Greta Van Fleet // Oneshots

Black Flag Implosion // Jake Kiszka *SMUT*

Warnings: smut alert [oral sex; fingering; protected penetrative sex] 18+ only!

I was pretty excited for the request–I love a woman who takes charge and this is exactly what this fic is. The fantasy! The curiosity! While this is obviously not a completely accurate use of the word "implosion", I loved the paradox of the titles and playing with the idea of something a little different for Jake in this one...hope you enjoy.

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You'd been to all the shows you'd been able to attend over the few years Greta Van Fleet became bigger and bigger. At the beginning, the band would play a show at least once a month in some bar or shack of a venue, all of the boys floppy-haired and, honestly, sort of weird and the residual weirdness of high school clung to them no matter which venues they elevated themselves to. You tried not to be too hard on them, given that you had also once been in high school right alongside them and you'd never actually gotten to know them very well. Jake, who'd grown (sort of) into the back-breaking, hair-whipping guitarist that could shake the earth to its core with his riffs, was the only one you'd ever really talked to.

He liked that you went to their shows–he said that within the entirely recognizable neighborhood crowds, your face was usually the one to show the most excitement over what they were doing onstage. The excitement never dwindled, not with age and not with the band moving on and blowing through town to tour the world, only to return and be met with the same faces they'd seen for their entire lives. You figured they enjoyed it in a different way, like it was one giant group hug when they came back home, but you also figured they'd forgotten about their arguably biggest hometown fan.

The band played your town's annual summer festival as the last act of the evening–fitting, you thought, as Greta Van Fleet was now too big and bold to open for anyone. It hadn't been hard to get a spot right up front and you never took your eyes off them the entire evening, especially not Jake. You watched him thrust and gyrate, buck into his guitar and then shoot back with his spine and knees bent; you watched the way his mouth moved and how his eyebrows arched and furrowed, sweat visible even to you, beads of it hanging from the tails of his brows and dripping down his temples.

It had been a long time since you'd seen them play, since you'd seen them in person at all actually, and there was a new sensation vibrating through you–want. How ridiculous! The biggest cliche of all was the hometown girl lusting over the band who made it big, even more cliche was her lusting over the guitarist. But Jake had always been nice to you, nice enough to be a real, friendly acquaintance, and you would be lying to yourself if you said this living, breathing, apparently sex-laced rockstar in front of you didn't get your juices flowing.

Literally. The only time you averted your eyes from the stage was to glance down at your feet when you felt a tingle between your legs and your panties suddenly damp.

The live action sequence of Jake railing on his guitar made you begin to wonder if that's how he was in other ways–clothes half-off and disheveled, still sweaty and hot from the show. Your mind replaced his guitar with yourself and another tingle ran between your legs; you were starting to sweat too, a sudden thump of your heart as you looked back up to him and subconsciously licked your lips.

It wasn't as though you'd face any real consequences–the boys didn't live here anymore, after all–so when you found Jake after the show, and after a standard, cordial, long-time-no-see-style greeting, you said, "Jake, I have to wonder–do you fuck how you play?"

He looked shocked at first, lips pursing in contemplation, then he laughed. "Maybe."

The reigns were entirely in your hands, first with the question–far more serious than a joke, and Jake knew it–and then him following you back to your place. His kisses, with him lying underneath you on the bed, were hesitant, questioning, and it took many of them for you to feel him gradually relax. His limbs had tightened when you'd first nudged him back on the mattress but, as he finally parted his lips enough to let you slide your tongue into his mouth, they relented and moved fluid around you. His hands tentatively ran down your sides and then up again, his right being bold enough to slide to your chest and gently squeeze your breast; you worked to unbutton his shirt and tear it away from him to make contact with his chest too, all flushed and burning hot.