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
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