jakeytkiszka

[jakeytkiszka]

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

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[jakeytkiszka]

Thinking about tucked in tshirt Jake.

[jakeytkiszka]

thinking about writing an enemies to lovers jake fic... thoughts?

[jakeytkiszka]

The Fine Print

4.2k words

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

Third and final installment to A Quick Fix

Don't miss Terms & Conditions

Masterlist

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

And there he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sit, slowly.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

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

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

“So,” he says. “This is awkward.”

You snort. “You think?”

Another silence. Shorter. Sharper.

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

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

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

“It was already worse.”

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

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

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

“Josh is watching us,” you murmur.

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

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

“Let me fix it.”

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

“Yes it can–”

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

It was going to be a long night.

══════════════════════════════

You're tipsy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you're angry.

“Fuck you,” you snap weakly.

He sighs, “It's your turn.”

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

“Y/n–”

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

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

“I'm so mad at you.”

“I can tell,” he says quietly.

“You piss me off.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

“I know how you made me feel.”

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

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

“That's your problem, then.”

You wrinkle your nose, “Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shut up.

══════════════════════════════

You wake up with a pounding headache.

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

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

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

You fucked him.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

══════════════════════════════

It’s been nearly two weeks.

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

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

You didn’t.

You know that.

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

And the silence since?

It’s worse now.

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

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

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

You don’t text him.

You almost do.

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

══════════════════════════════

You don’t mean to call him.

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

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

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

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

It rings once. Twice.

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

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

Silence.

“You’re locked out?”

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

“I– Okay. I'll be there.”

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t moved.

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

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

Though you considered it anyway.

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

You glance at him as you toe your shoes off.

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

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

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

He nods, giving you a small smile.

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

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

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

You wait another five.

He knocks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

══════════════════════════════

He's still here.

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

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

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

“Stop staring at me.”

You didn't know he was awake.

You quickly look away, “I'm not.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm in love with you.”

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

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

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

He sighs softly, “Y/n.”

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

“That's fair,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

“I hoped.”

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

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

“Because you're so easy to talk to–”

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

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

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

“That's not why– You left, Jake.”

“You told me to.”

Touché.

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

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

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

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

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

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

══════════════════════════════

You can't tell him.

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

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

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

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

“You're still here.” You say softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pout lightly, “We can talk after–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles, “Then I'm staying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whine, nodding weakly, “Yeah.”

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

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

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

“Let me come, Jakey, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

══════════════════════════════

[jakeytkiszka]

Terms and Conditions

2.6k words

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

kind of a pt 2 to A Quick Fix

══════════════════════════════

You knew better.

Damn you, you knew better.

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

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

Because now you've started something.

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

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

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

You did know better.

But here you were.

══════════════════════════════

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

He also came over to do… other things.

Things that you knew friends didn't do.

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

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

But you couldn't do that.

You wouldn't do that.

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

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

And you were okay with that.

Until you weren't.

══════════════════════════════

You were doing it again.

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

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

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

It was a cycle.

One that had begun to pick at your brain.

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

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

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

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

He frowned, “Y/n–”

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

And he believed you.

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

══════════════════════════════

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

“It's not that simple.”

“But it is.”

“No, it isn't.”

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

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

“He likes you.”

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

“No, dumbass, I mean he likes you.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you look anywhere but at him.

“Why don't you talk to him tonight?”

“I usually talk to him, Josh.”

“But not about that.”

You nod, “Not about that.”

“Do you think you ever will?”

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

══════════════════════════════

It feels domestic.

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

“You're quiet tonight.”

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

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

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

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

“Why didn't we ever talk about it?”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“It doesn't have to mean anything.”

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

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

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

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

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

He grins, “Definitely a bonus.”

══════════════════════════════

He's gone before you wake up.

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

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

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

══════════════════════════════

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

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

Filthier.

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

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

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

It's easy to pretend he loves you.

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

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

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

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

He gives you a charming grin, “No?”

“No.”

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

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

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

You are. That's the problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Jake?”

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

You ignore that too… For now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

══════════════════════════════

You can't do it.

You know he'll be here at any moment.

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

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

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

What a friendship.

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

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

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

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

Neither of you speak.

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

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

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

You huff a sad laugh, “Jake.”

“What have I done?” He asks softly.

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

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

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

“Okay.”

You finally look at him.

“Okay?”

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

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

“Complicated things?” He frowns.

“I don't know.” It's all you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now he looks horrified. “What?”

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

“You…”

“I think you should go, Jake.”

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

“I'm sorry.”

And then he's gone.

══════════════════════════════

[jakeytkiszka]

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

[jakeytkiszka]

Beneath the Black Flag VI

2.6k words

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

<< chapter five

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

You nod, swallowing heavily as you stare at him.

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

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

“Y/n.”

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

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

“What's wrong with you?”

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

“Nothing.”

You nod, watching him for a moment longer.

“I'm nervous.”

He nods, “I know.”

“I've never–”

“I know.”

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

“You are.”

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

Because of you.

“I don't know what I'm doing.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gods, you're fucking beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You love it.

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

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

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

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

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

But you don't.

Instead you weakly ask him for more.

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

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

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

Oh, he's filthy.

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

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

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

“Jake–”

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods, he's too much.

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

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

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

Another time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You alright?” His voice is soft.

“Yes.” Yours is breathy.

“Y/n–”

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

“Is it too much?”

“No. It's– You're perfect, Jake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“S‐so do you.” Your voice is weak.

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

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

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

It's all too much.

It's not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake?”

“Y/n.”

“I love you.”

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

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

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

The End!

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

[jakeytkiszka]

Beneath the Black Flag V

3.6k words

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

<< chapter four || chapter six >>

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

He pulls the mask from his face.

And you remember what it feels like to exist.

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

Then shove both hands into his chest.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

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

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

“Probably.”

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

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

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

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

“You think I forgot?”

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

You stare up at him, breath shallow.

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

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

But you say it anyway.

“I never left.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air between you hums with everything left unsaid.

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

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

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

But that care doesn't last.

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

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

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

His forehead rests against yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re alone again.

But your lips are still burning.

And your heart?

Still his.

You don’t return to the ballroom.

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

Minutes pass like hours.

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

But it never comes.

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

When morning comes, it’s too quiet.

Too… ordinary.

You rise with a jolt and rush to the corridor.

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

No sign of Jake.

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

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

Jake got in. Jake got out.

And he took something with him.

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

You read the words by moonlight.

It's all coming together. Be ready.

— Jake

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

But peace doesn’t last.

The next morning, the house trembles.

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

Too fast. Too bold.

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

Jake’s made his move.

And this time, he isn’t alone.

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

Not confusion, not concern.

Rage.

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

He reads the dispatch in silence.

Then again.

Slower.

A vein rises at his temple.

You step forward from the hall.

“What happened?”

He barely looks at you.

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

Your stomach drops.

They did know.

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

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

You flinch.

His eyes cut to you.

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

He takes a slow step toward you.

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

“I’ve had nothing to say.”

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

But you feel it now.

The edge of the unraveling.

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

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

It arrives by hawk.

No seal, no insignia.

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

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

But your father does.

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

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

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

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

His voice is low, calm.

But each word lands like a blade on the table.

Admiral,

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

— Jake

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the Navy?

Losing.

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

The tide has turned.

He’s winning.

You run.

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

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

He doesn’t look up when you enter.

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

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

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

You step forward. “You used me.”

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

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

He stares at you. And then something breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently.

Just… a quiet collapse.

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

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

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

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

He doesn't speak. Doesn’t move.

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

Victory is here.

Jake is here.

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

And he doesn’t stop you.

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

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

The estate is silent now.

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

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

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps on marble. Slow, unhurried.

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

Jake.

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

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

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

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

Just Jake.

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

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

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

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

That breaks something in you.

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

The fear, the longing, the hope.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re finally free.

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

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

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

He hasn’t stopped looking at you.

Not since the second you stepped onto his ship.

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

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

You smile, small, but real. “And?”

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

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

“I’m here,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

Because for once, maybe he does.

final chapter!

[jakeytkiszka]

Beneath the Black Flag IV

3.9k words

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

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

Masterlist

The days pass.

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

You should feel safer.

But you don’t.

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

You don’t see it coming.

Not until the second ship appears.

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

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

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

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

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

He lowers the glass. “It is.”

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

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

General Hawthorne.

Your father’s right hand.

And the last man you ever wanted to see.

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

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

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

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

But no weapons come.

Just a single rowboat, lowered smooth as silk.

One man inside.

No flags. No escort.

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

Jake turns to you. “Go below.”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

Jake stiffens.

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

Jake doesn’t move.

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

And then he’s gone.

Jake says nothing for a long time.

Neither do you.

Because now, it’s not about ransom.

It’s about control.

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

The scout ship pulls away.

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

Jake hasn’t moved.

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

You step beside him carefully. “Say something.”

He doesn’t.

You wait a beat longer. “Jake.”

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

You stare at him. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

That stops you cold.

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

Your heart stumbles.

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

“Not yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And when he speaks again, it’s quieter.

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

Because for now, there are no right answers.

Just time ticking down.

And three days left before the war begins again.

You wake to shouting.

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

This is quieter. Urgent. Controlled.

You sit up, heart already pounding.

Something’s wrong.

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

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

Your stomach drops.

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

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“Jake.”

He turns.

One look at his face tells you everything.

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

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

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

“I do.”

“You promised–”

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

“I don’t want to go.”

He swallows hard. “I know.”

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

The crew is silent. No one dares speak.

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

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

And something in him breaks.

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

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

And you let him.

Because he’s already halfway gone.

The oars cut through the water like knives.

You don’t look back.

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

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

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

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

Like it was never real at all.

The crew of the retrieval vessel doesn’t speak.

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

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

You refuse to let your father win even that.

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

And a letter.

You stare at it like it might bite.

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

You don’t open it.

Not yet.

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

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

You dream of storms, of hands you can’t reach. Of a promise whispered across the wind. I’ll find you again.

And when you wake, the letter is still there.

Still unopened.

Still waiting.

You stare at it through the long hours of the night, tracing the ink of your name with one trembling fingertip. You almost wish it were sealed with wax. With blood. With something fitting.

But it’s not.

Just folded parchment, neat and cold.

When you finally open it, the writing inside is everything you expected. Crisp. Controlled. Like he wrote it with gloves on.

You read it once. Then again. And again.

My dearest,

I trust by now you’ve come to understand why I did what I did. I regret the necessity of your time aboard the pirate ship, but it was vital that we allow the situation to unfold without interference. Emotion compromises strategy. Jake Kiszka needed to believe he had the upper hand. He needed to fall for the bait.

You did well.

You always were clever. Even your mother used to say so. She would be proud of your poise under pressure. Now that you’re safe, I expect we can put this chapter behind us. The vessel returning you is under strict instruction not to engage unless provoked. You’ll find conditions more than comfortable. Rest. Eat. You’ve earned it. And once you're home, we’ll discuss the next phase.

There is still much to be done.

Warmly,

Father

You stare at the one line until your vision blurs.

You did well.

Like you were part of the plan all along. Like he expected you to play your part. The paper crumples in your fist, soft and brutal as betrayal.

Your pulse thunders.

He never cared that you were gone. He never cared that you came back. He just wanted to know what Jake would do with you.

He never saw you as his daughter. Just a trap in a dress.

You stand slowly. The letter drops to the floor, silent as snowfall. And for the first time since you left Jake’s ship–

You don’t feel lost.

You feel furious.

The docks are quiet when the ship pulls in.

No banners, no guards, no open arms.

Just a sleek black carriage waiting at the end of the pier, flanked by two men in dark uniforms– your father’s private agents. Not Navy. Not friendly.

The second you step off the dock, they move like clockwork. One takes your arm– not rough, but not gentle either. The other nods once to the ship’s captain.

No words spoken. No questions asked. You don’t ask where you’re going.

You already know.

The carriage smells like leather and dust and something faintly chemical. You sit in silence as the city crawls past the windows. The streets are too clean, the buildings too still. A painted portrait of control.

Your father’s estate looms ahead like a memory you tried to drown.

White stone, black roof, Iron gates curling like teeth.

They don’t announce you when you arrive.

The doors open.

And there he is.

Admiral Ainsworth. Your father.

He stands at the top of the steps in full uniform, polished to gleam. Not a single hair out of place.

He does not come to you. He waits for you to come to him.

Like always.

You walk forward, every step heavier than the last. You don’t bow. You don’t lower your eyes.

His gaze rakes over you, unreadable. “You look thinner.”

You say nothing.

“I trust the voyage was tolerable?”

Still, silence.

He studies you for a moment longer, then turns. “Come inside. You’ll want to be briefed on what happens next.”

That’s it.

No apology, no welcome, no warmth. Just orders.

You follow him in– but you don’t leave part of yourself on the doorstep this time. You carry it all with you. The kiss, the fire, the sea. The voice that said I’ll find you again.

Because Jake Kiszka may have let you go.

But he’s the only one who ever saw you.

And you’re not done fighting yet.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click.

His office is exactly as you remember it.

Dark mahogany. Maps pinned like trophies. Books no one’s read in years. The air smells like old paper and gun oil.

He doesn’t offer you a seat.

You don’t sit anyway.

The Admiral pours himself a drink. The silence stretches.

“I assume you read my letter,” he says without looking at you.

“I did.”

He turns, glass in hand. “Then you understand why it had to be done.”

“I understand one thing,” you say, voice steady. “You used me.”

He raises a brow. “I positioned you. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.” You take a step forward. “I was a pawn. You handed me over like a bargaining chip and hoped the man you’ve spent years hunting would fall for me. And he did.”

“Which means the strategy worked.”

You stare at him, disbelief flooding your chest.

“I’m your daughter,” you whisper.

“You’re an asset,” he corrects, calm as ever. “A valuable one. Smart. Composed. And capable of evoking loyalty in dangerous men. That makes you rare. That makes you useful.”

Your breath catches.

He sips his drink. “This was never about you. It was about stopping a man who’s bled this coast for years. Who’s taken ships, lives, power. Jake Kiszka is a symbol now. Romanticized– feared. That makes him dangerous. And you were the perfect leverage.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“I hear results.” He sets the glass down, voice hardening. “You survived. That’s more than most. You’re home now. The game is changing, and you have a role to play.”

You shake your head. “I’m done playing your games.”

He walks slowly toward you. “You can hate me if it helps. But don’t forget what that man is. He’s a criminal. He stole you. He kept you aboard that ship for weeks–”

“You let him!”

“–and now you’re so twisted around his lies you can’t see what’s real.”

“I do see it!” you snap. “I saw it the moment he risked everything to protect me from your reach. When he treated me like a person. Not a tactic.”

He laughs, dry and cruel. “He’s a pirate. Pirates lie. That’s their nature.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re the one I can’t trust?”

That lands.

He stills.

And for the first time, his voice drops.

“You think he cares about you? Give him time. When you're no longer useful– he’ll trade you for gold, just like the rest.”

Your eyes burn, “And you already did.”

The silence between you is sharp as broken glass. He doesn't flinch, youu don't look away.

And that’s when you realize– he’s not surprised you’re angry. He expected it. He planned for it. Which means this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The days blur.

Not in the way they did at sea, with salt on your lips and wind in your hair, where danger lived in every gust and freedom tasted like blood and honey.

No, this blur is colder. Stale.

You wake at the same hour every morning.

Eat the same food. Say the same meaningless words to the same polished faces.

They call it recovery. They call it home. But it doesn’t feel like either. The house is too quiet. No crashing waves, no shouting crew, no music.

No Jake.

You try not to look out the windows, but you do anyway– every evening. Toward the harbor. Toward the sea.

There’s never anything there.

You hear nothing from your father for nearly two weeks.

Not a word about Jake. Not a whisper of strategy or outcome. As if the storm that nearly wrecked everything has been filed away and forgotten.

As if you have.

But you know better. This isn’t silence– it’s calculation.

You feel it in the way the servants glance at each other when you enter a room. In the locked drawers of your father’s study. In the sealed correspondence arriving every day by raven or courier.

He’s planning something. You just haven’t been invited to witness it. Not this time.

And Jake? Still nothing. No signal. No message. No reckless miracle in the dark.

You told him not to forget you.

But the silence grows like rot.

At night, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling, breathing shallow in the dark. You remember the way his voice rasped your name like it meant something. The way he looked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You remember his hands, his silence, his regret.

And you wonder–

Did you imagine it all? Or is he just waiting for the right time to come back?

Because you’re not sure how much longer you can wait.

The invitation arrives by silver tray.

You don’t need to read it to know who it’s from.

But you do anyway.

The Admiral requests your attendance. A celebration in honor of your safe return. Midwinter’s Eve. Formal. Guests of importance.

You stare at the words until the ink blurs. A celebration. As if your captivity were a triumph.

As if you were the prize.

They send in three seamstresses the next morning. They measure you, drape you in silks, debate colors as if the shade of your suffering might flatter you better in candlelight. You let them fuss and pin, your body numb, your voice quiet.

You’re tired of being dressed up and paraded.

Tired of being a symbol.

You eat dinner in silence. You walk the halls like a ghost. You press your fingers against the windows just to remind yourself the glass is real.

The staff avoids your gaze.

You don’t blame them.

By the time the ball arrives, your nerves feel like fraying thread.

The mansion is alive with motion– ribbons tied, champagne chilled, candles lit by the hundred.

Guests start pouring in just after nightfall. Officers, nobles, traders with teeth behind their smiles. They all want a glimpse of the daughter.

The one who was taken.

The one who survived.

You stay at the top of the stairs too long, hands trembling behind your skirts. The dress they gave you is crimson. A bold color, meant to distract from the rage in your eyes.

When you finally descend, the music halts.

Just for a moment.

Then the room swells again– laughter, wine, the dull hum of politics behind every compliment.

You feel like a ghost wearing someone else’s name.

People touch your arm, ask if you’re well, congratulate you for being brave. And you smile and nod and imagine setting the velvet curtains on fire.

Your father finds you before midnight.

He’s dressed in full regalia– medals, cuffs, a mask of easy control.

He smiles. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m wilting,” you mutter.

He chuckles like you’ve made a charming joke. “I thought this would lift your spirits. Give you a reminder of your place. Of what you’ve come home to.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” you say flatly. “No matter how hard I try.”

He leans closer. “Make the most of tonight. There may be more important uses for you soon.”

You go still. “What does that mean?”

But he’s already turning away, smiling for a diplomat from the Eastern provinces. And you’re left there, clutching your empty glass, heart hammering in your chest. Because this isn’t just a party.

It’s a show of power.

And you’re the most valuable thing in the room.

A ribboned, painted reminder that he always wins.

For now.

You feel him before you see him.

A current, slipping through the ballroom like something electric. The music swells. Another waltz. The fourth one in the last hour. You’re barely listening.

Your feet ache, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your lungs feel too small for the weight in your chest.

You turn to escape to the gallery when you freeze. A new guest is stepping through the open double doors.

Dressed in black. Elegant but muted. No medals, no insignia.

Just a mask covering half his face.

But you know him.

By the way he moves– confident, fluid, a little too relaxed for a room full of enemies. By the way his eyes– sharp, dark, alive– sweep the crowd once before landing on you.

The rest of the world blurs.

You don’t breathe.

Jake.

Your pulse slams against your ribs so hard it hurts. No one else reacts. To them, he’s just another foreign diplomat. Or a low-ranking noble come to curry favor.

But to you, he’s the sea personified.

Untamed, unwelcome, and wholly yours.

His lips twitch beneath the mask when he sees you standing there, frozen like the glass in your hand. You drop your gaze fast, heart racing. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. Your father is somewhere nearby.

So are his guards.

And Jake just walked into the lion’s mouth smiling. You don’t move. Not until you feel a presence at your side.

He’s there.

Just behind you.

Close enough that his breath brushes your ear when he speaks.

“I told you I’d find you.”

You nearly drop your glass. But you don’t. Instead, your voice comes out hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Too late.”

You glance around– no one’s paying attention. Not yet. But they will. Soon.

“What are you doing?” You whisper.

His voice is low, steady, but laced with something wild. “Making good on a promise.”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. “You’ll be caught.”

“I’ve slipped through worse nets.”

“You could die.”

“I won't,” he says softly.

The music changes again. People move around you in glittering waves.

And in the middle of it all, Jake Kiszka stands beside you, cloaked in velvet and danger, risking everything for a single moment.

For you.

part five out soon! <3

[jakeytkiszka]

Beneath the Black Flag 111

4.2k words

chapter warnings: kissing, angst, mutual denial of wanting each other ofc, pirates, blood, violence, daddy issues, a heated moment or two, asshole Jake again, self loathing, yearning, emotional moments

<< chapter two || chapter four >>

Masterlist

You wake before the sun.

The ship rocks gently beneath you, all creaks and groans and faint seabirds. The storm’s long passed.

But it’s nothing compared to the one still smoldering behind your ribs.

You sit up slowly. Your neck aches. Your lips still sting. Jake’s coat is on the floor. His presence? Gone.

You shouldn’t be surprised.

The kiss had led from the chartroom to his cabin, hands grabbing and touching wherever they could. He'd layed you out on his bed, hovering over you as he kissed you breathless. He had more self control than you did, staving away his need by holding you tightly to him and promising it another time.

You find him at the bow. Alone. Of course.

The ocean spreads endlessly ahead, blue bleeding into gold. He doesn’t turn when you approach.

You stop just close enough to speak, just far enough to pretend you’re not hoping he’ll say something first.

He doesn’t.

So you break the silence.

“Nice to see you didn’t jump overboard.”

A pause. Then, “I considered it.”

You almost smile. Almost.

He still won’t look at you.

“So,” you say, voice carefully even. “What now?”

Jake exhales like the question costs him something.

“What happened last night…” He swallows it like it burns. “It was a mistake.”

You nod slowly. “Right. That’s your favorite line.”

“It doesn’t mean it wasn’t true.”

You blink at that.

“You don’t kiss people you don’t trust, Jake.”

He turns finally, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he says. Quiet. Devastated.

Least of all himself– though he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to.

You step back.

“Then don’t worry,” you say. “It won’t happen again.”

You leave before he can answer.

And for the rest of the day, you pass each other like ghosts.

But the worst part isn’t the silence.

It’s knowing he kissed you like he meant it.

And now he’s pretending he didn’t. Again.

Jake doesn’t sleep. Not after the storm. Not after everything that’s happened.

The kiss.

It’s a weight on him, dragging him under when he’s supposed to be focused on something else. There’s no room for distractions. He can’t afford them. Not with the crew watching. Not with you.

He finds you later that evening, standing at the edge of the deck, staring out at the horizon like you’re waiting for something to call you home.

You don’t notice him until he’s standing right behind you.

“I don’t want to do this,” he says, voice gruff.

You stiffen but don’t turn. “Then don’t.”

He runs a hand through his wet hair, eyes fixed on the storm-scarred sea. “I’m not the kind of man you think I am.”

The words fall out of him like stones. The truth is heavy. He’d rather choke on it than say it aloud, but he knows it’s the only way to get you to understand.

“I’m a pirate, a murderer. I’ve burned ships, sunk men, and chased after ghosts for so long I don’t remember who I was before it all started. You think you see me as something else, but I’m not.” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “I’m not a man you get tangled up in. Not unless you want to end up broken.”

You finally turn, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together in that way that drives him mad.

“You think you’re too horrible for me?” The question is soft, almost mocking, but there’s something in it that digs at him, that makes him stand up straighter, though he wants nothing more than to look away.

“Yeah,” he growls. “I do.”

His fists clench at his sides. The wind picks up again, the storm still rattling the ship, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing compared to the quiet storm in his chest.

“I don’t deserve you,” he spits. “You’re not like the rest of them. You’ve got something I don’t. Hope. A future. A place you belong. You could go home. You can forget all this madness and pretend it never happened.” His eyes lock with yours, and for a second, there’s a crack in his facade. “But me? I don’t have that. I’ve got nothing left but this ship and the endless ocean.”

You stand there, as still as the night, studying him in a way that makes him feel like he’s exposed in front of you– like you see everything and nothing all at once.

“We’re not the same,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “And that’s why it’s a mistake. We need to keep it business– strictly business– until I’m done here and you can go back where you belong.”

He takes a slow step back, like the distance will give him some space to breathe.

“You don’t belong here,” he mutters, eyes dropping to the deck. “Not with me.”

The silence between you stretches thin. The words were meant to hurt, to push you away, but they feel hollow. Empty.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting from you. Anger? Disappointment? Tears?

But all he gets is a quiet nod from you, like you’ve already resigned yourself to it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

And then, without another word, you turn away. He watches you walk, shoulders tight, head held high like you’re holding it all together.

Jake stands there for a long while, staring at the same endless horizon, the weight of his own words sinking into him like stones.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s doing you a favor.

But he doesn’t know if he believes it.

Not when every part of him wants to stop you, to pull you close and tell you that he’s more than the man he’s pretending to be.

That you’re more than the future he’s too afraid to let himself want.

But he can’t. He won’t.

He needs to keep you at arm’s length. For your sake.

And for his own.

The ship creaks beneath his boots long after you’re gone.

Jake doesn’t move. Not at first. Not until the sky begins to shift from inky black to the bruised blue of morning. The wind has died down, but the ache inside him hasn’t.

He forces himself below deck, past sleeping crew and dim lantern light. The corridors feel tighter than usual, claustrophobic. Like the weight of what he didn’t say is pressing in from all sides.

He doesn’t see you again until midday.

You’re tying down rope beside the quartermaster, sleeves rolled up, jaw set like nothing’s wrong. Like last night never happened.

But he sees the tightness in your shoulders. The careful way you avoid his gaze.

Jake says nothing. He can’t. Not with the crew watching. Not with eyes always lingering longer than they should.

Still, something inside him claws for air.

He stalks past, muttering something to the first mate about the heading, but his eyes flick to you, once. Just once.

You don’t look up.

That night, the storm returns. Smaller this time, but sharp. Angry. Like the sea knows what he’s done.

Jake climbs the rigging alone, soaked and cursing the heavens, working through the worst of it with salt in his mouth and fury in his chest.

When he climbs back down, the deck slick and treacherous beneath him, you’re there. Waiting.

Soaked to the bone. Unmoving.

“What are you doing?” he barks, harsher than he means to. “You’ll freeze out here.”

You stare at him, eyes burning with something he doesn’t want to name. Rain drips from the edge of your jaw, glinting in the lantern light as you take a step forward.

Jake doesn’t move.

He doesn’t know if he’s afraid you’ll leave again– or afraid you won’t.

“I’m not asking you to be someone else,” you say, voice low, cutting through the wind. “I’m not asking you to change. I’m just asking you to stop pretending like none of this matters.”

He scoffs, but it’s weak. Empty. “You think it doesn’t?”

“Then act like it does.”

The breath he draws is shaky. He hates how raw he feels. Like the storm peeled him open from the inside and left every nerve exposed.

“I told you what I am.”

“You told me what you were.”

Your words hang there between you, sharp and deliberate.

“You think I don’t see the way you take the wheel in a storm, the way the crew listens to you like their lives depend on it?” you ask, stepping even closer. “You think I didn’t notice when you gave your rations to the boy who got sick last week? Or how you haven’t slept since I’ve been onboard?”

Jake’s throat tightens. He clenches his jaw, trying to stop the way his chest threatens to cave in.

“You want to be the monster,” you whisper. “Fine. But don’t lie to me and pretend that’s all you are.”

The rain softens, a drizzle now, tapping gently on the wooden deck. The ship rocks beneath your feet, but neither of you move.

Finally, he says, “You should hate me.”

“I tried,” you admit. “Didn’t take.”

He lets out a breath– half laugh, half sigh– and for a moment, the weight lessens. Just a little.

“I don’t know how to be the man you think I am,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to,” you say. “You just have to stop running from him.”

Jake stares at you, something ancient and aching in his eyes.

Then, slowly, he reaches out– like he’s not sure he has the right– and touches your hand.

It’s tentative. Barely there.

But it’s real.

The silence that follows is not hollow this time. It’s full. Heavy with everything neither of you can say just yet.

And for the first time in days, the sea seems quiet.

By dawn, the storm is gone again, leaving only slick decks and the scent of salt-soaked wood. The crew is quieter than usual, voices low as they move about their duties. A tension lingers in the air– not the storm’s, but something else. Anticipation. Like the sea is holding its breath.

You're at the rail again, watching the pale line of the horizon, when the lookout shouts from the crow’s nest.

“Ship off the port bow!”

Jake’s out of the captain’s quarters in seconds. He doesn’t have to climb the rigging to know what it is– he recognizes the cut of her sails before the flag even comes into view. White canvas, sharp and straight. Navy.

Your breath catches as the blue-and-gold crest unfurls in the wind. You know that sigil.

Your father’s fleet.

Jake’s face is unreadable. Ice, stone, something unmovable. “He found us.”

You look at him. “You knew he would.”

He doesn’t deny it.

The ship slows as the Navy vessel pulls alongside at a safe distance. Not close enough to board. Just close enough to talk.

A rowboat is lowered from their side– one man rowing, another sitting tall at the stern, posture stiff with military precision. A white flag flaps at the bow.

A negotiation.

Jake watches the boat approach in silence, hands clasped behind his back. You stand beside him, but you’re no longer sure whose side you’re on.

When the envoy climbs aboard, soaked and scowling, he looks straight past Jake and finds you.

“My lady,” he says, breath ragged. “By order of Admiral–”

Jake cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “She’s not going anywhere.”

The envoy straightens. “We come under peaceful terms. The Admiral wishes to resolve this without bloodshed.”

Jake steps forward slowly. “Funny. He didn’t mind blood when it was mine.”

The envoy swallows visibly. “A letter. From your father.” He holds it out to you, sealed in red wax.

Your fingers tremble as you break the seal. Jake watches you read it, jaw clenched.

It’s short. Formal.

My dearest,

Your absence has not gone unnoticed. I trust you are alive, despite the circumstances. You are to be brought home at once. The man who holds you will be given leniency if he cooperates. If not, the sea will turn red.

You look up.

Jake’s eyes are already on you, cold and unreadable. “Well?” he asks.

You fold the letter, lips pressed tight. “He’s giving you a chance.”

Jake turns back to the envoy. “Tell your Admiral,” he says, “the answer is no.”

The envoy gapes. “You’d risk war for this?”

Jake’s smile is humorless. “You think this ship hasn’t lived through worse?” He gestures to the rowboat. “Now get off my deck.”

The envoy doesn’t move.

Jake draws his pistol slowly. “I said go.”

This time, he listens.

When the rowboat hits the water, the tension on deck uncoils like a cut rope. Jake doesn’t look at you as he turns away.

You find him below deck an hour later.

The tension still clings to the ship like fog, but the crew pretends to be calm. They scrub and tie lines and laugh too loud, as if they didn’t just watch their captain stare down a Navy ship and refuse a peace offering.

Jake is in his cabin, the door half-closed, the lantern light inside casting long shadows. You push it open without knocking.

He doesn’t look up.

He’s pouring rum into a tin cup, slow and steady, like he’s counting seconds instead of ounces. His coat is tossed over a chair. His shirt is half-open, collar soaked from the rain that hasn’t quite dried.

“I should thank you,” you say quietly. He doesn’t answer. You step inside and shut the door behind you. “I know what that cost you.”

He takes a sip, finally glancing up. “Do you?”

You don’t rise to the bait. “You could’ve handed me over.”

“I should’ve handed you over.”

“But you didn’t.”

Jake leans back against the table, the cup still in his hand. “Don’t mistake it for kindness. I didn’t do it for you.”

“Then who?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be. “Your pride? Some twisted revenge fantasy?”

“Maybe.” He meets your gaze. “Maybe I just didn’t like the idea of him winning again.”

You step closer. The air between you shifts, heavy with what’s unspoken. “You told me you weren’t a good man,” you say softly. “But good men don’t throw away their leverage. Especially not for someone they claim not to care about.”

Jake laughs, bitter and low. “You think I did this because I care?”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “Didn’t you?”

Silence stretches again, taut and trembling. He looks at you like he’s trying to hold something back– rage or regret or need, you can’t tell. Maybe all three. Maybe more.

And then, finally, he breaks.

Jake crosses the room in three long strides, catches your face in his hands and kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever be allowed. It’s not gentle. It’s not neat. It’s desperate.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m not him,” he whispers. “I’m not your father. I won’t use you anymore like he is. I swear it.”

You don’t answer with words.

You just kiss him again.

And this time, neither of you pulls away.

His hands tremble where they rest on your jaw, but his mouth is anything but unsure. It’s all hunger and heat and the quiet ache of someone who’s wanted too long without asking. When you press closer, he groans into your mouth, gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

But you don’t.

You stay. Even as his lips trail to your throat. Even as your fingers find the edge of his shirt and tug it free.

His breath hitches when you do, chest rising sharply. You feel the tension beneath your palms– the restraint, the fear, the desire warring just beneath his skin.

You pull back, only slightly. “Jake…”

He rests his forehead against yours again, eyes closed, breath uneven.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper. “Not out of guilt. Not because of what you didn’t do today.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

His eyes open, and for once, there’s no mask. No swagger. Just the man.

“You scare me,” he says. “Because I want to keep you. And I’ve never wanted to keep anything before.”

Your heart clenches.

He looks down, almost ashamed. “I told myself this would end with him broken, and me with the upper hand. That you were just a means to that end. But you walked onto this ship and everything shifted.”

Your fingers slide up his chest, slow. “I didn’t ask to change anything.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s what makes it worse.”

You study him in the dim light, the candle behind him throwing golden halos across his shoulders. “So what now?”

His lips graze yours again– softer, slower this time.

“Now,” he says, “I stop pretending I don’t want you.”

His hands move with more certainty now, fingers undoing the buttons of your blouse with a care that contradicts the storm always simmering behind his eyes. He pulls you toward the bed, sitting down and tugging you gently into his lap. You straddle him, knees on either side of his hips, and his breath stutters when your mouths meet again– open and deep and hungry.

But it’s not just heat that moves between you.

You slow the kiss, fingers curling into his hair. “You said I didn’t belong here.”

Jake cups your face again, voice rough. “I lied.”

You press your forehead to his. “Then don’t lie anymore.”

“I won’t.” He kisses you once more, then rests his hands on your thighs, grounding himself. “But when this ends– when your father comes back with more ships, and this turns ugly– I don’t want to lose you in the smoke.”

“You won’t,” you whisper.

And in that fragile moment, you both believe it.

Even if it’s just for tonight.

His mouth is warm against yours, and his hands– gods, his hands– hold you like you’re breakable, like he’s afraid of his own strength. He tastes like salt and rum and something sweeter beneath it all, something that threatens to undo you entirely.

You’ve never been touched like this before.

Like you matter.

Like it means something.

Your shirt slips from your shoulders, his fingers ghosting down the curve of your spine. You’re in his lap, straddling his hips, and every breath comes harder than the last. Your heart pounds so loudly you swear he can hear it.

His lips drag from your mouth to your throat, and you tilt your head without thinking. It feels natural. Easy. Like your body knows him already.

You reach for the laces of his shirt, ready to give him this– give yourself– but his hand catches yours.

Soft. But firm.

You freeze.

Jake pulls back, just enough to see your face. His eyes search yours, raw and open in a way you’ve never seen before. “Wait,” he breathes.

You blink. “What?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say nothing. That he’s going to let the moment fall apart like shattered glass.

“If we go any further, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop next time.”

You sit back slightly, breath shallow. “And you think there will be a next time?”

A shadow passes over his face. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I want there to be. And that’s exactly why we can’t do this now.”

It hurts more than you expect it to.

Not because he doesn’t want you.

But because he does.

Because this isn't rejection– it’s restraint. The kind that makes your heart ache more than your body ever could.

You nod slowly, climbing off his lap with shaking legs. He moves to help you, but you wave him off gently.

The silence between you is thicker now. Intimate in a different way.

He hands you your shirt without a word.

You slip it back on, avoiding his gaze, unsure what to say that won’t crack something fragile wide open.

But then he speaks.

“I want to be ready,” Jake says, voice low. “When I have you. I want it to be when I’m not trying to prove something to your father. Or to myself.”

You pause in the doorway, fingers resting on the frame.

“You think you’ll ever stop trying?”

His smile is faint. Tired. “Gods, I hope so.”

You leave without another word.

But later, long after the lamps have burned out and the storm has finally passed for good, you lie awake in your cabin with his words echoing through your chest.

I want there to be a next time.

You hope so too.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

The wind is calm, the ship steady, but your thoughts are anything but. You lie still in your hammock, eyes fixed on the beams overhead, listening to the faint sounds of the night crew and the rhythmic groan of the sea against the hull.

Every time you close your eyes, you feel him.

His hands on your skin. His mouth on your throat. The way he looked at you like you were both a miracle and a mistake.

But mostly, you feel the moment he stopped.

And what it cost him to do it.

By morning, you’re raw. Frayed at the edges. Your shirt still smells like him, and you hate how much you notice.

Above deck, the sun is pale and watery, the kind that comes after a storm and pretends everything’s been washed clean. But it hasn’t. Not really.

Jake is at the helm when you surface.

His eyes flick toward you briefly, then back to the sea.

He doesn’t say a word.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches long and brittle.

You move to stand beside him, the wind tugging gently at your sleeves. The crew works quietly around you, no one paying you too much mind– but you can feel them watching. They always are.

After a long pause, you say softly, “You didn’t sleep.”

Jake huffs a humorless breath. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You nod, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“I keep trying to be angry,” you admit. “That you stopped. That you didn’t want me the way I wanted you.”

His hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles pale. “It wasn’t about want.”

“I know.” You glance at him. “That’s the worst part.”

He finally turns to face you, and there’s something in his expression– an ache that mirrors your own. “I meant what I said last night.”

“I know.”

“And I’m still not ready,” he says. “Not for what that would mean. Not yet.”

“I’m not asking you to be ready,” you say. “I’m just asking you not to run.”

A beat. Then another.

Jake looks away, jaw clenched.

“I’m not running,” he mutters. “I’m trying not to ruin it.”

The words sit between you like something sacred. Like an apology and a promise wrapped in salt and silence.

You reach over, just barely brushing your fingers against his.

He doesn’t pull away.

And for now, that’s enough.

The peace doesn’t last.

You feel it shift sometime that afternoon, subtle, but unmistakable. A change in the air. In the way the ship lists slightly starboard, the hum of the crew moving faster, speaking in tighter circles, their words clipped and unfinished when you draw near.

You catch a glimpse of Jake at the helm, his eyes scanning the horizon with a tension that sets your teeth on edge.

Then you hear it: a single sharp tone from the bell above deck.

A warning.

You’re halfway to Jake’s quarters when the door slams open and he storms inside.

“There’s a shadow off our stern,” he says without preamble. “Too far to see flags, but she’s keeping pace.”

You blink. “Another Navy ship?”

“Could be. Or a pirate who thinks we look like an easy prize. Either way, she’s testing us.”

He moves fast, grabbing a cutlass from the wall, strapping on a brace of pistols. He’s already halfway back out the door when you catch his arm.

“Jake, what are you–?”

He stops. Just for a breath.

“I need to know if it’s a threat,” he says. “And if it is, I need to lead the response. I can’t leave the crew guessing.”

You search his face. “So you’re just going to leave me here?”

His jaw clenches. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

A shape looms behind him in the hallway– Willis. Broad-shouldered, scarred down the neck, eyes like dull coins.

“Stay in my quarters,” Jake says. “He’ll stay with you.”

You glance at Willis. He gives the barest of nods. Not warm. Not cruel. Just solid.

Jake steps closer, lowers his voice. “I don’t know what that ship is, but I won’t risk you walking into it.”

Your voice comes out tight. “And if they board us?”

“They won’t.” A beat. “But if they do, you’ll be the last door they reach.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

He presses a hand to your shoulder– brief, grounding. “Stay here.”

And then he’s gone, out the door and up the stairs, boots pounding, a storm in motion.

You don’t follow him.

You want to. Gods, you want to tear up after him, demand to know what ship dares tail this one. But his words ring in your head:

If they board us, you’ll be the last door they reach.

So you stay.

You sit on the edge of his bed, hands twisted in the fabric of your skirt. The silence stretches, taut and unnatural. The ship groans beneath you, each creak like a question unanswered.

Willis hasn’t moved from the doorway. He stands there, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the wood grain.

“How bad is it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. “Captain’s handled worse.”

You’re not sure if that’s meant to reassure you.

Minutes crawl by. Then footsteps thunder overhead. A distant voice– Jake’s– barking orders sharp as cannon fire.

You rise, instinct pulling you toward the door, but Willis shifts to block your path.

“Captain said stay put.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is that an order?”

“No,” he says slowly. “But it's a... suggestion.”

You glance past him, weighing his words. You knew without a doubt you'd put up a losing fight trying to get past him. The hallway is empty, but the deck above roils with tension.

A slam. A distant shout. The sound of sails catching hard wind.

You and Willis wait, listening to the storm play out above.

Then, finally– boots on the stairs. Jake appears in the doorway, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed, shirt torn, a smear of blood along his jaw and shoulder.

He looks at Willis first.

“You may go now.”

Willis nods once and slips away.

Jake doesn’t speak. He grabs a cloth from the basin, dabs at the blood. You cross the room without realizing it.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s not mine,” he says.

You swallow. “What happened?”

He lets the cloth fall, meets your eyes.

“False flag. She was Navy, all right, but not here for a fight. They just wanted us to know they could find us again. Anytime they want.”

Your stomach twists. “And the crew?”

“They saw enough to know we’re still prey. Not everyone liked that.”

There’s something raw in his voice. Not defeat. Not yet. But close.

You reach for him, fingers brushing the dried blood at his temple.

“They didn’t board,” you whisper.

“But they will,” he says. “Next time, they might not be so polite.”

The two of you stand there in the silence, breathing the same heavy air.

This ship may belong to Jake.

But now, you understand– he's fighting a war on every side to keep it.

And you're the reason he won't surrender.

chapter four

[jakeytkiszka]

Beneath the Black Flag 11

3.9k words

chapter two warnings: arguing, pining, yearning, more kidnapping, rescuing, tension, smooching, more arguing, pirate stuff, violence, mentions of blood/death, a heated moment or two– lemme know if imissed any!

<< chapter one || chapter three >>

Masterlist

The night after the battle, the ship is quieter than usual. Not out of peace– but exhaustion.

The crew eats in near silence, nursing bruises and cleaning wounds. No one speaks of the dead. That’s the rule out here: if you survive, you keep sailing. Mourning is a luxury reserved for land.

You take your food alone. Not because they shun you– but because they’re watching. Still trying to decide what you are.

You’re not sure you know either.

Later, you find your way to Jake’s cabin. You shouldn’t be there– he’s not. But your legs carry you in anyway. Curiosity, you tell yourself. Not comfort. Not the way the air still smells like him. Not the heat that spreads when you see the coat you wore still slung over the chair.

You trace the edge of the map on his desk. Routes you can’t quite decipher. Names half-scratched out. One spot circled over and over in angry ink.

A port. A plan. A reckoning.

The door creaks open behind you.

You freeze.

Jake steps in, rain clinging to him like second skin, his hair damp, his shirt unlaced again like some accidental sin. He stops when he sees you. And doesn’t speak for a moment.

“I didn’t give you permission to be here,” he says.

You don’t turn. “I didn’t ask.”

He closes the door behind him. Slowly. Deliberately.

You feel his presence at your back, all heat and danger and restraint wound tight as rigging rope.

“You always this defiant?” he asks.

“Only when I’m awake.”

He moves closer, just enough that you can hear the change in his breathing.

“You’re testing me,” he murmurs.

Finally, you turn. Slowly. He’s close– closer than propriety would ever allow. But that doesn’t seem to matter here. Your gaze meets his, level and unflinching.

“I think you like being tested,” you say.

A flicker in his eyes. A twitch of his lips.

“You think too much.”

“You avoid answering.”

He leans in– just enough that you catch the scent of him again: salt, spice, danger. Your breath catches, but you don't move. Neither does he.

“We’re not doing this,” he says quietly.

You arch a brow. “Doing what?”

“This,” he says again, more roughly. “Whatever this is. It’s a mistake.”

You nod, slowly. “Then why haven’t you stepped away?”

His jaw tightens.

“I don’t want to give you the satisfaction,” he says.

You smile, slow and sly. “Of what?”

“Of knowing I want to.”

A silence falls between you, charged and taut.

Then he steps back– just slightly. Enough to breathe again. Enough to leave both of you aching for something you won’t admit out loud.

Not yet.

“Get out of my cabin,” he mutters.

But you don’t miss the way his gaze lingers. Or the way his hand brushes yours as you pass him.

Just enough to be accidental.

Just enough to make you wish it wasn’t.

The moment you step on deck, Jake's already shouting orders. The wind’s picked up, the clouds thick with rain. The crew rushes to batten the sails, and he’s in his element– sharp, commanding, storm-eyed.

He barely glances at you.

You walk toward the helm anyway.

“I need to speak with you,” you say.

Jake doesn’t look at you. “Now’s not the time.”

“Then when?” You step in front of him. “After the next ambush? After you get half your crew killed chasing your revenge?”

That makes him stop.

He turns to you slowly, and the look in his eyes could cut through oak. “My crew knows what they signed up for.”

“They didn’t sign up for your ghosts,” you snap.

“And you didn’t sign up to be here at all, so forgive me if your opinion carries less weight than sea foam.”

It’s sharp. Deliberate. A reminder of what you are. What you’re not.

You go still.

“Is that what this is now?” you ask, voice low. “Back to pretending I’m just the admiral’s child?”

Jake’s jaw tightens. “You were never not that.”

“And you were never more than a pirate with a grudge,” you fire back. “A coward hiding behind a ship and a stolen flag.”

That one lands.

He steps closer, eyes blazing.

“Careful,” he growls. “You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

You meet him toe to toe, refusing to flinch. “Neither are you.”

The rain starts then– slow at first, then sharp and fast, drenching the deck. Still, neither of you moves. The rest of the crew finds excuses to be anywhere else.

You hold each other’s glare like two flint stones– one spark away from burning down the whole ship.

Jake finally turns from you, voice cold. “Go back below. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

You stand there a moment longer, throat tight, fists clenched.

Then you walk away.

And behind you, Jake doesn’t watch you go.

But he wants to.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

A simple shore mission. Quick supply run. Meet the contact, retrieve the cargo, sail before nightfall.

But then the contact never showed. And the king’s marines did.

Now you’re both on the run– again.

The storm came fast. Rain hissing down in sheets, turning the cliffs slick and the jungle path treacherous. Jake had barely pulled you through the hidden entrance before the soldiers passed by, their lanterns swinging like distant stars.

Now, you’re deep inside a smuggler’s cave– half-forgotten and swallowed by stone. The tide’s rising outside. You won’t be leaving tonight.

And worse, there’s only one dry patch of ground, half-sheltered under a ledge.

You’re already soaked to the skin. Mud stains your skirts. A trickle of blood snakes down Jake’s temple from a shallow cut.

You sit across from him, hugging your knees, pretending you’re not shivering.

He pretends not to notice.

Then he shrugs off his coat and tosses it at you.

You glare. “I don’t want your pity.”

He scoffs. “It’s not pity. It’s practicality. If you freeze to death, I have to carry you back.”

You don’t thank him.

But you don’t give it back, either.

Minutes pass. Rain hammers the rocks outside. Somewhere deeper in the cave, water drips in a slow, rhythmic echo.

Finally, Jake breaks the silence.

“You were right,” he says, low and gruff. “Back on deck. About me.”

You look up.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“I am chasing ghosts.”

You say nothing. Let the silence do the work.

He finally glances at you, jaw clenched. “You’re not the only one who wants to be more than what people see.”

That surprises you. Not the words– but the way he says them. Quiet. Careful. Like they’re something sacred.

“You think I don’t know what they say about me?” he continues. “That I’m just a pirate with a grudge? Maybe I am. But I’m also still standing.”

You watch him for a long moment. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

That gets his attention.

His eyes lock with yours. A beat passes. Then another.

“Trouble,” he says, voice low.

You raise a brow. “That’s all?”

He leans in, just slightly. Enough to steal your breath.

“And maybe,” he adds, “a reason not to burn everything down.”

You feel it then– the crack in the wall between you. The heat behind the tension. The weight of everything unsaid pressing in from all sides.

But neither of you cross that line.

Not yet.

Instead, Jake leans back, folds his arms, and mutters, “You snore, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “Not half as loud as you.”

He smirks. “Sweet dreams, princess.”

But neither of you sleeps for a long time.

It happens too fast.

A wrong turn in the cliffs. A hidden flank of marines. A stun to the head. By the time you come to, your wrists are bound, your mouth tastes of blood, and you’re staring at the inside of a cell. Damp. Cold. Far too quiet.

They don’t interrogate you. Not yet.

You hold out for nearly two days.

You don’t cry. You don’t beg. You don’t scream.

You wait.

But he doesn’t come.

Not a sign. Not a whisper of cannonfire. Not even a damned seagull to remind you of the sea.

The cell is colder now. Or maybe that’s just you.

You stare at the wall with the crack of light– thin as a knife’s edge, but it doesn’t change anymore. Night or day, the dark feels the same.

The next time the guards come, you don’t meet their eyes.

Instead, you speak.

“My name is Ainsworth,” you say. Quiet, measured, like your father would want. “Daughter of Admiral Thomas Ainsworth. Commander of His Majesty’s Fleet in the West Indies.”

They stop.

The one with the scar smirks. “That supposed to mean something to us, princess?”

“It should,” you say. “Because if you return me alive, my father will reward you. Richly.”

The words taste like rust and shame.

Another guard chuckles. “Thought you were the pirate’s plaything.”

You flinch, not allowing yourself to wish you were Jake's plaything.

“Clearly not,” you murmur. “He’s left me to rot.”

They trade looks– surprised, maybe. Or amused.

You stare at the floor.

Something inside you hardens and hollows at the same time.

You don’t want to go back to silk and chandeliers. To the leering smiles and heavy expectations. To playing the good girl in a cage of gold.

But if Jake Kiszka has abandoned you…

Then maybe that’s all you ever were.

A piece in someone else’s game.

You tilt your chin.

“I want to go home.”

But hours pass. No guards return. No response from the outpost. Just the strange hush of a storm rolling in, and the gnawing guilt that you gave his name to men who’d kill him if they could.

And for what?

For the chance to go back to being a prisoner in a prettier room?

You bite your lip, trying not to feel the tears welling.

You hate him.

You hate that you don’t.

You hate how much it hurts to think he really left you.

And then–

Boom.

A cannon.

And the walls shake with the sound of rage coming for you.

Shouts rise. Boots thunder. Something explodes far too close.

The guards panic.

You smile, even before the cell door flies open.

And there he is.

Soaked. Bloody. Livid.

Jake storms in like a force of nature, sword slick with someone’s blood, eyes locked only on you.

“You’re late,” you say hoarsely.

His chest rises, his jaw clenched. “You’re lucky I didn’t destroy the whole bloody island.”

“I had it under control,” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says flatly. “Looked that way.”

He turns, already halfway to the door. “Let’s go. Before they regroup.”

You don’t follow. Not yet.

“You came back,” you say. Not a question. Not a plea. Just fact.

Jake stops.

Doesn’t turn.

“You’re useful to me,” he says. Voice sharp. Cold. Like flint striking steel. “Would’ve been inconvenient to lose you.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

You lift your chin.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to misplace your leverage.”

Jake finally looks back.

His expression is unreadable.

But his knuckles are white around the hilt of his sword.

“You’re not as important as you think,” he says.

“Neither are you,” you snap.

Silence stretches between you like a wire pulled too tight.

And still– you follow him.

Because no matter what the words are, the truth is in the way he watched the shadows on the wall.

The way he nearly tore the island apart.

But you don’t thank him.

And he doesn’t ask for it.

The sea is calm.

The deck is not.

No one talks about the rescue. No one dares. Jake hasn’t spoken to you since you were hauled back aboard, dripping rainwater and pride, his coat still slung over your shoulders like a chain.

You gave it back, so to speak, before you reached your cabin. You left it on the wooden floor of the deck.

Now, days later, you still haven’t said more than a sentence to each other. Not that there’s time. He’s always on deck. Always moving. Always commanding.

Always avoiding you.

You pass each other on the stairs. In the corridor. On the deck at dawn. And each time, your eyes meet– brief, sharp, unreadable.

And then they don’t.

Today, the crew is on edge. A navy patrol spotted near the strait. Guns loaded, orders barked, storm building off the port bow.

You help where you can.

Jake pretends not to notice.

But when you grip a rope wrong and nearly burn your palm, he’s suddenly there– hand catching yours, voice hard.

“Do you want to fall overboard?”

You yank your hand back. “Do you want to give me another reason to?”

The crew goes silent.

His jaw tenses. “Get belowdeck. Now.”

You step closer, defiant. “Don’t give me orders like I’m yours to command.”

“You’re on my ship.”

“I never asked to be!”

He leans in– low and quiet and furious.

“No,” he says. “But now you’re part of it. So unless you want to be thrown overboard properly, get out of my way.”

You step back.

Your heart’s hammering. Not from fear. From something hotter. More reckless.

You hate him.

You want him.

You want to scream.

Instead, you turn without a word and disappear down the stairs, every step echoing louder than it should.

Jake doesn’t watch you go.

But the splintered wood under his grip says he wants to.

The storm hits harder than expected.

Rain lashes the ship. Wood groans. The entire hull tilts like it’s trying to throw you out.

You hear Jake shouting orders above, but you’re in the hold, securing crates as the floor pitches. Rope in your hands. Salt on your lips.

And then he’s there.

Soaked. Fuming.

“You think you're part of the crew now?” he growls.

You spin around. “I’m trying to help.”

“You’re in the way.”

“Then toss me overboard like you keep threatening. Do it.”

Lightning flashes. His face is pale with fury.

“You’re not listening,” he says. “You never do.”

“You don’t say anything worth hearing!”

He takes a step forward. You don’t back down.

“You told them who your father was,” he bites out. “Offered yourself like a prize.”

Your breath catches.

“You left me,” you whisper. “What was I supposed to do? Wait like a fool while they decided whether to gut me or sell me?”

“I was coming for you.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“I don’t say things,” he snaps. “I do them. I came, didn’t I?”

“And then you acted like I was just… cargo. Like it didn’t matter.”

His voice drops, rough and shaky. “Because if I told you the truth…”

He doesn’t finish.

You stare at him. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it, damn you–”

And then his mouth crashes into yours.

Hard. Messy. Desperate. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.

It’s everything you’ve both been denying– poured out all at once.

You grab his collar, yank him closer. He presses you back against the wooden beam, hands buried in your hair, storm roaring outside but nothing louder than the pounding of your hearts.

He pulls back, breathing ragged.

“This changes nothing,” he says, voice rough.

You kiss him again.

And lie, against his lips, “Of course not.”

The kiss feels like a fire.

One that burns too quickly. One that shouldn’t have started at all.

Jake pulls back, like he’s been stung, and you feel the sudden absence of him– the heat, the pressure, the chaos. Your breath catches in your throat, your chest tight. Like you're drowning in air.

His hands drop from your face, your neck. He takes a step back. The space between you widens.

You stare at each other, both breathing like you’ve just run miles, and neither of you speaks.

It’s too much. Too fast. Too dangerous.

“I didn’t… mean that,” he mutters, voice rougher than before. “That was…”

He doesn’t finish. You can’t make him.

The words you want to say– I didn’t mean it either– die on your tongue.

You press your lips together, wiping away the taste of him from your mouth, like you can erase it. Like you can erase everything that happened in that breathless moment.

And then you do what you’ve always done.

You pretend it didn’t matter.

You lift your chin, locking your gaze on him, trying to push down the wild thing inside you. The thing that makes your hands shake, that makes your heart race.

“It won’t happen again,” you say. Your voice is too cold, too controlled. “You can go back to pretending I’m just cargo.”

He flinches. Barely. It’s enough.

“You should be grateful,” he snaps, turning toward the ladder, his voice stiff. “Not everyone would bother. But I don’t do favors, y/n.”

You watch him leave.

And with every step he takes away from you, the ache inside you deepens.

You stay in the hold. Alone. Even after the storm subsides and the ship steadies.

You pretend the kiss didn’t happen.

You pretend he didn’t change everything in that moment.

And when you finally speak again, to him or anyone else, the words are sharp and cold.

As if nothing’s changed.

Your shackles are gone. Not your status.

You’re still a captive.

But these days, you walk the deck like you belong– because no one dares say otherwise. Not after the rescue. Not after the storm. Not after the kiss you’re both pretending didn’t happen.

Jake hasn’t touched you since.

Hasn’t even looked at you for more than a second at a time. He throws orders around like cannonfire, and somehow, you’re always just out of range.

So tonight, you stop waiting.

The crew’s in a rare good mood– loot counted, wind favorable, no sails on the horizon. There's laughter around the deck fire, rum passed like ritual.

And him.

Cal. One of the youngest of Jake’s hands. Tall. Reckless. Hands too smooth to be seasoned, mouth too quick to be wise.

Perfect.

You sit beside him, drape your arms over your knees, and smile like you mean it.

“I hear you’re the best shot on the ship,” you say, voice syrup-sweet.

Cal grins. “Second best. Jake’s got the edge. But I’m prettier.”

You laugh. Tilt your head. Let your fingers brush his wrist when you pass the cup back.

“You planning to win more than target practice tonight?”

His eyes flash, “Depends. You offering?”

You don’t answer. Not directly. You sip your rum, just slow enough to make him look at your mouth.

And from the quarterdeck, you feel Jake’s gaze burn into you.

You don’t look up.

Not yet.

But when Cal leans in– just a little too close– you let him.

Long enough for Jake to move.

Boots on wood. No hesitation. A shadow falls over you both like a thundercloud. Cal glances up, and freezes.

You finally turn.

Jake’s face is unreadable. But his jaw’s locked. His eyes are ice. He doesn’t speak to you.

“Cal,” he says, flat and dangerous. “We’re short on rope below. Go check it.”

Cal blinks. “Now?”

Jake’s voice drops. “Wasn’t a suggestion.”

The boy scrambles. You stay seated. Jake stays standing.

The silence coils tight between you.

“Making friends?” he asks finally.

You sip again. “I was bored.”

“Try reading a map.”

“Try being less avoidant.”

He narrows his eyes. “You think this is a game?” he says. Quiet, sharp.

“No,” you reply. “I think it was.”

Jake doesn’t move. But you see it– the flicker in his eyes. The tension behind his stillness.

“Let me make something clear,” he says, voice low enough to hurt. “You’re not crew. You’re not free. You’re here because me. That doesn’t make you untouchable.”

You rise slowly, toe to toe with him, heart pounding.

“I was never untouchable,” you murmur. “You made sure of that.”

Jake’s mouth opens– then shuts.

Because the truth is there, heavy in the space between you.

The kiss.

The fire you haven’t forgotten. The one that still burns beneath every glare.

You lean in, voice softer.

“If it meant nothing, why are you so angry?”

His breath hitches.

You wait.

But he just turns.

“Stay away from my crew,” he growls. “Unless you want to find out how far my patience doesn’t go.”

He walks away.

Doesn’t look back.

But his hands are fists, and the deck groans beneath his stride like it’s holding him together.

You smile, just a little.

And feel the spark catch.

It’s late when the storm finally breaks.

Not a real storm– no thunder, no wind. Just tension thick as oil in the air, and Jake moving through it like a man trying not to drown.

You haven’t seen him since the deck. Not really.

But now you feel him before you see him. Heavy boots on the steps. A presence that fills the room before his shadow does.

You’re in the chartroom, alone. Or you were.

The door slams shut behind him.

You don’t flinch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, casual. Calm. Cruel, maybe.

Jake doesn’t answer.

You glance up– and the look in his eyes nearly knocks the breath out of you.

Rage. Restraint. Hunger.

You set the compass down.

“You could’ve joined them up there,” you say. “Had a drink. Told a story.”

“I’m not in the mood for stories.”

“No. Just lectures, apparently.”

He stalks closer, not touching you. Not yet. But the space shrinks until you feel him in your bones.

“You really want to test me again?” he says low.

You lift your chin. “Depends. You want to fail again?”

His eyes flash. He’s barely breathing.

“You think flirting with some boy is going to prove a point?”

“No,” you say, stepping forward, toe to toe. “But didn’t it?”

He grabs your arm– not rough, but not gentle. Just enough to anchor you.

“You want me angry?”

You sigh. “I want you honest.”

That hits harder than any slap. His grip tightens. Your pulse spikes. He shoves back. Not away– just enough to pace, to not say what’s clearly gnawing at him.

You lean on the desk, watching him like a storm waiting to hit.

“You could’ve let me flirt,” you murmur. “Let him kiss me.”

Jake’s eyes cut to you like a blade.

“But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Why?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

So you push.

“You touch me like I’m yours, but treat me like cargo. You rescue me like I matter, then leave me in the dark. Make it make sense, Jake.”

Silence.

Then he’s in front of you again. Grabbing the edge of the desk on either side of your hips. Caging you in. Eyes blazing.

“You’re a bad idea.”

“So are you.”

“You drive me insane.”

“Good.”

His mouth is inches from yours. Your breath, his breath, heat bleeding between you like wildfire.

“You shouldn’t want this,” he says hoarsely.

“You shouldn't have taken me hostage,” you tried for humor.

He doesn’t move.

You don’t blink.

You dare him.

And when he kisses you again– it’s worse this time.

Worse because it means more.

Worse because it’s not a mistake.

It’s a confession made with teeth and tongue and everything he’s too proud to say out loud.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve held back– every fight, every fear.

His hand finds your waist. Yours fists in his collar.

This time, no one pulls away.

No one pretends.

The storm you started finally breaks.

And neither of you is safe from it now.

chapter three up now!!!

[jakeytkiszka]

Beneath the Black Flag 1

4k+ words

chapter warnings: kidnapping, pirates, violence, death, blood, lusting but in a full of hate type way, asshole pirate Jake, let me know if I missed any!

<< Masterlist || chapter 2 >>

You’re not supposed to hate silk and candlelight.

Not when you're the daughter of Admiral Thomas Ainsworth, Commander of His Majesty’s Fleet in the West Indies, and tonight’s guest of honor. Not when every girl in Portsmouth would drown a kitten to wear this gown and dance beneath this chandelier. But you do hate it. Every smug bow, every powdered wig, every stale compliment wrapped in a leering smile– it irritates you like coarse rope on bare skin.

The music waltzes on without you as you slip past the heavy velvet drapes and into the corridor, fanning your face with gloved fingers. No one stops you. No one ever does. You play your part well enough to be forgettable.

Your room is three turns down the hall, tucked away from the noise, which you once thought a blessing. Now, as your slippers whisper over the rug and your hand closes around the brass handle, you realize what you want more than anything is change. Not comfort. Not duty. Something wild. Something real.

You push open the door and step into darkness.

And someone is already there.

You see him in a flash– moonlight through the window strikes metal. A sword in hand. He moves faster than thought, and suddenly the cold, flat edge of his blade is pressed to your throat.

You don't scream. You can’t. Your breath lodges in your chest like a stone.

He’s tall. Drenched from rain. Brown wisps of hair clinging to his forehead. His shirt clings too, half-unlaced, revealing a lean chest marked by salt and sun. His eyes flick over you with suspicion and something else– something amused.

“Well,” he mutters, voice low and rough like a match being struck. “Didn’t expect the admiral’s whelp to come home so early.”

Your heart is pounding, but your voice is steady when it comes. “Put that down. Or I’ll scream loud enough to alert the entire estate.”

He doesn’t move the sword. “Go on, then. But I wager your fancy father would be more embarrassed by a scandal than I would be by a hanging.”

You glare at him. “You’re a thief.”

He smirks. “And you’re very observant.”

His eyes drop to the silk of your gown, the pearls at your throat. He seems amused by the contrast between you and him. You hate the heat creeping up your neck, the way your skin hums where the steel kisses it. You hate him.

And you’re drawn to him all the same.

A pirate, you realize. Not just a thief– his accent’s wrong for Portsmouth, his boots are worn by sea and salt, not cobblestones. He looks like trouble from the tip of his sword to the shadows in his eyes.

And for the first time in years, you’re not bored.

The blade’s still at your throat, but it’s no longer the only thing sharp in the room. Your mind, long dulled by etiquette and expectation, is awake– alive– and you’re already calculating.

“If you were smart,” you say, “you’d leave now, before someone notices I’m missing.”

“I am smart,” he says, tilting his head. “Which is why I’m not letting you call for help.”

His voice is laced with something lazy, almost playful. But his grip on the sword doesn’t waver. He's a man used to being obeyed– or fought. You wonder what would happen if you tried the latter.

Instead, you lift your chin just slightly, enough that the sword shifts, giving you a breath of space. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I know you are.”

You meet his eyes then– dark, stormy, and infuriatingly confident.

“No,” you say. “I’m curious. You’re not here for silver or gold.” You glance at the scattered candlesticks and unopened jewelry box. “You’re looking for something else.”

That unsettles him. Just a flicker, but you see it.

“I don’t have time to entertain you, miss,” he says, voice mocking now. “So unless you’d like me to knock you out and stuff you under the bed–”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you snap.

He steps closer. The sword lowers slightly– not gone, but looser in his grip.

“I’ve done worse,” he says, quieter now. “To prettier girls.”

You swallow, not out of fear– but because, gods help you, you believe him. And it doesn’t repulse you the way it should. Though it was just a slight knock to your pride.

Then– voices in the hall. Faint, but approaching.

He hears it too. His eyes flash, and in one smooth motion, he grabs your wrist, yanks you forward, and spins you both toward the wardrobe.

You stumble in with him, half-smothered by his soaked coat and the heavy press of your skirts. The door shuts just as footsteps pass your room. He’s breathing hard beside you, one hand still clamped over your wrist, the other resting against the inside of the door.

You’re chest to chest. Heart to heart.

“If you scream now,” he murmurs, “I will regret not gagging you.”

You smile, breathless. “And if you’d given me a warning, I’d have offered the scarf myself.”

His lips twitch. Not a smile. But close.

The footsteps fade.

Still, he doesn’t let go.

Your wrist throbs where his fingers bite down, not from pain, but from the undeniable awareness of him– of this. Of your pulse hammering beneath his grip like a drum.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he murmurs after a long moment, his voice brushing your ear like a secret. “You saved my skin.”

“I could still change my mind.”

“You won’t.”

You hate that he’s right. Hate more that he knows it.

“I know who you are,” you say suddenly.

He stiffens.

“You’re not just some nameless thief. The sword, the coat, the way you move. You’re not new to this. You’re not here for trinkets or coins.” You tilt your head, studying him in the thin crack of moonlight. “You're Jake Kiszka.”

“Captain.” The grip on your wrist loosens just slightly. “Was it the reputation or the wanted posters that gave me away?”

“You don’t look nearly as bloodthirsty as they say,” you murmur.

He leans closer. “I haven’t needed to be. Yet.”

A silence stretches between you, too tight and too close. And then, just as abruptly, he shoves the wardrobe door open and drags you back into the room.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-stumbling as he hauls you toward the balcony doors.

“Securing my exit,” he says. “And ensuring no one alerts the guard.”

It takes you a moment to realize what he means. Your heels dig into the carpet.

“You’re taking me?”

He grins, all teeth and reckless charm. “You’re clever. That makes you valuable. And I need leverage.”

“My father will kill you.”

“I’m counting on it,” he says. “But not before he listens.”

“To what?"

“You'll see.”

He hauls you out into the rain, silk and pearls be damned. The sky breaks open above you, and for the first time in your life, you're not running from danger. You're running into it.

And you don't look back.

The Black Smoke isn't a ship so much as a creature. Sleek, dark, alive with the groan of rope and creak of timbers, she slices through the storm like a blade. Lanterns swing in the wind, casting brief golden halos on soaked wood and shadowed faces. The crew– silent, efficient, watchful– parts for their captain with wary eyes.

And for you, too. Not with deference. With curiosity.

You’re the admiral’s daughter, dragged aboard like stolen treasure, half-drenched and still clinging to the last shreds of dignity. But you stand tall beside Kiszka, chin high, spine straight, despite the wind lashing your hair and the cold biting through silk.

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. He’s in command now, barking sharp orders as he strides toward the helm. He’s alive here in a way he wasn’t in your room. The stiffness is gone, replaced by something feral and fluid. Like a wolf loosed in its own woods.

Someone tries to take your arm. A wiry sailor with a gold hoop in his ear and too many knives on his belt.

“Careful with that one,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t want her getting clever.”

Jake appears at his side in a blink.

“Touch her again and I’ll feed you to the gulls.”

The sailor backs off, muttering, and disappears below deck.

“You care about me now?” you say with a bite.

“No,” Jake replies. “I care about what you’re worth.”

Still, he leads you below deck himself. Not rough, not kind. Just efficient. The corridor is low and narrow, lit by oil lamps that flicker against salt-stained walls. He opens a door and gestures you inside.

It’s not a cell.

It’s a cabin– sparse but surprisingly clean. A table bolted to the floor, a small bed, a chart spread with pins and scribbled notes.

“I’ll be locking the door,” he says.

You lift an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll slit your throat in your sleep?”

“I sleep with a pistol under my pillow. You wouldn’t make it to the door.”

He lingers. Something shifts in his expression. Not pity. Not regret. Something quieter. Harder to name.

“I didn’t want to take you,” he says finally. “But your father’s not a man who listens to reason. And you…” He studies you. “You’ll make him listen.”

“By threatening his daughter?”

“No.” He meets your gaze, steady and unsmiling. “By becoming something more than a daughter.”

The door closes. The lock turns.

And you’re alone in the belly of the beast, your silk gown damp and clinging, your heart hammering like a war drum, and for the first time in your life, despite being a captive on this ship–

You’re free.

Morning breaks over the horizon, a thin line of blood-red sunlight creeping through the narrow porthole. The air is still thick with salt, the ship rocking gently beneath your feet as the sound of waves crashing against the hull hums through the floorboards. But you haven’t slept. You couldn’t.

The bed is too small, the room too close, and the thoughts in your mind too loud.

You stand before the small mirror, the one nailed to the wall, brushing your fingers through your damp hair. Your gown is wrinkled, ruined by rain and the night’s ordeal, but still, it clings to you like a barrier between who you are and what you’ve become. The admiral’s daughter. The prisoner.

The door swings open without warning, and Jake steps inside, tall and unyielding, the cold morning air blowing in with him. His boots hit the floor with a solid thud.

“You’ll want to change,” he says flatly, eyes sweeping over you. He doesn’t care if you’re disheveled. He only cares if you’re of use to him.

“I have nothing else to wear,” you reply, lifting your chin in defiance.

“You’ll make do,” he says, his voice rough like gravel, and yet there’s something clipped in it today. Something tight.

You turn to face him fully, planting your feet in the center of the room. “How long are you planning on keeping me here?”

His eyes flicker, just the slightest hesitation. He doesn’t answer right away, and that pisses you off more than anything.

“I’ve already told you,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “You’re leverage. I’ll need you until I’ve gotten what I want from your father. And once he’s in my debt, you’ll be free to go.”

The words sting. Not just because of what he’s saying, but because you can hear the calculation in his voice. He’s not thinking about you as a person. Just as a pawn in his game. A necessary inconvenience.

“So I’m just a hostage to you,” you say, voice thick with resentment.

“Not a hostage. A bargaining chip,” he corrects, taking a step closer. “There’s a difference.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold on to whatever shred of dignity you have left. “I’m not some prize you can dangle in front of him to get what you want. My father doesn’t make deals with pirates.”

He laughs, but it’s not a laugh of humor. It’s a laugh of someone who’s seen the world break its promises. “Your father makes deals with anyone who can put him on top, lass. You’d be surprised."

The bitterness in his voice cuts through you. The realization settles like a cold stone in your chest. “Is that what this is about then? Revenge?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, and his eyes darken, flashing with something dangerous. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t need revenge. I need leverage. Power. And your father’s not the only one who’s been playing games with people’s lives.”

“You think this will fix it?” you shoot back, taking a step toward him. “You think threatening me will fix the mess your life’s become?”

His gaze narrows, eyes hardening, like a storm gathering. “Watch your tongue. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” you snap. “You’re a thief, a pirate, and a man who thinks everyone’s just a means to an end. What happens when you get everything you want, Jake? What happens when your debts are paid and your ship’s got its prize? You’ll still be that same man– empty inside and running from something you’ll never outrun.”

The room crackles with tension, and for a moment, the only sound is the thundering beat of your heart in your chest. He steps closer, dangerously close, and you don’t back away.

His voice drops to a low growl, a warning. “Don’t mistake my patience for weakness.”

“No,” you answer, lifting your chin higher. “I’m not mistaking anything. But you should know this– you’ll never have what you want.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His eyes hold yours, searching, assessing. And in that moment, you wonder if he sees something in you. Something more than just the admiral’s daughter. Something more than just the prisoner standing before him.

But then, his lips curl into that dangerous, half-smile. “Maybe. But for now, you’re mine.”

And before you can retort, he spins on his heel and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

You’re left standing in the small cabin, the echoes of his words ringing in your ears.

You're mine.

The thought lingers like smoke, choking you, but you can’t shake the feeling that, somehow, you’ve just made a deal with a devil who knows exactly how to play this game.

The door slams shut.

You don’t move. Can’t. Your fists are clenched so tight your nails bite into your palms, but it’s not enough to ground you. His words still echo– you’re mine.

You want to scream.

Not just from rage, though that’s part of it. It’s the fury of being seen and still dismissed. The fury of being underestimated, even when your spine is steel and your blood runs hotter than his damn ocean.

You pace the cabin, back and forth, ignoring the roll of the ship, the sting of salt on your lips. You know men like Jake Kiszka. You were raised to fear them. Then flirt with them. Then marry their opposites.

But he doesn’t fit into any of the boxes society carved out for you. And you don’t fit into the one he’s tried to place you in.

You won’t be used. Not like this.

Your eyes land on the chart pinned to his wall, creased and marked with ink. Lines, symbols. Naval routes. You step closer, studying it.

Then your lips twitch.

He’s not just sailing blind. He’s planning something. Something big. Something your father would kill to stop.

And maybe… you don’t need to be a pawn after all.

Maybe you can become the blade at his back.

You hadn't left that cabin for most of the day. You were slightly terrified, not of Jake, surprisingly, nor the crew. But of enjoying it. The freedom of the ocean, nothing but endless waves and the sun warming your skin. Freedom.

The ship is quieter now. The crew's laughter has dulled, replaced by the low murmur of waves and the rhythmic groan of wood under wind. You're not in the cabin. You had ventured out after some nameless face had brought you a set of clothes with a murmur of “Captain's orders.”

You sit on a crate near the galley, knees drawn up, wrapped in a too-large coat someone threw at you earlier.

It's his coat. You know it by the scent– salt and smoke and something darker. Something unmistakably him.

You should toss it aside. But you don’t.

Footsteps approach. You don't look up. You already know who it is.

Jake doesn't speak right away. He stands a few paces away, silhouetted by lamplight, arms folded, the ever-present storm in his expression finally... quieter.

“You can’t sleep either,” you say.

It’s not a question.

“No,” he replies. After a pause, he adds, “Never do, not at sea.”

You glance at him, surprised. “A pirate who doesn’t sleep on his own ship?”

His jaw tics. “Not much rest when the past keeps following.”

You study him in silence. In the flickering light, he looks different. Younger. Less sharp-edged. He’s still dangerous– of course he is– but there’s something stripped down about him in this moment, as if the sea, or perhaps solitude, has peeled away what the sword and the smirk usually hide.

“You lost someone,” you say quietly. “Didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, he walks over, lowers himself onto the crate beside you, hands dangling between his knees.

“My brothers,” he says. “In one day.”

The confession hangs there like smoke. He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to.

You stare at the floorboards. The ship sways beneath you both, and for a second, it feels like the world has narrowed to this tiny corner of wood and shadows and truth.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

His head turns, just slightly. “Didn’t think you were the type to pity a pirate."

“I’m not. But grief doesn’t care what you are.”

That earns a faint breath of a laugh. “No. It doesn’t.”

You’re quiet for a while. Then, your voice barely above the creak of the hull: “Was it the navy?”

He looks at you. Long. Hard. But his voice is soft when he says, “It was your father’s orders.”

Your breath catches.

For a moment, neither of you move.

You knew this game was dangerous. You just didn’t know how deeply it would cut.

“You brought me here to make him pay,” you say.

“No,” Jake replies. “I brought you here because killing him would’ve been too easy.”

You flinch. Not from fear. From the cold certainty in his voice.

And still– still– there’s no hatred in his eyes when he looks at you. Just exhaustion. And something that might have once been hope.

“You’re not him,” he says at last. “And I’m not the man I was, either.”

You look at him. Really look. Past the sword, the swagger, the legend.

And what you see terrifies you far more than being his hostage ever could.

Because this man– the broken, furious, quietly hurting man beside you– is not the monster you wanted him to be.

He’s just a man.

And part of you, the part you buried under silk and etiquette and everything expected of you, wants to know what happens when you stop being a daughter…

And start choosing your own damn path.

The storm returns just before dawn.

But it's not the sky that splits open– it’s the sea.

You wake to shouting. Heavy boots pounding above deck. Steel unsheathed. The unmistakable crack of a flintlock.

You’re on your feet before you realize it, breath tight in your chest, heart hammering.

A cannon roars.

The ship lurches violently, and you’re thrown against the wall Lanterns swing, wood splinters. Outside, is complete chaos.

You throw open the cabin door. A crewmember barrels past you with a musket. Another is bleeding, teeth gritted, dragging himself toward the stairs.

You run toward the deck.

The wind nearly knocks you over, salt lashing your face. Another ship looms in the gray distance, sails trimmed black, flag torn but visible– an East India mercenary vessel. Not Navy. Worse. Hired killers.

They’re coming fast. Grappling hooks catch the rails. Pirates and mercs are already locked in brutal combat.

You scan the deck– and find Jake, in the thick of it, sword flashing, shouting orders through the smoke.

He sees you. His face darkens.

“Get below!”

“No!” you shout back. “I’m not hiding while your crew bleeds!”

Another cannon blast. The deck shudders beneath your feet. Jake curses, slashing an attacker, then surges toward you.

“What are you doing?” he snarls, gripping your arm.

“I saw your maps. They're after you, not me,” you snap. “You’re carrying something they want.”

His jaw clenches. You’re right– and he knows it. He doesn’t deny it.

“Can you load powder?” he asks suddenly, voice low, fierce.

“Yes,” you lie.

He smirks. “Good. Lie to them that well and you’ll live.”

He pulls you toward the midship gunwale. The crew’s thin. The fight’s tight. Too tight.

You duck as a shot rings out– Jake throws his body against yours, shielding you, blade up.

“You’re insane,” you gasp.

He grins.

Another explosion rocks the hull.

Then, an enemy charges, blade raised. You don’t think. You grab a fallen pistol from the deck, aim, and fire.

The man falls.

Jake looks at you, genuinely surprised.

And maybe something else.

“You’re a hostage,” he says. “And you’re fighting beside me.”

“I said I wasn’t yours,” you say, breathless. “I never said I wasn’t dangerous.”

He laughs– ragged, real.

And together, you turn to face the next wave.

The deck is a graveyard of spent powder, broken rigging, and blood-slick boards. Bodies are being dragged off– mercs and crew alike. The sails are torn, the starboard rail is scorched, and The Black Smoke lists ever so slightly to port.

But she’s afloat. Barely.

And so are you.

You lean against the mast, heart still galloping, arms trembling with the weight of what you've done. What you chose. The pistol still hangs from your hand, the barrel warm.

Jake stands a few paces away, hands on his hips, blood streaked down one temple. Not his own, you think. His shirt is ripped, the long cut across his ribs already darkening his skin.

He hasn’t spoken since the fighting stopped. Not to the crew. Not to you.

You watch him, unsure if he’s furious or simply… undone.

At last, he turns to you.

“You killed a man,” he says.

You straighten. “He would’ve killed you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He takes a slow step closer. His voice lowers, not in menace– but in something heavier.

“You didn’t flinch. Not once. You stood your ground with blood on your hands and fire behind you.”

You wait for the judgment.

It doesn’t come.

He takes another step. Closer now. The storm’s gone, but something else brews between you– thicker, quieter. More dangerous.

“You’re not who I thought you were,” he says.

“You mean a spoiled pawn in a pretty dress?”

His lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his eyes. Only that storm again– muted now. Deep.

“I mean you’re something else entirely,” he says. “And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“I do,” he says, almost to himself. “Because if I let myself forget what you are, I’ll start treating you like something else.”

“Something like what?"

He doesn’t answer.

Just looks at you. Really looks.

And suddenly, you’re not on a pirate ship. You’re not a hostage. You’re just a girl with blood under her nails, staring down a man who once wanted to use you– and now doesn’t know if he still can.

“Why didn’t you leave me behind when the fighting started?” you ask quietly.

Jake holds your gaze for a long, charged moment.

Then, just as quietly, “Because I didn’t want you to die.”

And there it is.

Not a declaration. Not an apology.

Just truth.

And it’s more dangerous than any blade.

Part Two!

[jakeytkiszka]

Beneath the Black Flag Masterlist

Pirate!Jake AU

23K+ words

Summary: Jake Kiszka, the water's most feared pirate, has plans. Plans that involve you, revenge, and for him to ultimately come out on top. What he didn't plan on was falling in love, least of all with you– the daughter of his number one sworn enemy. What happens when fate leads, ruining everything you both have ever known?

Story Warnings: kidnapping, angst, cursing, pirates, betrayal, daddy issues, violence, mentions of blood and death, yearning, threats, eventual smut (18+ only, yall know the drill), more pirates– if I'm forgetting any please let me know!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

[jakeytkiszka]

DADDYYS HOME

[jakeytkiszka]

oh my god fuckkkk

[jakeytkiszka]

“hope you left your souls at the door, because if you didn’t…we’ll probably take them with us tonight”

OH TAKE IT ITS RIGHT HERE SIR

[jakeytkiszka]

oh… OHHHHHHHHH