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Summary: When you come down with a sickness at work, Jake picks you up and (mother hens) takes care of you at home. Sick fic comfort!!
A/N: this one shot was requested and I loved writing it so so much! I did also do the temperature reading in fahrenheit because I know most of my readers don't use celcius so theres that. Hopefully this makes you feel better anon!
Content Warnings: illness, cough, fever, sweat, restlessness, nausea, caretaking, so so much fluff it’s rotting my teeth
You’d woken up with a dry mouth and a slight tickle in your throat— nothing serious. Nothing that screamed cancel everything, you’re coming down with something. Just a mild scratchiness that had made you pause while brushing your teeth and frown at your reflection.
Jake noticed. “You okay?” he asked, half through a yawn, sleep still dragging at his voice as he leaned on the bathroom doorway, hair messy and shirt wrinkled from tossing in the night.
You shrugged and spit your toothpaste out before speaking, “Yeah. Just… throat’s kinda weird this morning.”
He tilted his head, arms folding across his chest. “Weird like how?”
You rinsed out your mouth and then smiled at him in the mirror. “Like I shouldn't've let you talk me into sitting with you on the balcony for two hours last night.”
Jake grinned, then stepped behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. He kissed your temple, lips warm and soft. “Worth it, though.”
You leaned into him for a second longer than you meant to, a quiet hum catching in your throat. That dull fatigue from last night was still hanging on. Not quite tired, not quite awake. You figured you just needed caffeine.
“Yeah, worth it. ,” you smiled at his sleepy reflection in the mirror.
“Let me know if your throat gets worse though, okay?”
You nodded, pulling your hair into a ponytail. “Promise.”
—
It got worse.
By noon, your head felt too heavy for your neck. You’d stared at your screen for twenty minutes before realizing you hadn’t processed a word of the email open in front of you. Your body ached. Cold one second, flushed the next. And despite the hoodie you’d thrown on during your break, you couldn’t stop shivering.
You tried to tough it out. You really did. If you left work early, Jake would fuss, and you’d feel dramatic, and there was a meeting at two that were supposed to take notes for.
But by your lunch break, you began to feel dizzy. And nauseous.
You stood too fast from your chair and the room tilted sideways. You had to grip the edge of the desk to stay upright, teeth clenched together as you tried to breath through the rolling of your stomach. Everything felt just slightly wrong, like your body was a half-second behind your brain. An ache had crawled into your joints and you could feel heat rising under your skin and up your neck. You didn’t want to acknowledge it for what it was— but it was unmistakably a fever.
You didn’t even remember sitting down on the break room couch. You only realised you were curled up there when your phone buzzed in your hand, Jake’s contact photo lighting up your screen.
You squinted against the brightness as another unexpected wave of nausea washed over you.
Attached to your text chain was a blurry photo of a tiny frog sitting on the edge of a sidewalk, back legs stretched out like he was sunbathing. You smiled faintly, chest squeezing at the way Jake always shared the smallest, most random things with you just to feel close during the day.
Before you could respond, another text came through.
Jake: How are you feeling? That throat thing any better?
Your smile faded.
You typed slowly, thumbs heavy.
You: Actually I’m not feeling great. Thinking I might head home from work early
It took all of five seconds for his typing dots to appear.
Jake: Oh no. What’s wrong
You sniffled, trying to sit up straighter on the break room couch. It didn’t help. Your back throbbed and the world still tilted slightly when you moved, like your body wasn’t sure which direction was up anymore.
You began to type your response.
You: Dizzy achy nauseous cold. Might be coming down with something
The phone started ringing before you could even finished reading your own message let alone send it.
You exhaled and slid your thumb across the screen. “Hi.”
Jake’s voice was deep and laced with panic. “You still at work? I’m coming to pick you up.”
“No, no, it’s fine—” You tried to sit forward again and stopped when your ribs twinged, a deep cough scraping up from your chest. You couldn’t hold it in and it broke through you with a force that made your head throb. It left you breathless and slumped, blinking at nothing.
He didn’t say anything for a second. You could practically hear the way his brow raised as if to say ‘you sure about that?’
“I’m coming to get you,” he said again, firmer now. “You can’t drive if you’re dizzy. And you sound like death. I’ll get Sam to drop me off and I’ll drive your car home.”
You let your eyes close. The fight went out of you in one slow breath. “Okay.”
“Text me when you’re in the lobby, alright? I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Okay,” you murmured, voice cracking. You stood slowly, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, heavy and lagging behind your thoughts
Thankfully, your boss didn’t ask too many questions when you approached her desk, voice scratchy and eyes a little glassy. Maybe you looked as awful as you felt, because the moment you murmured that you weren’t feeling well and might need to head home early, she nodded and said, “Get some rest. Feel better soon.”
You packed up slowly, hands trembling as you zipped your bag. The room tilted ever so slightly when you stood, like the ground didn’t quite want to stay put beneath you. You pulled your coat tighter around your aching frame, wincing as the zipper caught for a second, then began the sluggish walk to the elevator.
The lobby was quiet this time of day. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning vents and the click of your shoes against the floor. You sank into the small couch near the windows, tucking your arms tightly around your middle as a shiver worked its way up your spine. Your head tipped back against the cushion, eyelids heavy, stomach hollow and churning. The light from outside blurred in your vision, soft and unfocused, as you tried to breathe through the dizzy haze.
Now all you had to do was wait.
God, your skin hurt. That strange, restless ache was everywhere— your knees, your spine, even the muscles in your jaw. Your head was pounding from the inside out, temple throbbing every time you moved your eyes. Your face was hot, but the chill running through your limbs had you tucked into yourself like it was the middle of winter. You kept trying to get warm but couldn’t.
You felt embarrassed for being picked up like this. Too sick to function. Too weak to get yourself home. You hated asking for help.
But you weren’t the one who called— Jake had known. Had sensed that you needed him before you even said the words.
A minute passed. Maybe five.
Then you heard the automatic doors slide open, and through your half-lidded eyes, you saw him.
Jake stepped in with a determined eye, already scanning the lobby. His brows lifted when he spotted you, and the look on his face was something between heartbreak and relief.
“Oh, baby,” he breathed, crouching in front of you.
You blinked at him, dazed. “Hi.”
He reached up and brushed the back of his fingers along your cheek, frowning at how warm you were.
“Shit, honey, you’re really not well,” he muttered.
“I’m fine,” you whispered, which might’ve had more weight if you didn’t sound like you’d been swallowing gravel.
Jake gave you the softest smile. “Sure you are.”
He helped you to your feet slowly, one hand bracing your lower back, the other slipping under your arm. When you wobbled, he pulled you in against him and held you there for a moment.
“Alright,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “Let’s get you home.”
Jake didn’t let you walk more than a few steps on your own.
He guided you out of the building with one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand covering yours where it clutched your coat closed. You leaned into him without thinking .
Your legs felt unsteady, and your body was too heavy, your skin prickling with cold despite the fever baking beneath it.
When the wind hit your face outside, you shivered so hard it knocked the breath out of you. Jake stopped instantly.
He looked down at you with that furrowed brow, the one he got when something was wrong and he couldn’t fix it fast enough. Without a word, he shrugged out of his black corduroy jacket— the one he pretended not to know that you often stole off the back of his chair— and wrapped it around your shoulders like a blanket. His hands smoothed it over your arms gently, tucking it in, like you were something fragile.
“Better?” he murmured.
You nodded weakly. “Smells like you.”
He smiled and kissed your forehead. “Lucky for you, I smell amazing.”
Apparently you were too sick to appreciate the joke, as you merely hummed and continued sluggishly walking towards the car parked a few feet away. He helped you into the passenger seat, closing the door carefully once you were in. By the time he got in on the driver’s side, you were already curled up as tightly as the seat belt would allow, trying not to make your shivering too obvious.
Jake didn’t waste a second before the engine started and the heater was blasting within moments.
You leaned toward the vent, clutching his jacket tighter around you like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The warmth stung at first as your skin was so sensitive, but you sighed with relief as it finally started to thaw the chill in your bones.
Jake drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up between you on the console, waiting in case you reached for it. You did.
The heat rose until it was thick and heavy, making your eyelids droop, and Jake pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, visibly sweating but still not turning it down.
“I’m good,” he said quickly, noticing the way you peeked at him. “Don’t worry about me.”
You must’ve drifted off, because when the car stopped, Jake was already leaning over you to unbuckle your seatbelt. You blinked at him, disoriented, your head pounding behind your eyes.
“We’re home,” he said gently. “I’m gonna carry your stuff in. Can you walk if I hold you?”
“Mmhm.”
He helped you inside with slow, steady steps, and you clung to him without shame now. Your body just didn’t have the strength to do anything else.
Once you were inside, he guided you to the edge of the bed and crouched in front of you.
“Okay, don’t move,” he said softly, brushing your knee with his hand. “Let me get your pajamas.”
You watched through heavy eyes as he opened your dresser drawers with an easy familiarity, pulling out your favorite sleep shirt— the worn, oversized one you always wore when you needed comforting. He even found the fuzzy socks with the tiny suns on them that you always kept in the back of your drawer.
He turned down the blankets, fluffed the pillows, and added the heating pad to your side of the bed without a word. The care in every motion made your chest ache.
“Alright,” he said, coming back to you. “Arms up, sweet girl.”
You managed it, and he helped you out of your work clothes with gentle, efficient hands, always keeping you covered, never letting you feel exposed to him or the cold air. He tugged the pajama shirt down over your head and knelt to help you into your socks, smoothing them over your feet like you were the most delicate thing in the world.
Once you were finally bundled under the covers, he sat down on the edge of the bed and ran the backs of his fingers down your flushed cheek. His eyes moved slowly over your face, frowning softly at how pale you looked beneath the flush of your fever.
You leaned into the touch without meaning to.
“You’re still too warm,” he whispered, thumb trailing lightly along your temple. “Way too warm.”
He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the thermometer he’d grabbed earlier— waited for you to open your mouth before slipping it under your tongue. When it beeped, he didn’t hide his reaction.
“102.8,” he said under his breath, and then met your eyes again. “No wonder you feel like hell.”
He reached into the drawer where he knew you kept a small stash of meds— the way he navigated your space made it so clear how often he was here, how well he knew the rhythm of your home. He popped the cap on the bottle of tylenol and shook out two pills, then grabbed the glass of water that had been sitting on the nightstand from this morning.
“Here,” he murmured, sitting you up gently with one arm behind your back. “Take these, sweetheart. We’ve gotta get that fever down.”
You swallowed them obediently, the water barely touching your dry throat.
He eased you back down again, smoothing the blankets around you and tucking them in tight under your arms. You were already drifting, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, but you watched as he looked around the room searching for something.
A second later, he let out a quiet sigh and bent down beside the bed, fishing around beneath it.
When he came back up, he was holding your tiny, raggedy teddy bear you always slept with tucked under your arm. The one Jake always rolled his eyes at. The one he used to grumble about stealing his spot in the crook of your neck.
He tucked it carefully under your arm, smoothing your hand around it like it was the most precious thing in the world— not some beat-up childhood toy. You were barely conscious, but the gesture registered somewhere through the fog.
When he looked back at you, his eyes were soft. Completely gone for you. He leaned over again, kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
“You’re okay,” he whispered. “Just need some rest.”
His hand lingered, brushing back the damp edges of your hair, feeling along your forehead again, then down the slope of your jaw, over your collarbone, like he couldn’t stop reassuring himself that you were still there, still breathing. Still burning up, but safe.
Finally, he pulled away slowly, like it hurt to leave you even for a second.
“I’m gonna make you something warm, baby,” he said. “Soup or broth or something. You just rest. I’ll come check on you in a few.”
He turned down the light, making the room soft and quiet, and padded barefoot into the hallway, the sound of cabinets opening faintly drifting back as he moved through your kitchen like it belonged to him too.
You didn’t hear the soft clatter of the knife on the cutting board, or the bubbling that began on the stove as Jake stirred together a pot of broth, vegetables, herbs, and a few cloves of garlic he crushed with the flat of his hand. You didn’t notice the way he leaned over the pot, tasting, adding a pinch of turmeric, squeezing half a lemon in like his mom always did when someone had a fever. He kept the burner low and the lid slightly askew, letting the steam fill the kitchen with something rich and healing.
He checked on you every five minutes. Barely got through peeling a carrot without standing at the doorframe to your room, arms crossed, watching the way your chest rose and fell beneath the blankets. You were curled in a loose ball, one leg half-tangled in the sheets, hugging that teddy bear like it was his stand-in.
After a while, he let the soup simmer, set out a bowl, and set it on the counter to cool just enough not to burn your tongue.
You stirred in bed with a faint rustle, a slow groan that carried into the hallway. Jake was already there before your eyes were fully open. He came to your side, crouched down, fingers brushing your forehead again. Still hot, still too hot.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said gently. “You waking up?”
You nodded, but your face scrunched up almost instantly, like the act of opening your eyes had split your skull in two. You groaned again, pressing the heel of your hand to your temple.
“Hurts,” you whispered, barely audible.
Jake leaned in closer, smoothing your hair back. “I know, baby. I know. That fever’s a real nasty one.”
You winced, eyes barely open. “Feels like I got hit by a train. Or… a bus,” you grumbled. “Or both,” you added, groaning dramatically.
You blinked at him, eyelids heavy, throat dry and tight. You didn’t even feel thirsty, but your mouth was like paper, your lips tacky. Still, when Jake brought the glass to your lips, one hand steady at the back of your head, you drank slowly, just to please him.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “That’s it, sweetheart.”
His fingers brushed a bit of hair from your cheek, lingering there like he couldn’t help himself. You swore his thumb had memorized the shape of your face by now— always tracing, always checking. Temperature, texture, tension.
“Think you can eat a little?” he asked, nodding to the bowl on the nightstand. Steam still curled lazily from the broth, fragrant and comforting.
You nodded faintly. “Yeah… I think so.”
Jake slipped an arm around your back, gently lifting you upright and propping pillows behind you until you were supported.
“Here.” He settled beside you, balancing the bowl and spoon. “Let’s go slow.”
Your voice was a rough whisper when you looked at the soup and managed, “Thank you.”
Jake’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to thank me. What else can I do, my love? I hate seeing you like this.”
You frowned, scooping up a spoonful. The warmth was good, heaty and comforting.
“Just need you to hold me,” you murmured between sips. Your voice was terrible— hoarse and cracked in the middle. Jake visibly winced at the sound of it, heart twisting.
Something in his face crumpled sweetly, his shoulders dropping as if your words cracked his chest open.
“Oh, my love…” he whispered, already shifting behind you on the bed. “C’mere.”
He shifted carefully, and gathered you into his arms cautiously as not to spill your bowl of soup, letting your weight melt back against his chest as you leaned into him. “Better?” he whispered into your hair.
“Mm,” you hummed sleepily, nodding as you lifted another spoonful.
His hands began to rub slow, soothing circles against your spine as you ate slowly, making your way through the broth.
When you were down to the last bit, Jake reached around, gently took the bowl and spoon from your hands, and set them aside. His arms came back around you at once, pulling you in close.
You sighed, shaky and pained, and leaned back against him, letting your aching body melt into the soft, bare skin of his chest. Your legs curled in beneath the blankets, your forehead resting against his shoulder.
He held you like that, whispering nothing words, just soft sounds and kisses to your temple. He rubbed your arm with the pads of his fingers, soothing your shivers away with the warmth of his body.
And finally, cocooned in his arms, you slipped under again, your last thought the feel of his lips against your burning skin.
You slept almost the entire afternoon. Jake never left the apartment.
He moved quietly through your space, cleaning up dishes from earlier, folding a bit of laundry that had been forgotten in the dryer, and wiping down the counters like he couldn’t sit still. Every few minutes, he checked in on you— just peeking through the door, watching your chest rise and fall beneath the covers, or feeling your forehead to make sure your fever hadn’t climbed any higher.
At one point, he pressed a fresh glass of water onto your nightstand and adjusted the curtains to let in a little golden light, just soft enough to keep the rom warm without hurting your aching eyes when you did wake.
When his stomach started growling, he made himself a quick dinner and sat quietly at the kitchen table, poking at the food like his heart was still in the bedroom beside you.
The apartment was quiet. Just the sound of a clock ticking above the sink, the hum of the refrigerator, and you, sniffling lightly in your sleep from down the hall.
Jake barely touched his plate.
Later, after the soup on the stove was cooled and packed into containers, Jake slipped into the dark of your room again, quiet as ever.
You were still curled in the same spot— tangled around that ridiculous teddy bear, your hair a little damp at the edges from the fever.
Jake sighed. He knelt beside the bed again, reaching out to press the back of his hand to your cheek, then your forehead, then your neck. You were still too warm— not dangerous, not worse, but hot enough to make him frown in the dark.
With a soft breath, he stripped off his shirt and slid in behind you.
You didn’t stir much, but your body instinctively turned into his, seeking the comfort. His arms wrapped around you immediately, hand splaying over your belly as he tucked your head beneath his chin.
He held you close, letting his cooler skin draw some of the heat from yours, wishing he could take more of it from you, just to make you rest easier.
Eventually, his eyes closed. His breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of yours. He drifted off like that, one hand gently tracing shapes against your side.
It was hours later when he woke again.
You were shifting in his arms, restlessly tossing, pulling at the blankets, breathing unevenly. Jake opened his eyes to find you awake, face creased with discomfort, your body radiating heat again like a furnace.
“Hey,” he whispered, instantly more alert. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
You groaned softly, curling tighter. “Everything hurts. Can’t sleep.”
Jake rubbed your back slowly, his other hand finding yours beneath the blanket. “Where?”
“My head. My back. My legs. I can’t get comfortable,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Feel nauseous again too.”
“Oh, sweetheart…”
Jake sat up and leaned over you, brushing the sweaty hair from your face. He pressed his hand gently to your forehead again, then down along the side of your throat, as if he could ease the ache away with his fingertips alone.
“You’re burning up again,” he said softly. “Hang on.”
He got out of bed, disappearing into the dark for only a moment. You heard the sound of water running, cabinets opening. He returned with a cool, damp cloth in one hand and a pot of pills in the other.
You barely resisted as he dabbed your face and neck with the cool cloth, whispering soft things. They weren’t even words half the time, just the sound of his voice, steady and low. You wondered if he was just that tired that he wasn't making sense, or if his voice intended no more than to be a lullaby meant to soothe.
Jake helped you sit up slowly, tucking pillows around your back, guiding the pills to your lips with a glass of cool water. You grimaced as you swallowed. Your throat was raw, but he praised you like you’d run a marathon.
“There you go, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “Good job. Try to get some more sleep now. I’m right here.”
Jake climbed back into bed beside you, immediately reaching for you, easing you back against his chest tenderly. His palm settled between your shoulder blades, warm and grounding, then began its slow path down your spine. He pressed long, steady strokes, just the right pressure over the muscles you’d told him ached the most.
His touch never left you. Up and down, slow circles at the base of your neck, gentle thumbs pressed beneath your shoulder blades, the kind of love you didn’t have to earn, but was just given, because you needed it, and he wanted to give it to you.
He adjusted the pillows behind you carefully, then tucked your head beneath his chin, pressing the softest kiss to your temple.
You shifted faintly, body heavy, but your fingers curled against his arm like you were trying to stay awake.
Jake caught it. He dipped his head a little, brushing his nose against your hair.
“Sleep, baby,” he whispered. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
You made a tiny sound in reply, but your grip loosened. And just like that, you let go.
You fell asleep in his arms, breath softening against his collarbone, but Jake didn’t stop. Even with your body slack and still, he kept rubbing slow, rhythmic circles along your back, his hand gliding over your spine like a balm, like a promise. He massaged your shoulder where you always carried tension, pressed gently against the sore spots down your sides, careful not to wake you.
He didn't leave, not even for a second. Because if you were hurting, then Jake was staying. Just like he said he would.
–
Jake eventually passed out, hands still pressed against your back as sleep claimed him. Morning came quickly, and you found yourself stirring in an empty bed.
And you felt... like absolute shit.
But maybe a different kind of shit.
The kind where your head still throbbed and your throat still felt like gravel and your whole body was sore— but you weren’t on fire anymore. Your brain felt foggy but no longer boiling in your skull.
You stirred under the covers and winced immediately at your aching body.
From the doorway of the room, you heard footsteps. Jake was beside you in seconds.
“Goodmorning beautiful,” he whispered, crouching at the side of the bed. “How’re you feeling? You need anything? How's your head?” He was already reaching for your face, pressing his hands against your cheeks to feel your temperature.
You blinked at him blearily. “Jake, I’m fine—”
“You’re not fine, you’re sick,” he corrected. “Fever’s down a little though. You’re not sweating anymore.”
“I feel gross,” you mumbled, voice cracking like dry leaves. “But less… death-y.”
Jake’s eyes softened. “I’ll take that.”
He smoothed your hair back again and tucked the blanket around your shoulders even though you were already half-buried in it.
“Don’t get up. I’ll bring you tea and toast. Then I’ll run a bath if you feel up for it. And I washed all your towels, by the way. The soft one’s on top.”
You blinked again. “You washed my towels?”
“Baby, I washed everything,” he said, giving you a look. “Been housewifing it up in here. I even wiped down your light switches.”
You let out the tiniest laugh and buried your face in the pillow.
“I could look after you sick for the rest of our lives and I’d still think you’re perfect.” Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your hair. “But please don’t. I like you better healthy,” he added.
You gave him a sleepy, crooked smile. “Weirdest love confession I’ve ever received.”
He grinned, but only for a moment— his brows pulled together again as he cupped your cheek, just feeling the temperature under your skin.
“Still too warm,” he said under his breath. “I’ll get the tea. And maybe some fruit. You need some food in your system. Don’t move.”
“It’s not like I’m inclined to run away right now.”
He narrowed his eyes at you playfully, like you might rebel at any second, then stood and kissed your temple, again, before leaving the room. You could hear him in the kitchen within moments— opening drawers, pouring water into the kettle, pacing like you were on the verge of collapse and he had to be ready.
You smiled faintly into the pillow. Your body still ached, and your sinuses were stuffed, and you couldn’t imagine doing anything but staying in bed for another twelve hours.
But you had Jake.
And even if he hovered like a worried grandmother, and whispered about your too-high-fever under his breath like it was haunting him, he was yours.
And he was there.
Jake returned to the bedroom with a fresh mug of tea and a cautious expression. His hair was pulled back messily, like he’d been running his hands through it too many times while pacing the hallway, and he had that boyish furrow in his brow he got when he was trying not to concentrate.
He handed you the mug gently, watching you sip like it might shatter in your hands. “Alright. Be honest with me, how are we feeling?”
You gave a tired shrug. “Still shitty. But less of the delirious kind.”
“That’s not exactly a raving review,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face.
You were about to say something cheeky, but he cut in, already crouching beside the bed, one hand brushing hair from your forehead with exaggerated care.
“I was thinking maybe a bath,” he offered softly. “Something warm, not too hot. Steam might help your sinuses, and your muscles are probably screaming. I put the magnesium salts in already.”
You blinked. “You ran the bath?”
“Well, yeah. I knew if I waited to ask, you’d tell me not to bother,” he said, trying for a light tone, but his eyes were serious. “I’ll come sit with you. Just in case you feel dizzy again.”
“I’ll be fine,” you murmured, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “It’s not like I’m gonna faint in the tub.”
Jake’s lips pressed into a line.
“Let me come with you. I’ll keep you upright and feed you grapes if necessary.”
You smiled faintly, sinking back into the pillows. “Only if you join me.”
That made him pause. “Join you? In the bath?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed again. “I just… I want you close.”
There was a beat of silence, then the soft sound of Jake exhaling through his nose.
“Alright,” he said, already smoothing the blanket down. “But only ‘cause you asked. And also ‘cause I was planning to anyway.”
He helped you up with extreme care, hands steady at your waist, arm around your back, and moving like you were made of glass. You leaned against him as he led you into the bathroom, warm air curling around your legs as you stepped inside.
The tub was full, the water tinted slightly from the salts he must have added, and the lights were just a soft glow, dimmed to a warm hum.
He helped you out of your clothes, whispering little reassurances the whole time, before lowering you slowly into the bath. The moment your body hit the warmth, a full body sigh slipped from your mouth.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “That’s perfect.”
Jake smiled, then stripped down beside you and climbed in behind you, his chest to your back, thighs bracketing yours beneath the water. The moment he got settled, his hands found your shoulders, thumbs pressing slow, gentle circles into the muscles there, working downward..
You melted into him, your head lolling slightly to the side.
He didn’t say anything for a while, just kissed your damp hair and kept massaging, letting the water do half the work, and his touch do the rest. Every now and then he whispered little murmurs like "You're okay, I've got you," though his hands never stilled.
Finally, through the haze of steam and comfort and warmth, you whispered, “I love you.”
Jake’s hands paused. Then moved again, slower, steadier.
You turned your head just enough to glance up at him, eyes heavy but sincere. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
Jake’s heart clenched like a fist in his chest. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone, then your temple, then your shoulder, his palms smoothing up and down the skin on your arms.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Every time. Whether you want me to or not.”
You smiled weakly and let your head fall back against his shoulder again. He held you tighter, your back to his chest, arms around your waist, the two of you surrounded by a world slowed down.
You stayed like that until the water began to cool, and even then, Jake didn’t move until you whispered you were ready. He dried you off carefully, like you were something precious, dressed you in your softest pajamas, then helped you back into bed.
He even tucked the infamous teddy bear under your arm again, muttering some dramatic annoyance at the small, ragged thing, before kissing your forehead and climbing into bed behind you.
Wrapped in Jake’s arms, the worst of the aches still lingering but your body finally starting to relax, you let your eyes fall shut. His warmth at your back, the quiet sound of him breathing behind you, made everything begin to feel a little less heavy.
You were still sick, still wiped out, but you didn’t have to do anything else right now.
Jake adjusted the blanket over your legs, then rested his chin lightly against your shoulder.
After a long pause, he whispered, “I love you.”
You hummed faintly, barely a sound, your eyes already closing.
His hand smoothed over your arm once, slow and careful. “Get some sleep.”
And you did.
Tag List: @frogkiszka @hailtheaeon @allof--mylove @scarabsinthestardust @musicislove3389 @lightsofthe-living-gvf
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content 18+ !! oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, recollection of and mentions of death/dying (nothing gruesome), ghosts
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
October 24th, 9:27 PM
The sea was restless that night. Strong winds battered against the windows of the old inn, the waves below gnawing the cliffs as though they wanted the land back. I arrived at the Salty Dog Inn thoroughly soaked, my suitcase dripping rainwater onto the already warped floorboards. My room, or perhaps the entire building, reeked of history; a tinge of smoke soaked into every board. Looking around the room, I felt… haunted. Not by a spirit, but a heaviness. The innkeeper had mentioned that an infamous pirate captain had died here, hanged in the streets outside as payment for his sins, but I already knew that. In fact, that story was the very reason I found myself in Whispering Harbor in the first place. It wasn’t the idea of a wayward spirit that rattled me, though. It was the way the air seemed to wait, as if holding its breath for something long overdue.
I had come to Whispering Harbor to research the ghost stories, or at least that’s partially why. Truth is, I felt a pull to the cold cliffside town, like I could find a piece of myself here. Something about the waters of the cold northeast always drew me in, but not like this. I started writing a book focused on the different legends of the coast; tales of shipwrecks, phantom lights, and lovers bound to the sea. Every village had one, but none as famous as the tale of Captain Jacob Thomas Kiszka. The locals claimed his spirit wandered the shoreline each Halloween, searching for the woman who betrayed him. Some accounts conflicted, as legends do, but I’d read enough about him to sense there was more to discover.
My room faced the sea, where a lantern burned on a distant rock. An old signal light that was once said to lure ships to their doom. I unpacked my notes beside the fire and listened to the wind rake the windows. It was easy to imagine him out there, a shadow pacing the surf, waiting for a voice he’d once known.
That first night, sleep wouldn’t come easily. The inn was quiet now, save for the groaning of old pipes and half-open windows letting in enough of a breeze to rattle the shutters now and then. I told myself it was the weather keeping me awake, but every time I closed my eyes, I felt watched. Not in a sinister way, more like the moon itself was studying me through the glass.
At some point past midnight, I awoke feeling unrested and lit the lamp beside my bed. The light from the flame trembled along the walls, stretching the shadows long and strange. My blankets were strewn about the bed as if I had kicked them off, and my research notes lay open on the desk, the ink blurred in spots where rain had soaked through my bag. As I approached the desk, one line of ink caught the glare of the light.
I didn’t remember jotting it down, though it was definitely my handwriting. The wind outside stilled as I looked closer… was the ink still wet?
A sudden burst of wind slammed the shutters open. Sharp, loud, and alive. The oil lamp sputtered, flaring bright just before steadying. I clutched my chest, the only sound left in the room being my startled, shaky breaths. For just a moment, the scent of tobacco and brine filled the air, faint but unmistakable. The kind of smell that lingers on someone’s skin after years at sea. It stirred something in me… a recognition that didn’t make sense. When I glanced toward the window, the lantern on the distant rock had gone dark.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
By morning, the storm had spent itself. The air hung heavy with salt, and the sea looked calm, too calm… as though it were catching its breath after some secret violence. I tried to lose myself in research over breakfast. The inn’s common room was a narrow space cluttered with fishing nets and framed sketches of old ships. The few locals who still came here for morning coffee eyed me with that small-town curiosity reserved for outsiders. When I asked the innkeeper if she knew where I might find the town’s records, she hesitated before warning me that while I may find what I’m looking for in the basement of the Old Mariner’s Church, some things are better left to rest.
The church sat on the hill above the harbor, its stones slick with moss. Inside, the air was cool and dim. The sound of the sea now only a faint hush, the distance dulling it until it were no louder than soft breaths leaking in through the cracks in the wall. The archivist was an elderly man named Frank who smelled faintly of pipe smoke. He brought me a small stack of documents bound with twine, promising to have more ready for me later on, should I return. Most were weathered letters and court records from the eighteenth century.
I spent the afternoon piecing through them, tracing the ghost of a man who seemed to live between the lines. Captain Jacob Thomas Kiszka, charged with piracy and the unlawful taking of Crown property. There were, however, fragments of articles that spoke differently of him; notes from townspeople who called him protector, savior, lover. One woman’s handwriting appeared more than once, careful and looping. In one margin, barely legible, a note.
𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.
I ran my fingers over the faded ink, reading the passages over and over until the letters blurred. The air around me grew colder, and darkening golden rays of sun slanted through the church windows.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
By the time I returned to the inn, the sky had faded into a bruised gray, and a fog had begun to roll in over the water. The harbor was silent except for the dull clink of rigging against the masts. The lantern glowed faintly on the rock out towards the sea, the same one that had gone dark the night before. For a moment I watched it through the mist, its flame steady as a heartbeat.
In my room, I spread the documents across the desk. The letter from the nameless woman lay on top, its edges curling with age.
𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.
The words seemed to pulse faintly in the firelight. I stared intensely at the pages, hoping that something would change, for the pieces to click into place. I must have been staring too long as I swore I could hear something in the wind. A whisper, low and close to my ear. Just a single word, feather-light and carried gently through the room. My name.
I turned, heart in my throat. The room was empty, the shadows high against the boarded walls. The scent came next, the same one I’d noticed before. Tobacco, salt, and something darker beneath it, like wet rope. The fire sputtered again, stirred by unseen movement.
I sat back down and reached for my notebook, trying to ignore the feeling I had and jot down notes about what I’d found at the church, but my hand trembled. The pen scratched nonsense across the page before steadying on its own, guided by something other than me. When I looked down, four words stared back in dark ink:
𝒟𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝓂𝑒?
The pen fell from my fingers. I could hear the sea again, louder now, as though the tide had crept closer. The wind howled and the open shutters shook against the frame. When I dared glance at the window, the sound stopped. The distant lantern had gone dark again.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Sleep came in fits, restless and strange. Every time I drifted off, the rhythm of the tide filled my ears, competing with the crackle of the fire, the creak of the old beams, even the beating of my own heart. Then the room was gone, replaced by moonlight and water.
I stood on the deck of a ship. The air was cold, heavy with salt and woodsmoke. Lanterns swung in the rigging, their flames guttering against the wind. The sea stretched out in every direction, a mirror of black glass, and above it, stars like spilled silver. I knew this place the way you know a scar by touch.
He stood at the helm.
Jacob.
I didn’t know how I recognized him, only that I did. His dark hair was long, tied back loosely, and his coat fluttered in the wind like a shadow. When he turned, the world seemed to still. He was hauntingly beautiful, as if he had been made from the moon itself. His eyes were the same dark brown I’d seen in every dream I’d never remembered until now. Lightning cracked in the distance. For a heartbeat, it illuminated the amber within them. The sun-worn skin around them crinkled as a smile crept across his face.
“You found me,”
His voice was low, roughened by wind and distance.
Before I could answer, the deck shifted beneath me, waves rising like walls of glass. The ship groaned, the lanterns swayed, and suddenly he was close enough to touch. His hand came to my cheek, cold and steady. The air around us shimmered as he whispered,
“When the waves call your name again, I’ll come.”
Then the sea swallowed the stars, the ship, and Jacob and I with it all. I gasped awake, my heart pounding like a drum in the dark.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
October 26th, 6:49 AM
I woke to the sound of gulls. Pale light spilled through the curtains, washed thin by fog. I dreamt about Jacob last night. Some version of him, anyway. For a moment I couldn’t tell if everything I’d experienced the night before was all a part of the dream. The whisper, the smell, the words that seemed to write themselves. The fire had gone cold, the ink on my desk dry. Everything looked perfectly ordinary. And yet, when I reached for my notebook, my fingers brushed something coarse and brittle.
Salt.
A fine dusting of it laid scattered across the papers, glinting faintly in the light. The window was shut tight, I knew that I’d latched it before bed. My stomach turned. Outside, the waves crashed steady and distant, but the sound felt nearer somehow, like it was echoing from inside the walls. Maybe I was going crazy. Maybe the solitude was too much for me.
I told myself there had to be an explanation; damp air, sea spray carried by the wind. Maybe there was salt built up on the ceiling and it had just fallen off… but deep inside me, I knew better. The book smelled like him now. Tobacco and brine, faint as a breath. The air caught in my throat as I stopped myself from saying his name aloud.
Instead, I reached for the note from the church. The looping hand, the promise.
𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒. 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.
I pressed my thumb to the words as if I could warm them back to life.
When I turned the page in my notebook, new words waited there, scrawled in the same dark ink as the night before, but this time not in my handwriting.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The fog clung low over the harbor road, turning the world to watercolor. Shops huddled close together, their windows steamed from within. Whispering Harbor was livelier than I’d expected. Fishermen unloaded their morning catch, children darted between puddles. Even in the daylight, something about the place felt suspended in another time. Every sign, every salt-stained shingle bore the weight of a story I hadn’t yet read.
I stopped first at the small maritime museum beside the pier. It smelled of rust and rope, the air thick with the damp of things too long kept near the sea. The museum’s curator, Martha, spoke softly but confidently; with a wisdom one only gained from devoting their life to their work. When I asked about Captain Kiszka, her mouth tightened, but curiosity softened her eyes.
“Most folks around here leave him be,” she said. “But if you’re writing about him, you’ll want to see this. It is the only surviving likeness.”
She led me to a narrow room where the walls were crowded with paintings of ships, storms, and men with unreadable expressions. At the far end hung a single canvas apart from the rest. The plaque below it read simply: Jacob Thomas Kiszka, 1724–1752.
He was younger than the version of him I’d seen in my dream. His dark hair still tied loosely at his neck, coat half-unbuttoned, a defiant half-smile tugging at his mouth. His eyes, though, were what stopped me. Dark brown, with flecks of amber that shone bright even under the weathered varnish. I felt that familiar heaviness from my first night here, that pull.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the curator said, gently.
I forced a laugh, but my throat felt tight. “Maybe I have.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
By the time I returned to the Salty Dog, the sun had gone down, the moonlight making everything silver and dim. I told myself I was chilled from the night, but it felt deeper than that. Something uneasy shifting under my skin.
The portrait stayed with me. Those eyes. They followed me through dinner, through the narrow hall, through the slow climb of the stairs up to my room. I could still feel the weight of them on me. I tried to read over some materials that Martha had given me, trying to distract myself, but my eyes kept catching on the page I had left open the night before.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈.
A sudden knock startled me. I froze, listening. Three soft raps, then silence. When I opened the door, the hallway was empty, but I hadn’t heard any footsteps retreating. The lantern at the far end swayed gently, though there was no draft. My heart pounded in my chest. I shut the door hard and turned the key.
For the first time since arriving, I wished I hadn’t come to Whispering Harbor.
I put out the fire, and tried to convince myself I was imagining things, that the dreary weather and too many ghost stories were conspiring against me. But when I blew out the lamp and lay in the dark, I could hear it again: the slow, deliberate rhythm of the tide, pulsing beneath the floorboards like a heartbeat.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
October 27th, 9:16 AM
There was no storm that night, but I woke as though there had been. My pillow was damp with sweat, and the light that filtered through the curtains was pale and sickly, like the inside of a shell. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. No footsteps, no whispering waves beneath the floorboards, no scent of salt or smoke, only the slow tick of the clock on the mantel.
For a long time, I didn’t move. I waited for something to happen, for some sign that he was still here. Nothing. The air felt ordinary again, almost cruelly so. I half expected the words in my notebook to vanish, for the ink to dry into nonsense, but they were still there, stark as ever.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈.
I didn’t want to believe it. Maybe I’d imagined everything. The whispers, the salt, even the dream. My mind had always been too good at weaving stories from shadows. What if this was just another one?
Downstairs, the innkeeper poured me coffee and asked if I’d slept well. I lied and said I had. She told me the weather was turning, that I’d better finish my research before the storms rolled in again. I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to finish anything. Part of me wanted to pack my notes, board the next bus out of Whispering Harbor, and forget all of it.
Instead, I returned to my room and sat by the window, watching the tide crawl up the shore. The water looked harmless, even gentle. It was easy to pretend it hadn’t spoken to me, but impossible convince myself that nothing waited for me here. That I shouldn’t stay.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
By nightfall, the wind had picked up again. It rattled the windowpanes and whispered under the door, but the rest of the inn was quiet, too quiet… as though the whole building were holding its breath. I sat by the fire with my notes spread out, though I’d stopped pretending to read them hours ago. The words swam uselessly before me.
Outside, the sea was nothing but darkness. The horizon had vanished. I told myself I’d watch the tide for a while, then go to bed early. Yet I stayed there long after the clock struck ten, long after the fire burned low.
That was when I saw it.
Out beyond the harbor, on the black curve of the cliffs, the lantern flared to life. Its light flickered through the fog, faint and golden. I leaned closer to the glass. The flame pulsed once, twice, and I swear it answered the rhythm of my heartbeat.
A whisper threaded through the air then, soft as the tide against stone. My name. Drawn out, carried by wind, too faint to be real but too certain to ignore.
“Stop it,” I said under my breath, my voice shaking. “Stop.”
But I didn’t look away.
Something stirred deep in the water. It rippled outward, and I felt it like a pull in my chest, the echo of a promise half-remembered. The longer I stared, the more certain I became that I wasn’t watching the lantern at all. I was watching him.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled on my coat and stepped out into the night. The wind off the harbor was sharp, cold enough to sting my skin, but I followed the sound of the surf down the narrow path that wound toward the cliffs. The fog was thicker now, swallowing the world in shades of gray. Only the faint glimmer of water below told me where the sea stopped and the sky began.
The rocks were slick with sea spray. My boots slipped once, and I caught myself against a post worn smooth by years of wind. I stood there, listening. Nothing but the hiss of the tide and the slow churn of waves against stone. Still, I felt him. It was the same pull I’d felt in the dream.
“Jacob?” My voice barely rose above the wind. Saying his name aloud felt strange, almost forbidden. The fog seemed to shift at the sound, coiling tighter around me.
I took a step toward the edge. The sea below gleamed faintly, as if the depths were conjuring something otherworldly. I waited for an answer, a whisper, a flicker of light… anything. But there was only the rhythm of the waves, steady and patient.
And then, so faint I almost missed it, came the scent. The familiar warm waves of tobacco and brine.
My eyes stung. “If you can hear me,” I whispered, “I’m here.”
The wind died. For a heartbeat, the world held still. The trees stopped rustling, leaving the air hollow in reply.
I stepped closer to the edge. The sea below wasn’t solid black anymore. Lines of light rippled through it, silver and thin like veins under skin. They wove together, rising and falling with the waves until I could almost make out a shape beneath the surface. A figure moving through the dark water, slow and certain, coming toward me.
My pulse stuttered. “Jacob,” I whispered again, the name barely a sound.
The scent grew stronger. The warm tobacco notes filled my senses. No longer a whisper on the breeze, but an overwhelming sensation. Something… real. The fog parted for the briefest instant, and something gleamed there. The outline of a man standing on the rocks far below, lantern in hand. The light touched his face just long enough for me to see the impossible. Dark hair whipping in the wind, eyes flecked in whiskey-rich amber.
“Wait!” I called, my voice torn away by the gust. I started down the path that led toward the shore, but the mist thickened, closing like a curtain. The lantern winked out.
Only the waves answered, breaking hard against the stone. The echo of his name washed back to me, as if spoken from somewhere deep beneath the water.
My legs gave out, and I sank to my knees, the cold biting through my clothes. For a long time I stayed like that, staring into the dark, waiting for another sign. Waiting for him, for anything, but the sea was empty again.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
October 28th, 6:38 AM
I slept little, if at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flare of the lantern, the shape of him in the fog, the glint of light on the water. By morning, the images had blurred into something softer, but the feeling stayed, like the ache after a dream you don’t want to end.
The town was just beginning to stir when I stepped outside. The air was cold and clean, rinsed by night mist.
Back inside the inn, I poured myself a cup of coffee that I wouldn’t drink and spread my notes across the desk. Every word I’d written about Captain Kiszka seemed hollow now, clinical. I couldn’t see him as a legend anymore. He was a man. I’d seen him. While every rational part of me screamed that it was impossible, another part whispered that maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that is what drew me here. Not the story of the ghost, but the man himself.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
I spent the morning back at the church, combing through what little Frank could find beyond the official records. Personal letters, newspaper fragments, trading logs. Jacob Thomas Kiszka, born to a family of sailors in 1724. A skilled navigator by eighteen, privateer by twenty-three. There were mentions of his ship, The Roving Blade, said to travel up and down the Atlantic. In one of the ledgers, a note from a fellow marauder, Captain Chris Turpin, caught my attention.
“Captain Kiszka gave a portion of wages this month to aid the widows of The Raider’s crew, lost to the storm.”
The accounts I’d read before had never mentioned compassion. They painted him as a thief, a man of violence. But between the lines of these forgotten papers, I saw something else. A man trying to balance two worlds; one that demanded blood and another that sought mercy.
Frank allowed me to sort through a small crate marked Private Correspondence: 1750s. Inside were scraps of paper, all brittle and water-damaged, the lines of ink blurred into ghosts of their former selves. I flipped through hundreds of letters until one envelope fell from the stack. The wax seal had started to crack long ago, but the letter inside remained unharmed. A familiar looking crest was stamped into it, still mostly preserved after all this time. I couldn't place where I had seen it, but I knew it. I carefully broke the seal and opened the envelope.
Inside were several folded pages, their edges thin and fragile. The handwriting was neat and looping, the same hand I’d seen in the note at the church. My heart thudded.
By the time I left the archives, the daylight had already begun to fade. A thin rain fell over the harbor, pattering against the stones. I walked back to the inn with the letters clutched tight to my chest, terrified they might dissolve if I let the damp air reach them.
In my room, I spread the pages on the desk beside the fire as I did every night. I ran my fingers over them again, over the looping strokes of the woman’s handwriting. It didn’t feel like reading a stranger’s confession anymore. It felt familiar, like it was my own.
The wind rose outside, shutters rattled. The flames bent sideways in the hearth as the air shifted, sharp with salt. I could feel him then, as clearly as if he’d stepped into the room; the weight of his presence, the charge in the air, that familiar scent.
I turned slowly, afraid that if I moved too quickly, I might break whatever fragile thread connected me to him. “Jacob,” I whispered.
The sound of his name seemed to echo back from nowhere and everywhere. The curtains stirred though the windows were shut. My pulse thundered.
“Why me?” The words came out trembling, half question, half prayer.
The reply wasn’t a sound, not really. More like a vibration in the air, a warmth at my back, the shape of a voice inside my chest. It wasn’t in words, but I understood it all the same.
Because you promised.
My throat tightened. I pressed a hand to my heart, feeling heat behind my neck as if someone stood just behind me, close enough that our breaths might mingle if either of us breathed at all.
The flame in the hearth flared once, high and white. I turned, certain I would see him there, but there was only the shimmer of air and the faint distortion of light, like heatwaves over sand.
Then, softly, against the back of my neck, I felt it. The brush of soft, warm fingers, gone as quickly as they came.
The letters on the desk rustled though no wind touched them. The top page lifted, turning itself over to reveal another page of my notebook.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈. 𝒟𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊?
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
I dreamt of Jacob again that night.
The air smelled of rain and smoke. I stood in the streets of Whispering Harbor beneath a gray, unkind sky. The gallows loomed at the far end, shrouded in mist, ropes slick with the morning’s dew. A crowd had gathered, their murmurs low and hungry.
I pushed through them, my skirt soaked from dragging against the cobblestone. I could hear my own heartbeat over the racket, could taste the salty air on my tongue. Someone shouted for silence. Then the world seemed to tilt, and I saw him.
He was dragged in through the crowd in irons, coat torn, his long hair tangled from the rain. But even then, even bound, he was something to behold. Something the sea had carved itself. Wild, defiant, too alive for the gray of this place. When his gaze found mine, it was not accusation that met me. It was grief.
“You did this,” a voice whispered inside my mind. I turned, but there was no one there. I looked down at the parchment stamped with that familiar crest, clutched in my own trembling hands. My confession. My betrayal.
It felt unfair, seeing him bound as I went free. It was my fault he was in this position, it should be me under trial.
I tried to speak, to tell him I hadn’t meant to. That they said it would save him. That they promised he’d be spared. But my throat refused me. My body remembered only silence.
They placed the rope around his neck. I lunged forward, but the soldiers held me back. “You swore he’d be okay!” I gasped, but it fell on deaf ears.
He gave a small, knowing smile. The same one I’d seen in every dream. “I’ll find you again,” he said.
“When the waves call your name again, I’ll come.”
The trapdoor fell open.
I screamed until my voice broke, until the sea rose behind the gallows and swallowed the world in a rush of black water. When the current caught me, I reached for him, but the tide tore us apart.
I woke with the taste of salt on my lips and the sound of his voice still in my ears. I woke with the realization that this wasn’t just a dream. This was a memory. The same wave that had ripped me from my Jacob filled my mind with remembrance. It all came back to me then. All of the lives I lived before, the pain I felt, the way I missed him. The weight of this realization pinned me to the bed, grief-stricken and unmoving. I was heartbroken, but I remembered him. I remembered.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
October 29th, 10:22 PM
I spent the day drifting through town like a ghost. The market stalls were bright with autumn produce, the air heavy with the smell of cider and salt, but everything felt muted, distant. Every gull’s cry, every creak of rope, every whisper of wind seemed to echo with his name.
Back at the inn, I took out the letter to Jacob again. They looked different now, less like artifacts. On the last page, I noticed something that wasn’t there before:
I pressed my fingers to the page, my throat tight. These words weren’t mine. They were his.
That night, the air grew heavy again. The wind carried the smell of salt and tobacco through the cracks in the window. A song and dance that had once terrified me but was now becoming comforting.
“Jacob,” I whispered. “Why are you still here?”
The silence stretched. Then the air thickened, dense and warm, humming low in the floorboards, like the sound the sea makes when it’s gathering itself before a storm. The fire flickered, the shadows on the walls bent and shifted, though nothing moved.
I turned toward the window. The glass had fogged over from the heat of the room, but through it, the lantern on the cliffs blazed brighter than I had yet seen. Its light trembled across the pane, and then changed.
There was a figure standing behind me in the reflection of the glass.
I froze. My breath hitched, shallow and sharp. The reflection was faint at first, as if made of candlelight and smoke. I turned slowly, afraid of what I might find. Afraid that any sudden movement would break the illusion.
He was there.
Not the Jacob of my dreams. This Jacob was ethereal, ghostly. His coat was dark and weather-worn, the collar open to the bruised hollow of his throat. His hair curled at his temples, like he’d just come in from the rain, but he didn’t look wet. He didn’t look… whole. Like you could stick your arm right through his chest and see it on the other side.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air trembled between us, too alive, too quiet. Then he smiled, that same small smile I remembered, the one he’d given me before my world ended.
“I told you I’d return,” he said.
The words hit something deep in me, something that had been waiting lifetimes to hear them. My hand lifted on instinct, reaching toward him, but the air shimmered like heat, rippling just shy of my fingertips.
“Why now?” I asked, voice trembling.
His gaze softened. “Because you remembered.”
But before I could speak again, his form began to waver, edges dissolving into the glow of the hearth. He looked at me as he faded, that same quiet devotion written across his face.
“I’ll come again when the tide turns,” he whispered. “Soon.”
Then the room was empty, and I was left staring at the place where he’d stood, the smell of him still thick in the air.
Outside, the sea roared against the cliffs as though it, too, had finally remembered.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
I don’t know how long I sat staring at the space where he’d stood. The fire had burned itself low, nothing but embers whispering in the grate. The scent of smoke and salt clung to the room long after the air should have cleared. Every few seconds I glanced at the window, half-expecting, or maybe just hoping, his reflection to return.
He didn’t come again that night.
The next evening, however, he did.
It was just after sundown. The fog rolled in thick and low, pressing itself against the glass. I’d lit the lamp on my desk, but its light felt frail compared to the steady glow that bloomed once more on the cliffs. Jacob’s lantern. The moment I saw it spark to life, the room changed. The air warmed, the shadows sharpened.
When I turned, he was there.
This time, he looked more whole. The bruising on his neck was faded, as if he was finally healing. He stood near the hearth, eyes as bright as the fire itself. His coat hung open, the fabric moving as if caught by a wind that didn’t touch me. He looked more alive than any memory should.
“Jacob,” I breathed.
I rose slowly, afraid to break whatever fragile thread held him to this world. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
His gaze softened. “Of course I came back. I can’t stand to be away from you.”
Something inside me broke open at that; an ache, an understanding. I wanted to touch him, to prove he was real, but when I stepped closer, the air grew charged, humming, and a shimmer passed between us again like heat on the horizon. My fingertips stopped just short of his chest.
“You can’t touch me,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
The words carried weight, sorrow, and promise. I could feel them vibrate through me.
I took a shaky breath. “I saw it in my dream, the day they took you.”
He nodded once, his expression grave but calm. “You tried to save me.”
“I told them where to find you,” I said. The confession felt like a wound reopening.
“You believed them,” he murmured. “You believed they’d spare me. You were only trying to bring me home.”
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. “I waited for you, for the rest of my life,” I said.
“I know.” He instinctively reached out as though to touch my face, to comfort me, but his hand passed through the air between us, leaving a faint warmth that brushed my skin.
For a long moment, we simply looked at each other. Two ghosts from different sides of time. The wind howled against the window, but the room felt still, suspended.
Finally, he said, “Tomorrow night, the tide will turn. The veil will be at its thinnest. I’ll come back for you.”
“And then?”
He smiled. A small, sad curve of his mouth. The lamp flickered once, and when I blinked, he was gone.
Outside, the lantern on the cliffs burned twice as bright before sputtering out cold.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
October 31st, 7:48 PM
The storm rolled in just after sunset. The sky was the color of iron, clouds stacked high and heavy over the sea. Waves slammed against the cliffs below the inn, throwing spray so high it reached the windows. The lantern on the rocks burned through it all, brighter than I’d ever seen. Steady, defiant.
He would come tonight.
The air inside the room hummed, thick with salt and static. Every shadow seemed alive. I’d left the window open, and the wind billowed the curtains inward, carrying the scent of smoke and sea. My heart thudded so hard it almost hurt.
The wind stopped. The rain hung motionless on the glass. The fire dimmed to a slow pulse of ember-light and then flared.
He stood in front of it.
No longer translucent or wavering, but solid and real, the lightning outside gilding the edges of him. Water dripped from his hair, ran down his collar. He looked as though he’d just walked in from the sea itself.
For what felt like an eternity, neither of us spoke. I couldn’t. My throat closed around his name.
He crossed the room slowly, the air bending around him. When he reached me, he lifted a hand, hesitant, as if afraid the spell would break. His fingers brushed mine, and this time, I felt him. Warm. Alive.
The room exhaled. The sea roared.
I don’t know who moved first. Maybe we both did. One moment I was standing there shaking, the next I was in his arms. He smelled of salt and tobacco and smoke and rain, and under it all, something like moonlight. His chest rose against mine, strong and steady.
The world outside vanished. There was only us, the heat of him, the sound of our breaths tangling together. His hand framed my face, thumb brushing a tear I hadn’t felt fall.
We stayed like that, the storm crashing beyond the cliffs, time unraveling around us. For a while, it felt like the world had finally righted itself. The promise kept. The vow fulfilled.
“What happens,” I whispered, mournful, “When tonight is over. Where will you go?”
He pressed his lips to my forehead. His lack of a response serving as the response. He either doesn’t know, or doesn’t want to tell me. I clutch his face in my hands, staring deeply into his dark amber eyes.
“My Jacob,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch as though the weight of my palms anchored him here. When he opened them again, the firelight caught the amber in his irises.
“Every time I see you,” he said softly, “it feels like the first.”
Before I could answer, he bent toward me. The air between us sparked as his lips found mine. The kiss was slow, reverent. His mouth so warm and sure, his hands framed my face as if to hold me steady against the pull of the sea itself.
The room around us vanished. There was no sound of the waves, the fire, or even the storm. There was only him.
His forehead rested against mine, our noses touching. His hands dropped to my waist, thumbs making soothing circles. He felt my spine straighten, my breath deepen. His hands traveled up my body as if he'd unlearned me in death, and now he was relearning every curve, every hollow.
His mouth was against mine again, kissing me deeper this time. He walked me backwards until my knees hit the edge of the bed, I fell gently onto my back, propping myself up on my elbows to look at him. The fire roared in the background, light dancing across his face and highlighting the amber ribbons in his eyes.
“I have waited lifetimes to touch you again,” He began, voice shaking, “but should you not let me, I have no qualms. Seeing you here, like this, is more than I could ever ask for.”
His lips brushed my ear as he spoke, his hot breath sending shivers down my neck. I turned my head slightly, our noses touching, foreheads pressing together. My hands slid from his face to his chest, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath my palms. He felt so real, so… alive, that I’d almost forgotten he hadn’t always been.
“My sweet Jacob, I do want you to. It’s been so long.”
I ran my fingers down his chest, to his stomach. His shirt gaped open. Silver chains hung in my view, swinging delicately from his neck. Coins and keys adorned them, with one beautifully decorated hinged oval pendant. I stared at it, my heart aching at the sight. For an inexplicable reason, perhaps instinct, I reached for it.
The face of the locket popped open and my suspicions were confirmed when there, crusted in salt and dimmed with age, was a portrait of a woman. A portrait of me.
Her hair was different, her dress old and modest, but she was me. Her eyes were my eyes, like looking through a mirror to another world. One where I was Jacob’s, and he is mine. Except, that is this world, I reminded myself. Jacob is here, waiting for me, even if only for tonight.
I released the pendant and my eyes were met with the same look he gave me all those years ago. The last look he gave me. The look of grief. This time, however, it was not grief for a loss to be suffered. No, it was grief for the time we missed, and a long awaited hopefulness for what the remainder of the night would bring.
I pulled his face towards mine, his breath to my breath. His body loomed over mine, strong and warm and real. I ached for him, longing to feel a touch I remembered yet never experienced in this life. In this body.
His lips pressed warm kisses to my jaw and trailed them down my neck. My back arched into him as his fingers, calloused from years of shipwork, gripped my waist. His lips stopped at the exposed skin between my breasts, those warm amber eyes flicking up beneath his brow to meet mine.
“I can hear your heart beating faster.” He whispered, his hands sliding up my sides agonizingly slow, thumbs brushing against the undersides of my breasts. “Your body remembers me.”
His hands continued their ascent, fingers splaying across my collarbone before hooking under the straps of my nightgown. He pulled them down slowly, his knuckles grazing along my shoulders as he exposed my skin to the cool night air. "Let me see you," he murmured, his voice low and rough with centuries-old longing.
The thin nightgown slipped down my body, catching on hardened nipples. A soft moan escapes me as his thumbs brush over them, freeing the silken fabric. He pulled it down past my hips, letting it pool at the base of the bed. He swallowed hard, taking in the sight of my body like a man starved.
"Darling, you're even more beautiful than I remember," he growled, his hands spanning my waist possessively. His knees hit the warped floorboards as he pressed tiny, teasing kisses to my hips, my belly button. My body shuddered as his touch deepened, his warm, calloused fingers digging into my thighs and slowly spreading them apart. "Let me in, my sweet. You used to love it when I did this for you. Do you still love it?"
I nod my head eagerly. My knees fall apart, giving him full reign of me. Submitting to him in the most delicate way. He kissed the sensitive thin skin of my inner thighs gently before his tongue parted me. A gasp racked from my chest as he lapped at me. His hands were gripping at my backside, pulling me into his face.
The pleasure consumes me immediately. I writhed gently in tandem with the waves crashing against the cliffs outside. The point of his nose grazed my clit with every rock of my hips. My vision blurred. I felt his finger enter me as his tongue swirled against my most sensitive spot, sucking me into his warm mouth and dragging my senses with it. My legs clamped against him and I became one with the sea. Waves crashed over me as the ceiling came alive with colors. Purple, blue, green, and then brown. Warm, whiskey-toned amber. The most beautiful color.
When I returned to my body, Jacob was a mess. Hair disheveled from my thighs, face pinked and dewy. I opened my mouth to apologize for leaving him this way, but he was already on his feet. I watched as his shirt fell loose, button by button, until it joined my nightgown on the floor.
He stepped closer, his chest bare and lightly sculpted. I could see the definition of every muscle, the scars from a hard life lived upon the sea. A soft smattering of hair peeked just above his waistband. He unbuttoned his pants slowly, and his eyes never left mine as I worked my way backwards up the bed.
His gaze was hungry and needy, watching me sort myself amongst the flimsy inn pillows. When his face caught the firelight, I could see the rouge from my lips decorated his chin and jaw. He crawled to me on the bed, now as bare for me as I was for him and aching, a sight I knew I had seen before but one that would stick with me forever.
His hands made a cage around my head. His face hung just above mine, warm breath mingling with mine. I felt him, heavy and hard against my thigh.
“I’ve dreamed of this.” He whispered, his voice hoarse. “Every night since the last time I saw you, I dreamed of you. I have walked the shores every year hoping you’d come back to me.”
I captured him in a kiss, soft and sweet and needy.
“I came back. I’m here,” I whispered.
“You are here.” His mouth was on me again, his hands finding purchase of my breasts. My legs draped over his back, and I felt the sharp edges of his hipbone press into me. I wanted him, needed him, missed him. In every sense of the words. I thanked the heavens for bringing me back to my Jacob as my eyes rolled with the gentle bites to my collarbone.
He stroked himself gently while one toned arm held him above me. The sight of him was sinful. Nothing would compare to this moment. It was new yet familiar, filled with excitement and longing. I never wanted to look at anything else for the rest of my life. If all my thoughts were of the way he glistened as he readied himself for me, I would be fulfilled.
I believed the feeling of his knuckles grazing against my clit had been heaven until he pressed into me. He pushed into me slowly, as if to savor it. I didn’t know if it was for my sake, or for his, but the look on his face suggested it was wholly selfish. He stilled immediately, his face distraught with pleasure. Inch by agonizing inch, he pulled away from me before filling me again. Each thrust sent him deeper and deeper, as if he was reclaiming his territory, little by little.
“Jacob…” My voice was a strained whisper, “I need you, I need more.”
He pushed into me fully with a shuddered breath. His forehead met mine, his lips parted. The delicate silver hanging from his neck rested against my chin.
“You’re so beautiful. So tight… warm… perfect for me. It’s almost too much.”
A deep groan escaped his chest as he moved in me. His pace quickened, causing gentle sounds of praise to fall from my lips. Sweat dripped down his stomach, illuminated by the dancing firelight.
He captured my lips in a forceful kiss, swallowing the praises and keeping them for himself. One strong hand tangled in my hair before moving to grip my thigh possessively. The bed shook with the intensity of his movements. Centuries of pent-up longing unleashed. He was frenzied, desperate.
He reached a spot inside me that made my back arch off of the bed. He swallowed the cry with another deep kiss. His fingers tightened on me, grabbing at my thighs, my hips, my ass, anything he could grab hold of. His hips pummeled that sweet spot mercilessly. He knew my body, even after all this time. He knew just how to touch it, how to make it scream for him.
"You feel even better than I remember," he panted against my lips, never slowing his pace. "Your body was made just for me."
His thumb found my clit, circling it perfectly in time with his thrusts. My body arched and writhed and clamped tight around him as he tore through me.
"Fuck," he cursed, his head fell to my shoulder. The familiar scent of salty tobacco invaded my senses, warm and comforting. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to come…" He nearly whimpered. He lifted my leg higher, changing the angle and burying himself so deep I swore I could feel him in my lungs.
“Jacob…” I whimpered, mewling like a pathetic mess.
“I know, my love. I know… Take what you need,” he cooed. The pressure of his thumb increased as he continued the delicious attack on my senses. I ground my hips upward, meeting his thrusts like the waves meet the shore. The firelight grew brighter, the wind outside howled louder. Everything was more intense. I looked up at my darling Jacob through squinted eyes, trying hard to keep myself together. I knew he could feel it too, the intensity, the hunger. The storm was taking us over. My ship was sinking and he was going down with it.
He was holding out for me, like a captain under fire ensuring his crew made it to safety. A lighthouse standing strong amidst the winds. I wanted to prolong it, I wanted to make it last forever, I wanted him to live inside me and never leave me again. His brows knit together as the knot tightened deep within me and I knew I had to let go, for both of us. My nails dug into his back, pulling him into ecstasy with me as I finally let the waves crash over us. He buried himself deep within me, a strangled groan filling the space between us. The fire burst from the hearth, the storm outside slammed the shutters open, and the oil lamp on the bedside table popped with a flare before burning out.
The room was dark and quiet then, save for our labored breaths. It was as if nothing outside of him existed anymore, and that was plenty for me. He brought a hand up to my face, freeing the sweat-soaked hair from my forehead before pressing a gentle kiss to it. I felt so happy I could cry.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Somewhere in the night, the storm gentled. Rain softened to a hush against the panes, and the fire settled into a low orange breath. I must have drifted off, curled into a warmth that wasn’t a blanket, lulled by a comforting heartbeat.
When I woke, the room was gray-blue with the hour before dawn. For a beat my chest went cold. The old fear rose. The same fear I had felt before when I watched him leave me. I feared emptiness, the indentation of a body not there, a vow spent. I reached out, bracing for air.
My hand met skin. Warm. Steady.
“Easy,” Jacob murmured, voice rough with sleep. His thumb traced the back of my knuckles where they rested over his heart.
“I thought…” My throat tightened around the old ache. “I thought you’d be gone.”
He shook his head, the corner of his mouth tilting the way it always had when he wanted to soothe me. “I waited centuries,” he said quietly. “I could never leave you again.”
The window shutters creaked quietly on a gentle breath of wind. Beyond them, the lantern on the rocks was dark at last. I had him. I had his warmth, his breath ghosting my temple, the smell of him caught in the linen.
“But… how?” I whispered. It felt like a child’s question, and still the only one I could muster.
He pressed his forehead to mine. “Because you remembered.” A softer smile. “Because you needed me. The sea let go.”
I closed my eyes, letting that settle. The familiar old bones of the inn creaked, while gulls announced the break of day with distant cries.
“I’m sorry I didn’t remember sooner.” I whispered, a slight crack in my voice. “I’m sorry you had to wait all this time.”
His hand skimmed a slow path down my spine, as if reassuring himself of me the way I’d just done of him.
“You did the best that you could. You came back to me, and that’s all that matters. Every day I spent looking for you was worth it. Every year I waited made finally finding you that much sweeter.”
“Stay,” I said, the smallest word I had for the biggest thing I wanted.
“As long as you’ll have me,” he answered, the kind of hopeful promise that belongs to morning.
We laid there and watched the sun peek shyly over the edge of the sea. We watched it rise to bring the first sunny day I’d seen since arriving in Whispering Harbor. When the light finally touched his face, he didn’t fade. He only looked at me as if he’d been waiting all this time just to see my eyes in daylight.
Outside, the tide turned quietly, calm. Inside, he laced our fingers together, and the world felt new.
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You found yourself watching the time waiting for Jake to get back from the stage. Shortly after the last song on their setlist started, you had left your place in the crowd to wait for him as he had requested. This was nothing new, Jake often asked you to wait on him in his dressing room so that he could see you afterwards, while the energy was still flowing. His energy tonight, however, was different than you’d ever seen it. He had been gaining more confidence as the tour progressed but tonight the Jake you saw on the stage was not the Jake you were used to. Jake rarely wore makeup but when he did it always boosted his confidence, so you had convinced him to try it for the show tonight. There was nothing to be worried about, you reassured him. You had a feeling the fans were going to love it, and you were right. The crowd was going crazy for Jake and because of it, he was putting on his absolute best show. Possibly the best performance you’d seen from him yet. Once Highway Tune came to a close, and the boys all said their last goodbyes, it was not long at all before Jake found his way back to the dressing room to find you, exactly where you had promised to be.
He slammed the dressing room door behind him and started ripping off his jacket. “Jake you were on fire tonight, that was the best-“ he cut you off with a stern “get on your knees.” You felt the blood rush to your cheeks and slinked off of the couch, dropping down to the floor without any question or argument. Usually Jake liked a little opposition, but you could tell how tonight was going to be when you saw the look in his smoked out eyes. Jake undid his pants and let them fall to the floor in front of you. His cock bouncing up to his stomach, already dripping with precum. He reaches down and grabs your chin, tilting it up until you meet his eyes. “I need you to be a good girl for me tonight. Are you going to let me do what I want?” You nod silently. “Use your words. Let me hear you say it.” “Yes sir,” you say softly. With a smile he caresses the side of your cheek before pushing his thumb into your mouth to pry it open. He taps your tongue with the tip of his cock a few times before pushing it as far as it can go into your mouth, holding it in place as a deep groan leaves his throat. He grabs the back of your hair to hold you in place as he begins to thrust it in and out, going as deep as he can every time. It doesn’t take long of him using your mouth before he reaches his high. His fingers grip your hair tighter and his hips falter as his praises and low groans turn into a jumbled string of fuck..fuck..fuck..fuuuck… and you feel his release run down your throat.
Normally that would be enough to get Jake’s post-show adrenaline out, so you’re surprised when he helps you off the ground and pulls you backwards with him until he’s on the couch and you’re above him, straddling his lap. He runs his hands down your sides and brings you closer to his body to whisper in the crook of your neck. “You were such a good girl for me. Always so good. I want to feel you. Please, I need more. Do you want to feel good, baby?” There was a desperation in his voice that you were not used to. You nod and grind down on his lap, his cock already growing hard again. “Needy boy” you hum, feeling him through the wet, thin fabric between you. He lifts your skirt up above your waist and pulls your panties to the side, teasing you with his calloused fingers before lining himself up and letting your sink down onto him. Still coming down from the sensitivity of his first orgasm, he throws his head back onto the couch and lets out a pathetic whine as you sink all the way down to the hilt. Once you’ve adjusted to the feeling of him stretching you out, you take over and start riding him, causing his eyes to roll back into his head. He holds onto your hips trying to keep himself grounded as he feels his second orgasm building. When you pick up the pace, he pulls you in harder. Meeting your hips with gentle thrusts as you lean back and put your hands on his knees. The new angle allows him to reach your sweet spot with every move. “You feel so fucking good baby… I’m so close… I’m so c-“ he manages to get out before slamming his head back into the couch and driving himself deep into you, completely losing control of himself inside you. His brows knitted and mouth gaped open with a strained groan leaving his chest. His fingers grip your hips so tight you’re sure you’ll have bruises in the morning but you don’t care. He moans your name so loud there’s no way anybody else still in the building wouldn’t be able to hear it. He feels you tighten around him as he fills you up. “Touch yourself,” he breathes, never slowing his pace beneath you. “What? Jake, you already-“ “I know. Please. I know you’re close. I want to feel you cum on me.” He’s straining, barely opening his eyes and fighting through the intense overstimulation. You start rubbing small circles on your clit, feeling him drive his cum deeper inside you. The sounds coming from him are almost pornographic as tears well in his eyes. “Please give it to me, baby. Please, I need you so bad” he whines, his black eyeliner starting to drip streaks down his face. He’s completely fucked out and lost in the pleasure. He can barely take it anymore but he doesn’t care. He can’t get enough of you. He moans your name again, this time sending you completely over the edge. Your back arches and your legs shake as you come down from the intense high. Jake loosens his grip on your sides, and pulls you in tight for a kiss. You lay your head in the crook of his neck, trying to catch your own breath while he settles down beneath you. After some time, you pull away and look down at him smiling. “What?” he whispers through a soft smile. “You look so pretty when you cry.”
