Jake Kiszka’s Baby Mama (real)

she/her/they. 26. +18 only, mdni ✺ everything i write is fiction and does not represent the people i am writing about ✺

[jacketkiszka]

Greta Van Fleet Masterlist

✺ everything i write is fiction and does not represent the real people i am writing about ✺

♡ - SMUT 18+

☆ - ANGST

❀ - FLUFF

⋆ Pretty Boy ♡ (one shot)

⋆ The Sea Remembers ♡ (one shot)

⋆ Chasing Shadows ♡ ❀

⋆ Tongue Tied ☆ ♡ ❀ (WIP)

⋆ The Masque ♡ (one shot)

⋆ Only You Can Set Me Free ☆ ♡ (one shot)

[hailthegodsong]

He is unbelievably sexy

[jacketkiszka]

Chasing Shadows

Childhood Best Friend Josh Kiszka x f!Reader

Word Count: 8.8K

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content 18+ !! mentions of the death of reader’s parent + parent with dementia (not detailed), alcohol consumption, fingering, oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, overstimulation, he cums in his pants

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

The house smells like cardboard and freshly repainted walls, and yet, somewhat still like home. Every sound you hear is like replaying a memory. The tap of a loose shutter, the faint creak of the hallway floorboards, all reminders of the life you lived here. You run your hand along the banister, and it feels smaller than you remember, the way everything does when you see it for the first time as an adult.

There are boxes everywhere. Some half-filled, half-forgotten, labeled things like KITCHEN and BOOKS. You’ve packed away the easier rooms. The kitchen, your parents room, their office, but one door remains closed at the end of the hall. Your old bedroom. You know it has to be done, but can hardly bring yourself to open the door.

You can already picture the faint outlines on the walls where posters used to hang, the dent in the carpet where your bed once sat. You aren’t sure what will hurt more, finding everything just as you left it, or finding it emptied. When you finally turn the knob, the air inside smells faintly of lavender and dust. There’s a quiet stillness to it, like the room has been holding its breath, waiting for you to come home.

To your surprise, it is exactly as you remembered it. Your pink bed spread laid neatly atop your mattress, a book you hadn’t thought about in years sits on your bedside table as if waiting for a seventeen year old you to pick it up again. The posters still hang perfectly imperfect on the walls. Some of the thumbtacks have fallen out, causing a few to sag. As warm as this nostalgia is making you feel, you know you have to get to work. After all, you’ve only got a couple days left to get everything packed up and hauled to a storage unit before the house is sold.

You start with the closet. At first, it’s just coats, bags, and out of style shoes. Typical things left behind when someone goes off to college. You do find a few good band shirts that you definitely thought you had brought to the dorms with you and lost. You pack those in a box of things to keep. As the contents of the closet clear out, you uncover a cardboard box, already sealed and labeled with permanent marker, just like the ones out in the car. One you would have packed about nine years ago, the last time you were here. You read the label.

JOSH

You almost don’t look inside, trying to save yourself the heartache, but your fingers move anyway. Old concert tickets, gifts, and photos fill the box. You pull out the stack of printed photos, and there he is. Grinning, gap-toothed, with a smear of chocolate icing on his chin. His eleventh birthday. Another picture, both of you in matching pajamas sitting inside a blanket fort made from his parents’ couch. Then more recent ones: you, with eyeliner bats drawn on your cheeks, him with an arm slung around your shoulders. The two of you standing beneath the maple tree in your front yard, surrounded by gold leaves. His smile is softer than you remember.

You close the lid of the box. You even think about throwing them away, but you can’t. Somehow, even after all this time, it doesn’t feel right to let him go.

You set the box aside and sink down on the edge of your old bed. The mattress sags under your weight, softer than you remember. Everything here seems to have given just a little. Through the window, the late afternoon light filters through the maple leaves out front, flickering gold across the wallpaper your mom helped you pick out in tenth grade. It looks exactly the same, and that’s the hardest part.

You were gone for nine years. Almost a decade of birthdays missed, of holidays politely declined, of calls that grew shorter until they stopped altogether. You told yourself it was the distance. The job, the city, the way life has a habit of moving forward whether you’re ready or not. But standing here, surrounded by the smell of your old room, you know better. It wasn’t the distance. It was avoidance.

Your mother passed away seven years ago. She had been suffering from an illness you didn’t know about until it was too late. You didn’t come home then. You’d been at college a couple of years at that point and when she was gone, it had solidified there was nothing here for you anymore. Your father stayed in the house but your already strained relationship with him grew further apart as the both of you distanced yourselves in your grieving. Now he is the one needing to be cared for, his mind slipping away in pieces. Sometimes he remembers you, sometimes not. The assisted living home is nice enough. You tell yourself he’s comfortable there.

You only came back because the house had to be sold. Because there were things to pack, to sort, to throw away. Because someone had to do it, and there’s no one left but you.

Downstairs, the kitchen clock ticks steadily, counting out the quiet hours of the day. You pack more boxes into the trunk of your car, and use the last bit of your packing tape on one of the boxes of books from your father’s office. You decide it wouldn't be the worst thing to go on a supply run, drop a load of boxes off at the storage unit, and get a little bit of air.

You grab your keys from the counter, your fingers brushing the old ceramic jack-o-lantern your mom used to set out every October. Its paint is chipped, the orange fading to a dull rust, but you leave it where it sits. The house feels too empty without at least one familiar face smiling back. Outside, the wind stirs the trees, and a handful of leaves skitter across the porch steps as you lock the door behind you.

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

It’s just a quick errand, in and out. Packing tape, bubble wrap, maybe a few more boxes if the stationary aisle has any. The grocery store is almost empty when you arrive. The automatic doors sigh open, letting out a gust of cinnamon-scented air. It’s just a seasonal marketing trick, but it hits something deep anyway. The smell of October. The sound of shopping carts squeaking over linoleum, muffled conversation drifting down the aisles. It’s all so ordinary, yet feels almost foreign after the silence of the house.

You move briskly, trying to stay in work mode and find the packing tape. You linger too long in the candy aisle, debating getting a bag to snack on at your motel. Yes, you could’ve stayed at your parents house while you cleaned it out, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. A little girl passes by with her mother, chattering about trick-or-treat costumes. You can’t remember the last time Halloween meant anything more to you than a date on a calendar. At your apartment back home, you didn’t get any trick-or-treaters, and none of the homes or businesses on your street ever put out decorations. It didn’t have the Halloween magic you remembered from your childhood.

You grab a bag of your favorite Halloween candies and turn toward the checkout lane, nearly colliding with someone’s shopping cart.

“Whoa, sorry!” a familiar voice says, warm and startled.

You freeze.

“Y/N?”

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

He hasn’t changed much. He looks taller, or maybe it’s just the curled hair sitting high above his head that makes him look that way, but it’s him. His smile hits before your mind fully catches up, that easy, gap-toothed grin that you used to think could fix anything.

“Josh,” you manage, somehow breathless. It’s as if you’ve seen a ghost.

He abandons his cart to pull you into a tight hug, despite not having seen you in years. It is such a Josh thing to do, it makes your heart warm just thinking about it. He pulls away from you, but leaves his hands on each of your shoulders, sizing you up. “Wow, how have you been? You look… wow. I thought my brain was playing tricks on me for a second.” His eyes flick to your basket, filled with what is very obviously moving supplies. “Wait, are you moving back?”

The question comes with an honest brightness, like there’s an answer he’s hoping for.

You force a small smile. “No, my dad moved into assisted living, so I’m packing up the house.”

His expression softens immediately. He steps back, thoughtfully giving you space. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine. You couldn’t have.”

There’s a weighted pause. His gaze lingers a little longer, as if he’s seeing you and every past version of you all at once.

You look down at his very full cart, piled to the brim with beer, solo cups, and more beer. A chuckle escapes you, finding the familiarity of this situation hilarious. “Let me guess, you’re getting ready for another classic Josh Kiszka rager?”

The toothy grin returns to his face, as if the awkward encounter never phased him. “You’ve always known me better than anyone.”

Your cheeks heat. What a thing to say to someone you haven’t seen or heard from in almost a decade. You don’t respond, just giving a shy, polite smile as indication that you’re still present.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “if you need a break from packing, I’d love to see you there. It’s, um… it’s at my parents’ house, if you still remember where to find it. I don’t still live there or anything, they just… well, it’s bigger than my place, and you know they love Halloween,” He rambles on, showing the first sign of nerves you’ve seen from him this entire encounter.

Your head shakes automatically, before you have time to second-guess your response. “Oh, I don’t know—”

“It’s nothing crazy, no costumes or anything. I know you don’t like big parties, but we’re old now, so they die down a lot faster. My parents would love to see you again. You should come by, for old times’ sake? If you have time.”

Your heartstrings pull tight, willing you to be near him again, against all your better judgement. It’s that smile. The same one that once talked you into late-night bike rides, swimming in the creek on summer days, trouble that always ended with laughter. You find yourself saying, “Maybe.”

He tilts his head, grinning. “I’ll take a ‘maybe.’”

And just like that, it feels like the years between you both collapse into a single heartbeat.

He gives your shoulder a light tap as he turns to go to the checkout. “Good to see you, Y/N.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “You too.”

Outside, the sky is already slipping toward evening, painted in shades of rust and violet. You slide the tape and boxes into the passenger seat, but your hands linger on the steering wheel, unmoving.

You could go to the house, finish packing, close another box. You could go back to your motel room with your bag of candy and cry yourself to sleep again.

Or, you could get dressed, say hello to some old friends, and leave this place in a few days with at least one good memory, rather than only bad ones.

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

The mirror in your motel room is streaked with age, and whatever has been splattered on it since the last time it was cleaned, if it ever has been cleaned. You stand before it anyway, holding up a few half-hearted options. You didn’t bring much; jeans, a sweater, nothing that would fit for a Halloween party. While searching through the options, you suddenly remember the Smashing Pumpkins sweatshirt that you found in your old closet and stashed in your “keep” box. You thank your past self for thinking to bring the box in from your car. It wasn’t that you were in a bad area, per se, but you still didn’t like the idea of leaving boxes containing the very few things you actually wanted to remember your childhood by unattended in a motel parking lot. You pull your hair into something that looks deliberate enough and grab the makeup bag you haven’t touched in weeks but brought anyways. When you meet your own reflection again, you look almost like yourself.

You grab your phone, keys, and head out to the Kiszkas’ home.

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

Josh’s parents still live in the same house at the end of Walnut Street, the one with the porch that always smelled like cider in the fall and fresh-cut grass in the summer. As you turn down the street, your headlights catch the line of parked cars and the flicker of string lights through the trees. Music drifts faintly from somewhere out back, probably a playlist that you’re certain Josh’s twin brother Jake spent hours curating to perfectly fit the vibe.

You park a few houses away. For a moment, you just sit there, hands on the steering wheel, watching your breath fog in the cool air. Then someone laughs, loud and genuine, and you recognize it as the same laugh you heard a hundred times as a kid from this very porch. You smile before you mean to.

The door is already open when you climb the steps. The smell hits you first; cider, pumpkin beer. And then: warmth. The kind that has nothing to do with temperature.

“Y/N?”

It’s Mrs. Kiszka, Josh’s mom, her hair more silver now, but her eyes lighting up exactly as you remember. She wraps you in a hug before you can even answer.

“Oh honey, look at you! It’s been, goodness, what, ten years?”

“Nine,” you murmur, smiling into her shoulder. “Hi, Karen.”

You step inside, and the house feels like stepping into a photograph. The same floral couch, the same crooked family pictures on the wall. The fireplace mantle still holds the carved wooden owl Josh made in eighth grade. You remember it because you helped paint it.

From the kitchen comes a familiar voice. “Y/N? No way!”

It’s Sam, Josh’s younger brother, still wearing that same sweet but mischievous youngest-child grin. Sam was only about 15 the last time you saw him. He’s grown into such a handsome adult, your heart aches that you missed any of it. He pulls you into a quick hug. “Didn’t think we’d ever see you back in this zip code.”

You laugh. “Guess I missed the memo on how to disappear properly.”

“Josh didn’t tell us you were in town!”

“He didn’t know until today,” you admit, your eyes crinkling in a sheepish apology.

Sam glances toward the backyard, where the sliding door glows with string lights. “He’s out back. Go say hi before him and Jake get to fighting over the music. We’ll catch up later.”

You smile and nod, heart ticking faster than you’d like to admit.

Outside, the yard is strung with classy looking amber bulbs, the kind that hum faintly in the cool night air. A few small groups are scattered near the fire pit. Mostly people from town that you only half-remember, their faces older but still carrying the shape of how they looked all those years ago. The air out back is thick with smoke, laughter weaving through it like music.

And then, there’s Josh.

Standing near the fire, holding a beer and talking animatedly with someone you don’t recognize. He catches sight of you mid-sentence, stops, and his face lights up, almost brighter than it did when he saw you in the grocery store.

“You came,” he says, a little breathless, like he’s genuinely surprised.

You shrug, but you can feel your cheeks warming at his reaction. “Didn’t want to leave you unsupervised with all that alcohol.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Some things never change.”

Maybe they don’t. Maybe that’s what scares you. Life went on here, just the same as it always had been, except without you. There was a time in your life where you thought change was good, necessary even, but when you looked through the glass door at the living room where you had the best sleepovers, the dining table where you watched the twins blow out years worth of birthday candles, your home away from home, you wondered if moving on had been the wrong thing to do. For the first time in a long time, you started to regret leaving.

He gestures toward the table. “Want something to drink? We’ve got beer and cider. The good kind.” His eyebrows waggle, as he surely remembers how much you always loved warm apple cider.

You agree and take the cider, your fingers brushing for a moment longer than necessary as he hands it to you. The air between you feels charged, not electric exactly, just alive.

Someone calls for him from across the yard, and he grins. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ve got to introduce you to everyone who swore you were my imaginary friend after you moved away.”

You laugh, shaking your head, watching as he disappears into the crowd. And for a heartbeat, you think maybe you’re not just visiting the past. Maybe you’re finding your way back to it.

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

You drift toward the fire pit, cider in hand, the warmth of it seeping into your fingers. The night air smells like smoke and something sweet baking in the kitchen. People laugh in bursts, you see friends and neighbors you somewhat recognize from long ago, their names coming back in flickers.

Someone waves from across the yard. “Y/N? Is that you?”

You blink. “Sarah?”

She grins, holding out her arms. “I knew it! Oh my god!”

The hug is instant and easy, even though it’s been years. She had been a couple grades below you. Best friends with Josh’s sister, if you remember right. Easily one of the sweetest people you knew back then. Even though you were Josh’s friend, when Ronnie would have Sarah over, sometimes the three of you would ditch the boys and talk about girl stuff in Ronnie’s room. Usually that was if the twins were fighting over something stupid and everyone had gotten fed up with it. You trade the usual questions: How have you been? Where are you living now? You give vague answers. It’s easier that way. You’re not sure that what you’re doing these days counts as living, anyway.

From the porch, someone shouts, “Hey, who invited the city girl?”

You glance up to see Jake, holding a beer and grinning wide. Even though he’s Josh’s identical twin, the two of them look nothing alike anymore. Jake had finally filled out, his hair in soft waves down to his chest. Even now, in his late twenties, he still looks like the rockstar you remember. He and Josh and Sam used to have this band, Greta Van Fleet. Sam’s best friend Danny ended up filling in for the drummer one time and then it just stuck. Their band was so fun back when you were in school together. You make a mental note to ask Jake if he’s still making music, once all of the re-introductions have settled.

For now, you roll your eyes. “Still hilarious, I see.”

He laughs. “Still easily riled up, I see.”

Before you can answer, Josh reappears. Emerging from the crowd with that same unhurried confidence, a faint flush appearing on his cheeks from the firelight. He has another cup of spiked cider in his hands, along with a beer for himself. “For backup,” he says, smiling when he sees you eye it.

The group around the fire grows louder, so you and Josh wander toward the edge of the yard, away from the noise, toward the old wooden fence that borders the Kiszka property. The wood is weathered now, soft gray instead of the honey brown it was when you were kids.

“You remember that one Halloween?” Josh says suddenly, as if reading your mind. “The year we dressed as superheroes?”

You laugh. “You mean when your cape caught on the fence post and you cried for twenty minutes?”

“I did not cry,” he protests, grinning.

“Uh-huh.”

He shakes his head, smiling into his drink. “You were the only one who came back for me, you remember that? Everyone else went ahead.”

“We were already falling behind,” you remind him.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Still.”

For a moment, the noise behind you fades. It’s just the two of you standing there, firelight flickering across his face. The years lost between you hang unsaid and heavy in the air.

You take a sip of cider, trying to ground yourself. “So, you stayed,” you say quietly. “In town, I mean.”

He nods. “Yeah. Tried leaving for a while. I went to college out of town after my first year, but that didn’t last long. This place just… pulled me back.” He glances at you. “Guess I like knowing where the streets end. It feels steady.”

You smile faintly. “I used to think that was boring.”

“And now?”

You hesitate. “Now it sounds kind of peaceful.”

Something flickers in his expression, not necessarily surprise, but something softer. “You always were restless,” he says. “I used to think you’d end up on another planet, not just another city.”

You laugh, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to stay away this long.”

He nods. “Life happens.” Then, quieter, “But I’m glad it brought you back.”

You pause slightly at the way he says it. It’s not a passing comment, but like something he’s wanted to be able to say for a long time.

From the porch, Mrs. Kiszka calls, “Josh, honey, come grab more plates from the kitchen!”

He groans softly, eyes still on you. “Duty calls.”

You smile. “Go be a good host.”

He starts toward the house, then glances back, walking backward a few steps. “Don’t disappear, okay?”

“I’ll try,” you say. You wonder if his message holds more than one meaning.

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

The party stretches into the night, a blur of warmth and laughter. Someone starts a playlist that leans more nostalgic, filled to the brim with songs you danced to at cheesy high school mixers. Every once in a while you catch Josh’s eye across the room while you’re making your rounds, a silent, familiar tether.

You wander back into the kitchen at one point, where Mrs. Kiszka insists you take a plate of pumpkin bread for the road. You feign polite protest, but end up eating two of the slices anyway, the cinnamon sugar crumbling onto your fingers. She has always believed home-cooked treats are “good for the soul.” She hugs you again, her voice soft with nostalgia.

“Josh used to mope for weeks after you left, you know,” she says lightly, as if she doesn’t realize the way it hits. You laugh it off, but your heart stirs all the same.

At some point, you lose track of how many drinks you’ve had. Not enough to be careless, but enough that everything feels a little softer at the edges. The spiked cider hums pleasantly in your veins.

Josh’s brothers crack loads of jokes, teasing you like nothing has changed. You find yourself laughing more than you expected. Real, unguarded laughter. You’d almost forgotten how that sounded coming out of your own mouth.

By the time you return to the backyard, the fire’s burned low. A few guests have gone home, leaving behind half-empty bottles and the soft buzz of lingering conversation. Josh is sitting on the back steps, elbows on his knees, a beer dangling loosely from one hand. When he spots you. He grins, lazy and a little tipsy.

“I was starting to think you ghosted me,” he says.

“Karen held me hostage with pumpkin bread,” you reply, holding up the plate.

He laughs, patting the spot beside him. “A tragic fate. Better sit down before she finds you again.”

You join him, the wooden steps cool from the night air. The sounds of the night fold around you; crickets, distant chatter, the soft crackle of the dying fire. He passes you his beer, and you take a sip before you think twice.

“Still cheap beer,” you tease.

“Still judgmental,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder lightly. The contact feels small but dangerous, a memory of a closeness you used to take for granted.

He looks out at the yard, voice low. “You know, I didn’t think you’d actually come tonight.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know if you missed being around. You always seemed… distant. Even before you left.”

You’re quiet for a moment. The honesty in his tone catches you off guard. “I guess I was,” you admit. “I just… needed to get out. I thought if I stayed, I’d never figure out who I was supposed to be.”

“And did you?”

You huff a soft laugh. “Not even close.”

That makes him smile, not in a teasing way, but tenderly. “You always thought you had to go somewhere else to have more. I never understood that.”

You look at him, the firelight catching on the curve of his jaw, the faint stubble there. “You never wanted more?”

“Of course I did,” he says. “I just wanted it here.”

Your breath catches. Barely, but he notices. His gaze flicks to your mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes.

The air between you shifts. Heavy. Charged. You don’t even know how it happened, but you’re leaning in, looking into his big brown eyes.

“Josh,” you murmur, your pulse skipping, “I think we should…” You trail off.

“Yeah.” His voice comes out rough, unfinished. But he doesn’t pull away.

The world feels very still, the kind of stillness that comes just before the leaves fall, just before everything changes…

Then Jake bursts out of the back door, clapping Josh on the shoulder. “Hey! We’re doing s’mores before everyone leaves. You in?” Sam trots out after him, arms full of s’mores supplies.

“Yeah, you guys go ahead, we’ll be right there.” His tone is casual again. His eyes find yours in the flickering light, a look that says I almost kissed you.

You wonder if the same look is painted across your face, since Josh springs up and holds out his hand to you. “Has anyone shown you around the house yet? It’s mostly the same, but I thought you might like to see it all again.”

You take his hand and smile brightly “I would love that, but… you don’t want s’mores? The Josh I know would never turn down marshmallows.”

“Oh, Y/N. We are not missing the s’mores. But it’ll take those idiots a while to get the fire back up again. I want to show you something.”

He leads you by the hand into the house and up a familiar staircase. The light from the backyard fades as you climb, replaced by the soft, golden glow of the hallway sconces. The air smells exactly as you remember. You can hear faint laughter from downstairs, muffled now, as if it belongs to another world entirely.

Josh pauses, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “You still know your way around?”

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “I could walk this hallway blindfolded.”

He smiles, that small, knowing smile that used to undo you. “Then you remember which room was mine.”

Your stomach flips as he stops outside the second door on the left. It’s open just enough for the warm lamplight to spill into the hall. The sight is jarring in its familiarity. The same posters, the same shelves. A little older, dustier, but still him.

He steps inside first, tugging you gently after him. “Mom kept it pretty much the same. Guess she hoped I’d move back in someday.” He laughs softly, a little self-conscious. “I kind of wish I did too.”

You move slowly, your fingers brushing across the spines of old books, the edge of a model airplane, a faded photo frame of three boys at the lake — Jake and Josh and Sam, sunburned and smiling.

“Feels smaller now,” you murmur.

Josh leans against the doorframe, watching you with that half-tilted expression that says he’s not just seeing the room, he’s seeing you in it. “You grew up,” he says quietly. “Everything feels smaller when we do.”

You turn back to him, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The house creaks faintly beneath the quiet. Downstairs, someone cheers. The sound of laughter leaks up through the floorboards and then fades again, leaving the two of you suspended in something tender and unspoken.

He takes a step closer. “I used to sit right there,” he says, nodding toward the window seat. “Waiting for you to bike over after school. Half the time, you’d be late.”

You laugh softly. “I liked making an entrance.”

“I noticed,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip.

You take a slow breath. “You always waited for me.”

His eyes soften. “Still am, I think.”

The words hang between you. Fragile, honest, electric. He closes the last of the distance, his hand coming to rest at your waist. He smells faintly of smoke and cider and the earthy, warm cologne he wears that never really left your memory.

“Josh…” you whisper, but it’s not a protest.

He hesitates, his thumb brushing against the hem of your shirt, a silent question. When you don’t move away, he leans in, and the space between you vanishes.

The kiss is slow at first. Careful, almost reverent. Like he’s afraid to break whatever spell this night has cast. Then you move closer, your fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulder, and he exhales against your lips, the sound low and breathless. The years fall away. There’s no distance, no missed calls, no sadness. Only this.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. The sound of the party drifts faintly from below, muffled by the door and the heartbeat thundering in your chest.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “You’re going to make me forget about those s’mores.”

You smile against his mouth. “You’re the one who brought me up here.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “And I’m really glad I did.”

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

You both stay there for a moment, neither of you saying anything. The world feels narrowed to the soft hum of the lamp and the sound of your breathing. When he finally pulls back, his thumb traces your cheekbone once, gently, before he lets his hand fall away.

From downstairs, Sam’s voice carries up the stairwell. “Hey, Josh! Are you guys hiding or making out?”

You both freeze, then burst out laughing at the same time. Quiet and breathless, trying not to get caught.

Josh shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “He’s never changed.”

You smile. “Neither have you.”

He grins, holding out his hand again. “Come on. Before they eat all the s’mores.”

Downstairs, the party has wound down, though a few clusters of people linger near the fire pit. Someone’s passed out on the couch, and Mrs. Kiszka has begun the quiet end-of-night clean-up, collecting empty bottles in a recycling bin. Josh jumps in to help, and you follow, stacking any left behind cups and paper plates for the trash.

The rest of the party blurs in a pleasant haze. You find yourself standing near the sliding door, watching the fire burn low again, when Josh appears beside you.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… a lot of memories for one night.”

He smiles. “Yeah. That’s kind of the thing about this house. It doesn’t know how to forget.”

Something in his voice makes your throat tighten. Before you can answer, he says, “Hey, it’s late. Let me walk you home?”

You blink. “Walk me home?”

He grins, easy and expectant. “Yeah, I mean, I know you’re a big grown up city girl now but I can’t let a lady walk home alone.”

It hits you like a soft punch to the gut. You shake your head. “I’m not staying at the house. I’m just here to pack up. I’m staying at that motel on 15th and Hurst.” For the first time tonight, Josh looks disappointed. Like there was an expectation that you being back meant everything was going to be normal again. It wasn’t.

“Oh.” He said, then quieter, “Right. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Guess I just thought… I don’t know. That you’d be there.”

“It’s not my house anymore. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

He looks away, into the now empty living room. “Still feels like it should be… I haven’t been by in a while. The maple tree in front’s probably huge by now.”

There’s something in his tone, wistful, a little sad.

“Do you want to see it?” you ask.

He glances at you, surprised. “Now?”

“Why not? It’s only a few blocks.” You smile faintly. “Besides, you can’t walk me to the motel. That’s way too far.”

That earns a soft laugh from him. “Fair point.”

You grab your keys from the counter and wave a quick goodbye to Mrs. Kiszka, who just smiles knowingly and tells you both “be safe.”

Outside, the night air has grown cold and smells like wood smoke and damp leaves. The street is mostly quiet now, the glow of porch lights fading one by one.

Josh falls into step beside you, hands in his pockets. “You sure it’s okay if we stop by?”

You nod. “It’s like you said earlier. For old times’ sake,” You smile. “I think I’ve missed this town. It feels different than I remember. It’s nothing like the city.”

He chuckles. “Told you. Everything feels smaller when you come back.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, watching the way his warm breath makes clouds in the cold air. For a moment, you wonder what he’s thinking… if he’s remembering the same things you are.

The two of you turn the corner onto your old street. The houses here are quieter, older. The kind that wear their history on their sleeve in creaky boards and peeling paint. Your old house sits halfway down, the porch light burned out, the windows dark.

You stop at the end of the driveway. “Here it is.”

Josh exhales softly beside you. “Wow.” He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, brows furrowing slightly. “Doesn’t look quite the same anymore.”

“It doesn’t feel the same, either.”

He tilts his head. “You gonna miss it?”

You think about it. “I’m not sure. Sometimes I think I already do, but other times not so much.”

You stand there together in the cool October air, staring at the house, a shell of what it used to be. Somewhere in the trees, an owl hoots.

Josh looks over at you then, his voice quiet. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

You smile. “You know how you talked about your mom leaving your room intact?”

He nods silently, looking to you for more.

“I think mine was doing the same. I thought… I thought it would be empty, but it’s not. I wonder if she was hoping I’d come back.”

A look of knowing sadness washes over him. “I miss your mom,” he says gently, like he’s trying to inflict the least amount of damage possible with his confession.

“I miss her too.” You agree.

“Have you visited her yet? Since you’ve been in town?”

You shake your head, still looking up at the house, hands in your pockets. You were going to visit her grave, of course… It just felt too hard. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t putting it off to the last minute.

“I have,” he says, feebly.

You turn to look at him, eyebrows raised. “You visited her grave?”

He nods, looking something like a dog that’s been caught digging in the trash. Like you’re going to scold him for saying the kindest thing he could possibly say. For being Josh.

It’s quiet for a long moment, both of you attempting to contain your shivers and looking for something to say.

“Josh… do you… want to come inside? I haven’t packed up the room entirely yet, so it’s still pretty much the same.” you say, shyly.

Josh’s face lights up at this and he agrees to come inside. Honestly, it would be good for both of you to get out of the cold for a while. You reach into your purse for the keys and let the two of you inside. Thankfully you had the foresight to leave the heat running when you left this afternoon.

In your room, Josh’s eyes wander in amazement. “I never thought I would see this place again,” he whispers. The sight of him awestruck brings a smile to your face. You wonder if this is how you looked in his room a few hours ago.

You open the closet to grab one of the coats you saw hung up earlier, since the thin sweatshirt you had on now had done you zero favors outside. When your closet door swings open, you hear a gasp behind you. Josh’s eyes are honed in on the cardboard box left on the closet floor, aptly labeled JOSH. You curse yourself for your incessant need to label moving boxes.

“What’s this?” He says, a sly grin on his face as he practically pushes past you to retrieve it.

“No! It’s nothing!” You yell, a giggle bubbling out of you. You try to swipe it out of his hands but he’s already on the bed, prying the box open.

“If it’s nothing, why are you trying to take it from me?” He makes an excellent point. Before you can think of a comeback, he’s pulling all of the contents out. You sit on the bed next to him, feeling embarrassed at his discovery.

He pulls out the same stack of photos you were looking at earlier and practically squeals.

“You boxed all of these up to keep?” His eyes wide, lit up like a kid in a candy store. “Oh my god, does this mean you have a crush on me?” He teases.

“NO.” you deflect, poorly. “I found this box this morning. This was from when I left for college.”

His teasing tone shifts slightly. “You didn’t take them with you? Why?”

You didn't know how to answer that at first. “Maybe I didn’t want to have a crush on you anymore.” You use his words back against him, halfway truthful.

“So you did have a crush on me?” He smirks.

“I- Well, I mean who didn’t? You were sweet and funny and in a band… and my best friend…” You wonder if you somehow telepathically turned the heat up to 100 degrees because man is it suddenly hot in here.

“and now?” He says quietly, nearly a whisper.

“I…” the words fail you.

“You seemed to like it when I kissed you earlier.” He replies, tentatively.

His words hang in the air between you, warm and uncertain. You can see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, like he’s afraid he’s said too much.

“I did,” you admit softly. “I did like it.”

For a beat, neither of you moves. The only sound is the soft hum of the heater and the whisper of wind outside the window. Then, almost imperceptibly, Josh’s shoulders drop with relief, or something close to it, and he smiles that lopsided smile that’s always undone you.

He sets the photos aside carefully, as if they’re something sacred. “Then maybe,” he murmurs, leaning in “I should do it again.”

You don’t answer, you don’t need to. He closes the distance between you, one hand finding your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek almost as if to make sure you’re really there. The kiss starts gentle, tentative, and then deepens when you lean into him. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like remembering, like all the years you lost folding themselves back into a single moment.

You break apart only when breathing becomes necessary. His forehead rests against yours, both of you smiling in disbelief at the same time.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” You breathe.

“Well, we did. Like, two hours ago, remember?” He laughs, his eyes never leaving yours.

A laugh bubbles out of you, and you smack his shoulder. “No, idiot. Why didn’t you ever kiss me back then?”

“I wanted to,” He confesses, voice low and solemn. There’s a lot he’s not saying, but he doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes tells you he felt the same way you did. You were always scared to ruin the friendship, but now… there was no friendship left to ruin. You wonder if things would be different now, had you taken the risk.

“Josh…” you whisper, tentatively. “You know I’m not staying, right? No matter what happens here, this house will be empty and I will be home in my apartment and—”

He cuts you off with his lips. “I know this isn’t permanent. I just… if it’s alright with you, I’ve always wanted this. I’ve always wanted you, Y/N. I have dreamed about kissing you on this bed since I was a teenager and when you left I— I didn’t think I’d ever get to.”

You nod, before pulling him toward you for another kiss. He pushes you backward onto the bed, hovering over you.

"Mmm..." He hums into the kiss, his hands roaming your sides possessively. He breaks the kiss to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and neck, marking you without meaning to. His hips settle between your thighs instinctively. You can feel him hard already through his jeans.

"Y/N..." He groans against your neck, grinding slowly. "I've fantasized about this for so long. About having you underneath me like this." His hands slide under your sweatshirt, palming your breasts through your bra. “Is this okay?”

“Yes… this is perfect,” you whisper, your voice coming out as little more than a shaky breath.

"Perfect..." He whispers back, his voice thick with emotion and desire. He takes your lips again, kissing you deeply as he unhooks your bra with practiced ease. His hands slide underneath to cup your bare breasts properly now. He breaks the kiss only long enough to pull your shirt and bra off completely.

He stares down at your bare body like a starved man who’s just found his first meal in a week. He leans down to press soft, gentle kisses to your sternum and looks up at you through his lashes, asking permission before he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it as he massages the other. A soft moan leaves your lips as you watch him. Your hips rise up to meet his body subconsciously.

He unbuttons your pants and you help him slide them down before he discards them on the floor. He kisses your lower abdomen, his head dropping achingly close to where you want him.

His fingers hook into the bottom of your panties, pulling them to the side and allowing him access to you. He hums with pleasure just at the sight. His lips find you, tongue swirling softly but meticulously over your sweet spot. You groan at the feeling, writhing your hips against his mouth looking for more, trying to soak up any feeling you can get.

You feel him graze your entrance with one finger before he plunges it forward, his tongue never slowing for a second. You moan softly and breathlessly, tightening around him. His fingers are everything you always imagined they’d be. You already feel that heat forming in your core.

He feels it too. His hips grind against the bed, and his cheeks flush red as he works you. His brows furrow together as he puts another finger inside you, curling them up and causing you to mew. He moans softly, strained, the hum sending vibrations through you. You clamp your legs around his head, and he knows you’re close.

His hips continue to writhe against the bed, and he pulls his lips from you, to pant “give it to me,” replacing his tongue with his thumb and pressing hard as he continues the same motion. You didn’t think it could possibly feel any better but it does. You tighten around his fingers and he places his forehead on your thigh, breathless and pleading. “Please, baby, let me have it. Please.”

His begging sends you over the edge, and you pull him along with you. You writhe and moan his name as he bites down on your inner thigh, brows furrowed. A groan escapes him, muffled by your soft skin. He stills his grinding with a shutter and leaves both of you panting and hazy.

Your head rolls back and you’re met with a 15 year old poster above your bed of One Direction. A breathy laugh escapes you, causing Josh’s breath to hitch.

“What’s wrong?” He asks cautiously, worried he’s done something to hurt you, or embarrass himself.

You look down at the sight you dreamed of for years. Josh in your room, on your bed, between your legs. His cheeks are pink and lips swollen. “Do you think we shouldn’t do this here?”

“We can stop, if you’re not comfortable…”

“No it’s not that, it’s just- them.” You giggle, gesturing to the walls.

He looks around the room, dozens of posters of boybands staring back at him. “It does feel a little weird to have them watch…” He laughs breathlessly. “Come on, I have an idea.”

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

He springs off the bed, adjusting himself in his jeans. You pull your sweatshirt back on, sans bra, followed by your damp underwear and jeans. Josh leads you out of the house, kissing and putting his hands on you any chance he gets on the way out, making it clear he isn’t ready to be finished with you.

After you lock up the house, he takes you by the hand and the two of you take off running down the street. A laugh bubbles out of you. You feel weightless and free and… happy. Maybe it’s the post-orgasm haze but you feel like you still belong here, with Josh. Running through the streets, up to no good.

You reach your car and the two of you fall into the backseat. The street in front of you now empty of partygoers cars, and it’s just you and Josh. The way it always should have been.

You wriggle back out of your jeans and he pulls you on top of him. You fall back into each other as if no time has passed. He grips your waist and kisses you like he’s never wanted anything else. He whimpers softly when you grind against his lap, both of you still sensitive from earlier.

You lift off of him, hovering so that he can pull himself free of his own jeans. The shape of him strains against the wet fabric. You look down before meeting his eyes.

“Did you…” You trail off, not sure how to proceed.

“Earlier.” He nods, breathless. “I couldn’t help it, you tasted so good I just—”

You cut him off with your lips pressed to his. “That is so hot.” You reach between you to pull him free, stroking him slowly. He shudders and he pushes up into your hand, encouraging you to keep going.

He looks up at you, his lips parted and pink, eyes desperate. He helps you to pull your panties to the side so that you can sink down onto him. A whimper leaves his lips as you seat him inside you, filling you completely. The sounds he makes stains your memory, and you hope you never forget it. You know you will think of this moment for the rest of your life.

His hands grip your hips as if he’s holding on for dear life, afraid you’ll float away from him again. He pulls you into him, meeting you with deep thrusts. His head rolls back, exposing his veiny neck to you. His brows knit in desperation as he bottoms out in you with each stroke.

You lean back, bracing yourself against the back of the front passenger seat behind you, allowing him to reach new angles within you. He lets out a strained breath watching your body roll atop him. You wonder if he’s committing this to memory, the way you had.

His thumb finds your clit once again and the pressure causes your head to roll back immediately.

“Josh…” You whisper, almost a cry.

“That’s it… Take what you need.” He whispers back, focused on you. He pants loud and sharp, the nails of his other hand gripping tightly on your ass. You wonder if you’ll have half-moon shaped marks there tomorrow.

Your hips rock, legs parting further to take him deeper. He groans loudly, your name leaving his lips with desperation. He feels you tighten around him and his brow furrows. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

The knot in your stomach tightens again, all too familiar. “Josh… I…” You trail off, not needing to finish that sentence to get the point across.

“I know, baby. Me too.” He pants, strained and forced.

“I want you to cum inside me. I want to feel you let go.” You plead.

With that, he does as he’s told, spilling into you with a loud groan. Heat fills you and you feel him go still inside of you, pulsing. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing meticulous, calculated circles as he slowly begins to move in you again, pushing his warmth deeper into you. He feels you tightening around him, so close, he can tell. Quiet whimpers fall from his lips as he tries to contain himself despite how sensitive he is. “Please,” He whispers, “Fuck.”

Your body clamps tight before release washes over you. Your legs shake and your body heaves, his thumb never leaving your sensitive spot, working you through it. His eyes roll back with another soft moan at the feeling of you losing control around him.

“Oh my god, Y/N…” He pants, resting his forehead against your chest.

“Fuck…” you pant back, breathless and at a loss for words.

The two of you catch your breath, drinking in the warm, comfortable silence. You remember a time when you and Josh spent hours in this same comfortable silence. You wonder if you’d ever get back to that place, or if you’d never seen him again once the house was sold and you were back home in the city.

Your heart strings catch at the thought, and he must have felt it too, because he looks up at you with his big brown eyes and asks if everything is okay.

“What’s going to happen when I leave?” You say back.

“What do you want to happen when you leave?”

“I don’t know…” you reply, “but I know I miss you.”

His demeanor softens, a smile creeping across his face. “I miss you too. All the time.”

“Do you think things could go back to the way they were?” You ask, tentatively.

He ponders this a moment, before speaking again.

“No, but I think they could be better. I think tonight has been full of all of the fun parts of our past life together, but without the bad parts. Without the sadness and longing for more. I think it could be like that forever, if you wanted it to.”

You pull him in for a tight hug, tears pricking your eyes. For the first time in as long as you can remember, you think you do want that. You think you want Josh, and this town, and his family and your old friends. You think you want things to resemble the way they were. Not exactly the same, but close enough.

The night hums softly around you, the wind whispering through the trees. You think about all the years you spent running from this place, from the girl you used to be. But now, sitting here in the quiet with Josh’s hand brushing your cheek, you think maybe you had it all wrong.

Maybe love doesn’t have to be loud, or perfect, or planned. Maybe it’s just this. A small town, a slow night, a second chance.

Maybe it’s him.

*ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🕸️⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ *ੈ

[jakeytkiszka]

Over My Dead Body Part One

7.6k words

warnings: death, mentions of death, car crash, dying, refusing to die, arguing with the grim reaper, spooky stuff, seeing things, hearing things, nightmares, kinda coercion into accepting death?, Underworld, one little angry kiss, lemme know if i missed any!

a/n: this is kinda another silly little idea i had for spooky season! it's only 2 parts bcz i can't stfu but i hope yall enjoy it and love it as much as i do! <3

masterlist

The last thing you remember is the sound.

The screech of tires. Shattering glass. The sickening crunch of metal folding in on itself.

You remember the flash of headlights– too bright, too close– your hands white-knuckled on the wheel, your chest locking tight with that final, primal fear before everything went black.

Then the hum. The steady, mechanical beeping.

Now you’re here. Hooked up to wires and tubes, the air heavy with antiseptic and that faint electric buzz from the machines beside your hospital bed.

The light above burns through your eyelids when you blink. Everything is too sharp, too white. The ache behind your eyes pulses in time with your heartbeat.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The voice is smooth. Low. And far too close. Your head snaps toward the sound. A man sits casually in the visitor’s chair, one leg propped on the edge of your bed like he owns the place. His black suit fits like sin, gleaming rings on his fingers catching the harsh light. The open collar of his shirt reveals a pale expanse of chest and a tangle of silver chains that whisper when he moves.

His face… it’s wrong in a way that makes you stare. Too perfect. Too still. Like a statue that decided to start breathing. Eyes dark and cold– eyes that look like they’ve watched entire worlds collapse without blinking.

Your pulse stutters. The monitor tattles on you, beeping faster.

“Who the hell are you?” The words scrape out, half a whisper, half a threat you don’t feel brave enough to make.

He looks almost offended. “I’m Death.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Then you laugh– sharp, humorless. “Sure you are.”

His mouth twists. “You don’t believe me?”

You glance toward the call button, weighing your odds. He doesn’t miss it.

“By all means,” he says, tone dry as ash. “But they won’t see me. No one will.” He leans back in the chair, tilting his head just slightly, that faint smirk curling his lips. “They’ll just think you’ve lost your mind.”

You freeze, fingers hovering over the button.

He sighs, almost bored. “You were supposed to die tonight. Instant. Neat and simple. But here you are.” His gaze drifts over you, curious and irritated all at once. “Alive.”

Your heart kicks harder. The machine keeps pace.

“Yeah, well,” you manage, voice shaking only a little, “guess your schedule’s off.”

That earns a sharp look. His eyes flash, too bright for a second, too inhuman. “I don’t make mistakes.”

“Then maybe you made one now.” You sink back against the mattress, glaring despite the tremor in your hands. “Either way, I’m not dead, so you can take your paperwork and leave.”

Silence stretches, thick and electric. Then he smiles. Slowly. “You’re infuriating.”

“Likewise.”

He studies you like he’s not sure whether to admire you or destroy you. “You shouldn’t be able to talk to me.”

“Lucky me, I guess.”

The smile fades, replaced by something darker. “No,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Unlucky.”

You don’t know why, but the word lands cold in your gut.

A knock jolts you, sharp and ordinary, and when the door opens, the sterile brightness of the hospital floods in. A nurse bustles inside, cheerful, clipboard in hand.

You tear your gaze from the man in the chair– Death, or whatever he is– half expecting him to vanish. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching, that impossible stillness breaking only when he arches an eyebrow.

“Good morning!” the nurse says, too bright. “How are we feeling today?”

You open your mouth, but the words stumble. “Uh–”

“She’s disoriented,” Death murmurs.

You glare at him, but the nurse doesn’t even flinch. “Bit of a scare last night,” the nurse continues, flipping through her notes. “You’re very lucky. The doctors say it’s a miracle, actually. Just a mild concussion. No fractures, no internal bleeding. You’ll probably be sore for a few days, but you’re clear to go home.”

You blink, the words barely registering. “Home?”

She smiles, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “Mhm. Discharge papers will be ready within the hour. Someone must really be looking out for you.”

You feel Death shift beside the bed. The air tightens, sharp with something cold.

The nurse doesn’t notice. “We’ll have you unhooked in just a bit, sweetheart. Rest easy.” She pats your arm gently, then turns and walks out, humming under her breath.

The door closes.And the silence that follows feels like the moment before a storm hits. You don’t dare look at him right away. You can feel him staring. When you finally do, the look on his face could freeze blood. Gone is the smirk, the lazy amusement. His jaw is tight, his eyes fire.

“A miracle,” he repeats, voice low, dangerous. “That’s what they’re calling it?”

You swallow, forcing a shaky laugh. “Guess so. Sorry to disappoint your… harvest schedule.”

His head turns sharply toward you, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. “You should not be here,” he says, and for the first time there’s something beneath the anger– something like disbelief. “You were mine. I felt it.”

The words dig under your skin, make the air feel too thin. “Yeah, well, guess I slipped through your fingers.”

He stands. The movement is slow, deliberate, and the temperature in the room seems to drop with it. The shadows near the walls stretch, like they’re leaning toward him.

“No one slips through.” His voice isn’t human now, echoed, layered with something vast and ancient that your mind doesn’t want to understand.

You grip the blanket tighter, pulse hammering in your throat. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He leans closer, bracing a hand on the rail of your bed. His presence hums through the air, heavy, magnetic. “You don’t belong in this room. You don’t belong in this world anymore.”

“Too bad,” you whisper, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “I kind of like breathing.”

He studies you for a long, terrible moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Then softer, almost curious, “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you move.

The air feels brittle, humming with static and cold. You can hear the faint tick of the heart monitor, but even that sound seems distant– like it’s trying not to draw attention.

His hand still rests on the metal railing of your bed, fingers adorned with those polished rings that glint with a dull, unnatural sheen. His expression has shifted again, not furious, not mocking, just still. Watching. Calculating.

Then, without looking away, he murmurs,

“Enjoy your miracle while it lasts.”

You open your mouth to say something– anything– but the room seems to fold in on itself. The shadows pull tighter, the hum of the machines warps into a low ringing tone.

And then he’s gone.

No sound. No motion. Just absence.

The air rushes back into your lungs like you’d been holding your breath the whole time. The temperature crawls upward, warmth returning slowly to your fingers. The monitor’s beeping steadies again.

You glance around, half expecting him to be leaning against the wall or perched on the chair again, smirking. But the room is empty. Just you. Just the machines.

For a moment, you think you imagined it all.

But the faint scent of smoke and something cold– like rain on stone– lingers in the air.

You sink back into the bed, dragging a shaking hand down your face. The blanket rustles under your fingers, grounding you in something real. And you lie there, staring at the sterile ceiling, every light in the room suddenly too bright, too alive, too temporary.

—

The world feels too bright. Every color screams. The sunlight off the hospital windows claws at your eyes. People talk and laugh and exist, and all of it feels… wrong.

You sign the discharge forms. The pen trembles in your hand. The nurse smiles, chirps something about a “miracle recovery.” You mumble a thank-you that tastes like metal and walk out before she can see your hands shaking.

The air outside bites– too cold, too clean. You should feel alive.

You don’t.

—

Your apartment greets you with stale air and silence. The key sticks in the lock. You shove it harder than you need to, mutter something under your breath, and the sound echoes back too loud, like the room’s listening. You flip every light switch on your way to the living room. Too bright. Still not enough.

You sit on the couch, and try to breathe.

You’re fine.

You’re fine.

The TV hums to life, static crackling before the image sharpens to a news anchor mid-sentence. The sound glitches, drawn out, distorted, like someone dragging metal teeth across glass. You grab the remote. Smack it once. The screen freezes. A face flickers through the snow of static– his face. Perfect. Still. Eyes like empty wells. You blink hard, and it’s gone.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Losing it. Cool.”

The lights flicker. Once. Twice.

Then his voice– smooth, low, and wrong– slides out of the shadows behind you.

“You shouldn’t have left that bed.”

You jolt, whip around–

He’s there. Leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting hours. The same black suit. The same impossible stillness.

“Jesus–”

“Not him,” he interrupts, a faint smile curling. “Wrong department.”

You stand, heart jackhammering, trying to sound steady. “Get out of my apartment.”

“You think this place still belongs to you?”He steps closer. Shadows follow him like smoke. “You died, love. Everything after that is… borrowed.”

You cross your arms because it’s something to do with your hands. “Yeah, well, I’m still using it, so you can take your cosmic eviction notice and shove it.”

He laughs softly. It’s beautiful. Terrible. The sound makes your ribs ache. “You don’t understand. You’re not supposed to feel anything. Not hunger, not heat, not fear.” His gaze drifts over you like a caress made of knives. “And yet, here you are. Pretending.”

“I’m living,” you snap. “Something you clearly wouldn’t know about.”

That smile fades. His head tilts. “You call this living? The noise in your head? The way the air tastes wrong? You feel it, don’t you?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t answer.

He moves closer, close enough that the lights buzz and dim. His presence hums against your skin, electric and cold.

“You’re rotting from the inside,” he murmurs. “Your soul is trying to finish what I started. I can make it stop. Peacefully. Painlessly.”

“Wow,” you say, voice trembling only a little. “You really suck at bedside manner.”

“I’m offering mercy.”

“And I’m saying no.”

His eyes flash, the faintest ripple of something vast behind them. “You don’t get to say no.”

You take a step back. “Watch me.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. The silence between you stretches, alive and poisonous.

Then he smiles again– but this one’s colder, thinner. The kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You think you’re alive because you’re strong,” he says softly. “You’re alive because something went wrong. A glitch. A heartbeat that refused to stop. But that won’t last.” He leans closer, close enough that you can feel the air bend around him. “Soon, you’ll beg me to finish what I started.”

You swallow hard, forcing your expression into something that looks like defiance. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“I never do.”

And then he’s gone.

No sound. No warning. Just the faint smell of burnt air and the static hum left in his wake.

You stand in the middle of the living room, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight your nails cut into your palms. The TV flickers again. In the reflection of the black screen, your face stares back– and for half a second, it smiles when you don’t.

—

You don’t sleep that night. Not really.

You lie on the couch with every light on, wrapped in three blankets you don’t remember pulling from the closet. The TV plays old sitcoms on mute, laugh tracks bubbling up now and then like ghosts of better times.

You doze eventually, but it’s not rest. It’s falling.

You’re in a hallway that stretches too long, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The floor tiles hum beneath your feet. You don’t remember walking here, but your legs ache like you’ve been moving for hours.

There are doors lining the hallway– hospital doors, some cracked open. You pass one and see your own body inside. Pale. Still. Tubes in your arms. Monitors flatlining.

You keep walking.

A second door: your bedroom, lights off, shadows curling along the floor like spilled ink. Something in the dark shifts when you pass, like it's watching. A third door, a mirror. Just a mirror. You slow down. Your reflection doesn’t. It watches you as you move past, grinning wide with blood in its teeth. You stop walking. Turn slowly. The hallway is gone. Just the mirror now. Just you. But not you. "You know it’s coming, don’t you?" Your reflection speaks without moving its mouth. “He doesn’t chase things that want to live. Only things too tired to pretend anymore.” You back away– into something solid.

A hand slides over your mouth. Rings. Cold metal. A whisper in your ear.

“Why wait?”

You wake up gasping, sweat-soaked, nails dug into the couch cushion. The TV is off.

You didn’t turn it off.

The lights in the hallway are out. You left them on. The clock on the microwave flashes 3:33.

And in the reflection on the dark TV screen– he’s sitting in the armchair across from you. You spin around. It’s empty.

You don’t scream. You’re too tired for that. Instead, you wipe your face, stand on unsteady legs, and stomp to the kitchen like you’re going to fight the air itself.

Coffee. That’s what you need. You flick the machine on, hands shaking, jaw clenched. The ritual helps. Grind. Pour. Wait. “Come on,” you mutter to the appliance. ‘I’ve got existential horror to ignore.”

“You’re running out of tricks.”

The voice comes from behind you. Of course it does. You don’t turn this time. You grab the mug and take a long sip. It burns your tongue. Good. Something real.

“Is this the part where you give your big monologue about how I’m circling the drain?” you say, turning slowly. “Save your breath. I’ve heard worse speeches from gas station preachers.”

He stands in the doorway like a shadow that learned how to smile. The kitchen light flickers behind him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

“You think humor will save you?” he asks, stepping forward. “You think being difficult makes you strong?”

“No,” you say, sipping again. “I think being a pain in your ass makes me feel better. And right now, that’s enough.”

His expression doesn’t change, but the air does. The hum deepens. The shadows ripple. The walls feel too close, like they’re leaning in to listen.

“Every night, I will come to you. In your dreams. In your mirrors. In the silence between heartbeats. And every time, you will wonder– is this the moment?”

You meet his eyes, even though it makes your spine want to snap in half. “You can haunt me all you want. But I’m not going with you.”

“You will. Eventually.”

“Then you can wait.”

Something flickers in his eyes– not anger, not amusement. Something colder. Older. Like he’s remembering the shape of your bones beneath your skin. “You’re going to get tired,” he says, quiet now. “And when you do… I’ll be the only thing that still makes sense.” Then he’s gone.

No sound. No movement. Just that impossible absence.

You lean on the counter, exhale slowly. Your hands are shaking again. The coffee mug clinks against the tile when you set it down.

In the dark screen of the microwave, your reflection doesn’t move for just a second too long.

You turn away. You don’t look back.

—

You stop sleeping.

You try. You lie down. Close your eyes. Pretend your body isn’t vibrating with that constant electric hum just beneath the skin. Pretend your ears aren’t straining for the sound that always comes when the world gets too quiet. But it’s always there.

The pause. The moment when the world holds its breath. And in that silence– him.

So now you stay up. Too much coffee. Too little food. Jittering, twitching, refusing to blink too long in case you open your eyes and he’s standing right there. You tape over your mirrors. You unplug your TV. You haven’t looked into your reflection in three days. It’s safer that way. You still see him. In windows. In puddles. Sometimes in the way your shadow doesn’t move when you do.

—

There’s a stack of books on your kitchen table.

Not the fun kind. Not witches-with-crystals or “align your aura” blog posts. These are older. Dusty, cracked bindings. Margins scrawled with notes in too many languages. Some pages smell like ash. One book bleeds when you open it. You close that one again fast. This isn’t about belief. It’s about options.

Because if Death is real– if he is real– then maybe something else is, too. Something worse.

Something older. Something that doesn’t want you to die. You're hoping that's a thing. You're hoping it hates him more than you do.

—

He shows up again at 3:12 a.m. You don’t look up. You’re on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by books and half-drunk coffee, scrawling translations from three dead languages onto the back of an unpaid electric bill.

“You’re exhausting yourself.”

His voice slides across the room like oil on tile. Smooth. Slow. Too calm.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter. “Guess we both have our coping mechanisms.”

You hear the faint creak of the chair as he sits. Same one as last time. Like he owns the place.“You’re not built for this kind of pressure,” he says. “You’ll crack. They all do.”

“Cool story,” you say, not looking at him. “Tell it to someone who didn’t already survive a car crash and a visit from the Grim Reaper.”

He laughs, and the sound makes the air in your lungs feel thin.

“Survive?” he repeats, amused. “Is that what you think this is?” You look up now. You regret it immediately. His eyes are endless. Still and black, but alive with something that stretches far beyond what your mind wants to hold. There’s no humanity there. Just gravity. Pull. End.

“I’m still breathing,” you say quietly. “So yeah. Survival counts.”

“Breathing is not living,” he murmurs. “You’re rotting from the inside out. You think that nausea is stress? You think the hallucinations are just dreams? You’ve started unraveling. You’re slipping.” He leans forward. The light flickers above him, dims slightly. “And all you’re doing is dragging it out.”

Your hands tremble slightly. You grip the paper tighter to hide it. “You always like this with people, or is it just me?”

“You’re not people,” he says. “Not anymore.”

You stand. Slowly. Not because you want to challenge him– because sitting makes you feel small. And you’re too furious to be small right now, “Then what am I?”

He tilts his head, considering. “A corpse in denial.”

You stare at him. Then, “That’s adorable. Did you come up with that in the mirror before you appeared? Practicing your little one-liners?”

His smile vanishes. The room darkens, just slightly. Enough to feel it in your teeth, “You mock because you’re afraid.”

“Damn right I’m afraid,” you snap. “You show up in my house, in my dreams, in my reflection. You talk like the end is inevitable and I’m just some broken clock waiting to stop ticking. Of course I’m afraid.”

You step forward.

He watches you. No movement. Just those eyes, pulling.

“But I’m also pissed. And desperate. And maybe a little insane. And do you know what those three things together make?” Silence. “Unpredictable.”

Something flickers across his face then. Barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Something colder. “You think you can fight Death?”

You look him dead in the eye. “No,” you say. “I think I can inconvenience him.”

He leaves. Just like that. The room exhales when he’s gone. You slide to the floor, knees weak, head spinning. Your hands are shaking so bad you drop the coffee cup. It shatters. You flinch. But he’s gone.

And that’s a win. A small one. But still.

You sit in the dark, surrounded by broken ceramic, ancient pages, and your own unraveling mind– and for the first time in days, you smile.

—

Days bleed together.

You don’t check the calendar anymore. You don’t open the blinds. The sun feels like something that happens to other people. You eat when you remember to. Drink coffee because it keeps your hands moving. But it doesn’t keep your thoughts clear. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at the wall for hours, waiting for it to breathe again.

Because sometimes it does.

He doesn’t visit every night anymore. He doesn’t have to. Now it’s his absence that haunts you.

You hear the echo of him in everything– the hum of the refrigerator, the static between radio stations, the silence between the second and third ring of the phone.

The longer you stay awake, the thinner the line gets between him and the world. Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe it’s working.

—

You wake up one evening on the floor. You don’t remember falling asleep. Your neck aches. There’s a dull buzz in your ears. The air feels heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm.

He’s sitting on the couch.

No fanfare. No darkness swallowing the room this time. Just there, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. Watching you.

You don’t even startle anymore. You’re past that.

“You’re tired,” he says.

Your throat is dry. “You keep saying that like it’s breaking news.”

“It’s not fatigue,” he murmurs. “It’s rot. Your body’s fighting what it already knows is inevitable.”

You push yourself up, leaning against the wall. “You’re really committed to the bit, huh?”

He stands. Slowly. You realize you can’t hear the sound of his footsteps on the carpet. “You’ve fought long enough,” he says. “You’ve proven your point.”

“What point is that?”

“That you can defy me. That you can live on spite alone.” He tilts his head, and something in the air twists. The shadows in the corners of the room pull toward him. “But look at you. You’re unraveling. You can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t even tell when you’re dreaming. You’re not living. You’re lingering.”

You press your palms against your temples. “Shut up.”

“You wake up every morning hoping it feels different.” His voice softens. Almost kind. “But it never does, does it?”

“Stop.”

“The noise. The silence. The weight in your chest that doesn’t go away. The way the world looks too sharp, too bright. You think that’s life?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “You don’t know what life feels like.”

He moves closer. You can feel the temperature drop.“I know what peace feels like.”

Something in you cracks at that word. Peace. You’ve forgotten what that is.

Your chest tightens. You’re so tired your bones hum with it. Every heartbeat feels like an argument you’re losing.

He kneels in front of you, his voice soft as smoke. “You fought harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. But it’s over. You don’t have to keep hurting just to prove you can.”

You open your eyes. He’s right there. Too close.

He looks… beautiful. That same wrong kind of beautiful, but softer now. Almost human.

“Come with me,” he whispers. “You’ll sleep. No pain. No noise. Just quiet.”

Your lip trembles. You want to say no. You want to spit in his face. You want to laugh and tell him to go haunt someone else.

But the words don’t come.

The silence in the room stretches so long it starts to sound like a heartbeat.

You breathe in, sharp and shaking. “Would it hurt?” you ask, voice barely there.

His expression flickers– satisfaction and sorrow, tangled together. “No,” he says. “Not for long.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

It’s so easy to picture it. The quiet. The weight lifting. The end of the static in your head.

So easy.

You almost lean forward. Almost.

Then a sound– a small, human sound– breaks through the haze.

Your phone buzzes from the table. A text from an unknown number. Hey. You okay? You never came to work.

The world snaps back into focus. The hum of the fridge. The light from the street outside. The smell of stale coffee.

Life.

You blink, look back– and he’s already standing. The disappointment on his face is quiet, restrained. “Another delay,” he murmurs. “But you can’t delay forever.”

You swallow hard. “Watch me.”

He stares for a long moment, and the mask of calm slides back into place. “Soon,” he says. “You’ll beg for me again.” He vanishes.

The air rushes back into your lungs like a gasp.

You collapse against the wall, clutching your phone like a lifeline. The message glows on the screen. One real, human thing. One anchor.

You start typing back with shaking hands.

Yeah. I’m okay.

You don’t hit send. But you don’t delete it either.

—

It happens quietly.

No thunder, no breaking glass. Just stillness. You’ve gone three more nights without sleep.

Three nights of shadows whispering behind your eyes, of voices in the hum of the lights.

You stopped eating yesterday. Coffee tastes like copper now. The world has flattened to shades of gray.

Even fear takes effort.

You’re sitting on the floor beside the couch when you realize you can’t feel your heartbeat anymore. Not panic– just absence.

Then the air moves. Like a door opening where there shouldn’t be one.

He’s there again. Same black suit, same stillness, but something in his face has changed. No triumph this time. No threat. Just inevitability.

“You fought longer than anyone,” he says softly.

You nod. You don’t remember standing, but you’re upright now.

The apartment feels like it’s dissolving at the edges. Furniture fading, walls thinning into light. You should be afraid of that– but the fear’s gone too.

“I’m tired,” you say. The words fall from your mouth like stones.

“I know.”

You meet his eyes. For once, they don’t look endless. They look… merciful. “Will it be quiet?” you ask.

“Yes.”

He extends his hand. Pale, elegant, ringed fingers waiting.

You stare at it. For a moment you see the world you’re leaving– the cup on the counter, the message you never sent, the cheap lamp flickering against the dark.

Small things. Ordinary things. But they were yours.

Then you look back at him.

And for the first time since the crash, you stop fighting. You reach out. Your hand fits into his like it always belonged there.

The hum in your skull fades. The light softens.

He doesn’t pull. He just holds your hand, and the world exhales. “Ready?”

You nod.

And the last thing you hear is the sound of everything finally going still.

—

The fall ends in silence.

No pain, no air, no sense of direction, only the slow realization that there’s ground beneath your feet again. You open your eyes.

The world is gray. Not shadowed– emptied. A horizon made of mist and glass. Shapes drift in the distance: arches, stairways that climb into nothing, the suggestion of doors with no walls to hold them. It feels like a place that forgot it was real.

He stands beside you, still holding your hand. His touch is warm and wrong at the same time, the pulse of a star pressed against skin. “This is the threshold,” he says. “From here you cross. And then it’s quiet.”

You nod. You expect relief. Maybe even peace.

He steps forward; you follow. The air hardens.

The instant you try to pass, a soundless shock throws you back. Your body folds, breathless, though you don’t need to breathe anymore. The mist flares with light and dies again.

You look up at him. He’s frozen, expression unreadable. “That shouldn’t happen.”

You manage a rasped laugh. “You keep saying that.”

He tries again. He grabs you, shoves you, as if the first time was a fluke. “Ow,” you grumble when you hit the invisible wall once more.

He looks angry, confusion and shock warping his face. “No.” The word comes out like a crack of thunder. He stares at his hands, then at you. “You’re bound, but you won’t move on.”

“So… Guess we just hang out forever?”

His eyes narrow. “I can send souls back to the living when it isn’t their time.” He gestures. The space behind you ripples, showing a faint image of your apartment, faint light through drawn curtains. “If I return you there, the balance will hold.”

You almost laugh with relief. “Do it.”

He reaches toward the ripple. The image brightens– then collapses in on itself like burning paper. He jerks his hand back, teeth clenched.

“Impossible,” he says again, but quieter this time.

“What now?”

He looks at you for a long moment. You’ve never seen him look lost before. It makes him seem more human, which is somehow worse. “You can’t cross to the dead,” he says slowly. “And you can’t return to the living. Something severed the thread completely.”

“So I’m… what?”

“An anomaly.”

The word lands. You cross your arms, trying to stop the trembling. “So what happens to anomalies?”

He exhales– a sound like wind through bones. “They remain where they were last claimed.”

You blink. “Which means?”

He looks away, toward the endless gray plain.

“Here. With me.”

The silence after that is unbearable.

He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t threaten. He simply stands there, the embodiment of every end that ever was, and somehow looks as trapped as you feel.

Finally you mutter, “Well, this is awkward.”

He glances at you. For a moment his mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“You have no idea.”

The mist shifts, curling around you both like a slow tide. The archways in the distance fade into fog.

Two figures stand where life and death overlap.

—

He brings you deeper.

The fog gives way to architecture that shouldn’t exist– massive obsidian columns, archways that shimmer like black ice, walls carved with unreadable script that glows faintly, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It’s beautiful, in a way that feels wrong. The silence here is thicker, more intimate. Like it’s listening.

You follow him up a long staircase carved from gray marble that never gathers dust, through a grand hall with no ceiling– just endless void above. Finally, he stops.

You’re in a chamber lit by a cold, flickering flame that casts no shadow. There’s no furniture, no warmth, just him– and now, you.

“This is my home,” he says quietly, without pride.

You spin slowly, taking it in. “Figures it’d be a palace. You’ve got that whole ‘lonely god’ thing down.”

He looks at you, unreadable. “You’re not leaving.”

You freeze. “What?”

“You don’t belong to the living. You won’t cross into the dead… That leaves only here.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Then the dam breaks. “You’re joking.” You pace the room like a caged animal. “You’re actually– you’re keeping me here? Like some… ghost pet?” He doesn’t flinch. “I’d rather jump into the void. I’d rather rot.”

He watches, still calm.

You round on him, voice rising. “You smug, shadow-wrapped parasite! I was supposed to be gone. Done. But no, you dragged me here– like I’m your mistake to babysit. What now? Gonna chain me to the wall like some kind of trophy? Keep me in your endless tomb until I what– break? Beg?”

The firelight trembles. Something in the stone groans– low, like the place itself felt the insult.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate. Not threatening. Just… inevitable.

“Are you finished?” His voice is soft. Too soft. It slides under your skin like silk drawn over a blade.

You glare, chest heaving. “Not even close.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m allowing this tantrum,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But I suggest you mind your tone.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he’s in front of you now– close enough to feel the cold hum of his presence brush your skin.

“You are in my home,” he says, voice dipping into something darker, thicker, almost a whisper. “You breathe because I allow it. You move because I’ve chosen not to bind you.”

His hand lifts– not touching, but hovering close to your jaw. Not threatening. Not kind. “So if you want to keep your fire, little mortal–watch your mouth.” Your breath catches. Not fear, not exactly. Something hotter, heavier. He sees it– how you tense, how your eyes flicker, how your heartbeat stutters once against your ribs. And then he steps back, just slightly, his expression unreadable again. “You’re here because there is nowhere else left for you. And I… am trying to be generous.”

You hate how much power he holds in that stillness. How your anger curdles into something hungrier. How his presence wraps around you like velvet and steel. You hate him. You hate that you don’t know why you don’t look away.

But you’re here. In his house. In his world. And now, you both know the rules.

The word generous still rings in your head like a slap. You stare at him– this god, this phantom– standing there so composed, so maddeningly certain.

“Generous?” you spit. “You call this generous? You drag me here like a stray you can’t be bothered to bury and now you think you’re doing me a favor?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. The stillness in him feels deliberate– a weapon sharper than any blade.

“Say something,” you snarl. “Go on. Tell me how merciful you are. Tell me how I should thank you for not binding me in your perfect little crypt.”

“Are you finished?” His voice is soft again, that silken threat.

“Stop doing that!” you explode, stepping closer. “Stop talking like you’re above it all! Like you don’t even feel!”

Something cracks– in you, not him. The anger burns through the grief, through the fear, through everything until there’s nothing left but the heat. You shove him, hard, palms against his chest. He barely moves, only catches your wrist before you can do it again. His hand closes around you like a man holding a live flame.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You forget what I am.”

You laugh, short and ugly. “Maybe I want to forget.”

And before you can stop yourself, you’re on him– you grab his collar, drag him down, and kiss him. It’s not gentle; it’s a snarl made flesh, teeth and fury and the ache of everything you’ve lost.

He lets you. For a moment.

Then the world shifts. His power rolls through the room like thunder muffled by velvet. One of his hands slides to your throat– not choking, just there– a reminder of how easily he could end you. The other settles against your back, steadying you even as the ground feels like it might dissolve.

The kiss breaks. You’re both breathing hard– you from rage, him from restraint.

He leans close enough that his breath ghosts your ear. “That,” he says, low and deliberate, “is not permitted.”

Your pulse stutters. “Why?”

His fingers tighten infinitesimally at your throat, just enough to make you feel how much strength he’s not using. He holds you there, suspended between defiance and surrender. You feel his power humming through the air– cold, magnetic, inescapable.

“You don’t get to touch me like that,” he murmurs. “Not out of anger. Not out of need. Not until you understand what it means to ask.”

Your breath shakes. You hate how it sounds like a shiver.

He releases you– slow, deliberate– like letting go of something fragile he’s not sure he should’ve caught. The air floods back between you. “Go,” he says finally. The single word is soft, final, absolute.

“Fuck you.” You snap, weaker than intended.

You don’t wait for his response. You turn on your heel and storm out, boots echoing hard and fast down the endless marble corridor, trying to shake the heat of his voice, his stillness, his shock– your own stupid mouth.

The Underworld doesn't have wind, but the cold follows you anyway, sliding down your spine like fingers.

You don’t know where you’re going. Maybe there isn’t anywhere to go. But you refuse to stay in that room with him– With his voice in your head, with your pulse still racing.

God, what the hell were you thinking?

You push open a door that wasn’t there before–

and step into a corridor that stretches impossibly far, lined with towering mirrors that reflect nothing.

No doors. No windows. No escape. But you keep walking. The palace watches.

You can feel it– the walls pulse slightly with your heartbeat, or maybe with his. The shadows stretch toward you. The floor shifts subtly, like it’s deciding whether to hold you up or swallow you whole. Still, you walk.

Your hands shake. Your chest tightens. And suddenly, the rage inside you gives way to something colder.

You’re not just trapped. You’re alone. In his home. And it knows you don’t belong.

You spin in place, yelling into the emptiness.

“Do you just watch me? Is this part of the game? You sit there in your high tower while your creepy house follows me like a dog?”

Nothing. Then, faintly, you hear his voice, not from behind you, but everywhere.

“I’m letting you have your space.”

Your stomach twists.

“But don’t pretend you don’t want to be seen.”

You grit your teeth and keep moving, faster now.

“Go to hell,” you mutter.

“You’re already here,” his voice murmurs. Closer. Too close. “And you kissed me, little flame. That makes you mine, in a way.”

You stop walking. Chest heaving. Heart pounding.

You hate him. You hate this place.

And worst of all– you hate that some small part of you doesn’t feel entirely powerless anymore. You’re still here. You’re still fighting. And Death knows it.

—

You’ve been walking for what feels like hours.

Every hallway looks the same– black stone, faint silver veins glowing like constellations buried in the walls. The air hums, alive but indifferent.

You’re too angry to sit still, too proud to go back.

So you keep moving.

When you finally stop, it’s in what might pass for a garden– though the plants here look more like shadows pretending to be flowers. They don’t have color, just shapes, and they move slightly even when there’s no breeze.

You sit on a low stone bench. The cold seeps through your skin. Your stomach twists. You realize, belatedly, that you’re hungry.

Then you hear the quietest sound– a soft clink of porcelain.

You look up.

He’s standing a few feet away, holding a tray. A bowl, a cup, a sliver of bread that looks startlingly ordinary. The contrast between him and the simple meal is almost funny. “You need to eat,” he says.

You blink. “Do ghosts get hungry now?”

“You’re not a ghost. And you’re not dead.”

You stare. “Then what the hell am I?”

“An inconvenience,” he says lightly, and sets the tray beside you.

You laugh, short and humorless. “Guess I’m consistent.”

He doesn’t leave. He leans against a pillar, watching you with that unreadable calm. You pick up the spoon, eyeing the food suspiciously.

“It won’t kill you,” he murmurs.

“Funny,” you say, taking a bite anyway. It tastes like nothing. Still, it’s warm. You don’t want to admit it feels almost… kind. Silence stretches.

Then you glance up at him. “Do you have a name?”

He blinks, as if no one’s asked that in a thousand years.

“A name?”

“Yeah.” You gesture vaguely at him. “You can’t just go around calling yourself Death. It’s dramatic as hell.”

A long pause. Then, quietly, “Jake.”

You stop chewing. “…Jake?”

He nods once, dead serious.

And you burst out laughing. It comes out too loud, too sharp, echoing off the stone like a sound this place doesn’t know what to do with.

“Jake?” you manage between breaths. “You– you’re Death. The end of everything. And your name is Jake?”

He watches you, expression caught somewhere between insulted and bemused. “It’s what someone once called me.”

You wipe a tear from your eye, still chuckling.

“Oh, that’s rich. All this–” you wave at the palace, the shadows, the void “–and you’re just Jake.”

His gaze sharpens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. “Would you prefer something less human?”

You smirk. “No. I think Jake suits you. Really takes the edge off the whole doom-and-gloom vibe.”

He exhales– an almost-laugh.

“Careful,” he says softly, the warning there but gentler this time. “Names have weight here.”

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, picking up the cup, “so do grudges.”

He smiles– slow, faint, dangerous.

“Good. Then you’ll fit right in.”

—

You find him later, in one of the long corridors that overlook the black river cutting through the Underworld. The water below glows faintly, like someone mixed moonlight with ink. He’s standing at the edge of the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. The picture of patience.

You hate how good he looks doing absolutely nothing. You clear your throat. “Hey, Jake.”

He doesn’t turn around, but you see the faint lift of his shoulders– a sigh, maybe.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

You walk up beside him, folding your arms. “Doing what, Jake?”

Now he glances at you. Eyes dark, tired, faintly amused. “Calling me that.”

You grin. “You said it was your name.”

“I said someone once called me that. That doesn’t mean you should.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “What am I supposed to call you, Lord of Death?”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Most mortals who’ve spoken my name have done so in prayer or in fear. Never in jest.”

You lean on the balcony, facing him. “Guess I’m just talented.”

“Or foolish.”

“Maybe both.”

Silence. The air here hums, alive with faint whispers from the river below. It sounds like the world breathing in its sleep. You tilt your head. “So what’s the problem, Jake? You embarrassed? Too mundane for the god of endings?”

He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s half-laugh, half-warning. “Names are a kind of leash, little mortal. Use it too freely, and I might start to believe you think you can pull me by it.”

You smirk. “What if I can?”

That earns a look. Sharp. Amused. Dangerous. “Try it,” he murmurs. “See how far that leash reaches.”

You feel the weight in the air shift– not threatening, exactly. Just heavy, charged. Like the whole place is waiting to see who breaks first.

You don’t look away. “Sure thing, Jake.”

He chuckles then– low, quiet, almost fond– and turns back to the river.

“You’re going to make eternity very loud.”

You grin. “Good. Somebody should.”

—

The palace has moods. You’ve noticed that now.

Tonight, it’s quieter. The endless corridors don’t shift under your feet. The flickering lights burn steadier. Even the shadows seem to rest.

You find him in what passes for a library– a massive hall where the shelves rise into nothing, filled with books bound in strange materials, written in no language you know.

He doesn’t look up as you walk in, but his presence fills the room. Sitting in a high-backed chair, legs crossed, reading something so ancient it looks like it could disintegrate if you breathed too hard.

You hesitate in the doorway. Then you say, without thinking, “This place feels less horrible tonight.”

He glances up. His expression is... softer. Quiet. “It listens to you. More than it should.”

You walk closer, curiosity winning out. “What are you reading?”

He holds the book up, shows you the page. Nothing but thin, silver lines spiraling like constellations. You squint. “That’s not a language.”

“Not to you.”

You’re beside him now. Close enough to feel the cold coming off his body in waves. You should step back.

You don’t.

He watches you. You watch the book. But neither of you really care about the book.

Your hand twitches at your side, and you glance down at him– at the curve of his jaw, the relaxed line of his mouth. He's not looking at the pages anymore. He’s looking at you. You speak before your brain can stop you. “Do you ever miss it?” you ask. “Being... alive?”

His gaze sharpens, just slightly. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No one remembers being born. Why should I remember dying?”

You stare at him a second longer. Then, gently, you reach out. You mean to touch the edge of his sleeve. Nothing more. Just proof that he's real. That this isn’t some elaborate punishment built inside your own head. Your fingertips brush the fabric.

He doesn’t move– for a moment.

Then he closes the book. And stands. Not fast. Not angry. But final. “That’s enough,” he says quietly.

You blink. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He nods once. “I know. That’s why I’m stopping it now.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. He doesn’t look mad. Or cold. If anything, he looks… tired. Like holding something at bay is wearing him down.

“Don’t mistake stillness for absence,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “There are rules even I haven’t broken.” And then, softer, “You shouldn’t want to be close to me.”

You meet his eyes. “But I do.”

He looks at you like that’s the most dangerous thing you’ve said yet. “Then we’re both making mistakes.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, vanishing between the shelves like the dark knows how to open doors just for him.

You're left standing there. Cold where he used to be. And for the first time since arriving here… you realize how loud your own heartbeat really is.

[jakeytkiszka]

There Goes My Shadow

Part 1

4.5k words

Demon!Jake Kiszka x Reader

Summary: You accidentally summon a demon. Jake– cocky, dangerously hot, and way too comfortable in your living room. What starts as a magical mishap turns into flirtation, bickering, and undeniable chemistry. But falling for a demon? That’s when things really start to go wrong.

Chapter Warnings: accidental demon summoning, contracts, flirting, fear, anger, jealousy, new demon roommate

A/N: a little something silly for spooky season! it'll probably only be a few parts but it's just a fun little thing i wanted to do. enjoy! likes/reblogs are heavily appreciated as always <3

MASTERLIST

You really should’ve known better.

It was supposed to be a joke– just another impulsive night with friends, trespassing through the old Lambert estate on the edge of town. Half the place had caved in from time and disrepair, and the other half was littered with spray paint, broken beer bottles, and half-burnt candles from local teens playing at witchcraft. Someone found that leather-bound book in a warped drawer in what used to be a study, and of course, they passed it to you, because you always read things out loud with flair, and you never said no to a dare.

“Come on, Y/n,” someone had laughed. “Latin makes everything creepier.”

So you cleared your throat, perched on the edge of a collapsed desk, and recited the passage in your best fake-serious voice. The words stuck like cold honey on your tongue, strange but rhythmic. Something in your chest twisted at the final syllable, like your heart had skipped– but then someone cracked a joke, and the moment passed. You laughed it off. Everyone did.

—

That night, you wake up choking on heat. Sweat clings to your back like a second skin, and your sheets are twisted around your legs. The room smells like something sweet and ancient– like incense and iron and forest soil. You sit up, disoriented, blinking through the dark.

And that’s when you see him.

There’s a guy standing by your bedroom window like he’s posing for a painting– silhouetted by moonlight, arms crossed, totally relaxed. His hair falls in loose dark waves past his shoulders, catching the light like ink. His cheekbones could cut glass, and his mouth is curled into this smirk, lazy, smug, too knowing. Like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

He looks like a rockstar who wandered off stage and into your life. Barefoot. Shirtless. Not nearly as concerned about explaining himself as he should be.

You stare at him. “Who the hell are you?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Jake. You may remember me from that sexy little Latin number you summoned me with. Very dramatic. Five stars.”

You blink again. “What?”

Jake tilts his head and starts walking toward you, slow and smooth like a predator who knows you’re cornered and hasn’t decided if he’s going to eat you or not. “You read from that dusty old book in the creepy house. A few of the syllables were off, but hey– effort counts.” He grins. “You opened the door, sweetheart. Now I’m your problem.”

You scramble back against your headboard. “You’re not real.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” he murmurs, stopping just at the edge of your bed. His eyes rake over you with amused hunger, and the air feels heavier, tighter, hotter.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets as you force your voice to steady. “I don’t know what you are, or what kind of joke this is, but you need to leave. Now.”

Jake chuckles low in his throat, the sound warm and dangerous at the same time. “Leave?” he echoes, like it’s the funniest word he’s ever heard. He leans a little closer, palms braced casually on the edge of your mattress, hair falling forward like a curtain of silk. “Sweetheart, you called me here. You think I can just stroll out your door like a bad one-night stand?”

Your heartbeat is a drum in your ears. “I didn’t mean to call anything. It was just–”

“–a joke. A dare. Latin makes everything creepier.” He finishes for you, his mouth curling into that infuriating, perfect smirk. “Yeah, I was there. You didn’t mean to, but you still did. And demons? We’re big on contracts, baby. Intent doesn’t cancel them.”

Demons? You swallow hard. “So… what? You’re just gonna stay here? Forever?”

Jake straightens to his full height, towering just enough to make you feel small, then drags one hand through his hair as he studies you. “Not forever. But a long, long time.” His grin sharpens. “Long enough for you to get used to me. Long enough for me to make you wish you never opened your pretty little mouth in that ruin.”His voice drops into a purr, smoky and intimate, “I’m not your nightmare, Y/n. I’m your shadow. And shadows don’t leave when you tell them to.” The room feels smaller. Hotter. Like the walls are leaning in. Jake tilts his head, watching your reaction, then whispers, almost teasing, “But hey– silver lining? I’m very good company.”

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, trying not to show that the air feels too thick, that his gaze makes your skin prickle like fire and ice at the same time.

“…What’s the contract?” you ask, quieter now.

Jake smiles, slow and lazy, like a lit match watching gasoline.

“Oh, now you’re curious,” he says, taking another step closer. You can feel the heat rolling off him– not human warmth, but something deeper, older. Like he’s burning from the inside out. “Most people don’t ask until it’s too late. You’re asking early. I like that about you.”

“Answer the question,” you snap, because fear makes you defensive. “What did I sign up for?”

Jake hums, like he’s tasting the question on his tongue. “Technically, it’s a binding of presence,” he says, pacing around your room now, running his fingers along your desk like he owns the place. “You summoned, I answered. The tether is made. Until the terms are met, I stay.” He turns, flashing teeth. “Lucky you.”

“What terms?” you press. “What are they?”

His eyes flick to yours, pupils blown wide like he’s high on something you can’t see. His expression sobers– just a little.

“See, that part’s complicated,” he murmurs, voice dipping like smoke under a door. “The terms are… fluid– personal. They depend on you. Your choices. Your wants. Your fears.” He tilts his head. “Your… appetites.”

Your stomach twists. “That’s not an answer.”

Jake grins. “No, it’s not.”

And just like that, the moment shifts, his posture, his energy. It darkens. Thickens.

He moves to your side of the bed and sits, slow and deliberate, like a man settling in for a long stay. His knee brushes yours. Your breath catches.

“You’re not going to like all the rules,” he says, voice quiet now, low and intimate. “But I’ll be here to remind you. Every time you break one. Every time you want to.” He leans in just close enough for his breath to ghost your cheek. “And trust me– you will want to.”

—

Sunlight spills across your face, warm and clean and normal. You blink awake to the sound of birds outside your window and the faint hum of traffic on the street below. For a second, you just lie there, staring at your ceiling, trying to remember why your stomach feels like it’s full of lead.

Then it clicks. The heat. The voice. The man with the dark hair and the teeth behind the smile. You jolt upright, heart hammering.

But your room is empty. No trace of him. No scent of smoke or incense or anything at all– just laundry on the floor and the faint smell of your vanilla candle.

“Jesus,” you mutter, running a hand down your face. “It was just a nightmare. I’m losing it.”

You drag yourself out of bed, trying to shake it off, trying to push down the leftover panic that clings to your skin. A hot shower. Coffee. Something normal. That’s what you need.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear it: the low murmur of a voice, too deep to be the TV, too casual to be in your head. You freeze.

Then you hear the sound of a spoon clinking in a mug.

Heart in your throat, you edge toward the living room.

And there he is.

Jake is sprawled on your couch like it’s his, long legs kicked out, hair messy and shining in the morning light. He’s wearing a faded t-shirt now– one of yours, judging by how snug it is across his chest– and holding a mug of your coffee, steam curling around his fingers. He looks perfectly at home. Too at home.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he says, grinning over the rim of the mug. “You sleep okay?”

Your stomach drops. “You’re real,” you whisper.

Jake tilts his head, smirk widening. “Aw, you missed me already. That’s cute.” He takes a sip, eyes locked on yours. “Told you we’re stuck for a while.”He pats the cushion next to him like an invitation and adds, with a flash of teeth, “Might as well get comfortable.”

You don’t move. You just stand there, staring at him– at his smug, impossibly real face, at your favorite mug in his damn hand, at your shirt stretched across his chest like a second skin.

And then it hits you, all at once. The night in the Lambert house. The book. The words. The heat. The deal. The fact that there is now a literal demon in your living room, drinking your coffee like you’re in some twisted sitcom.

“What the fuck is going on,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Jake lifts a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart.”

That’s it. That’s the thing that shatters whatever was holding you together.

“No,” you snap, stepping into the room like you might throw something– or punch him in the mouth. “You don’t get to sit there and act like this is normal. You’re not normal. This is not normal. You are a demon. I summoned you by accident–”

“Still counts,” he cuts in smoothly.

“–and now you’re in my house, drinking my coffee, wearing my shirt–”

“Looks better on me.”

“I want you out!” You shout it now, chest heaving, fists clenched. “Gone. Out of my house. Out of my head. Out of my life!”

Jake just stares at you for a second, unblinking– then slowly, calmly sets the mug down on the coffee table. He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head, that maddening smile never leaving his face.

“Feel better?” he asks, voice silky. “You look hot when you’re pissed.”

You make a frustrated noise in your throat– somewhere between a scream and a growl.

Jake’s smile shifts, just a little. Still playful. Still wicked. But underneath it, something colder, darker. Like he’s letting you yell, letting you have your tantrum, because he knows how this ends.

“You can throw your fit,” he says, voice low now, velvety and dangerous, “but it won’t change the facts. You summoned me. You tied us together. And there are rules, Y/n. Ones you don’t even understand yet.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, his eyes locked on yours like a predator watching prey thrash around before it tires out.

“You don’t want me here?” he murmurs. “Tough shit. I am here. And until that contract burns itself out, you and me? We’re in this together.” He grins. “So go ahead. Scream. Try to run. Curse me. It’ll be fun.”

Your hands are shaking now, but you don’t care. You step right up to him, standing over where he’s lounging on your couch, your voice low but sharp enough to cut.

“Enough with the games, Jake. Tell me what the hell this contract is. No riddles. No jokes. Tell me. Now.”

For the first time since you’ve met him, his smile flickers. Not gone, just… different. He studies you for a long moment, tilting his head, and then slowly sits forward. His elbows rest on his knees; his long hair slips over his shoulders like a curtain.

“You sure?” he asks softly. “Once you hear it, you can’t unhear it.”

“Yes,” you bite out.

Jake exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a chuckle. “All right, sweetheart. Here it is. When you spoke that passage, you didn’t just ‘summon’ me. You opened a tether. A thread. You tied our souls together.” He leans closer, his voice a low rasp now. “My essence lives in you. Your essence lives in me. Until the contract ends, we’re bound. When you breathe, I feel it. When you bleed, I taste it.”

Your stomach flips. “Bound… how?”

Jake’s smirk returns, softer this time, almost intimate. “Think of it as a… soul-share. I protect you. I guide you. I get a slice of everything that makes you, you. Your energy, your emotions, your dreams. Your light.” He leans even closer, and you swear the air between you vibrates. “And in return, you get me– all my power, all my presence. But also my hunger. My darkness. My claws in your heart.”

You take a shaky step back. “And how long does this last?”

Jake’s smile sharpens again, wolfish. “Until one of us fulfills the terms. Or dies. And since we’re connected…” He lets the implication hang, eyes glittering. “Let’s just say you’re not getting rid of me by wishing it away.”

He leans back, stretching lazily, like a cat who’s just told you your house is on fire.,Your pulse is still hammering in your ears. You take a step forward, fists clenched at your sides.

“Fine,” you say, your voice trembling but fierce. “We’re bound. Souls connected. Whatever. Then tell me what the terms are. Tell me what I have to do so I can end this and get my life back.”

Jake tilts his head like a predator sizing up prey. Then, slowly, he smiles– not his lazy smirk, but something sharper, hungrier.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “That’s the spirit. ‘Just tell me the quest, I’ll get the shiny prize, everything goes back to normal.’ ” His chuckle is low and dark. “You’re adorable.”

You glare. “Stop playing with me. What’s the catch?”

He rises from the couch in one smooth motion, closing the distance between you before you can blink. He’s so close you can smell the faint trace of smoke on his skin, can feel the heat rolling off him.

“The terms,” he says softly, eyes glinting like black glass, “aren’t written like a checklist. They’re written into you. Your life. Your choices. Your soul.” He leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear. “Every time you act out of fear, it feeds me. Every time you act out of desire, it feeds me. Every sin you commit, every impulse you indulge, every dark little secret you try to hide– I get a piece. And you get me.”

You flinch. “That’s not… that’s not a contract. That’s a trap.”

Jake laughs, low and rough, and pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. “It’s a bond. You don’t break it by doing one thing. You break it by becoming someone you’re not. Or by burning out completely.” His grin widens. “In other words, you can’t just ‘get it over with.’ You’re going to have to live with me, Y/n. Feed me, fight me, resist me, use me… until one of us tips the scales.”

He runs a thumb along your jawline, slow and deliberate. “It’s not a race. It’s a war. Inside you. And I’m very, very patient.”

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper. “So I’m stuck.”

Jake tilts his head, and smiles like a wolf. “Stuck? No. You're bound. There’s a difference. Stuck is boring, bound is… intimate.” He leans even closer, lips brushing your ear. “And baby, we’re going to be so intimate.”

You spin on your heel, heart hammering. “No. No, I’m not doing this. You don’t get to come into my life and tell me I’m– I’m food for some contract.”

Jake chuckles behind you. “You’re not food. You’re a buffet. Big difference.”

“Shut up!” you snap, whirling back to him. “If we’re ‘bound,’ then I should be able to push you out. I don’t care what you are. Get out!”

You slam your palms against his chest. Hard. You expect to hit warm skin, to shove him back, but instead there’s a jolt, like static and heat all at once, running up your arms, into your throat. You gasp.

Jake doesn’t move. He just looks down at your hands against him, then up at you. His eyes are pitch black now, no whites at all. “That,” he murmurs, “is the bond saying ‘no.’”

You try to pull your hands away but you can’t. It’s like they’re stuck– not physically, but inside. Heat rushes from him into you, filling you like a wave. Your knees go weak.

Jake leans down until his mouth is inches from yours, voice a low growl. “Feel that? That’s your soul brushing against mine. You can shove, scream, run, but as long as you’re tethered, I’m in your shadow.”

He lets the connection hold for one long, shuddering heartbeat, then releases you. You stumble back, your palms tingling like they’ve been burned.

“That’s the polite version,” he says softly, straightening. “Next time you push, I might push back. And trust me…” His smirk returns, dark and electric. “That can feel a lot better. Or a lot worse.”

You swallow hard, your voice shaking. “You’re a monster.”

Jake grins. “I’m a demon. Monsters are messy. I’m elegant.” He steps closer again, slow and deliberate, until he’s towering over you. “But if you’re going to test the bond, sweetheart…” His eyes glitter. “…at least let me teach you the rules properly.”

—

The next day, you tell yourself you’re going to act normal. A shower, jeans, a soft sweater, a walk downtown.

The streets of the old brick district smell like roasted coffee and damp leaves. The air is crisp, the kind of clean, sunlit cold that should clear your head. People walk by with paper cups and canvas tote bags. Shop windows glow with early-October decorations. It’s almost easy to believe last night didn’t happen.

You duck into the library– a squatty, old stone building with creaky wooden floors and shelves that reach the ceiling. It’s warm inside, the smell of old paper instantly grounding you. You drift between aisles, fingers trailing along spines of books.

Normal. This is normal.

You settle at a corner table with a stack of books about folklore, demonology, anything that might tell you what you’re dealing with. You flip one open, scanning Latin phrases, desperate for some clue.

Your heart starts to race.

A line of text stands out– not because you recognize it, but because the letters seem to shift, curling like smoke under your gaze. You blink hard, and when you look again, it’s like the page is breathing.

You hear a voice in your head, low and amused. Reading up on me already? That’s adorable.

You jerk upright, the book nearly falling from your lap. “Jake?” you hiss, glancing around. People are reading quietly, oblivious.

Call it a side effect of our bond, the voice purrs. You think about me, you reach for me– and I feel it. And if you reach hard enough…

Your vision blurs for a heartbeat, like heat-haze, and when it clears– he’s there.

Jake is leaning casually against the nearest shelf, hair a little tousled, wearing dark jeans and a shirt you’ve never seen before. No one else reacts. The librarian walks right past him like he’s a shadow.

“Miss me?” he asks, smirking, eyes glittering.

You slap the book closed. “I didn’t call you!”

“You don’t have to,” Jake says, his voice a velvet knife. He crouches to your level, his face inches from yours, eyes locked on you. “Think of me, reach for me, want something badly enough… and I’m there. Whether you mean it or not.”

Your stomach drops. “So I just summoned you in the middle of the library?”

Jake grins wider, glancing around at the oblivious patrons. “Relax. Nobody sees me unless I want them to. For now, it’s just us.” He tilts his head. “You’re getting the hang of it faster than I expected. Dangerous girl.”

You shove the book back into your bag, trying to slow your breathing. “Okay,” you whisper, “you’re here, but you’re invisible. Fine. Just– stay quiet. Don’t mess with me.”

Jake smirks. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re adorable when you try to boss me around.”

You ignore him and head toward the front desk. Maybe coffee will help. Maybe a walk. Something.

That’s when you hear a familiar voice.

“Y/n?”

You turn and your stomach flips. It’s Alex– someone you haven’t seen since high school. Taller now, broader shoulders, warm eyes. He’s holding a stack of books and smiling like he’s genuinely happy to see you.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Alex. Hey!”

He steps closer. “Wow, it’s been years. How are you? You look…” His gaze softens. “…amazing.”

You feel a tiny spark of normalcy bloom in your chest. Someone from your old life. Someone who doesn’t know about demons or bonds. Someone who makes you feel like a person again.

That’s when the air around you shifts. Warmth seeps in, like heat rising off asphalt.

Jake appears just behind your shoulder– still invisible to everyone else, but so close you can feel his breath at your neck. His voice slides into your ear, low and dark. “Who’s this?”

You stiffen. “Nobody,” you mutter under your breath.

Alex blinks. “Sorry?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, smiling too hard. “Just… nothing.”

Jake chuckles. It’s a sound like a match striking. “That smile you’re giving him…” His voice softens, but the edges are sharp. “…I don’t like it.”

You clench your jaw. “He’s an old friend. That’s all.”

Jake leans closer, his tone turning silkier. “Old friend. Right.” His eyes flick to Alex, who’s obliviously rambling about a new job. “Do you know what happens when someone touches you now, sweetheart? When you let them in too close?”

You swallow. “Stop it.”

“Not jealous,” Jake murmurs. “Just… territorial. You’ve got my mark in your soul, and he’s looking at you like you’re free. It’s… irritating.” His smile sharpens. “I could fix that.”

You whip your head toward him, glaring even though Alex can’t see who you’re looking at. “Don’t you dare.”

Jake’s smirk deepens, his voice a low purr only you can hear. “Then keep his hands off of you. Because the bond doesn’t like competition.”

Alex frowns slightly. “Y/n? You okay?”

You force a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Just… tired. Long night.” But inside, your pulse is hammering. Because you can feel Jake through the tether now– hot, coiled, restless. Watching. Waiting. You paste on a smile for Alex, but it feels brittle. “Really, I’m fine,” you say, clutching your bag a little tighter. “I just… didn’t sleep.”

He gives you that concerned look, the one people get when they’re not sure if they should press. “Well, hey, maybe we could grab coffee sometime? Catch up?”

Before you can answer, the heat at your back sharpens. Jake leans closer until his lips are almost brushing your ear, invisible to everyone but you.

“Say yes, and watch what happens.”

Your breath catches. “Stop,” you whisper under your breath, hoping Alex doesn’t notice.

Jake chuckles low, the sound sliding down your spine. “You’re playing with a loaded gun, sweetheart.”

You force your voice steady. “Maybe. I’ll text you,” you tell Alex.

Alex smiles, oblivious. “Great. Here’s my number.” He scribbles it down, hands it to you. When his fingers brush yours, a faint spark shoots through your skin. Not painful, but sharp. You flinch.

Jake’s laugh curls around you, quiet and wicked. “That wasn’t me yet,” he whispers.

You shove the paper into your bag. “I should go,” you mutter.

“Okay,” Alex says slowly, still smiling. “Take care of yourself, Y/n.”

You manage a wave before walking quickly out of the library. The autumn air outside feels cooler, sharper, but you can still feel Jake walking beside you, unseen.

“You’re insane,” you hiss under your breath.

“No, baby,” Jake says, his voice a purr sliding under your skin. “I’m patient. But next time you test me like that…” His tone dips lower, darker. “Next time, it won’t be a spark. It’ll be a burn. And he’ll feel it too.”

You freeze on the sidewalk, clutching your bag, heart thudding.

Jake leans in, invisible but so close you swear you can feel his smile against your neck. “Now you know. This isn’t a game you play in public. Because when I push back…” He chuckles softly. “…everybody notices.”

—

You storm to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you.

He's already in here, lounging on your bed as if he owns it. As if he pays rent here.

You stop, glaring at him, “Can't I have one fucking moment of peace?”

He smirks at you, “You seem irritated.”

“No shit,” you snap, tossing your bag onto the chair in front of your vanity, “Could be that I have a demon terrorizing me.” You kick your shoes off, ignoring him completely as you make your way to your bathroom. “I'm taking a shower,” you say flatly, “Can you let me be for 15 minutes?”

“I'll consider it,” he responds, his voice sounding like silk.

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you without a response to him. You set the water as hot as you can stand it, undressing quickly, as if you're worried he'll barge in. Surely he wouldn't…

You shower, keeping your mind off of him as best you can, you don't want to chance him prodding at your brain while you're naked.

Too late.

You let out a loud groan of annoyance at his voice in your head. Can you see me?! The sudden realization had you freezing as you ask him.

No, he responds, sounding disappointed, Give me a good mental image though.

Fuck off.

His only response is a chuckle, before he's quiet again.

You finish your shower, purposely keeping your mind away from him. Having Jake in your head was a whole other thing you'd have to get used to. It was bad enough having him there physically, but mentally–

You pull the curtain open, your eyes landing on the naked towel hook screwed into your wall.

No towel.

Fuck.

You consider air drying, maybe using your shirt to dry off with, but the thought makes your skin crawl. An idea pops into your head, and you close your eyes as you sigh.

Jake?

His response is almost instantaneous, Hello darling.

You set your jaw, annoyance flooding through you already, Can you bring me a towel?

He's silent now, and you scoff out loud. Helpful.

You flinch at the knock on the door, and you yank the curtain shut once again, letting out a shaky come in.

“First time you use the bond on purpose,” he drawls, “and it's for a towel.”

You roll your eyes, covering your chest regardless of the curtain between the two of you. “You can leave it on the counter.” You hate being in such a small space with him.

“I could,” he responds, “But where's the fun in that?”

You let out a loud, sarcastic laugh, “Jake–”

“It's on the counter,” he says, before you hear the door click softly shut.

You stay still for a moment, before you inch the curtain open. When you find the bathroom empty, your shoulders sink. But you're not sure if it's relief or disappointment.

And you don't know what to do with that.

[jacketkiszka]

The Sea Remembers

Ghost Pirate Jake Kiszka x F!Reader

Word Count: 8.8K

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content 18+ !! oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, recollection of and mentions of death/dying (nothing gruesome), ghosts

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

October 24th, 9:27 PM

The sea was restless that night. Strong winds battered against the windows of the old inn, the waves below gnawing the cliffs as though they wanted the land back. I arrived at the Salty Dog Inn thoroughly soaked, my suitcase dripping rainwater onto the already warped floorboards. My room, or perhaps the entire building, reeked of history; a tinge of smoke soaked into every board. Looking around the room, I felt… haunted. Not by a spirit, but a heaviness. The innkeeper had mentioned that an infamous pirate captain had died here, hanged in the streets outside as payment for his sins, but I already knew that. In fact, that story was the very reason I found myself in Whispering Harbor in the first place. It wasn’t the idea of a wayward spirit that rattled me, though. It was the way the air seemed to wait, as if holding its breath for something long overdue.

I had come to Whispering Harbor to research the ghost stories, or at least that’s partially why. Truth is, I felt a pull to the cold cliffside town, like I could find a piece of myself here. Something about the waters of the cold northeast always drew me in, but not like this. I started writing a book focused on the different legends of the coast; tales of shipwrecks, phantom lights, and lovers bound to the sea. Every village had one, but none as famous as the tale of Captain Jacob Thomas Kiszka. The locals claimed his spirit wandered the shoreline each Halloween, searching for the woman who betrayed him. Some accounts conflicted, as legends do, but I’d read enough about him to sense there was more to discover.

My room faced the sea, where a lantern burned on a distant rock. An old signal light that was once said to lure ships to their doom. I unpacked my notes beside the fire and listened to the wind rake the windows. It was easy to imagine him out there, a shadow pacing the surf, waiting for a voice he’d once known.

That first night, sleep wouldn’t come easily. The inn was quiet now, save for the groaning of old pipes and half-open windows letting in enough of a breeze to rattle the shutters now and then. I told myself it was the weather keeping me awake, but every time I closed my eyes, I felt watched. Not in a sinister way, more like the moon itself was studying me through the glass.

At some point past midnight, I awoke feeling unrested and lit the lamp beside my bed. The light from the flame trembled along the walls, stretching the shadows long and strange. My blankets were strewn about the bed as if I had kicked them off, and my research notes lay open on the desk, the ink blurred in spots where rain had soaked through my bag. As I approached the desk, one line of ink caught the glare of the light.

𝐻𝑒 𝓋𝑜𝓌𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒.

I didn’t remember jotting it down, though it was definitely my handwriting. The wind outside stilled as I looked closer… was the ink still wet?

A sudden burst of wind slammed the shutters open. Sharp, loud, and alive. The oil lamp sputtered, flaring bright just before steadying. I clutched my chest, the only sound left in the room being my startled, shaky breaths. For just a moment, the scent of tobacco and brine filled the air, faint but unmistakable. The kind of smell that lingers on someone’s skin after years at sea. It stirred something in me… a recognition that didn’t make sense. When I glanced toward the window, the lantern on the distant rock had gone dark.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

By morning, the storm had spent itself. The air hung heavy with salt, and the sea looked calm, too calm… as though it were catching its breath after some secret violence. I tried to lose myself in research over breakfast. The inn’s common room was a narrow space cluttered with fishing nets and framed sketches of old ships. The few locals who still came here for morning coffee eyed me with that small-town curiosity reserved for outsiders. When I asked the innkeeper if she knew where I might find the town’s records, she hesitated before warning me that while I may find what I’m looking for in the basement of the Old Mariner’s Church, some things are better left to rest.

The church sat on the hill above the harbor, its stones slick with moss. Inside, the air was cool and dim. The sound of the sea now only a faint hush, the distance dulling it until it were no louder than soft breaths leaking in through the cracks in the wall. The archivist was an elderly man named Frank who smelled faintly of pipe smoke. He brought me a small stack of documents bound with twine, promising to have more ready for me later on, should I return. Most were weathered letters and court records from the eighteenth century.

I spent the afternoon piecing through them, tracing the ghost of a man who seemed to live between the lines. Captain Jacob Thomas Kiszka, charged with piracy and the unlawful taking of Crown property. There were, however, fragments of articles that spoke differently of him; notes from townspeople who called him protector, savior, lover. One woman’s handwriting appeared more than once, careful and looping. In one margin, barely legible, a note.

𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.

I ran my fingers over the faded ink, reading the passages over and over until the letters blurred. The air around me grew colder, and darkening golden rays of sun slanted through the church windows.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

By the time I returned to the inn, the sky had faded into a bruised gray, and a fog had begun to roll in over the water. The harbor was silent except for the dull clink of rigging against the masts. The lantern glowed faintly on the rock out towards the sea, the same one that had gone dark the night before. For a moment I watched it through the mist, its flame steady as a heartbeat.

In my room, I spread the documents across the desk. The letter from the nameless woman lay on top, its edges curling with age.

𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.

The words seemed to pulse faintly in the firelight. I stared intensely at the pages, hoping that something would change, for the pieces to click into place. I must have been staring too long as I swore I could hear something in the wind. A whisper, low and close to my ear. Just a single word, feather-light and carried gently through the room. My name.

I turned, heart in my throat. The room was empty, the shadows high against the boarded walls. The scent came next, the same one I’d noticed before. Tobacco, salt, and something darker beneath it, like wet rope. The fire sputtered again, stirred by unseen movement.

I sat back down and reached for my notebook, trying to ignore the feeling I had and jot down notes about what I’d found at the church, but my hand trembled. The pen scratched nonsense across the page before steadying on its own, guided by something other than me. When I looked down, four words stared back in dark ink:

𝒟𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝓂𝑒?

The pen fell from my fingers. I could hear the sea again, louder now, as though the tide had crept closer. The wind howled and the open shutters shook against the frame. When I dared glance at the window, the sound stopped. The distant lantern had gone dark again.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Sleep came in fits, restless and strange. Every time I drifted off, the rhythm of the tide filled my ears, competing with the crackle of the fire, the creak of the old beams, even the beating of my own heart. Then the room was gone, replaced by moonlight and water.

I stood on the deck of a ship. The air was cold, heavy with salt and woodsmoke. Lanterns swung in the rigging, their flames guttering against the wind. The sea stretched out in every direction, a mirror of black glass, and above it, stars like spilled silver. I knew this place the way you know a scar by touch.

He stood at the helm.

Jacob.

I didn’t know how I recognized him, only that I did. His dark hair was long, tied back loosely, and his coat fluttered in the wind like a shadow. When he turned, the world seemed to still. He was hauntingly beautiful, as if he had been made from the moon itself. His eyes were the same dark brown I’d seen in every dream I’d never remembered until now. Lightning cracked in the distance. For a heartbeat, it illuminated the amber within them. The sun-worn skin around them crinkled as a smile crept across his face.

“You found me,”

His voice was low, roughened by wind and distance.

Before I could answer, the deck shifted beneath me, waves rising like walls of glass. The ship groaned, the lanterns swayed, and suddenly he was close enough to touch. His hand came to my cheek, cold and steady. The air around us shimmered as he whispered,

“When the waves call your name again, I’ll come.”

Then the sea swallowed the stars, the ship, and Jacob and I with it all. I gasped awake, my heart pounding like a drum in the dark.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

October 26th, 6:49 AM

I woke to the sound of gulls. Pale light spilled through the curtains, washed thin by fog. I dreamt about Jacob last night. Some version of him, anyway. For a moment I couldn’t tell if everything I’d experienced the night before was all a part of the dream. The whisper, the smell, the words that seemed to write themselves. The fire had gone cold, the ink on my desk dry. Everything looked perfectly ordinary. And yet, when I reached for my notebook, my fingers brushed something coarse and brittle.

Salt.

A fine dusting of it laid scattered across the papers, glinting faintly in the light. The window was shut tight, I knew that I’d latched it before bed. My stomach turned. Outside, the waves crashed steady and distant, but the sound felt nearer somehow, like it was echoing from inside the walls. Maybe I was going crazy. Maybe the solitude was too much for me.

I told myself there had to be an explanation; damp air, sea spray carried by the wind. Maybe there was salt built up on the ceiling and it had just fallen off… but deep inside me, I knew better. The book smelled like him now. Tobacco and brine, faint as a breath. The air caught in my throat as I stopped myself from saying his name aloud.

Instead, I reached for the note from the church. The looping hand, the promise.

𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.

I pressed my thumb to the words as if I could warm them back to life.

When I turned the page in my notebook, new words waited there, scrawled in the same dark ink as the night before, but this time not in my handwriting.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The fog clung low over the harbor road, turning the world to watercolor. Shops huddled close together, their windows steamed from within. Whispering Harbor was livelier than I’d expected. Fishermen unloaded their morning catch, children darted between puddles. Even in the daylight, something about the place felt suspended in another time. Every sign, every salt-stained shingle bore the weight of a story I hadn’t yet read.

I stopped first at the small maritime museum beside the pier. It smelled of rust and rope, the air thick with the damp of things too long kept near the sea. The museum’s curator, Martha, spoke softly but confidently; with a wisdom one only gained from devoting their life to their work. When I asked about Captain Kiszka, her mouth tightened, but curiosity softened her eyes.

“Most folks around here leave him be,” she said. “But if you’re writing about him, you’ll want to see this. It is the only surviving likeness.”

She led me to a narrow room where the walls were crowded with paintings of ships, storms, and men with unreadable expressions. At the far end hung a single canvas apart from the rest. The plaque below it read simply: Jacob Thomas Kiszka, 1724–1752.

He was younger than the version of him I’d seen in my dream. His dark hair still tied loosely at his neck, coat half-unbuttoned, a defiant half-smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes, though, were what stopped me. Dark brown, with flecks of amber that shone bright even under the weathered varnish. I felt that familiar heaviness from my first night here, that pull.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the curator said, gently.

I forced a laugh, but my throat felt tight. “Maybe I have.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

By the time I returned to the Salty Dog, the sun had gone down, the moonlight making everything silver and dim. I told myself I was chilled from the night, but it felt deeper than that. Something uneasy shifting under my skin.

The portrait stayed with me. Those eyes. They followed me through dinner, through the narrow hall, through the slow climb of the stairs up to my room. I could still feel the weight of them on me. I tried to read over some materials that Martha had given me, trying to distract myself, but my eyes kept catching on the page I had left open the night before.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈.

A sudden knock startled me. I froze, listening. Three soft raps, then silence. When I opened the door, the hallway was empty, but I hadn’t heard any footsteps retreating. The lantern at the far end swayed gently, though there was no draft. My heart pounded in my chest. I shut the door hard and turned the key.

For the first time since arriving, I wished I hadn’t come to Whispering Harbor.

I put out the fire, and tried to convince myself I was imagining things, that the dreary weather and too many ghost stories were conspiring against me. But when I blew out the lamp and lay in the dark, I could hear it again: the slow, deliberate rhythm of the tide, pulsing beneath the floorboards like a heartbeat.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

October 27th, 9:16 AM

There was no storm that night, but I woke as though there had been. My pillow was damp with sweat, and the light that filtered through the curtains was pale and sickly, like the inside of a shell. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. No footsteps, no whispering waves beneath the floorboards, no scent of salt or smoke, only the slow tick of the clock on the mantel.

For a long time, I didn’t move. I waited for something to happen, for some sign that he was still here. Nothing. The air felt ordinary again, almost cruelly so. I half expected the words in my notebook to vanish, for the ink to dry into nonsense, but they were still there, stark as ever.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈.

I didn’t want to believe it. Maybe I’d imagined everything. The whispers, the salt, even the dream. My mind had always been too good at weaving stories from shadows. What if this was just another one?

Downstairs, the innkeeper poured me coffee and asked if I’d slept well. I lied and said I had. She told me the weather was turning, that I’d better finish my research before the storms rolled in again. I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to finish anything. Part of me wanted to pack my notes, board the next bus out of Whispering Harbor, and forget all of it.

Instead, I returned to my room and sat by the window, watching the tide crawl up the shore. The water looked harmless, even gentle. It was easy to pretend it hadn’t spoken to me, but impossible convince myself that nothing waited for me here. That I shouldn’t stay.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

By nightfall, the wind had picked up again. It rattled the windowpanes and whispered under the door, but the rest of the inn was quiet, too quiet… as though the whole building were holding its breath. I sat by the fire with my notes spread out, though I’d stopped pretending to read them hours ago. The words swam uselessly before me.

Outside, the sea was nothing but darkness. The horizon had vanished. I told myself I’d watch the tide for a while, then go to bed early. Yet I stayed there long after the clock struck ten, long after the fire burned low.

That was when I saw it.

Out beyond the harbor, on the black curve of the cliffs, the lantern flared to life. Its light flickered through the fog, faint and golden. I leaned closer to the glass. The flame pulsed once, twice, and I swear it answered the rhythm of my heartbeat.

A whisper threaded through the air then, soft as the tide against stone. My name. Drawn out, carried by wind, too faint to be real but too certain to ignore.

“Stop it,” I said under my breath, my voice shaking. “Stop.”

But I didn’t look away.

Something stirred deep in the water. It rippled outward, and I felt it like a pull in my chest, the echo of a promise half-remembered. The longer I stared, the more certain I became that I wasn’t watching the lantern at all. I was watching him.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled on my coat and stepped out into the night. The wind off the harbor was sharp, cold enough to sting my skin, but I followed the sound of the surf down the narrow path that wound toward the cliffs. The fog was thicker now, swallowing the world in shades of gray. Only the faint glimmer of water below told me where the sea stopped and the sky began.

The rocks were slick with sea spray. My boots slipped once, and I caught myself against a post worn smooth by years of wind. I stood there, listening. Nothing but the hiss of the tide and the slow churn of waves against stone. Still, I felt him. It was the same pull I’d felt in the dream.

“Jacob?” My voice barely rose above the wind. Saying his name aloud felt strange, almost forbidden. The fog seemed to shift at the sound, coiling tighter around me.

I took a step toward the edge. The sea below gleamed faintly, as if the depths were conjuring something otherworldly. I waited for an answer, a whisper, a flicker of light… anything. But there was only the rhythm of the waves, steady and patient.

And then, so faint I almost missed it, came the scent. The familiar warm waves of tobacco and brine.

My eyes stung. “If you can hear me,” I whispered, “I’m here.”

The wind died. For a heartbeat, the world held still. The trees stopped rustling, leaving the air hollow in reply.

I stepped closer to the edge. The sea below wasn’t solid black anymore. Lines of light rippled through it, silver and thin like veins under skin. They wove together, rising and falling with the waves until I could almost make out a shape beneath the surface. A figure moving through the dark water, slow and certain, coming toward me.

My pulse stuttered. “Jacob,” I whispered again, the name barely a sound.

The scent grew stronger. The warm tobacco notes filled my senses. No longer a whisper on the breeze, but an overwhelming sensation. Something… real. The fog parted for the briefest instant, and something gleamed there. The outline of a man standing on the rocks far below, lantern in hand. The light touched his face just long enough for me to see the impossible. Dark hair whipping in the wind, eyes flecked in whiskey-rich amber.

“Wait!” I called, my voice torn away by the gust. I started down the path that led toward the shore, but the mist thickened, closing like a curtain. The lantern winked out.

Only the waves answered, breaking hard against the stone. The echo of his name washed back to me, as if spoken from somewhere deep beneath the water.

My legs gave out, and I sank to my knees, the cold biting through my clothes. For a long time I stayed like that, staring into the dark, waiting for another sign. Waiting for him, for anything, but the sea was empty again.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

October 28th, 6:38 AM

I slept little, if at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flare of the lantern, the shape of him in the fog, the glint of light on the water. By morning, the images had blurred into something softer, but the feeling stayed, like the ache after a dream you don’t want to end.

The town was just beginning to stir when I stepped outside. The air was cold and clean, rinsed by night mist.

Back inside the inn, I poured myself a cup of coffee that I wouldn’t drink and spread my notes across the desk. Every word I’d written about Captain Kiszka seemed hollow now, clinical. I couldn’t see him as a legend anymore. He was a man. I’d seen him. While every rational part of me screamed that it was impossible, another part whispered that maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that is what drew me here. Not the story of the ghost, but the man himself.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I spent the morning back at the church, combing through what little Frank could find beyond the official records. Personal letters, newspaper fragments, trading logs. Jacob Thomas Kiszka, born to a family of sailors in 1724. A skilled navigator by eighteen, privateer by twenty-three. There were mentions of his ship, The Roving Blade, said to travel up and down the Atlantic. In one of the ledgers, a note from a fellow marauder, Captain Chris Turpin, caught my attention.

“Captain Kiszka gave a portion of wages this month to aid the widows of The Raider’s crew, lost to the storm.”

The accounts I’d read before had never mentioned compassion. They painted him as a thief, a man of violence. But between the lines of these forgotten papers, I saw something else. A man trying to balance two worlds; one that demanded blood and another that sought mercy.

Frank allowed me to sort through a small crate marked Private Correspondence: 1750s. Inside were scraps of paper, all brittle and water-damaged, the lines of ink blurred into ghosts of their former selves. I flipped through hundreds of letters until one envelope fell from the stack. The wax seal had started to crack long ago, but the letter inside remained unharmed. A familiar looking crest was stamped into it, still mostly preserved after all this time. I couldn't place where I had seen it, but I knew it. I carefully broke the seal and opened the envelope.

Inside were several folded pages, their edges thin and fragile. The handwriting was neat and looping, the same hand I’d seen in the note at the church. My heart thudded.

𝒯𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝒥𝒶𝒸𝑜𝒷,

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝐼 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝓊𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒. 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝒸𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈, 𝐼 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓃 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇. 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉.

The words blurred as I read. My chest ached with something that wasn’t quite sympathy, but recognition. Another page slipped free, torn at the corner.

𝐼𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓂𝑒, 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃. 𝐼𝒻 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝓍𝓉. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

By the time I left the archives, the daylight had already begun to fade. A thin rain fell over the harbor, pattering against the stones. I walked back to the inn with the letters clutched tight to my chest, terrified they might dissolve if I let the damp air reach them.

In my room, I spread the pages on the desk beside the fire as I did every night. I ran my fingers over them again, over the looping strokes of the woman’s handwriting. It didn’t feel like reading a stranger’s confession anymore. It felt familiar, like it was my own.

The wind rose outside, shutters rattled. The flames bent sideways in the hearth as the air shifted, sharp with salt. I could feel him then, as clearly as if he’d stepped into the room; the weight of his presence, the charge in the air, that familiar scent.

I turned slowly, afraid that if I moved too quickly, I might break whatever fragile thread connected me to him. “Jacob,” I whispered.

The sound of his name seemed to echo back from nowhere and everywhere. The curtains stirred though the windows were shut. My pulse thundered.

“Why me?” The words came out trembling, half question, half prayer.

The reply wasn’t a sound, not really. More like a vibration in the air, a warmth at my back, the shape of a voice inside my chest. It wasn’t in words, but I understood it all the same.

Because you promised.

My throat tightened. I pressed a hand to my heart, feeling heat behind my neck as if someone stood just behind me, close enough that our breaths might mingle if either of us breathed at all.

The flame in the hearth flared once, high and white. I turned, certain I would see him there, but there was only the shimmer of air and the faint distortion of light, like heatwaves over sand.

Then, softly, against the back of my neck, I felt it. The brush of soft, warm fingers, gone as quickly as they came.

The letters on the desk rustled though no wind touched them. The top page lifted, turning itself over to reveal another page of my notebook.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈. 𝒟𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊?

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I dreamt of Jacob again that night.

The air smelled of rain and smoke. I stood in the streets of Whispering Harbor beneath a gray, unkind sky. The gallows loomed at the far end, shrouded in mist, ropes slick with the morning’s dew. A crowd had gathered, their murmurs low and hungry.

I pushed through them, my skirt soaked from dragging against the cobblestone. I could hear my own heartbeat over the racket, could taste the salty air on my tongue. Someone shouted for silence. Then the world seemed to tilt, and I saw him.

He was dragged in through the crowd in irons, coat torn, his long hair tangled from the rain. But even then, even bound, he was something to behold. Something the sea had carved itself. Wild, defiant, too alive for the gray of this place. When his gaze found mine, it was not accusation that met me. It was grief.

“You did this,” a voice whispered inside my mind. I turned, but there was no one there. I looked down at the parchment stamped with that familiar crest, clutched in my own trembling hands. My confession. My betrayal.

It felt unfair, seeing him bound as I went free. It was my fault he was in this position, it should be me under trial.

I tried to speak, to tell him I hadn’t meant to. That they said it would save him. That they promised he’d be spared. But my throat refused me. My body remembered only silence.

They placed the rope around his neck. I lunged forward, but the soldiers held me back. “You swore he’d be okay!” I gasped, but it fell on deaf ears.

He gave a small, knowing smile. The same one I’d seen in every dream. “I’ll find you again,” he said.

“When the waves call your name again, I’ll come.”

The trapdoor fell open.

I screamed until my voice broke, until the sea rose behind the gallows and swallowed the world in a rush of black water. When the current caught me, I reached for him, but the tide tore us apart.

I woke with the taste of salt on my lips and the sound of his voice still in my ears. I woke with the realization that this wasn’t just a dream. This was a memory. The same wave that had ripped me from my Jacob filled my mind with remembrance. It all came back to me then. All of the lives I lived before, the pain I felt, the way I missed him. The weight of this realization pinned me to the bed, grief-stricken and unmoving. I was heartbroken, but I remembered him. I remembered.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

October 29th, 10:22 PM

I spent the day drifting through town like a ghost. The market stalls were bright with autumn produce, the air heavy with the smell of cider and salt, but everything felt muted, distant. Every gull’s cry, every creak of rope, every whisper of wind seemed to echo with his name.

Back at the inn, I took out the letter to Jacob again. They looked different now, less like artifacts. On the last page, I noticed something that wasn’t there before:

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑜𝓃 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉. 𝐼 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹.

I pressed my fingers to the page, my throat tight. These words weren’t mine. They were his.

That night, the air grew heavy again. The wind carried the smell of salt and tobacco through the cracks in the window. A song and dance that had once terrified me but was now becoming comforting.

“Jacob,” I whispered. “Why are you still here?”

The silence stretched. Then the air thickened, dense and warm, humming low in the floorboards, like the sound the sea makes when it’s gathering itself before a storm. The fire flickered, the shadows on the walls bent and shifted, though nothing moved.

I turned toward the window. The glass had fogged over from the heat of the room, but through it, the lantern on the cliffs blazed brighter than I had yet seen. Its light trembled across the pane, and then changed.

There was a figure standing behind me in the reflection of the glass.

I froze. My breath hitched, shallow and sharp. The reflection was faint at first, as if made of candlelight and smoke. I turned slowly, afraid of what I might find. Afraid that any sudden movement would break the illusion.

He was there.

Not the Jacob of my dreams. This Jacob was ethereal, ghostly. His coat was dark and weather-worn, the collar open to the bruised hollow of his throat. His hair curled at his temples, like he’d just come in from the rain, but he didn’t look wet. He didn’t look… whole. Like you could stick your arm right through his chest and see it on the other side.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air trembled between us, too alive, too quiet. Then he smiled, that same small smile I remembered, the one he’d given me before my world ended.

“I told you I’d return,” he said.

The words hit something deep in me, something that had been waiting lifetimes to hear them. My hand lifted on instinct, reaching toward him, but the air shimmered like heat, rippling just shy of my fingertips.

“Why now?” I asked, voice trembling.

His gaze softened. “Because you remembered.”

But before I could speak again, his form began to waver, edges dissolving into the glow of the hearth. He looked at me as he faded, that same quiet devotion written across his face.

“I’ll come again when the tide turns,” he whispered. “Soon.”

Then the room was empty, and I was left staring at the place where he’d stood, the smell of him still thick in the air.

Outside, the sea roared against the cliffs as though it, too, had finally remembered.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I don’t know how long I sat staring at the space where he’d stood. The fire had burned itself low, nothing but embers whispering in the grate. The scent of smoke and salt clung to the room long after the air should have cleared. Every few seconds I glanced at the window, half-expecting, or maybe just hoping, his reflection to return.

He didn’t come again that night.

The next evening, however, he did.

It was just after sundown. The fog rolled in thick and low, pressing itself against the glass. I’d lit the lamp on my desk, but its light felt frail compared to the steady glow that bloomed once more on the cliffs. Jacob’s lantern. The moment I saw it spark to life, the room changed. The air warmed, the shadows sharpened.

When I turned, he was there.

This time, he looked more whole. The bruising on his neck was faded, as if he was finally healing. He stood near the hearth, eyes as bright as the fire itself. His coat hung open, the fabric moving as if caught by a wind that didn’t touch me. He looked more alive than any memory should.

“Jacob,” I breathed.

I rose slowly, afraid to break whatever fragile thread held him to this world. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

His gaze softened. “Of course I came back. I can’t stand to be away from you.”

Something inside me broke open at that; an ache, an understanding. I wanted to touch him, to prove he was real, but when I stepped closer, the air grew charged, humming, and a shimmer passed between us again like heat on the horizon. My fingertips stopped just short of his chest.

“You can’t touch me,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

The words carried weight, sorrow, and promise. I could feel them vibrate through me.

I took a shaky breath. “I saw it in my dream, the day they took you.”

He nodded once, his expression grave but calm. “You tried to save me.”

“I told them where to find you,” I said. The confession felt like a wound reopening.

“You believed them,” he murmured. “You believed they’d spare me. You were only trying to bring me home.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. “I waited for you, for the rest of my life,” I said.

“I know.” He instinctively reached out as though to touch my face, to comfort me, but his hand passed through the air between us, leaving a faint warmth that brushed my skin.

For a long moment, we simply looked at each other. Two ghosts from different sides of time. The wind howled against the window, but the room felt still, suspended.

Finally, he said, “Tomorrow night, the tide will turn. The veil will be at its thinnest. I’ll come back for you.”

“And then?”

He smiled. A small, sad curve of his mouth. The lamp flickered once, and when I blinked, he was gone.

Outside, the lantern on the cliffs burned twice as bright before sputtering out cold.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

October 31st, 7:48 PM

The storm rolled in just after sunset. The sky was the color of iron, clouds stacked high and heavy over the sea. Waves slammed against the cliffs below the inn, throwing spray so high it reached the windows. The lantern on the rocks burned through it all, brighter than I’d ever seen. Steady, defiant.

He would come tonight.

The air inside the room hummed, thick with salt and static. Every shadow seemed alive. I’d left the window open, and the wind billowed the curtains inward, carrying the scent of smoke and sea. My heart thudded so hard it almost hurt.

The wind stopped. The rain hung motionless on the glass. The fire dimmed to a slow pulse of ember-light and then flared.

He stood in front of it.

No longer translucent or wavering, but solid and real, the lightning outside gilding the edges of him. Water dripped from his hair, ran down his collar. He looked as though he’d just walked in from the sea itself.

For what felt like an eternity, neither of us spoke. I couldn’t. My throat closed around his name.

He crossed the room slowly, the air bending around him. When he reached me, he lifted a hand, hesitant, as if afraid the spell would break. His fingers brushed mine, and this time, I felt him. Warm. Alive.

The room exhaled. The sea roared.

I don’t know who moved first. Maybe we both did. One moment I was standing there shaking, the next I was in his arms. He smelled of salt and tobacco and smoke and rain, and under it all, something like moonlight. His chest rose against mine, strong and steady.

The world outside vanished. There was only us, the heat of him, the sound of our breaths tangling together. His hand framed my face, thumb brushing a tear I hadn’t felt fall.

We stayed like that, the storm crashing beyond the cliffs, time unraveling around us. For a while, it felt like the world had finally righted itself. The promise kept. The vow fulfilled.

“What happens,” I whispered, mournful, “When tonight is over. Where will you go?”

He pressed his lips to my forehead. His lack of a response serving as the response. He either doesn’t know, or doesn’t want to tell me. I clutch his face in my hands, staring deeply into his dark amber eyes.

“My Jacob,” I whispered.

He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch as though the weight of my palms anchored him here. When he opened them again, the firelight caught the amber in his irises.

“Every time I see you,” he said softly, “it feels like the first.”

Before I could answer, he bent toward me. The air between us sparked as his lips found mine. The kiss was slow, reverent. His mouth so warm and sure, his hands framed my face as if to hold me steady against the pull of the sea itself.

The room around us vanished. There was no sound of the waves, the fire, or even the storm. There was only him.

His forehead rested against mine, our noses touching. His hands dropped to my waist, thumbs making soothing circles. He felt my spine straighten, my breath deepen. His hands traveled up my body as if he'd unlearned me in death, and now he was relearning every curve, every hollow.

His mouth was against mine again, kissing me deeper this time. He walked me backwards until my knees hit the edge of the bed, I fell gently onto my back, propping myself up on my elbows to look at him. The fire roared in the background, light dancing across his face and highlighting the amber ribbons in his eyes.

“I have waited lifetimes to touch you again,” He began, voice shaking, “but should you not let me, I have no qualms. Seeing you here, like this, is more than I could ever ask for.”

His lips brushed my ear as he spoke, his hot breath sending shivers down my neck. I turned my head slightly, our noses touching, foreheads pressing together. My hands slid from his face to his chest, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath my palms. He felt so real, so… alive, that I’d almost forgotten he hadn’t always been.

“My sweet Jacob, I do want you to. It’s been so long.”

I ran my fingers down his chest, to his stomach. His shirt gaped open. Silver chains hung in my view, swinging delicately from his neck. Coins and keys adorned them, with one beautifully decorated hinged oval pendant. I stared at it, my heart aching at the sight. For an inexplicable reason, perhaps instinct, I reached for it.

The face of the locket popped open and my suspicions were confirmed when there, crusted in salt and dimmed with age, was a portrait of a woman. A portrait of me.

Her hair was different, her dress old and modest, but she was me. Her eyes were my eyes, like looking through a mirror to another world. One where I was Jacob’s, and he is mine. Except, that is this world, I reminded myself. Jacob is here, waiting for me, even if only for tonight.

I released the pendant and my eyes were met with the same look he gave me all those years ago. The last look he gave me. The look of grief. This time, however, it was not grief for a loss to be suffered. No, it was grief for the time we missed, and a long awaited hopefulness for what the remainder of the night would bring.

I pulled his face towards mine, his breath to my breath. His body loomed over mine, strong and warm and real. I ached for him, longing to feel a touch I remembered yet never experienced in this life. In this body.

His lips pressed warm kisses to my jaw and trailed them down my neck. My back arched into him as his fingers, calloused from years of shipwork, gripped my waist. His lips stopped at the exposed skin between my breasts, those warm amber eyes flicking up beneath his brow to meet mine.

“I can hear your heart beating faster.” He whispered, his hands sliding up my sides agonizingly slow, thumbs brushing against the undersides of my breasts. “Your body remembers me.”

His hands continued their ascent, fingers splaying across my collarbone before hooking under the straps of my nightgown. He pulled them down slowly, his knuckles grazing along my shoulders as he exposed my skin to the cool night air. "Let me see you," he murmured, his voice low and rough with centuries-old longing.

The thin nightgown slipped down my body, catching on hardened nipples. A soft moan escapes me as his thumbs brush over them, freeing the silken fabric. He pulled it down past my hips, letting it pool at the base of the bed. He swallowed hard, taking in the sight of my body like a man starved.

"Darling, you're even more beautiful than I remember," he growled, his hands spanning my waist possessively. His knees hit the warped floorboards as he pressed tiny, teasing kisses to my hips, my belly button. My body shuddered as his touch deepened, his warm, calloused fingers digging into my thighs and slowly spreading them apart. "Let me in, my sweet. You used to love it when I did this for you. Do you still love it?"

I nod my head eagerly. My knees fall apart, giving him full reign of me. Submitting to him in the most delicate way. He kissed the sensitive thin skin of my inner thighs gently before his tongue parted me. A gasp racked from my chest as he lapped at me. His hands were gripping at my backside, pulling me into his face.

The pleasure consumes me immediately. I writhed gently in tandem with the waves crashing against the cliffs outside. The point of his nose grazed my clit with every rock of my hips. My vision blurred. I felt his finger enter me as his tongue swirled against my most sensitive spot, sucking me into his warm mouth and dragging my senses with it. My legs clamped against him and I became one with the sea. Waves crashed over me as the ceiling came alive with colors. Purple, blue, green, and then brown. Warm, whiskey-toned amber. The most beautiful color.

When I returned to my body, Jacob was a mess. Hair disheveled from my thighs, face pinked and dewy. I opened my mouth to apologize for leaving him this way, but he was already on his feet. I watched as his shirt fell loose, button by button, until it joined my nightgown on the floor.

He stepped closer, his chest bare and lightly sculpted. I could see the definition of every muscle, the scars from a hard life lived upon the sea. A soft smattering of hair peeked just above his waistband. He unbuttoned his pants slowly, and his eyes never left mine as I worked my way backwards up the bed.

His gaze was hungry and needy, watching me sort myself amongst the flimsy inn pillows. When his face caught the firelight, I could see the rouge from my lips decorated his chin and jaw. He crawled to me on the bed, now as bare for me as I was for him and aching, a sight I knew I had seen before but one that would stick with me forever.

His hands made a cage around my head. His face hung just above mine, warm breath mingling with mine. I felt him, heavy and hard against my thigh.

“I’ve dreamed of this.” He whispered, his voice hoarse. “Every night since the last time I saw you, I dreamed of you. I have walked the shores every year hoping you’d come back to me.”

I captured him in a kiss, soft and sweet and needy.

“I came back. I’m here,” I whispered.

“You are here.” His mouth was on me again, his hands finding purchase of my breasts. My legs draped over his back, and I felt the sharp edges of his hipbone press into me. I wanted him, needed him, missed him. In every sense of the words. I thanked the heavens for bringing me back to my Jacob as my eyes rolled with the gentle bites to my collarbone.

He stroked himself gently while one toned arm held him above me. The sight of him was sinful. Nothing would compare to this moment. It was new yet familiar, filled with excitement and longing. I never wanted to look at anything else for the rest of my life. If all my thoughts were of the way he glistened as he readied himself for me, I would be fulfilled.

I believed the feeling of his knuckles grazing against my clit had been heaven until he pressed into me. He pushed into me slowly, as if to savor it. I didn’t know if it was for my sake, or for his, but the look on his face suggested it was wholly selfish. He stilled immediately, his face distraught with pleasure. Inch by agonizing inch, he pulled away from me before filling me again. Each thrust sent him deeper and deeper, as if he was reclaiming his territory, little by little.

“Jacob…” My voice was a strained whisper, “I need you, I need more.”

He pushed into me fully with a shuddered breath. His forehead met mine, his lips parted. The delicate silver hanging from his neck rested against my chin.

“You’re so beautiful. So tight… warm… perfect for me. It’s almost too much.”

A deep groan escaped his chest as he moved in me. His pace quickened, causing gentle sounds of praise to fall from my lips. Sweat dripped down his stomach, illuminated by the dancing firelight.

He captured my lips in a forceful kiss, swallowing the praises and keeping them for himself. One strong hand tangled in my hair before moving to grip my thigh possessively. The bed shook with the intensity of his movements. Centuries of pent-up longing unleashed. He was frenzied, desperate.

He reached a spot inside me that made my back arch off of the bed. He swallowed the cry with another deep kiss. His fingers tightened on me, grabbing at my thighs, my hips, my ass, anything he could grab hold of. His hips pummeled that sweet spot mercilessly. He knew my body, even after all this time. He knew just how to touch it, how to make it scream for him.

"You feel even better than I remember," he panted against my lips, never slowing his pace. "Your body was made just for me."

His thumb found my clit, circling it perfectly in time with his thrusts. My body arched and writhed and clamped tight around him as he tore through me.

"Fuck," he cursed, his head fell to my shoulder. The familiar scent of salty tobacco invaded my senses, warm and comforting. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to come…" He nearly whimpered. He lifted my leg higher, changing the angle and burying himself so deep I swore I could feel him in my lungs.

“Jacob…” I whimpered, mewling like a pathetic mess.

“I know, my love. I know… Take what you need,” he cooed. The pressure of his thumb increased as he continued the delicious attack on my senses. I ground my hips upward, meeting his thrusts like the waves meet the shore. The firelight grew brighter, the wind outside howled louder. Everything was more intense. I looked up at my darling Jacob through squinted eyes, trying hard to keep myself together. I knew he could feel it too, the intensity, the hunger. The storm was taking us over. My ship was sinking and he was going down with it.

He was holding out for me, like a captain under fire ensuring his crew made it to safety. A lighthouse standing strong amidst the winds. I wanted to prolong it, I wanted to make it last forever, I wanted him to live inside me and never leave me again. His brows knit together as the knot tightened deep within me and I knew I had to let go, for both of us. My nails dug into his back, pulling him into ecstasy with me as I finally let the waves crash over us. He buried himself deep within me, a strangled groan filling the space between us. The fire burst from the hearth, the storm outside slammed the shutters open, and the oil lamp on the bedside table popped with a flare before burning out.

The room was dark and quiet then, save for our labored breaths. It was as if nothing outside of him existed anymore, and that was plenty for me. He brought a hand up to my face, freeing the sweat-soaked hair from my forehead before pressing a gentle kiss to it. I felt so happy I could cry.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Somewhere in the night, the storm gentled. Rain softened to a hush against the panes, and the fire settled into a low orange breath. I must have drifted off, curled into a warmth that wasn’t a blanket, lulled by a comforting heartbeat.

When I woke, the room was gray-blue with the hour before dawn. For a beat my chest went cold. The old fear rose. The same fear I had felt before when I watched him leave me. I feared emptiness, the indentation of a body not there, a vow spent. I reached out, bracing for air.

My hand met skin. Warm. Steady.

“Easy,” Jacob murmured, voice rough with sleep. His thumb traced the back of my knuckles where they rested over his heart.

“I thought…” My throat tightened around the old ache. “I thought you’d be gone.”

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth tilting the way it always had when he wanted to soothe me. “I waited centuries,” he said quietly. “I could never leave you again.”

The window shutters creaked quietly on a gentle breath of wind. Beyond them, the lantern on the rocks was dark at last. I had him. I had his warmth, his breath ghosting my temple, the smell of him caught in the linen.

“But… how?” I whispered. It felt like a child’s question, and still the only one I could muster.

He pressed his forehead to mine. “Because you remembered.” A softer smile. “Because you needed me. The sea let go.”

I closed my eyes, letting that settle. The familiar old bones of the inn creaked, while gulls announced the break of day with distant cries.

“I’m sorry I didn’t remember sooner.” I whispered, a slight crack in my voice. “I’m sorry you had to wait all this time.”

His hand skimmed a slow path down my spine, as if reassuring himself of me the way I’d just done of him.

“You did the best that you could. You came back to me, and that’s all that matters. Every day I spent looking for you was worth it. Every year I waited made finally finding you that much sweeter.”

“Stay,” I said, the smallest word I had for the biggest thing I wanted.

“As long as you’ll have me,” he answered, the kind of hopeful promise that belongs to morning.

We laid there and watched the sun peek shyly over the edge of the sea. We watched it rise to bring the first sunny day I’d seen since arriving in Whispering Harbor. When the light finally touched his face, he didn’t fade. He only looked at me as if he’d been waiting all this time just to see my eyes in daylight.

Outside, the tide turned quietly, calm. Inside, he laced our fingers together, and the world felt new.

[jacketkiszka]

The Masque

Sam Kiszka x F!Reader

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content 18+ Alcohol consumption, oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, hooking up with a stranger, borderline public sex, masked sam 😈

Very excited to be featured in this year’s Gretaween collection by my dear friend.

This story is inspired by the short story The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allen Poe. I hope you all like it! Happy spooky season ~ 🎃

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩

10:33 PM

With a creak and groan, the ancient wooden doors of the abbey slowly part before you, revealing a luminous scene that takes you by surprise. The room beyond is bathed in an otherworldly blue glow, shimmering with the eerie splendor of two enormous stained glass windows. The blue light spills across the space, pooling like liquid at your feet. You step through the threshold, your heels echoing against the stone floor, and immediately the air is filled with the hum of conversation and laughter, the cheerful din of partygoers. Somewhere, distant yet resonant, the haunting notes of an organ drift from another room.

You pause for a moment, letting your gaze travel over the room. Two grand firelit lamps stand sentinel on either side, their flames seemingly casting not orange, but blue-tinged shadows. The paintings on the walls, the velvet-upholstered chairs, the intricately woven rug beneath your feet—every last detail shimmers in rich, captivating blue.

But there's no time to linger. You catch your breath and continue forward, making your way down a long hallway towards the growing sounds of the partygoers.

The corridor twists, and with a sharp left turn, you find yourself in yet another grand room, though this one is bathed in the deep, sultry warmth of magenta. The walls radiate the pinkish color, and it paints the faces of the few guests scattered about in soft, rose-tinted shadows. You don’t recognize anyone here—and that doesn’t surprise you. You hadn’t expected to know many people at this event; after all, you had been invited by your long-time friend, Mira, who never missed an opportunity to thrust herself, and by extension you, into the center of extravagant events. Parties like this were her playground, where the eccentric and the elegant intermingled seamlessly.

You didn’t mind following along, though. Truth be told, you enjoyed the excuse to dress up, to wear something that made you feel like someone else, if only for a night. Your dark purple gown flows as you walk, the soft fabric brushing against the floor, and the lacy black masquerade mask you wear lends you an air of mystery. You glide through the magenta room without pause, the conversation barely registering as you pursue the growing noise of the crowd ahead.

Another turn, another left, and now you enter the green room.

It is smaller, but far more crowded, a buzz of lively chatter filling the space. The green hue saturates everything, casting the scene in an ethereal, almost dreamlike light. You scan the crowd, eyes darting from one masked face to another, searching for Mira. No sign of her yet. But before you can make another move, you notice something strange—someone standing at the edge of the room, a man in a crimson suit.

He's not mingling, not engaging in the festivities like everyone else. Instead, he leans casually against the emerald wall, his piercing gaze fixed on you. His outfit is striking—an almost unnaturally bright red suit and matching mask, and his black hair slicked back away from his face. The pit of your stomach tightens with unease. There’s something unsettling about the way he watches you, as though he's been expecting you all along.

You look away, pretending to be preoccupied with the crowd, but as you move through the room, you can’t shake the feeling that those eyes are following your every step. No matter where you turn, you can sense his gaze lingering, unrelenting.

Suddenly, a deep, resonant sound reverberates through the walls—the unmistakable chime of a clock from somewhere deep within the abbey. A bell tolls, loud and clear, its echo rippling through the air. Everything comes to a sudden halt. The laughter dies, conversations cease, and the organ music stops in mid-note. You freeze, heart pounding, as the room falls into an eerie, unnatural silence. Every face you can see looks grim, as though anticipating something awful.

After a few minutes, although it feels like an eternity, the clock’s final chime fades into nothingness, and the crowd resumes its former liveliness as if nothing unusual had happened. Conversations reignite, laughter resumes, and the organ music swells once more, yet the strange heaviness in the air remains.

11:00 PM

You find yourself stepping into yet another room, this one taking your breath away. It's larger than the others by far, with towering ceilings that seem to stretch into the heavens, and at the center of the back wall stands a grand pipe organ—magnificent in its scale and design. Its gleaming pipes rise like spires, glinting in the dim light.

As you take in the sight, the soft sound of footsteps catches your attention, followed by a voice, smooth as silk, from behind you.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

You turn slowly, and your eyes meet those of a man dressed in all black. He’s tall, with an air of quiet elegance, a single orange—or perhaps white—flower pinned to his lapel. His face is obscured by a simple black mask, but his eyes, dark and enigmatic, capture your attention and hold it. There’s something magnetic about him, something familiar yet unknown.

“It’s incredible,” you reply, turning to look at the organ again. “I’ve never seen one in person before. It sounded beautiful earlier.”

“Thank you,” he says, a note of amusement in his voice.

You blink, turning back to him in surprise.

He was the organ player. Of course he was.

Before you can respond, he steps closer.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the music,” he says, his voice smooth, rich. “But I suspect you didn’t come here for a performance…”

A playful smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and you feel a warmth rise in your cheeks beneath the mask.

“I suppose not,” you reply, trying to sound composed. “Though I can’t say I’m entirely sure why I am here.”

Obviously you had come because Mira invited you, but something about the abbey seems to be pulling you in as if you were brought here for a reason.

His smile broadens, just enough to suggest he knows more than he’s letting on. “Perhaps that’s part of the fun. This place tends to attract the curious… and those searching for something they can’t quite name.”

You tilt your head slightly, feeling a strange pull to his words. “And what about you?” you ask, shifting the conversation back to him. “Are you here searching for something too?”

For a brief moment, his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable, like a shadow passing over them. He pauses before responding, as if contemplating the answer. “Perhaps,” he says finally, his tone quieter, more serious. “Or maybe I’ve already found it, and I’m just here to see if it will stay.”

His reply sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can ask him to elaborate, a burst of laughter erupts from the adjoining room, pulling your attention away. The party seems to have returned to full swing, the hum of voices and clinking of glasses growing louder. But here, in the bright orange light, it feels like a separate world entirely, one where time moves differently.

He follows your gaze towards the other guests, his expression unreadable once more. “These gatherings,” he muses, almost to himself, “they bring together all kinds. Some come for the spectacle, the excitement of an elegant party... Others come for the anonymity, like they just want a place where they don’t have to be themselves.”

The last words hang heavy in the air.

“I’m not sure which one I am,” you admit.

He chuckles softly. “You’ll figure it out. Though I’d wager you’re not just here for the party.”

Before you can respond, a flash of movement catches your eye—a familiar figure entering the room. It’s Mira, dressed in her usual flamboyance, a gown of shimmering fabric that almost rivals the abbey’s decor in brilliance. She’s laughing, arm in arm with another guest, her head thrown back in her typical carefree manner.

“There you are!” Mira calls out when she spots you, her voice bright and full of life. She sways toward you, pulling you into a quick embrace before her gaze flicks over to the man standing beside you. “Oh, I see you’ve met already,” she says with a sly grin, as if she knows something you don’t.

Your eyes dart between them, a question forming on your lips, but before you can ask, Mira leans in closer and whispers, “Watch yourself with this one. He’s a charmer.”

Mira pulls you aside and the masked man retreats into the crowd of people.

“Who was that?” You ask, hoping that Mira knew him as well as she let on.

“That’s Sam. He’s always throwing parties here, I think he just uses it as an excuse to show off his organ skills for pretty girls.” She laughs.

You laugh too, partially because it was funny and partially because his apparent plan had worked.

You and Mira chat for a few minutes before she is pulled away by someone else. Life of the party, as always. When the two of you part ways you find yourself retreating to the drink station.

You pour yourself a cup full of the punch they have laid out for guests. With the amber colored light beaming in from the stained glass windows, you couldn’t tell the color of the punch but you hoped it wasn’t flavored orange too.

You sip the undoubtedly orange flavored punch and go to turn around when you’re met with the dreaded man in the red mask standing right behind you. You jump, startled, and nearly spill your drink.

“Oh, I’m sorry-“ You say, trying to get out of his way of the drink table. He steps aside with you, maintaining the close proximity.

“Don’t be sorry. I’ve had my eye on you since you arrived.”

You force a smile, heart hammering as he inches closer, his intense gaze never wavering from yours. The air grows thick, and you can feel the unease radiating through every fiber of your being.

“Really?” you manage to say, attempting to mask the nervousness in your voice with a light tone. “Sorry, I’m just here with a friend.”

He tilts his head slightly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Oh, but you don’t seem to be with anyone right now.”

You search for an answer, but the words seem to evaporate under the weight of his stare. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing your arm lightly, and a shiver runs through you, though not the pleasant kind. He leans in, his voice lowering as he murmurs, “Come chat with me. I don’t bite.”

Before you can step back, another voice cuts in, calm but firm. “Everything alright here?”

You turn to see Sam standing next to you. There’s a subtle warning in his eyes, and you feel a surge of relief at his presence. Sam steps between you and the stranger, positioning himself protectively, and for the first time, you see the man in red falter, a flicker of irritation passing across his face.

“We were just talking,” the man in red says, a tight smile pulling at his lips.

Sam doesn’t flinch. “Good to hear. But I think she was just leaving,” he says, glancing at you with a look of reassurance.

You take the hint, nodding gratefully as you step back, moving closer to Sam. The man in red hesitates, his gaze shifting between the two of you before he finally nods, the charming facade falling away. He steps aside, vanishing into the crowd, his eyes lingering on you one last time before he disappears completely.

“Thank you,” you whisper, feeling your heartbeat begin to steady.

Sam offers you a small, reassuring smile. “No need to thank me. Just thought you looked like you could use a hand.” He pauses, then adds with a slight smirk, “Besides, Mira would probably kill me if I didn’t look out for you.”

You chuckle, the tension finally breaking, and feel a warmth settle in as you realize you’re not alone in this strange, eerie place.

As the unsettling presence of the man in red fades into the crowd, you feel Sam’s hand gently brush against your arm, guiding you toward a quieter corner of the room. The buzz of partygoers swirls around you. Sam’s eyes meet yours, his expression thoughtful as if he’s deciding how much to say.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, his voice low. “I know a place where we can actually hear ourselves think.”

You nod, the idea of escaping the crowded room with him unexpectedly enticing. Without another word, Sam gestures for you to follow, and you weave through the clusters of guests until you reach a doorway. He holds out his arm, gesturing for you to pass, and you slip through into a dimly lit hallway that stretches away from the party.

The silence here is a sharp contrast to the cacophony of the party, and you’re suddenly aware of the echo of your footsteps in the vast, empty space. Sam leads you down the corridor, turning left, then right, until you pass through a few other colored rooms, much like the others. An all white room, followed by a deep, rich purple. You reach the very end of the abbey. You walk into a room completely shrouded in black velvet furnishings, deep red windows bringing in a blood tinted light.

Sam stops near a velvet tufted bench beneath the large window, his gaze drifting over the room before turning back to you. For a moment, he seems almost shy, his confident demeanor softened. “I thought you might need a break,” he says quietly, looking at you with a gentleness that catches you off guard.

“Thank you. I did.” You take a seat on the bench, letting out a long breath. “This place is beautiful, but it’s… overwhelming.”

He nods, settling beside you. “That’s why I come out here sometimes. The party can feel like it’s pulling you in, swallowing you up.”

You glance at him, surprised. “And yet, you’re the one throwing it.”

A flicker of a smile crosses his face. “I guess even the host needs an escape every once in a while.” He pauses, then looks at you, his gaze earnest. “What about you? Something tells me you’re not much of one for this scene.

You feel a slight blush rise under his scrutiny, the truth not as straightforward as you’d like. “Yes and no,” you reply. “Mira loves these things, but… I think I came because I needed a night to just… let go. To feel like someone else, even if only for a little while.”

Sam nods, understanding glinting in his eyes. “Well, you certainly found the right place for that.” He tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “I’m glad you came, though. I didn’t expect to meet someone like you here.”

There’s something sincere in his tone that makes your heart flutter. His shoulder brushes against yours, a subtle connection that sends warmth spreading through you. For a few breaths, the world narrows to the two of you, the warm red light, and the distant sound of partygoers in the other rooms.

Sam turns slightly towards you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "So… who might this new persona be that you've adopted tonight?" His eyes crinkle at the edges, amused, inviting.

”I guess you’ll have to find out,” you say, matter-of-factly.

“Do you think Mira is looking for you?” he says, seemingly starting to get nervous.

You smile and shake your head. “No, she’s probably going to be busy all night. This is how it always goes. Besides, I don’t care if she’s looking for me.”

He smiles back. The tension between you is thick. He leans in closer, putting a hand on your arm.

“Do you think- I mean, can I–“

Before he can get the sentence out, your lips are crashing softly into his like two magnets being pulled together against their will. His fingers squeeze your arm in surprise, but pull you closer to him at the same time. You pull away from his lips, and the grin on his face is one you hope to save in the depths of your mind for eternity.

In what can only be described as a sudden stroke of confidence, Sam pulls you in for another kiss. This time deeper, more passionate. The sounds of your breathing and hungry kisses mixed with the plastic edges of your masks clicking together creates a symphony of passion that fills the otherwise empty room.

His hands roam over your body, feeling the curves hidden beneath the silky material of your gown. A soft moan escapes your lips, muffled against his kisses.

You look towards the open doorway. None of the rooms in the abbey had doors except, of course, the bathrooms. Yet nobody had ventured all the way down the winding hallway to this room, and judging by the dust on the window ledges, you figure they hadn’t in a long time.

Sam pulls you closer to him, his hand finding its way to your thigh. You push your legs apart for him to grab hold of. His fingers gently dig into your thigh and he plants a soft kiss to your jawline, followed by your neck, and back up to your lips.

“What if someone comes in here?” you whisper, against his breath.

“They won’t.” He sinks to his knees, lifting the skirt of your dress up above your knees and running his fingers up your calves. “Do you trust me?” He kisses your thigh, his eyes never leaving yours.

You’re not sure if you do, but he looks so good like this that you’re not sure you care. Besides, if someone caught you it’s not like anyone here knew who you were besides your one friend.

You nod and he smirks up to you before planting more kisses along your thighs, gently sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin on the way up. His head disappears beneath the bulk of your gown and you feel his arms reach up and pull you to the edge of the bench. The hard plastic nosepiece of his mask grazes against your lace panties, sending your hips forward, looking for more contact.

“Easy, baby… what’s the rush?” He pushes his nose back against you, running it up towards the top of your panties.

His hot breath fans against your sensitive skin, making you tremble with anticipation. He reaches up and gently pulls your panties to the side, exposing your wetness.

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your center. You gasp, pushing your legs apart further, silently begging for him to keep going. He chuckles against you, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body. His tongue slowly slides out, parting and tasting you.

Sam's tongue begins to explore, circling your clit before flicking rapidly over the sensitive spot. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he licks and sucks, alternating between broad strokes and targeted flicks.

You feel a knot churning in your stomach as your fingers dig into the velvet bench cushion next to you. You try to stifle your moans for fear of someone hearing, but he sucks your clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around you in the most delicious way, causing a groan to ripple from your chest.

He pulls away, and you pout at the sudden loss of contact. He pulls his now desheveled head from under your dress and pushes the skirt up to your hips.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” He whispers, looking you up and down.

“You haven’t even seen my face,” You chuckle. He bites his lip in response.

“I don’t have to,” His fingers trail up your thighs. “You sound beautiful, you taste beautiful. And this body…” He brings his fingers back down to your clit, drawing lazy circles against the black lace. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, I know it.”

The look in his eyes is honest, and the wet sheen on the edges of his mask reflecting the deep red light of the windows make it the prettiest sight you’ve ever seen.

Sam leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His fingers continue their maddeningly slow circles on your clit as he kisses you deeply, swallowing any sounds you might make. He breaks away after a long moment, both of you breathing heavily.

“Are you gonna fuck me, Sam?” You whisper, almost inaudible against his lips. His two fingers find their way into your panties and dip inside you, drawing a whine from your throat.

“Do you want me to fuck you? I thought you were afraid to get caught?” He teased, pumping his fingers in deeper, making your head spin. Your hips rolling against his hand, pushing him deeper.

“Please, Sam… I don’t care if we get caught.” He looks up at you with a grin that can only be described as mischievous. He curls his fingers inside you, hitting your sweet spot. Your head rolls back against the wall and your quiet gasps and sighs begin to grow into moans. His eyes watch the grandfather clock behind you and he starts to unbuckle his belt with his free hand, palming himself through his suit. His fingers work you until you’re practically heaving at his every command. His eyes flick back up towards the clock as he starts to pull himself free.

God, he’s gorgeous. You look down at the sight of him stroking himself, getting himself off while touching you. You’d never met a man that giving in bed, no less a stranger. He stands up and pulls you up with him, backing you against the wall. He presses his lips against yours, hiking your leg over his sturdy hips. Just as he pulls away you feel him rub against your entrance.

His eyes flick up to the wall again and, like clockwork, the clock strikes midnight. He grips your hips and pushes into you, filling you all the way to the hilt. A loud groan rips from your chest and his fingers dig into your thighs tighter, quickly picking up a steady pace. The sounds of the clock’s chimes fill the abbey. Your hand comes up to muffle the moans that fall from your lips but he takes your wrist and holds it tight against the wall.

“No one can hear you.” He bucks his hips into you sharply, and your eyes roll back into your head.

“Fuck, Sam…” You roll your hips against his cock, driving him deeper inside you. His grip on your hips never faltering, pulling you into him with all his strength. He drops your wrist and his free hand finds his way to your bodice, pulling it down to reveal your chest.

The clock continues to chime, filling the party with a deafening chime and masking the lewd sounds coming from the velvet room.

His fingers find their way back to your clit, swirling it in tight circles, looking for your end. The familiar knot forms again in your stomach, and you dig your fingers into his arm. He feels you tighten around him and groans loudly against your neck, seemingly coming to his end too.

“Come on, baby… we don’t have much time… give it to me,” he demands. His fingers work faster and the knot tightens more. Your vision turns colors and you squeeze him tight. His eyes flick up to the clock, knowing that it’s on its last big chime. With one deep flick of his hips he sends you over the edge, his hand clasping around your mouth to muffle you as the clock finishes its chime, and the partygoers resume their conversations in the other rooms.

His release comes shortly after yours, his hand still holding place over your mouth and his face buried in your neck, grunting quietly for only you to hear. His nails dig into your thigh as he spills into you, soft and hot and perfect. You wish he could hold you like this forever and never leave you empty again.

“Sam?” You whisper through heaving breaths.

He hums in response, nuzzling further into your neck.

“Maybe we should get out of here before someone sees us.”

He nods silently and pulls away from you. The loss of warmth leaving you wanting him close again already.

The two of you get yourselves put back together and as you begin to leave the room of black velvet, a hand stops you. Sam pulls you close for one last kiss before removing your black lace mask, revealing yourself to him for the first time.

He smiles and runs his thumb down your cheek.

“Just as I suspected,” he says, a smirk plastered across his face.

You give him a questioning look in response.

“Beautiful.”

[jacketkiszka]

Only You Can Set Me Free

Female Reader x Danny Wagner

Word Count: 5.3K

WARNINGS: Explicit Sexual Content 18+, angst, alcohol consumption, drinking to the point of memory loss, oral m receiving, best friends to lovers, DIG setlist at a SCWT show (sorry not sorry)

*Thursday night, 10 pm*

*Your POV*

“Can I get two beers? Whatever you have is fine.” You shout to the bartender over the noisy Nashville bar. You return to your group with two canned beers in tow, and pass one to your best friend, Danny. You are out celebrating tonight as Danny has a show in town tomorrow, but will be leaving for tour the following day. This will be your last chance to spend quality time with him for a while, until they have a break. You clink your beers together, as you always do, and you both take a drink. 

After a couple beers and a lot of talking, you head to the restroom. When you return, Danny is talking to a girl you’ve never seen before. She seems really excited to talk to him, so you think you know what’s going on. 

“Thank you, yeah… It means a lot.” Danny replies. You approach the two and grab your beer from the table behind him. 

“Oh! And you must be the girlfriend!” The girl asks. You practically spit out your beer in surprise. “Girlfriend?” You look at the girl and then to Danny. The question was genuine, and you’re taken off guard, so you just introduce yourself, avoiding the ‘girlfriend’ comment as a way to end the conversation quickly. The fan eventually leaves you two alone and you make your way back to the rest of your group. 

“Did you tell her we were together?” You ask. Danny busts out laughing. “No! I don’t know where that came from! Do people really think that?!” He responds as you approach the group.

“What’s that? Y/N and Danny are dating?” One of your friends says, loud enough to get the rest of the group’s attention. They chuckle. “Congratulations! Took you long enough.” Another friend teases. You both roll your eyes. You hope it stops there, but of course it does not. 

Deeper into the night, the music gets louder and the alcohol percentages get higher. One of the friends in your group comes back to the table with a tray of shots. Everybody grabs a shot and holds them up when someone in the group shouts “To Y/N and Danny!” 

Great. Clearly you two have been chosen as the butt of all jokes tonight. “Fuck you guys” You mumble after taking the shot. You know they’re joking, but the more they talk about it, the more you think about it… and you’d been trying not to think about it for a long time. Of course you liked Danny, everyone did. But you left it at that. It would not, and could not, ever be more than that. You realize that this will be a long night of trying to repress those feelings if they don’t stop picking on you. You clear your throat and stand to go back to the bar. You need a distraction, and another drink. Danny follows suit. You should have expected that, the man is practically chained to your ankle. You offer to buy him a drink but he’s already ordering his own and putting yours on his tab. He does that when he feels like something is wrong. You know it’s coming, so you brace yourself. 

“Is everything okay?” He asks, quiet enough that nobody else can hear. You nod, and do your best to look confused while doing it as if you don’t know what he’s talking about. You do, though, and he knows that you do. Sometimes you wonder if he knows because he feels it too, but you try not to think too hard about that. 

“They’re just messing with you, y’know.” He says, now sounding concerned. 

“Oh, I know… It’s not about them, I’m just tired and… well, I’m not looking forward to you being gone. That’s all.” You hope he doesn’t see through your excuse, but you know he probably does. 

His facial expression softens, and he smiles a little. “I know. I’m going to miss you too.” 

You smile back and you both stand there in silence. This is the side of Danny that made your heart melt. This side of him was tender, and reserved for only a select few. You were lucky enough to be one of them. 

After a moment he breaks the silence. “Man, no wonder they think we’re dating.” He laughs quietly to himself. 

The drinks he ordered arrive and he slides one to you. “Drink up, get out of your head. Let’s have fun tonight.” 

He was right. There was no sense in letting a good night go to waste. After all, you would miss him greatly after he leaves for tour. The two of you make your way back to the group and plop down on one of the couches in the corner of the bar that you all had claimed as yours for the night. In typical Danny fashion, he sits entirely way too close to you on the couch. Again, chained to your ankle. You hope to god you’re not blushing, but you try not to care. 

As the night goes on, the alcohol starts catching up to everybody. You and Danny have gotten pretty comfortable on the couch, talking about the upcoming tour and pretty much anything else that comes to your mind. You loved to talk and he loved to listen to you. You hadn’t noticed yourself leaning more and more into Danny the more that you talked, but your friends did. 

They’d asked you about it before but you always denied having any feelings. They knew, though. Everyone did. You could deny it all you wanted, but there was no questioning the way that the two of you looked at each other. The way that he listened to you, the way that he was the only one who could calm you down if you were upset. In fact, the only two people who couldn’t tell, were you and Danny. The way you both managed to ignore your own feelings as well as the possibility of each other’s feelings was extraordinary. You had both become so jaded by the need to preserve your friendship that you ignored the fact that you knew it was right. Maybe that’s why they teased you about it so often, maybe they thought if they badgered you for long enough, you’d see. And maybe they were right. Whether it was that, or the impending sadness that would be coming with your best friend going on tour without you, you’d not been able to stop thinking about him. 

You had just barely started to let the thought creep back into your brain when one of your friends approached the two of you. She’d already had plenty - if not too much - to drink and brought a polaroid camera with her to document the night. As quickly as she approached, there was a camera being pointed at your faces. 

“Say cheese!!” She shouted.

You and Danny sit up straight and smile for the camera. He puts his arm around you to bring you closer. You don’t mind. She snaps the picture and sets the developing photo on the table. She points the camera at you again. 

“Give us a kiss, lovebirds!” Another one of your friends yells. The others giggle and shush him. “Come onnn, just a little peck. It’ll be funny!”

The next few seconds are fuzzy.

Was it the copious amounts of alcohol? Was it the peer pressure? You’re not sure, but the next thing you know, you’re kissing Danny Wagner.

As quickly as it began, it was over. Everyone laughed and then continued on as if nothing had happened, and the girl set the new photo next to the first one to continue developing. You and Danny laughed it off immediately, making comments about what assholes your friends were. Nothing he said registered in your ears. In fact, nothing for the rest of the night did. Your brain was mush and your skin was hot. What just happened? 

*Thursday night, 3 am*

You made it back home and you’re lying in bed, rethinking the night's events. Your head is swirling thinking about the way Danny’s lips felt against yours. You felt stupid for thinking about it still. It was nothing, just a silly joke to appease your friends. You’re not even sure how it happened, you can’t recall leaning in. All you remember is his lips, a flash, and then it was over. You lie there thinking about it for longer than you should. The thought replaying in your head over and over again, preventing you from falling asleep despite how tired and drunk you are. You can’t stop wondering how Danny may have felt about it. Was it more than a joke to him? Was he still thinking about you the way you were still thinking about him? Suddenly, you remember something. 

“The picture!” You whisper to yourself with a small gasp, and you jump out of bed to find your wallet. 

You had quickly snagged the picture from the table when no one else was looking. The last thing you two needed was rumors starting, and perhaps there was a small part of you that just wanted to keep it… it didn’t matter. You needed to see it. 

You find the picture and pull it out. You gasp at the sight, because this was not how you remembered it. Your arms wrapped around each other, his hand on your thigh and a smirk on his face as you kissed. What?! You must have been too blindsided by the kiss to notice. Did this mean he felt the same way…? Surely not, but this picture was making you think otherwise. You decide against your better judgment to text him. 

3:12 am

You: I had fun tonight. Thanks for talking to me earlier, I get too much into my own head sometimes. What time should I be at the venue tomorrow?

A text bubble popped up almost immediately showing that Danny was typing. It quickly disappeared and you felt your heart sink a little. 

3:13 am

Danny: soudnchck at 2 im being there 1. any time.

Oh, he is still drunk. He went pretty hard tonight. You chuckle, reading the message again, trying to decipher it.

3:13 am

Danny: always have. funwith u :):)

Smiling, you clutch the phone to your chest and fall asleep without a response. 

*Friday Afternoon, 1:48 pm*

*Danny’s POV*

You open your eyes for the first time today and are immediately assaulted by the dogpiling combination of dizziness, nausea, and a migraine. The sun is too bright, the fan in the corner of the room is too loud. Everything is too much. What time is it? You turn over to face the clock on your bedside table, trying not to make yourself sick in the process. The clock reads 1:48.

“Fuck!” You shout, but you’re so exhausted it comes out more as an angry groan. 

You force yourself out of bed against your body’s will and make your way to the bathroom to get ready. You are certain you’ve never looked worse in your life. You’re certain that nobody has ever looked worse in their life. You brush your teeth and put your hair in a claw clip, just to get yourself out the door. You decided you’d freshen up after sound check. Trying to minimize the damage of how late you were going to be, you just grab your keys and head out the door, not even considering grabbing something caffeinated on your way out. 

Upon getting to the venue, it’s clear that everyone is upset with you, and rightfully so. You were not only holding everybody up, but in a funky mood on top of it. You slam your keys down and get to the stage to do your soundcheck. Everything sounds fine, except for you. You can barely think straight and keep missing the beat. What is wrong with you today? 

After soundcheck, you’re making your way back to the dressing room to get your shit together when you spot Y/N running through the halls. She is always doing what she can to help the band, despite not being a part of the crew. You appreciate her more than she’ll ever know. She’s clearly busy right now, so you dip into your dressing room instead of saying anything.

Shortly after, you hear a knock at your door. You open it to find your best friend, holding a box full of miscellaneous equipment and wires. 

“Hey,” she starts, “You okay? I didn’t see you earlier, you’re usually the first one here so I got concerned.”

You laugh and rub your hand on the back of your neck. “Oh, yeah… Sorry… I guess I drank a little too much last night. I slept until almost 2. I woke up with a violent hangover, I don’t even remember most of the night.”

“Oh..” Her expression drops.

What was that? What is that face? Why does she look disappointed? You furrow your brow in response. 

“Umm, maybe you should get a coffee?” She suggests. You agree. That would make you feel a lot better right now. You offer to get her one, as well. She appreciated that. 

She disappears into the hallway to go distribute the box of gear and you start to gather your keys and wallet… Shit. Your wallet. In your hungover haze this morning you completely forgot to grab it. 

You debate if the coffee is even worth it, but ultimately it is, plus you had offered to get one for Y/N. You couldn’t possibly let her down. You roll your eyes and leave the dressing room, finding her in the hallway and asking if you can borrow her card for the coffees. She agrees and hands you her wallet. You thank her with a hug, now setting off towards the coffee shop down the road. 

You order yourself the largest coffee they can offer you, and a regular sized one for Y/N. She didn’t have to tell you what she wanted, you already knew her order. In fact, you knew everything about your best friend… or at least you thought you did. 

Reaching into your pocket to pay, you pull out her wallet. When you open it, you stop in your tracks. The barista is staring at you with a confused look on their face, and you feel just as confused. When did you kiss her? Who took this picture? And why was it in her wallet? You try your best to shake it off long enough to pay for the drinks but on the ride back to the venue you can’t stop thinking about it. Is this why she looked disappointed to hear you hadn’t remembered anything about last night? You feel like your heart is going to break in half thinking about that. 

You’ve always liked Y/N. How could you not? You had always hoped if you ever kissed her it would be special. This wasn’t special. You couldn’t even remember it. You wondered how she felt, if she had thought it was special. If she wanted you to feel the same. Had you unknowingly ruined any chance you had with her by drinking too much to remember it? Maybe she doesn’t remember it either. Would that make it better or worse? You don’t know. Fuck.

You sit in the parking lot for a moment too long, trying to rack your brain. You force yourself to go back inside so that the coffee doesn’t get too cold. Somehow you managed to make handing off her coffee and wallet the most awkward experience of your life, barely looking her in the eye when you saw the corner of the polaroid still poking out of the wallet. You felt bad, but you didn’t know how to talk about this. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to find the words to say. 

She felt it, too. She felt the tension, she noticed the way that you looked at her as if she was fragile. You were terrified to say the wrong thing, and push her away. 

It wasn’t the fact that you’d kissed her. It was the way that you kissed her. It was the way your hand was gripping her thigh, the way you smiled against her lips. It was the fact that you couldn’t remember it, and it was the fact that she’d kept it in her wallet. 

*Friday Night, 9:23 pm*

The arena fills with cheers and screams as Safari Song comes to a close. You feel the anticipation building as you prepare for your moment. You start your solo as Josh exits the stage, and you catch a glimpse of Y/N standing side stage. She was always there for your solos, at the very least. Even if she didn’t catch the rest of the show, she made sure to watch you have your moment. You knew she’d be staying for the entire show tonight though. This was going to be a special one. You smile and get focused, trying to give this solo everything you had. If you were one thing, it was a perfectionist. Maybe the fans wouldn’t notice if you missed a beat every once in a while, some of them used your solo as a bathroom opportunity anyways, but you would know. Once you were in the zone, nothing could stop you. Well, almost nothing. 

Your time in the spotlight flies by and Josh comes back on stage, rambling his usual stage banter and more importantly giving you a breather before you transition your solo into the next song. 

“Better than sex!” Josh exclaims to the crowd.

You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek and shake your head, mouthing “I don’t know about that” to him before looking back to your left and watching the color flush in Y/N’s cheeks. 

“Well, how about a climax, Daniel?” Josh shouts. 

From the corner of your eye you see her turn and abruptly walk away from the stage.

What was that about? Was she- No. Daniel, focus. 

You try to push it to the back of your mind but you keep finding yourself thinking about last night, the photo you saw, and how flustered she looked as she ran off. Fuck, it was getting hard to stay in the moment. 

As the show goes on, you find it creeping back into your head more and more. Y/N still hasn’t returned and as you start Light My Love, you feel yourself getting more and more wrapped up in the thoughts of her. 

The music is swelling, the fans are holding each other tight in anticipation, singing along to Josh’s oohs. He throws his hand in the air and as the music stops, the lights go out. You give the drum two solid hits and right before the big moment, the photo of last night flashes in your mind again. 

You miss. 

You were late. 

The pyro goes off before you can crack your symbols and your heart sinks. What the fuck was that? You’d never been late like that at a show. Especially not for this song that you’ve played a hundred times now. You had to be better than that, right? You know you’re better than that. How could you let this distract you so much? You hoped you could recover and move on, but it was fucked from that point forward. Whether you were playing too fast, too slow, skipping a beat, hitting the wrong drum. It didn’t matter, you were struggling and everyone could tell.

Finally the main part of the show comes to a close and you run off stage before quickly being berated by the other boys. The worst part is you knew they were right. This was by far your worst performance and as the timekeeper of the band, you were screwing everybody else in the process. Thinking there was only one way to solve your problem and hopefully do better for the encore, you run to the mini bar in your dressing room where you spot half of the drinks had already been gone. You knew it was from Y/N, since nobody else ever helped themselves to your dressing room, but you didn’t see her anywhere. After downing a couple tequila shots, you slam the mini fridge door shut and turn around to see her standing awkwardly in the back of the room. 

“You’re not watching the show anymore.” Is all you say. 

“I’m sorry- I-” She tries to find the words but you can see in her eyes there’s far too much she wants to say, and now’s not the time to say it. 

“I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad…” She tries to console you.

“I ruined the entire show! Everyone is off and they’re all pissed at me and it’s all because of your stupid-” you stop. 

The tension is palpable. 

“…Stupid what?” She says sheepishly, fidgeting with the hem of her Greta Van Fleet t-shirt.

Your eyes flick down to the pocket of her jeans against your will and she adjusts her forearm, as if a half-assed attempt to prevent you from looking for the wallet. She knows you know.

“Why do you have that picture in your wallet?” You step closer. She steps backwards but is quickly met with a wall. Your in-ear monitor pings to let you know it’s time to return to the stage.

“I didn’t want anyone else to see it..”

“You didn’t want anyone to see it, so you put it in your wallet… and then gave it to me to pay for coffee.” You scoff. “This shouldn’t have happened. This is all-” You stop yourself before you can say something you’ll regret. With a shake of your head you start to walk away. 

A hand reaches out and grabs your arm just as you’re about to step out of the room. You look back, feeling the rage build up inside you. You knew none of this would have happened if it weren’t for her. You were just about to bite back at her when you’re met with the saddest, kindest eyes. The eyes you’d always had a soft spot for. For just a moment, everything you were mad about seems to fade away. 

“I’m sorry, Danny… I didn’t mean to upset you… I think we should talk about last night…”

Fuck, she makes your heart ache. 

You look into her eyes and she bites her lip, scared of what you’re going to say. You know exactly what she’s thinking, and you’re thinking it too. You get another ping on your in-ear urging you to hurry up. Without another word, you reach up to grab the sides of her face and pull her into a soft, quick kiss. With that, you turn away and head back to the stage, pulling another mini tequila bottle out of your pocket and taking it. 

*Your POV*

What the fuck just happened? It was like one second he wanted to tear your head off, and the next he’s kissing you in his dressing room? Trying to wrap your head around the events of the last few minutes, you make a mental note to have him work on his mixed signals. The warm and dramatic intro of Age of Man begins and like a magnet, you’re drawn back to the side stage. Sammy starts the song off with a hauntingly beautiful piano number and you watch as Daniel, now shirtless, settles into his drum kit. The dark blue lights mixed with the warm amber glow of the fire pits around the stage define every muscle in his arms and back in the most delicious way. Danny looks over to catch you staring him down and smiles. His demeanor is much lighter than before and although it could be from the tequila, something told you it had more to do with you. 

You watch the boys finish out their encore and as soon as you see Danny stand from the drum kit and Jake start throwing his spare picks into the crowd, you make your way back to the dressing room. Danny is usually the last one off the stage as he is always getting caught up handing out drumsticks and taking shots with the front row, but tonight wasn’t a normal night. That much was obvious. You make it back to Danny’s dressing room and within seconds he’s behind you, drumsticks still in hand, pulling you further into the room. 

Your bodies collide and he pulls you into him, your face in his hands as he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Danny…” You whisper, looking up into his eyes, your breath stuttering. “I think… I think we should talk about-”

He cuts you off.

“We have all night to talk about it. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted- needed to do this.”

He presses his lips against yours. Cautiously at first, but increasingly more passionate when he feels you melt into him. The hands around your face find their way backwards into your hair, holding you in place and even though this is the third time you’ve kissed Danny, you’ve never felt anything like it. You feel like putty in his embrace and he feels like heaven. You’re suddenly being pushed backwards against the wall of the dressing room, the same place you stood the last time he graced your lips with his.

Your hands run down his sides and rest at the waistband of his pants. He kisses you harder. It’s blissful. His tongue feels like everything you imagined and more. It’s all happening so fast, yet time moves so slow. You swear you could stay here for hours, days even, pinned between the wall and his body. With your fingers hooking into the waistband of the boxers that poke out just above his belt, you draw a sigh out of him. You snap the button of his jeans and close the sliver of a gap between your torsos with your hand snaking down to feel him. You pull away from his lips, looking into his eyes for his consent and he ruts into your palm, making his answer clear. He feverishly presses his lips back into yours, like he’s been made hungry in their absence. Starved. He lets you explore the feeling of him for the first time and you let him trail hot kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. 

“Please take these off,” you whisper, pulling at his jeans.

Danny looks down at you, and with a gentle bite to his bottom lip he guides you away from the wall and quickly rids himself of his denim before sitting back on the couch. You can’t stop your eyes from trailing down his body, inspecting every inch of his skin, parts of him you’d only imagined before. He was just as beautiful as you thought he would be, built like a Greek god and splayed out just for you. He looks up at you expectantly as he strokes himself gently. You sink to your knees before him and take him into your hand.

You drag your fingers down the length of him, he hisses through his teeth. His head rolls back and you watch his Adam's apple bob through the mess of his long curly hair. You lean in, your breath hot against his skin, and press a soft kiss to the sensitive tip. He groans, and his hips buck slightly, encouraging you to take more of him into your mouth. You part your lips and slowly take him in, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip. His hands tangle in your hair, guiding you as you bob your head, taking more of him each time. His breath grows ragged as you pick up the pace. The sound of your mouth working him fills the room, accompanied by his desperate gasps. You’re addicted to the taste of him, the feeling of him throbbing against your tongue. 

Danny's grip on your hair tightens as his body tenses. "Look at me, baby," he rasps. 

You pull back just enough to look up at him, his length glistening with your saliva, as you continue to work him with your hand. He pulls you up into him for a sloppy kiss, mixing your spit and the little bit of precum on your tongue. He pulls away with a strained whimper. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this… Wanted to feel your lips wrapped around me… Watch your eyes tear up when you take me… You’re a fucking dream, baby, are you gonna let me fuck you?”

You smile at him, still pumping his length in your hand. Your grip tightens. 

“Mmm, next time,” You peck him on the lips before returning to your knees before him. “I’ve always wanted to know how you taste… You gonna cum for me?”

You take him back in your mouth, sucking him in all the way to the back of your throat. His hips jerk forward at the feeling.

“Fuck!” His head rolls back against the couch and his chest heaves, your hair still wrapped tight around his knuckles. He pushes further into your mouth causing a gag to rip from your throat. He hesitantly lets go of your hair, afraid he’s pushed you too far, but you pick up the pace, bobbing your head faster and faster. He writhes and his nails dig into the soft gray fabric of the couch beneath him. Your free hand finds its way to the heat between your legs. You moan around him as you grind against your palm, searching for friction. The vibration of your groan rattles through him bringing out a loud gasp. The sweetest sound you’d ever heard.

"You look so good like this, just like that, baby, just like that… just…” He praises, his voice growing desperate. 

You look up to meet his eyes and his brows furrow tightly. His cock throbs against your tongue and you’re hit with a sudden rush of warmth. Danny lets out a groan so strained you’d think he was in pain. You’ve never heard anything more beautiful. Danny consumed all of your senses. The taste of him, the sound of him, the feeling, the warmth. 

You pull off of him with a loud pop! He looks down at you and everything feels… different. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon, a way you’ve never been looked at before. Not by him, anyways.

He leans down to place a gentle kiss to your forehead, and then your lips. 

“So… did you still want to talk about it?” He whispers, smiling against your lips. 

You smile back up at your best friend. “Maybe we can talk about it at your place. I know you have a long drive tomorrow but maybe-“

He interrupts you enthusiastically. “I’ll pull the car around. This is long overdue.” 

He hops up from the couch, pulling his pants back up and grabbing his car keys. You start to gather your things from the dressing room but before he opens the door, he looks back to you. “Y/N?”

You look up, meeting his gaze. 

“I’m glad you kept that picture… Really glad.” He smiles and steps out of the dressing room. 

You didn’t know what your future with Danny would look like, but you knew one thing.

You were glad you’d kept it, too.

[jacketkiszka]

Tongue Tied - Chapter Two

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: (for this chapter) none <3

𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓

June 3rd

The days roll by with the sun blazing and the line of customers at Strange Horizons never seeming to shorten. The once serene beachside stand now feels like a bustling hub of activity, and Sam and you are forced to navigate this chaos together.

One especially hot afternoon, as you juggle multiple orders, you notice Sam taking an unusually long time to prepare a snow cone. He’s fiddling with the ice machine, trying too hard to keep from spilling any syrup, and most importantly holding everything up.

“Sam!” you call out, your frustration evident. “We’ve got people waiting. Can you hurry up?”

He looks up from the machine with a narrow expression. “It’s not like they’re going anywhere. They can wait a minute.”

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your composure. “That’s not the point. We need to be efficient. If you can’t keep up, at least let me know.”

Sam’s jaw tightens, and he mutters under his breath. “I’m just trying to do it right.”

The argument simmers as you move on to the next customer. The tension between you is palpable, not only affecting your mood but also making Sam’s worse. You hear a frustrated groan followed by a loud sloshing of wet ice. Your head whips around to find sam throwing the cup he was holding and grabbing another. Now, completely over his attitude you gently ask the next customer at the window to give you a moment to catch up. You snatch the styrofoam cup out of Sam’s hands and instruct him to go take a breather. You’re not sure what’s gotten into him today as he’s been doing pretty good at his job lately.

Sam loves to push your buttons and pretend that he doesn’t care about his job, yet he’s on time every day, always offers to help you with any extra duties, and the undeniably radiant smile painted across his face every day when he interacts with the kiddos makes you sure that he likes it here. 

Today, though — this was not the Sam you’d gotten used to seeing. 

Sam storms out of the tiny stand and doesn’t come back for what seems like thirty minutes. By the time he gets back, the rush is over and things have slowed down significantly, leaving you to clean up the leftover ice and syrup around the counters and miscellaneous cups you dropped in your frenzy. 

“Jeez, where did you go? I said take a breather, not the day off. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing, sorry, I just went for a walk. I’m fine.” He says, dismissively.

He doesn’t seem fine, but he also doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about it, so you let it go. Everyone has bad days, you remind yourself. Maybe something is going on with his personal life that you don’t know about. In fact, now that you think about it, you don’t really know anything about Sam’s personal life, except for what Josh has told you in the past.

You know that Josh and his twin brother had moved out here from Michigan several years ago for school, and that Sam followed suit when he was old enough. You weren’t sure if it was because of the school itself, or just to catch up with his brothers, but you assumed the latter. After all, Sam was a music production major, and just about every decently sized school in the country had a program for that. You wondered, too, if he hadn’t just moved here for the beach, as many college students did. You often found Sam wandering around the beach before his morning shifts, when the sand was still cool and the beach was quiet. He loved to sit out on the pier and read while the waves turned in. When you first met him, you wouldn’t have pictured Sam as one to wake up early and watch the tide roll in, but it was always a comforting sight to see as you strolled into work each morning. 

On nights when the two of you closed the shop, it was common for Sam to walk you back to your apartment after work. You hardly ever talked much during these walks, not about anything that mattered anyways, but Sam always insisted that you not walk home alone at night. As annoying as he could be when he was trying to get on your nerves, you knew that deep down he was kind. Maybe that was just that good old fashioned midwestern politeness they instilled in him as a kid, or maybe he was just a good friend. Either way, you were grateful to have him around most of the time. 

Later in the day, Josh swings by to check on how things are going. Josh is a fairly laid back manager, only really stopping by if he needs something, or if we’re running low on supplies. While he may be a pretty hands-off manager, he’s certainly far from it when it comes to being a big brother. As soon as Josh steps into the shop, he can tell something is off with Sam. Maybe that was the reason he stopped by in the first place, maybe he knew something was wrong.

“Everything okay here?” Josh asks, glancing between you and Sam.

“Just another busy day,” you respond, forcing a smile. “We’re managing.”

Josh nods but lingers a bit longer than usual, but he never stays too long. Before walking out, he shoots Sam a look to suggest he senses more than he’s letting on. “Well, remember that communication is key. If you’re struggling to keep up with the rushes, make sure you’re talking to each other and helping out where you can.” 

As Josh leaves, Sam snorts. “Oh great, now you’ve got him giving us a pep talk.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “He’s right, though. You need to be able to communicate with me if you need help. I know you’re having a rough day today, but I can’t do this alone and-” 

Sam cuts you off with a biting edge. “You don’t know anything.”

The silence that follows is heavy and charged. “Okay, you know what?” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not asking you to spill your entire life story. I’m asking you to do your job and communicate when you’re struggling. We’re supposed to be a team here.”

Sam groans, “Yeah, like that’s going to fix anything. I said I was sorry for disappearing, what more do you want from me?”

He’s raising his voice now, and you can’t help but feel a sharp pang of hurt mixed with frustration. “I’m trying to understand, but it’s hard when you act like this. If you’re not going to talk to me, then at least stop making my job harder.”

Sam’s expression hardens. “I’m not the only one with problems.”

The tension between you reaches a boiling point. It feels like the whole room is charged with unspoken frustrations and misunderstandings. You want to respond, to argue back, but before you get a chance to yell ‘What’s that supposed to mean’ right back in his dumb face, he’s gathering up bottles to put on the shelf, effectively ending the conversation. 

You take a deep breath and say, “Fine, but if you can’t communicate, we can’t work together. And if we can’t work together, it’s going to be a long summer.”

Sam doesn’t say anything in response, and you both retreat into a strained silence. The rest of the shift passes in a tense atmosphere, with neither of you speaking more than necessary. The unspoken conflict hangs heavily in the air, making each interaction feel more strained than the last. That night, for the first time in weeks, you walk home alone.

𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓

June 10th

A week has passed since your blow up fight with Sam, and you haven’t seen him since. He was supposed to work with you a few nights this week, but he had Rebecca — one of the other workers — take over all of his shifts, including all of the ones he was scheduled to work next week. At this point, you weren’t positive he was ever coming back. After all, this was nothing more than a seasonal job for most people. You often saw new faces come and go after a few months, but usually they didn’t quit this soon. Especially being the owner’s brother. You told yourself you didn’t care, though. Every summer there was at least one who left abruptly. However, you had to admit — you were going to miss him walking you home at night, and you were even going to miss the fake attitude he reserved only for you. It had actually grown on you when you weren’t paying attention, and maybe you actually liked having him around. 

For now, though, and for the foreseeable future, you were stuck with Rebecca. She was alright, a very nice girl, but she wasn’t very fun to be around. You confide in Rebecca about the fight, and ask her if she’s heard anything from Sam. You’re not sure why you feel so concerned about it, but you’ve been worried about him. The last time you saw him he was having a terrible day, the worst you’d seen him. You considered reaching out to Josh about him as he was sure to know what was going on with his little brother, but you weren’t sure how much you could ask before feeling like you were overstepping. After all, if Sam wanted you to know about his life he would have told you himself, and he wouldn’t have said the things he did. You didn’t even know Sam, really. He was just a coworker at most. You didn’t know if disappearing like this was normal for him, or if he was just busy. He was right when he said you didn’t know anything about him, but the more you thought about it, the more you wish you did.

As you close up the shop silently, with the overplayed kid-friendly pop playlist playing softly in the background, you think of the better times you had with Sam. One day, when the two of you were having a really good day, you had come back from grabbing lunch to find that Sam had changed the labels on the syrup bottles to have inappropriate names. You smile to yourself remembering the way the two of you laughed until your faces hurt over the coconut bottle, now affectionately named “cockandnuts.”

Good days with Sam made you feel like a kid again, and you like to think you brought out the same feelings in him. Especially when the two of you got scolded by Josh after a customer saw a particularly disturbing flavor name scribbled across the bottle. You and Sam giggled as you scrubbed the sharpie off of each bottle per Josh’s request, despite agreeing that it was not your fault that the kid knew what that word meant. 

After all of your closing duties are finished, you lock the shop door and say goodnight to Rebecca before walking home alone. You’d walked the short sandy pathway back to your apartment a hundred times before, but in the short time you worked with Sam, you’d gotten used to your walks together. You weren’t sure if it would ever feel the same walking home alone again. Once just a comfortable routine that you had, now disrupted by lingering feelings and the idea of what could be. Sam was a lot to handle sometimes, but he made you feel safe and comfortable. You thought you were comfortable before but now, in his absence, it’s hard to imagine that it was ever comfortable. It’s funny the way that a person can work their way into your life, your routine, and change you without you even noticing. You lay your head on your pillow, in the inviting silence and wonder how else you may have been changed. 

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.

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[jacketkiszka]

Tongue Tied - Chapter One

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: (this chapter) none! <3

𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓

May 9th - Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina

“You’re doing it wrong again,” you sigh, your voice tinged with frustration as you watch Sam pack ice into the cup with a funnel.

“There’s no wrong way to put ice in a cup,” he retorts, still focused on his shoddy attempt at a snow cone.

“You know there is,” you reply. “If you pack it in too tight, you won’t be able to get the straw in.”

Sam looks up at you with a playful grin, but you notice the misstep only after it’s too late. You roll your eyes and turn back to the counter, muttering under your breath, “Whatever, make it harder for yourself if you want. Plus, you’re getting syrup everywhere.”

He sets the snow cone down for you to taste, naturally smearing the red syrup on the bottom of the cup all over the counter you’d just cleaned. It looks decent enough, but as you suspected, the ice is packed too tightly for the syrup to stay on top. You slide it back toward him. “They’re not as good when you pack the top like that. Hard ice doesn’t hold the syrup.”

He just shrugs off your criticism with a smug smile, seemingly not paying any mind to your assessment of his work.

Sam was the newest hire at Strange Horizons—the brightly colored beachside snow cone stand where you’d spent the last few summers. Today was only Sam’s second day in the shop, but that’s normally more than enough time to train someone in a job like this. For some reason, though, Sam was resistant to your training.

You had been working effortlessly with Sam the last few days to get him comfortable with making the snow cones. It wasn’t that hard of a task, you didn’t think,

School was finally out, but it was still early in the summer and it was pretty windy today which meant the beach wasn’t going to be very busy. You’ve been spending the free time having Sam practice making snow cones for you and showing him how to mix the syrups and refill any bottles that were running low. 

Sam’s older brother, Josh, owned the shop and was a great manager, but you couldn’t help but think he might have been a bit too generous in hiring Sam. It was clear that getting along with Sam’s stubborn personality in such a small space for the rest of the summer was going to be a challenge.

There were two other girls that worked in the shop on your days off, but they had only been there a few weeks, so fortunately for you, although you didn’t quite see it as a blessing, Josh had asked you to be the one to train Sam.

After an hour of monotonous tasks—cleaning sticky syrup bottles and listening to the same loop of kid-friendly pop music you’d heard countless times before—you catch sight of a familiar face approaching the stand.

“Hey, Winnie! The usual?” you call out.

She smiles and nods. Winnie would come to your stand every Wednesday around the same time, and she always ordered the same thing. You decide that today’s snow cone will be on the house, considering this will be Sam’s first real customer.

Turning to Sam, you offer him a nod. “Alright, thankfully this is an easy one. She just wants a medium sour apple with extra sour spray. Got it?”

Sam smiles at the girl through the window before nodding to you. You watch carefully as Sam produces what could only be described as the most perfect snow cone you’ve ever seen in your life. He diligently wipes off the cup and hands it to Winnie. She tastes the snow cone and her eyes immediately widen, like she’s never tasted anything better. As quickly as you start to feel proud of Sam, that feeling dies. It becomes glaringly obvious that Sam never needed the help to begin with, and he was only pretending to be bad at his job to push your buttons. 

Winnie walks back towards the beach happily with lime green lips and sticky hands and you let out a deep breath that you didn’t know you were holding in. Sam glances back at you, his expression mostly blank but with an unmistakable hint of satisfaction.

“What was that?” You ask, pointedly.

“A medium sour apple with extra sour spray.” He answers, as if stating the obvious.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes again—a habit that has become all too familiar in the few days you’ve known Sam.

“You know what I meant,” you say, frustration creeping into your voice. “What happened to the crunchy, dry snow cones you were making earlier?"

“So you don’t want me to be good at my job?” he smirks, the question hanging in the air as a challenge.

“I just don’t appreciate you pretending not to know how to do your job all day just to turn around and make a perfect snow cone, like you just want to waste my time.” You spat back at him, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter.

Sam looks you up and down, and for once his attitude seems genuine. “I think you’re taking this job too seriously. Who even cares about snow cones this much? Learn to live a little.”

His words had stung more than you’d like to admit, leaving you with a bitter feeling. You take a deep breath, trying to shake the anger you feel before you get too upset with him. You’re not angry at his comment, but you are pissed that he has been actively trying to get under your skin all day, and pissed that it worked.

Sam doesn’t know the reason you keep returning to Strange Horizons every year, or what makes your seemingly simple job feel so important to you. Wordlessly, you decide to step away from the counter and retreat to the back of the stand, where you take a moment to breathe.

Your thoughts drift to past summers at the Strange Horizons—long, sun-drenched days spent serving smiling customers, eating as many snow cones as you could stomach, and all of the good times you had with your coworkers-turned-friends. You think about Josh and how well he’s treated you all these years, and how you’ve tried your best to reciprocate the help for him. Most of all, you think about the reason you’re even in this town in the first place.

As you’re fiddling with a stack of napkins, trying to clear your mind, you hear the all too familiar sound of shredding ice. You peek around the mini fridge and see Sam standing at the machine, his demeanor noticeably more focused than before. He’s preparing another snow cone with a newfound precision, and it’s clear that he’s putting real effort into it.

You watch as Sam carefully scoops the ice with the funnel and presses it onto the top of the cup, ensuring it’s not packed too tightly. He pours the syrup evenly, making sure not to spill too much. It’s a stark contrast to his earlier attempts, and you can’t help but feel a bit of relief. His attention to detail is evident, and you realize he’s at least trying to take this seriously.

He finishes the snow cone, carefully wiping down the cup before setting it on the counter next to you. Sam turns to you, his expression more sincere than before. “How’s that?” he asks, his tone soft and slightly uncertain.

You take a moment to assess the snow cone. It’s perfectly done—everything is in order, from the shape of the ice to the amount of syrup. You nod, a small smile forming on your lips. “Is it cotton candy?” 

He gives a slight nod towards the cup. “You said earlier it was your favorite.”

A small, but kind gesture. Sam realized he pushed you a little too far today and this was his way of making it up to you. You take a spoonful from the baby blue ice and Sam grimaces. “I can’t believe you like cotton candy. Terrible flavor.”

And just like that, the sweet moment is over as quickly as it began. He grabs a towel to busy himself, and you smile to yourself.

Maybe working with Sam wouldn’t be so bad after all.

.

.

.

.

.

[jacketkiszka]

Tongue Tied Masterpost

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 3.3k (wip)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three (coming soon)

[gretavanlace]

I absolutely love when you guys send me unhinged twitter shit 😂 This is great

[jacketkiszka]

HELP ME AJJSJFNSKDLGNLDL

[streamingcolors-gvf]

Skin Deep Masterpost

Moodboard created by @jakekiszkasleftnutsack, Tattoo edits provided by @kiszkasun , tattooartist!Jake Moodboard that sparked the idea for me by @pennylanefics

Shoutout to @asparrowofthedawn and @capturethechaos for their support and input through this series.

Disclaimer- This is a twin Smut fic series, so if that’s not your thing, keep on scrolling ❤️

Warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption and drug use, sexually explicit content.

Skin Deep Playlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Blurbs and oneshots

A Morning Surprise - Josh period sex

A Birthday Treat - Josh and Jake enjoy a surprise

Artwork for the Series

Josh sketch

Jake sketch

[gretavangroupie]

VIGILANCE MASTERPOST

Pairing: Jake x Reader, Sam x Reader, Jake x OC, Sam x OC

Word Count: Far too many. 220k+ and growing…

Summary:  She loves me, she loves me not? Maybe love really is written in the stars.

WARNINGS: 18+ as always, drinking, smoking, language, fluff, angst, smut.

This story is a collaboration with my lovely pal @gretavanmoon.

Chapter List:

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

The Outtakes:

Plan A

[themoreyou-love]

My entire list of works - one shots, preferences and series lists. All smut! They’re all smut.

BONUS: Greta Van Fleet AI’s are also linked below the cut

Message me preference requests and nsfw headcannons! ✨🕯

Keep reading

[jakescaravel]

The Caravel (series)

🏴‍☠️ ⚔️ ⚓️

Part 1

Pairing: Jake x reader

Word count: 3,319

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, mentions of kidnapping, pirate life 🗡️🗡️ (it’s pretty tame for now. Make sure to read the A/N below before jumping in!) 18+ MDNI!!

A/N: Hello all! The Caravel is a slow burn series about pirate Jake, I don’t want to give away too much here because the summary is already written into the story! One more thing! ⬇️

I have very carefully created a mood playlist for this specific part!

If listening to music while you read isn’t your thing that’s totally fine but I do highly recommend it. The songs are kind of in a specific order but it shouldn’t matter too much if you shuffle. Okay it’s finally time…

🏴‍☠️           🏴‍☠️           🏴‍☠️

Exposition

Jacob Thomas Kiszka was a pirate aboard The Caravel. A ship that had once belonged to his father.

Captain Thomas Kiszka was his name. He had met a woman on shore and 9 months later, Jake was born on the very ship. Thomas had insisted his son live the life of a pirate. And his mother, having nothing much to offer him, had no choice but to hand over her precious child to become the next captain of the infamous ship. However Jacob Thomas Kiszka would not be the next captain of The Caravel.

The only two things Jake’s father had left him were his sword fighting skills and a little coin necklace from the great Atocha, a ship with immense treasure that Thomas’s crew had pillaged before he was killed in battle.

The crew aboard The Caravel were the only family Jake had ever known. They had taken him in, taught him how to fight, sail, how to handle his women and his rum. They had taught him how to navigate the seas and how to uphold The Caravels legacy.

It was late summer, the time of year when the seas were the angriest. It had been storming for longer than any of the men on board had ever seen. The crew was well equipped for bitter weather but they had never had to endure it for this long. They were running low on everything but more importantly, they needed a doctor.

The current captain of The Caravel was named James Calico. He was Thomas’s first mate and the one who was to lead the crew of fearless men to find the lost treasure at The Gardens Gate before Jake was of age. Captain Calico had heard of a young woman off the coast of the town they were nearing who was a doctor. All they had to do was collect the needed supplies for their voyage, and then collect the girl too.

🏴‍☠️           🏴‍☠️           🏴‍☠️

Jakes POV

Your mind is fuzzy from the rum you've been drinking all morning but all you have to focus on is your job. Go in, get the liquor and get out. Fast.

You roll your eyes at the thought. They know I can handle more than this, It isn’t fair.

Everyone on board knows who you are. They know who your father was. They respect you and treat you well. They took you in as one of their own and taught you everything you know but they do not give you as much power as the son of Captain Thomas Kiszka deserves.

You had heard parts of the plan from Reed, Captain Calico’s first mate, and a well respected man on board. He had always been the one to tell you more than the captain intended for you to know. You think of him as the closest thing to a real friend.

You know the plan has something to do with kidnapping a doctor but you don’t have time to worry about that. You have your job and you are ready to do it. 

You look down and grab the handle of your sword. You run your hand along the smooth leather (a nervous habit you picked up) keeping it in place and you instantly feel calmer. You’re confident in your ability to fight. I’m ready.

The boat docks and the anchor is lowered. You look to your Captain for instruction and he gives a slight nod. Within seconds, you’re all running off the ship and making your way through the town. You are ready to defend yourself if anyone tries you. However, as usual, no one does. You smile to yourself hearing the familiar shrieks and cries.

“Pirates!”

This is a feeling you’ll never get sick of. The feeling of straight adrenaline coursing through your veins and raw… power. You feel your heart beating out of your chest and you know nothing can hurt you in this moment. You’re invincible. Soon the entire square is clear and you make your way to the pub knocking over boxes and crates in the process.

You don’t have to look around for long. The rows and rows of bottles line the walls and you grab two cases and fill them up, and then one more for good measure.

You make your way back to the square where you see the rest of your crew, taking supplies and one by one returning to the ship. 

You look over and see a man everyone called ‘Brute’ holding a woman by the throat threatening to cut off her head if she didn't give him the rest of the meat at her stand. We don't have time for this. You hear the commanding voice of your captain telling him to let her go. And when he speaks, people listen, that's the rule.

Back on the ship you only take two steps before you hear the anticipated cheering. Time to celebrate. You set down the cases and help pass out the bottles of rum. You feel a small jolt and soon The Caravel is gliding across the water.

When you reach to grab a bottle for yourself, something catches your eye, or rather someone. It's a girl.

Wow.

You’ve heard of sirens in stories but you thought they were make believe. She is unlike anyone you have ever seen. She’s beautiful.

Your eyes travel up and down her body, slowly taking her in. You can't help yourself when you stare at the exposed skin on her stomach through the tear in her dress, or the bit of thigh that was showing. Your eyes meet hers and she quickly looks away.

She’s scared of me. Usually this revelation would please you but it feels like a stab to the chest. You think for a moment. She must be the doctor.

You hadn't expected it to be a girl, let alone someone this beautiful. She looks confused and panicked. Now that you pay closer attention, you see that she's being held roughly by two men, Patrick Lock and Robin Evers. They were good men but they obviously didn’t know how to control themselves in the presence of a lady.

A realization washes over you when you look into her eyes. The storm is gone... strange.

You shake the thought when you see Patrick and Robin wearing identical evil grins that make your hands bawl up into fists. Let go of her. You want to grab your sword and slice through their hands but instead you stay by the liquor cases continuing to study her.

🏴‍☠️           🏴‍☠️           🏴‍☠️

Her POV

Your mind is racing and your heart is pounding. It’s hard to think clearly when your arms are being held so tightly. Do they have to be cutting off my circulation?

Just moments ago you were sitting at home with your sister reading to her and now you were on a pirate ship. One of the ones you had only heard about in the stories your father used to tell you. 

Your eyes flutter closed hoping to wake up from this nightmare. You can smell the ocean. Of course you always could but it was so much stronger now. The cool breeze on your skin is refreshing in contrast to the sun's harsh rays. You let the sound of the water distract you from the dull pain growing in your arms. 

SWOOSH.

One particularly strong wave crashes against the side of the boat causing your eyes to open again.

Crash against wave upon wave.

The realization hits you once more. This isn’t a dream, this is real. Your eyes search the ship frantically. If they let go of my arm maybe I could jump off the side and swim back to shore. You look around once more.

The ship is like most that you’ve seen around the dock. Perhaps a little bigger. You don’t know much about them but you recognize the familiar ropes and watchtower. Your dad is a sailor but you’ve never gotten to see his boat. Now I never will.

There is something else near the tower, it’s a flag. A black flag. An exposition.

There is a symbol of some kind. What does that mean?

Your thoughts are cut off by the dozen men that surround you beginning to close in. You can hear the sound of their boots hitting the wooden deck.

Creeeeeek.

Each of them looks slightly different than the last. Some of them wear hats and carry swords, some of them wear shirts and some of them don’t. But they all look ragged and their eyes share the same slight yellow tint. Scurvy. They all eye you with dangerous expressions and wild eyes. It makes your stomach turn. 

However, there is one man who stays back. He looks younger than the rest of them. He has long brunette hair and entrancing brown eyes. He has on a white button up shirt with only one button done up just above his belly button. Classy.

You can see his tanned chest and his strong arms from where the sleeves are hiked up. He has on a pair of black breeches and a piece of cream colored fabric wrapped tightly around his waist. He wears a brown hat and a small white knit bracelet on his wrist. The mysterious man wears two silver hoops and has a clean shaven face. A small coin necklace hangs loosely around his neck.

You look back up to find his eyes boring into yours. The sword he carries tightly against his body seems to be staring at you too. The sight of the sun reflecting on the pointed silver makes a shiver run up your spine.

Your gaze is broken by someone walking towards you. You know he's the captain by the way the men part leaving a clear path from him to you, some of them bow slightly. 

He walks slowly and carefully, not breaking eye contact. He doesn’t look anything like what you've heard of in the stories. No peg leg, no eye patch. 

He has a long beard and he wears a hat or a tricorne as your dad taught you. When your eyes travel down you see his sword swinging slightly by his side and the wood shifting beneath him with every step. You struggle against the two strong hands holding you causing them to grab you tighter. That’s gonna leave bruises. 

The captain finally reaches you and towers over you. He looks strong and powerful. He lowers himself so that his face is level with yours and you smell the rum on his breath. 

He speaks with a hint of amusement as if he thinks this whole situation is funny. “Hello young lady.” He smiles showing you his singular golden tooth. 

He looks to the men holding you “Patrick, Robin, is this how we treat our guests? We don’t wanna scare the poor girl.” His eyes widen.

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

They let go of you causing you to stumble forward. The men laugh as the captain catches you and lifts you back on your feet. You recoil at his touch. “Come on matey, I'm not gonna hurt cha.”

You think about running but fear plants your feet firmly to the ground. What does he want?

Unable to meet his gaze, you look back to the young man, he’s… smirking? When he sees you look at him, his face drops and he looks back to his captain.

He speaks again “Welcome aboard The Caravel. What’s yer name?”

You can't seem to form words so you stare at him, lip quivering. The captain laughs at you. The rest of his crew laugh too. The young man laughs slightly but trails off when you look at him once more.

You feel yourself getting dizzy. You can hear a small voice in the distance that you recognize as the captains. He’s explaining to you how they needed a doctor for their ship. He tells you you have no choice but to oblige and there’s no point in trying to run away. He points to something but you can’t see what. You’re trying to absorb his words but your thoughts are still clouded. You turn back and see that you’re already far away from shore. You watch as your town grows smaller and smaller until it's a dot to strange horizons. 

The captain yells something that you can’t quite hear and you watch as the men assume their positions. Some of them go straight for the cases of liquor. Some of them climb the many ropes that stretch to the top of the ship, and some of them laugh at a joke being told.

These men are loud and dirty and not very kind. I need to go back home, I need to find my sister.

The captain keeps his eye trained on you, it was almost as if he was saying, ‘try to escape, try to swim away, I dare you.’

In the next hours, no one speaks to you, no one addresses you, they don't even acknowledge you. As The Caravel got farther and farther away from home, your body felt smaller and smaller. Weaker and weaker.

Oh my god, my sister. I can't imagine what she’s thinking right now, I hope she’s safe. My father won’t be home for another week. I hope he’s okay too. There was a storm that seemed to have fizzled out but he must have survived it… he must have. He's strong. Maybe when he returns home and finds out I've been captured he’ll come to save me. Him and his crew.

You look up again, and there is the young man, just across the deck taking sips of his drink. He doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything. His eyes fall to yours then drop back down again. He then looks out into the vastness of the ocean, seeming to be thinking about something important. 

I want to know his name.

Time doesn’t wait for your thoughts to collect and soon the moon replaces the sun. One by one the men go below deck to sleep for the night. The harshness of your reality is starting to set in. I’m only of use to them when someone is injured, other than that am I just a lost thought?

You are left alone on the deck, it's cold and lonely. It reminds you of your first day of school when you didn’t know anyone. That night you had gone home and cried in your fathers arms but this night, your father was miles away, on the same ocean but still, miles away.

The boat rocks gently to the rhythm of the sea. Your body becomes a part of the ship, swaying with the water. You feel the little droplets splash over the side and trickle down your face.

It's almost calming, almost. Maybe if I wasn’t a prisoner. At least I'm not tied up.

The moon is full tonight. Its light illuminates the deck and the water in its path. It’s breathtaking.

After several minutes of staring, you accept your fate and try to find somewhere to sleep. You decide a sandbag will have to make do. You attempt to find a comfortable position which proves to be difficult.

As the boat moves with the water on the salty sea, your salty tears begin to fall. It’s scary how quiet it is, and you miss your home, and your bed. For miles in every direction, there is nothingness.

Just as you close your eyes preparing yourself for an uncomfortable sleep, you hear a noise. It’s footsteps. You look up to find the young man approaching you. He’s holding something. 

Where is his shirt? 

The little coin necklace bounces on his chest when he walks. He ventures closer and kneels beside you.

“Are you cold?”

This is the first time you’ve heard his voice, it’s low and raspy but comforting. He asks his question with caution and genuine concern. You nod.

“Here.” He holds up the shirt and wraps it around you. You can’t help but smile.

He smiles back but doesn’t leave. He pauses for a moment. He looks lost, as if he doesn’t know if he should stay or go. He offers you a small smile and breaks the silence once more. 

“What’s your name?”

You tell him your name and watch his lips curl into a perfect, addicting smile. You feel your cheeks flush. He was… pretty.

“What’s your name?” You ask.

“Jacob Thomas Kiszka, mates call me Jake.” He pretends to curtsey causing you to giggle.

This warms Jake’s heart, He couldn’t bear seeing you so sad earlier. You had looked… horrified.

You allow yourself to admire his face. The way his lips fall into a perfect heart shape, the way his eyes sparkle underneath the moonlight, the way his cheeks move when he smiles.

What he does next surprises you. He goes to sit behind you and asks if he can help you. What? You turn to face him with a confused look on your face. He smiles at you. He brings one of his hands up to your hair and drags it down the length of it exposing the many tangles that you hadn’t even registered.

“Is this okay?”

You wonder how you could possibly say no to him so you let him carefully comb his fingers through your hair.

You close your eyes and let yourself bathe in the feeling of his calloused fingertips gliding across your scalp. His hands move slowly and carefully so as to not hurt you.

You don’t really understand why you’re letting him do this or why he wanted to do it in the first place. Maybe it was the kindness in his eyes or the way his voice sounded when he asked. But you just sit there and let him continue.

Jake starts working on a particularly large knot and starts humming to himself. You smile at this small act of vulnerability and let out a small chuckle. He stops singing and you turn around to be met with his reddened face, flushed with embarrassment.

A few minutes of comfortable silence pass as you look up at the stars.

“Do you do this to your own hair?” You couldn’t help but ask. You had grown curious about life as a pirate and Jake was the only pirate you’d seen on board with long hair.

“Hmm? Oh.. oh yeah I do. It takes a while with all the salt in the air and everything, and you know I just thought…” He trails off.

He looks up at you smiling again and you decide, I can trust him.

He parts your hair and moves half of it to drape gently over your shoulder. You feel his warm breath on the back of your neck sending you goosebumps. Oh.

He finishes brushing through the second section and it’s over far too soon. His hands leave your hair and quickly run down your shoulders making you shiver.

He did that on purpose. 

He stands up and faces you, he’s wearing a similar smile to the one that paints your face. Now much more relaxed than before, you look into his eyes. How can a person's eyes be so comforting? 

You're sad to see him go. Part of you wishes he would stay, and that he could warm you instead of his shirt. You’re wondering if maybe he had the same idea but then he speaks.

“Goodnight then mate.” He winks at you. There’s that butterfly feeling again.

You watch him slowly descend down the stairs below the deck. His hair blows with the wind. I can still feel his hands in my hair.

You rest your head on the sack of sand and eventually your eyes close. That night you fall asleep thinking of your sister but smiling at the new friend you’ve made.

[gardensgatedaisy]

The feeling I feel, deep in my stomach, when I see him talk to his guitar. The way he says “yeah baby” then sucks air in through his teeth. He does things to me that should probably be studied.