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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐈𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦

𝐚 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟒𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"I wanna meet your dad."

You freeze.

Jake is staring up at you with his brows drawn together, with his mouth in a tight line--though you can see that a tentative smile is starting to tug at his lips. There are little beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, his cheeks flushes that pretty pink you like so much. He's gripping your naked hips, holding you down on him, and he was bucking his hips into yours a moment ago but he's still now.

"You've...met my dad," you say, shaking your head softly, throwing your hair over your shoulders.

You're panting now--you were licking the heels of another orgasm, so close you could taste it. It's fading fast, a fleeting thing that's exiting stage right as Jake pulls you stage left.

"Yeah, I know," Jake breathes, pressing his forehead against yours and pressing a few chaste kisses to your lips. He groans softly when you wriggle, just enough for his cock to pulse. "But like I want to...meet him."

He's seated deeply inside you, filling you up so perfectly that it makes you wanna cry--and yes, you have told him that and yes, it did go to his head but yes, you don't really mind anymore--and he's securing your stillness with the capable palms of his hands. He's stroking your hip bones absently, the way he always does.

Jake didn't even know that he liked to touch--or, honestly, to be touched--until he started spending his evenings with you. Now he wants to touch you in any and every capacity, all the time, everywhere. His arms around your waist as you bake cookies in his kitchen, his lips against your shoulder as you wash your face at night, his hand on the small of your back as you walk through the foyer, his foot nudging yours under the desk in the briefing room.

"Jake," you whisper, adjusting again--which makes the both of you moan lowly--and pressing your lips to his forehead. "Maybe we could talk about this later?"

Jake nods, cheeks pink. He knows he should bring it up really...any other time. But you don't really like to talk about your dad--and he gets it, he respects it. You spend all day listening to everyone talk about him dying and come to Jake's house to find solace in his company. He doesn't want to force anything on you.

And really, he didn't mean to start thinking about it right now of all times, but it's just something that happened. When you came to his house tonight, just after eight o'clock as usual, he could tell that you'd been crying. And when he'd started to coo at you, pushing your hair behind your ears, trying to coax some sort of admission out of you, you'd kissed him with a hunger that only he knew how to quench. Who was he to deny you? Especially when your lips were so minty and your body was aching for him so bad and he hadn't touched you hardly at all today.

So as the two of you trampled to the living room, feverishly kissing each other's open throats and tearing clothes off two at a time, he wondered about the cause of your tears. Really, he knew. Your dad--it's always your dad. And he knows that it isn't going to be long now. He'd looked it up; most people who start hospice live about three weeks. It'd been two since your dad started.

And just as you were totally bare before him in the glow of the television and nothing else, just as Jake brought his mouth down to your nipples, just as you cried his name and raked your fingers through his hair the way that drives him crazy--the thought occurred to him.

Your dad won't be here for someone--maybe him if he plays his cards right--to ask his permission to marry you. Your dad isn't going to walk you down the aisle. Your dad will never meet any of his grandchildren.

He has one foot out the door and you're living everyday like it's his last but still pushing through your own life because that's what you have to do. Jake understands this. He gets it.

And even though he wrapped your hair around his fist a moment ago and started a merciless assault on your clit the way he knows you like, he has the sudden urge to be very gentle with you. He can't think about all the nasty things he's said to you in the past--really, it makes him nauseous and keeps him up at night, even if you're tucked into his side--so he whispers your name and tells you what a good girl you are.

You're just trying to survive, your orgasm approaching with a suddenness that leaves you genuinely quaking in his arms. Your eyes are clamped shut in ecstasy and your skin is goosed and your cheeks are frying.

"Let go, baby," Jake was whispering to you, his breath hot against your chest. "Give it to me, baby. I've got you, I'll take it."

And just as you knew you were being tipped over the edge, just as you were about to cum on his fingers, you opened your eyes to look at him. He liked to look at you when you came--you knew that and you gave it to him regularly. Recently, you were starting to think that it had less to do with ego and more to do with affection, though. But when you looked down at him, all those planes of rippling muscle and tan skin, the breath was knocked out of your lungs. Because even in the dim light in the living room, even though your eyes were bleary and your mind was buzzing, you saw the softness in which he gazed upon you. His sweet, green eyes were glossy and swimming with something that was achingly close to love. His brows were knit just so, just that tiny bit, and his mouth was parted and wet.

When you met his eyes, your fingernails embedded in the skin of his arm, he smiled very softly.

"Cum for me, baby," he whispered and it proved wildly effective.

You did cum for him, crying out his name, writhing on his lap. There was something so delicious about him giving you pleasure with no expectation. You weren't even touching his cock, but you knew he was hard. Just him touching you made him hard.

And as you came down from that first orgasm, mind still reeling from his gaze and his touch, he muttered little bits of affection towards you until you were dizzy. You collapsed onto him, laughing dryly, trying to catch your breath. Instead of picking your hips up and pushing into you, instead of pushing you that much further, he wrapped his arms around you. It was something he was careful about doing, choosing his moments wisely, and you didn't shy away when he stroked your hair.

"Y'alright?" He muttered softly.

You nodded into his neck, wrapping your arms around him, too.

"Fine," you told him. "You ready to go?"

And now, right now, he's staring back at you with those soft eyes again. He looks mildly embarrassed for having brought up your dying dad while filling you to the hilt and it makes a pang of chest radiate through your chest. Because despite yourself--and your best efforts--you don't like Jake to feel embarrassed. You don't like him to feel anything but happy and good. This is all new, achingly new, but you know that with every little hair on your body.

"Yeah, I--sorry, I was just..." he starts to ramble, absolutely wanting to kick himself for bringing it up right now. He leans forward, starts to feverishly kiss you again, but you're smiling now.

"Slow down," you whisper. Both of you choose to ignore the fact that he's inside you right now. "It's really--it's okay. Don't be sorry."

He nods, biting his lip. He pushes your hair behind your ears, the way he's been doing for a while now, the way you like so much. And then he smiles softly. You're waiting for him to continue his thoughts and he's trying to gather them.

"I just thought I could meet him. You know...as your," Jake shrugs, swallowing hard and shrugging, "boyfriend. If that's, like, what you want."

You're tingling now. The two of you haven't had an explicit discussion about what your label is. You haven't been explicitly hiding it around base, some less-than-subtle glances and lower back grazes here and there, but you haven't been broadcasting this from the rooftops either. You've just been in your own little world together.

You've known for a while now that this is more than just fucking--you can tell, he can tell. But you didn't think he'd want this. You didn't think Jake Seresin was the kind of guy to settle in, settle down.

But he's been exceeding your expectations for a while now.

"Boyfriend, huh?" You whisper, a grin tugging at your lips. "You sure you wanna get involved with...all of this?"

He knows you're trying to make the situation seem less serious. He knows you're trying to kid with him, trying to get him to crack a grin. But he doesn't smile. He just keeps looking into your pretty eyes and nods, very seriously.

"Yes," he simply says. "I'm sure."

Your heart stutters. You could press him. You could tell him the Hell your life has been since your dad's cancer came back. You could tell him about your terrible third cousins that you're almost certain are stealing your mom's silver. You could tell him about your sister and the way she's been drinking a bottle of wine every night in the name of grief. You could tell him about your dad's unwillingness to accept that things are a fucking mess right now. You could tell him about how badly you want your dad to stay--how you're so afraid of what will happen when he's gone that it's almost unthinkable.

But looking at Jake now, looking at him look at you with those fucking green eyes, you know that he won't scare off. Not that easily. It would be a fruitless attempt if you tried.

"Okay," you bite your lip, nodding. "Yeah, okay. Yes, let's do it."

Jake can't help himself--he kisses you, kisses you with a grin on his face, kisses you with a giddiness that has you laughing, kisses you with a sweetness that makes your toes curl.

"Good," he mumbles against your lips, shaking his head softly. "I won't let you down, okay? I promise."

You hold his cheeks, brows knit slightly. You're making him look you in the eyes and for a moment, he's worried that he's upset you. But then you just tut.

"Jake," you whisper to him, "I wasn't worried about you letting me down. Not even a little bit."

✧ ✧ ✧

You're nervous. Even though you know you shouldn't be, you're nervous. Maybe it's because your house is so quiet right now--like quieter than it's been in months. Your mother, the saint that she is, had sensed your nerves and somehow managed to get all of your family out of the house for a movie and lunch.

So it's just you and your dad as you wait for Jake.

Maybe you're nervous because your dad hasn't ever met any of your boyfriends before. And despite this feeling in your gut that knows better than you do, you're worried that it's too new. You've only been official for a few days. Your shower encounter was almost three months ago--maybe you should start counting from there.

Or maybe you're nervous because this feels like an ending of sorts that you are wildly unprepared for. You know that Jake is doing this because this is his only opportunity. You know that he's doing the right thing meeting your dad, trying to do right by you and Ice. But it still feels like this is an ending you're ill-equipped for. Really, you're not prepared for any ending. At the very least--you're readying yourself for your father's death.

But for him to meet Jake as your boyfriend for the first time, for them to shake hands and agree that you're something special, it makes your heart ache. If things keep going the way they're going with Jake now--good, just blindingly good--you think it might break your heart even more to know that Ice will never meet Jake as anything but your very new boyfriend. Never a fiancé, never a husband. You know you're getting ahead of yourself, really you do, but when your dad is dying--you have all the time in the world to get ahead of yourself.

A sudden tapping takes you out of your swimming mind and drops you down in the big chair beside your father's bed. He's awake, and more than that, he's knocking on the wooden table beside him to get your attention.

"Hey, dad," you whisper, sitting up a bit straighter. You make it a point to not cry in front of him, like you always have, so you're all smiles as you lean forward. "You're up!"

Ice nods, mustering a tired smile for you. He points to his hair with an eyebrow perched and watches your grin spread.

"Lookin' good," you tell him. "No bedhead here."

He nods, settling into his pillows.

"Can I get you anything? Water?"

He shakes his head. He's been up for a little while. When he came to, blinking himself out of a fitful sleep, he just watched you for a while. His daughter--his precious, sweet daughter--so pensive. You've always been pensive; you get it from him. But as he watched you chew on your lip, glazed eyes gazing out the window, he knew there was something you weren't saying. There was something you weren't saying for his sake; he knows this. He's always been able to read you like an open book.

And even now as you smile at him, Sarah's smile, he knows it's just between your teeth. Ice knows he's dying--he's accepted this. He's lived a good life, raised good kids, loved a good woman. He's okay with this being the bookend of a very fruitful life. But what he has not accepted is leaving you all behind. He has no accepted putting you in a position where you can't cry in front of him, a position that makes his other daughter drink too much, a position that makes your once-peaceful home a revolving door for strange family. He has always been a provider and protector; it's hard for him to sit back and wait.

He makes sure you're looking at him when he signs it: what's wrong, flower?

You smile. He's called you that since you were little.

"I'm fine," you say with a soft smile. "Nervous, maybe. But fine."

Ice gives you a pointed look--one that makes your heart falter. Of course he can tell that you're lying. He always can.

Tell me. Humor an old man.

As if to prove his age, he pretends to cough wearily. You laugh. He's always been able to make you laugh--even when you want to cry.

"I don't wanna worry you," you tell him, wringing your hands.

Ice scoffs, waving you off.

I'm a retired Admiral. Don't flatter yourself.

You're laughing again. Ice smiles--he loves that sound. He's going to miss it.

So now you look at him, your face softening in the glow of the sun. And you can feel that you're going to be honest with him. Like the kind of honest that makes your teeth hurt. You can't lie to him. You can't say everything's okay.

"I'm scared," you admit.

It's the most honest you've been with him in week. Honestly, it's the most honest anyone's been with him in weeks. And Ice relishes in that honesty for a moment. It's such a simple thing to tell him, but he knows that it was hard for you to say it. There's that courage you've always had, the one that makes you tough enough to fly F-18s.

I'm not. Ice smiles very gently. Lived well. Loved good.

There are already tears clouding your vision. You nod, sniffing, but continue.

"Are you ready, dad?"

He thinks for a moment. Of course he isn't ready to leave you--any of you. He's going to miss cashmere blankets and the sun on his face. He's going to miss the scent of leather and good Scotch. He's going to miss Sarah's snores and playing charades after big dinners. But he's been sick for a long time; he's tired.

I'm tired. Ice nods, sighing before continuing. Don't feel good.

You nod. You keep nodding. He knows you're about to crack. And he's right--as soon as you bring your hands up, your lips begin to quiver. A few tears stream down your face.

"I'm not ready for you to go."

Ice already knows this. He knows. And it's a strange sort of pleasure and pain that fills him up that someone has finally said it. All of you, his sweet women, have been putting on brave faces for him. Telling him that you understand, that it's okay. But here you are, being so honest with him the way you used to be, the way you've been trying to hold back.

You're proper weeping now, sniffling and wiping your eyes with your shirtsleeve. You're blinking at this force of a man, this man that used to carry you on his shoulders around Top Gun and let you sit in his jet, and feeling an overwhelming loss wash over you. Time is running out. You both know it. And you're not ready for him to go. You're really, really not.

I know. Ice signs, shaking his head softly. But you're gonna have to be.

He signs this with softness. He's never been anything but soft with you and your sister and your mom. You know he's just telling you what you need to hear.

"I'm scared that I'll mess up. I'm scared I'll make the wrong choices. You tell me when I'm wrong. You tell me when people are good or bad, dad. What am I going to do? How am I going to live?" You're rambling--you know it. But you can't stop it now that it's started. "What am I going to go, dad? Tell me."

It feels good to let it off your chest. All of these things you've kept buried deep with the help of Jake.

Ice clears his throat.

Fuck it.

You laugh--partly in shock and partly in wonder.

"What?" You sputter.

Ice smiles softly.

That's how you live. You mess up. You let the bad people in. You make the wrong choice. You drink too much. You don't sleep enough. You get bad haircuts. You order the wrong coffee. You get in trouble. You cry. You say mean things. You fight. You nap. Fuck it.

Your chest is aching now. Thoroughly aching. You wish you could write all this down, that you could have it in his pretty script, but you know in your heart that not a word of this will fade from your memory.

"Fuck it?" You ask tearfully.

He nods, clearing his throat.

"Fuck it," he whispers.

His voice is gravely and rough and you know that it hurts him. You know that this is probably the last time you'll ever hear him speak. You want to laugh, but a bigger part of you wants to cry.

Ice watches you carefully. You look so much like a little girl right now. That hard-headed little thing that followed him all around the house, picking up his heavy pens and scribbling on his nice card-stock just to be like him. The little girl that threw a tantrum for Sarah when she took you to get shots but wouldn't let a single tear fall when he took you. You're the strongest person he's ever known. He doesn't know where you get it from.

I love you. He continues signing. I would stay if I could. For you. For your sister. For your mom.

You nod, sighing, still weeping. Your fingers are numb with grief.

"I love you, dad," you whisper. You know that it won't be the last time you tell him that.

That's precisely when Jake finally gets the nerve to knock on the front door. He's nervous, too, but he isn't going to let it show. He's been practicing his handshake with Rooster for the better part of an afternoon and asked Phoenix what he should bring. He let Bob of all people pick his outfit--in exchange for Hangman telling him what's going on between the two of you--and he called Coyote on the way over for a pep talk.

So now he's standing on the front porch of your family home with a bouquet of flowers he doesn't even know the name of and a bottle of wine he's certain is more expensive than his car.

But then you open the door and in all your softness, your red eyes and your swollen lips and your messy hair, he relaxes. It's you. It's you and he knows you and he wants to do the right thing so that's why he's doing this. And that makes it easier.

"Hey," he says softly. "Is this the Kazansky residence?"

You bite your lip, wiping a stray tear. You don't feel ashamed about them anymore. Fuck it.

"If I say yes, are you gonna run for the hills?"

He grins. You've already managed to calm the erratic beat of his heart just by being here, just by being in his direct line of sight. He sees your tears, but he somehow knows that you don't need to be coddled right now. He knows you're okay. You look like you've released a breath that's been held for months.

"Not even a little," he promises.

You're eyeing the flowers now. Bluebells--they're your favorite.

"Those for me?"

Jake hands them to you very carefully, watching the pink in your cheeks spread when you inhale their scent.

"You're beautiful," he finally whispers.

He wishes that he hadn't waited so long to say it to you. It's the first thing he should've said when you opened the door. Hell, it's the first thing he should've said to you when he saw you.

You smile at him, pretending to roll your eyes.

"It's not me you have to butter up," you tease, nodding for him to come inside. "It's my dad, remember?"

Jake is feeling less and less nervous the farther you two venture into your home. It smells like you--or maybe you smell like the house--and it's crowded with photographs and comfy couches and big windows. He likes it--he can imagine that it was a good place to grow up. He can just about imagine you running around the halls with your little brows furrowed, chasing some poor but good-natured dog.

"Don't put those in a vase," he says, his hand falling onto your lower back. "I'll get it, okay?"

You just nod, biting your lip. A man after your own heart.

Just before you're about to guide him into your father's room, where you know he's waiting for you, Jake cups your cheek. Silently, he thumbs away a mostly-dried tear. He doesn't prod, doesn't ask what the tears are for. He won't make you tell him anything you aren't ready for.

And for that--you kiss him. It's a kiss that's becoming more common in your relationship now, one that doesn't always lead to sex, one that is just for the sake of closeness.

"Hope your dad is ready to have his socks knocked off," Jake whispers against your lips, nuzzling his nose against yours. "Cause I'm about to charm them off his feet."

You want to roll your eyes--but instead you laugh.

"I'll lead the way," you offer.

He has even relinquished his nerves entirely when he walks into your father's bedroom. And he's met Ice a couple times, mainly at ceremonies or in passing at galas, but never anything like this. His heart starts to race but then you take his hand and squeeze it and suddenly the world is right again.

"Dad," you start softly, smiling at Ice, who is sitting up straighter in bed now. "You've met Lieutenant Seresin before, yeah?"

Ice nods, motioning for the two of you to come to his bedside. Jake follows you wordlessly, plastering a smile to his face--a charming one, one that could make even grown men swoon.

"Pleasure to meet you again, sir," Jake says, saluting.

Ice smiles and gestures for him to fall at ease. And then Ice reaches out for Jake's hand--and Jake just about trips over himself to shake it.

This is the moment him and Rooster have been waiting for.

You watch on with a fond smile, feeling lighter and heavier at the same time. You're glad you were honest with your dad--but it's still a whole lot of truth to swallow in a short amount of time.

Ice lets go of Jake's hand and catches your gaze.

Good grip.

You smile, holding your hand against Jake's lower back.

"He says you've got a good handshake," you tell Jake, who's watching with a small smile. "That's a pretty high compliment from someone that's shaken the hand of two presidents."

Ice knocks on the table, his brows furrowed.

He holds up three fingers with his lips pursed.

"Sorry," you chuckle. "Three presidents."

Jake laughs, too. He can see where you get your sense of humor from now. That and your attitude.

You tell Jake to sit in the chair and he does, wanting very badly to pull you down over his lap, but knowing better. You perch yourself on the arm of the chair and fight the urge to comb your fingers through Jake's hair.

How long?

"He's asking us how long we've been together--?"

Ice shakes his head again.

How long as he been in love with you?

You gape at your father, your cheeks instantly flooding. Your heart is suddenly racing and you're narrowing your eyes at him, shaking your head. He's smiling at you, something between a grin and a smirk, and he just shrugs.

Ice is only kidding around with you--partly. But he knows that you're falling in love with Jake. He can read it all over your face, the same way he could read it all over your mother's face. You're wistful and sweet, prancing around the house, smiling down at your phone. He knows it. And just seeing the way Jake is looking up at you now, something dazzling in his gaze, Ice knows that Jake isn't far behind if not up ahead.

"You're bad," you hiss playfully. "Why don't you start with some lighter conversation? Like how was your afternoon?"

Jake's heart is squeezing watching you talk to your father. He can see it, clear as day, that you admire your father. You love him. He knows how difficult this is all going to be. And usually, that would scare him. It would send him running for the hills. But right now, the only place he can imagine being is right here; next to you.

Ice sighs, shrugging. He signs again and you laugh. Jake watches on, amused.

"He says I'm no fun," you say with a fond smile. "Jake thinks I'm great fun."

Jake finds himself nodding, letting his hand rest on your lower back. He strokes the skin there softly, content in just feeling you against his skin. It soothes you, too--just knowing that he's here and he's close.

It goes swimmingly, really--like better than you could've imagined it going. Your father is on his best behavior and Jake is, too. Jake is charming--more charming than you care to admit. You act as your father's translator, hardly getting through a conversation about cigars and scotch. Jake presses his hand to yours the entire three hours he's there, squeezing you to check in on you every now and then. And you're smiling, lighter than you've felt in a long time.

So when you're at the front door, tangled in each other's arms, you feel like crying again just from the relief and the grief of it all. It's over--that was the first and the last time.

"Thank you," you whisper to Jake, pressing your forehead against his. "It means a lot to me. I'm sure you didn't want to--!"

Jake kisses you, shaking his head. He tucks hair behind your ear, kisses your nose and cheeks.

"Hey, it was my idea, remember?" He whispers. "You can't take the credit for this one."

It's the perfect thing for him to say--it's enough to make you laugh and just enough to keep you from crying. You kiss him again, holding him tight.

"I'll see you in a bit, okay?" You whisper to him. "Gonna help my mom make dinner and then I'll head over."

Jake nods, kissing your forehead.

"Okay," he whispers. "I've got a bottle of wine with your name on it, sugar."

And it's after a few more kisses, after you've waved him off, after you let your heart settle in your chest again, that you walk back into your father's room. He's waiting for you, has even scooted over to make space for you.

Wordlessly, you climb into bed beside him. He puts his arms around you and you lay on his frail chest. You've always been a daddy's girl--this position is familiar. It brings a warm, warm comfort that you can feel in your bones.

For a long time, neither of you speak. The house is quiet. His breathing is shallow. His heartbeat is steady. You're not crying anymore.

"What'd you think?" You ask finally, your voice hushed. "About Jake."

Ice is still relishing in holding you. He hasn't held you in too long. He hates that father's stop holding their daughter's when they grow up. He's thinking that if he could live his life again, he would hold you everyday. But he can't, so he just keeps you close to him and hums softly.

You look up at him and he smiles down at you.

Kiss-ass.

You pat his chest softly, laughing.

Ice hopes that he can still hear that laugh when he gets to where he's going. It would be mighty lonesome to never hear it again.

He's good. He loves you.

You're blushing now, shaking your head and biting your lip. It's almost too much to think about. Your dad is dying--you can't think about Hangman being in love with you.

"It's new," you tell your dad, your voice thin. "Like, really new."

Ice waves you off.

Doesn't matter.

You nod. Him and Sarah famously got married after knowing each other for four months.

You think hard about it now, chewing your lip. Maybe this dizzy way you feel is you falling in love. Maybe this is why there are butterfly wings in your veins. Maybe this is why your tongue gets thick with tears when you think about the color of Jake's eyes or the gatorade in his fridge. God, you've been in love before--here and there--and you've always known immediately. But there is so much happening in your life, so many moments you're worried are going to be the last, that you haven't even stopped to consider it.

And usually you can tell when boys are in love with you. But the more you think about it, Jake's displayed all the tell-tale symptoms. He's soft with you, never grasping you harder than he would a baby bird. He makes you cum before you even touch him. He kisses your eyelids when he thinks you're asleep. He knows your favorite drink. He always saves a spot for you at every table. He likes to hold your hand in the car.

But now, in the safety and comfort of your father's arms, the realization dawns on you. Shit. Jake is in love with you. And you're pretty sure you're in love with him, too.

"And what if we are in love? What do I do next?"

Your father smiles--it's good to see him smile.

Fuck it.

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬

uhhhh hi guys. first of all? I am. so sorry. this was so sad. I was literally bawling when I wrote this. but yay, I updated!!

thank you so much for all your love and support!! let me know down below what you want to see from this couple!!!

here is my official apology for this chapter :( I'm sorry!

here is my tag list!!

if you liked this, consider checking out my Jake x You story!

tags:

@avaleineandafryingpan

@popsycles

@guacala

@top-hhun-main

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@oliviah-25

@zalmael

@chicomonks

@aboutelijahhh

@angelbabyange

@zbeez-outlet

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roosterbruiser · 1 year

Text

𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐈𝐭

𝐚 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐭𝐨𝐨. 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤!

He goes peacefully.

It's the middle of a sunny afternoon and your mother calls you into the bedroom with a calmness that makes your toes curl. You know as soon as you hear her voice. You know.

Your sister is crying. You're not.

He's still breathing when all of you crawl into bed with him, when all of you hold onto him. He hasn't been awake in a couple days and he isn't awake when you lay your head on his chest.

It's surreal; you feel like you're in a dream. Everything feels fuzzy, like your brain is lined in precious cotton. Your mother strokes his hair and you listen to the slow beats of his heart. Your sister is still crying. But you have never been able to cry in front of your father--you're not going to start now, even if his eyes are closed.

The sun warms the cashmere blankets he's covered in and makes your cheeks pink.

"We're here, Tom," your mom keeps saying tearfully.

"Don't go, daddy," your sister keeps weeping. Her breath reeks of pinot.

But in your heart, the one that has been modeled after your father's, you know that isn't what he needs to hear. You know he doesn't need to be begged to stay or reminded that his women are with him. You know that and your mom and sister don't.

So you raise your head, look at his face that is slacked with peace. And you raise your lips to his ear, which you somehow just know is still hearing, and rest your forehead against his temple. He's still warm; he smells like leather.

You whisper very softly to him, "It's okay, dad. I'm ready. Fuck it."

That's when he lets go.

It's a blur after that.

You are certain you're in some sort of fugue state, certain that this is all a bad dream. You keep thinking you're going to shoot up in bed and be seven-years-old again. You keep thinking that your dad is going to come into your dark room and squeeze himself in your little princess bed and hold you tight. You keep thinking that none of this is real and you'll be able to start over--just as soon as you wake up.

Somehow, the afternoon passes. You're not sure where you are or who's around you. Your family, extended and extended-extended, are all fluttering around to get things in place. Someone keeps putting a warm mug in your hands and someone else has shrugged a cardigan over your shoulders. But other than that, you're just sitting at the kitchen table, unblinking.

You're heartbroken, really. Of course you are. Your father was your world. He was the best person you ever met. He made you brave and he kept you strong and he never yelled. And now that he's gone, even if it's only been for a few hours, you can't remember what you were doing before. Not just before your mom called you in the bedroom (you had been reading a book on the porch), but before he was sick. What was life like when he was here and everything was good and you could pad into his bedroom anytime and tell him your qualms?

You can't remember.

And that is what breaks you.

That is what makes you reach for your phone and keys. Honestly, you shouldn't drive. You know that. You do. But everyone is so caught up in grief and funeral planning that they don't stop you. You don't even really remember driving over to Jake's, certainly don't remember walking up the concrete steps. You don't remember knocking or waiting.

But you come screaming back into your body when he answers the door.

He's standing there in his service khakis, his hair gelled nicely, his boots still laced on his feet. His green eyes are glimmering in the early-evening sun and his brows are blanched and his lips are frowning. He heard on base--he'd been calling you all afternoon and was just about ready to head over to your house if you didn't answer.

Here you are, standing on his porch. You're wearing a sundress and a cardigan and no shoes. Your hair is messy like you've been laying down and your eyes are rimmed with red. Your lips are bitten and swollen and pink has bloomed all across your chest and throat. It makes Jake ache all over to see you like this--to see you so utterly and completely broken.

You, the hardheaded pilot that does everything by the books and tried to get into a brawl with him on the tarmac a couple months ago.

You, the girl who ripped the shower curtain open and sized Jake up while soaking wet and butt naked--and who'd actually frightened him.

You, the girl that had taken to inviting Jake to everything he wasn't previously invited to before--bowling, barbecues, bonfires, movie nights, pizza joints, mini golf.

You, the girl who'd tenderly asked Jake to fuck her, who'd keened at his touch and come undone over and over again. You trust him so completely, so totally.

You, the girl that has ended up sleeping in his bed almost every single night. The one who presses her cold feet against his calves and hogs all the blankets. The one who wakes him up as soon as the sun is up because we're wasting the day away, Jakey!

And now you're looking up at him like a realization has dawned on you, like you've just stepped out of some alternate dimension and reality is settling in. Your lower lip is trembling and your eyes are filling with tears and you're beginning to whimper.

"Wisty," he whispers to you very softly, reaching out to wrap you in his arms. You collapse into his chest, knees nearly buckling under all this grief that's sitting on your chest. You hold onto him like he's the only thing keeping you on earth--and he kind of is. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

Jake has always been someone that is uncomfortable around crying people. He's had almost comical responses to upset in the past. His mom still talks about when his sister broke her arm and he asked her if she wanted to thumb wrestle in the car on the way to the hospital. He saw his father cry once and all he could do was ask his father if he wanted another scotch; Jake was only 12.

But there is something in his bones that knows what to do and say to you as you break down in his arms. There is not an ounce of discomfort in his being as he wraps you up, as you wet his shirt with tears and snots and residual makeup. He relishes in being able to hold you and feels deep down in his chest that this is a privilege. As upset as you are, as difficult as these next few months are going to be, he feels elated that you have put your trust into his hands. His.

And you're sobbing so hard that it's making your skull ache. You are getting snot and spit and tears all over his pressed khaki and you can't stop hiccuping, but you're not embarrassed. This is the most comfortable you've grieved since your father's death. It's the most held you've felt by anyone since the day your father held you and told you his life's philosophy: fuck it.

"Fuck this," you nearly yell into his chest, balling his uniform in your hands. "This fucking hurts, Jake."

Jake nods, lowering the both of you carefully until he's sitting on his concrete porch and you're heaped up in his arms. It matters not that anyone could see the two of you or that anyone could hear you. You don't care and neither does he. But he makes sure to hold the hem of your dress against your thighs to protect your decency.

"I know it does," he whispers to you, pressing his lips to your forehead as you mercilessly weep. "I wish I could make it stop."

It's something that anyone could say, really. But when he says it to you, you believe him totally and completely. He would make it stop if he could.

Him and his solid body and his steady breaths and his warmth are already doing their part in the matter, helping to ease you into an upset lull.

"Fuck this," you mutter again.

He strokes your hair gently, hoping the dying sun is enough to keep you warm as he holds you against his chest.

"Fuck this," he agrees.

Jake is somewhat of an unwavering force in the weeks that follow.

He comes to your family's house with flowers and muffins and makes everyone a fresh pot of coffee. He passes out kleenexes and subtly cuts your sister off after her third glass. He dons his black Navy dress and stands beside you at the funeral. He holds your hand and salutes your father. He buys your family dinner that night and insists that it's his treat.

He sleeps with you each night you ask him to. He lets you cry as much as you want and never makes you feel bad about it. He washes your hair when you're too tired to do it yourself and helps clip your fingernails.

He takes notes for you during trainings because even though you're on leave, he knows you don't want to be left out of the loop. He keeps his ringer on at all times when he isn't with you, even if it's just a grocery store trip.

Your mom comes to love him, as does your sister. He's there when the rest of your family eventually trickles off in the days after your father's death. He cooks and brings good wine and always suggests dessert. He takes your mom to church on her first Sunday without your father and helps your sister buy a plane ticket home, even drives her to the airport.

He makes love to you very gently. You kiss his shoulders while he languidly strokes your clit and whispers your name. He sinks into you carefully, holds you close. He lets you set the pace. He lets your nails dig into his back. He rests his head on your breasts and breathes you in as he's buried to the hilt in your precious body.

It's a month and a half later that you find yourself here at The Hard Deck, standing around the pool table with your squadron, holding a glass of ginger-ale in your hands.

It's been good tonight--better than you thought it would be. It's good to see everyone's faces again. They're busy people, but they've stopped in here and there to bring you a book or a bouquet of flowers or a coffee. But to see everyone in the golden glow of The Hard Deck, a frosty beer clutched in their hands, acting like the world has not stopped turning at all has been something of a relief for you.

You've been here for a few hours now. It's good to be out of the house and doing something normal, even if it makes your throat hurt every time you see a man in uniform wander into the bar.

Jake checks in on you every half hour, ducking to whisper in your ear, "Say the word and we'll blow this popsicle stand." And each time, you smile and tell him that you're okay. And you are--right now, you're okay.

After watching Jake destroy Coyote in another round of darts, you end up by the pool table, leaning against the pillar.

"Look, I know you've had a lot going on," Rooster starts, bumping you softly when you give him a weak smile. He points to Jake, who's sitting beside you with his arm slung across your shoulders. "But it's time you come clean about the whole timeline of this...relationship?"

"Relationship," Jake confirms, thumping Rooster on the shoulder. "Ass."

Rooster laughs--Jake knows he's only chiding. And Rooster also knows that he can reference what's been going on in your life because he's lived it; twice.

You take a sip of your drink, shrugging. For a moment, you watch as Phoenix sinks three balls in pool, which encourages a deep-rooted shame in Payback and Fanboy as they watch on.

"I guess it's been almost five months now," you tell Rooster with a small and tired smile. That's one side effect of grief that you weren't accounting for--you're tired all the damn time. "Well, five months since we..."

Rooster's eyes widen. He takes a swig of beer and smacks his lips.

"Right," he says. He leans in a bit closer now, taking a look behind him before he continues. His golden skin is gleaming beneath the lights and he's smiling that shit-eating smile at you. It makes you feel better in a strange way--just to see him acting so normal with you. "Please don't tell Payback that."

Jake sighs. He knows why, but he asks anyway.

"How much did you bet?"

Rooster tries to act offended by Jake asking but then drops the act when you start to laugh.

"More than I care to admit," Rooster answers. He looks at you again. "C'mon, Wisteria. You and I go way back! Keep a secret with an old pal, will you?"

You just nod, smiling again.

"Scout's honor," you tell him.

"And just so you know, I have about a million more questions about--" Rooster gestures to you and Jake with a tight smile on his lips, "this. But out of my deep respect for you and your grief, I will refrain from asking. For about the next seven to nine business days. Then I'll be asking all of them."

"Such a gentleman," Jake laughs dryly.

Rooster nods.

"Didn't know gentlemen made bets," you quip, eyebrow perched.

That is the exact moment that Bob falls in beside you, bumping you in a friendly way. He hands you a new glass of ginger ale and then crosses his arms with a small smile.

"Was Rooster telling you about his bet with Payback?" Bob asks nonchalantly.

"Bob--you know?" Rooster asks incredulously.

Bob just nods, eyebrows furrowed.

"I was there when you made it," Bob answers.

Rooster stiffens.

"Right. I remember that now," Rooster says. "Yeah, okay--it's all coming back to me now, Bob. You were there!"

Then everyone's laughing and Rooster is flustered and you can't help it--you're laughing, too. It feels like it's been a very, very long time since you've laughed. The sound is almost unfamiliar, but it feels good bubbling out of your throat and into the air around you.

Jake holds onto you, peering down at your face that is awash with glee suddenly. He knows he's been doing his best to make you happy, he knows that you've been relishing in his company, and he doesn't expect you to suddenly be okay with everything that happened. He doesn't expect for you to just wake up and feel fine one day. But to see that sweet face of yours, the one he's painfully and certainly in love with now, smiling and pink makes his heart hurt in the best way possible.

"Hey," Jake whispers to you, breaking you out of the banter that's begun in the squadron now. You look up at him, a smile still softly adorning your lips. It's tentative but it's there. "Wanna dance?"

You swallow hard. You look around the bar--it's crowded tonight, including every member of the squadron. You want to say no--really, you do. But when you see that pleading glimmer in his eyes and that lump in his throat and that smile tugging at his lips and you're saying it before you even realize.

"Of course."

You were expecting him to tug you over to the jukebox, expecting him to clear the floor so the two of you could dance. But he knows you better than that--he knows you don't want everyone in the bar to watch the two of you, especially not tonight. He knows you're still fragile, he knows that this is all still something you're easing back into.

So when he leads you to the parking lot, the one that is jam-packed with cars but entirely void of human life, you feel a weight lift from your shoulders.

Sand crunches under your shoes and the clinking glasses and voices inside are muted in the quiet out here--all you can hear is the crashing waves in the distance.

"Did you rent the place out just for us?" You tease.

He grins at you, his face aglow in the light of the white-rice moon.

"Of course I did," he tells you. "Just for you."

He wrangles a pair of wired headphones from his center console and meets you on the patio, where it is just as quiet and not as bright. And he plugs them into his phone, giving one bud to you and taking the other.

Flowers in December by Mazzy Star is playing. It's loud enough that you can't hear anything other than the waves and the song now--it's drowned everything else out.

Jake holds you close, your chest against his and his leg slotted between yours. He holds your hands in his, keeps you against him with a capable palm flat against your lower back.

You're giggling a little bit, especially when you two fumble as soon as you start to turn. He laughs, too, but kisses you gently. And then the two of you dance in the moonlight very near the beach with all your friends just inside.

There are places in your chest that still feel hollow without your father here. Sometimes you still feel like you're dreaming. Other times you wish that you were dreaming so you could wake up as a little girl and read the newspaper on your dad's lap once more, sticky with syrup and bright-eyed.

But when you rest your cheek on his chest, when you hear the steady beats of his heart and feel him humming along to the song, that hollowness lessens. It doesn't fill it all the way, no, but it's a start.

It's a start.

They say every man goes blind in his heart / And they say everybody steals somebody's heart away / And I've got nothing more to say about it

Jake feels like the luckiest fucking bastard in San Diego to be holding you right now. It's been so easy to fall in love with you, something that almost happened on accident. But he's here and it's happening and he feels like he's about to burst with all of this love and affection in his body.

"Jake," you whisper softly.

His eyes flutter shut. He loves the way his name rolls off your tongue.

"Hm, baby?" He whispers.

The two of you are still dancing, he's still holding you close, you're still resting your cheek against his chest.

"Are we in love?"

It's something you've been wanting to ask for a while now. The first time you wondered it was, of course, at your father's side. And then you wondered it again whenever Jake took you on an aimless drive through the hills just because you were feeling restless. You wondered again whenever he handed you a thick stack of handwritten notes he's been keeping for you. Then you wondered it again when you looked through the notes and found little personal notes in the margins; little I wish you were here's and Maverick is so little today and do you think Bob and Phoenix have ever kissed and what perfume do you use? Gonna start spraying it on your seat because I'm depraved. You're wondering it again right now, resting against his body, knowing with your entire heart that he brought you outside because he knows how little you want to dance in front of that crowded bar.

Jake presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his heart in his throat. He inhales your shampoo and lets his lips linger there. And then he nods because he doesn't trust his own voice. But you feel it--you know.

So you tilt your face towards him, eyes glazed in tears, and cup his stubbled cheek. He's looking at you with all the tenderness in his being, letting that love wash over him freely, letting himself get lost in the glass of your eyes.

"I love you," you choke.

And you thought this would be scary, looking someone in the face and giving them your entire heart. But you're not scared. You're not even a little scared.

"I love you so much," Jake tells you softly, fluttering kisses against your cheeks and your nose. He basks in the glow of your love, holding you tighter. "So, so much."

You two hold each other tight, pressing your lips against each other's. The kiss is sweet and long, something you have always wanted in a kiss. It's more than a promise, something that resembles an oath: everything's going to be okay.

When he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours, he's grinning. He strokes your cheek, lets a teardrop wet his thumb before he kisses your nose again.

"Guess I've gotta take you on a real date now, huh?"

The two of you laugh--it echoes across the beach.

And because the two of you are in your own universe now, you don't notice that the squadron has gathered around the windows. They're all watching with their arms crossed, smirking or holding their hands to their hearts.

"He's done-for," Coyote says with a fond shake of his head.

"Oh, totally," Fanboy agrees.

"Hey, Payback?" Rooster calls, grinning when Payback raises his brows at Rooster. "When do you think they'll tell Mav?"

"Tell me what?" Maverick suddenly asks, appearing behind the squadron with a handful of beer bottles.

Bob nods at maverick, taking one of the beer bottles, relishing in the shocked expression on Rooster's face right now.

"Nothing," Rooster says quickly. "What are you talking about?"

Maverick furrows his brows.

"What? I heard you say--!"

Rooster laughs aloud, loud enough to cut Maverick off completely.

"Good one," Rooster says. Then he turns to Phoenix, who's biting her lip hard. "Rematch?" He nods to the pool table.

When Rooster leaves with Phoenix at his side, blushing and sighing in relief that he didn't give your relationship with Jake away, Maverick steps beside Bob with a sigh.

"What's he being so weird about?" Maverick asks.

Bob takes another drink of beer and smiles at Maverick.

"Wisteria and Hangman," Bob answers.

Maverick raises his brows. "What? That they're together? Hangman told me last month."

Bob shrugs.

"What Rooster doesn't know won't hurt your pockets," Bob answers.

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐎𝐟𝐟

RIP Ice but we all knew it was coming, right?? I promise I'm not evil!! I tried to give you as much fluff and humor at the end of it!! I promise I don't want you guys to suffer!!!

they will be going on a date next chapter and it will be SMUTTY!!! I promise!!! thank you guys so much AGAIN for all the support on his chapter. it's been an honor putting it out for you guys!!

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