JAKE WHEN HES JEALOUS AND HE LEAVES A BUNCH OF MARKS ON YOU PUHLEASEEE 🙏🙏
let me in (20cm deeper) - sjy
pairing: jake x reader
synopsis: He wasn’t supposed to care—but one jealous glance, one reckless FaceTime call mid-thrust, and now he’s fucking you like he needs the whole world to know you’re his. ✉️ 2144wc - tw ‼️ jealousy, possessiveness, oral (f receiving), rough sex, marking, face sitting, name kink, phone sex, humiliation, choking (light), degradation, creampie, overstimulation, praise kink, dom!jake
💌 mark me up and I’ll show up to uni the next day without a doubt 😵 pookie I love ur reqs sm send more 😘
He wasn’t supposed to care. That was the rule—his own rule. The one he made the first night he kissed you with too much tongue and not enough thought, when the two of you stumbled into your bedroom half-laughing, half-buzzed, and fully aware that this couldn’t mean anything. You were friends. Good friends. He liked your company, liked your voice when you read texts aloud with dumb impressions, liked how you made taking vitamins feel like a shared inside joke instead of a self-imposed regimen. But that was all it was supposed to be.
Until it wasn’t.
It started with something stupid—an Instagram story, of all things. Jake had opened his phone during a water break at the gym, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt when he saw it. A boomerang. You. Smiling. Head tilted toward someone else. A guy. The caption was harmless—he’s so funny lol—but Jake felt his throat tighten.
He made it through the rest of his workout on autopilot, pushing harder than usual, muscles screaming for rest while his thoughts spiraled. You weren’t even doing anything wrong. You weren’t his. He wasn’t yours. But the image played over and over again in his head: you laughing like that at someone else’s jokes, leaning into their shoulder, letting them have the version of you Jake thought was just his for a little while.
And then you texted.
come over later?
i got wine and that ice cream u like 😋
Jake stared at your message for a full five minutes, heart thudding hard against his chest. His first instinct was to say no, to pull back and cool off, to remind himself of his stupid rules about boundaries and keeping things clean. But then he remembered your smile in that photo, how open and easy it looked.
He texted back.
be there in 15
He didn’t take his usual post-gym ginseng shot. Didn’t do his skincare. Didn’t even double-check his weekly checklist of personal goals.
Because suddenly, all Jake could think about was making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to tonight.
You open the door barefoot and braless, wearing one of those oversized shirts that barely covers your thighs—probably on purpose. Jake knows you. You’re not oblivious. You know exactly what you do to him when you act like this: all casual and sweet and soft, like you’re not the same person who had their head on someone else’s shoulder earlier.
“Hey,” you say like nothing happened, already turning back toward the kitchen. “I opened the red. Wanna pour?”
He follows silently, eyes on the curve of your legs as you walk. There’s music playing—something soft and lazy—and he realizes it’s the kind of song people play on dates. Candlelight flickers on the counter. You always keep it cozy when he comes over, but tonight it feels too intentional. Too romantic.
He wonders if the other guy saw you like this.
Jake doesn’t say much as you hand him a glass of wine. He doesn’t joke around like he usually does. He just leans against the counter, swirling the drink, pretending not to watch the way you sip yours with a slight smirk.
“So,” you start, licking a drop of wine from your lip, “what’s with the face? You look like you benched your personal best and didn’t get praised for it.”
His jaw ticks. “Saw your story.”
Your brows lift. “What, the one with Yena’s party?”
Jake hums, gaze dropping to your bare thighs. “Yeah. That one.”
You lean a little closer, head tilting. “He’s just a friend, Jake. You jealous or something?”
There it is. The spark. The dangerous one.
Jake sets his wine down with a quiet clink. “No,” he lies, voice low and clipped. “Just curious why he’s got you laughing like that. I don’t remember you looking that happy the last time I made you come.”
The air thickens. Your smile falters for half a second, like you weren’t expecting him to be that blunt. Then it returns—slow, calculated. You set your wine down too, stepping between his legs where he leans against the counter.
“You could fix that,” you whisper. “If you want.”
Jake stares at you for a long, long moment. Every disciplined bone in his body screams at him to slow down, to play it cool, to not let you see how tightly he’s wound. But you’re close now. Too close. And your skin smells like warm sugar and sin.
And in this moment, with your mouth inches from his and your thigh brushing his jeans—Jake doesn’t want to be responsible. He just wants you wrecked and shaking, begging for the man you almost forgot was yours.
Jake doesn’t kiss you gently. He crashes into you like a dam finally bursting, months of restraint swept away in one hard press of his mouth. His hands find your waist, then your hips, then the backs of your thighs as he lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. The wine glasses clink behind you, forgotten. Your shirt rides up, and Jake’s lips never leave yours—just grow hungrier, messier, more desperate.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck, biting harder with each inch. “Walking around like this… smiling like that… for someone else.”
Your breath catches when his teeth graze the base of your neck. “He didn’t even—”
“Don’t care,” Jake growls, already sucking a bruise into the hollow of your throat. “You’re mine when I’m here. You get that?”
You nod, already breathless, already aching. His hands slip beneath your shirt—warm, rough, and intent—and you gasp when he pulls it over your head in one smooth motion. He doesn’t give you time to feel shy. Doesn’t even pause.
Instead, his mouth is everywhere at once—on your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. Each kiss is matched with a mark. Sharp nips that bloom into bruises. His tongue soothes them after, but it’s all part of the same rhythm: claim, soothe, repeat.
“Jake,” you whimper, squirming as he pulls your thighs apart with an easy grip. “You’re being—”
“Thorough,” he finishes, looking up at you from between your legs, eyes dark with jealousy and heat. “You let someone else make you laugh. I’m gonna remind you who makes you scream.”
And then his mouth is on you. Hot, focused, relentless. You grab at his hair, already trembling from how fast he has you unraveling—but he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens on your hips when you try to close your thighs. He growls against you when you arch your back. And when your voice cracks on his name, he moans like he’s starving for the sound.
By the time he pulls away, your thighs are shaking, your breath ragged. His chin glistens and his shirt is wrinkled from how hard you clung to him. And you’re already marked—neck, chest, thighs. Painted in him.
Your legs are still shaking when he stands back up, hands splayed on your thighs, eyes dark and heavy-lidded as they rake over your flushed skin. You expect him to kiss you again, but he doesn’t—not right away. Instead, he just looks at you for a second. Really looks. Like he’s memorizing the sight of you—lips parted, chest rising, already marked all over with proof of him. Then he breathes out hard and reaches down to undo his belt.
The sound of it slipping through the loops is enough to make your stomach flutter.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he mutters, tugging his jeans and boxers down just enough, his cock already hard and leaking. “Not until I’m done.”
You barely have time to nod before he’s pulling you to the edge of the counter, lining himself up between your thighs. One hand grabs your waist—firm, possessive—the other wraps around the back of your neck, keeping your face close to his.
“Look at me,” he whispers, pushing in slow. “Every second of this.”
You cry out, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he stretches you. You’ve done this before—more than once—but it still knocks the air from your lungs. He’s thick, and he knows it, knows exactly how to make it burn just a little, how to pause halfway in so you feel every inch. Your walls flutter around him, body struggling to take it.
“Too much?” Jake’s voice is low but strained, jaw clenched as he waits. You nod and whimper, biting your lip, and he dips forward to kiss your temple, whispering, “You’ve got it. I’ve got you. You can take it.”
He pushes the rest of the way in and holds himself there, buried deep, letting you cling to him while your body adjusts. When you moan into his neck, hips twitching, Jake groans low in his throat.
“You feel so good like this,” he growls, voice roughened by restraint. “Tight… soft… mine.”
Then he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that make the counter creak beneath you. His grip stays locked on your waist as he sets a pace that has your head falling back, cries tumbling from your lips with each push. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the kitchen, messy and raw, and Jake just keeps going—driving into you like he’s making a point.
“You don’t need anyone else,” he breathes into your ear. “I give you everything you need, don’t I?”
“Y-Yeah,” you gasp.
“Say it.”
“You do, Jake—fuck—only you.”
That pulls a growl from his chest. His mouth is back on your neck, tongue and teeth working over fresh skin, leaving new bruises over the ones that haven’t faded yet.
And when he comes—deep inside you, buried to the hilt—he doesn’t stop whispering your name like it’s a promise.
You’re already wrecked. Your cheek sticks to the counter, lips swollen from biting down on them, and your thighs shake every time Jake thrusts back into you. He hasn’t let up—not even a little—his cock buried deep, stretching you over and over with a punishing rhythm that’s more about proving something than just pleasure. And it’s working. You’re dripping. Whimpering. Ruined.
Then you feel the shift. Jake leans forward, still fucking into you, and you hear the soft beep of your phone unlocking.
“What are you doing?” you manage to whisper, voice broken, barely hanging on.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Because a second later, the FaceTime ring starts, loud and clear, vibrating right on the counter next to your face.
Your eyes snap open. “Jake, no—”
“Too late,” he grits, one hand curling around your hip, the other holding the phone up high enough to show everything. “He wanted your attention, didn’t he? Let’s give it to him.”
The screen flashes—connected.
And there he is. The guy from the night before. Confused, then wide-eyed, horrified.
Jake doesn’t stop thrusting. In fact, he slows down just a little, dragging each movement out, your slickness obscene in the quiet between the heavy sound of skin and your shaky moans.
“She’s a little busy right now,” Jake says, voice low and smug. “Thought you’d want to see what that laugh of hers really sounds like when it’s real.”
The guy stammers. “What the fuck—“
“Say hi, baby,” Jake murmurs, grabbing your jaw and angling your face toward the screen.
You don’t speak, but the moan that spills from your lips as he hits your spot again—that says enough.
Jake tilts the phone lower, angling it to show your trembling legs, the marks he’s left all over your skin, the way your body clings to him with every thrust. “You watching? You get it now?”
You swear you see him end the call out of panic—or maybe disgust. Either way, Jake tosses the phone aside the second the screen goes dark. His hand is back on your hip in a flash, grip brutal now as he fucks into you harder.
“Mine,” he growls. “All fucking mine.”
And this time when you cum, it’s not from his hands or his mouth or even his words.
It’s the thrill of being seen.
You wake up slow, your limbs heavy and sore, skin warm under the covers. The sunlight leaking in through the blinds feels too bright, too real, like it has no business touching a body that still belongs to the night before.
Your throat’s dry, your thighs ache, and every small movement reminds you of exactly where his hands were—how many times he pulled you apart and put you back together. You shift with a soft whimper, the soreness between your legs blooming deeper, and instinctively tug the blanket tighter around your chest.
That’s when you see it.
The marks.
Everywhere.
Faint bruises along your hips, scattered bites on your thighs, faded red fingerprints at your waist. There’s one on your collarbone, dark and angry, shaped like his mouth. And on your inner thigh, dangerously close to somewhere far more sensitive, his name. Sloppily written in deep purple hickeys.
You press your legs together and bite your lip, heart stuttering as the memory floods in—Jake’s voice, low and angry; his pace, rough and punishing; the look on his face when he hung up that FaceTime call like he had won something.
Because he had.
You hear him before you see him—soft footsteps, the clink of something ceramic. And then the door creaks open.
Jake steps in with messy hair, sleepy eyes, and a mug in each hand. He’s wearing only sweats, slung low on his hips, and his chest still has faint scratch marks from your nails. When he sees you awake, he grins—sleepy, soft, like he didn’t completely ruin you just a few hours ago.
“Mornin’,” he says, offering a mug. “You’re gonna need water too. You passed out right after…”
You take the drink without answering, eyes still locked on the hickeys.
He notices.
Jake sets his mug down, comes to sit on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over your thigh. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding not sorry at all. “Got a little carried away.”
You glare at him half-heartedly. “You FaceTimed him.”
His smirk is immediate. “And he answered.”
You groan, covering your face. “Jake.”
“Hey,” he says gently, prying your hands away. His thumb grazes your cheek. “He needed to see it. I needed him to see it.”
You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Because when Jake leans down and kisses the mark on your neck like it’s sacred—when his lips brush over bruised skin like he’s trying to apologize without saying the words—you realize something else:
It’s not just about jealousy.
It’s about you.
You, and how he’s terrified of losing what you are—even if it means making the whole damn world watch him prove it.
wanna read my longer ffs? Check out @shy9-29 || prompt list request