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kneelforloki · 19 hours ago

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My Heart — Part Two

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942

previous. next.

The paint stains your fingers in shades of umber and charcoal, seeping into the skin beneath your nails, filling the creases along your knuckles. You’ve stopped noticing how it feels—the slight stickiness of oils, the bite of turpentine on raw fingertips. It’s part of the process. Part of the mess you’ve accepted as your life.

The studio smells like linseed oil, rain-dampened brick, and faint candle smoke from the altar of used coffee cups near the window.

You haven’t eaten. You never do when you’re in this state.

The canvas towers in front of you — a human torso, cut open and reassembled with impossible precision, gothic window tracery bleeding from the muscle, spine bent beneath the weight of cathedral motifs. A ribcage crowned with delicate arches. Veins following the curve of stained glass.

It’s grotesque. It’s sacred.

It’s yours.

You push the brush across the canvas, smoothing the crimson edge of one carved shoulder, teeth digging into your lower lip. It’s not done. It never feels done. You don’t know what compels you to keep building cathedrals inside people. You just can’t seem to stop.

You don’t notice the knocking at first.

The sound seeps through the fog of your focus, faint and rhythmic, knuckles tapping wood. You groan under your breath, setting the brush down beside the palette, fingers sticky with paint.

It’s probably Pam again. She’s sweet, too sweet sometimes — hovering, asking if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’ve seen the sun in the past forty-eight hours. It’s not her fault, but you’ve been very clear today.

“Pam, for the love of God,” you call, not turning away from your work. “I told you, I’m not hungry. You don’t need to hover like a worried mother—”

You turn then, irritation curling your mouth as you wipe your hand absently on the hem of your oversized paint shirt, ready to face the soft-eyed persistence of your assistant.

But it’s not Pam.

It’s Jason.

He stands near the door, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his hip. His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable, sharp like they always are when he’s too quiet, watching you like you’re still the kid he used to mess with, still the little sister too easy to fluster.

Behind him, Damian is already wandering through your studio, his hands clasped behind his back in that overly formal way he’s always had, posture unnaturally straight for a thirteen-year-old, his eyes tracing every painting, every sculpture, every unfinished sketch with the kind of reverence that makes your skin itch.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

Jason shrugs. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse stumbles. Childhood memory pulls behind your ribs, unwelcome.

“You didn’t answer the door,” Damian remarks, calmly, as though this is the most natural place for him to be. His tone doesn’t match his age. He’s a teen but speaks like a soldier twice his years. “We assumed you would not appreciate us arriving with excessive fanfare.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You broke into my building?”

Jason lifts a brow. “Didn’t know we needed an engraved invitation to check on our sister.”

You grip the rag on your desk a little too tightly. “You can’t just show up here. This is my space.”

Your older brother strolls further in, his steps deliberately slow. “Yeah? You didn’t really leave us much choice, you know. You’re hard to get a hold of.”

“That’s the point.”

“You invited us.”

“I meant the gallery, Jason,” you snap. “Not my apartment.”

Jason clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

“Studio,” Damian corrects quietly, still inspecting the room. “This is not merely an apartment. It’s an artist’s space.”

Your gaze flicks to him. His tone is formal, precise, the way your father speaks in boardrooms, the way assassins speak before they strike.

You know that cadence. You used to wear it too. Before you remembered how tired you were of being sharp-edged.

His focus drifts from canvas to canvas, lingering on the darker ones, his expression carefully neutral. He walks as though he’s in a museum — slow, controlled, absorbing everything. For a second, you think he would enjoy the gallery much more, and you quickly get rid of the thought.

Damian finally turns to face you, his green eyes unsettlingly direct. “We came to see you.”

You cross your arms, suddenly conscious of the paint-streaked shirt, the disheveled hair, the exhaustion under your skin. Your space feels invaded. Claustrophobic. Like they cracked the sanctuary you built around yourself and stepped right in without asking.

“How did you even know where I live?”

Jason’s grin is infuriating. “Come on. Did you really think you could keep that from us?”

“I moved across the country.”

“Yeah. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

“I used aliases.”

“Cute.”

Damian’s voice cuts through, quiet but deliberate. “Tim found you.”

You blink.

Jason’s smile falters slightly. “Yeah, that helped.”

You glance between them, irritation flaring in your ribs. “Tim hacked into my stuff?”

“Only the necessary. We didn't see any of your dirty stuff,” Jason makes a grimace, completely disgusted. "God, I hope you don't have that stuff 'cause that just made me sick."

“Choke in your vomit while you are at it,” you reply back, eyes narrowed.

Jason pushes off the doorframe, wandering deeper now, hands in his pockets, gaze sliding over your unfinished works.

“You’ve been busy,” he notes casually, though there’s a flicker in his expression you don’t miss. Something thoughtful. Guarded.

“I didn’t ask for company,” you say evenly.

“No, but you sure as hell needed it,” Jason mutters under his breath. “Did you eat? And don't lie. Cause I can and I will talk to Pammy over there. Surely blondie could answer that as well as you.”

You roll your eyes. Damian interrupts, stepping toward a sculpture perched on a pedestal near the back of the studio. His voice is smooth, formal. “This one is exquisite.”

You stiffen immediately.

Jason follows Damian’s line of sight, curiosity dimming into something else when he focuses on the piece. His posture locks, his smirk gone.

The sculpture isn’t large, but you’ve kept it protected, guarded in the corner like it was something precious.

Because it is.

Two figures, with faces that merely touch by an ear to a cheek, no bodies, just faces and necks and only a bit of chest. Her arm protects him, crossing to his shoulder. There is no paint. Just faces. Blank faces that are too sad.

You and Jason.

Younger. Before death. Before he was gone.

Jason steps closer, his lips parting like he might say something, but nothing comes out. He’s staring at the chipped edge where your fingertips almost touch his neck.

The moment feels too exposed, too raw, too much.

You rush forward, grabbing the draped cloth from a nearby chair and hastily covering the sculpture, heat creeping to your cheeks.

Jason’s eyes stay on you. Quiet now. The teasing’s gone. What’s left is… complicated. Damian, meanwhile, has stepped closer, watching the whole exchange with unnerving focus. His eyes are greener up close. Sharper. Too observant for a thirteen-year-old.

“Why is that hidden?” he asks simply, as if the question isn’t a blade twisting in your ribs.

“Because it’s not for display,” you answer curtly, adjusting the cloth, the warmth in your cheeks refusing to fade.

Damian steps beside you, quiet but watching. Always watching.

“You should come home,” he says, direct as ever, eyes locked on yours. “To the Manor.”

The words slam into your chest like a steel door.

You bark out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as you retreat back toward your canvas, grabbing your brush with shaky fingers.

“I’m not going back there.”

“You should,” Damian insists, his voice low but firm, carrying the same command your father always wielded — only softer, more desperate under the surface. “You belong with us.”

“No,” you reply, knuckles whitening around the brush. “I belong here.”

Jason leans against the wall, kicking a stray paintbrush with the toe of his boot. “Look, you don't have to move back into the Manor. No one’s trying to suffocate you. But you don’t have to be alone all the time.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’re talking to a brick wall, painting holes in people, and eating nothing but coffee and stubbornness. Sure doesn’t look like you’ve got a full house in here.”

You scowl. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Fair.”

The studio falls into a thick, tense silence, the quiet hum of city traffic beyond the window the only sound.

Damian breaks it, voice colder, but not unkind.

“We miss you.”

You stare at him, at the strange, complicated little brother you barely know, the only one who shares your blood — half, yes, but more than enough for him to treat you like you’re his.

Your heart wavers. Because you were always like that with your siblings. Always too soft, too easy to catch. It was not your fault; how could they look at you like that and expect you not to fall?

But you still retreat behind your work, turning your attention back to the cathedral-ribcage and the arches blooming from muscle and bone.

Jason exhales slowly, fingers tapping the edge of a nearby shelf.

“Alfred asks about you, you know.”

Your spine straightens. You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he continues, softer now. “Old man’s been stuck with nothing but bats and brats. Pretty lonely in that big house.”

The words knife into your chest.

Alfred.

You swallow hard, brush faltering mid-stroke.

“He misses you,” Jason adds, voice rough with something that sounds too much like guilt. “The others— they’re stubborn. But him? He just wants you home.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears rise. You breathe through your teeth, steadying yourself as the memories press against your ribs — Alfred’s gentle hands bandaging your bruised knuckles, his voice soft in the dark after failed missions, the way he saw you when no one else did.

“He’s… fine?” Your voice is fragile.

Jason nods. “Tired. Old. Still making those goddamn scones no one likes but you.”

You huff a quiet, broken laugh despite yourself.

Damian steps closer, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as his eyes soften — still sharp, still possessive, but open now. Waiting.

“We’ll leave,” he says carefully. “But you should consider it.”

“I’m not going back,” you repeat, but it cracks more than you intend.

Jason sighs, shrugging on his jacket again.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes lingering on you, old regret buried under forced nonchalance. “Didn’t think you would.”

But they don’t push.

They leave the studio quietly, the door clicking shut behind them, the echo of their presence curling in the corners like smoke you can’t scrub away.

You stare at the unfinished painting, the gothic ribs and spires reaching out like a cathedral begging for worship.

And for the first time in hours, your hands shake too much to keep painting.

2021

You are Gotham’s darling.

You glide through the gala like a practiced storm, a smile stretched soft and convincing across your painted lips, pearls heavy against your collarbones, a custom dress clinging to your figure in all the right ways.

You know what they see.

They see elegance. Charm. The precious Wayne daughter — the pianist, the prodigy, the golden girl.

But they don’t see the cracks. No one ever does.

You know exactly how to play this game.

You lift a flute of champagne from a silver tray — you won’t drink it, of course. You just need to hold it. It’s part of the image.

Your eyes flick across the room, cataloguing politicians, socialites, investors, foreign dignitaries, all humming in the same stale rhythm.

It’s always the same.

And it’s so easy.

A charming laugh here. A delicate touch on the arm there. The perfect tilt of your head, the perfect compliment, the perfect distance. You flash a smile, soft and warm, as another politician’s wife tells you how radiant you look tonight. You accept the compliment like it’s your birthright. You have learned to wear praise like perfume — light, intoxicating, gone in a moment.

They eat it up.

You are exceptional at being what they want you to be.

Across the room, you can see them.

Your family.

Your father. Bruce Wayne, always the shadow, always the gravity around which you all spin. Talking to someone from the Mayor’s office, brow furrowed, jaw tight, not looking at you.

Dick — always moving, always orbiting. Laughing with some acquaintances, tipping his glass toward them, that golden boy glow turned up to full wattage. He hasn’t looked your way in over twenty minutes.

Jason — unfamiliar to these parties, still stiff in his tailored suit, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, eyes darting toward the door like he’s already plotting his escape. You catch him staring at you briefly, but he looks away too quickly, feigning disinterest.

Tim — glued to his phone, tucked in a corner, nodding absently at the older men who mistake his silence for reverence. He won’t make it through the night without ducking out to work on whatever case is currently eating him alive.

None of them are looking at you.

And yet, you are here.

You are always here.

The daughter.

The musician.

The delicate thing to be paraded in pearls.

You love them. You hate them. You love them. You hate them.

It’s always both.

They forget you. They adore you. They neglect you. They would burn the world for you.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they’ve already forgotten.

You remember the first time you played for the public — twelve years old, barely tall enough for your feet to brush the pedals. You’d glanced toward the side of the stage, hoping, aching to see your father there.

He wasn’t.

But Alfred was. He always was.

You play like you’re starving.

You play like it’s the only way you know how to be loved.

Your fingers fly across the keys, weaving through the rises and falls of the piece you’ve practiced to perfection. Every note is a plea. Every shift in tempo is a crack in the armor.

See me.

Please, see me.

The crowd is enraptured.

Gotham adores you. You know how to keep them in your palm.

When you finish, the applause swells, thunderous, pressing against your ribs.

You find Alfred near the kitchens of the Manor. His face softens the moment he sees you.

“My dear.”

You step into his arms without thinking, without needing to guard yourself. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head like he did when you were a child.

You were always a child in his arms.

“You played beautifully,” he murmurs.

“Did you listen?”

“Of course I did.”

“You stayed the whole time?”

“Always.”

You swallow thickly, pressing your face into his shoulder.

Alfred has always stayed.

“You should be the one they parade around,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly. “I’m far too old for that now.”

“You’re the best of all of us.”

“You are part of that ‘us,’ you know.”

You pull back, but his hand lingers on your cheek, thumb brushing away the hint of tears.

“I see you,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Even when the others don’t. I see you, my girl.”

You nod, the lump in your throat too heavy to speak.

Alfred gives you a knowing look. “Your father is not always as clever as he pretends to be.”

“I’m not looking for clever.”

“Perhaps not. But I suspect you are still looking.”

You don’t answer.

You’ve already learned that some searches never end.

But you smile for him anyway.

Because you can’t bear to let him see how much it hurts.

PRESENT

The world feels better upside down.

You’ve decided that much after the third drop, when your body spirals through the air, silk ribbons biting into your thighs, your wrists, your waist, the floor disappearing somewhere below.

There’s freedom here, wrapped tight in fabric and gravity’s quiet threat. Up here, it doesn’t matter what your last name is. It doesn’t matter whose eyes you inherited, whose legacy you abandoned. It doesn’t matter how many invitations you wrote that no one showed up for.

It’s just you.

Your body.

Your strength.

Your silence.

The silk coils like a lover around your legs, keeping you suspended a solid twenty feet off the ground. You hang there, breathing slow, the city bleeding in through the open studio window — car horns, distant chatter, the faint wail of sirens that sound far too much like home.

You hate how your chest tightens at that sound.

The pressure wraps across your ribs as you climb, muscles burning, silk cool under your palms. The deep blue fabric coils like water as you flip, twisting your legs, pulling your body upside down, your hair trailing toward the floor twenty feet below.

For the first time all day, your head spins in a way that makes sense.

Up here, it’s just you.

Not the invitations you stupidly wrote.

Not the unanswered questions from Damian.

Not the quiet ache Jason left behind.

Not Alfred’s face, worn and tired, haunting the back of your mind.

You’ve spent hours here, in the studio that isn’t your art studio—the other one, the hidden space in the upper floor you converted into your training room.

“Okay,” comes a voice from below, too familiar, too soft with that unbearable warmth. “Now that’s impressive.”

Your eyes snap open.

Dick Grayson stands beneath you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, blue eyes glinting with quiet awe — and a pride you’ve never seen aimed at you before. Not like that.

“Birdie,” he says, grinning up at you, that old nickname curling off his tongue like honey over a blade.

Your stomach flips, the nickname scraping through your ribs with bitter nostalgia.

You were never a Robin. Never wore the cape, the tights, the too-big legacy that was supposed to mold you into their perfect image.

But you were a bird too.

His bird.

Once.

“You’re supposed to announce yourself,” you say flatly, ignoring the way your pulse skips at the sound of his voice.

“I did,” he teases. “You just didn’t hear me over all your death-defying tricks.”

You exhale through your nose, keeping your face blank as you shift in the silks, body still upside down, legs tangled securely.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is even, practiced, but your heart stumbles anyway.

Dick rocks back on his heels, gaze still glued to you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?”

You arch a brow. “Favorite? Bold assumption.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Right through the heart.”

You twist in the silks again, limbs coiling expertly, giving him your back for a moment as you let the tension in your core guide your position. You love the feeling — controlled, steady, detached from the floor, from all of it.

When you finally pivot back toward him, his eyes haven’t left you.

There’s a gleam there — pride, yes, but something heavier buried beneath. Guilt. Sadness. That quiet, unbearable Grayson softness that makes you want to run in the opposite direction.

Or scream at him.

Or both.

“You shouldn’t sneak into people’s studios,” you tell him flatly. “Some artists are territorial.”

Dick chuckles. “Yeah, well, I figured it was safer than knocking and getting the door slammed in my face.”

“Tempting.”

“You gonna come down?” he asks, tilting his head. “Or are we having this whole conversation with you playing Cirque du Soleil?”

You smirk faintly, fingers loosening your grip on the silks.

“Suit yourself.”

Before he can argue, you drop — fast, controlled, the silks unraveling in a fluid blur, your body spinning toward the floor at breakneck speed.

You hear him curse under his breath.

The moment before your feet hit the mat, you hook your legs, slowing the descent, landing clean and balanced with barely a whisper of sound.

Dick’s eyes are wide, hand halfway extended like he thought you might splatter across the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hand scrubbing down his face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You shrug, peeling the silk from your wrists. “Just keeping you on your toes. You’ve seen me do worse, anyway.”

His eyes roam your frame — not with scrutiny, but with that quiet, admiring calculation you remember from years ago, back when you were smaller, younger, chasing after them in the halls of the Manor with too-big eyes and a heart desperate to be seen.

“I didn’t know you got this good,” he observes, tone dipping softer now. “The aerial stuff.”

“I’ve had time.”

His gaze sharpens, and you know he hears the bite beneath your words.

Of course he does. Dick’s always been good at hearing what people don’t say.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, softer now, the teasing edged away, replaced by something closer to… awe? Pride? Guilt? You can’t tell. It’s always layered with him. His eyes stray to the scattered equipment, the crash mats, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint summer breeze.

“It suits you,” he admits, tapping his thumb against his palm. “The silks. The… flying.”

You fold your arms, stepping back toward the silk rig, giving him space — and putting distance between yourself and whatever sentiment he’s about to throw at you.

“Let me guess,” you exhale, sticky hair clinging to your neck. “You’re here to talk about the Manor. About coming home. Just like Jason. Just like Damian.”

Dick’s jaw flexes.

You straighten, rolling your shoulders, tugging the silks aside as you wipe your palms on your leggings.

“If that’s the case,” you add, sharp and controlled, “save your breath.”

“Birdie—”

“I’m not going back.”

His face flickers, the usual effortless charm faltering under the weight of your words.

He watches you for a long, measured moment.

You cross your arms, leaning against the nearest support beam, heartbeat still settling from the adrenaline of the silks, though the real tension in the room comes from him.

“Did they put you up to this?” you ask quietly. “Bruce? The others?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, stepping closer. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Your brow lifts. “So what, you just… showed up?”

His lips curl faintly, crooked and boyish. “You’re hard to track down when you don’t want to be found. But I’ve had practice.”

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Surveillance and interrogation. Real family values.”

“Okay, that—” Dick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I deserved that one.”

You sigh, dropping your head for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

The weight of his gaze settles heavily between you. Pride. Longing. Regret.

It’s all there, barely hidden beneath the years of distance.

“I’m not coming back,” you repeat, quieter now, but no less certain.

Dick’s expression softens, his shoulders lowering as he closes the last few feet between you, stopping just far enough that you still feel you have room to breathe.

“Look,” he starts gently, voice dipping into the same soothing cadence he used when you were little—before everything cracked. “I’m not here to drag you back. I’m not even here to lecture you.”

You snort. “That’s new.”

He gives you a dry look, but his smile returns, faint and a little sad.

“I just wanted to see you,” Dick admits, glancing around the studio. “See how you’re doing. How… this life is treating you.”

Your chest tightens, unexpected warmth blooming under the guard you’ve spent years building.

You want to believe him. Part of you does.

But the other part—the part that remembers every missed recital, every unopened letter, every time you stood on the edges of family dinners while they laughed without you—knows better.

“I’m fine,” you lie easily.

He frowns, eyes drifting over you, reading you the way only he can.

“You don’t look fine.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the silks, fingers tracing the cool fabric as a distraction.

“Don’t start playing big brother now, Dick. It’s been years.”

“I never stopped being your brother.”

Your throat tightens, but you mask it with a shrug, grabbing the silk, twisting it idly around your wrist to keep your hands busy.

“This isn’t the Manor,” you whisper. “You don’t get to show up and play big brother.”

His expression fractures — just a little, the mask slipping.

“I’m building something here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the studio, the silks, the life outside Gotham’s shadows. “It’s mine. No capes. No patrols. No… disappointments.”

His face twists with something complicated—guilt, frustration, maybe even admiration.

“I get it,” Dick says softly. “I do.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I ran from it too, remember? Blüdhaven. The circus. It’s not so different.”

“It is,” you counter, stepping forward, close enough now that your voices stay low, private. “You had the option to visit. To come back whenever you wanted. Me? I didn’t know if I even belonged there in the first place.”

Dick’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“You always belonged,” he says, fierce and broken, eyes burning into yours. “We were just too damn distracted to show you.”

The admission punches the air from your lungs.

You look away, throat tight.

“Jason mentioned Alfred,” you murmur after a beat, the memory of the old butler’s face ghosting over your thoughts. “How… is he?”

“Still the only one holding the Manor together,” Dick answers, his voice soft with fondness. “Tired. He misses you... Everyone does. I do.”

You shake your head, pulling the silks through your fingers, grounding yourself in the familiar texture.

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like I can just walk back in and pretend nothing happened.”

“Trust me, birdie, I’m not pretending.” He pauses. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”

You glance at him, wary.

His eyes meet yours, steady, open.

“I should’ve been there. More. Better. I thought— I thought you’d always be there. That there’d always be time.”

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“Don’t pull the ‘we were kids’ card.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly. “I was going to say I wasn’t paying attention. That I thought being your brother meant just… showing up for the big stuff. The galas. The battles. I didn’t realize it was the little things that mattered.”

You look away.

“I used to send you letters,” you murmur, voice tight. “Invitations. Notes.”

“I know.”

“I used to save you seats.”

“I know.”

His voice is thick now.

“I didn’t think you wanted me there,” you whisper, fingers tightening on the silks. “I thought you had better things. More important people.”

He steps closer, not touching, but near enough to feel the warmth of him.

“You were always important,” he says. “I just… didn’t act like it.”

You blink rapidly, trying to hold back the stupid, stinging heat behind your eyes.

“I’m still not coming back.”

He smiles softly. “Okay.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Okay?”

“I’m not here to drag you home,” he says. “I’m here to see you. To remind you that you still have a home. That you still have a brother who’s proud of you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“It’s true.” His smile grows. “You were always a bird, you know. Not like me, not like the Robins. You were something wilder. Something I always wanted to fly like. My little birdie.”

He gets close, and for the first time you let him, chest aching for the love he once gave you. Dick kisses your temple, looking down at you for a moment.

“There's going to be a gala in four days. Because of the anniversary of the enterprises. Just . . . think about it. You have my number. And take care of yourself, please.”

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kneelforloki · 20 hours ago

Text

My Heart — Part One

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic slight yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, a bit of trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.9k

next.

New York never felt like home, but it became the closest thing you could hold on to.

You’ve built a life here — tall, untouchable. You’ve shaped it with your own hands, your own colors, your own breath. Nothing about it belongs to the Waynes. Not the apartment nestled above a quiet coffee shop in the Lower East Side, not the canvases drying in the corners, not the framed articles about your exhibitions, not the soft hum of the city seeping through your open window at dawn.

You’ve never liked the quiet.

Which is ironic, considering how desperately you’ve built your life around it.

It follows you now, trailing after you like a shadow, as you pad barefoot across the creaking floorboards of your apartment. Your studio smells like turpentine and old coffee, acrylic paint staining your fingers, charcoal smudged beneath your fingernails. The city hums below you—cars honking, people yelling, life happening. But up here? It’s quiet.

You carved out this life for yourself—a life apart from Wayne Manor’s echoing halls, the Bat‑family’s midnight discipline, the nosey of Alfred, even your father’s distant pride. You’d rather have these narrow, straight streets than that cavernous mansion filled with ghosts.

Eye to eye, the portrait looks at you, analyzing, judging. It's almost like you are the prey, and she is the hunter. Huntress. Hadn't that been your name once? That stupid nickname that only your family knew about?

With that, you decide that that piece is never going out to life.

Here, you’re Y/N Wayne, and people know you because your paintings make them feel something. They know you because your words drip off pages like slow, sticky honey, because the chords you compose linger like ghosts. They know you. Not her.

Not the Huntress.

Not the child who spent her teenage years leaping across rooftops in desperate silence.

Not the kid who wanted, so painfully, to be seen.

“Y/N, are you listening?”

You blink, eyes pulling away from the list of upcoming press engagements your manager slid across the table. Ms. Morley — always Morley, never her first name — has her arms crossed, her expression calm but expectant.

You offer a polite, measured nod. “Yes, I’m listening.”

Her mouth twitches, something between a sigh and a smile. She’s used to this version of you: distant, composed, pleasant, but just far enough away that she’ll never get in.

“This showcase is the most important event of your career. You know that.”

You do. You know it in your bones. You’ve spent a decade painting your way here, clawing through the cement of your own insignificance to find something — anything — that could be yours.

It’s a refined gallery in SoHo. Exclusive, prestigious. People from the Met will be there. Patrons from across the Atlantic. Journalists whose words can either fold you into legend or erase you like you never existed.

“This is the kind of night that defines an artist,” Morley continues, sliding her tablet toward you, the event details highlighted in sharp white. “And the kind of night the press eats up.”

You keep your back straight, your breathing steady. “I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, thoughtful. “We need your family there.”

The name curls in your stomach like bad wine. You lower your eyes to the tablet, as if rereading the date will change what she’s about to say.

“They should be there. All of them.”

Your throat dries, but your voice doesn’t falter. “They won’t come.”

“Maybe not. But the invitation matters. Publicly.” Her fingers tap softly against the glass table, a steady beat. “Their presence will shift the entire narrative around you. It gives your work weight in their circles. It’ll make people pay attention.”

People already pay attention. That’s why you moved here. That’s why you don’t sign your paintings with your last name. That’s why you carefully, deliberately, separated yourself from the empire back in Gotham.

“I don’t want to invite them.”

Morley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s not unkind, but she is immovable.

“You don’t have to want it,” she says simply. “You have to do it.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that part of you — the small, broken part — still wants them to come. Still craves to be seen. Still aches for Bruce’s approval, even now, even after you’ve stopped asking for it.

You press your fingers together, folding them tightly until the knuckles burn.

“They won’t come,” you whisper.

“They might surprise you.”

They won’t.

You’ve lived your entire life in the spaces they didn’t bother to fill. You remember what it felt like to sit in the Manor’s library, waiting for Bruce to come home, waiting to tell him about your mission, about how you stopped a robbery on your own. You remember how the words curdled in your throat when he brushed past you, eyes already on the next crisis, the next son, the next city to save.

Dick was the golden child. Jason was the loud one, the troublemaker, the broken boy everyone wanted to fix.

You were just… there.

You grew up alongside them, but you were never that much with them. Of course, your older brothers are much of your favorite part of your childhood; Dick teaching you about gymnastics before he became Robin. Jason being just one year older than you, close as nail and dirt before he died. You two became heroes together.

He, the second Robin. You, the only Huntress. You remember the night you saved a group of hostages from a deranged gunman. Sixteen, trembling, adrenaline high — Dick found you afterward, mascara bleeding, but alive. He didn’t say much. Just put his arm around you. That was the only time you felt he believed in you, briefly.

You remember, too, being a child in the manor: cold corridors, even colder glances, father absorbed in his mission, brothers leaving home, returning with scars. Your own scars—emotional, silent, winding through your teenage years.

You weren’t the strategist like Tim, or the quiet weapon like Cass. Your mind wasn't as fast as Barbara's. You weren’t the prodigy like Damian. You weren’t even the spirit like Stephanie.

You were just the girl who tried. The one who stayed polite. The one who made her own costume, patrolled the streets no one cared about, picked up the pieces the rest of them left behind.

The one they forgot to love properly.

It's not that they don't love you. A small part of them must have to love you, as you love them, as much as you hate them. Your father loved you, once, you surely remember that; and he did love you, you were sure of that, just not as much as you really wished.

You spent your teen years similar to the image he gave. Spoiled, charming. The public loved you, still does, you are more than confident of that. Intelligent, sporty, an artist. Someone who loved Gotham, despite all.

“I’ll send the invitations,” you say at last, voice steady. “One for each.”

Morley gives a small nod of approval. “Thank you. It matters.”

You offer her a polite smile, but inside, something crumbles, quiet and familiar.

When the meeting ends, you walk back to your apartment in the gray afternoon haze, the memory of rain clinging to the pavement. You don’t want to write to them. You don’t want to remember.

But you do. You always do.

You sit at your desk — the one you built yourself, the one with the scratches from moving it too many times — and you pull out eight envelopes.

One for each of them.

You start with Bruce. The paper stays blank for a long time. What do you even say to the man who shaped your entire life by not showing up to it?

You remember him in fragments — his voice, his scent, the way his cape would brush your shoulder when you were little and you’d sneak into the Batcave just to see him. His soft smile when you rested by his side in the couch. You remember the big parties he threw at every single one of your birthdays, but you can't remember enjoying them.

Father, I’m showcasing a new collection in three weeks. You are welcome to attend if you wish. It will be at the Holburne Gallery, in New York. I imagine your schedule is full, but I wanted you to have the information.

You hesitate.

I hope you’re well.

That’s all you write. That’s all you can.

You sign your name — just your first name — and fold the letter carefully.

You seal the envelope, knowing he probably won’t come. Knowing that if he does, he’ll stand at the back of the room like a stranger. Knowing he won’t say he’s proud. But you send it anyway.

The eldest of your siblings was next. You adored Richard. He had been the one you had most envied and admired at the same time. You were always just a step behind him. Always the little sister, never the partner.

Hi, Dick.

I’m presenting a new collection soon. It’s in New York. I thought you might like to know. You don’t have to come, of course. But you’re invited. Hope you’re well.

You sign it.

You try not to think about the Christmas he forgot to call. The birthday he skipped. The voicemail he never answered.

You and Jason always understood each other in a way that didn’t need words. Which is why the silence between you now feels like betrayal. His death had been . . . harsh on you. And then he came back. Nothing like the boy you remembered. Nothing similar to your rebellious yet sweet brother.

Jason, You can leave early. You’d probably hate it.

You sign it.

You remember when you were kids, and he called you his “annoying little shadow.” You remember the first time he died. You remember visiting his grave every week, even when no one else did.

You remember when he came back, and didn’t call you.

Cass was the quiet one, but she was always the first to notice when you were drowning. She never said much, but she looked at you like she saw you, and maybe that’s why her absence cuts the sharpest.

Cass, There’s an exhibition. In New York. In three weeks. I think you’d like the paintings. They’re about what we don’t say. I’d like it if you came.

You don’t need to say more. She’ll understand.

She always did. You understand a bit less than her, but you were the first who learned sign language for her, and you resent her a bit when your father's eyes look at her.

Tim was younger than you, merely by two years. The brilliant one. The one who could solve everything except the rift between you. You don't really remember a time where you two actually got along. You were too hurt by Jason's death when he arrived. When your father replaced him.

There’s a show. I don’t know if you’d want to come. It’s not your scene. But you’re invited.

You almost don’t send his letter.

But you do.

You and Stephanie were always too similar in the worst ways — the loud, overlooked ones who made themselves easy to forget.

But you liked her.

Art show. New York. Three weeks. Come if you want. There’ll be wine.

You sign it.

You remember the time she hugged you after a mission and told you that you were her hero in her eyes.

You remember that you stopped trying to be a hero that time.

Duke and you really don't know each other that much. You call him your brother, because in a way he is, but you are not really sure how much of a sister you are to him. If he calls you that or simply by your name. Probably the latest.

I’m having a show. You’re invited. You don’t have to come. Just thought you should know.

It feels strange to write to someone you barely knew. But he’s family. Whatever that means.

Damian was the hardest of them all: your blood, his blood, all the same. You share some gestures, gestures you both have from Bruce. You carry on your veins the same liquid that runs through his. He carries with his twisted hate to you. You do with tangled love.

Damian, You probably have already read the other letters by now, but I thought you should be sent one too. I formally invite you to the presentation. Please, don't bring knives or any weapon if you are going to come.

You sign that one with less happiness.

You write one more. For Alfred.

Alfred, I would love it if you came to my show. It would mean everything to me. You’re the only one I really want there. There is a painting dedicated to you. Hope you can see it with your own eyes and not in a photo.

You hesitate. You seal it.

For the first time all day, you allow yourself to feel the weight of it — the years you spent chasing them, the ache that never quite went away. The child in you still wants them to come. Still wants to believe they’ll show up.

But you know better.

You send the letters anyway.

Wayne Manor has never really been quiet.

Not in the honest sense.

The walls hum, always. The distant rattle of the grandfather clock, the soft padding of Alfred’s shoes against marble, the slow groan of old staircases. Even when no one is speaking, the house breathes.

Dick’s never minded that. Silence always had a weight in this place. And right now, it sits heavy on his shoulders as he drags himself down the long hall, wiping dried blood off the side of his chin with the edge of his sleeve.

The night had been rough. Long patrol in Blüdhaven. Longer arguments with Bruce over the comms. His knuckles still ache from where they met a thug’s jaw a little too hard, and his ribs burn with every breath.

He wants nothing more than to shower, crash in his old bed, and pretend—just for tonight—that the world isn’t asking him to carry it.

But as he turns the corner toward his room, something sharp cracks against the wooden floor down the hall.

It’s faint. Small. A box, maybe.

Dick pauses, body tense out of habit, head tilting toward the sound. No one should be up here. Damian with Titus, outside; Jason god knows where, Cass deeply asleep, Tim’s probably holed up somewhere with three screens on, and Alfred—well, Alfred would never let something fall.

Curiosity edges in, overtaking the tiredness. Carefully, quietly, he turns the knob. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a space frozen in time.

It takes him a second to realize where he is.

The walls are bare now. The bed is made, but unused. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few scattered photo frames, one or two stuffed animals slumped in the corner, a cracked mug filled with stiff, dry brushes. It’s not as full as he remembers — a few boxes stacked neatly in corners, the bed made with precision that screams “Alfred.”

But what gives it away—what pulls the air straight out of his lungs—is the pale pink ribbon draped over the desk chair, with “Y/N Wayne” written in the soft, looping scrawl he remembers.

His sister’s room.

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not the warm, cluttered mess it used to be. He remembers tripping over sketchbooks here. He remembers her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands smeared with charcoal, beaming at him as she shoved a half-finished drawing in his face.

He hasn’t stepped foot in here since…

God, when was the last time? Her high school graduation? No, even before that.

The faint smell of old books and faint perfume lingers — something subtle, floral, long faded. On the floor, near the desk, a box has fallen open. Papers, notebooks, and loose photos spill across the hardwood, an unintentional mess.

Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Alfred’s gonna kill me if I leave this here,” he mutters to himself, crouching down.

He starts gathering the scattered pages, stacking them neatly back into the box. Some papers are doodles — quick pencil sketches of rooftops, city skylines, birds. Some are old school essays, a few folded letters never sent.

Something flicks against his thigh. A small, thick card. He picks it up absently, ready to tuck it away—until his eyes land on the handwriting.

His name.

“For Dick” written in familiar, elegant cursive letters.

It’s an invitation. To a theater. The date is from years ago—2016. He flips it, heart thumping unevenly.

Hi Dick!! I know you’re busy but maybe you could come????????????Please. I got a solo part this time! I’d really like if you saw me play. It’s Saturday at 7pm. I saved a seat in the front row for you, just in case. :)

It’s signed simply: Y/N ❤

Dick’s stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

He doesn’t remember this.

He doesn’t remember any of this.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the rest of the papers. More invitations spill out — to gallery showings, poetry readings, little charity events. Some directed to him. Others to Bruce. Some marked for Cass, Steph, Tim.

Names written with hopeful, awkward loops. Names underlined, circled, doodled with little hearts or stars. All gathering dust in a forgotten box, untouched, unopened.

He can only vaguely remember you at galas, tucked behind the grand piano, fingers gliding across keys while the adults talked business. He remembers your drawings stuck to the fridge when they were younger, Bruce pinning them up absentmindedly like they were grocery lists. He remembers thinking you’d be an artist one day.

But he doesn’t remember these shows. These letters. These invitations.

And he missed them.

He missed you.

His throat closes around the guilt rising fast and sharp in his chest. He runs his thumb over the soft paper of the invitation, reading your bubbly handwriting again and again, as if somehow, maybe, he’ll remember being there.

Maybe, if he reads it enough, the memory will appear.

But it doesn’t.

The silence wraps tighter around him.

The box is still half-full. Beneath the papers, beneath the scribbled notes and dried-out pens, there’s a small stack of worn journals, their corners frayed from years of use.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not fair to read them. But he’s already failed you in so many ways.

His fingers hover over the top one. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then pulls it into his lap and opens it. It feels like an invasion. It is an invasion. But the guilt is heavy. The ache to understand her, to know the sister he most knew once, roots itself deep.

The pages are filled with your handwriting — messy, cramped, sometimes smudged with faint water stains. He thinks it's not water.

The first page is a sketch—a rough, childish drawing of a girl in a cape, standing next to a tall figure with a sharp cowl and a billowing cape. The girl is grinning. The figure is not.

The words underneath: I’ll make you proud someday.

“Shit,” he breathes softly, staring at the faded paper.

“I made a new piece today. I wanted to show Dad but he’s busy. Always busy. It’s okay. Jay says that’s just how he is. But maybe next time…”

Dick’s stomach knots.

He flips further.

“I sent Dick that invitation today. I hope he comes. I’m nervous. It’s dumb, I know, but it matters to me.”

His vision blurs, breath catching.

The pages bleed with more.

Frustrations. Dreams. Lonely nights in the Manor while the others trained or patrolled. Quiet resentment tucked behind polite words. The slow, steady heartbreak of being overlooked — not hated, not ignored on purpose, just… forgotten.

“I think if I’m good enough, they’ll come.”

“I think if I save enough people, Father will see me. Not just the mask. Me.”

He flipped to another entry, years later.

“They forgot again. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just try harder next time.”

His throat burned.

Another.

“It’s not that they don’t love me. I know they do. They just don’t see me.”

“Maybe I was never supposed to be seen.”

Dick grips the pages so tightly his knuckles go pale.

He reads until the words blur, until the guilt curdles into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually, he shoves the notebooks back into the box, his chest aching with every inhale.

His feet move on autopilot.

The halls blur past.

Bruce is in his study — where else would he be at midnight — reading files, probably preparing for tomorrow’s crusade, like always.

Dick doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open, the box balanced in his arms.

Bruce barely glances up. “Dick.”

He drops the box onto the desk with more force than necessary. Papers spill slightly, the old invitation landing near Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s eyes flick down. His brow furrows. He picks it up.

The silence stretches.

“What’s this?”

“Her room,” Dick snapped. “Her life. All the things we missed.”

Bruce’s hand hovered over the box for a second, as if touching it would burn him. “Y/N’s?”

Dick folds his arms, jaw tight. “You ever remember getting that?”

His father studies the invitation. The date. The handwriting. Something flickers across his face — not recognition. Regret, maybe.

“I… no,” Bruce admits quietly.

Dick’s teeth grind.

“Yeah. Me neither.” His hand slams against the side of the box.

“These? They’re all hers. Invitations. Shows. Letters. You know where I found them? Gathering dust in her old room. You know what else I found? Journals. Years of them.”

Dick’s voice cracks, low and bitter. “She wanted us there. All of us. You. Me. The others. You ever wonder why she left, Bruce? Why she never came back?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t,” Dick warns, pointing a sharp finger. “Don’t give me some crap about her ‘needing space.’ I read it. I read every word. She wasn’t asking for space. I thought patrols, missions, saving the world — I thought it was enough. I didn’t realize I was walking right past her the whole time.”

“She made her choices.”

“She didn’t choose to be invisible to us.”

Bruce flinched at that, just a flicker, but Dick caught it.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

“She distanced herself,” Bruce said, softer now. “She left.”

“She left because we gave her nothing to stay for.”

The words cracked in the air like gunfire.

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Bruce’s gaze drifted to the box, to the memories packed haphazardly inside. His fingers traced the edge of the cardboard, lingering.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” Dick cut in, voice tight. “None of us did. That’s the problem.”

Damian heard everything.

It wasn’t hard, not in this house. Wayne Manor was old — creaking floors, thin walls, ventilation shafts that turned into hallways for sound. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t argue where the walls carried every word like a confession.

From his place crouched in the shadowed corner near the study entrance, Damian listened.

Dick’s voice came sharp and raw, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.

“…Your daughter. My sister. The one we’ve all been too damn busy to notice.”

Damian’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Your daughter. My sister.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

Because no one ever included him in sentences like that. Not when it came to you.

His sister.

His daughter.

As if you weren’t his, too.

You are.

More than them.

You’re his only blood sibling. His only biological sister, even if the “half” in front of that always tasted bitter. It never mattered to him. Not the technicalities. Not the lineage arguments. Not the fact that you were gone before he ever got the chance to prove it.

You’re his sister.

His.

The others forget that. Dick forgets that. They all do.

He pressed further into the shadows, arms crossed, watching the tension unfold between Grayson and Father like a slow-burning fire.

He didn’t make a sound when the box hit the desk, when the contents scattered like broken memories across the wood. His eyes narrowed as papers slid free — letters, notebooks, old invitations — all marked with your name, your handwriting, your quiet, forgotten hope.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what this was about.

You.

It always circles back to you, doesn’t it? Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. He’s thought about you more times than he’ll admit. Even when he pretends not to. Even when he wears his indifference like armor.

When he was younger, maybe ten, he’d wander the Manor searching for you.

Father told him you were away. Grayson said you were busy. Todd didn’t answer the question. Drake looked uncomfortable every time Damian asked. And Alfred?

Alfred always hesitated before replying.

“She’s finding her own way, Master Damian. Some paths are quieter than others.”

But your absence wasn’t quiet. It screamed.

You were a gap in the family photo. A missing piece at the table. A chair left cold at holidays Damian never liked anyway.

And the worst part?

You were the only sibling he wanted to know.

The others? They were fine. Useful, even.

But you?

You were supposed to be his.

His sister. His blood.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

Dick’s words echoed, and Damian’s throat constricted.

No, Father didn’t.

No, the others didn’t.

No, he didn’t.

But he has his reasons. Reasons the others wouldn’t understand.

You were already gone when he arrived. When the League sent him, when Talia made the arrangements, when Father reluctantly opened the doors of the Manor to his assassin-blooded, anger-wrapped child — you weren’t there.

They told him about you in passing. In clinical, detached terms.

“Y/N? She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Y/N? She’s in New York.”

“Y/N? She’s not part of this.”

But you were. You always were.

Even if they didn’t see it, even if you didn’t want to be, you’re a Wayne by blood. And his only sister.

The Huntress.

He knew the stories long before he saw the evidence. They spoke about you — the siblings, Father, even Alfred and all the fucking villains he has encountered — like you were a myth stitched into Gotham’s history.

The vigilante who walked away.

The Huntress with the flawless reputation.

The sister who vanished before Damian could measure himself against you.

But he did, anyway.

He watched the tapes. Studied the case files. Collected every fragment of your old life like it was a puzzle only he deserved to complete.

He mimicked your movements when no one watched him train. He sharpened his stance, just like yours. He mastered the same grappling techniques. He replicated the calculated grace you carried on rooftops — the footage never lied, and neither did the ache of admiration buried deep beneath his ribcage.

No one had to tell him you were better.

He knew.

You’re the only one he compares himself to. Not Drake. Not Todd. Not even Grayson, for all his accolades.

Only you.

His sister.

His blood.

It’s why he’s always hated how distant you’ve stayed. How effortlessly you carved your place outside the family — like you didn’t need them. Like you didn’t want him.

You never came back.

You never called.

You sent birthday letters, even to him. You once sent a present: a beautiful robin, carved with your hands, created by your heart, an exquisite sculpture he stills has in his room, right next to where he sleeps, and no one can touch it. No one.

He knows he shouldn’t resent you for it. You never knew him. You were gone before his feet ever touched Gotham soil. But logic rarely softened jealousy. And the hollow, possessive ache in his chest when they whispered about you never faded.

It burned brighter, seeing your name scrawled across those invitations.

It twisted cruelly, hearing Dick’s broken anger crack through the room.

Would you even recognize him as yours? As your brother? As your blood?

He doubted it.

Still— still, a flicker of want buried itself deep in his chest, like a thorn impossible to pull free.

You should be here, not in New York.

You should’ve stayed.

You should’ve seen him, known him, claimed him as yours before the others did.

Possession tasted ugly in his mouth. But it was all he had left of you.

He slipped away from the doorway before they noticed him. His steps were soundless, as always. The halls felt colder as he walked. The Manor’s walls whispered memories that weren’t his — childhood laughter, quiet piano keys, the soft scratch of pencil on paper — echoes of a sister he never got to grow up beside.

You were a ghost here.

But to him?

You were a benchmark. An obsession. A sister in absentia who still defined him in ways the others couldn’t.

In the privacy of his room, Damian closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched toward the small, hidden stash in the drawer — your old case files, outdated footage, grainy photos from years past.

A shrine built out of frustration and longing.

He flipped one of the photos over. It was you, half-hidden in shadow, your Huntress uniform sleek and sharp, posture flawless. Untouchable. Perfect.

He envied that version of you. Admired you. Resented you. Wanted you here.

It was unfair, how easily you left. How the others pretended they could move on. How you carved a life far from Gotham, far from him, with your paintings and music and words that never found him.

But it was more unfair how badly he still wanted to follow you.

His sister.

The only blood sibling they shared. Not that anyone ever reminded you of that. Not that you ever stayed to show him what that meant.

“She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “My sister. My blood.”

And he wasn’t letting you go again.

That's when he remembered Alfred's words. Your favourite brother had always been Jason. Closest to you: in age, in relationship, in language. That had made him burn before. But not . . . He saw clearly where he could get you again.

Who could.

668 notes · View notes

kneelforloki · 20 hours ago

Text

˗ˏˋ🦇 ─── WHIPPED LIKE BATTER .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

bruce wayne x fem!reader . . you have him wrapped around your finger .ᐟ smau.

note: ngh playboy bruce wayne wya

content: petnames, suggestive

[main masterlist] . [dc masterlist]

─── reblogs with tags are much appreciated 💝

317 notes · View notes

kneelforloki · 1 day ago

Text

playing games ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far

notes: i don't want to say this sucks because i'm actually so proud of getting it done... i was severely burnt out the past week and struggling big time, so i really hope it's not terrible and y'all really enjoy! plus, the ending had me giggling and kicking my feet... as always, please let me know what you think, i love all the feedback (it honestly keeps me going)

warnings: swearing, italics, alcohol consumption, hangman is a bit of a dick but still lovable, kind of cheesy, description of injury and blood (very minor), and it gets a bit horny (18+ ONLY MDNI)! please let me know if i missed anything

word count: 17266

your callsign is chick

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since your first day at the academy, and he’s been ruining your life ever since.

With his stupid sun-kissed skin and ridiculously perfect hair. Those damn pink lips, always curled into a soft smirk beneath that criminal moustache. And those big brown eyes—so deceptively innocent as they watch you, like they know you better than you know yourself.

Even the way he speaks gets you hot. That low drawl in his voice, the way he stretches certain words, and—ugh—the way he says your name.

He’s a walking, talking hazard to your health. Engineered in a lab and designed specifically to make your brain short-circuit. All he has to do is look at you, talk to you, flash that smug little smirk—just exist—and you’re malfunctioning.

You want him like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. Need him more than air when you’re drowning. He’s everything you can’t have but can’t stop craving.

And the worst part?

You know he feels it too. That he wants you just as badly.

But Bradley Bradshaw is too fucking scared to cross that line and risk everything for something real.

“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!”

Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad.

“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones.

“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.”

“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey.

You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit.

“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.”

“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.”

“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.”

You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“But I’m wearing you down, right?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.”

There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go.

Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist.

You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering.

When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame.

You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?”

He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.”

“That so?”

He nods.

You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?”

His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head.

Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could.

It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one.

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.”

Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?”

“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug.

Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him.

The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason.

You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad?

“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?”

He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?”

You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.”

A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do.

He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared.

“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.”

“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.”

He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.”

“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door.

You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name.

Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower.

Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock—

“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.”

You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker.

“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?”

She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?”

Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it.

Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block.

You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs.

You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn.

You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.”

He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water.

He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?”

You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush.

“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?”

He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.”

You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.”

His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?”

Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself?

The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name.

You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard.

The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas.

The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house.

You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on.

“You alright?”

Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.”

He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.”

“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?”

He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.”

Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes.

Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house.

There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck.

It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday.

“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.”

“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back.

“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says.

“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word.

You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.”

Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul.

“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.”

Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.”

You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?”

“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.”

Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.”

“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?”

Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening.

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.”

Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?”

Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.”

Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck.

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing.

“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?”

“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing.

Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.”

You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley.

You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.”

Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?”

You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said.

You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink.

Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk.

“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?”

You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think.

“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask.

Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.”

Bradley tips his head. “Fair.”

He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms.

Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive.

“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?”

Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.”

You nod. “That’s true.”

“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?”

You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.”

He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat.

“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes, please,” she replies.

You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid.

You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?”

His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.”

You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?”

He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.”

You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours.

“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?”

You choke on absolutely nothing.

Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it.

“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?”

He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently.

You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?”

His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods.

“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.”

His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue.

Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head.

The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done.

Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture.

You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost.

You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash.

“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?”

There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table.

“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak.

Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.”

Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?”

Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?”

“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage.

“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.”

Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink.

Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?”

You nod.

He smirks. “Got a date?”

You nearly drop your fork. “A date?”

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?”

You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.”

“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate.

Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches.

You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better.

“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation.

Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you.

Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought.

You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him.

You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused.

You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary.

You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing.

Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away.

After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-”

“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate.

He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.”

His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show.

After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?”

“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.”

He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.”

You arch a brow but keep quiet.

“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard.

“Would you prefer I blame you?”

“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?”

“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?”

He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.”

Jake gasps. “For free?”

Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.”

“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin.

“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.”

Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-”

“Make me two,” Jake cuts in.

“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.”

Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?”

You roll your eyes. Duh.

“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.”

“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly.

“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.”

Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?”

Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.”

You frown. “What? How would that help?”

“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.”

Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?”

You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.”

“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.”

Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love.

“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.”

Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.”

“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.”

He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?”

You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-”

“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?”

Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.”

Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?”

You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.”

He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out.

Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all.

Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.”

Neither you nor Maverick respond.

Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.”

Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind.

You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat.

Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment.

The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler.

Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this.

You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car.

You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars.

“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?”

You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful.

He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?”

You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place.

The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been.

“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?”

The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts.

“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.”

He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is.

With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light.

“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road.

You shake your head. “No, you’re just…”

He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?”

“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen.

You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy.

Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do.

It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you.

How the fuck did he move that fast?

“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close.

“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.”

You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit.

You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.”

He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you.

“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud.

“You know what it means.”

You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name.

“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—”

Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static.

“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady.

Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell.

You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips.

Is this it?

But then—he stops.

His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.”

The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them.

And just like that, the moment shatters.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut.

Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning.

Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops.

You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart.

You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open.

“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open.

You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.”

He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?”

“I don’t grovel.”

He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?”

You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry.

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips.

Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?”

“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.”

He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?”

You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?”

“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.”

His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?”

“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast.

He just arches a brow and waits.

“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.”

Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.”

You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.”

“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.”

“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.”

Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.”

You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head.

“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.”

You tip your head, brow furrowed.

Jake sighs. “You.”

“Oh.”

He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer.

“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says.

Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?”

His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.”

“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering.

He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.”

“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.”

Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.”

You pull back slightly, grimacing.

“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.”

You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope.

“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?”

Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical.

You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far.

Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background.

Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him.

That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question.

Still, the seed had been planted.

On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat.

Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly.

So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top.

You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene.

The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over.

You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun.

And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident.

He’d taken the bait.

“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.

You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice.

Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long.

Now? You get to pull the strings.

You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit.

Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time.

Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned.

You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley.

“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.”

He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.”

When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror.

Except Bradley.

He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing.

Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-”

“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.”

You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension.

“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?”

The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks.

Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer.

Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else.

By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool.

“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell.

You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-”

“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you.

It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours.

“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.”

You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle.

He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time.

“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.”

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig.

Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.”

You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.”

Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?”

You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.”

His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?”

You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.”

“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.”

“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.”

His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation.

You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight.

Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed.

Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie.

Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips.

You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and—

The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot.

“Shit,” you mutter.

You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe.

You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.”

You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.”

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?”

“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.”

“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel.

“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.”

She frowns.

“Get Hangman.”

Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?”

You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.”

She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck.

A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil.

“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.”

He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.”

He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.”

With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms.

When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting.

Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms.

“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.”

She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later.

You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand.

“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?”

He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake.

“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.”

Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist.

“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.”

Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting.

“Jake?” he echoes.

“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.”

Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line.

His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.”

Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides.

He doesn’t even glance back.

Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out.

One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone.

“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.”

“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.”

You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.”

“And what if you accidentally drown?”

You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.”

“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.”

You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?”

She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.”

Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine.

“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.”

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.”

You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.”

“So what if there is?”

The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-”

“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.”

There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.”

“Good.”

“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?”

“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?”

She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?”

“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.”

There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches.

“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides.

“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.”

“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.”

“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk.

She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up.

You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic.

Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good.

You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you.

The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded.

You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect.

The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor.

“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach.

You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then—

“Hello?”

Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater.

“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through.

You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags.

“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?”

“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door.

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?”

You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help.

“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?”

You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding.

“You want me... to come in there?”

You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.”

“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain.

Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free.

And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.

It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying.

He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad.

“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.”

He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.”

He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained.

You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline.

“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.”

He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room.

“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh.

His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer.

“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.”

Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen.

He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself.

“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you.

“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.

He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t dare turn around.

Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second.

You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together.

And then he touches you.

His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely.

Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus.

Your eyes flutter shut.

His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch.

You feel exposed.

And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide.

He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest.

“Bradley…” you whisper.

You don’t even know what you’re about to say.

But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?”

Your whole body tenses.

You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things.

Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?”

He hesitates.

“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.”

You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder.

“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous.

And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.”

Bradley goes still.

You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged.

He doesn’t speak.

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move.

Come on, Bradshaw.

“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.”

The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs.

Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you.

But no.

Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to.

The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say.

You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz.

He doesn’t speak.

And neither do you.

But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene.

Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck.

It’s methodical. Careful.

But it still feels like worship.

And he still hasn’t said a word.

When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”

You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing.

He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip.

And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

“You good?” he asks, voice tight.

You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.”

He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—”

He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.”

And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it.

When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers.

You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’

“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-”

You shake your head.

“Not so much as a-”

“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.”

“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-”

“He’s not a priest, Hangman.”

He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.”

You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee.

“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?”

You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?”

“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.”

You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself.

When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week.

That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home.

The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him.

Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot.

Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.”

Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.”

“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.”

You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.”

The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin.

Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps.

Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…”

Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell.

And then there’s Bradley.

He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch.

His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic.

You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo.

Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare.

“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.”

Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.”

She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips.

“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth.

You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.”

“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.”

Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room.

“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.”

You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.”

He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows.

Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all.

You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore.

This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work.

So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen.

How does any of this make sense?

“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne.

You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth.

“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.”

“I don’t blame him,” you mutter.

“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.”

You frown. “What’s it?”

His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.”

“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone.

You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning.

After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here.

Almost.

Until—

“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?”

You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar.

“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies.

You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face.

“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?”

Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?”

“Too late.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.”

Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-”

“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.”

Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry.

No. They look hurt.

“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady.

Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.”

Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.”

Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall.

Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.”

Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack.

“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal.

Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.”

Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears.

“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-”

“Just shut up, Seresin,” Bradley growls. “She said-”

“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.”

Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-”

“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?”

Your voice cracks—just a little.

“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.”

You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put.

You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’

Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak.

Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days.

By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers.

The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks.

At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much.

You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously.

You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door.

You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling.

You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door.

You open it—and there he is.

Bradley.

His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear.

“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them.

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.”

He takes a shaky breath and steps closer.

“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”

A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.

“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?”

You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.”

His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.”

His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?”

You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.”

“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling.

You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.”

You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.”

You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave.

His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.

You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies.

And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens.

“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late.

He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever.

You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.”

You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?”

His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.”

You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.”

He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.”

A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly.

His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on.

You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.”

He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.”

“You’re not wrong,” you hum.

With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric.

Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for.

His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.”

You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated.

And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well.

Over. And over. And over again.

END.

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kneelforloki · 1 day ago

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Mr. Right Now Part 11 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: As soon as you told Jake you wanted him to come find you, there was no stopping him. He couldn't make you need him the same way he needed you, but he would take care of whatever made you cry. When you hurt Jake, you hurt yourself, too. He deserved an apology that you were ready to give him, and then he gave you more than you could have hoped for.

Warnings: angst, adult language, fluff, 18+

Length: 3600 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

Jake whipped along the dark, quiet streets of Coronado before crossing the bay bridge at twenty over the speed limit in his truck. You called him. He thought his number never even made it into your phone, but after almost two weeks, you called him. Your voice sounded distraught, but when he went out on a limb, suggesting he come find you himself, you readily agreed. Now he just needed to figure out why you were upset and make sure you weren't hurt.

"Come on," he growled at the red light where he needed to turn left. There wasn't much traffic this late, but it still had been fifteen minutes since you called, and he didn't want to keep you waiting. Not when he heard the tears in your voice. Not when he missed you so much, it felt like part of him was lost.

Something must have happened. If he had done a better job with you, maybe you'd have been back at his place again tonight, safe and sound. That was exactly what he wanted. He hadn't cracked open a college textbook in almost eight years, but that didn't stop him from imagining you doing your classwork on his couch while he offered his two cents here and there. He'd been so damn desperate to feel as good as he had when you were there two weekends ago, he ordered himself your favorite kind of pizza tonight. If he thought it tasted bad before, it was a hundred times worse without you on his lap teasing him.

When he made it to your campus, he found the street you told him over the phone, and he drove a little slower, eyes darting from one side of the street to the other. He was tempted to call your number back to be sure he was on the right track when his gaze caught on a bench across the next intersection.

It was you. Your head was in your hands, staring at the ground, but he recognized your Converse sneakers as soon as his headlights shone on them. You had on the cutest dress imaginable, and all Jake wanted to do was make sure you were okay.

He pulled his truck up to the curb and killed the engine, and you looked up at him as soon as he hopped out. You were illuminated by a streetlamp, shivering on the bench, and he ran to get to you faster. Tears streaked your cheeks as you stared up at him like he wasn't real, and he sank down onto his knees on the rough sidewalk at your feet.

"Darlin'," he whispered as more tears filled your eyes. "Tell me what's wrong."

You only got one word out before fresh tears fell. "Jake."

He scooted a little closer, and you let him take your hand in his. "You can trust me. I meant it when I said that." As he ran his thumb along your knuckles, he added, "If you tell me what's wrong, I'll try to fix it."

You hung your head and took a deep breath. "I'm such an idiot." Your eyes were closed, long lashes resting on your damp cheeks as you whispered, "I shouldn't have bothered you. Can you just give me a ride back to my dorm?"

"Hey," he coaxed, giving your hand a little squeeze. "I'll make sure you get back safely, but I can't help with whatever caused the tears unless you tell me what happened."

Your eyes fluttered open as you licked your lips. They parted in silence, and Jake was close enough now to feel your warm breath on his cheek. You were hesitating. Reluctant. You were never like this with him before. He was used to you making demands and walking around his place like you owned it, and he found that was how he preferred things. But he waited for you to speak, simply stroking your knuckles with his thumb until you were ready.

"Cooper happened. And it was awful."

Even the name made Jake's skin crawl. He'd been thinking about that stupid kid since the first time you mentioned him, but right now, anger burned just beneath the surface of his skin as he asked, "What did he do to you?" When you tried to hide your face, Jake ran his palm along your cheek and guided your gaze back to his. "Did he hurt you, Darlin'?"

The sentence hung in the air as Jake's throat grew tight. One more tear slid down your cheek as he examined your beautiful face, and you pressed your quivering lips together. Your lack of response was enough for him to get to his feet, and he pulled you up from the bench as well. He tried his best to stay calm, but he could hear the anger in his voice when he asked, "Where is he? I will fucking destroy him."

You responded by taking a step closer until your cheek was resting on his chest, and Jake wrapped his arms around you. Some of his rage melted away at your touch. Goosebumps covered your arms as you shivered, and he couldn't help but kiss your forehead. Maybe that gesture was why you finally spoke more than a few words, or maybe it was because you could still feel the anger inside him. Either way, Jake held you close as you said, "Cooper did exactly what I gave him permission to do. No need to destroy him."

"Did he hurt you?" he asked again, needing a straight answer.

"No."

"Do you want me to beat the shit out of him anyway?"

You laughed in spite of your tears, and the sound made Jake's heart clench in his chest. "Kind of. But it's all my fault for being so stupid."

"Look at me," Jake said softly. He waited until you did before he said, "You're not stupid. I'm sorry if I made you feel that way when I called you naive. You're young, but you're not stupid."

"I am though," you replied immediately, hand coming up to rest on his chest. "You were so sweet to me. A perfect gentleman. A perfect weekend. And then I just fucking threw it in your face and had sex with Cooper."

Jake let out the breath he had been holding. He wasn't really surprised. That was your main goal the whole time, and you were a good student. You knew what you wanted, and you went for it. But some twenty year old dipshit wasn't going to be able to handle your level of class. He'd been trying to show you that all along. "Let me guess, Darlin'. Cooper wasn't a perfect gentleman?"

You shook your head, and Jake leaned down to kiss your cheek. "It was terrible," you told him. "I just... I messed up somehow."

"Fuck," Jake murmured, hoping the answer to his next question didn't make him want to pull the bench out of the ground and throw it across the street. "Did he use a condom?"

Your eyes were sincere in the glow from the streetlight. "Of course I made sure he used a condom." You bit your lip and added, "You're the only one who can fuck me without one. That was lesson number twelve."

Even the thought made him dizzy. "Just me," he grunted.

Jake hadn't stopped wanting you for a minute since you kissed him at the bar, but tonight, he found you sitting on a bench on a sketchy side street, crying over another guy. And that really fucking hurt. But at least you made sure Cooper used a condom. At least you were safe.

"He was nothing like you were," you whispered, and he held you tighter. "I asked him for some extra foreplay, and he didn't know how to touch me. I told him I liked oral sex, but he just automatically assumed I'd go down on him instead. I can't believe I did all of this so wrong."

When you tried to remove your hand from his chest, he covered it with his own. "You didn't do anything wrong. I can promise you that. Maybe... you just don't belong with that asshole." Jake sighed and fought the urge to kiss your lips, because he knew you belonged with him, even if you weren't quite there yet. "As long as you're okay, I'll take you back to your dorm. But... maybe in a couple days or a few weeks, when you think you're done crying over Cooper... maybe you'd consider calling me again?" Your eyes went wide as he added, "I really am done with the tag chasers. I haven't been with anyone since you. I think you were my final straw in admitting to myself I wanted something more. Because being with you felt perfect."

"Jake!" you gasped loudly. "I'm not crying over Cooper. I'm crying over how badly I messed things up with you!"

Jake's brow furrowed. "Oh." Now he felt like the idiot. He also felt a little light headed as you leaned in closer.

"I'm so sorry for making you feel cheap," you whispered, eyes shimmering with more tears. "Because you're not. I didn't mean it. I got scared of how much we did together in such a short amount of time. But it was unbelievable how special you made me feel." When he tried to say something, you shook your head before you touched your lips gently to his and asked, "Was it just a normal weekend for you, or did you feel as good as I did? And I'm definitely not just talking about the physical stuff."

"Darlin'," he whispered, wiping your tears away as they fell. "It was the best weekend of my life. And not just the sex. It was never just the sex." You kissed him tentatively again, lips barely touching his before you started to pull away, but Jake chased you for another one. And another one. And then you were smiling against his lips as he said, "I'm really happy you called me, Darlin'."

"Me, too. I missed you."

When he finally broke the kiss, he asked, "You're sure you got Cooper out of your system?"

"I'm so sure," you said softly, never breaking eye contact.

"Then let's get out of here."

Jake ushered you to his truck with his arm around your waist. "Are you taking me back to my dorm?" you asked when he opened the door for you.

"Nah. You're spending the weekend with me. Where you belong."

-----------------------------

Walking back through Jake's front door felt like going home. He held your hand the whole ride over, and when you told him you might need some things from your dorm room, he promised to take you back there in the morning to get whatever you wanted. Then he smirked and added, "But you wore everything from my dresser and made yourself at home last time you were here. You can do that again while we make up for being apart last weekend."

Now that you were standing in his living room where everything looked and felt familiar, you closed your eyes and let him hold you. "I missed you so much," you whispered. "I thought about calling or texting you so many times, it's not even funny. Then I told myself there was no way you'd forgive me."

Jake sighed deeply. "I was terrified that I didn't save my number in your phone before the battery died. I thought I'd never hear from you again. I missed you so much, I even stopped by the Hard Deck last weekend to see if you went there by chance."

Your gaze settled on the pizza box on the coffee table, and when you tried to reach for it, Jake grabbed your hand. You looked up at him, and when you tried one more time to open the lid, he wrapped you in a tighter hug and tried to walk across the living room with you in his arms.

"What kind of pizza is that, Jake?" you asked, tone playfully accusatory.

This man literally picked you up from a bench on your school campus after you slept with a loser your own age, and he'd once again done nothing except show you respect and affection the whole evening. And now you could feel how easily you and he were falling back into the playful bubble you'd existed in two weeks ago. It was exquisite. This time you weren't going to burst it.

"Come on, Darlin'," he groaned, letting go of your hand so you could investigate the pizza box for yourself. "I couldn't help myself."

"Ha!" you said once you had it open. "My favorite kind!"

Jake's cheeks were pink as he nodded while you pointed at the half eaten pizza on the coffee table. "I told you I missed you," he whispered, and you stumbled back into his arms. "I've been sleeping with my window open so I could listen to the ocean, but it's better with you there. Everything is. The pizza was bad enough before, but it tasted like shit when I ate it alone. I didn't even want to stay in the tub until the water got cold the other day. I only lasted like five minutes"

Your eyes went wide. "You broke one of your own rules?" When he nodded, you kissed his cheek and asked, "Can we take a bath together now?"

His expression melted into a smile. "Go get it started while I get us some drinks."

Lighter than air, you practically floated down the hallway to his bedroom. Everything was tidy like you remembered it. He had some clean laundry folded on his dresser, and when you ran your hand along the soft cotton of his undershirts, you paused. Your black thong was sitting there as well. Excitement welled up inside you, because he never got rid of it. Your fingers wrapped around the lace and you carried it into the bathroom with you, excitement building further as soon as you saw the green toothbrush you used was still there, right next to Jake's. He held onto both of them since you were here last.

These were things a boyfriend would do. You were sure of it. When Jake strolled in with a Sam Adams in one hand and stemware filled with ice water in the other, you were holding your underwear and the toothbrush to your chest. He kissed your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world before saying, "I thought you were going to fill the tub."

"I was," you replied, making no move to do anything as he set the drinks down on the sink vanity. He smiled when he saw what you were holding, and then he opened the cabinet to pull out two towels and some washcloths. There was no new box of condoms inside. None at all.

"You're really done with the tag chasers?" you blurted out, toothbrush digging into the palm of your hand.

Jake looked up at you and nodded as he turned the water on to fill the tub. "Yeah. To be honest, I think I was done with them as soon as I picked up your fake ID from the floor." His green eyes were earnest as he stood tall again and reached for you. "Now, can we make this water as hot as possible? So it'll take longer to cool down? Once we start snuggling, I'm not going to want to get out."

His fingers were teasing along the strap of your dress at your shoulder as you finally set down your thong and your toothbrush. Then you let Jake undress you as the bathroom started to get steamy. The part inside you that was still afraid he wouldn't want you now was soothed by his words and his big hands on your bare skin.

"Climb on in, Darlin'."

You watched him undress from the comfort of the bath, and he handed you both drinks before he turned off the brighter lights in favor of the softer ones. Then he climbed in with you, and his arm was around your body immediately, guiding you to settle between his legs.

You sipped your water while he sipped his Sam Adams, and the two of you smiled at each other before you asked, "Are you sure you want me to spend the night?"

He hummed into his beer bottle before taking another sip and setting it aside. "I'm going to want you here as much as possible." His words were so simple, but so full of possibility. He felt the same way you did. You were sure of it now. But you had to sip your water to take time to collect your thoughts.

"Well, I have work to do for my classes," you finally said, and he took the glass from your hand and discarded it.

"I can try to help you with it," he replied, both hands on your body once more. "Or maybe I can learn something new. You can be the teacher."

Your heart was beating a nervous rhythm even as you curled up against him with your head on his shoulder and your fingers in his chest hair. "Maybe we should buy more condoms tomorrow or Sunday?" you asked quietly. Nothing about the current state of things felt sexual, but you were still a tiny bit scared he would reject you in that way because of Cooper. But his lips found your forehead while he traced a little heart on your thigh.

"Sure. We can do that." He tipped your chin up so you were looking at him. His expression was serious as he softly said, "But the two of us don't need to have sex to be intimate and have a good time together. You have a lot more than that to offer, Darlin'. I do, too."

You thought back to all the little moments you and he shared in between hooking up. Making out on the couch and laughing together. Eating pizza and falling asleep in his arms. Those were the best parts. "I don't know what you did, but you made all of it so good. Every minute of the entire weekend."

He seemed to relax more as he accepted your words. "It was never just fucking to me. Not since the first night when you trusted me enough to sleep over. And certainly not since I asked you if you wanted it to be sex or something more. That was us making love."

You whimpered before his lips met yours, and you kissed him hard as you let your wet fingers drag through his soft hair. "It was perfect," you said against his mouth before you pulled away an inch.

His forehead was pressed to yours as he murmured, "You're perfect. You always were." His lips brushed yours as he added, "But yeah, after I take you out for lunch tomorrow and we stop by your dorm for whatever you need, we can get more condoms. I would enjoy that immensely."

"You better not get me pregnant before I graduate from college," you joked.

Jake snorted. "I better not get you pregnant anytime soon. I haven't even met your parents yet."

"You want to meet my parents?" you asked in surprise.

You were perched on his lap awaiting a response as Jake leaned back against the tub. His gaze lingered on every part of your face before he casually asked, "Which lesson were we on?"

He was being coy and sweet and sincere, and all of your feelings were right there at the surface now. "Are you serious right now?" you asked, poking him in the abs. When he nodded, you said, "We were on number thirteen."

"Right. Lucky number thirteen. My favorite one," he crooned, offering up nothing else.

After another beat, you poked him again and said, "Spit it out, Jake. What's the lesson?"

"Smartass," he muttered. The water was starting to cool down now, and when you shivered, he just held you a little closer. "Lesson thirteen is more for me than for you." He paused to kiss you before saying, "I'm feeling like I don't want to be with anyone else. Just you. Make this a permanent thing. Think you can humor me by labeling it?"

"Yes," you replied so quickly that he was laughing when your lips crashed against his.

--------------------------------

Jake wrapped you up in one of the towels, and the two of you brushed your teeth side by side. You already knew where everything was, and without prompting, you rooted around in his dresser drawers until you found something you wanted to wear. Then you climbed into his bed like you knew without a doubt you'd always be welcome there, and he turned off the lights.

"Jake," you whined softly, patting the empty spot next to you in the glow from the moonlight. When he didn't immediately move, you added, "Get in bed with me."

But he took the time to admire you as he slid the window open another few inches. The sound of the ocean had a calming effect on him again now that you were back, and he felt more peaceful. You belonged here with him. When you reached for his hand, he let you tug him toward the bed with a smile on his face. He belonged with you, too.

"That's better," you whispered, melting into him as soon as he had his arms around you under the blanket. "Good night, Jake."

"Night, Darlin'." He was ready to keep you warm all night and spend the weekend showing you that he made an excellent boyfriend. "I love you."

---------------------------------

Jake and Darlin' pulled it together in the end. Thank you for reading my fic about intimacy, consent, trust and knowing your worth. I loved every second of writing this. Thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls

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kneelforloki · 1 day ago

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Mr. Right Now Part 10 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: You left behind too many reminders of the weekend you spent with Jake, and even though he wants to, he just can't seem to get rid of them. You're free to test your theories, but you should have known you wouldn't like the results.

Warnings: angst, sex, oral sex, adult language, 18+

Length: 3300 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

You stood in your building on campus and looked around like it was completely foreign to you. The few days you'd spent at Jake's place made this seem like a distant memory, and you felt like a completely different person now as you wiped at your tears. When you stood inside the lobby and watched him slowly pull away in his pickup truck, your heart begged you to run back out to him. But it was over. He gave you what you asked him to, and it was done.

Someone who lived on your hallway waved to you, but you barely acknowledged her. You were too tired to even stop at your mailbox to see if there was anything inside, so you headed for your door. With your fingers crossed, you slid your key into the lock, hoping like hell that Kylie was out for the night. But it was Sunday, and you found her sitting on the couch with a smirk as soon as she saw you.

"Where have you been?" she asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder and pausing her show. The common area was small, but you'd have to walk right past her to get to your personal bedroom, and you thought better of trying to blow her off.

"Out," you replied carefully, unsure how much you wanted her to know.

"With Cooper?" Her eyes flashed with excitement. "You've been gone all weekend!"

You shook your head and held your purse against your chest. She'd get it out of you eventually if she tried hard enough, so you said, "I went to that Navy bar you liked so much."

"The Hard Deck?" She was on her feet now, surprise written all over her face. You were sure she was having a hard time picturing you there; you had in fact stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Yes."

She screeched. "You slept with one of those hot aviators, didn't you?" she asked, tone somewhere between accusatory and delighted. But even though she didn't know what type of quest you had been on, she was definitely able to tell you'd had your world rocked. "Which one? What was his call sign? I just love their call signs."

You stared at her, suddenly surprised you'd ever considered sleeping with Rooster in the first place. You were a completely different person now because of the past forty-eight hours, and you were also embarrassed by what you said to the man who had treated you with respect the entire time.

"His name was Jake," you whispered as tears threatened your eyes again. "I need to finish something for my first class tomorrow, so I'm going to do that now."

You walked past her while she nodded in approval, like she was proud of you now, and you closed yourself in your room as a sob escaped your lips. Your bag fell to the floor as you tried to kick your sneakers off, but you gave up and just collapsed onto your bed. As you cried into your pillow, you realized your lace thong was still somewhere at Jake's place. It would probably end up in the trash along with everything else that the women he fucked accidentally left behind.

How could you have been so stupid? Falling for a man like Jake? A thirty year old man who simply agreed to fuck your virginity away so you could get on with your college life. A man who was the equivalent of a major league ballplayer while you were barely a little league benchwarmer.

"You insulted him," you whispered as you rolled onto your side, and the tears kept coming. He said you made him feel cheap, which he had never once done to you. He made you breakfast and took you on a pizza date in his dining room and snuggled you in his bathtub, and you acted like he was undesirable.

He called you naive, and perhaps he wasn't wrong. You had no idea what you were doing there. The weekend was supposed to be simple: lose your virginity so you could go out with Cooper. But you couldn't even manage to do that much correctly. Jake was a million times better than anyone you'd ever met on campus, and that was the kind of thing he deserved to hear you say. He deserved so much more, and he'd probably find it in someone older and more put together than you.

-------------------------

Jake fell asleep with his bedroom window open, but the sound of the ocean was less peaceful and more turbulent when he was alone. His kitchen was a mess from the meals he'd shared with you, and the pizza box was still on his dining room table. But he couldn't bring himself to clean any of it up just yet.

He still felt like shit on Monday morning. In your mind, he was exactly the same as Rooster or any of the other guys would have been, but you were so much more to him. He felt good when he was around you. Or at least he had before you abruptly ended the weekend by telling him he was only made for one thing.

When he walked into his bathroom, he was greeted by an empty bottle of Sam Adams and a wine glass on the edge of his bathtub. "Fuck," he gasped, turning away from them to brush his teeth. The green toothbrush he gave you to use the first night you slept over was right there next to his, and he couldn't keep his fingers from touching it like he half expected it to be a figment of his imagination.

But no, all of these items were strewn about just to make coming to terms with things harder. It should have been laughable, getting rejected by a twenty year old, but the weekend he spent with you was the closest thing he'd felt to a relationship in years. You fed him that disgusting pizza. He held you while you napped. You actually listened to him when he talked. He couldn't keep his hands off you to save his life. Even the clothes in his drawers made him think of the way you dug around in there like you owned the place.

"God damn it," he groaned when he realized your lace thong somehow ended up on his dresser. It was too easy to picture you on Friday night, wearing it in his kitchen with your skirt on the floor at your feet, trust in your gaze even though you didn't really know him yet. You looked sinful that night with a sharp retort on your lips when he thought he was the one in charge. You weren't just some dumb college kid; you were a funny and resourceful and sexy woman. He ran his thumb along the lace before pushing it to the side to finish getting ready for work.

He flew worse than he could ever remember, so maybe it was a good thing you rejected him after the weekend was over. He couldn't focus, but it would have just been worse the longer he was hung up on you. He was surly and short with everyone he encountered, and by the middle of the week, they just left him alone.

But it was still so bad by Friday, and it wasn't helping that he hadn't yet cleaned up the wine glasses or the pizza box or thrown out the green toothbrush. He skipped dinner and took the time to hand wash each glass he'd filled with ice water for you. Then he walked the pizza box directly to the dumpster. But your underwear and that fucking toothbrush remained in their spots, and he decided he would save them for another day.

Alone and sprawled out on the couch, he couldn't help but wonder what you were doing right now. Last Friday around this time, you were at the Hard Deck with your fake ID, and he sat up abruptly when he considered that there was a chance you might be there again tonight. That you might be looking for him.

Like an idiot, he grabbed the keys to his truck and headed there to find out for sure. Maybe you wouldn't agree with him, but he still felt like he'd been better to you than any of the others would have been. God, all he wanted was to know that you learned something useful from him, not just that he had casual sex with tag chasers.

But when he got to the bar and looked around, he knew right away you weren't there. No leather mini skirts, and no Converse sneakers. Just aviators getting loaded while playing pool, and an assortment of every kind of woman anyone other than Jake could possibly want.

He was nothing other than a self-fulfilling prophecy, the way he was almost immediately approached by a woman he took home weeks ago. Your words echoed in his mind.

"You're so good at fucking, no wonder all the tag chasers want you. I'm sure they all missed you this weekend."

"Not tonight," he told the woman who pouted at him. She gave him no witty retort before she walked away, but it didn't matter. Jake was already thinking about how he should have held onto your fake ID so you couldn't get into any real trouble with the fucking thing. But you weren't his to worry about or protect, and perhaps that was what bothered him more than anything else. If you were, he'd have you wrapped up in the fleece blanket that he kept on the back of his couch while the two of you ignored a movie in favor of making out. If you were, he'd have a reason to keep the toothbrush.

He just fucking knew you were with that dipshit Cooper who was the reason you came to the Hard Deck in the first place. There was nothing wrong with you when you met Jake, but Cooper was the reason you thought there was. "Fuck," he groaned running his hands over his face as he took himself back out to the parking lot and and drove home again.

You hadn't reached out to him once. He wasn't sure if his number had successfully saved in your phone, but it didn't much matter. You knew where to find him, and you hadn't tried to.

While he drove, he let himself get lost in the memory of how fucking good he felt last weekend. He didn't want to forget that feeling. He wouldn't be able to anyway. He just wished he couldn't still hear the way it sounded when you apologized and told him he had been perfect.

----------------------------

"Stop," you said with a forced laugh.

Cooper was drunk, and his hand was on your bare thigh again as you hung out at his place with some of your mutual friends. What a departure this was from last Friday night when you had to beg Jake to touch you. At least at first. After a bit, neither of you could seem to stop.

But Cooper was doing this in front of other people. Maybe it was your fault for agreeing to hang out with him tonight and agreeing to see a movie with him tomorrow, but you would have preferred he do this in private.

"Let's go to my room then," he coaxed in what you were sure he thought was an endearing tone. But his breath smelled like beer in a bad way, and when he kissed you, it was obvious that he had overdone it.

All you could think about was Jake.

Jake. Jake. Jake.

You needed to put a stop to this, but tonight wasn't working for you.

"Cooper, I think we should just hang out tomorrow. You know, when you're sober?"

At least he had the decency to look abashed. And when you went out with him on Saturday, he was much better. He didn't invite you back to his room again, even after you made out with him, which you appreciated. You'd known him for months, way longer than you knew Jake, but you couldn't figure out why you weren't as comfortable around him.

There was just something about Jake. Charisma. That was it. Charm. Every woman probably reacted to him the way you had, and he was probably just as attentive to everyone else.

Since Cooper was the reason you ended up at Jake's in the first place, you let him eat lunch with you all week and walk you back to your dorm from your classes. You let him wrap his arm around your waist and tuck his fingers into the top of your jeans. You let him kiss you each time you saw him.

You needed to give him a shot. It wasn't really his fault that you had Jake on the brain after weeks of dodging his advances. He wanted you, and you deserved to enjoy him. You already rid yourself of your virginity, and you knew the twelve rules. Condoms and communication and no cutting corners. You had this. Besides, you'd never know if it would always be just as good with another partner unless you saw it through.

So the following Friday, after you finished your classes for the week, you took a shower and changed into a dress that Cooper told you weeks ago looked cute, and then you walked the mile or so to the other end of campus where he lived. He was waiting for you when you got there with a smile on his face, and your heart beat a little faster.

"Come on inside," he said, holding out his hand. He was familiar now, and comfort could grow over time. You were sure of it. And he was a good kisser when he wasn't drinking. Tonight it felt nice, and he wrapped you up in his arms as soon as you walked past his roommates who were playing video games.

When he opened his door, he said, "I even cleaned my room for you. What do you think?"

It looked the same as it always did, and you rolled your eyes and laughed. "You didn't. But it doesn't matter."

"I tried a little," he mumbled, grinning at you before he closed the distance to kiss you again. "Give me a tiny bit of credit?"

Your heart skipped a beat as his hands found your waist, and you sighed when his lips drifted along your neck. He sucked on you there, bruising you before pulling away. But it didn't feel bad. Not at all. It felt okay. You closed your eyes, immediately getting lost in the feel of it. Firm chest against your breasts. Big hands. Soft hair. Your fingers gave a little tug on the strands, and he groaned, cock hard in his jeans, pressing against you.

"Do you wanna....?" Cooper asked, easing your dress up your legs. You were almost startled when you remembered it was him instead of Jake, but you nodded.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I want to." You still had the three condoms in your little purse along with your fake ID and your actual ID. But when you ended up on your back on his bed, Cooper was already excitedly reaching for your underwear even though you definitely weren't ready to get a condom out yet.

"How about a little more foreplay?" you asked, and he looked back at you like it was a foreign concept. "I like foreplay," you added softly.

"Right," he replied, climbing on top of you where he touched you through your panties until you weren't exactly sure if you were wet or not. You tried to slow him down by kissing him, but he was practically rutting against your leg.

"Will you go down on me?" you asked him, and he almost groaned.

"I mean... I guess. If you go down on me."

It must have been because it was your first time together, but he seemed in a hurry. He didn't stay in one place long enough for you to get the hang of how it felt with him. You didn't like rushing. You liked long, drawn out orgasms and being called Darlin'. Cooper didn't call you anything. He didn't speak at all; he only grunted as the two of you had sex that left you completely unsatisfied.

Well. You had tested your theories and come up with several conclusions. Sex was not exciting with every partner. Guys did in fact like to cut corners. And not all of them seemed to know the twelve rules rules. As you pulled your dress on over your head, you thought about how much better you felt around Jake than you ever would around Cooper.

"Feel like playing video games with me and the guys? Or you just want to leave until I see you tomorrow?" Cooper asked, opening his bedroom door and hovering there expectantly as tears stung your eyes.

"You know," you whispered, trying to keep your voice calm, "I think I'll just walk back to my place."

"Okay, cool."

He didn't offer to walk with you. All he did was send you off with a kiss as he opened a can of beer while his friends called his name. You made it about two blocks before you started crying, because you had tried so hard to fool yourself, but you completely fucked everything up.

Jake was nothing but a perfect gentleman the whole time you were with him. He took care of you in so many ways, not just sexually, and you made him feel bad about himself. It didn't matter why he was skilled in bed, he was sweet. He hadn't mentioned other women while you were there, but you did. There was nobody to blame except yourself.

You practically tripped on the sidewalk as your tears obscured your vision, and you sat down hard on a bench with your phone in your hand. You tried to find Kylie's name in your contacts list, hoping she would come pick you up, but instead your thumb paused over Jake Seresin. And then you did something stupid.

---------------------------

Jake was sitting on his couch in his underwear eating a pizza with toppings he didn't even like when his phone rang. The caller had a local area code, but he didn't know the number. He was about to swipe to ignore it when his curiosity got the best of him.

"Hello?"

He was met with silence. Or so he thought. He was about to end the call, but then he heard a soft sigh. His heart beat a little faster as he tossed the slice of pizza back into the open box.

"Hello?" he repeated, gentler this time.

"Jake."

He would know your voice anywhere. He'd been replaying everything you said to him in his mind for the past two weeks. He was afraid he'd never hear from you again. "Darlin'," he said softly, missing the way that word felt on his tongue. "Are you okay?"

The sound of your breathing was followed by a sob as you said, "Not really."

He was on his feet, tearing down the hallway toward his bedroom in search of clothing as he tried to keep his voice as steady as possible. "Well, then why don't you tell me where you are so I can come try to make it okay?"

There was a short pause, during which he could hear nothing but his own heartbeat. "I would like that," you whispered. Then you gave him an approximate address which he knew was on your college campus.

"I'll be right there," he promised.

-------------------------------

How are we feeling? Maybe Cooper was a good idea before Jake, but definitely not after. The next chapter will be the last one. Thanks for reading. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 11

@blahehblah

@sotalife

@desert-fern

@furiouspiespytaco

@rosiahills22

@daggerspare-standingby

@je-suis-prest-rachel

@callsign-joyride

@theharddeck

@withakindheartx

@roosterscockpit

@whatislovevavy

@hangmanbrainrot

@neferpatra

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@averyhotchner

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@mygyn

@hoyaharper

@gennyanydots

@callsign-magnolia

@whisperofsong

@seriouslyseresin

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@katiebby04

@supernaturaldawning

@tylerjones98

@captainjaspenor

@gigisimsonmars

@fanboyswhore9

@angel-w0nderland

@abaker74

@idontcare-11

@isaebellaa

@bringnattolife

@xoxabs88xox

@djs8891

@hufflepufftruffle

@cottagecori

@lex-winchester

@schoollover

@wolfquake23

@paintlavillered

@blue-aconite

@mrsevans90

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kneelforloki · 1 day ago

Text

Mr. Right Now Part 9 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: You have a hold on Jake like nobody ever has before. You've got him breaking rules and tripping over his own feelings. But he should have known from the start how things would end. You should have, too.

Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, adult language, unprotected p in v intercourse, 18+

Length: 2900 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

He had to be completely out of his mind. Taking you without a condom was going to make his desire to be with you so much stronger. He knew that, but he had you spread out on his bed anyway. Even entertaining the idea of sliding inside you bare was enough to make him come, but he needed to make sure, once again, that he was good for you. And that he pulled out in time.

No woman had ever looked at him the way you did. Almost expectantly. Like you trusted him. You had a smart mouth on you, and he never knew what you were going to say when you smirked at him. His response to you still caught him off guard. He wanted to keep being surprised by you.

But as he watched you touching yourself, it wasn't surprising at all that he was about to cave to what you asked for. You were soaking wet, whimpering his name while your fingers glided through your gorgeous pussy. Your body was like a beacon that lured him in, and he needed to touch you. He kissed you everywhere, trying to get himself under control, but every brush of his lips to your breasts made his heart beat faster. Every time he kissed you, it made him feel so much warmer. He was dizzy as he replaced your fingers with the tip of his cock, running it through your pussy.

"You do something crazy to me, Darlin'," he crooned next to your ear as he pushed against your opening, giving you just the tip. You were so tight, but your body invited him to go further, practically pulling him in. "Can't get enough."

A soft whine escaped your lips as he gave you another inch, and you spread your legs wider. Jake kissed away all of the sounds you made, wanting to taste them in his mouth. You body coaxed him deeper, and he went willingly, basking in your wet warmth without any barrier to dampen just how fucking good you felt to him. No, he wasn't going to recover from this.

When he bottomed out, tight balls resting against your ass, you kissed him frantically. Your fingers were raking through his hair as you shivered and said, "You feel so good." Jake grunted, trying to keep himself from thrusting. "Thick and warm. I like this so much better without a condom," you sighed.

"Oh god," he groaned against your lips. Every sensation was heightened. He could feel so much more pleasure, but it was the lightheaded feeling of making you his own that spurred him on. He gave you one slow thrust, and your beautiful response filled his ears. Your skin and warm pussy were everywhere. Your body was all he needed to know. He wanted you to have everything you deserved right now. "You feel exquisite. And I just want to make you come this way."

"Jake," you gasped, eyes fluttering closed as he pushed himself deeper.

Your clit was pressed against him, and he could feel everything as you gripped him softly, and he grabbed at your hips to calm himself down. Raw excitement bubbled up inside him as he glided in and out of your body, eliciting filthy fucking moans from you. He kissed your soft skin and breathed in the scent of your hair as he maintained an almost painfully slow pace that he knew would eventually have your pussy milking him for everything he was worth.

"It's so good," you whispered. "So good. So good!"

His teeth grazed your ear as he grunted your name. "This bare pussy is just for me, right?"

"Uh huh."

But that wasn't good enough for him. His voice was shaking with arousal, skin slick with sweat, and he needed to hear your voice assuring him. "I want to hear you say it, Darlin'. What are you always going to make sure guys do?"

Your hands eased down the back of his neck and across his shoulders. "Wear a condom," you replied breathlessly.

"Good girl," he praised, and you whimpered in response. "Who's allowed to fuck you without one?"

He pushed himself deep again, and your pussy responded by pulsing around him as you said, "Just you."

"That's right," he grunted, withdrawing himself slowly, letting you feel every inch. "Lesson twelve: I'm the only one allowed to do this to you."

----------------------------

Your fingertips were numb. Maybe you should have been concerned about that as you grabbed at Jake's biceps, but the rest of you felt like you were about to unlock the secrets of the universe. Every sound you made was absorbed by his kisses as he fucked you just right. It was different without a condom. Better. Way better. And you could tell he thought so as well.

His hands were all over your body, and he couldn't seem to decide if he'd rather call you Darlin' or use your first name. Both sounded pretty in his voice as he pumped his hips against you, and you arched your back off his bed, ready to come for him. Just like he wanted. Just like you needed. But he drew it out of you methodically, and you knew it was going to be so good.

When pleasure washed through your veins, your fingers dug in tighter as you pulsed around his cock. Your brain was buzzing, and you knew he was going to have to pull out when it was time, but you couldn't speak a single word other than his name as you shook your head back and forth against the bed. Each time you thought you reached the peak, it just kept getting better, and all of your senses were heightened as you came crashing back down to the bed, still coming hard.

Only Jake was allowed to do this to you. Only he was allowed to skip a condom. Your whole body shivered in pleasure as you thought about it, and your voice filled your own ears as your orgasm took over. Your hips were bouncing up against his where you could feel him against your clit and every spot inside that made you go wild. You were chanting his name in time with your movements, unable to stop the needy whine from lacing your tone.

"Oh god, Jake!"

"Jesus Christ. You're so fucking good," he crooned, stroking your clit softly as you basked in the little aftershocks. He was still deep inside you, body wound tight like a coil, and you knew he was close.

A few more thrusts and he was a moaning mess, sucking on your neck before pulling his lips away. Then he was upright between your spread legs, and you looked at his wild green eyes as he fucked you with shallow strokes. "I'm right there, Darlin'," he panted. "I'm gonna cum."

When you smiled and nodded, he yanked himself free from your body, and one stroke in his hand left him coating up your belly. A ribbon of his cum landed on your breasts, and then he jerked himself off right onto your pussy, rubbing it into your skin with the tip of his cock.

His shoulders were rising and falling, and his cheeks were growing pink again as he looked at what he'd done to your body. When you ran your index finger across your nipple and brought his cum to your mouth to taste him, his lips were on yours. You ran your hand along his shoulder and back up to his hair as his tongue tangled with yours. Now he was a mess, too, but you liked it this way. His movements were unhurried, so you didn't try to move yet.

His bedroom was getting a little darker. You could tell the sun would be setting soon, and maybe that was why he seemed to be in no rush to get the two of you cleaned up. You didn't want to leave. You wanted him to tell you the same thing. You'd gotten comfortable here where it was only the two of you. Since the first time he touched you, everything had felt easier than you ever anticipated.

But the longer Jake kissed you and let you lick his cum from his fingers, you started to panic. It was like you'd been in a bubble with him. Safe and secure with nobody else to concern yourselves with. You had class tomorrow. He had to go to work. He had invited you to stay for the entire weekend, but he was going to want his space back. Now that he upheld his end of the deal, and then some, he deserved to have you out of his hair so he could get on with his regular routine. Plan for the next weekend. The next girl.

When you stopped returning his kisses, he pulled back right away. "Alright, Darlin'?" he whispered, a touch of confusion clouding his smile. Suddenly you wanted to cry as you swallowed the lump of mixed emotion in your throat.

"Yeah," you replied softly, but it sounded fake to your own ears. It was hard to breathe.

"Didn't I make you feel good?"

Of course he had. It was good every single time. There was a reason he was able to bring you so much pleasure, and it had nothing to do with you being what he wanted. "You're so good at fucking, no wonder all the tag chasers want you." You laughed sarcastically even as your throat grew tight with unshed tears. "I'm sure they all missed you this weekend. You can get back to them soon."

Jake's brow creased as his lips formed a frown. You had no idea why you said that to him. What was wrong with you? You'd been trying not to think about them all weekend. And now you'd never be able to take back what you just said.

His green eyes looked stern now, and his voice was strained as he said, "I'm not.... look, sex isn't the only thing I'm interested in." He sounded hurt, but you knew where you stood now that it was Sunday evening. You were a novelty worth two nights instead of one.

"But you took care of me," you replied as tears stung your eyes. "You brought me back here and helped me with my problem after I practically begged you to. And you were so good at it. You knew exactly what to do."

He sat up a little more and hung his head. "You never had a problem. Okay? And it wasn't just fucking to me. I don't know if you're too naive to understand the difference, or if you just weren't paying attention, but don't try to make me feel cheap now."

Both of you were coated up in his sticky cum, and even as you spoke again, you wanted to take back all of your words immediately. But you didn't want to cry here, and you didn't know what else to do. "I think you should drive me home."

Jake met your gaze, green eyes full of pain. "Darlin'," he started before pausing and pressing his lips together in a thin line. "Yeah. Okay."

He was still gentle as he took your hand, and you followed him into the bathroom where he ran a wet washcloth along your skin before cleaning himself up as well. He looked sad, and he didn't meet your eyes again. And maybe that was a good thing, because you were sure your tears would start if he did.

You wanted to stay. You didn't want to leave until the last possible minute when he needed to get some sleep for work. You wanted to kiss him and tell him you never wanted to make him feel bad about himself, but you kept quiet instead. Silently, you followed him back to his bedroom where he pulled on the TOP GUN shirt you'd been wearing earlier along with a pair of his discarded gym shorts you were pretty sure would have to smell like your arousal.

You didn't know where any of your clothing was since it ended up all over the place two nights ago, but he seemed to know where to find everything. He pulled your tank top carefully over your head, but he still didn't meet your eyes. Then he grabbed your leather skirt from the arm of the couch and helped you back into it before zipping it up. Jake pointed at the couch as he picked up your sneakers, and after you sat down, he knelt in front of you, tying them for you after putting them on.

He was still sweet now as he silently got you ready to go. He wasn't cheap, and that wasn't even how you thought of him. "I'm sorry, Jake," you whispered, and he finally looked up at your face. "You were perfect."

-----------------------------

Your apology rang in his ears, but he didn't know what else could be said about the weekend at this point. He wasn't perfect; you and he were perfect together. But you'd just thrown everything he did with you back in his face like you didn't seem to understand how much that was going to hurt him. It wasn't like he'd been thinking about other women while you were here. That was the furthest thing from his mind when you were in his arms.

He made love to you and let you pick his heart up right out of his chest. You let him get comfortable around you, and then equated him to someone with a one track mind who was only good at one thing. And now you were looking at him as your lip quivered, and all he wanted to do was pull you against his body and tell you it was all okay. But he wasn't really sure if it was. He'd been better for you this weekend than he could ever remember being with anyone else in his entire adult life, and he didn't want to ruin the bits of his memories that would still feel good later.

"Let's get you home," he whispered, and your gaze fell to the floor. He stood and reached for your hand, and you took it, walking a half step behind him like you didn't want to leave after all.

It was hard to breathe as he grabbed his keys and your purse from the kitchen counter. He thought about the three unused condoms still inside. Maybe you'd find someone more your style to share them with. The idea of it made him sick, and he wanted more than anything right now to remind you that you'd promised to use a condom with everyone else. But now all of the lessons sounded idiotic in his mind when he thought about them. You were never here for him. You were here for yourself. You could make your own decisions, because you were an adult. It didn't matter that he was half in love with you.

It was dark outside when he opened the passenger side door of his truck, and you held onto his hand for a full minute before climbing inside. It took all of his strength not to lean in and kiss you. He closed the door softly and got in the other side, and after that, the only sound was your soft voice giving him directions to your dorm.

It wasn't until he pulled up in front of the student housing and looked at the building through the window that he shook his head. You were too young to want to date him, and he should have remembered his place in all of this. It wasn't like it was your fault that he hadn't. He just got too caught up in the way you made him feel. When he turned to look at you, his heart melted as he watched you biting your lip apprehensively.

"It's alright, Darlin'. You didn't do anything wrong."

When you sniffed softly, he picked your purse up from the seat next to you and opened it up. Your phone battery was almost dead, and he had to have you unlock it for him, but then he went into your contacts to add his number.

"If you ever need something, call me. You can trust me," he promised as he typed his name into your address book.

"I know I can," you whispered, sniffing again as his fingers fumbled through typing out his phone number. When he hit save, your phone died, and he wasn't sure if the number would be there or not the next time you turned it on. The thought settled like a brick in his chest, but you were already reaching for your phone and purse as you leaned in to kiss his cheek. You sobbed, "Thank you," before opening the door and slamming it shut again after you climbed out. Then Jake watched you run toward the building as you wiped the back of your hand along your cheek.

He didn't move an inch until he made sure you were safely inside, catching one last glimpse of your sneakers as he realized he'd probably never see you again.

---------------------------------

Well. She really freaked herself out. And she made him feel like shit. And he made her feel small for the first time all weekend. And now they have said goodbye. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 10

@blahehblah

@sotalife

@desert-fern

@furiouspiespytaco

@rosiahills22

@daggerspare-standingby

@je-suis-prest-rachel

@callsign-joyride

@theharddeck

@withakindheartx

@roosterscockpit

@whatislovevavy

@hangmanbrainrot

@neferpatra

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@averyhotchner

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@mygyn

@hoyaharper

@gennyanydots

@callsign-magnolia

@whisperofsong

@seriouslyseresin

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@katiebby04

@supernaturaldawning

@chassy21

@tylerjones98

@captainjaspenor

@gigisimsonmars

@fanboyswhore9

@angel-w0nderland

@abaker74

@idontcare-11

@isaebellaa

@bringnattolife

@xoxabs88xox

@djs8891

@hufflepufftruffle

@cottagecori

@lex-winchester

@schoollover

@wolfquake23

@paintlavillered

@blue-aconite

@mrsevans90

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kneelforloki · 1 day ago

Text

Mr. Right Now Part 8 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: The hours with Jake are ticking down, and you agree with every suggestion he makes so you can justify staying a little longer. When you ask for something that goes against one of his lessons from the weekend, you can tell how badly he wants to be the exception to the rule.

Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, adult language, p in v intercourse, 18+

Length: 3500 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

Jake could feel your warm hand low on his abs as your lips skimmed along his neck and his stubbled cheek. Soft skin was all he knew as his fingers trailed down the length of your side. Eyes still closed, he treated himself to a handful of your hip and rear end, giving a little squeeze as he whispered, "Darlin'."

"Jake," you sighed next to his ear, and he finally opened his eyes. For once, being awake was just as good as dreaming. "How'd you know it was me?"

He took your chin in his hand where you were laying halfway on top of him, and he stroked your lips with his thumb as he asked, "Who else would have spent the night with me?" Your subtle little shrug and sweet face made his heart clench. Besides the fact that he generally never let anyone share his bed for more than an hour or two, he already knew the way your body felt in his hands. Every soft curve. Every dip. Every bit of your silky skin. He knew it, and he couldn't get enough of it.

"I don't know," you replied softly before he kissed you.

He wanted to tell you that you were the only one who had worked her way into his heart since he'd been living in San Diego. He wanted to tell you to just leave your fake ID here, because you wouldn't be needing it any longer. If there was something you wanted from a man, he would happily give it to you from now on. You could come back next weekend and do all of this over again with him.

"Just you," he promised, breaking the kiss as your fingernails gently scraped along his skin and through his trimmed pubic hair. "Jesus," he groaned as you cupped his balls beneath the bedding. You made him cum so many times yesterday, he was almost surprised to find you were getting him hard again now as the early morning sunlight filtered in through the window.

Your expression was almost smug as you leaned in close enough so your lips barely grazed his. He could only hear his beating heart, the ocean in the distance and your soft voice saying, "Tell me what you want."

You had your hand gripping his cock tight as he rolled you onto your back. He thrust into your palm as he grunted, "Did you forget your lessons? That's not how this works."

As soon as he ran two fingers gently through your pussy, your hold on him loosened, and he slid down your body until his mouth was on your belly. You tried to keep your legs closed as you whispered, "But we fucked last night before bed. What if I... taste weird? Like a condom?"

Jake let his cheek rest on your hip as he looked up at your face. "Will you let me be the judge of things down here?"

You giggled as he traced your belly button with his thumb. "I guess. It is kind of your specialty." Slowly you spread your legs for him, and he continued on to where he wanted to be. He knew you loved this, and he was good at it. And you still tasted fucking sweet.

He settled in with his hands on the backs of your thighs, spreading you open with his thumbs. He hummed, kissing your clit as you gasped and squirmed. "No issues here, Darlin'," he promised. "Should I keep going?"

"Yes," you whined, letting your heels dig into his back while you tugged on his hair.

"Thought so," he whispered with a smug grin. But there was no rush. You could pull his hair and bruise his back to your heart's content, but he was going to make this last for you. It was Sunday, and he'd be driving you back to your dorm later. He didn't know when he'd get this opportunity again. If at all.

"Jake," you moaned, hips rolling gently against his mouth as he sucked on you. "You're so good."

Every time you told him he was doing a good job, he just wanted to keep going. If he could make you come and keep you asking for more in bed, maybe he could ask you for more out of it.

He lapped at your pussy, wanting to taste you everywhere as you started to squeeze your thighs around him. Your body and your tells were already familiar to him. "Not yet," he crooned, licking a long stripe from your opening to your clit. "Be patient."

"Feels too good," you whispered, voice ragged with desire. You couldn't stop squirming, and Jake couldn't stop smiling. With each roll of your hips, he ground his cock down against the bed, and when you came on his tongue, he needed to get off.

"Fuck me," you commanded, eyes wild as Jake rubbed your pretty pussy with his fingers, making sure your orgasm was drawn out long and loud.

He licked the taste of you from his lips and grunted, "Yeah? You want me to?"

"Fuck me, Jake!"

He was on his feet in a flash, nearly tripping on the bathroom tile to get to the box of condoms. It was the last one, and he was already tearing open the wrapper and rolling it on as he made his way back to you. Your pussy was wet, glistening in the sunlight as you lay there shamelessly. Needy. Bedding a mess. He was a mess.

As he took your hand, he leaned in close and kissed you, letting you taste yourself. "How about we try a new position?" he asked, and your eyes grew wider as you nodded. He heaped up the pillows against his headboard, sat against them and rubbed his thigh. "Take me for a ride, Darlin'."

Your lips were hovering over his as you whispered, "I'm not sure if I'm going to like it this way." Then your hand met his cock, practically sending Jake over the edge as you straddled him. He was pressed to your entrance, and then you were sinking down around him as you moaned. It was long and sweet sounding, and it turned into the sentence, "Never mind. I think I'm going to love this."

He was going to as well. His hands ended up on your tits as you arched your back, taking him to the hilt. "Lesson number ten," he grunted, and you met his eyes as you wiggled on his cock. "Experimenting with positions and techniques is usually always a good idea."

You nodded as you bounced up and down on him like you'd done this a thousand times. "It never hurts to try. Got it," you said with a grin as you bit your lip.

Jake stroked your nipple and said, "As long as you're with someone you trust."

"Right," you whispered as his hands slid down to your hips to guide your movements. "Oh, god!"

--------------------------------

Jake knew what your body wanted and needed even before you did. Straddling him on his bed with your back arched meant his cock was hitting places inside you that you didn't even know existed. And now his big hands were helping you along as he stroked that perfect spot that left you breathless with your heart pounding. He eased you up and then guided you back down as you met his green eyes.

You trusted him. You knew he'd get you off, and you knew he wouldn't hurt you. One big hand ended up on your belly as he thrust up to meet you, and that little grin that you liked was back on his lips. "Jake," you gasped, grinding down on him until he was nodding. "Does this feel as good for you as it does for me?"

"Better," he answered immediately. "God, I can guarantee it's better. You're so tight, Darlin'. It's a fucking miracle I didn't cum yet."

He kept trying to say it wasn't about the guy, but it was. It was about him, too. You liked watching him come apart for you. Flushed cheeks and wide pupils and deep, guttural grunts. Everytime he fell apart, your heart soared.

"Shit. Shit," he panted, head tipped back, veins in his neck straining. "Damn it, I'm close."

You leaned in and kissed his ear, letting him guide your hips in the exact tempo he wanted, and you were surprised by how much he slowed you down. "Good," you whispered as your fingers threaded through his soft hair. "I want you to feel good."

His name was on your lips as your clit rubbed his rough pubic hair, and you gave him an involuntary little squeeze, surprising yourself by how close you were now.

"Oh, fuck," he grunted. "You're close, too."

Once again, he could tell exactly what was going on, and he rubbed himself against you. He wasn't going to let himself finish with you on the cusp, and you wanted to thank him, but you couldn't speak. Your head tipped back as you held onto him, and after a few more beats, your pleasure crashed against you like a wave. You were moaning his name and fucking him, and in your mind, you looked even better than a pornstar.

"God damn it," he growled, palming your breasts and making you feel so good as he came, too. His mouth was open, and his cock was twitching inside you as he held you in place. "God damn it."

You did this to him.

His lips crashed against yours, hands all over your body. "Did that feel good?" you asked between kisses.

"You always feel good," he replied, rolling you carefully onto your back. "Always." His body was above yours, expression open as he said, "Tell me what we're doing next. Breakfast? Another bath? Or you want me to drive you home?"

You smiled, not quite ready to leave yet. "First a bath. You can have a breakfast beer."

Jake chuckled and kissed your neck. "That does sound good. Go get the water ready." When he helped you climb out of bed, he gave you a playful swat on your rear end before vanishing out into the hallway as he removed the condom. You found the empty box and a few wrappers on the bathroom floor, tossing them into the trash as the tub filled with steamy water. You had successfully finished off the condoms, and now there were none on the shelf as you grabbed two washcloths.

You were smiling and brushing your teeth as Jake strolled in with a bottle of Sam Adams and a wine glass of ice water. Your heart skipped a beat as he set them both down on the edge of the tub before turning off the water and brushing his teeth. You dipped down into the water as he watched you in the mirror.

"Remember, we stay in until it's cold," he told you after he spit out his toothpaste.

"Weirdo," you muttered, and a second later, he was climbing in, splashing water onto the floor as you squealed with laughter.

---------------------------

"What's for breakfast today?" you asked, arms around Jake's neck.

He took a sip of his beer and rubbed your thigh beneath the water. "I don't know... if I make eggs again, you'll just complain about how I eat mine sunny side up. Tell me it's wrong just like my pizzas."

"Everything you like to eat is a red flag."

Jake smirked and licked his lips before kissing you softly. "I like to eat your pussy."

You started laughing, and you buried your face against his neck. "That's a green flag."

"Thought so."

He took another long sip of beer, swallowing just as you kissed him again. "You taste good," you whispered after licking his lips.

"You're too young to have beer." His statement was a reminder of how he was in a different place in life than you were, but he chose to ignore the repercussions of what that could mean in a few hours.

"I've had it before. It tastes better on a kiss than from a keg."

It was a statement like that that made him take another sip before setting the bottle down. You were authentic and engaging, and he'd been entranced by you since he picked your fake ID up off the floor. He cupped your face in his hands, wishing the water would never get cold.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and your lips parted in a soft smile as he leaned in to kiss you. Every way you responded to him was exciting. Right now your fingers were wet and running up his neck and into his hair as you gave him the sweetest kisses.

You were too good for anyone else. You were too good for him, but at least he could admit it. And now he was reminded of why it was a bad idea to bring you here in the first place. He should have never talked himself into believing he should have you. He was an idiot for thinking it would be easy to give you up.

"What if we make pancakes?" you asked, reaching for your ice water after you broke the kiss.

Jake just nodded, keeping his hands on your body and letting you wash his hair. The first time you shivered in the cooling water, he tried to get you to stay put, but the second time, you started to drain the tub. "Let's go eat," you told him easily, and he helped you out of the tub and into a fluffy towel.

"Pick out something to wear," he whispered before kissing your ear. "I'll meet you in the kitchen."

Jake pulled on some clean underwear, vanishing down the hallway, hoping for a few seconds without you to clear his mind, but it didn't work. Little reminders of you were all over the place. Your mini skirt was on the couch. Pizza box on the dining room table. Empty wine glasses in his sink.

"Fuck," he muttered, turning on the coffee maker as he ran his fingers through his damp hair. "You fucked up."

"What did you fuck up?" you asked, and when he spun around, you were standing there in his TOP GUN tee shirt, biting your lip.

He cleared his throat. "I forgot to turn the coffee pot on before we got in the bath," he replied lamely.

You just shrugged before bending to get eggs and butter from the refrigerator, and Jake was treated to the perfect view of your ass and pussy as he tried to figure out how to get two mugs down from the cabinet without dropping them. Alarm bells were going off in his head as his heart and body responded to you the same way they had been for two days. He knew he wasn't going to survive this weekend, and now he was paying for it as he just kept getting himself in deeper.

----------------------------

It was almost noon by the time your belly was full of pancakes, and even though Jake's kitchen was a mess, he coaxed you over to the couch when you tried to clean up. He put a movie on as you stretched out, but neither of you were paying attention to it. He tasted like coffee and maple syrup, and all you wanted to do was keep kissing him.

When he pulled away, you pulled him back as he laughed. "What?" you whispered. "You taste good."

His hand was drifting up under the shirt you were wearing as he leaned on his elbow on the cushion next to your head. "You're so soft," he murmured, and you leaned in to kiss him again. "And sweet."

You made out with him, fingers in his hair as he traced shapes along your side. He was handsome and funny, and you smiled against his lips when he called you a smartass. This weekend had been so much more than you anticipated, and you didn't want to return to your dorm and your roommate and your classes. You wanted to belong here. But he was older than you. He had tag chasers and a bar tab at the Hard Deck. He had a decade-long career in the Navy.

Jake's arm wrapped around you in that way you were used to, and he curled up behind you on the couch as another movie automatically started on his TV. You couldn't believe you'd been kissing him for that long, but now you were yawning as he settled in against your back. When you shivered, he pulled the throw blanket down over both of you, and you closed your eyes.

"You wore me out," you sighed. "Your stamina is commendable, Jake."

His lips brushed the shell of your ear as his thumb ran along your belly button. "Let's take a nap, Darlin'." But you were already drifting off as he said, "Wearing you out is a pleasure."

You weren't sure how long you dozed, but his soft breathing made you feel safe, even when you woke again. It was intimate. None of this was anything you were used to, but it seemed like things you would do with your boyfriend, if you had one.

An image of Cooper flashed into your mind. Two short days ago, he was all you could think about. Your only concern had been whether or not you would be good enough for him. But maybe that wasn't the key here after all.

Jake's fingers flexed on your belly. "Let me kiss you," he mumbled, and you carefully turned so you were facing him like before. This man could have anything he wanted. He never made you feel like you had to perform a certain way for him to want to kiss or touch you. He never made you feel inadequate or stupid. You wished he would tell you what he wanted. You hoped it was more of you.

"Oh," you whispered as your hand eased down along his body to his semi hard length. You cupped him through his underwear and marveled over the shade of pink rising in his cheeks. His lips were parted, and he made an indecent sound when you gave him a little squeeze. You could not believe he was ready to go again.

"Don't look so surprised," he rasped, green eyes half lidded. "You're kissing me and touching me. Of course I'm going to get hard. Lesson eleven: you could turn any man on. Don't second guess your appeal."

You kept your eyes on his face as you slowly tucked your hand inside his underwear. He was thick and velvety soft, and your mouth was watering as your touch made him impossibly harder. He gasped softly and started to nip at your lips, letting you know you were in control again as his fingers stayed soft on your hip. And you could feel yourself getting wet from that simple touch and the way he was looking at you.

"Will you fuck me again?" you asked, letting your lips brush his. You knew you had to leave soon, and you were starting to think that this constant ache for him would never go away. But instead of doing the smart thing here, you wrapped your leg around his hip when he gave you a filthy kiss.

You pulled his underwear down a little bit, and Jake was rubbing himself against your wet pussy. "I would love to be intimate with you again," he replied, and all of those words in that order made you shiver in anticipation as the blanket ended up on the floor. "But we used up all the condoms from my bathroom. Let's get one from your purse."

He sat up on the couch with you on his lap, his cock tapping your opening in excitement, driving you absolutely wild.

"I want to feel you without a condom."

Jake hissed as he took a deep breath. "Oh fuck." His head tipped back as he swallowed hard, grinding out his words through gritted teeth. "Darlin', you should always use a condom. Hell, I always use one. Don't let guys cut corners, remember?"

You kissed his Adam's apple and said, "You're not other guys. I trust you."

He met your eyes as you squirmed a bit on his lap, so aroused you couldn't sit still. His tip was resting against your clit as he panted and cupped your face with both hands. "God damn it," he grunted. "Listen. I'm not some asshole college student. I get tested regularly, okay?" When you nodded fervently, he added, "Nobody else. You understand? Nobody else gets to have you without one."

His big hand slid down to your neck as you whimpered, "Just you." Then he was hauling you off to his bedroom.

-------------------------------

Oh boy. Oh boy. Possessive Jake, hear our prayers before it's too late. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 9

@blahehblah

@sotalife

@desert-fern

@furiouspiespytaco

@rosiahills22

@daggerspare-standingby

@je-suis-prest-rachel

@callsign-joyride

@theharddeck

@withakindheartx

@roosterscockpit

@whatislovevavy

@hangmanbrainrot

@neferpatra

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@averyhotchner

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@mygyn

@hoyaharper

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@callsign-magnolia

@whisperofsong

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kneelforloki · 1 day ago

Text

Mr. Right Now Part 7 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: There's a difference between sex and intimacy, and Jake is feeling the latter for the first time in a long time. When he tells you that it's important to make sure your partner knows what you want and need, your reaction feels like the nail in his coffin.

Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, adult language, oral sex, p in v intercourse, 18+

Length: 3600 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

You weren't exactly sure what to think of the fact that Jake took the time to get out a washcloth and soak it in warm water before setting you down on the bathroom vanity and cleaning you up. He kissed you softly, nudging your knees so you'd spread your legs apart, and he gently ran the washcloth along your most intimate parts. Both of you were still naked, and even the sight of him soft while he took care of you made your heart pound.

He just took your virginity, and now he was whispering, "Take your time to get cleaned up and get dressed, Darlin'. I'm going to get you some more ice water, and then we can finish the pizza."

"Okay," you replied, unsure what else you should say. He walked out of the bathroom leaving you alone with skin that felt too hot and a nervous energy that you couldn't identify. You wished he was still touching you, so you quickly used the bathroom and dug around in his dresser drawer for a clean shirt before rushing out to the kitchen.

You felt a little sore, but it was a delicious ache that left you on the verge of smiling as soon as you saw him filling a wine glass with water in his underwear. "I'm ready for cold pizza," you announced, and he turned to take in the sight of you wearing his Texas Longhorns shirt with wide, green eyes.

Jake grunted in response as he headed your way with the wine glass in one big hand. When he dropped down onto the dining room chair he vacated earlier, he lured you over with his smirk and the sentence, "Nothing else is going to taste as good as you." Your steps faltered as you sucked in a deep breath, but he wrapped his free hand around your bare thigh. When he patted his lap, you met his eyes. "Have a seat."

You settled down as gingerly as you could on his thigh as he slid your glass of water next to the open pizza box, but your lips were already so close to his, you ended up kissing him. His thumb skimmed along your hip as he parted your lips with his own, tasting your tongue. He groaned softly, and your fingers threaded through his hair like that's where they belonged. Jake smiled against your lips.

"Alright, feed me some horrible pizza, or else I'll just keep wanting to taste you all night," he murmured.

You pulled away from him slowly and reached for one of the slices in the box. It was cold, and the cheese looked honestly not so great now, but you bit the end of the slice before holding it out for him.

"I don't know what you're complaining about," you said, licking your lips. "This is delicious."

Jake hummed as you fed him another bite from your hand. "I would eat this with you all the time." Your blood felt warmer as it pumped through your veins, and Jake leaned in to kiss your ear. "Do you want to stay over again?"

His place was comfortable to you already, but you were in so deep. You could hardly understand how you got yourself here, having the best weekend you could remember with this man who you barely knew but for some reason were certain you could trust.

But you took too long to answer, and as you stared at him with the half eaten slice of pizza in your hand, Jake muttered, "I can drive you home after you're done eating."

"No," you whispered. His gaze dipped down to your mouth as he frowned slightly, but you kissed him before you said, "I want to stay."

----------------------------

Jake was enjoying the nasty, cold pizza and the way you made him feel warm while you sat sideways across his lap. He was enjoying all of it too much. Just like he'd enjoyed you in bed. It was all too much, and he still wanted more.

You said you would stay over again, but what did he expect to happen tomorrow night? Especially when he could already tell he'd want even more. When he finally got you all snuggled against him in the bath earlier, you told him you had classes every morning at eight. He was going to have to drive you home at some point tomorrow, and he didn't know how to ask you if that was it. Or if there could be more.

He took another bite of the pizza from your hand and watched you nibble on the crust. You seemed contemplative, but that eager look was always there. "What's on your mind?" he asked, and you leaned against his shoulder, burying your face against his neck.

"Just reviewing the lessons in my mind," you whispered. "Making sure I don't forget anything."

Great. You were thinking about his lessons now when he just wanted to go off script. Showing you so much of himself the first time he had sex with you was probably his worst decision of all. He should have kept lesson eight simple, but instead he put himself out there, insisting he could show you more. Show you that there was a difference between fucking and intimacy. And now there was a pain in his chest. That's what he got for needing to be the best and somehow falling for you in the process.

Jake could feel your eyelashes flutter against his neck as your hand trailed down his chest to rest on his abs. You had no idea what you were doing to him, otherwise you'd definitely stop touching him like that. Or else you'd agree to never leave.

"Is there a ninth lesson?" you asked softly.

All Jake needed was for you to always be safe and get exactly what you wanted. He tucked his fingers beneath your chin and tilted your face up so you were looking at him. "There's always another lesson," he said, kissing you softly before running his thumb along your lips. "Lesson nine: make sure you tell your wants and needs to your partner. Then everyone will be clear about the expectations."

"That makes a lot of sense," you replied, chin still resting in his palm as your fingers skimmed the top of his underwear. Your eyes were wide with innocence and something more. "So, what do you want?" you asked boldly. "What do you need?"

Jake's cock throbbed against your leg, and your lips curved into a little smirk. "Come on, Darlin'. That's not fair."

You dipped your fingers into his underwear and shifted your leg as you whispered, "What's unfair about it?"

He swallowed hard, wrapping his hand around your wrist before you could touch his erection. "This is supposed to be about you. Not me."

You moaned his name, sending his mind into a frenzy as your other hand tangled in his hair again. "I got exactly what I wanted, and somehow you also gave me something I didn't know I needed."

He closed his eyes as your lips met his neck. "This is about you first and foremost, Darlin'. Remember? It's never about the guy."

You kissed along his skin as you asked, "Even when he's as sweet as you are?" His hand left your wrist so he could cup your face, and before he knew it, you were wrapping your warm fingers around his cock. "I want to give you head if you'll let me. Or I want to at least try."

Jake's head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as he throbbed shamelessly in your hand. There was no way he could make up an excuse or lie to you, not after the day the two of you had together. "I both want and need your mouth on my cock," he groaned, already wondering if he could last long enough to enjoy it.

He stood up and hauled you over to the couch where he'd made a mess all over you earlier, prepared to do the same again now. He kissed you hard on the mouth, hand rough at the back of your neck. You whimpered in response and rubbed yourself against him. He wanted you every which way he could imagine. He wanted you to experience everything with you. But right now, you were the one pushing him down so he was sitting with his hard cock hanging out of the front of his underwear.

You looked too good in his Texas Longhorns shirt as you leaned down with your hands on his knees. "I've never done this before. Just so you're clear about your expectations."

"Jesus Christ," Jake grunted, and you sank to your knees between his spread legs as your hand slid up to wrap around his cock. He shimmied his underwear down lower on his thighs, and you looked up at him before pulling them completely off.

"But I have watched porn," you promised, letting your lips brush along his tip.

"Fuck," he growled. "Every time you say that, I lose my mind a little bit more."

You gave him a little nudge with your nose, clearly comfortable around him. "Will you tell me if it's bad? I don't want to be bad at this."

Jake held eye contact with you and slowly shook his head as you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock and gave him a little swipe with your tongue like you were enjoying a lollipop. His balls tightened up knowing you'd never had another man like this. Another slow swipe of your tongue and he had to reach for your cheek and stroke your soft skin to keep himself grounded.

"It won't be bad. It couldn't be," he promised, swallowing hard. "You're smart, and frankly guys are easy to please when it comes to some pretty lips and an eager tongue."

Your lips were a little puffy from all of the kissing between the two of you, and when you pulled him free, you gave him a little pout. "But I want to be good for you." He felt dizzy again. "I want to know what you like, the same way you told me to be vocal about what I like. You've had blowjobs from probably dozens or maybe hundreds of women."

You were probably overestimating those numbers, but Jake could barely think as you grazed him with your nose again. "Darlin'," he grunted without another single thought in his head.

"Should I... take this shirt off or something?" you asked, gaze innocent even as your lips brushed along him. "You know, to turn you on more?"

Jake laughed as his head tipped back against the couch, dizzy all over again. "If I were any more turned on right now, you'd have my cum everywhere."

"Oh," you gasped, voice sounding delighted, drawing his gaze back to your pretty face. That's when you let go of him to tug his shirt over your head, discarding it on the couch next to his leg, and all he could do was stare with his mouth hanging open at how damn bold you were.

He was hard as a rock as your tits swayed while you repositioned yourself, and then your took a few inches of him. It didn't feel like you didn't know what you were doing, and he couldn't decide if that's because you were a natural or because he'd find anything you did to be a turn on. Your eyes were trained on his face as you took another inch of his cock, clearly looking for some feedback, but all he could say was, "Please, don't stop."

You made a soft sound as you took more of him, and as soon as your lips brushed his trimmed pubic hair, you gagged. Stars clouded his vision as his fingers wrapped around the discarded shirt. You gagged again and started to withdraw him, and when he was able to look at you clearly, he was panting slightly.

"Does that feel good?" you asked, mindlessly pumping his wet cock with your hand while you waited for an answer.

He nodded and said, "I'm going to finish distressingly fast. Especially given how long I was able to last in your perfect pussy."

You looked so proud of yourself as you whispered, "Tell me what you like."

As soon as your lips wrapped around him again, he placed one gentle hand at the back of your head and muttered, "I'll show you."

-------------------------------

Jake's breathing grew more ragged each time you took him deep enough to make yourself gag. And you loved the sound of his grunts and groans as much as you loved the pressure of his hand on your head and neck.

"That's it," he crooned when you sucked on him just like he had instructed. "That's it, Darlin'." His hips were rolling slightly now as you licked and sucked, absorbing everything he said and did. While he only gave you subtle instructions, it seemed like it was all designed to make you more curious. And now you desperately wanted to make him come. You wanted to taste him and feel him in your mouth at the same time.

When you needed to catch your breath, you licked around his balls, and the sound he made was one of the hottest things you'd ever heard. "You like that?"

"Uh huh," he grunted, eyes wild as you did it again. "Fuck. Fuck. I'm getting real close. Jesus Christ, your tits look good. You're fucking killing me."

You smirked, knowing taking the shirt off had been a good idea. The only problem was that you wanted to taste him, but your pussy was also wet with desire now. He did tell you to let him know what you needed and wanted, so you went for it. "Jake, my pussy is soaked," you whispered before licking a steady line back to his tip. "Will you fuck me again later?"

"For the love of god," he groaned, rubbing his free hand over his face. "I'll do anything you want. I'll fuck you all night. Anything, Darlin'."

You felt strangely powerful as you took him all the way again, reveling in the way it felt to gag on his cock. When you bobbed your head, you could feel how tight his entire body became. Like a coil ready to snap.

"I'm so fucking close," he whined as you sucked. "You don't have to swallow." You frowned up at him with your mouth full. "You want to swallow?" he asked softly, and you nodded which made him groan again. "It'll be different than when I came on you, and some women don't like the taste."

You pulled him free and said, "I already tasted you earlier. I want to feel you to cum in my mouth," before taking him deep one more time. Jake moaned your first name as his fingers tightened around the back of your neck.

"God damn, god damn," he chanted, cheeks ruddy. "So good."

And then he came, and you tasted him. It was shocking how suddenly your mouth felt full, but he tasted as good as he did before, and you tried to swallow him quickly. But you could feel some of his cum drip down your chin as you looked up at him.

Jake dragged his thumb through it before coaxing your lips apart. You licked it clean before he scooped up a little more and fed it to you. His breathing was calmer now as his cock softened and rested on his thigh, and you couldn't stop looking at what you'd turned him into. He was somehow relaxed and also more keyed up than ever.

"I love the way it tastes," you whispered, already feeling your face heat up at the simple admission. "I already want more." You weren't sure if it was just Jake who tasted so good that you'd happily drop to your knees at the mere suggestion of it, or if it was every man. But his next sentence had you scrambling onto his lap.

"You already sound like a cum slut."

But you knew no shame whatsoever, completely naked in his arms. "Will you cum in my mouth again? Please?"

He kissed you, swiping his tongue along yours, and you could imagine just how that tasted. Then his fingers dug into the tops of your thighs, and he pulled you up so you were standing on his couch on shaky legs with your pussy right in font of his face. "I said I'd do anything you wanted, and I meant it. But right now this is what I want to do."

Jake was being bossy, and you loved it. He guided you where he wanted you, and then his mouth was all over your pussy. Lesson nine... lesson nine... make sure your partner is clear about what you want and need. "I want to come all over your face," you gasped, tangling your fingers in his hair to keep yourself upright as his tongue traced a devilish little circle around your clit.

"You will, Darlin'."

-------------------------------

The floodgates had opened. You were just as insatiable as Jake was. It was so late now as you and he worked through the rest of that box of condoms you found in his bathroom, exploring each other in every way imaginable. Every time he even looked at you, it was with more intent than he was used to, and that was just fueling how badly he wanted you. And you welcomed his every suggestion, surprising him at every turn with some of your own.

There was a condom wrapper abandoned somewhere near the couch where you'd asked him to fuck you doggy style. The lack of eye contact didn't feel any less intimate when he had his lips pressed to your neck and ear, coaxing your orgasm from you one word at a time.

There was another condom wrapper on the bathroom vanity where he was currently giving you a slow thrust from behind where both of you could watch each other in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed pink as you gasped his name, and his lips connected with the side of your neck. "Good girl," he whispered, praising you every time you thrust back against him. "Get what you want. Tell me what you want."

The front of his body was pressed to yours, and he was gently squeezing your breasts, enjoying the look and feel of them as his thrusts made them bounce. You grabbed his wrist, never breaking eye contact in the mirror as you dragged his hand lower and said, "Make me come."

Sex was never this simple or this complicated for him before. Being with you felt effortless. Both of you were making your expectations known, and he was enjoying every second of being in your presence. But he was already hesitant about dropping you off at your dorm. When he kissed your shoulder and dragged his fingers along your clit, he knew he needed to say something about the feeling in his chest, but he just couldn't do it. That's not why you were here.

"I think you made me good at sex," you whimpered, bracing both hands on the sink vanity as you tossed your head back and came on his cock. It was beautiful. All of it. He slowed his fingers as you rode out your orgasm, and his hand came to rest low on your belly.

"There was never a single moment when you weren't," he promised, and then you were kissing him over your shoulder. It wasn't just sex either, because now he couldn't wait to get you cleaned up and take you to his bed for the rest of the night. And that thought was enough to make him come inside you for what felt like the hundredth time today.

He was exhausted. Wrung out. He had nothing left to give you physically at the moment, but as if by instinct, you turned around in his arms to face him as soon as he was done grunting your name, and you tossed your arms around his neck. He kept you caged in there between his body and the sink in his dimly lit bathroom while you gave him the sweetest kisses, bodies slick with sweat. Neither of you said a word for a long time, even as the kisses tapered off so your cheek was simply resting on his chest, and he traced soft shapes along your hip. He felt you yawn, and he had to fight the urge to as well as he finally forced himself to take a step away from you.

"It's late, Darlin'. Let me get you cleaned up," he whispered as he removed the condom, not bothering to find the wrapper to join it in the trash can. He reached for a clean washcloth, and you let him take care of you while you yawned again, and then the two of you brushed your teeth side by side before he took your hand.

The window was still cracked from last night when you had asked if he could hear the ocean in his room, and he pushed it open a little further as you climbed into his bed like you belonged there. He was going to be completely unable to separate his feelings from the physical acts between you and him this weekend, but he tucked himself in behind you anyway. Once again fell asleep to the sounds of your soft breathing and the waves crashing in the distance.

-----------------------------

I love them, but they are so oblivious about what the other one is feeling. Darlin', there's a reason you're so comfortable around Jake. Jake, there's a reason you can't get enough of her. Just a few more chapters left. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 8

@blahehblah

@sotalife

@desert-fern

@furiouspiespytaco

@rosiahills22

@daggerspare-standingby

@je-suis-prest-rachel

@callsign-joyride

@theharddeck

@withakindheartx

@roosterscockpit

@whatislovevavy

@hangmanbrainrot

@neferpatra

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@averyhotchner

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@mygyn

@hoyaharper

@gennyanydots

@callsign-magnolia

@whisperofsong

@seriouslyseresin

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@katiebby04

@supernaturaldawning

@chassy21

@tylerjones98

@captainjaspenor

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kneelforloki · 1 day ago

Text

Mr. Right Now Part 6 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: When Jake makes a promise, you know he'll see it through. You're not even nervous as he spreads you out on his bed like you're something to be savored. He hasn't disappointed you yet, and you're beginning to think he's starting to feel the same way you do... like you don't want the weekend to end.

Warnings: angst, fluff, adult language, oral sex, p in v intercourse, 18+

Length: 4200 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

When Jake promised to take care of everything before his lips pressed against yours like they belonged there, you knew you had nothing to worry about. His hands were a little rough, but his touch was gentle. Even as he dipped his fingers inside the elastic of his boxer briefs that you'd been wearing around his place all day, he was firm but never demanding.

You had a brief flash of understanding in your mind. It would never be quite like this again. It would never feel as good. He was being so domineering, making sure you learned all of the lessons he had to teach, because he could back it up by being not only skillful but also sweet. He wanted you to have everything you needed.

"Jake," you gasped, his heavy knuckles running along your body as you reached for him, willing him to stay close. His green eyes were almost too pretty in the dim light of his bedroom, and you let the soft strands of his hair slip through your fingers while he caressed you everywhere.

He held eye contact with you as he started to pull the fabric down your hips. When you nodded, the boxer briefs ended up on the floor, and not for the first time, you were bare before him. Too innocent. Too unsophisticated. But his hands already knew every inch of your body, and you could feel how hard he was for you in spite of everything. Jake kissed along your neck and collarbones down to your breasts, and you arched off the bed as his big hand smoothed down your belly until he was barely touching your pussy.

"It feels so good," you gasped, rolling your hips up for more as his fingers ghosted along.

"Don't rush it," he murmured. "Please, don't rush it." He eased you back down with his hand on your hip, thumb drawing a little shape that felt like a heart on your side. You almost said something, but his lips were working their magic on your breasts again while he stroked up and down your slit with one sure finger.

It was all designed to make you lose your mind. It had to be. He knew everything you liked, and he was the only man who had ever given it to you. He was making it all about you.

But you knew better by now. You really did. He was just getting started with the foreplay. The best part. But you felt like the entire weekend up to this point qualified as foreplay, and you were convinced you were going to ignite with desire for this man. His lips wrapped around your nipple just like last night, and the pull of need low in your belly had you moaning his name.

He smiled against your furled nipple. "It sounds so good when you say it."

"Jake," you whispered, drawing it out the way he was drawing out everything you were feeling. Even his breath on your damp skin felt like too much, and as soon as he met your eyes again, his lips were on yours.

His kisses were a little wilder now. More intense. He was all tongue and teeth and the scrape of facial hair. You never wanted this to stop.

"Fuck," you grunted, tugging on his hair to try to keep yourself grounded as that one sure finger dipped further into your slit before circling your clit slowly. "I want it so bad. Am I supposed to be nervous? Because I'm not. I'm so horny, Jake, I feel like I'm going to die."

You didn't even let him respond before you wrapped your calf around his thigh, needing to feel his full weight on top of you. He was delicious, all muscular and in charge, but he followed your lead and let you feel him.

"Darlin', I'm trying my best here, but you're not helping," he gasped, pressing his cock to your wet pussy through his gym shorts. He was breathing deep, and there was a beautiful vein in his neck that you couldn't help but kiss.

"I want it so bad," you repeated, your lips brushing his skin as you reached down to yank him free from the last of his clothing. But in an instant, he caught both of your wrists in his hands and pressed them to the bedding above your head.

The rapid rise and fall of your breasts had your nipples brushing his chest hair, and you clenched around nothing as he kissed your ear and whispered your name. He made a soft sound at the back of his throat that reminded you of his voice first thing in the morning when it was rough from sleep, and you decided you could listen to him like this all night long.

His hands tightened a bit around your wrists as he whispered, "We're at a bit of a crossroads here, Darlin'. Lesson number eight could be one of two things. But I don't think I can make it both."

Confused, you looked up into those beautiful eyes and whispered, "What do you mean?" You knew he wasn't going to leave you hanging, but it was taking everything inside you not to grind yourself against him for some relief right now. Then he looked at you with a little smile that made your heart skip around before he kissed you softly.

Everything felt a little fuzzy and he let his lips skim down to your chin before he said, "We could have sex. I could fuck you." He kissed your neck as you tipped your head back for more. "Try my best to make it real good. Make sure I don't hurt you. Go slow when you want me to and faster if that's what you like. I could make sure you come. And I'd do it happily."

"God, yes," you whined. "Yes. Yes."

"Or," he whispered, voice shaking a bit as his lips met your earlobe. "Or, it could be something more."

His words made sense, but they didn't. "More?" you asked, brushing your fingers along his hair. "How could there be more than you rocking my world right now?"

He huffed out a laugh. "There's more to intimacy than fucking."

Your fingers slowed as you ran your foot down his calf. He was right. There was more to it. But you didn't end up here because you were looking for intimacy. You had the desire to lose your virginity, and Jake begrudgingly offered to help you. But... somewhere along the way you ate pizza and took a bath and snuggled and spent the night. All of the sex in the world wouldn't be able to replace those things, and you knew it. There was a reason you weren't nervous around Jake. He made sure you knew you could trust him before he got you to this point.

You tugged gently on his hair until he was looking at you. His cheeks were pink, and he had a hesitant look in his eyes, but you smiled. You ran your thumb along his lips and whispered, "Show me."

He blinked a few times. "Yeah?"

"Show me everything."

--------------------------

Offering up even more of himself was the worst decision he could have made, but when it came to you, Jake was a mess. You wanted him to show you everything? He was tripping over himself for the chance to teach you that sex was better when intimacy was involved, but even he didn't have much experience with that. At least not recently.

But he could already feel around the edges of his brain and his heart that you were different. Better for him than anyone else. Someone who would keep him on his toes and make him want to improve. Someone who took him seriously where it mattered and let him just be comfortable in your presence.

Your virginity wasn't a trophy, but he wanted it all for himself anyway. It wasn't something he would ever gloat about, but in the back recesses of his mind, he'd always know he was your first. He planned on being the best, but to be your only would be impossible. Especially when that was never what you asked him for.

There were words on his lips that he knew he couldn't say. He couldn't ask you to stay with him. All he could do was show you how much he wished you would. He would taste you and fuck you and give you an orgasm, but he was also going to indulge himself in the first woman in ages who made him feel something.

"I'll show you," he promised, kissing your lips and your neck. He stroked your breasts with his thumbs, coaxing little sounds from you as he nipped his way along your soft skin.

You were aroused, and he could smell you. It made his mouth water. You were wet and sweet, and as soon as he indulged, you relaxed for him. "You love this," he mused between long, languide swipes of his tongue through your pussy.

"I love it," you moaned, spreading your legs a little wider. You were so eager for him, just dripping with need.

Jake kissed your thigh and met your gaze. "After just twenty-four hours of me eating your pussy, you're addicted." You whimpered. "It's okay, Darlin'. I think I'm addicted to you, too."

He savored you. Lapped you up and devoured you as you just got wetter. He hoped his bed smelled like you after this. The whole room, even. Every time he closed his lips around your clit, you grabbed at his hair and whined.

"Show me. Show me more."

He didn't have a choice. You were about to see every bit of his feelings where you were concerned. Making you feel good was quickly becoming one of his favorite things, and soon your legs were shaking. Nobody else had ever done that to you besides him. He reveled in it.

Edging you wasn't something he set out to do, but no matter how slow he went, you seemed to be right on the cusp. And he'd be damned if you came before he had his cock in your sweet pussy. Even when he pulled his face away from you, kissing your clit and your belly, you shook with need. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, and your leg hitched around his thigh, coaxing him up your body until his mouth was on yours once more.

He could tell you loved the way you tasted, and it was all over his face right now. It was obscene the way you reacted to him. There was no hesitation in you as you licked his chin, and now he was yanking his cock free of his shorts so he could feel your warm pussy resting against him.

"Oh my god," you whimpered. "Lesson number eight. Please, Jake."

He kissed you hard until you were shaking again, eyes filled with desire and trust. His voice came out raspy when he pressed his lips to your ear. "Let me love every inch of you."

------------------------------

You couldn't remember all of the lessons. You could barely even recall your own name. If you were anything more finite than a pile of lust on Jake's bed, then that was news to you. You watched him pull his body away from yours, and you instantly wanted it back. But he slipped out of his gym shorts, and then he was naked from head to toe. His cock was thick in his palm, and you tried to sit up as far as you could, but you only got to your elbows.

He kissed your bent knee and muttered, "Let me grab the condoms," before trailing his hand down your calf.

You made some sort of sound in agreement and watched him walk into the bathroom. That half empty box of extra large condoms was yours now. You wanted to use them all up so Jake would have to go to the store and think about you the next time he slept with one of his tag chasers. The idea of another woman in his bed knocked the air from your lungs, and you sat up abruptly.

There he stood, framed in the doorway, box in hand. The delicate light barely touched his face, but he was so handsome, and you had already memorized everything. You'd never forget what he looked like.

"You're beautiful," he said, voice piercing the silence, making your heart pound. He didn't need to say it. There was no pretense of anything other than sex happening in the next few minutes. So he must have meant it.

"Come back," you whispered, and he walked right to you.

The box ended up on his nightstand, but he had one condom in his hand. Jake kissed your forehead before lounging back on the pillows and reaching for your hand. "Remember, always use a condom. Don't let guys cut corners." His green eyes were bright and attentive. "Got it?" When you nodded, he opened the wrapper and said, "I'll show you how to put it on."

He guided his hands along with yours over his hard length, and even now he was taking his time, doing everything right. When the condom was secure, you stroked his balls and watched his head tip back against the pillow. He reached for your hand and kissed the inside of your wrist while your body thrummed with need. You didn't just want him, you needed him.

"You gotta knock that off, Darlin'," he said with a grin as he rolled you onto your back. His cheeks were tinted pink again as he braced himself over you and kissed you so gently, your body ached for more. "I need to make this good for you."

Part of you wanted to duck your face away from him, but he never hid himself from you. Sure, he'd masturbated in the bathroom, but he never tried to conceal the fact that you made him hard. And right now your body was reacting to every little brush of his chest hair on your skin. Every little tilt of his handsome face.

"I am so turned on," you whispered so softly, you could barely hear yourself over your pounding heart. "Jake."

His lips skimmed along your neck. "I'm going to love this more than I should," he murmured, gently spreading you open wider with one hand on your thigh. "You ready for me?"

The weight of his cock against your core was enough to drive you insane, and the drag of his stubble along your shoulder excited you even more. You didn't even need to ask him to be gentle, because you knew he would be. He was going to take care of everything.

"Yes."

Jake's bicep flexed as he guided himself through your slick, and then he pushed his hips forward, green eyes glued to your face. Your lips parted on a soft sound, and he paused to kiss your cheek. "I won't hurt you," he whispered, "but you need to tell me if you want me to stop."

You nodded, a jerky motion, and you felt him stretching you as he moved one inch at a time. There was some pain, but there was a lot more pleasure. "Oh my god," you gasped, reaching for his bicep while your other fingers wound through his hair. When he paused, a question flashing in his eyes, you added, "Please, don't stop."

Jake's lips were all over yours, kissing and claiming as he pushed onward, filling you until the stretch felt impossible. And then his body was resting against your clit, and you were panting into his mouth, making pleasurable little noises that you couldn't control. You were no longer a virgin.

It wasn't like you suddenly understood some deep seated secrets of the universe, but you did know the stretch of your body around Jake. You knew the sound of his groan as he filled you and kept you full. And you knew the way your fingertips tingled as he inhaled a shaky breath every time you exhaled.

"You alright, Darlin'?" he rasped, stroking his fingers along your cheek almost reverently. When you nodded in response, he kissed the side of your nose and then said, "I need to hear you say it."

You bent your leg more and let it rub against his thigh, and you rolled your hips ever so slightly, making yourself moan. Every breath you took seemed to fill your belly with an ache, a need. You gasped when your pussy tightened around him like your body was asking for more. "You feel incredible," you whispered.

He buried his face to your neck and squeezed your shoulder like he was trying to control himself. "Lesson eight... oh, fuck... lesson eight. You're in charge right now. You're ruining me."

You were still processing his words as he started to withdraw himself, and just when you were about to beg him for more, his hips pressed toward you again. Full. You felt so damn full at the end of each slow thrust as Jake kissed you, like each of his movements was designed to make a different part of your body light up with desire.

He drove himself deep once again, leaving you moaning as he whispered, "You're so fucking beautiful. My god." His gaze was darting from your lips to your eyes as you whimpered his name unintelligibly. "All this for me?"

You thought you knew, but you actually understood nothing until right now. This wasn't like the porn videos. At all. That's not how you were reacting to him, and that's not how he was treating you. This was something even better. Maybe there would be a time and a place for something wilder later on, but this... this didn't feel like just fucking. Not when his lips were as soft as his words even though you could feel the slow build of your orgasm working its way through your body.

This was perfection. You never had to fake anything with Jake. The sheen of sweat on his brow as he moved in an intoxicating rhythm made you feel like he didn't have to fake anything with you either. Maybe it would never be this good again, but you let yourself melt against his touch, determined to feel everything with him right now.

-----------------------------

Focus.

Jake watched a bead of sweat roll down the tip of his nose and land softly on your lips. When your tongue slowly swiped it away, he felt his balls tighten up. Then you kissed him, and it happened again. Damn. You were tight and lovely and he never wanted this night to end.

But he needed to focus. It was all about you and the arch of your back and the desire in your voice. It was about the way you couldn't seem to say anything except his name as he made love to you. When he planted his lips between your breasts, tasting the salt of your skin, you clenched around him, and his vision blurred.

"Wow. Holy shit. You're fucking tight."

"Sorry," you murmured, a hazy smile on your lips as he laughed.

"You got nothing to be sorry for, Darlin'. Not hurting you?"

"No," you moaned long and loud. "Feels good."

He had to clench and unclench his fist on the pillow next to your head as you dragged your fingers through his hair like the two of you had done this a million times. He wanted to do this a million more times. But this was the one that needed to count for something.

You would probably think about him from time to time as your first, but he wanted those thoughts to be something that made you do a double take or slow your steps to a halt while you're walking. He wanted you to be distracted by the memory of him right here and right now. He wanted to know that this hazy, lovestruck look would be all over your face whenever someone started calling your name but ultimately have to try several times to get your attention.

The hold you had on him was incredible, both emotionally and physically. It was too easy to picture you here every weekend, telling him his favorite pizza toppings were stupid while you took a bath with him. He'd fill up his wine glasses with ice water until you turned twenty-one, at which point he could take you back to the Hard Deck with his arm slung over your shoulders and your real driver's license in his hand.

Your body was his undoing. He was trying not to thrust, but to no avail. He let you have a few rapid strokes, and your eyes went wide as you gasped and clung to him. "I got you," he promised, kissing the crook of your neck, trying to slow down.

But then you gasped, "I love that," and he thought he was going to lose his mind. You loved being fucked by him. In fact, you were rolling your hips up to meet his every stroke. You were needy and eager and everything he never knew would make him come completely undone. But he needed to hold himself together, because he wanted you to love it even more when he made you come on his cock.

He wrapped his hands around your hips and used his body to push your thighs a little wider. "Good girl," he crooned, kissing you gently at first and then a little rougher. Your tits bounced with each thrust as he did his best to stave off his own pleasure. "God, you're good."

The little smile on your lips was kissed away immediately, leaving you whimpering his name again. You took him stroke by stroke as he slid his thumb along your clit for some extra insurance. "Oh!" you nearly screamed, tugging on his hair until he thought he was in trouble. You were clenching him hard as he stroked you there again. "Jake!"

You seemed to like every fucking thing he was doing to you, so he rubbed sure circles around your clit before applying a little more pressure, and you arched off the bed, eyes wide. You shivered, lips quivering slightly as your legs shook where they squeezed his hips. "I'll take care of you," he promised again, letting his thumb rest gently on your clit. And that was enough. That was all it took.

You were rubbing yourself all over him, babbling his name and kissing his face. Every time you lifted your head from his pillow, it sank back down almost immediately as you arched yourself into him. Each thrust now was grueling for him. He was sweaty and exhausted from fighting against his every base urge to go as hard as he could. Then your lips parted on the prettiest sound he ever heard as your orgasm took over.

A few seconds of your pussy milking him for everything he was worth was all he could handle. He kept one hand on your hip as he drove himself deeper, and he stroked your cheek and neck with the other. "You feel good, Darlin'? Did I make you feel good?" he asked, voice deep as you shouted his name.

"Jake, Jake!"

Yeah. You'd think about his face and his kisses in a few years when some other guy just wasn't doing quite enough. When he couldn't hit the right spots or take the time you deserved to get you to this point. And whoever that guy was, he would be missing out on the most beautiful thing that Jake got to experience.

-------------------------------

You were losing your voice, throat scratchy as you said his name for probably the thousandth time in a row. It felt like your orgasm lasted for an hour. It was that good. Jake was that good. Even as he started to move again where he had collapsed half on top of you, your leg came up to his hip to hold him in place.

"Not yet," you begged, barely able to talk now. He answered with a deep chuckle next to your ear. That was the third time you told him to stay put, but he felt too good, and you didn't want to lose this yet. "You told me I was in charge now."

His lips were on your neck as he mumbled, "Smartass." You were convinced he meant it as a compliment by now, and you smiled. "We still have to finish your disgusting, cold pizza." You giggled as he moved a few inches and ran his hand along your shoulder and up your neck until he was cupping your cheek. "I don't know about you, but I worked up an appetite."

You didn't want to tell him you were already hungry for round two in his bedroom. Surely none of the other girls were already asking for more while he was still inside them. You tried to turn your head, embarrassed by the very thought of it when he stopped you with his lips on yours.

"Let's get cleaned up," he whispered. "Then I'll try to convince you to sleep over again tonight."

-------------------------------

She wants more. He wants more. They are so hot together. They are so good together. What could possibly go wrong? Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 7

@blahehblah

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kneelforloki · 1 day ago

Text

Mr. Right Now Part 5 | Hangman x Reader

Summary: Jake can't pinpoint why he feels the need to make you understand that you're special. Or maybe he can, but he's too afraid to admit it to himself. You are completely out of your depth, but you know you'd rather drown with Jake than be with anyone else right now.

Warnings: adult language, sexual touching, oral sex, fingering, cum play, 18+

Length: 3700 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Why is Jake on my masterlist!? Mr. Right Now masterlist

Jake was surpassing all of your expectations. You were already three orgasms deep on the weekend, and you just met him less than a day ago. He was sweet and handsome, and right now he was kissing your lips softly on his couch as he held you tight. You couldn't help but smile against his mouth as the sticky coating of his cum spread from your tummy to his hard abs as you and he made out at a luxurious pace.

He was taking charge, but he never made you feel small or stupid for your lack of experience. He just didn't seem like that kind of person. And besides, you did manage to turn him on for the third time, and instead of letting him sneak away, you got him to stay put on the couch with you.

"Were you really going to try to jerk off alone again?" you asked as he kissed his way down the side of your neck.

"Mmhmm. You caught onto that, did you?" You felt his tongue trail along your skin before he said, "Wasn't about to make you feel obligated to take care of it for me in any way."

Okay, so Jake was kind of a gentleman. So much so that he still hadn't fucked you. And he still hadn't told you when he was planning to. The crazy thing was, you now understood that he could probably make you come a dozen other ways that didn't involve his cock at all. You were impressed. You were also a little sad that once you and he did get around to that little matter of eliminating the fact that you were still a virgin, you'd be on your way.

"Are you sore, Darlin'?" he asked, setting butterflies off in your belly. "I was a little rough with my fingers."

You moaned softly and tipped your head back. "It felt amazing. I liked it."

"I'm glad," he crooned. "But if you're sore, you could take a bath."

You perked up even more. A bath in his big tub sounded delightful, and once you started moving, you realized you were a bit more sore than you originally thought. "I want a bath," you told him, and you left a mess of his tacky cum on him when you stood up. You suddenly remembered you were completely naked and covered in his semen as you ducked your face away from him and muttered, "I wasn't sure what the texture was going to be like. It's really sticky all over me now."

Jake stood and pulled you close again. "Gets messier and harder to clean up when it starts to dry. But you didn't seem to mind me coating you up since it was your idea in the first place."

You pressed your lips together and muttered, "I never saw a guy come in real life before. I was curious. And it was so hot."

Something like possessiveness flashed in his eyes. "And then, to my surprise, you started playing with it," he added with a dangerous smirk, and you turned away from him in embarrassment, because maybe you weren't supposed to do that at all. "Do you hear me complaining?" he asked, pressing his lips to your shoulder. "That was some advanced level kinky stuff. Just wasn't expecting it. But I am not complaining. Let's get you in the bath."

Jake kept his arm around your waist as he led you back to his bedroom and then to the en suite bathroom where he cranked on the hot water before turning to look at you in all his naked glory. "I'm going to grab myself a beer for bathtime. Something about hot water and a cold beer is very satisfying, and maybe you can learn all about it after your next birthday. You want another crystal goblet of ice water?"

Your brow furrowed. "You're taking a bath with me?"

He raised one eyebrow and took a step away from you. "Unless you don't want me to."

Once again, you were surprised by him, but not disinterested in the idea of having him join you in the tub. "I want you to."

He half smiled in response. "And the goblet of ice water?"

"Yes, please," you told him with an eye roll. Then he was gone, and you were left with the soothing sound of the tub filling up while you went in search of a washcloth. You found some in the small closet just inside the bathroom door. Along with extra towels, razor blades, and a half empty box of extra large condoms.

Of course he would have them. He brought you home which meant he probably did the same thing every weekend. Maybe he even had more than one girl each weekend. One for Friday night and one for Saturday night. Maybe he'd fuck you and then offer to drive you home soon so he could go back to the bar tonight and find someone more his speed. Someone who knew that condoms came in different sizes.

You couldn't let yourself get jealous or sad, because there was no point in it. This was practically a business deal. Jake was helping you get ready for Cooper while he got his rocks off as many times as he wanted to. No more, no less.

"Here you go."

You startled a bit as Jake held out your wine glass filled with ice water, and he took a long sip from his bottle of Sam Adams. "Thanks," you whispered, and then he pressed his cold lips to your forehead before nodding at the tub.

"Get in and get comfy."

--------------------------------

Jake had never shared his bathtub with anyone. Soaking in the hot water until it was almost too cool to stand was one of his guilty pleasures that he never planned on letting someone else experience, too. He usually brought a beer in with him. One time he drank an entire bottle of champagne. But he always did it alone. Until today, apparently. Something about the way his cum was drying on your skin while you kissed him made him want to take the time to clean you up. And he also realized by how his wrist felt that he'd gone pretty hard with his fingers.

You looked too fucking cute with the steamy water up to your shoulders while you sipped from the condensation coated stemware. But you were quieter than you had been in the living room, which bothered him, because he had gotten used to your constant chattering and your smartass comments.

He slipped one foot into the hot water, and you scooted a little further forward. When he had both feet in, he eased himself down until he was sitting with you tucked between his legs. But you were facing away from him, so he couldn't see your face as he asked, "Is the temperature okay for you?"

"Mmhmm," you hummed, sipping your ice water.

He leaned back against the tub and took another sip of beer, but you remained where you were. "You comfy?" he asked.

"Yes," you whispered, your back still to him.

"Well, I'm not," he said blandly.

"What's wrong?" you asked right away, turning to look at him over your shoulder, finally letting him see your pretty face.

"You're all the way over there."

Jake reached for your hip under the water, wrapped his hand around you, and pulled you closer to him. Your eyes went wide, and you turned to brace your hand against his chest. Some of your cold drink splashed onto him, but he just muttered, "That's better," while you set the glass down on the edge of the tub.

"You could have just asked me to scoot closer."

Jake studied you and took another long sip of his beer before setting it down next to your glass. "You haven't complained once when I've touched you."

"I'm not complaining," you whispered, so he stroked your waist, and you snuggled in a little closer to him. "I'm just wondering when you're going to fuck me."

He kissed your forehead as you looked up at him. "You're playing by my rules, remember?" he muttered.

"You don't have to be so sweet just for me." Jake's fingers froze on your body as you added, "Unless you're always like this? Making breakfast for your overnight guests? And cuddling in the bathtub? I guess that makes more sense."

But he wasn't always like this, and he wanted to tell you that. But he knew he didn't have the right to say anything at all when you really only needed him for one purpose. Once you got what you wanted from him, you'd be gone.

"Are you always this sweet?" you whispered, wet fingers wrapped around the back of his neck as you looked up at him through your lashes.

He licked his lips and shook his head. "I don't think I've ever been quite this sweet before." When you finally smiled again, your eyes softened, and Jake kissed the bridge of your nose. "You might as well get comfortable, because I don't get out until the water's cold."

"Cold!" you complained as he held you tighter. "You expect me to stay here until it's cold?"

"Mmhmm." He took another sip of his beer. "And I expect you to tell me what kind of pizza you want for dinner, too. And why don't you tell me what you're studying in school while you're at it. And how you usually spend your weekends."

"I'm staying for dinner?"

Jake sighed and let his head tip back. "I don't think I can fuck you until I've taken you on a proper date. So... will you have dinner with me at my dining room table?"

"Yes."

-------------------------

A proper date. The words were bouncing around in your mind even as Jake stretched out on his couch in his gym shorts while you were almost completely on top of him, wearing his clothes. "You're wrong," you told him, shaking your head and pushing his hair off his forehead. "You have the wrong opinion about pineapple on pizza, and I refuse to believe I'm the first person who has ever told you so."

His hand on your butt flexed as he laughed. "Nobody else would dare. Except for you. Go ahead. Tell me what else I'm wrong about."

"Well," you said with a huff of pretend annoyance, "you ate your eggs sunny side up this morning. Wrong. And you didn't already have your bedroom window open to listen to the sound of the ocean last night. Wrong." You paused for a beat before saying what you'd been thinking about for a while. "I would say you're wrong about needing extra large condoms, but I did see and feel you, so maybe you do. Not wrong."

His deep laughter rumbled through his chest, and you jostled slightly on top of him. "You found my stash in the bathroom?" he asked, but he didn't sound annoyed.

"I was looking for a washcloth."

He hummed and asked, "How many condoms are left in the box? I haven't checked in a couple weeks."

"About half." You looked him in his pretty green eyes. "Does that mean you haven't had sex in a couple weeks? Or that you just haven't been using condoms?"

"I always use condoms," he replied immediately with a little nod, and you believed him. "Lesson seven: never skip a condom. Guys are pigs. Don't let them cut corners."

He kissed the corner of your mouth, but all you could say was, "So you haven't had sex in a little while?"

Jake nodded again. "Was getting a little sick of the bar crowd, to be honest. At least until you dropped your fake. Kicking tag chasers out of my bed in the middle of the night isn't much fun anymore."

"What's a tag chaser?" you asked, running your fingers through his soft hair.

His cheeks tinted with pink as he said, "Women who go after guys in the military. Some of them think it's fun to 'collect' tags. Some of them are hoping to trap a guy for the marriage benefits. Different reasons. Same name. And you absolutely can't let them spend the night with you."

You wanted to laugh, because this actually sounded like your roommate, Kylie. But then you remembered why you went to that particular bar in the first place and who you were originally looking for. Your eyes went wide. "Wait. Am I a tag chaser?"

Now he was hooting with laughter. "I don't know, Darlin'. Are you? That little leather skirt screamed yes, but your smart mouth and the fact that you didn't care that I was an aviator are telling me no."

You thought about it for another second and said, "I'm not one," while he laughed some more. "I couldn't be! You let me spend the night."

He reached for his phone as he said, "Yeah, well you're different, aren't you? I'm going to order this pizza."

"Okay," you whispered, letting your cheek rest on his chest as he tapped his screen and then held his phone to his ear. He was looking at you as he said, "Yeah, hi, a large pizza for delivery, please." He paused for a second and then said, "Toppings? Since I'm with a girl who has weird ideas about pineapple on pizza, just wait to hear how horrible this thing is going to sound. Are you ready?"

You were laughing with your face buried against his arm as he gave his address and credit card number, and when he hung up, you screeched, "Jake! You're ridiculous. And wrong! It's going to be the best pizza ever."

"Sure," he said sarcastically before sitting up with you on his lap. He nipped at your lip as he added, "It'll be about thirty minutes before it gets here, Darlin'. I think we have time to review some of your lessons if you feel like it."

A smile bloomed across your face as you asked, "Which lessons?"

"Whatever lessons you want."

----------------------------

You told Jake you wanted to review lessons two and three, and now you were naked on his couch with his face buried in your pussy and his hands wrapped around the backs of your thighs. Foreplay and oral sex were two things you clearly loved. He spent about ten minutes making out with you and hitting all the spots that left you dripping wet, and then he treated himself to a taste.

"God damn," he growled, lapping at you as you tugged on his hair. Once again, you got him rock hard as goosebumps trailed down his neck. "Fuck."

"Jake," you whined until his mouth was back on your clit, and then you sighed contentedly. He knew he could get you off before the pizza arrived, and he also knew he'd be amped up for you later. He was excited. You excited him. He wanted to be so good.

"Jake!" You came apart on his tongue, rolling your hips up for more pressure. He rewarded you for knowing what you wanted by sucking on your clit, and he enjoyed every second of your orgasm. Every little sound. Each tug on his hair. The way your body seemed to relax into the couch cushions once you were fully sated. And then there was a knock on his door.

"Don't move an inch, Darlin'," he teased, kissing the apex of your thigh.

"I can promise you I won't," you whimpered, arm tossed over your eyes as you ran your fingers slowly up your body.

He chuckled as he walked to the door, and then he realized that he was wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts and a raging boner. He grimaced and tried his best to hide himself with his left hand while he pulled the door open. You were just in the other room, completely naked on the couch, and if you sat up, the pizza delivery kid who looked like he was your age would have front row seats to the show of a lifetime.

"Thanks," Jake muttered, taking the pizza box and quickly closing the door. Then he walked to the table, his cock merrily bobbing along the way. He started to grab plates and get you another wine glass of ice water, and he had to pause to consider why exactly he felt the need to make this seem like a date. He'd already been over every bit of your body with his mouth and hands. He could have just fucked you by now. He desperately wanted to. But he needed you to understand that you had to go for the guys who weren't just setting out to take advantage of you. That you needed to make them work for it.

Jake turned when you made a soft sound and wrapped your arms around his waist. You were wearing his clothes again, and he collected you against him. "It smells good," you muttered.

He kissed your forehead and said, "This is the one and only time I'm letting you choose the toppings."

Your laughter rang out as you sat down with your ice water. "I guess I better make it count then. And that's such a typical guy thing, to think their pizza topping preferences are the best."

"Yours are just wrong," he replied quickly, dropping a slice onto your plate before putting one on his own. He watched you take an enormous bite and smile as you chewed it up. "But you're cute, so you can get away with it."

You looked satisfied with his comment as you asked, "So, you usually make other girls eat the grotesque topping combination you prefer? Is that why you don't have a girlfriend?"

"Wow. Okay," he replied with a laugh while he sat down, enjoying your smirk. "You think this Cooper guy is going to put up with you, smartass?"

You cocked your head to the side like you had forgotten all about him. "I thought we weren't supposed to be talking about him anymore? That was lesson number one."

"You're not allowed to bring him up," Jake reminded you. "But I can. So what's so great about him anyway?"

You nibbled on your crust and kind of shrugged. "He's pretty hot. And he asked me out four times. I keep telling him we can go out soon, but I know he's going to stop asking if I don't actually pick a day and do it." You paused and looked at your glass of ice water as you said, "I should have just slept with someone by now. I don't want him to be disappointed that I'm a virgin who doesn't know how to do anything."

Jake grunted and set his pizza down. He'd been with his fair share of women, but there was nothing disappointing about you. The way you got him going was unparalleled, and even though you claimed you didn't know how to do even the basics, you definitely had his number. The hair pulling and cum play and little noises you made were all unintentional but so fucking hot. And now he was annoyed.

"That's why you want to lose your virginity? So you can please him physically?" You shrugged again. "Remember how I told you that it's never about the guy?"

"Yeah."

He reached for your chin and tipped it up so you met his eyes. "That goes for everyone, but especially Cooper. Okay? There's nothing wrong with you, Darlin'. You got everything just right."

You nodded and swallowed hard, and Jake was so fucking jealous of a college kid, he wanted to scream. "Okay, Jake," you whispered. "I believe you."

His fingers slipped slowly along your jaw until they were digging gently into the back of your neck. He studied your pretty face and memorized how his clothing looked on you while your gaze stayed fixed on him. "Are you sure you still want to do this with me?" he asked softly. "Because you don't need me to fix anything about you since there's nothing wrong to begin with."

In an instant, you planted your hand on his thigh and leaned all the way in to kiss him. He realized he was still a little hard from giving you head as soon as you nudged him, but he didn't mind you knowing how badly he wanted you. He didn't stop you as you eased yourself onto his lap without breaking the kiss, and when your body settled against his, you moaned softly.

Jake pulled away and watched you chase him for more before your eyes fluttered open. "I need to hear you say it," he whispered, hand creeping up inside the shirt you were wearing. "Is this what you really want?"

You didn't hesitate as you told him, "Yes. I want you for my first time, because you're sweet and I know you're not going to hurt me. I don't always need to explain myself for you to know what I need. I want you. Not Cooper and not Rooster. You."

The shirt you were wearing fell to the floor next to his chair, and Jake ran his rough fingers along your sides, making you shiver. He kissed you softly as his hands found the undersides of your breasts. "This pizza is going to taste even more disgusting cold," he murmured as you arched into his touch. "But I can't wait any longer for you."

You smiled against his lips before you stood, taking his hand and guiding him to his feet as well. Then you led him to his bedroom, and he got lost in your little glances along the way.

"Better get those extra large condoms," you told him with a soft laugh.

He kissed you and guided you back toward his bed, and you stretched out luxuriously beneath him, his hand resting on the elastic at your hip. "You got nothing to worry about, Darlin'. I'll take care of everything."

------------------------------

Full speed ahead to Jake's cock in the next part. He's ready to go. You've been warned. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 6

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