#hangman au

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Brother's Best Friend - Part 6

Jake Seresin x F!Reader

A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has sent in thoughts and ideas for this fic! It's so fun writing it in your vision :D Y'all are really good at this plot thing XD

Summary: The trials and tribulations of falling for your brother's best friend.

CW: Intoxication, swearing, slow burn, angsty but also a fluff factory

WC: 2000+

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Masterlist

“Can you please stop swerving?” you whimper, clapping a hand to your already throbbing head.

“It’s called turning,” Jake responds sarcastically.

You stare ahead impassively. “You’re doing it a lot.”

Jake looks over at you with an amused grin. “You are phenomenal company, have I ever told you that?”

You eye him with contempt. “Shut up, Seresin.”

He laughs. “I’m not joking.”

“Whatever,” you say. “Make fun of me all you want. I’m not going to remember anything tomorrow, anyway.”

Jake considers your words for a moment. “You think?”

You close your eyes. “Who knows if I’ll even wake up.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

Suddenly, you jolt upright in your seat. “Pull over!” you command. “Pull over right now.”

Jake hits the breaks and veers to the side of the road and you’re pushing your door open before he even comes to a complete stop. You detangle yourself with some difficulty from the seatbelt and stumble out of the car. You’re barely out of the vehicle when you start puking all over somebody’s neatly trimmed lawn.

Jake jogs around the car to get to you, but you stretch your arm out to keep him back. He ignores your silent request and comes up behind you, grasping your shoulders tightly. “Go away, Jake,” you say in a shaky voice, feeling the onset of yet another attack.

Jake rubs your back gently while you liberate the remainder of your stomach contents. “Shh,” he says quietly. “Just let it out.”

When you’re finished, you pull away from Jake, teetering as you go. You bury your face in your hands, leaning into the side of his car with your hip, completely mortified.

“Hey,” Jake says. “You alright?”

You wipe at your face, nodding, and look up at him despite the sting behind your eyes.

“Woah, hey,” he says, brushing the hair out of your face as tears start rolling down your cheeks. “What’s the matter?” Then, more aggressively, he adds, “Did he do something to you?”

You shake your head, sniffling. “I didn’t want to throw up,” you say with a small sob halfway through the statement.

“Aw, c’mon,” Jake says, wrapping his arm around your neck and pulling you into his chest. “We’ve all been there,” he continues, rubbing your arm with his hand.

But you’re not so sure that Jake can truly sympathize. After all, not only did you ralph, but you also happened to do it in front of the one person whom you’ve loved for as long as you can remember.

…

Jake helps you stumble your way to the front door and then holds you up as you try to rip apart the straps of your heels to get them off.

“Need some help with those?” he asks, seemingly amused.

You huff in frustration as a wave of perspiration hits you without warning. “I. Can. Do. It!” you pant, clawing at the clasp.

Jake winces as he watches you struggle. Finally, he bends down and hooks his arm behind your knees. Before you know it, he’s lifted you off the ground. “We don’t have all night,” he says, carrying you, bridal-style, down the corridor. He starts for the second floor with you still in his arms as though hauling you up the stairs takes no effort at all.

“I can’t sleep in them,” you mumble, resting your weary head on his shoulder.

“Can’t you?” he responds, kicking lightly at the partially open door to your bedroom and walking inside. You brace yourself for an impact, thinking that Jake is going to toss you down onto the mattress but, instead, he squats to set you down gingerly onto the bed. He glances over your face and removes some of the hair that’s stuck to your cheek with either sweat or tears or – well, you prefer not to consider an alternative. “How’re you feeling?” he asks quietly.

You swallow uncomfortably, letting your eyes meet his despite the whirlwind in your chest that’s perpetuating the already pronounced nausea. “Uh,” you utter. “Dizzy.”

Jake nods with a sympathetic smile. He reaches for your foot and starts undoing the clasp.

“Yeah, good luck,” you say flatly and fall backward onto the bed with a groan.

Jake chuckles and, within seconds, removes your shoe.

You sit back up in a daze. “How…?”

Jake gives you a humorous look. “You’re going to laugh so hard about this tomorrow.”

Once he takes off your second shoe, you lift yourself off the bed and start to unzip your shorts. Jake promptly turns away. “Sorry,” you say, shimmying out of your shorts as Jake starts inspecting the frame of your bedroom door intently. He runs his fingers along the trim as though nothing has ever fascinated him more.

Normally, you’d never even consider changing in Jake’s presence but, in your inebriated state, you’re feeling far more brazen.

Once your shorts are off, you kick them aside unceremoniously. Jake’s head moves slightly as his eyes follow the trajectory of the flying shorts and you can tell that he’s very purposefully trying not to look in your direction. You start to pull off your top, certain that he wouldn’t turn around even if you yelled ‘Fire’. You toss your shirt into a pile with your shorts and grab a t-shirt out of the hamper, pulling it over your head and crawling back onto your bed. “I’m decent,” you say, dropping into your comforter.

Jake turns back cautiously, as if he doesn't fully trust you and, as he makes his way toward the bed, he’s distracted by your attire. “You’re gonna be sleeping in that?” he asks, somewhat surprised.

You glance down and notice that you’re back in his Pantera shirt. You shrug. “I guess.” You shuffle around the bed, swaying as you try to find the edge of the blanket so that you could crawl underneath. Eventually, you end up collapsing on the bed in frustration. “Everything is spinning!” you moan.

Jake reaches for the comforter. “You’re sitting on it, genius.”

“Oh,” you mutter as he helps you unravel the sheets and climb inside. “Thanks.”

Jake covers you up and says, “Turn onto your side.”

You sigh, having finally gotten into a semi-comfortable position on your back. “Why?” you whine.

“Just do it,” he says firmly, putting his hand behind your shoulder to turn you.

You whimper but follow his instructions. “Are you leaving to get Bradley now?” you ask.

“No,” he responds, lowering himself onto the floor by your bed and leaning his back against it.

You lift your head weakly. “Why not?”

“I told him to catch an Uber,” he says. “Besides, he’s probably not gonna be home for a while.”

You make an “mm” sound and lift yourself further off the pillow. “Jake,” you say curiously. “What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder at you. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you sitting on the floor?”

Jake sighs. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re very drunk.”

“So?”

“Just stop talking and go to sleep,” Jake responds grumpily.

You furrow your eyebrows. “Are you going to stay up all night?”

“I’ll sleep if I get tired.”

You narrow your eyes. “On the floor?”

Jake breathes out in exasperation. “Where else?” he says, turning his head to look at you again.

You glance down at the unused half of your bed pointedly. “I don’t think you have to stay,” you murmur, even though what you want to say is ‘There’s enough bed here for the two of us’.

“You want me to leave?” Jake asks and you’re forced to look him in the eye once more.

Slowly, you shake your head. “I don’t want you to have to sleep on the floor,” you respond.

“It’s not a big deal.”

You gulp. “You can come on the bed if you want,” you say hesitantly, dropping your gaze.

Jake lets out an uneasy chuckle. “Imagine?” he says.

You release a quick laugh because it’s all you’ve been imagining for years. “Jake?” you say quietly.

“Mm?” He turns to look back at you after repositioning himself on the floor.

“Thanks,” you say.

Jake watches you earnestly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.” You nod with your head back on the pillow. “You saved me.”

Jake scoffs. “Hardly.”

You reach forward and rest a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Jake places his own hand over yours. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”

You nod as your eyelids become increasingly heavy. “Will you give me advice on my sex life?” you ask sleepily.

“Anything but that,” Jake responds.

A smile spreads on your face and you shift your body closer to the edge of the bed so that you can more easily keep your hand on his shoulder. “We did the thing,” you mutter almost incoherently.

Jake’s posture stiffens as he lifts his back away from the bedframe.

“It was alright,” you continue without opening your eyes.

“Alright?” you hear a hint of distaste in his tone.

“Wasn’t as good as he said it would be.”

“Then he did it wrong,” Jake responds flatly.

You open your eyes minutely. “You don’t even know what it is.”

Jake is watching you soberly. “I don’t have to know.”

You shrug. “Guess I won’t know until I do it with someone else. To compare, you know?”

Jake cringes. “What will it take for you to shut up and go to sleep?”

You chuckle. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“It’s gross,” he responds curtly. “Anyway, forget about that loser. You’re obviously never gonna see him again.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, ‘why not’?”

“I’ll probably see him tomorrow.”

Jake stands up briskly. “Are you kidding me? He abandoned you at some random house party!”

“So? He was just pissed about losing to a girl. He’ll get over it.”

Jake puts his hands on his hips. “You shouldn’t.”

You gaze up at him sleepily. “It’s fine, Jake. He’ll call and apologize.”

Jake shakes his head. “Don’t you dare consider seeing him again.”

You grimace. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I can if you’re gonna be stupid about it.”

You grit your teeth. “Are you calling me stupid?”

“If you're gonna be seeing him again, then yeah. Very much.”

You seethe. “Well, maybe you're rubbing off on me.”

Jake stares at you coolly. “Very mature.”

You roll your eyes and turn away to face the wall. “Go to hell.”

Jake spins on his heel and heads for the door. “Whatever,” he grumbles, flicking off the light and slamming the door behind him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you call after him, scrambling out of the bed and stumbling haphazardly to the door. “Why are you such a dick?” you yell, opening your door.

Jake gives you a harsh look from the top of the staircase. “You’re going to continue dating that shithead after all these red flags?” he shouts back. “Your brother told you to be careful!” he continues, pointing an accusing finger at you.

“Maybe I am being careful!”

Jake scowls, shaking his head. “It doesn’t sound like it.”

“Stop judging me!”

“I’M NOT JUDGING YOU!” he roars. “I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU!”

“WHY?”

Jake exhales steadily as he tries to regain his composure. Then, he begins descending the stairs.

“Where are you going?” you say.

“Home,” he replies brusquely.

“I thought you were staying,” you say, making your way toward the stairs as he disappears down the corridor.

“You’re fine,” you hear him say.

You start down after him but, when the curve of the stairs starts to coil right before your eyes, you gasp and cling onto the banister for dear life.

Instantly, you hear Jake running back toward the staircase from the front hall. He arrives at the foot of the stairs and breathes a sigh of relief seeing that you’re still upright. “Why are you following me?” he asks aggressively, climbing back up the stairs, taking three at a time.

“I don’t want you to go,” you say desperately, sinking down onto the step you’re standing on.

When Jake reaches you, he kneels down, placing a hand on your leg and another on your arm as though he’s afraid you might lose your balance again, even as you’re sitting. He lets out a wavering breath. “Are you insane? You could’ve broken your neck,” he says.

You stare at the space between the two of you moodily. “I guess it’s just one poor decision after another,” you mutter irritably.

Jake sighs, brushing his hand over your bare thigh. “Tell me about it,” he says. You shoot him a dirty look and he gives you a tight smile. “I’ll stay, alright?”

You nod.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” he says, helping you to your feet. He leads you back to the bedroom in silence.

You aren’t sure exactly if the two of you have made up or if he’s just reluctant to leave because you’re being reckless. But, regardless, you’re relieved that he still cares enough about you to stay despite being angry.

Once you’re under the covers, he sits down on the edge your bed. “I don’t get it,” he says. “Why would you keep seeing this dumbass? You could do so much better.”

You sigh tiredly. The truth is, you weren’t entirely sure whether you’d ever talk to your boyfriend again. But Jake’s pushiness hit a nerve and you made your mind up out of spite. Now, you’re not really sure how to respond. “It’s just nice to be liked,” you finally say.

Jake lifts his eyebrows. “I like you.”

You shake your head. “Not like that, Jake. You know what I mean. It’s nice to feel…” you bite your lip, slightly more reserved now that you’re starting to sober up.

“What?”

You shrug. “Wanted,” you finish sheepishly. When Jake furrows his eyebrows like an idiot, you decide to elaborate. “You know – physically. To feel like someone needs to have me. An all-encompassing, mind-altering desire that can’t be helped.” You stop talking as Jake’s blinking eyes go round in his shock and decide to omit the fact that you basically just want someone to hunger for you the way you do for him.

Jake grimaces. “That jackass makes you feel this way?” he asks.

You purse your lips, realizing that you’ve never actually noticed. “Not really,” you admit. “I mean, he wants sex, I know that much.”

Jake cringes, bringing a hand to his forehead and rubbing at his brow. “I swear to god, if you mention your sex life one more time, I’m going to throw myself out your window.”

You snort. “You’re so dramatic,” you respond, repeating his own words from earlier in the night.

Jake turns around and lowers his back onto your bed to lie down next to you over the covers. He puts his hands over his chest, looking up at the ceiling. “I know it’s not my place,” he says, and then turns his head to look at you, his face barely six inches from yours. “But I am begging you, please dump his sorry ass.”

You sigh, contemplating his request.

“Trust me, sweet cheeks,” he adds. “You've got options.”

Read Part 7

Hangman Tag List:

The rest of the list will be in the comments! Please let me know if you don't want to be tagged anymore.

@broketraveler87

@atarmychick007

@wandering-wah

@callsign-sunshine

@shanimallina87

@ghost-heart34

@birdy-bat-writes

@matya4

@wkndwlff

@nyx2021

@bellamy1998

@oliviah-25

@alexxavicry

@army24--7

@thefandomimagines

@dracosluvbot

@smit41

@scenesofobx

@Criminalmindsandmarvel

@lunamoonbby

@malums-trash-can

@creativitybeware

@xoxabs88xox

@Yoyop7

@hallecarey1

@nik2blog

@rrocky0ah

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@lilianashomaresparza

@latetedslesetoiles

@Elenavampire21

@ekeel2016

@starberryhorse

@ginger-gabsq

@sarcastic-sourwolf

@loveforaugust

@adaydreamaway08

@desert-fern

@averyhotchner

@classyunknownlover

@mimisalad

@bubblegumbeautyqueen

@elle-writes-things

@tumblerluvver

@lostcause514

@cevans-winchester

@ssaic-jareau

@catsandbooksandstuff

@fdl305

@letskeepthislo-ki

[of-many-aus]

Why Jake calls you ‘Angel’

Summary: there’s always an origin story to a nickname, this one is yours

Warnings: none

A/N: let me know what you think of this series so far :)

Take Me Out to the Ball Game Masterlist

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

This was stupid. You had no idea why you had even let Natasha talk you into this, she knew this wasn’t your thing.

The noise was deafening with everyone screaming at the top of their lungs. Cheers and boos for this team or that.

Bodies rammed into one another as they jumped up and down, supporting their respective teams that were made up of either a sky blue, or a crimson red.

“You have to get to know him,” Nat chatted your ear off above all the yells, keeping your arms linked tightly as you wove back and forth in the crowd, “He’s your roommate, and you hardly know a thing about him.”

“Yeah,” You snapped back, shooting her a small glare, “Maybe he’s a serial killer. How does that feel, Nat? You could very well be the person who pressured me into accepting a living situation with a murderer.”

She rolled her eyes, long since used to your dramatic antics, “A cute murderer.” Your best friend flashed you a grin.

You rolled your eyes sarcastically, “Well, what he lacks in personality, I suppose he makes up for in looks.”

“Exactly!” She cheered, finally pushing through a clearing and towards seemingly the only two empty seats in the whole stadium, not giving you the chance to open your mouth and snap back about being sarcastic. She knew very well that you were.

It had been about two weeks since you and the star of your college's baseball team, Jake Seresin, had made a temporary arrangement of moving into an apartment together. And the two of you had been walking on eggshells around each other, which Natasha Trace never failed to throw in your face.

Honestly, you were more than fine keeping it that way. The less you were forced to talk to the cocky, ego driven athlete, the better.

Your best friend, on the other hand, seemed to think that it was fate that the two of you were thrown into the same living establishment. And apparently, it was an opportunity not to be passed up. Now, you had been dragged to his team's second game of the season. Evidently, missing his first one was some sort of crime in Natasha’s eyes and you now had to make up for it.

What did it matter anyway? He didn’t even know that you were here, and honestly, you hoped that it stayed that way. You didn’t need him thinking something other than the simple fact that you were dragged here, fighting tooth and nail to get away. But it was useless, Nat was impossible to stop when she put her mind to something.

Of course, the only seats available had to be in the very front row, just to the right of home plate.

The game had already started by the time you two sat down, and Jake's team was getting absolutely demolished.

No wonder all the other spectators were getting rowdy so quickly. Your school was trying to urge the team into coming back, and the other school was trying to keep their team up. The score was 1-6 and it was only the second inning.

Jakes team was up at bat, more specifically, a man you recognized to be Reuben Fitch, who was in your science class, at the plate, bat up and at the ready. According to the scoreboard, there was already one out, two pitches thrown, and nobody on the bases.

The pitcher from the other team glared against the sun as he wound his arm back, ready to release the ball. And when he so, it hooked in such a way that poor Reuben didn’t stand a chance of hitting it.

You felt a pang of pity in your heart for him, he had always been friendly to you, and watching his lips move in the shape of a curse and shaking his head in disappointment at himself made you sad to see. He made his way back to the dug out with a head hung low, not even reacting when Pete Mitchell, the coach, clapped him on the back in reassurance when he shuffled past him.

A frown pulled at your lips, “This is just sad,” You commented, “You picked the absolute worst day to force me to come and see a game.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, opening her mouth to rebuttal, only to snap it shut when her eyes locked onto something behind you. A smirk slowly made its way onto her face, “Or maybe not.”

With furrowed eyebrows, you turned in your seat to see what she was looking at, only to lock eyes on a jersey you had grown accustomed to seeing thrown lazily around your apartment- along with other pieces of gear he never bothered to pick up- making it’s way towards you.

Jake was up at bat.

There was a determined aura about him, you could tell from the way his eyes stayed trained on the pitchers mound and from the way his jaw was set and shoulders were in a ridged square.

High pitched squeals erupted from behind you in a way that made you cringe at the sudden noise.

“It’s Jake!”

“He looks so hot.”

“He was totally checking me out earlier.”

You rolled your eyes at the group of girls behind you, babbling like a bunch of teenagers at the mall, and crossed your arms over your chest.

Natasha was looking over at you with a smirk that had morphed into a knowing one.

“What?” You snapped.

Her grin only widened, “Nothing, nothing.” She murmured, turning her attention back to the game.

After allowing your eyes to linger suspiciously on her for another moment, you tore them away from her and too looked to where Jake was now winding up to bat.

The pitcher threw the next one faster than he had moments ago, and it headed straight for the blond man.

Your heart jumped to your throat and your arms unconsciously loosened, falling to your sides as you leaned forward.

Jake jumped backwards out of the way just in time, the ball narrowly missing his stomach in the process.

Shouts of protest came from all over the stadium, cursing out the pitcher for trying to take out the star player.

A breath slipped through your lips and you felt the muscles in your shoulders loosen. Why they were even tense in the first place, you didn’t know.

Seresin let out a huff, taking a step back from the plate to give himself a moment to collect himself, and his gaze unconsciously swept over the crowd.

Bright green eyes locked onto yours before you could even think about looking away and trying to hide yourself.

Jake stilled.

All of the sounds seemed to drown out around you. Neither of you let up your stares, no matter how much as you knew you should.

Then, the corner of his lips quirked up the tiniest bit, and he threw a wink in your direction before turning back to the plate and stepping up once more.

One of the girls squealed from behind you, “Did you see that? Did you? Did you? He winked at me!”

You barely even heard her, eyes still yet to leave Jakes tall form.

“What was that all about?” You could hear the grin in her voice as Natasha whispered to you.

Not an answer came out of you though. You were too transfixed in the game.

When the ball came at him again, he was ready, and he hit it out of the park. Literally.

Again, it seemed like almost every person in the stadium began screaming at the top of their lungs. Whether it was from anger or pure joy at the home run the man had just hit.

Somehow, you had joined in with them, clapping as loudly as you could and cheering.

Jake threw one glance to you over his shoulder before taking a jog around the bases, a grin of victory playing on his lips.

It only went uphill from there.

Somehow, when put in the outfield, every single ball went Jake's way, and he caught each and every one of them. Then each time he came up to bat, he would get at least one other person home.

There was a reason he was the star player.

By the end, the score was 12-6, and your throat was raw from all the screaming you had done, as well as most likely every other person in the audience.

“Well?” You finally tore your eyes away from the field at your best friend's voice, “Worth coming?”

You hid a grin and tried to shrug nonchalantly, “I suppose.”

She laughed loudly, linking your arms together and beginning to lead you into the slowly dispersing crowd.

The two of you chatted all the way back to the row of cars, when a voice calling out your name made you both stop and turn.

Jake jogged after the two of you, baseball gear bag slung over one shoulder.

The group of girls that had been obnoxious behind you for the entire game now stood a few yards away with dropped jaws that soon turned into sneers.

Your roommate paid them no mind though, as he came to a stop in front of you, slightly breathless as if he had run all the way from the dugout to catch up with you.

“Hi,” You breathed out in surprise, eyebrows raised.

He grinned that blinding, award winning smile of his, “You came to my game.”

“Oh yeah,” Natasha piped up, nodding excitedly from beside you, “She practically dragged me here.”

Your head snapped into her direction and your eyes widened for a brief second before you began glaring daggers at her, “I did not-“

“I’m glad you came.”

The gentleness of his tone made your mouth snap shut and your attention turn to him once more.

“We were losing, bad, but then you showed up, and we suddenly won again.” He was yet to drop his grin.

You shook your head, “That wasn’t me-“

“Sure it was,” He laughed lightly, “You’re like my own guardian angel.”

You rolled your eyes, “Don’t call me that.”

If it was even possible, his grin seemed to widen, “Why not? I think it’s fitting.”

A scoff left your lips, and whatever weird haze you had been in during the game finally shook off, “Don’t you dare.” You warned.

“Hangman!” Bradley Bradshaw called from a couple paces away, waving the man down, “Come on! The boys are going out to celebrate!”

“Be right there!” The blond called back before winking at you once more, “See you at home, Angel.”

With that, he jogged off, leaving you in a speechless state that was so unlike you.

Nat moved to stand in front of you, wiggling her eyebrows.

You hesitated before softly shoving her, “Shut up.” You mumbled, turning to make your way to the car.

Taglist: none yet

[topguncortez]

Slap Shot || Chapter 1

A Jake Seresin Hockey AU

previous part | masterlist | next part

synopsis: You arrive at your new job in North Island, and are hit with memories that you'd much rather leave behind. Jake faces the repercussions of his fight on the ice with his teammate

word count: 2.9k

warnings: grief, mentions of sexism, injuries, losing a parent, locker room talk, hockey inaccuracies, mentions of cheating, workplace harassment, mentions of sex

When you were about five years old, your kindergarten teacher asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. Most of your classmates gave answers such as “teacher” or “doctor” or “superman”. You, on the other hand, stood in front of the packed gym on the night of your kindergarten graduation, your head held high as you gave your answer. 

“A Stanley Cup Winner.” 

Of course at the time, you didn’t understand that women could not win the Stanley Cup (you figured that out at age 8 and it caused the meltdown of all epic meltdowns). The closest thing women could get to the Stanley Cup was a gold medal at the Olympics. You worked your ass off from the time you could successfully skate without falling, to your senior year of highschool. Every waking moment you had was spent at the rink, running drills from sunup to sun down. You lived and breathed hockey, and as the daughter of the late great Michael L/N, you had big shoes to fill. 

You just never imagined the moment it would all come crashing down. 

It was a dumb idea, in hindsight. It was a really dumb idea. Weeks from the US Olympic team tryouts, you agreed to joining your friends at the lake. A place you liked to avoid like the plague. It wasn’t that your parents and coach kept you away from having any fun in your life, you simply chose to ignore the dangerous stunts your friends like to partake in. But for some reason, you decided to take a chance and take a break from the grueling training schedule your coach had created. It was a hot summer day in the middle of July, and a day out on the boat sounded like heaven. 

You should’ve said no to trying to wakeboard. You should’ve just stayed on the boat, watching the epic wipeouts by your friends. It would’ve been the smart choice to make. . . but you never were that smart. One bad landing into the wake created by the boat, had you breaking the surface with a horrible scream. Your friends reacted quickly, jumping into the water to help you stay afloat as you screamed in pain, your collar bone protruding awkwardly under your skin. They got you to the hospital quickly where you were told you had broken your collarbone and torn your ACL in your knee. The physical pain wasn’t even as bad as the emotional pain that came a few weeks later. 

“I’m sorry, but you will never play hockey at the level you are playing it now. I suggest. . . quitting altogether if you want to avoid having a shoulder replacement before you’re 30.” 

A bullet to the chest would’ve hurt less. 

At first, you laughed at the doctor’s suggestion, all but telling him to fuck off and asking to see his credentials. Your parents had tried to talk some sense into you, telling you that maybe heeding the doctor’s advice could be beneficial. Your dad knew guys from the league who had shoulder or knee injuries, and it never ended up in their favor. Years of pain and suffering, turning to questionable methods of dealing with the pain, missing out on crucial time with their families or significant others. But you were stubborn, and didn’t want to quit playing when you were about to try-out for the biggest moment of your life. 

But you never made it that far. In fact, you never finished your senior season. From the first puck drop, everything was shit. You weren’t as strong as you had been, having lost muscle in both your arms and legs. You felt off balance, and were cautious of every move you made on the ice. You knew the statistics, you were at a higher risk of tearing another ligament in your knee after tearing the first one. Your collar bone, even though it had healed without having to have surgery, clicked and popped anytime you tried to make a slapshot. You were making mistakes you hadn’t made since peewee hockey. Your teammates were growing increasingly annoyed, your coaches were becoming exasperated, and your dreams of making it on the US Olympic team had slowly drifted away. It was a hard choice, but in the middle of your senior year, you decided to hang up your skates for the last time. 

Even though you weren’t actively playing, your love for the sport didn’t die along with your Olympic dream. In fact, you found a new way to get involved with the sport, deciding that you were going to major in public relations and team management. Your goal had shifted, and now you wanted to be the first female Hockey manager. 

But like most goals, that was easier said than done. 

It was 2024, and even with the establishment of the Profession Women’s Hockey League and the US Women’s Hockey team winning numerous gold medals on the world stage, women in the league still weren’t taken seriously. You were told all through college, as you sat in your team management class to choose a different sport like swimming or volleyball or gymnastics. More “women friendly sports”. You weren’t going to throw in the towel and give up on your dream, no matter how many teams had denied you. 

When you were hired by the North Island Daggers, you weren’t sure what to expect. They were known as the joke team of the NHL. Always finishing last every season, being most teams shoe-in win when they played against one another. Having gone from working as a PR rep for the Dallas Stars, you felt as though this was a demotion, a punishment for a freelance article you had written about how women were being treated in the NHL. You knew the article was going to be risky when you sat down and wrote it. You just didn’t expect to get a call an hour after the article was published telling you that you were being sent to work with the Daggers. 

“We’re happy to have you here,” Beau Simpson, spoke as your heels clicked down the long hallway behind him, “As you can see, we need a little PR help.” 

“Yeah, I saw that fight between Holloway and Seresin the other night.” The whole NHL fan base saw the fight, but you weren’t about to tell Simpson something he was probably painfully aware of, “Interesting decision to bench him before going against Endmonton though. He’s your strongest player.” 

“Can’t let him get away with bad behavior,” Simpson shrugged, stopping outside a large conference room with glass walls and a large oval table in the middle, “Hey, I’m sorry about your dad. I got the honor of playing against him my rookie year. Hell of a player. Terrible thing, cancer is.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” It had been months since your dad died from cancer, shocking the world of hockey. You thought by now you would have been used to hearing condolences from strangers, but they still made your ears burn and your face flush. 

Simpson nodded courtly, opening the door to the conference room where two sharply dressed men and a woman sat. 

“Gentlemen, this is Y/N L/N, the new PR rep for the North Island Daggers,” Simpson introduced you as the two men stood up, and you immediately knew who they were. 

“Pete Mitchell and Tom Kazansky, co-owners of the North Island Daggers,” You answered, shaking both of their hands, “An honor to meet you, both.” 

“The honor is all ours, Miss Hamilton,” Pete smiled at you as he sat down. 

You wanted to correct him, but decided not to. Sometimes, it was easier to let people call you by your father’s last name, than try and explain why you dropped it and took up your mother’s maiden name. The world of sports was a game of who you know and who you belong to. If your last name was that of a hall of famer, you were almost guaranteed anything and everything you wanted, and you hated that. When you were vying for the spot on Team USA, you wanted it because you were skilled, not because of who your dad was. The same stood now, as you were trying to work your way up in the hockey world. You wanted this job because you were good at it, not because your dad was hockey royalty. 

“I’m Mrs. Wright, the executive public relations and human resource officer,” The woman, who’s blonde hair was slicked back in an impressive bun, held her hand out to you. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Wright,” You smiled at her, trying hard to not gawk at the huge diamond ring that sat on her finger. 

“We’re glad you could join us on such short notice,” Tom spoke, “We know that you just got let go from the Stars for a shit reason if you ask me.”

“Thanks,” You muttered, clasping your hands on the conference table in front of you, “I am happy to be picked up by the Daggers though. My dad really enjoyed his time here as a rookie.” 

“Damn, we missed him when he left,” Pete shook his head, as if he were remembering the “good ol’ days” as your father referred to him during his rookie season. 

“The reason we hired you, Miss Hamilton,” Mrs. Wright spoke up, breaking up the reminiscing, “Is because we are in the middle of a PR storm. We have a player who has caused quite the controversy lately and is in danger of losing his sponsors. From our research, we know that you do fantastic work with building player profiles, turning rookies into known players, making the bad guys look like the good boys. We need you to do that.” 

“Okay,” You nodded, “So am I taking over the social media accounts like I did in Dallas, or-” 

Mrs. Wright looked apprehensively at Pete and Tom, who sat up a bit in their seats. 

“Not necessarily,” Pete cleared his throat, “You will be paired one on one with one of our problematic players.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, before realization struck you, “Wait. . .” You held your finger up, “You hired me to be a glorified babysitter?” 

— — — 

“I don’t need a babysitter.” 

Jake grunted as he set the barbell back on the rack above him. His gray workout t-shirt was drenched in sweat as he sat up, looking both his agent and trainer in the eye, “I’m fine on my own.” 

“You got in a fight,” His agent, Steven, deadpanned. 

“Everyone gets in fights, its hockey,” Jake shrugged as Javy handed him his water bottle. 

“With your own teammate.” 

Jake glanced over to the other side of the workout room, where Wren Holloway was working out with Bradley Bradshaw, still supporting a black eye from the fight that broke out a couple of days ago on the ice. The fight, which was being dubbed “The Dagger Civil War,” was definitely not a highlight Jake liked to have hanging over him. But in the game of hockey, sometimes the tension runs high, and in that particular game, Jake had gone out looking for a fight from the moment the puck first dropped. It was just unfortunate that his opponent was his teammate. 

“Look,” Steven shifted on his feet, crossing his arms across his chest, “The fight is the least of our issues right now. We have sponsorships ready to pull out on you because you’ve been labeled the “hot head” and the “problematic child”. And what is this that I hear about an affair with the coach’s wife?” 

Jake groaned, standing up from the workout bench, and taking the sweat towel from Javy’s hand. Both of them followed Jake through the weight room. The Daggers might’ve been the worst team in the NHL, having a history of one play-off appearance in the 70 years since they’ve been a team, they sure did have one of the nicest facilities Jake had ever been in. State of the art work-out and physical therapy rooms. Rehabilitation pools, and an indoor track. In-house chefs that served breakfast, lunch and dinner, plus tons of snack shops throughout the building. And the best part, two full sized practice rinks. 

Jake walked over to the smoothie shack, where a bright-eyed hopeful girl sat down his regular smoothie order, his name with a heart around it. 

“Here you go, Jake,” She batted her eyes as Jake took the smoothie, making a clear display of taking off the sticky note with her number on it and setting it back on the counter.  

“Not interested, but thanks,” He nodded, turning back to Javy and Steven, who glared at him, “What?” 

“You sleep with her too?” Steven asked and Javy snickered. Jake was going to shake his head no, but had to double check who it was behind the counter, before shaking his head. Steven rolled his eyes as Jake walked towards one of the rehab rooms. 

The moment Jake laid down on the exam table, Javy got right to work. Javy and Jake were like a well oiled machine, they knew one another since they were kids, growing up next door to one another. They played on the same youth hockey team, until it became too expensive for Javy’s family to afford. It broke the young boy’s heart to have to give up the sport he loved, and Jake had begged his parents to help Javy be able to play. Even though the Seresins insisted on paying for Javy’s fees and equipment, the boy didn’t have the same passion for the sport as Jake did, and he thought it would be a waste. Instead, Javy found another way to be on the bench next to Jake, working as the team equipment manager, to athletic training assistant, to athletic trainer for the Daggers. 

“Shoulder still bothering you?” Javy asked, grabbing Jake’s arm and moving it in a variety of ways. 

“Yeah,” Jake grimaced, “Still has that whole clicking thing going on. Guess that hit from Svec was harder than I thought.” 

Javy snickered, remembering the hit Jake suffered a few weeks ago, “He laid you out flat, man.” 

“Shut up,” Jake grumbled. 

“Mhm,” Steven cleared his throat, directing Jake’s attention back to him, “We weren’t done talking yet.” Jake rolled his eyes, which only seemed to infuriate his manager, “This is serious, Jake,” Steven sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Simpson wants you out, wants you so far gone from the Daggers, hell, probably even the National Hockey League.” 

Jake scoffed, “I’m the best on the team."

“You haven’t been for weeks.” 

Jake huffed again, knowing that Steven was right. He has been off his game for the past couple of weeks. Missing key plays and open teammates. Almost all his shots were deflected or totally missing the net. Not to mention, he felt like his skating had modeled that of a newborn calf, shaky and off balance. The hit from Svec several weeks ago, was just the tip of the iceberg of the list of injuries Jake seemed to have racked up in the past couple of weeks. 

“Look, your spot is in danger.” 

That got Jake’s attention, making him sit up from his laid back position, “What are you talking about?” 

“There’s a kid down on the juniors that is amazing. He’s either been breaking or matching all your records. They are calling him the next you.” 

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t really pay attention to any other league but the one he was currently in. Of course, he kept his eye out for any information about the national team. It had been his dream since he got to the NHL to play for Team USA and make it to the olympics. Playing on the junior team had been one of his greatest memories, and when he felt for the first time, he could actually make it in this sport. 

How could he have ignored that there was someone breaking all his records? 

“Who is this kid?” Jake asked. 

“Drake Silvia. He’s signed to UMich, but also a projected first round draft pick,” Steven clenched his jaw, “They want him. And they will have him. . . at your expense.” 

Jake felt like his heart dropped to his ass. He had never felt the feeling of fear for his spot on a team before. He’s always been the best. Always been the hot commodity that every team wants, that every coach would roll out the red carpet to get him to visit their team. Before he decided to go straight to the drafts, he had nearly every single college in the country and some in Canada, begging for an ounce of his attention. 

“However,” Steven looked around the empty rehab room before leaning in close, “Henderson signed his retirement forms this morning.” 

“What?!” Jake spat out, “He’s retiring?” 

“No announcement will be made until the season is over,” Steven nodded, “But Henderson is done after this year. . . and the captain spot will be open. It could be yours.” 

Besides making Team USA, being named captain has also been on the list of dreams for Jake. All the hockey greats have been captains. Gretzky, Crosby, Hamilton. Jake’s childhood bedroom had their jerseys hanging up in frames. To Jake, no one remembered you unless you were the captain, or won a Stanley Cup. And Jake wanted both. He wanted both as badly as he needed oxygen to live. 

Jake sighed, knowing what the answer to his question was going to be, “So what do I have to do?”

A smirk arose on Steven’s cheeks, “If you want to stay on this team, and make captain, you need to abide by the rules. And that means having a babysit-” He shook his head correcting himself, “A personal PR rep.” 

“Fine, I’ll take the babysitter.”

taglist: @dempy @marchingicenotes7 @abaker74 @aworldwideapart @atarmychick007 @hookslove1592 @whatislovevavy @lynnevanss @djs8891 @jessicab1991 @senawashere @bethbunnyy @bradshawbaby @coconut152 @jazminlahey20 @averyhotchner @misconceptionmistress @drxgxnslxyer @atinytinaa @hangmansgbaby @buckysteveloki-me @himbos-on-ice @krispybearbouquet @fandom-princess-forevermore @seitmai @ateliersss @kmc1989 @bradshawsvinyl @my-name-is-baby @ashloveshockey

taglist form

[roosterbruiser]

𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐞

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏��𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"Wait, don't--!"

His hips stutter as he throbs inside of you, anchoring you against his slick body with a painfully muscular arm. He hears you over the sound of the rushing water, over the blood rushing through his ears, over his ragged breathing.

And really, Jake isn't an asshole. Not in the ways that count, at least--especially with the women he has sex with.

So he does try to pull out as soon as he realizes that's what you mean by your unfinished sentence, the one that was strangled through your grit teeth. But the thing about that is you didn't give him much notice--granted, he shouldn't have assumed you were on birth control--and he was genuinely already partway through spilling inside you when he registered your words.

"Shit," he sighs, reeling at your sudden loss of contact.

You're pressed up against the wall still, breasts against the steamy tiles, and you're panting too.

"Shit, I'm really sorry," he apologizes, shaking his head. "I just didn't even realize what you said and by the time it registered, I--!"

You shake your head, sighing.

"Hey, it's fine," you tell him, really meaning it. "This is why God made morning-after pills."

It makes him laugh--it's a dry thing, one that is riddled with exhaustion. He's spent honestly--going from pulling 7G's to fucking you so furiously in the shower had proven to be a lot on his body.

You want to make a joke about child support or something, something dumb and inappropriate to say to a man that just accidentally came inside you the first time you had sex. But you don't say anything--you just catch your breath and so does he. It's quiet aside from the running shower and your heaving chests.

Jake leans forward and lets his body rest over yours, forehead resting against your shoulder. He's very warm--which you know is not just because of the lukewarm water raining down over the two of you. He's always warm--hot-blooded. And Jake thinks you feel very soft beneath him; he thinks that he might even like the way your skin feels pressed against his. And you both are just being still, resting in each other's arms. It's probably one of the only times the two of you have ever been in another's presence without arguing.

Before Jake even really knows what he's doing, still in that post-orgasm haze and enthralled in the absolute strangeness of just having fucked you, he presses his lips against your shoulder. At first he just kisses very softly, little things he peppers all along your naked shoulders and neck. And you don't tense at the feeling--for some reason, with your cheek agains the tile and your hair slung over your other shoulder, you're totally okay with him kissing your skin. And then he just lets his lips rest, stilling right there on the back of your neck.

And in almost total tandem, the both of you think it: this is kind of nice.

"You okay?" He asks suddenly, shooting up when he realizes that he's been kissing your skin.

You nod, eyes slipping shut.

"I think so," you whisper.

Things are different after that.

At first it's small things.

Like when Jake meets you at the pharmacy after the two of you leave base (at separate times, of course), he not only buys you Plan B but a protein bar and Gatorade, too.

"Post-coitus protein," he tells you when you look up at him with raised eyebrows.

He sits in your car as you take the pill, fiddling with your radio, looking at the interior you keep so clean. You have a strawberry air freshener in there that smells like his sisters childhood bedroom--he likes it. It's a nice evening so the windows are rolled down and the sun is setting in a blaze of orange and pink in the distance as the blinking, neon PHARMACY sign casts a red light over your face.

"Easy-peasy," you whisper, stuffing the box back in the grocery bag.

He nods, smiling softly, leaning back in your passenger seat. You're leaning back, too, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel. Your hair is still wet and the warm wind feels good when it filters through it.

"Wanna talk about it?" Jake asks.

It very nearly startles you when he says it. But when you look over at him, he's still fiddling endlessly with the radio and fixing his gaze everywhere but you.

"The sex? Or the...Plan B?"

He pulls his brows together, finally glancing up at you as a Joni Mitchell song floats through the radio. You look very soft right now--your face is naked and your damp hair is pulled back. You don't look angry at him for once and your face is open.

"Your dad," he says after a moment, swallowing hard.

It's vulnerable, really, for both of you. Jake is sitting in your car after fucking you, after buying you a protein bar and a Plan B, after splitting a lemon-lime gatorade with you, and A Case Of You is playing as he looks into your glassy eyes. And you had a breakdown--finally cracked and told someone about your father and the little time you have left with him. Then he made you cum and fucked you against the shower wall and now you're here--basking quietly in the glow of the pharmacy sign.

It's confusing, too, because up until about two hours ago, Jake Seresin was just about your least favorite person on earth. But now you think that he looks downright pretty when he's being earnest the way he is right now. And he thinks that you look beautiful, too, even with that drop of Gatorade on your bottom lip.

"Not right now," you say quietly, shaking your head.

Three hours ago, if he'd have asked, you'd have snarled at him. You probably would've hissed, "Not to you, dickhead." But things are different now. You both know it.

He's not hurt that you don't want to talk about it. He gets it--really, he does.

"Yeah, I get that," Jake says softly, trying to remain casual even though there's a strange sense of affection for your capturing every vital organs in his body. "I'm here if you...want to."

You nod, biting your thumbnail.

"Thanks," you whisper.

"And I guess, um, like for the record..." Jake says softly, scratching the back of his neck just to have something to do with his hands, "I don't think you're a bitch."

Something jolts inside of you, climbs up your chest and sits thickly in your throat. It feels strangely close to affection.

"Thank you," you whisper, biting your lip. "I don't think you're that big of a dick."

And then you're both laughing--it's the first time you two have ever really shared a laugh together. He's always heard your laugh from the other side of the room, in some conversation that he isn't a part of. Being so close to it now makes his fingers feel warm.

"I am a dick, huh?" He sighs, still smiling.

You shrug.

"You can be," you say, sighing. "But at least now I know you let ladies finish first."

He snorts softly.

"I'm a dick, not a monster."

Then you two are sharing your second laugh together. It fills your little car and nestles in snugly against your strawberry air freshener and Plan-B trash.

"Well, I've known plenty of monsters," you sigh, rolling your eyes at the mere thought of ex-boyfriend's and their ineffective fingers and short strokes.

"You're giving me a big head," Jake teases.

You smile--it's a real, genuine smile. The stretch of it on your lips feels unfamiliar. It's been a great while since you've smiled, you realize.

"I can deflate that ego anytime," you tell him, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Just give me the go-ahead when you're ready."

He takes a swig of your Gatorade. You watch him, watch his pink lips wrap around the rim, watch his throat swell as he swallows. He looks beautiful right now--partly in the afterglow and partly just because he is beautiful. That is undeniable now.

Then he offers the bottle to you--you take a drink, too.

"You like lemon-lime, right?" He asks.

He's asking fruitlessly--he knows you do. He's seen you buy it at the base vending machine more than once.

You nod. Of course you do. But he already knows that.

Another thing that changes is that he saves a seat for you. It starts the very next morning the two of you are on base together.

To the untrained eye, it would seem like nothing. But your eye isn't untrained. When you walk into the training room on Monday morning, Jake is sitting at the desk with his feet firmly planted on the floor, not in the seat beside him like they usually are. And when you slip in beside him silently, the way he was hoping you would, he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

"Mornin'," he greets quietly, chewing on a tooth pick.

You smile softly as you unpack your bag, nodding at him in greeting.

"Good morning."

He taps his knuckles on the table, trying to keep his voice steady.

"How was your weekend?" He asks.

You shrug.

"Fine. Lots of family coming in and out so...loud, I guess," you breathe. "How was yours?"

Something in his throat feels tight that you're just mentioning this fact in passing. He knows that your family is filtering in and out of your home because your father is dying--that this time must be very precious for you and yours and you're still coming into work every single day like nothing is wrong. But you're telling him this now, the only person on this base that knows about your ailing father, and it feels like you trust him. And you suppose that you accidentally kind of do trust him now--a little bit more than you did on Friday at 1 o'clock.

"Just great," he sighs.

Truth be told, he had thought of you all weekend. He was confused about the whole thing, since the two of you were sworn enemies but have now found yourselves in the no-man's-land between enemies and friends and lovers.

The next morning, the seat beside him is open again. And this time, there's a lemon-lime Gatorade waiting for you there like it's marking your spot.

And after that, it just keeps happening. Each morning, Jake somehow gets on base before you, buys a Gatorade, and leaves it at your seat. You wonder if he's spending a fortune in quarters and for about a month, he is--until he thinks better of it and just buys a pack of lemon-lime in bulk and starts bringing them from home.

Other members of the squadron notice that the two of you have seemingly formed some sort of truce, but no one is brave enough to outright ask what's happened between the two of you. Payback and Rooster sniff around wherever they can, trying to snuff out who the winner of their bet is, but you and Jake remain mum.

The next time you have sex, it's less of a surprise.

It's almost two months later--two months full of everyone dancing around the fact that your father is dying, two months of your family's door being a revolving one, two months of the stress of your recent detachment--when it all reaches a head.

You need a release and despite your better judgment a few weeks ago, you'd given Jake your phone number. Your text messages started our sporadic and random--sometimes just sending each other gossip you heard in the hangar or memes that made you think of the other. But then they'd evolved into something more constant than that recently--the two of you even catching a movie or a late dinner here or there.

So when you showed up at his door past midnight on a Saturday, almost two months since your shower encounter, he wasn't all that surprised to see you. It wasn't very odd to see each other off base now.

But what surprised him is how quickly you kissed him, walking over the threshold of his front door hastily. And he's kissing you back right away, blinking away his chock and his previous fatigue. You're ferocious in your kisses, all tongue and teeth and spit, and he's trying to keep up with you.

"Hi," he mumbles into your mouth, his voice deliciously gravelly.

"Hey," you whisper back, pulling back for a moment to behold him.

He looks good right now--scruffy and comfortable with his beard and his sweatpants low on his hips and his old band t-shirt. He's had a couple of beers and his lips taste like Stella Artois and peanuts. Before you came over, he was sitting on his couch, watching some highlight reel of a football game and putting off getting ready for bed.

And he's looking right back at you, at your pupils that are blown and your cheeks that are flushed. You are desperate for him like you were the first time the two of you touched, but it's different now. It's different because the two of you don't loathe each other--there's actually something between the two of you that resembles a friendship.

"Everything okay?" He asks quietly, his hands firmly planted on your hips as you press yourself into him and lace your fingers in his hair.

"No," you tell him honestly, biting your lip.

He wants to press you more--wants you to tell him what's wrong. He wants you to let it all out and he actually wants to listen to it because the two of you are suddenly people that care about each other. He cares about your Aunt Lisa and her bitchy comments that she makes to your mom and the way it hurts your feelings, too. He cares about your dad starting hospice last week. He cares about you skipping lunch most days--which has prompted him to start packing you bags of apples and walnuts and cheese--and he cares that you don't like red wine at all.

And you can feel that care--really, you can. Whoever the Jake was before you had sex is not the Jake that's looking into your eyes now with his brows blanched in sympathy. This Jake that's holding you genuinely wants you to be okay--this Jake hasn't tried anything sexual with you since your first encounter but is kissing you back right away.

Despite yourself and your efforts, you care about him, too. You care that he was grounded for two weeks--enough for you to have your dad talk to Cyclone and get the penalty dropped. You care that he doesn't usually get invited to group hangouts outside of The Hard Deck and have deemed yourself the official Hangman-inviter. You care that he likes rom-coms but doesn't like to admit it--so you pretend to suggest them all on your own.

"What can I do?" Jake asks, tenderly reaching up to swipe his knuckles across your cheek.

You lean into his touch, lean into his calloused fingers, and let your eyes fall shut softly.

"Fuck me," you whisper.

He nods, brows furrowed.

"I can do that," he whispers to you.

And all at once, things are happening. He's bracing his forearms beneath your ass and you're wrapping your legs around his hips. You're kissing and panting, tugging at the hems of each others shirts and leaving a trail of discarded clothing on the stairs as he carries you to his bedroom. And then he's laying you down on the bed, tugging your pants off without breaking your kiss, swallowing every precious noise that your mouth makes. He loves those sounds, loves the way they feel on his lips.

Then, after a few more minutes of kissing and petting and shedding, you're both naked.

You're lying flat on your back in his dark bedroom against his cold sheets, your eyes bleary with pleasure as he stands over you. He's naked except for the silver chain on his neck, his cock pressing thickly against his thigh. You're both flushed all over, both silently letting your eyes graze over each other's bodies.

Without another word, he reaches for you. He's careful with you as he first sinks his fingers down on your cunt--very carefully grazing your lips and gathering the wetness that has grown there. And he's just gazing down at you, treasuring that little crinkle between your brows and that twitch in the meat of your thighs. And when his fingers slip over your clit, he keens at the way your chest rises off the bed, at the way you inhale your breaths so sharply.

It feels good--like overwhelmingly good. He knows how to touch you, he knows where to touch you. All of his movements are seemingly perfectly calculated, one finger rubbing lazy circles on your clit while the other pushes into you. He's gentle, pumping at the pace you desire, bringing his other hand to his own cock to relinquish some of the tension that has risen there.

There's no haste. You two still very obviously want each other, you two are still very obviously desperate for each other, but you're not in the locker-room on base anymore. You're here in Jake's dark bedroom and he's savoring every moment that his fingers are buried in you.

"Jake," you whisper, clenching his sheets.

"I know, baby," he coos softly, squaring his jaw as he picks up his pace just slightly, "I know. I'll get you there."

His words alone are making you quake, making your toes curl. But everything he's doing just feels so good, so perfect. You know you must be absolutely slick with anticipation, that his fingers are more than enough to push you over the edge. He knows this, too--which is why he stops suddenly.

"What--?" You pant, sitting up on your elbows.

But Jake is just pressing his fingers against your mouth, the ones that had just been inside of you. And you're taking them without hesitation, a mutual sense of trust aiding in your malleability.

His eyes are dark as he watches you suck his fingers clean of your arousal, as you swirl your tongue along his fingertips. But they're not dark in a way that frightens you--they're lustful and adoring.

So when he lowers to his knees, when he hooks your knees over his shoulders and scoots you to the end of the bed, you don't shy away from him. You lay back on the bed, kiss each of his fingers and let them settle against your right nipple, and blink up at his ceiling.

When his tongue first circles your clit, you cry out, back arching off the bed. And because his hand is already there, he lets his palm lie flat in the middle of your chest, and pushes you back down against the mattress.

You taste just like he thought you would, very sweet and earthy on his tongue, and he can't think of any other place that he would rather be than hear between your quivering legs. He lets his tongue run across your slick folds and settle comfortably on your silky clit, lapping at it languidly as you writhe above him.

"Jake, that's so good," you manage to whimper, gasping as he hums against you.

"Want you to cum," he mumbles against you. "Cum for me, Wisty."

You're mewling, grasping for anything to hold you down to the bed as an impossibly tight coil springs in your belly. You can hardly catch your breath, can hardly keep your hips from bucking, when he reaches out to take your hands. It's a simple gesture, one that anyone in the world could do, but you are grateful for it. You dig your nails in his skin and he just holds you right back.

Maybe it's the sheer intimacy of it all that pushes you over the edge finally--or maybe it's because Jake is just that damn good with his tongue--but you nearly black out when you cum.

And because he cares about you, because he really does want you to feel good and be good, he coaxes you through it all. He holds your hands tight, keeps a flat palm to your chest so you don't come completely off the bed, laps up every bit of your nectar without overstimulating you.

And then he kisses his way up your legs, over your precious thighs and hips, all up your belly and between your breasts. Then he kisses up the column of your throat, nipping very lightly, bringing his hands to softly knead your breasts.

When his face finally hovers yours, when you're blinking up at him with bleary and glassy eyes and wet eyelashes and bitten lips, he feels like he's going to blurt something out that he might regret any other time.

"That was...nice," you whisper, voice trembling.

Truthfully, that was the best orgasm you've ever had.

"Nice, huh?" He laughs that pretty laugh, carefully pressing your hair behind your ears and letting his hand linger against your cheek.

"Didn't want you to get a big head," you meekly answer, smiling weakly.

The smile that tugs on his lips is one of utter fondness--one that usually prefaces sweet nothings. So you lean up and press your mouth on his, your lashes fluttering shut in tandem. The kiss is slow and sweet, very different than the clashing of tongue and teeth downstairs.

He slowly lowers his bare body on top of yours, pressing every surface of his skin against you, letting his cock rest against your hip. It feels good just to be this close to each other, just to be kissing each other with such sweetness.

"I really like you," Jake murmurs against your mouth.

And even if he's had a couple of beers, he knows that's not why he says it. He says it because he means it, because his cock is pressing against you, because he can still taste you on his tongue.

You thought your head would be spinning in this post-orgasm euphoria, but it's not. You feel everything is crystal clear as you rest your forehead against Jake's, as you swipe your thumbs cross his cheek softly. Affection is sitting very heavy on your body now, similar in weight to Jake.

"I really like you, too," you whisper.

You two have the good sense to use a condom this time, which hardly interrupts the flow of things, not when your blood is running so hot for each other.

He hovers you, relishing in the feeling of your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, relishing in your skin beneath his palms and your half-lidded eyes looking up into his. He's lined himself up perfectly, desperate to feel your warm walls around him, but then he pauses and stills--just like last time.

He reaches down, less hesitant than he was before, and lets his hand rest on your cheek. If you were another girl, one he didn't know very well, maybe he'd press his thumb into your mouth and have you suckle as he fucked you. But he merely strokes the soft skin of your cheek. And then you turn just slightly, just enough to press your lips against the pad of his thumb in the most tender kiss he's ever been given.

"You want this?" He asks, his voice strained.

You nod, leaning into his touch. Jake feels like no one has ever trusted him enough to lean into the palm of his hand like this--it feels good. It feels really, really good.

"Yes," you whisper quietly. "I want you."

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭: 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦

that gif is my entire note. that's all. I'm deceased. goodbye now, world.

here is my tag list!!

also would the world want another part of this?? maybe when iceman...dies...or something angsty like that?

[waklman]

Fake it

Chapter Four: Waste My Time

synopsis: a pair of best friends, one apartment, and one fake dating ploy to get jake’s ex girlfriend back, will end well right? wrong.

pairing: jake seresin x female reader.

warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of drugs, talks of binge eating, one instance of masturbation, mentions of vomit, jake and reader are both 20. this blog is 18+.

word count: 7.7k

college au, fake dating trope, roomate trope

previous chapter | next chapter | fake it masterlist

If Jake had known prior to his shower—where he planned to attend to his morning problem—that his best friend would be on the forefront of his mind, he would've truly chopped his dick off with the kitchen knife you stowed in the bathroom cabinet. 

You had been convinced it would come in handy, in case an intruder conveniently found either of you mid-shower. And maybe it was a good idea to leave it there after all, because he might actually make use of it. 

Raking a hand through his wet hair, Jake tosses his head back, allowing the cold water to run down his face. But it doesn’t do much to get his mind off the issue at hand. There is no way he’s about to rub one out—not when your face is currently being screened behind his closed lids. 

“This can’t be real,” he groans in disbelief, dragging a hand down his face, his heavy head dropping forward with it. 

Warily, Jake opens his eyes to the water running down his toned stomach, practically guiding him to look at the veins lining his thighs, and the untimely hard on he’s sporting between them. And though, he's staring straight down at a very clear problem, he feels the weight of his other predicament wash down on him instead.

His ex-girlfriend was far gone by the time he reached you last night—yet Jake still went ahead and kissed you, for longer than he anticipated too. Simply because he just wanted to. And if he was being honest with himself, this hadn’t exactly been the first time he’s wanted to either.

But in his defense, it had been years since he sensed that bleary feeling in his chest, the one that gave him the uncontrollable urge to just lean in and kiss you—and who would’ve known it would spawn again?

Actually, Jake should’ve known. 

Like clockwork, that urge flares up when his mind is mostly cluttered—when every part of him is riddled by heartbreak. And Jake knew you’d always be there whenever he was on the chopping block, and it’d be wrong if he went looking for affection from you everytime he was. Because that's weird. You were his best friend—not some fling he could swap spit with each time got out of a failed relationship. 

So instead, he learned to wean himself off the compulsion by simply touching you.

Whether it was pinching the back of your sweater when the elevator rattled, holding onto some part of you to make sure you didn’t linger far, or coaxing you to sleep by gliding a hand along your spine. 

Jake just needed to feel you. 

Strangely, it was enough to tame that bizarre feeling that struck him once in a while. But despite his best efforts, he didn’t stick to his usual methods last night. Kendall's disparaging remarks must’ve really got to him. And there you were when it finally spilled over, standing there like your sixteen year old self did once before, waiting for him. 

Making the choice to just let it go, Jake assures himself that he was just confused, again. All thanks to a girl in a skirt so short it could pass as a belt—and Jake pitifully notched onto that tiny belt of hers. 

With that matter put to rest, he swallows thickly—returning back to his original point of concern. His frustration seems to have gone straight to his dick today. By no means, was waking up hard, unusual for him, but it’s particularly more difficult to ignore this morning. 

Now, he’s left staring down at his, not exactly little, problem. But the longer Jake stares—the more the self-restraining thoughts trickle out his ears, joining the stream of water running down his body, and mazing through the patterns of the rubber bath mat underneath him. 

“Fuck it,” he whispers to himself, roughly spitting into his palm. 

This is so wrong—but this is so—the only time he’s doing this. The blond had only joked about wringing one out while you were still home, but now he’s seriously following through. 

“Ah shit,” he hisses, rubbing the wad of saliva over his tip, brows pinched in concentration. 

Bringing a rough palm down his aching length, Jake’s breathing labors as he starts to work himself in already desperate strokes. Maybe it’s because your strawberry body wash is sitting on the edge of the bathtub. The muscles rippled on his wet back contract from the movement. Maybe it’s because your pink toothbrush is sitting next to his by the sink. 

Gritting his teeth, Jake puts more focus on getting this over with, coiling his calloused hand even tighter around himself. Maybe it’s because his ex is making it hard for him to understand anything. 

With the repetitive graze over a sensitive vein, Jake’s eyes snap shut, breath hitching in his throat—concentrating on that sensation. Maybe Jake likes kissing you more than he thought he would. 

The sound of low grunts and heavy panting permeates the bathroom, overpowering the echoing of water droplets panging against the shower floor and trickling down the drain. And just as he’s nearing his edge, overworking his forearm in quick motions—there’s an urgent knock at the door, followed by your muffled voice. “Jake? I really need to pee. I can’t hold it in…And you’ve been there for so long.” 

The end of your plea comes off as a whine, forcing him to immediately rip his hand off. 

Jake’s eyes flutter open to blink hastily, lungs burning as they expand, forcing himself to overcome his haze as quickly as possible. God, he hopes you didn't hear a single second of that. 

“Shit, um. Sorry, Princess,” he rasps, clearing his throat immediately after.

“Doors unlocked, you can come in,” he establishes, hitting his flushed chest with a fisted hand to clear his throat again. It takes him a second, but he finally pulls himself together. 

With a soft click of the doorknob, Jake assumes you’ve scuffled inside. A faint clattering by the toilet can be heard before you desperately yell out, “Cover your ears!”

“...Hurry! I’m—I might piss on myself,” you squeak, curling your toes against the tiles.

The warning directed towards the shower curtain is useless, because Jake's already cupping both hands over his burning ears. “They’re covered,” He spurts out a short laugh, turning his head, shouting the confirmation back at you. 

The automatic response had been programmed into him from the countless times your bladder coincided with his showers—mostly during the trips your families took together.

Maintaining the nostalgic positioning of his hands, Jake recalls the one time you slipped off the porcelain toilet at his beach house and refused to let him jump out the shower to check on you. At one point during that incident, you had thrown a roll of toilet paper at his pruney fingers when you spotted them curling around the shower screen to pull it back. 

Jake’s ear nearly fell off at the reprimanding he received from his mother, following that—when he decided to joke about massaging your sore butt during dinner.

With uncanny timing, Jake’s hands fall from the side of his head as your bold thumbs-up breaches past the shower curtain, coming into view in front of him, signaling that you’re done. 

He prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue, staring at your tiny hand that’s lined directly in front of his lower region. 

“Hey now. You sure you wanna be stickin’ a hand in here baby?” He taunts, with a teasing head tilt—even when you’re unable to see him. 

Baby. Your hand. In the shower. Where he’s naked. 

At that, you immediately withdraw the arm you stuck in there. Then, your small voice bleeds past the small crack of the curtain. “..I don’t want to know what you meant by that.” 

“Step inside if you do, though,” he shamelessly offers, stretching his jaw to control his amusement, but the playful lilt in his voice gives it away.

“I..I am not doing that!” 

Before Jake can add on to your fluster, you’re trotting off.

With your faded footsteps nearing the door, you make your exit back to your bedroom with a huff and a whispered complaint under your breath. Jake laughs at that, tipping his head back into the water as more memories come flooding in. 

You really haven’t changed from the time you clumsily tumbled off the rim of his toilet seat.

Considering the fact that the only people you ever spoke to on campus were either frat affiliates, or freshmen who occasionally needed directions—you never really caught the chance to make friends with other girls at school. It wasn’t intentional, of course. You had just grown so attached to Jake, that you found it difficult to harbor that kind of friendship with anyone else. 

However, that disconnect from girls your age didn’t mean you were that different from them. You had an idea of what any other girl would do if they were in your situation. It would only make sense that they’d do a healthy amount of snooping on Kendall’s social media—and all her friends’—and perhaps her parents’ too. For research purposes, obviously. 

But, maybe that was not the best way to start off your day.

After an alarming amount of online stalking, you’re quickly swept up by a sudden frenzy. Because how was it physically possible for someone to shine through their pictures? She quite literally radiated in every single post you zoomed in and out of. And the flood of comments you scrolled through made sure to remind her too. 

There was no point in denying that she won the genetic lottery either. And apparently you weren’t one of the lucky winners. Because, if you were, then maybe clothes wouldn’t sit on you like it was your enemy—either strangling or suffocating you. There was sadly no inbetween, really. But, it looked like she got along swimmingly with her clothes.

Was building an alliance with your own outfits, something you had to work on now?

At that revelation, you clumsily dart towards your closet, nearly tripping over the blanket still clung to your legs. And it must’ve taken a whole twenty minutes of you combing through overworn shorts and a thick stack of failed crochet hats, to successfully track down an old denim skirt you bought over a year ago. 

Batting off unvoiced doubts, you squeeze your legs into the stiff material and hastily throw on the oversized sweater Jake bought you—praying it would hide the fact that the skirt was two sizes too small. The light layer of makeup you quickly apply next isn’t your best attempt, but it’s enough to make you look alive. 

You realize that it seemed a touch ridiculous to be suddenly concerned about how you looked, but given that you were playing as Jake’s new girlfriend—the stress was very much warranted. His ex’s instagram was a testament that if she were to sport a potato sack, she’d still outshine you by miles—many miles actually, probably enough miles to wrap around the entire earth twice. It’s only natural that you would make an effort to appear somewhat decent in comparison. 

Mentally running through your plans for today, you unintentionally wander into the kitchen and start an attack on a tub of icecream—without even realizing it. It’s only when you’re half way through the container—that Jake finally steps into the kitchen, hair slightly damp from his lack of towel drying, a pair of gray sweats sitting loose around his waist, and another variant of his black hoodies clung on his upper half. 

“Oh, there you are.” He cranes his neck to see what you’re so focused on.

Jake feels a slight sense of disappointment creep in when you don’t give him a single sign of acknowledgment. Even with the lame attempt to louden his footsteps, you’re still quietly standing by the counter, back turned to him. 

Coming to a halt behind you, he briefly gives the back of your head an unimpressed look, before casually resting a palm onto the table top in front of you. 

The ends of his hoodie drawstrings start to dangle over the top of your head when you unconsciously lean back into him. Jake hums contently, steadying his feet so you could comfortably lay your weight onto his chest. The disappointment from before lifts, slightly.

“Thought you were gonna join me in there. You coulda’ scrubbed my back or something,” he playfully laments. All you do is wriggle against him, silently making yourself comfortable. 

Out of nowhere, Jake feels the steady pace of his heartbeat begin to pick up, though, he’s not sure if it’s from the horrifying remembrance of being interrupted a little bit ago, or because it feels kind of nice to have you on him like this.

Again, with no answer from you, he looks down past his nose, eyes landing directly onto the silver spoon that’s sticking out your mouth. Jake only squints when he’s met with his own wacky reflection at the end of the utensil. 

“Okay then,” he says to himself, tracing his gaze down the shiny metal. Reaching the end of the spoon, he catches the blank stare you’re giving that tub of ice cream under those curled lashes of yours. Jake bites the inside of his cheek at the observation. 

He’s not even sure what to make of your sudden change in behavior. Not long ago, you were cutely pawing at the bathroom door, and now you’re all dolled up underneath him, raw dogging a container of ice cream. 

Gently, he pinches the end of the cold handle between two fingers, slowly pulling it from your lips. All you can do is blink dumbly at the large hand that breaks your vision, letting him take it from you. Your eyes scrunch when the sunlight trickling through the kitchen bounces off the bowl of the spoon, momentarily blinding you. 

“You gonna let me have a taste?” He genuinely asks, dipping his head down to whisper the question in your ear. He does it softly enough so it doesn’t startle you. 

You blink a few more times before rushing to nod your head. 

Permission granted, Jake dunks it back into the tub to get himself a generous scoop, pressing the spoonful of vanilla flat against his tongue, licking it clean above you. “You left some of your lipgloss on here,” he lamely shares, while eating off the sticky residue. It should gross him out, but it’s just you, so really, he couldn’t care less.

Setting the empty spoon down against the counter with a soft clatter, Jake hands end up on the front of your pants, again—for probably the third time this week. The soothing action is happening more frequently than it ever should, but you haven’t chewed him out on it—yet. And it’s not his fault he needs to wean himself off. 

“What’s with the makeup? Thought you were just hittin’ up the grocery store today.”

All you do is give him a small shrug, he takes it as an answer for now. 

There were times when Jake stumbled on his older sisters prancing around the house at random hours of the night, faces full of makeup. Out of curiosity, he’d asked them why they decided to start their enrollment in clown school—and he’d get the same response—an eye roll and annoyed exclamation of Girls just like doing their makeup randomly Jacob! You don’t get it! 

And for someone who was considered ‘a green flag’ on paper for having two sisters, Jake didn’t reap the benefits at all. Unfortunately, he was largely unaware of the things a guy should know if he grew up around girls. 

Discreetly pulling you in closer, he inhales through his nose. The taut muscles on his back relax once the scent of your strawberry body wash reaches him. “Why do you randomly do your makeup?”  

You stare at the shine of the melting desert in front of you, mildly confused by his abrupt question. 

Sure, Jake had pestered you with random questions about girls, given that you were one. But they always followed the lines of—Does this text mean she’s mad at me? or Why the fuck does she need me to pick out a nail color every two weeks? And get mad at me when I say blue? Never has he asked dumb questions in regards to you—but it’s not like he needed to anyway.

“Oh, um. I don’t know,” you bite your glossy lip, contemplatively. It takes you several seconds to come up with a better explanation than Oh, um. I don't know. Because that’s stupid, you sound stupid. 

“It just…feels good to do it, like—a confidence booster of sorts,” you finally surmise, partially honest with him. 

“Feels good, huh.” Jake repeats, trailing off as he absently runs his thumb around the rim of your metal button. 

While you weren’t aware of his large hands flirting with the entryway of your skirt before, you’re pretty much noticing it now. 

No matter how much you try to downplay the habit, it undeniably made you slightly nervous—okay, it actually made you very nervous. Because what if he accidentally pulled down your zipper—or worse—what if he saw the stupid day of the week underwear that you still wear. 

You’re not sure if you could ever live that down if he does. 

“I–um. Yeah, feels good,” you incoherently mumble, hands pathetically slick in sweat at your sides. 

He hardly gets a chance to register the mental turmoil going on under him as his brows suddenly furrow. The subtle engravings on the button of your shorts feel different, unfamiliar even.

WIth that, he stills. And without so much of a warning, Jake drags one hand around to the small of your back, pressing his palm flat against the bunched up fabric of your sweater, dragging it upward to check what shorts you decided to wear. You stagger forward, forced to crash your sweaty hands down onto the counter as he pushes you off him. 

This whole time, you were wearing a skirt.

And it’s not like Jake Seresin was opposed to the idea of girls wearing something too tight for comfort, but the dark washed band is curling into your flesh. Jake was opposed to that.

You gulp, the skin of your cheeks growing hot. Jake practically has you bent over, butt pointing up into the air. Warily, you attempt to continue the conversation as if he wasn’t checking out your skirt, in the worst way possible. “You could’ve, um, I dunno, just asked me what I’m weari–”

“This shit is digging into you, Princess,” he cuts you off firmly, flipping you around with that hand. 

Jake silently watches you, waiting for an explanation once he has you facing him. It’s quiet as you dodge his eyes. Of course, he thinks it looks weird on you. 

Eventually, you choose to look down at his front hoodie pocket like a scolded child. “I just…had too much to eat. Dairy makes me bloated,” you meekly supply, worming your hands into the empty pouch. Nervously, you begin to pick at the tiny tufts of cotton glued to the inner lining of his pocket. 

Ignoring the new feeling stirring in his stomach, Jake intently dips his middle and pointer finger into the front of your skirt, trying to get an estimate on how tight it was. They’re already losing circulation between the pudge of your tummy and the band. 

“What?” Jake scoffs incredulously, eyes rolling up and down your figure.

“You don’t eat too much. Don’t even try that with me,” he sternly cements, disapproving of your excuse. “This shit is just—not your size.” 

Using the two fingers hooked into your skirt, he tugs you forward in demonstration, causing you to let out a startled yelp. Seeing how the movement easily sends you launching forward, Jake sighs and retracts that hand from your waistband, holding you still by the hip instead. 

Moving to grab your face with his other hand, he forces you to look up at him—and your stomach bubbles, maybe because of the ice-cream. 

“I’m not gonna tell you what and what not to wear outside, ’cause my mom would fucking kill me,” he clarifies. “But, really?” Jake’s voice drops to a softer tone, considering that you look somewhat embarrassed, and not in the way he liked. 

You nod once in his hand, “I like it,” you manage to argue, cheeks squished by his fingers. If you like it, Jake can’t seem to hate it. But what Jake hates—is that he knows you’re about to head out, by yourself. 

“Okay.” His eyes flick down to your new choice of apparel. “Let me come with you today, Fuck Bradley,” he proposes, dismissing his upcoming plans with the brunette this afternoon. 

If you wanted to play dress up around him, that’s fine, but if you were going to walk around the supermarket aisles, without him trailing behind you, looking like this? He would rather go through his frat hazing twice over just so he could tag along. Your parents would kill him if he didn’t make up some excuse to watch over you. 

Somewhat bothered by your bare thighs brushing against his knees, Jake drops both hands down to pull at the sides of your skirt, but the stubborn fabric doesn’t budge. Again, he yanks it to no avail. Jake blows air through his nose, because he just needs your upper thigh to be covered at least. That’s what your mom would want, for him to look after you and all. 

“Jake,” you warn, bringing his attention back to your face. “We never end up buying what we need ‘cause you play around too much,” you put forth, glaring at him.

Jake gives your skirt one final jerk before giving up, weaving his fingers into the belt loops instead. However, under the weight of his hands, the band glides from your waist down to your hips. It covers more of your legs now. 

“I’ll behave,” he confirms, looking down at you. The specks of seriousness in his eyes says he will. But his inability to leave you alone for more than five minutes says, he won’t. 

“You never behave,” you tiredly argue, cracking your knuckles in his front pocket, accidentally pulling him closer by doing so. 

Jake cocks his head. “So? That’s what makes us work. You do all the important crap,” he points out, forgoing his seriousness from a second ago. “While I keep things fun. Don’t start pretending you don’t like it.” 

You look off to the side with a sigh. 

“I actually don’t like it,” you start, matter of factly. “And you’re not coming,” you finally conclude, brushing off the sudden memory of him keeping things fun last night. 

Rationally, you should be relieved that he remembers kissing you, it was clear in the way he wouldn’t stop teasing you about it during the entirety of the walk home. But all it does is fill you with unease. 

“My girl’s playin’ hard to get. That’s fine, I can handle you,” he continues, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. Yeah, he’s definitely not getting the permission to accompany you if he’s being so coy, this early on in the day. 

Rolling your eyes, you pivot your head to look at him again, only to realize that it’s a mistake to do so. Because you instinctively cower—when was he standing this close to you? And when did he slip his fingers through your skirt’s belt loops?

Jake’s eyes dart across your features, taking in your nervous falter. “What? You like when I call you that?” His grin only stretches wider. 

You hate that you’re still not used to his new pet names.

“What? No—no, I don’t.” You hurriedly defend yourself. 

You also hate that you can’t handle talking about said pet names without sputtering like an idiot. 

The moment you fill your cheeks with air, Jake takes it as a sign to not test his luck with you. Keeping quiet, he intently watches you let out that breath while you start to digress.

“You can join me next time, ‘cause it’s rude if you cancel on Bradley, I’ll just…come over after I’m done.” Reminded that Bradley kind of smiled at you last night, you assume he wouldn’t mind if you invited yourself over. He’s oddly let you through the door before, anyway. 

As you finish speaking, you gently nudge at Jake using the hands you still have resting in his pocket. The thick fabric, combined with his body heat, has been keeping your fingers so warm—that you almost forget the way the cold tub of vanilla felt between your hands from before.

Weirdly, Jake doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, there’s something unfamiliar that flits in his eyes, the dumb grin he’s wearing quickly fades and all he does is stare at you, like he’s unsure about something. Jake Seresin, unsure of himself, in what world?

“Promise me you’ll actually be there. Need to hear you say it,” he gently demands—suddenly.

Jake trusts you to stick to your word, but there’s some part of him that needs to know that he’ll see you again during the day. And he wasn’t going to hang out in Bradley’s room all afternoon, and have it possibly stretch into the evening—if you’re not going to show up at some point. 

You pause, lips parted, searching for any signs of his impending teasing. Because where did that come from? The last time he was this deliberate in what he said, he had asked you to be his girlfriend. 

You wonder how your sixteen year old self would react—she’d probably put on some Coldplay song and grab a nearby pillow to cry into it, if she knew he didn’t mean it in the way you wanted him to. And for some reason, you feel a twinge of her hurt flicker through your chest, when you think about it.

Above you, Jake remains still, letting you curiously scan his face. A thick lump forms in your throat when you come to the realization that he’s being serious. 

You swallow, giving him all your sincerity. “I promise.”

That unfamiliar look flashes in his eyes again when you assure him, and you instantly look down once you notice it. “Now can you, just—let me leave. We have no milk left and you can’t have your cereal dry,” you fumble, caught off guard by his sudden seriousness. 

Jake clears his throat. “Okay, yeah. I can…do that,” he starts, slowly. 

Letting his concern for your outfit drop, Jake moves off you so you can go. The weird tension in the air wrapping around you two, simply dilutes with that. 

Jake feels more confused when he watches you fetch your keys. He’d only wanted confirmation that you were seeing him later, thinking it would calm his protectiveness over you. But, it didn’t do jack shit, really. You didn’t get dressed up for no reason, nor did you wear things like that when you did.

The realization that he should’ve tried to probe more, crosses his mind when he hears you go through the front door. In the midst of his silent brooding, Jake eventually decides not to fault himself for it—because when has he ever had to pry an explanation out of you? You always told him everything. 

But as he comes to that conclusion, Jake fails to notice what you quickly pop in your mouth when you scurry out. Maybe it was because you couldn’t stop thinking of your younger self—but you reached for that reflective baggie you stole from last night’s snack table. It should do the trick to soothe that growing ache in your chest. 

“Motherfuck–” Bradley bites his lip in focus, capping off his insult. “Takin’ off half my health. Get your ass back here,” he harshly narrates under his breath. Leaning closer to his computer screen, he expertly moves his fingers against the lit up keyboard in precision with his mouse. 

Jake came over a few hours ago, and what started as a conversation between two friends—turned into Jake leaning back against Bradley’s headboard while the brunette busied himself with rounds of Fortnite. 

“I’m telling you, she wore that shit on purpose.” Jake huffs, retelling his encounter with his ex. Truthfully, Bradley’s baffled that Jake was able to stretch out the topic for this long. 

Hour five into the rant, you had tiredly strolled in the room after being let in the house by Bob. There was hardly any greeting before you immediately dove for the mattress. In a matter of seconds, you were curled around Jake’s leg like it was some life line, left cheek squished against his thigh and an arm thrown across his knee. 

Neither of them said anything about your peculiar arrival, but it wasn’t like they caught the chance to, because you had already dozed off. 

“Okay? The hell you want me to say to that.” Bradley grumbles, eyes still trained on his monitor. For the first time in his life, Bradley finds himself jealous of you. If he had to cuddle with Jake in his sleep to get a ticket out of this, then so be it. 

Before Jake can say anything, Bradley is rapidly clicking his mouse and jerks it across his mouse pad in zig zags. “No, no. Fuck—Shit. Oh fuck you.”

The gruff shout at his computer causes you to stir a bit. 

“You died?” Jake stupidly asks, cupping a hand over your ear, muffling the noise. 

Slowly, Bradley swivels his chair to face him. “No. My character just got shot in the face.” 

“Right.” Jake doesn’t care. “Anyway, you should’ve seen the skirt she was wearing,” he pauses to re-evaluate his next words. “Actually, don’t even start to imagine it.” 

“Just know it was bad,” he says flatly, hoping Bradley gets the point. 

Entirely unimpressed by his friend’s idiocracy, Bradley’s eyes dart between the skirt you're wearing and the idiot playing with the shell of your ear. Maybe if he aimed it correctly, he could chuck his wireless mouse at Jake’s thick forehead without it landing on you.

“Same skirt that your little girlfriend has on right now?” Bradley presses, lazily raising an eyebrow. 

Jake’s eyes snaps to your outfit and he roughly grabs a blanket to cover you entirely. 

“What is she, Goldilocks? Passing out on someone’s bed after going out on her own. Should’ve gone with her, dumbass,” Bradley insults. 

Jake gives him an incredulous look. 

“Bro, I fucking tried but you know how girls are.” If anyone should understand, it’s Bradley—the guy who had a hoard of sisters himself. He of all people, should know that talking to girls was like trying to communicate with a mob that was already angry at you. You say one thing wrong, and you’re getting chased by pitchforks and torches. 

“Look at that. Another girlfriend who’s tryna’ escape you,” Bradley swipes a tongue over his growing smirk, amusing no one but himself. 

“I’m glad you’re finding this funny. ‘Cause I don’t.”

“Thanks.” Bradley says offhandedly, in his usual uninterested tone. 

“That wasn’t—okay,” Jake bites his tongue, not wanting to spark an argument that might wake you. 

“Why are you so hung up on this chick anyway? What do you even like about her?” Bradley suddenly presses, trying to gain knowledge on why his friend is so infatuated. 

In the years he’s known Jake, yeah, he’s been a serial dater, but he never went back to the same girl—over and over again. And he never employed you to help him do it either. Bradley never got the impression that Jake would do that in the first place.

“I like everything about her,” Jake finally punches in his answer, focusing on the way you’re clinging to his leg. 

It’s a simple question, one he should know how to answer. But his attention drops to you when he racks his brain for a valid reason—as if you were going to wake up and give him the response he was looking for.

“She made me feel good. I don’t fucking know dude. I just liked her more than I liked anyone else.”

Bradley inwardly winces at that.  

Jake slowly turns his head to his friend who’s leaning back into his chair, and dismissively shrugs. “Everyone said we were good together and I just thought so too.” 

Despite his attention to the conversation, Jake has a far off look in his eye—his brain is wandering off somewhere. 

Bradley shakes his head, in disagreement. Clearly, his strategy of getting Jake to catch you with someone else at the party failed, so maybe he has to switch gears. “Dude, just because some fucking randoms said so, doesn't mean—”

“...Gummybear.” 

Both of them put the conversation on pause, snapping their necks in your direction. Another minute of quiet passes until you mumble the phrase again, paired with a groan this time.

Jake shifts around, no longer slouching against the headboard. The duo watches closely when you sleepily untangle yourself from him and sit up for yourself.

Scrubbing your eyes, you distribute a guilty look between Bradley and Jake through blurry vision because you feel your mouth slowly being filled with the pre-vomit drool. 

You’re one second away from showing them both your lackluster breakfast and cannabis laced gummies you had the bright idea of eating.

Perhaps, it wasn’t the best course of action to have one—or two, but you thought they were supposed to make you feel calm—because isn’t that why people buy them? How were you supposed to know that having more than one would make you feel so sick?

“I don’t, um, feel too good.” Your throat bobs and you slap a hand over your mouth.

Jake lunges forward, shoving away the pillows blocking you from him. He visually pales when bend over against him, aggressively gagging into your palm, unable to swallow back the burning acid rising into your throat and spilling onto your tongue. 

With you on the brink of vomiting in his lap, Jake keeps his eyes on you as he hurries Bradley to find something for you to dump your guts into. 

“I said I can’t fucking find it!” Bradley’s already shot out his chair, rapidly throwing dirty laundry over his shoulder once he’s bent over in the spot where his trash bin should be.

From the way he launched himself out of his seat, the gaming chair is flung halfway across the room. And with the sound of your retching and Jake’s useless instructions, Bradley picks up the pace and hastily reaches into piles of junk in hopes that he’d unearth the tiny bucket.  

“Aim on the damn floor if I don’t find this thing,” he grits, sweating as he continues to dig through his pigsty.

And aim at his floor, you did. 

“I threw up all over his room.” You mumble into Jake’s hoodie, punishing yourself over the turn of events. 

Since bringing you home, Jake’s been actively trying to get your mind off what happened. But all you’ve done is guiltily fixate on the fact that you barfed like a sick puppy, leaving a plop of mush right onto a Victoria Secret bra sitting in Bradley’s room. 

What if the girl who owned it came looking for it—just to find a fat stain sunken into the cup? Bradley would probably have to tell her that his idiot friend hurled on it because she didn’t know her tolerance was incredulously low. And you’d probably won't stop thinking about it for the rest of your life.

“Who cares? You gave Bradshaw a reason to clean. Now turn around and tell me what you want,” Jake prompts you, looking ahead at the open snack pantry in front of him.

The high clearly kicked in while you were in the snack aisle, because why else would there be five party sized bags of chips staring back at him. 

Jake narrows his eyes, straining to make out the flavor you bought. The dim lighting makes it nearly impossible to read the big lettering written across the shiny plastic. But then again, he hadn’t bothered to turn on the main lights, choosing to depend on the trim of fairy lights lined throughout the apartment. It was safe to assume that you preferred those, so he stuck to that. 

Rather than complying, you wrap your arms tighter around Jake’s torso, shaking your head in refusal against his chest. “Don’t want anything.” 

Redirecting his attention to the top of your head, he hugs you back with one arm. “C’mon sick puppy, take a look.” 

The last time you writhed in guilt like this, you had swung Jake over the head with your neon pink hydro-flask at his beach house—when he was the one who purposely scared you. Though, he took it as a win, considering that you cradled his head all night, giving him an excuse to sleep in the same room as you. Back then, it came at a perfect time since his fling that summer recently ended in disaster. 

“I’ll just throw up again if I eat anything,” you quietly whine, replaying the defeated sigh Bradley heaved when he stared at the pathetic beige goo sinking into the lace of the bra. 

Using the arm he has around you, Jake gives you a squeeze. “No? Don’t even want some gummies?”

When he’s met with silence, Jake lowers his head to kiss the top of yours, but the gesture goes unnoticed by you. For a second, he thinks you managed to fall asleep standing up. “Done talkin’ to me Goldilocks?” 

Jake’s voice pulls you out of your deep analysis of the way Bradley sighed in disappointment. But, with the reminder that you had also shamelessly napped in his bed—brought on by your desperation to sleep off the high, you fist the back of Jake’s hoodie in both hands and bite down on your lip to hold back a screech of embarrassment.

“Won’t you look at that, the little lady didn’t like my joke,” he lightly teases, glad that your useless talent of falling asleep anywhere didn’t spur into action. 

Detecting the spike of heat from your flushed face against his stomach, Jake refrains from making any more jokes and lifts you slightly, positioning the bottom of your feet over the surface of his own.

Once he drops you to stand on his sock-clad feet, Jake begins to carefully advance into the bathroom, unbothered by the pressure of your heels on his toes as he walks. 

“If you want nothin’, we’re hanging out where we did this morning.”

In one swift movement, he both peels you off his front and moves you off his feet. Letting him guide you to sit at the edge of the tub, you attentively look on while he crouches in front of you, face perfectly leveled with yours—despite the raised height provided by the bathtub. Did he place you here because you fell off the toilet that one time? 

“Why did you randomly take those? Mickey puts a shit-load in there,” he questions, referring to the gummy bears that eventually led you into buying a life time supply of Jake’s favorite chips, Smoked Barbeque. 

If it wasn’t for the soft yellow string of lights you taped around the bathroom door frame, you would’ve missed the puzzled look he’s wearing. The light pinch of his brows and the concern tightening his jaw makes you feel guilty for the second time tonight. 

Instinctively, his hands reach towards your waist, thumbs coming close to meeting at the center as his palms settle on your sides. A shiver runs down his spine when he comes to notice how you fit in his hands—but he pushes the new sensation aside. 

“I’ve been doing a lot of random things today,” you broadcast, unsure of the rationale behind wearing makeup for a mundane outing—and unsure as to why you were compelled to level with a girl who could clearly look down at you from where she is. 

“Yeah, you have, haven’t you?” Jake says softly, watching your eyes flick down towards his hoodie. It’s an exact replica of the one keeping warm from the night before—and the same one he gave you for the sole purpose of announcing that you were his.

“Oh. I forgot to give your sweater back to you last night. I’ll wash it and—”

“Keep it, we didn’t break up yet,” he cuts you off, the unfamiliar look from this morning passing through his eyes, again.  

Oblivious to it, you simply nod at him, bringing your parted lips to a slow close.

Then, it goes quiet as you two take the time to recollect your thoughts.

After several minutes you both meet back in a silent agreement that you’re ready to continue the conversation. Jake nods his head at you, encouraging you to speak first. 

“I ate it because this didn’t feel good,” you suddenly confess, lips bunching to the side of your mouth. Knowing what you meant, his attention drops to that skirt he caught you in this morning. An unsettling feeling swirls in his stomach, it looks even tighter on you now.

Jake liked to think he knew how to read you.

Whenever his ears picked up on your nervous laugh, he knew to stalk over to see which one of his nosey aunts were pressing you about having a boyfriend. Whenever you nervously dug the toe of your sneakers into the floor, he knew to start comparing shoe sizes with you as a distraction. But when he finds you in something you don’t usually wear, Jake doesn’t know what to do. 

He wonders if you felt like you needed this stuff to feel pretty. And he also wonders why he’s so unaware of it until now, if you had. 

“Think I threw up because it’s so tight. Maybe Mickey’s gummies aren’t so bad,” you attempt to joke with a light laugh, wanting to ease the tension off his face. 

In front of you, Jake’s stare is still unwavering towards the engravings of that button. In a way, this is kind of disorienting for him, what you’re wearing is so familiar to him. Yet, seeing it on you is unfamiliar if anything. Because this isn’t you, it’s the girl he was just arguing with last night. 

The only reason he even started this whole thing with you, besides Kendall’s unexplainable jealousy towards your friendship, was because you were different to her in every way. So, if you were going to change that about yourself, Jake didn’t like it—because it was unfamiliar to him. For his whole life, he kept tabs on little things about you that no one else bothered to learn. It doesn't sit right with him, that you’re keeping things from him now.

“I…don’t like this,” he delivers carefully, enunciating each word to you purposefully, leaving no doubt in your mind that he says it to be mean. And like always, what he really wants to say translates to you—I don’t like the way it makes you feel either. 

“...Can we take it off then?” you insert with the same careful delivery.

He draws in a deep breath, and you mimic the action unknowingly. 

Then, with a flick of his thumb, Jake unfastens the button of your skirt, dislodging it from the denim slit that kept it tightly wrapped around your waist. When you go to lift your butt, he pulls the tiny scrap of fabric down your legs. His eyes trail it, keeping his attention off your underwear. In his peripheral, he spots your half-full bottle of strawberry bottle wash. 

With you moving to sit back down on the cold ledge, he’s briefly greeted with a pink cursive lettering. Tuesday.

Surprisingly, it’s not awkward to be sitting in nothing but the poorly constructed sweater he said looked good on you and a pair of your day of the week underwear. Maybe you were being dramatic, thinking that you would die if he saw it. Because this isn’t so different from the days you spent walking around in your bathing suits, in the lifetime full of summers you spent together.

“You never needed that,” he shrugs, relief settling in his chest now that it’s off of you. 

“I never needed it,” you repeat back.

While your entire lives were filled with inside jokes and probably too much bickering—there were small lapses in time where that all drops. You’re not sure when it had even started, but for as long as you could remember, whenever either of you voiced something worthy of importance your counterpart naturally echoed it back. I was a dick. You were a dick. Jake, not right now. Okay, not right now. You never needed that. I never needed it. It was something your friendship naturally adopted. 

And like all other friendships, you two also knew how to shimmy your way out of a vulnerable moment like that, without making things weird. 

Jake leans into you a bit, suppressing a cheeky grin. “It says Tuesday, today is a Saturday,” he whispers.

Shoving him back with one hand, you break out into a smile. “You read my underwear!” 

“It read itself to me,” he finally grins, prompting you to smack your palm over his eyes in embarrassment. 

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” You chant between your laughter. “I’m never wearing these again.”

“No? Not even for me?” Jake starts to wrap his fingers around your wrist. It’s not too firm, but it’s enough to lower your hand from his eyes. Your laughter begins to die down at how gently he handles you. 

Another silence settles in the bathroom again when he leisurely traces a path from your wrist up to your palm, entwining his fingers through yours. Then, he drops your connected hands between the small gap between you two. 

But as quickly as he holds your hand, he lets go of it. And strangely, that tinge of your sixteen year old hurt sweeps through your heart when you lose that warmth against your palm.

Jake suddenly clears his throat. “I should uh, leave. You know, so you can shower.”

Pushing down the confusing swirl of emotion in your chest, you nod. 

This time, Jake’s the one to walk out of the bathroom, leaving you alone with your best friend at the forefront of your mind.

note: im so sorry for taking forever to update! so please enjoy this accidentally long chapter as an apology! as always, reblogs & thoughts are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading! & gently ignore any spelling/grammar mistakes for now

join the taglist for this series here or follow me on @waklman-library and turn on notifs to be notified when i post!

tags: @wkndwlff @bubblegumbeautyqueen @averyhotchner @angeliccks @atarmychick007 @Olivia21blunt @s-u-t @hangmanscoming @dempy @geraltsaxii @angelbabyange @milani-marie @blueoorchid @soapysoaply @mamaskillerqueen @blue-aconite @shanimallina87 @wildxwidow @clancycucumber230 @emma8895eb @ohgodnotagainn @starlightstories @bbyvanessaa @scoopsr0bin @mannsachds @strokesofstokes @magicstrengthandcourage @desert-fern @coconut152 @moonlight-addisyn @mosiwil @ronanallisterswife @s0uz4s @amandato300 @bradswolfe @swiftsgirlfriend @mikkorantanev @brookiecookiez0 @scarlovesyou @hisredheadedgoddess28 @sushiwriterhere @ccristata @nervousmumbling @acarboni21 @maddievevo @chimchimjiminie16 @djs8891 @purplevortexx @kajjaka @reallysparklychaos @kashee-h @taytaylala12 @damnedangel98 @buck-nasty

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

Drink With Me Masterlist

Summary: In the middle of a vampire apocalypse, no one is safe. And yet, nothing could have prepared Jake for watching the love of his life torn apart by a swarm right before his eyes. So he is in for the shock of his life when you turn up two years later, standing before him as one of the creatures he's sworn to destroy. And though you still seem like the old you, you both know this can only end one way….

Status: Completed

Part 1

Part 2

[sarahsmi13s]

|| Bikes and Broncos ||

biker!jake x cowgirl!reader

"what do you see in him?" "everything you don't"

Adam Seresin and Kenneth Erikson, two men that live very different lives... Two men that never got along. But what happens when their children meet and fall in love with one another? Jake Seresin and Y/N Erikson meet at a rodeo where the biker makes an ass out of himself. But when they meet again Jake gets the chance to show Y/N who he really is. But how will her father feel? Can Kenneth look past what he thought he knew and learn that things were never as they seemed?

[sainzwife]

BOYFRIEND

[ddejavvu]

okay okay soo, I've yet to watch the movie but I've had a thought jdjd

what about dbf!jake seresin, maybe you're in town away from university to visit your dad and thought you'd surprise jake by waiting for him at the bar but then he walks in to see some of the guys bothering you- he sort of strikes me as the protective bf type jdjc

today is multiverse monday! send me any au you can think of :)

combined with: dbf!jake overhearing one of the guys at the bar coming on a little strong and he obviously wants to step in but doesn’t until the guys try to grab you and your terrified eyes immediately search for him and suddenly he’s ready fight a man

--

Texan bars especially, are like no other. There's an atmosphere that you can't get anywhere else, and they leave you feeling like the state you're in is suddenly your entire identity. But apparently, not when you're young. Going clubbing in college is supposed to be fun. It's supposed to be messy kisses by the bar that might turn into a fling, it's supposed to be hammered uber rides at 3:30 AM, and it's not supposed to be three older men standing around you like vultures.

Older men, you decide, are only attractive when they aren't approaching you because of the age gap.

"You're a pretty little thing," One croons, breath sour, and you're starting to realize that there's no man your age in this bar, "Are you even old enough to drink?"

"Yes," You huff, hand tightening around your glass in case you need to smash it over someone's head, "And I'm waiting for someone. So please leave me alone."

"Just someone?" One of them, stationed to your left, parrots, "So not a date?"

You scowl, "Go away."

"I mean, I'm not sure why we should, then." You glance to your right, cringing at the man who steps forward with what you're sure is supposed to be a charming smile, "It's not like you're tied down yet."

"We could tie 'er down," One cracks, elbowing the one in front of you with a grizzly grin.

Just before you can raise your glass to drive a shard into his eyes, a hand slips over your shoulder, squeezing tight. You glance up and your entire body relaxes when you see Jake, all broad-chested and intimidating as he stares the men down.

"You even think about tying her down and I'll use the rope to choke you out," He promises, "She's off the market."

You stand strong only until they're gone, and then you're spinning to throw your arms around Jake's shoulders so fast that even he gets startled. His eyes go wide and he lets out a gasp as you jam your face into his shoulder, but it dissolves into a fond chuckle as he melts into the embrace you've trapped him in.

"Hi, darlin'." He croons, rubbing his hands down your back, "You alright? Those guys were creeps."

"I'm fine," You promise, relishing in the comforting feel of his chest pressed to yours, "Now that you're here I don't think anyone else will bother me."

"Damn right," He grumbles, only letting you break away from the hug so that he can curl his arm around your waist, keeping you pressed into his side, "You tell me if anyone so much as looks at y'wrong, I'll take care of it."

[thedroneranger]

Blood

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Synopsis: Jake is enthralled with you. A treat he wants to keep all to himself.

Note: Had this kicking around. Figured I would finish and post it. It's creepy and contains blood—you've been warned.

Warnings: 18+ only, horror, gore, death, blood, violence, domestic violence, language, bad guy Bradley.

Word count: 1.6k

Moonlight seeped through the clouds and streamed between the trees. The sky was a bright gray and the fresh snow glittered. The breeze was just enough to make the pine boughs shiver.

Tonight was the perfect night for a hunt. However, tonight, Jake wasn’t stalking his usual prey in the clubs. His bright eyes, chiseled cheekbones and alluring smile weren't luring naive club-goers into the darkness. Instead, he already had his sights set—he just needed to pull the trigger.

Scenarios raced through Jake’s mind while he stood in the quiet forest. His eyes closed and head tilted back as snowflakes kissed his face and the frozen air singed his nostrils. Jake hardly noticed as he waited patiently to catch your scent.

You were unlike anyone, or anything, he had ever smelled. A prize he wanted for himself.

He thought about the first time you crossed paths.

In the nightclub, his hunting ground, Jake wound through bodies and waded to the bar for another drink. He stopped dead in his tracks. Through all the sweat and alcohol, your scent filled his nostrils. His gaze turned to the dance floor, and there you were, rhythmically moving among your fellow mortals.

Every movement fanned the savage thoughts running rampant in his brain. It was taking all his willpower not to charge over and drain you right there on the dance floor. But he abstained, because what would be the fun in that? Instead, he held himself together and enticed you to dance with him. Each glance you shared, every touch you exchanged, was part of his trap.

Your back against Jake’s chest, you swayed your hips and looped your arms around his neck. His hands rested on your hips, while his nose nuzzled the patch of skin right below your ear. The only audible sounds to Jake were your heartbeat and the blood pulsing through your veins.

While Jake again weighed the consequences of biting you right then and there, you turned so you were face-to-face. Your gazes smoldered. A devious smile upturned your lips as your hands skimmed along Jake’s shoulders and down his chest. Then two fingers slipped into the waistband of his jeans. Jake watched as you tugged the band, threatening to pop the button.

Jake’s reminiscence was shattered as your scent again flooded his nostrils. You were close—and you were bleeding.

His nostrils flared and mind raced. Why were you bleeding? Who damaged you?

Your pace was too slow to be in a moving vehicle. Why weren't you in a rideshare? Why were you walking?

Questions continued to pour into Jake’s mind as he headed in your direction. He knew you were struggling. Stumbling with each step. Breathing heavily. Bleeding.

There! Only the tree line between you, Jake watched in the shadows of the trees as you trudged along the road. Soon, you would turn down a dirt two-track toward your secluded house.

Then, the hair on the back of Jake’s neck bristled. Headlights bathed you in yellow light, and a vintage Ford Bronco slowed to keep pace with you. The window retracted to reveal Bradley.

If blood were flowing through Jake’s veins, it’d be boiling. Bradley had hurt you. Forced you to do things against your wishes. 

Jake wanted nothing more than to run up to his truck and snap his neck. A mental image of Bradley’s limp body slumped out the open window thrilled Jake. However, the succeeding look of horror on your face as his monstrous tendencies were revealed kept him from following his impulse.

But did it really matter? 

After all, he was going to kill you too.

Jake decided it did. 

He wanted your death to be more intimate. 

Selfishly, he also did not want to deal with disposing of a vehicle. Bodies were one thing, an electric blue first generation Ford Bronco was another.

Bradley smooth-talked you into the Bronco. Then, Jake watched as it zoomed into the night, tail lights fading to black. Coast clear, Jake emerged from the trees and surveyed the area. Blemishing the fresh snow, along with your footprints were blood droplets. Yours, of course. He arched a brow and thought of your blood staining the leather seat of Bradley’s Bronco. Jake smiled.

The idea of Bradley touching you had Jake seeing red. But it was a necessary evil. For months, Jake watched your interdependent relationship. You didn't want to be alone, and Bradley wanted to control someone. A perfect match. 

You didn’t know that Jake knew about Bradley, but Jake knew that Bradley didn’t know about him.

As planned, the night you and Jake met resulted in the two of you tangled in the bed sheets of the only hotel in town. Jake pulled your hair, called you gorgeous and left souvenirs in private places. Of course, you wanted more of him. And Jake wanted more of you. So, the two of you kept bumping into each other at the club and kept falling between the sheets at the hotel.

When you weren’t wrapped in Jake, you were wrapped in Bradley. Jake knew why you were infatuated with him. He was a predator built to lure his prey. He built for you to want him. What Jake could not understand was your draw to Bradley. Mortal attraction was foreign to him—he hadn’t been mortal in almost 300 years.

Your time with Jake was passionate. 

Your time with Bradley was rough. Sometimes too rough for Jake’s liking. Always aware of where you were and who you were with, Jake had been close several times to stepping in and ending it. Ending Bradley. 

Every time Jake saw you, you were always covering up something: a black eye, a bruised wrist, a wax burn, a skin-breaking bite. Luckily, you were durable. You could withstand Bradley’s abuse.

The wind blew and tousled Jake’s hair. Your scent carried on the wind. He closed his eyes and enjoyed your aroma. It put a little pep in his step as he continued through the moonlit forest to your house.

The trees began to thin, and Jake could see the house silhouetted against the soft gray sky. The moon lit it as if it were on a stage. Bradley’s truck sat in the driveway beside your vehicle. As he approached, Jake could see footprints that led from the Bronco to the front porch. Sprinkled among the prints were blood droplets. Your blood droplets. They continued into the house. 

Jake’s eyes landed on the front door. From his vantage point, he could see the door was ajar. Traversing up the driveway, he silently padded up the stairs and crossed the threshold. 

Your moans, some pleasure, some pain, radiated from your bedroom. The kitchen was quiet, illuminated by the moon. In the living room, coats and shoes were strewn across floor. Jake moved to the bottom of the stairwell and cocked his head to listen. You were still in the throes of sex.

Fingers ghosting the railing, Jake closed his eyes. Through your vision, he could see Bradley pawing at you as you tried not to trip on the stairs. Of course, it was all in the name of passion, so you exchanged kisses and laughter the entire journey to the bedroom.

Now at the top of the stairs, a creak drew Jake’s attention. A figure spilled out of the bedroom as Jake stowed away in the shadows. Bradley shuffled to the bathroom and left the door open. Jake listened as he finished his business and shuffled back toward the door. Positioned right outside, as Bradley exited, Jake grabbed his head and jerked his chin upward. An audible crack rendered Bradley’s body limp. Gently, Jake laid him down before making his way to the bedroom.

You called for Bradley. Jake let his footballs answer you. En route to the bed, Jake dropped his clothing and slid in to spoon you. Still unaware, you arched your back into him and moaned as he sucked on your earlobe. Jake’s free hand tucked some loose hairs behind your ear, and then slid along your jaw and wrapped around your neck.

"Hey, gorgeous.” Jake murmured into your ear. Your body tense as you realized it was Jake in your bed instead of Bradley. Before you could react, Jake sank his fangs into your jugular.

Instead of a scream, you coughed until you gurgled and blood filled your mouth. Jake continued to drink from you as he rolled you onto your back. Finally, Jake pulled away. Your blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, dribbled down his chin. 

You looked at him desperately as you pressed your hand to your wounds to slow the bleeding. Jake just watched as life slowly drained from you. You raised a hand to reach for him. Jake curled his fingers around your wrist and learned forward to kiss your supple skin. He held your gaze and as he punctured you again. You winced, unable to scream.

"Why?" Your brows knitted together in pain. You sputtered blood. 

"If I bring you to the brink of death, you can live forever," Jake explained. He watched you as you processed his response. Your heart rate slowed and the blood flow stemmed. The light in your eyes dimmed and your eyelids fluttered closed.

Satisfied, Jake hopped off the bed and redressed. Your blood still smeared across his face. Carefully, Jake wrapped you in the bed sheet and shouldered your body. On the way out, Jake made a last-minute decision to bring Bradley. Your first meal when you awoke. Jake drug him by the ankle. Bradley’s head thudded against each stair on the way to the door.

Jake stopped in the doorway. The only sound was the soft pat pat of blood droplets jumping off your fingertips. He adjusted the sheet so it caught the droplets and the three of you disappeared into the brisk night.

Visit my masterlist for more | Sign up for my tag list!

A kind reminder: Likes work hard, but reblogs and comments work harder 😈

Tag list and interested friends: @cherrycola27 @roosterforme @galaxy-of-stories @taytaylala12 @malindacath @violyn20 @awildewit @potato-girl99981 @shanimallina87 @blue-aconite @djs8891 @linkpk88 @furiousladyking @daggerspare-standingby @princess76179 @jstarr86 @hecate-steps-on-me @darkheartcherry @soulmates8 @roosters-girl @dempy @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @roosterisdaddy36 @hangmanscoming @s-u-t @mavrellover91 @chicomonks @averyhotchner @penguin876 @kmc1989 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @cassiemitchell @seitmai

[topguncortez]

Slap Shot || Prologue

a Jake Seresin AU

previous part | masterlist | next part

synopsis: the first night out in a long time, and it just so happens to be one of the biggest weekends in the Hockey season. A certain blonde hair cowboy makes his charm on you.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: mentions of grief, alcohol consumption, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mentions of "locker room talk", puck bunnies, mentions of cheating, PDA, making out, allusions of sex.

This wasn’t like you. 

You weren’t the type who went out wearing one of the shortest and tightest black dresses you own, killer heels on your feet, your hair curled in big blown out-waves, makeup done and a bright bold red on your lips. You weren’t the type to sit at the bar, twirling the straw around in your drink and flirting with guys whose names you didn’t bother to ask for or learn. And you definitely weren’t the type to actively look for and plan to go home with one of those guys. 

But tonight was different. 

Maybe it was because for the first time in a long time, you felt the weight of the world had been finally lifted off your shoulders. Grief was such a weird thing. You knew that long ago, but it had been a while since you were met with the process. The first time you went through the grieving process, it had come on so suddenly, you weren’t sure how to handle it. This time, you had years to prepare for it. Once you hit that final phase of acceptance, you felt like you could breathe again. And you had a new outlook on your life and you were ready to take charge of it. 

Or maybe it was because the bar was crawling with hockey players. 

It was All-Star weekend, and the best of the best NHL players were in town to show off their skills. The bar you were currently sitting in was crawling with them. Some were trying to enjoy probably their first night off in weeks, others looking for a puck bunny (or two) to take back with them, and some fell in the middle. 

You sighed as you looked down at your drink, swirling around the melting ice with your straw. The confidence you had felt earlier when you first put on this dress was starting to fade, and the insecurities started creeping in. You weren’t entirely sure what you thought was going to happen when you strolled into this bar. You could count on one hand all the one-stands you have had in your entire life (the answer was one and that one ended up becoming a long term boyfriend). Also, you had a thing about not hooking up with hockey players. You had been surrounded by them your whole life. There was something about hearing the locker room talk the day after a win that made you want to stay as far away from hooking up with one as humanly possible. Even if a hockey player was the last man on the planet, you would weigh the pros and cons of reproduction or killing off the human race. 

“Hey,” You waved down the bartender, “Can I get my-” 

“Jack and Coke, sweetheart,” A husky voice said, as a large, warm body saddled up next to you, “And whatever the lady is having,” He nodded his head towards you. 

You furrowed your eyebrows as you looked up at the man next to you. You were met with the sight of perfect tan skin as if it had been kissed by the sun god himself, sandy blonde hair and the brightest smile you had ever seen. His green eyes peered down at you, a smirk on his lips. 

“You looked like you were going to leave,” He said, his voice with a slight southern twang to it, “And I couldn’t let you leave without introducing myself.” 

You raised a brow in suspicion.

“Jake,” He held his hand out to you. You looked at it skeptically, and then back up at him, his smile never wavering, “Oh c’mon sweetheart, I promise I don’t got any diseases. It’s just a hand shake, not a marriage proposal.” 

“Sonny,” You said before you even had a chance to stop yourself. It was the nickname your father had given you, and the name he almost always introduced you as. 

“Sonny, huh? Short for Sunshine?” 

I wish, you thought, “Yeah, I guess.” 

The bartender set down two drinks in front of you, the jack and coke for Jake, and another vodka soda for you. Jake lifted his drink, cheersing against yours before taking a sip. He leaned his back against his bar, canvasing the tightly packed area. Your eyes wandered over his body. He was clad in a burnt orange suit, with a lighter orange shirt underneath, a vast difference from the black and navy blue fitted suits filling the bar. It fit him in all the right places, the top buttons undone showing his collarbone and a gold chain around his neck. You watched as his throat bobbed as he took a sip of his drink, and thoughts of you running your tongue down the vein in his neck filled your mind, a warmth spreading in your lower belly. 

“I can feel you staring,” Jake said, turning his head to meet your gaze. 

Normally, you’d turn away and blush like a schoolgirl. You weren’t inexperienced with guys by any means, but you didn’t have the confidence. The fear of rejection was buried deep into you, that most of them you stayed away from guys like this. But blame it on the alcohol, you gave him a smirk, lifting the straw to your red painted lips. 

“A girl can’t admire what she likes?” You shrug, batting your eyelashes. 

A flash of darkness moved through his eyes, before the playful grin arose on his cheeks, “Yeah?” He leaned in closer to you. The scent of his cologne fills your nose, goosebumps arising on your skin from the warmth filtering off his body. Who knew that you could get turned on by a man smelling good? “What else does the girl like?” 

You bit your lip, leaning into him, so your chest was almost touching his. You didn’t miss the quick shift of his eyes downward at your chest and then back to your eyes. 

“Tequila.”  

The smirk never left his lips as he turned back towards the bar, ordering two shots of tequila with limes. You took another sip of your drink, setting it down on the bar as the bartender delivered the shots. Jake gently took your hand in his, his green eyes locked on yours as he licked a stripe on your skin, before sprinkling a line of salt. The move shouldn’t have turned you on that much, but alas here you were, wondering what it would be like to feel his tongue on other places of your body. 

As if he could tell what you were thinking, Jake shot you a wink before handing you one of the shot glasses. He held his glass up slightly, as he gave a small toast. 

“To bad decisions. Can’t come in her, come on her.” Jake’s eyes never left your as you both licked the lines of salt on the back of your hands. You watched as he clenched his jaw from the burn of the clear liquid down his throat. You set the shot glass down on the bar, now feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through your veins. 

“More?” You asked, a look in your eye that told Jake you weren’t ready for the night to end yet. 

“Fuck it.” 

The two of you put down a couple of more shots, before Jake was dragging you back to a booth he and his friends had claimed on the other side of the bar. You weren’t sure what it was about Jake, but you felt like you knew him. Maybe it was his easy going smile or how easily a conversation flowed between the two of you. Jake had sat you down next to him in one of the booths, but at some point in time, you had slid into his lap, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh, like it belonged there. Your drinks had long been discarded and the ice melted. 

“So, what are you in town for?” Jake asked, his lips right next to your ear as he tried to speak over the loud sound of the bass. 

“Work stuff,” You shrugged. You would rather not get into the details of what was going to be your most stressful weekend of the whole entire season, “What about you? You live here or…?” 

“Nah,” Jake chuckled, “Born and raised, but don’t live here. Also visiting for work.” 

Right on cue, one of Jake’s friends set down another tray of shots, everyone around the booth grabbing one. Jake kept his arm around you as he reached to grab one. He raised it up, toasting with the rest of his friends, before turning to look at you. 

Your breath caught in your throat as you watched him take the shot, holding the alcohol in his mouth. You didn’t need to be told as his hand gripped your face, and brought your jaw towards him, opening your own mouth. You knew it was obscene as Jake spit the alcohol, which was again tequila into your mouth, but you didn’t care. You had barely swallowed the liquid, when you crashed your lips to his. 

Jake’s grip on your hips tightened, and you felt the swelling of his cock against your ass. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer to him. His tongue entered your mouth, tasting of the lime and tequila he had taken earlier. His warmth enveloped you, as you rubbed your thighs together trying to get some friction to relieve the aching heat between your legs. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling gently on the blonde locks, making a groan fall from his lips. Jake’s lips trailed from yours, leaving a path of sloppy, wet kisses on your skin, sucking with just enough pressure to make a moan tumble from your lips.

“What do you say, sweetheart,” Jake whispered against your skin, the feeling making you shiver in his arms, “Want to get out of here?” 

You turned to face him. His green eyes were blown wide with lust, his hair tousled from you running your hands through it, his lips slightly swollen and pouty as he looked at you. 

Throwing all caution to the wind, you placed another heated kiss on his lips before pulling away. 

“Thought you’d never ask.”

taglist: @dempy @marchingicenotes7 @abaker74 @aworldwideapart @atarmychick007 @hookslove1592 @whatislovevavy @lynnevanss @djs8891 @jessicab1991 @senawashere @bethbunnyy @bradshawbaby @coconut152 @jazminlahey20 @averyhotchner @misconceptionmistress @drxgxnslxyer @atinytinaa @hangmansgbaby @buckysteveloki-me @himbos-on-ice @krispybearbouquet @fandom-princess-forevermore @seitmai @ateliersss

taglist form

[stcverogers]

TOP GUN FIC RECS 6!

top gun fics that i’ve been reading and obsessing with over recently

this is extremely important and i take this very seriously out of respect for the community. please do remember to read the rules for the respective blogs before interacting with or reading them.

F: fluff A: angst S: smut

𖥻 - series /multi part

masterlist

JAKE 'HANGMAN' SERESIN

F + A: jake seresin and the unfortunate hat situation by @sehnsuchts-trunken it's your first time in texas and you don't understand what the big fuss about hats is about.

F: never grow up by @andorskenobi you've fallen ill and the seresin boys play doctor.

F + A: signed away by @seresinhangmanjake at 19 years old, the last thing you want is to marry someone you don't love. however, a contract is a contract and you must see it through.

F: 7 years by @flaming-tgmcu jake's known you since he was 7 and he's loved you ever since.

F + S: birds away by @wombtotombx 𖥻 everyone who knew you and jake growing up were convinced that you'd end up together. you were perfect for one another. yet life and the navy had other plans.

F: tiktok troubles by @ultralightpoe jake misses date night and to get back at him, you pull tiktok pranks when he least suspects it.

F: sweet as candy by @halsteadsbradshaw with a callsign like haribo, it's no wonder you have a sweet tooth. jake knows this and this is the 4 times he brings you candy.

F + A: you again by @ereardon you're back in jake's life and he's determined not to let you go again.

F + A: bad habit by @seasonsbloom 𖥻 hangman was cocky. a complete asshole. you hated him, that was for sure.

F + A: glue song + part 2 + part 3 by @waklman the coffee you make isn't why jake is friends with you, though it is a good plus.

A: move on by @starlightstories jake left you hurt years ago and you've long moved on. it was time that he did too.

F + A: rule number one + rule number two by @ultralightpoe when you first met jake, he made the rule to not fall in love with him. you break it and he breaks you heart in the process.

F + A: nothing else matters by @sunnysidevans despite not being her biological father, jake had helped you raise evelyn ever since you found out you were pregnant with her.

F: dad jake blurb by @stargazing15

F + A: left at the alter by @tip-top-cloud-surfer 𖥻 you get left at the alter by your jerk of a fiance. luckily, jake is there for you, just like when you were younger.

F: the beanery by @callsign-peach when jake keeps coming into work with fancy thermos coffee every morning, his colleagues get jealous and want in on the nice roast too.

F + A: tell them by @sarahsmi13s 𖥻 jake's nearly loses his eldest son to a car accident and decides it is finally time to share his family with his work one.

F + A: i had to let go of you just to get a hold of myself by @gennyanydots 𖥻 jake thought that leaving everything behind would make it easier. instead he feels alone, his life consisting of nothing but his job that consumes him.

F: a little bit easier by @sunlitsunflowers jake is there to comfort you when you start to feel overwhelmed at the hard deck

F: marry that girl by @books-are-escapes jake always knew that you were the one he would marry and he finally made it happen

BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW

F: baby, i'm yours by @almightyellie you're completely blind to bradley's very obious affections for you.

F: to the moon and back by @katsu28 a very special valentine's day for you and bradley

F + A: i will always love you by @amysteryspot with his parents gone and the closest thing he knew to love away, bradley wasn't expecting anyone to tap him out.

F + A: fawn by @sappy-seresin you've garnered rooster's interest working at the hard deck. your skittish behaviour leaves him worried and curious.

F: wedding day by @tip-top-cloud-surfer it's bradley's wedding day and he's brought to tears from seeing his bride

S: (christmas) baby please come home by @gretagerwigsmuse if bradley broke your agreement of only one gift each, surely he wouldn't mind if you broke it too.

F + S: the keeper + part 2 by @tulipsbymybed rooster is infatuated with the owner of the local bookshop.

F + A: homemade dynamite by @mothdruid you and rooster hadn't ended on good terms, now, you're both back at top gun.

F + A: endings and beginnings + part 2 by @tip-top-cloud-surfer rooster finally gets his chance at a family

F: just roommates by @risriswrites you and bradley were roommates, that's all.

F + A: terms of endearment by @ohtobeleah 𖥻 jake seresin was an instigator. as your brother-figure in life, he just wants you to be happy. this includes pushing you and rooster together.

F + A: something special by @helloheyhihowdyheya rooster cares for you more than he lets on, he just has a terrible way of showing it

F + A: what a look on you by @thewulf you secretly harbour feelings for bradley. when a friend from college comes visit and rooster seems far more enamored by her than you, you're hurt.

F: 5 times the Bronco was a third wheel by @thesewordsareallihavetogive there isn't many things bradley loves more than his bronco. you, maybe, but that's about it.

F + S: what's in a name? by @sometimesanalice bradley's favourite thing about you was the way you said his name

F + A: superstar + part 2 by @maggiedanikka bradley bradshaw was the poster boy for the americna navy. he was everything you weren't. why would he ever fall for the likes of someone like you?

F: daddy's little princess by @startrekfangirl2233-writes you come home to bradley playing dinosaurs and barbies with your two children

F: milk and toast and honey by @amysteryspot despite your bad experience with naval aviators, you have an affinity for one bradley bradshaw

F: romeo, romeo by @welcome-to-my-multiverse rooster is completely enamored by you and the dagger squad definitely shouldn't have left a drunk him alone with you.

ROBERT 'BOB' FLOYD

F: losing something and the other picks it up and calls after them by @callsignsaturn

F: afternoon bedrest by @jungle-angel bob returns home with an upset stomach. lucky for him, you're there to comfort him

F: he's all that by @withahappyrefrain bob's too nervous to approach the cute girl at the hard deck. his team mates decide that a makeover is just the confidence boost he needs

F: rodeo by @sarahsmi13s though you could perfectly hold your own, bob would always stand up for you.

F: surprise by @topgun-imagines bob proposed to his girl and no one the dagger squad had known

F: blind date gone...wrong? by @intricatechaosofyou you get stood up on a blind date. thankfully, bob is there to save you the embarrassment.

F: wanna buy you a drink by @anonymooseforever007 you surprise bob at the hard deck, but not without a little teasing first.

S: untouchable + part 2 by @idkwhylou as the only daughter of the captain, you were placed on a pedestal, deemed untouchable. bob was the only exception.

TOM 'ICEMAN' KAZANSKY

F: little reward by @dragon-kazansky to entice tom away from his computer, you promise him hugs and strawberries

BEAU 'CYCLONE' SIMPSON

F: super trouper + part 2 by @callsignmayhem you're sick and beau is ready to help you feel better, with the help of soup and mamma mia.

[that-one-random-writer]

My favorite top gun stories! 😍😍😍 Highly recommend you to give them all a read.

No certain order, just how I copied them to post.

Faking it- @tongue-like-a-razor

Fake dating at its finest! 😍😍😍 It's just incredible! I linked the entire masterlist because every story I've read is incredible. My honorable mention is Less Talk by the same author.

Operation Apollo - @sunlightmurdock

A secret service agent is an ass to the presidents daughter. Sign me the fuck up. Incredibly angst and impressive in the Enemies to lovers trope.

Batting practice- @roosterforme

A single mom getting the hots for a coach... put me in coach! ⚾️⚾️⚾️

Ivy - @perpetuelledaydreaming

The drama confusion of loving two people. Which do you turn to? There's so many variables on the love that I don't know where it's going to lead, and I love that.

Kink .com- @ohtobeleah

Simply porn. The best kind with 2, count' em, 2 kinky pornstars have you in every way possible. Leah is the leader in smut writing. You can't change my mind.

[fangirlvibez]

Fangirlvibez’ Masterlist

The Bradshaw son and Seresin daughter

Summary of the story: The 16 year old daughter of Jake Seresin gets pregnant. The dad: the 18 year old son of Bradley Bradshaw. How will the dads react to their kids becoming teen parents?

Introduction - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8 - part 9 - part 10 - part 11 (on hiatus)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Bradshaw Rockstar

Summary of the story: Nick Bradshaw, son of Bradley Bradshaw, wants to move to LA with his band to pursue music. Bradley disagrees and thinks his sons friends are bad influences on him. Nick ignores his dads wish and moves out anyway. Bradley sees his 18 year old son grow up through different media outlets. This is the story of Nick Bradshaws journey through fame with his band ChaosRoxs.

Introduction - part 1 (discontinued for the moment)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Festival of Hearts (a Royal Au)

Summary of the story: princess, now Queen Y/N (Y/M/N) Y/L/N was forced into marrying King Jake “Hangman” Seresin. Leaving her own kingdom, Eldoria, behind she left to live and rule Jake kingdom, Misthaven. The time for an age-old tradition in Y/N kingdomcame. Miraculously the Queen convinces Jake to invite her old village to come celebrate the tradition with them. This is the story on how the ruthless King learns how to love his Queen.

Introduction - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 (on hiatus)

[romysradio]

Coming Soon...

Everything I Wanted

jake seresin x singer!reader au

[sainzwife]

happy bday to my bf 😋😋