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light-yaers · 3 months

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I fucking LOVE THIS FIC I AM SO HAPPY IT’S BACK HAPPY NEW FUCKING YEARRRRR

Less Talk | Part IX

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

A/N: It's been a minute, y'all! I've missed my Less Talk crew! Second last chapter, here we go!

Summary: Jake can't stand Bradley's best friend. What's more, he's probably in love with her, which really pisses him off.

CW: Swearing, smut, angst, fluff, you might dislike me when this is over

Masterlist | Part I

“Jake!” you call as you run after him out of the restaurant. “Jake, wait!”

But Jake doesn’t stop. He can’t.

The moment Mustang utters the words ‘we’re engaged’, he goes numb. Bradley says something that he can’t quite hear or doesn’t want to comprehend. The crowd starts cheering and closing in. And he sees your eyes, wide with alarm as you try to keep him in your line of sight despite the moving bodies between you.

And then he’s gone. Shoving his way through the well-wishers as he makes for the door. But he’s only halfway to his truck when he hears your voice. And as he pulls aggressively on the handle, he perceives your approaching footsteps; you’re running.

He lets out an aggravated sigh and turns to look at you without a word. You jog toward him, stopping just short of his bumper, and then you move forward slowly, as though you’re afraid he might bolt.

“It’s not true,” you blurt out, your words slurring into one another because you’re trying to get them out so quickly.

Jake gawks at you, not know what to believe anymore.

“I promise you,” you say. “It’s over.”

Jake furrows his brows, staring at you incredulously. “I don’t think he knows that.”

You let out a shaky breath and sink your teeth into your bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “He will.”

Jake watches you with contempt. “So, he doesn’t yet.”

Your eyes sparkle in the afternoon sun but you blink away the tears, conveniently averting your gaze. Jake sets his jaw; he isn’t falling for the innocent act.

“I can’t help you,” he says levelly. “Because I don’t know what’s going on.” He bangs a fist on the hood of his truck and then takes a step toward you. “Because you won’t tell me anything!”

You nod, catching a couple of tears with the tip of your index finger. You don’t let any of them fall and you manage to compose yourself before your emotions get out of hand. “I don’t need your help,” you whisper, looking at the dirt caked into the treads of his tire rather than up at his face.

“Fine,” he replies. Although it’s not fine. Nothing is fine. He, certainly, is not fine. “Then I don’t need to be here.”

“Fine.” You shrug, obstinately avoiding eye contact.

Your apathetic tone irks Jake, but he’s not about to let you witness just how much you affect him. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans before balling them up into fists. There’s only one piece of information he absolutely needs to know. The rest can probably wait. “Are you gonna marry him?” he asks, a little more forcefully than he anticipates.

You meet his gaze finally – guiltily – but don’t respond.

Jake says nothing more. He opens the door to his truck and gets in, and you don’t stop him. He turns over the engine and waits for you to step out of the way before he backs out swiftly and floors it out of the lot.

…

The sound of your voice jolts him awake. He sits up straight in his bed, listening intently, wondering if he’d dreamt it. But then your laughter carries up to the second floor. Jake closes his eyes. You must be in the kitchen with Bradley.

Jake hasn’t seen you in two weeks; hasn’t wanted to. Seeing you has only ever caused him pain. Even before he realized he liked you, your presence had always seemed to shift him out of orbit. Your stupid quips and endless debates, the judgmental look in your eye whenever Jake tried to stand his ground. It got worse when it finally occurred to him that he enjoyed that sort of abuse.

Jake runs his hands over his face, trying to tune you out. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the arguments. You’re the only person who’s ever really put him in his place. And how he’s loved putting you in yours.

Jake gets out of bed with a sigh, pausing at the closed door of his bedroom to listen. It isn’t eavesdropping if he’s not actually interested in the topic of conversation; all he wants is to hear your voice.

“I swear I will never drink drip coffee again,” you announce with conviction.

Jake holds back a laugh, leaning his head into the doorframe.

“It’s basically sewer water by comparison,” you continue.

Jake snorts.

“Have another croissant,” you urge.

“You brought enough to feed a squadron,” he hears Bradley retort. “I’m not eating them all.”

You go quiet for a moment, saying something Jake can’t quite make out. He pushes off the frame and shuffles into the bathroom. He’s still pissed, and no amount of baked goods will convince him to go downstairs. He’s not ready for that. And, if all goes to plan, he’ll just slowly get over you and never have to see you again.

Once he’s out of the shower, Jake towel dries his hair and then quickly pats down his body. He listens for signs of conversation, but the house is quiet now. You and Bradley must have left.

“Bradshaw?” he calls, just in case.

No answer.

He heads down to start a pot of coffee before getting dressed but, when he enters the kitchen, you are the first thing he sees. You look up from where you're sitting at his table and yelp – because he’s butt naked – leaping out of your seat and covering your eyes with your hands, promptly turning away.

“What the fuck, Seresin!” you scream.

Jake jumps behind the counter. “What?” he shouts. “What the fuck, yourself! What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you!” you screech. “But, like, not so much of you!”

Jake cringes, still in shock from the encounter. He grabs a throw blanket off the couch and wraps it around his waist. “Why didn’t you answer when I called down?” he yells, his temples pounding as if his head is housing a goddamn woodpecker.

“You called for Bradley!”

Jake shakes his head. “Are you kidding me?”

“Why are you running around naked?” you squeal, still turned away and holding your hands over your eyes.

“I thought I was home alone! You don’t walk around naked in your own home?” Jake cries in outrage. He’s not about to let you win this fight.

“Uh, sometimes, I guess,” you admit.

Jake, who’s about to retort to whatever argument you make, falls silent. He stares at your back, trying very hard not to picture what that particular scenario might look like. He gulps. “Well, alright, then,” he says. He steps away from the counter, the blanket securely tied at his hips, and walks around tentatively. “You can look now,” he says wearily.

Hesitantly, you turn to face him, although you avoid looking directly at him. “You’re still not wearing a shirt,” you say pointedly, keeping a hand up to block the view.

Jake grimaces. “Is it too exhilarating for you, princess?” he bites back.

You drop your hand and finally look at him – albeit with a scowl. You narrow your eyes irritably. “Get over yourself.”

Jake shrugs. “You can always return the favor,” he suggests, gesturing at your baby tee that’s hugging your curves just right.

You roll your eyes and make your way toward the counter, purposefully walking around the table – which is the longer route – to avoid getting too close to Jake. He watches you levelly. “Why did you want to see me?” he asks sourly.

You glance up at him, still frowning, and push a bakery box across the counter toward him. “I brought you breakfast.”

Jake doesn’t smile; one breakfast two weeks down the road isn’t going to magically repair the damage you’ve done. “Why?”

You gulp. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Jake lets out an irritable sigh and drops his gaze. “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he responds moodily.

You reach further down the counter and drag a paper cup into view. “I got you a coffee, too,” you add, as though this might tip the scales in your favor. “Americano.”

Jake, who is dying for some caffeine, responds with, “I’m not thirsty.”

You exhale sharply. “Don’t be a baby.”

He fixes you with a scathing look. “Don’t be a nuisance.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Am I bothering you?”

Jake scoffs. “Well, for starters, you’re still here.” He walks over to the refrigerator and takes out a carton of eggs. “You hungry?” he asks grumpily.

You turn to face him as he sets a bowl down on the counter and starts cracking eggs. He’s right next to you now so he can see you seething out of the corner of his eye.

“I brought you breakfast!” you cry in outrage.

Jake starts to whisk the eggs without looking at you. “I don’t want that, I want this.” He glances over at you at this point and adds spitefully, “We all have to make difficult choices from time to time.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jake!” you exclaim, pulling the bowl out from under his nose. Half-beaten egg splashes onto the counter.

Jake tosses his whisk into the sink and takes a step away from the counter. He releases a quick breath and sets his jaw; but he still can’t look at you. “What is your problem?” he says in a low voice, keeping his eyes on a random chip in the paint of one of his kitchen cupboards.

“What’s my problem?” you screech.

He can tell that you’re getting worked up and it’s taking all his energy to keep his cool. He clenches his teeth and rolls his shoulders, trying to relax the tension in his muscles.

“You’re so mad at me that you won’t even drink my coffee?” you yell, the bowl of raw egg still in your hands.

Jake stares harder at the paint chip because he’s on the verge of completely flying off the handle. But he could only devote so much of his attention to negligible bullshit until he finally breaks. Agitatedly, he meets your gaze and bellows, “I’M SO MAD AT YOU, I CAN’T EVEN LOOK AT YOU!”

Your mouth falls open at his words and you blink at him in shock. After a moment, you look away, silently replacing the bowl on the counter. You’re chewing on your lip as you do this, your gaze lingering on the bowl even after you’ve released it from your grasp, like you’re reluctant to let it go.

Jake briefly closes his eyes. You’re not facing him, so you don’t witness the fleeting display of regret that steals over his features. He doesn’t want to hurt you in a way that makes you go quiet. He wants you to react – loudly, obnoxiously, passionately. He wants you to yell back. Because that’s how he knows you’re okay.

“I’ll go,” you say, tucking your hands into the back pockets of your shorts. You glance up at him, meeting his gaze with a resigned sort of look.

He nods. As much as he might've missed this kind of heated warfare, the lingering hostility is not in anyone’s best interest. “There’s an idea,” he says sarcastically, still keeping a safe distance away from where you’re standing by the counter.

Your mouth falls agape again. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t want you to go. He doesn’t want you to go. But, if you do, he wants you to leave angry; not sad. So, he provokes you. “And take your crazy with you,” he says, gesturing toward the front door with his entire arm.

You let out an indignant scoff that turns into a sort of cry. “What did you call me?” you shriek, stepping up to him aggressively.

Jake glances down at you, squaring his jaw to keep from smirking. “What’s the politically correct word for completely unhinged?”

Your eyes go wide and, for a split second, he thinks you might actually hit him. But you’re not one for physical violence; you can strike below the belt with your words. “As if you give a damn about offending an already stigmatized group of people,” you retort.

Jake narrows his eyes. “At least I give a damn about the people I actually know.”

You let out a derisive laugh. “Oh yeah? So much so that you’re practically shoving me out the door?” you yell.

Jake rolls his eyes. “No one’s kicking you out,” he says gruffly, walking past you back to the counter. “Just stop taking my eggs away and we’re gravy.”

You fold your arms grumpily and stand there in his kitchen, fuming.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “What?” he says.

“You don’t like croissants?” you ask crossly, as if he’s gravely insulted you by opting for scrambled eggs.

Jake sighs. He reaches for the box of pastries on his counter and throws open the lid. He grabs a croissant irritably and brings it to his mouth, taking a large bite. “Happy?” he asks, chewing.

You watch him impassively. “You’re ridiculous,” you say.

“You’re ridiculous!” he yells. “You’re pissed because I won’t eat your damn food?”

Your eyes suddenly well up with tears. “I’m pissed because – because” – you suck in your cheeks defiantly, as if you’re not prepared to elaborate.

Jake swallows uncomfortably; he doesn’t like the idea of being responsible for making you cry.

You shake your head and sniffle. “I’m not mad!” you shout. “I came here to make up with you!”

Jake tosses the croissant onto the counter and it lands in the spilt yolk from earlier. He ignores this and steps toward you. “Why?” he yells back.

“Why what?” you scream as he approaches.

“Why make up with me?” he presses.

You stare at him angrily. “What do you mean? We were friends!”

Jake shrugs. “We weren’t close.”

You scoff. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Jake says levelly, then he adds, raising the volume of his voice as if the conversation could stand to get any louder. “I never wanted to be your friend!” You go quiet for a moment, your tears subsiding as you take in his words. But he doesn’t give you a chance to mull them over. “You’re a fucking nightmare!” he continues emphatically, taking another step.

You lift your face as he draws nearer, glaring at him unblinkingly. You don’t back away; you stay put, even as he towers over you.

Jake grimaces in a way that conveys disgruntlement and despair in equal measure. He lets out an uneven sigh, his eyes skimming over your face. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he says, much quieter now, as he meets your gaze.

You stay perfectly still, as if his immense frame looming over your body is completely insignificant compared to your ruthless glower. In all fairness, you’re probably right. “I hate you,” you whisper.

Jake nods with a slight smirk. “Likewise.”

The thrill of riling you scorches his veins, but he’ll be damned if anger is the only thing he can make you feel. He wants you so desperately, he can hardly think straight.

You’re scowling at him but all he can see is the fire in your eyes, fierce and unrelenting, daring him to make another move. Jake is game – enthusiastically, to boot. He’s mad, sure. But, truth be told, you could be engaged to fifty men – none of them him – and he’d still want to fuck you. Hell, this only makes things easier; no fucking strings, just fucking sex.

He slides an arm behind your waist and pulls you forward abruptly. You gasp as if you weren’t expecting it. But with the way you’ve been staring him down, there is no way you didn’t see this coming.

He waits a moment, anyway, allowing you the opportunity to give him a smack for being overly presumptuous. But the animosity on your face has already been replaced with a kind of cautious curiosity. You’re very still, staring up at him sympathetically, because you know – you know – what he wants. Because you want it too.

Jake lifts his free hand up to the side of your neck, sliding it up through your hair to cup the back of your head and gently pull you forward. This is exactly the kind of situation he was meaning to avoid. But the warning bells are fleeting, and his lips are on top of yours before he can stop himself.

You push into him slightly – almost imperceptibly, except he perceives it – and instantly this kiss becomes the single most thrilling experience of his life. He moves in, absorbing your body in a rushed, impatient embrace, and you mold against him, closer than you’ve ever been before.

He can feel the soft fabric of your shirt rubbing against his skin but all that he truly registers is how your tits are compressing into his chest. He kisses you harder, stifling an entire anthology of dirty words that suddenly materializes on the tip of his tongue. There aren’t enough terms in the English language to fully express the way he craves to handle every inch of you, anyway.

You withdraw, at this point, to breathlessly exclaim, “You think you’re not a pain in the ass?”

Jake pulls you back with a mild roll of the eyes. “Shut up,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth as you scoff in outrage.

“Don’t tell me to shut up!” you retort between the pecks he layers over your lips.

Jake grins against your mouth. “Shut up,” he repeats, dragging you backward as he steers you toward the staircase.

You let out a muffled – but distinctly indignant – cry. “Make me!” you exclaim as he stoops to wrap his hands around your thighs and lift you off the ground.

“I’m fucking trying,” he replies, closing his mouth around yours once he's picked you up.

Strategically speaking, making out while carrying someone up a flight of stairs is efficient. In practice, however, it’s a complicated task. Several times, Jake veers into one of the railings or nearly trips over his own feet. By the time he’s reached the second floor, his legs are tangled in the blanket he had wrapped around his torso, and the blanket itself is on the verge of unravelling. But Jake ignores the obstacles and resolutely marches you right into his bedroom.

He throws you unceremoniously onto the bed and retightens the blanket around his hips as though he means to keep it on. He looks down, pausing for a second to watch you catch your breath. Not because he thinks you might unexpectedly have a change of heart, but because he wants to savor the moment. He takes your legs and unhurriedly pulls you closer to where he stands. “You’re awful quiet,” he notes with a smirk, his fingers winding up the sides of your thighs.

You gulp with a relatively stoic expression for someone who’s about to be railed. “You told me to shut up,” you deadpan.

Jake raises his eyebrows. “You listened?”

You bite into your lips, nodding slowly, and Jake’s heart damn near somersaults right out of his body. For once, you want to give up the reins.

He reaches up underneath the fringed hem of your shorts, grabbing your ass and tugging you forward. “What, no instructions?” he says, his hands lingering on your butt cheeks because he’s waited oh so long to squeeze that flesh. The way your eyes half-close tells him you don’t necessarily mind.

“You need instructions?” you say in a breathy but still detectably mocking tone.

Jake chuckles. “Whether or not I need them isn’t likely to stop you.”

“I can do a post hoc analysis,” you say as one of his hands finally moves upward, bunching your shirt at your ribs to expose your stomach.

Jake grins at your words. “Hot.” So much for dirty talk. Apparently, the plan is to have sarcastic sex.

Your lips spread into a wry smile, and you reach up to the blanket tied around his waist to pull him on top of you. “Stop talking, Seresin,” you whisper.

“Hey, that’s my line,” he says, bracing himself on his forearm at the side of your head. He stares into your eyes, wondering if he could really go through with it. How much does he really need to understand the complexities of your situation with Mustang? Isn’t it enough that you’re clearly hot for Jake? Isn’t it enough to just fuck and forget that you’re technically taken?

You’re watching him back, probably wondering the exact same thing. Isn’t it enough?

The truth is, every single moment spent in your presence is enough for Jake. And he was a fool to think that he could ever stay away.

He glides his hand up your abdomen, feeling your breath hitch underneath his fingertips every time he lets them linger for a moment atop your skin. Does Mustang know that you like it slow? That you want to feel the rush of anticipation? Jake is willing to bet that Mustang only goes one speed.

Jake traces the curve of your ribs, his exploration leading him eventually to the swell of your breasts. Your bare breasts. How he hadn’t noticed that you’d been braless downstairs bemuses him. He must’ve been too preoccupied with his own wardrobe to thoroughly examine yours.

His hand seizes for a moment as he gets used to the idea of touching you. Of feeling your chest flare into the palm of his hand every time you take a breath. Then, he wraps his fingers around your ribcage, his thumb grazing the side of your tit as he moves you upward on the bed.

“You comfortable?” he asks after repositioning you.

You nod, your eyes still locked on his like you’re trying to see right through to his soul. When his thumb sweeps underneath your breast, you let out a whimper that disturbs the air between your mouth and his. And there’s a dizzying note of desperation in your voice that paralyzes Jake.

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, wondering how long before he’s completely lost himself in you. Wondering if that ship’s sailed. Wondering if Mustang has ever felt like he’s drowning and soaring all at once. If he’s ever been this gone. If you’ve ever moaned like that for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, realizing that he’s lost the upper hand. That he’s going to need a moment to recuperate. That there’s a debilitating weakness in his limbs that’s an extension of his weakness for you, and he can hardly hold himself up any longer.

He breathes heavily into your neck, his lips catching on your collarbone as his fingers skim across your nipple. You let out a breathy whine that vibrates his very core. You like being teased. Figures.

Jake drives his pelvis into your side, seeking a split second of relief. The blanket around his torso is a mess of twisted, sticky fabric that’s now pressing into your bare skin, hopefully arousing you. You move your leg up and down, stroking him through the fleece with your thigh, and Jake groans, spreading his fingers over your tit and finally giving it a squeeze.

You release a soft moan and Jake brings his lips to your other nipple, grazing his teeth over the thin cotton of your shirt. It’s not that he can’t be bothered to remove your clothes, rather, he very well might not survive the spectacle. So, he sucks on your nipple right through the fabric while continuing to massage your other breast, pressing himself closer and closer.

This is all that he could ask for, really. You, in his bed, at long last talked out. And yet, he can’t help himself; conversing with you has become second nature and, without even thinking, he mutters, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

You let out a laugh that morphs into a soft cry as Jake pinches your nipple.

“Wouldn’t want you getting the wrong idea,” he continues, smirking against your neck.

Your chuckle pleases him. “Maybe if I weren’t such a pain in the ass.”

Jake squeezes his eyes shut, cringing slightly as he nuzzles his head under your chin. “Maybe,” he agrees, dragging your t-shirt upward. He lifts his head and meets your gaze as you raise your arms, letting him remove it. “Maybe if you didn’t hate me,” he adds, somewhat hoarsely because you’re half naked now and he’s understandably distracted.

You bring your arms back down and slide your hands unhurriedly up his chest, linking your fingers behind his neck. “And you me,” you remind him gently.

Jake lets himself take you in for a moment, his eyes slipping southward before he looks back at you with a smirk. “At least the feeling’s mutual,” he says, slowly lowering himself until his lips meet yours.

You open your mouth, bathing Jake in your hot breath as you kiss him, and he reciprocates the gesture eagerly. Urgently. His hand is suddenly gripping your leg, sliding up the inside of your thigh. You’re moaning before he’s even reached the summit, tearing viciously at his lips with your teeth. Your fingers are twisting into his hair as you pull yourself into him, breathless and impatient.

Jake unbuttons your shorts with a couple of fingers and is hastily pushing them over your hips as your breathy gasps warm his ear. “What is it, princess?” he whispers, suddenly slowing his pace. He kicks your shorts off your ankles and places his hand on your inner thigh where he gently strokes your tender skin. He grins wickedly. “What can I do for you?”

“Jake!” you whimper desperately, shimmying yourself down to meet his hand.

Jake obliges, sliding his fingers up between your legs. He’s not about to make you beg for it when he can barely keep it together himself. Another time, maybe. Assuming there will be one. He’d like to hear you ask for it. Tell him exactly what you want, sparing no detail. He wants you to talk dirty to him. Talk, talk, talk.

But instead of talking, you reach out and grab him by the waist. You blink up at him silently and maneuver his hips until he’s right over top of you. Then, without taking your eyes off his face, you unravel the blanket that’s somehow still wrapped around him and shove it aside.

Jake has never in his life made love. He’s fucked, sure. He’s had plenty relations. And this time is no different. Except, he’s feeling something pure amidst the lewd temptation driving his corpus. It’s a buoyancy that’s both nauseating and distressingly pleasant and it radiates outward from his chest, nearly overriding his ever-present desire to make – fuck you silly.

And then, as Jake slides slowly inside you, you cling frantically to his neck and utter a shaky, monosyllabic nonword that is the epitome of less talk.

And Jake is suddenly making love.

…

“Y/N came earlier today,” Bradley says to Jake that evening, casually popping open a can of beer.

Jake lifts his eyes and looks over at his friend with a straight face. “She did,” he confirms.

“Oh.” Bradley nods. “She caught you, then.”

Jake stares at him mutely before turning away and clicking the kettle on the counter. “You could say that.”

Bradley nods, taking a gulp of beer. “She told you, then?”

Jake freezes with his hand on his mug. The only thing he seems to recall you saying is not something you would have also said to your best friend. “Told me what?” he says, slowly turning to face Bradley.

The latter furrows his brows. “Did you guys talk?”

Jake watches Bradley curiously. “Tons,” he responds. “You know how she never shuts up.”

Bradley narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You did see her, right?”

“I did,” Jake says confidently because he, indeed, saw you. All of you.

“Weird,” Bradley says. “She said she was hanging back so she could tell you too.”

“Tell me what, Bradshaw?” Jake asks impatiently, forgetting about the boiling kettle as he walks toward the table with an empty mug in his hand.

Bradley sets down his beer and leans back in his chair uneasily. “That she’s leaving.”

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#jake seresin x you #top gun maverick #fic recs

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