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seasonsbloom · 2 years

Text

all in. (hangman)

pairing ; jake seresin x female!reader

synopsis ; you make jake's dreams come true. aka the face sitting fic

wc ; 2.7k

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; literally just filth; established relationship; face sitting; like one mention of choking; dirty talk; tiny bit of spanking; some power dynamics but nothing crazy; oral (f!receiving); one mention of public sex

note ; a lot of people wanted this pls don't blame me. technically part of the bad habit universe but can 100% be read separately!

title from lovesick by banks.

Jake looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

“Or maybe, like… not,” you backtrack immediately, feeling the blood rushing into your cheeks. “Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter, it’s fine, never mind….”

“Sweetheart,” Jake says, enunciating very clearly, from where he’s still spread out on the bed, propped up on his elbows. “What the fuck?”

You can’t look at him. With his tousled hair and the bare skin of his chest, with his eyes still a little bleary from his nap and the pillow indents on his face. He’s so fucking hot, and it drives you crazy, clicks your brain off temporarily. That’s how you got here in the first place.

“Forget about it,” you mumble and go back to stuffing t-shirts into a drawer. The air still smells like laundry detergent.

“Say it again.”

Jake has this thing he sometimes does. When his voice goes just a little stern, a little tense, the tone clipped with a mixture of authority and anticipation that leaves no room for argument.

Immediately, your knees go weak, and before whatever part of your brain is responsible for logic can talk you out of it, you’re saying, “I want to try sitting on your face.”

And that’s a lot for a Tuesday afternoon.

In the few months you’ve been with Jake, you thought most of your inhibitions were swept away in the waves of filth he seems to spew like he gets paid for it. You’ve fucked all over his apartment - in the kitchen and the living room and the shower - and you even had a pretty memorable moment in a bathroom at the Hard Deck that ended with your soaked panties stuffed into his service khakis.

Now you find that, apparently, there’s still some shame left in you.

You can’t look at him, so you stare down at the paisley print of the bed sheets. The weight of his gaze crawls across your skin.

“You want to sit on my face?” Jake repeats, his voice simmering with a low heat that travels straight from your ears down your spine.

“Only if…” You bite your lower lip, shrug, feel your heartbeat kick up a notch and then another. “Only if you want to.”

Jake laughs, and the sound startles you. You glance up at him, his tanned body awash in the dimming afternoon light, the sheets folded like mountainsides around him.

“Honey,” he says, “I think I told you to sit on my face the first time I ever fucked you. Fuck do I want this.”

It always makes you giddy to hear he’s just as hungry for you as you are for him. It’s all the time too, in the morning, in the evening, at dinners with your friends and his hand way too high up on your thigh. Incredible that either one manages to get any work done in between Jake railing you to the brink of consciousness.

“Come here,” he says and stretches his arms out to you.

You go immediately, always so easy for it. The mattress dips beneath your weight, the sheets crinkle where your knees dig into the fabric, and then his mouth is on yours, his fingers tangled in your hair, his tongue slips between your teeth. It’s the warmth of familiarity, of knowing what it is that makes him tick the same way he does, and it lights a spark inside of you.

Jake fucks his tongue into your mouth a few times, sloppy and filthy from the beginning. There’s no use for pretending, for coyness, for pleasantries, not after so much time together. You know who he is.

His thumb drags down the front of your throat, and he presses down just once, the barest hint of pressure. Against his mouth, your breath hitches. It’s a promise of something else he’ll show you, something else he’ll offer, and you’ll deny first, scared and curious in equal measures, and then you’ll come back in a few months and ask for it. And he’ll give it to you. It’s the way it always goes with the two of you. A familiar dance.

“Look so hot,” Jake whispers into your mouth, tugging at the edge of your shirt. His shirt, really, old and worn and holes littering near the collar. “Had me staring at this little ass every time you bent over.”

An open palm lands on your asscheek. It’s not forceful enough to hurt, but the sound of skin on skin claps through the air regardless and you yelp, jerk forward.

“Hey!” you call, pushing away from him, but Jake just laughs and pulls you in again, pulls you over him, arranges you so your legs fall open around his hips, so he can drag you down towards where he’s half-hard in his boxers.

Then he’s grinning up at you, hair still a mess, eyes still lidded with lassitude, but something else sparkling behind them too. He keeps his hands high up on your legs, cupping the backs of your thighs, thumbs digging into the skin.

“You did it on purpose?” he asks, his pointer finger traveling up and in, inching slowly, ever so slowly, towards where you know slick is beginning to gather. “Not wearing any panties so I can get a good look at your pretty pussy?”

You’re shaking your head in protest, but the effect is diminished when the hand around your thigh tightens and you moan.

“No,” you gasp, and it’s pathetic considering you’re rocking down against him, voice breaking when your clit catches against his dick, settles on the fabric of his boxers, “couldn’t… dryer’s not through yet.”

He grins, and you can’t describe that expression as anything but devious. “So you decided to walk through the house without panties, huh?”

You shrug even though you’re already teetering on top of him, stomach clenching rhythmically. “It’s just you,” you say.

Jake hums, using the leverage on your legs to pull you more forcefully against him, your center moving over his length. Voice a tad breathless, he says, “And I get to see your pussy any time I want, huh? You gonna let me get a good look soon as I ask, won’t you, sweetheart?”

Embarrassment curls low in your chest, but you barely notice it. Not with the shivers racking up and down your back at his words, not with the heat he pours into your veins. He knows the answer, of course, as do you, but hearing him say it is exhilarating every time. Because you’re Jake’s, just as he’s yours.

“Yeah,” you breathe softly. “Anytime.”

Jake’s grin grows. “Good girl,” he says, then he taps the side of your thigh. “Now get up here and sit on my face.”

The nerves get the better of you somewhere over his chest, and you hover, hesitance roaring its ugly head. What if I crush him? that’s all you can think, and you bite your lower lip, sink your fingernails into the top of your thighs.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “I thought I told you to get up here, didn’t I?”

You swallow around the lump in your throat, shrug, say, “I don’t… maybe this is a bad idea.”

Without looking at him, you make a move to climb off, but Jake’s quicker. He catches you by the wrists, lets his fingers slide down over the plane of your palms and tangles them with your own. Pulls your arms down into the sheets on either side of his head.

“Do you really not wanna do this,” he asks, “or are you just getting cold feet? Cause one we can work around, the other we can’t.”

You glance at your interlocked hands, his skin against yours, and shrug again.

“Not an answer, honey,” Jake reprimands gently but firmly.

The longer you’re with him, the more you understand that Jake isn’t really someone you can lie to. He’s painfully perceptive, at least when it comes to you. Like he’s attuned to your every minuscule expression, every dip or rise in your voice.

You sigh and nod. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

“Nervous about what?”

“I don’t know….” You blink into the sunlight streaming in from the window just to avoid his eyes. “Maybe you won’t like it.”

Jake scoffs. “Honey, I think about eating your pussy up in the air so often it’s a wonder I haven’t gotten discharged for dishonorable conduct yet.”

It punches a laugh out of you. He’s ridiculous.

And then the apprehension trickles back in, sudden and dousing.

“What if like… I choke you or something?”

Jake rolls his eyes at the same time he squeezes your hands. He says, “If I drown in a pussy as pretty as yours, I think I’ll get a medal. I mean, what a way to go.”

You untangle one hand to swat at his chest, but Jake just laughs. With you on his chest, he can’t possibly reach your lips, so he turns his face to the side and presses a tender kiss to the top of your thigh that has your stomach seizing.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he mumbles into your skin. “You won’t choke me, okay?”

The fear hasn’t completely dissipated, but Jake seems so eager, so confident, that it reassures you at least somewhat. “Alright,” you agree slowly.

“Thank god. Now would you please finally sit on my face?”

He doesn’t really wait for you to comply, just gets his second hand out of your grip, too, both of them finding the tops of your thighs again, and tugs you the last few inches up unceremoniously. Your clit bumps against his nose, your knees dip the mattress by his ears, and you yelp, you gasp, you whimper.

Below you, Jake hums, and you feel it against your pussy, feel the warm exhale of his breath, feel your whole body clench in answer.

"Taste so fucking sweet," he moans.

Jake wastes no time, diving in straight away. He plants a single kiss on your clit, then lathers his tongue all around it, spreads his fingers wide and firm on your hips, and pulls you more securely against his mouth. Like he really wants to make good on that prospect of drowning in you.

It’s a weird position, balanced on top of his face as you are. There isn’t really anywhere to go except down, down against his mouth and his tongue and his chin and his lips. Gravity makes damn sure of that, drags your weight to him, onto him, into him. You feel strangely tall, towering over him as you are with Jake pressed flat to the mattress.

Then he thrusts his tongue into you without preamble, and a strangled shout rips from the back of your throat. You teeter precariously, hands coming forward to brace yourself against the headboard with a resounding thud. Your head spins like one of those wheels of fortune at a fair, round and round in rapid circles.

Jake fucks his tongue in and out steadily, presses his nose into your clit, and you swear you’ve never been this wet before. With the position, it just seems to pour out of you, streams of it, and then you think of his face smeared in you, the evidence of what he’s doing to you staining his chin and his neck and his cheeks, and your eyes roll backward in your head.

“Been dreaming of this,” Jake whispers as he draws back just a little, his voice rough. Another kiss to your clit, almost tender if it didn’t send currents of electricity through you that sizzles somewhere in your fingertips. “You on top of me, my face in your sweet little cunt… god, sweetheart, you don’t know how fucking hard this gets me.”

Part of you wants to turn around, reach over your shoulder and find out, but Jake’s mouth latches back onto your pussy, wide open and wet and hungry, and it’s all you can do to whimper, to grab onto the headboard for dear life. White-knuckling the wood.

His fingers tighten on your hip to the point of pain, and it takes you a moment to realize what it is he wants. Then it’s nothing but obedience, logic having no part of it. Instincts only, your whole being reduced to nothing but bare, primal basics with Jake’s tongue shoved into your pussy.

You start moving your hips slowly, carefully, still scared you might hurt him somehow. Still scared he won’t like it.

But Jake’s answer is enthusiastic, to say the least: Fingers clutching even harder, tongue fucking deeper, a moan that vibrates all the way up to your chest.

Tossing your head back, mouth opening around the shape of a keen you don’t let out, you press your eyes closed and let the heat wash over you. Swallow you. Burn away any last traces of propriety or apprehension or thought.

It’s just this now: Jake’s mouth on you, Jake’s fingers on you, Jake curling around you and beneath you and inside you. Jake everywhere. Even the bedsheets smell like him, the shirt you’re wearing, your hair from using his shampoo in the shower earlier - cinnamon and spice.

Every time you rock your hips forward, it knocks your clit against the tip of his nose and has your stomach clenching. Every time you rock back, Jake’s tongue is already there to meet you, the wide wet stretch of the muscle spearing you open.

You’re pretty sure you’re close to tears, lower lip swollen from the sting of your teeth. You can’t even stay upright, slump against the cushion of your folded arms against the headboard.

Jake’s fingers leave your hips once he’s sure you’ll maintain the motion that has you riding his face the way you ride his cock, trail down to sink into your ass instead. To knead it, to spread, to tug you forward with more force, to help you along, or maybe to take you apart completely.

With Jake, you can never be sure if it’s his kindness or his sadist streak that is at the wheel.

You can feel it building, feel it gathering in the pit of your stomach. Tension tightens every muscle now, everything locking up, your toes curling and mushing into the sheets, your mouth open and leaking drool onto your own forearm.

“Jake,” you whimper, press your eyes closed tighter until stars reel across your vision, fuck yourself forward and sob at the open pressure of his mouth, “Jake, I’m gonna… Please, please, I….”

You don’t even know what it is you’re asking for. You just can’t take it anymore, you can’t, it’s going to take you apart, it’s going to crack you open, it’s going to bowl you over, it’s going to…

You think Jake is saying something, but it’s muffled by your cunt in his mouth, by the blood rushing in your ears, by the roaring, screaming, deafening jackhammer of your own heart. It sends even more tremors through you, your thighs shaking, trembling, and then his fingers tighten in the flesh of your ass, his tongue drags a long, long, long stretch from your hole to your clit, and then he wraps his lips around the swollen bud and sucks, and you’re falling.

The tension drains out of you all at once, a lighting of relief, and you’re sobbing, you’re babbling, you’re chanting his name as the pleasure washes over you. As you fall apart in the best of ways, with your nerve-endings on fire and your body numb and not a single fucking thought in your brain, nothing but good good good so fucking good.

You’ve got nothing left, melt into a puddle right on top of him, go sliding off his face on a wave of spit and cum and drained energy. Jake is whispering something in your ear, gathering you against his chest and peppering kisses to the top of your head. His face is wet with you, sticks to your hair.

You can’t help it. It makes you grin.

“See?” Jake whispers, nudging his nose against your cheekbone. That’s damp too. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

The answering grunt you give makes Jake laugh.

“God,” he says, and when you glance at him through the curtain of your lashes, too tired to open your eyes all the way, he’s the picture of debauchery: cheeks flushed, hair a mess, chest rising and falling rapidly, lips swollen, face wet and glistening with your cum. Where you’re soaking into the fabric of his boxers, your cunt clenches just once, makes you hiss softly. “That was so worth the wait.”

You can’t help it. You agree.

#hangman fic #hangman x reader #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #hangman #mine #drabble #hangman drabble #f:bhdrabbles #hangman smut #top gun smut

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seasonsbloom · 2 years

Note

Congratulations on the 500 followers, you absolutely deserve it! 🎉 And there’s no pressure but could I request Jake x reader and first time, like maybe it’s in the bad habit universe and its the readers first time giving Jake a BJ ❤️

♡ pairing ; boyfriend ! hangman x female!reader

♡ wc ; 4.6k

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language, explicit sexual content (oral (m receiving), mentions of oral f receiving, tiny bit of a dom/sub dynamic if you squint, spit, finger sucking, dirty talk, idk it's half past 4am i can't think) like one mention of vomit ?

♡ note ; bad habit universe, but can be read separately. this was the hardest thing i've ever written goodbye. thank you sol for saving my life time and again, this truly wouldn't have happened without you.

It’s his birthday, and Penny volunteered the Hard Deck as a party venue. Drinks are flowing freely, oldies are playing from the Juke Box, and Jake is drifting through it all with his usual cocky grin and an almost uncharacteristic tint of melancholy about the eyes.

You’ve been hanging back mostly, nursing a single Mojito, successfully riding the razor edge of intoxication—just a little bit of liquid courage instead of full-blown inebriation. Things go fuzzy around the edges, your chest feels warm, and everything’s a little lighter.

But the buzz of the nerves in your stomach doesn’t subside. Like a hummingbird got trapped in there.

At some point after midnight, you can’t take it anymore. You push your way through the crowd until you can slot yourself beneath his arm, press your front into his side like you’re trying to climb between his ribs.

Jake smiles at you, your own private smile, the one that belongs only to you, and your heart goes soaring in answer.

“There you are,” he says. The night has made him softer, makes him ignore the raised eyebrows from Coyote and Payback as he traces a kiss to your temple, makes him focus on nothing but you. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You can’t help it - you smile back, giddy and weightless.

“Do you want your present?”

He raises an eyebrow and reminds you, “You already gave me one, honey.”

You did hand him a wrapped present with birthday pancakes earlier this morning. A new pair of aviators because he broke his last ones and a framed picture of the two of you that Phoenix took at a bonfire just a week or so after you’d started dating. But that’s not what you’re talking about right now. That’s not what’s making your insides feel like a butterfly sanctuary.

So you shake your head.

“Another one. Different one.”

Something about the tone of your voice must make him take the hint. He blinks at you.

“Should we get out of here, then?” he asks, leaving the ball in your court.

You nod. “Take me home, Seresin.”

By the time you reach Jake’s bedroom, the liquid courage has turned to vapor. It’s quiet in the room, the kind of silence that echoes after the noise of the Hard Deck, of your friends’ voices, of the roaring of the car engine. You leave all the lights off except for the gentle orange glow of the lamp on the bedside table, hoping it’ll somehow help calm you down.

It doesn’t.

You bumble through a series of awkward motions, strip off your jacket, slip out of your shoes, take off your necklace and let it clink down on the top of the dresser. Jake, who’s only toed off his shoes, watches you through all of it, arms folded in front of his chest, an unreadable grin on his face.

Finally, you turn to face him, put both hands on his chest - and he’s so warm and his muscles so hard, and it hits you every time, like you’re a teenager, like you’re indulging in high-school fantasies, and it’s so dumb, but, god, if you don’t love it - and push him down onto the edge of the bed.

Jake goes willingly, and then he blinks up at you, not saying anything. Part of you had hoped for him to take the lead, but he’s making you work for it tonight. You hate it when he does that. It’s so much easier to follow his cues, feels natural to say yes, Jake, to let him bend you and shift you and move you wherever he wants you. Submitting to Jake is as easy as breathing because you know he’ll always catch you.

But with the way he’s grinning at you, you know he won’t help you out. Not right now.

You swallow around the lump clogging up your throat.

“Take off your pants,” you say, trying for a command that trails upward at its tail-end until it sounds like a question instead.

Jake chuckles but obliges you, opens the buckle of his belt, pops the button on the jeans and slides them down his legs, kicks them to his side.

You stare at his legs for a moment, at the soft flume of blond hairs dusting the shins, the golden skin, the scar on his knee from when he cracked it open trying to learn how to skateboard the summer he turned sixteen. Sucking your lower lip between your teeth, yearning pulling at the muscles of your belly, you take a step closer.

“Your shirt too,” you say, and then, because you can’t help yourself, because it’s stronger than you, you add, “please.”

Jake’s lips purse like he’s trying to hold back words. Again, he listens. Slides the pale blue button-down over his head instead of unbuttoning it. It upsets some of his hair, a few strands sticking up, but he smooths them back into place easily.

It’s always like this - looking at Jake, the planes of his chest, the abs, the collarbones like marble arches protruding from his shoulders, there comes a moment when all you feel is the need to touch him. And then you always realize, belatedly, distantly, that you can. Because he’s yours.

The thought sends a thrill through you, a shudder that starts at your scalp and ends at the tips of your toes. Taking another step forward, right into the cradle of his thighs, you rest your palms on his shoulders.

Jake sighs, something like content to the sound.

You lick your lips, looking at him, feeling suddenly almost inadequate.

Jake, like always, picks up on it almost immediately.

“What you planning, sweetheart?” he asks. It sounds like you got yourself in this mess, now get yourself out of it too.

And you’d thought about this. Laid out the words like planning outfits for the first day of school, shoes and pants and shirt. Racked your brains on how to make it sexy and good and something he’d want instead of bumbling and awkward and embarrassing.

But now your head is wholly and decidedly empty, here in the face of him and all this want like shifting heat in your bones.

“I’m…” You pause, exhale, bite down on air as you wrestle with yourself, as you search within you for another burst of courage like you had in the bar. “I’m going to suck your cock.”

Where they’re resting on his thighs, Jake’s hands clench into fists. He tenses all over for a moment, every muscle taut, shoulders lifting, elbows jutting out, and then he moans. Actually moans.

You blink.

He’s pulling you against him before you know what’s happening, mouth finding yours with perfect precision. Then his tongue slides between your teeth and his hand is in your hair, and if you’d had a single thought left before, it’d be melting away now under the firm pressure of his lips on yours.

When Jake pulls away, your knees are weak, and his eyes are glazed over.

“You gonna suck my cock?” he asks, and his voice is dark.

You whimper, nod, look away, press your legs together.

Jake hooks a finger beneath your chin, turns your head so your eyes meet his. So you can’t look anywhere but at him. “You’re gonna get on your knees like a good girl and take my cock in that pretty mouth?”

You’re going to black out. You’re pretty sure of it.

“It’s your birthday,” you whisper, like that’s any kind of answer, like you aren’t so wet at the thought of his cock down your throat you’re soaking through your panties.

Jake watches you for another moment, eyes searching, and then he abruptly lets go of you. Leans back on his palms planted firmly on the mattress and spreads his legs a little further.

“Get on your knees then.”

You obey without thinking about it. In your chest, the nerves flutter their feathery wings, but you resolve to ignore them. The hardwood floors press awkwardly against your knees in a way you know will hurt later, but you keep your eyes level with the planes of Jake’s abdomen.

And then you don’t know how to proceed. Stay there, hands twisted into a knot in your lap, biting your lip.

Above you, you hear Jake exhale a shuddering breath.

“Have you done this before, honey?”

His voice is gentler than before, less demanding.

You shrug, think back to your high school boyfriend, to the abysmal experience of it all.

“Once,” you admit, and then don’t offer up any more information. You don’t really want to think about it.

Jake hums. His fingers card a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb coming out to stroke over your lower lip. Immediately, instinctively, you open your mouth, and Jake groans as he sinks the digit between your lips.

“You didn’t like it?” he asks, voice breathy. His finger presses down on your tongue, saliva gathering around it, and you’re pretty sure your eyes roll back in your head.

Then he withdraws it suddenly, and you feel the loss like an ache, sudden, stabbing, as he ghosts his finger across the column of your throat, smears a trail of your own spit onto your skin. It should be disgusting, but somehow, the thought of it, the draft from the open window caressing against the wet path of it, has you shuddering instead.

Jake repeats his question, nudges you gently.

“Oh.” You think about it for a second. “Not really. But he… I don’t think he liked it either.”

Jake cocks an eyebrow.

You shrug, look away from him.

“I don’t think… I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

And Jake laughs. The sound is loud and sudden, and it punches you in the chest. You all but recoil, drawing back into yourself, the shock of it sudden and horrible, and you can’t believe he’s laughing at you when you’re being open and vulnerable and…

Jake catches you by the shoulders, pulls you towards him - your knees go skating over the wood, and that’ll leave burn marks tomorrow, but right now, you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he bends in half to kiss you again, to take your hand and drag it to his crotch where he’s harder than he’s ever been, precum wetting the fabric of his boxers.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers against your lips, drawing back to nudge your nose with his in a gesture that seems almost too tender for the heat of the moment, “no way. There’s no way.”

It’s easier to ignore in his arms, with him so close, but the fear is still there. While you were just thinking about it, just imagining it, it was so easy to pretend you were confident, to feel some kind of misplaced bravado about it all. But now? You feel smaller than ever.

“I just…” You draw back a little, can’t explain why your voice is watery, why you feel so close to tears. “I just want it to be good, Jake. I just want to be good for you.”

Jake makes a noise like you’ve slapped him across the face.

“Always,” he mumbles, kissing you again, gentler this time, trails another one across your cheekbone, your nose, “you’re always good for me, honey.”

And then, without warning, he draws away, almost has you falling face-first against his stomach. With you kneeling, he’s a looming, hulking shadow above you.

“Need me to teach you, sweetheart?”

It’s just like Jake - wrapping the kindness of it all up in something that sounds lewd and almost condescending. But you know him well enough by now to recognize it for what it is: an offer to let you choose how you want to do this. Do you want him to guide you, or do you want to continue what you had planned, try to take the reins over for a while?

“It’s fine. It’s your birthday.” You push your hair back without looking at him. “Just… tell me if I do something wrong?”

He clicks his tongue, sighs, then leans back on his elbows, back almost flat against the mattress. Gestures towards his crotch with a sweeping wave.

“Have at it, then, sweetheart.”

“Alright,” you whisper and think that maybe you were wrong. Maybe it’s not fear coursing through you. You’re not really scared with Jake, not of anything. Just nervous, a little anxious, but most of all eager - to do good, to make him feel good.

So you slide your hands beneath the elastic of his boxers, grateful when he lifts his hips to help you slide them off. Slowly, you reach for his cock, telling yourself you’ve done this part before, have had him spilling into your palm just a day ago, and really how different can all of this be? It’s just spit and friction and a bit of pressure. Men are so much easier.

A muscle in Jake’s abdomen jumps. You take a deep, steadying breath and lean close enough that you can smell him - sweat and aftershave and his shower gel, too - and then, heart beating a hundred miles a minute, you lick a single, long stripe along the underside. It elicits a shudder from Jake, and you think, okay, great, that’s not bad, he’s not running screaming yet...

Tentatively, you take the tip into your mouth, suck softly, and Jake lets out a low groan.

“Shit… you’re doing great, sweetheart,” he says somewhere above you. “Just… go at your own pa-”

You slide your mouth further down his cock, far enough that you can feel the weight of him towards the back of your tongue (HUH????), that you can really taste him, and then, just to check, just to see that he hasn’t checked out yet, bored, occupied with something else, ready to move onto something where he’s in control and doesn’t have to content himself with your awkward explorations, you look up at him. Your eyes meet. Jake’s pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, mouth open wide. By his hips, his fingers clench into the fabric of the sheets.

The reaction surprises you, and you can feel the frown starting to form between your eyebrows, but it’s good, too, a reassurance that makes you feel somewhat more grounded. Carefully, you start bobbing your head up and down, just an inch or two at a time.

All the articles you’ve read trying to prepare for this night flash through your mind at lightning speed, a supercut of everything that had made your cheeks warm and your thighs clench. You remember baby pink font on cream background saying, The wetter, the better! and try to draw as much spit onto your tongue as possible, even with how dry your mouth feels.

Almost like an afterthought, you wrap your hand around the parts of him you can’t reach with your mouth, stomach swooping when you feel how slick he is with pre-cum and what you suppose to be your own drool. Half embarrassment, half desire. You pump your fist up and down, applying pressure the way Jake showed you the first time you got him off like that. Fingers always wrapped a little tighter than you would have thought.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice quieter now, breaths uneven.

It fuels something in you. All of this is somehow much more difficult than you thought it would be because there’s so much to do at the same time, it’s hard to keep up: Tongue sweeping slow and steady circles around the tip of his cock, fisting at him in a rhythm you hope is at least similar, and all the while you have to remind yourself to keep breathing through your nose. It’s sort of like trying to rub your belly and pat your head at the same time.

But it’s good, too. Nice. You like the taste of him - a little salty - and the feeling of him inside you. You like how hard he is and how he makes these little noises when you move your tongue just so, something breathy and shallow and involuntary. It makes your heart beat faster, something giddy and soft and light floating through your chest.

I did this, you think, and it’s enough to have your head spinning. I am doing this.

And then you just need to know, need to hear him say it, need him to ground you the way only Jake can before something happens, and you end up in your own head again, overthinking, looping, spiraling…

So you pull off, cock releasing from your lips with a soft pop, taking a deep breath.

“Is it…” You trail off, look up at him, feel your cheeks and chest and ears warm. “Am I doing good?”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t answer. He just looks at you with that same far-off expression from earlier on his face, and then suddenly he groans, throws his head back, focuses on the ceiling, and says, “... Fuck.”

You don’t know what exactly that means, but it doesn’t sound bad or like he’ll ask you to stop anytime soon. At least, you’re really hoping he won’t. Because you’re actually, to your own surprise, starting to enjoy this, and you’d like to finish it. Him. Whatever.

Jake sits up then, looks down at you, smooths a hand across the top of your head.

“You, sweetheart,” he says, “are doing phenomenal.”

“Yeah?” you ask, can’t keep the smile at bay. The relief tingles in your bones.

“Yeah.” Jake’s thumb traces along the line of your jaw. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen with my cock in your mouth.”

You moan a little at that, insides clenching, and then you’re leaning in, eager now, suddenly impatient to get him back into you.

This time, you take him a little deeper, still scared to go far enough he’d reach your throat (some part of you is almost scared you’ll end up throwing up all over his dick and ruining the moment) but becoming a little more adventurous with it. Thinking less, feeling more. Like the way his cock twitches almost imperceptibly when you kitten-lick at the tip on an upward stroke or the way there’s a stutter in his breath every time you squeeze your fist.

For better leverage, you place your free hand on his thigh, lean closer, and suddenly your hair is in your face, getting tangled in your eyelashes, and you can’t see, and…

Jake’s fingers are on your scalp, pulling the strands away and holding them at the back of your scalp in a makeshift ponytail.

“That better?” he asks, and you just hum in response, closing your eyes, sinking another half-inch deeper…

Jake moans, a loud, raw sound, the hand at your head tightening, the one in the sheets flexing, and then suddenly he’s saying, “Shit, sweetheart, you sure you haven’t done this before?”

You’re almost completely convinced he’s saying it only for your benefit, and if you didn’t have your mouth full of dick, you might have told him not to patronize you, but as it stands, you just glower up at him.

He laughs, but this time it’s gentle and a little breathless and followed by something you’d describe as a whine, but only in the privacy of your own mind because he’d get pouty if you were to say it out loud. “I mean it. You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart. It’s like your mouth was fucking made for my cock, Jesus.”

That draws a sound from you, and you rock forward on your knees, insides squeezing like a fist, panties probably ruined. For a second, you wonder what the vibrations feel like for him, if it’s the same way it is for you when he’s got his face buried in your pussy like he wants to drown there.

And then Jake answers the unspoken question, dick jumping a little in your mouth, as he says, “Fuck, god, feels so fucking good. I can’t wait to get my mouth on that pussy and return the favor. You’re so fucking….”

You sink a little lower, hollow your cheeks, and suck at him, with more force than before, trying to get past the anxiety that you could somehow hurt him, or accidentally bite his dick off, or…

“Fuck,” Jake moans now with abandon. “God, you’re gonna kill me one of these days, Jesus, sweetheart….”

You whimper, lather your tongue all over him, pull off to plant a few wet, messy kisses along the length of him. Trails of spit follow in your wake, and it should be gross, but it’s not, makes you dizzy, makes you clench around nothing, and then you take him as deep as you can again, your blood rushing in your ears, Jake’s moan echoing after.

“You like that, huh?” he’s asking above you, and when you look up at him from beneath heavy lashes, Jake is flushed all the way down to his chest, skin a rosy pink, shoulders rising and falling rapidly with his gasping breaths, lips swollen where he’s sunk his teeth in. You hum in response because you do, you do like it, like the way he’s falling apart, like the way he smells and tastes and how close you are and how finally, for once, you’re the one making his legs shake and not the other way around, and he makes a noise like he’s dying, like maybe you’re killing him. “Fuck, yeah, you do, don’t you? You like my cock in your mouth, honey? I’ll keep you on your knees forever, yeah, just let you suck my cock anytime I want it….”

Your jaw is going slack, and your wrist hurts, and the limited oxygen is starting to become a problem, but you know it won’t be long now, and you want him to come, need him to come, think you’re gonna lose it if he doesn’t.

Above you, he’s started what more or less constitutes a chant, saying, “You're such a good girl, you're such a good girl, you're such a good fucking - oh god…."

He lets out a long, shuddering groan, and you can feel the way his hips stutter with tiny tremors, how his jaw clenches, how he’s on the verge of losing it, on the verge of letting go, holding on with every piece of strength he’s got left - it washes any trepidation away.

You pull off him, suck in a few gasping breaths and say slowly, haltingly, “If you want to… you can try to fuck my mouth.”

For a second, you think he might not even need to be in your mouth again to come. Like he’s just going to do it right here, right now. On the spot.

Then he catches himself, says, “Are you sure?”

And you almost laugh, wonder if he’d still be asking this question if he knew just how fucking wet you are, how your lower body pulses and clenches, how much the thought of having him crammed down your throat actually sets you off, know he would be asking anyway. Because he’s never done a single thing you didn’t want him to. Because you trust him, blindly, completely.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just… go slow. Maybe.”

Jake’s hand falls from the back of your head to cradle your jaw instead, to open your mouth with his thumb once the way he’d done earlier. When he slides home again, slides deeper than before, a long, torturous, wet, wet, wet drag over your tongue, he grasps the hand still on his thigh, laces your fingers together. Your heart jackhammers.

You choke a little when he hits the back of your throat, but nothing comes up. It feels sort of nice in a strange way, even when it drives tears into your eyes, to have him this deep inside of you. It feels even nicer when Jake curses under his breath, hand going from your jaw to the back of your neck. You shudder when his fingers spread over the skin there, where your hair is plastered down with sweat, when he holds you in place and starts moving.

It’s nice like this because you don’t have to think, can let yourself drift on that cloud of mindless want as Jake pumps his hips for and back, slowly like you requested, fucking your face almost… tenderly.

The thought makes you smile, even with your mouth full of him, and then Jake’s fingers tighten around your neck, squeeze your hand once, a silent warning before he picks up the pace. Just a notch. Still gentle.

There are tears on your cheeks now, dripping down your chin, and the sounds are obscene, but you can barely hear them over the beat of your own heart, through the fog of your desire. Your jaw hurts, and your knees ache, and you’ll feel this tomorrow, probably won’t be able to talk in anything but a whisper, but it’s worth it, worth it all when Jake moans, when his hips twitch as if of their own accord.

“I’m about to… I’ll pull out, sweetheart,” he’s saying, the words drifting to you from very far away. “Where do you want me? Tits, ass, face?”

But you whine, clutching at his hand in yours, suddenly remembering you have a second one and wrapping the fingers of that around the closest thing to you - his ankle. You hold tight. The thought of him pulling out, the thought of not getting to taste him… you don’t like it.

“Fuck,” Jake curses, and then his hips are stuttering forward and up, and he’s saying, “Oh fuck, Jesus, sweetheart, you want it? I’ll give it to you, gonna cum down that tight little throat, gonna make you swallow it all….”

And then he cums with a shudder, with a shout, hips pumping forward in quick succession, deeper than before now that he’s lost all control, and you choke, splutter, but recover quickly, swallow around him, and the salty, warm spurts sliding down your throat.

After a moment that feels like an eternity, Jake pulls out with a groan, falls back on the mattress like he’s boneless. You stay where you are, blinking at the sudden loss of contact, mind reeling, hand still wrapped around his ankle.

And then Jake’s saying, “Come here, Jesus, what the fuck,” and he’s pulling you up onto the bed with him, onto his chest, wrapping his arms around you and pushing his face into your hair, inhaling deeply.

For a moment, you just stay like that, clinging to each other, both of you trying to catch your breath. Beneath your ear, his heart is racing, and you can’t stop the dopey smile from spreading on your face. It’s a little weird, what with you still completely dressed and him naked, spent, sticky with slowly drying sweat.

You’re aching and wet between the legs, have half a mind to start humping him where you’re spread across his thigh, but you resist. There’ll be time for that later, and Jake has never passed up an opportunity to make you cum and he won’t be starting today. You’re sure of it.

Finally, without looking at him, you whisper into his chest, “You liked it?”

Jake laughs, presses a kiss to the back of your head, the only part he can really reach while you’re lying on him like a deflated air mattress.

“I think that might be understating it,” he says. “And you’ve really only done that once?”

You nod, then lift your head to look at him. “But can we like… do it again sometime?”

Jake blinks at you blankly. “You wanna suck my cock again?”

This time, you can feel the blood rushing to your head. “Yeah.”

Jake groans, head lolling back, spent dick twitching valiantly against your thigh.

He says, “Well, happy fucking birthday to me, I guess.”

#hangman fic #hangman x reader #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #hangman #mine #drabble #hangman drabble #f:bhdrabbles #hangman smut #top gun smut

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seasonsbloom · 2 years

Note

I think it’s amazing how you fleshed out Hangman in Bad Habit, his backstory is so believable and how he’s just as fragile as the reader too. It was beautifully written 😭🥹

I’m not sure if you’re taking requests but it would be so interesting to see the reader being introduced to Jakes parents and standing up for Jake when his dad keeps making digs at him because you know she would have his back no matter what 💪🏻and Hangman just falls more in love with her ❤️

♡ pairing ; boyfriend ! hangman x female!reader

♡ wc ; 4k

♡ warnings ; angst, sappiness, toxic parents, some sexual innuendo and the tiniest, tiniest, tiniest breeding kink hint at the end (i can't believe i just typed that goodbye)

♡ note ; bad habit universe. anon, i need you to understand the way this ask made me go feral. i'm so sorry this got so long but i truly went INSANE i BLACKED OUT. goodbye.

Jake is jumpy before you even get in the car. He spends way too long picking out his pants and shirt, messing with the cufflinks, wrapping and loosening the tie around his neck a hundred times until you finally take it off him.

“It’s just your parents, Jake,” you say softly, letting the garment - dark green silk, your last Christmas present to him because it brings out his eyes - drop onto the hotel bed. “Don’t be nervous.”

It’s stupid advice, and you know it. You’re pretty sure the thought of his father has made Jake nervous his entire life.

But under the gentle pressure of your hands on his shoulders, some of the tension seems to drain out of him. He all but slumps against you with a sigh, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. Like all the fight just evaporates.

“It’s been so long,” he whispers against your skin, but what he means is: I’m scared.

You wrap your arms around him, wishing with a sudden, unfamiliar fierceness that you could shield him from anything bad in the world.

“It’ll be okay,” you whisper back, but what you mean is: I know. I’m with you.

On the drive, in a rental that smells too new, too clean, you’re the nervous one. Knee bouncing up and down, fingers drumming along to the pop songs on the radio but missing the rhythm entirely.

Jake puts a hand on your thigh, just above the knee, just below the hem of your floral sundress. Warm skin on warm skin, even with the aircon blasting. The last freckles of summer are still fading on the backs of his hands.

His touch, unfailingly, sends a shiver down your back.

“Nervous to meet the in-laws?” he asks, signals, and pulls off the highway. Outside the window, factories and strip malls make room for a residential area, for swingsets in back yards and sweet tea on front porches.

The words have heat rising to your face. You’re not even engaged, let alone married. Still, Jake’s been known to introduce you as the Missus, to carry a polaroid of you in his wallet, to talk to you about which tropical destinations you should spend your retirement benefit plans on when you’re both seventy. (You don’t tell him he’ll be seventy a good few years before you because it’ll just make him pout, and then you’ll kiss him, and then you won’t do any talking anymore.)

“Just… I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before,” you admit.

Jake hums, lifts his hand from your knee to tangle his fingers with yours instead, pulls them up to his mouth, and presses a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes never leave the road.

“You’ll do fine, sweetheart.” And then his smirk turns mischievous. “I love that dress on you. Will like it even more when I take it off you later, though.”

You laugh more for his benefit than because you actually find it amusing. There’s the familiar spark of desire, but it’s faint, muffled, distant.

It’s not hard to tell that Jake’s heart isn’t really in it. That’s okay. Yours isn’t either.

The house is perfect. Impeccably kept lawns, greener than the Texan heat should allow for, bushes trimmed into neat squares like somebody is exercising their personal vendetta on nature. Big windows and a car parked in a perfect parallel line to the curb. There’s something cold to it all.

On the walk up to the front door, while you’re careful not to step on any patches of that green, green grass, you take Jake’s hand, and you can’t tell if it’s for his benefit or your own. He squeezes back just once.

Jake’s mother is just like that house - so perfect it scares you.

She looks like one of those housewives in laundry detergent advertisements from the 50s. Manicured fingers, a string of pearls around her neck, lips painted a rosy shade of red.

Suddenly you’re sure your dress is too short, your hair isn’t styled carefully enough, you’re wearing too much make-up. You want to hide.

She greets you at the door, a smile on her face that seems almost a little nervous.

“Jake,” she says and kisses him on both cheeks but doesn’t hug him. They haven’t seen each other in two years.

You hang back, unsure, wishing you could go invisible, but Jake puts a hand on the small of your back, pushes you forward, smiles, and looks proud in a way you can’t explain.

“This is my girl,” he says, and there’s so much in it. Not girlfriend, because you’re more than that. Not wife, because you’re not yet. But his, always, always his, since that night he walked into you at the Hard Deck. His, even when you still swore up and down you hated him.

His mother shakes your hand, smiles not unkindly, and leads you into the house.

Jake and you sit on the couch as she hands you glasses filled with a sensible amount of iced water. An old, imposing grandfather clock ticks away the seconds.

“Your father’s in his study,” she says, eyes shifting rapidly like she can’t decide where to look. “I’ll check what’s keeping him.”

The whole house smells like the roast sizzling in the oven, like the steaming peach cobbler you saw through the open kitchen door when you walked in.

Jake is tense beside you, on guard. He sits on the edge of the sofa, palms spread on his knees like he’ll spring up at any moment and sprint out of the house, out of the state, back home to California, to the little apartment the two of you are renting. An apartment without lace curtains, without grandfather clocks, an apartment without grass or manicured bushes. But an apartment with warmth and sheets that smell like his shampoo, like your flowery body lotions, with a stain on the sofa cushion where you spilled red wine, with a burn mark on one of the kitchen counters from the one time Jake tried to cook dinner and set a pan down on the linoleum.

Not a perfect house, but a kind one. A home.

You loop your arm through his and press your cheek into his sleeve.

“You okay?” he asks softly. Even now, he’s still thinking about you, and you wonder how you could ever, for one moment, for one second, believe that he was selfish. Your chest feels tight, too narrow for all these emotions to fit inside.

You nod. “Are you?”

He’s about to answer when his mother comes back.

The man trailing behind her is unmistakeably his father. You can recognize the traces of Jake in his eyes, in the line of his mouth, but he lacks his charm, his boyish air. Lacks the flicker of kindness in the stiff smile. The hair at his temples has greyed with age, but his gaze is clear and sharp. It flicks from Jake to you, and his mouth twists downward.

Jake jumps up the moment his father enters the room, back ramrod straight. You follow slowly, choosing to hang back a little. Hiding at least partially behind Jake.

“Sir,” Jake says, voice different than you’ve ever heard, and you watch in amazement as they shake hands.

Involuntarily, you think of your own mother, smothering you in kisses after you got back from a school trip. You, pushing her away, glancing at your friends, saying, ew, stop, Mom.

Suddenly you think you might cry.

“This is her?” Jake’s father asks, waving a hand in your direction. He’s looking only at his son, you note, not at you.

“Yeah,” Jake answers and tells them your name.

You give him what you hope is a sweet smile, but his father ignores you.

“Is dinner ready?”

Jake’s mother nods. “Yes. We can go to the dining room.”

There are flags on the walls, plaques, and framed medals. Pictures of aircrafts and squadrons, men in uniforms that look dated now. There’s nothing new here, no traces of Jake apart from a framed photograph on the mantlepiece, him grinning into the camera at what you think might have been his senior prom.

It’s strange. You remember Jake telling you he sends all the mementos of his accomplishments to his parents. Maybe they keep them upstairs, you think, but somehow you doubt it.

When you get back home, you’ll ask him to hang them in your hallway instead. You didn’t even want him to put his Top Gun diploma on the sideboard near the entrance, but now you feel different about it.

All of them, you think. Everything. I’ll put out the award from the Spelling Bee he won in second grade.

In the dining room, Jake’s mother serves you roast and mashed potatoes and green beans in sensible portions on crisp white china.

“Your favorite,” she says, smiling at Jake.

You don’t say anything, but it’s on the tip of your tongue, burning there. Lasagna, you want to say, his favorite food is lasagna. One time he came home from a deployment and ate so much of it he got sick.

“Thanks, Mom,” Jake says, smiling a smile you’ve never seen. One that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Everybody makes small talk. His mother asks you a few questions about your teaching position, tentatively inquiring about your plans for the future.

“I’ll buy her a house,” Jake interjects, sounding serious and proud, and you stare at your plate to hide the smile.

He’s joking, probably. No way he means that.

His father doesn’t talk to you at all. He asks Jake increasingly aggressive questions about his last deployment, about the squadron he’s been assigned to, about when he’ll finally make the jump from Lieutenant Commander to Commander.

Jake hesitates, then he says, “Actually, Sir… I was thinking of teaching.”

The older man pauses, scotch glass halfway to his mouth, amber liquid sloshing against the rim.

“Teaching,” he repeats, a tension to the word that borders on danger.

Jake nods. “At Top Gun.”

His father sets his glass down on the tabletop with a sound softened by the silk cloth. You’ve gone quiet, frozen, as has Jake’s mother. Both of you staring like you’re watching a car crash - impossible to stop it, impossible to look away.

“Why,” Jake’s father says softly, “would you ever want to do that?”

Jake tips his chin up and answers, “Well… It’s close to home. And when we get married, when we get a house, I want to be there. Not on active duty, I want….”

And he’s mentioned it once before, but back then, you thought it was a joke. The idea of Jake torturing poor Top Gun hopefuls is a little unsettling, or at least it was, but you’re beginning to understand. You think he could be good at it, great maybe, teaching those people not to make the same mistakes he used to make.

When we get married, he’d said. Not if. When.

The thing Jake has loved most in his life - and you know this - was flying out there. Being in the midst of it all, in the thick of it, risking his life, always up in the air. The fact that he’s willing to give it all up for you…

Warmth blooms in your chest.

For the first time this night, Jake’s father turns his eyes right on you. They’re ice-cold. As cold as this house.

“Was this your idea?” he asks.

Automatically, you open your mouth to answer, but Jake is quicker.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t her idea. It was mine. She had nothing to do with it.”

His father exhales a loud, shuddering breath, something that tears through the silence like a bull pawing at the ground.

“No,” he says finally.

“No?” Jake repeats, sounding hesitant.

“No.” Jake’s father places his cutlery delicately by his plate, smooths out the napkin in his lap. “No son of mine will give up a career to play house.”

“I…”

His father bulldozes over the interjection as if it hadn’t happened. “What, you can’t handle the pressure? Tough luck, boy. You gotta grit your teeth and get through it.”

There’s so much wrong with all of it. An emotion you can’t name rises up in your throat, makes your fingers clench into the fabric of the tablecloth.

“I don’t want to,” Jake says, trying to stand his ground. But something’s fading from him as you watch, some light dimming as his shoulders slump and his face falls.

You’ve never seen Jake like this before. All the cool melted out of him, all the bravado gone. Nothing but uncertainty left in its wake.

“You’ve always been weak,” his father says without looking at him. “Crying all the time when you were young, running to your mother. I knew it back then, and I see it now. Too weak for the Navy, too weak for this life, too weak….”

“Stop.” You can’t remember making the decision to speak, but suddenly your voice echoes through the room. Everybody’s looking at you. Your heart is in your throat.

And it’s so dumb. You can barely stand up for yourself. Last week, one of your student’s fathers yelled at you about a bad grade, and you just went home to cry into Jake’s chest for an hour. But this… it’s different. This ignites something in your chest, something violent and significant, something that demands to be felt.

You’d known their relationship was bad, but you hadn’t expected this. Nothing could have prepared you for it.

“You’re wrong,” you say, and wonder how your voice can sound so calm when on the inside you’re shaking, when the anger bubbles up into your throat like bile, when… “He’s not weak. Jake is the strongest person I know.”

Distantly, you’re aware of Jake’s head turning in your direction, but you keep your eyes on his father. Watch the twitch of his mouth, corners curling up into a smile dripping disdain.

“Oh, Jake,” he says, voice mocking as he turns to his son again. “Still need women to fight your battles for you?”

Jake’s mother says nothing, face turned down towards her plate, hands folded primly in her lap. The string of pearls around her neck shifts with every inhale, and for a moment, you ask yourself who’s worse: the one who does the hurting or the one who sits by and does nothing.

“I love him,” you say, and it’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it is the first time you say it in front of somebody else, somewhere outside the privacy of your bedroom, where you can convince yourself nobody exists in the world but him and you. It feels, somehow, significant. “He’s twice the man you’ve ever been.”

The eyes turn on you, so cold it sends a shiver down your back. And you don’t understand how you could have thought, even for a moment, that they looked alike. It’s like comparing a pencil sketch to an oil painting - night and day.

True anger courses through the words, through the voice, as he says, “You think I’m going to sit here and listen to some rude little schoolteacher my son picked up on the roadside try and tell me to….”

Jake’s palm hits the tabletop so forcefully the china jumps an inch into the air, the glasses rattle, and white wine spills into the casserole dish with the green beans.

“Don’t,” Jake hisses through clenched teeth, “ever talk to her like that again.”

Silence spreads.

His father chuckles. “What, you think that’s gonna impress me, boy? I don’t…”

“I don’t care,” Jake says. You can hear it in his voice, in the trembling of his breath - the anxiety, but the anger too. Your eyes burn. “For the first time in my life, I don’t care what impresses you. I just… I’m so tired of it. This is who I am. Either accept it or don’t.”

“Jake…” his mother whispers, but he won’t look at her. She throws a furtive glance at her husband, then at you. You can see the fear there, and you almost feel bad for her.

His father picks his cutlery back up and cuts into his roast.

“Sit back down, boy,” he says, the picture of perfect calm if it weren’t for the quiver in his hands. “Don’t cause a scene.”

You see the exact moment it happens. When the resignation finally sinks in for Jake. The acceptance of this thing he’s denied all his life.

His eyes flicker to you, and there’s something helpless in them. You think you hear the crack as your heart breaks.

And Jake is confident. Knows what he wants. Is so much clearer about it all than you with all your overthinking and spiraling and second and third and fourth guessing. Is so good at acting like he has all the answers that sometimes it makes you forget how good he is at pretending too. How sometimes, he needs you to take over.

So you get up, slot your fingers into the spaces between his, and say, looking only at his mother, “Thank you for dinner. I think it’s time we leave.”

Nobody says anything. Jake’s parents stay where they are, in their perfect, cold house, with their perfect, flavorless food and their lace curtains and grandfather clocks and no pictures of their brilliant, beautiful, warm son.

But you leave. You leave, and you take him with you.

The thought of Jake as a child, alone in this house, with that man in front of his door, almost chokes you.

You’re silent as you get into the car, silent as he pulls away from the curb, silent as the house fades smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. As it disappears from view completely.

You know you’ll never come here again. Something about it all is decidedly and vitally final.

Over the middle console, you watch Jake. It’s dark outside now, but the electronics of the dashboard illuminate him, the headlights of oncoming cars paint ghostly shadows across his features. You can’t read his expression, feel almost incapacitated by your own panic.

You don’t know what to say.

It’s impossible to tell how long you drive, but finally, Jake signals and pulls into an empty Walmart parking lot. Parks the car. Turns off the engine. And then he makes a sound you’ve never heard before.

With a start, with a jolt that zaps through you like a current, you realize he’s crying.

You’ve never seen him cry. Not when a bird strike took down his wingman last year. Not when you made him watch first Philadelphia and then Titanic in the most devastating double feature of all time.

It stumps you. Throws you for a loop. Makes tears well up in your own eyes.

“Oh, Jake,” you say, leaning across the middle console to wrap your arms around him, to press your face into his neck and hold him. Try and keep you both from falling apart.

And it’s so much pain. So much pain he’s carried with him every day, so much of it that you can feel it reverberate along your own bones as if it’s yours. And maybe that’s true. Maybe part of loving someone is feeling their pain as your own. Carrying it not for them but with them. Sharing it.

After what you just saw, you think you understand. Perhaps for the first time. All that cockiness and all that arrogance and all those things you hated about him at first. How they’re all just pieces of armor, something he’s built over the years to protect himself from that father and those expectations he could never meet and that cold, cold, cold.

You hold him until he calms, until the shaking of his sobs subsides, until he draws back and pushes himself into an upright position, says, “I’m sorry for crying.” He pushes a laugh out, but you don’t buy it. Not for a second. “That’s humiliating, huh? Bet you didn’t know you were dating such a pussy….”

“Don’t.” Your voice is firm, and it stops him in his tracks. “Don’t do that, Jake. That’s just him talking. There’s nothing wrong with crying. There’s nothing wrong with anything you did.”

His fingers flex around the steering wheel. He exhales loudly through his nose, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone so quiet you need to lean forward to hear him, “I guess some part of me just always thought… always thought that maybe, someday, he’d love me.”

And that’s it. It shatters you right there. Breaks you apart in a way you can’t explain.

You don’t know what to say. Maybe there is nothing to say. No words to make this better, to make him think the opposite. Not after what you’ve just seen.

“I guess…” His throat moves as he swallows. It’s so dark in this parking lot you can barely see more than the outline of him, shadowed by the darkness, but it’s enough. You know him so well, you could draw his face blind. “I guess that’s it, then. I guess I no longer have a family.”

It’s instantaneous. No, you think. I won’t let him believe that. Not for a second.

“Do you think I don’t have a family?“ you ask him.

Jake’s brows furrow, obviously confused by your question. “What?”

“Because my mom is gone, and my dad doesn’t care, and I don’t have any siblings or aunts or uncles. Do you think I don’t have a family?”

“No,” he says immediately, frowning. “You’ve got me. And you’ve got Penny and Phoenix and….”

“Then why would you ever think that about yourself?”

That shuts him up. He just sits there for a while.

“Jake,” you say, voice more gentle than it’s ever been. “It doesn’t change a thing. Not about the way I feel about you or the man that you are.”

He’s biting his lips, glancing at you from the corner of his eye and then away just as quickly.

“You don’t…” He clears his throat. “You don’t believe what he’s saying? That I’m… weak, or…”

You’re shaking your head before he’s halfway through the question.

“I meant what I said back there,” you reassure, reaching for his hands again. “Jake, you’re the best person I know. You can be an asshole, and a dumbass, and arrogant, and….”

“Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better?” he interrupts, but there’s amusement in his voice, and relief floods your chest in answer.

You say, “What I mean is… I think you’re remarkable.”

“Remarkable?” he repeats, and you can hear the frown in his voice.

“Remarkable. Because even with someone like him raising you, putting you down all the time, telling you all that bullshit… you still turned out so good. You still turned into the best man I’ve ever known.” You take a deep, deep breath. “The only man I’ve ever really loved.”

And when he turns to look at you, you can see the tears sparkling in his eyes.

You’re climbing over the middle console before you know it, settling into his lap with your arms around his neck and your knees pressing into the seat bis hips. Jake slots clumsy kisses over your eyebrow, your cheekbone, your nose, until he finds your mouth.

He tastes like salt and gravy and home.

“It shouldn’t be like that,” you tell him, drawing back to card your fingers through his hair. “With my mom, it was never like that. She was so warm and kind, and she was so happy to see me, always. Even if I showed up unannounced and drunk at three am. And she just wanted me to be happy, no matter in what capacity. That’s how it should be, Jake, that’s what you deserved. Someone who loves you unconditionally.”

“I do have that,” he whispers, voice husky. “I have you.”

And it’s like this: being with Jake is like drifting on a blow-up mattress through a pool. Being with Jake is like reaching the top of a mountain after hours of hiking. Being with Jake is like the first taste of ice cream on the hottest day of the year. Being with Jake is like the first winter snow, early in the morning when everything is still untouched and quiet. Being with Jake is like listening to the rain from beneath your blankets, warm and safe and cozy.

Being with Jake is everything you’ve ever wanted.

“Yes,” you agree, head spinning, chest tight, “you do. You’ll always have me, Jake. We’re our own family already. And when we have kids, I know you’ll be the most perfect father, and you’ll never, ever treat them the way your dad treated you. You’ll be so kind and so loving and….”

“When we have kids,” he interrupts you.

In his lap, your face inches from his, you freeze.

Suddenly you can’t look at him. Your cheeks feel like they’re burning. “I… I’m sorry, we never talked about this, I just….”

You move to climb off him, but he pulls you closer instead, holds you to him with hands grasping the backs of your thighs.

“Is that what you want?” he asks softly. “You want to have my kids?”

The way he phrases the question almost makes you scoff. But then you think about it for a second, this thing you haven’t even been brave enough to voice in the privacy of your own mind. This thing that perhaps, in your heart of hearts, you’ve always dreamed of.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I do. I do, Jake.”

And he groans, pushes his face against your cheek, and you can’t see him, but you can feel the tears.

“I’ll give it to you,” Jake whispers. “I'll give you anything you want. A ring and a house with a blue door and a baby. I’ll give you a baby, sweetheart. My girl. My gorgeous, brave, brave girl.”

In the silence of the night, in the warmth of that car, it sounds like a promise.

#hangman fic #hangman x reader #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #hangman #mine #drabble #f: bh #hangman drabble #f:bhdrabbles

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