jakeytkiszka - Tumblr blog

jakeytkiszka · 27 days ago

Text

No Saints

4.2k words.

warnings: enemies to lovers, yelling, crying, hurt feelings, bruised egos, talks of feelings, SMUT– 18+ ONLY, oral (m. and f. rec.), sex, dirty talk, sleeping with the boss type shit, lemme know if I missed any!

Masterlist

——————————————————————————

If someone had told you that you would be working your dream job on tour with a band, you would have laughed. And if they would've told you that you would be working backstage for Greta Van fucking Fleet, you would have laughed even harder, probably until you cried.

But here you were, running around every show like a chicken with its head cut off, ensuring the band was ready, the outfits were right, and they weren't setting something on fire.

You think your favorite was probably Sammy. All goofy jokes and late night conversations about anything and everything. Josh was always down to talk about something whimsical while you sewed the hem of his jumpsuit. Danny was just quiet, laid back and always so easy to chat with.

And Jake.

Jake was… something else.

Irritating. Arrogant and cocky. All lazy smirks and nonchalant, smart ass comebacks. He pissed you off. And with how the two of you bickered, you were surprised you hadn't been fired yet. Maybe the other three liked you enough to keep you on, overruling Jake. (Unbeknownst to you, Jake liked you just as much as they did, and there was no way in hell he'd let you get fired.)

Tonight was no different than the others, Josh was preening in the mirror, Danny was playing the drums on the coffee table, Jake was lounging on the couch like he owned the place, and you were stuck glueing Sammy's rhinestones back on. He and Daniel had decided that playing a game of ping pong– including Sam diving after the ball and practically faceplanting– was necessary for a preshow warmup.

And you were rapidly sticking the rhinestones on, shaking your head as you neared the end, “You two have got to find less raucous hobbies before the shows,” you say, hoping they weren't going on crooked.

“Sorry, Y/n,” Sammy says, smiling at you from the floor, “We're all very competitive."

“No shit,” you murmur, squinting as you stick the last one on there, “Next time, don't do that in your stage clothes.”

He grins, wordlessly letting you know– No promises. As if you expected anything less from the two.

“Aren't you bossy,” Jake murmurs from beside you on the couch.

“I'm not bossy,” you defend, shooting him a quick frown.

“Yes, you are,” he retorts.

“Shut up,” you say quietly.

“I think we should hit the bar after this,” he says loud enough for the others to hear, “I could use a night out.”

“Yeah, why not?” Josh says from the mirror, turning to the four of you, “We all could, tour's been wonderful, we should celebrate.”

“Y/n, you wanna come?”

You can practically hear Jake roll his eyes as Sam asks you, and that tempts you to take him up on his offer. But you decline, “No, I'll pass tonight,” you say softly, “I'm tired, you four are exhausting.”

“You're exhausting,” Jake retorts quietly, earning a sideways glare from you.

A stagehand pops his head into the door at that time, “Show time!” He calls, all nerves and frantic energy.

You cheer each of them on, even Jake, wishing him luck as he stands. He shoots you a wink, lazy confidence radiating from him.

You hope he messes up.

——————————————————————

Maybe you shouldn't have wished for him to mess up.

He's mad, you can see it from backstage. His guitar strap broke midshow, and when he came to get another from you, it was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you fucking serious?” He snaps, looking around you as if it might suddenly appear.

“I– Jake, I had it right here, I swear,” you defend, panic setting in. You were going to lose your job.

Suddenly, one of your peers finds another, handing it to Jake with a proud smile. Jake shoots you a look, one of frustration, before he's back out on the stage, as if this encounter never happened.

The show ends with everyone praising the success, a few side eyes thrown your way, and you feel like shit. You could cry, and you probably would if it weren't for the sake of professionalism.

“Y/n!” You turn at the sharp snap of your name, finding the production manager making his way to you. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck!

“Yes?”

“Where the fuck was his fucking guitar strap at?!” He says, stopping directly in front of you.

“I don't know where it went– I had it in his case right there before the show, and–”

“It doesn't just fucking walk away,” he interrupts, pointing a finger at you, “If you can't do your job and help this shit run smoothly, you're fucking done, do you understand?”

You don't mean to cry. But the tears are welling up faster than you can stop them. “Okay, I'll do better.”

“You will do better, you're not getting paid to fuck shit up–”

“You're not getting paid to talk to her like that.”

As if your night couldn't get worse. There's Jake, right behind you. The production manager straightens up, the anger quickly leaving his face, “I'm sorry, she just–”

“It wasn't her fault,” he says firmly, “I moved the fucking strap and forgot about it. You're not gonna talk to her that way because you're not fucking prepared.”

He nods, his face pale, “Of course. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize to me,” Jake says simply.

He grits his teeth, “I'm sorry, Y/n.”

You nod, unsure of what to say. And then you're left alone with Jake, the rest of the crowd quickly dispersing.

“You alright?”

You nod, turning to him as you wipe your eyes, “I'm sorry about your guitar strap, Jake. I promise I'm usually more prepared–”

“I know you are,” he says, “You don't have to apologize for anything. You're doing a great job, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he's gone.

What the fuck?

——————————————————————————

You knew they'd be hungover.

Being crowded on a tour bus with four grumpy hungover rockstars is not something you'd wish on anybody.

Sam's got his head in your lap, sunglasses over his eyes. He had demanded you play with his hair, claiming it made the headache go away. Dany was sprawled out in one of the recliners with Josh in the other, and Jake was sitting in the booth, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him.

“I need water,” Sam says pitifully.

“I can get it,” you say automatically, knowing he wasn't asking you, but you volunteered. You gently move his head from your lap, standing to stretch your achy legs. You make your way to the fridge beside Jake, opening it and pulling out a water bottle for Sam.

You look over at Jake, “Do you need anything?” You ask, an attempt at being nice.

“I need you to leave me alone,” he retorts.

“Douchebag,” you mutter, glancing at him again, finding a smirk upon his lips.

“Next time we go out, Y/n's coming with us,” Josh says, “I think she needs to go out and have some fun.”

“I have enough fun dealing with you four,” you say, handing the water bottle off to Sam.

“That's why you're single,” Sam says offhandedly, “You won't go out and try to meet someone.”

“Fuck you, Sammy,” you mutter.

“Maybe one day,” he says with a smile, “I'm too hungover right now.”

You scoff a laugh, your eyes somehow making their way to Jake again. You catch the glare he's sending the two of you before he slips his sunglasses back over his eyes.

Jerk.

——————————————————————

“Can you maybe not fucking stab me?”

“Can you stop fucking moving, then?”

“You've got a needle right at my dick, Y/n, it's hard to trust you.”

You straighten back up, shooting a glare up at him, “Jake, I'm not gonna stab your fucking dick. But if you keep it up, I'm going to try to.”

He stares down his nose at you, a frown on his face. You cross your arms, waiting for him to comply. Rockstars.

He huffs, glancing at the clock, “Fine. I've got a show in 15 minutes. Hurry it up.”

“You're the one who ripped the crotch out of your pants,” you mutter, picking the needle back up.

“You're the seamstress right now, shut up and do your job.”

You pause at that, glancing up to see the genuine frustration on his face. You simply nod, continuing your work. You finish around two minutes later, giving him a quiet okay.

“All done,” you say flatly.

“I'm sorry,” he says in response.

“It's fine,” you shake your head, “You're right.”

“No, I'm not. You're– You're not just a fucking seamstress here, Y/n.”

“It's fine,” you say, forcing a smile as you push yourself up from off your knees, “Preshow jitters.”

He shakes his head, staying silent for a moment, “Thank you.”

You nod, “Don't mention it.”

——————————————————————————

You're irritated.

The boys decided they wanted to spend the night in a hotel.

A very shifty hotel, with a whopping two rooms available. A room with two beds and a couch, and a room with one single bed.

Josh, Sam and Danny all agreed to take the room with the couch. Which left you sharing a room– and a bed!– with Jake.

You're both standing in the doorway, staring at the bed in front of you. Jake's got irritation written all over him, his sunglasses pushed up messily into his hair, his hand gripping the handle of his suitcase a little harder than necessary. His jaw is tense, and you don't say a word.

“This should be cozy,” he says quietly.

“I can go sleep on the bus,” you offer, nervously twisting your hand around the handle of your own suitcase, “I really don't mind–”

“I'm not making you do that,” his voice is firm, “And to be quite honest, I don't wanna do that either because I'm a little selfish and I wanna sleep in a bed.”

You hum a laugh, “A bed does sound nice.”

“We're both adults,” he says, “It's… It's a pretty big bed.”

“Yeah, it's a nice size,” you agree, both of you awkwardly nodding.

And with that, he lets out a breath, making his way to the adjoining bathroom. Your shoulders slump, the tour bus sounding more enticing by the minute. You sit on the edge of the bed, and any thought you had of sneaking back out to the bus is gone. It's so comfortable, like a plush cushiony cloud.

You lay back on the mattress, letting your eyes fall shut. With a bed this comfortable, you can definitely stand spending a single night with Jake.

You don't move when the door opens back up, and you hear him snort a laugh, “Comfy?”

“Very,” you reply, “It's like a cloud. I forgot how nice a real bad feels.”

He hums in response, and you can hear him shuffling around the room. You finally push yourself up, knowing you should probably change into your pajamas before you fall asleep in your uncomfortable jeans.

You quietly go to the bathroom, ignoring the sight of Jake wearing only an old t-shirt and his underwear.

Fuck.

You change quickly, eager to get back into the bed and sleep. It'd probably be the best sleep you've gotten in weeks.

You wish your pajamas were just a little cuter, but you don't know why. Who were you trying to impress– Jake? You want to slap yourself for thinking that.

You make your way back out, finding he was still standing, doing something on his phone. You slip by without a word, the room feeling tense and awkward.

You ease under the blanket, surprised at yourself for being so happy about a sleazy hotel bed. But it was so nice. You make sure to stay on one side, facing the wall with wide eyes as you lay there. You tense slightly when you feel him move beside you, getting into the bed.

It's quiet as he flicks the lights off from the nightstand.

“This is nice,” he says softly.

You hum in agreement, scooting a little closer to the edge.

He lets out a quiet laugh, “You can relax, Y/n.”

“I am relaxed.”

“I'm sorry for what I said tonight.”

You pause, before you turn your head to look at him, “It's alright, Jake.”

“No it isn't,” he disagrees, “You're more than that and regardless of how we feel about each other, I should have never deduced you down to that.”

You want to focus on the meaning of his apology, but one part catching your attention, “And how do you feel about me?”

He sighs, “You annoy me.”

You knew he didn't like you, you knew you weren't his biggest fan either, but it wasn't something ever talked about. Hearing him say it just… hurt.

“You're always… It's like you're so fucking perfect.”

You blink, “Me?!”

“Yes, you,” he says without any heat, “Everybody fucking loves you. You're always able to fix everything, and it's just… annoying.”

You frown, processing his words, “Is that why you're mean to me?”

“Yes,” he says honestly.

“I am not perfect, Jake. Nowhere near it. You're the one with the god complex.”

“What?” He sounds surprised to hear you say that.

“Your ego is bigger than any room you're in, you know that?”

“My ego?” He pauses, “I don't have an ego.”

“Yeah, and I don't have crippling anxiety before every show.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, as if he's surprised to discover you think he's so vain, “I've never– I'm an ass, aren't I?”

“To me? Yes. Everyone else? No.”

“I can't help it,” he says quietly, “You make me feel incompetent.”

“How?!”

“You're just… good at everything you do. It's irritating.”

“Hand me a guitar and then we'll see if you can say that.”

He laughs, the sound breathy and genuine, “It's feels like a competition with you. Everyone loves you, you're everyone's favorite.”

“But I'm not,” you say honestly, “I'm pretty sure the other crew members think I'm sleeping with one or all of you. They're not… They're not very nice.”

“Who?” He says, as if he'll go out there right now and set them all straight.

“I'm not telling,” you say firmly, “Because if you say anything, it'll look worse on me, and they'll be mean.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you really think I'm arrogant?”

“Honestly?” He hums an affirmative, “Yes. It's like you know you're the best thing to happen to modern music.”

“That's a reach.”

“You asked.”

He huffs, “I'm not even– You sound jealous.”

“Jealous?!” You lean up on your elbows, glaring at him in the dark, “Says the one who just admitted that he doesn't like me because other people do.”

“Says the one who just admitted the exact same thing.”

You blink at him, “Are we ever gonna get along, or just fight the whole time?”

“I dunno,” he says, leaning up and mirroring you, “Are you ever gonna cut it with the innocent, charming little sweetheart bullshit?”

“Are you ever gonna cut it with your egotistical, arrogant, cocky asshole bullshit?”

“Y/n,” his voice is low, “Shut up.”

“You shut up. Just because you're my boss out there doesn't mean you can treat me like shit here–”

“I don't want to fight, Y/n,” he says, his words clipped, “I'm tired of it.”

“Then don't fight with me,” you say, as if it's the simplest solution.

He lets out a soft laugh, as if you caught him off guard.

“You're uptight,” he says, leaning closer to you.

“You're irresponsible.”

“You're a control freak.”

“You're frivolous.”

“You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen.”

“You're a liar.”

“I'm a lot of things, crybaby, a liar isn't one of them.”

You swallow heavily, “You're an asshole.”

He nods, his lips now brushing against yours. He uses one hand to push your blankets back as he scoots closer to you, “What else?”

You can hardly focus on your insults as he moves to hover over you, using his knees to separate your thighs for him to settle between. He's still hovering, careful not to touch you aside from the backs of your thighs resting against the front of his. “You're a fiend.”

He lets out a quiet ooh, as if he's mocking you. You frown further, your heartbeat skipping at the condescending attitude he's giving. You aren't sure why it's making your body heat.

“Keep going,” he says, leaning in and placing a single kiss to your jaw.

“You–” You cut yourself off, taking a deep breath to center yourself, but he nips at your throat, “You make me so mad.”

“Is that the best you've got?” He asks, his hand toying with the drawstring of your sleep shorts.

You let out a shuddery breath, “What, are you getting off on this?” You hate how weak your voice sounds.

“Maybe,” he says casually. You open your mouth to retort something about him being a pervert when he presses his hips against you. You can feel him even through the layers of clothing separating you, warm and hard. It makes your entire body heat. The pressure is gone as quick as it came, he lifts his hips once more as if he's teasing you.

“I've spent most of my time here feeling like I was never good enough for your expectations, Jake, and now it's this easy?”

“Imagine how I felt, Miss Perfect,” he says without any heat, “You're the only person I know who had their shit together the entire time.”

“Except for when I lost your fucking guitar strap.”

“Doesn't it get tiring thinking so much?” He asks, tracing a finger along your cheek.

“Yes,” you whisper honestly.

“Then don't,” he says, as if that will solve everything.

“You think I haven't tried that?” You ask sharply. You're silenced by his finger pressing over your lips.

“Just tonight,” he says softly, “It's just you and me. We don't think about anything else.”

You're almost hesitant, you know how impossible it is to shut your brain up, but his lips are on your neck again, like he knows that's what you need to melt into him, and you nod, “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He asks, pressing the tiniest kiss just below your jaw.

“Yeah,” you breathe the word. “But what if–”

His lips are on yours before you can finish your sentence.

You kiss back without much thought, your hands grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer. He grabs your waist, yanking you tightly to him. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip before he bites down, earning a quiet whine from you. Your hands slide up, around his shoulders, pulling him practically on top of you as you move to lay on your back.

His hand lands beside your head on the pillow, the other is still holding onto your waist, slipping down to your hip. His hold is tight, like he wants to grab you and have his way with you. And you want him to.

You let your legs fall open as he settles between them. You nearly buck your hips as he moves his lips to your throat. You let your head fall back as he kisses and nips at your throat, your mouth open with gasping breaths and whimpers.

Then suddenly, his hips are pressing against yours, grinding against you as he kisses along your skin. His lips reattach to yours, and you let out a dreamy sigh as he moves just right against your clit.

His hand appears at the waistband of your pajama shorts, snapping the elastic, “Wanna get these out of the way?”

You nod quickly, a breathy yes falling from your lips. Your eyes widen only a little when he pulls off your shorts and underwear in one quick movement, leaving your lower half completely bare. And when he presses himself against you this time– Oh. The somewhat rough material moving against your swollen clit feels better than you thought it would.

He kisses you again, a quick nip at your bottom lip, before he pulls back just enough to watch as he moves you against him.

You bite at your bottom lip as he spreads your thighs, almost hoping he can't see too much of you in the dim lighting.

He ghosts his hand over your dripping heat, “Is she as pretty as the rest of you, baby?”

“Shut up, Jake,” you say weakly.

And then he's moving back. You open your mouth to ask him what he's doing, when he grabs you, moving you however he wanted. Your eyes widen when you find yourself with your legs spread around his shoulders, and his face inches away from your center.

“She is fuckin’ pretty,” he says, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, “You've been holding out on me.”

“Oh, my God,” you whisper, dropping your head against the mattress. “Are you sure you want to do– that?” You ask, lifting your head back up to look at him.

“What kind of men have you been with?” He asks, running a single finger along your wet heat.

“I– I dunno,” you stutter, cursing yourself mentally.

He hums in displeasure, using his fingers to spread you open. You hate how he takes a moment to stare at you, to take in every detail of your most intimate areas, but he mutters a quiet curse, and his mouth is on you before you can object to his staring.

You let out a much too loud noise, slapping your hand over your mouth as he smiles against you. He pulls back enough just to speak, “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart, we don't want my brothers hearing you.”

You nod rapidly, keeping your hand over your mouth as he suckles at your clit. He lulls his tongue over the swollen bud, before he moves down to your weeping hole. Your eyes squeeze shut as his tongue slips just past the entrance, humming against you.

He grabs your hand, moving it into his hair, groaning when you tighten your grip. You're embarrassingly close, and the moment he eases his fingers inside of you, you know you're a goner within the next two minutes.

You whine his name, hating how pathetic you sound. He curls his fingers up in response, his tongue flicking over your clit relentlessly. “I'm close,” you warn, rolling your hips. You roll your hips on your own, feeling yourself near your own release. It wouldn't take much longer, and you whisper his name in hopes he'll help you along.

“Gonna cum so soon?” He asks, his hands on your hips stilling you completely.

You whine, fighting to move over his mouth once again. “Jake–”

“Use those pretty manners,” he says lowly, “Always so well behaved, don't act up now.”

“Jake please,” you say, huffing when he slowly, slowly, licks along your slit, “Jake help me, please.”

He hums in consideration, pushing back only to slowly drag his tongue once again, “Little more than that, crybaby.”

You feel yourself clench around nothing. The nickname he has for you making an appearance now has you aching. “Please let me,” you tighten your grip in his hair, “Make me cum, Jake.”

That seems to do it for him, his own hand slips back between the two of you. He pushes two fingers inside of you, curling them up before he begins fucking them into you, curling and twisting relentlessly. His tongue is moving just right against your clit, and you begin rocking against him, whimpering a soft curse.

It doesn't take long before you're falling apart, soft cries and your body twitching as he works you through it. Your blood is rushing in your head, and you can barely make out the filthy words he's gritting out as you ride out your release.

You grab at him, melting completely when he eases up, letting you recover. Before he can say anything, you push him back with a hand at his chest, and you slip to the floor on your knees. He lets out a low hum, moving to stand in front of you.

You decide not to take your time, not to work him up or tease him, you just want his dick in your mouth.

So you all but tear his underwear down, your mouth watering at the sight before you. He was big. Long and thick and hard, you should have expected that. You wrap your fingers around him, and swallow him down as far as you can without any preamble.

He lets out a quiet curse, his hand immediately tangling into your hair, “She does look pretty with a cock in her mouth,” he says quietly, as if you weren't meant to hear it. You both know well enough that you were meant to.

It doesn't last long before he's got a hold in your hair, and his other hand is around your throat.

He begins shallowly moving his hips, holding your face in place as he fucks your mouth. You would be content to let him do this to you as much as he wanted. And part of you wanted to try this right after you had pissed him off…

You can't move your head, so you work your tongue along him as best you can, suckling at him with every thrust. He pushes in, the blunt head nestling deep against the back of your throat again. He holds you down on him long enough for you to get dizzy, before he pulls out completely.

He angles your face up once again, his hand on your throat giving a light squeeze as he keeps you still. You're still held there, awaiting his next move.

“Get on the bed,” he says, moving his hands to help you get up off of your knees.

You eagerly move to the bed once more, your heart pounding as he rids himself completely of his underwear. He grabs you, flipping you around so you're in his lap before you can process it. He's leaned back against the headboard, his hands at your waist and he's kissing you again.

You roll your hips, anxious to have him fill you up already.

He wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you up just enough for him to line up with your weeping entrance. When you settle back over him, your eyes widen. He lets out a low growl as you lower down on him, your eyes wide at the fullness. He feels huge inside of you, stretching your walls, sitting snug against that special little bump inside of you.

“Fuck, Jake,” you say, letting your head fall to his shoulder.

His hands are tracing soothing patterns on your hips, his head falls back against the headboard as he lets out a strained laugh.

You begin rocking your hips, slowly, just to get a feel of how fucked you really were. His grip tightens as he lifts you up slightly, before pushing you back down on him.

You whimper, feeling every bit of him inside of you. You continue to rock your hips as he moves you up and down. You feel full in the best way, unable to even form a coherent sentence aside from telling him how good he felt.

He stops moving you, leaving you to do the work on your own, “C'mon,” he says it like a challenge, “Fuck me, pretty girl.”

You let out a slightly irritated sound, doing as he says regardless. You lift your hips, easing back down at a slow, hopefully teasing pace.

You're gripping his shoulders for dear life, your temple resting against his jaw as you move your hips. His mouth is right by your ear, leaving you no escape from the filthy things he's murmuring.

“Just like that,” he rasps, “Such a good girl– Always so good at doing what you're told, aren't you?”

You feel yourself clench around him, and you gasp out a weak, “Fuck you.”

You feel him grin against your skin, “You are.”

You whine at that, digging your nails into his shoulders. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingertips pressing in enough for you to hope for bruises.

Your thighs burn, but you ignore it in favor of chasing your high. It's just out of arm's reach, and you know you'll need his help or your own. And you'd rather die of humiliation than ask him, so you snake a hand down to your clit, just barely rubbing over it before he knocks your hand away.

Before you can do much as whine about it, he's replaced your hand with his own, rubbing tight, slow circles over your aching bud.

“I'm gonna cum,” you warn, your hips moving of their own volition, speeding up despite your aching thighs.

“I know,” he says, still holding you by your hair, his eyes intently focusing on your face, “I can feel it.”

“Fuck, I'm–” It's slipping away from you, your own body too tired to continue working as you were.

He begins fucking up into you, his own hips slamming against you as he continues to rub over your clit. Your entire body is shaking, the build up starting right back up where it left off.

You whine his name, earning a sound nearing a growl from him. “C'mon, baby,” he demands, an air of desperation in his tone. He wants you to finish, to feel you squeezing him as you fall apart around him. And that's what does it for you.

It hits you hard and fast, even more intense than all the other he'd given you that night. Your mind blanks, going black, before flashing white hot. You try to push him away again, the attempt feeble as he wraps his arms around you and pushes you back against the mattress, fucking you relentlessly through it. You don't complain, you couldn't even if you wanted to, you know he's chasing his own orgasm as well as working you completely through yours.

“Fuck, Jake–” It's intense, you're verging overstimulation, but you wrap your legs around him. Your eyes are watering, tears trailing down your temples and into your hairline.

He lets out a pleased hum, “My little crybaby. Does it feel good for you, pretty girl?”

You nod quickly, your nails digging into his back. You know he's going to be marked up, but you know you are too. His mouth has been as relentless as his cock.

It doesn't take him much longer before he lets out a curse, and his hips falter. You whine in approval as he grips your hips tighter than before, and you squeeze purposely around him as he finds his own end. You let out a soft yes, yes, yes, as he fills you with his release.

He stays still inside you for a moment, leaning over you and pressing kisses to your sweat-sticky skin.

You feel empty when he pulls out, cold and lonely as he collapses onto the mattress. Your chest is heaving as he moves to lay beside you, his own chest rising and falling as he fights to catch his breath.

It hits you then.

You just fucked your boss.

You push yourself up with shaky arms, raking a hand through your knotted hair.

“Jake.”

“Stop,” he says softly.

You look over at him, worry clear on your face, “I just–”

“You're thinking too much.” He says, pulling you back down to lay against him. He wraps an arm around you, “It's gonna be fine.”

“Am I gonna lose my job?”

He lets out a loud laugh, “You're not going anywhere.”

#jake kiszka #jakey <3 #gvf #smut #writing #jake kiszka imagine #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka smut #greta van fleet #mirador #enemies to lovers #fic #one-shot #drabble #blurb

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jakeytkiszka · 1 month ago

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'he would not fucking say that' maybe he would if he knew he was starring in his very own porn fic for the sole purpose of delighting some freaks on archive of our own dot org. maybe he'd play it up for the cameras. ever consider that

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jakeytkiszka · 2 months ago

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i am not immune to a brunette with sad eyes

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jakeytkiszka · 2 months ago

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jakeytkiszka on gvftwt is one of the nicest people on there, if yall are looking for nice or funny new friends! ik a lot of people don't like her or whatever but she's cool and I love her! also jaketbimbo is such a sweetie, she's so down to earth and humble and just kind all around, love her too!

#this is sweet???#wdym a lot of people don’t like me

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jakeytkiszka · 2 months ago

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Thinking about tucked in tshirt Jake.

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jakeytkiszka · 2 months ago

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The Fine Print

4.2k words

warnings: angst, arguing, allusions to a drunken hook up, more angst, regret, kinda self loathing if you squint hard enough, lots of talking things out, smut (18+ only), lemme know if I missed any!

Third and final installment to A Quick Fix

Don't miss Terms & Conditions

Masterlist

The bar is too familiar– dim lighting, sticky tables, music that leans nostalgic. You walk in cautiously, already scanning for his face.

And there he is.

He’s sitting across from Josh, one arm slung over the back of the booth like this isn’t a setup.

Josh grins when he sees you, all teeth and zero guilt. “Look who didn’t flake.”

You shoot him a look. “You tricked me.”

“I prefer the term intervened,” he says, sliding out of the booth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to order us some drinks.”

And just like that, you’re alone. With Jake. With nowhere to run.

He watches you for a second, like he’s still deciding whether this is a trap or a second chance.

You sit, slowly.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now– thicker, closer. Like it’s pressing both of you into the same fragile moment.

Josh’s laughter echoes from the bar. You look down at the table, and trace a ring of condensation on the wood. Jake exhales.

“So,” he says. “This is awkward.”

You snort. “You think?”

Another silence. Shorter. Sharper.

Jake leans forward a little. “I didn’t text you because I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

You meet his eyes. “I didn’t know either.”

His expression softens, just a little. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“It was already worse.”

He nods, like that makes sense. Like he’s been carrying the same weight, just in a different shape.

“I keep thinking,” he says slowly, “about what you said.” You stiffen. Jake’s voice lowers. “You weren’t the only one scared, you know.”

You look at him then, and see the tired in his eyes. The frustration. The ache. The echo of that night still clinging to him.

“Josh is watching us,” you murmur.

Jake glances toward the bar. “Yeah. He’s as subtle as a brick through a window.”

You huff a laugh, keeping your eyes on the table. You don't want to look at him. You'd convinced yourself for the past month that you'd be fine– but if you kept looking at him, you knew the lie would reveal itself.

“Let me fix it.”

You finally glance up at him, a frown on your face, “I don't think it can be fixed, Jake.”

“Yes it can–”

He's interrupted by Josh sliding back into the booth, pushing a drink directly in your face, “You need this,” he said, a smile on his face. The flush of his cheeks told you he was on a level you desperately needed to be on, so you eagerly accepted the drink.

It was going to be a long night.

══════════════════════════════

You're tipsy.

The twins had taken turns buying rounds for the three of you, and you graciously accepted every drink placed in front of you.

Josh had disappeared again, leaving you and Jake bickering at a pool table. It wasn't the bickering you'd thought it would be, but light hearted, easy and almost like it used to be.

“That's cheating,” you muttered, shooting him a glare as he pocketed yet another ball.

“You're still a sore loser,” he retorted, lining up his next shot.

You hum, leaning against the table, too close to him– and maybe it was on purpose. “You're still just as big headed as always.”

He glanced up at you, a smirk on his lips, “Stop trying to distract me.”

You blame your next move on the alcohol as you lean in, your lips brushing his ear as you speak, “I can think of much better ways to distract you, Jake.”

He freezes, waiting until you lean back up to shoot. You let out a loud laugh as he misses. He straightens up, his jaw tight.

“Yeah, real funny,” he says, his voice low.

“Who's the sore loser now?” You retort.

“You're still losing, honey,” he says it so casually. Honey. It makes you stop, your buzz dwindling at the pet name.

And then you're angry.

“Fuck you,” you snap weakly.

He sighs, “It's your turn.”

“I don't wanna play anymore,” you say petulantly. You feel like a child throwing a tantrum, but you don't care.

“Y/n–”

You grab his wrist, all but dragging him along behind you. You make a beeline straight to the restroom, knocking haphazardly before shoving the door open.

You lock the door behind you, turning to him with a glare. He had the hint of a smile on his lips as he leaned his arm against the doorframe. He was close, but not close enough for you to lose your train of thought.

“I'm so mad at you.”

“I can tell,” he says quietly.

“You piss me off.”

“I know.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, crossing your arms, “You know you really hurt me, Jake.”

His smile disappears, replaced by a grimace, “I know.”

That sets you off. You narrow your eyes, “You know and yet you didn't care, right? As long as you could have a warm body whenever you wanted, you were fine, huh?”

“Don't say shit like that to me,” he snaps, stepping closer, “You don't fucking know.”

“I know how you made me feel.”

He sighs, “Look– I'm drunk, Y/n. You are too. So I don't think now is the best time to have this conversation.”

You glare harder, knowing he's probably right. “I can't be this honest when I'm sober.”

“That's your problem, then.”

You wrinkle your nose, “Fuck you.”

He stares at you for a moment, his face void of any emotion. It's quiet, the only sound is the muffled thump of the music outside the door and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then his lips are on yours. You're pressed against the door, and you're eagerly kissing him back. His hands are gripping you tightly, one on your face and the other on your waist.

And then he's pulling you away from the door, moving you to the sink. He hoists you gently up onto the counter, and your legs wrap around his waist like muscle memory.

A faint voice in the back of your head tells you to stop, that you shouldn't be doing this. But the voice telling you it feels right wins out, and your hands are fumbling with his belt buckle.

His own hands are much more steady as he pops the button of your jeans, and all but tears the zipper down.

Stop it. You need to stop it. You finally get his belt out of your way, and you tug his jeans down.

Shut up.

══════════════════════════════

You wake up with a pounding headache.

The light filtering in through the blinds is too bright, the room is too stuffy.

You sit up with a groan, trying to recall the events of last night. You think back to the bar, playing pool, arguing with Jake, yanking his belt off, and–

“Oh my God.” You say out loud, pressing the heel of your palm to your temple.

You fucked him.

After telling yourself for a month that you wouldn't, that you were stronger now, that you would stand your ground, you crumpled.

It didn't take much. Just a couple hours and a few drinks, and you folded.

You stare at the wall in front of you in horror. You wanted it, there was no denying that. You knew he did– Obviously he did. But… it meant you weren't as strong as you thought.

It meant you were in the same boat you were in the moment he left.

Fuck.

══════════════════════════════

It’s been nearly two weeks.

You count the days like bruises. Quiet, slow to fade, and tender in places you didn’t know could still hurt.

You haven’t heard from Jake. You keep checking your phone anyway. Like maybe something glitched. Like maybe he did reach out and you just… missed it.

You didn’t.

You know that.

You think about that night more than you should. The bathroom. The heat of his hands.

And the silence since?

It’s worse now.

Because before, the silence was a decision. Now it feels like a consequence.

You tell yourself that’s what you wanted. That this ache is just a phase. That if you ignore it long enough, it’ll heal.

You spend too long staring at your contact list with his name lit up.

You don’t text him.

You almost do.

Instead, you toss your phone face-down on the couch and curl in on yourself like maybe if you’re small enough, the missing won't find you.

══════════════════════════════

You don’t mean to call him.

It’s just... cold. And dark. And you’re standing in front of your apartment door with a grocery bag splitting in your arms and no damn key in sight. Your spare isn’t in the planter anymore– you checked three times– and the building manager won’t answer your texts.

You scroll through your phone with numb fingers, skipping past names you don’t recognize and ones you recognize too well. Then you see him.

You hesitate. Two weeks is a long time to say nothing. Too long for this to be casual. Too short for it not to still hurt.

But your hands are shaking now, and pride feels heavier than the bag threatening to split on your shoes. So you call.

It rings once. Twice.

“Hello?” His voice sounds rough, like you'd just woken him up.

You hate how your voice wavers. “I, um– I’m locked out.”

Silence.

“You’re locked out?”

You nod, realize he can’t see that, and murmur, “Yeah.”

“I– Okay. I'll be there.”

You’re sitting on the steps when he pulls up, headlights cutting through the quiet. He gets out without a word, his key already in hand. You watch the way he fits it into the lock like he never stopped knowing how.

The door swings open with a soft click, and he pauses, standing there, waiting for you to make the next move.

You could thank him. You could tell him goodnight. You could pretend like this is just a favor.

But instead, you step past him into the dark, drop your bag on the counter, and turn.

He hasn’t moved.

You meet his eyes and say, quietly, “You can come in. If you want.”

You're cursing yourself the moment you offer it. It'd be rude to shut it before Jake can make it in.

Though you considered it anyway.

You're both quiet as he shuts the door behind him, the lock clicking loudly in the silence.

You glance at him as you toe your shoes off.

“Do you want something to drink?” You ask.

“I'm alright.” His voice is low, his eyes haven't left you, as if he's studying you again. You still hate that.

You stand there for a moment, awkwardly scratching your arm. “I'm gonna… change. I'll be back.”

He nods, giving you a small smile.

You're panicking. The second you shut your bedroom door behind you, it hits you. What are you doing? You change quickly, sitting on your bed and staring at the wall in front of you. Maybe if you stay in here, he'll just leave. Or worse, he won't.

Five minutes pass, and you still don't hear the front door.

You bite your lip, your eyes shifting to your alarm clock.

You wait another five.

He knocks.

Before you can answer, the door opens, and he's leaning against the frame, giving you that damned knowing smirk.

“I'm not leaving, if that was your plan.”

You sigh at him, your shoulders slumping, “I didn't know if it was or not.”

He doesn't move, he just watches you for a moment. He looks tired, you wonder if you look the same.

“Come on,” he says, “We're going to watch a movie.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, before you're up, making your way to him. You pause in front of him, “You're not getting any tonight, Kiszka.”

“Neither are you,” he retorts, his face shifting into mock seriousness, “No funny business, got it?”

You haven't smiled like this in months. You almost forgot what it was like.

══════════════════════════════

He's still here.

It's well into the next morning, and he's still here.

You're staring at him as he sleeps. You feel like a fucking creep but you can't help it. He looks young, at ease.

You fell asleep on him, the two of you cuddled up on your couch. He had picked the movie, and it didn't take long for you to crawl from your opposite end of the couch and curl into him. He had wrapped his arms around you with another whispered joke of keeping things PG, and you fell asleep together.

“Stop staring at me.”

You didn't know he was awake.

You quickly look away, “I'm not.”

He hums, his voice still rough from sleep, “Alright.” His tone is too aware, full of humor and his damned ego. You want to slap him.

You hit him lightly with a throw pillow, moving to get up, “I wasn't staring.”

He lets out a tired groan, “You're fucking mean in the mornings.”

“You wouldn't know,” you say quietly, standing, “You always left.”

He's quiet as you make your way to the kitchen. It isn't until you're fiddling with your coffee pot, thinking he has gone back to sleep, when he responds. He's standing in the doorway, looking soft and disheveled from sleep, and you jump, unaware he had even gotten up.

“I'm in love with you.”

You glare at him, his words not registering, “Jesus Jake, don't creep up on me like tha– What?”

He stands there, staring at the ground, his hand scratching at his lower stomach casually, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb. He looks up at you, a sad smile on his lips, “I always left because it was easier to pretend I didn't love you like that.”

He was too calm, too casual about all of it. He didn't seem nervous, he wasn't bothered. You turn back to your coffee machine, watching the dark brown liquid fill the pot. You don't speak, you don't know what to say.

He sighs softly, “Y/n.”

“Fuck you.” That wasn't what you had meant to say. Charming.

“That's fair,” he murmurs.

You turn to him with a glare, crossing your arms over your chest, “You suck, you know that?” He nods, looking prepared for whatever he has coming from you. “I spent months torturing myself because of that shit, Jake. Months. And you just casually stroll in here telling me that like it's nothing?”

He focuses his eyes on the wall, quiet for a moment, “It doesn't make anything better, but it took me months to be able to say that.”

“Did you know?” You ask weakly, “The whole time, did you know how I felt?”

“I hoped.”

“You hoped.” You nod, “Fuck you, Jake.”

“You weren't exactly honest about it either, you know,” he says, still calm. You hate that about him. You want him mad. You want him to show you something.

“Because you're so easy to talk to–”

“Don't.” And there it is. His calm facade cracks just a little. “You were my best friend, Y/n. We talked about every other fucking thing, don't act like I'm the only one who didn't talk about it.”

“I tried, Jake,” you argue, “You said it didn't have to mean anything.”

“Because it meant everything,” he says, his voice raising, “Because I was scared you were gonna run away if you thought it was real. And you fucking did.”

“That's not why– You left, Jake.”

“You told me to.”

Touché.

“Because I thought you didn't feel the same way,” your voice cracks. You're about to cry again, you can feel your eyes burning, the tears forming along your lashline.

“Well, I do.” He shrugs, “So what now? Want me to leave again?”

“I–” You take a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds, “No. Yes. I don't know.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face, “Well, figure it out.”

“I'm taking a shower.” You say, pushing past him. You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to throw an absolute fit.

But you just make your way to your bathroom, hoping he might still be there after.

══════════════════════════════

You can't tell him.

You've stood in your shower until the water went cold. You pondered it all, trying to find the words to tell him you want him to stay. You want to build a life with him and love him.

You step out of the bathroom in a shirt and panties. You left your shorts in your room, and you hoped you could sneak in and get dressed without him seeing you. You weren't expecting to find him sitting on the edge of your bed.

He looked… broken. You wonder if you looked the same way.

He looks up at you, and you don't miss the way his eyes trail over your body, briefly.

“You're still here.” You say softly.

“I'm still here.” He says in the same tone.

You fiddle with the edge of your shirt, unsure of what to say. He stands up, making his way to you. Your heart is beating fast, pounding in your ears.

“Do I need to leave?” He asks when he stops inches away from you.

You stare at him for a moment. In lieu of a response, you lean in, pressing a kiss to his lips. You can see the tension leave him, his shoulders sagging slightly.

And then his hands are holding your face, gentle and steady, and he's kissing you like he's starved.

He pushes you against your dresser, the wooden edge digging into your lower back. You don't care, all you care about is him. His lips, his taste, his scent, the feel of his skin. You forgot what it was like to be surrounded by Jake.

He pulls back, pressing his forehead to yours, “We don't– We don't have to do anything. I think we need to talk about this.”

You pout lightly, “We can talk after–”

“No,” he pulls even further back, ensuring he can look at you. His hands are still holding your face. “I don't want to leave again. And I don't want you to make me leave again.”

“I won't,” you say, though it sounds weak.

“Y/n,” His tone is pleading, “Baby please.”

You stare at him, your heart racing, your hands shaking. You didn't know why it was difficult to say anything. You were scared. “You know how I feel Jake.”

He looks sad. His thumb brushes along your cheek bone. “If we're going to work out–”

“I don't want you to go anywhere,” you spit out. “I never have. I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember and I want you to stay and love me.”

He smiles, “Then I'm staying.”

You nod, your eyes falling to his lips, “Then love me.”

He leans back in, his lips brushing against yours, “I do love you.”

Before you can say anything, he's swallowed up your words with his lips.

He grabs your waist, pulling you away from the dresser and turning you around. He walks you backward to the bed, his mouth never leaving yours. The backs of your knees brush against the mattress.

You reach for his belt, quickly tugging at it and all but yanking it off. He pulls back, grabbing your hands with his own. “We got all the time in the world, honey.”

“I don't care, I want you,” you say, trying to pull your hands out of his hold.

“Fuck,” he breathes the word, his own hands grabbing your shirt and pulling it off of you. You grab at his shirt, dragging it up off of him just as hastily.

You're eased back onto the bed. You watch closely as he rids himself of his jeans before he's hovering over you. Your legs open without a thought as he settles between them. He's centimeters away from you, you can feel the heat of his body teasing you.

His lips land on your jaw, kissing his way up to your ear. You weren't expecting it when he presses his hips against yours, the pressure sending a tiny whimper past your lips.

He grabs your waist, his grip tight, and moves your lower half against him. You can feel the shape of him, through too many layers of clothes, hard and heavy as he grinds you against him.

You're probably wet enough to have ruined your panties– if you weren't before, you are now. You want more, you need more. You hook your shaky fingers into the waistband of his underwear, “Take these off,” your voice is hoarse, “Please.”

He hums softly, his mouth still kissing and licking at your throat, your jaw, your ear.

He lifts his hips, and you think he'll grant your wish, but his hand slips into your panties. A rough curse falls from his lips as he teases his fingers along your wet heat.

You let out a shaky breath, bucking your hips as his fingers circle your clit.

“Making a mess already, aren't you?” He teases, flicking over the swollen bud. You nod weakly, your eyes rolling back.

You're embarrassingly close as he continues to toy with you, you're nearly able to reach your end, you just need a few more swirls of his fingers over your clit, and–

You let out a choked gasp, grabbing his arms when he pulls his hand away. “Fuck, Jake,” you say weakly, your hips bucking yet again.

Your disappointment is short lived, he's pulling your panties off in haste, before his own underwear follow just as quickly.

He kisses you once again as he presses himself against you. You move your hips, aching to feel something, chasing what you were so close to just moments ago.

He's good at pretending. Acting like he's not as desperate as you are, like he isn't about to go insane if he doesn't get inside of you soon. But he feeds off of your desperation, and that makes it easier for him to level himself.

All it takes is a simple angle of his hips and he's pushing inside of you. You gasp at the intrusion. You're sated and insatiable all at once, your body needs more, but your mind feels at ease. Like all you needed was Jake to feel complete.

“Fuck me,” you plead, digging your nails into his arms, “Please, Jake.”

He grits his teeth, his hand grabbing your jaw, “I'm going to,” he promises, “Shut up.”

Before you can hit him with a retort, his fingers are in your mouth, and he's fucking into you. Your eyes fall shut as you wrap your lips around his fingers. He hasn't done that since the first time he fucked you. It'd make you feel almost sentimental if you weren't so turned on.

Your legs wrap around him, squeezing his hips as you keep him as close to you as possible.

“Fuck,” he breathes the word, and younclench around him unintentionally, “You feel so fucking good, baby.”

You let out a muffled hum, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth, “You feel better,” you say, your head falling back at a particularly hard thrust from him.

“Yeah?” He's smiling as the fingers he just had in your mouth ease over your clit.

You whine, nodding weakly, “Yeah.”

You're close again, dancing along the edge. You can feel your body tensing, your walls tightening around him. You worry he'll stop, that he'll drag it out until you're begging and nearly crying. He loved to do that.

So you pull out your best pout, “I'm close,” you warn, your hands sliding up his shoulders.

“I know.” His voice is rough, tight, like it pains him, feeling you tense and squeeze around him.

“Let me come, Jakey, please.”

He kisses you again, his teeth biting into your bottom lip. He pulls back just enough to speak, “Yeah? You wanna come?” You nod rapidly. “You gonna make a pretty mess all over my cock?” You nod again, a quiet please falling from your lips. He curses softly, his jaw tightening before he nods, “Give it to me, baby.”

That did it for you, as you both knew it would, and he sends you plummeting into your orgasm so violently your world flashes white and burns hot for a moment.

You're clawing at his back, your nails digging into his skin. You're nearly thrashing beneath him, your body jerking as the waves crash into you.

He follows behind almost immediately, with a groan and his hands gripping you tightly. He fucks you through it with ease, stopping only when the both of you are completely spent.

He lays beside you, both of your chests heaving, sweaty and breathless. He speaks first, breaking the silence.

“I don't care if I have to lock you in a closet, you're not going anywhere.”

You grin, turning your head to look at him, “You're the one who left, Jake.”

He snaps his head over to you, an amused pout on his face, “Don't start that shit again.”

You giggle, turning over and cuddling into his side, “I love you.”

It felt normal to say again. It was natural, a burden off of you to speak it so easily.

“I love you.”

══════════════════════════════

#jake kiszka #gvf #jakey <3 #smut #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka imagine #jake kiszka smut #writing #greta van fleet

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jakeytkiszka · 2 months ago

Text

Terms and Conditions

2.6k words

warnings: angst, like mega heavy angst, friends with benefits, Jake being a blissfully ignorant dumbass, overthinking, smut– 18+, end of a friendship, lemme know if I missed any!

kind of a pt 2 to A Quick Fix

══════════════════════════════

You knew better.

Damn you, you knew better.

You knew what would happen if you crossed that line. You knew what Jake meant to you– comfort, safety, history– and how badly you’d ruin it if you let things go too far. But that night, you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that’s the worst part.

Because now you've started something.

Something between you and Jake that neither of you had considered putting a title on.

Well, the title was there, still filed away under friends. Except friends don't sleep with each other, right? Friends don't wordlessly agree after one night to continue hooking up. Friends don't speak to each other the way he speaks to you– filthy words, laced with adoration.

And friends surely don't lay there afterward, feeling an empty ache in their chest as they stare at the ceiling wondering what the fuck they got themselves into.

You did know better.

But here you were.

══════════════════════════════

Jake was still Jake. Still sweet, his soft-hearted self, giving you flowers or little trinkets he found that just reminded him of you. He still came over to cook dinner for you, to make an evening out of a bottle of wine and a cheesy movie you both loved.

He also came over to do… other things.

Things that you knew friends didn't do.

But he never brought it up again during that first night. And neither did you. Not a single word was spoken about what happened.

Josh had been disappointed to discover that you and Jake weren't “an item”, as he had put it. He demanded you ask Jake what the two of you were.

But you couldn't do that.

You wouldn't do that.

Why would you? You were chancing losing your best friend by asking that. And he could ask just as easily– if it even mattered to him. You think that's why it worries you so much. Because if it meant anything to Jake, he would talk about it. You'd come to learn in the past, in your decades-long friendship, that if Jake cared about something, he talked about it.

So maybe it was just transactional. You both got your frustrations out, Jake filled your head with his pillow talk, and you both stayed friends.

And you were okay with that.

Until you weren't.

══════════════════════════════

You were doing it again.

Jake's sheets were covering you, you were flushed, sticky with sweat, and staring up at the ceiling with wide, tired eyes.

He was beside you, just as naked as you were. Your chests heaving rhythmically.

He was talking about something. You were responding with little hums and the occasional yeah?

It was a cycle.

One that had begun to pick at your brain.

Because you knew you'd have to leave in the morning. And the worst part? You'd go to work and go home to your own empty apartment. Not home to Jake, not home to this.

You could feel his eyes on you now. He was studying you. You hated when he did that.

“What's the matter?” His voice was soft, laced with concern.

You glanced over at him, your heart squeezing at the pout on his face. “Nothing,” you gave him a smile, “Just tired.”

He frowned, “Y/n–”

“I'm gonna grab a quick shower,” you interrupted, leaning over to peck a quick kiss to his cheek, “I'm fine, I promise Jake. I'm just tired. You wear me out.”

And he believed you.

So you couldn't talk about it. But you didn't know if you could keep this up either.

══════════════════════════════

“I don't understand why you can't just ask him.”

“It's not that simple.”

“But it is.”

“No, it isn't.”

Josh sighs, leaning back on the couch. He studies you for a moment, uncharacteristically quiet. It almost unnerves you as much as when Jake does it.

“Stop it,” you snap, shooting him a glare.

“He likes you.”

“We're friends, Josh, liking your friend is kinda the bare minimum.”

“No, dumbass, I mean he likes you.”

You sigh, “I think you're reading too much into it.”

“That's rich!” He gives you a grin, “Why don't you–”

He's interrupted by your phone, a loud ding filling the room. His eyes fall to the screen, a satisfied smirk on his lips when he sees the text from Jake. It's quiet for a moment as you respond to him. And then you feel almost embarrassed.

“Is he coming over tonight?” His voice is soft.

“Yeah,” you look anywhere but at him.

“Why don't you talk to him tonight?”

“I usually talk to him, Josh.”

“But not about that.”

You nod, “Not about that.”

“Do you think you ever will?”

“I don't know.” You force a smile, “I don't know.”

══════════════════════════════

It feels domestic.

You're cuddled under Jake's arm, curled up on your couch as you stare blankly at the TV screen. Your face is smushed against his chest, his steady heartbeat lulling you into a false sense of security.

“You're quiet tonight.”

You frown, otherwise unmoving, “Aren't I usually?”

“I dunno,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing through your hair, “Not like this.”

You angle your face up to look at him, “I'm just thinking.”

His eyes flit between yours, trying to read what you're thinking about. “Too much?” He asked, finishing the sentence for you.

“Why didn't we ever talk about it?”

He seems stunned. He doesn't move, he's quiet for a beat. “I didn't think we needed to.”

“Why?”

He breathes a laugh, “I don't know, things didn't change after. It's just… normal.”

“Things have changed,” you point out, “We weren't doing this before.”

“Do you not want to?” He asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Of course I want to,” you say, pushing back to look at him better, “I just… I don't know. I don't know what it means.”

“It doesn't have to mean anything.”

He thinks he's putting your mind at ease. But you just felt your heart crack open in your chest.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“If it–” You give him a rueful smile, “If it doesn't have to, then it doesn't. I just… I overthink.”

“I know you do,” he grins, thinking the conversation has been let go. So you decide to smooth things back over. It doesn't mean anything. “We should have talked about it, I'm sorry honey.”

You shake your head, “It's alright. We're still friends. Just… with a bonus.”

He grins, “Definitely a bonus.”

══════════════════════════════

He's gone before you wake up.

All that's left of him is his shirt still on your body and the ache between your thighs.

You didn't know why you'd expected– hoped– for him to be there.

And you can feel it happening in that moment. You're unraveling.

══════════════════════════════

The only time you're not in your head is when you're fucking him.

And you hate that. You hate how quiet it gets. Your brain is still chanting Jake, Jake, Jake, just… in a different context.

Filthier.

Like now, for instance,while he's leaning over you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other tightly gripping your throat. His mouth is by your ear, nipping at it and soothing your mind with his filthy words.

And you can almost believe it's more than what it is.

Especially the way he's fucking you right now– hard, unyielding, yet still… gentle. He's always gentle with you, even when he isn't. Even before this started.

It's easy to pretend he loves you.

It's not easy to pretend you don't love him.

His hand slides up, grabbing your jaw and angling your face up to his, “Get out of your head.” His voice is soft, still stern.

It's such a simple sentence. It lets you know he can read you like a children's book. Easy.

You pout up at him, a lie slipping easily off your tongue, “I'm not anywhere.”

He gives you a charming grin, “No?”

“No.”

“Honey.” It's all he says. It's enough to have you whine at him as you lock eyes, “Stop thinking.”

You nod, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, “I'm sorry, I just–” You let out a shaky breath as he changes his rhythm, his hip bone grinding deliciously against you. “I'm sorry.”

He shushes you gently, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Let me make you feel good baby. Just focus on me.”

You are. That's the problem.

His thumb pries open your mouth easily, slipping in and resting on your tongue.

Your eyes roll back as you wrap your lips around his thumb. He grabs your thigh, hitching it up and into the crook of his elbow. His hold on you will leave bruises, another reminder of him for you to torture yourself with.

You're closer than you'd like to admit.

He slips his thumb out of your mouth, his hand slipping down between the two of you and pressing against your clit.

He's whispering filthy words in your ear again, each word bringing you closer and closer. You're almost there, the only thing stopping you is knowing it's almost over.

“Come on, baby,” he says, pressing his forehead to your temple. “Give it to me. Let me have it, pretty girl.”

“Jake–” Your body is tightening, your mind going quiet.

“I know,” he murmurs, speeding up his thumb over your swollen clit, “Come for me, honey. Make a mess for me.”

It's enough to take you under. Your body wins the fight against your brain as it hits you. You're writhing beneath him, your limbs shaking as he works you through your orgasm. He doesn't relent until you're grabbing at his wrist, too jelly-limbed to actually pull his hand away.

You're able to lift your other hand, tangling your fingers into his hair. You beg him for his own release, squeezing around him just to revel in the strangled sound he lets out.

“Please, Jake?”

It's all it takes for him to finish. You ignore the oversensitivity you're feeling, too greedy to even think about it. How can you when he's holding you the way he is? His grip is tight, but he's clinging to you like you're the most precious thing he could ever behold.

You ignore that too… For now.

And then he's pulling out. Lying beside you while you both fight to catch your breath.

You let your eyes fall shut, ignoring everything for the time being. Ignoring that you need to clean up, ignoring the way his hand finds yours and holds onto it, ignoring the urge to beg him to love you.

He moves, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you tightly to him. It feels natural, being cuddled into him while he presses tiny kisses to your forehead.

“What's going on?” He asks, moving to where he can see your face.

“Nothing,” you immediately lie, reaching up to brush his hair away from his forehead. “It's just… been a day.”

“You don't have to lie to me,” he murmurs, his own hand tucking your hair behind your ear, “I know there’s... something.”

“I'm not lying,” you shake your head, “I just had a bad day.”

“We didn't have to do that,” he frowns, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard, “We could have just watched a movie, or–”

“No,” you shake your head, sitting up to somewhat level yourself with him. “I needed that.”

He studies you for a moment longer, “Why do I feel like I'm losing you?”

He says it almost to himself. Your heart stops, the whole world stops. He looks panicked for a second, like he hadn't mean to say it.

So you gently push him back with a hand on his chest. You move over him, now straddling his hips. “You're not losing me.” You promise, though the words feel wrong. “I'm right here, Jake.”

His hands fall to your hips. You lean in, pressing your lips to his.

And in the moment, it's easy to ignore what either of you might want to say.

══════════════════════════════

You can't do it.

You know he'll be here at any moment.

But you're sitting at your kitchen table, your entire body thrumming with nerves. You can't do it.

You can't let him waltz in again like he does. Not when you know he'll be leaving before you even wake up.

You're dreading it. Seeing him, speaking to him, all of it.

What a friendship.

With a jolt, you hear him open the front door. He has a key, you gave that to him years ago. You briefly consider hiding, your eyes scanning any possible place to bolt to.

But then he walks in. You force a grin, “Hi Jakey.”

“Hi honey,” he presses a kiss to your hair as he walks by, his arms burdened by the grocery bags he's carrying. “I got some of those new Skittles you wanted to try.”

You watch him as he sets the bags on your counter. You listen as he talks about an old lady hitting on him at the store. You stare as he turns to you.

Neither of you speak.

His face says that he knows what’s going to happen. Which means you're not hiding it as well as you hoped.

“I'm guessing you don't care for the Skittles right now.”

It's a weak attempt at humor. A way for him to try to lighten the situation. He always did that. He always tried to make you laugh, to make you happy when you didn't think it was possible. And it's always worked. Until now.

You huff a sad laugh, “Jake.”

“What have I done?” He asks softly.

You're crying. You didn't even know you were until you can feel the tears making their way down your cheeks.

“I don't think we should keep doing this.”

It's quiet for too long, the pressure in the air bearing down on you. You're expecting a fight. But you're only met with soft resignation.

“Okay.”

You finally look at him.

“Okay?”

He gives you an almost disbelieving smile, “Y/n, I'm not gonna force you into doing this whole thing if you don't want to.”

“It's not that I don't want to,” you rush to say. “I just–” I'm in love with you. You cut yourself off. “I don't wanna lose you as a friend, Jake. I think all of this has… complicated things.”

“Complicated things?” He frowns.

“I don't know.” It's all you say.

He wants for you to speak again. When he realizes you won't, he nods. “Okay. It's alright.”

“But it isn't,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Because now I– Now I don't know what any of this means.”

“You're my best friend.” His voice is gentle, hesitant.

“Friends don't fuck each other, Jake!” You snap.

“Don't act like I'm the one that started this whole thing,” he says, defensively.

This isn't going as planned. No, no, no. Your brain keeps shouting at you to shut up. But you can't.

“That's not what I'm saying,” you say, crossing your arms, “It wouldn't have gotten this way if I had just set some fucking boundaries–”

“You were just as happy with this whole thing as I was.”

“No, I wasn't!” You almost stomp your foot, like a child throwing a tantrum. “I was never fucking happy with it, but I had to be because you were!”

He looks as if you'd slapped him. His face is blank, and you know it means he's about to shut down. He doesn't yell, that's what scares you. And pisses you off.

“If you never wanted to do any of this, you should have told me that.”

“That's not it. I just… I wanted it to mean as much to you as it did to me.”

And now he looks horrified. “What?”

You can feel your eyes burning, tears blurring your vision. Your throat is closing up, and all you can manage is a feeble shake of your head.

“You…”

“I think you should go, Jake.”

He doesn't say anything else then. He just nods slowly, his face void of any emotion once again. He pauses by you, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I'm sorry.”

And then he's gone.

══════════════════════════════

#jake kiszka #gvf #jakey <3 #smut #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka imagine #jake kiszka smut #writing #greta van fleet #angst #friends with benefits

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jakeytkiszka · 2 months ago

Text

not now kitten, daddy has to write strange self indulgent fan fiction.

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jakeytkiszka · 3 months ago

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Beneath the Black Flag VI

2.6k words

chapter warnings: awkward tension, sweet fluffy shit, SMUT! 18+ only– minors stay back, dirty talk, loss of virginity, romantical stuff– lemme know if I missed any!

<< chapter five

Masterlist

Jake leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the space as he watched you. His dark hair was tousled from the sea breeze, and his eyes held a mixture of desire and tenderness. He wore a loose linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of the lean, muscular chest beneath. His boots were scuffed from days of navigating the deck, but there was an undeniable grace in the way he moved, a confidence born of years at sea.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and rough, like gravel smoothed by the tide.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you replied, though your voice trembled slightly.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps. His presence was overwhelming, yet comforting, like the steady roll of the ship beneath your feet. He stopped in front of you, his gaze searching yours. “It’s a lot to take in,” he admitted, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You nod, swallowing heavily as you stare at him.

There was tension in the air. Hot and heavy. You knew tonight would be different.

You stare for a moment longer before turning away, back to staring out the window. He doesn't move from behind you. You nearly laugh at yourself, the nerves racing through your body. You knew it was inevitable, you wanted it just as much, if not more than Jake did.

“Y/n.”

You hum, turning your head to look back at him.

He's wearing a smile, one that lights up his eyes as he looks at you.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” You glance at the window, “What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

You nod, watching him for a moment longer.

“I'm nervous.”

He nods, “I know.”

“I've never–”

“I know.”

You let out a sigh, “I'm acting like a fool.”

“You are.”

You turn back to the window. You take a deep breath before you turn back to him. As you study him, your heart softens. He looks happy. You haven't ever seen him this way. The light in his eyes, the glow to his golden skin.

Because of you.

“I don't know what I'm doing.”

“I know.”

“Seems like you know everything, Jake.” Your voice is full of sarcasm. You take note of the way his face darkens just slightly. You like that.

“I don't.” He says. His hand comes up, holding your jaw. “I just know more than you do.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, your heart squeezing at the soft smile on his lips. “I want you, Jake.”

He leans in, his lips inches from yours, “I know.”

His lips were on yours before you could smart off again, swallowing down the surprised hum you let out.

The moment your lips met, it was as if a dam had burst open. All the pent-up longing, the desire that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long, came pouring out. Jake's hands were in your hair, tugging slightly, holding you in place as he ravaged your mouth with his own.

You cling to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, the hard muscles flexing beneath your touch. You could feel the heat of his body seeping into your own, his skin burning hot even through the fabric of his shirt.

You reached for him, your hands trembling slightly as you tugged at his shirt, impatient to feel his skin against your own. He helped you, shrugging out of the garment, his broad chest bared to your hungry eyes.

You lean in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, tasting the salt on his skin, inhaling the scent of him, musky and masculine. Your fingers slide down his abdomen, tracing the curves of his stomach, dipping into his navel before trailing lower.

He stops your hand with a gentle touch, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. You frown at him, and he connects his lips with yours once again, nipping lightly at your bottom lip.

Your breath was coming in short gasps, your chest heaving against his own as he breaks the kiss to trail his lips down the column of your throat. You tilt your head back, giving him better access, a low moan escaping your lips as his teeth graze the sensitive skin.

You're not sure how you're still standing, your knees are on the verge of buckling. Your hands and arms shaking already.

He places his hands at your waist, turning the two of you around and walking you backward toward his bed.

He pulls away to speak, “This all stops at your say-so, darling.”

You nod mindlessly, eyes heavy as you stare at him. “Help me out of this.” You say, tugging at your dress.

He swallows heavily, the action full of desire. His skilled hands unbutton the dress much faster than you could, and the material pools at your feet before you can second-guess it.

You're left standing before him in your chemise, the backs of your knees brushing against his bed.

You feel exposed in the best way, his eyes leaving the burning warmth like a touch over your bare skin.

His eyes freeze on your heaving chest. You can feel your nipples straining against the thin fabric, begging for his attention. When his eyes meet yours again, they're nearly black.

He has you on his bed before you can process it, his body hovering over yours with his hips fit nicely between your thighs. You're hyper-aware of how high up the hem of your underdress has ridden, nearly completely exposing you to him.

His hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, your breasts, holding your face, sliding down to cup your backside. As if he can't decide where he wants to touch you the most.

He finally decides on grabbing the hem of your chemise, his eyes glancing up at you for permission. You nod, lifting your hips up slightly for him to tug the thin material up until it was resting just at the tops of your breasts.

He sits back on his knees, his eyes trailing over your naked body with awe in his face.

“Gods, you're fucking beautiful.”

Your face burns at the compliment. A shy whisper of thank you the only thing you can manage before he's back over you, his mouth attaching to your nipple. You gasp.

Your hand reflexively tangles into his hair, unsure if you want to push him away out of shame or pull him closer.

His hand comes up, his index finger lightly flicking your nipple before he pinches it. His teeth bite down on the other at the same time.

You let out a strangled hum, trying to squeeze your thighs together to sooth the pressure building in your lower half. You curse his hips being in your way.

Your eyes widen when you feel his fingers slip down between your thighs, teasingly ghosting over your aching center.

“Jake.” It's a single breath of his name. He hums in response, his mouth popping off of your breast only to make his way to the other.

You press your hips against the mattress when he presses his finger over your clit. He teases his touch over the aching bud.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head slamming back against the pillow. It's a lot at once, the attention to your chest, his hand in your most intimate area.

You love it.

You buck your hips, desperate for more of his touch. You're well over being teased. And you know he's just getting started.

His finger begins to rub slow circles, soothing the ache and building it all at once.

You whine his name, your hand in his hair gripping tightly.

He pulls away from your chest, his eyes falling to his hand between your thighs.

You should be ashamed. You should tell him to stop touching you. To stop looking at you. That this was incredibly inappropriate.

But you don't.

Instead you weakly ask him for more.

His eyes lazily trail up your body, back up to your eyes. He's smugly scanning over your face as the finger he had on your clit slips lower, easing inside of you. Your eyes flutter, your walls welcoming the intrusion. He uses the one finger for only a moment, before retreating and giving you two.

He looks down, watching with dark eyes at the way you greedily take his fingers in.

“Fuck.” He breathes the word. “Are you gonna take my cock that well too, darling?”

Oh, he's filthy.

You nod regardless. “Yes.” You hope so.

He hums, his fingers curling up inside of you. Your eyes widened at the feeling, the spot they were pressing up against making you feel weak-limbed already.

“Yeah, that's it, isn't it?” He says almost to himself.

“Jake–”

“I know.”

“Yeah, you know everything,” your voice is shaky as he speeds up his hand, the lewd, wet noises making your cheeks burn hot.

“I know what I'm doing.” He retorts, curling his fingers again. He grins at the gasp you let out. “Yeah, see?”

“You're so arrogant.” You say, tangling your fingers into his bedsheets.

He leans over you with a hand beside your head, his face inches away from yours. “Stop smarting off to me or I'll put that pretty mouth to good use.”

You can feel yourself tighten around his fingers at that. You pretend you don't see the way his eyes light up from knowing you liked his idea.

The pressure in your lower half is building, coiling and churning and threatening to snap. You've heard of this from some of the women back at the estate, but you've never experienced it yourself. It's so intense you're not sure you'll survive it. And he's only just used his fingers so far.

His thumb begins rubbing over your clit, his fingers working deftly inside of you, curling, twisting, faster than you can process.

The line draws taut, you're peering over the edge.

His mouth is by your ear, “Let it happen.”

You're not sure how it happened. His words sent you careening over the edge, crashing into the waves below it. Your body was nearly thrashing beneath his as you came undone. Your heart was pounding in your ears, but you could faintly hear him murmuring words of praise as he worked you through it.

You reach for his wrist when you regain your wits, your body still twitching. He reluctantly pulls his fingers out of you, but not without bringing them up to his mouth. You stare with heavy eyes as he slips his fingers past his lips, tasting you on them.

Gods, he's too much.

You watch him with jellied limbs as he pulls back enough to work at the buttons on his pants.

Your legs fall slightly open as he pulls his pants down just enough for his cock to spring free. It rests against his lower belly proudly, hard and thick and long. The tip is an angry red, begging for your attention.

You're tempted to say something smart to him, just to see if he really would let you give it a try with your mouth.

Another time.

You think back to his earlier question. Are you gonna take my cock that well too, darling? Looking at it now, you hope you can.

He leans over you, resting in his forearms on either side of your head, “Do you still want to do this?” His eyes are searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

He doesn't find any. You nod surely, “Yes.”

He nods, his hand brushing your hair out of your face. With an angling of his hips, he's pushing into you. Slowly, carefully.

It still makes your eyes widen and your hands grab onto his biceps.

The stretch doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would. It's a bit uncomfortable at first, your walls are squeezing around him, fighting to accommodate the intrusion.

Your mouth falls open as he bottoms out, his hips still as he watches you carefully.

“You alright?” His voice is soft.

“Yes.” Yours is breathy.

“Y/n–”

“I'm alright,” you assure him. “I promise. It's just–” You huff a laugh, “It's a lot.”

“Is it too much?”

“No. It's– You're perfect, Jake.”

He gives you a warm smile, “So are you, my love.”

He's still, unmoving until you give him the okay. And you do. With a weak nod and a plea in your eyes.

He's slow, gentle, as he moves inside of you. You can feel every bit of him inside of you, the ridge of the head, the thick length, the warmth. It drives you nearly mad.

He sets up a steady pace, still gentle, yet powerful. He was capable of worse. A large part of you wanted to see just how bad he could get.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned, his voice rough and raw.

His words sent a rush of heat through you, your face reddening at the praise.

“S‐so do you.” Your voice is weak.

He gives you a slightly cocky smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The word is no more than a breath. But it's true.

That familiar build up has been lurking, now looming in the near distance. You're aware of everything. His hand in your hair, the other cupping your face, the feeling of his skin against yours. His thighs slamming against the backs of yours, his hips pressing against yours deliciously.

It's all too much.

It's not enough.

You reach a hand up, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, “Touch me.” You whimper. “Please, Jake.”

“There are those pretty manners.” He obliges, his fingers teasing over your clit.

He sets a rhythm that has you seeing stars. Your orgasm is almost within your reach, you can just barely taste it.

“Jake.” It's all you can say. His name. He's surrounding you, his scent, his presence, his body. You manage to tangle your shaky hand in his hair.

He grits his teeth, pulling back just enough to grab your thigh, pushing it up as he slams into you repeatedly, “Come on, darling. Give it to me. Let me have it.”

It only takes a few more thrusts, a few more circles of his skilled fingers over your clit, before you're calling out his name. It hits like a storm at sea, pulling you under the current violently. You're drowning in the pleasure he brought to you. Unable to see, unable to get out more than gasps of air.

It's like nothing you've ever felt before, even better than the last one. You want to live in it forever.

He follows after you with a growl of your name just as you come up for air. You can feel his hips stall as his own orgasm hits him. He works through it gently, on the verge of overstimulating the both of you.

He pulls out, quickly finding something to clean you both up with. You lay there unable to move, unsure how he can.

He collapses onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his heart pounding against yours. You wrap your arms around him, your legs tangling with his as you catch your breath, the ship’s gentle sway lulling you both into a state of blissful exhaustion.

“That was…” you started, your voice soft and breathless.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “It was.”

“Jake?”

“Y/n.”

“I love you.”

He raises his head to look at you, a soft smile of love and admiration on his face, “I love you.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the lines of his back, and he kissed you again, a soft, tender kiss that spoke of promises and possibilities. The cabin was quiet, the only sounds the creak of the ship and the distant lapping of the waves against the hull.

As you lay there, Jake’s arms wrapped around you, you knew this was just the beginning.

The End!

Thank yall for reading, it means a lot! Let me know if there's everything yall want more on this or anything else! Don't be shy to send in any requests!!! <3

#jake kiszka #gvf #jakey <3 #smut #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka imagine #jake kiszka smut #greta van fleet #writing #pirates #pirate jake #pirate fic #pirate au #BTBF

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jakeytkiszka · 3 months ago

Text

Beneath the Black Flag V

3.6k words

chapter warnings: angst-ish, daddy issues, mentions of death, blood and violence, pirates, betrayal– lemme know if I missed any!

<< chapter four || chapter six >>

Masterlist

You don’t say a word, just take his hand.

It’s a mistake. A risk. A thousand kinds of wrong. But it’s him.

And you’re done pretending the hollow of this place doesn’t echo with every step you take without him.

He lets you lead– through the edge of the ballroom, past the musicians, down the corridor lined with cold portraits and colder memories. You slip into the small reading room, heavy with dust and silence. The door clicks shut behind you. And then you’re breathing again.

He pulls the mask from his face.

And you remember what it feels like to exist.

His eyes are tired. Lined. Shadowed by something heavier than sea-weather and sleepless nights. But when he looks at you– it’s like a storm breaking open. You stare at him for a beat too long.

Then shove both hands into his chest.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He catches your wrists. Doesn’t push, doesn’t pull. Just holds. His voice is low. “Saving you.”

You laugh– shaky and sharp. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“Do you know what he’ll do if he sees you?”

Jake’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m counting on it.”

You go still. “You're not here just for me.”

“No,” he says. He lets go of your wrists slowly. Like it hurts to do it. “I didn’t come back to steal you away in the night. I came to see with my own eyes what he’s planning. What he’s hiding. And maybe... maybe to remind you that you're not alone.”

“You think I forgot?”

His voice softens. “I think you’ve been surviving. And I wanted you to know you don’t have to do it by yourself anymore.”

You swallow hard.

There’s so much you want to say. That you tried not to wait for him but couldn’t help it. That you wore your heartbreak like a second skin every day he was gone. That every smile you faked since stepping off that ship was for someone else’s benefit, not yours. But all you say is, “Why now?”

Jake exhales, stepping closer. “Because your father’s next move is already in motion. And if we don’t stop him now... he’s going to start a war. One that doesn’t end clean.”

You stare up at him, breath shallow.

“I need to know,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “if you’re still with me.”

The answer is already there– in the way your body leans toward his like the sea leans toward the moon.

But you say it anyway.

“I never left.”

The silence between you stretches, thick and palpable, the space between your bodies charged with something neither of you wants to acknowledge.

Jake’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer than is necessary, as if he’s trying to read you, to remember you. To burn you into his memory like the ocean tides he’s lost himself to. Then, a quiet breath escapes his lips, a fleeting smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re wearing red,” he says, voice low, like the words belong to a secret only the two of you share. “It suits you.”

You blink at him, your heart stuttering in your chest. You shift uncomfortably, but there’s a part of you that aches for the truth in his gaze. It’s not just a compliment– he’s not talking about the fabric. He’s talking about something deeper.

“I never thought I'd see the day,” you murmur, eyes darting to the floor. “Where you’d see me like this again.”

His smile falters, his gaze sharpening. “What do you mean?”

You let out a breath and take a step closer, your body betraying you even as your mind wants to push him away. “This. What I am now. What you left behind. All of this– it's not just a costume, Jake. It's the real me. It’s all I am now."

His expression shifts, darkening. He reaches out, his hand brushing against the delicate fabric of your dress, the tip of his fingers grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

"You think that's all you are?" His voice is a whisper, but it cuts through the room like a knife. "You think you’re defined by what they’ve made of you? By this life, by him? It’s never been about what they want. Not for you. Not for me.”

You suck in a breath, the words heavy in the air between you, thick with meaning. Your chest tightens, emotions surging beneath your ribs.

"You don't understand," you say, quieter now. "I don't know who I am anymore. I don’t even know what I want anymore. I’ve spent so long trying to play their game, trying to be who they want me to be, and it’s all slipping through my fingers. I’m stuck in the middle of this– and then you show up– like you have some kind of answer.”

His gaze softens. He steps closer to you, so close that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, and for a brief moment, you forget everything around you. There’s only him. Only Jake. His presence fills the space between you. "You think you're lost?" He murmurs, voice so low you almost don’t hear it over the pounding in your chest. "You’re not lost. You’re stronger than that. You’re everything they never wanted you to be. Everything I never wanted you to be. But you're still here. Still fighting. And that's what makes you different."

You look up at him, but his eyes aren’t just looking at you– they’re looking through you. Like he sees all the things you’ve hidden away, all the pieces you’ve kept locked inside. And somehow, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away. He just sees you.

"I know I’m not supposed to feel this," you whisper, your voice betraying you with its vulnerability. "But every time I think about you… about us… I don’t know what to do with it. It's like I can't breathe without you."

He inhales sharply, his eyes searching yours. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t quite name. He reaches up, his hand brushing the side of your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "I told you before, I don’t trust anyone. But with you..." He pauses, letting the words hang in the air, fragile as glass. “With you, I want to believe. Even if it means drowning in it.”

The confession hits you like a wave, unexpected and overwhelming. Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, the world outside of this room doesn’t exist. It’s just the two of you, caught in the stillness of a storm neither of you can control.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely audible, a tremor in it you can’t hide. “You... you’ve made me feel things I can’t ignore anymore. And I’m scared. I’m scared of what happens if I let you in. What happens if I really let myself feel.”

Jake’s hand drops to your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, enough that you can feel his breath on your skin, hot and steady. “Let me in,” he whispers. “Let yourself feel, just for once. Don't run from it. From us.”

You can’t find the words to answer. Not when your heart is racing, your body alive with the heat of him so close.

Instead, you lift your hand, touching his chest softly, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt. The contact is gentle, but it speaks more than words ever could.

Jake watches you for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with each breath, the tension thick in the space between you. Slowly, as if giving in to something inevitable, he leans forward, his lips brushing against your forehead, a featherlight touch that makes your stomach flip.

“You’re not alone,” he says again, his voice softer now, almost a plea. “Not anymore.”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, you believe it.

The air between you hums with everything left unsaid.

You can feel it in the way his fingers hesitate against your waist. The way his eyes flick between your lips and your eyes, like he’s asking permission– asking if this is real, if it’s allowed. If you want it. And you do.

You lean in first, just enough to close the last inches between you.

His lips meet yours like he’s trying not to shatter you. Gentle at first, careful. The kind of kiss that says I missed you before it says I want you.

But that care doesn't last.

It deepens in a breath. Becomes something messier. Hungrier. Like the both of you know this might be all you get– this sliver of time stolen in the dark.

His hands slide to the small of your back, holding you like he means to memorize the shape of you. You curl your fingers in the front of his coat, clinging to the one thing in your world that still feels true.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a question. And when he finally pulls away, you’re breathless.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I have to go,” he murmurs, regret heavy in his voice. “Now. While they’re still distracted.”

You nod, your chest tight. “You’re going after the plans?”

He nods once. “He’s planning something. I need proof. I’ll get in and out before anyone notices.” A pause. Then, softer, “I’ll come back for you.”

You hold his gaze, your voice steady despite the thunder in your heart. “You’d better.”

A faint smirk touches his lips. “Told you red was your color.”

And then he’s gone– slipping out the door like smoke, into the dark hallways of your father’s estate, toward danger cloaked in velvet and lies.

You’re alone again.

But your lips are still burning.

And your heart?

Still his.

You don’t return to the ballroom.

Instead, you slip upstairs, heart pounding, hiding in the shadows of your own home like a thief. You pace your room in silence, dress clinging to your skin like a second layer of nerves, that kiss still aching on your mouth.

Minutes pass like hours.

You check the hallway. Once. Twice. You listen for footsteps, for shouts, for the sound of everything falling apart.

But it never comes.

Eventually, your body gives out. You fall asleep curled on the window seat, eyes on the empty dark, trying not to imagine what might’ve happened to him.

When morning comes, it’s too quiet.

Too… ordinary.

You rise with a jolt and rush to the corridor.

No alarms, no guards swarming the halls, no blood on the marble.

No sign of Jake.

At breakfast, your father is all smug serenity. He speaks of politics and power plays. Of shifting tides. He doesn’t even look your way.

But you know. You feel it. He doesn’t know. Not yet.

Jake got in. Jake got out.

And he took something with him.

That night, you find a sliver of parchment tucked into the folds of your windowsill curtain.

You read the words by moonlight.

It's all coming together. Be ready.

— Jake

You press the note to your lips, a slow breath leaking from your lungs.

But peace doesn’t last.

The next morning, the house trembles.

A ship is sighted off the harbor. Not Navy. Not trade. Something different.

Too fast. Too bold.

Before the servants can hide their whispers, before your father can slam the doors of his study, you know.

Jake’s made his move.

And this time, he isn’t alone.

The moment the report lands in his hand, something shifts in your father’s face.

Not confusion, not concern.

Rage.

It doesn’t show all at once– not to the others in the room. But you’re watching closely, standing just far enough from the door to see the twitch in his jaw, the way his hand tightens around the paper like it’s a throat he wants to crush.

He reads the dispatch in silence.

Then again.

Slower.

A vein rises at his temple.

You step forward from the hall.

“What happened?”

He barely looks at you.

“Pirates,” he spits. “Three leagues off the coast. No flag. No warning. They slipped past the outer watch like they knew the patrol routes.”

Your stomach drops.

They did know.

Jake knows the coastline better than the admirals who drew the maps. He planned this. Down to the minute.

Your father crumples the page in his fist and turns to the nearest officer. “Double the harbor guard. Arm every gun on the southern wall. I want every ship ready to fire before sundown. And find the leak. Someone gave them access. Someone betrayed this house.”

You flinch.

His eyes cut to you.

You try to look confused. Innocent. But your pulse is racing, and you’re not sure your mask is enough.

He takes a slow step toward you.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, voice low. “Too quiet.”

“I’ve had nothing to say.”

He narrows his eyes, like he’s reading every word you don’t say. “Be careful, girl,” he warns. “You’ve been given a second chance. Don’t waste it proving you never deserved the first.” And with that, he turns away, barking orders, already re-mapping the coast in his mind, already preparing to strike.

But you feel it now.

The edge of the unraveling.

The corner of the world lifting like a rug, revealing what’s been festering beneath it all along. He doesn’t know how close the fire is.

And you’re no longer sure you want to stop it.

It arrives by hawk.

No seal, no insignia.

Just parchment, folded and scorched faintly along the edges, like it had traveled through smoke.

The servant who brings it doesn’t know what it is.

But your father does.

He rips it open with steady fingers and a stiff jaw.

His eyes scan the lines. Then narrow. He doesn’t speak.

You’re in the room when it happens– summoned like furniture, meant to sit silent and beautiful at the corner of his war council. But when his expression shifts, when the tendons in his neck pull tight and his nostrils flare just slightly, you know exactly who it’s from.

He reads the note aloud, not to you, but to the men gathered around him.

His voice is low, calm.

But each word lands like a blade on the table.

Admiral,

The tides are shifting. I have what I need. You know what I’ve taken. And I know what you’ve planned. You always said your daughter would be your legacy. Let’s see if she becomes your ruin instead. The storm’s coming. I’ll see you at the edge of it.

— Jake

The silence that follows is absolute. No one breathes. Your father sets the parchment down with disturbing care.

“Sink his ship,” he says, voice like ice. “I want him dragged to shore in pieces.”

He stands slowly, the air in the room dropping ten degrees. Your blood runs cold. But your heart? It starts to race. Because Jake didn’t just send a threat, he sent an invitation.

And now the battle is coming– with your name at the center of it.

The sound of cannon fire splits the morning open like a scream.

You’re on the battlements before the guards can stop you, skirts hitched, wind clawing at your hair. From the cliffs above the harbor, the sea is fire and chaos. Jake’s ship cuts through the water like it was born from the storm itself, black sails unfurling like wings. Around it, smaller ships– faster, sharper– dart through the Royal fleet like wolves tearing through a herd.

And the Navy?

Losing.

You feel it in the way the smoke rises from their sails. The hesitation in their movements. The panic of order unraveling.

The tide has turned.

He’s winning.

You run.

Through the echoing halls of your father’s estate, past stunned servants and shouting officers, past the cracked portraits and the smell of smoke creeping in from the bay.

You find him in the war room, still in his uniform, blade unsheathed, hands braced on the edge of the map-strewn table.

He doesn’t look up when you enter.

Just mutters, “He’s not supposed to be this smart.”

Your breath is ragged. “You trained me to know strategy. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize his?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t train you to betray your blood.”

You step forward. “You used me.”

“No,” he snaps, eyes finally locking with yours. “I protected you. I built this future for you– one without war, without fear, without men like him. And you threw it away for what? A pirate’s kiss?”

You don’t flinch. “No. I threw it away for the truth.”

He stares at you. And then something breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently.

Just… a quiet collapse.

He sinks into the chair behind him, like the weight of it all has finally crushed him.

“She was your mother, you know,” he says suddenly, voice hollow. “The reason I hate them. The reason I started all this. They took her away. Left her in the sea. I couldn’t save her. But I could save you.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. And still, through the window, the battle rages. But Jake is drawing closer. You can feel it.

You kneel beside your father. “You let your grief become a weapon. And you pointed it at me.”

He doesn't speak. Doesn’t move.

Outside, the final Navy flagship falls. The roar of the crowd rises from the harbor below.

Victory is here.

Jake is here.

You rise to your feet. “I’m going with him,” you say.

And he doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t even lift his head when you press a kiss to his forehead.

Just sits there, surrounded by the ashes of the empire he tried to build on the ruins of love.

The estate is silent now.

The kind of silence that follows war. Thick heavy grieving.

You stand in the front hall, still wearing the remnants of a life you no longer belong to– lace fraying, dust on your hem, the weight of a thousand ghosts in your bones.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps on marble. Slow, unhurried.

You turn before the doors even open, before he steps into view.

Jake.

He’s soaked in the storm’s fury, sea salt and blood smudged across his skin, hair wet and loose around his face. There’s a cut on his cheek, barely closed, and a fire still burning behind his eyes.

But he’s alive. He’s real. And he’s here.

You don’t move, not right away. You just stare at him like he might disappear if you blink.

But then he crosses the threshold, eyes locked to yours. No crew, no blade, no pretense.

Just Jake.

“You came,” you whisper, voice raw from everything you haven’t cried.

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile but forgot how. “Didn’t know if you’d still want me to.”

You laugh– soft, broken, disbelieving– and take a step forward. “You won.”

“I didn’t come to win,” he says, his voice lower now. “I came to get you.”

That breaks something in you.

You crash into him like the tide he’s always belonged to. His arms catch you instantly, pulling you tight against him, like anchoring himself in your skin. You bury your face in his shoulder, and for the first time in what feels like lifetimes, you let yourself feel it.

The fear, the longing, the hope.

He holds you like you’re the only thing left in the world that matters.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” you murmur.

Jake pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“It’s real,” he says. “This time, it’s real.”

And when he kisses you, salt and blood and fire on your lips, you know.

You’re finally free.

Jake’s cabin is dim, lit only by lantern light and the fading embers of sunset bleeding through the slatted window.

The ship rocks gently beneath you, steady now, like it knows the storm has passed– both outside and within.

You sit on the edge of his bed, legs tucked beneath you, still dressed in the clothes you escaped in. A glass of rum untouched in your hand. He’s across from you, lounging in his chair like he doesn’t have the weight of an entire war behind him. Like he hasn’t been carrying the memory of you for weeks.

He hasn’t stopped looking at you.

Not since the second you stepped onto his ship.

“You keep staring,” you murmur, setting the glass down.

Jake tilts his head, lips curving slightly. “Just making sure you’re really here.”

You smile, small, but real. “And?”

His eyes darken, just a shade. “I haven’t decided if I’m dreaming.”

You rise slowly, crossing to him on bare feet. His breath catches when you stop in front of him, one hand braced on the arm of his chair, the other trailing gently along the stubble on his jaw.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

Jake’s hands come to your waist, warm and steady. “Don’t say that unless you mean to stay.”

You lean down, forehead resting against his. “I didn’t leave everything behind just to walk away now.”

His grip tightens, breath roughening against your mouth. “You keep saying things like that and I won’t be able to let you go.”

“Good,” you whisper, lips brushing his now. “I’m not asking you to.”

When he kisses you, it’s slow– like he has all the time in the world now.

Because for once, maybe he does.

final chapter!

#jake kiszka #gvf #jakey <3 #smut #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka imagine #jake kiszka smut #greta van fleet #writing #pirates #pirate jake #pirate fic #pirate au #BTBF

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jakeytkiszka · 3 months ago

Text

Beneath the Black Flag IV

3.9k words

chapter warnings: ANGST, daddy issues, depression, bad mental health, pirates, blood and violence, mentions of death– lemme know if i'm forgetting any!

<< chapter three || next part – coming soon! >>

Masterlist

The days pass.

Jake tightens the ship like a fist. Orders come short and sharp. The crew stops talking when you walk past, but no one looks at you the same anymore– not like a hostage, not like cargo. They look at you the way men eye a loaded pistol on the table– dangerous, powerful, too close to the captain’s hand.

You should feel safer.

But you don’t.

Not when Jake barely sleeps. Not when he’s always watching the horizon like it owes him something. Not when his hands clench every time the wind shifts wrong.

You don’t see it coming.

Not until the second ship appears.

Smaller than the last, sleeker. No crest on the sails. No colors flying. Just gray canvas and quiet approach. It doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t raise a flag of parley.

It just cuts across the waves with the precision of a scalpel.

Jake is on it instantly. Spyglass in hand, mouth a hard line.

“No colors,” he mutters. “Could be a scout.”

You peer over the rail. “Could be worse.”

He lowers the glass. “It is.”

He hands it to you, and when you look through– you see why.

The ship’s hull is familiar. So is the figure at the bow, hand raised in casual greeting.

General Hawthorne.

Your father’s right hand.

And the last man you ever wanted to see.

Jake’s voice is low, but tight with rage. “He’s not here to trade. He’s here to deliver a message.”

You hand the spyglass back, stomach churning. “What kind of message?”

Jake glances down at the deck, then back at the oncoming ship.

The scout ship pulls up alongside, too close this time. Close enough to launch grapples. Close enough to strike.

But no weapons come.

Just a single rowboat, lowered smooth as silk.

One man inside.

No flags. No escort.

But the tension that follows it across the waves is enough to make your lungs tighten.

Jake turns to you. “Go below.”

“No.”

He doesn’t argue– he just curses under his breath. “Then stay close. And don’t speak.”

The man who boards the ship looks nothing like a threat. He’s dressed in gray, eyes calm, hands empty. But when he speaks, it’s to you.

“Your father sends his love,” he says smoothly. “And a proposition.”

Jake steps between you before the man can come any closer. “Speak your terms and get off my ship.”

The man’s smile is tight. Cold. “The Admiral offers safe passage. No more warships. No more pursuit. In exchange, the girl stays aboard… under your watch.”

You blink. “What?”

Jake stiffens.

The man’s eyes flick to you, then back to him. “He’s changed tactics. He doesn’t want her home. He wants her kept close– to remind you what’s at stake.”

Jake doesn’t move.

The man leans in, voice lower now. “And if you refuse again– he’ll burn every island you favor. Every port you trade with. Until you’re stranded in your own grave.” He steps back. “You have three days.”

And then he’s gone.

Jake says nothing for a long time.

Neither do you.

Because now, it’s not about ransom.

It’s about control.

And your father just turned Jake’s ship into a gilded cage.

The scout ship pulls away.

No cannon fire. No blood spilled. Just silence in its wake, and a threat that lingers heavier than any broadside.

Jake hasn’t moved.

He stands at the rail, fists clenched tight enough to crack bone, his jaw set like it’s carved from stone. The wind tousles his hair, but he doesn’t flinch.

You step beside him carefully. “Say something.”

He doesn’t.

You wait a beat longer. “Jake.”

“I told you,” he says finally, voice like ground glass. “I told you what kind of man he was.”

You stare at him. “I know.”

“No. You thought you did.” His gaze snaps to yours. “But now you see it. He doesn’t want you safe. He doesn’t want you home. He wants to use you like a pawn– and let me hold the leash.”

His voice breaks on the last word. He turns from you, raking a hand through his hair, pacing like a man about to tear the deck apart with his bare hands.

“He thinks I’ll fold,” he mutters. “That I’ll keep you here like some… bargaining chip. Because he knows I won’t hand you over. Not now. Not ever.”

You step closer. “He’s trying to force your hand.”

Jake rounds on you. “He’s trying to turn me into him.”

That stops you cold.

“I make one move,” he says, voice low, tight, “and he’ll paint me as the villain. You stay on this ship, and suddenly I’m the kidnapper again. The pirate. The criminal. The one who chose to cage you.” He breathes like he’s drowning. “And I can’t stand the thought of you looking at me like that.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I don’t look at you like that,” you say.

“Not yet.”

You move toward him. “So what? You let him win? You send me off with the next breeze and hope he doesn’t torch your allies anyway?”

Jake’s jaw flexes. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“But I’m not a burden, Jake. And I’m not some broken compass you have to steer around.”

He looks at you then– truly looks at you. And the ache in his eyes nearly levels you.

“No,” he says, voice rough. “You’re the only true thing I’ve had in years. And he’s going to use that until it costs us both.”

You reach out, slowly, resting your fingers against his chest. His heart beats wild beneath them.

“I don’t care what he wants,” you whisper. “I care what you want.”

Jake exhales sharply, like the wind’s been punched from his lungs. He closes his eyes.

And when he speaks again, it’s quieter.

“I want you free,” he says. “But I want you with me more.”

You don’t answer.

You just lean in– foreheads pressed together, breath shared, pain tangled.

The quiet stretches, and neither of you moves to break it.

Because for now, there are no right answers.

Just time ticking down.

And three days left before the war begins again.

You wake to shouting.

Not the usual chaos of a crew at odds, or sails flapping in a storm.

This is quieter. Urgent. Controlled.

You sit up, heart already pounding.

Something’s wrong.

You reach the deck just as Jake’s voice cuts across it.

“–don’t need your opinion, just your silence. Load the boat. Now.”

Your stomach drops.

A rowboat waits at the side of the ship. Stocked. Ready. The same one the Admiral’s man used.

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“Jake.”

He turns.

One look at his face tells you everything.

“No,” you breathe. “No. Don’t do this.”

He takes a slow step toward you. “They’ll be waiting. You’ll be met offshore by a friendly vessel– neutral waters. No flags, no guns. They won’t hurt you.”

You shake your head. “You think I care about that?”

“I do.”

“You promised–”

“I lied.” The words hit like a slap. His eyes blaze. “I lied because I wanted to keep you. Because I was selfish. But I can’t protect you here. Not with men trying to kill you in your sleep. Not with your father watching every wave.”

“I don’t want to go.”

He swallows hard. “I know.”

Your voice breaks. “Jake– please. I choose this. I choose you.”

His hands shake as he cups your face. “And I’d give anything to let you.”

A pause.

“But if you stay, I’ll watch you fall apart. And I’ll become the man your father’s already painted me to be.”

You grab his shirt, fists balled. “You said there’d be a next time.”

His forehead presses to yours, voice wrecked. “There will be. If I don’t ruin you first.”

The crew is silent. No one dares speak.

Willis appears at the rail. “Boat’s ready.”

Jake nods, but doesn’t look at him. He looks at you.

And something in him breaks.

“I’ll find you again,” he whispers. “I swear it. When it’s our choice. Not his. Not the sea’s.”

You’re crying now, silent and shaking, trying to memorize the feeling of his hands on your skin. They don’t linger. He pulls away like it kills him.

And you let him.

Because he’s already halfway gone.

The oars cut through the water like knives.

You don’t look back.

Not because you don’t want to– but because you’re afraid that if you do, you’ll throw yourself into the sea and swim back to him.

The wind bites colder the farther you drift from the ship.

Jake’s ship… the only place that ever felt like something other than a prison, even if it had started as one. The place where you stopped being someone’s daughter, someone’s pawn. And started being you.

Now it’s vanishing behind you, swallowed slowly by fog and distance.

Like it was never real at all.

The crew of the retrieval vessel doesn’t speak.

They meet you in silence, faces unfamiliar, hands gloved. They don’t ask questions. They don’t tell you who sent them. You already know.

You keep your chin high when they help you aboard. You don’t thank them. You don’t say a word.

You refuse to let your father win even that.

The cabin they lock you in is clean, sparsely furnished. There’s a tray of food. A warm blanket.

And a letter.

You stare at it like it might bite.

Your name is written on the front, in your father’s precise, ink-perfect hand.

You don’t open it.

Not yet.

Not while the salt of Jake’s skin still lingers on your lips. Not while your hands are still shaking.

Night falls fast at sea. You curl up in the narrow bunk and press your forehead to the wall. The waves rock you gently and cruelly, like they know exactly what they’ve taken.

You dream of storms, of hands you can’t reach. Of a promise whispered across the wind. I’ll find you again.

And when you wake, the letter is still there.

Still unopened.

Still waiting.

You stare at it through the long hours of the night, tracing the ink of your name with one trembling fingertip. You almost wish it were sealed with wax. With blood. With something fitting.

But it’s not.

Just folded parchment, neat and cold.

When you finally open it, the writing inside is everything you expected. Crisp. Controlled. Like he wrote it with gloves on.

You read it once. Then again. And again.

My dearest,

I trust by now you’ve come to understand why I did what I did. I regret the necessity of your time aboard the pirate ship, but it was vital that we allow the situation to unfold without interference. Emotion compromises strategy. Jake Kiszka needed to believe he had the upper hand. He needed to fall for the bait.

You did well.

You always were clever. Even your mother used to say so. She would be proud of your poise under pressure. Now that you’re safe, I expect we can put this chapter behind us. The vessel returning you is under strict instruction not to engage unless provoked. You’ll find conditions more than comfortable. Rest. Eat. You’ve earned it. And once you're home, we’ll discuss the next phase.

There is still much to be done.

Warmly,

Father

You stare at the one line until your vision blurs.

You did well.

Like you were part of the plan all along. Like he expected you to play your part. The paper crumples in your fist, soft and brutal as betrayal.

Your pulse thunders.

He never cared that you were gone. He never cared that you came back. He just wanted to know what Jake would do with you.

He never saw you as his daughter. Just a trap in a dress.

You stand slowly. The letter drops to the floor, silent as snowfall. And for the first time since you left Jake’s ship–

You don’t feel lost.

You feel furious.

The docks are quiet when the ship pulls in.

No banners, no guards, no open arms.

Just a sleek black carriage waiting at the end of the pier, flanked by two men in dark uniforms– your father’s private agents. Not Navy. Not friendly.

The second you step off the dock, they move like clockwork. One takes your arm– not rough, but not gentle either. The other nods once to the ship’s captain.

No words spoken. No questions asked. You don’t ask where you’re going.

You already know.

The carriage smells like leather and dust and something faintly chemical. You sit in silence as the city crawls past the windows. The streets are too clean, the buildings too still. A painted portrait of control.

Your father’s estate looms ahead like a memory you tried to drown.

White stone, black roof, Iron gates curling like teeth.

They don’t announce you when you arrive.

The doors open.

And there he is.

Admiral Ainsworth. Your father.

He stands at the top of the steps in full uniform, polished to gleam. Not a single hair out of place.

He does not come to you. He waits for you to come to him.

Like always.

You walk forward, every step heavier than the last. You don’t bow. You don’t lower your eyes.

His gaze rakes over you, unreadable. “You look thinner.”

You say nothing.

“I trust the voyage was tolerable?”

Still, silence.

He studies you for a moment longer, then turns. “Come inside. You’ll want to be briefed on what happens next.”

That’s it.

No apology, no welcome, no warmth. Just orders.

You follow him in– but you don’t leave part of yourself on the doorstep this time. You carry it all with you. The kiss, the fire, the sea. The voice that said I’ll find you again.

Because Jake Kiszka may have let you go.

But he’s the only one who ever saw you.

And you’re not done fighting yet.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click.

His office is exactly as you remember it.

Dark mahogany. Maps pinned like trophies. Books no one’s read in years. The air smells like old paper and gun oil.

He doesn’t offer you a seat.

You don’t sit anyway.

The Admiral pours himself a drink. The silence stretches.

“I assume you read my letter,” he says without looking at you.

“I did.”

He turns, glass in hand. “Then you understand why it had to be done.”

“I understand one thing,” you say, voice steady. “You used me.”

He raises a brow. “I positioned you. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.” You take a step forward. “I was a pawn. You handed me over like a bargaining chip and hoped the man you’ve spent years hunting would fall for me. And he did.”

“Which means the strategy worked.”

You stare at him, disbelief flooding your chest.

“I’m your daughter,” you whisper.

“You’re an asset,” he corrects, calm as ever. “A valuable one. Smart. Composed. And capable of evoking loyalty in dangerous men. That makes you rare. That makes you useful.”

Your breath catches.

He sips his drink. “This was never about you. It was about stopping a man who’s bled this coast for years. Who’s taken ships, lives, power. Jake Kiszka is a symbol now. Romanticized– feared. That makes him dangerous. And you were the perfect leverage.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“I hear results.” He sets the glass down, voice hardening. “You survived. That’s more than most. You’re home now. The game is changing, and you have a role to play.”

You shake your head. “I’m done playing your games.”

He walks slowly toward you. “You can hate me if it helps. But don’t forget what that man is. He’s a criminal. He stole you. He kept you aboard that ship for weeks–”

“You let him!”

“–and now you’re so twisted around his lies you can’t see what’s real.”

“I do see it!” you snap. “I saw it the moment he risked everything to protect me from your reach. When he treated me like a person. Not a tactic.”

He laughs, dry and cruel. “He’s a pirate. Pirates lie. That’s their nature.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re the one I can’t trust?”

That lands.

He stills.

And for the first time, his voice drops.

“You think he cares about you? Give him time. When you're no longer useful– he’ll trade you for gold, just like the rest.”

Your eyes burn, “And you already did.”

The silence between you is sharp as broken glass. He doesn't flinch, youu don't look away.

And that’s when you realize– he’s not surprised you’re angry. He expected it. He planned for it. Which means this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The days blur.

Not in the way they did at sea, with salt on your lips and wind in your hair, where danger lived in every gust and freedom tasted like blood and honey.

No, this blur is colder. Stale.

You wake at the same hour every morning.

Eat the same food. Say the same meaningless words to the same polished faces.

They call it recovery. They call it home. But it doesn’t feel like either. The house is too quiet. No crashing waves, no shouting crew, no music.

No Jake.

You try not to look out the windows, but you do anyway– every evening. Toward the harbor. Toward the sea.

There’s never anything there.

You hear nothing from your father for nearly two weeks.

Not a word about Jake. Not a whisper of strategy or outcome. As if the storm that nearly wrecked everything has been filed away and forgotten.

As if you have.

But you know better. This isn’t silence– it’s calculation.

You feel it in the way the servants glance at each other when you enter a room. In the locked drawers of your father’s study. In the sealed correspondence arriving every day by raven or courier.

He’s planning something. You just haven’t been invited to witness it. Not this time.

And Jake? Still nothing. No signal. No message. No reckless miracle in the dark.

You told him not to forget you.

But the silence grows like rot.

At night, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling, breathing shallow in the dark. You remember the way his voice rasped your name like it meant something. The way he looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You remember his hands, his silence, his regret.

And you wonder–

Did you imagine it all? Or is he just waiting for the right time to come back?

Because you’re not sure how much longer you can wait.

The invitation arrives by silver tray.

You don’t need to read it to know who it’s from.

But you do anyway.

The Admiral requests your attendance. A celebration in honor of your safe return. Midwinter’s Eve. Formal. Guests of importance.

You stare at the words until the ink blurs. A celebration. As if your captivity were a triumph.

As if you were the prize.

They send in three seamstresses the next morning. They measure you, drape you in silks, debate colors as if the shade of your suffering might flatter you better in candlelight. You let them fuss and pin, your body numb, your voice quiet.

You’re tired of being dressed up and paraded.

Tired of being a symbol.

You eat dinner in silence. You walk the halls like a ghost. You press your fingers against the windows just to remind yourself the glass is real.

The staff avoids your gaze.

You don’t blame them.

By the time the ball arrives, your nerves feel like fraying thread.

The mansion is alive with motion– ribbons tied, champagne chilled, candles lit by the hundred.

Guests start pouring in just after nightfall. Officers, nobles, traders with teeth behind their smiles. They all want a glimpse of the daughter.

The one who was taken.

The one who survived.

You stay at the top of the stairs too long, hands trembling behind your skirts. The dress they gave you is crimson. A bold color, meant to distract from the rage in your eyes.

When you finally descend, the music halts.

Just for a moment.

Then the room swells again– laughter, wine, the dull hum of politics behind every compliment.

You feel like a ghost wearing someone else’s name.

People touch your arm, ask if you’re well, congratulate you for being brave. And you smile and nod and imagine setting the velvet curtains on fire.

Your father finds you before midnight.

He’s dressed in full regalia– medals, cuffs, a mask of easy control.

He smiles. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m wilting,” you mutter.

He chuckles like you’ve made a charming joke. “I thought this would lift your spirits. Give you a reminder of your place. Of what you’ve come home to.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” you say flatly. “No matter how hard I try.”

He leans closer. “Make the most of tonight. There may be more important uses for you soon.”

You go still. “What does that mean?”

But he’s already turning away, smiling for a diplomat from the Eastern provinces. And you’re left there, clutching your empty glass, heart hammering in your chest. Because this isn’t just a party.

It’s a show of power.

And you’re the most valuable thing in the room.

A ribboned, painted reminder that he always wins.

For now.

You feel him before you see him.

A current, slipping through the ballroom like something electric. The music swells. Another waltz. The fourth one in the last hour. You’re barely listening.

Your feet ache, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your lungs feel too small for the weight in your chest.

You turn to escape to the gallery when you freeze. A new guest is stepping through the open double doors.

Dressed in black. Elegant but muted. No medals, no insignia.

Just a mask covering half his face.

But you know him.

By the way he moves– confident, fluid, a little too relaxed for a room full of enemies. By the way his eyes– sharp, dark, alive– sweep the crowd once before landing on you.

The rest of the world blurs.

You don’t breathe.

Jake.

Your pulse slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. No one else reacts. To them, he’s just another foreign diplomat. Or a low-ranking noble come to curry favor.

But to you, he’s the sea personified.

Untamed, unwelcome, and wholly yours.

His lips twitch beneath the mask when he sees you standing there, frozen like the glass in your hand. You drop your gaze fast, heart racing. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. Your father is somewhere nearby.

So are his guards.

And Jake just walked into the lion’s mouth smiling. You don’t move. Not until you feel a presence at your side.

He’s there.

Just behind you.

Close enough that his breath brushes your ear when he speaks.

“I told you I’d find you.”

You nearly drop your glass. But you don’t. Instead, your voice comes out hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Too late.”

You glance around– no one’s paying attention. Not yet. But they will. Soon.

“What are you doing?” You whisper.

His voice is low, steady, but laced with something wild. “Making good on a promise.”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. “You’ll be caught.”

“I’ve slipped through worse nets.”

“You could die.”

“I won't,” he says softly.

The music changes again. People move around you in glittering waves.

And in the middle of it all, Jake Kiszka stands beside you, cloaked in velvet and danger, risking everything for a single moment.

For you.

part five out soon! <3

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