━◦○◦ⓢⓞ◦○◦ⓘⓣ◦○◦ⓖⓞⓔⓢ◦○◦━ .t.w.o.
NFL QB Jake 'Hangman' Seresin AU x Popstar F!Reader
Summary: NFL Quarterback Jacob Seresin is in hot water from a streak of bad decisions, just as you go through the worst public breakup of your life. With people slandering both of your reputations, your publicists hatch a plan to bring both of you back into favor and keep the heat off until spring - that is if you can keep up the facade.
Word Count: 2,999 words
Author Note: :)) I know it's shorter than the first part but I am trying here y'all - I really am. but!!! more Celeste and Jake for your trying monday night xD
━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━
There are only so many ways to avoid conversation, which is why Jake’s fiddling with the radio. It makes you nervous, seeing how he man-handles the wheel with one hand, the touch pad in the car with the other. Who was the genius to put touch screens in vehicles anyway? That seemed like a stupidly dangerous decision. But you weren’t an engineer so that meant it wasn’t for you to worry about. Or maybe it was since Jake was fucking around with it while operating a motor vehicle.
“Shit, there is literally nothing good on.” His voice is low before he asks the AI assistant again to play a specific song. You turn your face to the glass of the passenger door, trying to hide the growing smile on your face as the country song plays. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything!” You defend, looking at him while actively battling the grin.
“The thing on your face - you’re smiling, why are you smiling-”
“I can’t just smile?”
“Not out of the goddamn blue like Jeffery Dahmer, you can’t!” It’s now that you realize that there’s a subtle twinge in his voice. He’d relayed plenty of stories to you at the bar but not once did he mention where he was from. And the slight drawl on his lips helps you narrow it down slightly. Well that made sense now. The pop country track wasn’t out of the blue when you pieced it together.
That isn’t why you’re giggling though. Instead of answering his question, you lean into the door, watching the landscape whizz by.
“Gonna answer my question?” He prompts once more.
“I’m just smiling!” You try, looking at him with a laugh. The look on his face is one that makes him look like he’s almost about to explode under the stress you’ve seemingly put him under. Finally, you relent. “I- well I wrote this. That’s all.”
Brows furrow as he turns down a road. “I’m calling bullshit.” Now your lips part in amused shock.
“Are you joking? I wrote this!” You give an astonished laugh as you slowly approach a modern looking gate overlooking the driveway to a residence.
“No. Prove it.” Off the top of your head, you begin to list the chord progressions, C. F7. G7. F7. C. As he parks the car, he’s still being stubborn. “That proves nothing other than you can play the song.” Scoffing with a roll of your eyes as he pulls his phone out, tapping something on the screen. The large gate slowly begins to recede into the bushes next to it.
“Here.” You hand him your own phone, Google provides not only the lyrics, but the song writing credits at the very bottom. Jake squints and points to the name, reading it out loud to you. “Yes!”
“That doesn’t say ‘Celeste’.” Now he’s smirking, leaving your head falling forward. You quickly move to your purse, grabbing your wallet and then your ID, throwing it at him, causing both of you to laugh when it hits his face. He scrambles to pick it back up, looking at the plastic. Then, not unlike a bouncer at a bar, he cross references the name on the card to the one on the screen. Jake then has the audacity to bend it for authenticity.
“Oh give me that.” You snatch both of your belongings out of his hands and he holds up his hands in defeat.
“Fine, fine.” The gate is open now, a rolling road of pavement that opens up to a mammoth of a house. You pull into the garage, finally moving into the conversation again, somewhat bluntly.
“Is it so hard to believe I wrote a song about sex?” Jake doesn’t answer. Instead, he gets out of the vehicle, shutting the door behind him. Before you can utter a word, he’s come to the other side and opened the door.
“No. Though, you writing a country song is.” His head disappears from the door frame and he leads you into the house. “It’s not a bad song. You did the whole thing?”
You are slowly following him in, your head craned as you take in the massive building. For its size, it’s very ordinarily decorated. There aren’t massive and astonishingly expensive art pieces on the walls or marble staircases - it was… dare you say: cozy? It was familiar and welcoming in the way a home should be, not sterile and rigid like most homes in the neighborhood were. Of course, you only knew this because of Restoration Hardware and the likes.
Jake is easily leading you to the kitchen, which is less ‘normal’ than the rest of the house. Recent appliances and modern finishes adorn the kitchen, from intricate coffee machines and luxurious wine fridges. He’s stuck his nose into one as you gape at the rest of the house.
It finally dawns on you that maybe you should answer his question.
“I did. It was one of my favorites but.. The entire thing just felt too… out of place for my style- you own this place?” Jake nods. You’re not sure if it’s in response to your question or to your response.
“Sounds about right. I can’t imagine you singing country music.” He’s moved around the kitchen toward the fridge. “And no, I don’t.”
You freeze for a minute. If he didn’t own this place…
“Then whose house-“
“It’s my mom’s.” Well that wasn’t listed in any of the answers you’d predicted he’d give you. Still, he’s pulling a bottle of wine from the wine fridge, reading the label and then sitting it on the counter.
“Your mom owns a place… in LA?” He starts digging into drawers, looking for what you can only presume to be a wine bottle opener. You help him in his pursuits, pulling random drawers open.
“Well… it’s- okay so I bought it for her. She really loves the drive to Big Sur on Highway 1 and so she’s got this place to stay at and then there’s my place in San Diego. My place isn’t big enough to house my whole family, so they crash here when they’re in town for football games, they just take a quick flight up to SD. Or make the drive if they have the time.” You’ve found the wine opener by now and are unintentionally holding it hostage. He’d bought his mom a house so she didn’t have to stay in a hotel in San Diego? And he just flew her home whenever she wanted?
“So.. you crash here because no one can tell when it's your mom or you here?”
He shrugs. “Sort of. It’s as close to home as I can get without boarding a four hour flight.” Jake pushes the bottle in front of you, and you distract yourself by opening the bottle as he putzes around with his phone. It begins to ring as you screw metal into the cork. You preoccupy yourself with your task as he disappears to the other side of the room. The blonde paces the room as he settles on the phone. An unfortunate look crosses his features and it certainly doesn’t inspire anything confident in you. While he hangs up, you are still struggling with the damned cork in the bottle. “Well, that was my lead security guy.” Jake speaks, leaving your attention on him as you hopelessly tug on the bottle and the jammed instrument in the glass neck.
“And what does Mr. Security have to say-” your question is punctured by the pop of the stubborn cork. As well as the splash of decade old fermented grape juice all over Jake’s mom’s nice granite counters. And your very new, very white tank top. Defeatedly, your hands let the bottle gently come to the surface, staring down at the mess. For some reason, you don’t immediately respond to the mess. You just… stare.
It isn’t until Jake comes along with paper towels, bumping your hip with his own to nudge you out of the way. “Don’t worry about it.” The wine is cleaned in no time, and you hazily fill two waiting glasses.
“What a waste of good wine.” You complain, before nearly gulping your first sip down. Jake simply laughs.
“Happens. Anyways, Wells, he said they can’t get to your room.” Setting your glass down you’re about to explain how reception desks work. The quarterback beats you to it. “Now listen, smartass. I know what you’re about to say, cause I would’ve said the same thing-” he laughs. You tandemly giggle along with him, “the hotel literally can’t get into your room. The key card reader is malfunctioning. The guy who fixes them won’t be in until tomorrow.” The groan off your lips is paired with your footsteps as you move to his living room.
“Great. Well,” you take another sip, pausing in the middle of the room, “guess you made a smart move of bringing me here then. We have an out if we get caught. ‘My room was malfunctioning so like the gracious gentleman you are, you let me stay at your place.”
“My mom’s place.” He corrects, slowly following you into the room with massively vaulted ceilings. There are beams across it, dark in color. If the sun was still up, the entire thing would be flooded with daylight from the skylights in the ceiling.
“Right. Your moms.” You spend time staring up at them, admiring how he was a whole ass homeowner as you count his skylights. Eight skylights. When your attention comes back to the horizontal plane, Jake looks over at you as he tosses his phone to his couch. When he does, you realize your own voice is softly playing over the built in speakers.
“Are you quizzing me? Is that what’s happening here?” You squint at him teasingly as he sets his glass down.
“No, I’m putting it on so I can learn it. If I consistently listen to things on a loop my brain seems to soak it up - almost like a sponge.” The blonde disappears from behind the couch, down a hallway, leaving you to admire the stone fireplace that crawled to the ceiling, basking in the notes and chord progressions you’d strung together.
“Oh, so I’m not studying, you are.” You call out to him, letting it echo down the hall. He mimics your call.
“Yeah. My coach will have me benched if this doesn’t go well. So, I’m gonna be damn sure I know everything about my girl.”
You know what he meant. The word wasn’t meant to be possessive, or affectionate. Except, coming off of his lips - so naturally like that… it was easy to mistake it for genuinity.
“That tracks. What are you even doing over there?” As you call out, your feet are slowly making their practiced patterns from choreographed rehearsals timed with the song playing over you.
The realization makes you giggle. You haven’t performed this in over four years. So it was silly you still knew it. But it also was just plain silly. Dancing around to your own music, tipsy in a multi-million dollar house in the Hollywood hills, with a stranger who let you spill wine on his quartz counters. The whole thing is something from a novel.
“You ruined your shirt, and your stuff is locked in a hotel almost thirty minutes away, so-” Jake has looped around the couch by now, watching as you step in time with your music. One hand grips to a pile of clothing, his other hand pointing your direction. “If you plan on me learning this then you can forget it.” The clothes drop to the leather of the couch as you continue to step with the words, shimmying for emphasis.
“Oh come on, it’s so easy.” Moving to the coffee table, you set your glass down, grabbing his now empty hands and pulling him further into the room. “Ready? Just follow my steps.”
And he does, doing as best as he can as you emphasize the words, using them as the tempo with your steps. You know that’s not how your dancers did it, but that’s how you’d done it. Using the words were like landmarks, signifying when you needed to do specific motions. Jake seems to pick it up, somewhat effortlessly, with an uncanny ease.
“Oh you totally dance.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. Don’t even try to deny it.” You tease him further as the song ends and transitions into the next one. This one has a heavier tone to it, but it doesn’t stop you from following the steps. Your mind floods with the dance moves and the arena tour. The catwalk into the crowd, the sultry steps you took alongside the music. The outfit you’d had on. God, you had felt so hot in that outfit. It was one of your favorite tour costumes. You’d wanted it back from wardrobe when the tour was over - but the Music Hall of Fame had wanted it for a display not even three months ago. Otherwise you would’ve worn it to New Years Eve. It was your favorite.
It was Jonah’s favorite.
Jake has stopped dancing at this point. His attention has moved to each of the coordinated moves you made until you got halfway through the song, grabbing your glass and sitting next to him where he was perched on the arm of the chair.
“Your turn.” You tease, only to sip from your glass. Surprisingly, Jake downs his glass and stands up.
His dance moves are horrible. Downright awful. But you laugh all the same as he tries to sing along, getting the words wrong. You shake your head and continue to grin as you begin to sing along to the words.
“I’d walk through the fire if you were the flame, couldn’t care less if they call me insane, I don’t need the fortune and I don’t need the fame, I just need for you..” The note drags out as the song picks up, your hand slapping against the couch with the drum as Jake continues his terrible rendition. Finally you finish the line, “to say my name. Say my name! I’d take it all on, face all of the pain, say my name!”
The instrumental approaches the bridge, an overlapping conversation in the background of the audio, ‘Celeste’ over and over in low sounds. But Jake’s voice catches you off guard. He’s stopped dancing by now, but you look at him all the same. Your name falls off his lips again. When you look like you’re about to question him, he just laughs.
“You said to say your name.” Rolling your eyes, you finish your wine, moving back to the kitchen to grab another glass. You wouldn’t tell him, but so few people called you by it anymore. It was refreshing. You retrieve the clothes he’d dropped to the couch, before giving him a pointed gleam of a smile.
“I’m gonna go change- bathroom?” He points you in the direction of the room, and you quickly slide in. Once your shirt is off, you’re dropping it into the sink, the water running as you try to get out a stain that was on the verge of being fully dry. That was, admittedly, less than helpful. Still, your soggy shirt is the least of your problems when Jake comes knocking on the door.
“You okay?” You open the door and show him the shirt in the sink. There’s a low laugh that comes from him. “I have a laundry room- here, give me that, I’ll go put a stain remover on it and let it sit for the night.” You don’t exactly know why, but you are kind of shocked that he offers. You had imagined he would just turn and leave you to your failed attempts, but instead he’s been rather compassionate to your cause. Though, it doesn’t take him long to mock you for your misfortune. You then remind him that this was his wine that was causing the problems after all.
Jake then proceeds to ask you about each song that comes up over the speakers for the remainder of the night. He surprises you with his questions on specific words, asking what they mean and making you laugh as you play dictionary for the man. When the bottle is finally empty, the two of you have sprawled out on the couch, the ceiling having transformed into some form of entertainment for the two of you.
When you try to stifle a yawn, the blonde slowly pushes from the couch with a low grunt. It makes your stomach surge. Being in close quarters with a man like this was one thing: the sound he’d made was a completely other itinerary. One you never planned on following. The only plans you wanted to follow were the contractual ones you’d signed off on the other afternoon. The way that Jake was standing in front of you, holding out a hand to help you off the couch was making that more difficult. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed, popstar.” Drowsily, you take his assistance, but his strength pulls you up way harder than you were anticipating, leaving you flying into his chest and leaving him to subsequently catch you. When he does, you’re only in a fit of giggles as he holds on tight, feeling how his breath falters as he tries to return it to its regular rate. “You think that’s funny?” He smirks, moving the two of you now in some makeshift waddle, arms locked around you. His breath comes hot over your shoulder as you move through his house - his mom’s house - and toward a room. When the door creaks open, another damn near erotic sound leaves the athlete behind you. You know you didn’t cause that sound (even if you kind of wished you had). That was the work of one disassembled queen bed frame against the wall of the guest bedroom.
149 notes
·
View notes