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seresinhangmanjake · 2 months

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Not Your Type: Part 1

Jake Seresin x Goth Girl!Reader

Summary: Jake Seresin doesn't usually have to try hard to get women, but the only woman to catch his attention in a long time doesn't want anything to do with him.

Notes/Warnings: Jake is annoying in this part. Unwanted flirting. This is a series, but it will be more like glimpses into their lives over time. Cursing. Eventually 18+

Words: 1269

Not Your Type Masterlist

Day 1: Meeting

“Holy shit.”

Bradley finishes his swig of beer before following his teammate's locked stare. Chuckling as he shakes his head, he says, “Don’t even bother.”

Jake’s eyes don’t waver from the woman who has snatched his attention quicker than a snap of the fingers. “Why not? She–”

“Deserves to be spared from your bullshit,” Bradley interrupts. “You pull a lot of shit on a lot of women, do you really think it’s a good idea to fuck with one that looks like she’ll cast some sort of spell on you?”

The blond’s head turns and tilts to keep his view of the woman covered in black from head to toe as she moves through the crowd. “I’m not so sure she hasn’t already.”

“Jesus,” Bradley mutters, putting the bottle to his lips again. He rolls his eyes at Jake’s lack of blinking while watching her take a seat at the bar. “Goth princess over there is not going to want anything to do with you. You look like a shiny, private school douchebag. You are a shiny, private school douchebag.”

“What do you think the chances are she’s into that?”

“Zero. Did you not just hear me?”

Finally, green eyes meet brown. “You know, you could take a lesson from Bob and be a little more supportive.”

Bradley snickers, nudging his head the woman’s way. “I give it five minutes and you’ll be limping back over here with your tail between your legs.”

Jake pats the brunet on the shoulder. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Any time.”

—

Out of the chaos of melding sounds, it’s the scrape of a stool over hardwood flooring that manages to stand out. Surrendering your effort to separate one voice from another, you open your eyes to see in your peripherals that the stool—the stool that was right next to you; the stool that was perfectly satisfied being vacant—has been disturbed. It was unmoving and empty, as you liked it, and now it’s occupied, as you do not like it. A knee nearly bumps yours as a body shifts to get comfortable, but it’s pulled back in time to avoid the collision.

With arms braced on the bartop, the man now beside you leans forward a bit to place himself in your line of vision; not fully, but enough for you to detect a hint of blond hair and tanned skin and pearly white teeth.

“Hi,” he says. When you glance his way, his eyes gleam, emphasizing the sparkling flecks within the green. “I’m Jake.”

“Is that so.”

Your lips thin in unenthused acknowledgment and you return your attention to your fingers twisting the stem of your martini glass. The black lip print on the rim makes two full rotations before he opens his mouth again.

“Are you waiting on somebody?” he asks. “A date, maybe?”

“No,” you tell him, immediately cursing yourself for providing him with an answer.

Somehow his grin gets bigger. Too wide, too radiant, too confident. He’s too squeaky clean for your taste. “What’s your name?”

You take a sip of your drink and let the entirety of it, aftertaste included, disappear completely before you say, “What could you possibly need my name for?”

“Should I just call you Hot Goth Princess instead?” He smirks. “I’m not against it if that’s what you want, but it’s less personal than I prefer.”

This guy wants your full attention—well, he’s got it. Your brows knit and you shoot him a glare. “No, you should not call me Hot Goth Princess,” you snap.

You don’t know his game, but you know you’re not interested. You’re not interested partly because he should not be interested in you. There’s a type that goes after you; dark, brooding, with tattoos that were done in a dirty garage after getting high. However, you won’t deny there are striking similarities in what attracts you to those men and what this man also possesses. The light eyes, the bone structure, the neat hair and the muscles thick enough to rip the short sleeves of a shirt. He ticks plenty of the boxes on your superficial checklist, but he’s also the antithesis of everything you are. If he weren’t showing signs of being the jerk you think he is, he’d be sunshine-bright to an irritatingly blinding degree; and you weren’t called Vampire Girl by some preteen brats the other day for no reason.

“How would you like it if I called you Over-Confident Ken Doll?”

You don’t back away when he leans in a little closer. “Sweetheart, if that’s what turns you on I’d be all for it.”

Your eyes narrow. “How does this work on other women?” you ask.

“What other women?”

That green gaze slowly roams about your face, lingering on your mouth the longest. He stares and after a moment, you think he’s gotten lost. He stares like he wants to lick the midnight hue right off of your lips. He stares as other men have stared; their minds wandering, undoubtedly imagining what a black ring of lipstick would like around their cocks.

“I only see you,” he says.

He meets your eyes again and in return you roll yours so hard you have a brief moment of concern that they might stay that way. “That is the biggest batch of bullshit I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

He blinks and flinches, drifting a few inches out of your personal space. “What do you mean?”

A scoff leaves your mouth. “I’m not your type, Sweetheart.”

“You’re not?”

You turn in your seat, facing him.

“It’s Jake, right?” He nods, and you don’t miss the harsh bob of his Adam’s apple. “Well, Jake, I’m not new around here. I’m a regular, actually, and you know what? You’ve not noticed me before tonight. Not once. But I've noticed you. You’re loud and arrogant and it’s a very specific type of woman that flocks to you.” Your hand plants on your chest directly above your heart. “I am not that type of woman. So whatever this is that you’re doing,” you say, motioning between your body and his, “I don’t buy it.”

Either he’s not quick enough to come up with a logical response or you’ve stunned him into silence. He doesn’t say a thing when you twist back around in your seat and finish off your drink in one gulp, but his eyes on your face are burning.

“Don’t waste my time,” you continue, “Or risk having your ego bruised further.”

The silence between you lasts too long, edging its way into awkward territory. Thankfully, he breaks it.

“Alright,” he mutters. He clears his throat and stands. “Sorry.”

You avoid looking his way until he’s far enough for a few bodies to partially block your view of him and the friend he joins. The friend laughs as Jake runs a hand through his hair. Still laughing, he says something, and Jake gives a defeated shrug of his slightly slumped shoulders before you see him start to turn his head.

You whip around, hoping he doesn’t catch you watching him. His eyes linger again and they burn you just as strongly as they did when he was within twelve inches of your face; which means you feel the exact second he looks away.

Releasing the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in your lungs, you glance over at him one last time, but it’s the friend who greets you. He smirks at you, then he chuckles and shakes his head. When he pats the shoulder of a hunched-over Jake, you suddenly feel a little bad.

But not that bad.

A/N: Please understand that Jake’s behavior in this fic is not something I condone. I know he’s a bit too aggressive but it is not my intention to offend anyone. So hopefully I didn't. Thanks for reading :)

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @ssa-sadboi @buckysteveloki-me @whatislovevavy @dreamlandcreations

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #jake hangman seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x y/n #top gun hangman #tgm #tgm fic #jake seresin x goth girl!reader #goth girl!reader #jake seresin fanfic #jake seresin fanfiction

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seresinhangmanjake · 2 months

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Not Your Type: Part 2

Jake Seresin x goth girl!reader

Summary: Jake Seresin doesn’t usually have to try hard to get women, but the only woman to catch his attention in a long time doesn’t want anything to do with him.

Written in the form of sharing milestones of their relationship as it develops. For example - Day 1: the day they meet; Day 3x: the day they (...); Day 5xx: the day they (...); and so on.

Notes/Warnings: Jake being annoying but also desperate. Cursing.

Words: 2990

Full Masterlist

Day 14:

“What do we want for this round, girls?” Gemma asks. She stands, albeit a tad unsteadily, at the edge of your booth with her hands on her hips, ready to take your order as if the Hard Deck provides her with biweekly paychecks.

She’s been in California all of three days; she and Lola—friends from your hometown who were in desperate need of a change of scenery and accepted the offer of your extra bedrooms. And as usual, Gemma effortlessly embraced her new environment within the first twenty-four hours of her arrival. To onlookers, you imagine that of the three of you, she would be the assumed local.

“More of this fruity stuff, whatever it is,” Lola says around the thin straw clenched between her teeth as she nurses the current ‘fruity stuff’ in her glass.

Gemma looks to you with a raised brow, but you shake your head, tapping your nail against your soda cup. “I’m good.”

“Party pooper,” she playfully sighs, flipping a section of deep purple hair over her shoulder and turning in the direction of the bar.

Getting the drinks was meant to be your job—a welcoming treat after their exhausting move—but Gemma got a peek at the bartender, and by exercising the magical abilities that come with her smile, has spent half the night providing the three of you with free alcohol and fountain sodas.

“I’m the DD!” you call after her, but as is the case on most Friday nights at the Hard Deck, the volume of the room devours your voice before it can reach her.

“She’s gonna go after that bartender the second his shift is over,” Lola tells you. “Poor guy has no idea who he’s dealing with.”

“No,” you agree, chuckling and rapidly recalling the string of heartbroken men who would reach out to you or Lola in the hopes of getting ahold of Gemma after she’d ghosted them. “But they never do, and unfortunately, they never learn.”

“You know, I’ve been told I’m a phenomenal learner,” you hear, but it’s a much deeper sound than the curly-haired woman at your side is able to produce. The unexpected addition makes the sip of soda in your mouth travel down the wrong pipe, throwing you into a coughing fit.

“Oh, shit,” the voice rushes out, snatching a napkin from the next booth and thrusting it in your face. You take it to muffle the sharp choking noises fighting their way out of your windpipe. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You scold yourself for not realizing he was here before he made himself known. It was almost two hours ago that you began feeling that same burning sensation from a couple of weeks ago, but you thought little of it, having scanned the room for him when you first arrived at the bar. You even opted to sit facing the front door, figuring you wouldn’t miss it if he entered, but he still managed to sneak in. He still found you. He still affects you.

As you recover your breathing, he extends his hand past you toward Lola. “I’m Jake.”

“Lola,” she replies, shaking his hand as she glances at you.

You let out a final cough, dabbing a napkin at the corner of your mouth then wiping it just under your waterline to pick up your tears. “Fuck,” you mumble.

“Name a time and a place, sweetheart, and I’m all yours.”

Lola snorts with her lips around her straw. Her following giggle makes air bubbles burst from her shallow glass. Stray droplets splash onto the table, a few soaking into the sleeve of your top.

You have no time to decide who is more deserving of your glare—Traitor Friend or Ken Doll—before Gemma’s return. As she slides into the seat opposite yours, she’s so focused on keeping liquids from sloshing over rims that she doesn’t notice the intruder.

“Fruity thing for Lo,” she pushes the glass to Lola who eagerly accepts a fresh drink, “spicy thing for me, and, tragically, nothing for the DD.”

When she finally senses the vibe at the table—greatly altered from what she left behind a few minutes prior—she turns her head. The surprise in her expression settles into subtle excitement as she rakes her eyes up Jake’s body to his face. With that wicked smile of hers, she plants her elbow on the wooden surface and rests her chin atop the back of her hand.

“And what would you like?” she teases in a low, seductive tone.

“Just a chance to talk with your verbally vicious friend,” he says, jutting his chin in your direction.

“This is Jake,” Lola informs her.

“Jake?” Gemma questions you, cocking her head in genuine curiosity. “You’ve never mentioned a Jake.”

“He isn’t worth mentioning.”

Jake smirks through the jab. “You know, you don’t have to repeatedly stab me in the chest.”

“You’re the one who keeps standing in front of my knife,” you shoot back, crossing your arms.

There’s not a single uttering from the group of four as Lola and Gemma stare at you and Jake staring at each other. Neither of you is willing to break eye contact, and the tension becomes heavy, like rich honey—thick enough to drag your finger through.

“Can we talk privately?” Jake then asks, that smirk still in place. He looks away from you only to address your friends. “You ladies don’t mind if I borrow her, do you?”

“Not at all,” Gemma answers, each word out of her mouth a little less crisp than the last. “As long as you borrow me next.”

“Gemma!” you snap. “Not this one.”

“But he’s so hot,” she whines.

“I’ll cut you off.”

She gasps. Then her bottom lip protrudes in a pout, and her hands cradle her glass as she pulls it closer to her chest protectively.

“That’s a very flattering offer, if we can call it that,” Jake says. “However, that guy over there, the one with the outdated mustache,” he steps aside and points to the friend you recognize from the other night. The brunet’s cheeks redden and he quickly jerks his head in the opposite direction of Gemma’s prying gaze. “He’s been having a hell of a time trying to keep his eyes off you tonight. Just can’t help himself.”

Jake shakes his head, clicks his tongue, and faces your table again. “Honestly, I know the feeling,” he says. His eyes connect with yours, puzzle pieces locking together until the burn starts to sear too deep and you have to look away. “It’s a tough spot to be in,” he continues. “And I can’t in good conscience move in on the girl whose laugh has made another man blush three times within the last hour.”

Just like that, Gemma is over Jake. Other than the pang of relief you feel, you don’t think anything of her swift attention shift until five seconds, then ten, then fifteen pass without her ceasing her careful examination of Jake’s friend.

“Will you come with me?” Jake asks you. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”

You chew on your lip, trying to ignore his pull.

“Lola, you think she should come with me, right?” he says.

Lola doesn’t glance his way as she runs her finger along the rim of her glass to collect the leftover grains of sugar. “Secondary locations are very suspicious, Jake,” she says before pressing her fingertip onto her tongue.

“We won't go far.”

Lola raises a brow at you and you sigh. “He's annoying but I'm pretty sure he's safe,” you tell her.

Jake smiles; another thing you don’t have to see to know it’s there. You feel that grin just from its power alone.

Standing, you straighten out your skirt, your fingers running down the dark material that flares from mid-waist to mid-thighs. Your belt is purely decorative, with consecutive overlapping chains that wrap around the band of your skirt and a tiny, crescent moon charm that dangles a bit lower than the rest. As you adjust the belt so the charm rests where it is supposed to at your hip, you catch Jake’s fixed stare on your movements.

You don’t know what he’s thinking. You remind yourself that you don’t care.

“I'll be back in a minute, Lo,” you promise. “Gem, do you intend to blink any time soon?”

Gemma doesn’t turn. Jake’s friend has found a bit of boldness and no longer avoids her eyes. “No,” she says, waving you off. “Have fun.”

Jake tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I was thinking the deck since it's on the beach.”

Ignoring his suggestion, you begin to walk in the direction of the front door. He follows into the chill of Evening’s breeze and you suck in a refreshing breath. Was it always so suffocating in there?

“Ok, what do you want?” you ask once you’ve walked far enough to avoid blocking the entrance.

Jake remains a good six feet from you. His hands haven’t left his pockets. “To apologize, for starters,” he says.

“For?”

“Bothering you the other night.”

“So you decided to bother me again tonight?”

Jake’s lips part to respond, but he pauses, mouth snapping shut. Glancing down at the gravel by your boots, his brow pinches as his actions sink in. “Ok, ‘bother’ wasn't really what I was going for a second time around, but in hindsight–”

“If that was just your starter, what’s the rest?”

He looks at you with a tick of false innocence that rapidly dies under the weight of mischievousness, and you prepare yourself for what he’s about to deliver. “Maybe I shouldn’t say,” he teases, smile budding, teeth showing. “Maybe I should prolong the suspense.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “Do you remember what I said about wasting my time?”

“Something about my ego suffering the consequences,” he replies. “Even though you’ve had my ego in a choke-hold since you threw around that whole ‘I’ve noticed you but you’ve never noticed me’ thing.”

That, you didn’t expect. You didn’t expect him to remember everything you’d said, or care. But neither did you expect him to approach you after that night, so you suppose he’s full of surprises. You're just not sure if you like them.

“Oh?”

He nods. “Yea, that one…that one was a thinker, for sure. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, actually.”

“Why?”

He sighs and drops eye contact. Like it’s too hard to maintain. Like he’s ashamed or confused or contemplating, or all three. Then he wets his bottom lip with a dart of his tongue; he draws that lip between his teeth, biting down; he barely shakes his head before he rejoins your gazes.

“Because I look at you now, and I don’t understand how it was possible,” he admits.

Your breath hitches. Your heartbeat trips, tumbling over itself, and you will it to find its proper pace before you dare open your mouth.

“Anyway,” Jake says to fill the gap that was meant for your response, “I also wanted to ask you out. On a date.”

You blink hard. Long beats snail along as you process the lunacy of that statement. “Has anything I've said to you indicated that I would ever agree to a date?”

He shrugs. “No, but it was either try once more and see if I have a chance with you, or don't try at all.”

For a man you’ve witnessed succeed in his every attempt at wooing women until you, you won’t deny that what he’s doing is gutsy and, you suppose, unworthy of being shamed. He’s resilient, determined, and you have great respect for perseverance, but in this case, it's not sufficient to rearrange your perception of him.

“Do you even know my name?” you ask. “I never told you.”

He smiles; not broadly, not boastfully, but gently, sweetly, as if reliving a memory. “I asked Penny after you left that night,” he tells you. “It’s beautiful. Suits you.”

Your woven arms tighten, pointed nails digging into your bicep. Don’t shiver, you command your body. Don’t show the tingling chill he just shot up your spine and through your limbs. You try swallowing through the ghost-like grip he suddenly has on your throat. The light grasp of wispy fingers that don’t aim to choke, but simply rest around the column. Possessive but not controlling. Also not really there. And you don’t appreciate the growing strength of his power to touch you without you being within reaching distance.

The problem is, men don’t compliment you. Well, they do, but not like this. They compliment tits and ass and legs and face. They compliment clothes that they imagine ripping off, and makeup they hope they can ruin by the end of the night. Your name doesn’t often come to mind, and the ones who do ask for it, don’t ever use it again. That’s part of why you didn’t give it to Jake when he had asked.

And then he went over your head. Fuck this guy.

“Before you say anything else—I’m willing to earn it.”

Your brows raise halfway up your forehead. “You're willing to earn it,” you repeat. “Why? You don't know me, and I have a feeling you understand that using me to prove some kind of point to yourself or your friends will only get you castrated.”

“I wouldn't have guessed castration, specifically, but that does seem in character,” he says.

He steps closer. His arm moves toward you, hand prepared to plant itself on your forearm, but at the last second, he thinks better of it and drops that limb back to his side. His fingers ball into a fist that tightens and loosens and tightens and loosens. He doesn’t know that you see him doing it, and then it stops. “Look, when you said that you're not my type, you were right. You were right. You're not right anymore. You only weren't my type because I'd never seen you before.” He takes a breath. “But I know I could swear that up and down, right here, right now, and you wouldn't believe me; not really; maybe not at all. So I have to prove it, don't I? I have to earn it.”

He seems to have forgotten that you know, and have known, who he is for months. Observation reveals more about a person than getting to know them firsthand. The Observed can’t pick and choose what they share with you to aid their desires and goals. In their cluelessness, they lose all defenses, all illusions, and Jake is no exception.

You’ve watched him pursue and flirt and conquer. You’ve watched him in the aftermath of the pursuing and flirting and conquering. You’ve watched his strategy of radiating cockiness to draw them in. There are the laughs, the winks, the tamed touches that bring out blushes, all of which join together until it’s the woman—and all of the near carbon copies of that woman—who takes the lead, pulling him into the bathroom or onto the back deck or out the front door. He’s tricky like that, but you’re not easily tricked.

“Have you considered that maybe you are not my type?” you ask.

“I have, actually. It was a very troubling thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds of consideration?” Your head tilts. “Is that all?”

Jake acknowledges the offense you’ve taken. He doesn’t apologize but the disappointment in himself is palpable enough to satisfy you. But then he says, “Would you have come out here if you weren't attracted to me?”

And now you’re disappointed in yourself, because, no, you wouldn’t have come with him if you weren’t attracted to him. Attraction and curiosity convinced you more than his words, and therein lies the problem. One problem. One of many.

“I shouldn't have.”

“But you did,” he says. His tone is low but it packs the punch of an exclamation point. You’re going to be hearing it for days. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

You sigh and let your arms unweave, falling at your sides. “I…” you begin, but you shake your head. You need to say this right. “Attraction is basic. It’s human. It’s all up in our personal space at all times. If that counted for anything, I’d be dating half of the usuals in the bar.”

You know the same goes for him. He finds a new woman to be attracted to whenever he walks into the Hard Deck and you’d be hard-pressed to believe that doesn’t extend to every room he enters. So you leave it at that and twist on your heel to head back inside.

You hear a crunch of gravel as he takes a step after you. “Will you at least think about it? Please.”

Not stopping to answer, you reach for the handle of the door. “Have a good night, Jake,” you toss over your shoulder.

Being inside the bar does not stop your heart from thumping or your mind from racing through a jumble of thoughts that are no easier untangled than the voices around you, and it’s too much. So to avoid exhausting yourself, you shove those thoughts aside in favor of directing your attention to more important things, like one-third of your trio missing from the booth.

“Where’s Gem?”

Lola nods her head and you follow.

Across the bar, Gemma has Jake’s dark-haired friend leaning against the wall, her palms braced on his chest. One of his hands rests at her waist and the other is at the side of her neck just under her jaw, his fingers hidden by the curtain of her hair. There’s an oddness to their kissing. It is very non-Gemma kissing. They kiss freely like no one is around, but it’s not an attack of teeth and lip tugging or sloppy tongues; it’s slow, sensual. It clashes with the room.

“I was gone for five minutes,” you say.

Lola shrugs. “She only needed four.”

---

tags: @kmc1989 @wkndwlff @dempy @sagittarius-flowerchild @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @averyhotchner @rosedurin @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @ssa-sadboi @buckysteveloki-me @whatislovevavy @dreamlandcreations @memoriesat30 @harrysgothicbitch @yvonneeeee @gg-trini

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #top gun #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #jake hangman seresin x y/n #jake seresin x goth girl!reader #jake seresin fanfic #jake seresin fanfiction #tgm #tgm fic

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