Summary: Can you really build a future with someone who only lets you love their shell? (or the one where you give Jake an ultimatum.)
Warnings: angst (with resolution), ultimatum given in a relationship, mentions of emotional baggage, emotional exhaustion, arguing, swearing, reader feels like they carry the relationship, mentions of alcohol, one mention of therapy.
Word Count: 3.3k
A/N: Ahhh I wrote my first fic! I hope you all love it 🫶🏻 please let me know your thoughts!
The ceiling.
You've been staring at it for too long. So long, you don't even know how long it's been. The fan had been spinning for what could have been minutes or hours.
To be fair, it wasn't easy for you to sleep in a room that wasn't yours. You've never been able to quickly adjust to new surroundings, almost as if your brain is keeping watch.
But it wasn't just your brain protecting you this time. It was the same scene that played in your head. Spinning around and around, like the ceiling fan above you. Who knew you'd have something in common with an inanimate object?
You finally allowed your eyes to drift from the fan to the small alarm clock on the nightstand beside you. 0530. Service members and their military time.
You quietly peeled out of the bed, your tired body trying to fight you over the decision. But you didn't care; you couldn't sleep. Your feet drug across the bedroom floor as you made your way to the staircase.
You could hear everything happening from the top of the steps: humming, something sizzling in a pan, the faint noise of the TV. You smiled and shook your head. Morning people.
You made your way downstairs, the cold of the hardwood flooring shocking your toes. You didn't even reach the kitchen before you heard the chirpiness of the voice already in there.
"Morning, sunshine. How'd you sleep?"
In front of you was an outstretched arm with a cup of coffee. You smiled and accepted the mug gratefully.
You took a sip of the hot drink. "No offense Natasha, but it was impossible to sleep."
She smiles at you, turning back to the stove. "I don't know if that one's my fault or yours. Care to enlighten me?"
You sat down on one of the barstools at the island, deciding how deep you wanted the conversation to be at 6 in the morning. "No, not your fault. I couldn't stop thinking about last night. I think it's officially taken over every part of my being."
"No, no. We can't have that." She nudged the pan of bacon your way, eyebrows raised in a silent want some? You gave a quick shake of your head.
She continued, "I know it's hard, but you can't let it eat you. He may be an idiot, but Jake loves you. He'll come to his senses. You did the right thing."
You chuckled at her comment. You did the right thing. If it was the right thing to do, why did it feel so wrong?
**FLASHBACK**
Yours and Jake's shared dinner was quiet. They usually were after long days, but tonight felt different. Tonight felt like a tension hung in the room.
You didn't want to have the conversation with him, but you also knew you couldn't go on much longer with the way it's been going.
When dinner finished, you both sat down on the couch in the living room. Before you could chicken out or he could stay something, you spoke up. "We need to talk."
Jake looked at you, his eyes filling with concern and confusion by the gravity in your voice. He slowly nodded, giving you his full attention.
You took a deep breath, trying to calm the heavy feeling in your chest. "I can't keep doing this. I love you so much, more than anything in the world. But I feel like I'm living with a roommate, and I don't know how much longer I can allow us to live like that."
Jake's posture shifts as he questions your words. "What are you talking about?"
"Come on, Jake." You ran a hand through your hair. "We share a house, a home, but I have no idea what is actually going on in your head. I never know what you're going through or how you're feeling about things."
The weight of your words hit him hard. The direct eye contact becomes too heavy. Jake's gaze drops, and his fingers find a loose thread on the couch, twisting it around his finger.
"I'm here," he says, his voice defensive but quiet. "I'm right here. I love you. Isn't that enough?"
"No, it's not enough," you whisper, to heartbroken to talk any louder. "Being physically present isn't the same as being emotionally present. I'm tired of having to do all of the emotional lifting. It feels like I am constantly begging you to let me in, and you just manage to keep locking the door tighter."
He lets go of the thread, his hands falling onto his knees. He looks up at you, his expression frustrated and distressed. "I don't open up to anyone, really." His voice was flat, almost defensive - but not quite. Did he really think that would be a good excuse?
You look right at him, the distance between you two suddenly feeling larger than it really is.
Your voice isn't loud; it's tired of fighting. "I'm not just anyone."
The words sat heavily in the living room. Jake flinched slightly, taken aback by the sentence that fell off of your lips. He opens his mouth to argue, to find some way to make what he said better, but nothing came out. The realness of what you said hits him. He doesn't know how to fix it.
His eyes drop from yours, falling on the floor to his feet. He sits there, frozen, a rush of confusing thoughts he doesn't know how to let out.
You watch him stare at the floor. You wait for a moment, hoping that he would say something - anything - but nothing comes out. A wave of sadness and a numb calmness hits you. The energy to fight is gone. The exhaustion kicks in; you can't do this on your own anymore.
Quietly, you stand up from the couch and walk past him to the bedroom. You grab a tote bag, toss in some clothes, and text Natasha asking if you can stay with her for a few days.
There was no slamming of drawers, no dramatic throwing of your belongings, no harsh pulls of doors. Only brisk, quiet movements.
When you walk back into the living room, Jake is still in the same spot on the couch. He looks paralyzed by his own internal arguments.
You put your shoes on at the door and head back into the living room. You sigh as you walk in front of him, kneeling down so you can see his face.
"I'm going to go stay with Natasha for a few days," you say, steadily. "I want to give you some time to think. Think about what you want, and if you want this - us, I need you to choose to do the work."
Jake looks up then, his eyes wide and genuinely confused, like a man watching a storm hit his house without understanding where the wind came from. "You're leaving?"
You place a hand on his knee, trying your best to comfort him when you're sure it feels like his world is crashing.
"I'm giving you space," you correct him kindly. "I love you, but I can't keep trying to love your shell."
You wanted to wait for him to respond, but you knew if you waited, you wouldn't leave. You kissed him delicately on the top of his head and walked to the entryway, closing the door softly behind you.
**END OF FLASHBACK**
"Hey, snap out of it."
You blinked twice, coming back to reality. There wasn't a good answer to what she had stated. "Maybe it was right, but I feel like an asshole for doing it. I feel selfish."
"It wasn't selfish." She takes a final bite of her breakfast. "You need someone who's emotionally open, and he could use being emotionally open with someone. If anything, I think you're doing him a favor."
"I could be, but you know him. He's going to avoid it for the next week. Maybe more."
Natasha moved from the sink to across from where you were sitting, her hands resting on the countertop. "Do you want me to talk to him?"
You didn't think twice. "No. That's the last thing that needs to happen right now. I'll give him some time."
"Do you want to give him time? How does this play out in your head?"
"In a perfect world? He decides that he wants to open up to me and let me in. I'm willing to wait a little bit, but I can't wait forever, Nat. I want to be with him, but I want all of him. Is that so hard to ask for?"
Natasha chuckles, "I mean, you are talking about Hangman. I don't think he's ever told me one personal thing about him other than the fact that he's a Texas boy through and through."
She can tell by the look on your face that wasn't the answer you wanted to hear. She continues, "But, I also know that he loves you, more than he'd ever admit to any one of us. I do think he'll come to his senses, I think he just needs a little bit of time to get there."
You look at her, your eyes filled with hope and pain. Who knew you could grieve and believe at the same time?
Natasha starts heading out of the kitchen, shrugging her arms. "I'm on your side in this, I'm just saying that you got to give him a little grace."
She was right. You hadn't been hard on Jake, but you also need to give him the time to process what you've asked of him.
You knew before dating Jake that he had a shell that was tough to crack. It seemed like he was known for it. So many times it felt like he was going to let you in, then he'd stop. Then there were times that he would let you in, but then he'd pull back. It was something you could put up with the first few months of your relationship, but a year and a half in, you wanted a little more from him.
He's a sweet guy, that Texas boy. He never disrespected you, never made you feel less than. He always cared for you in all of the right areas, but he would never let you in to care for him.
Regardless of how the situation could have been handled, it was too far to go back now. Only one thought ran through your brain. Please come back to me. Please let me in.
--
Three days.
Three days of the same ceiling fan. Three days of the same breakfast (you really need to introduce Natasha to more than bacon and eggs). Three days of waiting. Three days of no Jake.
No texts, no phone calls, no run-ins around town. You even went to your shared apartment to grab a few things, and there was no sight of him.
You missed him - his smile, his laugh, his touch. You wondered what he was thinking and if he was okay. How he was managing what you told him. You would ask Natasha about him when she saw him at work, but she didn't give you much insight. You weren't quite sure if it was to protect you or because she was trying to stay out of it.
Your thoughts were interrupted by a pinging of your phone.
Nat 🐦🔥 : Hard Deck tonight, you need to get out.
Nat 🐦🔥: And no, Jake won't be there.
A small smile fell to your face, shaking your head at your friend. She always knew what you needed.
The Hard Deck was busy for a Wednesday night. You didn't realize how anxious it would cause you to feel. Two deep breaths in and you're walking into the bar.
"Get out of your head, come on." Natasha said, grabbing your arm and guiding you to an empty table in the back. You two sat down and within seconds Penny dropped off your drinks.
"For my favorite girls!" She said chirpily, placing your regular orders in front of you. "These ones are on the house."
You at Natasha looked at each other, then at her. "Thank you, Pen."
Small talk began quickly between you two as you slowly sipped on your drinks. It felt like the weight was slowly drifting off of your shoulders. A piece of normalcy in the mess that the last few days have been.
"Oh, what the fuck is this?"
You shot your head around to the familiar voice behind you. Behind you stood Jake, with Bradley and Javy's each grasping onto one of his shoulders.
You turned back to Natasha, "What the hell, Nat? You told me he wouldn't be here."
Jake spoke again. "Yeah, you assholes told me the same thing." He looked at the two boys behind him. "What is this, some kind of intervention?"
Natasha stood up and grabbed your wrist, standing you up and moving you next to Jake. "That is exactly what this. I don't know what you guys need to do to figure it out, but you're figuring it out. Now."
Bradley and Javy dragged you both to the door. "You two haven't spoken in three days, and it's killing all of us," Bradley started. "Go take a walk on the beach and figure out your shit."
They left you and Jake at the entrance of the Hard Deck and pulled the doors closed behind you. You looked over at Jake, who was looking at you. You both took a moment to take a good look at each other. You could see in his eyes how bloodshot they were. How tired he was. You saw in his upper body how he was slouched more compared to how his usual confidence held him high.
You quickly broke the silence. "Do- do you want to go for a walk?" You were timid, scared of what to say to him, afraid of hurting him even more.
He nodded, giving you a small smile. "I would like that a lot." You returned a small smile back to him, relief flooding your body.
The view of the beach was enchanting. The sun sat perfectly on the horizon, turning the sky into shades of purple and orange. The ocean glistened underneath, the sounds of the waves filling the space that words couldn't quite hit yet.
Jake found a spot on the sand and invited you to sit next to him. You sat with a few feet in between you. The empty space feeling like the three days you had been apart from each other.
The tension could have been cut with a knife. The feelings in your body were conflicting; your chest was heavy with anxiety, yet your stomach was filled with butterflies. You swallowed hard, looking at the dark shoreline. You internally battled with a deep worry for Jake. You couldn't take the quiet any longer.
You turned your head to face him, "Listen, I think we need to-"
"No. Let me talk, please."
Jake cut her off. His voice was raw, pleading. You froze, blinking at him in shock. In the time that you've been together, he had never interrupted you. He had never dominated a conversation. Your frustration left your body and was replaced with a focused concern.
He rubbed his trembling hands along his legs, grounding himself. He shivered against the coolness of the ocean breeze. When he turned to look at you, his green eyes seemed more bloodshot than they did at the bar. He probably hasn't slept in days.
"The last three days have been hell on earth," he began, his voice cracking at the weight of the situation. "Absolute hell. I haven't slept, I haven't eaten. I've never been more terrified in my entire life than I am right now, looking at you. Because I realized I might have lost you."
You watched him as he spoke, your heart thumping in your chest. How could a man who has been a part of actual military combat be more afraid of losing you than that?
You desperately wanted to reach to him, but you remained still. You gave him the space he asked for, even as your own hands started to shake.
"I will do anything," he begged, the look in his eyes desperate. "Do you hear me, darlin? Anything. I'll go to therapy, I'll swallow my pride, I'll deal with every demon. I'll do whatever the hell it takes. I can't live in a world where you're not in it."
Jake eyes fell to the sand between you both. The shell he kept on seemed to be cracking right in front of you.
He sighed, "I know I pull away. I know I freeze. When things get tough, my brain shuts down and tells me to hide. And it's because growing up, I never had anyone who wanted to just listen to me."
The words hit like a physical blow. Your eyes softened, leaning in closer, but only slightly. Almost unnoticeable.
"Every time I shared a feeling, a thought, it was met with criticism." He stared into his lap, fingers twiddling and jaw tightening at the past thoughts. "I learned so early on that opening up meant getting hurt, judged, or corrected. I chose to not say anything at all. I thought I was protecting myself. But I've realized that the wall didn't only keep the bad stuff out. It kept you out. It made you feel abandoned. And for that I am so sorry."
His eyes went from his lap to meet yours, and you noticed a single tear fall from his eye. The sincerity in his apology matched how he was looking at you. You believed every word he said.
Slowly you slid your hand across the cold sand, brushing your fingers against his. He took your hand instantly, like a drowning man catching a lifeline.
"I'm not them, Jake," you whispered. Tears filled your eyes, but your voice remained steady. "I don't want to criticize you. I just want you. All of it. The good, the messy. I don't care. I want to be there for you the way you're here for me. I don't want you to feel like you have to carry the world on your shoulders. And I will cheer you on and I will be patient as you start tearing the wall down. But you have to put in the effort."
The desperation in his eyes melted to quiet relief. He pulled you toward him, and you went willingly, collapsing into his chest. It wasn't just a hug, it was a deep embrace. "I will," he whispered, "I will do anything."
He buried his face into the crook of your neck and held you tighter than he ever had before. Almost as if he would lose you if he let go; the three days of physical loneliness needing made up for. A ragged sob broke from his chest, shaking his entire frame against yours. It triggered your own tears, leaving you both clinging to each other, the shared tears washing away the painful days apart.
After what felt like forever, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Your hands remained lightly intertwined, your thumb stroking his hand gently. He reached up, his thump brushing a stray hair away from your damp cheek.
You sat like that for a moment, unspoken words coming to mind that didn't need to be shared, because he was already thinking the same things. The longer you sat with each other, peace flooded your body and hope flooded your heart.
"Will you come back home with me tonight?" he asked you quietly.
You looked deep into his eyes. You saw the devotion and truth written in them. You smiled softly, running a hand through his windswept hair.
summary: the local elementary school is invited to take a tour of the base and one of the little rascals gives away Jake’s biggest secret within seconds
paring: dad!Jake Seresin x (mentioned)mom!reader
Word count: 0.5k
“I want you all on your best behavior. No goofing off,” Maverick reminds the group in front of him, making him feel like he is talking to a classroom full of children instead of grown adults.
He points to Hangman and Rooster, “I’m looking at you two. Don’t go embarrassing me in front of a bunch of third graders. You are to set an example for these kids, am I clean?”
“Yes sir.” They all answer some more happily than others.
Maverick had been repeating the same speech over and over for the past week to get his point across.
Today the local elementary school's third grade was coming on base for a tour to see all the cool planes and understand what it is that they do (the kid friendly version).
To everyone’s surprise, Jake was the most excited out of the whole bunch.
Soon enough a bright yellow school bus loaded with children made it past the base's gates, stopping right in front of the group of pilots.
One by one the kids filled out of the vehicle, all too fascinated with their surroundings to listen to the teachers instructions to stay near the bus.
Suddenly the little blonde that Jake had been keeping an eye out for made herself known. Spitting from the group she charged at Jake, shouting for her daddy.
Out of habit he crouched down, opening his arms wide for his baby girl to throw herself into them. At this moment he couldn’t care less about the other daggers' shocked and confused faces.
“Bagman has a kid?”
“She’s gotta be like eight or nine, right?”
“We would have known if he had a daughter.”
“Totally.”
Jake chuckles at them all whispering to Charlotte, “you ratted me out, you little rascal.”
“Whoops.”
“Whoops is right.” Jake stood up. when he looked around all his teammates were looking him up and down for an explanation and since the little girl just threw him under the bus- “guys, this is my daughter Charlotte.”
now realizing all their attention was on her, Charlotte cowered behind Jake’s leg clinging onto his uniform.
“Holy shit.”
“It’s okay, Lottie,” Jake assures her.
Maverick went over the agenda for the day with the class of third graders and had his crew aviators introduce themselves. The whole time Charlotte stayed by her dads side. When it was finally his turn to introduce himself, Jake introduced himself as her dad.
All the kids' reactions were positive, lots of ’wow’s and ’cool’s were thrown around. Though most memorable reactions to the group were;
“No fair, how come Lottie has two cool parents.”
“Two cool parents? No way, Lottie’s dad is way cooler.”
“No! Mrs Seresin is cooler.”
“No way, her dad flies planes.”
“Just wait until your mother hears about this,” Jake chuckles to his daughter, ready to brag to that some of Lottie’s friends thought he was cooler than you.
“He’s married too, what the fuck.”
“Rooster, what did I say,” Maverick scolds him as the other kids look up at rooster with wide eyes.
“Daddy, the chicken swore.”
Rooster head snapped to Jake, “Bagman, did you train your spawn to call me that!”
Jake Seresin x Reader ● Warnings: Slight angst and past trauma descibed
***
The visiting squadron arrived just after lunch, loud enough that half the hangar looked up before anyone officially announced them.
You were at the workbench near the back, sorting through a stack of maintenance logs that had somehow become your problem, when the first group came in through the side doors. Helmets under arms. Sunglasses on. That easy pilot confidence that made every room feel a little smaller.
You didn’t pay much attention at first. Visiting squadrons came through all the time. They shook hands, compared flight hours, made the same jokes, and left with half the cafeteria complaining about them by the end of the week.
Jake was near the open hangar doors with Javy and Bradley, his flight suit tied at the waist, hair flattened slightly from his helmet. He had been laughing at something, chin tilted down, one hand braced on his hip.
Then someone said a name you hadn’t heard in nearly two years.
“Reid’s with them?”
Your pen stopped moving.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. But enough.
Jake noticed.
He looked over at you before the rest of the group had even finished walking in. His smile faded a little, not gone completely, but changed. You felt his attention land on you and forced yourself to write something on the clipboard in front of you.
It was nonsense. You wrote the same number twice.
You heard him before you saw him.
Evan Reid had always had a voice that carried, the kind that didn’t need much volume to make sure everyone heard it. He stepped into the hangar with a grin on his face and a patch on his shoulder that made your stomach drop. He looked almost exactly the same. Maybe a little older. Maybe a little broader. Still neat. Still polished. Still so good at looking harmless when other people were watching.
You lowered your head, but not fast enough.
His eyes found you.
The grin widened.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Evan said. “Didn’t know they were hiding you out here.”
The clipboard bent slightly in your hand.
Jake’s head turned.
The hangar didn’t go quiet. Not properly. People were still talking and working around you, but your little corner of it shrank down to Evan’s voice, your heartbeat, and Jake watching from across the floor.
You made yourself look up. “Evan.”
“Just Evan now?” he asked, walking closer. “That hurts.”
You felt your mouth go dry. “You’re here with the visiting squadron?”
“Few weeks.” His eyes moved over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “You look good. Different. But good.”
You didn’t know what to do with your hands. You set the pen down carefully, because if you kept holding it, you were going to snap it. “I’m working.”
“Still good at that,” he said. “Acting busy when you don’t want to talk.”
Jake had started moving before you even looked for him.
He crossed the hangar without rushing, but people got out of his way anyway. His expression was easy enough from a distance, almost casual, but you knew him better than that now. His shoulders were set. His jaw was tight. He had noticed the way your voice had gone flat and the way you hadn’t taken a full breath since Evan said your name.
You hated how badly you wanted to step behind him.
Evan looked Jake up and down, then smiled like he’d just been handed something interesting. “Seresin, right? Heard about you.”
“All good, I’m sure,” Jake said.
“Depends who’s talking.”
Jake smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it. “Usually does.”
You picked up one of the folders from the bench. “I need to take these to admin.”
Evan shifted before you could step away, not blocking you outright, but close enough that you had to stop. It was such a small move. Nothing obvious. Nothing anyone could write down in a report. Just his body in the wrong place and yours reacting before your brain caught up.
Jake saw that too.
“Move,” Jake said.
Evan looked at him, amused. “Sorry?”
“You’re in her way.”
The amusement stayed, but his eyes sharpened. “She can tell me that herself.”
Jake’s smile dropped by half an inch. “She shouldn’t have to.”
You could feel people starting to notice now. Javy had gone still near the doors. Bradley was watching over the top of his coffee cup, brows drawn together. One of Evan’s squadron mates muttered something under his breath, but Evan didn’t look away from Jake.
You forced yourself to step sideways. “It’s fine.”
Jake didn’t look at you when he answered. “No, it’s not.”
Evan laughed softly. “Still doing that, huh?”
Your fingers tightened around the folder.
Jake glanced at you then. “Doing what?”
“Letting someone else speak for you,” Evan said, eyes still on you. “You always did like that. Made things easier.”
The shame hit so fast it almost felt physical.
You looked down at the floor. You hated yourself for it. Hated that he could still do that with a few words and a room full of people. Hated that Jake was seeing it. Hated that Evan knew exactly where to press.
Jake stepped forward.
Not much.
Enough.
“You want to try that again?” Jake asked.
Evan’s grin twitched. “We got a problem?”
“I’m waiting to see.”
You looked at Jake. His voice was calm, but that was what made it worse. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t performing for the room. He was giving Evan one chance to stop, and everyone who knew Jake could see it.
Evan saw it too, but he didn’t back off. Men like him rarely did when they had an audience.
He looked past Jake to you. “Guess you’ve upgraded. Good for you. Does he know why you ran from Lemoore, or did you leave that part out?”
Jake’s eyes cut to you.
You couldn’t hold his gaze.
That was answer enough.
Evan made a small sound, pleased with himself. “Thought so.”
Jake turned back to him. “You’re done talking to her.”
Evan’s smile thinned. “That’s not your call.”
“You sure about that?”
“You her boyfriend?”
The question landed between you before you could stop it. You and Jake had never really labelled it. Not because it wasn’t there, but because it was easier not to say it on base, where everyone saw everything. Late nights had turned into mornings. Coffee had turned into dinner. Arguments had turned into him keeping your favourite hoodie in his truck because you always forgot one.
But you had never said boyfriend.
Evan knew he had found something. You saw it in his face.
Jake didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
Your chest went tight.
Evan looked back at you. “That true?”
You tried to answer. Nothing came out.
Jake shifted again, blocking more of you from Evan’s line of sight. “You’re not asking her questions anymore.”
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Evan leaned slightly to the side so he could look at you around Jake. “You still do this? Make someone else clean up after you, then act like you had no choice?”
Jake moved so fast you barely registered it. One second he was beside you, the next he had Evan backed up against the side of the workbench, one hand fisted in the front of his flight suit. Tools rattled against the metal surface. The hangar went quiet this time.
“Hangman,” Bradley warned from across the room.
Jake didn’t look back.
Evan lifted his hands slowly, but he was still smiling. “Careful. Lots of witnesses.”
“Good,” Jake said. “Then everyone can hear me.”
You took a step forward. “Jake.”
He didn’t loosen his grip, but his voice changed when he spoke to you. “I’ve got it.”
“Don’t,” you said, quieter.
That made him look at you.
For a second, the anger eased enough for you to see the worry underneath. He was still holding Evan, but now he was looking at your face, checking you the way he always did. Trying to work out what you needed before you could decide whether to tell him.
You shook your head once.
Jake let go.
Evan straightened his flight suit with a smug little tug. “Smart.”
Jake stepped back, but only because Javy had appeared at his side and Bradley was coming in from the other direction. Phoenix was there too, eyes locked on Evan like she was memorising his face for later.
Maverick’s voice cut through the hangar from behind them. “What’s going on?”
No one answered for half a second.
Then Evan smiled again. “Misunderstanding.”
Jake laughed once. “No.”
Maverick looked at him.
Jake pointed at Evan without taking his eyes off him. “He doesn’t go near her again.”
Evan scoffed. “That supposed to be an order?”
“No,” Jake said. “That’s me being polite because my commanding officer just walked in.”
Bradley muttered, “Jesus.”
Maverick’s gaze moved from Jake, to Evan, to you. He took in the folder crushed against your chest, your pale face, the way you were standing too still. He didn’t know the details, but he had been around long enough to read a room.
“Reid,” Maverick said. “Outside. Now.”
Evan’s expression shifted. Only for a second. Then the smile came back. “Sure.”
He walked past Jake, close enough to brush his shoulder on purpose.
Jake didn’t move.
You wished he had. You wished he had stepped back or looked away or done anything other than stand there, still and ready, because Evan would remember that. Evan remembered every slight. Every challenge. Every person who made him feel small.
Maverick followed Evan out, taking one of the visiting squadron leads with him. Noise slowly crept back into the hangar, but it was wrong now. Lower. Careful.
You looked down at the folder in your hands.
The corner had bent.
Jake turned toward you. “Hey.”
“I need to take these to admin.”
“No, you don’t.”
You tried to step around him. “Jake.”
He didn’t block you, not like Evan had. He just moved with you, keeping his voice low. “Look at me.”
“I’m at work.”
“Look at me.”
You did, because pretending you couldn’t hear him was somehow worse.
His face changed as soon as he got a proper look at you. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m angry.”
“You’re scared.”
“I said I’m angry.”
“Okay,” he said. “Then you’re angry.”
That almost broke you.
You hated that he didn’t argue. Hated that he let you have the word you could survive instead of forcing the one that would make you fall apart in front of everyone.
“I’m fine,” you said.
Jake nodded, but he didn’t believe you. “Sure.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Agree like you don’t.”
His mouth tightened. “Then don’t lie to me like I’m stupid.”
Your eyes stung immediately, which made you furious.
Bradley had moved close enough to hear, but not close enough to be obvious. Phoenix took the folder out of your hands before you realised she was there.
“I’ll take these,” she said.
You gripped the folder for a second too long.
She looked at you, calm and steady. “I’ve got it.”
You let go.
Jake watched your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Come outside.”
“I can’t just leave.”
“You can take five minutes.”
“I don’t want everyone looking at me.”
“They already are,” he said, then softened it when your face changed. “So let them look at my back instead.”
That was such a Jake thing to say that you almost laughed. It came out wrong, more breath than sound, but he heard it.
He held out his hand.
You stared at it.
Taking it felt like admitting something.
Not taking it felt worse.
You put your hand in his, and he led you out through the side door into the narrow stretch of concrete behind the hangar. The noise dropped as soon as the door shut. Outside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of jet fuel and sun-baked tarmac. You pulled your hand free the second you realised you were still holding his.
Jake let you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He stood a few feet away, close enough to catch you if you went unsteady, far enough not to crowd you. You hated that he knew how to do that. Hated that Evan had been in the same room for five minutes and made you feel like you were back at Lemoore, checking doorways, answering texts too fast, learning which arguments weren’t worth having.
Jake leaned back against the wall. “Was he the reason you transferred?”
You looked out toward the runway. “Yes.”
Jake breathed in slowly through his nose. “Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“No,” he said. “That’s just what I can say without getting myself in trouble.”
You rubbed both hands over your face. “He didn’t hit me.”
Jake’s expression changed.
You knew how that sounded. You had said it too quickly, like it was a defence. Like it proved something.
“I didn’t ask that,” he said.
“I know.”
“But you felt like you had to tell me.”
You looked away.
Jake went quiet for a second, then said, “What did he do?”
You laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Everything else.”
His jaw clenched.
You kept your eyes on the runway because it was easier than looking at him. “He was charming at first. Everyone loved him. He helped me settle in. Took me places. Introduced me to people. Then it turned into him needing to know where I was all the time, who I was with, why I didn’t answer a message fast enough. If I talked to someone too long, he’d make it a thing later. If I wore something he didn’t like, he’d joke about it until I changed.”
Jake didn’t interrupt.
That helped.
“It got worse after I tried to end it,” you said. “Not all at once. Just enough to make me think maybe I was overreacting. He’d show up where I was. He’d tell people I was unstable. He’d make it sound like I was the problem. Eventually I stopped going anywhere I didn’t have to. Then I put in for a transfer and left before he knew it had been approved.”
Jake’s voice was rough when he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You glanced at him. “When?”
“When we started spending time together.”
“That’s not first date material.”
“We didn’t exactly have a first date.”
That got a tired smile out of you. “No. We had you stealing my fries and pretending it was flirting.”
“It worked.”
“Debatable.”
He didn’t smile back for long.
You looked down at the concrete. “I didn’t want to bring him here. Talking about him felt like giving him space in my life again. And I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
Jake pushed off the wall. “Differently how?”
“Like I’m weak.”
He looked genuinely angry at that.
Not at you.
Never at you.
“You think that’s what I saw in there?”
You shrugged, hating yourself for how small it felt.
Jake stepped closer, then stopped when your shoulders tensed. “I saw you go quiet because someone who knows exactly how to hurt you walked into your workplace. That’s not weak.”
You blinked hard.
“Don’t be nice to me right now.”
“I’m not being nice. I’m being accurate.”
You huffed a watery laugh despite yourself.
The side door opened before either of you could say anything else.
You both turned.
Evan stood there.
Alone.
Your body reacted before your brain did. You stepped back, and Jake moved forward at the same time. It was immediate. No discussion. No hesitation.
Evan held up one hand. “Relax. Just wanted a word.”
Jake’s voice went flat. “No.”
Evan ignored him and looked at you. “You always did like making things bigger than they needed to be.”
You swallowed. “Go back inside.”
“See?” Evan said to Jake. “She can speak.”
Jake took one step toward him. “I told you not to talk to her.”
“And I’m telling you this has nothing to do with you.”
“You made it my business when you cornered her in my hangar.”
“Your hangar?” Evan laughed. “God, you really are exactly what people say.”
Jake smiled once. “Worse, probably.”
Evan’s eyes narrowed.
You knew that look. The first crack in the charm. The moment he stopped finding it entertaining.
He pointed at Jake but spoke to you. “This is who you picked?”
Your stomach twisted. “Don’t.”
“He looks useful,” Evan said. “A little easy to wind up, but useful. You always liked someone doing the dirty work.”
Jake moved again, but this time you caught his wrist.
He stopped.
You hadn’t meant to touch him. But your hand was around his wrist and his pulse was strong under your fingers. He looked down at your hand, then back at Evan.
Evan saw it too.
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “You’re actually with him?”
Jake’s voice dropped. “Careful.”
Evan stepped closer, ignoring him. “After all that crying about needing to be alone? After making me look like the bad guy because I wouldn’t let you run around doing whatever you wanted?”
Your grip tightened around Jake’s wrist.
Jake looked ready to put him through the door.
You made yourself breathe.
Then you let go of Jake and stepped out from behind him.
Jake turned his head slightly. “Y/N.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“I know,” you said. “But I need to say it.”
Jake didn’t like it. You could tell. But he stayed where he was.
You faced Evan properly for the first time since he had walked in.
“I didn’t make you look like anything,” you said. Your voice shook, but it held. “You did that yourself.”
Evan blinked.
“You followed me. You checked my phone. You told people things about me that weren’t true because you knew they’d believe you before they believed me. I left because I didn’t feel safe around you anymore.”
His face hardened. “You always were dramatic.”
Jake took half a step forward.
You lifted a hand slightly, and somehow he stopped again.
“No,” you said. “That doesn’t work anymore.”
Evan scoffed. “What doesn’t?”
“That. Saying I’m dramatic so you don’t have to answer for what you did.”
For the first time, Evan looked past you toward Jake, like he was checking how much had landed.
Jake was staring at him with open disgust now.
Evan’s jaw tightened. “You really want to do this here?”
“You came out here.”
“I came to talk.”
“You came to make sure I was still scared of you.”
He smiled, but it looked forced. “Are you?”
You wanted to lie.
Jake shifted behind you. Not in front. Just enough that you felt him there.
“No,” you said.
It wasn’t fully true.
But it was true enough.
Evan stared at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You should be.”
Jake caught him by the front of his flight suit and drove him back against the wall before you could move.
Not hard enough to injure.
Hard enough to make the point.
Evan’s head hit the metal siding with a loud clang.
Jake leaned in close. “That was stupid.”
Evan grabbed at his wrist. “Get off me.”
“No.”
“Seresin,” you said, but your voice wasn’t as strong this time.
Jake kept his eyes on Evan. “You don’t threaten her. You don’t follow her. You don’t speak to her unless she speaks to you first. You don’t look at her like she owes you something. And if I hear you’ve been asking anyone on this base about her, I’ll make sure every person you report to knows exactly why.”
Evan tried to laugh. It didn’t come out right. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“No,” Jake said. “I think you’re used to scaring people who don’t want to make a scene.”
That shut him up.
The side door opened again.
Maverick stepped out with Bradley behind him.
Maverick took one look at Jake’s hand on Evan’s flight suit and sighed. “Seresin.”
Jake didn’t move.
Bradley’s eyes flicked to you. “You okay?”
You nodded once.
Maverick stepped closer. “Let him go.”
Jake waited one more second before he released Evan and stepped back. Evan straightened, breathing harder than he wanted anyone to notice.
“He put hands on me,” Evan snapped.
Maverick looked at you. “What happened?”
Evan answered first. “We were talking.”
“No,” you said.
Everyone looked at you.
Your heart was beating too fast, but you forced yourself to keep going. “He followed us out here after being told to stay away from me. Then he threatened me.”
Maverick’s expression changed immediately.
Evan laughed. “That’s not what happened.”
Jake turned his head slowly. “You sure you want to lie right now?”
Maverick looked at Bradley. “Get Cyclone.”
Evan’s face shifted. “For what?”
“For a conversation you’re not going to enjoy,” Maverick said.
Bradley stepped back inside without another word.
Evan looked at you then, really looked at you, and there it was again. That old warning. That promise that this wasn’t finished.
Jake saw it.
So did Maverick.
“Reid,” Maverick said, voice sharper now. “Eyes on me.”
Evan looked away from you.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.
Maverick pointed toward the door. “Inside. Now.”
Evan went, but not before brushing past Jake with his shoulder again.
This time, Jake let him.
Barely.
Maverick watched Evan go back into the hangar, then looked at you. His voice lowered. “Do you want to make a report?”
Your stomach dropped out.
Jake looked at you, but he didn’t answer for you.
That mattered.
“I don’t know,” you said.
Maverick nodded. “Okay. You don’t have to decide this second. But he won’t be left alone with you.”
You swallowed. “Thank you.”
Maverick looked at Jake next. “You. Walk it off before you do something paperwork can’t fix.”
Jake’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Maverick went back inside, leaving you and Jake outside by the hangar wall with the runway noise filling the gap.
You turned to him. “You shouldn’t have grabbed him.”
“No,” Jake said. “Probably not.”
“You could get in trouble.”
“Yeah.”
“Jake.”
He looked at you then. “He threatened you.”
“I know.”
“I heard him.”
“I know.”
His face tightened. “You shouldn’t have had to stand there and say all that just to be believed.”
You looked down at your hands. They were still shaking, but less than before. “I think I needed to say it for me.”
Jake went quiet.
When you looked up, he was watching you differently. Not like you were breakable. Not like he pitied you. Just like he was trying to understand the shape of something he hadn’t known you were carrying.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you said.
“I get why you didn’t.”
“That’s not the same as it being okay.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
You nodded, because that was fair.
Jake leaned back against the wall again, keeping a little distance between you. “For the record, I do not think you’re weak.”
You gave him a tired look. “You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again.”
“Jake.”
“And I’m going to keep saying it until you stop looking like you expect me to change my mind.”
Your throat went tight.
You looked away toward the runway, where heat shimmered above the concrete.
After a moment, Jake said, “Boyfriend, huh?”
You turned back to him.
His expression was still serious, but there was something else under it now. A small attempt to give you something normal to hold onto.
“You said it,” you replied.
“Didn’t hear you correct me.”
“I was busy trying not to throw up.”
“Not exactly romantic.”
“No.”
He nodded. “We can work on that.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It was small and shaky, but real enough that Jake’s face softened.
Then he held out his hand again, not pushing, not assuming.
This time you took it without staring at it first.
Jake’s fingers closed around yours, warm and steady. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll go find Phoenix. She’s better at making reports sound less terrifying.”
“And you?”
“I’m better at making impressions.”
You looked back toward the hangar door Evan had disappeared through.
“For what it’s worth,” you said, “you definitely made one.”
Jake glanced at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
Summary: Rooster had heard the whispers. He knew what the stories were about- the ones that had followed him and Hangman around for years. You, however, are more than happy to find out for yourself if all the rumors were true.
Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader x Jake "Hangman" Seresin
Length: 9K+
Warnings: Smut. So. Much. Smut. (MINORS DNI)
(author's note: I regret nothing. Enjoy!)
Leave it to Jake Seresin to fuck up his plans.
Rooster had been in a really great mood when he’d arrived to the Hard Deck earlier that night. He’d beat most of the team there and had been on his way to go claim the pool table before the Friday night rush when he’d seen you out of the corner of his eye sitting at the bar.
He’d nearly given himself whiplash trying to get a better look at you. And then the next thing he knew, he’d found his feet taking him up to the stool right next to you. The mission to get the pool table completely forgotten.
And he still didn’t know how it was possible, but you were even prettier up close.
Even with the low dip of your creamy silky looking tank top, with all your skin taunting and teasing him, his eyes had stayed on yours the whole time as the two of you talked. That smile of yours was a bit too knowing. He could sense you were waiting, daring him to slip up.
Just for fun, just to see.
Yeah, you had his number alright. There was no question about it.
And fuck, if he wasn’t already down to let you toy with him whichever way you wanted. His cock twitching in his already slightly too snug jeans when he’d caught you checking him out after he’d ordered a fresh round of drinks from Jimmy.
The busier the bar got, the closer the two of you were pushed together as the other patrons clamored around waiting to place their orders. His forearm grazing against your exposed back from where he had it braced on your stool to keep you from getting jostled by thirsty sailors.
He’d stepped away for a moment when Natasha had called him over to back her up in a game with Reuben and Mickey. He he’d left you with a promise to be back, not wanting to come on too over bearing by not giving you any time to yourself. The groundwork was laid and he didn’t mind the wait.
He could be patient, he knew a good thing when he saw it.
And of course, when he’d looked back over his shoulder. There was Hangman with his elbow leaning on the bar, standing in the spot he’d just vacated. And looking at you like the cat who’d caught the canary with that fucking toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Rooster really shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d felt the other aviator’s gaze on him as he’d talked to you, could sense him waiting in the wings ready to make his move.
After the Uranium Mission, their tentative truce had grown into a casual camaraderie. But that didn’t mean they still didn’t enjoy riling each other up.
Jake had a tendency to steal his beer when he wasn’t looking, swapping it out with his empties behind his back. Not to mention, the way he liked to rack up a bill of Bradley’ tab.
And Bradley had no problem unplugging Penny’s jukebox approximately two minutes after watching Jake feed the machine his quarters before taking over on the piano. Playing whatever songs made the other man grimace the most.
But it had been years since they’d done this.
When the two of them had first met, their competition to be the best and one-up the other had spilled over from the skies into pretty much everything else. If one had flight simulation scores were topping the chart, then the other was figuring out how beating it. If one was benching a personal record, the other was already tacking on extra weight to their own.
So then, if one was talking to a pretty girl at the bar, the other was usually waiting for his moment to try and out charm, out talk, or out smile the other behind his back.
Or in front of his face.
Neither of them had cared to play fair back then. The bragging rights plastered across the winners face the next morning on base.
Rooster thought he’d made his intentions very clear. For all intents and purposes, he had claimed dibs. Well, as much as he could on a woman who was fully entitled and capable making her own decisions.
Now he was half way across the bar, watching as Hangman threw his cowboy hat into the ring.
“Jesus, Rooster. Stare any harder and you’re going to strain something, man,” Payback teased as he lined up his shot, before sending the freshly racked balls scattering on the pool table.
Bradley doesn’t respond, just brings the lukewarm beer to his mouth and downs the remaining few swigs. His hand tightening around the bottle as you throw your head back to laugh at something that Hangman has said, the sight of your exposed throat makes his mouth go dry.
“You know what they say, the more the merrier. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time, right?” Fanboy says with a laugh that gets cut off with a wheezy, breathy oof.
Looking over his shoulder, Bradley sees Phoenix looking down at Fanboy shaking her head at him as she dropped a couple there-there pats on the doubled over man’s back.
“Please that rumor has been around for years,” Nat stated, “Before we got called back, those two could barely be in the same airspace, let alone in the same bedroom.”
“I don’t know, I bet there’s more to that story. I heard-” Payback starts.
This time, Bradley turns around and raises an eyebrow. The conversation quickly finds a new subject, and he goes back to glaring at the back of Hangman’s head.
He wasn’t unaware of the pointed looks and whispers that had followed him and Seresin around.
Everyone seemed to have their own opinions on the topic. They did. They didn’t. A friend of a friend had seen them leave with a girl. A buddy said they saw them fighting in the parking lot over who got to take her home.
He didn’t care about the speculation, he’d even heard some pretty interesting drunken theories along the way. Any tips to sneak a girl in the barracks for a hookup in the laundry room? How can three people even fuck in the back of a Bronco? Or his favorite, I heard y’all did the Eiffel Tower in the ATC tower.
But he wasn’t one to feed the fire. He didn’t know the other man’s reasons for not indulging the curious questions, but Hangman must have felt the same way, since neither one of them had yet to confirm or deny the story.
It was easier to just grin and shrug and leave them guessing.
From his spot stationed at the pool table he could see there was interest in your eyes at you looked at Seresin. Just as he’d seen it when you had looked at him with that same keen perceptiveness, the heat that lingered behind the teasing. And fuck, if that didn’t make him want you even more.
He liked a woman who went after what she wanted.
That pull low in his stomach had been there since he’d first seen you and had only gotten worse as he watched Jake try and get under his skin.
It would be almost comical the way the asshole turns his head just enough in his direction to shoot him a wink before settling his hand on the top of your thigh, if it didn’t make his blood thrum hot in his veins.
“Bradshaw, it’s your turn.” He hears one of them try and get his attention, but 8-Ball wasn’t what he wanted to play right now.
He had a stake in a different game going on.
If you wanted Hangman over him, he would respect that. But he sure as shit wasn’t going to fold, not when he still had a hand worth playing.
“And there’s the cock walk…” he hears Nat mutter as pushes off the pool table to make his way across the bar.
He knew how to turn heads and how to work a room. But there was only one head he wanted to turn, only one person in the room he wanted to work. He was going to his damndest to ensure it was his bed you’re in tonight.
Bradley is downright shameless in the way he struts right up to the two of you. Letting his chest brush up against you as he claims the seat next to you. He murmurs your name low and raspy as he settles into the stool, catching the way your hips shift subtly in response. That pull behind his bellybutton only intensifying.
You don’t look surprised to see him, if anything you look intrigued. That full bottom lip pinned between your teeth, your cheek ticked up like you’re fighting back a satisfied smile.
“Well if it ain’t Rooster,” Hangman drawls, those dimples deepening with every passing moment, “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Bagman,” he grunts taking the whiskey from his hand. Feeling smug when your eyes latch on to his throat, watching as he swallows it down, savoring the warm burn of the free drink before he presses the empty glass back into the other man’s hand. “Looks like you’ve scored yourself another admirer, pretty girl. How’s he measure up? You can be brutally honest, it’d be good for him to keep his ego in check.”
You tilt your head at him, “So far I’ve got no complaints.”
“Damn straight you don’t,” Jake winks.
“How generous of you,” Rooster says, ignoring the other man completely, as he sets his hand on your leg.
He has always been a sucker for a pretty troublemaker.
Your tongue dips out to lick the rim of your glass, before taking another sip of the drink that he didn’t buy for you. “Oh, I can be very generous,” you all but purr.
“I bet,” Hangman cuts in, looking on entirely too pleased with himself.
Rooster leans in closer to you, “I thought I was the one buying your drinks tonight.” He can smell the faintest hint of your perfume, and he has to hold himself back from the urge to run his nose along the column of your neck to get a better whiff of it.
“I’m an equal opportunity drink receiver,” you say with a little shrug of your shoulder.
“Mhm, sounds good for the economy,” he allows.
“I do love to support small businesses.”
“There’s nothing small about it, baby,” Bradley says sliding his palm up higher on your thigh than would be considered decent. From the corner of his eye he can see Hangman clocking the movement. That shit eating grin going from teasing to knowing as he flips that stupid toothpick in his mouth.
“Was wondering how long it was going to take you to make a move,” Jake says reaching under your stool and pulling it out further from the way you’d been half tucked underneath the bartop. “Thought you were gonna just keep staring all night.”
“Nah, just thought I’d give you a fair shot. You know, since you usually rub people the wrong way,” Rooster smirks.
“Oh, now you and I both know I’d treat her just right,” Hangman says smoothly, not missing a beat. “You think you can keep up with a pretty thing like her, old man? Wouldn’t want to keep you from your Dan Brown novel or anything.”
“I’m sure I got a thing or two I could show you, son.”
The other pilot takes your chin between his thumb and finger turning your head to look at him, that grin bigger than ever, “You up for settling something between us, darlin’?”
Rooster is close enough to hear the hitch in your breathing and definitely close enough to see the way your thighs squeeze together.
“I guess that’s one way to up the ante,” you say as you reach up to pluck that toothpick from his mouth and popping it in yours instead. Grinning slyly around it as you uncross your legs to turn back towards him, your eyebrow cheekily cocked up and questioning.
Rooster’s eyes drift over to Seresin’s mouth. That cocky smirk plastered on his face takes him back to another time, on another night similar to this, when his lips had been slick-shined and that smile just as smug and self-satisfied.
He’s not sure how many bills he tossed on top of the bar before he grabbed your hand and tugged you off the stool, towing you with him as he strode to the door. Not bothering to check and see if the other man is following them, he already knows where he’ll be.
Bradley holds the door open for you to step through under his arm and the last thing he sees before he lets the door close behind him is Nat’s shocked face and Fanboy’s fist punching the air as Jake trails after them.
You felt too hot.
Your breathing was already coming out in ragged, breathy pants.
The ride to Rooster’s house in his bright blue Bronco had been a blur of flashing lights and warm summer air and a hand heavy on your knee. Content in the passenger’s seat, even as he sped fifteen miles over the speed limit, in the surety of knowing whose headlights were bright and beaming in the rearview mirror.
But the feeling of two hot mouths working their way up and down your neck was definitely not a blur.
They’d had you pinned up against Bradley’s front door the moment it had shut behind the three of you. Barely waiting for the snick of the lock turning before making their move.
You weren’t sure whose thigh was pressed between your legs, but the solid width of it was dizzying as you rocked against it. You feel almost too aware of every part of your body. Your skin sensitive and responsive to every graze and touch of their strong, capable hands as they coast over your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps and raised hair with every pass.
Squeezing your hips. Tangling in your hair. Gripping your ass.
Their hard bodies were so tightly crowded against yours, that you weren’t even sure at this point if your own legs were the ones keeping you up as they took what they wanted and gave what they wanted.
Your puffy, swollen lips tingling as they took turns claiming your mouth with theirs.
It’s a lot, but in the best of ways, to hear their combined moans and groans over the thundering of your pulse in your ears. Their leather and wood smoke scents mixing together in the most deliciously heady way. All their solid angles and ridges pressed against your soft curves.
You’re vibrating with anticipation- with want- as your heart flutters in your chest like a caged bird, its wings beating against the too tight confines of your ribcage.
It’s already so good and no one is even naked yet.
One of them wraps their thought provokingly large hand around your throat as pulls you in to meet their mouth, gentle yet firm. The taste of whiskey and the brush of a mustache against your upper lip giving Bradley away. While another hungry mouth glides its way along your collarbone. The graze and nip of sharp teeth has you breaking your kiss to gasp at the sensation. Only to be met with a new set of demanding lips, you can feel Jake’s smirk against your mouth the moment right before he slips you his tongue.
Your own hands are greedy to get their fill of them. Running along thick forearms and broad chests and straining zippers. You want to map out every contour of their sculpted bodies. Every new muscle you find only makes you want to discover more.
There’s a moment when you think your knees might actually give this time out when Hangman bends down to take your peaked nipple in his mouth through your thin top with a mischievous gleam in his green eyes as he looks up at you and then hollows out his cheeks. The sight and sensation of it makes you suck in a shattered breath. If it weren’t for that thigh, Rooster’s you know now, keeping you upright you very much would have been a boneless puddle on the floor.
“You still think you can handle the two of us?” Jake challenges you with a dimpled grin before pulling you back into his mouth. Your nails dig into the back of his neck to keep him there, and he has the audacity to hum around you. The vibrations of it pulsing and spreading and settling over your craving clit.
“Well?” Bradley asks teasingly when you try and fail to reply, his warm hand sliding up your stomach under your top to palm at your other breast. And whatever you were going to say evaporates at the feel of his calloused thumb scraping over your taut nipple.
His curls are a mess and that look on his face promises the best kind of trouble.
“Fuck. Fuck. B-bedroom. Now,” you stutter and stumble over your words, overcome and overwhelmed. You hear one chuckle near your ear and the other moan into your throat at the neediness in your voice.
The three of you are gracefully uncoordinated in way you work your way to Rooster’s bedroom. You let them manhandle your pliant body around the furniture and corners of his home. What should have been a fairly straight shot turned into a meandering mess as your back is met with walls and doorframes and mouth is met with seeking and searing kisses.
Their shirts and belts and shoes lost somewhere along the way. A trail of items to be found later, laid out like points on a treasure map.
Inside Bradley’s room, your distracted eyes catch on some black and white landscape prints hung on a dove gray wall and a California King pressed another. Minimal, modern, manly. You’d be more nosey if it weren’t for the way you’re caught between them, as Hangman licked up your neck and Rooster ran his tongue along the backs of your teeth.
Your skin erupts in goosebumps as the cool air of Bradley’s air conditioning wafts over your arms. Not that your low-cut top with its open back and flimsy straps offered much for warmth to begin with, which was exactly why you’d worn it in the summer heatwave.
One set of demanding hands works on the button of the fitted jeans that made your ass look great, while the other insatiable pair grabs at the hem of your top pulling it up and off of your body with silky ease. They work together in quiet tandem with such swift efficiency that leaves you almost entirely nude, with the exception of your barely-there panties, before their greedy eyes in no time at all.
“Don’t know what a desperate little thing like you is thinking by wearing white and lookin’ like an angel,” Jake drawls low and taunting against your ear, his breath warm as it sails down the column of your throat, “But since you like the color so much, I think you’d look even prettier wearing our come.”
The flickering flame in your body that had been lit before you’d even left the Hard Deck finally roars to life at his coarse and crude words. You’d almost be offended by them if they weren’t the reason heat explodes like a fireball low in your stomach. Devastating and all consuming.
The noise that tears out of you in response isn’t one you think you’ve ever made before. Your head whips towards him so fast it makes you a little unsteady on your already wobbly legs, and you feel Rooster’s fingers flex on your hips before you pull away.
There’s a wide grin plastered on Jake’s face, only a couple impeccably white and straight teeth away of being down right self-satisfied.
Smug, he’s so damn smug.
He has been ever since he saddled up to you at the bar, like he already knew how the night was going to end. And you don’t know whether you want to wipe that look off of Hangman’s pretty face or to taste those dimples on his cheeks.
You do neither.
Instead, you push Jake onto the edge of the bed, your hands going straight to his zipper to pull out his cock, then watch as that perfectly-perfect and perfectly-infuriating smile falls from his face as you sink to your knees and take him in your mouth and down to the hilt.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s your turn to be smug now as you watch his Adam’s apple dip as he swallows hard.
Jake’s smirk is long gone, replaced with intense look as you pull off of him to lick and lave along the long vein on the side of his length, looking up at him from beneath your mascara darkened lashes, before drawing him back in your open mouth. He’s so handsome like this and it makes your stomach tighten and seize.
“So damn eager,” you hear Rooster croon over the slippery sounds of you’re making.
You feel confident and totally at home in your own skin under the appreciative eyes of the two men, with Hangman in front of you and Bradley mere steps behind you. The buzz from your tequila had worn off long ago, and the thrill you are feeling is a different kind of high.
You were already wet before you left the bar, but now you are soaked. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on, at least not for a very long time. You wouldn’t be surprised if Bradley could see the evidence of your arousal glistening between your thighs from the way you’re kneeling in front of Jake.
From the corner of you eye, you can see Rooster taking his time as he shucks off the rest of his clothes haphazardly before fisting himself in his big hand as he takes in the sensual scene in front of him. You can feel all the places his eyes linger and trail over, those flames in your stomach spreading over your body like a wildfire.
Grateful for the work Bradley did getting your jeans off earlier, you slip a hand into your panties to get your fingers on your aching clit. You whimper at the instant relief that you feel as you touch yourself. Keening in pleasure around Hangman’s cock, which makes him widen his legs and throw his head back to moan in response.
This wasn’t going to be some hook up cloaked in the cover of a dark room. No, you were going to be on full display for them, just as they’d be for you. And the thought of it up makes you clench against nothing.
You were something brilliant and radiant to look at and you knew it. You wanted them to look, you wanted their eyes to take their fill.
“You going to join, Rooster? Or are you back to sittin’ on that perch?” the blonde goads him, with a sharp smile. His voice strained around the edges of his words as his fists clutch at the fabric of the duvet cover beneath them. “I’m sure you can find some way to keep yourself occupied even though her mouth busy at the moment.”
You reach up with your free hand and give that chain a little tug then dragging it down his chest, your nails digging slightly into his firm pecs before scraping down his abs. He surprises you with a light thrust of his hips that has you settling that tricky hand on his tense thigh for better balance as you continue to work him.
“Just watching how our girl is touching herself,” Bradley replies as he walks over. He is such a sight with all that sunkissed skin on display. “So needy, she can’t even bother waiting her turn.”
You hollow your cheeks around Jake for good measure before releasing him from your mouth, to grasp him in your hand, treating him to a twist of your wrist, “Got tired of waiting, had to take matters into my own hands.”
You wanted them to touch you, to feel them everywhere. You wanted to be taken apart and put back together. You wanted to be thoroughly wrecked by them.
“That so, huh?” The way that Bradley’s smile ticks up makes you suck in a sharp breath, your restless fingers making sloppy circles against that sensitive part of you at the sight of it. “Tell me, how wet are you?”
He looks so good standing next you from your position on your knees and if both of your hands weren’t already busy you’d be reaching out for his heavy cock.
“Why don’t you come find out for yourself?” you dare him, arching your back a little for his benefit.
“But you look so pretty taking care of yourself,” Rooster says cupping your cheek in his hand, then turning his head to the man seated on the bed, “Hey, Seresin, don’t you remember her saying something about her generosity?”
They grin at each other before looking back down at you, and it’s all you can to not squirm under their weighty, heated gaze.
“You know, that does seem to ring a bell, Bradshaw.” A wolf trussed up like the boy-next-door.
“Why don’t you show us just how generous you can be, pretty girl,” Rooster says reaching down pulling your hand out from your panties, his hand wrapped around your forearm, and offers up your shiny fingers to the man you’re kneeling in front of.
Hangman holds your gaze as his tongue reaches out to meet them. Your already erratic heartbeat sets a new rhythm as it slips and glides in a sensual show around them before curing around them to draw them into his cocksure mouth. A deep satisfied hum emanating from his chest as he tastes you.
Bradley releases his hold on you and skims his fingers up along your arm and up the side of your neck, massaging that tapered divot at base of your skull.
Your jaw falls open as you watch Jake bob his head on your fingers like you had been doing on his cock not even five minutes earlier. He shoots you a filthy wink was you watch the debauchery up close in personal, leaning in closer, mesmerized by the sheen of spit coating your fingers. He pulls them from your mouth with one more lewd lick, and then crooks his pointer finger under your chin and turns your head towards Rooster.
“Why don’t you be a sweet little thing and show Bradshaw what he’s missing out on, darlin’,” Jake says, its less of a suggestion and more of a command. One you are happy to oblige.
You hold your tongue out for Rooster in an open invitation and he rumbles his approval.
“Now that’s a pretty picture,” Bradley murmurs, but doesn’t move any closer. He waits for your dazed eyes to meet his heated ones, before nodding his head towards Hangman, who you’re still pumping him with long, smooth strokes, “Go on then, finish what you started. I can wait.” You make a noise of dissatisfaction at being denied the taste of him. He chuckles lightly, “I promise, we’ll take real good care of you soon.”
And with that promise you wrap your lips around Jake again. He spreads his legs wider to accommodate you as you reach to cup his balls in your hand, massaging them.
You feel Rooster settle his hand heavy on the crown of your head, his fingers threading in your hair, before pressing you forward, guiding the motion of your mouth on Jake’s cock. Encouraging you to take more, more, more before pulling you back, only to urge you forward once again.
It’s easy to lose yourself and relax into the push and pull of it as you let them take over. Letting them use you how they want, preening under their crooning praise. Hangman is looking down on you with half-lidded eyes and gives you a slow, wide smile when a thick thread of saliva drips on to your sternum and down your chest.
Your attention-seeking clit throbs in time with your rapid pulse, whimpering pitifully when you can’t get any relief no matter how you shift and squirm.
Then Bradley is tugging on your strands to get you on your feet and meets you for a heady kiss. He hooks his thumbs under the band of your panties and pulls them down your legs, a little lacy heap to decorate his floor.
“Get on the bed, baby.”
Yes, yes, oh yes.
Jake shoves his jeans down the rest of the way and kicks them off. The way he climbs on the bed is all easy grace as he props himself against the headboard. You’re quick to clamber up on your hands and knees between his legs, looking over your shoulder for Rooster’s nod of approval before you lean down to take him back in your mouth.
There has been so much build up. You know that they’ve been easing you into this in their own way, but you’re so desperate for more. You’re like balloon overfilled and taut, one right touch and you might burst.
“God, you’re already so wet.” You feel Bradley’s rough squeeze on the backs of both your thighs followed by the comforting caress of his thumbs, “C’mon, show me that pretty pussy. Let me see it.”
You tilt your hips up, up, up- you want, you need- offering yourself to him until you’re treated to his tongue on you. At last. His wide long licks have you canting your hips further searching for more. The feeling of his lips and mustache against that delicate part of you makes you cry out in satisfaction.
“So greedy,” Jake teases, as his thumb runs gently along your jawline.
He is hot and heavy on your tongue. There is a light sheen of sweat coating his chest, his abs flexing and contracting with every uneven breath. That chain around his neck winking at you from the lamp in the corner of the room. He called you an angel earlier, but he’s the one who looks like sweet sin, a heavenly hedonist.
The filthy sounds of your messy mouth and Rooster’s satisfied groans filling the room as you work one pilot and the other works you. You can feel your orgasm building swiftly, those flames from before being stoked by their grasping hands and teasing lips and dirty words.
The shock of the feeling two of Bradley’s thick fingers glide and curl into you without any resistance, of having something inside of you for the first time all night, sends your body jolting forward. Your hands clutching at the sheets as you sputter and gag around Jake.
“Holy shit,” he pulls you off of him with a pop, a line of spit stretching from your mouth to his glistening cock, “Don’t want to come in your mouth.” Hangman takes your head between his big hands, cradling you carefully. “Goddamn, look at you. You feelin’ good?” It’s all you can do to rapidly nod your head yes. “You should see her, Rooster, she’s real close.”
You hear Bradley chuckle huskily behind you, “And we’ve barely even gotten started.” He targets that spot in you with merciless precision as he scrapes his mustache along your spine dropping kiss after wet kiss. “Now, come on my fingers like a good girl.”
And with his raspy voice in your ear and Jake’s tongue in your mouth, you shatter.
It’s all white noise as one of the maneuvers you gently on to your back as you come down. The feeling of the cool sheets a welcomed sensation on your heated skin. Even though you’re still reeling, you can hear the warmth in their voices as your mind clings to a few select words.
Good. Perfect. Soft. Sweet. Pretty. Generous.
You feel a body shift above you, their sturdy weight only an echo of what it could be if they weren’t holding themselves aloft. Your eyes float open to see Rooster caging you on his bed within the shelter of his sculpted arms.
Next to you Jake is propped up his side, the graze of his fingertips is featherlight as they meander up and down the length of your arm. As if he is content to simply be touching your soft skin.
“You still having fun?” Bradley asks with a knowing smile on his face. Using his thumb, he wipes at some of the saliva smeared under your bottom lip.
“The most,” you grin, turning your head to capture it between your lips.
Rooster watches you in rapt as you suck, giving his thumb the same treatment as you’d given Hangman’s cock, all wet tongue and hollowed out cheeks. The pupils of his pretty brown eyes blown wide. His cock resting heavy on your stomach.
“We’re gonna make a mess out of you,” Bradley promises as he presses his thumb down on your tongue. You look up at him with your best doe-eyes, parting your mouth to give him a better view of the way it pillows around his thumbpad. He applies a bit more pressure with a smirk before removing it from your mouth completely.
“Yes, please.”
He leans in close and your eyes flutter shut at the anticipation of the brush of his lips on yours.
And then he spits right in your waiting mouth.
“Atta girl.”
His smile grows at the whine that comes out of you. He drops a kiss to your forehead and stands back up, towering over you. It’s a visual feast of abs and broad shoulders and tan skin and mischievous eyes. “Pretty sure you almost made Jake see God,” he says looking over, giving the other man a lazy smirk.
“Fuck off,” he says without heat and laughs. Leaning over from where he’s been lounging next to you, he wraps his hand around the nape of our neck and pulls you in, licking deep into your mouth wet with his pre-come and Rooster’s spit. “How’s about you finally show Bradshaw what that pretty mouth can do, while I settle up and repay the favor.”
You don’t know what to make of the look that passes between the two men as they switch spots. It’s a challenge, it’s a dare. You’re still loose-limbed from your orgasm, but you can feel the tension starting to coil low in your stomach again at the glint in their eyes as Bradley crowds up next to you on the bed while Jake stands at the end of it.
Rooster kisses up along your body, his tongue darting out to taste the beads of sweat that are collecting in the valley of your breasts. If you listen closely you can still hear the whir of the air conditioning, but it’s not of much use when you feel like an inferno.
You sigh out when his mouth meets yours. You grasp his face between your hands to keep him close, not wanting to be denied his lips again. Your thumb stroking at the cleft of his chin. Finally. Finally. Finally. You feel like spun sugar, the wet slide of his lips against yours makes you feel like you’re about to dissolve into sweet nothingness.
There’s no hesitation in the way that Hangman situates himself between your parted legs, easing one over his shoulder and then the other. He trails butterfly kisses from your knee and up the inside of your leg. You shiver at the sensation, luxuriating in his touch.
“Condoms?” Jake asks into the crease of your thigh.
You shake your head and let go of Bradley’s face to tap at the spot on your upper arm where that flexible piece of plastic is placed under the skin. They nod their understanding, their agreement.
At least someone still had their feet on the ground, because it feels like your head is in the clouds.
“Thought you said I’d look prettier covered in come?” you try to tease but it just comes out breathy, throwing Hangman’s own words from earlier back at him. Then turning your head to look at Rooster next to you, “Thought you were going to make a mess out of me?”
You know you’re playing with fire. However, you also know that if at any point you couldn’t handle the heat that they would haul you out of the kitchen themselves.
But why stay out of the kitchen when you can just set it on fire yourself?
“Jesus,” Jake curses and nips at your hipbone.
“Fuck’s sake, you really can’t help yourself, can you?” Bradley huffs amused but strained, his eyes raking over you.
The nope and the ‘P’ you were planning to pop gets stuck in your throat as Hangman pins your legs open to the bed, holding you down so you can’t escape his tongue as he licks a hot stripe through the center of you. Your jaw drops open wordlessly.
“Not so mouthy now, are you?” Hangman grunts and then dips his tongue into you again.
One of your hands flies into his sandy blonde hair, while the other reaches out for the sunkissed man next to you. The feeling of Rooster’s fingers lacing between your outstretched ones grounding you as the pressure starts building again.
Where Bradley had been all enthusiastic delving and relentless devouring, Jake is all honed accuracy as he flicks and circles and sucks your clit. There’s no slow build up, he’s not content to simply let you sail smoothly into your next orgasm, not with the way his fingers are working you. No, Jake is set on being the one to push you over that edge himself. And he’ll do it with a blinding white smile and a tip of his hat.
Bradley moves to kneel by your head, stroking his thick cock a few times before offering it to you. The groan that comes out of him when you lick the underside of him before taking him in your mouth is quite possibly one of the hottest sounds you’ve ever heard in your life. His large hand comes to cradle your jaw as you bob up and down on his length.
It doesn’t take long until you’re keening and moaning around him as you come alive under their eyes and touch.
“You look so pretty like this,” Rooster murmurs, his thumb alternating between gliding around your stretched lips and caressing your bulging cheek. “You’re taking my cock so well.”
You know you’re making a mess out of him, but if anything, you feel him grow even harder in your mouth as you take him further into your throat. The sounds coming from you obscene as you lick and suck and swallow around him. You’re trying to stay focused on taking care of him, but Hangman’s tongue and fingers are making it hard for you to concentrate.
Jake is relentless with the two fingers he has working inside of you. His other hand smooths up your torso, long fingers stretched wide, as if he is trying to touch as much of you as possible. And then he’s grabbing at your breasts, massaging one and then moving to the other.
It’s getting overwhelming with so many points of pleasure all vying for your undivided attention. You feel so good, too good. Your chest is tight with want it’s getting harder to take a full breath, the shallow shaky things you’ve been taking making you lightheaded.
You blindly mouth at Rooster’s cock and balls and thighs, whatever you can reach and latch onto as you let your hand take over stroking him. Just for a moment, just to catch your breath.
You whimper when Bradley pulls away from you, only to feel his big body slide down on the bed next to you, his warm hands soothing over your too tight skin.
“That mouth too much for you, Rooster?” Jake grins with shiny lips before slipping a third finger into you, curling them against your front wall, making you keen.
“I know, it’s a lot, but you’re keeping up with us like a champ,” Bradley says to you, pulling you in for a kiss. He reaches down for one of your thighs, pulling it off the other pilot’s shoulder and over his own hip, holding you open. His hand knocks Hangman’s thumb out of the way and his takes over making nonsensical patterns on your clit, making you moan at the contact. “And you should go back to making yours more useful,” he lobs back to the man between your legs.
In your haze, you wonder how they can even share the skies if they’re this competitive in the bedroom.
“Yeah, and what’s yours doin’ up there?” Jake asks, giving it right back to him. You can hear how wet you are as his fingers slide in and out of you, as the Bradley picks up the pace of his movements against you.
“Someone’s got to tell her how good she’s doing,” you can hear the smile in Rooster’s voice as he kisses your neck. He gently runs his lips and mustache along the shell of your ear, “We know how much she like a compliment.”
“Bradley.” The admonishment is lost in your gasp as the faintest graze of his fingernail again your sensitive clit has your back arching off the mattress and your hips bucking against both sets of hands.
“You sound so wrecked, baby. I like how my name sounds in your mouth when you’re all fucked out like this.”
“And those whimpers? I swear, she making the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard,” Hangman tacks on.
You want to give as good as you’re getting, but your hurtling towards that point again. Already teetering back and forth, almost but not quite there. Overwhelmed, oversensitive, but still needing, wanting...
“More, I need more, Jake,” you’re not quite begging but you’re close, your heel is digging into his shoulder blade, urging him closer. “Jake, I want to come.”
Your clit is aching under Rooster’s teasing touch, and you are squirming and shifting and rocking trying to get more of Jake’s fingers inside of you. You groan when Jake pulls them out of you completely, stopping your motions with a rough grip on your hips. Somewhere in the back of your mind you find yourself hoping that you’ll still be wearing his fingerprints tomorrow morning.
“Nu-uh, greedy girl, you’ll take what we give you,” Hangman says as he stands up and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, a streak of your wetness shining on his cheek.
And then his thick cock is pushes into you and all the air leaves your lungs.
His thrusts are measured and slow and sure. Filling you up and then leaving you empty, over and over and over again. His fingers are still digging into your hips leaving you at his mercy, to take what he gives you. Nothing more and nothing less than what he wants.
You didn’t know All-American Texan boys could pull of such a dirty look of pure debauchery, but he wore it so damn well.
There’s no holding back the noise of frustration that comes out of you when Rooster’s teeth graze over your breast, before he sucks your nipple into his hot mouth. He is hard and hot as he grinds himself against the curve of you.
It would be so, so good if didn’t felt like you were bobbing along in a wooden barrel waiting for a drop over Niagara Falls. The anticipation of that freefall thrumming in your veins, but one that never seems to get any closer as you dangle there.
“Stop teasing me,” you whine.
Jake pushes into you with that same devasting slowness and then stops, his hips pressed tightly against yours. “I’m inside you, aren’t I?” he challenges with a raise of his eyebrow.
You don’t want to agree, what you want is to come. With great effort on your part you reluctantly nod your head, hoping your cooperation will get him to speed up or go harder. You’d literally anything to stop feeling like a butterfly with its wings pinned open and preserved.
“Then I ain’t teasin’.”
Those dimples are on full display, as he pulls out leisurely, letting your feel every bit of him, and then pounds into you.
You’re thankful when he takes pity on you and the rolling of his hips picks up. Harder, faster, deeper. His chest is flushed pink, making that golden chain stand out even more. A bead of sweat works its way down his neck, between his defined pecs, and travels along the contours of his sculpted body.
“Jesus, did you talk this much last time, Seresin?” Rooster asks, pulling his mouth off of you to watch as his own fingers and Hangman’s cock work together in sync between your thighs.
“And he said I was the mouthy one,” you all but pant out.
You tug on his curls trying to get him to put his mouth back on your breast, his spit cooling on your nipple making it pebble more than you thought possible. Instead, he just smirks down at you, and applies more pressure on your clit. Those nonsensical patterns transforming into tight devastating circles.
“I need… I need-”
“Such a bossy thing,” Jake mutters, “Only thing you need to be focusing on, darlin’, is falling apart for me.” The edge in his voice and the strain of his thighs as he thrusts into you the only things giving him away that he’s just as desperate as you are. “Rooster wants to watch you come. Isn’t that right, Bradshaw?”
“Sure do,” he agrees against the pounding pulse point on your throat. You don’t need a mirror to know the delicate skin is agitated from the coarse hairs of his mustache. The heat rolling off of him in waves is a contrast to the draft of the air conditioning hitting your body just right from the way he has you spread open over his hip. “I wanna see that pretty face as you come around his cock.”
Your fingers scramble to find something, anything to hold on to. Feeling like the seams of your skin, those silken threads of the last of your resolve, fray and snap. Rooster’s eyes holding yours as you start to unravel.
The sound of skin on skin fills your ears, followed by Hangman’s ragged breathing as you flutter and clench against him. “You feel so fucking good around me,” he moans, “Such a perfect pussy.”
Lightening hot pleasure races along your spine before shooting out along your muscles and tendons and ligaments, all the things keeping your body together. And your mind whites out as you come for them.
You feel Jake’s rhythm falter and stutter as he works to get himself closer of that place of perfect devastation, as you shutter and quake from the aftershock. He fucks into you harder chasing his own climax before emptying himself inside of you.
His cock buried so deep in you as you take his come. The two of you both breathing hard.
Bradley slips his wet fingers into your mouth and you lave the taste of yourself off of his skin almost in a daze as you wait for the gravity to settle into your weightless limbs. His lips are gentle as he trails soft kisses along your hairline, his hardness pressed against you a reminder there’s still more in store for you.
You whimper when Jake pulls out of you.
“Knew you’d look good like this,” he says running his hands along the tops of your thighs and watching as his come trickles out of you onto Bradley’s duvet.
Rooster takes his fingers from your mouth and nudges his nose against your heated cheek, “You still got more in you?”
He pulls away, those brown eyes searching yours.
“Want your cock,” you whisper and lean in for a kiss. He meets you with tenderness, while you meet him with heat. Licking into him the moment he parts his lips for you.
Hangman gives your thighs one last squeeze and lets go.
“Come ‘ere,” Rooster grunts as he shifts and pulls you on top of him, lining himself up with your dripping cunt. You don’t dare look away as he slowly feeds you the generous length of him, inch by inch.
You drape yourself across him and burry your face in that spot between his neck and shoulder at the stretch of him as he fills the space between your legs. Feeling the muscles of his arms wrapped around you. His wood smoke scent filling your nose. The salt of him on your tongue as you lick at the sweat that’s collected along the line of his collarbone.
It is dizzying being this surrounded by Bradley, he’s everywhere.
“How are you still so tight? You literally just took his cock,” he rasps.
You feel a hand brush back some of the hair from your face and you turn your head into the warm touch. When you open your eyes, you see Jake crouching there by the bed next to you, his green eyes filled with affection, “You doing a good job for Rooster too?”
“Yes,” you sigh as Bradley hums his agreement. The deep, languid roll of hips as he thrusts into you, working you open for his cock, is so good that it makes fingers dig into his biceps.
“Good girl,” he says, nipping at you ear before pressing a kiss to your cheek, “Keep doing her like that, Rooster, her legs are startin’ to shake.”
And then he lands an open-handed slap to your ass that makes you clench and Rooster groan as he laughs lightly to himself, entirely too pleased.
It’s a masterpiece of teeth and tongues, moans and gasps, and dirty praise rumbled into ears. When that telltale tightness in your stomach starts, you begin rocking back against him desperately. Meeting him thrust for thrust. You’re so coiled in knots that not even the most seasoned sailor could untangle you.
You can feel your orgasm rising up to meet you. So close, so close.
And then choking down a sob as you’re pulled upright to a sitting position astride Bradley, with Hangman’s forearm banded around your waist and supported by his dewy chest.
“‘s too big,” you whimper.
“Ah, ah. There you go, you can take it,” Jake coaches into your ear as he encourages you to take more of Rooster’s cock. “You’re almost there. Just a little bit more.”
Bradley licks his lips as he watches you writhe and squirm above him until there’s no space between your bodies. His fingertips digging into your hipbones. The stretch of him making you ache in the best of ways, your eyes fluttering at the sensation of sinking impossibly further on him. Both hands braced on his chest, thumbs seeking the little patch of chest hair.
You lean your head back and are met with Jake’s mouth. His kiss filthy as his teeth graze against your full bottom lip and his tongue sweeps against yours.
There are no words for how full you feel, for how good you feel.
Bradley’s face and neck are flushed and his waves are a mess from your handiwork. And you’re struck again by just how handsome he is. You give him a roll of your hips, anticipating a thrust that doesn’t come. Your eyebrows pinch together and you try again to get him to meet you half way. Waiting, waiting, waiting for more.
“I want-”
“I know what you want,” Rooster croons as he cuts you off, sliding a hand up your pulled too taut body to palm at your breast. You whine when he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger and then tugs. “C’mon, want to see you ride me. That’s it, baby, use me to get yourself off.”
The wet, sticky sounds of your own arousal and Jake’s come are amplified in the quiet room as you fuck yourself on Bradley’s cock. The sweat is collecting behind your knees and along your hairline. You let your head lull back onto Jake’s shoulder, knowing he’ll keep you upright.
You want to be good for him. You want to be good for them.
Both men have been determined to wring every ounce of pleasure from your body and then asked for even more. The burn in your thighs so good as you rock and grind on the man beneath you, but you don’t know how much more you have left to give.
“Doing still alright, darlin’?”
You turn your head enough to mouth along Jake’s jawline and hope he takes it for the yes your tongue is too tired to say.
“Think our girl’s getting worn out,” Bradley says sympathetically, but is looking up at you with pride in his eyes.
“You’ve been doing so well for us. How about you let Rooster and I take care of you now, huh?”
“Please.” It sounds pitiful even in your own ears, but you can’t be bothered to care too much at the moment.
You whimper quietly as Jake’s warm, heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades and presses you back down.
Bradley wraps his arms around you holding you close against his sweat-slicked chest. The tears prickle in the corner of your eyes as you tuck your head back into his neck, knowing that the two men are more than capable to get you there again. That they’ll take care of you.
That you can just feel, that you can just be, that you can just take.
“Hold her open for me, Bradshaw.”
You feel Bradley’s hands slide around you, grabbing rough handfuls of your ass. You’re exposed in a different way you’ve been all night, under Jake’s sharp, keen eyes that you can’t see but feel on you all the same, as the other man pumps in and out of you.
“You should see how she’s dripping down you, Rooster. That cunt is coating you real good.”
“I don’t need to see it, when I can feel it,” he pants against your ear. You want to remind them that it’s not just only your arousal alone that’s making a sure to be shiny mess along the length of him, but it’s all you can do to clutch at Bradley’s waves as he keeps building you up.
Of all the things you were experiencing in that moment, it’s no surprise that you miss the subtle ghosting of Jake’s warm breath over that pleated part of you, but it’s the feeling of his wet tongue skimming around the rim of it that send you reeling.
“Fuck me,” Rooster moans, his arms tightening around you, “Whatever you just did, do it again. She liked it. Didn’t you, baby?” You babble out something unintelligible as you fist his hair, but your vigorous nod can’t be interpreted for anything other than your enthusiastic consent. “Could feel that you did, gotta give our girl what she likes. She deserves it after being so good for us.”
His voice huskier, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. That slight accent that only sometimes made an appearance, finally out in full force.
You let out a strangled cry when Hangman does it again, your toes curling at the new feeling. You’ve never taken two men like that before, but even the idea of it makes you lightheaded.
From there you lose yourself in the dueling sensations. At Bradley’s ruinous, deep thrusts. Of his perfect cock hitting you just right, targeting that spot that has you quaking. Of Hangman’s tricky tongue circling, circling. And his thick finger pressing.
Circling, circling, pressing.
Circling, circling, pressing.
Circling, circling, pressing. Until-
“Ah!”
You bite down on that pretty scar on Rooster’s shoulder, needing something to keep you from feeling like you were going to fly away. From feeling like you could explode into nothingness. It’s a different kind of fullness, one that steals your breath even as it gives you life.
“That’s it, nice and easy, darlin’.”
There’s nothing nice or easy about the two men working you. The push and pull of them so in tune with each other, so set on making you see stars one last time.
“I can feel you’re there. Want you to come on this cock,” Bradley grits out, as he thrusts into you, his hands spreading you wider for his benefit and Jake’s. The tendon on is throat standing out in a way that makes your mouth water. “Come on, come for us.”
When you come with a cry, body shaking and back arching with devastating pleasure. It’s an orgasm that gives as much as it and takes and takes and takes.
Rooster is swift to follow after you with a couple more powerful thrusts, as he spills himself inside of you with a low, satisfied groan. You spasm and quiver and convulse around him, milking him with every tremor that dances through your thoroughly spent body.
When you come to, the first thing you’re aware of is how perfectly warm you are pressed between two hard bodies. The next is the delicious ache between your thighs and the mess there, as you grin to yourself with your eyes closed. Luxuriating in the endorphin rush as it washes over you.
A calloused thumb strokes your cheek.
“There she is,” you hear Jake say.
Someone’s long fingers thread between your own, squeezing your hand.
“Jesus, fuck,” you hear Bradley pant next to you, “How was that even better than last time?”
“More practice?” you offer, finally opening your eyes.
Both men look a sweaty mess, their hair a riot and their cheeks still pink from the exertion. And you know you probably aren’t faring much better, but it’s the warm affection and the easy smiles on their faces that sets your heart a racing again.
It’s been a little over four years since you had first met the two of them in Pensacola during a training contingent for a recon mission.
You were about to call it a night at the Navy bar near the base, mentally cursing whoever signed off on sending you to the state in the middle of a heat wave, when a broad man in a Hawaiian shirt had slid up to you at the bar. It would have been comical on anyone with less muscles, but he also had the smile to pull it off. You didn’t quite know what to make of it at first when the clean-cut blonde, the one with a mega-watt grin and a toothpick gripped between his teeth, had set a drink in front of you with a wink.
There wasn’t any way of missing the tension radiating between them, but you weren’t about to get caught in the middle of their petty pissing contest. You knew a rivalry when you saw one. And they were pilots after all, you knew their type.
It wasn’t until you held that chilled glass up to your overheated neck, catching the way they both tracked that bead of condensation as it traveled down your throat and disappearing between your cleavage, that you thought things could get interesting.
And well, it had escalated quickly from there.
“I haven’t even been here seventy-two hours yet, and I’ve already heard about your fabled hook up twice,” you say with a giggle, leaning your forehead on Jake’s shoulder.
“Mm, I’ve heard that rumor too,” Rooster chuckles.
“Who knew the Navy had so many damn gossips,” Hangman laughs, “I swear to god, they talk more shit than the little old ladies in my grandma’s knitting circle.”
Bradley picks up your entwined hands and brings them to his mouth, kissing your fingertips with a fond look in his eyes, “So how long are you here for?”
“Well, speaking of rumors,” you say conspiratorially, “Have you heard the one about a certain Chief Warrant Officer Bernie Coleman and the opening on his new strategic team for a permanent member?” The teasing smirk growing on your face as the realization dawns on them.
You had been treating yourself to a celebratory drink at the finalized paperwork and impending transfer when Rooster had spotted you sitting there earlier when the whole night truly began.
“Huh,” Bradley says with a sly smile, “Now that sure is one interesting rumor. The person who lands that gig must be very smart. Sounds like that certain someone would be the right person to settle a bet. ”
“Mhm and probably very full of good ideas,” you can’t help but preen.
“What do you say, Rooster, best two out of three?” Jake asks, with a cheeky gleam in his eyes, “You up for a little tiebreaker, darlin?”
You look from one to the other with a grin.
“I’m all in.”
In the immortal words of the Spice Girls "spice up your life" 💃🏼 Thanks for reading!
Many thanks to @gretagerwigsmuse and @laracrofted for their help!
This was written as part of @sushiwriterhere Threesomissance 2023 event!
Summary: What starts as playful teasing stretches across weeks of silence, tension, and unanswered messages…until Jake finally sees exactly what you’ve been leaving for him. When he gets back and has you within reach again, he’s not letting go.
Character/Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin (Top Gun: Maverick) x Reader
Warnings: Strong language. Mutual pining / unresolved tension. Sexting/Suggestive photos. Explicit sexual content (Praise, Masturbation, Oral-Male Receiving), some very mild humiliation due to something that happens to Jake that I’m not going to spoil.
Word Count: 6,494
Author’s Note: So this fic is the brain child of a conversation I had with a friend of mine and it kind of spiraled from what I thought would be like 1-2k words and here we are at 6500. So thank you to the person who gave me inspiration (you know who you are). Hope you all enjoy xx
The hangar was all noise and movement, yet you found a quiet corner, tucked behind the hulking belly of a Super Hornet, where the smell of jet fuel clung to your hair and the concrete vibrated with the promise of takeoffs in the morning.
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, boots squeaking as you pretended you were here for any reason except the obvious one: to see him before he left.
Jake was already waiting. He leaned back against a tool chest, arms crossed, sleeves rolled to the elbow in a way that did violent things to your self control. He caught your eye and, as always, grinned like he could see straight through your careful composure.
“Was starting to think you’d ghosted me, honey,” he said, voice pitched low enough that it didn’t echo.
“You’re not even wheels-up yet, and already I’m the tragic ex,” you shot back.
He grinned wider like he was proud of you for keeping pace with him. He shoved off the chest and strolled over to you, dog tags glinting against his black shirt. You waited until he was close enough to crowd your space, just shy of touching, before you let yourself look up and meet his gaze. He always did this: moved right into your gravity, and waited to see what you’d do.
“Tell me you’re not gonna miss this,” he said.
He had a way of drawing out the syllables, sweet and slow, and it wasn’t clear if he meant the flying or the flirting.
You snorted. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve got a whole backup squadron on speed dial while you guys are gone.
“Yeah?” He murmured, stepping in that last inch. “Bet they won’t match my stamina.”
You matched him, unblinking. “You’re right, most people need a break eventually.”
He let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, and you could see how much effort it cost him not to laugh out loud. The other pilots and crew passed by without looking, either too used to you and Jake or wise enough to pretend ignorance. It didn’t matter. In this little world, Jake was the sun and you were the planet that pretended not to orbit him.
“You sure you don’t want to give me a proper sendoff?” He murmured, leaning in closer, voice low enough it brushed over your mouth.
You pretended to consider, weighing the pros and cons with mock gravity, like the fate of the entire Western seaboard depended on whether or not you caved.
“Not sure you can handle a real goodbye.”
“Oh, I love it when you try to scare me,” he said, grin feral now, and before you could blink he had closed the half-inch gap, mouth landing on yours
The first kiss was a test. Quick. Calculated. But Jake had never been the type to settle for standard issue. The second kiss lingered, blooming out at the corners, his hands anchoring you.
Your fingers curled into his shirt and he made a quiet sound against your mouth—something rougher than he probably meant to let out—and pulled you closer like he’d almost forgotten where you ended and he started.
He stared at you for half a second like he was deciding something. Then he kissed you again. Harder this time. Less patience. Less restraint. Your back bumped lightly against the side of the jet and you laughed against his mouth, but it dissolved into something softer when his hand slid up your side, anchoring you there.
“Legendary’s for when I get back,” he muttered against your lips. “This is just—”
You kissed him again before he could finish. Because apparently that’s what this was now. Interrupting each other with mouths instead of words.
“God, you’re the worst,” you breathed when you managed to pull back.
“Yeah,” he said, already leaning in again, like he couldn’t help it, “but you keep coming back.”
Your hands slid up into his hair and that got him. You felt it in the way he went still for half a second, then moved, pressing closer, like he needed more of you, like he wasn’t getting enough.
Somewhere behind you, someone called his name. Neither of you reacted.
“You’re gonna be late,” you murmured, lips brushing his.
“Yeah,” he said, not pulling away.
Your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing the same air now, a little unsteady, a little too close to something neither of you were naming.
“You gonna be waiting for me when I get back?” He asked, quieter now.
You rolled your eyes, but your fingers didn’t leave his hair. “I’ll pencil you in.”
“Try not to forget about me,” he said.
“Not a chance.”
He stepped back after the Admiral called his name for a second time. He his hands dragging off you slow, like he didn’t quite want to let go.
You watched him walk away with that cocky strut. The kind of man who knew you’d be watching and made it look effortless. And you did watch, until he turned the corner and vanished.
* * * * * * * *
You spent the rest of the day in your own orbit, drifting from room to room with no purpose beyond the vague intention of not thinking about Jake Seresin. Which naturally, meant you thought about him constantly: the way his hands bracketed your hips, the electric edge in his voice when he teased you, the warmth lingering in your bones after that last, almost chaste goodbye.
You made it exactly three hours before you gave in to temptation. You scrolled through your camera roll, ignoring the too obvious thirst traps and instead landing on a selfie you’d taken by accident, hair still damp from a shower, face clean and soft and almost bashful. Jake’s t-shirt was loose on your shoulders, the You looked, against all odds, sweet.
You attached it to a message, thumbs hovering as you considered the first volley.
You left this.
You stared at the screen for a long moment, then added:
Think it suits me better.
You sent it and immediately set your phone face-down on the kitchen table, pretending you could resist the urge to check it every thirty seconds. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the hollow echo of your own nervous laughter.
Why did it matter so much if he saw? Why did you care about his reaction? Probably because you knew, with sickening certainty, that he’d see it and respond in kind. This was how it always went: you baited, he bit, then you spent the rest of the day untangling the consequences.
Except minutes passed. Then hours. You made lunch, washed a few dishes, and checked your phone, only to see the same unbroken silence. You tried to act unbothered. You tried to imagine him laughing in a plane somewhere, already plotting his next move. But each time you checked, there was nothing but your own face, caught mid-smile in his damn shirt.
By dusk, you were stretched on the couch, blanket knotted around your legs, phone balanced on your chest as if proximity would manifest a reply. You took another photo, this one more deliberate: hair in a messy bun, eyes half lidded, the hem of his shirt just covering your underwear.
Still nothing.
You considered sending a follow-up, something like wow, tough crowd or too busy saving democracy to answer? But you didn’t want to look desperate. Instead, you just stared at the first message, rereading it until the words lost their meaning and all you saw was the hint of a smile in your own reflection.
You wondered how long you could keep this up before you cracked. Probably not long.
It started as a game. You weren’t even sure you wanted a reply at this point; you just needed the power of knowing you could provoke him. So, when the next morning arrived and your phone screen remained stubbornly blank, you leveled up.
The second selfie took planning. You waited for the daylight to spill across your sheets, found the good light, dug his navy blue button down from your laundry basket and shrugged it on, barely bothering with the buttons. You stretched across the bed, his bed if you were honest, since it still smelled like him, and aimed the camera so it caught just enough skin and just enough sleep tousled innocence. You made sure the hem of the shirt only barely covered the soft part of your thighs. You took half a dozen, deleted most, and kept the one where you looked like you’d just been kissed awake.
You didn’t caption it. You just sent it, then immediately buried your face in the pillow, laughing into the fabric. If you could’ve been a fly on the wall in whatever base Jake was in, you would’ve paid money to see his face.
Hours passed. The only notification that lit up your phone was from your mother, asking about your plans for your sister’s wedding next month. You thumbed a reply “not sure yet!”, then toggled back to the chat with Jake, where your two photos sat like open dares.
You told yourself he’d seen them. That he was probably planning some elaborate comeback, maybe getting the perfect revenge selfie, or waiting to ambush you with a FaceTime call. But by mid afternoon, your nerves started to hum. The silence stretched. You thought about sending a follow up: ignore me all you want, you’re still not getting your shirt back. Instead, you went for a run, then came back and paced the apartment for half an hour, more restless than before.
The third escalation came about a week later, and it wasn’t an accident. You dressed for it: makeup done, hair brushed and glossed and sprayed to a shine, lips a dark cherry red that you knew drove him crazy. The lingerie wasn’t technically yours (stolen from a roommate’s bachelorette party stash, tags still attached), but it looked like it had been designed with Jake’s hands in mind: all emerald mesh and sinuous cutouts and barely-there lace. You paired it with a pair of pointy black heels and nothing else. You posed in the mirror for a while, finding the right angle. When you finally took the shot, it was deliberate. A long, slow glance over your shoulder.
This time, you almost didn’t send it. It felt dangerous, more revealing than any truth you’d ever confessed aloud to him. The truth of how obsessed you really were with him. Your thumb hovered over the send button, heart hammering, until you couldn’t take the tension anymore. You hit send, then tossed the phone away as if it were a live grenade.
The silence after was worse than before. The world went quiet, the hours stretching until evening blurred into night. You stalked around the apartment, restless and a little bit frantic, replaying your own boldness and the echoing lack of reaction on the other end. Maybe you’d overplayed. Maybe it was too much, and you’d scared him off.
You poured a glass of wine, downed it, then poured another. By midnight, you were loose limbed and melancholy, curled on the floor in a tangle of discarded blankets and half done laundry. You wanted him to answer. You wanted him to say anything.
The fourth photo the following week was almost an afterthought. You went to bed wearing nothing but his dog tags that were laying on his dresser, the cold metal a physical reminder that he was still real, still somewhere under the same sky just an ocean away. You took a selfie, bare shoulders and the tags nestled against your sternum, the rest of you artfully out of frame. You sent it without a caption, then immediately regretted it and nearly deleted it. But you didn’t.
This time, you stared at the phone until your eyes burned. Still nothing. Not a word, not a heart react, not even the three dot ellipsis to suggest he was typing a reply.
You caved. You typed out:
Wow, tough crowd.
You deleted it, then wrote:
Hope you’re not dead, would be super embarrassing for me if you are.
Deleted that too, settled on:
If you’re trying to play hard to get, you’re failing spectacularly.
That one, you sent. It was as close to defeat as you’d ever admit.
You lay back on the bed, phone balanced on your chest, the silence pressing down like a weighted blanket. You should have felt victorious, or at least smug. Instead, all you felt was empty. And tired. And a little bit exposed, like you’d stripped down more than just your clothes for him.
You closed your eyes and let yourself imagine him seeing it: the curve of your smile in his shirt, your hair spread across his sheets, the black lace and the bare skin, the dog tags cool against your collarbone. You pictured him cursing under his breath, maybe fighting a smile, maybe missing you as much as you missed him.
Maybe.
You fell asleep like that, clutching your phone, waiting for the next move.
* * * * * * * *
Jake’s P.O.V.
The first thing Jake did when he got word that they were headed home after four long weeks was ask for his goddamn phone. His home screen immediately detonated with alerts as he turned his phone on. Sixty-seven notifications from the squad’s group chat. Eleven missed calls from his mother. One photo from Coyote with his middle finger raised as he stood next to the dart board at the Hard Deck with a perfect bullseye and captioned it, “East shit, Hangman.”
Then there were the messages from you. Four unread messages waiting for him.
He felt the grin before he could stop it. He opened the first once, bracing for a joke or maybe a long text that was you rambling about your day. What he got instead was a photo. At first glance it was innocent. You in his t-shirt, hair a mess, eyes soft, and a little sleepy. But he saw the way you clutched the hem to pull it up just a little, the way your lips curled into the ghost of a dare.
He bit back a laugh and opened the next one, already knowing you were trying to get a rise out of him. And you succeeded. The second photo was you sprawled across his sheet, his button down open and hanging off your shoulders, skin luminous in the morning light.
His mouth went dry. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was looking and zoomed in to catch the faint outline of your nipples poking out beneath the thin fabric. God, you were shameless. And God, he loved you for it.
He scrolled down to the next one, half expecting you to chicken out and send a meme or a dumb TikTok video. Instead the third picture was you in lingerie. His favorite color, emerald green. Sheer and cut to reveal and conceal all at once. Black heels and red lips to round out the look. The pose was almost cruel. You looked like you’d been sculpted straight out of his dreams, made just for him.
He felt it then, a low pulse behind his ribs, the beginning of a burn that would only get hotter the longer he stared. His jaw set hard. He should have put the phone away. He should have walked it off or done literally anything but keep scrolling.
The fourth image was the coup de grâce. You wore nothing but his dog tags, pressed against your bare skin, hair wild and uncombed on his pillow, the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen staring at him through the camera. The tags rested just above your breasts, and you had managed to crop out anything that would make it totally indecent, but left enough to drive him crazy and let his imagination run wild.
Jake’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, heat pooling in places he didn’t dare acknowledge while still in uniform. He wanted to see you, to touch you, to tell you that you were his in every way a person could be.
He scrolled back and forth, unable to pick a favorite. He stared at the one with the dog tags the longest, though. The possessiveness it sparked in him was primal and a little bit terrifying. You’d worn those like a claim, like you were telling him that you were his.
He cleared his throat, and the guys around him glanced over. He pretended to check the weather app, and wiped a hand down his face to try and regain his composure. It didn’t work. Every photo replayed itself in his head, like a loop.
He typed a response. Then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. There was nothing he could say that would match what you’d given him.
By the time Jake boarded the flight, he was running on nothing but adrenaline and the slow burning ache that settled in his gut every time he thought about you. The vinyl of the airport seat pressed against his thighs. His only comfort was the warmth of his phone in his hand. He held it like a talisman, thumb bruising the glass as he scrolled back through her messages until he was half-certain he’d hallucinated them.
But they were real. Every pixel, every perfect angle, every impossible detail. He flipped obsessively between the last two photos: the green mesh that clung to you like a secret and the way his dog tags hung against your skin, making you look claimed and claimed again. He couldn’t pick a favorite. He didn’t want to. He wanted it all at once: you in his bed, you in his shirt, you waiting for him, smiling like you knew you were driving him insane.
The plane was full. Jake had an aisle seat. Which meant no privacy. Nothing to hide the way his pulse hammered or the way his hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He closed his eyes, tried to sleep, but it was useless. All he saw was you: arched and perfect, mouth parted, eyes dark and bottomless. He imagined the sound you’d make if he pressed you into the mattress, the way you’d taste, the shiver that would run through you when he finally closed the distance.
He lasted an hour.
Then he got up, stumbled down the aisle like a man possessed, ignored the pitying look from the flight attendant, and barricaded himself in the cramped lavatory. He braced both hands on the sink, breathing through his nose, trying to calm the riot in his chest. But he was already hard, already desperate, already picturing you with so much clarity it made him sweat.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket so hard he nearly dropped it in the sink. The screen glared up at him. He scrolled back to the dog tags photo. Your bare shoulders. Your hair a mess on his pillow. His dog tags resting against your breasts. He zoomed in until the image blurred, then zoomed back out.
SERESIN, JACOBU. S. NAVY 92823652207.27.1988 . O POS
His name. You in nothing but his name. Like you were letting him claim you. He unlocked his belt with ease. The hiss of the zipper sounded loud as a gunshot in the tiny stall. Then he slipped his hand inside the waistband of his boxer briefs and found himself already hard and leaking, the ache so fierce it bordered on pain.
He started slow. Just the lightest pressure. Just enough to tease his tip. He closed his eyes and let the sound of your voice fill his head. The way you sounded when you moaned his name the night before he left. He thought of you in his shirt, his bed, and in nothing at all. He pictured you lying on your stomach, face buried in his pillow, the curve of your ass illuminated by the ceiling fan overhead. He imagined the things he’d do to you. Then the things he’d let you do to him. Every filthy promise he’d ever whispered into your ear.
He got bolder and faster with his movements. The sounds in the enclosed space got louder. The sound of his breathing getting louder and uneven. The wetness as he spread spit and the precum leaking from his tip and used it to stroke himself as lubricant with his hand.
He bent forward, forehead pressed against the wall and bit down on the meaty part of his lip to keep from making a sound.
He was a goddamn animal, especially when it came to you. He let the fantasies continue to run wild in his head. He let himself imagine your mouth, your hands, the way you’d look at him when you sucked him off.
He let himself imagine calling you right now, your sweet voice on the other line answering, thick with sleep since it’s the middle of the night where you are. He’d ask you to help him through it. He’d ask you what you were wearing, and in his mind you’d tell him nothing. That you were wearing nothing as you waited for him to come home. He pictured talking you through everything he wanted to do, slowly and in detail, until you both came apart.
The rush when he came was almost blinding. He barely got it angled towards the toilet before white sticky cum was splattering against the inside of the toilet, biting down harder on his lip to keep from making any noise as he pictured coming in you instead.
He cleaned himself up with the ridiculously tiny paper towels that were provided. He splashed some water on his face, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and then stared at his own reflection. His cheeks were flushed, and hair was sticking to his forehead. He looked like a man who’d just broke. Which, in a way, he had. He tried to smooth it over. He straightened his shirt and combed his hair with his fingers.
But the feeling he’d been fighting since first seeing those pictures only got worse. The hunger was still there. Gnawing at him. He realized that he could jerk off a hundred times on this plane and it wouldn’t touch the depth of his craving. It was you or nothing. Like an addict and you were his drug of choice.
He took a few more moments to collect himself. He leaned his head against the wall and let his head tilt back. He scrolled through the photos one more time. He wanted to call you. He wanted to hear your voice. To tell you what he’d done, and confess that he’d lost your little game before it had even started. His thumb hovered over the call button but then he remembered he was thirty thousand feet in the air and it was damn near four in the morning. He wasn’t going to bother you. He’d seen you tomorrow when he landed in San Diego.
He slid his phone back into his pocket and braced himself before unlocking the door. He half expected the flight attendant to be waiting with judgement painted on her face. But she was gone. He made his way back, careful this time, and collapsed into his seat.
He tilted his head again the cabin wall, and replayed it all again. How you’d taste when he buried his face between your thighs. How you’d sound as you made those perfect little sounds he loves. How he’d mark you with his hands and mouth, whispering that you were his.
When the plane touched down, Jake didn’t wait for the seatbelt sign to go off. He grabbed his bag, elbowed his way to the front, and texted you before he even hit the terminal.
* * * * * * * *
The bar was packed. It was a Friday night and the weather was beautiful. You’d gotten there early and would probably end up staying late so that Penny didn’t get completely drowned at the bar.
You saw him before you heard him: a ripple in the crowd, heads turning, a laugh that started at the door and worked its way through the air like the promise of a fight. He was in uniform, flight suit zipped to the sternum and sleeves rolled, dog tags glinting at his neck, as if he’d just dropped from the sky to fuck up your equilibrium on purpose.
He locked eyes with you, and that was it. He started moving straight through the noise, the press of bodies, the haze of spilled beer and neon. He looked like a man with a single purpose, and you were that purpose.
You barely had time to prepare before he was there, knuckles brushing your wrist, voice low so no one else could hear.
“C’mere.”
He led you down the hallway, through a door marked STAFF ONLY, and into the cramped fluorescent lit storage room. It smelled like bleach and limes and the wet rubber of bar mats. Shelves ran floor to ceiling, overloaded with boxes of vodka and sleeves of plastic cups and rows of dusty liquor bottles that never made it to the menu. There was nowhere to stand that wasn’t in someone else’s way, so Jake just crowded you up against the shelf against the back wall, his palm braced on the shelf above your head.
For a long second he just stood there, breathing hard, the thud of his pulse visible in the line of his throat. You felt it in your own body, the echo of it, like you were already tethered together by something invisible.
He looked you over, up and down, then tilted his head and grinned.
“Got your texts.”
You tried to smirk. It came out shaky, but you didn’t care. “Wasn’t sure you liked them since I never got a response.
”Didn’t have cell access until last night.”
He moved his hand from the wall to your hip. You could feel the heat of him even through your jeans, the pressure of his thumb digging in.
He leaned in, lips grazing the edge of your ear. “Looked real pretty for me in those pictures, darlin’.”
He edged even closer, now fully pressing you back against the shelf. The metal frame dug into your spine. Every inch of him was a dare. You could see his eyes now: dark, hungry, pupils blown wide.
You reached out, traced a line down his chest, stopped at the zipper of his flight suit.
“Miss me?” You said, keeping your voice light.
You watched the way he studied your mouth, felt the way his hands bracketed your hips like he was holding himself back from breaking you in half.
“Say it,” you whispered, not sure if you meant for him to say he missed you, or to say he needed you, or just to say anything at all.
He did.
“I’ve been thinking about you every goddamn minute,” he said. Each word ground out like it hurt him to admit it. “Didn’t even make it through customs before I was checking my phone.”
You suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“And then you sent those photos,” he continued, voice so low it made you shiver. “Jesus, baby, I couldn’t even look at ‘em without—” He cut himself off, teeth bared in a crooked grin. “Doesn’t matter.”
You felt reckless. You wanted to see him lose control. You moved your hand from his zipper to his dog tags, wrapping your fingers around the cold chain, tugging just enough to make him lean in.
“It matters to me,” you said. “What’d you do when you saw those pictures, Jake?”
He kissed you. Hard and bruising, the kind of kiss that left you gasping for air and clawing at him. You kissed back, all teeth and tongue and desperation. You pressed into him, feeling the hard line of his body against yours, the wild, unstoppable need radiating off him in waves.
“Fuck,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m gonna make a mess of you.”
You held the dog tags tighter, letting the edge of the metal dig into your palm. He slid both hands under your shirt, tracing your ribs with his thumbs. His hands moved from your waist to your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the lowest shelf. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him in until there was nothing left between you but the thin, desperate press of your clothes.
He rocked against you, slow at first, just enough to let you feel what you’d done to him. You grinned, triumphant.
“Missed me that much, huh?” You whispered.
His answer was to suck a bruise onto your neck, grinding against you until you gasped. The sound made him go tense, hands clenching tight. You could feel how close he was to snapping. You wanted him to. You whispered his name, and watched as every ounce of bravado dropped away.
He was just Jake now, shaking and hungry and yours.
“Yeah,” he finally said, barely audible. “I missed you. Been like this since the plane.”
He buried his face in your neck, teeth scraping the spot just below your ear.
“Fuck. I didn’t wanna do it like this. Wanted to take my time with you when I got back,” he admitted, and you could hear the apology woven in, all the control he was burning just to keep from wrecking you completely.
You ran your hands down his back, over the ridges of his spine, the taut muscle flexing under your touch. He shuddered, then pressed you even harder against the wall. You rocked together, bodies moving in sync, both of you gasping for air that never seemed to come.
The tension was electric, dangerous. You could feel it in your chest, your stomach, everywhere. You wanted to push him until he broke.
So you did.
You reached between you, palming the outline of his cock, squeezing just enough to make him choke on his next breath. He jerked, then bucked his hips, desperate.
You grinned. “C’mon, Jake. Show me.”
His answer was a curse, then a kiss, then another curse, more desperate this time. He grabbed your wrist, pinned it above your head, and ground into you with a force that left you seeing stars.
His whole body went tense, like a bowstring drawn too tight. You felt the shift before you heard it, the way his breathing stuttered, the way he suddenly froze, mouth open against your shoulder. He tried to cover it up with a groan, but you knew.
His whole body shivered, and then sudden, violent, and humiliatingly fast…he came. Right there, pressed up against you, flight suit still zipped, the thick heat of it soaking through the fabric, maybe even onto your jeans. It was so immediate, so raw, that for a second neither of you could process it.
He went slack, head dropping to your shoulder, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. You waited, counting the seconds until the shame or the panic or the jokes set in.
Instead, he started laughing. It was a wrecked sound, equal parts mortified and triumphant. He buried his face in your neck, still shaking, then looked up at you with eyes so dark they were almost black.
You kissed him again, softer this time, letting the heat cool just enough to remind you both that you were still here, still real, still tangled together in this impossible thing.
He tried to rally, pulling himself upright, hands fisting at the zipper of his suit as if he could tug the moment closed. But you stepped into his space, crowding him the way he’d crowded you, and slipped your fingers beneath the open V at his throat.
“Missed me that much, huh?” You murmured.
He looked away, bashful, almost, if you didn’t know him better. Then, with a half swallowed laugh, “You’re gonna hold that over me, aren’t you?”
You grinned, leaning in until your lips brushed his ear. “I don’t know. It was kinda hot.”
He made a strangled noise, half-laugh, half-sigh, and let his head thunk gently back against the door.
You pressed your palm to his sternum, stopping him mid-sentence, and let your hand drift down. Over his chest, past the zipper, to where the bulk of him still strained, damp and sticky, inside the suit. You cupped him through the fabric, feeling the shudder that rippled through his whole body.
He caught your wrist, but didn’t push you away. Just watched, eyes fixed on your mouth, as you unzipped him all the way.
“Jesus,” he whispered, and you liked the way it sounded.
You worked the suit off his hips, tugging the waistband of his boxers down enough to expose his cock, flushed and slick at the tip. He was still hard, impossibly, and the sight made your mouth go dry.
“What are you doing?” He asked, voice wrecked but teasing.
You shook your head. “Gonna clean you up.”
He groaned, low and helpless, and let you push him back until his shoulders hit the cold metal. You knelt and wrapped your lips around him, tongue swirling over the mess he’d left on himself. The salt and heat, the faint bitter edge, was perfect.
He hissed your name, one hand burying itself in your hair, the other fisting against the shelf at his side. You took him deep, letting your tongue tease the sensitive underside, then pulled back just enough to lick the tip, collecting every drop. He shuddered, hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.
You looked up, locking eyes, and watched him come apart. The tremor in his legs gave him away. He whispered something. Maybe “fuck.” Maybe your name. Maybe both.
Then he added, low and sultry, “Such a good girl for me,” and it sent a rush of heat through you, making you clench your thighs together.
He sagged against the door, head thrown back, throat working on a silent groan that never quite made it out. For a moment, you just watched the flush rise up his neck, the wildness in his breath, the way his fingers shook as they traced idle, senseless patterns across your scalp. He looked like a mess. You liked him this way. You wanted to keep him this way.
You kissed just beneath the head, lips wet, tongue flicking the slit, and he made a broken, please sounding noise that was all the permission you needed. You gave him no mercy, hands gentle but insistent, stroking him through the aftershocks even as he tried to twist away from the intensity. He was sensitive and raw, but he never told you to stop. He just gasped and cursed and held on, greedy for every touch.
He looked at you dazed, and you thought for a heartbeat that he might start to laugh again, but instead his jaw clenched and he shook his head in disbelief.
“You…you’re gonna kill me,” he managed, voice ragged.
“Lucky for you, I’m CPR certified,” you said, and then sucked him down again just to hear him choke on his own laugh.
You slowed, dragging out the sensation, wanting to see how much he could take before he broke for real. His thighs trembled, toes flexing hard against the concrete. You could feel how badly he wanted to let go, how close he was to falling apart, and you loved him more for holding on, for trying to last just a little longer.
You brought him right to the edge and then backed off, your mouth soft, hands softer, until you felt him start to plead with you, not in words but in the desperate arch of his hips, the whimper buried deep in his chest, the way he’d wound both hands into your hair as if anchoring himself to you.
Then, he was coming again, hot and frantic, spilling into your mouth like he’d been saving it all for you. You swallowed, not breaking eye contact, drinking in the moment, the praise, the raw need radiating between you.
He collapsed, panting, the sweat on his chest catching the stuttering light overhead. You dragged your mouth up his length, slow and deliberate, leaving a slick trail behind. You nipped gently at the inside of his thigh, and he whimpered, more from overload than pain. You liked that, too.
You knelt there and waited until he looked at you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack with disbelief. You wiped your lips with the back of your hand and grinned.
“Good?”
He nodded, unable to speak, and slid down the door until he was half-sitting, half sprawled, legs open and inviting. You liked how ruined he looked: flight suit bunched up, boxers tangled at his knees, dog tags glinting against the sweat-slick hollow of his sternum.
You crawled up into his lap and straddled him, knees braced on either side, hands planted beside his head. You felt his heart beating through his skin, wild and animal, and for a second, you wondered if yours was just as frantic.
He looked at you with something like awe, or maybe terror. You kissed him, slow and deep and salty. He kissed you back, hand cradling the side of your face.
As much as you wanted to, you knew the two of you couldn’t stay in the closet forever. You climbed off his lap, watching him as he straightened himself out. He tugged his flight suit back into place, but the evidence of your time together was still glaringly apparent. A smirk played on your lips as you took in the sight of him, looking both disheveled and utterly wrecked.
“Ready?” You asked, stepping back and searching his eyes for a hint of mischief.
He nodded, though you could see the lingering hunger in his gaze.
With a deep breath, he pushed open the door, stepping out into the dimly lit bar. You followed, stepping lightly, your heart pounding with a mix of exhilaration and anticipation.
No sooner had you crossed the threshold than someone from the bar called out, a hint of confusion in their voice.
“Hey Seresin, why’s the front of your flight suit wet?”
Jake turned, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“It’s from your sister’s pussy. Fuck off,” he shot back, the playful bravado returning as he leaned against the bar, arms crossed, looking every bit the confident aviator you adored.
You stifled a laugh, warmth flooding through you as you watched the exchange. A small, knowing smile crept onto your face, a secret shared only between the two of you. You took your place behind the bar, pouring yourself a drink, reveling in the aftermath of the chaos and the undeniable chemistry that still crackled in the air.
As Jake leaned back, still bantering with friends, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. No matter where the night took you, you knew one thing for sure: this was just the beginning.
-
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you left me no choice but to stay here forever (right where you left me)
masterlist
pairing: jake ‘hangman’ seresin x reader (hotshot journalist!reader)
synopsis: you and jake have been best friends for years and eventually he becomes the love of your life - which makes it that much harder to cope when he starts pulling away with no explanation (based off right where you left me by miss tswift)
wc: 14k (yoo I think I actually may'd)
warnings: angst with a happy ending, explicit language, pining, supposedly unrequited love, kinda sad feels, reader wearing heels.
A shoutout to gretagerwigsmuse and @seasonsbloom - I wouldn't have gotten through this fic period, let alone begun writing in the first place without them. Please check out their writing, send them a sweet message or two <3
AGE SIXTEEN (pages turn and stick to each other)
This is not a date.
On a crisp Wednesday in October - well, as crisp as it can get in Texas - you find yourself sitting across from your high school’s running back in a greasy booth at your town’s renowned pizza parlor. And even though he’s objectively the hottest guy in your grade - not to mention the fact that he’s kind, well-liked amongst your peers, almost too charming for his own good - there’s no way you would ever go on a date with Jake Seresin.
For that matter, you’re not even friends. The only reason he’s even here is because you managed to pique his interest with the promise of a free meal in exchange for an interview for the school newspaper. So even though he held the door open for you and let you choose the side of the booth to sit in and even insisted on getting your favorite pizza toppings, you’re not going to let it distract you from doing your job.
You had been invited to join the school newspaper team in August, but you had yet to write a story featured in the paper. By some stroke of luck, Newsteam President Joe thought you were ready to handle your own solo project: a profile on one of your school’s football players. And while you aren’t exactly thrilled to interview Westwood High School’s star running back you’re determined to deliver a moving, heart wrenching piece about #25 and the trials and tribulations of high school football that’ll have Joe reaching for tissues.
No one needs to know that you’ve never even been to a football game in your life.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” you tell Jake briskly after your waitress walks away after passing you your drinks. You pull out the giant legal notepad you stole from your dad’s study and your favorite ten color shuttle pen, then push down the lever for dark blue ink - for your more serious projects.
The boy in front of you nods once, stretching both arms out on either side of him to rest on the back of the booth, eyes darting around. “Sure.”
“So...” you start, then trail off, eyes scanning the list of questions you’d meticulously drafted the night before. You decide to start from the very beginning: “What can you remember about the first time you played with a football?” you ask, and Jake shrugs his shoulders.
“Blood,” he says simply, and you wrinkle your nose.
“What? Blood?”
“Yeah. I was six. My dad was trying to teach me how to catch the ball, and ma kept telling him to use the foam ones but he said they didn’t spiral as well. Ended up pelting a pigskin at me and clocked me right on the nose. I can still feel a bump here,” you briefly look up from rapidly transcribing to watch him idly rub the bridge of his nose with his index finger.
You nod, scrawling down the details, mentally planning out how you could possibly fit this into an article and thinking of potential titles. Child gets pelted with a football and vows revenge. Becomes Westlake’s Star RB. Pathetic.
“So you’ve been playing since you were six?” you try to establish a timeline. “Ten years?”
“No. I joined a youth league when I was nine,” Jake corrects. He doesn’t elaborate.
You sigh, tapping your pen on your legal pad idly, then another question catches your eye. “What do you enjoy most about football?” you flip over to a clean page and smooth it out, not missing the flash of incredulity on Jake’s face.
“You kidding? No offense, but these questions suck,” he snickers, and your shoulders sag as you flip back to scan your messy notes. “Do you even want to be doing this little interview?”
“Do you?” you throw back, angrily, nervously clicking your pen as you try and figure out how you’re going to salvage this meeting, reaching into the crevices of your mind to craft a less sucky, more thought-provoking question.
The one thing you know about conducting an interview is asking the right question, one that will unleash your subject to go off on their own path and tell their story the way they want to. This way, you find that you get the most details, the most honest perspective. And so far, all you had from Jake was a stupid story about a childhood injury doesn’t lend itself to writing a tear-jerking profile.
Jake’s smirk doesn’t waver and after a few moments of silence, he relents. “I was promised free pizza. What’s in it for you?”
You sigh and rest your head back against the worn pleather of the booth seat, squeeze your eyes shut, tighten your grip on your pen as you deliberate his question. “Will you answer my questions if I tell you?”
“If they’re better questions, yeah.”
You shoot him a quick glare, then let out a resigned sigh and click your pen, setting it down on top of your scribbled notes. “First off, I hate football. Never even seen a game.”
“Seriously?” Jake says and folds his arms together to lean in closer over the sticky tabletop. “We live in Texas. You’ve never even watched a game on TV?”
You shrug ambivalently. “No, it never really caught my interest. I mean, what’s there to watch? Someone screams out a bunch of numbers and then you all just charge at each other to wrestle for five seconds while a stupidly shaped ball gets tossed around? And don’t even get me started on your weird scoring system-”
“- It makes sense if you actually commit to watching it!” Jake defends hotly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking like he’s trying his hardest to fight a pout. “Why’d they even put you on this article? Doesn’t seem like you give a damn about writing football.”
“I don’t,” you agree, sitting up straight and daring to look him straight in the eye. At this point, you don’t care how little you know about the stupid sport - you just want Jake to answer your questions so that you can go home and cobble together something, anything to show Joe that you can handle writing your own opinion pieces. “But Joe said if I write a great profile, he’ll print my story about the cafeteria workers.”
Jake pauses, mentally chews your words. “Seems like he set you up, then, darling,” - your surprise at the sweet name is overtaken by the harsh reality check - “Seeing as he asked you to interview me when you’ve never even been to a game.”
A wave of clarity washes over you. You didn’t think about it that way - that Joe might have intentionally put you on this project just to watch you struggle, so he could easily shut down your other ideas. You deflate, shrinking into yourself, and your solemn expression suddenly has Jake shaking his head and trying to backpedal.
“Look - hey. I’m sorry. I’m sure... Maybe he’s just testing you to see if you can write things out of your element. Isn’t that the mark of a good newspaper... writer?”
It kind of makes sense, but the first reason hurts more, resonates with you, and opens the door for self-doubt to stride right in. With how hard you had to fight tooth and nail to even be offered a spot on the school news team, it’s easy to imagine they didn’t want to make things easy for you. Suddenly, you find yourself questioning your writing ability, wondering if you’re really cut out for this. You shrug. “Yeah, maybe.”
Jake purses his lips, drumming his fingers again on the tabletop. “What’s the story with the cafeteria workers?”
At this, you perk up slightly, straightening your back and halting your anxious pen tapping. “There’s just been lots of wages being cut, some layoffs early this year and now they’re being asked to work overtime and the supervisors keep changing the schedule around and giving them such a hard time for wanting to take time off. I think they let someone go because they wouldn’t come in when they had the flu. Can you believe that? Someone was literally sick and didn’t go to work in a kitchen where they could easily infect the whole school. And Sandra - you know Sandra the cashier? She told me they’re all planning to walk out in two weeks, which I think is really admirable - but honestly, I think they need someone to talk about their complaints y’know? Let their voices be heard?”
You stop, finally realizing that you’d been rambling for the better half of a minute about a topic the star running back probably couldn’t care less about. But to your surprise, he’s listening intently, nodding encouragingly, looking contemplative. It’s weird - you’re not used to people being interested in what you have to say.
It’s nice.
“Sounds like you’re a lot more keyed up about this story than stupid football,” he finally says with a half smile, and you push down the warm feeling it ignites.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat and shift uncomfortably, bashfully. “It’s just... It’s what I want to do. Write about real people and real events. Give the silenced a voice. Which I know, it sounds kind of cheesy and idealistic and quixotic - but I don’t care. I just want to make a difference. Maybe win a Pulitzer Prize, I don’t know.”
His eyebrows furrow - maybe he doesn’t know what a Pulitzer is - but he nods thoughtfully. “I mean... Don’t really know what quixotic means, but I don’t think you’re being cheesy. Speaking of cheese, though...” his eyes flit over your shoulder.
Your waitress interrupts, setting down a large pizza with the toppings of Jake’s choice. He eagerly loads two slices onto his plate and continues his train of thought: “Tell you what: how about I give you a hand with the article? I’ll tell you what you need to know about football, at least.”
“You’d do that for me?” you ask, and you’re honestly shocked he didn’t just brush off your whole rant about your hopes and dreams, amazed that he’s even offered to help.
He shrugs and swallows the huge bite he’d taken. “‘Course - but in exchange, you’ll have to go to our games. You know, all my friends come to support me.”
You first open your mouth to object to having to watch football - then close it, sending him an incredulous look. “We’re friends?” you ask dumbly.
He shifts, looks the tiniest bit bashful, busies himself with the straw in his drink. “I mean... I’d like to be. Who knows, maybe you’ll be famous one day or you could help me with my English essays - ”
“- You want to be friends so I’ll cheer on you at games and tutor you for free?” you interrupt, narrowing your gaze.
But despite your tone being riddled with annoyance, despite the glare you’re now sending his way, Jake sends you an easy smile, serving himself another slice. “Nah, you just seem pretty cool.”
--
By another stroke of luck, you manage to pump out a puff piece about Jake Seresin - something along the lines of how the first time #25 threw a football was the moment he resolved to never back down after the first hit, to wipe the sweat and blood from his face and keep pushing forward. Joe is more than impressed with the quality of your work - almost surprised, you annoyedly observe - and agrees to run the profile for the following week’s issue, just in time for Westlake’s playoff game.
On Monday evening, you’re reviewing your interview notes with Sandra the Cashier at your kitchen table when suddenly, the landline rings. “Hello?” you answer, anticipating it to be one of your parents’ friends calling to gossip. The line is silent for a few moments, and you clear your throat to try again. “Anyone there?”
Suddenly, Jake’s laughter flows into your ear. “‘Never back down’?” he quotes through a wheeze, and you hold back a smile, this time letting yourself feel the butterflies that come alive in your stomach at the sound of his voice.
“You didn’t give me much to work with for your story!” you tell him with a small giggle. “So I managed to pull this together, and I’d say it’s a heart clencher - a tear jerker, even. Joe’s happy, at least.”
“He gonna let you write that other thing?”
“About the cafeteria workers? Working on it right now, actually,” you tell him, twirling the phone coil around your finger idly.
“Well darling,” Jake says and you feel your heart skip a beat at the sweet name, at the sound of mirth filling his voice, at the memory of his smiling eye crinkles that involuntarily flashes in your mind. “I’ll hold onto this profile, hang it in my gym locker. But let me know when they print that union thing. I’d like to hold onto a future Pyoo-litzer Prize winner’s first ever real story.”
“Pulitzer,” you correct him, and despite your writing hand hurting terribly from all the notes you’ve been scribbling and the slight twinge of a headache from your eyes straining, your heart feels full as ever as you chat with Jake - your new friend - into the late hours of the night.
AGE EIGHTEEN (wages earned and lessons learned)
Almost two years later, you find yourself seated across from Jake at your town’s fanciest Italian restaurant. It’s been a while since your waiter has checked in to take your meal orders, but his absence easily slips your mind as the two of you gossip while munching on garlicky breadsticks that are way chewier than you’d like.
After a lull in the conversation, you take a deep breath. “How’s your mom doing?” you carefully ask, taking a sip of your coke to avoid tacking on more words, to fight the urge to add more useless attempts at hopeful sentiments.
You wait for him to elaborate, but he just drums his fingers on top of the white tablecloth impatiently, turning his head to glance behind him at the swinging door to the kitchen. “Have you... spoken to your dad?” you probe, and while Jake doesn’t react harshly like you expect, his hand momentarily freezes.
“No,” he finally says. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk to him.”
“Right,” you pause. “Do you think you ever will?”
Jake heaves out a sigh and turns back to face you, idly chewing at a hangnail. Your fingers twitch and you hold yourself back from reaching out to pull his hand away from his mouth. “There’s not much to say, really. They were married, and now they’re not.”
You nod slowly, taking another sip of your drink, briefly lamenting the fact that it’s now just melted ice with a dash of soda. “How are your sisters?”
Again, he shrugs. “Fine. I’m driving them around a whole lot. Kinsey won’t come out of her room, but that’s no different than usual. They won’t talk to him either.”
He’s silent, doesn’t seem to want to say much else, instead tries to play off his nervousness by taking another large gulp of his drink and shifting his eyes to watch the Cowboys game playing on the tiny TV behind the bar. But you can tell he’s gotten himself worked up by the way you can feel his foot tapping impatiently under the table, the way he presses his finger harder into his teeth, by virtue of knowing Jake so well.
So you change the subject. “Are we doing this every year now, then? A friendship anniversary?” you ask.
Jake visibly relaxes, almost looking grateful. The foot tapping stops, and he pulls his hand away from his mouth to sling an arm around the booth and send you a signature Jake Seresin smirk. “Of course - gotta celebrate the day you learned about football - ”
“- I swear, I’ll break your nose again with one later - ”
“With your aim? Please,” he scoffs, a goofy smile breaking the moment he makes eye contact with you.
You roll your eyes. “Plan B is always my fists. Anyway, how do you think we’ll even keep up every year while I’m at school and you’re at the Academy?”
“I’ll visit you at Columbia - and before you say it, shut up. You’re getting in, Miss Pulitzer. As for the Academy... Depends on whether I even apply.”
“Why wouldn’t you apply?” you ask, even though you’re sure you know the answer, ready to pour out words of affirmation, tell him that there’s no way they’d turn him down.
“Not sure if I’d get in,” - bingo, but he follows up with something that stuns you - “And I think I might want to stick around here for a bit. Take care of the family for a bit.”
You’re not sure what to say to that, exactly. Because you were prepared to jump into a supportive best friend mode: reassure him that he’s a shoo-in, remind him of his accomplishments, deliver your long-winded ramble of uplifting words that’ll make your mouth feel like you’re chewing cotton by the end of it. But that’s not what Jake needs right now.
“I don’t think your Ma would want you to do that, Jake,” you say quietly. “She wouldn’t want you to abandon your dreams just to take care of her.”
He stretches his arms back, rolls his neck out hard enough so that his joins sound like crackling rice krispies in the silence. “She’d never ask me to. But I don’t want her to have a hard time, make her shoulder the burden.”
“Knowing her, she wouldn’t want to unload anything onto you, Jake,” you tell him firmly, sitting up straight in an attempt to look more certain, strong. “You’ve wanted this for such a long time. Don’t let your dad ruin this for you - I know a part of you wants to stick it to him or something. But fuck that, Jake. If you put your dreams on hold, you’ll regret it. You have to do this for yourself.”
“Yeah... I guess,” he trails off, still sounding uncertain, but a little less subdued. His hand lifts up and he’s again gnawing at the raw skin on his fingers.
“You’ve really gotta stop biting your nails, Jake,” you tease, hoping it’ll relieve some of the tensions that somehow returned, and he rolls his eyes. “If you want to keep your mouth occupied -”
“- You offering? I tell you, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it -”
“Shut up,” you snipe, feeling the heat rush into your cheeks at the suggestion. You shake off your embarrassment. “How ‘bout chewing gum?”
“Hate gum,” Jake pouts. “Makes my jaw hurt.”
“You’re such a baby. Lollipops?”
“Charles would hate me,” he replies, and you internally roll your eyes at him calling his dentist by his first name. His sincere dedication to exceptional dental health and maintaining his teeth was sure to win him the best smile Senior superlative. “If your next suggestion is smoking -”
“- It’s not!” you glare. “How about toothpicks?”
“You want me to roll a sharp piece of wood in my mouth? Sounds delightful,” he drawls sarcastically, and you scoff, turning your eyes to look up at the ceiling.
“Better than sticking your fingers in your mouth all the damn time. What are you, two?”
“I’m a ten, thank you very much.”
“You’re insufferable,” you groan out, fighting back the urge to smile. “You won’t stay a ten if you rip your fingers apart though, Jake. You should give it a try. They have flavored toothpicks, too.”
He ponders this with narrowed eyes, pulls his hand away from his mouth to lay it flat on top of the table to examine his cuticles carefully. “Think they have cinnamon?”
“Probably. Would keep your mouth fresh too.”
“Oh, the ladies are gonna love that,” he laughs, smiling so big now that his eyes crinkle and it feels like someone’s opened a window in this dim restaurant, pushed the sun higher in the sky and bathed your whole body in sunlight. You laugh along with him, rest your elbows on the table to prop your head up and just look at him, appreciate him as a boy who offered to help you within the first hour of knowing you, a man who’s willing to give up his aspirations to care for the people he loves. Your best friend who stopped giving you butterflies a long time ago and now brings you a feeling of comfort, of warmth. Of home.
Suddenly, Jake reaches across the table, palm facing up. You eye it carefully, slowly sliding your hand into his. “You good?”
“Thanks for putting up with me for two years,” he tells you seriously. And you shake your head with a smile, can sense the emotions well up in your eyes, feel your heart beating faster.
“Of course,” you breathe out. “Thanks for always supporting me.”
“Always,” he parrots back. “Anything for a future Pew-litzer Winner.”
You huff out a wet laugh, and the two of you just sit there across from each other, smiling like idiots until finally, with your vision slightly blurred and your hand still squeezing his across the table, you glance around for your waitress who has yet to make an appearance. “You wanna just... go get some pizza?”
“God, yes,” Jake agrees, immediately moving to stand up. “Think we can find some toothpicks on the way?”
AGE TWENTY-THREE (she’s still 23, inside her fantasy, how it was supposed to be)
The October after you graduate from Columbia and Jake’s graduated from the Academy, you visit him in Pensacola in a bar that’s packed to the brim with patrons in Navy-issued khakis. You find yourself in a booth across from Jake, snacking on greasy bar eats and nursing some shitty beers.
“Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your date, Hangman?” a dark-skinned, intimidatingly handsome man in uniform leans against your table and looks down at you with a grin that could rival a hyena’s. You glance over at Jake, who rolls his eyes.
“Coyote,” Jake says admonishingly, flips a toothpick between his teeth, but goes on to introduce you. “This is my best friend from back home.”
You wave awkwardly, pondering where his callsign may have come from - unless that was his birth name, in which you’d love to have a quick interview with his parents. Coyote raises his eyebrows and slides into the booth next to Jake, subsequently pushing him closer to the wall and rests both elbows on the table. “So you’re Jake’s friend? With all the articles?”
You whip your head to look at Jake, who’s bearing a sheepish grin with his cheeks getting slightly pinker. His hand raises up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s nothing -”
“- You should’ve seen him during basic - had all these things pinned up on his wall, always reading your letters at breakfast with a puppy dog face. Honestly thought you were his sweetheart or something- Ow!”
Coyote’s rubbing his side where Jake elbowed him harshly, cheeks still red and teeth furiously gnashing down on the toothpick. Underneath the table, you can feel Jake’s leg start bouncing, and you shift your foot forward to lightly brush his, tap the side of his tenderly. He halts his movements.
“He’s just a great friend,” you clarify, beaming at Jake, who seems slightly less tense with his jaw unclenched. “Anyways, is Coyote your callsign?” your curiosity gets the better of you, and you figure it might be a good chance to get the spotlight off Jake.
“Sure is. Name’s Javy,” he smirks at you, then jerks a hand over at Jake. “Has he told you his sign?”
“Yeah, Hangman. Which is stupid, because he honestly sucks at the game -”
“- I don’t,” Jake hotly defends, sits up in his seat and crooks an accusatory finger in your direction. “You’re the one that does weird ass long words. No one’s gonna guess - what was it? Gerrymandering?”
Coyote attempts to stifle a laugh, but you let a giggle bubble right out of you. “I like to use it as a learning opportunity.”
“Here’s a word for you: buzzkill.” Jake retorts, and you scoff, holding back a smile, about to snark back when you feel your phone vibrate from your purse.
“One second,” you pull out your Blackberry, glancing over the email from your coworker at The Washington Times and tapping out a brief response.
“Hey sweetheart,” you hear Jake say and your heart skips a beat, a smile forming at the familiar name as you press send on your message. Your surging warmth is immediately extinguished as you look up from your phone and see that Jake’s not speaking to you at all, not even looking your way. Instead, he’s shifted his entire body to face a gorgeous woman who’s stopped by your booth and is currently looking at him with a sweet smile.
“Still on for Friday night?” she asks, and you envy how cool she sounds saying it, like there’s no doubt in her mind that Jake will say yes, against your better wishes.
“Of course, wouldn’t miss it,” he replies easily, the dimple on his cheek popping out, deflating you further.
She flashes a quick smile at you as well - no malice or threat in it whatsoever - and you wonder if it’s that obvious that you and Jake are friends, that you’re not on a date even though you’d both been seated in this booth for the better half of an hour.
Maybe she thinks you’re just here with Javy, who’s been watching the whole interaction with a smirk, eyes laser focused on you trying your hardest to keep your expression neutral. “You’re going out with Imani? What happened to Priya?” Coyote asks after the girl walks away, his pointed look at you unwavering.
Jake shrugs. “She knew I didn't want anything serious. So does Imani. It’s just drinks and dinner and you know... whatever comes next.”
They both share a chuckle and your heart clenches painfully. You’re no prude - you’re all in support of people having casual sex, and you’re glad Jake is forthcoming with these girls. He’s not breaking their hearts, and they seem content to just have one night with him and be done with it.
There’s just the tiniest whisper of anxiety that wonders if there’s something wrong with you for rarely engaging in hookup culture, for not feeling comfortable enough to have meaningless flings. The one time you took a step out of your comfort zone and hooked up with a stranger, your walk of shame felt like a daze - inside, you were empty, despondent. A part of you envies Imani and the mysterious Priya for being able to cast aside their emotions so easily, fall into bed with a stranger, step out the next morning without feeling like they’re missing a part of themself.
The little green monster in you also flares up at the realization that they’ll know Jake in a more intimate way than you ever will - in a way that you’ve only dreamt about a handful of times. Give or take. You’re not sure when you started seeing him in a different light, as more than a friend, more like the person you’d want to get old with and celebrate milestones besides the anniversary of you becoming friends - but it happened slowly, suddenly, then all at once. And now, your feelings just sit with you, tethering you to the impossible dream of knowing Jake as so much more.
All this to say, you can’t be angry with Jake or any of these women. It’s not a crime for him to want to sleep around. You just wish you had the courage to tell him it’s not entirely victimless.
“There’s quite a few girls back home who’d be shattered to hear this,” you tease instead, ignoring the way your stomach is dropping low, the way your appetizer is slowly creeping up your esophagus.
Jake rolls his eyes. “Always been a heartbreaker, darlin’, it’s an occupational hazard.” he tells you and you agree mentally, idly picking at the basket of cold fries on the table. “You’ll always be my number one girl, though.”
Ah, and the dream lives on.
AGE TWENTY-SIX (time went on for everybody else, she won't know it)
“Happy tenth anniversary to a spectacular, intelligent, absolutely phenomenal woman,” Jake toasts, grinning across from you at Malatesta Trattoria in West Village. Jake had insisted on treating you in celebration of your new job at The New York Times - did the research and made reservations all on his own, took time off and everything.
“Happy friendship anniversary to a guy who still forgets to pack his toothbrush,” you snicker, and laugh even harder when his look of pride quickly turns into a mock glare.
It’s been a full year since you physically saw him at your last anniversary dinner - Jake had been away on a longer assignment in Lemoore, and you’d been busy churning out inflammatory political op-eds for The Washington Times and applying to jobs in the Big Apple. The two of you called pretty regularly, but this was officially the longest the two of you had gone without seeing each other.
You thought it’d feel awkward, like you’d have to fumble to find your footing with him the same way you have to figure out how to balance when you put on roller skates, but it’s easy. The moment you stepped outside of your building to meet him, he’d rushed to lift you in a giant bear hug, like no time apart had even passed. And the whole night, the two of you chat about anything and everything- he fills you in on his assignment and about something he’s gunning for called Top Gun, and you tell him about an upcoming project covering creative renewal in Beirut - you both nod along as best as you can while the other speaks.
After your plates are empty and cleared out and you both have determined that you’re too full for dessert (although, the ice cream calling your name at your apartment might have you singing a different tune later), you both stand up to exit the restaurant.
The wine you had with dinner has loosened up your movements - typically, you have to move through the city streets with big strides and purpose - like you’ve got somewhere to be and you’re already ten minutes late. But with Jake, there’s no timetable, no place you have to hurry to reach. Right now, the only thing on your agenda is to stand next to Jake in the middle of the sidewalk outside of this fancy restaurant and appreciate the moments you have with him.
And figure out how the hell you’re getting home.
“You wanna call a cab?” Jake asks you with an arm wrapped around your waist to steady your swaying form, and you balk at the thought of having to pay a hefty fee just to sit still in a car and try to keep your spinning head from making you throw up. God, your tolerance has become abysmal.
“We can just take the F train back to my place. If you’re okay walking?” you reply fuzzily, looking up at him with a messy grin. Jake’s sweet expression catches you off guard - hazel green eyes locked on you, his sweet smile etching a dimple deeper into his cheek, like Michaelangelo himself carved it. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you become all too aware of the feeling of his hand squeezing your hip, the warmth of his forearm around your lower back, the way his chest is just barely brushing your shoulder and yet still manages to heat you up from head to toe.
And you know he’s only trying to keep you upright, probably just trying to gauge your level of drunkenness and assess whether you’re good to make the thirty minute walk plus subway ride to your home. But he doesn’t know that it’s not the three glasses of wine you had at dinner that’s intoxicated you this much, that’s made your mind feel lighter than air and your heart ten times fuller. It’s all Jake - Jake - who’s looking at you like you’re the only thing on his mind, the only person in the world, the only one who matters.
“Are you fine with that?” he asks, and the softness written in his features reminds you of all the times you’ve looked at Jake and found a new favorite thing to fall in love with.
The very first time you looked at him - really looked at him - you fixated on the way his dimple poked out while you regaled him with a story about how you exacted revenge on your friend’s two-timing ex by pouring your entire yogurt cup on top of his head. The way he threw his head back with his eyes squinted shut and hands clapping together made you feel more enamored with him than ever, had you scraping the back of your mind for more stupid jokes to make him laugh that hard.
Another time, you remember looking right at his nose and thinking about how much you wanted to plant a sweet kiss on the tip, found yourself wondering how it would feel pressed against your neck as you both drifted off for the night, and how the sound of his soft breathing beside you would be the most comforting, reassuring sound to fall asleep to.
This time, you’re completely mesmerized by the way the streetlights hit the flecks of green in his eyes, the way his pupils look slightly dilated, the way his gaze darts down for a split second to your lips and right back up to meet your heated look. If you weren’t drunk you’d fall right into the moment, lean right in and press your mouth to his like you’ve always wanted to, let his perfectly brilliant teeth clash with yours. Maybe see for yourself if you can taste cinnamon on his tongue.
But you are incredibly drunk right now, and that’s no way to kiss him for the first time. So you pull your head back ever so slightly. “I think I just need to walk off the alcohol for a bit,” you shoot him a sloppy grin, still managing to lose yourself in those fucking beautiful eyes.
Jake’s talking, murmuring something low in your ear. “You sure? Those shoes look like they hurt.”
You look down at your heels - and yeah, they’re fucking painful. These past few minutes of Jake’s inebriating presence has given you the briefest reprieve from the sharp pains shooting up your calves. You’re desperate to take them off - but you can’t recall when your last tetanus shot was. And even if you were up-to-date, no one could convince you that it’s safe to walk barefoot in the streets of New York. “No, I’ll make it. Need to walk off the wine.”
“You wanna wear my shoes?” Jake offers and you scoff.
“You wanna walk barefoot? What, do you think they sanitize and mop the sidewalks every night?”
“I’m wearing socks!” he defends and you roll your eyes.
“Still gross. Besides, you know what they say about guys with big feet?”
Jake’s eyebrows furrow, looks momentarily stunned as his eyes dart to his shoes, then return to your face. “Big dick?”
“Big shoes,” you deadpan. “And if I take one step in your big clown shoes, I’m faceplanting right on the sidewalk. You want that to happen? ”
“Clown shoes?” he repeats to himself quietly with an amused smile, then shakes his head, finally relenting. “Fine. But if you get tired, I’m not carrying you.”
“I’ll make it,” you insist.
--
“Jake?” you say thirty minutes later after traversing up the subway stairs, stopping for a moment to bend down and massage your ankles. Jake stops, shifts the paper bag with leftovers from one hand to the other and places his free hand on your back. He looks down at you with concern.
“Yeah?”
You pause for a moment, wondering if he’d turn you down, deliberating if you even feel comfortable asking him for a piggyback ride for the five minute walk back to your apartment. But the aching toe cramp that you’re trying and failing to stretch out drowns out your insecurities, silences your fear that he wouldn’t be able to manage. You remind yourself that he’s been bragging about his new squat record for weeks now, anyway. “Can you carry me on your back? Please?”
A sigh. Then, “Sure darlin’. Hop on.”
You wordlessly reach to take the leftovers from him and he turns away from you, couches down low enough to let you clamber onto him. With an arm secured under each leg, he extends to his full height and lifts you up onto his back.
“Alright?” he rumbles, and you nod wordlessly, wrap your arms around his neck and hook your chin over his shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut, and you breathe in his familiar cologne, some Tom Ford scent you’d gifted him a few Christmases ago. It grounds you, keeps your head from spinning even more as you relish the feeling of your ankles not supporting your whole body weight.
You feel the alcohol hit for a second wave, completely demolishing your self-control, unleashing your thoughts to race limitlessly, to see no bounds. At this point, your head is close to mush, your limbs feel like they weigh twice as much, and you think you’ll never let yourself drink rosé again. But you’re certain of one thing. “I think you might be the love of my life,” you murmur sleepily.
Silence. Jake doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t even say it back. So maybe you were too quiet, or perhaps you completely imagined saying it at all.
Because it’s unlike Jake to let you have the last word.
AGE TWENTY-EIGHT (I'm sure that you’ve got a wife out there, kids and Christmas, but I'm unaware)
“Have you ever thought about this?” Jake asks you, leaning back against his chair as he watches the happy couple swaying in the middle of the dance floor to an Ed Sheeran song - not your personal choice, but the rest of the onlookers seem to be incredibly moved by it. This year, your friendship anniversary coincides with your old roommate’s wedding, and after much pleading (and the promise of an open bar), Jake agreed to fly out to be your plus-one.
It surprised you how much you had to beg for him to come. At first, he had been hesitant, imploring you to attend the wedding instead of meeting him for your usual dinner. You didn’t hesitate to dismiss that idea - it’s been twelve years of celebrating, and there’s no way you’re stopping now. Not when it already feels like Jake’s been pulling back for the past year or so: calling less often, answering texts hours after you sent them, sometimes not even replying to your articles with anything aside from a little thumbs-up emoji.
At this point, it feels like this anniversary is all that’s tethering him to you.
“Have I ever thought about my wedding?” you ponder. “Yeah, sometimes. Don’t think I’d ever spring for something as big as this, but -”
“- No, no,” he interrupts, “you wouldn’t want to make a big fuss of it all, not a crazy big party and definitely not a five hundred person guest list. ‘Course I know that about you.” Jake smiles and shifts forward, leaning in close; you can just barely smell the sandalwood and vanilla musk of his cologne. He seems relaxed, finally looks content to be here - though you’re sure that’s all thanks to the top-shelf whiskey he’s imbibing. “I meant marriage, commitment, settling down. You think you’d ever want to do that?”
You purse your lips, gaze still locked on the newly wedded couple, appreciating the matching expressions of adoration written on their faces as they twirl around their guests. “Of course. Just haven’t found the right person who’s ready to do that with me.”
He scoffs. “What, like you’re struggling to find someone? You know, from the minute I walked into this banquet hall with you, I’ve counted maybe five death glares from interested parties.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you did,” you snort, tilting your glass up vertically to catch the last few drops of champagne.
“Sweetheart, I’d never lie to you. In fact, I think the redhead over by the bar is still sending daggers my way. And she’s hot, so I’m kind of turned on by it,” Jake adds seriously, and you roll your eyes. “Come on! I thought you were going to give Tinder a shot earlier this year?”
You snort again, this time feeling a little more jaded. “I did give it a shot. And all I found was guys holding up fish and finance bros asking for my snap. I don’t even have a Snapchat, Jake. What happened to just getting people’s numbers and having a normal conversation?”
“It’s a new era, all this online dating stuff,” he replies, crossing one ankle over his knee and interlacing his hands over his abdomen. “But I see your point, maybe Tinder isn’t the best place to find your forever partner.”
“Don’t know why I even bothered,” you remark and look over at him, momentarily allowing yourself to appreciate the way his tux fits over him. “Maybe if we’re both still single by the time we’re forty, we get hitched,” you muse, only half joking.
He chokes on his whiskey, coughing loudly with the liquor singing his throat. “Yeah, right!” Jake finally manages out with a laugh and teary eyes, and it feels like someone’s poured a bucket of ice water on you, wakes you up from the lighthearted banter you lost yourself in.
“Okay,” you narrow your eyes, heart dropping at the rejection. “Don’t sound too eager. I’m not down on one knee here or anything.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He swirls around the remaining amber sea in his drink, slightly mesmerized by the mini whirlpool. “You know me though. Never settling down.”
You know you should take the sign to drop the conversation, but his quick refusal and blasé tone rubs you the wrong way. “Why? Because of your parents?” you hedge, leaning in to get a better look at his face, which has slightly hardened in the dim glow of the bulb lights strung across the venue. The extra bubbly you’ve consumed pushes you to question him, to finally figure out why he’s so resistant to letting himself be loved. “I know you’re scared you’ll end up making the same mistakes as your dad, but you know you’re not like him. Not in any way.”
He grits out your name warningly, arching a brow and gripping his glass tight. You run the risk of it shattering if you keep pushing. But that’s the least of your worries; right now, you’re blind with hurt. How can he just dismiss you like it’s nothing? How can he close himself off so easily?
“Typical Jake Seresin, you know?” you cut him off hotly, trying with all your might to keep your voice even through the haze of champagne. “Always so ready to let your daddy issues ruin your chances at happiness.”
He glares at you, knocks back the rest of his drink without even grimacing, doesn’t meet your gaze. Crunches the ice bitterly. “Get off your high horse, sweetheart,” he finally says roughly. “Stop pretending like you know me.”
You scoff, still not backing down. “You think after over ten years of friendship, I don’t know you at all?”
Another shrug. His leg starts bouncing incessantly. “People change, darlin’. You certainly have.”
You draw back, feeling like he just slapped you in the face. “What d’you mean by that?” you ask a little quieter, with a slight waver, still audible over Ed Sheeran’s ballad. Where’s he going with this?
He groans again, turns to look at you, but you don’t quite recognize the expression on his face. It’s menacing, hardened, darker than the amber liquid in his cup. “We do our separate things, sweetheart. We call a couple times a year and meet up on the same weekend to do the same dinner and yeah, that’s nice. It’s great. But that doesn’t mean you know me as well as you think you do. Quit grilling me - I’m not just a sad story for you to write about.”
His words punch you in the gut, sock you in the ear, send blood coursing angrily through your veins. Part of you wants to tell him off, unleash your fury, make a scene in the middle of this reception hall. Another part of you wants to storm off and leave him behind, but you’re not sure if you want to face the reality that he might not follow, might not chase after you with apologies and promises to soothe the burn from his words.
Slightly misty-eyed, you fight to reel your emotions back in, not wanting to draw attention to the two of you or make Jake feel like you’re guilting him. It feels an awful lot like using thimbles to catch roof leaks. Your strength comes back to you in slow, even waves: your heart returns to its normal pattern, your chest no longer heaves for air.
“You can’t say things like that, Jake,” you tell him, your voice surprisingly steady, rock solid. “You’re my best friend, and you can’t speak to me that way.”
His jaw ticks, his expression remains unchanged. “Sure, right. Sorry.”
The easy dismissal brings your anger back in a rush, yet gives you time to think about your next words carefully. “You’re such an ass, Jake,” you bite out, and maintain decorum, calmly push your chair back to stand up, send him a glare with all the furiosity you can muster before making a bee-line for the exit without looking back to see if he’s following suit.
You dodge fellow wedding attendees, snatching champagne from a waiter with a platter before knocking it back and setting the empty flute back down and continuing to make your way to the exit. Over Ed Sheeran’s second ballad, you can hear Jake quietly calling out your name, his footsteps right behind you.
As you burst through the doors, into the crisp outside air, you teeter for a few steps in your heels before leaning against a pillar, trying to contain your emotions, lest you say something silly or embarrassing or humiliating.
“Would you just wait? Would you let me talk?” Jake’s hot on your heels as he steps over the threshold.
“You’ve said plenty,” you throw back.
“Come on, darlin’, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jake says behind you, closer now.
“I think you made it very clear,” you grind out, turning on your heel and looking him straight in the eye. “You can’t smooth-talk your way out of this, Seresin. That might work on everyone else, but it’s not doing jack shit on me!”
He throws his hands up in the air, shakes his head. You eye how his fingers are twitching, how he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. “What do you want me to say? I’m just saying we’re not the same people we used to be -”
“- That’s fine!” you gesticulate dramatically, too overwhelmed with frustration to let your hands remain still. “But you don’t have to be an ass about it! You don’t have to minimize our friendship like this! God, Jake, what has it been? Twelve years? Twelve years of loving you, supporting you, celebrating anniversaries -” You cut yourself off, realizing what just bubbled forth from of your mouth.
Jake’s expression stays ablaze, but his spine stiffens, hands twitch twice before he clenches them, digging his nails into his palms harshly. You meet his heavy gaze, mouth slightly agape, mind running a million miles a second until it starts to decelerate, slows down gradually, then stops on one thought, one single thought alone.
“I love you, Jake,” you say. Like you’re stating a fact, common knowledge for everyone and their mother. The sky is blue, the world isn’t flat, and you’re in love with Jake Seresin.
He inhales, shaking his head, and looking down at the ground.
You falter, furrow your eyebrows, wonder if maybe he didn’t hear you. “I love you, Jake,” you repeat, this time a little louder, taking a step forward, closer to him. “I’m in love with you.”
Jake looks up, his face contorted into a look of pain, eyes void of its usual light. Inhales sharply. “I know.”
You falter. “You know?“ the words feel like marbles rolling out; you can almost hear the tiny plinks as they hit the ground.
“Yeah.”
”…How long?”
He swallows. “Since New York.”
You’re transported back in that moment, a montage of scenes from your tenth anniversary flashing through your mind like you’re in a cinema. You remember the night’s end in a haze: his warm body next to yours as you stumbled to the subway, you gripping onto his arm tightly with every lurch of the train, Jake carrying you on your back and you saying -
“Oh.” You shrink back, and the realization he’s held onto this for two years hits you like a truck. Jake is silent, hands now shoved into his pockets as he awaits your next few words. “And... you have nothing else to say to that?”
Jake lets out a pained groan. “Listen, darlin’, don’t get me wrong. I... care about you so damn much, but I can’t feel for you the way you want me to. We wouldn’t work.”
His words make you freeze and your anxiety screams out ‘I told you so!’ in a manner that echoes thunderously throughout your brain. This unrequited love is something you’ve always expected, always prepared yourself for, yet you never gave it much further thought to safeguard your heart.
You’re rapidly accelerating through the stages of grief - next, your anger comes back to you. First, in small rivulets that trickle down your spine - then as a rush of agony that feels an awful lot like the crash at the bottom of a waterfall. Your eyes burn with the tears you refuse to let fall, your palms already stinging from how hard you’ve dug your manicure into them - but is it fair for you to be mad at him? For not loving you the way you desperately want him to?
For the longest time, a small, tiny part of you hoped Jake would come around, decide to knock on your door, knock you back with a signature bear hug. That he’ll swear to be there always, love you the way you love him.
After tonight, you reflect, it seems like that might never happen. And quickly, you surmise that you’d rather have one part of him than nothing at all. So as you finally reach the stage of acceptance, you vow to treasure every moment of friendship with Jake Seresin.
“I understand,” you tell him, feeling like you’re miles away. “It’s okay.”
“You sure?” His eyes still rake over you with concern.
“Positive.” You do your best to plaster on the most reassuring smile you can.
“Sweetheart -”
“- Can we just talk about this later?” you interrupt, feeling defeated and embarrassed all rolled into one. There most certainly is more to the conversation - but all you want to do is prolong it for longer, preserve the fantasy in your mind that you can Jake are alright, that the past few minutes never happened.
He closes his mouth, nods, pushes his hands deeper into his pockets.
From inside, the music suddenly changes - still a slow ballad, but this time it’s Al Green, Let’s Stay Together. “I believe you stipulated that I had to dance to at least one song,” Jake holds out a hand, looking at you almost hopefully. As if the last few minutes hadn’t completely shattered your heart and sent the pieces flying away with the wind.
“Ah,” you say, feeling a wave of exhaustion overcome you. “You go on ahead. Think I just need some more air.”
Internally, your heart is deflating, sending slight tremors throughout your body. But you can’t have Jake know that, can’t have him feel even worse about this, won’t have him feeling an ounce of guilt for something so out of his control.
Despite your best efforts to hold it all in, a small tear escapes and slides down your cheek as soon as Jake’s back turns, and you feel like you might have kicked a pebble that’s about to precipitate an avalanche.
---
Jake calls you up a few days after, initially sounding like he just wants to check in until his tone takes on a more somber note, and your heart drops to your stomach. “Listen, I know we had a little bit of a heated... discussion at the wedding. And I just need you to know I really, really, appreciate you. And I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, but I just want to make sure we can still stay friends.”
“Yeah, of course -” you stop yourself from readily agreeing, pause to reevaluate how you really want to take this moving forward.
Jake is the love of your life. That much is certain. And you’re not sure how willing you are to push aside your feelings, pretend your confession never even happened, just to go on with the guise that you guys are simply friends. Just friends. Holding off on love in hopes that he’ll come around.
If you’re being completely truthful, a part of you does feel empty without a person by your side, without a companion to walk through life with, without a partner to share all the moments of joy and despair and everything in between with. You’ve tried dating throughout the years - agreed to so many blind dates, worked up the courage to ask guys at the bar out. And somehow, you always run into the same problem.
They’re not Jake.
And it’s not like they’re not as funny as him, or as charismatic or charming or sweet as him. It’s not the fact that they gave you spearmint kisses when you’ve always craved cinnamon. It’s the harsh truth that no matter what, they always feel threatened by your passion for your job and your drive to succeed. Always find problems with you jetting across the world for different projects, and patronize you for saying you wanted to make a difference with your stories.
One Tinder date even mocked you for aspiring to win a Pulitzer - you’d promptly excused yourself to the bathroom and never came back, instead ending your night with a long phone call from Jake, who was six hours ahead at the time but more than happy to console you.
Jake’s always encouraged you, from the very first day at the pizza parlor to now. And the more guys you took a chance on dating, the less hopeful you felt about finding a future with someone as kind, as wonderful, as unwaveringly supportive as Jake.
Maybe it’s time to let go of the pipe dream.
“Actually, no. I don’t think I can move forward as just friends,” you rush out, and admittedly, it feels like you’re ripping off a bandaid but the sting feels more like an ache. “And don’t get me wrong - your friendship means the world to me. Even if you think we’re different people now. But it feels like nothing’s changed for me, Jake. I think for years, I’ve been holding onto the hope that you’ll come around and feel the same way. But after this past weekend... I think I need some space. Just so I can get over you, if you’re not changing your mind anytime soon.”
Jake’s silent on the other end of the line - the only indication that he hasn’t dropped off is the sounds of cars rushing on the other side. A part of you hopes he’ll take the bait you cast with your final sentence, that at the very least, he’ll consider reconsidering. You don’t think you’ll get that lucky.
“If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not,” you quickly reassure him while blinking away tears, feeling numb. “And I don’t want to be cliche and tell you it’s what I need, Jake - because believe me, sometimes it feels like I need you like I need a Pilot G2 pen or the sun. But I can’t live like this. I can’t settle for just having part of you because that’ll be agonizing for me.”
Silence on the other end. “I hope you understand,” you quietly add.
“I do, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” his voice is void of emotion. You try not to think too hard about it, try to transport yourself back to a better moment when he was right there in front of you with every feeling written on his tanned, chiseled face.
Deep inhale. “Bye, Jake.”
AGE TWENTY-NINE (I cause no harm, mind my business, if our love died young, I can’t bear witness)
These gentrified tapas places are a menace to society. You shift uncomfortably on the cold, sad metal excuse for a barstool. This restaurant is noisy - glasses clinking together, patrongs cheers-ing to various occasions, champagne bottles popping open. Yet, the sound of the entrance dinging open is the only thing that makes you perk up, has you involuntarily glancing up hopefully in an attempt to manifest a familiar handsome pilot walking across the threshold to join you on your anniversary. But to your disappointment, it’s only a bunch of drunk bankers stumbling out.
In the past year, you’ve found a number of ways to distract yourself from the pain of not having your best friend. As per Dr. Richard’s advice from your first therapy session, you tried your hardest to find comfort in solitude: catching films in the theater alone, wandering through new art exhibitions by your lonesome; you even attended a wine tasting in Brooklyn and ended up passing the time with a group of ladies who encompassed very similar energy to the Sex and the City Quartet (and you ended up getting some solid reassuring advice after you lamented your complicated friendship - Samantha’s carbon copy was all too ready to shit on Jake by the end of your tale).
All in all, you’re content to be scoping out this restaurant solo, trying their featured cocktails and appetizers and people watching. You’re trying your best to convince yourself that you’re okay being where you are right now. The only thought that puts a damper on your night, sets your pride back a little is the realization that this might be the first October thirteenth you’ve spent alone in thirteen years. It shakes to your core, makes you flag down a bartender for a whiskey neat, but you calm down, take a deep breath, and let it out.
Jake’s a different man, not the boy who sat in front of you in your beloved pizza shop with a crinkly-eyed smile, telling you “you’re just a cool person.”
In the same way, you’re most certainly a different girl than the one who sat in front of him with a ten-color shuttle pen and bright eyes, one who was just grateful he’d seen a companion in you to begin with.
You’re a strong, self-assured, career-driven woman now. You’ve been featured on a variety of articles ranging from the devastating 2016 US Presidential Election, to a Buzzfeed Guest Feature on what your favorite ink color said about you, to discussing culture and conflict in the Middle East. While Jake’s support from the very beginning was part of what motivated you, what spurred you on, you are the one who did all the hard work. You are powerful, driven, intelligent, sophisticated.
You’re also drunk, and dialing a number you know by heart.
“The number you have dialed is not available. Please leave a message or...”
After the beep, you steel yourself. “Hey, Jake,” you clear your throat, gripping your phone tightly in your palm and taking a deep breath. “I, uh... Just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary. Think it’s the first one I’ve spent without you in a while.”
You pause, look around at the tapas bar as you try to gather your thoughts, wistfully eye the empty barstool next to you.
“I know I said I needed some time before. And I’m glad you honored that - truly, from the bottom of my heart. Even though a part of me wanted you to change your mind and chose me over not having me. Does that make any sense?”
Your eyes catch on the bartender who’s cleaning glasses with a towel a few feet away from you, catch him shaking his head slightly.
“Do you mind?”you snap, and he at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping. Quickly, he flashes you an apologetic smile before comically pretending to hear a patron calling out their order and dashing across the bar.
You snort, shaking your head. “Sorry. Some asshole was just... Never mind. You would’ve hated this place, Jake. I mean, aside from nosy people, it’s got overpriced drinks with Edison lights hanging from the ceiling. And there’s no jukebox - they’re just playing top 40s hits over and over again. Like, this is the third time I’m hearing Shape of You and I got here less than an hour ago.”
Again, you pause, feeling embarrassed at your incessant rambling. Debate whether to blab about what’s been plaguing your mind since you woke up this morning. “Sometimes I wish I never said anything and that we could’ve just stayed friends. I just don’t think that would’ve been fair to me - because I meant what I said, Jake. I’m in love with you. Even if we’re different people - I would’ve loved getting to know every version of you.”
It feels like a breakthrough, saying the words out loud, realizing that things truly are going to be more different than they used to be. And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re perpetually mourning a friendship, you don’t feel waves of anxiety that try to convince you that you conflated your friendship to mean more. You can breathe easily.
“I think I’ve realized that the person I am today is all a conglomeration, a constellation of every interaction I’ve had with other people. And for the most part, I am who I am because of our friendship, because of your presence in my life. So a part of me is finding it hard to let go of that and move on without you being so ingrained in me. But I’m trying. I’m going to therapy, at least,” you smile optimistically, wiping away the first tear you’ve let yourself shed today.
“So rest assured, I’ll be okay without you, Seresin. In case you were worried. But no matter what, this day will always remain special to me. You’ll always be special to me.”
AGE THIRTY (and it’s been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong, I’m right where you left me)
You don’t realize it’s the day of your anniversary until you catch a glimpse of the date on your phone, realize why you felt like you were missing something the entire day. At first, it sends a wave of anxiety over you, makes your stomach swoop like you missed the last step on the staircase.
But as best as you can, you remind yourself that taking on this special day alone is part of your healing process, that sometimes we create our own heartbreak through expectation, and that it’s just a matter of managing your hopes, assuaging your guilt, honoring your friendship by yourself for the second year in a row.
It’s taken time, but you’ve made your peace with the fact that Jake won’t be playing as active a role in your future as you’d hoped. Maybe you two can just be the type of friends who send each other Christmas cards and call on your birthdays. Years later, maybe you’ll finally settle down and find someone who will support you just as well as Jake did, who will treat you kindly and see you as more than a friend to hold hands with from time to time and look at your lips sometimes and give you piggyback rides when you’re too drunk. If you have kids, maybe you’ll have Jake over to meet your family, oblige him to regale them with tales of your friendship, send gift cards for their birthdays and talk about his time in the Navy - if they’re interested in hearing about Uncle Jake’s career path.
That’s all. You settle for keeping him in your footnotes, for cherishing the memory of who he used to be.
Even if you’ll always be in love with Jake, that doesn’t mean you have to wither away waiting for him.
--
In the middle of catching up on some editing and shooting out some emails from the comfort of your plush couch, your phone rings with a familiar name proudly displayed at the top. Immediately, you narrow your eyes, wondering if he’s remembered or if it’s some weird fluke that he’s calling you on today of all days.
“Hello?” you answer cautiously.
“Hey, darlin’,” you hear Jake’s easy tone flow through the speakers, and despite all the growth you’ve endured, despite all the lessons you’ve etched into your heart, your brain turns to mush.
“Hi Jake,” you force out, feeling as nervous as you did that day you interviewed him at the pizza place. At times like this, you wish you had your old landline from back in the day so you could coil the cord around your fingers idly, distract your nerves momentarily from the fact that this is the first time you’ve heard his voice in two years. “How’ve you been?”
“I’m alright,” His voice is stilted, slightly muffled. Sounds just as easy as you remembered it, “Just... Remembered what today was.”
“It’s Saturday.” The quip rolls off your tongue before you can think any better of it - and you cringe inwardly at how rude you must have sounded. “I’m sorry, that was...”
But Jake’s chuckling on the other end, a delightfully warm sound, one that pulls a surge of pride from deep within your chest. “Yeah. You're not wrong.”
And just as quickly, it fades into the awkward silence - the kind you never used to have with Jake. Mentally, you flow through all the happenings in this past year, think about where his Ma told you he’d been last.
“How’s San Diego?” - “Can you buzz me up?” you both speak at the same time, and his answer makes you freeze, makes time suspend for a few seconds as if you’re floating outside of your own body.
“I’m outside your building, I think. Unless your Ma sent me the wrong address, which admittedly, I’d deserve but - "
“- You’re in New York?” you ask, still in shock, finally feeling in control of your muscles and limbs and words. Hurriedly, you scramble off your couch and swipe up your empty tea mug, then rush to your kitchen to deposit it unceremoniously into your sink.
You hear the sound of a car horn beeping on the street echoing both in real time and on the line, further sending your heart into a frenzy. “Yeah - you do live off 65th, right? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to just pop in like this - ”
“No, no, it’s fine,” you breathe out, making your way to your front door with your phone still sandwiched between your ear and your hand. “I just... Wasn’t expecting company.”
He snorts on the other end. “S’not like the Queen of England is coming. It’s just me.”
“Somehow, I think that’s worse,” you muse, leaning against your hallway wall and hovering your finger over the button to let him in. If hearing his voice has put you this much on edge, you can’t imagine what it’ll do to you if you see him in person.
“Maybe so,” Jake agrees, and you can practically hear the forlorn smile in his voice. “Mind letting me up, though? Just wanted to talk. In person.”
The reality of the situation crashes down on you - that Jake’s practically been AWOL for the past few years, that your friendship has felt one-sided and exhausting to try and keep up with, that you spent your last anniversary alone and sobbing into your cellphone So a part of you wants to turn him down, hustle him out of your safe space - but your heart pounds rapidly with its demands for answers, your brain implores you to hear him out.
Without a second thought, you push the button and hear the resounding buzz on Jake’s side, followed by a “See you soon, sweetheart.” The line clicks.
Mind going a million miles a second, you turn to glance at your reflection in the hall mirror that you’ve procrastinated hanging up for months now. You level a determined look at yourself, brush some crumbs off your sweatshirt and smooth some flyaways before pushing your shoulders back, standing up tall and proud in an attempt to exude confidence.
Three heavy knocks sounding out at the door immediately makes your look turn panicked, sending you stumbling over your feet as you reach to grab the doorknob and pull it open to reveal Jake Seresin standing in your narrow apartment hallway.
Not even five seconds have passed and you’re already annoyed with him. He’s still mind numbingly handsome: tall as ever, blonde hair still infuriatingly shiny and soft, green eyes catching the dim evening light, glimmering back at you like gemstones. It makes your stomach swoop, brings the butterflies fluttering back into your chest from where you’d banished them.
Asshole.
“Hey,” he greets, quirks up a corner of his mouth into a half smile that would normally have you swooning if you weren’t already frozen.
“Hi, Jake,” you manage out, eyes raking over his figure just to convince your mind that he’s really there, actually standing just a few feet in front of you. Shaking away the doubts, you step to the side, gesture for him to enter your apartment.
It’s not the sound of his footsteps that convince you, nor is it the brief brush of his arm as he sidles into your narrow apartment hallway or the unreal sight of how he fills up the space and how his shoulders stretch from wall to wall. It’s the familiar heavy scent that hits you - tobacco and vanilla - which makes your cheeks flush, your heart skips a beat.
He’s really here.
Gathering your wits, you follow him into your cramped living room, grateful that you’d done some vacuuming and tidying up that morning in an effort to banish all the anxieties and ruminations that come with this special day. “Feel free to sit anywhere,” you find your voice, snatch up an oversized throw to make some room on the couch.
He nods, turns around to assess your space thoughtfully before settling himself into the cushions.“I got your voicemail,” he tells you. “From last year.”
Oh. It suddenly feels bitter, leaves a sour taste in your mouth. “You didn’t call back?” you hedge, immediately going on the defense. Instead of sitting down next to him, you elect to slide into the armchair furthest away from him, an attempt to shield yourself from him. An attempt to avoid making the same mistake twice.
“I was going away on assignment the next morning,” Jake explains quietly, patiently. He meets your disbelieving look with somber eyes. It only slightly alleviates the pressure building in your chest. “And... honestly, I didn’t want to worry you. It was one of those missions. The kind I wasn’t sure I would come back from - like, where they’re telling us to call home and lay down all the cards.”
You pause for a moment, absorb his words and feel a twinge of hurt upon the realization that you weren’t kept in the loop, that you never even knew you stood a chance at losing him. Before the emotions can rattle you too much and send you spiraling with anxious thoughts and what ifs, he explains further..
“I thought I would spare you the details, spare you from having to prepare to lose me. I was okay with that decision up until the moment one of my engines failed and my jet was going down - and the one thing that flashed through my mind was that I wouldn’t get to talk to you again, or see you, or how when you win your Pulitzer you wouldn’t be able to call me to tell me the news or how I wouldn’t be able to hang up the print of your winning piece next to your union one,” his voice is shaking slightly, and you know if you even attempted to reply your words would quiver just as much. In this moment, you’re trembling with your hands folded over your eyes to hide the tears brimming.
It’s a mix of sadness and anger and disappointment and you try your best to hold off on the tornado, but it rips your soul to shreds the more you realize the gravity of the situation. “You’re fucking kidding me,” you grit out, pressing your lips together to barricade the sobs. Your hands are tightly wrapped around a throw pillow, squeezing and kneading out your frustration on it. You can barely stand to look at him. “Took you a near death experience to call me? You think I haven’t already put myself through the fucking wringer after feeling so guilty for cutting you off just because you were too scared to love me? And you almost died?”
“I’m sorry,” Jake repeats, at least sounding sincerely apologetic.
“I appreciate that, Jake,” you reply bitterly, then defeatedly toss the pillow to the side. “When did you even get back?”
His jaw tenses slightly and he sighs, and you immediately feel triumphant for successfully frustrating him, as petty as it sounds. “Few months back. And I’m sorry for not calling you. I wanted to as soon as I got back, but I wanted to say all this face to face. And it took some time for me to figure out my shit, but I’m here now, if you’ll hear me out?”
All you can do is nod, purse your lips and let him say his piece - there’s no pressure to forgive him or fall into his arms.
“I think you were right,” Jake continues seriously. You dig your nails into your palms anxiously. Under any other circumstance, you would have loved hearing those words from anyone else. Not now. Not Jake. “You were right to call me out when you said I was letting the fear of becoming my dad hold me back from chasing what I want.”
As your anger slightly dissipates, you think back to that moment - about how those were just a few of the words you wish you could snatch up out of your past and make them disappear. Your breath hitches. “I was a bit harsh - "
“- But you were right,” he interrupts. “And I think that’s another reason why I shut down, because you know me so well. After all these years, I think you know me better than I know myself.”
You nod, not sure what exactly to say to that. It’s not like you can explain to him that you were so incredibly taken by him, that you held onto his every word and agonized over interaction in hopes of really getting to know your best friend.
Jake goes on: “And you have to know that my dad broke Ma’s heart like it was nothing. Married for twenty years, dated for five years, friends for another ten years. Even after you add all that up, it’s still not enough to keep them together. He still went for the first temp who waltzed into his office, still fucked with both of them for months on end. If my parents couldn’t keep it together, how could anyone else?”
You’re stunned, frozen in shock before you manage to gather your strength, pick up your thoughts and hurl them right back at him. Screw this defeatist attitude he’s picked up. “You have to understand that’s the nature of some relationships, Jake. Sometimes they’re not meant to last forever, sometimes people change - "
You halt, feel a wave of déjà vu. The words on the tip of your tongue sound eerily familiar to something that’s replayed in your mind for the past two years, and a couple puzzle pieces start to fit together. “Is this why you were spouting all of this bullshit at the wedding? About us changing?”
Suddenly, he launches up from the couch, walks two steps across the room and pivots on his heel to walk the two steps back in an attempt to furiously pace. He groans out exasperatedly, rakes a hand through his stupid perfect blond hair. “I mean... Yeah. It made sense at the time,” he admits. Briefly, you wonder when his nervous tics changed in the past few years, when did he switch from bouncing his legs under tables to wearing a path into carpets?
People change indeed. In more ways than one.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” you tell him matter-of-factly, and there’s no sugar-coating your words anymore. He makes a sound, as if he’s about to feign offense, but you power through. “People change all the fucking time, Jake. How the hell are we supposed to grow and become better versions of ourselves if we stay stagnant? Where’s the fucking story in that?”
You huff out a laugh, don’t even wait for him to reply before continuing on a rant. He’s stopped pacing now, is looking at you, but you’ve sprung up to your full height to look at him straight on, deliver your words as firmly as you can.
“People change, Jake, especially when they’re in relationships - it’s a matter of adapting, supporting them and loving your partner through it. And like, let’s be clear: I’ve changed a lot, too. Physically and emotionally - but I’m okay with it because I realize it’s made me become someone my sixteen year old self would be stoked to meet. And not just because I live in the city or because I have, like, two Montblanc pens - but because I’m working on these stories and they fly me out wherever to interview people, and I know I haven’t sent my stuff to you in a while, didn’t think you’d still want to read it - ”
“- I’ve kept up,” Jake interrupts. You stop in your tracks, tilt your head to the side as you process this. “I wanted to read them.”
“You have?” you ask dubiously, doubtfully. Hopefully.
“‘Course,” he affirms, sends you a reassuring smile and stands up straighter, takes a step forward. “I mean, not while I was overseas, I read up when I got back. I really liked that one about the Obamas’ portraits. Thought that was pretty cool. But the one about the grassroots movements for peace in Afghanistan got me thinking. Like, obviously I was assigned there for a while, but didn’t really consider other things happening there - Actually, I had some questions for you, but we can talk about it later...”
“Oh. Sure.” You’re slightly shocked at the confession, at the small vision that flashes through your mind of Jake typing your name into Google and catching up on your stories, determinedly following your career even during the most unstable moment in your friendship. It sparks hope in you, sends a wave of hope crashing down on you forcefully. “Wow. I didn’t think you… That means the world to me, Jake.”
He’s quiet for a moment, excitement reverting back to a somber contemplative expression. “I understand what you’re saying about change,” he says hesitantly, rocks back on his heels. “And I think I’m starting to understand what you meant in your voicemail about the... conglomeration stuff. Loving every version of me. Because I really feel the same way about you.”
It’s ambiguous, a little mysterious, his words a little stilted and broken, and you replay his words over and over to try and dig up the meaning behind them. But he’s taking another step towards you - if you reach out, you can certainly reach up and run your finger across the small bump in his nose from that football all those years ago. Hold his cheek in your hand like you've always wanted to.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he’s saying, and it makes your heart thud a million miles a minute, makes you want to pinch yourself. “I can’t remember it for the life of me. But I think about the moment I realized it - when you said it to me four years ago. And I regret not saying anything back every fucking day.”
Your heart stumbles, crushes up against the front of your ribcage as it tries to peek out at the man you’ve loved since you were seventeen. “Oh, Jake,” your response rolls out along with two tears down your cheeks.“ It’s okay - “
The scent of vanilla tobacco hits you first, then his chest as he pulls you into a giant bear hug that envelops you in a warmth that could put both the sun and Texas bonfires to shame. Your face is pressed into his jacket and he’s talking, saying something that you don’t really register until you tilt your head up and dig your chin into his firm chest.
“I’m in love with you, sweetheart,” the words burst forth. His hand’s resting gently on the small of your back - the warmth of his palm radiates comforting heat through your body that only multiplies as he pulls you into him. You stabilize your hands on his shoulders, crane your neck to look up at him and map out every part of his face - from the small lines in his forehead to the slope of his nose to the slight redness in his cheeks. “It’s okay if it’s too late, if you’ve moved on. I just don’t want to lose you again, don’t want to risk not talking to you, can’t - ”
“Of course I’m in love with you, stupid man,” the words come to you as easily as breathing does. The smile that spreads across his face brings back your favorite eye crinkles, carves a dimple into the corner of his mouth, makes it feel like you’re bathing in sunlight. And Jake wastes no time, doesn’t even hesitate before he’s breathing out a question and you're nodding tearfully and then he's cupping both of your cheeks gently and surging forward to press his lips to yours.
--
Jake tastes like cinnamon, just as you’ve always suspected. Aside from that, nothing about the way you love Jake is predictable. Nothing is ever steady, nothing is ever expected. Every moment with him brings forth a new set of revelations that drives you crazy, tears you to pieces. And somehow, it’s all incredibly worth it, worth the brief heartbreak, worth the years of hoping and waiting for him to join you. Because in the end, he made it. In this moment, it feels like everything is just right.
Note(s): This is a long one that I honestly did not want to end. Also this is x reader but she goes by the nickname Mira. And anything in italics unless stated otherwise is them speaking Urdu. (Oh, and title is of course from a Taylor Swift song)
Tagging @nerdyreaderpapi who said they were really excited for this. Hope they and everyone else enjoys this.
Summary: Clay has a wife and no one believes him. He’s been a part of Bravo for eight months, the wife excuse is getting old, got old after the first month and yet he sticks to it, despite the fact that they never met her, don’t know her name, or seen a single picture of her.
Turning his phone on, a tired smile crosses his lips at the sight of his lockscreen and he can’t help the way his thumb caresses the screen as he mouths the words on it that he knows by heart, a yawn leaving him in the middle as he adjusts to being awake.
The always there ache in his heart, grows now that they’re so close to being home. And he has to resist rubbing at his chest. He didn’t need to catch Trent’s attention, the medic was like a mother hen to all of the team, but especially him since he was the youngest.
Unlocking his phone, he goes to his texts and scrolls through his missed texts, body relaxing into his hammock as he looks at the texts from his wife. Some just random tidbits of things she had to translate, or things she had to buy that they ran out of, things she made for dinner, how she forgot to pick her meds up but not to worry because she did end up getting them, just a week later than she should’ve and he can ignore the email from the pharmacy about it, and that yes Clay she knows she hopeless without him and she’s more than okay without.
He lets out a chuckle at one of her texts telling him that she wants a dog and he needs to stop dragging his feet about it.
“It’s been nearly a year, husband. The longer we go without any paws running about, the more I’ll want.”
He lifts his eyes from his phone, letting them drift around until they land on Brock who’s also laying in his hammock, though he’s more upright, Cerberus in between his legs.
“Hey, Brock.”
“Hmm?” Clay doesn’t notice that the rest of the team have also turned their attention to Clay. It wasn’t often that the kid was talkative after missions, especially one like this one.
“I’ve been meaning to get a dog, anything I should keep in mind with Cerb?”
The dog lifts its head at his name, tail wagging as he looks at Clay. Brock runs a hand over the dog's head. “I’d say once they settle in, we introduce them, just in case.”
“What kind of dog you getting?”
Clay shrugs, “not too sure yet. It’ll be a puppy, that’s for sure.” His wife would have his head if they’re first pet together wasn’t a puppy.
“Puppy? That’s a lot for our job.”
“Yeah, who’s getting to watch it when we get spun out or are on deployment?”
“My wife, who absolutely exists.” He throws up a middle finger at Sonny, already knowing what comment was going to leave the Texan’s mouth.
He makes a noise and half hearted denial, but doesn’t say anything, jaw twitching as Clay tries to press that he had a wife on them again.
“She going to pick you up?”
Clay’s eyebrow raises, and he pockets his phone as he feels a shift in the altitude. They’d be landing within the next thirty minutes. “I drove myself. So, no.”
Ray makes a noise at that and he has to resist the urge to snap at him or one of the other guys who was staring at him.
“Join us for beers tomorrow?” Sonny asks, as they all step out and start heading to their cars.
“We just spent nearly two weeks together, next time absolutely.”
Sonny grunts. “Fine, but just remember what you're missing out on, GQ. I could get you a great girl.”
“Married.” He shouts, as he rushes to his car.
The door shuts before he can hear Sonny’s reply and with it comes a sigh of relief.
The drive home passes quickly and before he knows it, he’s in the driveway of his house. His wife’s car parked in its spot and the porch light on, with its automatic timer set to turn on at eighteen hundred and shut off at four hundred.
Clay feels the ache in his chest grow, being so close and yet still so far away. So, he doesn’t bother grabbing his go bag, even though everything needs to be washed, he just climbs out of the car, barely remembering to lock it and running up the steps to the front door.
Opening the door, he quickly steps into the house, kicking off his boots as he closes the door behind him.
“Baby?” He calls, anxiety and excitement warring inside of him. “Mira?” He uses the name that her parents started calling after learning that he and her grandmother had taken to calling her Miracle in Urdu. “I’m home.”
He hears the sound of feet rounding the corner before a cry of his name greets him and he’s got an armful of his wife.
He holds her tight, lifting her off her feet, his hands moving down to her bottom to hold it as her legs wrap themselves around his waist.
“Fuck, I missed you.” He whispers into the skin of her neck, tears pricking at his eyes, as he takes in the feeling of home, the smell of it, of her.
“Missed you too.” Her arms loosen from around his shoulders and she pulls back slightly, looking into his eyes as her hands come up to his face. She sighs, thumbs rubbing his cheekbones. “You got even more handsome. I think you can’t, then you leave me and somehow it happens.”
His cheeks turn pink at the compliment, the one she always gives him when he comes home to her. At one point he had denied it, thought she was just saying it, that she didn’t mean it, but with over a decade together, he knew that she meant it. It was clear in her face, the way her eyes were lit up in awe and they couldn’t stop looking at him. Clear in her body, how her breath still sped up, heart hammering in her chest.
Emotion bubbles up in him, how overwhelmingly he is in love with this woman and has been since they met, since he was fifteen. And he knows that if he speaks right now, he’ll stumble over his words, so instead he presses their lips together.
And the ache that had been plaguing him vanishes at the contact. At the soft lips pressed to his. Her hands slip from his face to his neck, her right pointer finger tracing the shell of his ear making him tighten his grip on her and press his tongue to the seam of her lips, gently touching them, before retreating. Even with the sigh into his mouth.
“Do you have anything cooking?”
“No.” She breathes, “take me to bed, soldier.”
He grins at the command, pressing their lips together, once than twice before starting the trip to their bedroom. “Yes, ma’am.”
—
“Stop looking at me like that.” She murmurs, eyes scanning the menu.
“How am I looking at you?”
She lifts her eyes off the menu, her husbands grinning face staring at her. “Like you won the lottery.”
His grin grows wider, eyes alight with amusement. “Everyday with you is like winning the lottery, miracle.”
She has to look away for a moment, lips pressing together to suppress a giggle. Fuck, her husband was a charmer.
Her eyes drift back towards the menu. Despite having dinner two hours earlier, she was hungry again, but not hungry enough to eat something all by herself, so it was a good thing she had Clay with her. She swore sometimes he had more than one stomach on him with the way he ate.
“Want to share a chicken strip basket with me?”
“Sure. You want a beer?” He asks, looking out for a waitress.
“Please, just whatever you get.”
Resting her chin on her hand, she watches as he orders for them. Seamlessly keeping the waitress's attention off her.
“It ran over. Complications?” She asks when the waitress leaves, curiosity pulling at her.
He nods, “Intel was bad. HAVOC nearly blew a gasket.”
“But, no injuries.”
“No injuries.” The whole team had basically been glorified bodyguards for two weeks. “It was a milk run that went long. Only reason we were there for so long was because of the intel and having to get new contacts.”
She hums, switching back to english. “This place seems nice.” She takes a glance around.
“Only opened up a month or so ago. Kids aren’t allowed after eight.”
“Yes, sir.” The waitress says, setting down two beers in front of them. “And the last family we had just left. So just a warning the music will be going up and our cook is only here until ten.”
“Thank you.” She smiles at the waitress.
“Of course. Let me know if you need a refill and your food should be out shortly.”
“She’s nice.”
“Hasn’t worked long enough in food service.”
Her eyes roll. “Says the man who's never worked in food service.”
“But you did. Worst six months of our marriage.”
Her mouth falls open, “you were deployed for all of it.”
He shrugs, “you were miserable working at the place. Me not being there just made that worse.”
“Such a softy.”
Clay smiles, tangling their fingers together on top of the table. “Only for you, my miracle.”
They're halfway through their beers when the music gets turned up and their basket of chicken strips arrive. Grabbing one, she hisses at how hot it is immediately dropping it back down. She shakes her hand out, rubbing the pads of fingers together.
“Cut it?”
“Please.”
He doesn’t say anything, sending her a fond look before grabbing the fork and knife that had been resting on the table and cutting the chicken up.
Nearly an hour later and on her third beer and last one, since Clay was also stopping at three since he was driving, the door opening to the bar and raucous noise catches her attention.
Turning her head, she eyes the group of six men and two women, military she noted by some of their stances and they way all the men seemed to be surveying the building. It’s then that her eyes focus on their faces and her eyes widen, recognizing some of them.
“Clay,” she kicks his shin lightly.
She hears his sharp intake of breath and she blindly reaches for his hand, squeezing it tight. Her heart thuds painfully in her chest when he grasps it tight, clinging to it.
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“It's your choice.” She takes her eyes off his team, going to protest, but he stops her. “No, it’s your choice. I know you don’t particularly like them.” His face twists at that, because that was a light way of putting it.
His wife nearly despised them for judging him just because he had the last name Spenser. Add on Sonny’s treatment those first few missions and how Jason treated him after that first time he worked with Bravo. He was surprised that she hadn’t stormed onto base using her clearance to give the Master Chief a piece of her mind. It wouldn’t shock him if them meeting eventually resulted in that happening. She wasn’t one to hold back, not when it concerned him.
She eyes her husband, remembering how he had come home practically collapsing in her arms because of Bravo, because he had the last name Spenser and more stupid military men weren’t willing to not judge a book by its cover. Remembering their refusal to believe that he was married, all because he won’t introduce them or talk about her, because he was a kid, despite being twenty-seven. But she also remembers the light in his eyes as he talks about Cerb, Trent’s mother henning, Ray’s quiet accompaniment to the range. He’s been with them for nearly a year and she knows that they’ve become like family to them, so close to being brothers in not just name but also bond. And she knows that the only thing that is stopping him from letting them in and really see who he is behind that cocky façade is her. And she can’t deny him family, more people to love him, so she squeezes his hand again.
“Let’s stay.”
“Really?”
She nods. “They’re your brothers, honey. I can’t deny you people that love you, just because of my misgivings.”
He looks at her in awe, blue eyes shining. “I don’t deserve you, not one bit.” He sounds reverent and before she can deny it, protest, he’s leaning across the table, crushing their lips together in a passionate kiss.
A loud whistle breaks them apart and he’s still looking at her in absolute awe. “You, Mrs. Spenser, are going to be spoiled so much later.”
She swallows harshly, thighs pressing together at the promise. “And I can’t wait, husband.”
His eyes flash but the sound of a chair being pulled out stops him from kissing her again.
“I’m going to take these up and get something else to drink. You want anything?” She asks, grabbing their beer bottles.
“Water, please.”
She nods, flashing him a smile before standing and heading to the bar, a slight limp in her gait.
He watches her, heat simmering inside of him.
Clay looks away when someone sits across from him, knocking their feet together,
“Would ya look at that, GQ. Said you didn’t want to come out drinking with us and we still ended up at the same place.”
The Texan accent makes him sigh. “Sonny. First stop of the night?”
“Yeah, even managed to get Blackburn to join us.”
Clay spots the rest of the group in the corner where there’s pool tables, brows going up seeing Naima standing next to Lisa. He had forgotten that her parents were in town this week. “Naima eat?”
“You think Ray would’ve let her out of the house to drink without food in her stomach?”
“I don’t think Ray tells her to do anything.”
Sonny laughs, “right you are, brother. Last time Ray tried to tell her to do something,” he whistles. “I don’t think I’ve seen a man regret something so much.”
He chuckles, he hadn’t been part of the team for that but he could imagine it.
“Lisa text you, we were coming here? Decide to join us anyways?”
“No, I actually,” he begins before he can continue, two glasses are being put on the table and a familiar weight is settling on his leg that’s planted outside the booth.
“Next time we should Uber, they’ve got some interesting cocktails.” She tells him, before turning her head to look at the stunned Seal sitting across from them. “Hi, I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”
Clay has to press his face against her back to hide his smile. She knew damn well what she was doing and he couldn’t love her more for it.
“No, ma’am. You known Clay long?” His eyes flicker between the two.
She lets out a laugh, just a little off from her normal one. “Long enough.”
He squeezes her waist and she relaxes a little back into him.
“Well, my name's Sonny Quinn, I work with Clay since he ain’t got the manners to introduce us.”
She extends her hand, giving the Texan’s a quick shake before giving her name and they both watch as his jaw drops and his eyes widen. “But please, call me Mira. Everyone does.”
“Spenser?” He repeats, barely hearing her request.
“Yes, sir. And proud.” She lifts her left hand and gives it a small shake where both his grandmother’s wedding band sits and her grandmother's wedding ring.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you” He manages to say after a few seconds. “Mira, I don’t think you’ve met the rest of the team, but if you’d like you could join us. We're just playing some pool and drinking.”
“Join?”
The french makes him blink, but he nods. “Sure.”
“We’d love to.”
He blinks at the language change, but nods, standing. “Alright, then. Can I get you anything to drink?” His eyes flicker to Clay, expecting to see some sort of scowl on the younger man’s face at his offer but the kid just looks amused and tension he didn’t know he was holding, vanishes.
“I’m alright. I just got us some water.” She tells him, standing, grabbing one of the waters from the table.
Nodding, he watches as Clay also stands, doing the same as her, his arm looping around his wife’s waist, lips brushing her temple. They make an interesting picture, a pretty one. Cause of course Clay would have a wife even prettier than he was.
Leading them over to the corner that Bravo had commandeered, Jason spots them first, smiling at him, before a brief look of concern takes over at his wide eyes. And a quick nudge to Ray’s ribs from Jason gets everyone else's attention.
“Ladies,” he nods to Lisa and Naima, “gents. Look who I ran into?” He steps aside letting them more easily see Clay, who’s setting their waters down on a high table they took over.
“Hey!” A few say at the time, catching other people's attention for a moment.
“What are you doing here?” Lisa asks, smiling at the youngest member of Bravo.
He tilts his head to the left, gesturing, “date night. Went to dinner then ended up here. Would’ve gone somewhere else if I knew who we’d run into.” He grins, catching the elbow his wife starts to throw before it can make contact.
“You love us.” She teases and Clay rolls his eyes but the soft line of his shoulders and grin betrays him. “And who is this?” She looks at the woman next to Clay offering her smile.
She smiles at the woman who Clay talks about fondly, always having their back in HAVOC, “I’m Mira, Clay’s wife.” Her smile doesn’t flicker at the sharp intakes of breaths her introduction causes. “You must be Lisa, Clay talks about you often. He talks about all of you often.” She looks at the rest of them.
Naima hits Ray’s chest. “I had no idea that Clay was married.”
She quickly shakes the younger girl's hand. “I’m Naima, Ray’s wife. If Ray had something sooner, we could have set up something sooner. All of us wives and girlfriends have a groupchat. I know how difficult it can be.”
“Thank you. We’ll have to exchange numbers. You have two kids right? Jameelah and RJ?”
“We do.” Her smile widens at Mira remembering her kids names just from hearing Clay talk about them.
“Clay mentioned them. He’s never been uncle Clay before. Came home all lit up.”
He nudges her slightly. “They meet you and you’ll be Auntie.”
“Damn straight, I married you for the benefits, honey.”
“And my body.” He grins down at her, holding her tighter against him.
She pats his chest. “And your body.”
Naima awes a bit at the young couple. She remembered when her and Ray were first together, they had also been stuck together at the hip. Now with being together for so long and two kids, there wasn’t a lot of being stuck at the hip.
“How long have you two been together? Or married?” She asks, curious. They seemed like newlyweds, just a couple of months under their belt, still firmly in the honeymoon phase.
“Been together for twelve years, married for eight.” Clay tells everyone, a proud look in his eyes.
“Seven, honey. We got engaged eight years ago.” She corrects, watching the shocked faces of his team.
He scowls at the reminder of the near year of waiting he had before they finally could get married. “Worst year of my life.”
“It wasn’t even a year!”
“It was nearly a year.”
“Now, why do I feel like there’s a story there?” One of the guys says, recovering first. “Trent,” he offers his name, just in case.
“That would be because there is.” She pats Clay’s hand. “Clay and I got together when we were fifteen, but there’s nearly a year between us. So, Clay turns eighteen, proposes, is already to go to the courthouse and be married and I had to remind him that we had to wait a good eight months to get married since I was still seventeen.”
“The wait was horrible.” He groans.
Mira laughs, “what wait? The only thing that changed was my last name and us getting a piece of paper. Nothing else changed.”
“Sex.” Sonny chokes on his beer.
“We had sex before.” Lisa lets out a laugh at the exasperated look on her face, she already liked this girl.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t married sex.”
“Oh my god.” She rolls her eyes, not needing to look at him to know he was grinning, chest puffed out a bit.
She looks at the other women in the group, “Please save me from him.”
Naima laughs at the girl, but steps over to the booth where Brock is sitting and motions for her to join. “Sit with me and Brock. I want to know all about you.”
She feels Clay squeeze her hip and brush his lips across her temple before letting her go. She sends him a smile before joining the older woman at the booth, sliding in on the same side that Naima’s sitting on.
“Nice to meet you, Brock.” She greets the man.
“You too.”
Clay watches as Naima and Mira start to talk, Brock paying rapid attention if the way his body language is anything to go by.
“So, Bam Bam does have a wife.”
He scowls at the Texan, “Told you I did.”
“Still. Can see why you kept her away. She’s so far out of your league.” Sonny laughs, sending Clay a wink as he dodges an elbow from Lisa.
He looks back at Mira, who’s laughing. “Damn right.”
He felt lucky most days that she even took a glance at him.
“Why did it take so long for us to meet her?” Jason asks. “Does she not like the job? Cause problems at home?”
Clay scoffs, “god, no.” It wasn’t that they hadn’t had problems, they’d been together for over a decade they had them, but the idea of his job causing some was laughable. “She encouraged me to enlist, wouldn’t have made it as far without her. And she understands the job.”
Something in his tone sets Jason on edge, “Not too much, I hope.”
“Spenser,” Eric starts, realizing where Jason’s head went and it’s clear Ray did too by the way he sets his pool cue down.
He sticks his chin out, shaking his head. “She’s a linguist.” He gets blank looks. “She knows as many languages as me, more. She’s been a consultant for the CIA since we were twenty. She’s got higher clearance than me.”
Sonny whistles, “she’s really out of your league.”
He grins at him.
“So, what was the problem?” Jason asks and god was he like a dog with a bone. He could tell there was a reason and all of them knew he wouldn’t stop until he knew why.
Clay sighs, sending a look over to Mira, who sensing it, looks back at him and sends him a smile and nod. “I talk shop with her.” Jason sends him a disapproving look, but he ignores it. He liked Jason, but he wasn’t about to take relationship advice from the older man. “So, if I’ve had a bad day or something went wrong I talk about it.”
“I don’t get it.”
Lisa whacks the Texan on his arm, understanding why Clay hadn’t introduced her or even talked about her.
He sighs, “she doesn’t like you,” he looks at Sonny. “Or you.” he looks at Jason.
“What? For what reason?”
Trent and Ray let out laughs at Sonny’s confusion. They could take a good guess for why she didn’t like either Sonny or Jason and they couldn’t say they blamed her.
“She doesn’t have much tolerance for anyone who sees the last name Spenser and immediately assumes I’m like my father.”
Jason winces at the statement and reminder of what he had first thought of Clay and how he treated him because of it. Yeah, he could see the reason for dislike.
“Shit, Bam Bam. I fucked that one, huh?”
Clay smiles at the older man, “give her a year, maybe two. You’ll get off her shitlist.”
“And me?” Jason asks, noticing that his eyes hadn’t drifted over to him.
He winces, “that’s a bit more complicated.”
Ray lets out a laugh at Jason’s face, slapping him on the back. “I told you that one of these days your big mouth and unwillingness to let things go would bite you in the ass.”
“He did not, Mira!” Naima’s scandalized voice rings out and makes them all turn their heads to look over at the booth where her, Mira, and Brock were sitting.
She lets out a laugh, people’s reactions to how exactly Clay proposed never ceased to make her laugh. “He absolutely did.”
Naima’s scandalized expression vanishes and her jaw locks as she ushers the younger out of the booth, turning her attention to the man they had just been talking about. “Clay Spenser!”
His eyes widen at his name being said like that and he sends a look to Ray, but the 2IC just shakes his head. He was on his own with this one.
“I can not believe you! Proposing like that!” She stands with her hands on her hips, lips pressed together in a frown.
He relaxes at that. He knew how he proposed wasn’t normal and had pointedly not mentioned how he had to her parents or his grandparents knowing he’d got smacked upside the head. “Naima, I was eighteen.” He pleads, putting his hands up in surrender, sending a look to Mira who’s giggling.
“Really, it’s funny more than anything.”
“Oh, I’ve got to know this.” Sonny mutters under his breath. There would never be enough material to tease Clay with. And something from his relationship, well that was even juicer.
“How exactly did Clay propose?” Lisa asks, wondering what had the normally chill woman up in arms.
“Well, honey, should I tell them or do you want to?” She asks, teasingly as she walks over to him.
He wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer. “You can, miracle. Already told it once today, what’s two times?”
She nods, wrapping an arm around him as well. Might as well get as comfy as she could with all the eyes on her.
“Well, you already know that Clay was very eager to get married.”
“Be a fool not to.” He mutters, interrupting her which she ignores but Trent snorts hearing the mutter.
“But he was really eager. My parents and his grandparents were missionaries, so they kept odd hours, were really only home to sleep and even then sometimes depending on how bad the area they were at was they sometimes would sleep there. Which meant we had a lot of time to ourselves.” The guys all grin at that, knowing exactly what that meant. “And with our luck, the week that Clay turned eighteen, they were away helping a village six hours away that experienced a horrible fire.” That earns a few frowns, but everyone is still listening intently to her.
“So, when it rolled over to midnight, I woke him up to wish him a happy eighteenth and to have birthday sex.” She earns a few laughs at how unashamed she is and she smiles at the sound. She could blame it on being a horny teenager but she still wanted to climb Clay like a tree as much if not more than when they were teens. “In the middle of said birthday sex, he just asks me to marry him. Tells me that one of the guys in the village we were in owes him a favor and we could take his truck to get married as soon as the sun was up.”
“You didn’t?”
Clay shrugs at the disappointed look from Jason. “I’d been thinking about it for months, it slipped out.” He defends.
“It was sweet.” Mira also defends him. “Even if my response put a damper on things.”
He winces at that, because yeah, he hadn’t reacted the best to hearing the word can’t right after he had proposed and then forced onto his back so she could ride him. It was one of the few times that he had stopped in the middle of sex for a reason that wasn’t cramping or someone knocking on the door.
“And what was your response?”
“Can’t, just the word can’t.” She gives Clay a sorry smile. “Even in the middle of sex the logical side of my brain was working.”
“Sounds like someone wasn’t doing a good job.” Sonny jokes.
“Nah, I was thinking of a way to flip him on his back right before he started talking.”
Sonny lets out a loud laugh at that and the way it makes Jason slightly bug eyed. “I definitely like you, Mrs. GQ.”
“Can I be Mrs. Bam Bam instead?” She asks, grinning. “Rolls off the tongue better.”
“You can have whatever nickname you want, Mrs. Bam Bam.” The Texan tells her, a bit more southern drawl in his voice as he gives her a wink.
soap x f! reader. 13k words.
cw: heavy smut. angst. fluff. infidelity (is it cheating if you're not official?). friends to lovers. 18+ mdni
it's your birthday, and while your distant lover forgets, johnny doesn't. you've been friends with him for as long as you can remember, close through thick and thin, and nobody knows you better. it's not your fault that the lines blur.
[read on ao3]
an: it is @theorist-fox's birthday!! for my darling theo, here is a spinoff of my old (and terrible) fic licking wounds, whose comment section was my own primordial love ooze whence our blessing of a friendship was born. tantissimi auguri amore mio, spero ti piaccia, ti amo tanto <33
You know I care about you.
The grey bubble of the Captain’s last text is almost insultingly small. Takes up a miserly amount of space on your screen, dismissive in and of itself.
You can’t help but burden the paltry effort with malice opposed to ignorance. That’s all he said to you, and it was a week ago. You scroll up a little — past three of your own green messages, paragraphs much thicker than his — to his penultimate message: Sorry love. Busy here.
Rereading your own pitiful essays makes your stomach churn, so you skip those. You focus on his most recent text instead. You know I care about you. A bit of a conceited statement as far as you’re concerned. An overestimation of his capacity for affection, or support, or — well, care, so he claims to do, such that he can go as brazenly far as to assume you know it.
You don’t.
Not really. Not anymore. You thought you did, for a time. For that month or two after you were discharged and John took his leave of absence, when he invited you to live in his flat, and you soaked up the brief deluge of unabashed love he gave you. It felt real then. As warm and sweet and toothsome a love as you had dreamed of, unmoored from the rigid hierarchy that kept him above and you beneath since the day you met him.
Seems it was a transient thing. Your time ran out at the end of November, when his own superiors demanded his return to the field, and he scooped his belongings into a duffel bag and departed before sunrise on a Wednesday. Left you with a kiss on the forehead and a nondescript apology.
You don’t doubt that he feels nothing is wrong. That his distance from you is as inconsequential and temporary a thing as his closeness to you. It doesn’t matter that he’s not here, because don’t you know he cares about you?
Well, it’s your birthday today.
A couple of your girlfriends took you out for brunch, and that was nice. Gaz gave you a call in the mid afternoon; snuck out for a too-long smoke break to wish you a happy birthday, and offered drinks at the pub another time. It’s a weekday, after all. A Tuesday. Who wants to go for a piss-up on a Tuesday?
You certainly don’t. You’d be quite content on your couch with your Ben and Jerry’s and your fuzzy socks rewatching your vapid noughties rom-com, were it not for the very conspicuous lack of contact from your Captain.
Not so much as a text from him.
Even Simon, the unsentimental beast of a man, sent you a message that arrived during your brunch: HB bird. From its timing you could glean that he sent it at the crack of dawn, the very first thing he did on his phone when he rolled over in his mosquito-ridden cot in Las Almas. If he of all people would take the time to wish you well, what possible excuse could the Captain scrape together?
You can imagine his perfectly pragmatic reasoning, if you could ever bring yourself to interrogate him about it.
I’m in the field, love, you know that. Can’t risk distractions, love. Have to focus, love. Lives are on the line, love. You know that. If you got really bold, too big for your boots, he might even revert to being the commanding officer you know so well. A force of habit, you’re sure, as much as your obsequiousness to him is yours. I’m busy. Don’t push it. I’ll call you when I can. Not everything is about you.
Like clockwork, you next feel deeply ashamed of your resentment. He is busy. He probably has his finger hovering over a trigger right now, skulking through thicket in the gloaming, getting bitten by bugs and whispering orders over the radio.
In fairness, you haven’t heard from Soap yet either. You’re sure he’s had a busy day.
People have lives, you think, and you don’t and shouldn’t occupy their every thought. It’s no insult to you that the Captain hasn’t thought of you. The memory will surely strike him, he’ll reach out eventually, and it’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t.
The urge to prompt him itches in the tips of your thumbs nonetheless, as they hover longingly over your phone’s little keyboard. You won’t remind him that it’s your birthday, that’d just be embarrassing. No, instead, you could ask if he’s okay. Just checking in. Making sure he hasn’t been shot, or something. You type out a few things and delete them just as quickly. Everything OK? Bet you’re really busy. Hope you’re staying safe.
Each of them more fawning and repugnant than the last. You can feel yourself beginning to spin down the drain, because your eyes are warming up, and your vision is getting blurry.
You don’t want to have to prompt him to pay attention to you. You don’t want to have to agonise over being too needy or letting the distance grow so far that he forgets you entirely. You don’t want to have to worry that he’ll forget you at all.
But you do. God, you do, and you just want him to think about you, you want him to reach out to you, you want a little grey bubble to pop up on your screen containing some fantastical reason for why he hasn’t spoken to you in a week, you want—
Bzzt.
A notification drops down from the top of your screen.
Coming over in 10.
You sniff. That soap emoji makes your stomach tighten up, and the swelling under your eyes abates just as quickly.
It’s twenty to nine, but you wouldn’t be surprised if Johnny has only just now finished working. He’s been working that desk like it’s a field op these days. Only thing he can do, really, now that he’s been deemed medically unfit for service. The poor boy lives in denial of that fact, though.
You tap his message and reply to him.
Oh yeah?
His typing bubbles pop up immediately. Yep. Hungry?
Are u trying to bribe me?
Nah. Don’t need to. Want chinese?
You look at your half-empty tub of ice cream. Already ate.
U gonna make me beg?
You snicker at your phone. Maybe.
Pls.
Hmm…… it’s a bit late
Please, had a shite day.
If there’s any way to win you over it’s a tug at your heart strings — but you were always going to let him come over. Obviously.
Fine. Wontons pls.
OK. Punctuated by a thumbs-up.
The knock on the door startles you. Not like the Scot to be graceful, he throws his fist against the hollow panel with three hard bangs like he might beat it down if you take too long to answer it.
You’re at the door before he can, though, unlatching the chain and swinging it open to see him already filling the doorframe; post-gym, clearly, the black hair that crests his head is still spiked and wet from a shower, and you’re hit with the ice-blue smell of his men’s three-in-one.
He smiles, and raises a little paper bucket with a panda logo printed on it. “Got yer wontons.”
You snort, wordlessly inviting him in as you roll your head on your shoulders and lumber back into your apartment with him at your heel. He kicks off his sneakers and shuts the door behind him, before making a beeline for your sofa, and dumping his duffel bag of gym gear on the floor beside the coffee table. Adept at treating your place like his own, this one.
He snaps a pair of disposable chop sticks into two as you sit next to him, then hands them to you along with your takeout. You give him a placid smile. “Thanks.”
“You look knackered, bonnie,” he remarks, through a grin, as he settles himself into the sunken couch cushions and hangs a heavy arm over the back. Great big legs cross over and land on the coffee table, one foot over the other.
You nod simply as you shove a wonton into your mouth whole. A little soft now that they’ve been sitting in a box for a while. You chew a little bit before you reply.
“Mh. Not like I’ve got an excuse to be, though,” you murmur. “Been inside all day.”
“Tsh,” he scoffs disapprovingly. “Well that’s your reason.”
You groan as you swallow and fish for another wonton with your chopsticks. “Not in the mood for a lecture.”
“I’m not lecturing you, I’m just sayin’ you need sun on your bones and fresh air in your lungs or you’ll turn into — I dunno — fucken’ Gollum, tucked up in this cave o’ yours.”
“Gollum?” You balk, trying to keep your mouth closed as you snicker. “Telling me I look like Gollum?”
“Well, not yet. But eventually. I mean, you’re in here, curtains closed, half-naked, and—” He stops to laugh at himself, “Look at’cha, hunched over yer chinese like the one ring is somewhere in yer wontons.”
At that you laugh, covering your mouth so you don’t spit your food out, and you free a leg to kick him in the side. He isn’t wrong — you haven’t showered today, haven’t shaved, haven’t gone outside beyond opening the window for a while to blow your cigarette smoke through the gap. You’re in the same oversized t-shirt you slept in — one of John’s old ones — and a pair of five-year-old flannelette sleep shorts too short to be visible under the hem of your top.
“You’re such a dickhead,” is all you can say, because you have no defense.
“I’m sorry. You’re beautiful,” he concedes through a smile, “I’m just sayin’ — wouldn’t hurt to get out and about. Shouldn’t be festering in here. ‘Specially on your birthday.”
You swallow your mouthful and blink at him, a tad astonished.
“Did y’think I forgot?” He chuffs, veritably proud of himself, “You think that low of me?”
You chuckle. “Well, you didn’t say anything all day, so…”
“I was gonna surprise you,” he says, shrugging.
“I’m surprised,” you reply; but that’s not true. He hasn’t once forgotten a birthday in however many years you have been friends.
“This isn’t the surprise, eejit,” he scoffs, and as he leans over to unzip his gym back, he barks at you: “shut yer eyes.”
You giggle as you do as he says, feeling for the table to put your wontons down. You hear him digging through his bag for a while, the crinkle of paper, the hollow sound of cardboard, the flick of a lighter.
“Alright, open ‘em.”
When you do, you see him holding a white box in his hands, the card lid folded up, and a cupcake within. One with a decorated wrapper and a soft-serve swirl of icing on top, in which he has stuck a single candle with a little flame flickering at the top.
At first you laugh. A true, keeled-over belly laugh, because you just cannot believe that he — the sweet boy, the smug prick — has gone to such an effort. You feel your eyes warming up again, so you cover them with both of your hands.
“Oh my god,” is all you say.
“I’m not gonna sing for you,” he says sternly.
“Please don’t,” you plead, eyes still covered, because you don’t want to cry. “Don’t.”
“I said I’m not going to,” he chides. “Take the bloody thing.”
You snicker, then sniff, as you take the cupcake from its box and look at it more closely. Chocolate, by the looks, with vanilla icing, because you can see the wee black specks in the cream. You blow out the candle with a single puff, and the smell of waxy smoke that seeps from the wick makes you oddly nostalgic. You didn’t think of a wish in time, so you try to patch one together retroactively. I wish for someone to—
“Happy birthday, Dove,” he says proudly, patting your thigh with a solid hand. “Don’t tell me your wish.”
“I won’t,” you say, before you open your mouth wide and take a hefty bite out of the cake at an odd angle; you get icing on your nose, you’re sure, as you sink your teeth in. “Mmmph.”
“Good?”
You nod cheerily, mid-mouthful. “Mhm.”
He grins, happy with himself. “Thought you’d like it. Think you told me you don’t like red velvet, so.”
“It’s good,” you hum, muffled by all the cake in your mouth. “Want some?”
He shakes his head. “I bought a half dozen. Already ate the rest.”
You snort. Of course he did.
“Had to do a taste test,” he argues pre-emptively.
“Obviously,” you agree, as you swallow your oversized mouthful. He reaches over to you, then, licking the pad of his thumb and wiping the lump of vanilla icing from the tip of your nose. Then he sticks it in his mouth and sucks it off, and you wrinkle your nose. “Gross.”
“Got somethin’ else,” he declares, ignoring you, as he returns to his gym bag, and you busy yourself with the rest of your cupcake. It doesn’t take you long to wolf it down, and by the time he sits back up with something new in his hands, you’re down to the paper shell.
“What’s this,” you ask, smiling, as you put the wrapper on the table and sit upright to receive it.
“Just a wee pressie,” he tells you, and hands you a lump of a thing, shoddily wrapped in leftover Christmas-themed gift wrap. Far too much sticky tape for such a small object, and the thought of him working up a sweat trying to wrap it makes you giggle.
You shake it gently beside your ear. It makes an odd sort of jingling noise. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
So you do. You find the corner of some tape and tear it loose, peeling the paper away to reveal — well, you’re not sure what it is at first, until you orient it in your hands, and discover that it is a chicken-shaped kitchen timer. A fat white hen sitting on her nest, notched with minutes in increments of ten, fashioned of shiny plastic and aged slightly yellow.
“What the fuck is this,” you laugh, looking at it closely as you fiddle with it in your hands, twisting the timer and listening to its quiet ticking. The wetness brewing in your eyes belies your amusement.
“Found it at a flea market,” he says, smiling but slightly defensive, “It’s — well, it’s a timer, y’know, for yer cooking. You’re always leavin’ shit in the oven, ‘n I thought, Birdie’s gonna burn her fucken’ building down one day, so — you can use this to make sure you don’t burn yer dinner.”
“It’s—”
“I know — it’s daft,” he laughs at himself, “It’s not a proper gift, but, well. I thought of you when I saw it. And a chicken is a type ‘o bird, sort of, so — y’know.”
You’re beaming at him. It is daft, the most peculiar little present, one you couldn’t have possibly conceived of when he handed it to you wrapped — but you’re beaming.
There’s a hum behind your ribs, bright and buzzing and happy as you look at him; because you can picture him wandering through busy market stalls, looking at odd trinkets and ugly antiques and serendipitously spotting the odd wee chicken amongst the other rubbish — and thinking of you. He thought of you, and he bought it, and he wrapped it, and now he seems worried that you don’t like it, that you’re insulted by the silliness of it, as if that matters at all.
“You’re so funny,” you giggle, because you don’t want to tell him that you love him to death. “It is daft. It’s cute, though.”
“It’s practical,” he argues, slightly relieved. “Plus, thought it might help stop you overcookin’ in here.”
He leans towards you, then, and taps you twice on the temple with the tips of his fingers.
You snort. “What’s that supposed to mean.”
“You’re good at stewing, y’know. Gettin’ stuck in your head ‘n all that. I thought, if you feel yourself gettin’ stuck, you can set it for fifteen or something, and then when it rings you know it’s time to stop.”
You wonder, sometimes, if he knows you better than you do yourself. It seems that way, because he can always tell how you’re feeling, can always predict what you’ll do. He can pinpoint your habits better than your therapist. He listens even when you’re not talking.
A warm dribble escapes the corner of your eye, and you wipe it with the heel of your palm. “Right, well, I love it.”
He smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you laugh, standing up from the couch, “I’ll put it by the stove so I don’t forget to use it.”
“That’s m’girl.”
You venture into the kitchen and put it down next to your utensils, spinning it so the hen faces outward, and you give her a little pat before you head back to the sitting room.
“Thank you,” you croon as you sit next to him, giving him a chaste hug, but he returns it before you can slip out of reach. His arms are warm and heavy, so you stay there for a bit. “It means a lot.”
A wide hand strokes the back of your head before he releases you. “‘Course, Birdie. S’your birthday.”
You snort as you separate from him, leaning backward until your head settles against the armrest and you cross your feet in his lap. “Yeah, well, tell that to John.”
“No word from your old man?” He asks, a crease between his brows. Your old man is the only way Soap has addressed him with you since he left in November. At first it vexed you, but now you don’t feel as motivated to defend him.
“Nope.”
Johnny lets out a spiteful puff of air before he says anything. You know his feelings towards the Captain are far less rose-tinted than yours, and though he does his best to conceal his derision it is conspicuous in his expression.
His qualms with the man are different. Personal. Far less complicated than yours. To Soap he is only Captain Price, and he is the one that sent him home despite his eagerness to stay. You’re certain Soap’s vitriol has little to do with the less-than-healthy relationship that you have with him.
You expect him to say something bitter. Instead, he says; “I’m sure he’ll reach out, Bird. He’s probably just busy.”
You’re surprised, and — though you shouldn’t be — a little perturbed that he’d defend him. “Yeah, he said he was.”
“Did he?”
“A week ago.”
Johnny lets out a long, terse sigh, and his hand lands on your shin. You feel a bit guilty, then — or at least, slightly weird — bitching to him about your not-quite-relationship with your shared Captain. He’s your friend, perhaps your closest friend, and he has been so for longer than John was your commanding officer; but there is something off about it, almost selfish, burdening Soap with your hangups about your relationship.
“Doesn’t matter,” you huff, an attempt to smooth it over. “Sorry.”
He blinks at you. “For what?”
“Bringing him up.”
“You can talk to me about it,” he assures you, though the spite hasn’t quite dissolved, “I just — y’know I’ve got opinions.”
“Like what?”
“I mean,” he starts, but cuts himself off quickly. “S’not my business.”
“Come on,” you urge. “What opinions.”
“Birdie—”
“I want to know.”
He grits his teeth. “Dove, it’s — I don’t — it’s not my place to chat shit about your, I dunno. Whatever it is you have goin’ on with him.”
There’s an anger in his voice, despite his efforts to bury it, hoarse and tight in the back of his throat as he speaks. Directed at you or the Captain, you’re not sure. You feel compelled to push, though, to pester, because you want to hear him say it. Maybe you just want him to validate how you feel, you think, because you’re too much of a coward to confront the man yourself — but that’s not fair, and it isn’t his business, so you swallow it.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say.
“Don’t need to apologise,” he says, and only once his grip loosens do you realise how tight his hand had been around your ankle. “You can talk about it if you want to.”
“I — I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t even—” want to think about him almost slips out, but you’re the one who brought him up, so you stop yourself. You pause with a sigh, feeling a bit awkward now, so you think of an excuse to move from where you lie across him. “Want a drink, or something?”
“I’m alright, Dove,” he says, shaking his head. “Need a piss, though.”
You snort, shifting your legs so that he can get up, and as he lumbers heavy-footed off to the bathroom — back in a tick, he says — you rub your hands down your face.
You’re embarrassed, now, and you don’t entirely know why. Upset with yourself, because after all of his efforts and his guilelessly sweet birthday gift you went and brought up the fucking Captain. You couldn’t keep your bitterness to yourself for even half an hour.
There are other people whose job it is to put up with it. Your therapist, for one. Your girlfriends, even though they don’t quite understand the broken, hierarchical, trauma-beset relationship you have with him. And, most obviously, the man himself. You should be bringing this baggage to him directly, you should be telling him that you feel abandoned, and upset, and insecure, and worried, and useless, and weak, and ugly, and unwanted — but you know what response you’ll receive, if any. Busy, love. Let’s talk when I get back.
You’re not his problem while he’s gone. And you know that when he finally comes back, you’ll be too busy being relieved that he loves you again to even bother bringing up this very spiral.
Now, though, that thought makes you angry.
Johnny emerges from the bathroom with an impolite cough, scratching the back of his head on his way towards you. You feel the need to collect yourself.
“Wanna tell me about your shite day?” You ask gently, and he slumps back into the couch with a woeful huff.
Seems he surrenders to gravity, because he tips in your direction, until his heavy head lands dramatically into your lap.
Demands attention like a sulking dog, this one. You’d never begrudge his physicality, it’s always been par for the course with him; a hug here and a kiss on the cheek there, rarely untoward, always done in just enough jest that it could be dismissed as a quirk of his bubbliness.
Head on the thighs, though, you’re sure that’d earn a spiteful glance from the Captain, and later a vague, not-quite-accusatory remark that’d leave you panicking for an excuse. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Even still, you know Soap means nothing by it. That he expects nothing from it. That, if anything, it’s indicative of just how bad a day he has had.
“Same old,” he grumbles. You feel the hum of his voice through his neck where it presses against your thigh. “Don’t wanna be a bummer on your birthday.”
“Psh, whatever. Tell me.”
He sighs again, histrionic as he is. “I had a fitness test.”
“Oh,” you murmur, unsure why your heart sinks. “How’d it go?”
“Failed it,” he croaked.
There was an all too familiar shame in his voice as he said it, softly like he was embarrassed to admit it, even to you. Though he hasn’t yet said it in so many words, it’s clear he has not taken his medical dismissal in stride. That he’s been wrestling with a sense of inadequacy ever since he was shipped home, forced into office drone work and weekly physiotherapy with no end in sight.
He doesn’t like pity, so you never outwardly pity him; but you feel it. You feel terrible for him, worse that it was your fault he was discharged at all, because he put himself in harm’s way for you, and earned himself some neuromuscular degradation as a reward.
You lay a hand on the top of his head, sweeping a thumb over his shorn hairline. “It’s okay,” you muster. “You’re still recovering.”
He scoffs, and you’re not sure whether the ire is directed at you.
“It’s not okay. It’s a joke, Dove. They ‘ave me typing up reports like a fucken’ intern. I’m a soldier. A good soldier, and I can’t even — I can’t even pass a standard enlistment test.”
“Enlistment?” You ask, barely muttered, because your chest is suddenly tight.
You didn’t realise he had been trying to return to service, but as you consider it, it doesn’t surprise you at all. He was back in the gym the same day he was discharged from the hospital — though he shouldn’t have been — and that was six months ago.
“Yeah,” he says. “What else can I do? I’m doin’ nothing here. They need me out there but I’m too fucken’ weak to prove it.”
“You’re not weak,” you say quietly, lost for better words to say, gently twisting tufts of his black hair between your fingers. You want to tell him that he’s strong. That you’ve never known anyone stronger. That it doesn’t fucking matter what the Lieutenant that tested him says.
“I am, Dove,” he sighs, and you feel his jaw tighten against your lap. “Eight months and I can barely run a mile without shaking. All ‘cos of some damn gas.”
“For God’s sake, Johnny,” you argue, “you ran through VX and you survived it. You survived it. You should be proud of the fact you’re even walking.”
“They said I had minimal exposure,” he weakly corrected you. “That I could expect a full recovery. If this is full as it gets, Dove, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
He pauses before he deflates, slowly. Stymied now that you had interrupted the spiral he’s itching to tumble down. You watch his dark eyelashes flutter as he blinks, staring blankly at the coffee table. It’s a moment before he speaks again.
“There’s another round of testing in May,” he says, a little more hopeful. “Reckon I’ll be up to it by then.”
You want to argue with him. To tell him it’s a stupid idea, that he shouldn’t bother, and not because he’s too weak and not because he doesn’t deserve it. No, simply for the fact that you don’t want him to. You don’t want him to pass it. It’d be cruel to say that, though, wouldn’t it?
Your tongue twists up as you struggle for what to say. You know he wants to hear encouragement, and that nice thing to do would be to tell him that you’re sure he’ll pass the next one. You open and close your mouth a few times before your voice comes out.
“Johnny—”
Brrrrrrrrring!
A shrill mechanical alarm interrupts you mid-thought, ringing out from the kitchen behind you.
That daft chicken. You don’t even remember setting it. You scoff at yourself as you nudge his head, he sits himself upright to free you, and your thighs feel cold. You potter to the counter with your heart buzzing, because you had to swallow those tricky words and now they hum in your chest like bugs.
You twist off the timer a little too harshly, and then you feel guilty, so you put it down gently.
A fucking chicken. You almost laugh at it again, but instead you’re congested with a cold sadness that sinks deeper the longer you look at it. You can picture it: a year from now, when Johnny’s back in the field, and you wait by your phone for proof of life, staring at this chicken as plaintively as you do now; thinking about how you called it daft when he gave it to you, but now it’s the only thing you have left of him, a silly token of how deeply he cares about you even when he’s too far away to remind you.
That’s what makes you feel ill, isn’t it? Just that.
You don’t want him to be far away again.
“I’m happy you failed it,” you croak.
He lets out an amused puff. “Screw you, then.”
Then you sob. Quietly, but in the silence of your apartment he must hear it quite clearly. The couch squeaks as he stands up and moves in your direction. You don’t turn to look at him.
“I didn’t know you were trying to return to service,” you say, voice all shaky now that there’s a lump in your throat.
He comes to a stop behind you. You wonder if he’s dithering about whether or not he should touch you. “Well, I am.”
“Why?” You argue, slightly spiteful.
“Because I want to,” he defends himself. “I need to.”
“No you don’t.”
He huffs, and you suspect you’re irritating him, that the last thing he wanted was to be interrogated by you — but here you are, on the brink of tears, bemoaning his efforts despite all that he’s done for you.
“Yes I do, Birdie. It’s — you don’t understand.”
At that you frown, and you can glean from the way his voice trailed off that he already knows the mistake he made by even saying it.
“I do understand. I just — you’ve done enough for them. You’re—” strong enough stays unsaid. “You don’t need to.”
“There’s not much else goin’ for me, Dove.”
You scoff, wiping under your eye with the side of your hand. When you turn to face him, arms wrapped around yourself, his eyes are tight and his brows are in knots. Maybe you’ve offended him, maybe he thinks you don’t believe he can do it; but you know that he can. That’s why you’re upset.
“That’s stupid,” you whimper feebly. “You have lots going for you.”
“Like what,” he asks, and you’re not sure whether it’s derision or amusement in his voice.
“You have me.”
He exhales all at once. “Do I?”
To that, you’re unsure how to reply. You hesitate to dissect what he means by it. What he’s getting at. Might be that he’s being facetious, because obviously he has you, you’re a permanent fixture in his life whether he likes it or not. Might be that he’s asking you something deeper, uglier, not in so many words; does he have you, or does someone else? Have meaning what? What did you even mean by it?
“Of course,” is all you can think to say.
His heavy hand fixes to your shoulder, then, and he pulls you languidly into a hug; one of his all-consuming ones, you’re dwarfed by him, big arms wrapped around your shoulders and warm breath against the side of your head.
A storm brews behind your forehead, and you let out the only thing you can make sense of; “I don’t want you to leave.”
He’s quiet for a while after that. Jaw clenching and loosening as though chewing on things to say. Considering how to tell you that he’s sorry, but it’s too bad, because he has made up his mind. That he doesn’t have a choice. That there are people who need him, people more in need than you. That not everything is about you.
“I’m sorry,” you suddenly blurt, the silence tumescing to the point you can’t stand it, so you burst it yourself. “Don’t — don’t let me stop you. I don’t mean — I know it’s important to you. I know how that feels. I do. I just — I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want you to disappear again.”
Your words run on until they begin to muddle together, more emotion than sense, because shame knots your tongue. You don’t have the right to ask such a thing of him, and you don’t have the right to make him feel guilty for it. You owe him nothing but support. You owe him that.
You open your mouth to say so, but then he separates from you, arms uncoiling and hands settling on your shoulders. He looks down at you. Even in the dim yellow light from the living room his eyes are pale as ash, and they dart pensively between yours.
“Then I won’t,” he says.
Your heart flips at that.
Lips pucker and all, a childish pout to stifle the sudden urge to earnestly cry — because that was the last thing you expected him to say, and yet the very thing you wanted to hear more than anything else.
The lovely man, is all you can think, he’s such a lovely man — you could not name another person on earth who would put your desires above theirs so blatantly, so frequently as he does. Not even the one you ostensibly love, the one who owed it to you to say the very same; no, he left. John was out the door before you could argue, because any argument you could conceive would mean nothing to him. Your feelings on the matter immaterial, because the decision was made, and the outcome was unalterable.
Not so with Soap. You want him to stay, so he’ll stay.
Once the shock settles, though, you feel profoundly guilty. He’d set aside what he truly wants just to appease you, and what do you have to offer him in return?
“No, I’m sorry,” you sniff, shaking your head. “I’m being selfish, I — I don’t want to discourage you. If it’s what you want, you should go for it.”
His lips pull into a soft smile. “Psh,” he scoffs, “honestly, Dove, I got no fucken’ clue what I want.”
You let out a wet snicker, rubbing an eye with the heel of your palm before you meet his gaze again.
“Me neither,” you say.
Then you swallow. The words slid heavy out of your mouth, and they landed hard. Harder than you thought they would. His smile is smaller, and yours is gone.
What do you want?
His hands are warm where they sit on your shoulders, two gentle squeezes to remind you he’s there, listening. You wonder if he can feel the thumping of your heart in his palms. You wonder if he can read in you what you want, because he’s always known you better than yourself. You wonder if he can see how your eyes linger on his lips.
Before you have the sense to stop it, your body leans in. Your head tilts up, lids fluttering, and — though you hesitate, for just a breath — you kiss him.
A deluge of stifled emotion pours out of you as you collide with him, and for just a moment, he welcomes it by sealing his mouth to yours; tight hands slide from your shoulders to either side of your neck, to your burning cheeks, and his weight shifts forward as he leans into you, tipping you onto a hind foot.
But, quickly as it started, he releases you. His mouth separates from yours and steals your breath with it.
He turns away from you, white-knuckled hands fixing to the back of his head. Panicked breathing as he paces through the empty kitchen.
Shame douses you like water, ice-cold, and it makes your skin prickle up and your fingers shake. Your stomach is in knots already. Eyes wide and dry, because you think you might be dreaming. What the fuck have you done?
“I’m sorry,” you splutter quickly, “I’m — that was, I’m sorry, that was stupid. I just—”
“Don’t,” he grits as he stops in his tracks, finally turning to look at you. Whatever turmoil you’ve stoked in him burns hot in his face as he stares at you. “Don’t do that, don’t — mph. You — that’s —”
“I’m sorry,” you insist, tearfully now, so mortified you’re tempted to run and hide in your bedroom.
“Stop saying that.”
“I didn’t mean — it was stupid, I shouldn’t have.”
He groans. “Stop it.”
“I’m — I…”
You can’t muster a defence. You’ve terribly misread everything. Your own emotions, your wants, his wants that you so cavalierly disregard. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this. Not burdened by whatever it is you’re feeling, not so tearfully, not so inappropriately in spite of your supposed relationship with the Captain.
He wipes down his face with rigid hands, wrestling with himself, and you wonder if he’s about to yell at you.
Instead the words come out strained.
“I’ve tried so hard not to—”
His voice breaks off mid sentence, before he curses at himself. “Fuck.”
You blink at him, waiting for him to finish the thought — but, truthfully, you don’t need him to.
He’s said everything already. He’s said it so many times before. He loves you. You’ve been ambivalent about whatever form that love took, because you knew — you thought — he had buried anything more complicated far earlier in your friendship. That all the stickier, thornier types of love he may once have felt for you were long gone, and the only one that remained was simple, uncomplicated, and easy to digest.
It was that way, for you, while your attentions were on another man — one who demanded more than he gave, one who even still nettles in the back of your head like a blood clot — wasn’t it so easy to let Johnny love you and not once question why?
Now look what you’ve done.
You’re cruel. Unquestionably cruel, and the consequences of that cruelty are wrought in his face. With one misjudgement you’ve dug up something ugly that he has doubtlessly spent years doing his best to keep buried. For you. He kept it buried for you, because he knew it would hurt you if he ever tried to make you choose. Because he knew what your choice would be.
You’re not sure what your choice is anymore.
“Johnny,” is all you can say, when he brings himself to look at you again. You barely breathe it.
There’s a moment, then, of heartbeat silence. The air is leaden. Your palms are sticky. You feel it sinking in your stomach.
You know what will happen next. The decision is out of your hands.
He takes a heavy step forward, and so do you; as though pushed together by forces beyond your control, you meet him halfway, and your mouth crashes into his.
Whatever hesitation remains in him lies more in an effort to resist grappling you too harshly; his big hands fix to either side of your head, fingers knotting in your hair, forward momentum knocking you off balance but his grip of you keeps you against him. Mouth opens to you, sucking your air down and you his, warm tongue smoothing against yours between teeth. Your wistful hands find purchase in the fabric of his t-shirt, then his shoulders, then the meat of his back as your arms reach up and around him.
Something within you unwinds, you can feel it in your belly. Something that had been knotted and twisted in there for as long as you can remember; the pressure it releases makes your head spin and your vision blurry, so you finally let your eyes flutter shut.
When they do, you see the Captain.
You see his hazy form standing there, the parts of his face that you can remember furrow into a disapproving grimace, wrinkles of disgust between his low-set brows. You lick Johnny’s tongue and you can hear the Captain murmur, in his reprimand voice; I fucking knew it. Johnny’s teeth graze your lip and you see the Captain cross his arms over his chest, imperial as ever, glowering down his nose at you.
He’s forgiven a few transgressions, but none so egregious as this.
If he were here to witness you, there would be no forgiveness from him. Though you made no promises and nor did he, there was a precedent set; your unyielding loyalty to him and his ambivalence about anything but his work has begotten exclusivity and a measure of devotion — yet never a promise. Never enough devotion for you to feel like he would be yours until death. Never enough to feel kept.
You’re making excuses, you tell yourself — as Johnny’s lips press into your chin, then the ridge of your jaw, then the side of your neck to taste your heartbeat there — but no matter how you spin it, whichever way you might mould the truth to suit you, you cannot undo what you’ve done. What you’re still doing.
You don’t think you could keep the truth from him, either. If and when he finally texts you, or deigns to call you, or God forbid come home to you — could you keep a straight face? Your voice steady? He’ll be able to see it on you, even if you could. He’d smell it on you like sweat.
Sinking your face into Johnny’s shoulder, breathing him in, you feel sick with guilt.
A paradoxical guilt, twofold; guilt for your infidelity, and guilt that you feel more guilty for dwelling on the Captain even now — as Johnny’s fingers knot in your hair, and he presses hasty kisses up the side of your neck, before his mouth returns to yours. Guilt for busying your mind with the man that loves you less than this one, who would lay down his aspirations simply because you asked him to.
He kisses you with panic and the flavour of urgency, because he thinks this is temporary. Feels the need to rush and yet take his time. Worries that if he moves too quickly you’ll suddenly come to and remember that you shouldn’t be doing it at all.
Well, you’ve come to that realisation already, and — Johnny’s hand drags down to your waist, scooping his arm into the small of your back — you’re still doing it.
His mouth peels away from yours, then, briefly. Lips wet and jaw loose, his forehead rests against yours. “S’this really what you want?”
His pupils are blown wide and black, soaking yours in as your focus darts between them.
You know the answer. It takes a moment to bring yourself to say it.
“Yeah,” you breathe.
With that, your remaining reservations dissolve. Turn to smoke in the air as you exhale what’s left of them. Your choice is made.
You kiss him again. You mean it this time. There’s want in your mouth and you wonder if he can taste it. You can taste it in his — but you know he’ll never impose himself upon you, won’t put his hands anywhere he’s not supposed to so long as he’s convinced you’re uncertain.
You are certain, though. You think you might never have been so certain about anything. An answer so obvious that you don’t know how you could have overlooked it for as many years as you have.
Seems gravity has inched you closer to the counter, or at least his fervour has driven you there. The rounded edge of it digs into the base of your spine, and his weight against you is firmer, keener, as he kisses you with an open mouth.
You know what you want.
Your hand finds his wrist where he clutches your hip, nudging it downward, and he lets you move it without objection. His tendons stiffen once his fingertips graze the skin of your thigh, as though suddenly aware of the intended destination — you coax his hand inward, where the skin is softer and warmer, and his knuckles brush the flanelette of your pyjama shorts.
That’s when he pauses. His head cocks back to look at you, hand hovering under the hem of your too-big t-shirt — rigid, though, he won’t let you move it any further.
He tips his head downward, glare pointed and sincere. “Are you sure?”
You nod in place of an answer. Brows curl and all, neediness no doubt lucid in how wide your eyes are.
“Say it,” he pants, too desperately to be an order, but a demand nonetheless.
You open your mouth to respond, but you’ve suddenly forgotten how to talk. You don’t know how to say it. Sure about what? About this? About him? About what it is you want?
Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I’m — you — I want…”
He lets out a harried puff of air. “I’m no’ touching you ‘til you say it.”
There’s a simple answer. You let it out with a breath. “I’m sure.”
You release his wrist as he shifts his hand, and his fingertips slide under the loose leg of your shorts unguided.
His breathing catches when he finds you’ve got no underwear underneath them; fingers follow an unfettered path along the crease of your groin, until he pushes them into the tight gap between your thighs.
He watches you as he does it, moonlight eyes bright and scanning your face for every little reaction as the thick tip of a finger splits your seam. Dips into the well of slick at your hole, and you hold your breath as he drags it upward until it meets your clit.
He focuses there, two fingertips glide up and down as though beckoning, and your forehead tumbles to the cushion of his chest. He fixes his other hand under your hair, wide enough that his thumb and forefingers press into the tendons on either side of your neck.
You shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t feel so good. You should feel guiltier than you do, as you splutter pathetic little noises into the cotton of his black t-shirt, and your greedy hands claw up his forearm, feeling the tendons shift beneath his skin. Your thumb follows the rope of a vein where it threads up to a bicep as thick as your head.
“Johnny—” You hiccup, aimlessly, knees a little wobbly so you take a handful of his t-shirt with your free hand.
“Y’want me to stop?” He murmurs hotly into your temple, though he doesn’t. He persists in touching you like he has always known how to; perfect pace, steady pressure, right spot. It makes your head spin and pins and needles itch in your feet.
Your reply ekes out voiceless. “No.”
But he stops anyway. Fingers slide out from between your legs, glossy and pruned. You stifle the want to complain, though it swells in your throat; until his hands glide to your hips, and you’re suddenly lifted up and backward until your ass is planted on the counter behind you.
Took him no effort to do it, either. He’s strong. He’s always been strong, heavy-set and resolute, despite the weakness he claims to have suffered since Urzikstan. He’s so strong, you think dreamily, he’s so strong and still somehow soft with you.
Your keen eyes follow him as he lowers himself, just measuredly enough to prevent his knees from hitting the floor too hard. Now your heart is in your throat, thundering so hard you can taste it — his head hovers between your thighs as he takes your shorts by the waistband and tugs them to your knees. Leans back to pull them to your ankles and off entirely.
He plants his lips on your knee, then on the inside of your thigh, up and upward; until his eyes are level with your pussy, knees spread by the breadth of him.
You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment you feel, making your knuckles tight and your face hot, as he looks at your cunt, inches from his face. He’s seen you nude before — many times, you think — but, obviously, this is different. He strokes the outside of your thigh and gazes glossy-eyed into your pussy like it’s a sight he wants to commit to memory. You wonder how long he’s thought about it. How many times he dreamt about it. If he ever fucked his hand to the thought of it.
He glances up at you through black eyelashes, assessing, a wordless request for permission — whatever expression you return is permission enough, it seems, because his head sinks between your thighs — you feel his hot, slick mouth envelop your clit and his tongue slide against your most sensitive spot.
The noise you make is closer to a keen than a moan, high-pitched and airy, because the feeling of his tongue and the rushing in your head all at once makes you dizzy and short of breath.
He’s good at it. Precise, cautious, hungry. You’re sure he’s had plenty of pussies in his mouth, because while he has never had a girlfriend for longer than a month, he has always drawn the eyes of wanting women. Obviously, you think dazedly, as you look down at the top of his head, and comb your fingers through his black hair — he’s a beautiful man, silver-eyed and tall, with dimples in his cheeks and a smile that could melt butter. You’d like to see his face again, but it's busy, and when he begins suckling at your clit your head tumbles backwards.
He hooks your thighs over his shoulders, burrowing his fingers into the flesh of your hips like he’s kneading dough. As he carries on he gets greedier, eats you like you’re his last meal, one he has waited years and years for — your toes curl and your feet flex, you do your best not to kick him in the back as your legs twitch, and only then do you notice that you’ve been digging your fingernails into his buzzed scalp.
There are things you want to say, words that swell in your mouth, but you can’t bring yourself to loose them. A comprehensible sentence would almost be impossible to string together, you think.
You tip backwards until your head hits the tile backsplash behind you; he’s persistent, doesn’t come up once for a breath as he sucks your clit into his mouth, and your stomach suddenly tightens up.
It won’t take him long, you can feel it tumescing between your hips — but all of a sudden you’re anxious, because letting him make you come feels the final, irrevocable leap — worse a betrayal than kissing him, you think, that you could abide him pleasuring you, eating you, laving at your pussy like an animal, even in spite of — the Captain, whatever he is to you, you don’t even want to think his name — and your head is spinning, and you wrench your eyes shut, and you hold your breath — I shouldn’t I shouldn’t I shouldn’t—
When you come in his mouth all your breath comes out at once in a weak cry; your thighs clamp tightly around his head, spine arching sharply enough to crack, and you think you might have drawn blood from the top of his head.
“Mph — God,” you sob, hiccuping, face crumpled up because he doesn’t yet stop, “f-fuck, Johnny, you—”
He only draws it out, letting your clit spasm against his tongue as he laps at it, trying to make it last just a little longer. You briefly imagine having to fight him off — and if it came to that, you’d lose — but the moment your wanton whimpers turn into disputes, he separates his mouth from your cunt with a final kiss or two against your slit.
Out of breath, his hot ear presses into your skin as he tips his head to rest against your inner thigh. His eyes are hazy as he looks up at you. Brows curled, cheeks ruddy. Reverent in how he watches you, in the way his wet mouth hangs open but curls into a gaping, proud smile.
There are things you should say, you think, as you moonily stroke the side of his head — this was stupid, this was a mistake, this can’t happen again — but you can’t imagine saying them, because they wouldn’t be true.
You gently tug at his head and he gets the message quickly; he lets your thighs slide from his shoulders as he stands himself up, rising to full height between your open legs until his head is above yours.
You kiss him. His mouth and chin are wet with you, and you can taste yourself in his mouth. His hands weave with the hair at either side of your head, and as he pants against your lips and his body leans into you — a hard, heavy weight presses between your legs, and when your tongue grazes his you feel it jerk against your cunt.
Sweet, patient man, you think — if you weren’t to mention it, you know he’d never ask, he’d be perfectly happy to leave it at that with your slick on his chin and his cock hard as iron.
He deserves it though, more than anyone has deserved anything — and you want to, you want to make him feel good, you want to repay every favour he has ever done for you, to make up for the years you spent with your back to him while he waited so patiently.
Your fingertips glide down his torso, feeling his smooth stomach beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt, until they stop at the elastic waistband of his sweatpants. His breathing catches as you tug at them, pulling the band away from his stomach enough that you can slip your hand inside.
With a hand on your elbow, though, he stops you. Against your mouth, he softly asks again; “Are you sure?”
You almost smile at that, the gorgeous boy, that he’d ask if you’re sure that you want to touch him as he touched you. It only makes you want to more, of course, so you nod, and kiss him.
“I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, as you push your hand into his boxers.
His cock is molten when you take it in your hand. Hot and beating against your palm. It’s thick, you can barely wrap your hand around it, and it spasms when you try to — you glide your grip upwards, feeling the ridge of every vein under your fingers, until your palm wraps around the head, and you feel the slickness of precum against your skin.
He groans weakly into your mouth, and as you move your hand again, his heavy head tips forward until it lands against your shoulder.
The noises he lets out into your skin make you lightheaded, hoarse whimpers from deep in his chest, as you run your hand up and down the rigid length of him; twisting just slightly at the tip and unwinding on your way down again. You run your thumb along the underside, pressing into the base of his head when you reach it, and his whole body twitches, knuckles turning white where they grip the edges of the countertop beneath you.
You’d like to return his favour — to swallow his cock until he comes down your throat, you think debauchedly — but you’re too selfish for that.
You want him inside you. His cock wedges against your cunt through the thick fleece of his sweats, and your thoughts are consumed by the picture of him sliding into you, as thick and long as it feels in your hand.
So you let go of him, and he exhales hoarsely into your neck, before you grip his waistband with both hands and tug it downwards.
Again, he stops you, this time with a big hand around both of your wrists. He lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is rather serious.
“I don’t wanna fuck you here,” he says, voice different than what you’re used to — it’s rougher, breathless, by turns snarled and pleading.
Your brows curl up. “Why not?”
His hands are under your thighs before he responds, and he hoists you upward with a bounce. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and you hang your arms over his shoulders.
“Wanna do it properly,” he pants, as he carries you out of the kitchen, and you surmise from the direction he takes that he is hauling you to your bedroom.
Before you know it you’re unfurled and dropped gently on your back, bouncing as you land on the mattress, an unmade duvet wrinkled beneath you. He stands above you, broad chest rising and falling as he breathes, eyes raking down the length of you and back up again. Thick arms reach behind his back as he grips the fabric of his black t-shirt, before he pulls it over his head and drops it on the floor.
You’ve seen him shirtless more times than you can count. You’ve seen him sunburnt and you’ve seen him pale as milk. You’ve seen him hairy and you’ve seen him shaven. You’ve popped a pimple or two on his back before, and you watched him get that tattoo on his pectoral.
Perhaps your attraction to him was so deeply buried that you forgot it was there. That you forbade yourself from even considering it, because it was simpler that way, to see only a friend and nothing, nothing more. Denial was easy, then.
Now it’s impossible to even consider.
The light isn’t on in your bedroom, so what you see is dimly lit by the yellow glow from the hallway, but the light carves out his muscular form from behind. He’s so strong, heavy, thick in the arms and in the chest. Soft and yet hard, carved and yet rounded, with a dusting of black curls across his chest and a denser thicket trailing down from his navel. Blown-out tattoos and scars from battles you were alongside him for. The same watch around his wrist that he’s had since boot camp.
Grey sweatpants distended by his erection is a sight you haven’t had the fortune of seeing until now. There’s a dark, wet patch at the peak, and you’re not sure if it’s precum, your slick, or both — but his big fist takes a handful of his waistband, and he tugs it down, pulling out his cock with his other hand around the base of it. Once they’re pushed down to his thighs, his pants fall to the floor in a puddle.
You take your t-shirt off, then — John’s one, the thought smears through your skull — you sit upright to pull it over your head, and you toss it away. You hope it falls through a crack in the floor and you never have to see it again.
Soap languidly strokes his cock as he stands between your knees, and you lean back on the mattress, watching him foggy-eyed.
“S’this what you want?” He asks, again, murkier this time.
You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He doesn’t wait once you say it. “Okay, Dove,” he breathes, as he crawls up the bed, spreading your legs open with the breadth of him, until his head is suspended above yours.
He drops his head to kiss you, and you open your mouth to receive him. You cup the sides of his head with eager hands, graze your knees up the side of his torso, and you feel his cock bobbing against your pussy from where it hangs heavy between his legs.
His mouth smears from yours to your jaw, then to your neck, as his weight grows heavier against you, and he reaches beneath himself to align his cock with you. The blunt head runs up and down your slit until it nestles against your hole, pushing until it finds a spot with give — he sinks into you all at once, making you gasp, because you didn’t expect the stretch, nor the sting, nor the incomprehensible satisfaction the fullness brings you. A key in a lock. Something clicks into place that has long been missing.
“Anythin’ you want, bonnie,” he slurs into the hot skin of your shoulder, as he thrusts into you, “I’ll do anythin’ you want.”
You push down the guilt that rises in your throat, at the thought that he’s only doing this because you want him to, because you deigned to give him a chance. That he might expect this will only happen once, and afterwards you’ll regret it, this terrible mistake.
You want to tell him that you won’t. That you couldn’t even if you tried, that it’s all so clear to you now — as he reels his cock out of you, then stuffs it back in, and his big arms scoop under your back, and he kisses where your heart beats in your neck — crystalline, even, that he has been in your heart the entire time. That you’ve been wrong, chasing your own tail, blinded by whatever sickness had coagulated in your eyes and turned the world grey and murky; all the while he has been here, waiting for you, whether or not you ever decided to acknowledge his presence.
Now, you can see. His wet lips plant themselves on your cheek, then your lips, then your chin, and he fucks you halfway between cautious and eager, between tender and rushed, as though trying his best not to hurt you. He moans into your skin, and you echo him, as you scrape your nails up the nape of his neck and across the soft muscles of his back.
“F-fuck,” he whimpers, as you press a kiss into the shell of his ear, squeaking as his cock ruts steadily into your cervix. “Y’feel so good, Dove — mph — my lovely girl—”
The way his voice sounds like this — weak and broken by pleasure, sweet and desperate — it makes your chest tighten up, and your face burn, and your heart race. You want to hear it again, and again, you want to hear him say your name like that, to hear those ragged curses sputtered out as he fucks you, or as you touch him with your hand again, or as you take him in your mouth.
You want him to be happy, you want to make him as happy as he has made you, with no expectation of what he’d get in return. He deserves it. You owe him that.
His pace quickens as he fucks you properly, bouncing you up the mattress, cock pulling halfway out before plunging in again. Your slickness makes it easy to take the girth of him, cunt open and hot and willing to take whatever it is given — and you’re thankful for that, because you know it would hurt if that weren’t the case, given the size of it — but you know he’d never dare go anywhere near your pussy until it was dripping and wanting.
You know that, because he loves you.
You consider, then — as his teeth graze the tendon of your neck, but he doesn’t bite you — that he doesn’t know that you love him, too. He’ll think your love is the dilute, simple, tasteless love of your friendship, because your more complicated love is sponged up by somebody else. Somebody worse.
Not anymore. That sponge has been wrung dry, and now it drips from you, oozes from every pore, collects in your mouth, and you want nothing more than to let it spill.
“I love you,” you breathe, eked out between thrusts, directly into his ear.
He halts all at once once you say it.
Cock stills halfway inside you, and he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder until it hangs above yours.
His face is all pink, sheeny with sweat, but his eyes are wide and sincere. His expression is more stern than shocked, but the knit in his brows belies it.
“What?” He asks, voice broken and uncertain.
“I love you,” you repeat, a whine on your breath as he pushes back in, slowly, unable to deprive himself of the friction for more than a few seconds.
“Don’t say that,” he pleads, weak and forlorn, and his forehead drops to press against yours.
“But—”
“Don’t say it unless you mean it,” he implores you, fucking you listlessly, voice broken up by an amalgam of pleasure and heartache. “Don’t do that to me, bonnie.”
Your eyes feel hot, because his doubt makes you sick with guilt. “Johnny…”
“Please, Dove. Don’t.”
Your hands fix to either side of his head, then, because when you say it again you want to look him right in the eyes. You want him to be as certain as you are.
“I mean it,” you say, as adamantly as you can muster while his dick moves inside you, “I love you, Johnny, I’m — I’m sorry, I think I always have. I think I always have, but — agh — I d-didn’t know it. I’m sorry.”
He says nothing for a beat, letting the words process in that busy brain of his. Letting himself believe you.
When he finally does, it comes out all at once. A tear lands on your cheek before he kisses you there, and then his lips find yours, and he kisses you hard, breathing you in as he does.
“I love you too, Dove,” he moans against your mouth, kissing you between words, pistoning into you properly again. “Fuck, bonnie, I — I love you so fucken’ much, Christ, I love you—”
You just about giggle between whimpers, and you don’t know what this feeling is — this indescribable brightness humming within you, something voltaic, and you think it might glow as it buzzes beneath your skin. Like you’ve opened the curtains for the first time in months, and now the moonlight shines in, soft and silvery. Cool night air that fills your lungs as though the first real breath you’ve taken in years.
It’s not something you’ve felt before.
“Always have, Dove,” he pants, lips against your jaw, his hand cradling the back of your head, “always — beautiful girl, I’ve always — f-fuck — always loved you—”
His ruts begin to stutter, and he starts to take pauses between them, short breaks to take a breath so that he doesn’t come inside you. You almost tell him that he can, if he wants to, that you don’t care, that you just want him to feel good — but before you can, he’s swearing under his breath, and he pulls his cock out of you all at once.
“Ngh — shit, agh, fuck, bonnie—” He whimpers, as his wet cock lands on your belly — it jerks against you, and you feel the hot spill of his come landing on your skin, pooling in your navel and between your breasts. His mouth seals to the crook of your shoulder as he moans, finishing himself onto you, entire body twitching as it squeezes out the last few drops.
He pauses to catch his breath, laying sluggish kisses up the side of your neck, before he finally tips himself over and lands on his back beside you.
For a brief, worried moment, you think that might be it — that he’ll go straight to sleep, like you’re used to, and you’ll have to plod shamefully to the bathroom to wipe the come off and have a cold shower by yourself.
Instead he grabs your face with both hands, tipping your head towards him and planting a kiss on your lips — then your nose, your cheek, your eyelid, your forehead, your chin, your cheek again, and finally back to your lips for a proper, wet-lipped kiss. You giggle breathlessly against his mouth.
You’re sure there are things to be said, but it feels, for now, like they can remain unspoken. He holds his forehead to yours, his thumb grazing over your ear, and you lift a finger to stroke the stubble on his jaw.
“Think I might be dreamin’,” he murmurs, and you laugh.
“Need me to pinch you?”
“Might do, yeah,” he says, chuckling, “later, though. Don’t wanna wake up yet.”
You snort. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I mean it, Dove,” he pants, flopping over onto his back, arms outstretched. “Fuck me, I mean — I never — I didn’t think that’d ever happen.”
“It already had,” you murmur facetiously, pointedly not reminding him of that one time back in boot camp.
“Not that. Convincing you that you love me.”
You laugh. “Convincing me?”
“Yeah, knew you did,” he croons, smugly. “I knew you’d figure it out some day. Mighta been when I was already dead, but I was gonna leave you a nice wee note if it came to that.”
“Fuck’s sake,” you chortle, reaching over to smack him, “don’t be depressing.”
“Dear Birdie,” he begins, clearing his throat, “If you’re reading this, I’m—”
You hold your hand over his mouth, muffling his next words. “I get it, I get it.”
He’s laughing into your hand, then, proud of himself. Once he’s done, though, he lays his hand on the back of yours, then kisses your palm; next he pulls it from his face, before he is suddenly up and getting off the bed.
“Lemme grab you a towel,” he says, and your eyes linger lecherously on the sculpture of his back as he leaves the room.
It’s a few seconds before he returns with a towel you had dropped in with the dirty laundry that morning. He climbs over you dutifully, scrunching the fabric in his hands and wiping down the length of your bare stomach. You snicker, because it tickles a bit, but his fastidiousness also amuses you. Once he deems you clean enough, he folds it up and tosses it onto the floor.
You laugh as he crawls up the bed again, landing on the mattress beside you. Before you can make a derisive comment about the come-soaked towel on the carpet, his arms have scooped you up and over until your head rests on his chest.
You drape an arm over his stomach, and your leg over his, as you settle against him. His body is scorching, and you can hear his heart beating under your ear, but you’re comfortable enough that you could fall asleep like that. Nestled into his side like a puzzle piece, notching into a space that was always meant for you.
His lips are in your hair, you feel his breathing against your scalp.
The quiet is soft as a blanket, then, draping over the both of you as your panting turns to listless breathing, and your eyelids feel heavy. Any worry about what the aftermath will be is stifled by sleepy satisfaction, and a warm, thumping glee that beats behind your ribs.
“I meant it,” you whisper, in the silence, and your head rises and falls with his breath.
“That you love me?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He lets out a puff of laughter, then, as he strokes your shoulder.
“I know,” he says.
It’s another four days before you receive a text from the Captain.
His silence hasn’t crossed your mind, in truth, because you haven’t been thinking of him much. Other, nicer things have been keeping you busy.
Johnny took you out to dinner on Thursday — finally a proper date, so he called it, and he wore a button up and suit pants, bought you flowers and all. You hadn’t taken him for a romantic, so when he revealed them you laughed, before quickly bandaging it with a genuine thank you once he got defensive about it — are these not the ones y’like? I can grab different ones—
You also went out for drinks with your friends on Friday evening, to celebrate your birthday properly — Gaz and Johnny and a few others — and you must have had a good time, because you can’t remember much of it beyond the pre-drinks at the pub and the stumbly walk back to Johnny’s flat.
You wake up to the buzzing of the notifications landing in your phone, where it sits on the nightstand next to you. Not yours. You’ve woken up in Johnny’s bed, like you have for the last two mornings. You hear him stir beside you, his soft mattress bounces as he flops over to his other side, but he’s still asleep.
You sluggishly pick up the phone and check your messages.
There are fifteen from Gaz. Several incomprehensible ones from the night before, between the hours of two and four — and three from this morning.
U and Soap were real cuddly last night eh??
Something u wanna tell me?
Never seen him smile so stupid
You grin dumbly at your screen as you type out your reply: Dunno what you mean.
Next you read a few from Johnny. Similarly from the very wee hours of the morning, also riddled with typos by virtue of his drunken fingers.
Wya
Coming back to mine?
I wannna eat. Ur pussy again
Pls !!!!!
At those you stifle a snicker, because your attempt at a coverup for Gaz is pretty much null and void now that there’s a very crass paper trail. As blatant a piece of evidence of your exploits as there ever could be. He must’ve sent those while you were in the bathroom, and you’re amused by the thought of him trying to type it out with his thick, wobbly thumbs, too drunk to think better and too hungry to care.
Then, last, you see the singular text message from John. It arrived shortly before you woke up, buried amongst the plethora of other texts. You’re not surprised to see how short it is when you open it.
Hi love. FYI, tour got extended.
There’s a pang of guilt in your belly when you read it. It makes you feel a bit sick that he doesn’t know. That he’s on the other side of the world, still believing that you’re fawning over him from a distance, waiting like a puppy for his return with not a complaint to be made.
Anger usurps it quickly, though. That’s all he said. He didn’t even call you to say so. And still no happy birthday. Had you been alone, unloved, neglected in your own apartment, that text would have sent you spiralling. You’d be in tears, dithering about whether to call him, then frantically trying to conceive of a reply that didn’t sound too desperate nor too upset.
His text before that one feels more like a lie, now. You know I care about you.
Now you know that he doesn’t.
Before you can second guess yourself, you type out your reply and send it immediately.
That’s OK. This isn’t working anymore. You don’t need to text me again. Be safe.
You put the phone back down on the nightstand, and roll over. Shimmy yourself closer to Johnny so that your face is against his back, and you hang an arm over his side. A sleepy, gravelly groan rumbles from his chest when he feels you there, and his hand strokes the back of yours.
“You alright?” He grumbles, words slurred together, and you’re not sure if he’s fully awake.
Can’t help but smile at the thought that even half asleep he can sense any worry in you. Whatever was there is gone now, though, as you exhale against his skin, and kiss his spine.
“I’m fine,” you breathe. “Keep sleeping.”
“Mhm,” he hums, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and plants a lazy kiss on it. “Love you.”
You sometimes wonder if it's too soon to say such a thing. Only four days since the breaking of the dam and you've said it more times than you can count. It felt unnatural, at first. Not something you were used to saying nor hearing.
But, you think, the love was always there. Years and years it was sitting dormant, patient, unacknowledged until you finally, stupidly kissed him.
There's little point pretending otherwise, because now it feels as natural as breathing.
You’ve decided you need to do something about these feelings.
You’ve never really been one to go after what you want, more so the type to kind of sit back and just…hope it comes to you. It wasn’t the most successful method. Definitely not. But you would take the pain of loneliness over the pain of humiliation any day. At least that’s what you used to think. But now? Now the idea of not having them in your life was more painful than anything else. So you needed to change your tune.
You didn’t exactly know how yet. You’ve barely been in any serious relationships let alone initiated them. What were you supposed to do? Flirt?
…you…could flirt. Right? That’s what they’ve been doing this whole time. And if you were to believe they weren’t just doing it to mess with you, then presumably…they were trying to tell you they were interested? So if you flirted back…then that means you’re telling them you’re interested too, right?
Okay. You can do that. You can…flirt. How hard can it be?
You’re so bad at this.
From a technically standpoint and confidence one. You didn’t realize how much guts it took to call someone sexy. How were they doing this on the daily?
Your first attempt is after delivering a file to Price. He gives you his normal “thank you, sweetheart” while accepting it and you think…no time like the present.
“Of course…handsome.” You barely even say it, it’s more a mumble under your breath before you’re scurrying away in fear.
“I—“ Price’s head shoots up as he comprehends what he just heard, turning to look at you but you’re long gone. “Did…?” He turns to Kyle
“I think so.” He nods, also staring off to where you just were.
Both of them sit there, brows furrowed, mouths agape, trying to digest the fact that you finally flirted back.
By the time Simon and Johnny come join them, they’re still in that position.
When you make it back to your desk your heart is pounding way more than an acceptable amount. You feel like you’re being chased by a predator simply because you said one stupid word, how dumb is that?
You try to compose yourself and get back to work, secretly hoping they didn’t hear you. Still…you smile to yourself just a little, happy you followed through.
You figure you should keep doing it. That’s what they do…but you keep chickening out.
Until Simon greets you one morning with “mornin’ beautiful” and you suddenly feel emboldened.
So…you reply “good morning, big guy.” With a pretty smile. Perhaps not the most flirtatious, but you’ve heard that guys like being called that? You’re not sure. Until he stops in his tracks.
“I—you—“ he’s floundering. He’s floundering. You made him flounder! “Uh…” he’s searching for something to say, but he can feel his skin heating up under his mask and you look so cute smiling up at him and he feels the sudden urge to flex and show you that he is, in fact, a big guy, but before he can do any of that, Price interrupts.
“Lieutenant. Let’s get a move on!” He claps twice and motions for Simon to follow him.
Simon looks back and forth for a second before scurrying after Price. You try to hold it in for as long as possible before you’re giggling to yourself at how easily that worked.
John notices Simon’s skewed demeanor immediately, and pulls him aside before they make it into the meeting. “Everything alrigh’, Simon?”
He stares past his shoulder, brows furrowed. “I…you—big guy?” He finally gets out.
John just stares for a moment before clapping his back and urging him into the briefing room, “sure, big guy.” He has no idea what he’s talking about.
Kyle is your next victim.
It’s lunch time when he saddles up next to you, hoping to discuss the book you were both reading. He opens his mouth to give his usual flirtatious greeting but you beat him to it.
“Hi, pretty boy.” There’s still an uptick in your own heart rate, though doing this twice already means you’re getting better. Instead of wanting to run from the reaction, you’re actually anticipating it.
His mouth stops halfway open, a small “hu-“ pushes out before it seems like he blue-screens. Not moving, not blinking, just staring.
Just then, Johnny decides it’s a good time to walk past. He spots Kyle and stops, concerned. “Is…he okay?”
Johnny comes over, bending over to be eye level with Kyle, waving his hand in front of his face. “Gaz…?”
He puts his hand back on his thigh to support his crouched position before looking back at you. “What’d’ya do, hen? Ya broke Gaz!”
You shrug innocently, “dunno, just called him pretty.”
Soap blinks. “…well that would do it, don’t ya think.”
“You guys do it to me all the time!” You defend yourself.
“Aye, but you’ve never done it back. If ya called me pretty I’d probably pass out.”
“…you are pretty.” It’s a genuine comment, not just trying to get him riled up, but what you actually believe.
He stops now too, face rapidly becoming redder. He takes a short inhale and then can only say “hm” before he too starts staring into the distance.
“Um…Johnny?” You poke his shoulder but he doesn’t speak.
John comes around the corner, carrying the file you told him to give back to you after he was done with it. He’s strutting confidently until he sees you all.
He stops, placing the file down gently, before inquiring, “sweetheart…did you break my sergeants?”
“No…” you give him an innocent smile.
Price ends up having to call a meeting to discuss your new behavior and what they should do about it.
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but there’s verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words]
based off of this request!
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
Doesn’t understand why you’re perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your boot’s sole.
Not that he cares; it’s only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever he’s busy tracking a target down his scope.
Better not miss, Lt.
Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.
Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty, Lt?
A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when you’re both on base– when the verbal pettiness turns physical.
You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.
“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.
But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.
In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.
“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.
“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”
You’re not even wearing any earbuds.
He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.
It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them. You had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.
But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.
Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.
Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.
You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.
He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.
Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.
It’s infuriating.
But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences.
No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.
No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.
Why?
Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.
It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.
It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.
Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.
Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.
The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.
Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.
He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.
Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.
Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.
He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.
When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,
—getting you in his bed.
Your lieutenant's acting strange.
Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.
It's suspicious as fuck.
You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)
So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.
Exhibit A.
Standing up for you.
The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?
These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.
"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"
The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.
You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.
"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.
"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"
Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.
"Let's see how good you are then."
The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.
Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.
Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?
Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.
(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)
Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.
Exhibit B.
Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?
"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."
An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.
"My bloodline? Not happening."
He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.
There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.
"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"
"Got plenty," he says.
The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.
"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.
It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.
If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.
"You volunteerin'?"
Your brain short-circuits.
What?
Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.
Shit hits the fan fast before you can gather your thoughts.
Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.
"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"
You don't need to be told twice.
There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.
And then, Exhibit C.
This is how it culminates.
Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.
You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.
“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.
“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.
The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing!
It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.
Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.
A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.
You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.
Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.
Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.
You did it.
Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.
It occurs to you then the position you're in.
Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.
He's so warm.
An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.
Big mistake.
Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.
You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.
A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.
There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.
Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.
"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.
"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."
You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.
Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.
How did you end up here?
Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?
Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?
You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.
It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?
(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)
Knock knock.
The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.
Ghost stands there, towering over you.
"Alright, Sergeant?"
His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."
The silence that falls between you is unsettling.
“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.
“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.
You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”
He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”
Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”
“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”
Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.
“Yes or no, Sergeant?”
His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.
“…N-no, I—”
“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”
He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.
Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.
He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.
But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.
You chase him when he pulls back.
“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.
"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"
He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.
"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."
You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"
Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.
"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.
Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.
"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."
You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.
Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!
"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."
He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.
Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.
The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.
Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?
It’s unbearable how turned on you are.
Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.
Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.
Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.
When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.
"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."
You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"
He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.
If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.
Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.
"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.
But then he stills.
Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.
"W-why'd you stop—,"
"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.
"Huh?"
"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."
Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“
You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.
"Answer the question, Sergeant."
Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.
"Mmhh—"
The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.
"Please, Lt.—"
"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."
And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?
You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.
Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.
"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."
The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.
"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.
It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.
The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.
Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.
He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.
“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.
“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”
He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.
"Jerk— hngh!"
Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.
You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.
(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?
It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)
His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.
It's all too much for you to take.
When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.
"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.
He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.
With the crash comes some of your rationality.
"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.
"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."
You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"
He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.
"Don't you?"
Don't you?
Your breath catches in your chest.
And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?
His name? His face?
Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?
Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.
You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.
"You with me, pet?"
Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.
"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."
You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.
“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"
The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.
"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."
Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.
"—off," you manage to say between breaths.
Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.
His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.
"Scared?" He teases.
You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.
"I've had bigger," you lie.
He tilts his head. "S'that right?"
Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.
Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.
He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.
"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"
You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."
"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.
"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.
"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."
Fucking. Asshole!
Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."
You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.
Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.
"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.
His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.
“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”
"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.
"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.
"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.
It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.
Simon doesn't stop teasing you.
"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.
"Cock's got your tongue?"
"F-fu-ungh—"
Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.
He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.
"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."
"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.
It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.
He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.
You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.
His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.
"Come f'me, pet."
And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.
Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.
When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.
Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.
“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.
But there’s no real venom in your voice.
Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.
“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”
You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.
Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.
"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"
You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.
Here's a pt 2 of [corgi shifter!reader] with lots of whump....
Consciousness comes to you in waves.
Everything feels...bad. you get glimpses of fluorescent lights, of a dog lying on your bed, of figures outside your door whispering.
"–almost died–" "–forged papers–" "–weeks if not months–"
All of it passes over you, until you fall back asleep, calmed by the lack of pain for once in your life. When you next open your eyes, it's to the splitting familiarity of a headache and the realization that this isn't your room.
Any attempts to move has your muscles locking up in pain, like pins-and-needles all across your body. Just lying there doing nothing is making tears spring to your eyes, whimpering.
Fuck. This hurts. It hurts so bad.
"Oh– shit– hey! Hey, I think the kid's awake!" A voice beside you yells, making you flinch then flinch again at the pain it causes. A stampede of motion enters the room, people talking over eachother. something keeps beeping, loud and fast.
What's going on? Why are you here? There's strangers all around you, touching you, speaking above you but not to you. Everything hurts. You begin to cry openly, the pain too much. You want it to stop.
One voice stands out amongst the rest, low and deep, ghost. You blink your eyes open, and through tears see ghost in that shitty worn-out balaclava he wears to bed.
His eyes lock onto yours, intense, like he's locking onto a target. You forget completely about your anxiety around him, about how you think he hates you, because he's familiar and you're in pain and it won't stop.
"it hurts–" you wail, face scrunched like you're some fresh-faced recruit crying for mama. You try to reach for ghost but your hand just shakes and locks up "please– ghost it hurts! It hurts! Make it stop–"
"Hey, hey–" ghosts warm palms settles on you chest, and that hurts too, but less because it's ghost "listen to me, runt, I know you're a shifter."
Your mind stutters, heart stops. The beeping picks up. No. No no no. All that comes out is a pained whine.
Price, Soap, and Gaz end up trailing after you mostly because Ghost does.
You take off down the pavement, still shouting, “GHOST! BABY, IT’S OKAY, COME HERE!” and the lieutenant just… goes with you.
Not to protect you from anyone else that might take you hostage in a crime if opportunity. Not silent, stalking wraith of death.
Just this six-foot-four-something slab of muscle in a skull mask, looming at your shoulder, moving wherever you move.
Price falls into step behind him with a frown. “Lieutenant.”
No response.
Ghost’s eyes are locked on you, that black smudge of his gaze tracking every frantic turn of your head, every time you cup your hands and yell for your dog. There’s this weird, dazed, soft look in his posture, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s subconsciously trying to make himself smaller around you.
“LT,” Soap tries, a little louder, jogging up beside him. “You good, big man?”
Nothing. Not even a grunt.
“Christ,” Gaz mutters under his breath, staring at the back of Ghost’s head like it’s grown a second mask. “Did he break?”
You keep calling out, voice a little hoarse now. “Ghost! C’mon, sweetheart! It’s safe, baby, promise! Momma’s okay!”
Ghost stumbles for half a step like the word momma hit him center mass.
Price notices and his eyes narrow. “…What the fuck.”
They round a corner into a quieter stretch of street, cars parked haphazardly along the curb, a narrow strip of grass and a few scraggly trees. You slow, listening hard, chest heaving.
“Ghost?” you call again, the name softer now. “Baby, where are you? It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re my brave boy, remember?”
There’s a tiny scrape of claws against asphalt from under a nearby truck.
You drop into a crouch, peering underneath. “There you are,” you breathe, voice going syrup thick with relief.
A pair of terrified eyes stare back at you: your dog is cemented to the ground, body low, tail tucked, whole frame trembling. The second your fingers wiggle toward him, he flattens even more, rolling slightly to show his belly in that panicked, submissive way he has when he thinks he’s in trouble.
“Oh, baby,” you coo, immediately dropping to your knees on the cold pavement, uncaring of the blood on your clothes, the dirt, the ache. “No, no, you did so good, sweetheart. Such a brave boy, hiding like that. You are so clever, you know that?”
You shuffle further under the bumper, hand extended, palm open. Your voice turns into full on baby talk. “C’mere, my big strong boy. That’s it, there’s my handsome man. Mommy’s here, yeah? Mommy’s gonna keep you safe, promise. You did so good, Ghost.”
Behind you, Ghost-the-human almost drops.
His knees actually buckle for a second before he locks them, thighs going rigid. There’s a rush of heat down his spine so intense it’s almost nauseating. The praise. The tone. The way you say his name like that.
Soap watches the way the lieutenant’s fingers flex at his sides, the way his breath catches.
“…Oh, fuck,” Soap whispers, a grin tugging at his mouth. “He’s gone.”
Price is silent, taking in the sight of his second-in-command, normally the most controlled, lethal bastard he knows, standing there like someone hit him in the head. Ghost’s head is tilted, shoulders loose, that dangerous tension in him melted into something floaty, hazy.
You finally coax your dog toward you, coaxing, praising, voice soft and delighted.
“There he is! There’s my big brave boy. Look at you,” you croon, running your hands over his trembling sides as he crawls into your lap and buries his face against your chest. “Oh, you’re such a good boy. So strong. So clever. You protected mommy so good, baby, I’m so proud of you.”
Ghost feels it like claws dragging down his spine in the best possible way. Good boy. Strong. Clever. Proud of you.
His vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges. He wants..: God, he wants to just tip forward, stretch out on the pavement behind you, belly up, throat bared, let you pet your nails through his hair and call him a good boy too. The way his cock is straining against his zipper is actually bordering on painful now, every sweet little murmur from you sending another hot spike down his spine.
He shifts his weight, trying to adjust himself as subtly as possible. It’s not subtle.
Soap chokes on a laugh. “He’s actually gonna pass out.”
“Shut it,” Price growls, but it’s half hearted. Even he can see it: the way Ghost is vibrating on some weird frequency only your voice is tuned to. The lieutenant’s gloved hands twitch every time you say “boy,” every time you say “brave,” every time you make those soft little soothing noises.
Your dog rolls a bit more in your lap, exposing his belly fully, tail swishing weakly. You immediately start rubbing his chest and neck, praising him with every stroke.
“That’s it, lie down for me, yeah? You’re okay now. You did everything right. You’re such a good boy, my Ghost. My best boy. So strong for mommy.”
The first moment you recognize those brown eyes you think that maybe it's a trick of the light, your mind choosing to torment you again. But it's him, the flicker of realization in the way he takes you in almost makes the features of his beaten up face turn into something resembling a smile. His struggle against the ropes comes to a stop, he looks like he wants to lean more towards you, but a hit with the back of the gun from one of the soldiers breaks the spell. You still your body not to react, digging the heel of your boots into the ground so you won't run towards him. Your right hand rests loosely where your gun is strapped, there are four soldiers in the room and many more outside.
Besides the beating they gave him upon arrival Ghost looks in good shape, maybe a broken rib or two by the way he winces everytime he inhales and how he seems to lean his weight on the right side. They stripped him of his weapons, but you didn't see them check his boots so chances are they might have missed a knife or two. From what you gathered from the soldiers that captured him, he was the only one that got caught and that was three hours ago and now was close to ten p.m. which meant that in a couple of hours Price and the others would try rescuing him. From your brief messages in the past they should know the layout of the base and the weak spots. You're sure Johnny's gonna have the time of his life blasting off this place.
Inching closer to him you take his chin in your hand assesing the damage. His mask is off, a black eye that has a hard time focusing on his surroundings. Something on the floor catches your eye, a tooth lays bloodied at the foot of the chair. Taking it in your hand you study it against the light, it has a slightly yellow color, probably from all the smoking, surprisingly no cavity.
"They roughed you up pretty badly, it's a shame I didn't get the chance to play a little."
Your hand moves along his jaw as you speak, probing his arms and shoulders, checking for fractured or dislocated bones. When you slightly hit his left leg the reflexes are good, no broken leg so he can run, Ghost's painful grunt is just a little treat.
"You'll get your turn soon if the big guy doesn't start talking." says one of the soldiers, but you ignore him.
By the way Ghost's split lip lifts up he knows you're gonna help him. You're half tempted to leave him on his own, but then Price is gonna flip out and after all this weeks on this base getting all the shitty jobs for being the newcomer and making sure to not blow up your cover, you're ready for some time off, a raise would be nice too.
The hours pass slowly until it's close to two a.m. when the sentinels change so the task force should be here soon enough. There are two other soldiers in the room, both on the verge of falling asleep. Moving slowly behind one of them, pulling his head up and cutting his throat in one swift motion. Before the other one can make a move or think about screaming, the knife cuts his artery, blood splurging on the wall and yourself. Ghost gives you a lopsided smile as you cut off the ropes. He looks like he wants to say something, but you interrupt him:
"Can you move on your own and keep up?"
He just nods, taking the mask thrown on the table and putting it back on, his movements a bit stiff, red marks visible on his wrists where the rope dug in. There are no other words exchanged between the two of you as he silently straps back his weapons. In the begining you try being as silent as possible, but by the time the first explosion happens and the building on the east side collapses, you know that's Johnny's doing so there's no point in moving slowly anymore. After that the minutes and the bodies blur together until you are outside, a hand on your shoulder brings you back to yourself, barely catching the end of a "Good job, sergeant." from Price.
For some reason Ghost chooses to sit next to you on the ride back, his big frame cornering you against the window. When his head falls on your shoulder you are about to rip him a new one, but the way he looks so tired and bruised makes you hesitate. You know he's sleeping when not even a few minutes later a light snoring breaks the silence in the car. You spend the rest of the ride looking out the window ignoring the weight on your shoulder, but still comforted by its presence.
By the time the five of you get back it's already lunch time and despite the growls of your stomach you ignore Gaz's suggestion to go grab a bite. You don't get to take more than a few steps until someone catches your hand and instinctively you shake it away. Turning around there's Ghost, his hand still in the air, not daring to meet your eyes. Despite his size you don't think you've ever seen him look so hunched and defeated:
"Sergeant..."
"It's unlike you to get caught so easily, lieutenant."
"I was wondering if..."
"Go to the infirmary, sir. I'll hand out my report to the captain first thing in the morning."
You don't wait for an answer and turn around, this time he doesn't try to stop you, standing in the hallway watching your retreating figure. You get back to your room in a daze, throwing your boots somewhere in a corner, curling up around yourself under the blanket and falling asleep as soon as your eyes close.
Thoughts on ferret hybrid reader with larger predator hybrid 141, cause I think its hilarious  🤣
Oh my stars, yes
(fist-fought demons to get this out, smh)
-=-=-=-
Picture this: the 141 are a task force made up of entirely large predator hybrids- creatures you wouldn't want to tango with even without factoring in the human intelligence and possibility of holding a grudge
I'm thinking Tiger Soap, Alligator Price, Grey Wolf Gaz, and Polar Bear Ghost; each of them strong, regal, and terrifying in their own right
So when they got you added to the team, a small(er) and springy Ferret Hybrid, they had absolutely no clue what to make of it.
Was it an elaborate prank from Laswell? Were you secretly a super soldier? They had no clue what to expect, especially since none of them had ever been around anyone who owned a pet ferret
So once you had gotten settled in, Soap had excitedly dragged you to the gym, demanding a spar as the other three just shook their heads in exasperation. They expected to later hear all about how he took you down in two seconds flat, or maybe get a report that you've been landed in the infirmary after the scot got carried away again. Instead, a few hours later, they found him laying on the couch of the rec room, looking baffled as if someone had just proven that the sky was actually green.
"They just.... flipped out- one sec'nd we're gearin' up, tae next they're all over tae place an' I'm flat on mah back, I dunno wha' tae fook happened," He sounded confused about his own words even as he spoke them, hands gesturing about as if trying to mold invisible clay like it'd make anything make any more sense.
At the time, the rest of the men had just laughed it off. Soap getting taken down by a little ferret like you? Had to have been some kind of joke, or Soap was just off his game that day
At least, they thought that up until they finally had a team training session, with each getting paired up and sent onto the mats to spar and get their forms critiqued, whatever the hell excuse they fed to the higher ups to justify getting to clobber eachother for a bit and get paid for it
They paired you up against Gaz first, the wolf shaking out his limbs and readying up, trying to hide his cocky little smirk- no doubt thinking it'd be over fairly quickly as you readied up across from him
With a glance between the two of you, Price called to begin, and-
Before Gaz got a chance to move, you were darting up to him, light on your paws as you got right up in his space. Gaz reared back, going to take a swipe at you, his fist meeting empty air as you ducked and rolled under his swing, bouncing back up onto your paws and darting up into his space again
Gaz backed up, trying to get space, but you just kept bouncing around, ducking and rolling and doing spins- at one point he swears you did a spin like a breakdancer, only to do a roll back onto your feet and immediately spring into a cartwheel
It left him baffled, his logic and training flailing with eachother over what the hell he's supposed to do about this-
Then your tail hooked around his knee and pulled, and you were right there, grabbing his arm and wrenching it over your shoulder, a startled yip! escaping him as the rest of his body quickly followed
his chin slammed into the mat, and before he got the sense to get up, you were already planted on his back, knee leaning your weight on his trapped wrists and pinning him down
Gaz blinked.
What just happened
Price called the match, amusement barely kept out of his voice in favor of professionalism, but Ghost and Soap had no such reservations
"SEE? SEE?! AH FOOKIN' TOLD YE BELLENDS BOUT TAE FLIPS BUT NOOOO NO'ONE WANTED TAE LISTEN-!" Soap bellowed, nearly drowned out by Ghost's explosive laughter, the arctic hybrid almost curled clear over as he absolutely lost it, breaking into a coughing fit as Soap spun to point at him with an accusatory point, "YOOU SHUT YER GOB YE FUCK"
"30 Seconds; Match goes to [Name]" Price called, and you hopped off of Gaz's back with a happy little dookdook
"What, the hell, was that???" He questioned, getting back to his feet like he was worried you'd start doing backflips if he moved too fast
You just grinned, a single snaggletooth poking over your lip
"War dance! Only effective a third of the time, but it works" you shrugged, trotting your happy ass over to the rest bench to swipe a granola bar like you didn't just rattle Gaz's skull and give Soap the vindication he's needed all month
You sat on the couch in the dim living room, still wearing the dress you'd bought specifically for tonight. The soft burgundy fabric that hugged your curves just right, the one you'd tried on three times in the store because you wanted to see his face when he saw you in it. Your heels lay discarded by the door, kicked off around 8 PM when your feet started aching from pacing. It was nearly midnight now.
The pasta you'd spent two hours preparing sat cold and congealed in pots on the stove. You'd made his favorite. Fresh pappardelle from scratch, the way he mentioned his mother used to make before everything went to hell in his life. You'd rolled the dough yourself, cursing when it stuck to the counter, watching YouTube videos to get the thickness just right. The sauce—a slow-simmered ragu that filled the flat with the smell of tomatoes, red wine, and herbs—had been perfect at seven.
It was ruined now. All of it.
The table was still set. Two plates. Two wine glasses. The small vase of flowers you'd picked up from the market that morning, wanting everything to be special. Because it had been six weeks. Six weeks since you'd had a proper evening together, just the two of you. Six weeks of him coming home after you were asleep, leaving before you woke. Six weeks of brief kisses and "sorry, baby" and "I'll make it up to you."
Tonight was supposed to be different.
He'd promised.
You heard his key in the lock and didn't move. Didn't turn around. Just kept staring at the cold fireplace, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like something fragile was cracking inside your chest.
The door opened. Closed. The heavy sound of his tactical boots—he hadn't even had time to change—on the hardwood floor. He stopped when he entered the living room. You could feel his eyes on you, could feel the exact moment he saw the table, the candles, the dress.
"Love—"
"Don't." Your voice came out steadier than you expected. Colder. "Just... don't."
Silence. Then his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving closer. You sensed him taking in the scene—the evidence of your effort, your hope, now just another casualty of his job. He moved around the couch, and you finally looked up at him.
Simon stood there in full tactical gear, dirt smudged across his jaw, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. But it was the look on his face—that terrible combination of regret and resignation—that made your throat tighten.
"There was a situation," he started, voice low and rough. "Price needed—"
"There's always a situation, Simon." You stood abruptly, needing distance, needing air. Your hands trembled as you wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. "There's always something. Someone always needs you."
"I know."
"Do you?" You turned to face him fully, and God, you hated how your eyes were already burning with tears. You'd promised yourself you wouldn't cry. "Do you actually know? Because I've been sitting here for five hours. Five hours, Simon. In this stupid dress, watching the food get cold, making excuses for you in my head."
He took a step forward.
"I tried calling," he said quietly. "Three times. You didn't answer."
"I didn't want to hear it over the phone." Your voice cracked. "I didn't want another 'sorry, can't make it' text or call. I just... I wanted you to show up. I wanted to be the thing you showed up for."
Something flickered across his face—pain, sharp and immediate. "You are."
"Am I?" The question burst out of you, all the hurt and loneliness of the past weeks flooding forward. "Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm always last. Always the thing that can wait. Always the one who's supposed to understand."
"That's not—" He ran a hand over his face, and you saw it then—how exhausted he was, how the weight of whatever he'd been doing tonight sat heavy on his shoulders. But you were tired too. So tired of being understanding, of being patient, of being alone.
"You hurt me," you whispered, and the words hung in the air between you like something breakable.
His eyes closed briefly. When they opened, there was something raw in them. "I know, baby."
"And I'm mad at you." Your voice got smaller, more vulnerable. "I'm so mad at you, Simon. But I can't even…" A sob caught in your throat. "I can't even stay properly angry because I was so worried. When you didn't show up, part of me was hurt, but part of me thought what if something happened? What if he's not coming home at all?"
"God." He moved then, crossing the distance between you in two long strides. You put your hands up against his chest, trying to keep him at bay, but he was already there, solid and real and warm. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Stop." But your hands were fisting in his tactical vest now, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer. "Stop apologizing. You're always sorry, but nothing changes. Nothing ever changes."
"Look at me." His hands came up to cup your face, forcing your eyes to his. His thumbs brushed away tears you didn't realize had fallen. "Please, love. Look at me."
You did, and God help you, you saw it—the genuine remorse, the pain at causing you pain. It would be easier if he didn't care. Easier if he was callous or dismissive. But Simon Riley loved you in his broken, complicated way, and that made it all worse because you knew he didn't want to hurt you. He just kept doing it anyway.
"Do you even love me anymore?" The question came out small and broken. "Because I don't know how to keep doing this. I don't know how to keep being second place."
His expression cracked, something fierce and almost desperate flooding his features. "I adore you." The words came out rough, fervent. "Bloody hell, I adore you. You're not second place. You're not…You're everything. You're the only good thing I have, the only thing worth coming home to."
"Then why?" Your hands clutched tighter at his vest. "Why do you keep doing this to me? To us?"
"Because I'm a fucking idiot." He pulled back just enough to look at you, "Because men like me don't get things like you, and some part of me keeps expecting it to end anyway, so I sabotage it. Because I'm better at being a soldier than I am at being yours, and I hate that. I fucking hate it."
"Simon—"
"No, let me..." He took a shaky breath. "You made dinner. You got dressed up, you waited, and I couldn't even send a proper message. I knew this morning there was a chance we'd get called out, and I didn't tell you. I let you hope because I'm a selfish bastard who wanted you to keep looking at me the way you do, and then I let you down anyway."
The honesty of it gutted you. You could feel yourself softening against your will, the anger draining away even though you wanted to hold onto it, needed it as armor against the hurt.
"I'm still mad," you said weakly.
"I know." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "You should be. You should be furious."
"I wanted tonight to be perfect." Your voice broke. "I just wanted a few hours with you. Just us. No missions, no emergencies, just... us."
"I know, baby. I know." He kissed your forehead, then your temple, soft and reverent. "What can I do? Tell me how to fix this."
"I don't know if you can." The words hurt to say. "I don't know if I can keep breaking like this."
Something like panic flashed across his face. His hands tightened on you, not painfully, but like he was afraid you'd disappear. "Don't say that. Please don't—"
"I love you so much it hurts," you interrupted, the confession spilling out. "I love you so much that I sit here making excuses, telling myself next time will be different. But I'm drowning, Simon. I'm drowning in loving someone who can't put me first.."
"Then let me be better." His voice was urgent now, almost pleading. "I'll talk to Price. I'll set boundaries. I'll—"
"You've said that before."
The truth of it settled between you, heavy and unavoidable. He had. After the missed birthday dinner. After he'd forgotten your anniversary. After the weekend trip he'd cancelled at the last minute. He always said it, and he always meant it in the moment, but then duty called and you were alone again.
You watched him struggle with that reality, saw the moment he realized promises weren't enough anymore.
"You're right." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I've failed you. Over and over." His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, down your arms, until he was holding your hands. "But I'm asking anyway. I'm asking for another chance I don't deserve because the thought of losing you…" He stopped, jaw working. "It would break me. Properly break me. You're the only soft thing in my life, and I keep suffocating you with my inability to show up."
"Simon.."
"Come here." It wasn't demanding, but there was a desperate edge to it. "Please, let me hold you."
You should say no. Should make him sit with the consequences, should protect yourself from the inevitable next disappointment. But your body betrayed you, swaying toward him, craving the comfort only he could provide even as he was the source of your hurt.
He gathered you up carefully, like you might shatter. You didn't resist as he moved to the couch, settling down with you cradled in his lap. Your legs curled up, your side pressed against his chest, and despite everything, you felt yourself beginning to relax into familiar warmth.
"I've got you, love." he murmured into your hair.
You wanted to stay angry. You did. But his arms were around you, and God, you'd missed this. Missed him. Your fingers found the collar of his vest, holding on.
"Talk to me," he said softly, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back. "Don't shut me out."
"I'm scared," you admitted quietly. "I'm scared that this is just how it's always going to be. That I'm going to spend my life waiting for you, watching dinners get cold, sleeping alone."
His arms tightened. "That's not—"
"You can't promise that." You looked up at him. "You can't promise it won't happen again because we both know it will. Something will come up. And I'll be here, understanding, patient, slowly disappearing."
He was quiet for a long moment, and you could see him turning over your words, unable to deny them. Finally, he spoke. "You're right. I can't promise it won't happen again. My job is... it's unpredictable. There will be emergencies." He cupped your face, making sure you were looking at him. "But I can promise to do better. To communicate. To not let it get to six weeks between real time together. To actually set boundaries instead of just saying I will."
"How?"
"I'll tell Price I need a rotation change. I'll take myself off immediate response unless it's truly critical. I'll put in for that training position I've been avoiding because it means more time behind a desk." He brushed your hair back from your face. "I'll choose you. Actively, deliberately choose you."
You wanted to believe him. Wanted it so badly your chest ached.
"The pasta's ruined," you said instead, voice small.
A soft huff of something almost like laughter. "I figured."
"I made it from scratch. The pappardelle. Like your mum used to make."
His expression softened into something tender and broken all at once.
"And I got this dress." You touched the burgundy fabric. "Because you once said you liked me in warm colors."
"I love you in this dress." His hand traced down your side, appreciating the fit. "I love you in anything. I love you in nothing." His voice caught. "I love you so much I don't have words for it, and I keep fucking it up anyway."
"I know you love me," you whispered. "That's not the question. The question is whether love is enough when I'm always alone."
He didn't have an answer for that. Instead, he just held you tighter, pressing kisses to your forehead, your temple, your hair. Soft, reverent touches that felt like apologies, like promises, like prayers.
You let yourself have this. Let yourself soften into him, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Your anger was still there, coiled in your chest, but it was losing the fight against exhaustion and longing.
"I missed you," you admitted quietly. "Even being mad at you, I missed you."
"Missed you too, baby." His hand continued its soothing path up and down your back. "Think about you constantly. When I'm out there, you're what keeps me sharp, keeps me alive."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"No." He tilted your chin up. "That's just the truth. You're my home. The only thing that makes sense in all the chaos."
You studied his face—the scars, the exhaustion, the sincerity in his brown eyes. Simon Riley wasn't a man who spoke easily about feelings. Every word was pulled from somewhere deep and guarded. And he was looking at you like you were something he was terrified of losing.
"I need you to actually try this time," you said finally. "Not just promise. Actually try."
"I will." No hesitation.
"And I need you to tell me when something might interfere with plans. Even if you think it probably won't. I need to know so I can prepare myself instead of hoping."
"Done."
"And.." Your voice got smaller. "I need more of this. Of you holding me, talking to me. I need to feel like I matter."
His arms constricted around you. "You matter more than anything. And I'll show you. Every day, I'll show you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Starting now. Starting with sitting here as long as you need. Then I'm going to clean up the kitchen—"
"Baby—"
"—and tomorrow, I'm taking you out. Proper date. Fancy restaurant, the works. And I'm turning my phone off."
"You can't turn your phone off."
"Watch me." There was a fierce determination in his voice. "The team can manage one night without me. The world can manage one night without me. You can't."
Despite everything, you felt your lips twitch. "That's dramatic."
"That's honest." He shifted you slightly, arranging you more comfortably against him. "You want to stay mad at me, you go ahead. I'll sit here and take it. But I'm not letting you go, and I'm not giving up on us."
You were quiet for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "I don't wanna stay mad."
"No?"
"No." You sighed, some of the tension finally bleeding out of your shoulders. "I want this to be the time things actually change."
"Then let me prove it." His hand cupped the back of your head, cradling you against him. "Let me spend the rest of tonight and tomorrow and every day after showing you that you're my priority."
"Okay," you whispered.
Then you tilted your head up, meeting his eyes. "But Simon? If this happens again—"
"It won't."
"If it does," you continued firmly, "we need to have a serious conversation about whether this relationship can survive your job."
The gravity of that settled over both of you. He nodded slowly, understanding the ultimatum even if you hadn't quite framed it as one. "Fair."
You laid your head back on his chest, feeling the exhaustion of the evening catching up with you. His hand resumed its gentle stroking along your back, and gradually, your breathing synced with his.
"I really did make it from scratch," you murmured sleepily.
"I know, baby."
"Took two hours."
"I know." He kissed the top of your head. "Tomorrow, you teach me how. We'll make it together."
"You'll be terrible at it."
"Probably." You could hear the smile in his voice. "But I'll be there. That's what matters."
And despite everything, you found yourself believing him. Maybe you were foolish. Maybe you were setting yourself up for more heartbreak. But as you sat there wrapped in his arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, you chose hope.
"Simon?"
"Yeah, love?"
"I adore you too." The words came out soft but certain. "Even when I'm furious with you, I adore you."
His arms tightened around you, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "Don't deserve you."
"No," you agreed. "But you're mine anyway."
"Yeah." He pressed another kiss to your hair. "I am. Completely."
You sat there together in the quiet living room, surrounded by the evidence of disappointed hopes and broken promises, and somehow found your way back to each other anyway. It wasn't a fix. It wasn't a guarantee. But it was a start.
And for tonight, wrapped in his arms, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, it was enough.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
Pairing: Mike Ross x f!bartender!reader
Warnings/Tags: lots and lots of fluff, slow-burn, kissing, Harvey... being Harvey, flustered Mike, mild flirting
Word Count: 4.2K
Author Note: Hi everyone! I'm officially back :D I'm so happy to be posting again and out of the writers block that I've had over the past few months. I hope to make you guys proud and happy with the new content I'll be posting :) Sorry this one is so long, but I just had a lot of ideas for this story so bear with me <3
Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!
Mike Ross does not want to be here.
In fact, he makes it abundantly clear while walking down the New York sidewalk in a wrinkled button-down and his coat half-buttoned because he "didn't have time" and Harvey responds, "Yeah, Mike, because moping takes up so much of your schedule."
Mike almost turns around.
Harvey grabs his elbow.
And that's how he ends up in front of the sign.
SPEED DATING - ONE NIGHT ONLY!
Below it, in handwritten marker:
"Find Love or at Least Free Drinks."
"You brought me to hell," Mike mutters.
Harvey adjusts his tie and smooths his coat. "Don't be dramatic, that's Louis' department. You're getting out. You're socializing. You're touching grass."
"This is a bar."
"Liquid grass." Harvey shrugs. "Close enough."
Mike glares. "You forced me. You practically dragged me."
"If I dragged you, you'd have scuffed those hideous shoes you insist on wearing. Now go inside."
Before Mike can argue, Harvey pushes the door open and ushers him in with a palm on his back.
And that's when Mike sees you.
___
You, behind the bar.
You're wiping down the counter with a rag casually slung over your shoulder, hair tied back in a way that looks like you did it without thinking but somehow looks perfect.
Your expression is calm. focused. A little bored, maybe.
Until you look up.
Your eyes meet Mike's for a single second.
Mike forgets everything. His name. Harvey's existence. The concept of breathing.
Harvey snaps his fingers next to his ear. "Mike? Are you concussed?"
"I... uh... what?"
"There it is," Harvey smirks. "The Mike Ross brain-crash."
"I don't- I wasn't- Shut up."
But Harvey has already caught it. He sees the way Mike's gaze gravitates back to you like you're magnetic. Supernova-level gravitational pull.
"Uh-huh," Harvey mutters. "This just got interesting."
Mike tries to compose himself, clear his throat, straighten his shirt- only for Harvey to swat his hands away.
"You look fine. No amount of grooming is going to fix the fact you look like a golden retriever who hasn't been brushed."
Mike groans. "I hate you."
"No, you don't. You're welcome. Now go sign in for your dates." Harvey gives him a shove toward the little table covered in name tags.
But Mike?
Mike takes a half-step toward the bar instead.
Harvey grabs the back of his jacket. "You can flirt with the bartender after you suffer through your scheduled humiliation."
___
The First Few Dates
Mike sits down at a small two-person table. The place is littered with them. twinkle lights. Soft indie music. Buzzing chatter.
Date #1 sits down. Her name is Kayla. She's enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic.
"So my favorite hobby is making miniature historical dioramas out of recycled cardboard!"
Mike blinks. "That's... impressive."
"It's a very meditative craft," she says. "Last month I recreated the Battle of Hasting using only cereal boxes."
"That's- yeah. That's.. wow."
But his eyes drift behind her. To the bar. To you.
You're adding a garnish to a drink, lips slightly pursed in concentration, and Mike stares like he's trying to solve a physics equation by observation alone.
The bell rings. Date #1 rotates. Date #2 sits. She giggles before she even speaks.
"Oh my god, you're cute."
Mike forces a smile. "Thanks."
"I'm doing a juice cleanse right now, so I can't drink at all."
There is a long pause.
"...Cool."
"My friends say I'm a Scorpio sun with Taurus rising so I'm, like, complicated but loveable!"
Mike's brain is already drifting.
You're laughing at something someone said at the other end of the bar.
Your laugh is bright, warm-
His chest actually warms in response.
Date #2: "Are you listening?"
Mike: "Yep! Taurus sun."
"-Taurus rising."
"Oh. Right."
He takes a long sip of water.
He thinks about getting a real drink.
He thinks about who would serve it to him.
Date #3 sits down.
She talks too fast.
Date #4 reads him her poetry.
Date #5 keeps playing with her hair and saying "You look nervous Mike. You don't have to be nervous around me."
Date #6 says, "I'm looking for someone financially stable and emotionally mature.'
Harvey, from across the room, sees Mike's dead expression and laughs into the rim of his whiskey glass.
___
Finally, he can't take it anymore.
He pushes back from Date #7 with a polite smile. "Uh, sorry, I- I just need another drink."
"Ooh, what are you having?"
"Whatever cures misery."
He walks away before she can answer. And he walks straight to you.
You greet him with that small, polite bartender smile.
"What can I get you?"
Mike opens his mouth- nothing comes out.
You tilt your head, waiting.
He blinks twice. "Uh... ginger ale."
You raise one brow. "You came all the way over here looking like you were contemplating the meaning of your whole life for a ginger ale?"
Mike flushes. "I... yeah, I guess."
You smile. Really smile, this time. "Okay. Ginger ale it is."
You pour it, sliding the glass toward him with an easy motion. Mike takes it like it's a blessing.
"You're new here, right?" you ask, wiping down a spill near your elbow. "I don't usually see you at these events."
"I'm being forced," he blurts.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, uh- my boss thinks I need to 'get out more', which is code for 'stop feeling sorry for myself.'"
"That's a very specific code."
"Yeah, Harvey's not subtle."
You laugh. It's like a small sun going off.
"So, how's it going?" you ask. "Meeting your future wife at table six?"
"Oh, absolutely not. I think table six wants to sacrifice me to her crystal collection."
You laugh. Mike grins like he's won gold.
You lean your elbows on the bar, interest in your gaze. "And you? What do you look for at a speed dating event?"
Mike nearly says you. His throat tightens. His brain tells him to play it cool.
"My standards are low tonight," he says instead. "I'll settle for someone who doesn't think Mercury being in retrograde is the cause of her car breaking down."
"Wow. Tough crowd."
"You have no idea."
He takes a sip of ginger ale, then glances at your nametag- only to realize you're not wearing one.
"I'm Mike," he offers.
You smile. "I know. They have your name on the sign-in sheet."
"I feel violated."
You laugh again. "I'm Y/N."
Mike repeats your name under his breath, like he's trying to memorize it.
___
While Mike sips his drink like it's liquid courage, you're mixing a cocktail for someone else when you say, offhand:
"I actually like working these events. Speed dating is basically inefficient data sorting in real time."
Mike freezes. He looks up sharply. "Inefficient... what now?"
You shrug casually. "It's like trying to run a matching algorithm with incomplete data sets. You can't optimize for compatibility if each unit only interacts for three minutes."
Mike's jaw drops. You're smart. Not 'I read my horoscope' smart. Not 'I like crime podcasts' smart.
Actually smart.
"You... like algorithms?" he asks, stunned.
"I was a math major," you say. "Well, technically applied mathematics."
Mike actually forgets to breathe.
You laugh at his expression. "What? You look like I just told you I juggle chainsaws."
"No, no, it's just- math? Really?"
"What, you think bartenders can't like math?"
"No! No, that's now what I- I mean, I love math. I competed in mathletes. I still read probability books for fun. I literally alphabetize my stress by calculating all possible outcomes until I have a crisis."
You stare at him. A slow smile spreads across your lips.
"That... actually makes sense for you," you say softly.
Mike melts.
___
Harvey appears behind Mike like a demon summoned upon his shoulder.
"What's going on here?" he asks, eyes flicking between the two of you.
"Harvey, this is-"
"Y/N," you fill in, giving a polite nod.
Harvey leans on the bar. "Pleasure. I'm Mike's babysitter."
Mike groans. "Can you please go away."
"Nope." Harvey takes a sip of Mike's ginger ale. "I'm supervising."
You give Mike a sympathetic look. "He treats you like you're twelve."
"He thinks I am."
"I don't think you are," Harvey replies. "I simply recognize that without adult supervision, you'd probably sign up for a pyramid scheme."
You cover your mouth, laughing quietly.
Harvey smirks at the sight. "Oh, so this is why he keeps coming back to the bar."
Mike's face goes red.
Harvey smirks in your direction, "he hasn't made it through a single full date without glancing in this direction."
You glance at Mike, soft amusement in your eyes. "Not even one?"
"No," Mike admits. "But I'm really enjoying this ginger ale."
"Uh-huh," you say, leaning your chin on your hand. "Totally the ginger ale."
Mike swallows.
Harvey claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, Romeo. Back to the tables. Don't worry, she'll still be here when you need another excuse."
Mike sighs. Deeply. He gives you an apologetic, reluctant smile.
You smile back. Warm and soft.
"Go," you murmur. "I'll be here."
___
Mike tries. He really does.
But every girl seems duller now. Not their fault- but they're not you.
Date #8 keeps calling him "Mikey."
Date #9 asks him if he believes in soul vibrations.
Date #10 says she only dates men over six feet tall- then awkwardly says "But I guess you have... other qualities?"
Mike just stands up and walks to the bar again.
Harvey doesn't even try to stop him this time.
You look up, trying not to laugh. "Emergency ginger ale?"
"Something stronger."
You bite your lip. "How strong?"
"Make me forget table ten.'
You grin and reach for the whiskey. As you pour, you ask, "So... do you actually want to meet someone tonight?"
Mike hesitates. His heart answers faster than his mouth.
"No," he admits softly. "I... don't think so. My boss just worries too much."
"About your social life?"
"About me," Mike says quietly. "Which is embarrassing."
You soften. "Does he have a good reason?"
Mike looks down at his hands. "I've had a rough year."
You nod slowly. You don't pry. You don't make assumptions. You just look at him with this gentle understanding in your eyes that makes Mike want to spill every secret he's ever had.
He clears his throat. "Anyway. He thought this would help."
"Has it?"
Mike meets your eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Actually."
You blink. "Oh?"
"Yeah." He smiles a small, crooked smile. "I met someone interesting."
You freeze for a moment, surprised. Then your lips curve in a slow, shy smile.
"Oh," you murmur. "Well... that's good."
Mike blushes and takes a sip of whiskey.
___
This continues.
Date, bar. Date, bar. Date, bar.
Eventually, he stops pretending. He just sits at the bar for longer stretches while Harvey half-heartedly waves him back.
After his third whiskey, he leans on the counter, chin on his hand.
"Okay," he says, "tell me something nerdy."
You laugh. "Nerdy?"
"Yes. Impress me with your math powers."
You roll your eyes playfully, thinking. "Fine. You know the Collatz conjecture?"
Mike's eyes light up so brightly it's almost embarrassing. "Are- are you serious"
"Yeah."
"Nobody just brings that up in conversation."
"I do," you say. "If they're cute enough."
Mike nearly dies on the spot.
Harvey, across the room, sees this and shakes his head.
___
By the time the speed dating event is winding down, Mike is perched on a barstool like it's home. Half-tipsy, full smitten, cheeks flushed, eyes soft.
You're wiping down glasses, and he's watching you like you're the only real person in the room.
Harvey approaches, coat over his arm.
"Well," Harvey says, "you didn't meet your future wife, but you did meet your future restraining order."
Mike doesn't even react. He's still staring at you.
Harvey shakes his head. "Kid. You're pathetic. Let's go."
Mike finally looks away, reluctantly. "I- uh- I should go," he says to you.
You smile, leaning forward. "Come back sometime."
That one sentence hits him like a truck. He swallows. Smiles. Soft. Real. Nervous.
"I will."
He steps away. Then- he turns back. "One more thing," he says, voice quiet.
"Yeah?" you ask.
Mike's heart thunders. "I'm... really glad I came tonight."
You blink, shy but warm. "Me too."
___
Three days.
It has been three full days since the speed dating fiasco, and Mike Ross has not stopped thinking about you for even a fraction of a second.
He's supposed to be working. Supposed to be drafting a contract. Supposed to be listening while Harvey explains a strategy.
But no.
His brain is doing exactly one thing: Replaying the way you said Come Back sometime like an invitation wrapped in a smile.
And it's destroying him.
Harvey notices around hour three of Mike staring blankly at a legal brief. "What's wrong with you?" Harvey snaps, snapping a pen cap loudly. Mike flinches. "Nothing."
Mike slumps forward. "I'm not catatonic. I'm just- busy."
"You're thinking about the bartender."
Mike freezes. Harvey smirks.
"Oh god," Harvey says slowly. "You are."
"I'm not-"
"You're in love with a woman you spoke to for thirty minutes, Mike. This is new, even for you."
Mike covers his face with both hands. "Please stop talking."
Harvey stands, grabs his coat, and points at Mike with courtroom authority. "Get up."
Mike looks up. "What?"
"We're going."
"Where?"
Harvey smirks. "Where else? The bar."
Mike's brain crashes like a poorly coded app. "Absolutely not."
"Absolutely yes."
"No. No, Harvey. I'm not- I'm not ready! I don't even know what I'm going to say!"
"You're going to ask her out."
Mike makes a strangled noise. "I can't just- what if she's not even working today?"
"Then you buy a drink and cry in the corner while I make fun of you."
"That's not comforting."
"Wasn't meant to be."
Harvey snaps his fingers. "Let's go, Romeo."
___
Harvey walks confidently through the Manhattan streets.
Mike trails behind like a terrified toddler.
"I'm sweating," Mike mutters. "I'm literally sweating. Is that normal? Am I having a heart attack?"
"Christ." Harvey doesn't even look at him. "Pull yourself together. You've almost been to prison, Mike. Prison."
"This is worse! What if she doesn't remember me?"
"She remembers you."
"You don't know that."
"You tried to tip all the money in your wallet. She remembers you."
Mike groans loudly. Harvey says nothing, because he knows the groan is acceptance.
___
When Harvey pushes open the door, the bar is quieter than the speed dating night- warm lighting, soft music, mostly regulars.
Mike steps inside and immediately feels his heart in his throat.
He spots you instantly.
You're behind the bar, hair swept back, reading something between orders. Calm. Pretty. Totally unaware that Mike Ross is currently dying.
Harvey elbows him forward. "Go."
"I can't."
"You will."
But Mike is frozen, staring.
You look up. Your eyes find him- and your face lights up with recognition.
Mike genuinely thinks his knees almost give out.
You grin. "Well, look who it is."
Mike lets out a small, pathetic, sigh.
You walk over, towel slung over your shoulder.
"Back for more ginger ale?" you tease.
Harvey lets out a laugh behind him.
Mike's brain sparks. "I- yes. No. I mean- maybe? I don't know. Um."
You laugh softly. "Don't worry. I make all the nervous ones ginger ale. House policy."
Mike wants to sink into the floor.
Harvey grins like a proud parent. "I'll be supervising from over there," he announces dramatically. He sits at a booth with the face of a man who is way too smug.
Mike whispers, "I hate him."
You smile. "You two are hilarious."
Mike beams tragically. "Yeah. Hilarious."
___
"So," you say warmly, leaning on the counter, "rough day?"
"No," Mike blurts. "I'm just here. Because. Things."
You blink.
He quickly clears his throat. "I mean- yeah. Rough day." He gestures vaguely. "Law stuff."
"Mhm," you hum, amused. "Well, I can make something stronger than ginger ale if today was that kind of day."
"Please don't, I can't embarrass myself in front of you again."
You smirk. "You weren't that embarrassing."
"I was very embarrassing."
"You were cute."
___
From across the room, Harvey whistles sharply. "Are you asking for her number or planning to die of cowardice?"
You look down at Mike with a raised brow. "Number?" you echo.
Mike gives Harvey a death glare. He turns back to you, panicked. "I- he- we-"
You laugh. "It's okay. You can breathe."
Mike tries to breathe. Tries again. Fails.
Harvey stands and starts walking toward you both, hands in pockets, smirking.
"Oh god," Mike whispers. "Abort. Abort."
Harvey arrives behind him. "So! Y/N, is it? Mike here has something to ask you."
"Harvey, I swear to-"
You look amused. "Yeah?"
Mike blinks rapidly. His brain is screaming. His heart is screaming louder. And then-
You lean forward slightly, eyes warm. "Let me guess," you say softly. "You came back because you wanted to see me again?"
Mike stops breathing.
Harvey's eyebrows shoot up.
Mike nods. Minutely. Honestly. "...Yeah," he whispers.
Your smile grows slowly. Genuine. You reach under the counter, grab a napkin, click a pen, and start writing.
Mike stares.
Then you slide the napkin over to him.
Your name. Your number. A tiny sketch of a math symbol beside it - a cute, nerdy little touch just for him.
"My number," you say. "Since you look like you're about to pass out if you try asking for it."
Mike stares at the napkin like it's a holy artifact. "I- really?"
"Really." You smile. "I was hoping you'd come back."
Mike makes a soft choking noise that Harvey will absolutely mock him for later.
Harvey claps him on the back. "See? Easy. Now say thank you like a human being."
Mike turns to you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, voice soft: "Thank you. Seriously."
You grin. "Well. Now you have no excuse not to call."
"No excuse," Mike repeats. "None."
___
"So," Harvey starts, "are we done here? He got the number; he can go cry in his cubicle now."
You laugh. Mike groans, then stands, still staring at the napkin like it might disappear.
You lean forward, lowering your voice. "Call me tonight," you say. "If you want."
Mike's heart stops. "I want."
Harvey mutters, "Oh my god, he's whipped."
Mike doesn't deny it. He lets Harvey drag him out of the bar by the elbow, but he keeps looking back at you until the door closes.
___
The second the door shuts, Mike grabs Harvey's arm.
"She gave me her number."
"Yes."
"She gave me her number."
"I was there."
"Harvey. Harvey. Harvey. I like her. I like her."
"No shit. Congratulations on feeling basic human emotion."
Mike laughs helplessly. "I'm gonna call her."
"Good," Harvey says. "Because if I had to drag you back a third time, I'd bill you for emotional labor."
Mike shakes his head in disbelief, smiling so wide it hurts. "Harvey?"
"Yeah?"
"...Thank you."
Harvey grimaces. "Oh god. Don't get mushy on me."
But he doesn't walk away. He lets Mike have the moment.
___
Mike sits on the edge of his bed that night, staring at the napkin like it's a live grenade. He types your number in. Deletes it. Types it again. Deletes it.
Harvey calls him. "Did you do it?"
"No."
"Coward. Do it."
"I'm waiting for the perfect moment."
"It's nine-thirty at night. She's a bartender. She's awake."
Mike lies flat on his back. "I feel sick."
"Call her, you idiot." Harvey hangs up.
Mike stares at his phone. And then- finally- he presses call.
It rings once. Twice. Then:
"Mike?" Your voice. Soft. Warm. Very real.
Mike sits up too fast. "Hi!- I mean- Hi, yes this is Mike..."
You laugh gently. "I figured."
"I don't know if- I mean maybe- you were bust or- I don't know- sleeping or maybe you forgot who I was or- I-"
He hears you smiling. "Mike. Breathe."
He sucks in air. "Okay."
"So," you say, "I'm guessing you didn't call just to panic at me."
"No! I mean- yes- but no- I mean- I wanted to ask you something. If that's okay."
"I was hoping you would."
He closes his eyes. He is going to melt through the mattress. "Do you- um- want to have dinner with me? Like a real date?"
"I'd love to."
He freezes. "Yeah?"
"Yes."
Mike tries not to squeak. Fails miserably.
___
Four days later, Mike is standing outside the restaurant Harvey picked for him because:
"You have no taste. I'm not letting you take her to a diner, Mike"
"It's a good diner!"
"No."
So now Mike is in front of a chic, warm-lit restaurant that is far too nice for a first date. He's sweating. He's convinced that he tied his tie wrong. He thinks he might faint.
Then-
You arrive. And Mike forgets how to breathe entirely.
You look incredible. Not trying too hard. Not overdressed. Just... you. Warn, smiling, walking toward him like he's someone worth dressing up for.
"Hey," you say, shy but excited.
Mike makes a tiny noise that might be human. "Hi."
"You look nice," you smile.
"You- you look..." His voice breaks. He clears it. "You look beautiful."
You blush lightly. "That's sweet."
___
Once you're seated, something weird happens: Mike relaxes.
You're talking about math again- how you got into it, what fascinates you about patterns, why you still read academic journals 'for fun.'
Mike is wide-eyed, leaning, in, drinking in every word.
"Nobody ever wants to hear this stuff," you laugh softly. "I promise I'm not usually this nerdy."
"No," Mike says immediately. "Please. Keep going. I love it."
You blink. "You... love it?"
Mike blushes. "I love listening to you talk about things you care about."
You tuck hair behind your ear, suddenly a little shy.
The conversation flows like water. You ask about law school and he panics internally but smooths it over by talking about his photographic memory instead.
You say, "That's incredible."
He says, "you're incredible."
Then immediately wants to die because who says that aloud on a first date?
But you're smiling. Softly. Like you enjoyed hearing it.
___
Mike insists on walking you home. You protest. He protests harder.
So you walk side by side through the quiet evening streets, hands not touching but... close.
Dangerously close. Close enough that Mike keeps debating taking your hand. His heart says do it, but his brain says otherwise.
You glance over. "You okay? You're awfully quiet."
Mike swallows. "Just- thinking."
"About what?"
He looks at you. "...you."
You stop walking. He does too.
Your voice is soft. "Yeah?"
Mike nods. "I've been thinking about you since the moment I first saw you in the bar."
Your breath catches. "Mike..."
"I'm trying really hard not to be too much," he admits. "But I can't help liking you."
You step closer. "I like you too."
Mike's heart explodes.
You're standing close now. Too close for Mike to keep functioning. He looks at your lips for half a second- just a flicker- and you notice.
You whisper, "Mike..."
"Yeah?" His voice cracks.
"Can I kiss you?"
Mike nearly passes. He nods- too fast, too eager.
You step closer, one hand rising to his jaw, thumb brushing lightly along his cheek. He shivers. Then you kiss him. Soft. Warm. Slow. Gentle. Everything he wanted and didn't dare to hope for.
Your lips move against his and he sighs- a quiet, helpless sound- and kisses you back.
When you pull away, Mike looks stunned.
"Wow," he whispers.
You smile. "Yeah?"
"...Can- can we do that again?"
You laugh softly. "Come here."
___
This time, you kiss him deeper.
Mike's hands finally- finally- find your waist, fingers tentative at first, then firmer when you lean into him.
It's lush and slow and impossibly sweet. When you break apart again, Mike looks drunk.
You bite your lip. "Still okay?"
Mike nods vigorously. "More than okay."
You tug him gently toward the wall next to your building, pulling him closer by his tie.
Mike makes a soft, surprised noise- then melts into you. His hands slide up your back. Yours tangle in his hair. He kisses you like he's memorizing every possible angle, every breath, every small sound.
It's still sweet -- it's always going to be sweet with Mike- but there's heat now too, a growing, pulsing want.
When you finally break apart, both a little breathless, your foreheads rest together.
"Mike," you whisper, "you can kiss me again."
He laughs breathlessly. "You're going to kill me."
"Is that a no?"
"That's an-" Mike kisses you again, quick and warm. "-absolutely not."
You let out a breathy laugh against his lips.
___
Eventually - reluctantly - you both force yourselves to stop.
You pull him toward your apartment door. "This is me," you say softly.
Mike nods. He looks shy suddenly, fiddling with his tie like a teenager.
"I had a really good time," you smile.
He meets your eyes. "I had.. the best time."
You touch his chest lightly. "Call me tomorrow?"
Mike's voice comes out soft, sincere, a little breathless. "I'll call you the second I wake up."
You blush. "I'd like that."
He kisses you one more time - slow, tender - before stepping back. "Goodnight, Y/N."
"Goodnight, Mike."
He walks away with a smile so ridiculously bright a stranger across the street actually turns to stare.
And Mike? He touches his lips the whole walk home like he can still feel you.
