black sheep - i
Pairing: Jake x Female Reader
Word Count: 4.3k
WARNINGS FOR THIS SERIES: 18+ MINORS DNI - Alcohol, Smoking, Marijuana, Cocaine, Cursing, Dramatic Themes. Smut Including: Kissing, Touching, Making Out, Light Degradation, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Biting, Fingering, Name Calling, Edging, Unprotected Sex, Digital Penetration, Pet Names, Spanking. Angst Including: Mentions of Drug Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of Violence, Manipulation, Jealousy, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Weapons, Mentions of Death, Physical Fighting, Blood and more...
Another fantastic project written in collaboration with my bestie @gretavanmoon.
Black Sheep Playlist: Apple Music | Spotify
11:24. Perfect.
You slip your Blackberry back into your purse, trying your best to ignore the never-ending string of missed phone calls inviting you out for drinks or to brunch tomorrow morning. You don’t care about those people. Fuck, all they want is to use you for your status. You’re hot, you get it. You’d want to end up in the tabloids next to you, too. Get chased by paparazzi all night, end up in the back of a limo with the next Video Vixen popping champagne bottles while Jay-Z blasts from the speakers. All for the thrill. All for the attention. But not enough for you to give them the time of day.
Anyway, the night is young.
You're already drunk when it really starts. You’d left the party uptown, the vibes less than thrilling. Everyone believing they are too cool to dance, and too bored not to gossip about each other. Now you’re crossing the city toward another one, chasing the next high before this one dares to fade.
The doorman here doesn't ask your name. He doesn't have to. He just presses the elevator button and steps aside as you glide past him, a hot mess of leopard print and stilettos. The mirrored walls of the elevator catch you from every angle, multiplying your reflection into infinity. A silk slip dress clings to your body, silver in the low light, the lace tracing up your thighs like a ribbon of smoke. An oversized fur coat hangs off your shoulders, acting more as an accessory than providing actual warmth. You don’t need that. That’s what the alcohol is for.
You pull your red lipstick from your bag and drag it over your lips before topping it off with a layer of glitter gloss. You’ve done this a thousand times, in backseats and bathrooms and hallways that reek of money and lies. Your eyes, glassy and sharp, flicker up to meet your reflection. You smile at yourself, a lazy, dangerous smile. You pull your flask from your bag, tilting up the last bit of it to warm your lips before getting to your destination.
The elevator dings and the doors open into the penthouse where music bleeds from the crowded corridor. It’s some sort of hazy electronic music that is sleek and hypnotic, only adding to the buzz from your three shots of Grey Goose at the last spot. The sound of the bass makes the room seem expensive. Warm golden light spills over the marble floors as laughter and clinking glasses carries through the hall.
You step out into it all. The noise, the people, the bodies and the heat. You know most of these people, and they know you. You drift through the penthouse doors, the pulse of the music washing over you. The crowd parts almost automatically, some with smiles, and some with annoyance. They’ve seen this all before. The way you move, the way you probably laugh too loud, the way your heels announce your presence. You don’t even have to look around to see who’s watching you. You just know that they are. You can feel it. Every whisper, every sideways glance feeds the need inside you.
Your father has funded your every whim. It’s as if Manhattan itself bends in your presence, but tonight, it feels like you’ve earned the attention yourself. The space, the eyes, the fascination.
The penthouse is a jungle of velvet and chrome and warm lighting. Champagne sweats in crystal flutes as laughter bounces off the high ceilings. Some wannabe socialite bumps into your arm, barely apologizing, and still you smile. Your coat slips off your shoulders, now falling to your elbows, revealing more silk than should be legal. You can feel the new eyes on you, and you love it.
Yet, there is still a sliver of emptiness inside you. You’ve been to enough parties to know this game. Everyone is performing. Everyone is pretending, and you’re the only one allowed to forget. To feel. Only it’s not a feeling. It's the haze of someone who’s never wanted for anything until right now.
As you pull a glass of bubbly from the table, someone brushes past and murmurs something that meant to hurt you. You don’t hear it clearly, but your body tenses before your brain catches up. A sarcastic laugh leaves your lips.
“Careful,” you warn, “I bite when provoked.”
And maybe you do. Maybe tonight is going to be the night that everyone realizes that the pretty girl in the silk and fur is untouchable. Or maybe she's just a mess. Either way, it doesn't matter. This city is cold and huge and the music is heavy, and you’re alive in a way that feels dangerously good.
You weave through the crowd with your crystal flute raised, smiles thrown around carelessly with words that are half mean and half flirty. The adrenaline of the alcohol is sharpening your movements in a way that makes you feel lethal. You glance down at the champagne in your hand and take a sip, letting it burn all the way down. You're dizzy, sure, but steady enough. For now anyway.
You’re here for something special, and like magic it appears. You spot him near the balcony, leaning against the railing like he owns the place, though both of you know he doesn't. A quick glance around tells you no one is paying attention right now, and that's exactly what you want.
“Bradley,” you purr, sliding your hand into his arm as you brush past. “Bathroom?”
He grins, a cocky smile plastered to his face as he nods. “You know the way.”
The hallway is dim, the thrum of the bass fading behind you as you slip past the velvet ropes and a few drunk party goers. The bathroom door closes with a solid click, shutting out the noise and chaos behind it. Inside it’s tight, nearly suffocating in a messed up luxurious way. Marble counters and chrome fixtures, the faint metallic scent of an expensive cleaning service.
After making sure you’re alone, you shrug off your coat, letting it fall to the floor. Your dress clings to you and you're mildly aware of how the fabric feels against your skin. Barely there.
Bradley quickly produces a mirror and a line. Your heart beats fast, more from thrill than anything. He supplies you with a rolled hundred and you bend over, inhale sharply, and then it hits. A spark behind your eyes, the shiver that runs down your spine, the room growing sharper. You lean back against the counter, letting the heat run through you and for a few seconds you feel absolutely in control.
“Fuck, you look good, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice low.
You smirk, brushing your damp hair away from your forehead. “That’s the whole point.”
He laughs, leaning in close. You catch the faintest whiff of his cologne and you bite your lip, pretending you don't feel the tension between the two of you tightening.
“Don’t get too crazy,” he teases. “Get back out there, or you’ll ruin all the fun.”
“Mmm,” you reply, running your hands under the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. “Isn’t that sometimes the point?”
He laughs, his hands resting on your hips. “God, you really think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”
You lean in close, letting your black painted nails gently rake along his exposed chest. “No baby, I know I am.”
You laugh a little too loud and back away from him with a wink, smoothing your dress back into place. You grab your coat, placing it low on your arms. You pull your lipstick from your purse again and check your nose in the mirror, making sure the evidence is long gone. The rush from the bump mixes with the alcohol and suddenly you feel infinite. As if the penthouse, the city, even the night itself exists just for your enjoyment.
“You’re impossible, Y/N,” Bradley sighs, adjusting himself in his pants.
“You worry too much B,” you say, sliding past him toward the door. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
The hallway swallows you again. You pull your fur back over your shoulders, letting it sway with each step. You step back onto the penthouse floor, your heels clicking against the marble floors. Faces turn and whispers ripple through the crowd, soft at first but growing louder. There she is, look at her. God she's always like this. How sad. You smile and let them talk. These people have watched your entire life play out in magazines, on TMZ, and in the murmurings of every bored rich housewife who thinks they matter in this city.
A waiter approaches with another tray of champagne flutes. You take one, swirling the bubbles and letting them spill over the rim of the glass.
“Careful princess…”
The remark comes from Georgia Bingham Kerry, a fellow heiress, finding her fortune in the Heinz company. You laugh softly, definitely loud enough for her to hear as you twirl your glass more.
“Careful? Doesn’t sound like me,” you quip.
She scoffs, “Maybe if you tried–”
“Maybe if I tried what?” you cut her off with a tilt of your head. “Being like you? Sad? Miserable? Boring?”
You flick your wrist and champagne flies through the air, landing perfectly on her last season Dior pumps. Gasps fill the room and Bradley steps back, wide-eyed.
“Y/N! What the fuck? Calm down!” he shouts in panic.
“Calm down?” you repeat, your voice rising.
Your adrenaline is pumping, the bump from earlier still tingling along your spine. You move toward the balcony, brushing past a waiter who raises a hand in protest. “Maybe–”
“Maybe not!” you snap, spinning on your heel, silk and fur flying.
And then, someone, a dumb, drunk older man, dares to whisper loud enough for you to hear. She’s ruining the night again. What a surprise.
Red flares in your chest. You lunge, shoving at him lightly at first, just enough to make your anger palpable. He stumbles back, startled, and the world shifts. Your elbow catches the edge of a nearby pedestal holding a piece of art. A sculpture you recognize as worth more than most of the partygoers’ yearly salaries. It teeters, then crashes to the floor in a shower of glass and twisted metal.
Gasps ripple across the room. Security freezes, shocked. Someone yells. Champagne flutes topple as the crowd parts, staring. You laugh. A high, jagged laugh, and look down at the ruin beneath your feet. It should sting. It should scare you. But the rush of it all, the bump still humming through your veins, the chaos…it makes your heart beat faster, makes you feel alive.
You push past a waiter who steps in to block you leaving, your fur coat slipping from your shoulders. The music feels distant now, replaced by whispers, sharp words slicing through the gilded air.
And then the sound you knew was coming. A door banging open, sirens slicing through the low hum of the party. Red and blue lights wash over marble, over broken glass, over the silk clinging to your skin.
Suddenly cold metal bites down on your wrists. You laugh, breathless, somewhere between too aware and not aware enough. Handcuffs.
“Oh this is rich,” you bite. “Really, this is rich.”
“Ma’am, if you just cooperate, this will be a lot easier on us all,” the officer bites nonchalantly after reciting your rights.
“I am cooperating,” you slur, your hair falling over your face. You’re nearly bent over the hood of the police car before you realize the crowd gathering around you. You take the opportunity, putting on a photo-worthy face before turning back toward the officer. “Actually could you maybe tighten them? Would make it a little more fun for me…”
The officer scoffs and pulls you by your arms to stand again.
Paparazzi outside on the sidewalk fire relentlessly, capturing you in your barely there dress, everything nearly exposed forever in permanent pixels. The back of a police car swallows you whole. Darkness presses in, and the city that was so alive just for you merely moments ago, disappears completely.
Happy fucking New Year.
—
It’s not the sweet smell of coffee brewing or the hand of last night’s hookup gently caressing you awake, but instead, it’s the shrill beeping of your Blackberry relentlessly buzzing on your nightstand. Your eyes open, one then the other, still thick and crusted with last night’s eyeliner and glitter mascara. You pull up on your elbows, glancing at the digital clock on the table. “Only fucking noon…” you mutter, rolling over to your back to punch a fist to your phone to shut it up.
You lie on your back in the pool of bright white down comforters and feather pillows, wishing like hell that you could just stay here all day. But you’ve never been one to be stationary, and your tired muscles are already begging you to get up.
Sunlight slices through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Manhattan apartment, sharp and cold against your skin, catching in the crystal of your chandelier before scattering across the marble floors. Your head pounds in rhythm with some distant echo of bass from last night, every heartbeat a reminder of the alcohol swirling in your veins that’s sure to bring a day-long migraine. Your dress is still clinging to you, the fabric twisted tightly around your body. The fur coat you abandoned last night is somewhere in a corner, limp and lifeless.
Your wrists ache, tender and raw. You lift your hands to them, squinting at the faint impressions of the metal that haven't quite faded yet. Flashes of the night crawl in snippets through your mind. The drugs, the alcohol, the sculpture, the flash of cameras and the cops cuffing you. You swallow, throat dry, and groan, dragging yourself off the bed to wobble out of bed.
Your phone continues to buzz, friends sending text after text alerting you of the occurrences of last night. Pixelated photos of tabloids fly in, one after the other.
‘Heiress Arrested Before Clock Could Strike 12’
‘New Year, New Her? Not This Time’
‘Drunk & Disorderly - Hello 2004’
“Boo-fucking-hoo, the melodrama,” you groan in disappointment, but it doesn’t linger long. This is the life you have chosen, and you’re not going to change. You toss your phone into your purse that thankfully made it home with you before meandering, slowly, out into your living room.
Your apartment is nearly a study in luxury. Marble everywhere, the floor, counters, even the window sills. The faint aroma of your Christian Dior perfume lingers in the air, mixed with the bitter tang of spilled alcohol and wasted cigarettes, as the city streets below crawl with taxis. The windows stretch across the living room, revealing Manhattan in all of its frozen glory. Plush rugs and velvet chairs are scattered around and somewhere, a crystal vase leans just slightly against a wall, evidence of a rowdy evening.
Then, the quiet is broken. Your father is there, sitting on the couch with the same cold precision he's always had. He’s impeccably dressed, of course, and his eyes are calculating and sharp, burning with what you know is anger. You freeze.
“Morning, Daddy,” you mumble, your voice rough as you head for the coffee pot.
He doesn't smile. “Morning?” His tone is pure venom. “Do you have any idea the chaos you caused last night?”
“Oh my god, don’t overreact,” you snap, “It was a party Dad. People spill things, yell, and get drunk. That’s just…life.”
“No, this is not life. This is reckless, dangerous, and humiliating. I am done cleaning up your messes.” His eyes bore into yours. “Do you know you destroyed a $3 million piece of art last night?”
You shrug. “They shouldn’t have had something so expensive just out there in the open.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I spent last night bailing you out of jail instead of ringing in the New Year. And I’ve spent the entire morning paying off reporters, and buying images to protect this family. I have had enough. You are twenty-three years old, Y/N. I am going to give you one last chance. One last chance to straighten up, or–” he pauses, “You are out. No more apartment, no more money, no more connections. You make one more headline, cause one more…disaster, and you’re on your own. No questions asked.”
Your stomach drops. “You’re bluffing.”
“I am not,” he says coldly, “You’re an adult now. I have been lenient long enough. Either you start behaving or you deal with the consequences yourself. This stops now. And I mean right now, young lady.”
“Stops?” you huff, throwing your arms out.”I’m an heiress, Daddy, you can’t just take my entire life away–”
“I can. And I will, if you don’t clean up this act. No more discussion. It stops.”
You huff, crossing your arms as you pout. “And how exactly do you plan to stop me?”
He shakes his head and lifts his cellphone to his ear. “Send him in.”
The click of your apartment door unlocks a new tension in your chest, then a man enters. Calm, deliberate, and impossibly composed. His navy blue suit perfectly tailored, his long brown hair pulled tightly back into a slick bun, his eyes sharp as he scans the room, before locking on you.
“Who the fuck are you?” you demand, tilting your head to the side.
“This is Jacob,” your father says. “Your bodyguard. Effective immediately.”
“Excuse me?!” you shout, your voice echoing off the marble flooring.
“Since you insist upon acting like a child, he will treat you like one. Every move you make will now be monitored. Nothing happens without him, and nothing goes unreported,” he continues.
“Oh my god, just what I always wanted, my own hall monitor,” you scoff.
Jacob steps forward slightly, and for the first time you get a real look at him. His eyes are unreadable, dark, steady and detached. He doesn't flinch at your tone, he doesn't even bother to glance at your bare legs or the way the strap of your dress is slipping from your shoulder.
“I will report directly to your father, Miss Y/N,” he says, the tone of his voice unreadable. But you have to admit, the way he says your name makes your stomach cave for a split second.
Your eyes narrow, ignoring the feeling. “Is that so?”
He nods once, “I take my job very seriously.”
Your pulse spikes, “You think you get to just walk into my apartment and start bossing me around?”
“I don’t think.” He takes a deliberate step closer, close enough for you to catch the faint trace of his cologne. “I know.”
You roll your eyes, attempting nonchalance, though something in your chest tightens. “You’re what– just going to follow me around everywhere? Stand outside bathroom doors? Guard my champagne glass? Daddy, this is so ridiculous!”
“If that's what it takes to keep you from doing something reckless,” the man says evenly, “Then yes.”
Your father’s phone buzzes with a call. He glances at the screen and sighs, already halfway out the door. “Jacob, I’ll leave her to you. Make sure she sobers up. We will discuss the rest later today. No drugs.”
“Dad–” you start, but he's already gone. The click of the door feels…final.
The silence that follows stretches heavy, nearly suffocating you. Jacob doesn't move from where he’s standing. His hands are tied neatly behind his back, and his gaze is unflinching. He is still, just watching you.
You exhale a shaky laugh, “So now what, babysitter?”
“You can start,” he says, voice firm, “by sitting down.”
You lift a brow, “Excuse me?”
“Sit. Down.”
Something about the way he says it makes you obey before you realize it. You perch on the edge of your leather couch, seething as you cross your legs and arms.
He studies you for a moment, then pulls out his phone and types something. Probably reporting back already.
You lean forward, your voice like honey. “You know,” you say, tugging your dress up just a little more, exposing more of your bare thigh, “most men would kill to be in your position.”
He finally looks up from his blackberry, eyes flicking briefly over you, not lingering, just assessing, and somehow that almost feels worse.
“I’m not most men.”
“Clearly,” you mutter, “You hate fun.”
He gives a faint, humourless smile, “I’m not here to have fun. I’m here to make sure you don't ruin your life or your father’s, before lunch.”
Your throat goes dry, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Not yet,” he slides his phone back into his pocket. “But I will.”
There’s authority in the way he says it, so certain, that it leaves you almost speechless.
You finally find your voice, almost yelling now, “You can’t just– watch me… Follow me around and control me.”
His eyes meet yours cold, and sharp as a blade. “I can. And I will. That's what you’ve been reduced to, princess. Observation.”
The words hit like a slap. You stand quickly, jaw tight, desperate to reclaim some power in this situation. “You’re insane. You and my father. You’re like a fucking robot or something.”
He doesn't blink, “And you’re a liability.”
For a moment you just stare at each other, your pulse racing. For the first time in your life, someone doesn't flinch when you raise your voice. Doesn't shrink under your anger. Doesn't care who you are or what you have.
And that alone is enough to terrify you.
Jake steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he watches you scowl at him. “Your purse,” he says, voice low and steady. “Bring it here.”
You stare at him like he's lost his mind. “What?”
He holds his hand out, wiggling his middle two fingers. “Your purse. Now.”
You raise a brow, tilting your head, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “And what? You going to check it for contraband?”
He doesn't flinch, “Exactly that,” he says calmly. “Give it to me.”
You scoff, fumbling slightly with your hands and you go and grab it from the chair it ended up on last night. “This is out of control.”
He takes it from you in one smooth motion, flipping it open as if he is inspecting evidence. His eyes sweep over the contents as he dumps it out onto the marble countertop. A small bag of powder, a pack of cigarettes, two tubes of lipstick, a lip gloss, a pack of Orbit gum, your phone, and a bottle of Xanax. His eyes lift to yours slowly.
“You do realize none of this is safe, right?” his tone is pointed.
“Uh– it’s prescribed,” you lie, trying to mask your panic. “My doctor–”
He cuts you off, voice calm but sharp as glass. “What doctor, exactly?”
You stammer, making up a name that even feels fake as you say it out loud. He arches one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I–uh–I mean, it’s–”
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “I don’t buy it. Say goodbye.”
Your stomach twists. “You can’t just– give that back!” you shout.
“I just did,” he says, “Consider it gone.”
Your hands fly towards him, “No! Give it–”
His hand closes around your wrist. Firm and unyielding. You should pull away, but the warmth of his skin sears into yours. Your breath catches for reasons you refuse to name.
“No,” he says, “You will not touch this again. Do you understand me?”
You yank at your wrist, frustrated. “You’re insane! This is my life! You can’t just take–”
“I did,” he interrupts, “And you’re going to learn to deal with it. You need boundaries. It is clear to me that you have none.”
“Boundaries?!” you scoff.
He steps closer, and suddenly the small space between you feels electric. “Yes. Boundaries. Rules. Limits. Call them whatever you want, sweetheart. You don’t run your life anymore. I do.”
You flare your nostrils, trying to sound believable. “And if I refuse?”
“Do you want to find out?” he says softly, almost mocking. As if he is daring you to push him further.
Your eyes narrow as you press your lips together.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t humiliate yourself or your father, ever again.”
You snatch your Blackberry off the counter. “Fine, but I’m keeping this!”
He slides his hand around yours as you reach for it, smooth and fast, and lifts the phone. “Wait,” he says, dialing a number and letting the phone ring once before hanging up. His phone buzzes in his pocket and you realize he’s called himself. “I’ll keep your line active. For now. Don’t make me regret it.”
You yank the phone back, storming to your bedroom. “You can’t do this to me! I am a grown adult!”
“Watch me,” he says, simply, letting his words land like a punch.
You snarl, glaring at him as you realize that you’re losing grip on your own life.
“You’re angry,” he says, “Good. You should be. You need someone who won’t let you continue to make mistakes. I am that someone.”
You spin, storming down the hallway to your bedroom. “I’m going to shower, asshole! You gonna follow me in there too?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn't answer. You slam your bedroom door with a hard satisfying rattle, the sound echoing through the spacious apartment. And behind that door your chest heaves, your pulse racing. Your fingers tremble with a mix of fury, fear and something else that shakes you to your core.
Something you’ve never felt with anyone before now.
And the worst part is that it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels inevitable.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Join The Taglist
@ageofbajabule @highway-tuna @irenereedcane-mamagreta @Josh-iamyour-mama @stardustsamm @Wetkleenex-gvf @Chichi610 @gretavanmoon @jakeyt @joshym @builtbybrokenbells @britney-gvf @dancingcarbon @farfromthehomelands
