jakeyt - Tumblr blog

jakeyt · 13 days ago

Text

Covet: Chapter 15 (Sneak Peek)

a/n: for anyone who's been anticipating the upcoming chapter. <3 it will be yours soon — you know that's always how it goes when i post a sneak peek :) (i'm holding myself accountable)

in the meantime, here are the first (roughly) 3k words of the chapter as a ~sneak peek~.

Warnings: as always, MNDI 18+ (!!!); soft morning after; sad feelings surrounding self love + love in general; covet!jake being so perfect it hurts; mutual pining (obvi in love - they can't do anything about it atp); infidelity; (slight) exhibitionism; reader enjoying being a wh*re for jake; language; breeding kink; unprotected p in v sex (m d n i !) (wrap before you tap, or you'll end up like these two !!!)

If you need mood music, I can't think of anything but these two when I hear this song now (they're obsessed w each other, come on).

December 26, 2022

Oh, you’d missed this.

For too long, you’d gone without having him beside you in the mornings. . . And now, this.

Still naked from the night before. The night you'd been anticipating and wishing for, for too damn long. . . It had finally come to a head, last night, in the most fulfilling way.

This moment was like taking a fresh breath of air. You'd been waiting for this.

The press of him, hard and heavy against your ass — the most incredible way to let the day greet you. You couldn’t help the natural way your hips pressed back against him. Had to feel him, as much as you possibly could. . .

And, if he hadn’t been awake. . . He most definitely was now.

He groaned, alerting you of his presence. Then, he spoke — tone still husky from sleep. “Fuck, y/n. . .”

With a clear of his throat, his hand was coming around the front of you, holding your belly in a sure grip before he let his body do most of the talking. That give and take, one push of his hips against your ass, and another press of you to his front. . . Over and over. . . Until you felt his tip, already showing the beginning of arousal against your ass.

“You. . .,” he growled in your ear, breathing hot on your neck. “Shit, baby,” he moaned, so quiet, with the morning light creeping in from the curtains the main indicator that the day was here.

And you two were most definitely not the only two awake. You knew your family.

Knowing that fact, you assumed were probably the last two to wake up. Knowing your grandparents, sister, and Josh — they were all known to be early risers. . . .

And, it was soon confirmed when you heard Josh's rather loud laugh from the kitchen, only a few long paces from your bedroom. You internally cringed at what you were doing in your grandparents' home when Josh's cackle was followed by your Grandmother bursting into a fit of giggles along with him.

You smelled the sugary and syrupy smell of your Grandma's pumpkin pancakes. . . Usually, you'd be out of bed the instant you smelled them.

But this morning? The pancakes were the least of your concerns.

“Fuck. Me, sweet girl," Jake raggedly sighed, bringing you back to the moment with him and his cozy, human heater of a body.

With a sharp intake of breath, right against the burning shell of your ear, he pushed your hair away from where it laid against your neck and kissed the column of your neck. It was marvelous and you felt the goosebumps rise in his path.

Once his mouth trailed back up to the sensitive skin behind your ear, his hips rutted against your ass to emphasize his want.

When the little whimper left your mouth, you tried to be considerate of the others and bit down hard on your lower lip to hide the sound.

“Shhh,” Jake cooed from behind you, letting the hand that was holding your belly float to your mouth to stop any sound from escaping. "You heard them, just as I did. . . If you keep making noises like that, they're going to know exactly what I'm doing to you behind your door."

His hips continued to roll lazily against you, reminding you of how badly he wanted you, as he finished his incredibly debilitating sentiment.

The authoritarian hold of your mouth made your eyes roll back, hungry for more of this domineering side of him. You tested him, moaning again — louder, against your better judgement. And, strangely for you, even though you knew others could hear you, you didn’t care anymore.

(And those were your grandparents on the other side of that door.)

But. . . .all you genuinely wanted was for him to continue his act of dominance.

And that, he did.

He pressed his hand closer against your mouth, making you release a small peep at how tightly he held your face. Your thighs rubbed together under the sheets and duvet. The mere circumference of his palm, aiding in his ability to hold your entire jaw. The bicep that laid under your head flexed. Not able to help it, you shifted your hips back, against his front.

You felt your entrance leak at the feeling of him — hot and harder against you by the second. . . The idea of him taking total control of you, while your body grew for him. . . .

It made your face heat and your heart race. . . Once more, you rocked back into him. But this time, you moved up a bit on the bed and curved your back to slip his dick under the curve of your ass. . . And just as you wanted, he slipped between your thighs. His movements, setting a steady rhythm, within your wet and warm folds — lazy and easy.

You sighed with relief at the feeling of having him there — so close to being inside of you again. . .

But, you needed more. . .

Right now, you wanted him to feel his way inside your body. Needed his dick to know how badly your body craved him. . . wanted his girth to show the evidence of your arousal. . . You wanted to be the reason he was lubricated to go inside of you.

“You’re doing so good for me, aren’t you, baby?” He mumbled into your ear. You instantly stilled, arching your back at the feeling of him, savoring the sound of his hoarse voice, fresh from sleep.

He used your distraction, taking a few seconds to turn you over onto your back in one swift and careful motion.

As you gasped in shock, laying in your new position, you writhed for him and what you knew he could give you. You blushed at how he took no time to slip a quick pillow underneath your body to support your lower back — right where you needed it most. You knew he wanted you comfortable and ready to open up for him.

It didn't matter how you were positioned, though. You could be feeling all of the back pain in the world and you'd still spread your legs for him. He was all your mind reeled with at the moment — most moments. Even though you were still so sore, from the sensation of what he'd left behind the night before, your inner thighs were soaked with need.

For him.

Ironically, it seemed in the moment, the only 'cure' for the pain — the delicious, piercing pain, still situated within you from the night before — was his (now-glistening) dick.

You took a moment to admire how it looked: so pretty, resting on your thigh, as he laid on his side, leaning on his elbow. He was right next to you, the front of his left thigh, flush against your hip.

Art in human form.

And, whether it made you a whore or not, you spread your legs further. Your eyes gauged his, measuring how quickly you could get him to understand you were past the point of wanting and waiting for what he had to offer.

He was the only person here with you, in the sacred space of the bedroom you'd spent nearly all of your adolescent days in.

You didn't care if the whines and the way your hips lifted to encourage him was pathetic. You were a damned whore for him at this point and, honestly. . . You were damn proud of it.

And he needed to know it.

“I wanna be good for you, Jake,” you mewled, your fists grasping at the sheets below you as you looked away from his dick. Turning your head towards him, you let yourself fully take in his handsome face for the first time since last night.

God. He was so perfect. Golden skin. Big, amber-brown eyes with lust-blown pupils. . . That long brown, wavy hair, disheveled in the sexiest and most alluring way. His full, pink lips — pouting and smirking all at once as he drew his eyebrows in, taking in your heaving body and your choice of words.

He placed a firm and steady hand on your chest, letting his hands play with your swollen tits slowly. . . Ever-so-slowly. . . He massaged the weight of each, in the palm of his hand. Your sensitive nipples, pebbling against his hand to encourage him further.

But, once he got what he wanted from both breasts, satisfied with how they'd responded to him, he was letting the hand travel to your belly. He let a gentle hand float across your bump until he was intentionally holding the curve at the bottom of your tummy.

You smiled, as he seemed to be cherishing what you'd made together.

But, you soon realized he had other plans with the motion, too. And, as soon as you felt your belly lift, your breath caught in your throat. Your toes curled when he applied pressure there, elevating the heaviness of your belly — just a bit. . . . . But it did plenty to relieve your always-aching back.

As he continued to do this, adding a bit more support by the millisecond, you felt as if your entire body was getting lighter.

It happened so suddenly, you almost couldn't wrap your mind around it.

His hand there, so strong, holding the weight of the baby — for you. Your back, aloft and relieved. The belly, not your responsibility at the moment, as he was applying just enough force of his own that gravity was shifting the heaviness to his palm.

Relief. Truly. Completely. Your toes chest heated, your arousal growing between your legs. Your breasts peaked with appreciation for the man and the tender care he was showing you.

“Thank you,” you sighed, fisting the sheets. You knew that Lavender's ever-increasing weight was a heavy burden to bear at the front of your body, but you hadn’t realized just how heavy until he was taking the weight off of you. Quite literally.

“Don’t you dare thank me when it’s my damn fault you’re in this predicament,” he responded, voice light and demanding, in the same breath. “I wish I could carry this heaviness for you, baby. Don’t want you to have to do it on your own. . . 's not fair.”

“But. . .,” you began, your words falling from your lips on instinct. Just as your hand performed on instinct, going to grasp his flushed cheek in your palm. “It is fair, Jake. . . It’s fair because I want to do it for you. I want to feel it — heaviness and all — because I know it’s all so the world can have more of you.”

It didn’t take him any more time to move — just so.

Then, he was fully on top of you (finally). That beautiful face, that you felt like you'd loved your whole life, hovering above yours.

Your eyes connected to one another’s heady irises, and with one purposeful angle, and roll of his hips, he was stretching you — deliciously — to fit inside of you.

You felt him. All of him, filling you, until his tip came to tease against your cervix. Still aching and sore, the heaviness of his dick inside of you pressed to all of the same areas he’d marked as his own last night.

And, within a minute, each passionate buck of his hips from the night prior, translated to a soft and affectionate pace. It was apparent what he had in mind this morning.

Your sore pussy shaped to comfortably fit his dick, desperate to hold him and serve him.

"Fuck, sweet girl,” he hushed, a secret kept between the two of you. “Your body takes me like you never stopped wanting me. . . like it knows who it belongs to."

Your eyes welled with tears at the thought of him thinking you’d ever stopped wanting him.

Hadn’t you proven that you’d put on what happened in the kitchen on that fateful day in August? Had you not convinced him with your needy behavior that you’d only ever wanted him — since the moment you saw him in your apartment's doorway? Since you’d glimpsed his amber-brown eyes under the glow of that sunset in May?

What had you done the day in that kitchen?

All you wanted to do was take it back and show him the truth.

So, not being able to change the past, you did what your tired body could to prove how much he meant to you.

You went to wrap your legs at his lower back, pulling him in closer, letting him find his home inside of you. He was right — your body only belonged to him. You liked it that way.

And, with some wave of confidence, you decided you could say something to help him understand, too. Right now, all you wanted to do was say ‘fuck hiding, you need to know how I feel about you’. . .

But.

You couldn’t do that. Not yet (or maybe ever).

So, you said what you could.

“Even without a baby between us,” you whispered back, letting his hips languidly move above you, as he fucked into you. He kept with the rhythm with zero issue, even with your ankles crossed at his back to keep him close. “You live inside of me. . . You have ruined me for everyone else, Jacob Thomas.”

His eyes darkened, blazing with fire and an emotion too rare to name, body rocking particularly roughly into you, in response. You couldn’t help the squeaky sigh you exhaled at the change in speed. Your brows furrowed to watch his expression morph into the same as yours. . .

“Don’t say that unless you mean it, y/n,” he growled, tone low while a flexing arm went up with a strong hand to hold the top of the headboard – just as he had last night. “I need you to be ready for what I’ll give back.”

Your cheeks blushed with acknowledgement to his phrase. You didn’t know what he meant. . . . but, at the same time, you knew exactly what he’d said. And it went beyond this soft, hazy-morning-moment entirely.

Every syllable, a well-known friend, tucked deep within you.

He enunciated his words with a new, reckless, unrelenting pace. Every heavy drag of himself inside of you, proving a point. Every rut of his hips, dick hitting home, as he took the reigns. . . rightfully claiming your pussy. With every pump of his dick, the pressure caused a bit of pain, but it was pain you needed in order to keep going.

It inspired you to show him you were ready. At this moment, you could do it. You could receive him.

Heat spread under your skin as you shifted your hips to accommodate him the best you could with the growing baby bump in the way. He grunted, the sound quickly dissolving into a wanton groan with the sensual, knowing sway of your hips against his.

You lifted your front, smoothly keeping in time with every new motion he’d set with his hips, like you’d known him forever.

It went on like that for a bit.

He curled his lips above you. The soft curve of his lips formed a small smile that, at this moment, you realized you'd only ever seen him give to you.

You knew he was doing his best to keep his mind straight enough to not meet his end. He didn't want to meet it yet — you knew that. Sweat accumulated on his brow and hairline, showing the strength he was delivering with every push and pull of his hips. Sweat eventually gathered at his chest, before falling to your heaving chest beneath him. . .

It wasn’t long before he was hoisting you up into a new position. You gracefully went with it, not once backing down. If he was going to put in the work to make this mean something right now, so would you.

Within moments, he had you on all fours, but with your elbows bracing your weight to keep you closer to the bed. Your breasts, pressed against the covers, the way they brushed the soft material made your back arch. His knee settled into the mattress beside you, his thigh molding to yours. He was able to balance on one arm on the other side, tilting his hips just enough to keep giving you what he had before, but from a newer and more unpredictable angle.

Jake's strong, callous-worn hand found the flesh of your ass, gripping it. His other hand held the headboard. He helped you with the shift of your bodies, tightening his grip when he felt your body grow tired. You knew how he always wanted to do more for you.

And you wanted him to do whatever the fuck he wanted. You didn’t care at this moment. You were his. And, right now, you could almost pretend he was yours.

His chest and belly, sturdy and damp, met your back with each rut of his hips, your tits swinging under you to replicate the way his body moved within yours. You leaned up a bit when you felt the one hand moving from your ass, towards your tits. His hands felt better than anything else on them. And with his new hold, he pulled you closer against him with each knead against your swollen, aching chest.

You mewled under him, back arching into his tummy as your ass flexed. . .

Fuck.

The way your muscles began tightening everywhere told you that you were almost finished. You felt the building pressure in the pit of your belly, your chest, the way your thighs shook with excitement. . . The familiar throb of your core, tempting fate.

But, you never wanted to stop.

His hand moved at lightning speed from your chest to your hair, quickly moving a lock out of the way to gain access to your ear.

He leaned down into your body more, dick shifting just a little inside of you to make your hips jut back against him on a subdued whine. “I feel you, babydoll,” he murmured, lips coming down to dust over your ear with the words. “I know you’re so close, aren’t you?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, gazing at him as if he were god’s greatest gift. And. . . You knew he was. He had to be.

With the muscle in his pecs, to the way the top of his tummy met the curve of them. His abdomen, bending to showcase his strapping sides. . . And the magnitude behind his stare as he watched your body take his. . . fuck.

You watched his dark gaze and scrunched brows. Those lips, heart-shaped, as they puckered to admire the frenzied sway of your hips and the jiggle in your ass — meeting him thrust for thrust. And, you couldn't help but feel pride ignite in you.

You were proud that your body was able to do what it could for him. . .

But fuck. This man's body was so precious to you. Every part of it.

This man and his body, the same that had always fucked you better than anyone else. . .

He just knew you. It had been like this since the first time you'd tried anything. Your body came alive for him. . . he knew exactly where to touch you to make beg and break. . . . every press and stroke with the way he fucked you. . . You'd only ever been responsive for him.

It was as if your body had always known him.

And, as you neared that precipice — with the shape of his cock and the frenetic movement of his hips, you nearly blacked out. A whine, shivering on your lips. He never failed to provide you with the most incredible friction to send you to the unholiest places.

And, as you panted, thighs soaked and head dizzy, while his dick began to swell inside of you, you could only assume one thing.

No matter what. . .

In some way, some fashion. . .

Jake Kiszka was truly made for you.

The thought forced another coil to break loose — and you let go one more time, just as he did. Simultaneous. His palm went to grip your belly for something to hold on to, as he locked his hips against you to spill inside of you.

His own hummed whimpers, layered meticulously, yet equally messily, over your quiet cries of completion in the light yellow, early morning sunlight of your childhood bedroom.

You continued coating his dick as your mouth went to grab hold of your shoulder, muffled there to mask the choked wail that naturally toppled out of you. Your toes, curling and eyes, crossing. . . Jake, emptying everything he had into you, like you were the only woman alive for him to give it to.

And in that instance, you knew, somehow. . .

He was made for you.

In a way that defied consideration. It was only a fact. Because, you couldn’t argue that for you, even if he caused the pain, he’d always be the one to fix it.

He was your safest place.

And you could only hope that in some capacity, you could do and be the same for him.

And if even you were only made to fit together to make the baby held in the belly under his hand. . . That was enough for you. . .

Or so you tried to convince yourself.

You wanted her to be enough. . . Your Lavender. . . Baby K.

But. . .

You just loved her father to the point of absurdity and no return.

And, at the end of it all, you wanted to let yourself imagine a life where you weren’t so fucked up. . . .

If that was even possible.

a/n (2): hmm. well. i'll come to a tumblr near you w this entire chapter soon — if you want it :)

also.

i feel like i should make it known that this is definitely not even close to the only time they’ll have sex in this chapter. haven’t we learned that these two have a pattern? you know, as soon as feelings are aired out and they finally fuck, they just can’t seem to stop fucking…

until…

well.

you’ll see (if you’d like to).

peace out.

taglist:

@laneygvf, @hi-hi-hello11, @sinarainbows, @jakesbarbarian, @mybussyinchrist, @becinabubblegvf, @heckingfrick, @danigvf, @pinkandsleepy1934, @derrangeddumpsterfire, @klarxtr, @josh-iamyour-mama, @abby-gvf, @cassyface, @gretavansabotage

@sacredtheslay, @alienobsever, @hollyco, @age0fwagner, @raceb14, @stardustcatcher, @styles-canvas, @ladywhimsymoon, @earthgrlsreasy, @peaceloveunitygvf@torniturntomyarrow , @joshsbonnet, @llrosee, @starshine-gvf , @itsafullmoon , @gvfmarge , @creadliz98, @mackalah , @lek-gvf , @carlyfleet

@welllauragvf , @highway-tuna , @dont-go-home-without-me , @sarah-gvf01 , @polemicandcontent , @ageofbajabule , @texas-bbq-pringles , @jennyraye20 , @builtbybrokenbells , @stardustjake, @indigostreaksolo , @tripthelightfantastix, @kiszkas-canvas , @jakebrainrot, @anthemheatwave @chichi610, @freyjalw

@scoreofinfantryvines , @stonecoldmo , @divapadam @hailthegodsong @fleetingjake @demolitiondanchipsversion @stardustsamm @blankvz @mikiepeach, @gretavanmoon, @lipstickitty, @gracev0609, @thetroublegetssoloud71, @cheers-danny, @changstew08, @allof--mylove, @brinlygvf, @jazzyfigz, @jakekiszkasmommy, @objectinspvce, @@profitofthedune, @mefiorini, @fateofthefleet, @wetkleenex-gvf, @dayumclarizzel, @giraffehippy, @jakekiszmyass

#covet #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka smut #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka au #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet fanfic #gvf fic #jake kiszka angst #jake kiszka fluff #jake kiszka #greta van fleet

46 notes · View notes

jakeyt · 14 days ago

Text

In reference to my last post <3

We’re waiting for the right time. We’ll just have to wait and see when that is… ;)

@builtbybrokenbells I love you, you ethereal being <3

🏛️

#this one is important to us #very important #a lot of research #love #blood #tears #(a LOT of tears)#and sweat #have gone into this project #let us know if you’d ever want it

8 notes · View notes

jakeyt · 14 days ago

Text

No one truly understands how this makes me feel. I’m crying. Sobbing. Running around in gleeful circles.

My wife. My Canadian mirror. You are so wonderful and brave and talented and wonderful and and and ALL OF THE THINGS.

This was the best thing to log in and see today.

And… while, yes, she isn’t ~back~… she’s not ~gone~…

* if you look at both of our masterlists… you’ll find a lil sumsum that we’ve been partnering on for quite some time that deserves to see the light of day. (we’ve just been waiting for the right time.)

Sharpshooter | DRW

Be careful what you bet for.

Pairing: Daniel Wagner x f!reader

Word count: 20k

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (minors dni), unprotected sex, fingering (f!receiving), oral (f!receiving), teasing, name calling, biting, praise, multiple orgasm, simultaneous orgasm, hair pulling, a criminal amount of flirting, drinking, swearing, gambling, parent loss, poverty?, sorry if I miss any!

Well hello. It sure has been a while, hasn’t it? This is a surprise to probably everyone, but here we are. I was going through my old drafts, because I miss you all so very terribly, and I stumbled across this one, which happened to be completely finished and waiting for some attention. I figured what the hell—why leave it hidden when you wonderful people could get some entertainment out of it. Inspired by bandanny (our fav), and some crazy events that occurred what seemed like a lifetime ago, my brain couldn’t help but make a story, ‘cause that’s just what writers do. Anyway. I love and miss you all so much, and I hope you enjoy. As always, be kind, enjoy, and don’t mind any grammar mistakes (barely edited) 🫶🏻

and of course, a huge thank you to @jakeyt, just for being you. i have no idea where i would be without you. i love you so very much, american me 🫶🏻

Disclaimer: this is fiction, not real, and not based on ANY actual events. this also is not me coming back, even though I do miss you all so much, but just because I found a fully finished fic I never got around to publishing, thanks to life’s constant craziness. I love you all very much, and I am still kickin’ around for anyone who wants to chat 🫶🏻

“You’re sure you don’t want to tap out?” The voice over your shoulder barely phased you, your eyes focused on the pool cue so delicately aimed at a solid ball and never wavering as your opponent made their shot.

“Tap out?” You laughed, the sound a bit more condescending than you intended. “Baby, I’m just getting started.” You felt a smirk tug at the corner of your lips as the green ball rolled so closely to the corner pocket, but ultimately tapped against the side and fell off course.

“This is a lot of money on the line… like a lot.” Your friend warned, sounding nervous as she gazed over your shoulder at the table. You were in the lead, only two striped balls left before the 8-ball, but the man you were up against wasn’t far behind. If he’d knocked the green ball in, you would be neck and neck. “If you back out now, you can both walk away with the same amount.”

“Maybe the same amount of money, but definitely not the same amount of pride.” You explained, taking a slow step towards the table, lining yourself up with the cue ball. “Besides, this is the longest streak yet, and I’m not about to give it up because I’m scared.” You continued, leaning down just enough to line your cue up with the blue striped ball.

Your eyes flickered across the green, your head cocked to the side ever so slightly as you tried your best to picture the shot in your mind. If you hit it at just the right angle, you could knock it into the striped burgundy ball and get them both in corner pockets. It was risky, but with such a tight race, risk was your only option. You lowered your top half down a little further, your stomach grazing the wooden trim on the table. The cool surface sent a shock to your skin even through the thin material of your dress, but you did not let it deter you.

You swallowed hard, keeping your hands steady and your goal at the front of your mind. You let out a long breath, the warm air rushing past the gloss shining your lips and calming your nerves. You’d done this before, and you could do it again. You continued to repeat that in your head as you scanned over the table one last time, making sure nothing was out of place. When you were confident you were in the right position, your gaze flickered to meet the eyes of your opponent. His blazing blue stare was meant to intimidate you, but it only seemed to motivate you further.

“15 in left corner pocket.” You called your shot, holding his eyes as you let him digest the words. “14 in right corner pocket.”

Quickly looking back down at the cue ball, you drew your arm back halfway, then lurched it forward with a fair amount of force. It rolled forward, striking the striped green ball and causing it to barrel ahead and slam into the striped burgundy ball. The speed that transferred to the third ball caused it to sink straight into the left pocket with no resistance. Feeling a slight pressure in your chest, you focused on the green ball, still rolling but much slower. You held your breath, afraid you misjudged your ability for a fleeting moment in time. It was rolling so slowly you began to lose all hope of it making it to the target.

The growing crowd around you seemed to be on the edge of their seats, watching intently and not daring to move or speak a word. Your stomach twisted and turned, your palms clammy as the green ball slowed even further, just inches away from the pocket you so desperately needed it to reach.

“Come on.” You whispered, your jaw hard set as you stared it down. You didn’t move, still in the position you held when you made the shot. The wooden cue was resting on the table and your hands were clamped tightly around it, your grip nearly strong enough to break it.

Then, a round of gasps sounded from the crowd, followed by a clinking noise of two balls hitting together inside of the pocket. The green striped ball disappeared completely, and the cocky smile returned to your lips. Raising an eyebrow, you looked to your best friend, tapping her heeled foot against the floor in anticipation. She shook her head, a ghost of a laugh on her lips as she bowed her head to you. Both of you knew there was no need to doubt your ability, but her anxiety seemed to get the best of her.

You straightened up, tapping the handle of your cue against the floor as you stepped back from the table. You lined up your next shot, but decided to take the piss out of him before you won. You aimed for the eight ball, knocking it very carefully in front of his purple ball and making it near impossible for him to sink that one without hitting the eight ball to a better position. If you were going to win, you wanted him to guide you to it, just to teach him a lesson about being so foolish with his money. The smile on your face was infuriating to the man across the table, and his doubt of his own talent was clear in his expression. Even if you all knew he would lose, you had to admire his dedication.

“Good shot.” Your best friend gave your arm a squeeze as you walked within reach, a soft smile on her face as her hopefulness was restored.

“Aren’t I always?” You grinned, trying your best not to let anyone see that you had even a sliver of doubt about yourself.

“You’re too cocky for your own good.” She whispered, leaning back against the pool table behind her as she watched your opponent slowly aim his next shot.

“Just cocky enough, Iz.” You corrected, taking the same lax position as your counterpart. “Look where it got us.”

You motioned one hand around the room, your eyes drifting over the amassed patrons of the bar, all gathered round just to watch you win yet another game. Many men had their hands resting on their wallets in their pockets, wondering if they should take their own chances on a game with you or save the trouble. You knew that the longer your opponent put up a fight, the more likely people would be to challenge you, making them think they had a chance to beat you. It was all part of the strategy, letting people get ahead to make others think they had a chance, until you got down to the very last balls and the heat was turned up.

This was a regular Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and sometimes even Sunday night routine for you. Dressed to the nines, you and your best friend would walk to your favorite bar where you would take post at the same pool table and await a new challenge. A long time ago, when you first started this specific routine, it was only ever for fun. Never once did you expect it to snowball into what it was now, but as the months dragged on and turned into years, you realized just how much money you could make off the poor insecure men who frequented the establishment.

You had a talent, and they had a superiority complex, unable to believe that a young woman could beat them at a game they had been playing since they turned eighteen. It wasn’t your fault that you could capitalize off their stupidity, nor would someone else in your shoes turn down the offer. If they were willing to throw away hundreds of dollars for a chance at bragging rights, you would take the opportunity every single time.

“Besides, it’s their fault for being so cocky when they shouldn’t be. Nothing wrong with being proud of your own talent.”

“S’pose you’re right.” She let out a breathy chuckle, still not fully reassured but unwilling to argue with you. Most of your success was accredited to her lack of fight, hesitant about your crazy ideas but fully supportive of the person she loved most.

Izzy, your best friend in the entire world, also served as your biggest supporter. From the very beginning, even when money wasn’t a factor, she sat on a stool and watched you play all night just to pass the time, never interested in picking up a cue and content to keep you company. When there was nothing in life to be excited about, the two of you worked hard for a long time to find something to look forward to, and it just so happened to be in a little dive bar just off of Main Street. More specifically, at a pool table in the very back corner of the building, which seemed to offer the two of you far more opportunities than just something to be excited about thus far, and especially right now.

You watched the man lean down close to the table, really taking in the sight of him as he tried his best to catch up to you. His hair was turning gray at the roots and his eyes looked tired, but determined. He was tall, drinking top shelf liquor, and clad in expensive looking clothes, which only made you feel better about your anticipated victory. He could afford the loss, or he wouldn’t have offered such a large sum of money in the first place. You weren’t foolish for taking him up on it, and you were certain anyone would have done the same if they were as confident in their abilities as you were.

He drew his arm back and took his shot, causing the crowd to let out a collective groan when the cue ball knocked his purple ball into the eight ball by mistake.

A fatal mistake.

If he had half a brain, he would have shot for the green ball. Luckily for you, he wanted to show off similarly to how you did, and because of that, he did exactly as you hoped.

With a little pep in your step, you lazily aimed for the cue ball, barely looking upwards at the man when you spoke aloud. “Eight ball, corner pocket.” You announced, swinging your cue forward and knocking it straight into the solid white ball. It barrelled down the table hitting the black one and transferring the energy with ease. With nothing standing in its way, it plopped straight in the pocket you aimed for and won you the game.

A booming chorus of cheers sounded around the room, the entire group crowded around the table unable to believe you’d snagged yet another victory that night. Your head dropped downwards towards the table, the smile on your face blinding as you digested the rush of emotion that filled you. Any win was worth celebrating, but this one was huge. It far exceeded anything you had ever done, and it was beyond anything you ever thought you would do. You squeezed your eyes shut, holding back a few threatening tears as you laughed quietly to yourself.

Eventually, you straightened up, all of your teeth showing as an ever-growing grin ate away at your cheeks. The cheers were warbled, the buzz of excitement barely heard over your racing thoughts and pounding heart. You felt Izzy’s hands on your shoulders, her excitement bleeding from her as she shook you gently, literally jumping for joy as your opponent pulled out his wallet. If you were less stunned, you likely would have joined her, but in the moment your excitement was so large it was making your head spin and your vision blur.

You only came to when the man stepped in your direction, offering his hand to shake to commend you for your talent. You accepted, flashing him a thankful expression for giving you the opportunity in the first place.

“Great game, darlin’. Guess I got what was comin’ to me.” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, all of your previous competitiveness fleeing you entirely. Instead of a rival, you stood before your hero (albeit, a very stupid one). The man shaking your hand had just single-handedly paid over three months of your regular rent, easily reminding you exactly why you started playing for money in the first place.

“You put up a good fight. Don’t sell yourself short.” You replied, watching as he lowered his hand from yours and extended his opposite one. Clutched between his fingers was your rightful winnings—fifty crisp, beautiful hundred dollar bills.

When you reached to grab them, you felt a firm piece of cardstock underneath them, catching your attention much more than the huge sum of money in your hand. You flipped the thick stack over, noticing what looked to be a business card underneath the bills and furrowing your eyebrows in confusion. You held it with your free hand, reading the name and number on the other side, embossed with a company logo you had never seen before.

“If you ever want to go further than betting in bars, you have my number.” He said quietly, sending you a subtle wink. Your heart skipped a beat, making your mind flood with questions and concerns about his ambiguous offers.

“As in?” You pressed further, looking up to meet his eyes.

“As in, playing games with much bigger stakes than this.” He smiled, reaching up and giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “If you want to know more, you can always give me a call. Nothing has to be official unless you want it to be.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you more confused than ever before, with questions you weren’t even sure he had answers to. You turned to Izzy, shocked and surprised as you processed the interaction that just unfolded. You swallowed hard, giving her the money to put in your wallet, then gave your head a good shake to bring yourself back to reality.

“What was that about?” She asked, doing exactly what you needed without any verbal instruction. She clasped your wallet shut and buried it at the very bottom of her bag before looking back up at you.

“Think I just got invited to an underground gambling club.” You chuckled, a bit wooed at the thought. You ran your hand through your hair, pushing it back from your face as Izzy snatched the card from your hand to see for herself.

“That’s crazy, right? You’re not going to call him, are you?” She asked, her gaze flickering between you and the card. When her questions went unanswered, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in shock. “You’re not actually going to call him, right?” She asked again, this time expecting a verbal answer from you.

Your head turned to the table, noticing that most of the crowd filtered away by now. The night was drawing to a close, last call about an hour out and most of the patrons were ready to retire after spending too much money and having nothing to show for it. There were a few people lingering by the bar, willing to indulge in a few more drinks before heading home, but the pool tables were near deserted aside from you and a few stragglers finishing games on the other side of the room.

“No,” you scoffed a small laugh, a far-away look in your eyes as you forced a smile on your lips. “F’course not. That’s crazy, right?”

“Right…” she nodded, wanting to be the voice of reason but stuck thinking about how good it felt to hold that much cash in her hand. “Would you be winning that every time?”

“Ah,” you chuckled, tapping your manicured nails on the wood grain framing the pool table. Your tried-and-true, the very reason behind your success and the only reason you even stood there with that much money in your pockets. When the room went quiet and all you could hear was your own breathing and heartbeat, it felt like she was whispering to you, imploring you to consider the benefits of his offer, imploring you to trust in her. “Think the winnings are a lot better than the one we’re leaving with tonight.” You cleared your throat, kicking your high heel against the floor to rid yourself of some of the anxiety plaguing you.

“Holy shit, Y/N.” She whispered, almost unable to believe you were telling her the truth.

“Yeah.” You replied, closing your eyes for a moment to bargain with the thought. “You know how much that could help us?”

“Is it worth it, though? It could hurt us, too. Maybe even a lot more than it could help.” She seemed hesitant, but you could see the green flashing before her eyes, motivating her to keep considering the possibility. Money was a wicked motivator, and the two of you had been chasing it your entire lives. Now, faced with the opportunity to never have to worry again, you couldn’t help but consider it.

“When has she ever let me down before?” You gave a ghost of a smirk, the feeling of the pool cue in your hand sending your ego through the roof. “I mean look at what she did for us tonight. All weekend.” Your tongue traced the inside of your bottom lip, the simple thought of thousands making your mouth water and that hunger grow even worse. “Haven’t been on a win streak this long in ages.”

“I know, babe.” She huffed, giving a single nod of agreement. “You know I’ll support you no matter what, but don’t jump right in. At least talk to him first, find out what you’re really signing up for, okay?”

“Always.” You caught her eye, the warmth in her stare reminding you of everything you already had and telling you that everything would be okay no matter what you chose.

Did money matter when you had love like that? Kinship like that?

Izzy was everything; your only constant, and the most comfortable part of your life. From the very beginning, tripping over your own feet in pre-k and learning how to spell your own name, she was right there beside you. No matter if it was falling with you or helping you up, she would do it in a heartbeat, even if it were no gain to her. She stuck by your side for every crazy decision and reckless act, and never once held it over your head or punished you for your stupidity. You would never make a thoughtless choice that would affect her directly, and you would never punish her with ignorance or incompetence. The whole reason you were offered the gig tonight stemmed from your desire to do better for her, to take away the struggle and ease the weight upon her shoulders. If not for her, you would still be wandering aimlessly and struggling often.

Money meant little when you realized you held more of the world in your hands than most people ever got to touch. Suffering and struggle was bearable with her always bearing half the burden, and a friend like her gave you hope that you could face any pain and make it out unscathed.

“I’ll think about it, Iz. I’ll make sure it’s worth it, first.”

“That’s all I want.” She confirmed her stance, knowing that turning down that kind of money was crazier than never chasing it at all. “Do you want to head home? Can talk about it in the morning—I’m fuckin’ wiped.”

“You go get some sleep. Call a cab and get home safe. Think’m gonna stay here and clear my head.” You explained, reaching in the pockets of the pool table and beginning to re-rack the balls.

Not that you didn’t want to hear her voice of reason, but because you needed some time to come to terms with it yourself. You’d learned that although it was your biggest money maker, the pool table in the very back corner was also your biggest confidant and your favorite escape. A quick solo game would make you feel better, and hopefully make your choice a hell of a lot easier.

“You sure? I don’t mind stayin’ with ya.” She gave you a cheeky smile, nudging you with her elbow. You chuckled at her unwillingness to leave you on your lonesome, always wanting to keep you safe even if there was no need for it.

“I’m sure. Go get some sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“If you insist.” She sang, knocking back the last of her drink and lingering for a moment, wanting to see if you would change your mind. When you blew her a kiss as you rounded the corner of the table, she took that as a gesture of finality. She gave you a wave, silent and slow as she stepped backwards, keeping her eyes on you as well as she could until she was completely out of sight.

When you were alone, you finally felt the full force of the night’s whirlwind of events. You grabbed the small cube of blue chalk sitting on the edge of the table, inspecting it carefully as you raised it to the tip of your cue. Closing your eyes as you circled it round the wooden stick, you let out a long breath. Your shoulders slumped slightly, the stress and adrenaline from your last game fleeing you alongside the anxiety you carried to the bar with you that night. The chatter had died down, the lull of rock sounding over the crackling speakers filling your ears and soothing the swarm of incessant thoughts in your brain.

All those years ago, did you ever imagine you would be put in such a position?

What would she think, the freshly eighteen year old who stepped out into the world alone for the first time, wondering how the hell she would make it?

What would your dad think? The man who put the cue in your hand back home, laughing as he snapped a picture of the little girl who was half its size? Would he be proud, remembering where you started, shooting at balls and never truly understanding what the game meant or how you were supposed to play? Or would he be disappointed, saddened to see you struggle so bad you had to bet your way to paying the bills?

Ah, what did it matter?

Tough decisions and trusting the universe had not led you astray yet, and even if it wasn’t the most honest way to earn a living, it sure did what you intended it to do.

“Hey Chuck,” you called from the table, catching the attention of the bartender wiping counters. His eyes cut to you, a glimmer of light in his eye that only ever shined when you were the subject of his attention. “Can I get another bottle?” You asked, tapping your empty beer against your cue as you gave him a smile.

“One or two?” He asked, half-twisting towards the cooler to retrieve your drink.

“Two should do the trick.” You chuckled, barely embarrassed that he knew you so well. He grabbed the necks of two brown bottles in one hand, setting them on the ledge of the half wall separating the drinking area from the game room. You removed the black triangle from the racked balls, lining the cue ball at an angle and taking the shot to break it. As the balls spun out of control, twisting and turning, knocking into each other with ringing clacks, you stepped towards the bar. He used his bottle opener to free the caps, tossing them in the trash can by his feet as you picked up the first drink.

“You played well tonight.” He noted, slinging an old towel over his shoulder. “Busiest I’ve seen here all month.”

“Yeah, probably why I did so well.” You laughed, your eyes studying his face. His ginger hair curled at the ends, laying over the nape of his neck. His fair skin was slightly blushed and heavily freckled, and he was still as full of life as he was when the doors opened that night. “Had lots of time to practice over the last few weeks.”

“Paid off, it seems.” He commended you, giving you a verbal pat on the back for all he witnessed.

Chuck wasn’t much older than you were, and over your many years of frequenting the bar, you had gotten to know him fairly well. Starting in the military at eighteen, he decided school wasn’t for him and he should put his strength still remaining from high school football to some good use. For a long time, he worked high end security gigs between deployments, which kept him busy in the meantime and still gave him some sort of purpose when he couldn’t do the job he originally signed up for. At twenty four, he got a pretty nasty injury that left him with a medical discharge and a lot more mental turmoil than physical.

After a year of recovery, his slow start back into the regular world landed him as a bouncer at the very bar you were in now, and then eventually a bartender when needed. Despite all the shit life threw at him, he was still the most friendly man you’d ever met, and he was just happy to be wherever he went. After so many nights of getting to know each other, you considered him a friend, and a good one at that. To Izzy, sometimes he seemed to be a little bit more than her favorite bartender. You didn’t ask, and she never told, but the nights she didn’t come home, you could only assume that she found company in the redhead who often made her singles into doubles without any charge.

“If you’re still here when I lock up, I want my turn.” He grinned, both of you knowing that was your price for staying past last call.

“You know where I’ll be.” You grinned, tapping your bottle against the ledge before taking a swig. With that, he returned to cleaning the counters and you walked back to your game. “Why don’t you play some good music while you’re at it?” You teased, shooting the quip over your shoulder that you knew he would agree with. Without any hesitation, he queued up a different playlist and turned it up.

Setting both drinks on a nearby table, you didn’t waste much time lining up your first shot. When you watched the striped balls scatter across the green top, all of your troubles ceased to exist. Hearing the resin balls knock against the pockets and roll inside was the greatest sound in the world. When you played, everything else seemed to disappear, leaving you alone with only one goal in mind.

Well, most of the time, at least.

Other times, you could still feel your father leaning over your shoulder, whispering bits of advice you would hold close to your heart for the rest of your life. You could feel the weight of his presence, the energy of his applause when you made a perfect play, and the joy of being with him all wrapped into one.

It was haunting just the same as it was comforting.

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice sounded from behind you, catching your attention just before you leaned down to take another shot. You would have been startled if not for the sweetness behind the words. You turned, still stuck in thought about the man who taught you everything you knew, wondering who would be approaching you so late in the night.

When you were turned completely, you thought the man standing before you was some twisted trick from the universe, baiting you with perfection to lure you to danger. His long curls dusted his shoulders, complimented by a patterned bandana folded neatly and settled atop his head. A short sleeved, ribbed knit shirt that hugged his torso like it was made just for him, tucked into jeans that hugged his legs. Gold chains paired perfectly with a pendant necklace hung around his neck, glimmering under the minimal light. You didn’t recognize the symbol on the chain, but you felt compelled to ask, to know before you lost your chance. His skin tanned, his brown eyes warm, and his smile soft and sweet. He held a pool cue in his large hand, and his expression was curious.

You hated to admit that he had you completely flustered by simply existing.

“Hey,” you eventually breathed out, the bridge of your nose burning as the skin turned red with a blush. You wondered if he noticed under the low light, or if he even cared. Looking like he did, you were certain you weren’t the only person who had a hard time finding words when speaking to him. “What’s up?”

“Sorry if this is weird, or whatever…” he raised a hand to the back of his neck, sheepish as his eyes raked over you with the same intensity you held in your own. “I was watching you play earlier. Would have introduced myself sooner, but you seemed a bit busy.”

“S’all good. Not weird at all.” You smiled, almost flattered by the fact that he seemed nervous to talk to you.

“You play a mean game. I’m Danny.” He seemed to shake off his nerves at your reassurance, his eyes flickering to the balls scattered on the tabletop to break the burning stare shared between you.

“Y/N.” You replied, extending your hand to shake. He responded enthusiastically, the warmth of his skin sending shivers down your spine and goosebumps raising across your arms.

‘Damn, Y/N. Get it together.’ You thought to yourself, but still found your chest tight and your mouth dry from the sheer beauty of the man standing before you. Did he want to play, or did he want to talk to you? You were too afraid to ask, but whatever it was, you knew you would be compliant with it. If it meant getting an extra moment to admire him, you would be more than happy to do so.

“You play a lot?” He asked, his attention back on your face as he asked.

“Think that’s putting it lightly.” You grinned, knowing that his assumption barely even scratched the surface. “I guess it’s my thing, as some would say.” You quoted the word with one hand, your eyes glazing over with pride at the fact.

“There’s worse things to have.” He joked back, easing up as he understood you weren’t as intimidating as he thought moments before.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Daniel?” At the sound of his name on your lips, his breath caught in his chest and his words in his throat. “Come on, now. Don’t be shy.” You pried a little further, noticing the red dusting his cheeks, too.

“You caught my eye, that's all.” He conceded, shifting his weight onto his heels as a gentle grin decorated his lips. “Curious about the pretty girl who was wiping the floor with every pool player in here. Wanted to talk to you before someone else stepped in and ruined my chances.” At that, you couldn’t help but laugh, honored that your talent struck him so well, and even more curious about him.

“So is this about me being good at pool, or you thinking I’m pretty?” You found yourself going along with the bit, entertaining whatever he was thinking and enjoying making him sweat. Normally, you didn’t entertain wandering eyes and flirtation, but from him, it felt different. It felt like something you wanted to get used to, and you barely knew a thing about him.

“Can’t it be both?” He raised an eyebrow, realizing that he wasn’t coming off too strong for you.

“S’pose it can, yeah.” You nodded, a cheeky grin on your lips.

“Have time to entertain a poor guy like me, or are you too busy training for the championship?”

“I think I could fit you in,” you smiled, nodding your head. “Might be nice to have some company, anyway, s’long as you don’t get in the way of the championship.” You pointed your index finger, a faux warning with playfulness in your eyes.

“You only play for money, or is fun allowed too?” He stepped towards the table, watching as you shot the white ball at a group of striped ones.

“Mostly for money, but I know how to have fun.” You explained, straightening up as you scanned for the next best move. “Usually just with friends, though. Can I consider you my friend, Daniel?” Your eyes cut to his face, your head cocking to the side ever so slightly.

“That’s up to you, Y/N.” He said your name with the same kind of conviction in his tone, like the simple idea of speaking your name would send him to his knees. You had no idea how you failed to notice him sooner, how he flew right under the radar and managed to stay there until he wanted to be seen. A small part of you was grateful for the fact, because had your eyes landed on him while you were playing, he would have thrown off your entire game. You didn’t like distractions, and from all you had seen so far, that appeared to be exactly what he was, even if he was a good one.

“All or nothing, or is there something else on the table you’re too afraid to say out loud?” You smirked, leaning down and shooting at another striped ball. It landed in the corner pocket, even when your eyes were barely focused on the table. Your forwardness seemed to take him by surprise, but it did not deter him.

“Like what, sharpshooter?” The nickname piqued your interest, causing another blush to appear on your cheeks.

“I don’t know, Daniel. That’s why I asked you.” At that, it was his turn to laugh, a beautiful and breathtaking laugh that nearly sent you straight to the grave.

You met plenty of men at bars, some just as beautiful and many more who took their chances with you, but none of them had any effect on you, and if they did, it was never like this. You had no idea what spell he casted on you, but it was more powerful than any force you had ever encountered before. The small game of cat and mouse had already begun, but you were both chasing each other equally as much. It was fun, lighthearted, and you believed that if you were to back out, he would leave it at that. His beauty matched his charm, and he was as sweet as he was hot. If more than friends was on the table, you certainly would not be opposed to the idea.

Even so, you would not be the first to say it.

No matter how attractive he was, you would cling to the last sliver of pride you could.

“Where are you from, honey?” He asked, switching the topic with ease and getting himself out of the spotlight.

“Ohio.” You responded, deciding not to pay any mind to his sudden shift in direction. “You?”

“Michigan.” He replied, his eyes following your game, only glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Ah,” You chuckled, a twinkle in your eye at the thought. “Natural enemies. Should we even try to be friends, darlin’?”

“Maybe a little competition will do us some good.” He theorized, still holding his pool cue tightly. “Seems like you’re a fan of it, anyway.” A sneaking glance your way left you to believe his intent was much stronger than friendly, and you couldn’t ignore the twisting of your stomach at the thought. “What are you doing so far from home?” He posed another question, not letting you focus on his previous comments for too long.

“I’m a firm believer that home is the people, not the place.” You finished off the striped balls, taking a long sip of beer before moving on to the solids. “The only person I had left wanted to leave, and I sure as hell wasn’t letting her leave me behind.” You didn’t know why you wanted to answer him with so much honesty. You could have sugar coated it, or come up with a simple lie to evade the question, but you didn’t want to. For some strange reason, you felt a type of solace in Daniel’s company you had never found in another, and him knowing you certainly wasn’t the worst thing in the world. “What about you?”

“I’m a musician.” Although his response was short, it was not dry. He seemed to be vying for a reaction before he delved too deep.

“A musician in Nashville… never heard of that one before.” You grinned, already getting down to the last few balls on the table. “Any good?”

“I mean, we’re alright.” He shrugged, chuckling quietly.

“I’ll have to take your word for it. Your very convincing word.” You found another laugh stuck in your teeth, wondering how it was so easy for him to cause them. “Just you?”

“Nah, me and my best friends. More like brothers, really.” He said, one hand stuffed in his pocket as he watched you take another shot.

“That’s cool.” You conceded, sending him a smile as you straightened back up.

“So, how did you get this gig?” He asked, more apt to get to know you than anything else.

“Wouldn’t really say it’s a gig.” You chalked the end of your cue again, thinking back to the very beginning. “When I first moved here, life was… not what we thought it would be. My best friend enrolled in university, and I looked into a few classes for community college, but never ended up pursuing it. I couldn’t take a full time program and work to support the both of us, and since she moved here for school and I tagged along, I prioritized money.”

“A valiant woman… I can appreciate that.”

“Well it was that, or drown. Someone had to pay the bills, and I couldn’t force her to do both. She’ll take care of me when the time comes. Just the way we work.” You didn’t expect him to understand, but you wanted him to, even if you did not know why.

Until that moment, you were fine having Izzy as your person, the only one who would ever truly get you, and you never needed more. Until he showed up, you were happy with it, but he carried some external energy that drew you to him, making you hang off every word and hope he would be willing to give more. You wanted to talk to him, to tell him the things you most often kept quiet about. He was interested, radiated kindness and exuded a type of peace you hadn’t felt in a really long time. Being in his company was refreshing, something very different than what you had grown used to since moving to Nashville, and he barely even had to try. You didn’t want him to leave, and you never wanted him to stop talking. Men never interested you much unless you could get a couple dollars off a game, but he didn’t seem like any regular guy.

“It’s nice having someone that you can lean on no matter what.” He explained, a twinkle in his soft brown eyes caught your attention almost instantly. “No matter how far away from home, you always get to bring a piece with you. Even if you’re lost, you always know you’ll find your way with them by your side.” He tapped his foot against the ground while he spoke, like he was trying his best to put such profound emotions into a legible message. Slowly, you nodded your head, agreeing with everything he said.

Maybe he did get it, and more than you ever would have believed.

“I have Sam.” He continued, a small smile stretching his lips. “Been my friend for as long as I can remember. Wouldn’t know where I’m going or what I was doing without him by my side.”

“Yeah, exactly.” You squeaked a response, your heart racing as you shot at another ball. Something about the topic of conversation made it all feel real, and as much as you were enjoying it, it also scared you. Being perceived as a person with depth did not usually bode well with you; you much preferred to be the heartless snake that could kill a game of pool, especially to strangers. It was nice being understood, but hard to swallow all the same. “When things were really rough, I guess we were desperate to find a distraction. Something to look forward to that wouldn’t hurt us any more.” You cleared your throat, watching the last colored ball fall into a pocket, leaving you with just the eight ball.

“And that was playing pool?”

“Sort of.” You nodded, deciding to take a break before finishing the game against yourself. For a topic so heavy, you thought it best to give him all of your attention. “I always loved the game. Been playing it since I was this big.” You held your hand out a few feet above the floor, giving a vague estimate to accompany your words. “When we found this bar, it wasn’t very popular, which was good. Lots of tables and none were ever filled, so we spent a lot of nights at this one. I played and Iz watched—she was never much of a pool player, but she loved to spend time with me. It worked for us.”

“How did you start playing for money?” His questions were endless, and you didn’t mind. You enjoyed his intrigue, happy that he wanted to know you as much as you wanted to know him.

“After about a year or so of playing for fun, we made pretty good friends with the bartender.” You nodded your head towards Chuck. “Great guy, but too cocky for his own good. He bet twenty bucks, and lost it in less than ten minutes.” At that, Daniel let out a bellowing laugh, causing an unfamiliar flutter in the pit of your stomach. How could one man be so perfect? “A few guys watching caught wind, and I s’pose they all thought they’d try their luck. I went home with a bit of extra pep in my step and a hell of a lot more confidence. Didn’t win very much, but when you don’t have it in the first place, it’s a lot. Was different than winning the slots, or something like that. Made me feel good, like I was good at something.”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re a lot better than good.” You weren’t sure why the compliment struck you with so much force, especially considering so many people often spoke the same sentiment, but you held it close to your heart. With blushing cheeks and a racing heart, you muttered a small thank you.

“After that, I realized I could keep making money off of it. Instead of wasting hours on nothing, we came down here with a purpose. Word went around, and everybody wanted to take their chances. It took a little while to win anything substantial, but it eventually started paying some of the bills and even more than that. Now people come here just to play against me.” You couldn’t help the smirk that formed, proud of yourself for creating something from nothing. As you bargained with the idea, you leaned down and shot the eight ball, effortless and confident as it rolled into the side pocket.

“That’s pretty damn impressive.” He took a step closer to the table, inspecting the clear top after you sunk all of the shoes without a hitch. “You’re pretty damn impressive.” Your cheeks burned again, but you looked to the ground so he did not notice. You wished you could understand why he had such a big effect on you, how he rivaled every other man you had ever met and all he had to do was talk to you, but you understood that not all things need an answer. Sometimes, it’s just nice to appreciate it while it lasts. “I think my biggest question is how did you get so good at it?”

You caught his eye for a moment, his face lucent even in the near darkness of the bar. It knocked the breath from your lungs, his burning stare and unwavering commitment to knowing you. You wondered if it was just because of curiosity, or if he had a hidden agenda that he would only share at the perfect moment. Either way, it did not matter; you would be overjoyed to go along with whatever plans he wanted to make for the night, and you would be even happier if you ended up in his bed. For a single moment, you debated whether you should bring it up yourself or see what tricks he had up his sleeve.

You opted to make him sweat a bit, knowing that every extra minute spent in his company would be worth it.

“Is that your biggest question, Daniel?” You raised an eyebrow, a knowing expression on your face as you saw his eyes flicker down to your lips. Silently answering the question for you, you felt a slight bit of satisfaction at his miniscule action.

“One of them.” He replied, nonchalant as he began to place the balls back on the green.

“Well, get to askin’, then.” You decided to help him out with his task, wondering if his curiosity really did lie in the game and you were reading too far into it. “I don’t have all night.” A lie, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I was asking—you were avoiding.” He caught your eye again, each time his stare landed on you the effect far worse than the last.

“Maybe I don’t like that one.” You weren’t being dishonest; that question, above all, was your least favorite of any one that anybody could ask you. To answer, you would have to talk about your dad, and that was best left as a memory rather than a story. “I want to hear what else you’ve got.”

“Alright,” he conceded, racking the balls in the middle of the table. He did not outright say it, but you could see his desire for a game hidden deep in his features. You wondered how long it would take for him to place his wagers. “Are you going home with anyone tonight?”

You thought about it for a moment, the ghost of a smile on your lips as your silence led him astray. You weren’t going home with anyone, nor did you ever have any intent to. In fact, you had been looking forward to walking home to find Izzy curled up on the couch (because that’s where she always fell asleep when she was drunk), all of the lights on and the television playing loudly in the background. You would sit with her until your mind stopped racing, and eventually you would crawl up to your bedroom and sleep off the night's excitement while planning for tomorrow.

Now, you weren’t sure how much you liked that idea. With him standing so close, the fresh scent of his cologne distracting you and the warmth of his presence more persuasive than anything else, you didn’t want to go home alone. His gentle smile and burning gaze sent the hair on the back of your neck raising and goosebumps littering your skin. For a brief moment, you wondered what it would be like to touch him, to put the conversation to rest and explore more pleasurable, fulfilling alternatives. He made it so easy to ignore everything else and focus your attention solely on him, and since he joined you at the table, you hadn’t been able to think of anything but him.

If you went home alone, would you regret it?

If you went home with him, would you regret it?

For some reason, you believed that you would never regret a night spent with someone as compelling as him, but the fear still remained. You barely knew him, nor his intentions. You were rightfully concerned, but something deep in your heart told you that you could trust him and that he would not do you wrong.

You hoped so, anyway.

“Not unless I meet someone worth my time, no.” You shook your head, giving him a lingering stare as he processed your words. The corner of his lips quirked upwards, not necessarily into a smile, but a response to you nonetheless.

“How do your games work, sharpshooter?” He asked, removing the plastic triangle and hanging it on the hook on the side of the table.

“Depends.” You chalked the end of your cue, gearing up for another game you would inevitably win. “Usually, you pick the price, and I tell you if it’s worth my time.”

“Only money worth your time?” He grabbed the second block of chalk, catching your attention as he reached up to do the same to his cue. You noticed the veins in the back of his hand, leading to the same prominent feature in his forearms. Your stomach fluttered with curiosity, studying him closely as the muscles in his biceps flexed. For a brief moment, you imagined what it would feel like for his hands to be on you, his flexing muscles under your touch as he offered you much more than a challenge.

“What do you have in mind?” You finished off the last of your beer, discarding the bottle on the ledge by the bar and making quick work sipping at your second. He seemed hesitant to answer, but his eyes were glimmering with mischief. You wished it didn’t intrigue you as much as it did, but you felt yourself leaning into him as you awaited your answer, showing your own desperation for him to speak. “Out with it.” You pressed, smiling again as he rocked back onto his heels.

“How about…” he sucked in a breath through his perfectly straight and white teeth, his eyes darting from you to the table. You raised an eyebrow, cocking your head to the side as you waited for him to continue. “If I win, I get to take you home for the night.”

You froze momentarily, your heartbeat and breathing included. Your cheeks, burning red under the dim pot lights overhead, giving away your feelings on the matter almost instantly. Could you agree to such personal terms? Even if you wanted to go home with him, you still weren’t quite sure if it was a good idea. You hardly knew him, and could barely comprehend his boldness even if it did turn you on. If you turned him down, you felt that there was a possibility of regret, and you certainly didn’t want to see him turn and walk away, especially after how much you enjoyed talking to him.

Then again, you barely even believed he could beat you in the first place. At the very core of it, the very beautiful, polished man that stood before you didn’t seem to have a competitive bone in his body, nor did he seem to be as well versed in the game as you were. Even if he had skill, you couldn’t imagine he would be as committed to beating you as you were to beating him. That was most of the reason you won as often as you did. If you agreed, the chances of his desired outcome happening were slim to none. That made you feel worlds better, and your cockiness gave you the extra push to agree with his crazy idea.

Maybe by the time the game was over, you would know for sure if you wanted to go home with him or not. An extra hour spent getting to know him definitely wouldn’t hurt, and then you would be able to join him on your own accord if you so wished. With a dry mouth, you swallowed back your surprise, bargaining with the fluttering of your heart as you understood he definitely found you as attractive as you found him. To bet on something so forward, you really must have caught his eye.

“And what if I win?” You asked, trying your best to keep your cool and remain confident.

“Guess that’s up to you, is it not?” He flashed you a smile, and for a split second you wanted to abandon the game entirely and accompany him home then and there. Whatever he was doing to you, he was doing it incredibly well, and you began to fear he would get what he wanted no matter who won the game.

“S’pose it is.” You pursed your lips slightly, running the tip of your tongue over the back of your teeth as you brainstormed your stipulations. Then, an idea struck you, working for you in more ways than one. “If I win, I want two tickets to your next show, rockstar.” You pointed in his direction, knowing that your offer would send the subliminal message that you did in fact want to see him again, even if you did not end up in his bed.

“I’ll even throw in a backstage pass, just because. Best view in the whole house.” He sent a wink in your direction, forcing you to look away as your breath caught in your throat. You could feel a dull ache begin to bother you between your legs, and you knew if you let yourself focus on it, the game would be his before it even started.

“Mr. Important, or whatever.” You teased, your finger tracing the wood grain on the table as you reached for the coin sitting on the very corner. “Didn’t realize I was in the presence of such a big celebrity.” You took the cool metal coin between your middle and index finger, flashing it in his direction so he could see what you were up to.

“So, we have a deal?” He asked for clarification, wanting to ensure there were no blurred lines.

“I think we do.” You nodded, turning back towards him only to notice he had stepped closer. “Shake on it?” You asked, extending your hand towards him. He reached forward, his palm landing against yours as his fingers closed around it. You hated the fact that something as simple as a handshake from him had you weak in the knees, but you bargained with the lack of strength in your legs as you focused on the warmth he provided.

“Game on, sharpshooter.” He said, his hand lingering on yours for a moment longer than it should have. He was close, much closer than a friendly opponent should be. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, just inches from your own, and when you looked upwards to meet his eyes, his face wasn’t much further away. The two of you stayed locked in the same position for what seemed like an eternity, both of you understanding the pull of your heartstrings as you admired each other up close.

“I flip a coin for start, but if you have something better in mind, please do tell.” You explained, your voice barely above a whisper because it did not need to be. He was close enough you were sure he could hear your racing heart and shallow breaths. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating, and you felt more drunk the longer he stood near. If this was how the whole game was going to go, you understood you were in for a wild ride.

“Sounds good to me.” He finally dropped his hand, but much slower than normal, like he was hesitant to let you go. You placed the coin on the back of your thumb, hoping he did not notice the slight trembling of your fingers.

“Heads or tails, Daniel?” You held his gaze, finally getting the chance to appreciate the sea of brown in his irises, the flecks of near blackness and the golden streaks that accentuated the already beautiful chestnut color. Soft and warm and kind, something you felt like you could get lost in forever and never yearn to be found.

“Tails.” He said, seemingly studying the intricacies of you.

You tossed the coin in the air, barely looking down as you guided it to the back of your hand with your palm. For a few seconds, you stood still once more, not ready to part from the closeness the moment granted. His skin was soft like wind in the reeds, the ends of his curly hair tickling his cheek ever so gently. For once, you did not feel uncomfortable under another’s stare—you did not want to hide, nor to turn away or dissolve into nothing to avoid the attention from another. This time, you felt appreciated, seen for everything rather than just something, and you thought it a crime to never be on the receiving end of his attention.

Eventually, you withdrew your hand covering the coin, looking down to see it showing heads.

“Looks like luck is on my side, tonight.” You mumbled, knowing that if you truly wanted to be a dick, you could take the game out in one play. He let out a small huff of air, similar to a laugh but not quite, like he was amused by your response.

“We’ll see.” He replied, taking a small step back from you. Your eyebrows furrowed together, your eyes lingering on his face as he stood stationary beside the table.

What did that mean?

Opting to ignore his attempt at undermining your ability, you shook off your nerves and realized that it would affect your game if you focused on it for too long. Instead, you decided to show him that luck had little to do with it, and going home with him would not be your punishment for loss, but a choice you made on your own accord. You had never bet on something so extreme, and especially never something sex-related. You would be lying if you said it didn’t put any extra pressure on you, but your win streak from that night alone led you to believe that you wouldn’t have to suffer any consequences. Beating him would be as easy as any other game, and that fact played a huge part in agreeing to his terms.

Well, that, and the fact that going home with him would be an option even if pool wasn’t a factor.

You placed the cue ball on the green, leaning down and settling the tip of your cue in the groove between your thumb and forefinger. You placed your four fingertips against the felt below, and lifted your thumb slightly to give yourself better control of the cue. Aiming and faking your shot a few times, you let yourself get a feel for the position without following through. Eventually, you withdrew your arm and spring forward with an ample amount of force, sending the white ball rolling forward and crashing into the racked balls.

Your eyes stayed glued on the table as all of the balls scattered across the top. A few rolled into the rails, then you watched as two striped balls rolled to the side and into a corner pocket, back-to-back. A triumphant smile on your face, you scanned for the next best move, noting that the white ball rolled to a stop near the middle of the table. You straightened up, taking a few steps to the side of the table before leaning down again and repositioning yourself.

You shot at the yellow striped ball, calling the side pocket just before you slid the wooden stick forward into the cue ball. Just as you expected, it rolled straight in without a hiccup. Since starting, you hadn’t looked anywhere but at the game, and as you stood to shoot for the third time, you made the mistake of casting your gaze in the direction of your opponent.

For the first time ever since playing a game of pool, you made a mistake classified as fatal, and you did so without second thought or any inkling that it would be a mistake at all.

You froze in place, noticing his eyes burning into you as you leaned down over the table, but they were no longer warm and kind. Instead, his gaze was fixated on the pull of your dress from your skin, gravity giving him a bit more of a show than you intended, and the sweetness in his stare had dissolved into a hunger you could only imagine was felt by a man starved. You felt a rush of emotion straight to the pit of your stomach, only worsened as his tongue delicately traced his lower lip. Your skin tingled with desire. And for a fleeting moment you considered forfeiting the game and sinking the eight ball just to get to his house faster.

“Nice shot, beautiful.” He whispered, his tone much more gravelly than it was when he was speaking to you before. He knew what he was doing, and he was unashamed to admit it.

Without responding, you brought your shaky hands back to the table, your stomach twisting and your mind flooded with all kinds of thoughts that had little to do with the task at hand. You were committed to winning, and you would make it a point to do so, but he was making it incredibly hard to prioritize that.

Trying to push the thought of him far from your mind, you zoned back in on the game. As you pulled your arm back to shoot, a quick flash of his darkened eyes flooded your vision, pointed at you like a predator in search of prey. As you shot at the cue ball, you did not even notice that it hit a striped ball against the rail and nowhere near the pocket. Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to shake the memory away, but it seemed permanently seared into your brain. You could feel your heartbeat in your toes, your own arousal pulsing under your skin and forcing you to feel it when his perfectly sculpted features flashed before your eyes.

For the first time in your entire career, losing the game was more plausible than winning, and the fact only became more pertinent every time you remembered what it felt like to be under his burning gaze.

You had to get ahold of yourself, to shake off the very thing that would lead you to your demise, but you couldn’t. Whatever he was doing was working, because the man that stood before you now was much different than the one who challenged you to begin with. Being near him was to be one step away from insanity, and focusing on anything other than him was impossible. Knowing that he was watching you with the same intensity, imagining what you would look like out of your dress and underneath him when he won the game, was sending you down a rabbit hole that was far too steep to climb out of.

But you had to win.

It wasn’t an option, nor a question.

Winning was the only thing you knew how to do.

You stood, eyes casted to the floor and a blush across your cheeks as you stepped back from the table, not daring to look in his direction as you bargained with your own embarrassment. Had you ever shot so poorly before? You couldn’t recall a time in which you missed your target so entirely, and your entire body was ablaze with disappointment at your own actions.

“You know, you never actually told me…” Danny started, snapping your thoughts away from your bad play, as if he knew that’s what you were brooding about. You finally looked at him, the entire world in slow motion as your eyes landed on him again. He was tall, slim but muscular. His shoulders were broad, not noticeable from afar but very much so once you were up close and personal with him. His lips were plush, smooth and soft as your mind begged you to get a taste. “How did you get so good at pool?” Your eyes cut to his own, nervous for a moment that he was judging you for your oblivious admiration of him.

“It’s a long story.” You said, your gaze flickering to the table. He didn’t seem keen on taking his turn, though. Instead, he wanted to know you, which was as sweet as it was aggravating.

“I have time.” He assured you, stuffing one hand into the pocket of his tight jeans. You let out a huff of laughter, almost shocked at how interested he was in you. Nobody had ever cared this much—well, aside from Izzy, but never a man. Certainly not one as breathtakingly beautiful as him.

“My dad.” You responded, swallowing down a mouthful of beer so you would not choke up at the thought. You didn’t know why it was so easy to tell the truth. You could have lied, brushed it off and moved on, or ignored him completely. Instead, you wanted him to know, wanted to take solace in his heart and mind. It was a new feeling, but something you wouldn’t mind getting used to. “Had an old bar in Perrysburg, left to him by my grandfather when he died. I was six or so when he packed up and trucked us across the state so he could take over. Dad didn’t know it was as run down as it really was… thought maybe we could make some money out of it, or whatever.” You paused, feeling your throat begin to close as you recalled the memories you kept locked up tight for so long.

“We moved into an’ old fixer upper, something cheap so he could afford to fix the damn dive without us suffering because of it. We spent every day at that bar. I’d do my times tables sittin’ on the old bar top, ‘till he tore it out f’course.” You chuckled, swiping your stray hairs away from your forehead. “We’d eat takeaway on the squeaky barstools, throw the garbage in the big dumpster he rented when he tore out the old floors, and then he’d shoot some pool before we went home. Back then, I was curious, and annoying. I didn’t let up until he let me try, and wouldn’t give up until he forced me out the door.” Danny laughed at that, picturing it in his mind as he listened intently.

“Was some sort of routine we got going, you know? Get home from school, do my homework, eat, and play pool. Once he knew I wasn’t gonna give it up, he actually taught me how to play. Took a while, but by the time the bar opened I could play a game ‘till the end. Even when the reno’s were finished, we kept at it. Was our thing, you know?” You let the butt of your cue fall to the vinyl floor, the weight of the memory like cement poured atop your bones. Missing him was violent, painful and torturous. It didn’t get easier with time, nor did it ease when you recounted the beautiful years you spent with him. Worst part was, it didn’t even help if you stayed silent on the matter. The whole damn thing hurt, and it would for the rest of your life.

“Just you and him?” He asked, noticing your sudden withdrawal. Your eyes fluttered closed as you gave a small nod of your head.

“Yeah, was just us.” You hummed. From the very beginning until the very end, it was the two of you against the world. Some would say it was still the same, now. “And Izzy, sometimes.” You couldn’t leave her out, knowing it was not fair when she spent so much time with the two of you. “Her dad met mine when we were redoing the plumbing. Contracted him for it… didn’t realize he also signed us both up for lifelong friends.” A smile crossed your lips. At the end of the day, no matter how sad the situation was, you were thankful it gave you Izzy. You were always thankful for her.

“Where’s your dad now? Still at home, playing pool?” His question was innocent, but you couldn’t help but feel the stab in your chest. You wished it was that simple, but it rarely ever was.

“Not sure he can play pool where he is, honestly. Heaven’s got a wicked reputation, but I’ve never heard of angels playin’ shitty ol’ bar games.” You tried to make light of the fact, but the words came out with a wheeze as they knocked the air from your lungs. “If I’m lucky, I’ll find out someday.”

“Oh,” he whispered, shocked at the fact but trying his best not to make you feel worse about it. The impact was lessened at his soft tone, like he was breathing life straight back into you as he spoke. “He must’ve been one hell of a guy to raise someone as fantastic as you.” Your cheeks burned red at the sound of his words and all you could manage was a small shake of your head.

“You hardly know me, rockstar.”

“I know enough.” He whispered, his tone still strong despite the volume. At that, you had to look at his face, just to catch a glimpse of the conviction that he held in his features.

“He was a pretty great guy.” You agreed, smiling softly at the thought. “The best, actually.”

“I believe it.” He offered a smile of his own, cheering you up ever so slightly. “So you play for him now… that’s why you’re so damn good at it.”

“S’pose so, yeah.” You nodded, watching him lean down to take his shot. “Always feel like he’s looking over my shoulder, telling me exactly what to do. Not sure if he’d be proud of the name I made for myself, but I know he’d love me regardless.”

“What’s there not to be proud of?” Daniel asked, barely exerting any effort as he shot at a solid ball and called the pocket. When it rolled inside, he moved positions to continue his play. “You learned how to make money off of something you’re really good at. That’s smart, if you ask me.” He shrugged a bit before calling another pocket. You watched as the ball rolled across the table, knocking into the solid blue ball. It bounced off the rail and hit the green one in front of the side pocket, and both rolled in effortlessly. You felt your stomach sink, watching and understanding such a strategic move, and wondered if you had finally met your match.

How was he so good at pool, and why the hell did you take him for innocent?

You were too trusting of the man that stood before you, who once seemed humble and shy. Now, you knew he was far more than that—talented, a tad cocky, and sneaky. Thankfully, in no way did he showcase those traits in a bad way, but you had underestimated him, betting on something so grand and risky.

Had he done that on purpose? Had he approached you with the desire for you to underestimate him?

And if he did, why did that turn you on more than it turned you off of him?

“Looks like you have some hidden talents of your own.” You commented, crossing your arms over your chest as you pursed your lips slightly. He peeked back at you from over his shoulder, a sly little smile decorating his annoyingly perfect face.

“Not really hidden,” he replied, his stick settled in the same space between his thumb and index finger, but he had his finger clasped overtop it for support. You hated how much it kept your attention, the intricacies of the very simple action making your heart thrum in your chest. You had no idea why you found it so attractive, no idea why you couldn’t care about anything else. “You never asked.”

“My mistake.” Your words came out breathy, embarrassing you further as he sank another ball effortlessly. When he aimed for his fifth ball, he was a bit short on the draw, his ball stopping just before it fell into a pocket. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“Picked up a few tricks here and there.” He shrugged, a sly smile on his lips as he turned towards you.

“Nuh-uh,” you shook your head, stepping towards him instinctively. You yearned to feel close to him again, desperate to feel his hand in yours and longing to breathe in time with him, wondering if your hearts could beat in sync for long enough to become one. He welcomed your advance, staying still as you gradually creeped towards him. “If I told you my dirty secrets, you have to tell me yours, too.”

“Oh, I have to, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, his Adam’s apple bobbing gently as he spoke. It sent a shiver down your spine, the entire sight of him before you sent your body into overdrive. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s only fair, Daniel.” You looked upwards, feeling the closeness of your face to his as gravity continued to force you towards him. “Unless you’re not a very generous person, in which case would make our little arrangement much less intriguing for me.”

“Now you’re jumping to conclusions, baby.” He grinned, almost amused that you would pin him with such a crime. The pet name sent your already racing mind spiraling even further, making you want to jump straight into his arms and figure out the truth of the matter yourself. You let your tongue run over your bottom lip, your mouth watering from the smell of his cologne and the intoxicating look in his eye. The tension between the two of you was immeasurable, and it was growing worse by the second.

You wanted to drop the act and touch him, uncaring of how he obtained his skills and eager to see his talents in other areas. Still, you stood your ground, cue gripped tightly in your hand as you stared him down. You were annoyed that he deceived you, but more annoyed at yourself for letting him.

You let out a huff of frustration, understanding he would not answer your question right away, and turned on your heel to continue the game. With intent, you barely stepped out of the way as you leaned down to aim at the white ball, making sure to push your hips back far enough that you were just inches away from where he stood. So far, both of you had done incredibly well in ignoring the temptation of each other, but you knew his willpower was cracking when you heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Admiring you from a distance was very different than having you bent over in front of him, within arms reach and with intent to bother him.

It certainly didn’t help that he had been picturing what you looked like underneath your clothes all night, and the tight dress you were wearing gave him an even better idea than he had before.

His eyes were fixated on the slight sway of your hips as you took aim, never daring to look away as you took your shot at a striped ball. You managed to land two balls in one shot, speeding up the process and leaving you just a bit further ahead than he was.

Before you shot again, you looked back over your shoulder, keeping your position as you locked eyes with him. You noticed the rise and fall of his chest a little more aggressive than it was moments before. The same animalistic look was shining in his eye, and his knuckles had turned white from the grip on his pool stick. You felt your core aching, desperate for relief as the two of you continued your tyrant without letting up. To rub a little extra salt in the wound, you gave a subtle wink and blew a kiss at him.

“I might need help with my next shot.” Your lower lip jutted outwards into a slight pout, playing on his already worn nerves. “Could you teach me how to shoot like you do?”

Both of you knew you didn’t need any help, but part of your teasing came from a place of desperation, unsure if you could handle another minute without his hands on you. Intoxication had become you, and the many beers you had finished off that night were finally beginning to catch up. He stood stoic for a moment, knowing if he turned down the offer, he would be an idiot. Still, the simple thought of you beating him and him not getting to take you home was wearing on him.

Confident in his own abilities, he decided to take the risk.

Leaning his cue on the wall nearby, he stepped closer to you, slow and gentle as he realized just how intimate the position was. You felt his hips press against your ass, his upper half leaning down to meet yours. Your chest was already low to the table, nearly pressing against it as his chest fit flush against your back. Ever so slightly, he let his chin rest on your shoulder and his arm wrap around yours.

“You don’t need help at all, baby.” He hummed, the warmth of his breath tickling the skin of your neck. His lips hovered just above your ear, making your heart race and your palms break out into a sweat.

“Maybe I just wanted you close to me.” You offered, feeling his heartbeat racing just as fast as your own. “Good luck charm, or whatever.”

More like a distraction, but you couldn’t seem to care. Feeling him fit so snug against you was better than winning a thousand games.

His large hand landed on your hip, his skin searing with heat and felt like it was burning straight through the fabric of your skirt. Immediately, without hesitation, you pushed your hips back into him a little further, hearing that same strained breath catch in his throat.

“Take the shot, then.” His tone was firm, challenging you as he spoke. His mouth was grazing your skin now, the man completely overtaken by desire and unable to think of anything else.

“What if I want to enjoy it for a little bit?” You bit back a smile, but knew you were feeling the effects of it too.

“Can enjoy me all you want when I win the damn game.” He growled, his low tone sending a shiver down your spine.

“Is that so?” You asked, ignoring the throbbing between your legs as you drew your arm back and prepared to take your shot. He did not respond, instead watching your movements carefully and staying as still as possible so he did not interfere with your play. When he did not reply, you followed through and knocked the cue ball forward, watching as it hit one of your last two balls into the side pocket. “Don’t be so sure of yourself, honey.” You turned your head to the side, the tip of your nose brushing his as you did so. You felt his fingers tighten on your hip, gently guiding you closer to him as he resisted the urge to close the gap between your mouths.

“Game’s not over yet, sharpshooter.” He reminded you, his brown eyes heavy lidded as he seemingly stared straight into your soul. As he straightened up, pulling away from you so you could not bewitch him any further, his palm grazed the curve of your ass, only worsening your growing need for him. Still, as badly as you wanted him, you were half tempted to win and leave him behind, just to teach him a lesson about his egotistical ways.

Still feeling your skin tingling from his earlier touch, you were vibrating as you leaned down to shoot at your last colored ball. You noticed Daniel had not moved from his place, nor had he moved his eyes from you. The thought alone had you reeling, and the longer he stared the more nervous you felt. You had to close your eyes to focus your thoughts before making any moves, but it seemingly did nothing to help when you misjudged the strength in which you shot. Your striped ball ricocheted off the rail and rolled all the way back down the table, nowhere near any pocket at all, let alone the one you called.

“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, stressed as you studied the table and digested the very real possibility of him winning the game.

“To answer your question,” he started, breaking you free from your internal brooding. Your eyes snapped to him, immediately relieved of your stress once you remembered how alluring and enchanting he was. “When you spend so much time on the road, you start to look for things to pass the time.” He continued, ignoring the game waiting to be played and focused only on you, clad in a little black dress that would ultimately be his demise.

“Rockstar lifestyle not enough to please you?” You raised an eyebrow, reading him as he stepped towards you.

“No, it is.” He corrected, his eyes casted down over your face as he closed in on you again. “But when your biggest responsibility is getting on stage and playing music, the rest of the world seems a little boring. We spend a lot of time at bars, which usually leaves us standing in front of a pool table.” He shrugged, his eyes flickering to the green felt. “Those guys are my best friends… my brothers, and you aren’t really siblings without friendly competition, right?”

“Right.” You chuckled, finding yourself completely enamored with him as he spoke. You wanted to know everything, to hear every story and share every memory. You hoped he was willing to give as much as you yearned to take.

“We bet on lots of stuff… twenty bucks doesn’t mean much when the same bill gets passed around to everyone. Pool just happened to be one of ‘em.” He seemed to grip his cue tighter as he stood before you, resisting the urge to reach out and touch you. The temptation seemed to be wearing on him, but he was doing his best to withstand it. “We played so much that we never kept that twenty for more than a game or two, so I decided to put some extra effort in. Never cared much about the money, but it gave me something to do.”

“So you made it your life’s goal to master pool… for a twenty you don’t even give a shit about?” You giggled, feeling the heat of his body start to take a toll on you. You wanted to bring him closer, to close the gap between you for good and forget about the stupid bet that got you here.

“For something worth a lot more than twenty dollars, baby.” He corrected, grinning as he noticed the slight blush on your cheeks. “For bragging rights.”

“A humble man.” Sarcasm dripped from your tone, but you weren’t put off by the thought at all. If anything, you were just desperate to keep the conversation alive.

“No, but seriously.” He chuckled, leaning down and taking a shot at the cue ball. As he sank the last coloured ball and called his pocket, you both realized he had little chance at sinking the eight ball with the position in which the cue ball landed. Taking his loss, he made a quick move to block your next shot, figuring if he could not win he could at least make it harder for you. “At first, I just played ‘cause it was fun. It really does get boring… or monotonous on the road sometimes, and I think we all agreed on that. We all started playing against each other, and at first, we sucked. Like, so bad one game would take us all night.” He smiled to himself, finding the memory as funny as you did.

“We all start somewhere, huh?” You completely ignored the fact it was your turn, too enthralled in his voice to care about anything else.

“Yeah, that’s for sure.” He agreed, raising a hand to the back of his neck as he nodded. “Once we started to get better, I realized just how annoying it was to lose against them, because they were insufferable about it. So I started to practice more… went to bars on my own, played against myself and whoever else was around… watched a few videos. I really was determined to get better, just so I wouldn’t have to hear them brag about beating me anymore.” At that, you couldn’t help but giggle, finding that the funniest bit of all.

“So it’s an ego thing? Couldn’t handle it?”

“No, I don’t think you understand.” He laughed, his shoulders shaking and his eyes glistening with joy for being able to share this moment with you. “I’m okay with losing, but they’re the type of guys to never let you forget it. You’ll get it, when you meet them.”

When you meet them.

Whatever was going on between you two, he wanted it to last. He wanted you to meet his friends, to be a part of the inside jokes and share the sentiments instead of just hearing a retelling of them.

You weren’t sure why, but it touched your heart much more than you thought it should.

“After a while, they caught on to me.” He confessed, his lips still holding the ghost of a smile as he watched your expression. “That’s when it really became a competition. With Sam especially, ‘cause we’ve been friends forever. Just a rite of passage for us to do shit like that.” He continued to explain himself, but you were no longer listening or caring about how he acquired his talents. Instead, you were already daydreaming about what would happen when you stepped out of the bar, what the rest of the night would hold.

You liked him, and there was no doubt about it. Everything about him, the curl of his hair and the sparkle in his eye, the slight Midwest accent still lingering in his tone and the sweetness dripping from every word. There was a kind of light, a sense of wonder and warmth that radiated from him as he stood, and you couldn’t seem to keep your eyes off of him. Worse yet, you were so attracted to him that you could barely keep your hands to yourself, and for the first time in your entire career, you were ready to throw the game and take the loss with pride.

“I like you, Danny.” You confessed, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. The confident facade shattered in an instant, leaving your cheeks stained red and your lower lip caught between your teeth, embarrassed about your own blunt nature.

“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, a sheepish smile on his face as he processed your words. “I like you too, sharpshooter.”

“You’re not going to win this game, though.” You continued, trying to regain your composure as your heart raced in your chest. At that, he gave a playful roll of his eyes, motioning to the table.

“If you’re so sure of that, why don’t you win, then?”

“Good idea.” You hummed, giving a curt nod. Your head was swimming, making you realize you were much more intoxicated than you thought, but you would not let it get in your way. “Tell me about your music, rockstar.”

“Not much to tell.” He shrugged, one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other holding his cue close to his body. He watched as you leaned down towards the table, gravity pulling the fabric of your dress away from your chest ever so slightly and causing his breath to catch in his throat. Shifting on his feet, he tried his best not to let it distract him, but he couldn’t help but fix his gaze directly on the skin where the fabric used to lay. “It’s a rock band… started it a long time ago, when we were in high school. Released a few albums and we’re about to go on tour for another one.”

“Jeez, don’t sound so enthusiastic about it.” You smiled, noticing his trailing eyes and understanding he was no better than you were, for your gaze was stuck on him just the same. Particularly where his shirt met his jeans, how when he moved just right, it shifted and exposed the smallest flash of skin.

“I am enthusiastic, but I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging. That never leaves a good impression, now does it?” He raised an eyebrow, noticing your eyes fixated on him but nowhere near his face. Smug and cocky, he waited until you looked away.

“I asked, didn’t I?” You challenged, finally looking up to meet his eye and noticing he was no longer fixated on your chest. Your stomach filled with lead, but the look in his eye did not lead you to believe he was judging you for your actions. Instead, it was curious, inviting you in for more without having to say a word.

“I play the drums.” He continued, giving in a little bit as he realized you truly did want to know and weren’t just asking as a formality. At that, the definition of the muscles in his arms suddenly made a whole lot more sense.

Then, behind your eyes, a vision of him using that strength for nothing innocent derailed your train of thought completely. You felt your thighs squeeze together instinctively, the arousal pooling beginning to soak straight through your underwear.

‘Fuck, Y/N. Get it together.’ You thought to yourself, almost appalled at how distracted he had you. You gave your head a slight shake, refocusing your eyes on the table as you drew your arm back, calling for a corner pocket and taking your shot.

“Son of a bitch.” You hissed through your teeth, all of the factors working together to frustrate you further. The ball bounced off the corner of the pocket and rolled backwards, close but not close enough. The throbbing between your legs and the twist of your stomach was driving you mad, making your palms clammy and your mouth dry.

“We won a Grammy, too.” He added, smirking at your obvious disappointment.

Hold on—Grammy?

“What?” You asked, eyebrows raised in surprise as you forgot about your previous annoyance. “That’s like… a big deal, Daniel. Usually an opening line.” You informed him, watching as he approached the table. You were still leaning downwards over the table, eye level with his waist as he towered over the opposite side. You tried your best to ignore the racing thoughts and sinful ideas flooding your mind, but it was proving impossible.

“Some would disagree.” He brushed it off, clearly proud of the achievement but doing whatever he could to get under your skin.

“Take your shot, rockstar.” You rolled your eyes, carefully raising yourself from the table as he lined himself up. You couldn’t help but notice how ethereal he seemed under the dim pot lights, how his hair hung over his shoulder and framed his perfectly crafted face, how the muscles in his arms flecked with every move. The chains around his neck hung low to the table, the watch on his wrist twinkling under the light, and that damn bandana on his head made him all the more charming.

You could feel every beat of your heart under your skin and behind your eyes. The flutter of your stomach as you watched him was nearly unbearable, and you wondered how in the hell one man could have such an intoxicating effect on you. Typically, you did not fall for the charm of regular bar patrons, but he was no regular guy. Everything about him was intriguing and intense, so overwhelming in the best possible way. You wanted him in every way you could have him, and you couldn’t bear to wait another moment.

“—sharpshooter!” Your attention was drawn to his smiling face, his expression delicately laced with glee as he looked down at the velvet tabletop. You furrowed your brows, hesitant to admit you missed the first part of his statement because you were too busy daydreaming about him.

Shit.

He won.

Effortlessly, he sank the eight ball and left the table clear of all but the cue ball. His words were not that of conversation, but of celebration. Your shock and upset did not come from regret on behalf of your wager, but simply because you lost. It had been a long time since you had fumbled so badly, and it was much harder to swallow than you previously thought it would be.

Trying your best to push that aside, you realized the other side of the coin was not any better. The burgeoning nervousness growing in the pit of your stomach was nearly sickening, forcing you to understand that it wasn’t just play anymore. You had been waiting to get his clothes off all night, but what if you were less than he expected? What if you disappointed him?

“Hey,” Danny’s sweet tone cut you loose from your endless stream of dread. As soon as your eyes connected with his, you understood you had nothing to be worried about. After everything you had seen from him, learned about him, you knew deep down he would never be that kind of person even if he tried. Goodness surrounded him, and you could not refute his kindness, not even for a single moment. “If you’re having second thoughts, we don’t have to do this, you know. I’m happy to have another beer and maybe take you for dinner tomorrow, if you’re free.”

God, why did he have to be so unbelievably perfect?

You felt guilty that your expression led him to believe you did not want to follow through, because that could not have been further from the truth. In fact, the longer you stared back at him, the more the ache between your legs pestered you. Quickly, it had become the only thing you could think about, much more pressing than your loss and much more important than your feeble insecurities. Without a second thought, you placed your cue down on the table with much less grace than usual and closed the space between you. He turned to face you, shocked at your suddenness but receptive to the change. You reached upwards, your arms snaking around his neck as your fingers tangled in the hair laying on the nape of his neck. Instantly, his large hands found your hips, pulling your body closer until you were flush against him, the beat of his heart as strong and fast as your own.

He tasted sweet, a hint of beer still lingering on his lips as you finally leaned forward and captured him in a kiss. The warmth of his body was inviting, his touch seemingly burning holes straight through the fabric of your dress. Your head was spinning, filled with thoughts only pertaining to him, and suddenly the bar in which you normally found solace was no longer where you wanted to be. His tongue traced your lower lip, his hands sliding backwards and settling just over the curve of your ass as he pulled your hips further into him. You let out a hum of pleasure, elated at his forwardness and tempting him to take it a step further.

The scent of his cologne had invaded every one of your senses, suffocating you in the most beautiful ways as you pleaded with him for more. The feeling of kissing him was beyond anything you had imagined that night, and now that you started, you couldn’t make yourself stop.

“Fuck, baby.” He muttered, his lips still grazing yours as he spoke. Now that he had a taste of the sweetness

“A deal is a deal, rockstar.” You murmured, eyes heavy as the tip of your nose brushed his. For a moment, you forgot where you were—the only thing that existed was you and Daniel, and the surge of emotion hanging so heavily between you.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He replied, keeping one arm around you as he pulled his wallet out with the other.

Without complaint, you let him lead you towards the door, throwing a bill on the counter as you passed by Chuck, who was too amused at your appearance to utter a goodbye. Within minutes, you were in the backseat of a cab and on your way to Daniel’s house, which you didn’t even thing twice about. Feeling his hands on you, burning into the skin of your thigh as you drove in near silence, nothing else mattered.

When the cab pulled into his driveway, you were blinded by need for him. Any other day, in your right might, you may have marvelled at the beauty of his home, or perhaps felt nervous that your apartment could never compare. As Daniel helped you out of the back of the cab, you didn’t even have time to think of it, your head swimming with excitement for what was to come next.

Soon after, you were inside, the openness of his entry way leading to the living room unable to be marvelled at, because his lips were on your own again. The taste of him on your tongue, the sweetness of his skin, was almost too much to withstand. The ache between your legs grew stronger with every second that passed, and your stomach twisted in knots as your fingers wrapped around his bicep, pulling him closer than he could possibly get. His hands were on your hips, strong and firm as he held you to him, similar to how he touched you at the bar but with so much more intent. You could feel him through his jeans, his need for you showcased in the most beautiful way as all of the pent up tension bled both of you dry.

The faintest of whimpers fell from your lips as you kissed him, and he drank in the sound like it was necessary for survival. His hand slid backwards, over your ass as your hearts began to beat in time. Your head was spinning, filled with filth and sin as you craved more. You weren’t sure what came over you, the carnal desire so consuming you weren’t sure you had ever felt it so strongly before.

Never breaking from the kiss, he led you towards his couch, slow and cautious so that you would not get hurt. Soon enough, you felt the back of your legs knock against the leather surface, the chill shooting straight through you and sending you further into him. Taking the initiative, you sat yourself down, using your hands on his arms to pull you with him. The whole scene was primal, rushed and desperate. All night, the two of you had been dying to get to someone’s house to pursue the very act you were engaging in then.

Daniel lowered himself with you, but used his strength to push you further back, not stopping until your back was flush against the cushions and he was kneeling in front of you. Feeling a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins, you finally pulled away to admire him. His lips were swollen, pink and slick with saliva. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown and engulfing his irises. You wished to sit and admire him all day, but he had different plans. His hands were snaking up your thighs, his fingers under the skirt of your dress and pushing it upwards, stopping only when the fabric was bunched at your hips and exposing your lower half.

He sucked in a sharp breath, overcome with emotion at the sight, but did not wait to hook his fingers beneath the lace of your panties. Lifting yourself from the couch, you helped him as he slipped them off, tossing them behind him and out of sight. Returning his hands to you, your entire body was electrified with arousal, your stomach in knots as he lowered his head to your thighs.

His lips dusted over the soft skin, the attention new and exciting after months of going without. Even so, what he was doing then paled in comparison to anyone who came before, and you knew it would always be that way. There was something so special about Daniel, so enthralling and enchanting, and in a single night you knew that you never wanted anyone or anything else.

As his tongue traced over the inside of your thigh, he used his hand to push your legs further apart, exposing you completely. Your hands raised to his head, your fingers snaking through his hair as it curled around your hands. It was soft, perfect, the light tickling sensation adding to the overwhelming stimulation you were already experiencing. Just as you grew comfortable in your new position, feeling the gentle suction of his mouth on the inside of your legs, leaving marks for days to come, you felt the gentle pinch of his teeth closing around the supple flesh. Your hips raised off the couch, shocked at the new feeling, but definitely not opposed to it.

Looking down at him, admiring the sight of him between your legs, you wondered what parts of your soul necessary to sell in order to enjoy the sin forever. As his tongue connected with your core, your head falling back on your shoulders, you knew it did not matter—you would give anything, no matter how dark or dangerous, in order to have him in such a way whenever you wanted. The warmth of his mouth, the slight movement of his tongue as it traced over your aching clit was addicting, more intense than anything you had ever felt, and exactly what you had been dreaming of since you first laid eyes on him.

The muscles in your abdomen tensed, pulling with the wave of pleasure that washed over you. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer as you casted a leg over his shoulder. Your shoulders shook with the ragged breath you drew in, knowing that it would not take long for him to get you exactly where he wanted you. A breathy moan filled the air surrounding you, loud and obscene as it made home in the walls, cementing the memory of your entanglement forever. As he flattened his tongue against you, repeating the same motion, your hips raised from the couch to meet his time, your body begging for more when your lips could not do it for you.

The need was throbbing under your skin, taking over your entire body and turning you into a mess below him. He hummed against you, showing his appreciation for the show you were putting on. Feeling your nipples harden, the slight friction against the rough fabric of your dress sent you even further down the spiral. A shiver went down your spine as he suctioned his lips around your clit, the slight pressure overwhelming and pushing you closer to the steep edge.

You were nearly embarrassed, humiliated that it took so little for him to get such a reaction. You wanted to blame it on how long it had been since you fell into bed with a man, how focused you were on everything but romance, but you knew it was all because of him. From the minute you laid eyes on him, you knew he was the very thing you were waiting for, the only reason to break your unintentional spell of abstinence, because he was worth it. He wasn’t just in it for himself, nor was he pretending to be something he was not. He was just a man, undeniably capable of things many others weren’t, and he wanted to use the skill with you. He was different, and you knew it from the minute you met him, and you hoped he felt the same about you.

“Oh, fuck.” You whined, the breath knocked straight from your lungs as he slipped his hand between your leg, the tip of his middle finger collecting wetness by your entrance. “Please, Danny—need more.” You choked out, the desire pulsing behind your eyes as you wondered if you could even handle more.

Obliging to the request, he slipped his middle finger inside of you, slow as he curled it ever so slightly. The feeling was euphoric paired with the movement of his tongue, and the cry of desperation that forced its way through you only encouraged him further.

“I guess my biggest question, sharpshooter,” he said, breathless as he pulled his mouth away from you. The loss was debilitating, but he slipped his thumb in place, just so he did not lose the momentum. You looked down, the cockiness written clear across his expression agitating just as well as it was enticing. “Is if I’m making you feel good?”

“Fuck you.” You muttered, my cheeks blazing as you held his gaze. For some reason, the eye contact was even more intense than anything else he was doing, making it seem like he had stripped you down to bare bones and wisps of soul, seeing the very things that made you, you.

“Yeah, that was my intention.” He teased, adding his index finger as he kept a steady pace, the slight curl of his fingers pushing you closer to a climax. “But that's not an answer.”

“God, yes.” You seethed, unsure why you were irritated when he was doing so much for you. Perhaps you were still brooding about your loss, about how he had many tricks up his sleeve he’d kept well hidden. Though his deceit paid off for both of you, you were a sore loser.

“Don’t sound so sure of yourself.” He echoed your earlier words, taunting me as the pull of pleasure threatened you. You were balancing on a delicate line, and it wouldn’t take much more to push you over the edge.

“What, you couldn’t see for yourself?” You tried your hardest to give it back to him, but your strength was wavering. Your eyes fluttered closed as your head fell back again. A gutteral sound left your lips, tainting the room with sin as your back arched off the couch.

“I could, but hearing you say it is so much better.” He confirmed, clearly seeing the state you were in, knowing exactly what he was doing to you. He had little remorse, little care, and he was intent to follow through until the very end. “Come on, baby. Tell me all about it.”

With that, he returned his mouth to you, his tongue taking the place of his fingers. The switch was lethal, the soft, warm wetness of his mouth overwhelming in the best possible way. Paired with the curl of his fingers, still moving inside you with that same, perfect pace, he did not miss a single movement. Feeling the tension in your belly reach a peak, you choked on the breath trying to force its way to your lungs.

The intensity grew as his tongue traced over the sensitive bundle of nerves, and soon after, you came crashing down. Spewing obscenities, your hands held his head in place as your hips raised to meet the time of his tongue, the orgasm so intense you felt like you were floating. For a few, unbearable seconds, your joints locked and your whole body ached from the sensation, your throat raw as you cried his name, pleading for something you knew you could not handle.

Waking you through it, he did not slow until you relaxed against the cushions. You barely noticed as he pulled away, still high from the pleasure and trying to come down. Finally cracking your eyes open, you noticed he was standing over you, undoing the buckle of his belt as he pulled it free from the loops of his denim jeans. He was painfully hard, strained against the zipper and desperate for relief himself. Your mouth watered at the thought, so eager to feel him inside of you that you did not wait until he directed you further.

With shaky limbs, you sat up, holding eye contact as he freed himself from his jeans and his boxers. Switching positions, he could not seem to pry his gaze from your fucked our expression, your flushed cheeks and plush lips the only thing on his mind until you turned away, not taking the time to rid yourself of your dress as you faced the back of the couch on your knees. Planting one firm hand on the frame, you looked back over your shoulders as you pushed your hips backward, towards him as you offered the very thing he’d been thinking of all night.

With a hiss of joy staining his teeth, his large palms landed on your hips, pulling you back a little further to make it easier for him. Stepping forward at the same time, you felt his cock against you, the tip gliding through the pooling arousal at your entrance. If possible, the sensation sent you further over the edge, so animalistic that you could barely recognize yourself.

“Is this what you wanted, rockstar?” You asked, your knuckles white as you felt him glide through your folds. The tip of his cock brushed over your sensitive clit, your legs twitching from the intense feeling.

“Bet on it, didn’t I?” He asked, knowing he was only teasing both of you further by refusing to fuck you.

“You could’ve just asked, you know.” You pointed out, sucking in a sharp breath as he repeated the same action over again. Your legs were trembling, barely holding you up, but you refused to give in. “Or were you too scared I’d turn you down?”

“Scared isn’t quite the word.” He corrected you, finally settling his tip just over your entrance. You felt yourself clench around nothing, wanting him so badly but refusing to give him any more gratification to fuel his ego. “No shame in earning something. You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you, sharpshooter?”

“You really would have gone home alone if you lost?” You asked, curious more than anything, wondering if he had wanted you just as badly, or if it really was a game to him.

“Fuck no.” He nearly laughed, slamming his hips forward at the same time as he spoke, catching you off guard and knocking the air from your lungs. Gasping at the feeling of him filling you completely, the stretch as you accommodated his size was addicting, irresistible. “We both knew I was always going to win.”

Before you could respond, he withdrew his hips and slammed forward with the same, bruising force. As the tip of his cock brushed against your cervix, your whole body reacted, your walls squeezing around him and pulling him in further. Drunk off him and eager for him to keep going, you still couldn’t keep your mouth shut, unwilling to go down without a fight.

“So you weren’t amazed by my skill.” You called him on the white lie, forcing the words through gritted teeth while pushing yourself back on him. He began a steady pace as you tried so hard to keep your mind straight to not give him the satisfaction. You looked back over your shoulder, catching his eye and locking him in a stare. He raised his hand to your head, gathering your hair in his palm and wrapping it around his fist. Pulling your head back ever so slightly, the new leverage he had over you sent your head spinning.

“It had nothing to do with skill, beautiful.” He replied, giving you a soft smile. The small expression sent your stomach fluttering with nerves for a whole new reason, making you fear that it only took a single night for you to fall head over heels for him.

“Then what would you call it, darlin’?” You asked, your breath hitching in your throat as a wave of pleasure washed over you. Tightening his grip on your hair, he pulled your head back a little further as he leaned down, his lips settled just over your ear as his warm breath tickled your burning skin. You couldn’t help but arch your back further, feeling the curve of your ass fit nicely against the groove of his hip.

You wondered, if you weren’t meant to go home with him, why the hell did the two of you fit so perfectly together?

“How the hell were you supposed to win when you couldn’t keep your eyes off of me?” He asked, making your mouth run dry as the vibration of his words ran straight through you. Swallowing hard, you felt his teeth close around your earlobe, applying slight pressure and sending you over the edge.

Taking it upon yourself, you moved your head to the side against the strength of his hand, unable to resist as you pressed your lips against his own. The taste of him was intoxicating, even more so with the taste of you still lingering on his lips. You felt his tongue graze your skin, your heartbeat so agonizingly strong it was all you could hear. It was messy, heated, and perfectly fitting for the two of you thus far. You weren’t sure anything else would work. Two seemingly strong personalities with no intent to back down, it was a battle from the minute you locked eyes across the pool table, and you had no intent of stopping.

He continued to move inside of you, the feeling even more intense after your last orgasm, and you knew you weren’t far out from a second. The sharpness of his tongue, always having a comeback, and the witty yet playful nature of his responses did more for you than his hands or his mouth did. It was a struggle to find someone who balanced you out, which was a big reason why you neglected to give in to the other men who tried to do as he did that night. For some reason, you knew, without doubt, that Daniel was the type of person you had been looking for all along. Exciting, challenging, and fun, but still sweet and kind. You wondered why he picked you, a burn-out adrenaline junkie who only ever paid rent on a whim.

It was easy to ask why, but as he moved against you, the answer was right before your very eyes. The chemistry between you was undeniable, something that could not be faked, and something that could not be ignored. Some things are just right, no matter how hard you try to fight it, and as it seemed, the stars aligned perfectly for you without you even realizing it.

Breaking from the kiss, you tried to catch your breath, finding it difficult as he moved inside of you. The pleasure was undeniable, bordering on painful as your body begged him for more. More he could not give, and more you could not handle, but god you wanted it. Everything about him made you want more, even if it was an impossible task, and as you verged on the edge of a second orgasm, you knew letting him go wasn’t an option. Not only had he amazed you with his ability to beat you at your own game, but he amazed you in every other sense. Disappointment was a far away feeling when with him, and that was something you wanted to get used to.

“Fuck, Danny.” You whined, his face still close to yours. The words vibrated through both of you, the feeling of him pressed against you exhilarating as you stared that same innate desire in the eye.

“That’s it, baby. Tell me how good it feels.” His words forced the knot in your belly tighter, fraying and threatening as it pleaded with you to let go.

“You fill me so fucking good.” You confessed, your whole body covered in a sheen layer of sweat as you tried to keep up with him. “M’gonna cum.” You confessed, knowing that you couldn’t take it any longer. Your mascara was running down your cheeks, blazing red and warm. Your throat was raw, your body aching with need, and you knew he was the only answer.

“Cum for me, baby. Being such a good girl.” You gasped at the sound of the praise, washing over you like summer rain and coercing you to let go. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

That seemed to be all you needed to give in to the feeling, submitting to the torturous pressure as your posture faltered, leaving you a mess again underneath him. The pathetic cries falling from your lips coerced him to do the same, his hips faltering and his pace slowing as the pleasure took over. The two of you, finally giving in to what you wanted so badly, experiencing a euphoric high together. He spilled his release inside of you, the sensation drawing out your orgasm just a bit longer as your body begged you to draw in a breath. Keeping a slow roll of his hips, he ensured you got the most pleasure possible, only slowing to a stop when the curses falling from your lips turned into desperate cries, pleading for mercy.

Both of you drew in a ragged breath as your composure faltered, your body trying to relax against the couch as you attempted to come back to. Carefully, Danny withdrew from you, making sure you were alright before sitting next to you. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him as he laid back against the arm, caring little for the mess and more about being near you.

The entire night had been a whirlwind of events, the adrenaline so high you barely had a moment to catch up with it. Laying there with him, silent and calm, you knew that what came before could not even compare to it. The strong arms holding you close, keeping you secure as you processed the rapid pace that led you there. You wondered, was it normal to feel so comfortable with someone you had just met? Was it normal to feel like you had known him your entire life?

You had let him in beyond what many others could comprehend, telling him about your father and allowing him to beat you at a game of pool, and not even that scared you. If anything, you were happy you did, and your only thought was when it could happen again. You wanted to keep getting to know him, to keep telling him things you never before cared to tell, and you wanted him to meet Izzy, because you knew she would love him. It was strange to be so open to letting someone in, but deep in your heart you felt it was the only thing you could do. Forcing him out seemed more painful than allowing him in.

“You okay, sharpshooter?” He asked, his voice so soft and different than it had been all night, so doting and caring. It was nice to be seen, nice to be known, and you wanted to know what it was like with him.

“Yeah, I’m good.” You nodded, smiling to yourself. “Just thinking.”

“About?” He chuckled, his long fingers toying with the ends of your hair. The slight tickle on your skin was soothing. You never wanted him to stop.

“You, I guess.” You shrugged. “I guess this means I lost out on backstage passes.” Laughing to himself, he raised a free hand to your face, turning your head to look at him. He admired you for a moment, the redness of your cheeks and the shine of your eyes, finding himself feeling all the same ways.

“I’m sure we could work something out.” He assured you, swiping away flecks of fallen mascara with his thumb.

“Guess that would mean I didn’t earn it.” You teased, exhausted yet still energized by his company. A blinding smile on his face, you couldn’t help but notice the tugging of your heartstrings.

“So, what? You want a rematch?” He raised an eyebrow, wondering if that’s really what you were asking of him.

“I guess so.” You shrugged, giggling to yourself as you stared up at his beautiful face. “Unless you’re scared it was beginners luck?”

“No, not scared.” He reiterated his earlier claim, his thumb still tracing your cheek. “You think you can handle the stakes?”

“I think I could manage.” You nodded, the same stupid smile still pulling your lips. It seemed permanent so long as he was around. “I suppose losing isn’t all that bad… especially if it’s to the right person.”

Against everything you ever believed, you knew for a fact the loss resulted in a bigger gain than ever before, and you would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant he was the prize.

#you are so wonderful and I love you more than the stars in the sky #<3 #t 🤍#you’re so missed everyday that you’re not here #I’m just glad I still talk to you on a constant loop <3333 (I’m spoiled)#fic recs #danny fic rec #danny fic #I remember the day this idea sparked

44 notes · View notes

jakeyt · 15 days ago

Text

Fandoms stopped being a fun escape from reality when people started spreading the belief that you should prioritize purity over pleasure and the art you create must be a reflection of your moral standards at all times.

6K notes · View notes

jakeyt · 16 days ago

Note

Why don’t you tag your fics with gvf or greta van fleet??

I can never find your fics because your blog doesn’t show up on my dash very often I wish you tagged the most popular tags

omfg i've never even thought to do that wtf LMAO. (i've gone almost 4 days no sleep w this most recent one, so we will blame that this time)

going to tag rn !!

thank youuuu

#lmao #sorry yall #whoopsies #i am not perfect #(you should know that very well by now LOL)

1 note · View note

jakeyt · 16 days ago

Text

DISSONANCE || (UNRAVEL Pt. 1 of 2)

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f!Reader

UNRAVEL (Series) Summary: The night of that first lesson, you were not expecting someone to show up who embodied your every desire.

But, of course, that was exactly who you got.

Enter Jake Kiszka.

A locally known guitar god, who looked like sin, smelled like fantasy, and dripped in silver jewelry. . . and pressed on your last nerve so hard you couldn't help but want more.

—||—

Warnings: MINORS DNI (18+); guitar instructor!jake (drooling); instructor x student (BOTH ARE IN THEIR TWENTIES); strangers-to-friends-to-enemies-to-lovers; angst; slow burn; language; a lot of sexual tension + tense themes; self deprecation; mentions of grief; mentions of broken bones; jealous!reader; angry!jake; yearning (!!!); touching; kissing; (very mild) dry humping; jake's hands = on ur boobs; don't u dare call him 'tutor' (PLEASE lmk if i missed anything at all AND/OR anything that is triggering to you!)

DISSONANCE (Unravel Pt. 1) Word Count: 18.3k+

—||—

a/n: this was supposed to be a silly little drabble -- a *cough cough* ~thoughtful~ text sent to the group chat...... but...... um. plans changed. lol

the idea for this came from a conversation fueled by a lot of ~~feelings~~ the group chat had about Jake at Gibson Garage......

aaaand it's directly inspired by this lovely (devastating) video. <3

enjoyyyy ;)

If you want, you may listen to the playlist as you read 🖤

—||— | —||—

|| UNRAVEL ||

PART I: DISSONANCE

—||— | —||—

D I S S O N A N C E: a lack of harmony (among musical notes).

—||—

It was late.

Later than you’d anticipated and planned for this.

You had heard raving reviews from your peers about his teaching. . . Mostly along the lines of:

“He’s intense, y/n. . . like. . . really intense. In a way that definitely intimidates you, but forces you to want to be the best you can be.”

“I thought I knew how to play until one lesson with him and by the end of it, I wondered how the fuck I’d even called myself a guitarist before learning from him.”

“He won’t let you give up. He won’t stop until he knows you see your ability as clearly as he does. He’s just a little. . . extreme while you’re getting there. But, y/n, I promise it’s worth it by the end.”

But. . . so far, he wasn’t even here to teach you yet.

Mr. Jacob Kiszka, guitar god amongst your Juilliard peers, was running late for your first lesson with him.

And, you were not impressed.

When the knock finally occurred, the temptation was too strong to roll your eyes. Couldn’t help it as you stood with a huff from your couch.

As you made your way over to the door, you checked the time on the wall on your way there. Just to be sure.

Yep. Late. Late as hell.

5:20 p.m.

It was 5:20 p-fucking-m, and the lesson you’d scheduled had been for 5:00 p.m.

He was twenty minutes late.

The massive white tea and eucalyptus candle that sat in the middle of your coffee table wafted towards you. It was the only thing calming you, momentarily.

You took a deep breath, opening the door in one mildly aggravated swoop.

And what met you on the other side. . .

Was not the type of person you expected.

Based on how well-renowned this man’s teaching was, you expected an older guy.

Like, old. Until now, you’d pictured a wise, wrinkled tutor who’d been playing and teaching for years. That had been your assumption. The guys in your music appreciation class had fangirled over his ability and skill, as if he were Jimmy fucking Page, reincarnate.

So, you were expecting someone who looked old and worn like Jimmy looked now.

This man was not that.

Nope.

He was young. Likely close to your age. Maybe slightly older. You’d guess he was closer to thirty than you, but definitely not any older than that.

Tan, glowing skin. Yes, glowing — even in the light gray, overcast, gloomy dusk of this fall evening. His skin was immaculate. Every detail caught your eye. How dewy it was. The freckle on his cheek. A little cut in his bottom lip. . .

And not a wrinkle in sight — only some crows feet at the corners of his eyes, peeking out from the blue-tinted sunglasses he wore.

The eyes behind the sunglasses weren’t perfectly visible due to the tint, but you could tell his eyes were pretty. What color, you weren’t sure. However, you did notice his pretty hair. Chestnut brown — long, wavy. . . Thick. Slightly damp in places — like he’d just showered.

Your eyes trailed to his neck, where his Adam’s Apple bobbed. His neck was strong and you definitely felt your mouth water at how pronounced the muscle there was. Your eyes continued, straight to his toned chest. . . The expanse of skin there was golden. And the black satin button down shirt that hung over his frame, loose and halfway unbuttoned over his chest?. . . Fuck.

Silver chains around his neck. One slightly thicker silver chain stopped at the base of his neck, right at the dip in his throat.

The chains and shirt were a devastating combination.

And as you let your gaze wander down his body further, you found a well-worn pair of Levi’s hugging his hips.

Your line of sight had just caught the worn holes in the knees of his jeans and his scuffed black boots sticking out from beneath the bootcut blue. Your gaze flickered back to his upper half, just as his hand pulled at the waistband of them. . .

Long fingers, a ring on three out of the five on the hand that messed with his jeans. The veins in the back of his hand caught your eye. These hands, already tragic in appearance — and apparently skilled in guitar. . .?

He was sin.

Fuck.

You couldn’t help it when you licked your lips, your lips dry.

Double fuck.

Has my mouth been hanging open? And how long have I been making him stand outside my door as I’ve ogled him?

God.

Time moved in slow motion as your cheeks heated and you let your gaze rest on his face once again.

Professional. Be professional, y/n.

He was your tutor. You were his student. This was a motherfucking guitar lesson. That was it.

Briefly, your mind thought of how he’d been twenty minutes late. And, your Type A triggers outweighed everything else. Thankfully. It helped to clear your brain a bit — the fact that he hadn’t been a professional so far. He’d been late.

Your gawking was the least of anyone’s concern right now when you had a night class starting on campus at 7:00. Less than two hours from now.

And this lesson hadn’t even started yet.

The second you focused on his face again, you noticed how his eyes were now wider behind his glasses — both of his brows were raised. Surely he wasn’t judging you when he’d been twenty minutes—.

“I’m Jake. Jake Kiszka,” he suddenly stated, a nod of his head indicating acknowledgement. His cheeks were slightly pink, the tiniest grin wavered on his lips. “Your instructor.”

The little nod was sexy for reasons it should not have been. You rubbed at your bicep, giving your own little head bob. You felt as awkward as Bella-fucking-Swan when she interacted with Edward Cullen throughout the entire clusterfuck that was the first Twilight movie.

Cringe.

“I’m—I—,” you choked on your spit a bit.

Fucking embarrassing.

You willed your head to clear, closing your eyes. Again with the ‘Bella Swan’ act. Pull yourself together, y/n.

At that, you opened your eyes before giving him a wider grin. “I’m y/n,” you offered. “Your student.”

His breath caught for a moment before he was blinking a few times, looking down at his boots before his gaze was finding you once more.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said next with a shake of his head as he tousled with the front of his hair. “I’ve had a packed day.”

The low rasp on the word ‘packed’ was enough to make you want to keel over and submit to whatever he wanted, however he wanted it. And the silver hoop earrings that you caught, peeking out from his waves that swept past his shoulders. . . They made it even worse.

And, for a second, any frustration you’d had at his late arrival was gone. . . . .

But.

Only for a second. You had to cling to his mistake to remind yourself that he was human.

Because, everything else about him screamed god or sexy ass fictional vampire.

Though, even with the sensual, gravelly timbre of his voice — it wasn’t enough to make you forget you had class on campus sooner than later. It had your internal clock ticking faster by the minute.

“I have class at 7:00,” you blurted, your frustration blatant in your response. You flinched slightly at the way you snapped the words. “We need to get started.”

He blinked at you a couple of times, his head drew back — seemingly in shock — at your sharp tone.

But, he didn’t let any other emotion show as he quickly nodded, pursing his lips that you noticed were carved so beautifully, against the pretty structure of his face. The Cupid’s bow in his upper lip, catching you off guard as he briefly puckered his lips.

You’d never met a man that was an equal balance of the textbook definition of ‘pretty’ and ‘handsome’ until this man.

“Let’s get started, then,” he replied, already making his way closer to your door, wiping his feet on the welcome mat outside. “Luckily, we’re only covering the basics tonight.”

— || —

‘The Basics’ were not as basic for beginners as you’d originally anticipated.

You’d gone through A minor already. It was the first one he taught and it had gone fine.

Then, you’d learned A major, C major, D major. . . No problem at all.

Now, you were on G major. And, somehow, Little Miss G major was about to make you cry.

Even though you were a music major, knowing thousands of melodies and solfège like the back of your hand, you were not well well-versed in the ways of guitar.

He, on the other hand, was. Very much so.

In fact, he was past the term ‘well-versed’ — that seemed too light a phrase for him. He’d performed efficient tuning, simply by ear – in no time at all. . . . two minutes, tops.

Meanwhile, he had to take twenty minutes with you to simply show you how to work a tuning app on your phone. Then, as you’d tuned (or, tried), his fingers hadn’t been able to hold still on his own guitar and he’d quietly played a variety of melodies every genuine music lover knew by heart. . . but, he’d picked and strummed them as if they were his own. All the while, jumping in to help you when you needed it — before then going back to his own instrument to pick up a song exactly where he’d left it.

You’d never witnessed another person play so effortlessly, right in front of your face.

And, you’d sat there with your barely-played guitar on your lap, acting like a dunce with a motherfucking tuning app.

His acoustic guitar, you’d noticed, was so utterly worn with years of love. The body of the instrument, rubbed raw where his hand rested to play. And his strings, manipulated so easily under his fingers — like all guitar strings were made for his fingers, and his fingers alone.

Your acoustic, on the other hand, was brand new. And still shiny from having just picked it off the shelf at the nearest guitar store two days prior. Your scholarship had come in handy with the purchase, as your College Student Funds™️ were seeming to dwindle daily. Scholarships and waitressing part time were your only means of survival at this point.

But you’d needed to do this. It was a requirement for your career path of choice. You needed to know one instrument to progress into teaching music.

And, for very personal reasons, you’d always wanted to play guitar.

So, here you were.

The harsh metal of the strings, though, were trying desperately to convince you that you were not cut out for this. And the way you seemed to strum a bit too hard on the body. . . Your hand was, apparently, not light enough for this.

But, god. . . you really didn’t want to learn the piano. So, you just kept trying. . .

. . .and failing.

“I’m not sure if my hands were built to handle an instrument of this. . . complexity. I’m fumbling these basics,” you said, not hiding the quiet sense of disappointment in your tone. “I’m sure I’m easily the worst student you’ve had all week.”

“Not even close to the worst,” he said easily. Gently. “Don’t worry. Just. . . keep with it. It’s your first day. You’re still in your first hour. Don’t beat yourself up.”

Your face flushed as his cologne took over your senses; he shifted just a little closer to you on the couch.

“That’s terrifying that you’ve had worse than me this week,” you joked, halfway, looking up from under your lashes.

He was already looking at you – through those blue lenses – in a way that made you feel special. You didn’t know why it made you feel so special. . . it just did.

With a gentle shake of his head in response, his eyes were open and soft as he looked down at you. “And. . . your fingers are made for this instrument. . . I believe it and I’ve taught a hellton of people, so. . . please, believe me,” he said, blinking once at you in a way that you think was supposed to be a wink. It was so cute. “The fingers just don’t know the truth quite yet. You will get the hang of it, though. . . I promise.”

“My fingers. . .they’re too delicate on it and too hard, all at once,” you argued, raising a brow at him. “You have to see that.”

“Well,” he said, gaze flicking down to your hands, softly and thoughtfully.

He reached over with one deliberate and calloused digit and his thumb, gently grabbing your pointer finger. He moved it up just a bit higher on the fret board to be situated correctly on the string.

And, God. . . Even grabbing your finger with one of his made you feel. . .things. His touch was calculated in the sexiest way. His intelligence made you feel weak in a way that you wished it didn’t.

He continued, “I happen to think your fingers are. . .exquisite. They’re just right for it. They will know how to work the guitar,” he coughed once, briefly, before continuing. “They will play well. Just. . . trust me.”

The words had hardly any time to linger before he was averting his gaze and you were looking down at the wood under your hands once more.

Your fucking thighs were suddenly sweating.

“Let’s keep going.”

–||–

Slowly, you were truly giving up hope that this had been the correct instrument choice for you.

“Can you show me that one more time?” You warily asked, worried that you were becoming annoying with how many times you’d asked him to repeat certain actions. “I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t help the apology.

But his smile reassured you, loose and easy on his lips as he nodded. “Absolutely,” he replied, voice smooth as the satin of his shirt. “And don’t apologize, y/n. It’s your first lesson. I get it.”

You grinned back, appreciatively as he placed his fingers on the strings of his guitar to produce E major.

He did it once, then looked at you, with a gentle nod and a real wink you could see just beyond the tinted blue frames. (Fuck.)

“Alright,” he began with a gentle chuckle. The dimple in his cheek caused your brain to lapse. “Now, do you want me to do it with you once more, too? And then you can try on your own again? What would be best for you?”

“Both,” you replied, your cheeks surely pink under the care and concern woven through his stare. You felt the flush in your cheeks as your fingers slipped a bit on the harsh metal of the strings.

You knew the sweat accumulating everywhere on your body was from embarrassment. . . But you also knew it was from something else you did not want to name.

—||—

Once you’d finally gotten E major down, you looked at the clock.

Just to gauge the time.

It was 5:45. You could spare five minutes. Right?

Water was a necessity — your mouth was dry as fuck from the way you felt under the watch of this man.

And you knew that the longer you stayed in one spot, the worse it was going to get. So, with one wary glance towards Jake, you chose to put your guitar to the side. He seemed to be in no rush.

As you rose, placing your guitar on the couch in your spot, he continued to strum something on his guitar. “You do not seem like the type of woman to give up when things get hard,” he noted, raising a brow at you. “Please tell me I’m correct in my assumption.”

“Yes,” you replied, softly. “You are definitely correct. Giving up isn’t something I like to do. Which is why I need a glass of water to keep me going. You?”

“Sure,” he murmured, already moving to put his guitar in its case to stand with you.

Quickly, you placed a hand out to stop him. “No, no. You stay,” you shook your head, he scrunched a brow, ass still rising from the sofa. “Seriously. I’ll be fast. . . And, honestly, I need you to keep strumming those heavenly melodies because it is truly helping me stay calm.”

At those words, he lowered himself back down to the couch. “You’re sure that’s all you need from me?”

God, why did he care? It was so considerate of him to want to help however he could, but. . . You couldn’t figure it out. You’d been nothing but a hot damn mess of no-talent, and still he wanted to do whatever he could. Your chest lit up at the idea of him wanting to help you in any circumstance. It felt. . .comforting.

You hadn’t felt this sort of safety, away from your Mom, since you’d moved to New York for Juilliard. You’d made great friends, of course, but the genuinity behind his eyes was. . . Different.

“Yes,” you said again, nodding smoothly, already turning. As you walked towards this kitchen, you continued speaking, over your shoulder. “You could play some soft rock if you really want me to relax.”

“Any specific decade?”

Your answer was instantaneous, your favorite was, “1970’s — its acoustics are arguably the most hauntingly intimate of any decade.”

“Oh, without a doubt,” he agreed, re-tuning the instrument to fit the favored keys from the time.

And just as you turned into the kitchen, you saw a little close-mouthed grin from him. The expression that took over his features made you feel a unique sense of security.

It was strange, and you didn’t give it much thought. . . But you did feel your shoulders ease just a bit.

—||—

He’d been playing through snippets of John Denver’s catalogue for the past few minutes, before then switching to some James Taylor, to now settling on some Bread. It was hotter than you wanted to admit that he knew so much music.

(You went to Juilliard, of course music-lovers were naturally appealing to you. . . And when they looked like Jake? Yeah, damn near titillating to watch his musical knowledge take shape right in front of your eyes. . . You were just being honest.)

As you’d gone about getting the drinks, he’d kept on with his melodies, making the smallest bit of small talk with you from the other room as he played.

And, as you’d sat down beside him, he’d only momentarily paused to say ‘thank you’ and take a drink. It took him almost no time before he was continuing, nodding his head to the beat. Your breath had caught when his eyes had stayed on you, as he’d picked it back up flawlessly.

After having sat in contented quietness as he went back to watching his guitar as he played, you took a few generous gulps of your water. But, once you’d set the glass down, you’d decided you had to watch his fingers.

Probably a little dangerous, yes, but. . . His talent was prodigious.

Though, when you let your eyes focus on the fluidity and grace of his touch on the fretboard, you noticed something.

A significantly long, white scar on his left forearm.

Offhandedly, you heard yourself asking before you could consider it being an invasion of personal information. “What’s the scar from?”

It might have surprised him, with the way his brows raised with curiosity at your question. But, he flowed with the question just as he did with the instrument.

“I broke it wrestling in eighth grade,” he replied with a little snort of a laugh, watching you. “Or so the story goes. . .”

“You wrestled?” You asked next, not able to help how you enjoyed hearing that little tidbit about him. “No offense, but I can’t really see you as the wrestler type. . .,” you smirked at him from under your lashes.

His own smile remained, then he continued to explain. “Oh fuck no,” he said, letting his fingers move a little quicker on a new song. “I wasn’t on the wrestling team or anything. . . I was just messing around with a friend and fucked myself over.”

“Damn,” you breathed a little laugh, sitting your chin in your hand to watch him. Your fingers ticked against your chin, watching him as he watched his instrument. “Were you already playing guitar?”

“I’ve been playing since I was three,” he replied with a smile, as if talking about his first love. And, it only made sense. . . you were sure guitar had to be his first love. “Started crawling to my dad’s guitars early on.”

“Wow,” you breathed, completely enraptured with the man sitting beside you. With every word he spoke, he became more of a dream. “Three?”

“Yup,” he chuckled, his eyes seeming to sparkle through his blue lense. “What was your first instrument?”

He hadn’t stopped his alternating style of strumming, then picking. And his current current song of choice was a favorite of yours: “It Don’t Matter To Me.”

“I’ve been singing since before I could string together full sentences,” you said, catching his look of respect.

“Child prodigy,” he commented with a knowing look. “I can appreciate that.”

“Takes one to know one,” you replied smoothly.

“Not always,” he said with a little laugh and a shake of his head. “. . .but in this case. . .,” he trailed off.

“Exactly my point,” you giggled, going back to watching him. You were still curious about one thing. “So, if you were playing guitar already. . . How in the hell did you cope with not being able to play — with your broken arm, and all?”

“I didn’t stop,” he said with a mischievous grin. You raised a brow at him, silently asking him to continue. “Well, I guess technically I did. Just for a little bit. I got surgery like three days after I broke it, had that goddamn cast on for six months. . . But. . . The durability of the cast was no match for my middle of the night trip to my dad’s power sander in the shed.”

“What?!” You gasped, mouth hanging open on a laugh. “No way.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, nodding with a scrunch of his brow as he picked up a Clapton song out of thin air. “I couldn’t let a damn cast get in the way. I kept the cast on, but shaved it down on the underside of my hand.”

“And the doctors. . .?”

“Were impressed,” he chuckled, eyes looking in the distance as if remembering the exact moment he had to show the medical professionals. “They told me it would help to strengthen the muscle. Let me keep the cast that way. Gained an entire fret that way.”

“Incredible,” you sighed, more to yourself than him. You were in awe of him. “So you basically forced a weakness to become one of your greatest strengths?”

“You could say that,” he said with a smile, eyes finding yours with a softness in his gaze you couldn’t shake. Your heart fluttered. “Watch this.”

And, right there, before your eyes, you watched as he stretched his thumb and pinky finger inexplicably higher on the fretboard. You hadn’t ever seen someone do it.

“That’s your superpower,” you giggled, trying not to think of what else he could do with the extended range.

“One of them,” he smugly replied, his sly smirk, making your cheeks pink.

Fuck.

After a moment of silence, he surprised you by continuing the conversation with another question. “So. . . Why’d you choose to learn guitar?”

Your cheeks were hot as he put you on the spot.

But. . . You were okay with answering any question he had at this point. Even when you glanced at the clock, nearing 5:55, and decided you could keep talking until 6:00.

“My mom always wanted me to learn piano,” you began, nail picking at a loose thread on your leggings as you looked down to observe the motion. But you could still feel his eyes on you. “But I never wanted to. Just wanted to focus on singing.”

He continued playing, filling the space with sweet sounds as you decided how to explain the next part without getting too sappy.

“My cousin Jill, she always played the guitar, though. . . And I admired her greatly. She was ten years older than me and I honestly always looked at her as someone I wanted to be like when I got older,” you explained, suddenly feeling his stare against the side of your head. Your throat clogged a little before you continued. But. You kept going. “When I was eighteen, Jill died in a freak accident. No will. All of her things, sold.”

Abruptly, he stopped playing and it caused your heart to skip a beat. You needed his music.

“You can keep playing. Please,” you huffed a laugh in spite of the story. “It helps me to focus.”

As he picked back up, you kept going.

“All I have left of her are memories and photos,” you sniffed, willing the tears to go away so as to not make him pity you. “It was easily the most traumatic thing I’ve ever had to heal from. . . And, as I watched at her family’s auction as they sold her guitar, I decided I had to do right by her. Somehow. I told myself that day that if I could just do it without breaking down, I wanted — had — to someday honor her by playing the guitar.”

“Wow. . .,” he breathed, letting your words linger in the air. You didn’t know Jake well, but you had zero doubt he was the type of person to not let someone have their moment. He just gave off that energy. “Well. . . For one, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t ever know how to respond to that,” you genuinely laughed, swiping at the one stray tear that had leaked from the corner of your eye. “Because I’m sorry, too. Grief is weird.”

“I lost my Grandpa a few months back. Greatest man I’ve ever known. . . So. . . Yeah. . . I—um. I understand how weird it can feel,” he responded, fingers never letting up on the Jim Croce song he was now playing.

“It sucks,” was all you said, before realizing you needed to respond a little more emotionally. You peeked over at him, your eyes waiting for him to look at you. “I hate that you lost your Grandpa.”

“I hate that you lost your cousin,” he said in solidarity, his irises finally meeting yours. “But I’m going to do everything I can to help you honor her.”

Those words were some of the most kind-hearted and caring that you’d ever heard. You didn’t know how to respond to them, so all you could do was say ‘thanks.’

You felt lighter, now, than you had fifteen minutes ago. Talking with him, hearing him play. . . It had made the tension easily dissipate from you, a fresh smile stuck on your lips as you went to pick up your own guitar again.

And when you glanced over at him again, you caught him watching you, fingers now strumming “You’ve Got A Friend” by James Taylor. . . His eyes were shadowed by the lenses, sure, but you could see every bit of feeling in his irises as he strummed the familiar tune.

The song was a gesture that made a grin light up your features. A real one. It was the brightest smile you could muster at the moment. The apples of your cheeks blushed, and your eyes squinted just a bit more than a normal smile would have them.

And in response, his eyes seemed to shine all the more bright from behind those lenses, a wide, close-lipped smile lifting his own lips.

—||—

Now that you had left the quiet moment, you were on to the next chord.

E minor. Shouldn’t have been hard. But, for you, of course, it was.

And you were struggling. . . Again.

Shocker.

He was sitting next to you on your couch. Not too close, but close enough to teach you the way of the instrument in a way you wouldn’t want anyone else to.

And your body was feeling hotter by the second. Because, you’d spent the last several minutes, before and after your moment, watching his fingers — closely.

He was teaching you guitar, for God’s sake — you had to memorize and track their movements.

You’d paid attention to their example as well as you could, but you were a warm-blooded woman. And his fingers were so strong and purposeful against the strings — it had been almost erotic to watch them. You hated that you were objectifying the man to such an extent, but who could blame you? He was so pretty, skilled, and kind?

His proximity was making it a little more than difficult to focus, but you knew it was necessary to learn.

(You’d also made the tragic realization when he’d first sat down with you — his body moving just enough, closer to yours than you were prepared for — that he smelled delicious. The perfect mix of spicy, sweet, and sandalwood.)

The weight of the strings was making your fingertips throb in pain with how he’d instructed you to press down on them. But, nonetheless, you placed your fingers just like his.

You tried the current chord again, with him, looking up at him to see what he thought of the way your guitar rang with his. It sounded better than it had. . . But now, it was time for you to play it on your own.

You really wanted to see his eyes to gather reassurance that you were playing decently. But, his eyes were still mostly hidden behind his glasses. The fact that he hadn’t taken them off yet sort of rubbed you the wrong way, as you liked being able to look someone in the eyes when speaking to them.

And learning from someone made it even more necessary, as you could feel so much more emotion when connecting eyes with someone.

The sunglasses made it harder than you would’ve liked to not feel like an utter moron in front of this man.

(You were not going to admit that you mostly just really wanted to see the genuine color of his eyes.)

With a healthy amount of nerves and slipping fingers, you placed your grip exactly as he’d instructed for E minor. The press of the strings felt like needles against your skin. But, when you strummed the chord and it rang out perfectly, you were so damn relieved.

He let out an appreciative hum that you felt in the pit of your tummy, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, his smile was wide. It was the first time all night you’d seen his full smile.

“That’s it, y/n,” he stated, pride painting his features. “You are doing a damn good job.”

Those words. Why were they making your chest heat?

And god. . . his teeth. That smile.

Even it was sin. A smile, sculpted to perfectly match any female gaze. White, shiny, impeccably straight — fitting the shape of his mouth unlike any other set of teeth you’d ever seen. And the pronunciation of his canines made your heart skip.

He was impossibly handsome.

You forced yourself to get back on track, your eyes glancing at the clock when you noticed that it was nearing 6:10.

His voice brought you back to the present, your gaze flickering back over to his face.

“Alright. One more chord. This one will be a bit trickier. . . But I always throw it in at the end of my basic chord instruction,” he smirked, and you felt it all the way down to your toes. “And then, our first lesson can wrap up,” he stated, lips in an easy close-lipped grin again. “You ready?”

— || —

Turned out, the next chord was even more impossible than the one prior.

And by 6:23, you still hadn’t gotten it down and you missed the simplicity of the others, compared to this one.

D minor. Your official worst nemesis.

It had been minutes of you watching, playing with him, and attempting on your own. Over and over again. You couldn’t count the amount of times you’d asked him to repeat the finger placement and strum. You didn’t know why you couldn’t just get. it. down.

And, even if he’d seemed very patient so far, you had a feeling he was starting to wear thin.

Nearly fifteen minutes of someone fighting for their life to get a not even mildly complex chord down? Yeah, that was not anyone’s idea of a good time. You were sure of that.

By what seemed like the hundredth try, he was sighing heavily. Still smiling, but you felt the weight of being watched by an incredibly attractive and talented man as you continuously striked out.

You wanted to shrivel up in a hole.

But, when you heaved a defeated sigh after trying once more and the sound still mimicking that of a cat getting its tail stepped on, the tiniest whimper fell from your lips in agony.

When your head fell to your chest, you felt the couch dip further in your direction. And when you looked up, he was. . .closer. The end of his thigh nearest to his knee, pressing to the side of your thigh. Your heart raced and your fingers slipped off the strings for another reason altogether.

You felt his nearness in the pit of your tummy, like butterflies frolicking in a daze.

He smelled like every woman’s dream. And his hair looked so soft and healthy, the waves that made up the texture of his hair, complimenting him.

“Hey, hey. . . It’s okay,” he softly murmured, breath dusting the side of your face. He placed his fingers on your shoulder with a gentle press, before he was gesturing towards your red and aching fingers. “Mind if I. . .?”

All you could do was nod, curious as to what he was about to do.

And, as if in slow motion, his hand came up slowly – cautious and confidently steady in his action. Your body thrummed at his next action, head light and dizzy as his hand grasped yours completely in a knowledgeable grasp. His hand was warm and knowing. Your body felt weightless as you watched him mold your hand with his own to make the shape needed for the sound.

“Alright, keep them like that while we move,” he said, looking at you briefly from behind the lenses. His eyes were comforting and promising as he held your fingers apart with one of his – the muscle and strength in his fingers was making you slowly lose sanity.

The words, ‘while we move’, on repeat in your brain as your hand finally found its home, on the neck. The firm grip of the palm of his hand, still holding the back of yours.

“There,” he murmured, so close to your ear you felt his breath as it swooshed the long bangs that hung beside your face. “Let the string throb under your nail. . . you’ll be able to feel it when it settles.”

You knew he didn’t mean anything by it and you were simply touch starved after months of no one in your bed (Juilliard classes didn’t allow time for that), but. . . the word ‘throb’ was possibly the worst thing he could have said at that moment. (Or possibly the best.)

It was difficult – trying to take note of all of his teachings, while also feeling like a woman in the Victorian era who’d never known the touch of a man. (God, you were a loser. . . And he just wasn’t — like. . . at all.)

You did as he said, his hand still holding yours to keep you in place, and by the grace of a higher power, the note rang out splendidly – flawlessly.

Even after you’d produced the sound, his hand stayed on yours for a few more beats than necessary. You sneaked a look at him, from the corner of your eye, the pink on your cheeks was impossible to hide. And he was close enough for you to smell the minty freshness of his mouth. You could also see the detail of that little marr in his lower lip.

You wondered, briefly, how he’d cut his lip.

His smile was bright, pretty teeth tempting to show from behind his full lips.

“Yeah. . .,” he replied, his voice rich and rasping on the single syllable. “That’s it, y/n.”

You felt his breath fanning over your neck, the words floating across your skin. . . And you couldn’t help wanting to put the guitar down completely and focus on the way he felt against your skin. . .

And that was a problem.

–||–

The time was glaring at you from your phone on the table and the clock on the wall, judging you for attempting the tiniest, simplest chord progression.

Your eyes had flicked to both displays of time, any time you took a breath to try again.

Time was ticking.

It was coming up on 6:30, and you had class at 7:00, with a twenty minute drive to campus.

You were also only paying him for an hour.

And, you’d officially gone past time — ten minutes past the time that he got here, that is.

You didn’t know what that meant for your bill for this session, but you couldn’t afford much more than the $100 you were already spending on today’s lesson.

(To begin with, the $100 was definitely pricier than all of the others in the area, but your classmates had reassured you that he was ‘worth the extra money’. And, at this point, you had to agree, wholeheartedly. He was a very good teacher and ridiculously patient. . . also, just plain fucking sexy. He was worth every cent.)

After your thousand-and-first failed attempt at the simplest progression known to man, he exhaled deeper and slower than he had so far. He chuckled a bit after the long sigh, but you knew he had to be tired of this. Who wouldn’t be exasperated at this point?

When you looked up from your sweaty hand, you immediately started apologizing. You couldn’t look at his face.

“I’m so sorry,” you shook your head, bringing the hand that had been strumming up to your forehead to facepalm. (Your hand smelled like pennies in a way that was oddly satisfying, you had to admit.)

Though, you couldn’t even feel proud of your hard work because you’d failed many more times than succeeding in the last thirty minutes. You let out your own sigh, letting him know that you understood any tiredness or irritation. You continued, “I know it’s so frustrating that I can’t get this down, and I know how rude it is of me to keep you past your paid time.”

He was silent in response, so you looked up to take in his reaction. Your heart was racing from nerves — embarrassment taking over your entire body. Because, not only did you suck ass, you had a metaphorical hard-on for his appearance alone. And he’d been so kind and willing to help the entire time. . . He’d been so great that he was very nearly a fictitious male character in a romance novel.

And you were fucking it up.

Great first impression, y/n.

“Please don’t say sorry,” he assured you, the hand that had been on the neck of his guitar reaching out to touch your thigh. His leg hadn’t stopped touching yours since he’d initially placed it there. And the heat of his calloused fingertips on your leggings. . . The warm pressure was seeping through enough to make your brain lag on the four words. “We’ve got nothing but time. No worries. No penalties,” he finished, the smile in his tone, meant to make you feel better.

But, when you glanced at the time on your phone — again — you noticed it was 6:35. Class. Twenty five minutes. Twenty minute drive. Shit.

“I’ll just show you again how to–,” he began, but your brain was wired at the thought of continuing to fail and your very real, growing probability of being late to class.

You’d never been late to any class, a day in your life.

You shook your head once again, brushing the metal-smelling hand through your hair to get your long bangs out of your face. “No, actually. We, um – we don’t have time. I’ve gotta wrap it up. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got places to be,” you rushed out, a breathy laugh dropping into the last statement. “I can’t afford to be late like some people can. Don’t have it in me to be rude and disrespect a professor like that, you know?”

You were jittery; your words were coming out faster than you would’ve liked. His touch was making it hard to think.

But, as soon as you took a breath, you instantly noticed his hand, falling from your leg. Fast. Like you’d burnt him.

Fuck.

Your words had tripped over themselves enough to make you sound like a fucking asshole. You knew that. Dammit. And you hadn’t even meant for it to be a target against him. You instantly looked up at him, ready to re-explain.

But, when you saw his face, it was already stone-cold, his lips set in a hard line, one of his thick brows was raised at you. Your cheeks heated at the seriousness of his stare. It was new — he hadn’t shown you this look yet.

You felt like you were being chastised with no chance for explanation. And you hated how his stare made your tummy flip over and over.

It all pissed you off just a little more than you felt comfortable with.

Anyways, his sudden irritation with you was unwarranted for a couple of reasons.

One: you were paying him. Heftily.

And, two: he had arrived late enough that he owed you some grace. The same you’d given him.

You tried to bite your tongue. You really did. You didn’t want him to be completely irate with you. You wanted to keep him as an instructor. Because, truly, he’d been wonderful.

But. You weren’t going to let him get all irritable when you had done your very best to be kind when he’d started off on the wrong foot by being late today.

“It’s not like I wanted to keep you late. I just don’t have time, like you do, to be late,” you hastily explained. Though, yet again, you knew you sounded bitchy.

And now, it was targeted and he didn’t deserve that. Really.

So, you began to correct yourself. “Like. Not that I haven’t enjoyed our time. I have. I just don’t have the extra time ton—.”

“If you’re that anxious for the lesson to be over, all you’ve gotta do is let me know,” he insisted, a sense of finality lacing his words. His eyes averted, to his case on the ground beside his feet. “I don’t mind the extra time. However, I do prefer for my clients to be pleased with my help. I’d rather not make you feel anxious to be rid of it. So. . .,” he cleared his throat, the bit of scruff above his upper lip moving as his nose twitched, you watched the little shadow of hair too closely for it to be considered normal. “I will go ahead and get out of here. Don’t want to get in the way.”

And, suddenly, his thigh wasn’t touching yours and he was moving. No longer was he in the hunched position he’d been in for the past hour or so. Without you being able to blink twice, he was sticking his pick in his mouth and putting his guitar back in its case.

Your thoughts raced, trying to figure out how to explain what you meant without tripping over your words and humiliating yourself further. “Wait—. That’s not what I—. . . Fuck,” you laughed off the awkwardness, your words lingering in the silence of the room. “I’m sorry. Just. . . Yeah.”

Where the fuck were your words?

He didn’t stop to try to listen to your babbling, he just kept putting his instrument away. Before you knew it, he was on his knees, snapping the black case closed. You tried not to watch the curve of ass in his jeans as he squatted.

But, damn. Every inch of him was made for the female gaze.

You couldn’t appreciate it for too long, though, because that task was soon complete, and he was back on his feet.

When you connected eyes again, he was staring at you with an expression that resembled a wall. Blank. None of the heart that had been there for the past several minutes existed any longer. As you’d worked on chord after chord for the past hour and a half, that unwavering softness in his gaze. . . was gone.

He was standing at full height in front of you, his shirt opened just a bit more to show the sharp lines of his chest. Your eye caught the firmness of the muscle in his pecs underneath the satin material. His chains, clinking between the twin muscles of his chest.

His line of sight had averted to his own wrist watch, checking the time. Your gaze followed his there, admiring the strength in his forearm and the scar that you now knew the story behind. . .

So before he could say anything else, you decided you had to clear the air.

“It isn’t you,” you hurried out, placing your guitar on the couch next to you. As soon as you could, you were standing up, too, trying to gain his attention. “I just—I have class in like less than thirty minutes and a twenty minute drive to school.”

He nodded, a smile stretched thin on his lips. You caught the tick in his jaw, but didn’t pay it much mind. He’d told you earlier that he’d had a long day. You wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I get it,” he replied, the words coming out sharper than you would have liked. His head tilted towards the front door, eyes peeking briefly from the tops of his glasses. “Better get on with it, then, hm?”

It was your turn to raise a brow as he shifted, moving in the direction of the door. You’d seen his eyes. Finally.

Brown eyes. Dark, brown eyes. Your chest clenched; for some reason beyond you, your heart was beating hard.

What was it that this man brought out in you?

You had no choice but to follow him to the door. And once you were there, you pulled out your phone. His website had said he could do CashApp, so that was the app you chose to pull up as he was going to reach for the knob.

Didn’t he want you to pay? Or at least say anything else before he left? Seriously. For being so well-revered, he was beginning to act like a bit of an asshole. Where had the kind-hearted teacher gone?

“Your site said you use CashApp?” You said, watching his broad shoulders bunch underneath his shirt at the sound of your voice.

“What?” He asked, sharply, only looking over his shoulder to acknowledge you.

Okay, fuck you, too, you thought on a heavy inhale that you could only hope he heard and understood. Get off your high horse, buddy.

“CashApp,” you stated, icily, to match his tone. “Can I pay you with it?”

Shockingly, he was turning on one boot-lifted heel, facing you once again. “Yes,” he began, plainly. “CashApp works. $100. An extra $15 for the fifteen minutes past start time.”

As you clicked through the apps on your phone to the little green icon, you paused.

No way.

Then, you asked, voice a little sweeter than necessary. A honeydew tone, you’d call it. “You were late. . .,” you said with a sort of giggle, selling the sweet. You were still staring at the screen of your phone.

“And you went past the allotted time slot. Even with my tardiness,” he explained, professionalism evident with a hint of annoyance.

But you were annoyed, too. (Even if his rationale made sense. . . so did yours.)

So, you tested him with your next question, still staring at your thumbs — hovering above your screen. You didn’t know why you chose to ask it. But, you did. “You’re not going to call it even since you showed up so damn late? As the tutor himself?”

“I prefer the term instructor,” he corrected.

And, in your opinion, the correction was for essentially no reason at all, but to keep the upper hand. Because what the fuck? Why did that even matter?

Suddenly, you remembered something he’d said.

“You said no penalties,” you reminded him, finally looking up at him with fire behind your irises. “For going past time. You said we had nothing but ti—.”

“If you read my site, you’ll find my regulations and policies. And if you do, you’ll come to find that I reserve the right to decide if a client owes me an additional amount of money for any incident or inconvenience,” he recited, as if he were actually looking at the damn webpage.

“What about your inconvenience to the student?” You bit out, keeping his eyes in a vice grip with your own. “Hm?”

His brows drew together, confused or angry. Probably both. “Excuse me?”

“You caused me an inconvenience when you initially betrayed the ‘allotted time slot’,” you tossed back, using his own words and logic against him. “You showed up late. We ended late. That should be called what it is,” you explained, tone biting just enough to stand your ground. With one step forward to prove your point, you looked up just enough to keep his line of sight with the new proximity. “‘Even’ is what we call that, Mr. Kiszka.”

The term seemed to catch him off guard, his jaw tightening as his eyes became even darker behind his lenses. Your chest heated. You could tell from the way his eyes settled on your face that you were past the point of irking him. His brow raised at you. “I never told you to call me that.”

“You said it yourself. You’re my instructor,” you said, tilting your chin up to emphasize the point. “And we’re all about maintaining professionalism with the damn time slot even when you were also in the wrong. . . so. I don’t know. Makes a whole lot of damn sense to me.”

“Next time you book with me, I’ll remember just how transactional you like for a lesson to be,” he said, tone clipped with a tick of his jaw. “Feels like I’m under a damn microscope.”

You bit back, not about to take it lying down. “Oh. . . I’m the one who’s being ‘transactional’? You’re the one who’s being so meticulous about the ‘policies’ and ‘regulations’, Mr. Kiszka.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You just said it. I’m transactional. I like to keep it professional,” you iterated, taking a step closer to him. It might have been too much, but he didn’t move back when you did it. Win. You were winning. “I wouldn’t have been twenty minutes late to my first session with a student–.”

“Client–.”

“I would have shown up on time to make a halfway-decent first impression,” you continued, unphased by his interruption. Your head was buzzing and your teeth felt tight in your mouth.

“You know, it’s funny,” he replied, his tone lowering to imply anything but humorous nature. You stilled, your body already rigid for whatever he was planning to say. “For being so hyper focused on my professionalism, you seem to be one to take things a little too personally.”

“Well, I think that you, Mr, Kiszka, are not above criticism just because you have such a big fucking head,” you snapped, not a fan of how he was calling you out so bluntly. Did you take things too personally? Yes. All of the time. But it wasn’t a stranger’s job to point that out. “You, sir, charge too damn much for someone who doesn’t take his time seriously.”

His eyes glazed over with something new — something feral. It made your ears hot and you crossed your arms over your chest, as your breasts attempted to expose your true reaction to the fire in his gaze. The air was significantly warmer. . . You felt the way his eyes settled on your face. . . all the way to the deepest, most hollow part of your belly.

His stare, settling in your veins like fire as he took one step towards you — where you continued to stand, unmoving. You raised a brow at him to mask the way you felt your entire body catching fire at the power of his presence.

“I don’t know what about that lesson told you, Miss y/n, that I don’t take my time seriously. Yes, I was late, but how much time did we just spend on that couch? With zero complaint from me,” he rushed out, pointing a finger at the sofa in question. “How many times did I repeat those simple fucking chords with you, just to make sure you understood to the best of your damn ability?”

In your mind, you could still see the lesson replaying – on a mocking loop of failure. The tremble in your lip was more from offense than anything, but you knew he was right. . . and that stung. Was this him complaining now?

“I didn’t think you–,” you started, ready to combat his words.

But he wasn’t finished.

“There’s something else that’s, I don’t know, pretty odd. . .,” he laughed, once again, humorlessly. “You want me to be so damn business-like when you couldn’t keep your eyes to yours–. Fuck,” he brought a hand up to his face, his two silver bracelets clinking against each other with the motion. “Never mind.”

Your skin prickled at the idea of what he was about to say.

All you knew was that you found it pretty damn embarrassing that he had caught you checking him out upon his arrival. At this point, you wanted to forget that any of this had happened at all. . . But, even with the anger, your body flared in a way that craved him. And with the way his chest expanded on every choppy breath, you couldn’t help but let your eyes go to it.

Your body was betraying you.

When you looked back to him, after catching sight of his heaving chest, you caught him doing the same thing to you. . .It shocked you, that he was looking at you the same way. Your own breaths ragged, making your breasts push up, just a bit, above the v-neck, long sleeved shirt you wore. . . That he’d apparently noticed.

And you couldn’t keep your eyes to yourself?

But you weren’t complaining. His eyes felt fucking good on you. So, you looked away, not wanting him to know you’d caught him. Wanted to help him keep that secret. . . But, the air stayed unnecessarily tense between you two for a few measured moments, all harsh breaths and no words.

The air, humid between your faces.

When you looked back up towards his face, he was still not looking at your face. His eyes, this time, on your hips. And, as you caught him licking his lips while his stare traveled back up your body, to your breasts, your temperature spiked and your panties drew wetness. Then, he pinched his eyes shut, bringing a pointer and thumb to his lids as he took a deep breath in through his nose.

His jaw was clenched — hard.

You looked away once more, not ready to expose that you’d caught him. And, finally, you felt safe to let yourself look at him again.

When you did, his eyes sank into yours, battling some internal war with you. But, you didn’t back down, staying planted in your spot — you refused to bend.

“You know,” you began, locating the wherewithal to test him — push him — further. “I don’t know if it works on your other clientele, but this little flip to intense, moody, and brooding behavior? It doesn’t intimidate me nearly as much as you want it to.”

The two of you still weren’t close enough to be nose to nose, but you were close enough to feel his breath fan across your face when he exhaled. His nostrils flared in response, chest flexing as fire took hold of your gaze.

You pretended it didn’t cause your tummy to flip.

“Fine,” he finally bit out, his gaze momentarily fleeting to the bottom of your face. You pretended not to notice as he licked his lips. “$100 and we’ll call it fucking even.”

Before you could have the final word, he was turning on that same heel as before, back to the door.

It was less than thirty seconds before he was turning the knob and out of your home.

And, as you grumbled to yourself about him and gathered your things for class — leaving right on time to make it in at 7:00 — you couldn’t help but feel your tummy dip at the very real possibility of not having a lesson with him again.

But you were sure it was the best idea to not approach that again with the way things had ended tonight.

Goddammit.

How had it escalated so quickly?

—||—

It was a little over a week later, the day after you should have had your second lesson with Jake.

Or, as you’d snarkily referred to him — ‘Mr. Kiszka’. God. What in the fuck had gotten into you?

You couldn’t help but feel ashamed of your little heated debate. But, even a week later, you hadn’t been able to pin the exact moment things had shifted for him.

Your words had obviously hurt his feelings.

But, after your quiet moment of bonding, you were stuck on why he’d let such a simple thing as a few misspoken words ruin his entire attitude.

If he really had been offended by your lack of thoughtful words, why had he completely shut down — so quickly? When he’d been so different with you — mere moments before your idiotic word-stumble?

It didn’t matter.

You’d never see the man again. You had already decided to book with another person for lessons.

And, with this one, he had included a photo of himself on his website. This tutor, looking much more like you’d expected Jacob Kiszka to look.

Tutor. Maybe you needed to refer to this old man as ‘instructor’ — just like Jake had insisted.

God. Why had he been like that?

Why had you been like that?

Fuck.

It. Didn’t. Matter.

—||—

A few weeks later, Jake was. . .a little further from your mind.

You’d hardly thought of him at all. (Almost.)

A mysterious, sexy, near-stranger, who was a talented asshole.

He was a musician in the truest sense, you had to admit.

A bit flaky. A bit stubborn. A bit of an asshole. That was based on what you knew of musicians. And you knew musicians well — surrounding yourself with them on a daily basis for the past two and a half years of school at Juilliard.

He was also evanescent. A moment in time. A blur. A brief encounter.

A musician.

Through-and-fucking-through.

You hated how he’d stuck around in your mind. There was zero point. You knew better.

—||—

It had been a month since the first failed guitar lesson.

And, since then, you’d become fairly well acquainted with your new, more-than-slightly grouchy, elderly instructor.

Gideon Cross.

He was well-known by many of your friends, too. He was a legend of sorts — a few people you knew had referred to him as ‘Ghostfingers’. . . Friends of yours had explained his ‘unbelievably light touch’ and how he ‘basically produces notes out of thin air.’

And, yes, he was massively talented. But, he was also a massive asshole. Not patient. Not nearly as tactful of a teacher as Jake had been.

But, he had taught you your very first song on the hollow, wooden instrument.

“Wonderwall” had been your choice of song to learn first. (Corny? No doubt. Predictable? Humiliatingly so. . . .But, it was easy for your mostly inexperienced hands.)

So to celebrate, your friends had decided to get drinks at The Iridium. Your group loved to check out live music in the city (you were music majors, come on). And, one of your professors had mentioned The Iridium was hosting a night for local guitarists to showcase their music.

A Local Guitarist Exposition, it had been penned.

You would not be performing (no way in hell), but a couple of your friends figured it was the ideal celebration experience for what you’d accomplished.

—||—

What you hadn’t expected was to see him at The Iridium.

Jake.

You didn’t know why you hadn’t expected it. He was a local guitarist. Ridiculously talented. Widely known enough amongst your Ivy League classmates and professors to initially recommend him to you for (expensive) lessons. . . .

And it was fucking guitarist showcase for the locally well known musicians, much like Jake.

It should have dawned on you before he was walking onto the stage, boots clicking enticingly against the stage floor. The same chains that had adorned his neck and chest the night you’d met, the same ones on his body now. His earrings — hoops — that peeked just right through his freshly waved locks.

And, of course. . . sunglasses. You weren’t surprised. These, though, had a light orange tint instead of blue.

You stood, dumbfounded and awestruck, as your fellow classmates cheered for him. All of them yelled his name. All of them knew who he was — even the ones who hadn’t recommended him.

In fact, as the stagehands helped him get ready for his set, everyone in The Iridium cheered for him. And, even more of a crowd started to gather from outside the venue. Passersby seemed to quickly notice the name, faces lighting up. . . And, the more noise people made, the larger the crowd became.

It seemed every person in the place and around the place knew who he was.

(Your eyes had immediately clocked a group of ten or so women at the two tables nearest to the stage. . . These girls, who held damn hearts in their eyes for him, were wearing outfits that left very little to the imagination. Every last one of them, decked out in black, with their asses and titties on near-full display, all for him, you were sure (the pieces were inherently lingerie, if you were being honest.)

How did everyone on this side of New York seem to know of him? You were very much a part of the music scene (had been for the two and a half years of attending Juilliard) and you hadn’t even known to expect a young male as your instructor that first evening of lessons?

You were still reeling a little from the shock of seeing him again, right in front of you, as he looped the thin leather guitar strap over his back.

He did so with his back facing the audience, which you took as an opportunity to appreciate his back in the white satin shirt he now wore. His shoulders, broad and begging to be grabbed. And his pants, a pair of tapered black slacks, hanging on his hips and legs like he was the only man to ever wear a pair of slacks.

And the boots on his feet, a bit sharper, with a slightly taller heel than the ones he’d shown up in at your house.

By the time he began, the place was packed.

You watched with lust clouding your vision as his hands began to manipulate those strings on the worn red Gibson Les Paul, you stood in complete and utter astonishment. You’d known that first day, sitting next to him as he seamlessly played hit after hit, that he was rare in his ability on the instrument.

His fingers had flown over the strings then, yes.

But at this moment in time?

It was clear that he was a motherfucking gift to this generation of music. It was no wonder that everyone in the area knew his name. How you’d been oblivious to him was beyond you, but you didn’t care anymore. . .

Because now? Now, you knew exactly who he was.

A dark, enigmatic, strikingly gorgeous man who rivaled all other men you knew. . . In more ways than one. And you wanted him. . . . Badly.

But you shouldn’t have wanted him. Not even close to what you should have been feeling. Even if things hadn’t left off the way they had that day, a month ago, the way you knew this man was as your instructor — with strict-ass policies. And ‘regulations’.

Both of which you were sure outlined how he couldn’t have sexual relations with a student. (Rather, ‘client’, as you knew he’d correct your term.)

God. What was wrong with you?

Your entire body felt like fire as he continued to demolish Zeppelin’s “Since I’ve Been Loving You” — executing the seductive rhythm of the iconic guitar part on the well-loved instrument under his touch. He took hold of the tune like it was his goddamn song that he was playing for the last time.

Then, you stood dumbfounded, as he began to sing the song, in a much lower key than Plant’s original. . .and the smokiness of his tone was enough to wreck you. Your body fizzled and burned under the sound of it.

And if you thought his fingers were volatile before in the craft alone, you were well aware now of how much more lethal they were to the wandering, female imagination if he was under stage lights. . . Because, at that moment, as his quick, tough fingers reverently worshipped the neck of that guitar with skilled precision, you felt your core tick with need. He annihilated those strings like they were his goddamn bitch. . . And you could only imagine what else they could work so steadily and deliberately.

How would those fingers feel against your. . .? Or, inside of your. . .? God.

You couldn’t even begin to describe how your body reacted to hearing such a classic as “Red House” emitting from his guitar and lips. His guitar, worn and rugged from being handled relentlessly by its possessor. Jake was easily the sexiest, most formidable guitarist you’d ever witnessed in person.

After a couple of songs, sweat had accumulated at his hairline and along his brow, and your entire chest and belly was in knots of starved emotion. And when he came up to the microphone for a break, he waved gently before speaking to the audience.

The sound of his low, rasping voice sent a rush of flames straight from your head, all the way down to your toes.

You were wound so goddamn tight.

You hardly paid attention to the words. All you registered him saying, in that low, raspy and lust-filled timbre was, “How you feelin’?”

The simple phrase. Those three words — slowly drawn out, dark and enveloping like the man who’d said them — sent a warm whisper of heat straight to your panties.

His eyes landed on the girls to his left, close to the stage, as they bounced and screamed for him. And, the wink he sent towards them, the tiny, knowing smirk that he responded with. . .? It shouldn’t have made you feel jealous. But, you were undoubtedly envious of those women at that very moment.

But still, you willed him to not look in your direction. Because you knew whatever it was that you were feeling wasn’t right. And, if you had held any chance before, you’d missed any and every opportunity with your bad attitude on that fateful night, one month ago.

And one fucking class on campus had ruined it.

You’d compromised any sort of camaraderie with this man for a singular class you’d never missed a day of, for anything.

Chances were, your prof would have understood anyway — you went to fucking Juilliard, for Christ’s sake. If you’d explained that you’d been in the middle of a guitar lesson for something you needed to hone in on, in order to graduate and be on the path to becoming a damn music teacher in the next year or so, the professor would have understood.

No fucking doubt.

You could have slapped yourself.

He continued speaking to the crowd, his eyes scanning the room. . . and, as he did so, you’d come to the conclusion that you were stupid and risked too much by being in the same room as this man you’d insulted so boldly. . .

. . .But, when he turned, you caught sight of his left, flexing forearm — the long, striped scar.

And you felt all of the heat in your body rush to the center of you.

You’d managed to push off how you’d felt in that moment, getting to know him in a serene way, as he’d gently played the guitar for you. . . You, exposing your heart to him with your story about Jill. . .

Fuck. The entire event was back, flashing with red lights, at the front of your mind.

You had to get out. Leave.

But. . . You’d stalled for too long.

When his eyes did actually on your table, right before he turned to grab his acoustic (the same from your lesson, you noticed by the wear), your breath caught in your chest.

It was expected for him to look in the direction of your group. Your classmates hadn’t shut the fuck up since he’d walked on stage. They were all salivating over him with you — just not in the same way as you. No, they were simply intensely infatuated with him and his melodic aura — in their own little music-appreciation-enthusiast way.

Well. . . Save for a few of your classmates who had exchanged those looks, brows raised and pursed lips with little smirks as he’d wiped some sweat with a towel. And, then those same few had shown obvious enchantment when he’d turned to show his sweat drenched back through the thin material of his satin shirt (god, fuck). All of their expressions, you knew all too well.

His pure and unadulterated sex appeal was evident to any and all naked eyes.

Your interest in him, though, still seemed far different than what any of your friends (or the horny girls a few tables over) were thinking. You couldn’t explain it. But, you knew it had gone far past music appreciation or purely finding him attractive.

No, it was more.

And that ‘more’ was confirmed when his gaze found your own, holding your stare with his magnetic irises. His eyes were dark on yours, recognizing you — immediately — and taking you in, in a way that made you feel like the only woman in the room.

Your outfit was definitely one of your best.

A practically sheer black, long-sleeved lace top. The material was thin and transparent enough to show your black bra underneath, which held your breasts quite well. It accentuated them in a way that you knew he could see, even from the stage. The way the material of your shirt clung to the natural curve of your flesh, above the bra. And your black skinny jeans, hugging your hips, thighs, and ass (and sadly, he couldn’t see your ass from his view, as you were facing him) in a way that rivaled many other bodies in jeans. And, your favorite tall, black, heeled boots.

His eyes drank you in, in a way you weren’t sure you were imagining at first. . . They started at your face, seeming to take in every detail, then your neck, chest, waist. . . Everything. Lingering on your hips before his eyes came back to yours.

Though, the softness seemed to dissipate the longer he held your gaze.

It was soon replaced with a hardness that felt eerily familiar to how you’d left things the day of your fated lesson.

Your stomach dropped as soon as his jaw clamped shut, the same way it had that first (and only other) day.

And, you lost the last shred of hope when he turned away, hair flying with the action as if to emphasize the finality of the action.

Just like his words that day.

“If you’re that anxious for the lesson to be over, all you’ve gotta do is let me know.”

It had been over that instant. He’d seemed more hurt than anything that you wanted to finish the lesson early.

But, before you could read into it any further, he was getting a harmonica holder looped around his neck by tech, adjusting his acoustic at his hips, and already going back to the mic for the next song (one of his own, as he’d said into the mic).

His stare, now aimed in the opposite direction of the room entirely, back on that blessed group of women. The way he’d angled his body, even, seemed to make a point that said ‘we’re done here.’

Even more than that day of the lesson, you felt utterly humiliated and vulnerable in that dark club. The lights might as well have come on, highlighting each and every secret you’d ever kept close to your chest.

You felt laid bare.

Exposed. Cut open. Stupid.

So, with a gentle tap, you let your friend Polly know that you were heading home.

Her response was quick, brows shooting up into her blonde hair. “With Jake Kiszka looking at you like that, you’re going to leave?!”

She’d noticed?

No, y/n. Don’t even go there, you coached yourself, to avoid feeling any further reduced to a small shell of yourself.

You did your best to ignore her words, only nodding in response to her question.

And with a hand to your forehead to show your exhaustion, you threw a thumb towards the door and told her you’d text her when you got home.

—||—

You’d done your best to race to your car, getting as far away from the bar as you could.

But, unfortunately, it had been too little too late. And, you’d borne witness to another devastating reality before you’d even exited the building.

His own song was even better than the classics he’d performed.

It was encapsulating. Melancholic. Gutsy. Authentic. Raw.

Real.

And it only caused your reality to sink in deeper.

All the way down to the pit of your tummy, that twisted with sadness at losing something that you weren’t even sure was real.

—||—

That night, you got ready for bed — freshly showered with a body full of overwrought emotion.

You sat at your vanity and braided your hair, your face glowing and clean — and located his Instagram. And, unashamedly, you spent two hours doing a deep dive stalk, as any person with a crush (because, yes, that was absolutely what you were feeling) in this day and age would.

And you’d found out that he had a whole ass band with a name that could’ve belonged to a Tolkien novel. It wasn’t just him and a couple stand-in musicians as it had been tonight.

The stroll as you scrolled down his page was lengthy; you went all the way down to his earliest post. But, you eventually also got to his band’s page and spent a decent amount of time watching every single video you could.

Jake, playing the guitar. Jake, singing like he was pouring his entire soul into each individual lyric. And. . . Jake, playing the harmonica.

It had all left you speechless. . . But the harmonica playing had gotten you.

It made you remember something Polly had said. One time, she’d said it. But you remembered it. She’d said it after another student had presented on and played harmonica for a freshman class based on instrumental anatomy.

She’d leaned over, whispering smugly in your ear. “You know, I bet he eats pussy like that. I’ve always heard it said that ‘however someone plays the harmonica. . . shows how they eat a woman’ — from the inside and out.”

And you definitely didn’t (did) squirm with an ache in your core, on your vanity seat when you remembered those words. Because, damn, did Jake know how to play it. Those long, drawn out breaths to maintain stability, with his mouth wrapped snugly around the shining, silver metal. . . The sighs and ragged breaths that hit the microphone when he’d pull his mouth away from the instrument. . . . .

It made you feel real fucked up, watching him and imagining that. . . . But, it simply couldn’t be helped.

Eventually, you landed on a performance of the song you were more than pretty sure you walked out on. And the lyrics? They were romantic in every sense of the word.

It fucking killed you.

But it didn’t stop you from jumping over to Spotify and adding their one and only (freshly debuted) album to your library.

Then, just as you’d finished your full listen of the bluesy, piratical, hard-rock masterpiece of an album, you decided it was time for bed.

Though, not before you made one final decision.

Before you could think better of it, you followed him on Instagram. What was one more follower, in addition to his twenty thousand plus going to do? He probably wouldn’t even see it.

You deleted the app as soon as you followed him. If he didn’t follow you back (which he probably wouldn’t, and you knew that), you didn’t want to know right away. You needed time to get over the crush.

And, as sleep finally took you in its grasp, you did your damndest to not overthink it.

—||—

A couple of weeks had passed since the night of the show.

You’d done your very best to forget the night.

But you’d kind of shot yourself in the ass with that plan, by listening to his band’s album basically nonstop. You couldn’t help it. The sound was gritty and dark and gothic. Bluesy.

Their music seemed to be tailored to fit, exquisitely, to your taste. It was a cruel joke from the universe.

You were packing your suitcase to visit home for the holiday, their music filtering through your home from your Alexa as you packed. Tomorrow morning you had an early ass flight to leave town to go be with your family for Christmas.

And the time was nearing 8:00 p.m. So, you knew you had to wrap up the packing as soon as possible. You wanted to have the proper amount of time to sleep before boarding the four-hour flight departing at 5:30 a.m.

When you’d just zipped your big suitcase, one of their more upbeat songs was playing from Alexa’s spot on the kitchen counter.

It was called “Heels of the Hunt” if your memory and repeated listens served you right.

You’d just slipped off your long sleeve henley, deciding to sleep in your comfiest sports bra and a pair of your softest, gray sleep shorts.

As you went about shutting off the bathroom light and folding a few pairs of pants from the dryer, you sang along with Jake, as his voice echoed from the Alexa, all throughout your house. Once you were in your kitchen, to take your nighttime meds, you tapped your foot to the beat of the song, before you were walking to turn off the lights in the kitchen to go to bed.

And, as always when the next song, in particular, came on. . .you mentally kicked yourself over

being an asshole to him.

The song Alexa had just begun playing was the song you’d walked out on at the bar.

This song was your favorite from the album. It was called “Ten Thousand.” And, ironically, you’d come to find that it made you feel ten thousand emotions all at once.

It had a sort of sound that made you feel like you’d known the song forever.

It had quickly become your go-to first pick for car rides, house cleaning, homework. . . however, you’d had to cut it off at showers. You could not do that. It felt. . . too wrong (or, maybe it felt unbelievably right in a way you really didn’t want to think about).

The song was a soul catharsis; Jake’s dynamic and intimate vocals had an insane ability to keep you grounded. You felt every piece of authentic vulnerability he’d weaved into the bluesy track. Anytime his voice crackled on a note, or lowered an octave, you felt it all the way down to your soul.

(There was also the fact that his tone was so eloquently a mix of gravel and velvet. . . when he sang, he just sounded straight sexy and you couldn’t get enough of it.)

Every time you listened, though, your mind got momentarily stuck on how things ended. The state you’d left things after such a minuscule encounter. . . Everyday, the moment began to feel bigger than it actually had been. . . The further away from the day you got, the more crushing it became that you’d essentially pushed him out of your life.

A fucking moron, you were.

You’d just rounded the hallway to the living room to turn the light off — just past 8:00 — when there was a knock at the front door.

The lights in the living room, still bright and casting that warm, golden hue. . . Making it blatantly obvious someone was home. To whomever had decided to grace your front porch at 8:00 at night, you were a very apparent target.

Your heart leapt into your throat, Alexa keeping the volume loud enough that the knock hadn’t broken quiet to make you jump. But, it had been sharp and intentional. . . and out of nowhere.

When you checked your phone, you saw no texts or missed calls from friends. So, you were genuinely curious who in the fuck could be at your door.

You left Alexa on at the same volume she’d been at all night, wanting to stay as normal as possible to scare away anyone who’d come to your house at this time of night. But when the knock occurred two more times, you knew you couldn’t ignore it anymore. Still, you grabbed the baseball bat you kept at the door, edging up to the front door to look through the peephole.

And what you found on the other side of the peephole. . .

Was not — in a million years — who you’d expect to see pop up on your doorstep.

Not again, at least.

Though, you didn’t even give yourself time to think about the music choice exposing you. You dropped the bat with a clatter and quickly unlocked the door.

And, the heaviness of it cracked open to reveal. . .

Jake.

In some sort of poetic symbolism, the man had shown up, at your doorstep, wearing nearly the same exact outfit he’d been wearing almost two months ago when he’d shown up to give you a guitar lesson.

But, this time?

No sunglasses.

Your heart thumped in your chest at your ability to see his eyes.

It took less than point-five seconds for his wide and intensely brown eyes to find your face and soak up every last bit of it.

And, just as he took you in, you did the same with his pretty face.

The dark circles under his eyes, one of the first things you noticed. The sight caused a wave of heat to blossom in your chest.

A hardworking man, this one.

It felt like the day you’d wanted a re-do of, for the past several weeks. Except this time, it was different. You felt it.

You also got the chance to appreciate the facial hair he’d now let grow just a tad more above his upper lip and at the very bottom of his chin.

While it wasn’t much hair for a man’s face, it suited him. So fucking well.

When your eyes glanced back up to his eyes, you found he was watching you in the same sort of way you’d watched him before. In a daze, almost.

Stuck in your loop, just as you’d been in his.

But, he had apparently mastered the art of speaking amidst being stunned.

“You were there,” was all he said, in that sex-laden timbre of his.

Your heart skipped a beat. You didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. You knew. He knew. The night you saw him play at The Iridium.

“Yes,” you nodded, swallowing thickly to help erase any leftover jitters. It wasn’t helping. Your skin was on fire, your tummy alive with butterflies. “I was.”

“Did you know I’d be playing?”

“No,” you replied softly. “I didn’t.”

“Okay.”

He nodded at that, a finger coming up to rub at his bottom lip before the same hand reached to comb through his long hair.

You couldn’t get enough of his eyes. So big and brown and full of the same exact heart he poured into the music he taught and played.

Before you could process much else, he was speaking again.

“You followed me on Instagram,” he stated, taking one miniscule step closer.

You stayed in place, silently beckoning him forward. Didn’t want to spook him away. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to,” was all that you could think to say. Until. “You noticed?”

“Of course I did. I followed you back,” he responded on a breath, knitting his brows as if to implicate its common sense. “I looked for you after the show that night.”

Your heart got stuck in the pit of your throat, your chest burning. Perspiration, gathering in your palms as your brain fizzled. He’d followed you back. He’d looked for you. And you’d had zero idea.

Because you’d run — hid — both times.

“You did?”

“Yes,” he nodded, taking another tiny step towards you.

Still, you didn’t move.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to,” he breathed, a little grin perking the side of his mouth. You momentarily caught a glimpse of the dimple in his right cheek before he started again. “Why’d you leave?”

“I felt wrong,” you dumbly stated, at a loss. “Weird and wrong. . . Like you didn’t like seeing me there.”

“Then you were wrong,” he responded, brows once more furrowed as he insisted his words’ truth. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you again. And, then. . . There you were. . . .looking so fucking beautiful.”

God. Your belly twirled delightfully as a pink warmth bloomed in your cheeks. . .The blush travelled to your neck — you could feel it. You could feel his words — all over. The way he’d just called you beautiful, along with the piercing stare. . .it was everything you needed and too much — all at once.

“That first night. . .I barely knew you and I was an asshole to you,” you meekly said, rubbing at your forearm as you glanced down. “I feel like shit that that was your first impression of me.”

“I had my first impression of you long before we even sat on that couch,” he replied, the little throaty chuckle he gave in response had your skin frenzied with heat. “But. . .Touché,” he replied with a tone that had you wanting to catch the smile he’d painted in it. “I was a dick.”

When you glanced up, you saw just that — a lopsided grin that morphed into a gentle, breathy laugh. He tucked a hand into the pocket of his jeans and rubbed at his bottom lip with the pointer on his other hand.

“Not as bad as I was,” you said, giving your own little half-giggle, trying your best to be casual.

“Nah. . . I don’t think so. I hated how I cut you off . . . too many times,” he explained, insistent that you hear him as his feet brought him just a step closer. “I’m sorry I shut down, y/n. I just. . .— Fuck.”

He bowed his head and it was time for you to step forward, your bare toes, facing the pointed toe of his boots.

“You just what, Jake?” You had to know, you’d been dying to know why he shut down. And he was about to tell you. “Tell me. . .”

His eyes scanned your face for a weighty moment, as if measuring whether or not he should have been saying what he wanted to say.

“You. . .,” he breathed in, slowly, through his nose. He was measuring his words. You could tell. “You were different, y/n — are different,” he began, taking a deep breath and exhaling it through his nose. “I have never. . . I—. Fuck. I thought I had this down,” he shook and bowed his head.

His brows were scrunched as his hair fell in front of his handsome features. You watched his lips as he mouthed something to himself, then he looked at you again. Your heart raced. You had no idea what he was about to say and you didn’t want to try to guess.

Then, it dawned on you. . . . his album. It was still playing in the distance, throughout your home.

It was like he suddenly noticed it, too, his head tilting toward the sound as his eyes looked in the direction of the Alexa that played the bluesy hard rock. He was still standing outside your door, but he could tell exactly where it was coming from.

He found your eyes, brow raised in suspicion as his lips lifted into a little smile. “‘S that my band?”

Your cheeks grew warm, but you played off the bit of shyness that crept up your spine by offering him a faux-innocent flutter of your lashes.

“Oh,” you feigned confusion, cocking a hip and tapping your pointer finger to your chin in thought. “Is that you? Are you the Jake Kiszka? Local rock god?”

The snort that he released was a slight surprise to you, but a welcome one as his smile grew even wider. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, taking you in. His eyes, creating a blazing trail from your face to your hips. You felt him everywhere. And you really, really liked it.

His eyes belonged on your body.

As his eyes travelled up, from the bottom half of your body, you remembered, horrifically. . .

Your sports bra didn’t have cups.

And your body was very much reacting to his stare — your breasts, perking with a hungry sort of anticipation. . . your nipples, unashamedly stretching the material. . .

His eyes, dark as dusk, honed in on your chest. He was quite literally devouring you with his stare and you’d never felt so ready for more.

“I don’t know who that is,” he joked, his tone low as he finally looked at you again, tucking a hand into his pocket. “I’m just Jake.”

You allowed your eyes to follow in his lead, taking a moment to appreciate him.

His sturdy shoulders, that stunningly handsome face, the column of his neck, his strong pectoral muscles. And, you noticed a minute detail you suddenly adored. There, at the top of his sun-warmed abdomen, right below his sternum — a small freckle peeked from above the first button he’d buttoned on the black satin shirt. That being, halfway down his shirt.

You were finding the way he wore his button downs was consistent and always displayed a generous, lovely portion of his chest (you honestly wished it was socially acceptable for him to forego buttons altogether).

Your eyes continued in their path of yearning down his front.

A flame ignited within you when you noticed his hand in his pocket. It was a natural draw of your attention, the way he pulled at the fabric on the left side of his jeans. . . It gave you a fantastic view of a part of him that you’d imagined more times than you cared to admit. And, everywhere, Jake appeared to be. . . completely of dreams.

Fuck.

You bit your lip as you let your mind go places it shouldn’t have gone. You believed wholeheartedly that if he were to take off his pants right now, he would exemplify the term ‘well endowed.’ With the way his pants held him, you could tell there was a significant heaviness there.

He cleared his throat.

Your curious irises — most likely completely blown the fuck out — found comfort in the familiar shade of brown that made up his dark eyes.

His mischievous smile said he’d caught you, but it was a secret sort of grin. Like he wasn’t going to expose you.

And you were very grateful for that.

As he stepped closer, both equally hesitant and confident in the singular step, you felt the breath in your lungs evade you. There was not any part of you that wanted to move — lest you lose the moment. You wanted this.

There was just something about him. He made this specific, addictive heat rise within you. Simply standing there before your eyes, he was threatening to unravel you.

“Y/n. . . I haven’t stopped thinking about how things could have ended, had our circumstances been different,” he spoke, the words brushing over your face with the minty breath he spoke them on.

Your face flushed as you looked down, avoiding his stare. Knowing, clearly, you were the one who’d caused ‘circumstances’ to be difficult. “I’m still so sorry about cutting us short on time.”

“Don’t be,” he reassured you, bringing the bend of his pointer finger up to tilt your chin up, towards his. “You didn’t ruin anything. . . I was the one who came here tonight, wasn’t I?”

You blinked, still feeling his touch after his finger had fallen. “Yeah, but—.”

“And I never would have allowed myself to come back if I didn’t want to. . .,” he sucked in a breath, his words were stuck again. “Goddammit, you make it hard to focus, y/n.”

He smiled to himself as he glanced down, finally taking a step closer. Your chest clenched. Your breath was caught in the narrow cave of your chest, you couldn’t breathe as he carried himself another inch or so nearer to you. He was still looking towards the ground, rubbing at his bottom lip again.

“That night. . .,” he cleared his throat, giving a slight shake of his head. “I couldn’t touch you like I wanted. I couldn’t even think about how wrong it would have been if I did. I would have been betraying every fucking moral I’ve ever had. . . But, you—you were sitting there — across from me — looking more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. . . As—as my client and I. . .”

“You. . .?” You encouraged, right as he paused. The word, spoken on the smallest breath.

“I’m not supposed to think about my clients the way I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said, from low in his chest. “Still can’t stop thinking about you like that. . .”

You breathed in deeply, unsure how to process the fact that he’d wanted you. Jake had wanted you — still wanted you — like you’d been wanting him.

The next thing he did was unexpected just as much as it wasn’t. You’d have been an idiot to not have guessed it was coming.

With two more steps, his hand was coming to settle on your waist, his words, low, and trailing the movement. “Is this alright?”

You let out a sigh of relief, at the feeling of his warm, rough hand wrapping around the skin of your waist. He was close enough for his nose to graze your forehead, and you tilted your eyes upwards to take him in. You could see every freckle. The smallest scars. . . How long his eyelashes were, as they dusted his warm cheeks with each blink.

“Yes, Jake,” you sighed, not able to lean into his touch. Your chest, ready for his attention, pressed to his. You both exhaled on ragged breaths, shivering at the feeling of your hardened nipples coming into contact with his solid chest. “More than. . .”

His thumb nudged at the bottom of your sports bra, his eyes leaving yours to follow the movement. The digit, coming just beneath the edge of the material to brush against the hidden skin there. But, you careened further into his touch, whimpering as the movement encouraged his thumb to continue up, further. . . Until he was tempting the curve of your breast.

“Goddammit, y/n. . .,” his breath caught and you watched his pupils dilate at your body’s innate response to him. “I tried telling myself this was only attraction, but. . . It’s more,” he said, eyebrows dipped to show how much he’d been thinking about this. “Because I haven’t been able to. . .— do you want the truth, y/n?”

“Always.”

You grinned, waiting for his eyes to meet yours again. And when they did, your heart stuttered in your chest. It was more. You could feel it under the intensity of his stare.

“I haven’t even thought of touching another woman since that night. Haven’t wanted to. Couldn’t if I wanted,” he murmured, his breath hot against your forehead.

Then, his hand once again came to rest under your chin, moving your head just enough for his lips to land against the tender skin of your jaw.

All thought left you. All sense, gone. . .

“Because. . .,” he whispered, “all I could think about was how your body would look under mine. . . how soft you would feel under my hands. . . the sounds I know you would make — wrecked and falling apart. . . for me.”

You squirmed under his touch, desperate to feel him however he’d allow for you to feel him.

“Tell me more,” you sighed, your heart racing as your body thrummed for him. His lips, so plush and gentle against your tingling skin. “Please, Jake. . .”

His lips, barely caressing your skin, continued their torment as he granted your wish. “I’ve thought about it so many times. . .,” he trailed off, his lips gracefully landing behind your ear, where he nipped once, before truly kissing you, behind your ear. Your toes curled in your socks.

He let his lips slide a bit, continuing his treacherous journey of kissing you, all along the side of your face. “Your legs, wrapped around my hips,” he kissed, once, at the top of your jaw. “That lovely voice, moaning in my ear — begging me for more,” his lips met the flushed skin of your cheek, before going back to your jaw, hovering over the skin there with barely-there kisses, as he continued to speak. “How I’d fuck you. . . so slow,” kiss. “So well,” kiss. “That you wouldn’t be able to hold back. . . not a single,” kiss. “Strangled. . .,” kiss. “Cry. . .”

His tongue suddenly slipped from his lips, teasing your overheated skin. Your mouth fell open, your back arching as you did, in fact, cry for him. “God,” you whined, pushing further into him. “I need you.”

His thumb was in the same place as before, still only dusting the underside of your breast. Even as he barely touched you, you knew if he went further, he would be able to manipulate the supple skin however he wanted. You wanted him to.

In the meantime, though, you let your hand travel between the two of you and gripped at the curve of his chest. You heard him hiss, the sound trapped between his teeth. His skin was so warm, smooth as the black satin of his shirt. . . . You let your hand travel over to the side of his chest, cupping his pec carefully. You felt his nipple peak, under the skin of your palm.

You both hummed in satisfaction, his lips finally coming to kiss the corner of your mouth.

At the slight touch of his lips on the edge of yours, you hastily turned your head towards the feeling, hoping you’d meet his lips with your own. But he only grinned, pulling away just a little to where his lips were now only hovering above your own, that trembled, needing to know his taste.

But, he wasn’t even close to holding back.

Because, soon, your body was moving — with his help.

Your back quietly hit the wood of the front door as he placed his other hand on your hip. Delicate and possessive all at once, he was maneuvering your body backwards until he was crossing the threshold and you were flush against the door. You were definitely whimpering — pathetic and needy — as you felt his groin finally meet the soft skin of your exposed belly.

His hand that had been teasing you under your bra slid up, just a bit, his calloused fingertips grazing your taut nipple. The sensitive skin buzzed under his touch, your body lighting up for him, your knees buckling at the absolute least. The hand on your hip gripped you — tight.

(Really. It had been a considerably long time since you’d done anything intimate with anyone, and you were certain that it was more than apparent.)

“Mm. . . You like that. . .” He hotly noted; an observation, on a hum.

“What do you think?” You sighed, on a little huffed giggle.

His eyes dropped to your lips, your hand still massaging the golden skin of his chest, using your touch as a way to tell him you needed more, more, more.

The click of his boot against the hardwood of your living room entryway floor sent a rush of heat through your body. He angled himself to be right in front of you, on top of you. Where he needed to be.

The air was shifting, stifling. All around you, a mix of the sweetness and sandalwood in his cologne — completely clouding your senses. You shifted your hips up to feel more of him, just as he was doing the same to you. And, in unison, both of you released a guttural moan.

His hand slipped the rest of the way up, fully cupping your right breast, and yours slid up from the muscle in his chest to the side of his neck.

The sound you made at his touch wasn’t even a sound. It was a mere choked squeak that couldn’t graduate to a breath, catching in your throat. . . . you were trembling. Your mouth, falling open. Your pulse was hammering in your ears, overly aware of all things him.

Jake.

He leaned in, slowly. . . the tip of his nose brushed the tip of yours.

“If I kissed you right now, y/n. . .,” he began, the mintiness of his breath making your skin tingle. You blinked up at him, his next words causing your body to light on fire. “I wouldn’t be able to stop at your mouth.”

You felt him shift, just enough that you felt him. His hips tilted forward, enough to let you fully feel him. He intentionally dragged his front against yours. He was so thick. And hard. And hot. You lifted your hips up towards his, inviting him in with a singular rock of your front. He bent, just enough, so he could mold himself just a bit closer to you. . . to where you both wanted — no, needed — him to be. . .

A gasp shook from your lips as you bit your bottom lip; you were throbbing. You’d never understood a need like this until this moment.

He stilled, brow furrowed. His lips were parted, displaying the same need you felt pulsating through every pore on your body. “Say something, y/n. . .,” he breathed, pad of his thumb pressing to your bottom lip. . . His breath ghosted over your mouth. “Tell me if I’ve misread this and I will stop before I can’t.”

God. You felt him. The hard length of him in his jeans, only for you. The rise of his chest, right against yours. The way his hand held your breast, as if it belonged to him. . .

“Fuck. . .,” was all you could breathe, your lips curling to breathe a laugh, your head swimming with the fact that his face was less than a breath from yours.

He smiled back, loose — sensual, as the hand that had been on your hip moved to the back of your neck. His fingers, cupping the base of your skull, fingers lacing through your hair. The moan that left your lips was unstoppable. His touch felt so nice, your hair follicles thanking his existence as they tingled deliciously. You could still smell something reminiscent of wintergreen mint on his tongue.

Then, you said it.

“This must be why you’re so popular amongst women, hm? Do you charge your female clientele extra for this? Or do we get this for free?”

As soon as the ridiculous words left your mouth, you couldn’t fucking believe it. You watched the smile drop from his face as soon as the last word left your mouth.

“You think I touch just anyone like this?” He asked, face drawing away from yours.

Nononono. Goddammit.

“Not at all,” you shook your head quickly, unsure of what to say. So, you scrambled in your brain for something. “I just noticed how those other women at the show looked at you — how you looked at them — and it made me think to ask.”

No, y/n, the angel on your shoulder admonished. That’s worse, girl.

It was true — now you were assuming he entertained groupies like some manwhore. What had you just said? Fuckfuckfuck. That didn’t seem appropriate at all. Sort of degrading, if you were being completely fucking honest.

Fuck your stupid mouth.

“Fuck,” you began, the word mirroring the constant loop happening inside of your brain. “I don’t know where that—.”

“You think I’m the type of man who fucks women just because of the way they look at me?” He murmured, voice cracking as you felt his hand fall from the back of your head. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

Before you could try to explain any further, his hand was slipping from your bra and your hand had no choice but to leave his chest. There was a foot’s length of space between you in almost no time at all. Your stomach sank, watching him back up, shaking his head in disbelief.

You couldn’t blame him — you were in disbelief, too.

“I didn’t mean that the way it came out,” you rushed, trying to explain your way out of it.

He was fishing in his back pocket, while also pulling the sunglasses from the front of his shirt, where they hung at the end of the unbuttoned part. Your eyes trailed over the bit of tanned abdomen you could see, the freckle at the top of it caught your eye. The sunglasses were on his face in no time, emphasizing he was finished.

And, even as you watched his actions, walking backwards through the door he’d just walked through, you felt a sense of hope. Hope that you knew was built on a thread of fantasy. Devastated, you felt your shoulders sink as you saw keys get pulled from his back pocket.

You glimpsed the key he was now holding, noticing it looked. . . different from a car key. Smaller. Thinner. A guitar pick and a silver skull keychain hung from a ring attached to the piece of plastic at the end of the metal.

“There is nothing else you could have meant by any of that,” he coolly replied, lips in a flat line of contemplation as he grabbed at his feet.

Then you noticed it. An all-black motorcycle helmet, sitting on the ground, next to his worn black boots that now stood upon the concrete of your front porch. He grabbed the helmet in one swoop, the veins in the back of his hand caught your eye in a way you wish they hadn’t.

Goddammit. He rode a damn motorcycle, too? What did this man not do? And here you were, idiot of the century. Ruining things with him not once, but twice now.

“I keep saying stupid shit,” you admitted, nothing but regret written on your pitiful, downcast features. “I’m so sor—.”

“Yeah, you do. Starting to wonder if you mean these things, deep down. Or, maybe not so deep. Maybe you really view me as poorly as you let on that first day,” he scoffed, raising his brows in a way that blatantly showed his hurt. “Or maybe — just maybe, y/n — I’ll always only be viewed as a man you pay for a damn lesson.”

“No, Jake,” you tried, reaching out a trembling hand to try and touch him. It was to no avail, and you knew it. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you realized how idiotic you must have appeared to the beautiful man in front of you. “I don’t mean any of it. I just don’t ever stop to think before I speak.”

“You are correct, y/n. You don’t think before you say shit. And you really fucking should,” he advised, sharply. Blunt. His jaw clenched, his neck tight. “I’m starting to wonder if us meeting at all was a mistake made by the universe,” he said, barely letting that sit in the air before he was clenching his jaw. “And for the life of me, I can’t figure out how in the fuck you view me. And I’m not sure I want to know anymore.”

No.

Your heart crumpled in your chest, flimsy as an old, tattered receipt. You felt like utter shit. He wasn’t wrong. And that was what hurt most.

You were too stunned to speak. Didn’t know what to say as he turned his back. No waving occurred. No smile. Why would he smile at you?

As he descended the steps of your front porch, you once again noted how great his ass looked in those jeans. . . Well. Too fucking bad.

Watching his legs spread to mount the motorcycle was torture. Your body ached for him. And, as he slipped on the helmet, and kicked the hunking piece of black, vintage metal into gear, you felt the pit of your stomach hit the top of your toes.

When would you learn to just let good things happen to you?

You feared the answer was one harsh word. . .

Never.

But. . .

Even after everything you’d said, you saw him give you one more long glance. He really looked at you, gaze staying on you — where you stood, sullen and defeated at your front door.

Your chest ignited.

So, as you watched him speed away into the black of the night, you decided. . .

You couldn’t give up. Not yet.

—||— | —||—

to be continued. . .

—||— | —||—

a/n: ~after~ this graduated from a gc drabble, it was only ever supposed to be a one shot (!!!!!)....... lmao.

see you very soon with reader's plan to get him back, the follow up, and the S M U T (please, please prepare yourselves bc i have been fkn sweating while writing this shit gahDAMN)

TREMOLO: PART 2 of 2 OF UNRAVEL, will be yours very, veryyyyy soon ;))))

—||—

taglist:

@joshym, @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface, @gretavangroupie, @jaketlover, @ohgodthefeeling-gvf, @starcatcher-jake, @anythingforjtk, @lucimoo, @indigostreakmorgan, @gretavanbear, @katelynn-gvf, @alwaysonthemend @aintthatapity, @bowievanfleet, @fwzco, @takenbythemadness, @cherry-icecreamsmile, @laneygvf, @hi-hi-hello11, @sinarainbows, @jakesbarbarian, @mybussyinchrist, @becinabubblegvf, @heckingfrick, @danigvf, @pinkandsleepy1934, @derrangeddumpsterfire, @klarxtr, @josh-iamyour-mama, @abby-gvf, @cassyface, @gretavansabotage, @sacredtheslay, @alienobsever, @hollyco, @age0fwagner, @raceb14, @stardustcatcher, @styles-canvas, @ladywhimsymoon, @earthgrlsreasy, @peaceloveunitygvf

@torniturntomyarrow , @joshsbonnet, @llrosee, @starshine-gvf , @itsafullmoon , @gvfmarge , @creadliz98, @mackalah , @lek-gvf , @carlyfleet, @profitofthedune, @mefiorini , @welllauragvf , @highway-tuna , @dont-go-home-without-me , @sarah-gvf01 , @polemicandcontent , @ageofbajabule , @texas-bbq-pringles , @jennyraye20 , @builtbybrokenbells , @stardustjake, @indigostreaksolo , @tripthelightfantastix, @kiszkas-canvas , @jakebrainrot, @anthemheatwave @chichi610, @freyjalw , @scoreofinfantryvines , @stonecoldmo , @divapadam @hailthegodsong @fleetingjake @demolitiondanchipsversion @stardustsamm @blankvz @mikiepeach, @gretavanmoon, @demolitiondanchipsversion, @lipstickitty, @gracev0609

I always try to tag everyone, buuut you all know how it goes! ughhh. Please make sure you’re filling out my Google Form if you would like to be tagged and aren’t already on the taglist! <3

AND IF I MISSED TAGGING YOU -- PLZ LMK <3

#jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka smut #greta van fleet #greta van fleet fic #gvf #gvf fic #DISSONANCE #UNRAVEL PT. 1 OF 2 #MINORS DNI #my fics #jake fic

52 notes · View notes

jakeyt · 16 days ago

Text

…Coming to you in t-minus 60 minutes.

God. I love this story.

Can’t wait to share it

xx <3

#dissonance #pt 1 of 2 in unravel series #eeeeekkkkkk #my fics #see you soon :)#(thank you for being patient w me !!!)

4 notes · View notes

jakeyt · 17 days ago

Note

i might’ve misunderstood but are we getting the one shot tn??

YES ONLY A COUPLE HOURSSS <3

you definitely didn’t misunderstand lolol

I was just so damn tired from the concert. I tried finishing things up and failed epically (crashed almost as soon as I sat down w it)

but.

…you will not have to wait much longer ;)

#sorry yall lol #asks

4 notes · View notes

jakeyt · 18 days ago

Text

50-50…… lol.

This means Part I will be posted after midnight. See ya then.

Alright. Y’all know me. You know I like my words. Thought I could wrap this lil idea up rq with a bow…… buuuut….. I know better (lmao).

Aaaand after writing into the wee hours of the morning for three nights in a row… I am at 20k words of ~~one shot~~. LOL.

I have officially ended up with over 6k+ words of smut, and I’m still not even close to being done with the smut alone. And I want it to be just right. So. Tuesday is looking like full one shot day.

However, the first part of the story is done. So. How would you feel about a two-parter? This story truly got away from me and has become an intense build into the heat……

#saw the black keys tonight #on my way home #will edit once there and then post #love u <3

5 notes · View notes

jakeyt · 18 days ago

Text

IVE BEEN WAITINGGGG FOR THIS FOR MONTHS *enter me: fangirling over Le Morte and flipping the fuck O U T* And it’s going to get EVEN BETTER…

Sososo grateful we are given the chance to read this story. The fact that it’s being written and breathed into at a time that we get to consume it…… ~le sigh. @joshym is the most talented woman (I’m biased, I know) and I am honored to be a part of her sounding board while she constructs this masterpiece.

I’m so so so ready for more and I’m about to press her until the rest is written LMAO

Le Morte d'Arthur: Chapter 8 (teaser)

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

hi, lovelies.🤍 i know — it's been a bit since you've heard from me. but, here's a little snippet of this next chapter. one of my favorites so far. (& yes, i say that about every chapter. but, i mean it! LOL. when i say this part has been in the works for a long time...yeah.)

this is a little (4k words) of Jake's pov just before/after he's landed in London. &, as i'm sure you've guessed by the header, we'll be introduced to a certain someone in this chapter. someone i've been dying to include for a long ass time.

so, with all of that said, i hope you enjoy this tiny piece of something much larger. 🤍

warnings: allusions to sex, (Chris is a bit of a ladies man) Jake being the dramatic, poetic king we know him to be, (with all the love in the world) mentions of deceased parents/grandparents/end of life, a tiny (& heartbreaking) trip down memory lane

In less than half an hour, I’ll make my descent to a place that has been yearning for me to ground my boots for the better part of my life. The place that, as the tide that separates us would surely have it, will behold the rest of my days.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Jake’s point of view;

The sky has been my home for more than eight hours now. The silent cathedral of the winds surrounds me. My steel wings catch the silver clouds, gliding me further from the place that bore witness to my pain. The ocean beneath me, a mystery expanding miles and endless miles, lies between my new home and the home that saw me into the man that sits patiently within this metal casing as, reaching its destiny.

And that is as it should be.

Y/n was right – her life isn’t one that can be uprooted by the summon of the wind. How could I expect her to follow a dream that isn’t truly hers? Whether I believe it to be or not is truly of no consequence – if she doesn’t believe it, then it can’t be so. That isn’t how fate works. I can’t place the ocean between her and her pain like I can my own. She has to make that choice, and she won’t allow anyone to decide that for her.

It pains me. It rattles every bone in my vessel to know that I have left her behind, living with a wound thats festering isn’t acknowledged by the one bearing its sting.

She can’t see it the way those around her do – those who surround her with an intent of her best interest.

That aim does not reside in the soul of my younger brother. His vow lies on the surface layer of his skin, collecting the invisible (to him) dust and dander of her pain. It doesn’t sink any further into his being – only to be cleansed from him and given right back to her with a single embrace, a kiss that beckons nothing more than the thrill of further shattering the broken shards of glass that have become my spirit.

A moonlight kiss crushed the parts that had not yet been broken, and I still chased after her. I knew, all too well, that any effort I could make therein after would be one of wasted breath. I can’t be the light that she follows if my light isn’t the one she’s drawn to. If it’s my brother, I must let it be.

But that’s the ache of it – I know her soul doesn’t long for him. She’s led herself to believe that it does. It’s a guard, a barrier she’s built to keep herself from the affections of the man who chose to leave her behind.

She’s read herself that narrative enough that she believes that untruth. And there was nothing more I could do to rewrite her own marrow of the matter before I embarked on my early departure.

I knew I had to do it. And not just for my own sake — she needed me out of her orbit as much as I needed to chase the horizon, to follow the clouds to my next venture. The earlier flight was a choice made with a single breath. No second thought, no first thought. It was the only way. A band-aid that tore the skin as it was ripped off. The sting will last for a long while, and the scar will last even longer.

I miss her.

I miss her more than any one soul could yearn for another. Hers is embedded into mine, stitched where the tattered threads of my upbringing hung loose until she found her way to me.

All the same, she’s the reason for new rips and shreds that can only be sewn back together with her hands.

But, those pieces will heal. Not now, and not anytime soon. I must give father time the reins to let the moments pass by without forcing them to pass by quicker.

Or slower.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

The air feels different. Not in a bad way, yet not necessarily good.

It’s interesting. Air is a universal element. It flows everywhere throughout the entire planet – sustaining us, filling our lungs with life. It has no look, no smell of its own accord. It isn’t created by man, it isn’t tariffed. Yet, it changes. From one side of the globe to the other – it’s not the same air I breathed in Michigan. It’s not the same air my parents breathed when they walked the earth, nor my grandparents when their bodies were above the dirt.

It’s certainly not the same air filling y/n’s lungs at this very moment.

No – it’s simply different.

The eventide moon, its silver light cast upon me while I wait for my ride outside the bustling Heathrow airport…the echoing truth lingering in my bones reminds me that y/n isn’t looking at the moon right now. It’s still daylight in Michigan — there’s no moon to cast the noir sky in a ghostly hue at this hour.

The moon no longer looks at us with the same eyes. Only at different times will we be stationed under its gleam. And that is a truth I’ll have to let time mend. But for now, in these first quiet moments of my boots touching London ground, it cuts a clean slice through my heart.

Different time zones. Different air. Different worlds.

Is there a world worth living in without y/n?

A question I will be forced to find the answer to. An answer I wish I’d never have to search for.

“Oi, you Jacob? Jacob, er, Kiszka?”

Hearing my name brings not only my body, but my mind back to the present time that I’ve placed myself in. Not Michigan time, London time.

And, back to the reality that it’s time for me to settle myself in my new home – a journey that will begin with the taxi driver sent by Oxford to fetch me. I’m just grateful he was warned appropriately of my earlier arrival and showed up, I assume, on somewhat short notice.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say to him. Before I can say much else, this tall, gangly man with a black flat cap is already by my side, gathering my belongings for me. He’s handling nearly every piece of luggage I have in one go, apart from my leather duffle and guitar case that’s still next to my feet. I decide to reach for it – I can’t stand here and let him treat me like royalty. “Thank you sir, but I can certainly manage –,”

“No need,” he interrupts with a joyous disposition, looping two fingers around the handle of the one bag he doesn’t have and stealing it right from my hand with the warmest smile along his age-weathered teeth. “Ain’t no reason you should be carryin’ your own bags. Not when ol’ Georgie’s here to help ya.”

I can tell, without a wandering doubt, that he is happy to be helping me. Georgie is seasoned, tucking all my luggage away inside the boxy black cab so quickly – I’m not sure how he’s done it. A professional, through and through.

“‘Sides, it’s bloody cold out here and I can’t let ya slow me down,” he chuckles, his thick accent far from anything I’ve ever heard from my homestead.

And he’s absolutely correct – it is bloody cold. There’s a new kind of frigid in the air this evening. Well, new to me.

He takes a few steps towards me once more after securing my things in the cab, glaring at my bag and case as if prepared to carry those too. He scoops the leather duffle with ease, but I stop him before he can take the guitar case.

I won’t let him take this one – I can do something. And, beyond that, it’s hard for me to relinquish any hold on my guitar. Even the most unassuming thing, like packing it in the car – I can’t let him do that. Can’t let him touch it. It was my carry on for the flight for a reason.

His wrinkled face scrunches into a knowing smile as I lift the handle. With that, his patent boots shuffle back to the car, tossing the duffle alongside the rest of my things.

“C’mon then, lad,” he says, standing beside the opened back door of the cab. “Let’s get you out of this nip and off to your warm flat. Got about an hour's drive but we’ll g’there in no time.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” I say, scurrying into the car, laying my guitar case flat along the floorboard. He shuts the door behind me and makes his way to the driver’s side – the opposite side of what I’m used to.

Strange. But, the pleasant kind.

“First time to Oxford, yeah?” Georgie asks, swinging the black cab onto the main road. Driving opposite what I would consider normal certainly feels like living life backwards at the moment.

“Yeah, postgrad studies at Magdalen. Literature.”

I have to suppress any desire to shout all the air from my lungs when Georgie takes a sharp left turn onto the next street, nearly toppling the already top-heavy cab onto two wheels. Enough to send my duffle crashing into my side. This fucker is heavy – filled with hardbacks I wouldn’t dare part with.

“Jesus,” I huff though a breathy laugh, gripping the handle above the door with a white-knuckle hold as Georgie takes another harsh turn. To the left this time. My duffle, now crashing against the other end of the backseat.

“Aye, your dig bein’ the Ivy House’ll be perfect for ya,” Georgie beams, impressed and altogether paying no mind to his unconventional means of operating a vehicle. “Proper posh, that is. Ya came to the right place for it, lad.”

Good old Georgie, the generous and awful cab driver – he’s certainly correct.

Under the glow of the moon and the city streetlights, the image of the town is one of pure cinematic beauty. A scene from a classic film depicting the beauty and mystique of a city steeped in centuries. Time has folded in on itself here – it’s as though the city fell asleep in 1800 and never opened its eyes to the modern world.

I reach to pull my phone from my back pocket and snap a few photos of what my eyes are witnessing. Josh will surely appreciate this stunning scene. It may even inspire a short-film or two. Timeless beneath the fog of the night, shining beneath the moon. A place built upon conquest and virtue. I can’t begin to fathom its beauty in the daylight, and I won’t have to wonder for much longer.

I’ve called Josh once already, letting him know I safely crossed over the Atlantic. I promised another ring the second I make it to the house, god willing Georgie doesn’t smash this thing into a building before then.

If it made any sort of sense, I’d let Georgie haul my luggage and I’d walk the rest of the journey to my new home. Allow myself to take it all in, enjoy the nighttime beauty of the cobblestone city, echoing with silent history.

Perhaps then I’d have a better chance of making it there in one piece. I’ve heard these little tires screeching against the pavement more times than I can count. My body has slammed against the door enough that my shoulder bone will surely have a lovely purple spot by sunrise.

Georgie, seemingly unaware (or unphased) by his reckless ways, pulls a Marlboro from his breast pocket and lights it effortlessly with a single hand.

“You’ll be knee deep in books and dead poets,” he wheezes through a puff of smoke that fills the car, a sweet and bitter scent that I’ve found myself craving since I boarded my flight all those hours ago. “But you’ll love it.”

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

I’ve knocked on the door, twice now. But, it’s a futile endeavor.

I’ve an overbearing fear that whomever my flatmate is, isn’t here. Or, perhaps he’s asleep.

No matter the details, I’m stuck outside of the Ivy House, freezing my ass off all the while. In the wake of a brutal day of travel, all I long for at this moment is a bed to rest my physical and mental state of utter exhaustion. I realize it’ll take me days, perhaps weeks to settle myself here. But that isn’t a matter I am concerned with at the present moment. I just want to lay my head down on a pillow, rest.

Another knock leaves me fruitless, standing out here like an utter buffoon with the essence of my livelihood – what I deemed significant enough to bring with me – circled around my boots. The handle of my guitar case, of course, is bound fast within my fingers. Worn as the case is, I’d hate for it to sit on the cold concrete any longer than it has to.

This man, my lovely flatmate Chris, has already caused me grievance after fucking grievance. And I’ve not even had the pleasure of meeting the bastard yet. I’ve not been given a phone number, a fucking Instagram handle, for godsakes. All I know is he knew to expect me tonight. He was prepared, just the same as Georgie.

He and his house issues (that have yet to be fully disclosed to me) are the reasons I’m here weeks earlier than previously planned. A discrepancy beyond our hands was the only justification I was offered when I was made aware of the need for me to come early, if I wanted to keep my housing.

I very much do want to keep this housing. The Ivy House is one of the most sought after homes on Oxford property, so I was told. And, that’s just it – it’s a home. Not a dorm, not an apartment. A two bedroom, two bathroom house with every amenity one could ever need for. All in one glorious, old Victorian home. It’s dark, yet the warm glow from the outside lights illuminates the place just enough.

Tucked away beside a quiet cobblestone street, it’s no more than a few minutes’ walk from Magdalen college. Deep red brick, tendrils of decayed ivy, dead from the winters’ cold, clinging to the window frames. The front door is painted a forest green, with a few chips of color missing along the frame. Beautifully exquisite and charming. A home depicted in centuries old tales.

Every home on this block, the very same time-worn, elegant style. The light of day will surely display its beauty all the more.

So, here the hell I am. Weeks early, all for the purpose of being able to keep my place here. (Though, I can’t truly complain. Not about being in London, at least. Getting away sooner rather than later was a favor of divinity.)

If I could just get through the goddam door, I’d certainly feel a lot more at peace. Jesus.

I pound my fist against the hard oak again, and this time, I will not stop until someone comes to my call. “Chris?” I shout, keeping my voice to as dull a roar as possible. I’d prefer not to disturb anyone else on the east end of St. Clements street. “It’s Jake, Chris. Your new roommate from –,”

The creaking hinges squeal as the old door swings open, so abruptly that the motion creates enough wind to blow my hair from my shoulders.

Fucking finally.

“Jacob!” beams the man who tossed open the door. He stands a few inches taller than I do, no more than two or three at the most. A moustache above his thin lips, a patchy goatee on his chin. Shoulder-length hair of the same color that lays a tangled mess on top of his head. So messy, almost as if he…

A woman suddenly comes barreling out of the front door, giggling after planting a kiss to his cheek and shoving her way past me. “Talk to ya later, Chris!” she yells, bolting her way down across the street and walking inside the house directly adjacent from ours. Her own place, surely.

My lips are left agape at the suddenness of it all. Baffled doesn’t quite state it. My hand still rests on the doorframe, fingers curled tight as I try to steady the sudden spinning in my head. My first introduction to my new flatmate – flatmate, not roommate, as I keep reminding myself – comes wrapped in the scent of sweat and sex, a whirlwind that leaves me…well, speechless. No words. None at all.

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate,” Chris chuckles, smoothing the frayed strands of hair that I’m just noticing are sticking to the layer of sweat against his skin. “Had to, uh, take care of some business.”

I match his smile with a quiet one of my own, though I know the truth of it – it’s fake. After traveling, all fucking day, he couldn’t eve offer me the courtesy of letting me inside when I got here? He allowed me to stand out here for more than twenty minutes, so he could get a quick fuck in?

If I wasn’t so goddamn tired, I’d rip right the fuck into him for that. But I haven’t the proper amount of energy to allow for that at the moment. He’ll hear from me later. Right now, I just want to fucking sleep.

“Come on in, mate,” he says, lazy smile still glued to his blushed face. “Welcome to the ol’ dig.”

Another fake smile graces me as I reach for my things, only able to carry one more bag alongside my guitar in my left hand. How Georgie managed all of my things in one go (sans guitar, of course) will forever remain a mystery to me.

Chris leans forward, brow lifting in amusement. “Ah, let me help with tha – aye! You a shredder?”

“A what?” I ask, purely lost on his words. Stuck in the haze of a single thought – getting to my room.

He echos his question once more, but this time with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. It’s only when I take a few more steps into the living room that it dawns on me.

In the far corner of the space rests three guitars on individual stands. A blue Fender Strat, a Gibson Les Paul standard, and…a fucking 1930 National? Holy fuck. Only those most dedicated to the craft own a resonator such as that. A catalyst of the blues, a relic of the Delta – of sweat and dust and songs born from pure heartache. A staple in any place that houses a player who lives in the sweet spot between soul and sorrow.

My tense shoulders drop, breath stuck in my dry throat as I take it all in. The battered wooden floors, the faint scent of last night’s beer lingering in the stale air, the unmistakable aura of a house that lives and breathes music. Amps ad wah pedals, wooden crates of records, stacked nearly to the ceiling on the opposite corner from where I’m standing. And him, standing there with that crooked grin and a wrinkled Muddy Waters shirt, (how did I not notice that?) suddenly no longer the brash asshole who left me in the street.

“Jesus, man,” I utter as I take a closer look, suddenly becoming all too aware of the wrinkled Muddy Waters shirt he’s wearing. He’s a guitarist. “This is astounding.”

“Ya like her?” he laughs, moving closer and nudging the point of his elbow into my side. “She’s been by my side for a decade now. Can’t imagine playin’ without her. What about you, mate? What’s the ol’ girl you bring along, then?”

“Yeah, uh – it’s a Gibson, Gibson SG.”

“Ah, going straight for the throat with that one!” His grin grows even wider, his hand coming down heavy on my shoulder, squeezing tight as if he’s known me for years, not mere minutes. “A man after my own heart, you are!”

He breaths a low chuckle, offering a sly pat to my back. Taking the empty case leaned up against the wall, he opens it and places the 1930 inside.

Then, he takes it and walks past my things, still scattered about the floor, stepping into his own brown suedes sitting by the cracked open front door.

“Aye, Jake — I know it’s a bit sudden, having just met you and all,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a soft grin. “But, I’m playing at a pub down the road tonight, Sandy’s Piano Bar. I know I’ve not heard ya play yet but, I reckon the blues are callin’ us, yeah? Care to steal a jam with me?”

The question hits me straight in the chest, sending a jolt through the marrow of my bones. My fingers’ grip on the guitar case tightens, the worn leather somehow anchoring me in this new world I’ve found myself in.

My instinct, the first word that tickles the tip of my tongue — no.

It’s too soon. Too sudden. Unexpected in every sense of the word. I’ve not found my footing yet. Hell, I’ve not even seen my goddamn room yet.

I’ve not played for anyone since…well, since her. Since Lenny. The mere idea of it — stepping right back into this piece of myself, barring something that I’ve kept safely behind lock and key — it terrifies me.

But, Christ. I can almost hear the whisperings of old songs my dad used to play, the ones he used to teach me the ways of this very instrument. The tunes my grandparents would request, ghosts of chords I’ve haven’t dared to touch in too long.

The song I played for my grandpa as he slipped away from this world — Cross Road Blues. Dads J-45 acoustic carried me through Robert Johnson’s old tune. That very guitar, still at home in Michigan, the only thing left in my almost empty closet.

To this day, no living soul knows that was the song I played for him — the song title he uttered with one of his final, fragile breaths.

Fuck. My stomach is twisting in tight knots. All of the things I thought I was leaving in Michigan…I wasn’t prepared to be confronted with them on my first night away.

Then, as if quieted by a presence much stronger than my own, the blaring, doubtful noise begins to silence itself. And in its place, the voice of my father.

My timid, Jell-o legs carried me across the wooden stage. A crowd of forty or fifty people — it might as well have been a thousand in my ten year old mind. “I’m proud to introduce my boy Jake this evening,” dad announced to a roaring applause, the brightest smile donned his lips as he reached his arm out for me, wrapping me in the kind of hug only he could offer. “He’s a natural, folks. I can’t wait for you to hear him.”

That moment is sealed forever in my memory — my first time playing in front of people who weren’t my family. Not being taught by my dad, playing alongside him. He raved over how proud he was of me, that he knew I was born to play music. But, what he didn’t know — what I wish I’d had the chance to tell him — I was proud to be playing with him. So, so proud.

Every nerve built up within me vanished the instant my dad and I, together as one, strummed the first chords of Petty’s Learning to Fly.

I’d never understood what being a natural meant until that moment. But when my heart flooded through my fingertips, playing a tune my dad and I cherished together, it all made sense.

I’ll never forget what he told me when he handed me the SG. “Don’t ever put this thing down, son. Keep it with you — let its strings play the melodies of your heart.”

I let him down. I did exactly what he told me not to do.

I put it down for a little while after he died, but I put it down almost indefinitely after grandpa died. I let it sit, collecting the dust of wasted time. Until…

Until her. She brought me back. She killed the stagnant version of myself I’d become after so much loss. She is responsible for the death of me — the death of the man who‘s harbored so much despair in his heart. That isn’t the man my parents or my grandparents raised.

And I don’t have her anymore. I’ve lost her, too. Jesus...sometimes, it feels like I've lost everything.

But, there is something I still have — my guitar.

Chris is right — the blues are calling. Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to let them in again.

Without her...

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

a/n: sound off, babes! what do we think will happen next? 🤔 this certainly won't be easy for jake but...i think - if he decides to play - it could be a huge healing moment for him. so excited to share the rest with you.

thank you to those of you who have supported/continue to support this story. words will never suffice to express my gratitude — it simply means the world to me. i know this tale won’t resonate with everyone, but to those of you that have found even a semblance of solace through it, please don’t ever be afraid to reach out to me. i’d love to chat with you about this story, about anything. we’re here to build community with one another, & there’s truly nothing that i cherish more. 🤍

see you all soon. 🤍

taglist:

@jakeyt @alwaysonthemend @sacredjake @jakesgrapejuice @misshunnybee @reesetrippingthelight @way-to-go-lad @sinarainbows @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @klarxtr @watchingover-hypegirl @brinlygvf @stardustjake @gretavanbear @devilat-thedoor @literal-dead-leaf @gvf-ficreads @jaaakeeey @capturethechaos @neptune2324 @jaketlove @thetroublegetssoloud71 @myleftsock @sanguinebats @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @joshskittytickler @aflameforgoinghome @heckingfrick @fitalich @starshine-gvf @audgeppp @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @ninas-tearsofrain @torniturntomyarrow @beautifulcrayola @writingcold @welllauragvf @loveisonaroll @itsafullmoon @gretasfallingsky @i-love-gvf @kiszkas-canvas @mackalah @gvfmarge @jordie-gvf @gretavansara @highway-tuna @vikingsisthenewsexy

#le morte is my my favorite #F A V O R I T E #le morte d'arthur #lis <3

34 notes · View notes