bland and forgivable in your head. Something oh so harmless, that anyone could say “it‘s okay! How about journaling about it?” to.

Then Brother Sunghoon adds, almost offhand adds“Let’s keep it simple… I’ll pair you.” He starts calling names. Your heart drops with each one. Until he reaches you.

“You… With… Jake.” He smiles.

NO.

No,no,no,no.

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. The room tilts a little. Why you? What could you possibly tell him? Something safe, or... God, what if anything slips out? He’s that good at talking people thru… Your hands tremble, chest tightening like a shrinked shirt. Air feels thin. It’s is a trap, isn't it? Another way for him to see how beneath him you are—frumpy little you, with your buttoned-up blouses and anxious fidgeting, spilling your soul to perfect Jake. Why does it have to be him? Your pulse hammers in your ears, vision blurring at the edges. Breathe. Just breathe. But your lungs won't cooperate, and the panic coils tighter.

He flashes that pure, trustworthy smile everyone melts for, raises his hand in a small, casual hi~ wave. Your friends shoot you those smug, giddy looks—“You’re so lucky!”—like this is some divine rom-com moment.

For one wild second you consider faking illness. Clutching your stomach, bolting for the bathroom, anything. God must be punishing you. This is divine retribution dressed in flannel and soft brown eyes. Or maybe Jake engineered it, whispered to Sunghoon, pulled strings. No, that's paranoid. But the thought makes your stomach churn harder.

“Keep in mind,” Sunghoon adds brightly, “accept with open arms. Show your partner grace. Try to find healthy paths forward together.”

Open arms…

Everyone stands.

You hesitate half a beat too long—long enough that Jake notices—then force your legs to move. Chin up. Shoulders squared. You flash him the smile you’ve practiced in mirrors a hundred times: sweet and polite, that you think look effortless. No one would ever guess how much it costs you, how your heart's racing like it's trying to escape your chest.

You meet him halfway across the room.

“So,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that his voice stays private, “where do you wanna do this?”His tone is light. Curious. As if the answer doesn’t matter at all. and some jaleous girls side eyes you.

But, the answer genuinely doesn’t matter,.

No it actually does.

It matters so much your throat is closing around it. You need open space. People. Fresh air. A clear line of sight to the bathroom so you can bolt when the panic claws up your esophagus and you have to puke your shame into a toilet stall. Anywhere but—

“I think…” You chew the inside of your lower lip raw, teeth catching skin. Your hand drifts up, nails slidding between your teeth before you even register the motion. Bite. Release. Bite again. You scan the room like there’s an escape hatch nobody told you about. “Anywhere. Anywhere’s fine…”

Jake watches the whole pathetic performance. A second too long. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the soft brown until they look almost black. He’s already picturing it: those same nervous teeth replaced with something thicker, your lips stretched and glistening, shy eyes flicking up at him while you choke on praise and drool. Fuck. He’ll break that nail-biting habit one day. Replace it with better habits. On your knees. Swollen mouth. Full of him.

“Study room, downstairs then.”

No.

No!!

The word screams in your head but your mouth stays shut. Those coffin-sized side rooms. No windows. No air that isn’t recycled through his lungs first. No witnesses. Bathroom a whole hallway away. You’ll suffocate. You’ll die in there. You’ll—

You nod too fast. Legs move on autopilot. You trail half a step behind him like a scolded puppy…

Inside, the room is smaller than you remembered. Sterile. Dim. One lamp throwing long shadows. Just a table against a the wall. Two chairs. Jake fucking Sim.

And your heart hurts. You want to go home…

Jake let's you go in first and the room is small you can just smell the clean cotton of his shirt and the faint cedar of whatever cologne he wears. He pulls out your chair, oh so gnetlemenly, and you drop into it so fast the legs scrape. You curl your hands into fists so he won’t see the trembling.

When Jake joins and sit… he’s too damn close. His knees bracket yours, because there isn’t anywhere else to be. You decide to make an exercice out of trying to keep yours sealed tight long enough not to touch his.

You fold your hands on the hem of your dress and suddenly flash back to when Jake told you to stop hits.

You stop.

He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. And you stastically are. Because it’s hard to calm your heart by pointing at five things in a room where the. things you see are a lamp and Jake. The silence settles, not really awkward. but as present as a third person you almost count.

Your eyes locks on the door handle behind him. He locked it. Of course he locked it. Why did he locked it? And why is there no window in the room. why is there no ventilation too? No other sounds than your breathing slowly catching.

Your vision blur in the corners.

Shit, shit, shit.

Jake tilts his head, gets closer, concern creasing his brow in that perfect, practiced way. “Hey… you okay? You look…” He pauses, voice dropping softer. “You look a bit stressed.”

Liar. He’s not concerned. He’s enjoying every seconds. You can’t feel it too much in your own head, to see the way his gaze drags over your flushed cheeks, your bitten lip, the slow frantic rise and fall of your chest. Your panic is turning him on and he hates himself for it and he loves it more.

“I—I’m fine,” you whisper. Your tongue feels thick. “Just… It’s hot. In here.”

fuck it’s almost summer, and the church can’t have a window or some kind of fan in a corner.

“You sure?” He leans forward. Elbows on the table. Closer. “Your hands are shaking. You’re pale.” His fake worry drips from every syllable like honey. “Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

You want to scream leave me alone. Instead your mouth opens and closes like a dying fish. His finger shyly catch on chin to makes you look at him. And nausea surges, hot climbing your throat. The room spins. You lurch to your feet.

Bad idea, angel.

Your legs give out like wet paper. You don’t even stumble gracefully, you literally crumple forward, knees hitting the floor hard between Jake’s spread thighs, nails scraping at the wood between his leags. The impact jars up your spine, but the real pain is the way your chest locks tighter, air refusing to come in more than frantic little sips.

He freezes for half a heartbeat. Eyes wide. Then something darker flickers across his face.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Hey—hey, I-I think you’re having a panic attack.”

He should call for Sunghoon. He knows he should. Yell. Open the door. Get the saintly brother in here to lay hands and pray he can calm your allergy to him.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead his hands shoot out.One clamping around your jaw, firm enough to tilt your face up to his, the other slids to cradle the back of your neck just like he’s been rehearsing in his dreams for months.

“Easy,” he murmurs, thumb stroking once along the edge of your lower lip—almost tender. “Breathe for me, okay? You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You try. God, you try. But your lungs are made of stone. Your vision swims. Tears already sting the corners of your eyes because everything feels too loud, too close, too him.

Jake’s jaw ticks. His voice drops lower. “Come here.”

He hauls you up, not roughly, but with purpose, straight into his lap so you’re straddling him face-to-face. Your knees bracket his hips on the narrow chair; your dress bunches high on your thighs. His hands stay where they are: one still gripping your jaw, the other curled possessively around the back of your neck, keeping you from looking away.

You’re close enough to see the flecks of brown in his dark irises, the tiny scar on his upper lip, the way his pupils have blown wide. Close enough to feel every ragged exhale fan across your mouth.

“Still not breathing right,” Jake says, voice low, almost disappointed. His thumb strokes once along the seam of your lips, “open your mouth, angel.”

Your lips and eyes tremble, stay sealed. Terror and humiliation glue them shut.

He exhales sharply through his nose. Then two thick fingers push past your teeth without preamble. They hook over your tongue and press, stretching the soft inner skin of your cheeks until they pull tight, until your jaw screams from the angle. You gag hard, helpless, the sound is wet and obscene in the room you’re ashamed.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once beneath you. His cock is already straining against his jeans, pressing insistently against your core through thin fabric. “Breathe, thru your mouth. In through your nose… out slow. Come on.”

You try—God, you try—but every inhale shoves his fingers deeper, every failed exhale drags more saliva spilling over his knuckles, dripping down your chin and his hand. Your tears stream freely now and a choked, broken whimper vibrates around the intrusion.

He groans low in his throat, head dropping back a bit to enjoy the show.

“You’re fucking killing me like this.”

His free hand slides down—under the hem of your dress and you jolt when it goes past the lace edge of your panties, until his palm flattens over your lower belly. Big. His hand is big. Spanning so much skin you feel tiny, fragile and kind of owned. He presses firm rhythmics. Up on the inhale, down on the exhale. Forcing your diaphragm to obey.

“Like that,” he whispers, breath mingling with yours. “Good girl. Follow my hand. In… out…”

The pressure make your insides wierd, his fingers stretching your mouth, petting your tongue like something precious turn your brain mushy. His palm grinds slightly more possessive, close enough to the fabric of your panties that your clit drags on the friction you can’t ignore. His head tips; his lips brush your temple once barely there.

“If you need to puke,” he rasps, voice cracking with restraint, “tell me, I don’t give a fuck.”

The words hit meaner than he usually speaks. He’s diferent more dominating. A soft, shattered sound tears from your throat: half sob, half plea. Drool glistens on his fingers, strings of it connecting to your swollen lips when he finally, agonizingly, slowly, withdraws them.

Three minutes. Maybe four. Your breathing stuttered, catched, steadied and now ragged gasps smooth into something almost even.

His hand stays splayed on your belly. You feels your hands again finally, resting on your thighs, when you look at them you catch on the buldge of is cock throbing beneath you with every shaky inhale you take. But you don’t look away, and not at him.

And jake doesn’t speak for a long beat.

Then, barely audible he says: “Better?”

Your tongue still tastes like the salt of his skin. You can’t answer too everwelmed, and suddenly fresh tears slip down your cheeks.

His thumb strokes once over your lower stomach, just gentle now.

“Shhh, Good girl,” he breathes. And the praise sinks into you like a cold patch on your fever, even as you tremble in his arms, with nowhere left to hide, “There you go,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed, post-crisis soft. “You’re okay, angel. Just breathe. It’s alright. Everything’s alright.”

Jake speak in the same tone people use on scared puppies or crying kids. Like he handed you a participation trophy for almost blacking out in his lap.

You’re calm(ish). Breathing steady. Heart still hammering, sure, but no longer trying to punch through your ribs.

Jake, though?

Jake is not calm.

The thick, insistent ridge of him presses up against your core through his jeans and your bunched skirt. Hard enough that every tiny shift of your hips drags a low hiss from between his teeth. You feel it twitch when you swallow. Feel it throb when your breath hitches. He’s leaking through the fabric—you’re almost sure of it—and the realization makes fresh heat flood your face.

You can’t look at him.

Not for the next two minutes that stretch into a miserable eternity.

So you do the only thing your body knows how to do when cornered: you tuck your face into the warm crook of his neck. Hide there. His skin smells like cedar and clean sweat and something faintly metallic—like he’s been biting the inside of his cheek too. Your nose presses against his pulse. It’s racing faster than yours.

His hand slides up. Fingers card gently through your hair—slow, soothing strokes from crown to nape. Petting you like you’re fragile porcelain.

His other hand drops and settles high on your bare thigh, thumb resting just under the hem of your panties. Not moving. Just… there. Claiming space. Testing how long you’ll let it stay

How the fuck are you this cute? Jake thinks, jaw tight. Hiding in his neck like a scared little cat. All flushed and messy and still trying to be good.

But the next thought comes faster and uglier:

How do he turns this into you coming completely undone under me?

He turns it over in his head like a Rubik’s cube he already knows the solution to. Every angle. Every justification.

You’re already so wet. Jake can feels it. you’re shaking because you wants it too, you’re just too shy to admit it. I could fix that. He thinks. I could make you need me so bad you’d forgets how to breathe without my permission. Make you crawl. Make you beg. Make you thank him for every things.

This is toxic as hell.

But what if it’s good for both of you?

What if Jake could give you exactly what you’r too scared to ask for, and once he’d you experience it, maybe these sick thoughts will finally shut the fuck up? Like finally playing that one game you’ve been obsessing over for years, beating it in one all-nighter, and then never touching it again because… meh. Done. Satisfied.

Yeah… He’s bad at lying to himself…

“You feel better?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your temple.

You nod against his neck. Tiny. Barely there.

He exhales like he’s been holding the breath for centuries.

“You know…” His voice drops lower, almost confessional. “I get like that too. Around you.”

You freeze.

“Not… not exactly like that,” he adds quickly. “But I feel… off. Not myself. Wired. Like my skin’s too tight.”

Silence. But you can hear his heartbeat so distinctly.

You shift barely an inch, and realize too late how it looks: the straps of your dress fallen off your shoulders, hair a wrecked halo, cheeks stained and humid. You look fucked already and he hasn’t even kissed you nor touched you.

Jake’s bangs are messy now, falling into his eyes. He looks… different. Maybe hungrier. Less like the golden youth-group Jake and more like some guy who’s been starved and have his. first meal in front him.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Jake half-smiles anf it’s devastating. You never saw him like that.

The thoughts flood back so fast he almost groans out loud.

He never really watched porn. Didn’t need to. But his brain’s been running a private channel starring you for months. You biting your lip when you’re nervous? Jake wants those lips on his cock instead. You tugging your hair when you’re frustrated? Jake want his fist wrapped in it while he fucks you till you cry. You fidgeting with your skirt hem? Jake wants to flip it up, spread you open, pull out dripping and smear the mess across your panties until you’re glazed and whimpering his name.

Jake’s fingertips graze a stray strand from your cheek. Your breath stutters. He smirks every time your eyes dart away.

“You’re uncomfortable around me, hm?”

You shake your head so violently your hair whips his chin.

He chuckles softly and dark. “It’s okay.” His humb traces your cheekbone now, slowly, deliberatly, cataloging every twitch. “I don’t mind. Actually… I kinda like it.”

His eyes follow his own touch like he’s hypnotized.

“You hate me?”

Another violent head shake.

“I won’t believe you if you don’t speak, angel.”

“I…” Your tongue darts over dry, bruised lips. You swollow dry.“I don’t hate you…” The whisper is so quiet it barely exists.

But it’s enough.

He readjusts under you. A deliberate grind that makes you gasp. and he smiles, soft and so fucking fond it hurts.

“You know…” His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to part it. “I tried everything to not think of this. Doubled prayer time, knelt till my knees bruised. Ran till I puked. Anything to exhaust my body, starve my mind. But the harder I tried to kill it… the clearer the pictures of you got. You. Just you. Every fucking time.”

“…What?” you whisper.

“I’m doing the exercise right now,” he says, voice cracking just a little. is head drops to your neck this time. He inhales deep your perfume, your fear-sweat, your arousal. “Fuck, it’s weird saying it out loud.”

Your heart skips a beat painfully.

“It’s just… I keep fantasizing. Obsessing. You’re the only one I think about when I—” He cuts himself off, lips brushing your skin. “I don’t know what to do. What should I do, hm? Tell me.”

Brother Sunghoon’s voice echoes in your skull like divine intervention gone wrong: Accept with open arms. he said Show your partner grace. he said. Try to find healthy paths forward together. He said.

Your hands fly to his shoulders gripping like he’s rock on your chest.

“You… what kind of thoughts?”

He fights the grin. Loses. It spreads slow and victorious across his face.

Got you.

He leans in until his mouth ghosts your ear.

“When you bite your lip? I want to replace your teeth with mine. Want to suck that plump little mouth till it’s swollen and you’re whimpering into my tongue.”

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

“When you chew your nails? I want them scratching down my back while I’m buried so deep you forget your own name.” You swallow. “Want to see those same fingers wrapped around my cock, slick and trembling, guiding every inch down your throat till you gag and swallow every drop I pump into you.”

His hand slides higher on your thigh—fingertips grazing the damp edge of your panties. Fuck what a pool.

“When you tug your hair? I want my fist in it. Pulling just hard enough to make your eyes water while I fuck your mouth slow. Pull out to wipe the mess across your lips like the lips balm you always put on and ends up licking. I want to make you taste how wrecked you make me.”

Jake’s touching you everywhere he shouldn’t under your dress. Grazing his way up your hips, teasing the small of your back, mapping out every spot he’s dreamed about ruining.

“Ahhh, sorry… it’s probably just wierd,” he lies smoothly, voice shy and coaxing. “I think it’s like, hormones and curiosity. Once I… do it. Once I get it out of my system, it’ll stop. I’ll be normal again.”

So that what it is. That’s what Sim Jaeyun had in his head all allong. “You’ll accept this part me, hm?”

“Hm?”

He’s eyes are doing this puppy thing “…That’s what the exercise is for, right?”

Fuck… The exercice…

Your panties are soaked. You can feel it all hot and sticky, more than the fabric can hold. Your clit throbed in time with his words and he just don’t shutted up. You’re dizzy again, but for a different reason.

Maybe you’re trying to help. Maybe you’re just that far gone. Maybe you just want that buldge that much… And it’s okay.

Cause love and acceptance erase a lot of sins, no?

“You… want to try?” you whisper.

Jake thrives. His eyes darken and travel everyplace he want to touch, mark and own. “Will you let me?”

For a second you almost see that shadow behind the soft dark of his eyes, the part you never saw before, and think not anyone ever saw.

You’re too wet, too shaky and too lost in the heat radiating between you, to be able to think twice so—-

You nod.

“Say it.” His eyes beg, lips tasting your with a graze.

“Ok…Yes.”

He exhales like the war is finally over and he’s the only soldier left standing. “Good,” he breathes, thumb dragging slow across your bottom lip one last time, bitting his, like he’s sealing a contract.

And just like that, his daydream becomes reality.

Jake’s eyes go black, his pupils swallowing everything soft and church-boy-ish about him. They rake down your body like he’s already mapping every place he wants to bruise, bite, own. His hands flex and fingers twitching with the too many impulses that come at him in once: rip that dress? pin your wrists? spread you wide? make you cry his name? God itself shouldn’t witness the thoughts he’s having right now.

He’s still trying to convince himself that, this, is just hormones. Just a phase. Just the exercise.

But the lie is thinning fast as his dick take control over his brain.

“It’s your fault… I wasn’t like that before you,” he mutters, voice low and cracked. “You sat there with your smile, biting your lip, tugging your hair, fidgeting like a nervous little thing—and it’s like you’re begging me—to… Take control. You think that’s fair?”

You blink up at him, chest heaving. “Wh… why am I the problem? It’s your—”

He cuts you off by hauling you up effortlessly, spinning you until your ass hits the edge of the table. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, lays you flat on the cold wood. and yanks one of your legs high, hooking it over his shoulder.

He bites down on the inside of your calve and you iss, teeth sinking just enough to make pain bloom brightly and hot.

You yelp, and the sound bounces off the walls. He smirks against your skin, tongue flicking over the fresh mark. “Why so uncomfortable around me, hm? Allergic?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Shaking your head. Too shy. Too overwhelmed. Too wet. He lets your leg fall. Steps in closer, with one leg on the table, and leans down for your mouth.

You panic, your hands fly up, palms flat against his mouth, pushing him back an inch.

“What?” His voice drops dangerously soft against your palm.

You shake your head again. No. Not that. Not yet maybe.

“You said I could try anything,” he reminds you, eyes narrowing like a sad puppy.

“Not… not that.”

He looks unhappy. Jake jaw ticks, then his hand shoots to your jaw firmly, tilting your head to the side.His lips find the nape of your neck instead and sucks hard. He marks you, and you feel the bruise blooming already.

“I’ll make you beg for a kiss,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I’ll make you crawl for it.”

His fingers hook the thin straps of your summer dress and with one smooth tug the fabric slides down your arms, pools at your waist, then drops to the floor entirely. You’re left in nothing but damp cotton white panties and your red Converse and white socks, shivering.

His palms cover your breasts too hard at first. You wince, brows pinching. He watches your face like it’s scripture. Adjusts. Squeezes again. Just a bit softer. Then harder. Jake is testing and learning every twitch, every hitch in your breath.

You finally open your eyes and meet his.

To realise he’s gone. Gone gone.

Not Jake anymore. Something trance-like. Pupils blown. Breathing shallow. Mouth parted like he’s receiving a vision.

“Jake…?”

“Let me see,” he rasps. “All the kinds of faces you can make.”

He drops his mouth on your nipple with his dark eyes on you. ANd feel his thick lips, fangs grazing. Tongue swirling slow, then flicking sharp. He captures everything: the way your fingers dig into his shoulders to push him away, the helpless rock of your hips against his bulge, the little space between your parted lips where silent cries keep slipping out.

He’s addicted.

He tries for your mouth again. And you block him. Again. He growls like an unhappy dog in his throat. Grabs your hips and jsut forces them down hard against his cock to make grind you along the length until you yelp and yelp and yelp again.

His thumb traces your lips. Slips inside. Hooks your cheek. Fuck, he loves this view: your brows bending in that perfect needy arch, eyes watering, lashes clumping. His favorite expression. The cry-baby you.

“God bless you for being such a perfect little cry baby,” he mutters. “He made you for me. Look at you. You’re built to fall apart under my hands, hm?”

Your brain short-circuits. What the hell is he saying? This isn’t Jake. This is—

Three fingers shove past your lips. Stretch your mouth wide. He hyperfixates—watching the way your tongue flattens, the drool that pools, the way your throat works around the intrusion.

“I always see it,” he says, voice wrecked. “You biting your crayons, your nails, your lips... Every little anxious quirk. Makes me want to replace them all. Want to fuck your mouth until you’re choking on me instead of anything else .”

You hear his zipper.

He’s stroking himself now, slowly, his head bumping against the drenched cotton between your thighs. Soft whimpers escape you both.

He stops everything. Focuses on the wet patch. The sticky mess you’ve made.

“Fuck… how can you be this wet?”

His thumbs presses and stroke everywhere you wet yourself, traces the shadow of your entrance through the fabric, firmly, slowy. And you slap a hand over your mouth, eyes darting to the door.

“Jake—someone could—”

He doesn’t hear you. He’s too far gone.

He keeps smearing your slickness, adding his own leaking precum until the white cotton is translucent, clinging, buried between your folds.

Both your breaths come faster, heavier.

“I want to fuck you so bad.” He notches the head against your clit with forces pressure. You jolt—whole body arching.

You stare at him, and a sudden realization hits: he’s touching a pussy for the first time. No?

He’s acting like he want to force it inside, but he doesn’t even know where and what it really looks like up close. He’s on instinct, hunger mode. It’s thrilling. And it’s terrifying. He won’t listen. Won’t stop. So your trembling hand slides down. Brushes him. He’s veiny, swollen. So hard it hurts to touch.

He snarls. Grabs your wrist. Forces your fingers around his shaft. Makes you strock it.

“Fuck—”

You line him up—head nudging your entrance, with only the soaked fabric between.

He thrusts so shallow and desperate. The head pushes in stretching the cotton, stretching you. You arch violently. His breathing is obscene, so freaking loud and ragged.

“I’ll fuck you… fuck, I wanna fuck you so bad.”

He slams a palm on the table beside your head.

“Fuck—we can’t—” he say, but doesn’t stop. His thrusts turn erratic. Wet sounds fill the room rhythmic. Every shallow push forces the fabric deeper, almost tearing, almost letting him in.

“I want inside—fuck—I want to fuck you so bad.”

“I want to go so deep you scream.”

“I want to feel your clench around me.”

You’re close—too close—from the friction, from his wrecked expression, from the way he’s losing every shred of control. You grab his wrist, with your still trapped between his hand and his cock’s hand, and guide his fingers.

He follows. And memories flash him: the day he caught you getting fingered in secret. The way your hips bucked. The sounds.

He laughs dizzy, “I forgot… you’re a little slut, right?”

Two fingers shove inside you. No preamble. He just fuck your inside roughly. He curls. Scissors. Pumps. No pattern. Just chasing every reaction. Every flutter. Every jolt.

“How can a dick even fit in here, hm?” he mutters, completely out of his mind. “Fuck—”

Your orgasm builds terrifyingly fast. You try to fight it. Try to stay quiet. But the more you clench, the harder it hits. Your legs snap shut around his hand.

He watches from above, literally transfixed, as your body contracts, back bowing, thighs trembling.

Right when you’re about to tip over—

He pulls out. Completely.

You jolt. Thrash. Palm slams the table. Other hand clamps over your mouth. Legs convulse, and you see white for a second. The denial is stronger than any full orgasm you’ve ever had. And Jake drinks in every second—your arched back, your shaking thighs, the way you’re offering yourself without words.

Your back…

He grabs your leg. Flips you onto your stomach, the cold table shocks your nipples.

“Wait—”

He yanks your panties up so hard you’re forced onto tiptoes.

His cock slides between your fabric and ass. Its hot, thick, fucking the crease hard. Jake’s palm clamps the back of your neck and it cuts oxygen just enough to make your brain fuzzy, make everything narrow to the drag of him against you.

He grinds. Strokes your clit with the soaked cotton pulling. Faster. Faster. Meaner.

You both break at the same time. He groans and bites on the arm that hold you down, as hot and thick ropes of cum paint your back. Your legs buckle a bit a,d your orgasm crashes as silently as possible, shattering, legs trembling so hard you almost collapse.

Both of you are shaking. Breathing like you’ve run marathons.

It’s over.

But he grabs your arm. Pulls you down. You fall to your knees. “Let me see your face.” He brushes sweat-damp hair back. You look exactly like his dream: wrecked. Lips swollen. Eyes glassy.

He towers over you. Cock still half-hard and leaking. You lean forward. Press your lips to the head, with your tongue flat against the thick vein underneath.

“Ahh—-” he snaps. One hand fist your hair. Thrusts shallow, fucking the last of his cum into your mouth, to gradually fuck the back of your throat.

You gag. Tears spill. And he loses it completely, watching the tears track down your cheeks, feeling your throat work around him.

“Fuck… that’s it. Take it all.”

ANd you take it all. Every shallow thrust into your mouth, every pulse against your tongue, every drop he spills down your throat, he watches like it's the holy prouf that he’s in fact one of god’s favorite. Your eyes water and tears track hot down your cheeks. You gag softly once, twice, but you don't pull away.

Jake groans low, wrecked, fingers tightening in your hair. "I love you," he rasps, voice cracking on the words like they've been clawing at his throat for months. "Fuck—I love you so much it hurts. I want you bad. So fucking bad."

He releases with one last shudder, flooding your mouth. You cough, choke a little, saliva and cum dripping from the corner of your lips as you gasp for air. Before you can even wipe your chin, he yanks your head back by the hair, sharp enough to make you gasp, and tries to crashes his mouth to yours—-

Then his phone buzzes—sharp, insistent, vibrating against the table like a slap back to reality. He. literally freezes. His lips one millimeter away.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He wanted this to never end. He pulls back slowly, breathing ragged, passing a frustrated hand in his hair and answers the call with shaking fingers.

You sink back onto your knees, dazed, chest heaving, trying to piece yourself together while the world rushes back in too loud, and too fast. You can't hear Jake’s conversation: just muffled voices, his low "yeah, Mom," "okay, got it." His free hand reaches for yours, squeezing once, grounding.

He mouths at you silently, puppy eyes soft again: You okay? With his phone still hooked between ear and shoulder, he reaches out, rearranges your tangled hair with careful fingers, wipes the tear tracks and spit from your cheeks with his thumb and sleeve. Jake helps you too, tug your dress back up over your shoulders like nothing happened.

The call ends, and you don’t even realise it. There’s only that strange feeling of calm in you, like the anxiety is gone. And maybe too much of Jake’s presence. There’s nothing. You just don’t think anymore. And it feels somhow so pleasing.

"Hey." Jake’s hand slides to the back of your neck, with a gentle pressure turning your face to his. "My mom called. Your parents got an emergency thing from work. We're taking you home."

"Hm?"

He studies your expression, you’re in the stars right now, and oh how he wish he could keep you there. A soft, fond smile tugs at his mouth. His eyes drop to your lips. He bites his own. Leans in. But you suddnely flinch, almost dodge again.

But he goes for your cheek instead. With a soft, chaste kiss. Just a brush of lips.

"It's okay," he murmurs against your skin. "I won't do anything you don't want me to." He shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over your shoulders. Leans close again, breath warm against your ear. "Sorry… for your back."

And the rest of that. damn night is blurs. Like a lucid dream.

You vagly get the church bathroom mirror, your lips swollen, neck marked you hidded under his jacket, the sticky mess on your lower back cooling under. If this wasn't church, if it wasn’t jake… And you, anyone with eyes would know exactly what happened.

The ride home… you don't remember words. Just the echo of Jake's mom asking if you have a fever, calling you "angel" in that sweet-mom voice while your thighs stick together and your pulse won't settle.

One solid fact was that he slipped a Snickers bar into your pocket—his pocket, technically his yeah, since you forgot to give his jacket back when you bolted from the car and ran hometo shower.

It's still on your nightstand weeks later. Melting slowly in its wrapper. Proof the fever dream was real. That the reasons your wetting your panties since, is Jake. Jake and the way used you.

And if you thought that one night would kill the anxious buzz you get whenever Jake's within five meters… Wrong.

Now it's worse. One look from him across the youth group room and you're rushing to the bathroom to wipe the insane rush of wetness between your thighs. And the slapping the idea of literally eating your nails in front of him with the expectation that he ends up fucking you hard some place.

Jake's side isn't better.

That night he slept better than he ever had. First weeks of summer felt golden. He thought he had you and basta. But you went from anxious-around-him to full avoidance. If it weren't for church services, the country club brunches, the upcoming youth group trip—he wouldn't even catch your shadow.

The dreams came roaring back. but Stronger. More vivid. More real.

He needs to see you. Hold you. Now.

The country club brunch is packed, linen tablecloths, clinking silverware, parents laughing too loud. And jake half-hard, eyes in void thinking of fucking you doggy style and bend you until you scream for him to stop. You see him first. He catch you second trying to regain consciousness with his meter long eyespack. You’re across the lawn, through the crowd, eyes locked. Neither of you looks away. But in Jake head it might as well be an halucination.

His mom calls yours over and he snap. You’re here, like really here. More plates are insisted upon. "We need another setting—Jake, scoot over, sweetheart."

Your heart slams so hard you taste copper. By some divine cruelty (or blessing), you're seated right next to him at a table too small for five. Everyone chats: weather, golf scores, your perfect tenis perfs, college plans for both of you.

And—-

Jake's hand slides under the table. Under your tennis skirt. You freeze mid-sentence. His palm is bigger than you remember, rougher, hoter from whatever secret workouts he does to punish himself.

He squeezes your thigh hard. And you know what it is. A punishment. You try to keep your face neutral. Smile at someone's joke. His hand creeps higher. You yank his wrist away and bolt upright.

"Sorry—restroom."

You walk—fast—to the farthest one possible. When a hand catches your wrist near the doors. He drags you into some ladies' room stall. Locks it.

"Jake—what are you—"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

You're stunned silent.

Why? WHY?!

"You're even avoiding me now…" He crowds you against the wall. The stall is spacious and tiny at the same time. His body heat is everywhere. "I accepted you. You accepted me. For who we are. So why avoid each other?"

"What… what are you talking about?"

He bends. Mouth at your ear. "That you're a needy little slut…" Voice calm, natural, like he's reading the weather. "And I have weird… fucked-up desires about you."

You meet his eyes. And the scariest part is that he's not even trying to hide it. Just says it like fact.

"Are you… Jake…"

His head drops to your shoulder, kissing your neck. a hand slides to your hip. "I'm hard."

Your brain short-circuits.

"I still dream about you. It didn't go away. I fuck my hand remembering your throat squeezing me. Your insides clenching. I even got hard in the last days of school just because you finally stopped biting your nails."

You're breathing too loud and he straightens and locks eyes. His thumb grazes your lips. "Have you let someone else touch you?"

Head shake.

"Sunghoon?"

Shake.

"Any of the guys at the club?"

Shake.

His smile blooms slowly, victorious. "I knew it. So we're good to each other?"

"Hm?"

"I've been thinking about it, angel. About God's plan. Maybe we're meant for each other. Don't you think?"

You bat your lashes in pure incomprehension. He slides a hand around your neck, gently but possessive.

"I like to bully you…" He says as his thumb strokes your pulse. "And you love it when I use you. Right?"

He looks at you like a kid begging for the one toy he can't live without. And now the toy… Is you.

You've circled it in your head too. Mostly terrified he'd tell his friends, or confess it to father or any brother from the church. But once the panic faded with rationality… you realized… That, maybe, you never hated him.

You just wanted to be special. To someone. To him. The person everyone loves, and you couldn’t reach. To have something only you get from Jake. His dark dreams. His secret desires. Let that be yours. Only yours. The saint's secret dreams.

You nod.

He smirks. "Say it."

"…Yes."

His expression lights up brighter than when he won valedictorian last spring.

"You'll be mine?"

You shy half-nod. Eyes on his. "…hm."

"Good girl. My angel." He attacks, soft kisses everywhere except your mouth. Jaw. Cheek. Temple. Collarbone. Throat. Shoulder. Each one reverent. Worshipful. You melt. Your legs get weaker and weaker, but Jake wedges a thigh between yours to hold you up. He stops at your lips, with his thumb traces them.

"Why won't you let me kiss you?"

You whisper: "I… wanted to give my first kiss to my boyfriend."

He clicks with starry eyes, searching. "You've never been kissed?"

Another head shake. His pupils blow dark. Saint Jake is gone.

"Let me kiss you then."

"Why would I?"

"Let's date." He almost order you simply and logical. "How can I let someone else have you if you're mine? Let's tell our parents later. Let's tell everyone—so no one tries anything. wierd with you."

Very rich coming from him.

"I'll take such good care of you." He kiss your jaw. "I'll let you have anything you want." Kiss your neck. "I'll reward you when you're good. I'll help you with… everything…"

Anything? Really anything?

"Would you…” you hesitate, “Would you withdraw from head of youth group? Give my name?"

Jake smirks. "If you're mine… anything."

He closes the toilet lid and sits. Drags you forward slowly by the wirst. "Then… will you let me kiss you?"

You half-nod, but then whisper: "…Okay."

You lean in for a peck, but he pulls back.

"I want to see you on your knees. Come here… and beg me for a kiss."

Your heart jackhammers. But the idea… You don't hate it. So you execute. You sink on your knees on cold tile, yyes up at him. And just like that he exhales hard. Head falls back against the wall for a second.

"God… your eyes from this angle." His hand runs through your hair until his fingers find the rubber band and he slides it off. Jake twists it around his own wrist like a trophy. "I love how wrecked you look already."

You beg him for the first time, shy and softly trembling. "Please… kiss me."

He don’t even makes you wait of act up, Jake just pulls you up. And gives you your first kiss. His. No one else's. He's hungry. Hungrier. His lips bite yours, all gentle then sharp. His tongue sucks yours into his mouth like he's starving. It’s wet, and you try to move and wipe your mouth, with one hand Jake cups your jaw. The other fists your hair.

You pull back gasping.

"Jake—our families. They're waiting. They'll question—"

He scoffs with a smirk, eyes completely blown.

"No one would ever believe what's happening right now. Because it's me. And it's you."

He doubles down. Grabs the unspent hem of your skirt—the one you didn't realize you'd stopped fidgeting with, and stuffs it into your mouth.

"They could never imagine you're about to show me how wet you are by sliding these panties down and spreading your legs for me, right angel?" "Or that you're gonna fuck yourself on my hand after."

an electric shock runs through your whole body. "And after I taste you… I'll keep your panties. So when I miss my angel, I can remind myself until I catch you again. Hm?"

He sits back. Stroking himself slow. Pulling your hair just enough to keep your eyes on his.

No one would ever guess.

He's right. The end ~

Afterstory :

Just note that these two Never go all the way until their wedding night lmao. They got very creative but never really do it! (And yes five years into marriage, during one very drunk games night with the boys, Jake get cocky, lost a bet, and “lent” his wife to Jay for like… 15 minutes. He watched. He hated it. Never happened again. Lesson learned: some fantasies look better in his head than in real life. And keeps her all to himself like the possessive prayer-boy he still is. 😏

Anyway thanks for riding this rollercoaster with me at first the plot was reader turns 18 and can suddenly hear people desires (any cherrymagic lover in the room???) but then one day she try to wake up sweet pure ikeu and discover he's obssesed by her and somehow it turned into this shit tada. Sleep tight, dream dirty love y'all and can't wait to hear you hehehehehe 💕 I'm tired... Lassiie...

MASTERLSIT

I summon the holy TG : Thk u so so much to my girlypop @jayjw16enxp@nithxhoon, @ikeuatic @puphees @raven-unkind @hoondrop @heekolazz @thesundys @w2hoonki @jaerisdiction @keuri @v-irtujake @moasshi @wonnies-girl @seungiesdoll @jakeintoit @s4eungie @scarett-lover23 @loveminlive @isagistar @aarriiaa1

@eemchaee @gunilsguns @ashayein @1-800-peakyblinders @choeryyxyz @simj4ke @heavenlyjake @heeevangelizesmevangelizesme @heeseung64 @sotyphoonyouth @mheretoreadff @heejunluvr @choeryyxyz @hoonprksung @schniti-is-in-the-house @ii2sanrio @woniedoyouloveme @saeris-world @gonorrheaisme @soobiverse @ikeubae @wonarchy @04angelbaby

@nanaalaia @hyucjj @taesnumber1 @xxueisa @chibi-rach @shawnyle @littllex @ssinjake @endukki @yvampyr @xoenhalover @lynnlynnuuashh @jaeyunsmochi @drkbl00d

[hoonguin]

⠀ ⠀ BREAST CASE SCENARIO ❤︎ 심재윤

‎‎ ‎‎‎​ ‎‎ ‎‎‎​ 𝓦𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍⠀‎ ✶ ⠀‎after one too many drinks at a crowded house party, you and sim jaeyun slip away to an empty guest room, unable to ignore the tension that's been building between you all night. what starts as a desperate attempt to steal a few private moments quickly turns into an intense, messy encounter fueled by alcohol, mutual desire, and jake's inability to keep his hands, or his mouth, off you.

𝟏𝟕𝟐𝟕 🗯️ ✽ ─── ⏾ 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 sim jaeyun⠀‎x ⠀‎ 𝓯 ! rea ´ ꒳ ` 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : established relationship ˒ porn without a plot ˒ drunk sex ˒ possessive behavior ˒

𝔀𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : explicit sexual content ⋮ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀, 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 ✿ mutual intoxication ˒ creampie ˒ unprotected p in v ˒ riding ˒ dirty talk ˒ praise kink ˒ breeding kink ˒ tit play ˒ cum play ˒ body worship ˒ breast sucking ˒

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬⠀‎ ✶ ⠀‎ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭

🪩 。 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ jake jake jake jake ^__^ wrote this because i was trapped on a 2 hour long trip <//3 i need jake so bad it’s not even ok anymore

The party is at an all-time high.

So are you.

Three shots of tequila and two cups of whatever-the-fuck punch they mixed in that kitchen have you floating, warm-blooded, syrupy-limbed, skin buzzing like a live wire.

The bass rattles through the floorboards and up through the bed you're straddling Jake on, locked inside some stranger's guest room while the party roars on downstairs, and you cannot bring yourself to care. Not when Jake is underneath you, looking up at you with those dark, drunken, half-lidded eyes, hands already sliding up your waist toward your chest like they've been trying to do all goddamn night.

"Fuck—baby, you're so big, mmph—oh—" you moaned out while Jake rubs tight circles on your clit, biting his lip down.

Your skirt is bunched around your waist, underwear pulled to the side, and his cock is buried so deep inside you that you can feel him in your stomach. He'd already been hard when you shut the door, had been pressing into your thigh the whole walk up the stairs, groaning against your neck about how he'd been staring at your tits since you walked in and couldn't take it anymore. Now you're on top of him and he's watching you with this feral, reverent look, thumb working your clit in those tight, devastating circles while you try to remember how to breathe.

"That's it," he rasps, voice whiskey-rough and low. "Ride me just like that. God, you feel so fucking good—" His free hand slides up your waist and cups your breast over your bra, squeezing roughly, thumb dragging across the fabric to find your nipple. You clench around him on instinct and he hisses, hips bucking up into you. "Oh, you like that? Squeezed me so hard just from me touching your tit."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He yanks your bra cup down and your breast spills free, nipple already stiff, and Jake groans like he's been dying for this. "Fuck. Look at you. Been thinking about these all night, you know that? Every time you leaned over the counter, every time you laughed and they bounced a little." He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging gently, then harder, watching your face contort. "Wanted to put my mouth on them so bad it was making me fucking stupid."

He sits up abruptly, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you seated on his cock, and buries his face in your chest. His mouth finds your nipple and latches on, hot and hungry, tongue swirling over the peaked bud with a groan that vibrates straight through your skin. His other hand stays between your legs, fingers still working your clit in those maddening circles, and the sensation has you arching into him with a broken, pitchy moan.

"Jake—oh my god—"

"Yeah?" He pulls off just long enough to speak, lips brushing your slick nipple, breath hot and damp. "You like when I suck on your pretty nipples like this?" He does it again — sucks hard, flicks his tongue rapidly, then releases with a wet pop. "Hmm? Is that what gets you off, baby? Me worshipping these gorgeous fucking tits while you ride my dick?"

You can't even answer. You just grind down on him harder, clenching and rolling your hips, chasing the friction on your clit and the stretch of him inside you and the obscenity of his mouth on your breast. He switches to the other one without ceremony, pulling the bra cup down and sucking your nipple in deep, humming against your skin like he's savoring it.

"Can't wait to get you home," he murmurs against the swell of your breast, kissing the soft skin wetly, dragging his tongue along the underside where it's sensitive and full. "Gonna keep you in bed all weekend. Not gonna let you put a shirt on. Gonna breastfeed from you for hours, baby. Gonna have my mouth on these tits until you're crying."

You whimper, high and desperate, and his fingers on your clit speed up in reward. "Good girl," he breathes, and the praise hits you like a drug, makes your cunt flutter around his cock so hard he groans and drops his head back against the pillow. "Hell—you're so good. So perfect for me. My perfect girl with the prettiest pussy and the most gorgeous tits I've ever seen in my entire life."

He thrusts up into you, hard, and the angle shifts so he's grinding against your front wall and your eyes roll back. "Oh—fuck, right there—"

"Right here?" He does it again, rolling his hips deep and slow, thumb pressing firmer on your clit. "You like when I hit that spot? When I fill you up and play with your pussy at the same time?" He sits up again, one hand on your hip and the other on your breast, squeezing and kneading, thumb rubbing your nipple in slow, deliberate circles. "Mm, you like it when I rub your nipples in circles like this, is that it? That’s what makes my good girl go fucking dumb on my cock?"

Your mouth drops open but nothing comes out except a shattered, breathy whine. He grins, wrecked and cocky, and does it again, tighter circles, pinching at the peak of each rotation, and your whole body shudders.

"Yeah, that's it. Can't even talk, can you? Too busy feeling good?" He pulls you down against his chest and wraps both arms around you, burying himself impossibly deeper, and starts fucking up into you in short, grinding thrusts that drag his cock against every sensitive inch of you. His mouth finds your ear, lips brushing the shell of it, breath hot and damp. "You're so fucking wet, baby. I feel you dripping on me. Making a mess all over my cock. Such a messy girl. My messy, perfect, pretty girl."

"Jake—mmph—" You don't even know what you're asking for. More? Everything? Him? Your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans, low and animal, hips stuttering.

"Hmm? Use your words, baby. Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours."

"Want you to—keep talking—don't stop—"

He laughs against your ear, breathless and dark. "Oh, you like my voice? Like when I tell you how good you feel? How tight your pussy is? How I've been fantasizing about your tits all night and now they're right here in my hands and I'm never letting go?" He squeezes them both for emphasis, pressing them together, and you nearly sob. "I'm gonna come so deep inside you, baby. Gonna fill you up until it's dripping down your thighs. You want that? Want me to breed this pretty pussy?"

"Yes—god, yes—fill me up—"

"Yeah? Want my cum inside you? Want me to pump you full until you're leaking?" His rhythm turns ragged, desperate, hips snapping up into you harder, faster, chasing it. His hands slide down to grip your ass, spreading you open so he can get even deeper, and the new angle has you keening against his neck. "I’m gonna give it to you. Gonna give you every fucking drop. You're mine. This pussy is also mine. These tits are mine. Everything about you is mine and I'm gonna ruin you for anyone else."

You're right there, right on the edge, teetering, every nerve white-hot and coiled tight. His thumb finds your clit again and presses hard, rubbing in fast little side-to-side strokes that short-circuit your brain completely.

"Come for me," he growls against your jaw. "Come on my dick like a good girl. Let me feel it."

Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down on him so tight he chokes on a groan, and you come with a loud, wrecked cry that you'd be embarrassed about if you weren't too far gone to care. The pleasure rips through you in waves, hot and endless, and you're dimly aware of Jake fucking up into you through it, chasing his own release with guttural, broken sounds.

"Fuck—fuck—I'm gonna—baby, I'm—" He slams up into you one last time and buries himself deep, cock pulsing as he comes with a long, shuddering groan, spilling hot and thick inside you. You can feel it — feel every rope of it, the heat of it flooding your walls, pooling so deep you swear you can taste it. He holds you there, arms locked around you, hips twitching through the aftershocks, face buried in your neck and breathing hard.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just panting. Just the muffled bass from the party below and the sound of your breathing slowly evening out.

Then Jake lifts his head and looks at you with those hazy, fucked-out eyes, and grins like a man who just got everything he wanted.

"Best tits I've ever seen in my life," he murmurs, and kisses your collarbone. Then the swell of your breast. Then your nipple. "And I'm gonna be thinkin' about 'em until I'm eighty years old."

You shift to climb off him and wince at the overstimulation, and when his cock slips out of you, a thick, warm trickle of his cum follows — oozing out of your pussy in a slow, heavy drip that lands on his stomach. You both look down at it, and Jake exhales a shaky breath through his teeth, eyes darkening all over again.

"Look at that," he whispers, wrecked and hungry. "Look at what I did to you. That's mine. You're mine." He reaches down and swipes two fingers through the mess between your thighs, gathering the cum leaking out of you, and pushes it back inside with a slow, deliberate curl of his fingers that makes you whimper and clench around him. "Keep it in. I want it to stay in. I want you walking around this party with my cum inside you for the rest of the night so you remember who you belong to."

His fingers curl again, pressing against that spot, and your thighs tremble. He watches your face with dark, satisfied eyes, thumb brushing your clit just once, just enough to make you jolt and gasp, before pulling his hand away and bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a hum.

"Goddamn," he says, casual as anything, like he didn't just rearrange your entire nervous system. "You taste good with me inside you."

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 : @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @yejisair777 @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @sserafimbaby @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie @prettygirlthings-world @jaesim @luv4dani @perristar @bkatarina @fialtorelle @slutforaz @adoreade @la-choiblog @hoonieslove @hearts4chosoo @ddcyvn @livonianmaia | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙

🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ swim by chase atlantic

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

[s0ftarchiv3s]

miss you too | 15. 3 years ago

SMAU

masterlist

── sypnosis; when you accidentally send a not-so-innocent photo to Jake SIM and not your situationship SLIME.

warning; just… 18+/MDNI

taglist is closed!

note; this was supposed to be longer but i reached the max photos so i had to trim shit down. so near the end it might read a bit rushed🤧

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

──── ✦ ────── ✦ ────── ✦ ────

taglist; @hrts4pepsi @royallycraftyimp @sakiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii @jakebitez @doompost @moontmoochi @coupsarchive @simjaeyunloml @ladysplained @meikstv @jakekshh @beesimpforsimlee @xolaufeyberry @sstrawbxrry @mobehere @wobblymug @kyrafpl @cosm1cgarbag3 @cycxi @nayeonsnumberonefanintheworld @slime1009 @cherryluvssss @outsiddaline @sleepymochiiii @evaflms @jakeycakeys @yumjyun @pshrosie @heesctrl @kittyvalr @oveenchana @httpsseung @moarmy7 @oiosoobin @devilhunterriki @yessirfelix @nattisbored @heartheejake @nyawon @evxnsbae @n0hyuck @sunoosunghoon @mal4won @nnhypenn @herslhs @riksterki @crzbss @minni-mina @kamxstar @niksri

[kiachiako]

SKIN ON SKIN [SOS] ✦ S.JY 심재윤

── kiachiako ⨾ sim jaeyun

PAIRING: hockeyplayer!jake x f!reader (feat. brother!sunghoon)

GENRE: brothersbestfriend-to-lovers au, uni au, smut, fluff, coming-of-age, childhood friends au

SYNOPSIS: you grew up orbiting your brother's fast-paced world, school days filled with your hometown rink and boys who were the personification of the biting winter chill. somewhere along the way — between neighborhood sledding and blacking out at uni house parties — you watch jaeyun turn from your brother's quiet best friend to jake sim, your university's most coveted star hockey player. one that you happen to have a devastating crush on, a friend you've known since childhood. [in otherwords] a story about crossing a line you can't come back from with a boy that you can't have, and realizing that you can't stand beside him when it hurts more each time you do.

WARNINGS: marijuana consumption, smoking (shotgunning), cussing, violence/blood (hockey fight), mentions of alcohol consumption, making out, fingering (f/receiving)

WC: 12.3k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: a fic not set in summer?? who am I omg 0.o i couldn't find an enha hockey fic that i liked, so i decided to write one for myself HAHA and now you guys can to read it too! this is super self indulgent, and there’s a note at the end w a hockey clip lmfao [ manhwa in banner from @/so_wha.1 on ig ]

APPLE MUSIC PLAYLIST ★

—

“Jake.”

Your eyes glance up from the hot cocoa warming your hands to the sharp eyes of a boy already looking at you, maintaining his gaze even when his name is called. His piercing expression doesn’t change, but as you peer up at him, you can feel a flicker of want before you look away with warming cheeks. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the edges of his mouth lifting before he turns away.

“Jake.”

It’s odd to hear his name on it’s own like that, not when you’re used to hearing it roared by crowds through jampacked uni rinks; not when Sim Jaeyun is something bigger than himself already, a household name in premier league hockey and a constant on your university’s community forum. 

While he’s like a myth of sorts to the rest of the student body, he’s definitely very real as he sits in the living room of yours and Gawon’s shared apartment, quilt thrown over his legs that he’s claimed from years of movie nights and sleeping over. 

He’s got his hoodie pulled low, bleached hair falling over his eyes and cuffed sleeves pulled up to his elbows, crowded into the arm of the couch by your other friends talking animatedly next to him. He fiddles with the delicate silver chain around his wrist, a matching gift you got him and your brother in primary school. Because that’s what he is to you.

Before ice hockey, before uni, before amateur fame, Jake was your hometown friend. 

If you can call it that.

“Jake, dude, come back to earth.”

Jake shifts, turning to his left at your brother’s voice. 

Realizing you spaced out staring at his wrist, you snap out of it with a jolt and catch Jungwon’s expression next to you, a grin on his face as he responds to your dazed look with a raise of his eyebrows. 

It’s mid January, the bite of vicious winter air unable to get to you in the warmth of the studio apartment you lease during the semester. In here, it’s all warm tones and paper garlands — ones you made together with Gawon during the holidays — candle warmers brightening the living room as your friends litter the space, their bright chatter and the clink of mugs filling cozy, sepia air. Soft indie-pop plays from the old radio your parents gifted you and your brother Sunghoon when you had moved away for university, his grace in letting you have it lost on you (he bought himself a new speaker with cash he “borrowed” from your wallet during Christmas instead). 

If you could keep this moment ingrained in your soul forever, you’d do it in a heartbeat; tangerine light spills out from your little kitchenette, Gawon and Sunoo’s mischievous giggles ringing out as they crowd around the oven, the smell of burnt cinnamon cookies faint behind the chilli hot cocoa wafting up from next to you.

Jungwon has his head on your shoulder as he pulls a fleece blanket onto your lap, his plaid pajama-clad leg thrown lazily over yours. You can see Ni-ki and Jay in your peripheral vision thumbing through your DVD bin thoroughly as they hunch in front of your TV. 

Your friendship has been steady throughout all first three years of uni, nights made up of late movie theater runs and overcooked ramen, attempted snowboarding down empty city streets at 3am and all nighters pulled at the sauna to escape the claws of studying. 

If Jake and Sunghoon were at hockey practice, you’d all pile into Jay’s 2005 Hyundai and drive to the rink to watch them, making raunchy commentary that would have your brother slamming his stick against the plexiglass in playful warning. You all knew that they secretly liked it, Jungwon’s consistent “I’d let you slam me into the barricade” echoing out and drawing a flicker of a smile out from their coach before he would threaten to make you leave. He let you all back in every time.

It was the same during the weekends, when you and Ni-ki would be holed up in the practical arts and sculpture department of your university, hands covered in clay and silt and pottery glaze as you chiseled away at your individual term projects before the start of the week. Ni-ki’s r&b playlist drifting through the still, dusk-masked studio would be broken with the loud shouts from your friends as they filed in with snacks and bottled coffee from the vending machine, determined to give you a caffeinated sugar high to make it through the next few hours of work.

The eight of you have been consistent since the beginning, and the last thing you would ever want is to be the cause of your dependable friend group dynamic to change.

Your brother scrunches his nose at you from across the room, now squished into a loveseat definitely made for one with Jake. 

“Stop chewing in my ear, Won.”

At your soft voice, Jungwon’s eyes widen innocently before he stuffs another marshmallow in his mouth and leans in, noise amplifying.

“That’s nasty,” you can’t help but giggle at your friend, your eyes creasing as he sticks his tongue out immaturely.

Your gaze subconsciously trails to Jake again, his attention now on your brother as he throws an arm over the back of the couch to reach for the TV remote. The bottom of his hoodie rides up a bit, a sliver of his toned stomach visible before he’s flopping back into the couch again. You will yourself to look away while the back of your hand comes up to feel your cheek, startling when your skin is hot to the touch.

It was a night just like this that you realized you were hopelessly in love with Jake, more than just a friend should.

In retrospect, how could you not? He was out of every little girl’s dream future-husband-wish-list, perfect to a T in a way that you couldn’t even describe with words. 

His professors, his coach, his teammates would say that he didn’t have a bad bone in his body, always approaching others with kindness and raw honesty that made him easily likeable, even with players on rival teams. His classmates would say that he’s personable and too outgoing, attracting people everywhere during group projects and library sessions but still getting the work done on time without fail. Your parents would say that he’s the son they never had — sheepishly covering Sunghoon’s ears, of course — polite, smart, and dependable, from helping your mom carry the groceries to washing garden vegetables in the kitchen with your dad when all of you were home for break.

But it was his flaws that made you like him even more. What made Jake so loveable to you were the sides that only a few people got to see, deep and thoughtful underneath the first layer that you had to get through first.

You were there when his childhood dog passed away, trying his best not to cry and stay strong for his mom even when you and Sunghoon were bawling your eyes out on the sidewalk. You were there when he got drunk for the first time, staring with horror as he got on all fours on the dirty asphalt in the alley behind your local bar because standing up felt too “wavy.” You remember shivering in the cold in a short skirt, hands on your knees from laughing so hard as Sunghoon frantically called an older friend to come pick you up, scared that you’d get busted for being underage.

When everyone else was too busy, Jake would be the one who sat for hours as your “model” while you sketched, scolding him when he moved and exploding into fits of giggles when he would give up in the middle. He believed in your art more than you yourself did, and that meant everything to you — even now. He still sits on the plastic chair next to your work station in the sculpture studio until late at night, content with just humming to himself as you work quietly.

You were also there when Jake and Sunghoon got their official hockey gear for the first time in year five, their thrilled squeals ringing around your neighborhood as your parents set up a practice shooting pad in your front yard. Even though hockey wasn’t as mainstream as baseball or basketball at the time, it still meant everything to them.

It’s funny to see the same setup now when they come back home as big stars, bigger than your small town has ever seen. The same town with the same dingy rink that raised them to stardom, good enough until it was too small to hold them. 

The three of you grew up in a one-major-intersection, snow-filled sidewalk kinda town, lamp posts covered in taped flyers about high school hockey tournaments in obnoxious red type that were miraculously still there after years. 

Sunghoon and Jake were better friends than you and Jake were, but you’d still run from your job at your local province radio station to the ice rink at midnight with your school friends, just in time to catch the last of late night practices. Old 90’s tunes would crackle out of the janky speakers from the local radio, pre-queued by you so that the three of you could listen to your favorite songs if you timed it right.

Your friends and their teammates would go home after a bit, but you’d stay, fighting the cold to sit with your brother and Jake on the foam mats just off the ice. It was tradition, the hum of the zamboni behind you as you brought them warm, watered down coffee in styrofoam cups from the 24hr convenience store outside. They’d still be in their hockey uniforms, hair slick with sweat. 

Back then, no matter how annoying or gross you thought they were, you still looked up to them with all of the admiration you had in your young body.

You can still feel it now if you wanted to, the shared winters that fill your well-loved memories of growing up in a scuffed-up rink. Fresh ice, rough leather, and the smell of sweat that clung to your clothes long after leaving, even if you weren’t the one skating. In your hometown, ice hockey wasn’t just a sport. It was the thing that raised Park Sunghoon and Sim Jake, larger-than-life players whose jerseys were mass produced and worn by thousands across the country now. 

When Sunghoon was drafted into the Winter Olympics’ reserve team in high school — the youngest to ever be — you had watched from your small living room TV with your parents and Jake, all wide eyed and hands held in anticipation.

You can still remember the feeling of Jake’s thigh against yours on the carpet, his warm palms enveloping yours as he prayed. He was sniffling and recovering from a cold, but he still prayed with all his might that his best friend would make it big for the both of them.

He didn’t have to. A month later, Jake was chosen as the last reserve team member, and both were scouted for the top university’s first division ice hockey team. A year later, and your whole neighborhood was in your living room celebrating your own acceptance into the same school; this time, enrolled as a studio arts student.

You’re all older now, life is getting a little too real, and you realize that falling for him had to be inevitable. 

You knew Jake when he was just Jaeyun, not Yonsei’s resident golden boy with a disarming smile and his signature cobalt blue jersey, #15 stitched across its back. But you’ve never wanted him like the people shouting his name through crowded university rinks want him.

You want him like you did when you were neighbors and eight, building life-size igloos with rainbow-dyed ice blocks and jumping for hours on his frozen trampoline. Just matching mittens knit by his grandmother, building snowmen and chasing winter hares, and a whole lot of feelings to go around. Just the two of you and infinite time. 

Nostalgia will be the death of you.

As you sit in your living room now, with Jungwon’s head on your shoulder and Sunghoon’s side pressed against Jake’s, you come to the bitter realization that you might not ever get Jake the way you’ve always subconsciously yearned for. You don’t want to offset your own relationship with your brother — and especially with the rest of your friends — because once you cross that line, there's absolutely no coming back. You don’t ever want to have your friends choose a side, and what you have right now is too perfect to taint.

You’ve convinced yourself that you can live with being just friends, just like you always have.

But man, is it getting hard.

No one talks about how disorienting and weird it feels to come to the slow realization that you like someone who you're definitely not supposed to like, especially when you’ve spent your entire life as good friends. It’s disarming and you can’t help but feel icky when you look at him. You’re not supposed to want him like this, where your head pounds and you feel too warm everywhere.

Sometimes, though, you feel like his gaze lingers on you a little longer than the others too. In those moments you let yourself daydream a little, thinking about an alternate reality where he loves you just as loudly as you do in your head. Those moments get shattered though, especially when you remember where you are and who you’re with—

“—and why aren’t you getting lit right now, Jakey-bear,” Jay’s voice carries over the sound of a kitschy, low-budget horror film rolling on your TV, the glow from the screen flickering across his face as he messes with the buttons on the side. 

Jake’s eyes lazily rake across the room before they land on his friend. Snorting, he offers a small smile before holding up his cocoa-filled mug.

“I don’t drink the night before games. We’ve gone over this.”

Jay shakes his head, standing up before collapsing on the carpet next to Jake’s feet.

“If only the world knew how fucking lame you are,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his face. “Maybe I’d be a hockey star too.”

Sunghoon turns to look at his friend on the floor.

“What?”

“You know, ‘cause I have a brilliant sense of humor and a fabulous personality. God knew not to make me athletic. I’d be unstoppable,” he says, patting Jake on the ankle. “Good thing you’re cute though. Makes up for the fact that you’re a…” Jay pauses to hold an ‘L’ up to his forehead before taunting, “loser.”

“Fuck off,” Jake says with a grin, pushing Jay’s shoulder with his foot for good measure.

You tune out of their bickering as Gawon settles down next to you, poking your cheek with a pout before offering up a plate of cookies. 

“Sorry I left you for so long with these monsters,” she grimaces, glancing around at the living room in mock disgust at the scattered plates and empty beer cans. Jungwon peers at her from around you, frowning. “Not you though, Won. You’re my favorite.”

“I know,” he says smugly through a mouth full of cookie, hands already reaching for more. You look at your best friends in adoration, their smiles making you feel all warm and gooey inside.

It’s only when you turn your attention back to the TV that you catch bits of the conversation happening across the room, your brother’s loud voice dominating the movie playing.

“You better play your damn hardest tomorrow,” he emphasizes to Jake, nudging his shoulder. “There’s this hot hot girl from my stats class that’s been bugging me about you, you lucky bastard. And because I’m your best friend, I made her promise that she’d come over after the game for you if we win.”

Your heart falls out of your chest as you quietly look up at the two of them, catching onto the way Jake rolls his neck before slowly coming to look back at Sunghoon.

“And?” He says, albeit quietly.

“And? What do you mean ‘and?’” Sunghoon smirks, putting his hand on Jake's arm. “Don’t you want some good victory head? I heard she’s really good, knows how to go down—”

“Ugh, you freaks are disgusting," Sunoo laments from the kitchen, holding out a whisk to shake at the two of them. “Have some decorum, please.”

You’re used to your friends talking so casually about their sex lives, but the fact that it’s Jake is a whole different thing. You’ve heard stories, yeah, but nothing prepared you for how much it would hurt to hear after coming to terms with your own feelings.

You watch his reaction closely, his silence making you chew on your lip. It’s almost like he’s contemplating it. You can’t help the unwanted feeling of jealousy that bubbles up in you, your throat closing up as you look at your lap.

“Anyway,” your brother continues, “you definitely need it. You’ve been so tense recently.” 

You refuse to look at them, instead distracting yourself by pulling at a strand of Jungwon’s sweater next to you. You can feel Gawon’s eyes on you. 

She and Jungwon are the only ones who know about your feelings for Jake, their sharp senses catching on quick when they’d catch you staring at him more than you ever had. You had threatened them to promise never to tell after a particularly bad night, making them swear on their bloodline that Jake would never find out.  

“Should I send her our address?” Sunghoon prods.

It’s silent for a few moments, before Jake's next words make your heart sink further. 

“...yeah, I guess.”

Oh.

You feel a hand slide over your leg, Gawon’s rings cold against your skin as you look up at her.

She furrows your eyebrows, as if silently asking you if she should say something. Your eyes widen, shaking your head with a miniscule no. Don’t.

She tilts her head, as if questioning why? 

Jungwon looks between the two of you with furrowed eyebrows.

She’s about to open her mouth when Sunghoon’s voice rings out again. You snap your head back in the rest of your friends’ direction, brushing Gawon’s concerned hand off your leg.

“Are you swinging by tomorrow’s game, Rockstar?” He calls you by the nickname he’s had for you since childhood, throwing a piece of popcorn up before catching it in his mouth. “It’s gonna be against KU. It’ll be a big one.”

You feel your eyes betray you as they flit to Jake quickly, finding him already looking at you. 

“Uhh,” you start, looking at Jungwon nodding beside you for confirmation, “yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

You start to get up to escape this feeling that’s creeping up your throat, but you’re stopped in your tracks by Gawon who gives you a look from beside you. You know that look. 

Raising her voice suspiciously loud, she glances at Jake before grabbing your arm. 

“Right, and who was that guy that you said was cute last time, Y/N? The top center for KU, right? He dm’ed one of my friends asking for your number, you know,” she starts, your eyes widening as you realize what she’s doing. She’s digging for a reaction from Jake.

You see Jake’s head tilt slightly, not fully acknowledging your conversation but still showing that he’s listening. Sunghoon, on the other hand, snaps his head around to give you a pointed glare. 

“The fuck? Who?”

“No one.” You reply quickly, glaring back.

“Bullshit. Tell me, Y/N.”

“No one,” you say at the same time Jungwon says “Heeseung,” his figure immediately shrinking when you shoot him a look that you usually reserve for your brother.

“You’re kidding,” your brother starts, pulling out his phone before searching for something — someone — rapidly. “I’m gonna get his ass. He’s trying to get to us through my sister? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

With a sigh, you sit back down and close your eyes. You can already feel a migraine forming.

Yeah, you had thought Heeseung was cute the last time your universities had played each other, but that was only to desperately distract yourself from thinking about Jake. You knew you shouldn’t have said anything to your friends.

“Don’t talk to him, Y/N, I’m putting my foot down as your brother. You are forbidden from talking to him,” Sunghoon continues, exasperated.

Ni-ki snorts from the corner of the room, speaking up from underneath a swath of blankets.

“What are we in, the fucking middle ages?” He grins before pointing at you. “Watch out Y/N, your brother’s gonna ride out on a horse tomorrow and demand a duel with KU’s center.” Gawon laughs out loud before Sunghoon throws a piece of popcorn at her. 

Tuning out Ni-ki and Sunghoon’s rising voices, you can’t help but notice the way Jake has seemingly clocked out of the conversation. He stares at the side of your face and then the ground when you give him a questioning glance. He doesn’t look back up after that, playing with his bracelet instead. The moment passes, and everything returning back to normal as your friends settle in around you. They pass drinks and food around, but you can’t help but overthink the entire conversation.

It’s still bothering you when you flop onto your bed an hour later, tired from talking. Everyone is still in the living room outside, but you need quiet space to think. 

You’re laying off the edge of the bed with your knees up, hair lifting from the cool wind seeping through a crack in your window, when your door creaks open. Blue light spills in from the hallway before a figure slips into your room, stopping before you.

You turn onto your stomach, your sleep shorts riding up, and shoot Jake a small smile as he settles at the foot of your bed. He doesn’t say anything; he simply reaches for the bulky hockey bag he’s had since secondary school, left in your room from coming straight from practice earlier. 

It’s a comfortable, full silence as you watch him from your position. He glances up every once in a while, careful hands wrapping the end of his hockey stick with new grip tape. He doesn’t speak for a long while, face pale from the moonlight and lip caught between his teeth like he always does when he’s focused. Long fingers loop around each other carefully as he lines the stick, finally putting it down after a few long minutes. You’ve watched him do this a million times, but it feels more intimate when he does it in your space.

You blink at him when he looks back up at you through his messy bangs, gaze full of something you can’t quite decipher yet.

His hands shake slightly from the chill in your room, so you silently offer him the fleece blanket from your bed. Instead, he gently pushes your hand away, climbing onto your bed before laying his head down next to you. 

Tucking his chin on top of your childhood plushie, he tilts his head to look at you. Faint chatter from outside seeps under the crack of your bedroom door, the soft crackling of a burning candle filling the silence. His eyes seem to sweep across the expanse of your room before landing back on you.

“Nervous?” You finally whisper, with no need to talk at normal volume when he’s this close. Your heart is racing out of your chest but you regulate your breathing the best you can. 

It's just Jake. You’ve had millions of talks like this before.

“Yeah,” he admits, shifting so that his hair isn’t in his eyes. The collar of his hoodie is loose in the position, his collarbones and a thin silver chain peeking out.

“Last game before recruiting season,” you continue, glancing down at the bandaid across his knuckles.

“Oh,” he sighs out. “Yeah, I guess.” He follows your gaze before tucking his hand under the plush.

“You’re gonna try to go pro for real?”

Jake pauses before grimacing, his dimple slightly showing itself before disappearing again.

“Yeah, if I can,” he says, your chest stuttering when he lets that smile that he reserves only for you take over his face. “Signing my soul away to the devil or whatever.”

You giggle, nudging his arm lightly.

“And you promise you’ll remember me when you end up playing in the national league, right?”

“You know I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” he reassures back, his voice heavy as if he means every word. He points at you, letting the tip of his index finger touch your shoulder. “And you can’t forget me when you’re some hotshot artist who sells paintings for more than my yearly rent.”

“Mm,” you tease, rolling onto your back, “maybe you’ll just have to buy one to see.”

“Consider me sold,” he murmurs back, tenderly staring at the side of your face.

You let your arms fall off the bed, stretching languidly before tucking your hair behind your ear. You wordlessly blink at him as he reaches out with a slight tremor in his hand, fixing a strand that’s blown into your eyes. His hand lingers for a second before he pulls away again, eyes fixed on yours with an unreadable expression.

It hurts to look at a face you’re so familiar with, one that’s been steadily by your side since you can remember. 

“I’ll always root for you, Jake,” you say softly, honestly bleeding into your words.

There’s much to be left unsaid, but some part of you feels like he understands with the way he just peers at you, dark eyes never leaving your face.

“I know,” he whispers back, gaze leaving yours to travel to the doorknob, where his old skate laces are tied around the brass handle. They then flick over to your windowsill, where dark, scuffed pucks are stacked up the wood. Just below it is his worn hockey bag, stick poking out to lean against your tall stack of old CDs. There’s remnants of him everywhere, and not just physically either. He’s part of your core memories, from all eras of your life, and there will always be bits and pieces of him in the way you speak and behave too. “I’ll see you in the crowd tomorrow, yeah?”

“Always.”

You couldn’t get rid of Jake if you tried.

—

Everyone in this part of the city knows three things for sure: winter never really ends at Mokdong collegiate rink, Friday nights are for Yonsei ice hockey, and cobalt blue is law. 

You’re wearing Jake’s worn out leather bomber with #15 stitched proudly across its back, your brother’s original faded jersey snug underneath. It smells like the both of them, woody and sweet as you lean back with your shoes up on the seat in front of you. Gawon leans over you to clip your hair with barrettes of the team color, sitting back with a satisfied hum after brushing your hair back. Jungwon bounces his leg up and down nervously from next to you, keeping an eye on the clock as he waits restlessly for the game to start.

The three if you are in your university’s home rink, chalk full as people still trickle in from all sides, pouring down the stands and settling in just before the teams skate out. It’s a blue ocean, university students and parents alike filling the seats. Bleeding dots of red can be seen infiltrating the side across from you, donning opposing team jerseys and KU colors. 

You’ve been here plenty of times, but the air feels different today. It’s electric and alive, an audible hum filling the space as remnants of chants echo around the rink. 

You can’t help but be nervous for your brother who’s most likely the first in line waiting to come out of the player tunnel as team captain. You know firsthand how hard he worked to get to where he is today, and tonight, there will be international scouts in the audience looking for the next big names in ice hockey. Your brother is already a local hero in skates, but going pro would seal his professional career for him. 

And of course, you can’t help but think of Jake, who’s probably second in line right behind Sunghoon as the center. You can sense his nerves already, the way he fiddles with his gear when he’s anxious and looks up to the heavens to remind himself of the things that keep him grounded. From years of following him and your brother around to their practices, you can bet with confidence that Jake has one hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder and the other on the cross around his neck right now. They’re the faces of the team, and that means the worries they carry can't show. 

As much as hockey is pure athleticism and skill, it’s also a game of ego. 

Playing a home game means the university’s pride is on the line, and the winner be damned if it isn’t them. You, Jungwon, and Gawon aren’t the only ones waiting in anticipation; much of the student body is also here, as well as half of the hearts of the city through live broadcasting. 

You can pretend you’re not just another fan, hands wrapped around an overpriced paper cup of hot coffee, but the second #15 hits the ice, your pulse will match the drum of the crowd’s. 

Gawon clenches your hand in anticipation as the lights of the arena start flashing, beams of blue and red circling the ice. The crowd erupts in animated cheers, Jungwon sliding to the edge of his seat so he can be closer to the plexiglass. The analog scoreboard resets with a click, displaying a blinking ‘00’ for both teams, and the large screens hanging from the ceiling of the rink switch to show the entrance of the player tunnel. 

And then — in all their glory — there they are. 

The notorious Yonsei men’s hockey team pours out of the tunnel with their easy grins and bright blue gear, skating a lap around the large rink before lining up across its expanse. You can’t help but let your mouth fall into a wordless “wow,” the view awing you no matter how many times you see it. 

Your eyes naturally find Jake by habit, your breath catching as you spot him gliding to his spot just meters away from where you’re sitting. 

He looks like a true celebrity from here, slipping his helmet off and ruffling the resulting wavy hair with a gloved hand. His skates skim the ice with quiet precision, cutting effortless lines across its surface. The cold makes his breath come out in pale clouds, but his face is composed with a kind of stillness that only comes from someone deeply comfortable in their body and their sport. His jersey hangs off his body prettily, stretching across broad shoulders that shift with every movement as he handles his hockey stick with years of experience, hand wound around the handle tightly.

Coming to a sharp hockey stop just short of the barrier, he sprays snow towards the reactive crowd before reaching down to wipe the excess off his blades. The metal and the white of his teeth glint under the fluorescent lights as he shoots the stands a charming smile, screams ringing out in immediate response. 

It makes you feel faint in the head. 

Shaking out his hair again, his eyes shine with determination as they rake over the seats. Pink dusts his nose and cheeks, stiff eyelashes a result of the arena’s chill. He finds your familiar face in the crowd easily and gives a small nod in acknowledgment, your friends waving back excitedly before you turn to Jungwon. 

“I’m so fucked,” you whisper, forehead falling against his shoulder as he shakes with laughter. 

You turn back to the ice as the opposing team skates out, Gawon hitting your leg repeatedly when she spots Heeseung in all his glory, his blinding smile easily recognizable through the grates of his helmet.

You don’t catch the way Jake looks down and tenses when Heeseung glances in your direction, throwing a smug look your way from across the arena, but Gawon sure does. She observes Jake quizzically, trying to figure him out from the stands like staring hard enough will make everything clear.

The striped refs throw up symbols with their hands as the lights dim, the sharp crack of sticks startling you as both teams hit the ice once in unison. Coaches and managers in suits stand off to the side of the penalty box, guiding most of the team as they skate over to the players’ bench.

The air tastes metallic as you snuggle into Jake’s jacket further, eyes following his figure as he moves towards the middle of the ice with Sunghoon flanking him. Their postures are relaxed but you can see how tightly they grip their hockey sticks, moving into the starting face-off position. The arena quiets down as the timer gets ready to drop, Heeseung and Jake turning to face each other as both of their teams’ respective centers. 

The referee crouches low between the circles, puck balanced on his fingertips and breath fogging the air as steadily as the arena lights flicker overhead. His skates are planted wide, knees bent, eyes flicking back and forth between the two. Measuring. Waiting.

Jake positions himself tensely, blade angled, stick laid flat to the ice, and knuckles wrapped tight in black tape under his gloves. The position of his shoulders gives him away, coiled and predatory as Sunghoon backs him up from outside the circle. His visor catches the glare of the lights, briefly obscuring his eyes, but when he tips his chin down you could see them; sharp and unblinking, locked directly onto Heeseung across from him.

It’s a waiting game. For a beat, the rink feels impossibly quiet, like live wire. The crowd stills.

Jake doesn’t move, just lets a slow breath drift past his mouthguard, eyes never leaving his opponent’s face.

The referee’s hand hovers.

Then, in a flash, the puck drops between them, and the stillness is shattered into motion.

Heeseung is quick but Jake’s quicker, dashing out to shoot the puck to his teammate who appears in his peripheral. They pass it back and forth with practiced ease, moving down the rink towards the visiting team’s goal and attacking zone, slapshots echoing across the arena as it bounces off of the dasher boards.

The first point passes in a flash as the puck gets shot around the rink, Yonsei taking the lead within the first fifteen minutes.

Tension rises as KU scores a match point in the second period, the score tied neatly. An hour passes and neither team scores a second point in the third period, which means the game is launched into sudden-death overtime. The coach whistles, signaling a line change, and the crowd watches with tight suspense as Jake skates back onto the ice with a shout from the team manager. His finger subconsciously rubs over the tape on his stick that he redid in your room the day before. 

You can hear Jungwon get serious from beside you, leaning back with a steep inhale.

“He better not mess this up,” he mutters under his breath. You turn to him, tilting your head. “ALIH scouts,” he explains, pointing across the rink to a group of people you had missed, their clipboards and sharp suits a stark contrast to those around them. “They’re watching.”

With a bated breath, the puck drops for the last time, and Jake chases it like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Blue jerseys swarm into the opposing defense zone as he skids behind the goal and straight towards it. 

What he doesn’t account for, however, is a figure who comes in hot from the opposite side. Heeseung barrels towards the edge of the rink, colliding straight into Jake as they both slam against the barrier in front of you. The whole thing rattles, a whistle slicing through the rink as he tries to shove the opposing center away to go after the puck.

The snow of ice spray is still glittering in the lights when the crowd erupts. The row of people in front of you bang on the plexiglass, egging on a potential fight like they always do in hockey culture. It’s something you’ve never gotten used to, but never have you seen Jake at the center of it. He’s always prided himself in keeping his anger in check, so when he turns around to bodycheck Heeseung, your friends look at each other in shock. You see your brother ready to interfere on the ice, pushing his visor up.

You don’t even have time to register what’s happening before you see a glove come off, hard fist against hard chest as their skates dig into the ice with fervor. You don’t see whose it is, just that Jake’s got a mean snarl on his face that he rarely shows.

The puck skids uselessly away as the game comes to a pause, teammates hovering nearby as the refs standby, not a single person interfering just yet. It’s rooted in the sport’s culture to let fights play out, which renders you speechless as you watch Jake get aggressively pushed down onto the ice. You let out a worried sound as you jump up, straining to see what’s happening.

“What the hell is your problem?” Heeseung grits out, teeth bared through a mouthguard. Jake doesn’t answer, jumping right back up to shove him back into the plexiglass in uncontrolled anger. The impact makes the sound rattle up into the rafters, jolting the crowd as they leer in excitement. The people around you lean forward as one, the noise swelling into something feral and hungry.

“Holy shit,” Jungwon exclaims, grabbing your arm. “Get him, Jake!”

“Jungwon what—” you exclaim back, looking around wildly in worry. “Oh my God, guys, he’s bleeding.”

A punch lands fast, from Heeseung this time. It’s violent and cracks against hard plastic as Jake’s head is snapped sideways, silent fury locked behind his eyes.

“Look at me,” he hisses, grabbing Jake’s jersey and yanking him close. “You don’t do that to me. Ever.”

The refs rush in then, bodies wedging between them and arms locked around waists to pull them apart. Jake brushes them off, skating off himself with undeniable rage in his clenched jaw and stormy eyes. You can see the red already blooming from behind the grating of his helmet, lip most likely nicked in the short brawl.

From the stands, all you can hear is your own heartbeat pounding in your ears as you sit back down in your seat with wide eyes. The crowd is still jittery from the fight, the air buzzing with chatter.

The two of them are dragged to opposite penalty boxes, separated by a strip of frozen blue. Even just sitting there, breaths ragged and cheeks’ split, they stare each other down.

The crowd roars as the game plays on, but your eyes are locked on Jake and his defeated figure. He’s slumped on the bench unmoving, eyes closed and head against the plastic board behind him. He breathes slowly now, chest rising in controlled increments as the match comes to an end with a draw.

It’s over.

They tied.

Somewhere in the noise, he looks up and finds your eyes in the mass of people. He holds your gaze for a moment before furrowing his eyebrows and dropping his head down.

It feels like you don’t move for a long time until Gawon jostles you, a hand on your shoulder as Jungwon stands up with a stretch. 

“I can’t believe he actually did that,” he chatters excitedly, hands waving around. “I’ve literally never seen Jake fight like that before. That was so hot, right Y/N-ie,” he adds with a smug grin pointed at you. You’re still at a loss for words, unable to tear your eyes away from Jake’s form. 

Gawon shushes Jungwon before shooting you a concerned look.

“We’re gonna go meet Sunghoon out back, maybe head to the bar. Are you gonna… do you wanna stay and wait for Jake?”

You feel your head nod, not even hearing yourself as you tell them to go ahead without you. All you can see is him, and the way that he doesn’t even seem to know that he’s bleeding as he sits on the bench alone. Sunghoon whispers something to him before heading to the locker room himself.

You sit with your knees up in your seat as the arena clears out, the few people lingering behind the ice paying him no mind. The lights have faded, the scoreboard shut off for the night. It’s a complete 180 from just twenty minutes ago when the game was at its height. You feel like you’re watching Jake quietly lose his mind, his eyes blank as he touches his lip with his fingers. They pull away bloody, but he doesn’t even flinch.

The only people left are some helpers shoveling away the excess snow off the ice, so you decide to get up and make your way towards Jake. The familiar chill of the rink seeps into your bones as you wrap his jacket around you tighter, coming to a stop next to the penalty box he’s trapped himself in.

Knocking on the glass once, you lean down to catch his attention.

“...Jake?” You call, offering what you hope is a comforting smile, even when your heart breaks at the sight of his bruised mouth and torn knuckles. “I’ll drive you home. C’mon.”

He finally lifts his head at your voice to look at you, eyes softening as they catch you in his jersey number. 

He nods slowly, letting you pull him out of his confinement and back onto solid ground, the added height from the blades of his skates making him tower over you as you lead him out of the rink.

—

You can never tell what he’s thinking, Jake’s normally clear eyes thick with something heavy that you can’t quite place. 

Neither of you have said a word since getting to his and Sunghoon’s shared apartment, the latter most likely getting black out drunk at this very moment. The silence is new to you, especially when you’re used to your brother filling it with his outloud-thoughts at every waking moment. You appreciate the fact that he’s not here to ruin this moment though, especially when you’re currently closer to Jake than you’ve ever been.

You’re standing snug between his legs as he sits sprawled on the living room couch, bending down so that you can gently apply ointment on his lips without it getting everywhere. One hand cradles his jaw while the other brushes the medicine on, his sharp intakes of air letting you know that it stings more than he lets on. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, his eyelashes fluttering close with a grimace when you brush on another layer. His hands settle naturally on your hips — more so to keep him grounded than anything — his grip tight as you wipe away dried blood from his skin.

You chew mindlessly on your bottom lip in concentration, not even noticing until Jake reaches up to pull it from your teeth. His voice is hoarse as he speaks for the first time tonight. 

“Stop that,” he breaks the silence to scold you lightly, hand dropping back down when you still. “The skin will tear.”

“And look who’s talking,” you frown back, brushing a finger over the blooming bruise at the corner of his mouth. Even as pain flickers across his face, his gaze never drifts. He studies you from below, lids lowered, the heaviness in his eyes betraying how exhausted he really is.

His lips fall into a natural pout as you busy your hands, searching aimlessly for bandages on the coffee table behind you just to keep yourself from saying something you don’t mean. He’s so beautiful looking up at you like this, but thinking about his injuries and what caused them confuses you.

Your hands subconsciously tremble as you rip open the pack of bandages, Jake’s eyes on you as he leans back on the couch, legs spread wide. 

Hesitating, you ask the question that’s been running laps in your mind all evening. 

“Why did you do that? I’ve never seen you like that on the ice before,” you end up rambling, not accusing, just curious.

Jake stills. 

“...are you mad at me?” 

“Why would I be mad at you?” you muse, careful fingers gently lifting his right hand into yours. His fingers curl into your palm naturally, letting you brush over his knuckles before you begin to wrap gauze over them. His features soften as he observes the way you hold up his hand to inspect it for any missed injuries.

“I don’t know,” he admits, brows knit together in a shallow furrow.

You pause, dropping his hand before sighing.

“I was just worried, Jake.”

He lets a few moments pass before looking back up at you.

“Why were you worried?” He seems to hesitate before he whispers, as if fishing for a specific answer.

You say nothing, not sure if you can admit to him just yet why you care so much. You can’t even admit it fully to yourself. Biting your lip from saying something stupid in the heat of the moment, you toss the extra gauze behind you before sliding down onto the couch next to him.

He scans you for a moment. Realizing you’re not going to answer him, he reaches for a small metal tin on the table with shaky hands. He doesn’t prod further.

You can tell — through all these years of knowing him — when he begins to sink into one of his moods, the ones that make him turn to his vices to cope. It’s the way his eyes gloss over, unfocused as his mind drifts elsewhere. You saw it plenty when you were both eighteen and stupid, deep in the alley behind your local karaoke bar sharing a cig when the pressure of parents, school, and expectations got too much.

“You know, you’ve always been too good to me,” he mutters, voice low as he rolls a King Palm onto his open hand. Out of pure muscle memory, he sifts sativa in a line along his palm before packing it into a blunt. “...want a hit?” he whispers, almost like he’s ashamed of asking you to indulge in something that’s supposed to be his bad habit.

You’d usually chastise him lightly for smoking as an athlete, but you can tell he needs it tonight, the dimness in his eyes concerning you. 

You hesitate before nodding slightly, eyes in a trance as they follow his nimble fingers. You can physically feel your resolve crumble when he brings the cone to his lips, tongue darting out to slowly wet the edge of the rolling paper.

It takes everything in you to look away, hands furling and unfurling in your lap.

“I’m good to you because you deserve it, Jake. And don’t get used to this,” you admit, tucking your legs underneath you. You pause with a blink before admitting, “I’m only saying yes because it’s you.”

He swallows hard at your words, tension leaving his shoulders as he watches you. It’s as if he can see right through you, see your walls slowly crumble.

Holding a lighter up to his face, he lights the blunt with a sharp click before taking a deep drag, letting the warmth take over his body before blowing the smoke away from you. Color rises back into his cheeks as he holds it out for you to take. 

It’s been a while.

He must see the hesitation in your face because he pulls away suddenly, tilting his head like a puppy. His usual easy confidence seems to flicker. 

“Would it be better if… is it easier for you if I shotgun it?” He barely gets the words out without a stutter, eyes averting as your face burns at his suggestion. “To get a smoother high, maybe…” he tacks on with a mumble, like it changes anything he just said.

You stare back at him with wide eyes, mouth parting before slowly nodding.

“Maybe,” you peek at him before repeating yourself in a whisper. “I’d- I’d like that.”

His throat bobs like he’s holding himself back before scooting himself closer and bringing his hand up slowly to your face. You can sense his hesitancy, the way there’s a slight tremor in the movement. 

Your lungs stop working as his skin touches yours, fingers warm as they cup the side of your face gently. 

Both of you seem to pause, faces so close that you can see the way the space between his eyebrows creases, full lips just centimeters away from yours. The air feels warm and charged, your skin buzzing as he shifts to pull you in closer by the thigh. Strands of his wavy hair brush your forehead.

He braces an arm against the couch cushion before taking a long drag, eyelashes fluttering as he pauses before you. His eyes look different, like he’s fighting both something inwardly and the pull of the moment. They lower, betraying, and flicker to your mouth, lips pressed flat.

“Are you okay?” He asks so quietly that you almost don’t catch it, careful not to let any smoke out.

It only takes one nod from you before he leans forward in the slightest, coaxing your mouth open with his thumb before breathing out, letting it permeate your mouth.

“Breathe,” he talks you through it, letting his palm rest against your chest as it rises to feel the large inhale you take. “Let it go all the way.”

The smoke burns as it goes down, resulting in you coughing lightly as Jake moves to rub smooth circles into your back. His other hand falls from your jaw to your knee, bracing himself before taking another hit and letting the smoke curl its way up the ceiling. The smell clouds your senses, making your vision hazy as you let yourself relax into his side naturally.

His arm tightens around your back, a small smile making its way up his face — as if he can feel your eyes on him — as he continues to take long, sharp inhales. The tips of his finger drum against your waist for a moment before they tighten to pull you closer into him. 

“Again?”

“Mm,” you mumble in a daze, looking up with sparkling, wide eyes that take every last bit of his resolve. “Feels good.”

You don’t really know how you ended up in this position, with your body half in his arms, but you don’t complain. He doesn’t either.

Resting your head against his shoulder, he tilts your head back up to meet him halfway. He brushes your hair out of your face and behind your ear slowly, looking intently between your eyes before leaning down and blowing another bout of smoke into your mouth.

This time, your lips touch just a hair, his breath hot on yours. You jolt slightly.

Neither of you move away, scared to cross a line that’s been drawn since the first time you met him. 

He lets you inhale the smoke fully before starting to pull away.

Your hand comes up ever so slowly, shaking slightly, until your fingers make contact with his face. The space between his brows pinches when your thumb presses near the bruise on his mouth, then slowly smooths when he meets your eyes again.

Jake finds himself naturally leaning into your touch, a glimpse of his dimple appearing as his bottom lip gets caught between his teeth.

And when you see that, you decide you can’t take it any more. 

You’ve waited long enough.

You’re done being scared of consequences.

Threading a hand through his hair, you pull him down gently until his lips fully touch yours.

And then you’re kissing Sim Jaeyun. Your brother’s best friend. One of your best friends. And you don’t care, because this is the moment you’ve wanted more than anything, ever. 

And then he’s kissing you back. 

Jake doesn’t pull away like the fear in the back of your head thought he might.

It starts off sweet and short, chaste until he deepens the kiss slightly. After a few seconds, his eyes glaze over as he sits back to admire the way your lips glisten. 

A charged moment passes before his gaze turns dark, leaning in and invading your space once again. He captures your mouth even more intensely as he reaches out to cradle the back of your head, blunt forgotten to the side on an ash tray. His lips mold around yours, the pace escalating quickly like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have. You can taste it on him, the bitter dregs of the sativa mixing into your saliva. 

His tongue darts out to drag against yours, taking advantage of your little gasps to deepen the kiss. Letting you melt into him, he nips and tugs at your lip gently with his teeth before licking it better. It’s hot and bothered and strained, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to let go after getting him like this. He unabashedly moans straight into your mouth, the sound shooting straight to your core as you whine against him.

“Jake—” you gasp into his mouth, hand on his chest to slow him down. 

He brushes your hand away, pulling you onto his lap so you can sit with your thighs around his waist — all without disconnecting his mouth from yours. Tilting his head, he lets your hands roam across the expanse of his chest before threading themselves back in his hair with a tug.

“Shit— Y/N,” he barely gets out, lips on yours again. “Keep doing that, baby.”

You can barely keep up with his pace, overcome with white hot pleasure that renders you momentarily incapable of thinking about anything else. You let out another gasp at hearing the way he calls you ‘baby,’ the name so unfamiliar to you that you almost feel tears sting the back of your eyes. It feels so right hearing them fall from his mouth.

Dropping your head into his neck, you lick a stripe up to his jaw and press wet kisses over his bruises. His hips immediately jerk in reaction, hands squeezing your waist as his head falls back over the edge of the couch. You’re in the middle of sucking a hickey into the skin next to the bulge of Adam's apple when he starts rambling, hand sneaking up under your tank to press against your stomach.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he starts, taking a breath and moaning out loud when he sees the string of saliva that connects where your mouths part. “I’ve wanted this for so long, you don’t even know.”

“Jakey,” you mumble into his skin, voice breaking when his hand wanders up to cup you through your bra. Jake’s at war with himself, but he can’t fight desire, especially not when he can feel you shiver against him like you’ve never trusted someone more.

“Fuck, say that again f’me,” he curses before dragging your shirt up your stomach with his teeth, dipping just below to press kisses just below your chest with fervor. His nose presses against your skin as he inhales, mumbling about how he feels like he could stay in this position forever.

“Jakey please,” you whine, needy hands reaching out so that Jake can pull you to him again. “Need you. Bad.” 

He complies happily, groaning at the way you fit perfectly in his hands.

At some point, the pleasure gets too much and you find yourself rocking into him, head tucked into his neck as he sings praises into your ear.

“Shit baby, c’mere,” his hands can’t seem to keep still, dragging down your back to your thighs and back up to your face. “Take what you need from me.”

Your face burns as you lay the side of your face against his chest, his hand guiding your hips right against the bulge growing in his sweats. The other holds your head to him, making sure you’re comfortable before matching the pace of your rocking. 

“I’m all yours,” he whispers down at you, smiling when you cry out his name in response.

Your stomach seizes when you feel his hand start to creep under the waistband of your sweats, playing with the string before dipping under the elastic of your panties. You’re pressed flat against him, and feeling his arm creep against your stomach makes you feel things no man has made you feel before.

“Is this… is this okay?” He hesitates, pausing as he watches you carefully.

You nod against his chest rapidly, shutting your eyes when his pointer and middle finger finally push against your heat. You’re embarrassingly wet, the sound clearly audible as he begins to move.

“Oh baby,” he coos, resting his chin on top of your head as he starts to move his hand back and forth slowly, coating himself in your juices. “Someone’s needy, mm? Can’t believe you were hiding this from me…” he trails off, biting his lip.

You fail to hold back a moan, muffling yourself with his shirt and biting the fabric between your teeth. Jake chuckles as he feels the fabric get wet against his chest from your saliva, gently pulling it from you. Tears prick against your waterline at the pleasure. 

“Let me hear you fall apart, baby.”

You shake your head against him, babbling nonsense as his fingers get quicker, rolling your sensitive bud between his fingers before dipping into you. It feels like all the times you’ve pleasured yourself thinking of him mean nothing — the real thing isn’t even close to being compared. It’s ecstasy that you’ve never felt before, the second-hand high from earlier hitting you fully now. White appears at the edge of your vision, your breath catching as you fall against Jake.

The second he feels your thighs start to tremble around him, the pleasure in the pit of your stomach starting to build, he pushes two fingers into you slowly, spongy walls swallowing them right up. He sets a rhythm, coaxing you to ride his fingers while he kisses along the crown of your head. 

“There you go,” he whispers. “Just like that. Made for me, aren’t you?”

His fingers are cold as they curl inside of you, hitting that spot deep in you that you’ve never been able to reach yourself.

Jake’s jaw clenches as he watches you fall apart on his fingers, the sight of you coming undone unlike anything he’s ever seen before. His erection is almost painful at this point, and if you keep making those noises, he knows he’ll be ruining his pants in no time.

Your hips jerk, movements uncontrolled as the pleasure inside you builds quickly. You know you’re close when he drags his thumb against your puffy clit, pressing down before drawing shallow circles around it.

“Come on, baby. Let go for me.”

You shudder at his tone that’s dropped an octave lower, an obvious rasp in his voice from all the overstimulation. His fingers are coated in you, your saliva still on his skin. The pace of his fingers double, helping you chase your release as he leans down to press a messy kiss to your lips.

It’s finally when he thrusts up against the fabric of your pants that you shatter, coming apart with a broken moan as you bite his shoulder. Jake rocks you through it, helping you ride out your high with his fingers still inside of you. He doesn’t stop, continuing to push in and out until you push against his hand in protest.

“Jake,” you whine out, unable to say anything except his name as you slow your movements. His fingers slowly slip out of you, completely soaked before he brings them up to his mouth. His eyes burn into yours as he licks them clean, tongue circling around them before pushing against his tongue with a smile. You almost climax again at the sight, cheeks burning as you watch him hum around his own fingers.

“You were so good for me,” he praises.

You look down in embarrassment, not getting very far before he’s capturing your mouth in a searing kiss once again. You taste yourself on him this time, eyebrows furrowing at the taste of cum and weed. 

Jake doesn’t give you even a second to think before he’s pulling away again, adjusting himself in his sweats. You shift your hips to reveal a dark stain on the front of his grey sweats, gaping in awe when you realize that he came from the mere act of getting you off. Your movements had dragged his pants halfway down his hips, the band of his boxers completely out as he makes no move to fix them. He lifts his hips, manhandling you to sit almost against his stomach as he settles back into the couch, breathing heavily.

“Did you…?” you start, staring at the space when your bodies connect.

Jake turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears reddening.

“You did this to me,” he says with a pout, dragging a finger through the wetness that’s both a mix of yours and his. Poking his tongue into his cheek in mock annoyance, he squints up at you. “Little minx.”

You hover, letting your hand drag slowly over his bulge and down his leg as he hisses at the feeling.

His jaw drops when you slide to the ground before him, knees hitting the ground between his open legs. Looking up at him with innocent, blinking eyes, you tilt your head before tossing your hair to one side and getting comfy with your arms in his lap.

Jake thinks he can cum from the view alone, that pretty mouth pouting at him as you paw at his sweats. You pull at the strings, focused. His head swirls with warning sirens, closing his eyes as he thinks about all the things you’ve already done and what would happen if he took it further. 

Would Sunghoon murder him in cold blood? Probably.

You make noises of protest from the back of your throat when Jake gently takes both of your hands in his, pulling you up until he can press his nose against yours. You can see the internal conflict in his gaze, guilt flickering through him as he looks from your messy hair to your swollen lips.

“Want you in me…” you start, clumsily trying to pull out of his hold before falling forward as he tugs you into him.

Smoothing a hand over your hair, he shakes his head before wrapping his arms around you. 

“Not today, baby.”

You frown, suddenly overly conscious of everything. The way the strap of your tank is halfway down your shoulder, the way Jake’s still out of breath, the way you almost just went all the way with him. You seem to shrink, shifting out of his hold to sit back on your heels. The heat drains from your face, hands suddenly cold as you fold them together.

“Why? You don’t want me…?” You say quietly, almost like you don’t want him to hear you. Your heart drops, and it doesn’t help that he stays silent as your mind runs through all of the possibilities as to why. Does he regret it? Already?

…maybe his friendship with my brother is more important than this.

“What? No— what, that’s not—” he splutters, bewildered at the way you start to pull away. He can feel his chest stop as he watches your face fall, starting to turn away from him before he desperately reaches out to have you close again.

“Y/N, listen to me,” he says firmly, heart aching when you look back at him with confused eyes. “Listen to me before you jump to any conclusions. I know that head of yours.”

Your throat tightens, lashes lowered.

“There’s nothing I want more than you. All I’ve ever wanted is you, actually.”

Your mouth parts, surprised at the sincerity in his voice as he clasps your hands with a film shake. He sounds firm and sure, gaze determined as he confesses. He looks to the side, pausing.

“I hate that you’re doubting yourself because of me. And I know I’ve been terrible at showing it, my feelings towards— towards you. I know I’ve fumbled maybe a thousand times at telling you how much you mean to me, especially considering our friendship and your brother and our friends and all that— but I want this to be real, and I don’t want you to think this is just a heat of the moment thing. You mean much more to me than just this… and you deserve a love that’s patient,” Jake stares at you, the one that you only see when he feels like he’s won something worth fighting for. 

“I want to stop running away from my feelings, and I’m so sorry I let my fear get in the way of telling you this earlier. Can’t stop thinking about the time we could’ve had together if I just told you how I felt,” he shakes his head, a bittersweet taste on his tongue. “I’m sorry that you had to be the one to initiate something for me to be honest with you. I want to take it slowly with you, if you’d let me—”

“Jake—” you interrupt his chain of thoughts, putting a hand on his knee.

“—and instead of telling you, I would get jealous on my own and do stupid things like bodycheck Heeseung—like fuck, why did I even do that? Now he probably hates me too, oh god—”

“Jaeyun,” you say firmly, cupping your hand over his mouth to shut him up. He stares at you at the abruptness, lips twitching against your palm.

“Where did that come from?” You say softly, unable to hide your grin as giddiness overtakes you. “I— I’ve been the same way, silly. We’ve both been stupid.” You rest your chin on his knee, peering up at him. “Don’t apologize.”

His whole body seems to release all the tension that’s been building up, fingers carefully brushing the hair out of your face.

“God, how did I get this lucky,” he sighs out, throwing an arm over his forehead at your cute expression.

You giggle, overcome with the fact that Jake likes you. Jake likes you too.

“So you like me, huh,” you tease, scooting forward. Moonlight bounces off the side of your face as you shift, every tiny sound amplified: the wind rattling against the windows, the hum of the fridge, the soft shift of fabric when Jake leans forward. You can still feel where his hand had been on your waist, the ghost of his thumb at your jaw.

“Shut up,” he mumbles with a bashful smile, slightly mortified at how intently you’re looking at him. “Yeah. Badly.”

“And you want me— mmph!” you exclaim in surprise when Jake hooks his arm around your waist, his biceps flexing against you as he pulls you back into his lap. He spreads out on the couch, letting you curl comfortably in his chest with your face buried in his neck. The scent of cedar and bergamot orange clouds you, snuggling into him as he chuckles.

“Hm? What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought, baby.”

You’re squirming in his arms, trying to get away from his wandering hands when the front door clicks open with a beep. You jump, flinching as it creaks open. Jake doesn’t seem surprised. A head peeks through the crack before rolling his eyes at the scene before him.

“Get out of my apartment,” Sunghoon deadpans, kicking off his shoes, shimmying off his jacket and throwing it at the two of you. It hits you in the leg before falling to the ground. Tossing his keys and wallet onto the kitchen island, he grabs an apple off the counter before taking a bite and leaning his weight against it. Raising an eyebrow, he eyes the two of you.

You blink at him nervously, staring off into space somewhere between his shoulder and his wall. You hope Jake says something, because you sure aren’t. What if he gets mad? What if he hates this? What if—

Your brother must see the look on your face because he sighs, putting his apple down before gesturing vaguely at you. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Rockstar,” he snorts, pointing at Jake. “Bro’s been pining after you since we were like ten. This,” he looks pointedly between you and his best friend, “was gonna happen at some point.”

You whirl around to look at Jake, a dusty rose spreading over his cheeks as he glares at your brother.

“Really?” You ask in wonder, ignoring the sound of Sunghoon’s fake retching behind you.

“God, I hate love,” he continues in the background, fully ignored by you and Jake as the latter stammers his words at your attention.

“Yeah, our friends always say that I’m painfully obvious,” Jake confesses quietly, thumb rubbing circles against your leg.

“But… but what about earlier today?” You hesitate to ask, turning back to Sunghoon who’s now spinning himself around on a bar stool. “The girl from your stats class?”

“What?” your brother says absentmindedly, spinning himself once more before stopping with a snap. “Ohh, the girl from stats!”

“There was no girl… I— I wanted to make you jealous. It was so stupid,” Jake admits, his face heating up even more as Sunghoon bursts out into laughter behind you.

“Actually,” your brother starts, a smirk spreading across his face as he takes another bite of his apple. “She’s very real. And she also just sucked me off in the bathroom of the bar I came from, sooo,” he trails off, “I think the real winner tonight is me.”

“Holy TMI, dude,” Jake complains from under you, the timbre of his voice humming against your side. He covers your ears from Sunghoon’s crass mouth as you make a face at your brother, his laugh reaching you even with Jake’s hands protecting you.

“Anyway,” Sunghoon swings his legs off the stool, grabbing his phone before sneakily taking a picture of the two of you snuggled together on the couch. “Imma send this to Jungwon so he can stop blowing me up on Kakao. He’s been waiting for this since our first year, probably.”

You just sigh contently, happily pushing yourself into the warmth of Jake’s chest and relieved that you don’t have to hide your feelings anymore. The softness of his arms around you are no longer a daydream. The world shrinks to just this, the smell of him, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric of his old hockey tee, the gentle press of his chin near your temple. His embrace is possessive and reverent, like you’re the most precious thing to him.

Your own breath finally slows.

For so long you’d been orbiting him — watching from across rooms, stealing glances, cataloging every laugh and look — and now, wrapped in his arms, that ache resolves into something quiet and full. You feel small in the best way, tucked against him, fitting into the hollow of his body. His hand moves absentmindedly along your side, curling into your skin and reminding you that this is very real.

There’s no more guilt humming at the edges of the moment, the pressures of facing your brother or telling your friends gone.

You finally have him.

“So sorry to interrupt,” Sunghoon’s voice bursts the moment, popping up in front of you with an exaggerated smile. “Love that this is happening. Super cute. Mom and dad will be thrilled, I bet.” He pauses, biting his pointer finger between his teeth before looking at the two of you with a pointed stare. “If you have sex on my couch though, different story. I’m shooting everyone in this room and then myself. Thanks.”

You gape at him as Jake mutters a smug “can’t promise I won’t try” from behind you, earning a hard smack on the arm.

“Joking, I’m joking, holy shit,” he chokes out, dodging to the side with you in his arms as your brother tries to land another hit. 

“You better be,” he says, eyes snapping down to the wet patch on the crotch of Jake’s pants. “‘Cuz that’s fucking nasty, man. I should’ve let Heeseung knock some sense into you while we were still on the ice.”

You groan in mortification, burying your face deeper into his chest like you could disappear into the fabric of his shirt. From above you, Jake lets out a low, amused breath, his arms tightening instinctively around you as you hide. You can feel his chest shake beneath your cheek as he looks up.

You let out a muffled whine against him.

Jake, infuriatingly, only smirks, chin resting lightly atop your head. “You only said she was off-limits, not the couch.”

“Jaeyun,” your brother warns, raising a hand at him.

“Okay, okay,” Jake chuckles, finally easing back just enough that you can peek out from behind him, cheeks burning.

Your brother’s expression softens when he sees your face. You’re mortified and flustered, but still fully in Jake’s arms.

He exhales. “You’re lucky I trust you more than any guy at this goddamn university.”

Jake’s laugh follows him down the hall, and his arms don’t loosen. If anything, he pulls you in a little closer. Not for show, but because he needs it.

“I know,” he looks down at you, determined.

“And for what it’s worth,” Sunghoon adds with a wicked smile, already turning toward his bedroom, “if you make her cry, you’re benched for the season, Sim.”

END.

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NOTE. thank you for reading this very self-indulgent fic ‪‪❤︎‬ I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. pls leave any and all feedback, it always makes my day and helps improve my writing so so much! this was all solely fueled by my first college hockey game of the semester. ts was lit asf, i was so into it that i literally lost my voice the next day LMFAO [ i thought i'd share a small clip from the game, esp because of how much of this fic was inspired by the strong hockey culture where i grew up. for your viewing pleasure HAHA ]

xx, kiachiako

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