Greta Van Fleet Preferences (plus the occasional oneshot/imagine/smut)

smut n° 6 - ♡ jake

Being an assistant seamstress for a band was... more boring than you imagined. You had ideas of travelling all over the world, being backstage at their concerts, making tons of money.

In reality, it was late nights, fixing broken sewing machines, running errands for roadies, and never seeing the band or their concerts.

The only time you saw the band was for fittings, and even then, you were lucky if you got to watch.

You were working on a vintage jacket with star embroidery. Another rip. You were pretty sure it was Jake's. He was notorious for ripping, tearing, and staining his clothes. The wardrobe manager for the band decided to entrust you with fixing it, something she had never done before, so you were determined to make a good impression by mending it seamlessly.

You held the black jacket up in front of you. The hole Jake had made was large enough to stick a hand through. And it was, of course, on the front where everyone could see, meaning that mistakes were not an option. You got up from the small table littered with thread and needles, to find the identical black colored thread. It couldn't be far, the dressing room that was converted into a sewing room was suffocatingly small.

You heard the door open behind you. It was probably Pamela, the wardrobe manager, checking in.

"I can't find the same colored thread, Pam." You sighed, your back to the door.

"Who?" You heard a voice ask. It wasn't anyone you worked with; it was raspier. You turned around as fast as you could, your eyes meeting deep brown ones that were set in a beautiful face. It was Jake.

"I-I'm sorr-I thought-" you tried to mutter out actual words.

"It's okay," he softly laughed, "I shouldn't have just barged in."

You smiled a reply, realizing that this was the longest conversation you've ever had with him... or any other of the band members for that matter.

"You're fixing my jacket, I see." He stated, picking up the jacket on the small sewing table. "Sorry about the rip."

A light laugh escaped your growing smile.

"How did you get it?" You asked him, taking the jacket from him, observing the hole in it.

"Groupie." He responded with a wink.

You felt your face redden as he did, forcing you to turn away, pretending to look for a needle. You tried to push the thought of Jake winking at you as far back in your mind as possible.

"You probably get this a lot, but," you began, "you should stop ripping your clothes."

"Oh, it's not me ripping them."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Who is, then?" You responded, more sassily than intended, earning a laugh from Jake.

"I told you; groupies."

"Yeah, okay." Sarcasm dripped from your lips.

"What? It's true!" He joked, dramatically throwing his hair over his shoulder.

This was nice yet... different. No one in the band really ever realised that you existed, except one time when Sam bumped into you and made you spill your tea.

"I don't mean to sound rude," you began, "but what are you doing in here. I mean, the other wardrobe staff don't even come in here, let alone you."

He smirked at you in a way that made your stomach flutter.

"What do you mean you?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.