#thanks for asking - I am obsessed with them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

avengxrz · 20 hours ago

Text

at least we were electrified ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 23.6k words (argh it's too short)

summary: you’re the only pilot who ever beat hangman in the air—and he’s been obsessed with you ever since. now you're stuck training together, sparring with every word, and pretending you're not seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off.

warnings: enemies to lovers, slight rivals to lovers, mdni, smut, bathtub sex, slow soft sex, emotional sex, face sitting, oral (f receiving), multiple rounds (3+), breeding kink, overstimulation, begging, praise kink, cockwarming, aftercare, bath aftercare, love confessions during sex, jake seresin is down bad and soft and obsessed, mutual pining resolved, this man will absolutely cry during sex and then keep going, soft dom jake, reader rides him, sleepy post-sex cuddles, taylor swift inspired, based on “dress” from reputation, both of them get emotionally wrecked in the most beautiful way

notes: i cannot believe i wrote this filth in the middle of work anyway, you guys voted for this to be posted first, so expect my rooster x rival pilot!reader to be posted after this fic hahaha thank you for enabling me once again, i love you all even though jake seresin now lives in my brain rent free and won’t stop being a menace

masterlist

your callsign is crash.

You hit the deck with textbook precision, wheels screeching against the tarmac before the jet finally hissed into silence. The canopy cracked open, letting the salt-thick wind in as you exhaled slow through your comms. Another clean run. Another win. The flight crew scrambled into motion below, yellow shirts waving you in, but you barely heard them over the rush still pumping through your veins.

Meanwhile, a second jet came in behind yours—less graceful, slightly late, and visibly annoyed. Jake “Hangman” Seresin touched down like the landing had personally offended him. You watched from the edge of the flight line as his Super Hornet taxied in, his moves tight and rigid, posture too stiff to be casual. You could feel the heat of his frustration radiating from across the tarmac.

Once your boots hit the ground, you pulled your helmet off, tucking it under your arm as you made your way toward the hangar. The late-afternoon sun beat down hard, and your flight suit stuck to your skin in places you didn’t want to think about, but the satisfaction of today’s victory dulled everything else. Inside, the air was cooler—barely—and the metallic scent of jet fuel still hung heavy in your nose as you peeled the zipper down to your chest.

Then, his shadow stretched long across the hangar floor behind you.

“Hell of a move out there,” he drawled, voice slick with that Texas edge he sharpened like a knife.

You didn’t turn around right away. Instead, you leaned against the bench, unfastening your gloves with slow, deliberate movements. “You mean the part where I left you hanging in my six? Or the part where you stalled trying to catch up?”

There was a beat of silence, and then you heard his boots close the distance. Not storming. Not angry. Just… deliberate. Controlled. Like a predator who knew patience was part of the kill.

Finally, when you met his eyes, he was standing a little too close, heat rolling off him like he never left the sky.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jake muttered, jaw tight, voice low enough to make it feel private.

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, giving him that slow, crooked grin he hated. The one that said I know I’m better, and you do too.

“Like you’re proud of it.”

You stepped in, just enough to make him flinch—not back, never back, but enough to make something in him lock up.

“Oh, I am,” you said, voice syrup-thick with challenge. “I’m very proud of it.”

Jake’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second—quick, sharp, dangerous—before it came right back up. He was smiling now, but it was the kind of smile that came with teeth.

“Cocky, Crash,” he said, voice like a spark on gasoline. “Might wanna watch that altitude before you stall out next.”

But you didn’t answer. Not with words. Not yet. Because you knew exactly how high you were flying.

And more importantly, you knew he was chasing.

Before either of you could throw the next punch—verbal or otherwise—the hangar doors groaned open again, letting in the rest of Dagger Squad with the kind of loud, casual chaos only they could bring. Payback was the first to speak, his voice echoing off the walls as he pulled his helmet off and shook out his damp curls.

“Well, if it isn’t Crash and Burn,” he grinned, tossing a glance between you and Jake. “How’s the air up there, sweetheart?”

You smirked. “Clean. Unlike your record.”

Coyote let out a low whistle, already unzipping his flight suit. “Damn, she’s still got fire left in her and just smoked Hangman at ten thousand feet. Man’s gonna need therapy.”

Jake didn’t take his eyes off you. “I don’t need therapy. I need better wingmen.”

“You need humility,” you replied, tossing your gloves into your locker with just enough force to make a point.

Then came Phoenix, swaggering in with her usual post-flight strut and zero patience for testosterone-soaked one-liners. “Whatever this is,” she said, gesturing vaguely between you and Jake, “can it wait until after we all shower and don’t smell like burned jet fuel and fragile egos?”

Fanboy laughed under his breath, already halfway to stripping down. “You sure? This is better than Netflix.”

Harvard and Yale brushed past you on their way to the lockers, both nodding politely before catching on to the tension and exchanging a glance that said oh great, it’s happening again. You didn’t care. You didn’t exist to be anyone’s entertainment. Not even Dagger’s. Especially not Jake’s.

You made your way to the female side of the locker room, where a metal divider sectioned off the space—standard setup, rigidly enforced. No overlap. No excuses. You walked like you weren’t burning, even as you peeled out of your flight suit and let the cool tile of the shower area offer temporary relief.

Meanwhile, through the thin wall, you could still hear them—Jake’s voice louder than the rest, no doubt throwing around some snarky excuse for why he got beat again. You rolled your eyes under the stream of water, letting it scald your skin and wash away the sweat, but not the irritation.

Not the heat.

Then, as if summoned by sheer force of will, his voice filtered through the locker chatter again.

“Crash thinks she’s untouchable just because she got lucky once.”

You clenched your jaw, fingers tightening around the bottle of shampoo. Once? That was your third win in five days, and you both knew it.

Over in the male locker room, the conversation was shifting. Rooster’s voice cut through next, calm but edged in something sharp. “You’re obsessed, man. You’ve been spiraling since the first time she beat you. Admit it.”

Jake responded too fast. “I’m not obsessed.”

There was a short pause, and then Payback’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Sure you’re not. That’s why you talk about her in your sleep.”

You didn’t mean to smile, but it happened anyway—quick and gone, like turbulence.

By the time you emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around your neck and flight suit half zipped again, the squad had already started to head out. The locker room buzz had died down to a low murmur of sarcasm and soap. Phoenix passed you at the doorway, giving you a nod and a raised brow.

“He’s still pacing,” she said under her breath. “You’re in his head, Crash.”

You just shook your head, brushing past her without comment. Jake Seresin could burn through every ounce of pride he had and it still wouldn’t be enough to eclipse yours. You didn’t need to be in his head.

You were already in his airspace.

The corridor between the locker room and the flight debriefing room was narrow, lined with flickering fluorescents and the hum of vents that couldn't quite beat back the post-flight heat. You moved through it with practiced ease, boots scuffing against the tile in sync with your steady breathing, body still thrumming from the high of the sky. You’d flown clean, sharp, and unapologetically fast. Faster than him. Again.

Then, just as you rounded the corner past the exit hatch, you caught him.

Jake leaned against the wall like he belonged there, one arm braced high over a locker, hair still damp, towel slung lazy around his neck like it hadn’t been weaponized in half a dozen locker room showdowns. His flight suit hung open to the waist, dog tags swinging with every shift of his frame. His eyes flicked up the moment he saw you, dark and unreadable—but not unreadable enough.

You paused mid-stride, giving him a glance sharp enough to cut through any lingering sweat-fog between you.

“If you’re waiting for an apology,” you said, tone dry as desert wind, “you’ll be collecting dust.”

Jake pushed off the wall, slow like it meant nothing, like he wasn’t waiting at all. “You think I want an apology?”

“I think you want something,” you replied, not bothering to stop walking as he fell into step beside you.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling through the narrow hall like smoke. “You always this arrogant after a flight?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to give him your profile. “Only when I fly better than the guy who won’t shut up about being the best.”

Jake’s grin twitched wider, but there was no warmth in it—just edge. “You don’t fly better than me, Crash. You fly dirtier.”

You stopped short, the words hitting a little too close to something you didn’t care to name. “Funny. I thought getting results mattered more than looking pretty for the scoreboard.”

He leaned in then, just enough to make you feel it. The space tightened. The air thinned.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he said, voice low enough to make you forget anyone else even existed on base, “and I might start thinking you want me to bite back.”

You blinked at him, expression carefully blank, even as heat crawled up your neck. “Bite harder, Seresin. You’re already choking.”

For a second, you swore he forgot how to breathe. His jaw twitched, and his fingers curled at his sides like he needed something to grip. He stepped back before he did something stupid—or worse, something obvious—and ran a hand through his hair like it could tame what was already out of control.

Then, from the corridor ahead, Coyote’s voice rang out, oblivious and perfectly timed.

“Briefing room in five! Mav’s not gonna wait!”

You didn’t spare Jake another glance as you brushed past him, but you could feel his stare burning into your spine like afterburner exhaust. You walked faster, not to get away, but because you knew he’d follow.

And he did. Because whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

It was just about to enter a new altitude.

You broke into a jog the second Coyote’s voice echoed down the corridor, knowing full well that if you were even a minute late, Maverick would make you run the entire flight line in full gear as penance. Not that you’d mind the workout—but the humiliation? You weren’t about to hand that over, especially not with Jake Seresin breathing down your neck like a heat-seeking missile.

Behind you, you could hear his boots pounding against the tile, fast and cocky, like he was trying to pass you just for the hell of it. Typical.

Then, with the door to the briefing room coming into view and Jake gaining a little too much ground, you made a split-second decision. A barely perceptible shift of your elbow. A subtle, graceful move of your foot.

Not enough to trip a normal man.

But Jake Seresin was not a normal man. He was an ego on legs and pride in motion, and pride, as always, made people sloppy.

His shin clipped your boot. It wasn’t hard—it didn’t have to be. Momentum did the rest.

There was a sharp, stuttered curse, followed by the unmistakable sound of six-foot-something of Navy muscle stumbling mid-sprint. He flailed for half a second, arms windmilling, before regaining his balance, barely catching himself on the wall with a thud that echoed like thunder.

You kept running.

By the time you burst through the briefing room doors, your breathing was under control and your expression was as smooth as your landing had been earlier that day. Maverick was already standing near the front, arms crossed and brow raised in that unreadable instructor expression he’d perfected years ago.

“You’re cutting it close, Crash,” he said, nodding toward the clock.

You slipped into your seat with a shrug. “Better late than sloppy, sir.”

Just then, the door slammed open again.

Jake stormed in, hair even messier than before, dog tags clinking violently against his chest as he shot you a look that could’ve grounded aircraft. You smiled sweetly, already leaning back in your chair, hands behind your head like you had no idea what he was so worked up about.

He didn’t say a word. But his glare said everything.

Phoenix coughed into her fist, clearly holding back a laugh. Payback nudged Coyote with his elbow and muttered something that earned him a full-bodied snort. Even Rooster lifted his brows in mild concern-slash-amusement.

Maverick narrowed his eyes at both of you, clearly sensing the hostile weather front in the room.

“Glad you two could join us,” he said dryly. “Now sit. Down.”

Jake dropped into the seat across yours, still fuming, still wordless. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel it—every molecule of heat radiating off his body like his fury alone could melt steel. There was a tightness in his shoulders that didn’t ease, even as the briefing started and the screen flickered on.

Still, you leaned in just a little and whispered, voice barely above a breath.

“You should watch your step, Seresin.”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t look at you.

But you knew you’d just declared war. And you were already winning.

The lights dimmed as Maverick keyed the projector, the screen flickering to life with a grainy playback of the final dogfight of the day. The room hushed immediately, the air shifting from casual post-flight sarcasm to focused, near-surgical attention. All eyes faced forward, shoulders squared. Whatever rivalry burned beneath the surface would have to wait—at least for now.

“Alright, let’s start with the final engagement,” Maverick said, stepping to the side as the video played from the onboard camera of your jet. “North of Bravo Six, two thousand feet above deck, lead aircraft—Crash.”

A few heads turned toward you, though no one spoke. You didn’t need to bask in it. The screen spoke for itself. Your Super Hornet banked hard into a tight split-S, dodging Jake’s pursuit and twisting into a vertical climb that should’ve stalled you out if you hadn’t already throttled preemptively and calculated the airspeed differential in advance. It was clean. Precise. Dangerous as hell.

“Now that,” Maverick said, turning to face the room again, “was a bold move. Most pilots would’ve blacked out halfway through that climb. Crash here timed it down to the damn second and pulled out with two Gs to spare.”

You sat straighter in your seat, but didn’t grin. You didn’t have to. Instead, you nodded once, calm and composed, like it was exactly what you expected to hear.

Across the row, Jake stiffened, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw ticked the way it always did when something didn’t sit right—and apparently, you being right was what bothered him.

“Sir, with all due respect,” he started, voice clipped, “that maneuver wasn’t bold—it was reckless. She dove straight into a negative pitch at a rate that would’ve flattened most pilots. If her timing was even half a second off, she would've stalled out and taken both of us down.”

You turned to him then, brow raised, calm as glass. “But I wasn’t off, Seresin.”

Jake didn’t back down. “That doesn’t change the fact that it was reckless.”

“Actually,” you said, tone even and deliberate, “it does. I factored in the barometric drop from the marine layer, calculated the drop-off in air density, and initiated the climb before your nose even cleared my tail. I had twenty-three hundred feet of vertical to bleed speed and an angle of attack set at precisely sixteen degrees. You were flying by instinct. I was flying by math.”

The silence that followed was almost smug. Payback muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “damn”, and Phoenix just raised her brows at Jake like you walked into that one, didn’t you?

Meanwhile, Maverick simply crossed his arms and nodded, clearly not surprised.

“She’s right,” he confirmed, glancing at Jake before turning back to the screen. “That was some of the cleanest risk mitigation I’ve seen from a junior officer. She knew her limits. More importantly, she knew your limits, too.”

The jab landed harder than any turbulence. Jake looked away, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his molars grinding.

You didn’t gloat. You just kept your eyes on the screen, watching as your jet pulled out of the maneuver with smooth, practiced grace while his frame lagged behind—sharp, but not quite sharp enough.

Then, without needing to be prompted, you added, “Also, that wasn’t a dive. It was an accelerated vertical escape into a high-speed climb. If I had pulled two seconds later, I would've clipped the wake vortex. But I didn’t. So maybe instead of calling it reckless, we start calling it what it was.”

Jake muttered under his breath, something just shy of a curse, and you smiled to yourself—small, barely there, but satisfying all the same.

Maverick exhaled like he was hiding a grin. “Alright,” he said, “let’s move on.”

Maverick clicked to the next frame, pausing on a still image of your Hornet mid-climb, the vapor cone beginning to bloom from your wings. He narrowed his eyes at the angle, thoughtful, and then turned slightly, directing his next question toward the room—but you could tell it was meant for you.

“Alright, walk me through this. You initiated the vertical afterburner climb here—” he pointed to the timestamp, “—but you didn’t switch to combat spread until two seconds later. Why wait?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Because I needed Hangman to commit.”

That earned you a few startled glances. Maverick tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Elaborate.”

You sat up straighter, sliding your flight data tablet closer and tapping to bring up your own recorded metrics. The graph glowed pale blue on your screen as you began.

“He was tailing too close for a clean break. If I broke right into spread, he would’ve mirrored it and stayed locked in. But by delaying and keeping him in the pocket, I forced him to stay on my vector while I manipulated speed bleed through vertical gain. He was flying with nose authority, but not enough roll control at that angle to compensate for thrust lag.”

You tapped the chart, zooming in on the data.

“The second he hit ninety percent throttle and lost yaw stability, I banked left—just outside his field of correction. That gave me a clean line to reposition and full weapon sim lock before he could recover trim.”

There was a long pause. The room stayed quiet. Even the air vents seemed to hum a little softer.

Then Payback let out a low whistle. “She baited him.”

Phoenix blinked. “That wasn’t just instinct. That was textbook manipulation of enemy error.”

Rooster gave a single, incredulous laugh under his breath. “Holy shit, she played you like a violin.”

From across the room, you heard Fanboy mutter, “I’m not even mad. That was art.”

You stayed composed, unbothered, because it wasn’t the first time you’d outflown someone by outthinking them—but it was the first time you did it in front of all of them.

Meanwhile, Maverick just nodded slowly, visibly impressed in the way that meant something. “That’s the kind of situational awareness most pilots don’t develop until they’ve logged ten times your hours.”

You nodded, calm. “I’ve always liked math, sir.”

That got a few more chuckles, the kind laced with genuine awe and no small amount of respect. Even Phoenix cracked a smile, bumping her knee lightly against yours in a rare show of squad affection.

And Jake? Jake looked like he’d just been punched in the gut, stripped of rank, and made to salute you all in the same breath.

His mouth opened like he had something to say, but nothing came out. His jaw tightened instead, his grip on the edge of the table white-knuckled and furious. He stared at the screen like it had betrayed him.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. Because this wasn’t just your win—it was your arrival. And no one, not even Hangman, could deny it anymore.

The briefing wrapped with Maverick’s final nod, and the squad filed out in clusters—boots scuffing, side comments exchanged, the occasional lingering glance in your direction. You didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were about. You had just executed a maneuver that would probably be added to training tapes, and you made it look like muscle memory.

Meanwhile, Jake didn’t say a word.

He stood slower than the rest, arms folded tight across his chest, that unreadable look on his face carved from pride, heat, and something just short of fury. You could feel it before you turned—his eyes dragging over your shoulder blades like a targeting laser. Still, you didn’t look back. Not until you stepped into the corridor.

Then, as if you’d conjured him, you heard his voice behind you. Sharp. Icy.

“Real clever stunt in there.”

You turned on your heel, facing him fully now. The hallway was quiet, most of the squad already vanished into other rooms, the locker halls, the mess. Out here, it was just you and him. Just enough space to make something dangerous feel inevitable.

“You mean the one that worked?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jake took a step forward, his gaze locked on yours. “You humiliated me.”

You arched a brow. “I outflew you. That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he snapped, closing the distance again, “you calculated me. Used me. Like a move on a goddamn chessboard.”

You tilted your head slightly, biting back the smile that wanted to surface. “And you’re mad because I did it better than you?”

“I’m mad,” he growled, stepping in until the space between you could barely hold a breath, “because you’re not just flying dirty—you’re flying like you’ve got something to prove.”

“Maybe I do.”

Jake’s eyes scanned yours, lingering too long on your mouth before he caught himself. He looked furious. He looked obsessed. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to fight you or—

“You’ve been gunning for me since the second you walked into this base,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. “What is it? You think you’re better than me?”

You leaned in just slightly, close enough to make him shift, to feel that tension coil between you again.

“I know I’m better than you,” you whispered. “But it kills you more because I’m right.”

He laughed then—short, humorless, almost breathless. It didn’t soften anything.

“Careful, Crash,” he murmured, voice like gravel, “you keep pushing and one day I’m not gonna let you walk away with just a smartass line and a smile.”

You stepped closer again, toe to toe now, and stared him down like you were locked at altitude.

“Then don’t.”

The words came out low, clean, and lethal.

Jake’s breath hitched, and you watched the war play out behind his eyes—the one between pride and want, fury and restraint. His hand twitched at his side, like he didn’t trust it not to reach for you.

Then, from around the corner, someone’s voice called out—Rooster, maybe, or Coyote, you couldn’t be sure. The sound broke whatever fragile, electric moment was about to combust.

Jake took a slow step back. His jaw clenched again, but this time, he didn’t say anything.

He just turned and walked away.

And for some reason, that was worse than anything he could’ve said.

The Hard Deck was glowing with neon and noise, the jukebox throwing out some Tom Petty track while pilots crowded around pool tables, beers in hand, laughter spilling like spilled salt across the floorboards. You were leaned over the edge of the far table, cue balanced against your thumb, eyes narrowed in focus. Rooster stood beside you, arms crossed, already grinning like he knew you were about to win.

You made the shot—smooth, clean, corner pocket—and straightened with a cocky tilt of your head.

“Damn, Crash,” Rooster said, nudging your shoulder, “you’ve been on fire lately. What’d Jake do, give you all his luck?”

You laughed, passing him the cue. “If Seresin gave me anything, it’d come with a side of unresolved trauma.”

Rooster barked a laugh, lining up his own shot. “You’re not wrong.”

Meanwhile, at the bar, the doors swung open with a gust of salt air, and Jake strutted in like the devil himself had opened the door just for him. Coyote trailed at his side, followed by Harvard, Yale, Fritz, and Omaha—Jake’s usual entourage when he needed backup for his ego. He spotted you almost instantly. You didn’t look, but you could feel the shift in atmosphere the second he zeroed in.

Then he strolled over, beer in hand, the swagger turned up to eleven.

“Well, well,” Jake drawled, coming to a stop right beside the table, “didn’t realize you and Bradshaw were dating now. Should we start calling you Mrs. Rooster?”

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned one elbow on the table, cocked your head, and shot him a smile so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

“Jake,” you said sweetly, “if jealousy had a face, it’d still be prettier than yours.”

The reaction was instant. Coyote howled. Rooster nearly choked on his drink. Harvard and Yale exchanged wide-eyed glances. Omaha laughed so hard he had to grip the edge of the table for balance.

Even Phoenix, just now walking over with Bob, Payback, Fanboy, and Halo in tow, caught the tail end of it and raised her brows. “Damn,” she said, sipping her beer. “Y’all starting early tonight.”

“Starting?” you said, turning to face her with a smirk. “I’ve been cooking him since he walked in.”

Jake’s jaw ticked, but he covered it with a smug shrug. “We’ll see who’s cooked when I wipe the floor with you.”

“In what, delusion?”

“Nope. Pool.” He stepped closer, snagging the spare cue from the rack and twirling it between his fingers like it was a weapon. “You and me, Crash. Best of five.”

Rooster set his drink down and gave Jake a look that fell somewhere between exasperated and knowing. “Hangman, you sure you wanna do that? She’s been on a streak.”

Jake didn’t look away from you. “I like streaks. Especially when I get to break them.”

You stepped forward, grabbing the chalk and spinning it slowly in your fingers. “Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on, “but don’t cry when I make you look bad in front of your fan club.”

He grinned, sharp and wild. “Just don’t choke when the heat’s on.”

The squad began to gather around, drinks in hand, forming a loose circle around the table. Phoenix climbed onto a nearby stool with her beer. Fanboy leaned against the wall, already grinning. Bob stood a few paces back, quiet but invested. Payback and Halo threw down a few bills on the corner of the table, already betting on the outcome.

You racked the balls, slow and steady, hands precise. Jake stepped to the other side, chalking his cue like it was part of some ritual. Then you both leaned over the table, eyes locked.

Two apex predators in one room, each convinced they were the only one worth watching.

The air snapped tight around you, and neither of you missed.

Jake broke first. The cue ball cracked against the rack with a sharp, brutal snap, scattering the solids and stripes with precision that bordered on violent. One dropped. Then another. You leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching him circle the felt like a predator sizing up terrain he already thought he owned.

He sank a third before he finally missed—barely, by inches. The crowd gave a collective breath, and then it was your turn.

You stepped into position like you belonged there. Your hips grazed the table’s edge. You lined up your shot, cue gliding through your fingers with practiced ease. One tap—clean, sharp—and the ball dropped.

“CRASH!” Rooster whooped from the sideline, raising his beer like a trophy.

“Let’s go, baby!” Phoenix yelled over the music.

“Hot damn,” Payback grinned. “She don’t miss.”

“Crash! Crash! Crash!” Fanboy and Halo chanted in rhythm, smacking their drinks against the bar in time.

You didn’t react to them—not outwardly. But your next shot curved with just the right amount of English, bouncing off the side rail and sinking your second with a casual kind of grace that looked like you were barely trying.

Jake’s voice cut through the noise. “Show-off.”

You smiled without looking at him. “Better than a sore loser.”

You nailed a third. Then a fourth. When you finally missed—only slightly, the cue ball grazing too far right—it was Jake’s turn again. He moved with fire now, slick and deliberate. He lined up three shots in a row, executing each with brutal efficiency. Coyote clapped like it was the Superbowl.

“HANGMAN!” he yelled, riling up Harvard, Yale, and Omaha into a full-blown cheer squad.

“Let’s go, Seresin!”

“Clean kill, baby!”

“Send her crashin’!”

The Hard Deck was fully invested now, drinks forgotten, crowd circling the table as people pressed in for a better view. The jukebox volume had been dialed down, not officially, but like the bar collectively understood something bigger was happening here. It was more than pool. It was battle. Banter. Bravado and blurred lines.

Your next turn had to be perfect. And it was.

You pivoted around the table, spinning your cue once before sinking a bank shot so clean the crowd actually gasped. Your corner pocket stroke after that was surgical—snapping the eight into position like you’d choreographed it in your head three plays ago.

"CRASH!" the crowd erupted again, louder now, voices echoing off the walls.

Rooster leaned back, hollering. “She’s cookin’!”

Phoenix threw both hands up like a ref signaling a touchdown. Bob even smiled—Bob smiled.

Jake didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But his grip on the cue tightened enough to make his knuckles white.

Then he stepped up, wordless, and went to war.

His next shot curved like poetry—sleek, exact. Another fell, then another. Harvard screamed his name. Yale slammed his hand against the nearest stool.

The scoreboard was nearly even.

You were two apex predators circling a kill neither one wanted to share. And the kill was glory. Admiration. Each other.

But no one in the room could miss the difference now. Jake was damn good. But you? You were unbothered.

You were better. And the whole damn bar was watching.

By the time you lined up your next shot, the score was dead even. One ball left for each of you, eight still waiting like a final dare. The crowd had gone near silent now, the kind of hush that happens when people realize they’re witnessing something unrepeatable. The jukebox kept spinning something low and slow, but even the music sounded like it was holding its breath.

Jake was posted up against the far corner, cue slung casually over his shoulder, but his eyes never left you. He watched you like a man waiting for a lightning strike—like he wanted to be hit. You felt the burn of his stare trailing down your back, across your legs, over your arms as you bent slightly to study your angle.

You didn’t look up at him. Not yet.

Instead, you backed up just a little—slow, measured, deliberate—and bumped into him with a subtle sway of your hips.

“Oops,” you murmured, not bothering to hide the smirk in your voice.

He didn’t move.

You shifted again, cue stick low in your hand, angling to line up—right as the tip of it just so happened to swing directly between his legs with a gentle tap.

Jake inhaled sharply, catching it with both hands as he flinched back half a step.

“Oh my god—” Fanboy choked somewhere in the crowd.

“Did she just—” Payback was laughing, doubled over.

Coyote barked, “Direct hit!”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “She’s playing dirty tonight.”

You turned your head slightly and looked up at Jake over your shoulder, your smile sugar-sweet and fake as sin. “Sorry, Hangman. You were standing way too close to the danger zone.”

Jake was frozen—like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle you, kiss you, or throw you across the damn table. His jaw flexed. His eyes burned. And there was this twitch in his fingers, like every bone in his body wanted to grab you and do something about it.

You moved back to your shot without another word, leaned down, and sank the last ball with surgical precision.

The crowd exploded. “CRASH!” they screamed in unison, fists pumping, laughter and cheers flooding the bar like someone had just won the Super Bowl.

You didn’t look at Jake, but you felt him behind you. Still. Staring.

Like you’d knocked the wind out of him—and he was trying very, very hard not to beg for more.

Jake didn’t say anything after you sank the final shot. He just stood there for a second, cue slack in his grip, gaze locked on the pocket like he could will the outcome to change. But the eight-ball was gone. So was his win. And the cheers echoing through the Hard Deck were all for you.

You passed by him without a word, just a slow, deliberate glance that said everything he needed to hear. The crowd was still riled up, people clapping you on the back, offering drinks, showering you in affection like you were the patron saint of pool table warfare. And maybe tonight, you were.

Meanwhile, Jake drifted toward the bar, alone. He didn’t limp, exactly, but his pride definitely did. He ordered something sharp—whiskey, probably—then leaned against the counter, nursing the glass like it could drown the sting. His eyes flicked to you more than once, but you didn’t look his way again. Not yet.

That’s when she approached.

A tall brunette in a slinky black tank and heels too impractical for a place with peanut shells on the floor. She leaned on the bar beside him like she was in a perfume commercial, all breathy smiles and glossy eyes. Jake saw her. Of course he did. And predictably, his expression smoothed into that practiced smirk, the one that usually knocked people flat before he even said a word.

“Well hey there,” he said, voice lower now, just shy of sultry. “You lookin’ for something?”

She smiled, coy. “Yeah,” she said, dragging out the word with a lilt. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me get it.”

Jake leaned in slightly, shoulders shifting. He sipped his drink and gave her that full Seresin tilt-your-head-and-look-charming move. “Well now, that depends,” he said smoothly. “What exactly are you looking for?”

There was a pause. A beat. A little twist of the universe.

Then she leaned closer, cupping her drink between both hands, and said with a little wink:

“Crash’s number.”

Jake froze.

It was microscopic, but you knew him. The twitch in his temple, the sudden flare in his nostrils, the faint noise that might have been a strangled laugh or a dying breath—he was flabbergasted.

“Come again?” he asked, blinking once.

She laughed softly, tilting her head. “Crash. You know, the one who just smoked you on the table? God, she’s so hot. Like, I almost asked her myself, but—” she swirled the straw in her drink, “—you looked like you might have an in.”

Jake took a slow step back like she’d just hit him with a taser.

You, across the room, turned just in time to catch the moment. His eyes flicked toward you, burning with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment. And you? You just smirked. Cool. Effortless. Like you knew.

Because you did.

His glare hit you like a storm cloud. You met it with sunshine.

And in that exact moment, the only thing more bruised than Jake Seresin’s ego… was his dignity.

The bar emptied in waves, laughter spilling out onto the parking lot like the tide receding after one hell of a storm. Most of the guys were buzzed or straight-up hammered—Fanboy giggling against Halo’s shoulder, Coyote yelling something about karaoke into the night, and Payback dramatically fake-snoring in the bed of someone’s truck. Bob, ever the responsible one, was helping Phoenix wrangle Rooster into handing over his Bronco keys before he could insist he was “totally fine” to drive with a beer still in hand.

You sighed, catching the jingling keys mid-air after Phoenix tossed them your way. “I’ll drive him,” you said simply. “He’s two blocks from my place anyway.”

“Crash for MVP,” Phoenix muttered, dragging Fanboy toward her Jeep like a tired babysitter clocking out.

You rounded the Bronco, throwing open the driver’s door just as Rooster plopped into the passenger seat with a dramatic groan, head already tilted back like he planned to fall asleep the second you hit the road. You reached for the door to close it behind you when—

A hand slapped flat against the frame, stopping it mid-swing.

You didn’t have to look. You knew who it was.

Jake Seresin stood there, still reeling from the night, still wearing that perfect mix of ego and frustration like a custom-tailored flight suit. His other hand braced against the Bronco’s roof, effectively caging you in with his arms and the dark and the heat rolling off him like summer thunder.

“What,” he said, low and sharp, “are you doing to me?”

You turned, leaned your hip into the seat casually, unbothered. “Driving a friend home. Want me to call you a cab?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

You tilted your head, gaze traveling slowly over his face. “You're going to have to be more specific, Seresin.”

Jake leaned in just a little closer, breath warm near your ear, voice dipping into something dark and quiet. “You’re under my skin. In my head. Hell, I dreamt about you last week and woke up pissed off and hard.”

You blinked once. Then smiled.

Calm. Controlled. Deadly.

“Must’ve been a good dream if it lasted long enough to piss you off.”

Jake exhaled like it pained him. His eyes searched yours, wild but tethered, and his mouth twitched into something between a grin and a grimace.

“You’re driving me insane,” he muttered.

“Good,” you replied, brushing past his shoulder deliberately as you leaned forward to grab the seatbelt. “Maybe that means you’ll stop talking for once.”

But just before you could buckle yourself in, his hand shot out again—catching the seatbelt strap right by your fingers. The movement was fluid, unfairly fast, and suddenly you were nose-to-nose again, your breath catching before you could stop it.

“You keep poking the bear, Crash,” he said, mouth barely moving. “You really think I won’t bite?”

Your lips parted—just slightly, just for a fraction of a second. You felt it in your gut, in your thighs, in the base of your damn spine. But before you could answer, before you could say something biting or kiss him or deck him—

He stepped back.

Fully. Cleanly. Smirking like the devil after a sermon.

“Sweet dreams, hotshot,” he said with a wink.

Then he turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire circulatory system with one sentence.

And in the silence that followed, you buckled your seatbelt, turned the key in the ignition, and stared at your own reflection in the windshield.

Because goddamn him… you were thirsty now.

The Bronco rumbled down the coastal highway, headlights cutting through the early a.m. haze like spotlights on a bad decision. The window was cracked just enough to let in some sea air, though it didn’t do much to cool the wildfire that Jake Seresin had lit in your bloodstream thirty minutes ago.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, lips pursed, trying to focus on the road and not the fact that your pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment that smug bastard backed away like he hadn’t just whispered his way into your frontal lobe.

Meanwhile, Rooster was passed out in the passenger seat, limbs loose and tangled, head tilted back so far he was nearly kissing the ceiling. He snored once, then muttered something about "Mav's fault" before going limp again.

You almost laughed—until, completely unprompted, he shot up straight, eyes still closed, and bellowed into the night:

“YOU SHAKE MY NERVES AND YOU RATTLE MY BRAIN—”

You nearly swerved. “Oh, my God—”

Rooster slapped the dash like it was a piano and launched into the next line: “TOO MUCH LOVE DRIVES A MAN INSAAAAANE!”

You blinked at the road, deadpan. “Are you serious right now?”

But he was already gone again, flopping sideways against the window like someone had unplugged him. You stared at him for a beat, jaw slack, then back at the road with a slow, broken laugh. “You are a menace.”

Still, the second you hit the red light, your thoughts slid right back where they’d been since Jake cornered you. His voice. His eyes. That goddamn heat that crawled under your skin and made your spine twitch. You tried to shake it off, but your thighs had other ideas—pressing tighter like you could trap the thought and suffocate it before it reached your core.

No such luck.

Because it had been months since you let yourself think about anyone like that. Even longer since you touched yourself to the idea of someone who knew your name, let alone whispered it like a curse.

But now? All you could think about was his voice in your ear, hot breath on your neck, that smirk that made you want to throw hands and then straddle him right there on the Bronco hood.

It was disgusting.

It was shameful.

But it was so, so hot.

You sighed sharply, punching the gas when the light turned green. “God, I am so using my vibrator tonight.”

Rooster stirred beside you, one eye cracked open. “Did you say something?”

You kept your face forward. “Nope. You’re dreaming.”

He nodded solemnly. “Dreamin’ of piano bars.”

Then he passed out again. You kept driving.

And tried very, very hard not to pull over and scream into your palms.

Rooster blinked up at you with bloodshot eyes and a stupid smile, legs still tangled on the Bronco’s seat. “I’m just… I’m just gonna sleep here,” he mumbled, arms crossed like he thought he was making a strong case.

“No, you’re not,” you snapped, already half-dragging him out the passenger side door. “You're not dying of heatstroke in your own damn driveway, Bradshaw.”

He groaned dramatically, but let you help him stand. It was like guiding a baby giraffe in flip-flops—knees wobbling, weight shifting every direction but forward. Eventually, with a key dug out of his back pocket and a lot of grunting, you got him to the front door. Then inside. Then to the couch, where he dropped like a sack of aviation-grade potatoes.

You threw a blanket over him with a muttered, “Don’t puke on this, or I’m setting you on fire,” and turned to leave.

But not before locking the door behind you like a good friend. And then? Then you ran.

Like full-on, boots-slapping-asphalt, Olympic sprinted down the sidewalk, because your place was only a few blocks away and every second between now and your own bedroom felt like torture. The whole way, your mind was an endless loop of Jake’s voice—gravel and heat, laced with that godforsaken smirk: “You keep poking the bear, Crash… you really think I won’t bite?”

You fumbled with your keys when you got to your door, nearly dropped them twice, cursing under your breath like you were being hunted by the ghost of your own horny decisions. Finally, you got it open, stepped inside, slammed the door, and locked it behind you with a click that felt like salvation.

Then came the shower. A quick, cold rinse that didn’t even try to calm you down—just enough to wipe off the sweat from the bar and the shame from sprinting like you were in the Hunger Games. You didn’t even dry your hair. Just scrubbed your teeth, spat, wiped your face on a towel, and bee-lined straight to the nightstand.

And there it was. Your true co-pilot. Your vibrator.

You didn’t even hesitate. Pulled open the drawer, grabbed the vibrator like it owed you backpay, and collapsed on the bed with a groan that came from somewhere deep in your soul.

“God damn you, Seresin,” you muttered, flicking it on.

And then you let yourself finally, finally take the edge off the way only a desperate, pissed-off pilot with Jake Hangman Seresin living rent-free in her head could.

- Jake -

Jake Seresin was in hell.

Not literal hell—not the flames and brimstone kind—but the slow, grinding, full-body, carnal kind that made his brain short-circuit every time you so much as breathed in his direction.

And right now? You weren’t just breathing.

You were doing push-ups.

In the dirt.

Sweaty, flushed, jaw tight with focus, and wearing that goddamn fitted undershirt that clung to your back like a second skin. Every time your arms bent, your triceps flexed in the most unfair way imaginable, and every time you exhaled, he swore he could feel it in his spine.

Meanwhile, Mav paced behind the group like a disappointed father, barking out counts while the entire squad groaned under the weight of hangovers and regret.

“Push-up number forty-two! You wanna be late to my tarmac? You better be ready to earn it!”

Jake didn’t even care. Let him do fifty. Hell, let him do a hundred. He deserved it for the things he did to the mental image of you last night—things he was still recovering from.

Because after you strutted out of the Hard Deck like the devil in boots, all victorious smirks and slow blinks, Jake had barely made it home before he was jacking off with the desperation of a man trying to exorcise you from his bloodstream. He didn’t even bother putting on music or pretending it wasn’t about you. It was disgusting. It was shameful. And it was the only thing that got him to sleep.

But it hadn’t helped.

Not even a little.

If anything, it had made it worse. Because now he knew what it sounded like to moan your name, even if it was just in his own head, and now here you were, doing push-ups beside Phoenix, sweat rolling down the side of your neck like a damn baptism, and Jake’s mind was already halfway to hell again.

He clenched his jaw, gritting through another rep.

God, the way your body moved—like you didn’t even know how distracting you were. Your hair was pulled back, messier than usual, little strands clinging to your cheeks. Your lips were parted just slightly, breath steady, focused. But your ass? Perfectly arched. Your back? Shimmering. And every time your chest lowered to the ground, he had to dig his fingers into the gravel just to keep from groaning.

“Fifty!” Mav shouted. “That’s the price for being a squad of hungover jackasses!”

The group groaned and collapsed onto their stomachs, catching their breath.

Jake rolled onto his back, arm over his eyes like it could block out the sight of you—but it was too late. You were burned into his retinas. Into his frontal cortex. Into the pulse in his pants that was now pressing insistently against his flight suit like it had any right to ask for round two.

He peeked at you from under his forearm.

You were grinning now—fucking grinning—and wiping your forehead with the hem of your shirt, revealing just a sliver of skin at your waist. Just enough to ruin his morning, afternoon, and potentially career.

God help him. He wanted you so bad it felt like a fever.

And the worst part? You knew.

Jake had survived missile lock, blackout spins, G-force trauma, and enough high-risk training exercises to make most people piss themselves.

But nothing—nothing—had ever tested his willpower like the way you stood in front of him now, chugging from your water bottle like the heat didn’t bother you, like your shirt wasn’t plastered to your skin, like your sports bra wasn’t visible under white cotton like the setup of a goddamn wet dream.

He watched a droplet of water slip from the corner of your mouth, trail down your chin, and disappear down your neck.

He blinked slowly.

Focus.

But there was no focusing. Not when the sun was kissing your collarbones, and sweat had turned your skin into something glistening and golden. Not when your shoulders looked like they could cut steel and your legs were carved like a Roman statue—lean, powerful, flexed with every shift of weight as you leaned over to tie your boot. You didn’t even bend like a normal person. You bent like a temptation.

Meanwhile, Jake was standing next to Coyote, nodding absently at something about flight rotations, pretending he wasn’t one heartbeat away from turning around and walking headfirst into the ocean just to cool down. He clenched his jaw again. If he did it any harder, his teeth would break.

You tossed your water bottle into your duffel, then stretched your arms overhead, back arching just slightly, shirt rising with the motion. Jake caught a glimpse of the slope of your lower stomach and swore he saw God. Or maybe the Devil. Whoever made it so that looking at you felt like a punishment.

You yawned next, like it was nothing—like the whole squad wasn’t already down bad, but Jake? Jake was on the edge of a breakdown. You rubbed your neck, turned toward Phoenix, and laughed at something she said. That sound? That laugh? Jake wanted to trap it in his hands and crawl inside it.

He shifted on his heels, forced himself to look away, but it was no use. Every time he glanced at you—every flick of your wrist, every cocked eyebrow, every stupid smirk—you just looked hotter.

Hotter than last night.

Hotter than when you beat him at pool.

Hotter than when you hit him in the balls with your cue stick and smiled about it.

He was so screwed.

And not in the fun way.

Every single part of you was a problem. From the way you stood with one hip popped, weight balanced like you were permanently ready for takeoff, to the way you looked in that damn flight suit—zipped down just low enough to hint at the curve of your collarbones, sleeves pushed to your elbows like you didn’t even know you looked like sex personified.

Jake knew that if you told him to get on his knees, he’d do it without thinking.

He hated that about himself.

Worse, he was starting to like that about himself.

And the next time you smirked at him, like you knew exactly what you were doing, like you felt how hard he was trying not to think about what your thighs would feel like wrapped around his head?

He nearly groaned out loud. So, Jake tried to play it cool.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms, squinted at the tarmac like there was something—anything—more important out there than the way you adjusted your hair with a slow, careless drag of fingers that damn near made him whimper. But the second he thought maybe, maybe, no one had noticed the mental gymnastics he was doing to stay upright—

Coyote leaned in with the subtlety of a brick and dropped the line like a live grenade. “So… how’s that chastity belt feelin’, Hangman?”

Jake’s head snapped to him. “What?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me,” Coyote grinned, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he turned his whole body to face him. “You’ve been eye-fucking Crash since warm-ups.”

Rooster snorted from behind, slinging a towel over his shoulder. “Bro, he nearly passed out at push-up number twenty. Man was suffering.”

Jake scowled. “I was focused.”

“Yeah,” Rooster nodded. “On her ass.”

Coyote laughed loud enough to draw a glance from Halo and Phoenix. “Dude, you looked like a Victorian husband watching his wife show ankle. I thought you were gonna faint.”

Jake opened his mouth, closed it, and then pointed a finger in Rooster’s direction. “You were singing in your sleep last night. ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ In falsetto.”

Rooster just shrugged. “Yeah, and you were singing her name while holding your drink like it was holy water. So what’s your point?”

Jake flushed. Fully. From the neck up. A violent, betrayed shade of red.

Coyote leaned in closer, voice lower now, like he was trying to counsel a man who just lost the war. “Just admit it, Seresin. You got it bad. Like… ‘late night sock drawer’ bad.”

Rooster made a choked-off sound that was half-laugh, half-gag. “You think he cried after?”

“I think he cried during,” Coyote replied solemnly.

“Y’all done?” Jake muttered, jaw clenched like he was trying to chew through steel.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Rooster grinned. “Because if you don’t do something about it soon, you’re gonna combust mid-flight.”

Jake rolled his eyes and turned away, desperate for a distraction, anything, but then he looked up—

And saw you again. Walking toward the hangar. Hair tied back.

Sunlight bouncing off your cheekbones like it knew he was watching.

He cursed under his breath and shut his eyes. Yeah.

He was doomed. And his so-called friends? Not helping.

The water was hot. Scalding, even. But Jake stood under the spray like he wanted to boil the memory of you right off his skin.

It wasn’t working.

He scrubbed a palm down his face, leaned a forearm against the tile, and exhaled slowly, hoping the heat would drown the ache that had settled in his gut since yesterday. But every time he closed his eyes, you were right there—smirking, sweating, stretching, tying your damn boot like you knew he was watching.

The worst part? You did know.

The water hit the back of his neck, rolling down his spine, but all it did was make him feel hotter. He clenched his jaw, tried to think about anything else. Flight schedules. Fuel consumption ratios. Maintenance reports. Hell, even Mav’s disappointed dad voice.

But then he remembered the way your shirt had clung to your chest during push-ups, and it was over.

He groaned low in his throat and thunked his head against the wall.

Get a grip, Seresin.

And then—

“Hey, Hangman,” Coyote’s voice echoed from across the shower stalls, loud and evil. “You better not be jacking it in there, man. We still got drills.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “I’m not, asshole.”

Rooster laughed somewhere behind him. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s been like ten minutes and we haven’t heard you breathe.”

“I swear to God—” Jake turned slightly, water still cascading over his back, face red from heat and humiliation.

“Hey,” Fanboy added, “if you are, at least aim down, alright? Shared pipes.”

Coyote coughed. “Dude, I’m begging you, not near the drain.”

“I will punch all of you.”

Then, like an angel dipped in irony, Bob’s voice drifted in—calm, diplomatic.

“Guys, don’t tease him,” he said gently.

Jake sighed in relief.

Then Bob added, “He’s clearly going through it.”

Jake tensed.

“Poor guy’s got a crush,” Bob finished, completely deadpan.

The showers erupted.

Laughter echoed off the tile, a few slaps ringing out as someone clapped the wall, someone else mimicking kissing sounds. Jake wanted to crawl into the drain and disappear.

He shouted over the chaos. “She’s not a crush! She’s a menace!”

“Yeah,” Rooster called, voice thick with smug, “a sexy, sweaty menace.”

Coyote chimed in, “Who lives rent-free in your right hand, bro!”

Jake groaned, turned the water off, and slammed his palm against the tile. “I hate all of you.”

Bob, towel wrapped around his waist, peeked around the edge of the stall with a perfectly innocent expression. “Need a minute, Hangman?”

Jake grabbed the nearest bottle of shampoo and chucked it at him.

The ramp buzzed with energy as Mav stepped back from the line of jets, arms crossed like he was about to scold a bunch of toddlers. He gave his usual pre-flight breakdown—tight formation, real-time targeting drills, and "keep your egos on the ground, I don't need another set of wings lost to pissing contests."

Jake stood next to his bird, helmet tucked under his arm, nodding along like he was listening. But really, his eyes kept flicking toward the jet two rows down. Your jet.

And inside it?

Bob.

Because of course Maverick decided to pair the smartest WSO in the group with the one person guaranteed to send Jake straight into therapy. Just a casual “Bob, you’re with Crash today,” like it wasn’t the equivalent of handing a match to a man already drenched in jet fuel.

Jake bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

Meanwhile, you were tucked into your cockpit, already pulling your helmet down, adjusting your gloves like you were born for this. You didn’t look his way—not even once—but that somehow made it worse. Because it meant you weren’t doing it to tease him. You were just being yourself. Just competent and composed and so goddamn hot in your gear he couldn’t see straight.

Then Bob turned.

Met Jake’s eyes through the open cockpit.

And smirked.

Jake narrowed his eyes immediately, jaw tightening. He gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head—the universal sign for don’t you fucking dare.

Bob shrugged. Smiled wider.

And then he leaned into the cockpit and adjusted your helmet straps for you—gently, methodically, like a gentleman helping royalty with her crown. His gloved fingers moved with practiced care, and you?

You smiled.

Warm, soft, that soul-melting smile that Jake had never been on the receiving end of. And just to make sure Jake died fully and completely, you reached up and patted Bob’s cheeks.

Twice.

Like you were blessing him for his service.

Jake made an actual, audible sound—somewhere between a scoff and a choking cough—and had to take two steps back before he threw his helmet across the tarmac.

Coyote’s voice crackled in his ear through comms. “Hangman, your blood pressure okay, man?”

Jake growled into his mic, “Shut up.”

Bob gave a thumbs-up, turned toward the ladder, and waved at Jake on his way down.

Jake glared so hard he saw red behind his visor.

Then he finally climbed into his own jet, muttering under his breath the whole way.

“Touch her again and I will replace your shampoo with engine degreaser, Floyd.”

- You, Crash -

The hangar was still buzzing when the jets touched down, the echo of roaring engines slowly fading as everyone rolled out from their cockpits, adrenaline cooling into sweaty exhaustion. You popped your canopy with a lazy grin, helmet under one arm, flight suit unzipped just slightly at the top to let some air in. Meanwhile, Jake climbed out of his own jet like a man climbing out of a grave, every movement a little stiffer than usual, a little tighter in the shoulders. He didn’t say a word as he walked past you.

He didn’t have to.

You’d smoked him.

Again.

It wasn’t even close.

You’d cut him off mid-roll, anticipated his throttle push like you were reading his mind, and pulled a counter-maneuver so fast and clean the tower had to replay it twice to confirm it was even legal. Mav’s voice had crackled through comms after the final pass—“Goddamn, Crash. That was art.”

Jake hadn’t said anything then, either.

Now, the squad was gathered in the debriefing room, still sweaty in their flight suits, the lights dimmed just enough to keep the projector screen visible. Maverick stood at the front with a remote in one hand, flipping through the recorded flight footage with a casual grace that always made him seem ten years younger. The screen showed a slow-motion replay of your final maneuver—your jet slipping into a controlled stall, dropping altitude just enough to force Jake to overcorrect and shoot wide, right into your six.

“Alright,” Mav said, glancing back at the room, “Crash, walk us through that last move.”

Without missing a beat, you stood up and stepped toward the screen, eyes tracking the footage like it was muscle memory. “He went high on the third loop, which meant his velocity would drop faster on the vertical. I knew if I stalled into a break and cut my throttle just enough to slip into his blind spot, I’d force him to reacquire visual manually. But by the time he did, I was already behind him.”

You didn’t say it to brag. You said it like you were pointing out a weather pattern or explaining the laws of gravity. Calm, steady, with the easy confidence of someone who knew their craft inside and out.

Mav nodded slowly, visibly impressed. “That was textbook.”

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “Textbook, but ballsy.”

Rooster muttered under his breath, “That’s our girl.”

Meanwhile, Jake sat in his chair, arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he was trying to hold his ribcage together. His jaw was locked, lips pressed in a tight line, and he refused to look at anyone—especially you.

Coyote nudged him. “She’s not even sweating, man.”

Jake didn’t respond.

Bob, bless his diplomatic heart, tried to lighten the mood. “At least you didn’t crash into the ocean.”

Jake glared at him like he was about to eject in the classroom.

You finished your analysis, stepped back, and gave Mav a small nod.

He smirked at you. “Nicely done, Crash. I’m running that clip for the next class.”

You shrugged, already sinking back into your seat. “It was just physics.”

Jake let out a slow, audible exhale that sounded dangerously close to a growl.

- Jake -

The Hard Deck was loud with end-of-day energy—pool balls clacking, jukebox humming, pitchers of beer sweating on every table. You were in the middle of it all, perched on the edge of the squad’s usual booth, laughing as Phoenix tossed a peanut at Fanboy’s head and Bob tried to explain the physics of beer foam to Rooster. Everyone was talking over everyone, a storm of noise and movement and warmth that dulled the sting of today’s brutal flight.

Then, casually, you stood and stretched. “Gonna grab another drink,” you said, waving off Halo’s offer to come with.

None of them noticed when the man intercepted you halfway to the bar.

At first, it seemed harmless. Just some average guy—civilian, definitely—leaning in with that drunk, too-smooth smile, asking your name like he didn’t already know it. You gave a polite nod, tried to turn toward the bar, but his body shifted to block the way. His voice dropped lower. His eyes dragged down and back up like you were inventory.

Meanwhile, across the bar, Jake had been half-listening to Payback and Harvard argue about jukebox etiquette, but his eyes had been on you the whole time. It wasn’t on purpose. Not really. He just always seemed to know where you were. And when your shoulders stiffened just slightly, when your smile flattened into something tight and fake, he felt it like a change in pressure.

Without a word, Jake stood.

The guy didn’t see him coming at first, too busy leaning closer, murmuring something that made you shift your weight back. But Jake saw it all. The way your jaw clenched. The way your arms folded—not relaxed, but defensive. And that was enough.

Jake crossed the floor like a storm, his presence immediate and hot, and then he was right there, between the guy’s shoulder and your space, voice low and sharp.

“She said move.”

The man glanced over, smirking like he was being challenged to a game. “This your boyfriend or something?” he asked, eyes still on you.

Jake didn’t even blink. “Walk away.”

But the guy didn’t. He chuckled, slow and ugly, and then leaned forward like he had something clever to say. “She doesn’t seem like she needs protecting. But if she does—hell, I’d volunteer.”

Jake’s fist hit the guy’s face before the sentence even finished.

The bar exploded into shouts.

You immediately stepped between them, pressing both hands flat against Jake’s chest, holding him back. “It’s not worth it,” you said quickly, voice low but firm, eyes flicking between Jake’s clenched jaw and the stunned man stumbling back. “Let’s just go back. Come on.”

Jake’s chest heaved beneath your palms, his eyes burning holes through the guy’s face, but he didn’t move—not forward, anyway.

Behind him, Rooster and Coyote were already out of their seats, Payback cracking his knuckles like it was a warm-up round. Phoenix stood halfway up on the booth, eyes sharp, while Bob muttered something that sounded like “oh boy, here we go.”

Then the man made his second mistake.

He sneered at you, lip split, ego bruised, and muttered, “Typical pilot bitch. Probably thinks flying makes her special.”

The silence was instant.

Even the music felt quieter.

Then you turned.

And decked him.

Your fist cracked against his jaw so hard his knees buckled. He dropped to the floor like a sack of disgrace, and you surged forward, ready to land another—but Jake caught you around the waist, arms locking across your stomach, pulling you back just in time.

“Let me go!” you shouted, trying to twist free, face flushed with fury. “I’m not done!”

“You’re done,” Jake muttered, half-laughing, half-panicked, holding you tight as you kicked back lightly against his shin.

“Coward ass, limp-dicked, mansplaining fossil of a—”

“Crash,” Jake warned, barely restraining the smile breaking across his face.

The bar was chaos now—cheering, clapping, voices rising. Rooster and Coyote were already dragging the guy toward the door like bouncers, Payback holding it open while Penny stood behind the bar with a dishtowel and one raised brow. “Toss him,” she said flatly.

And they did.

Jake hadn’t said a word as he guided you out the back of the Hard Deck, his hand still warm against the small of your back. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the lingering chaos inside—cheers, music, Phoenix probably trying to convince Penny not to ban the squad for the hundredth time. Out here, it was quieter. The breeze off the water was sharp and salty, cooling your skin where it burned from the fight.

He led you past the deck, past the strung-up lights and weather-worn picnic tables, toward a row of old wooden lounge chairs facing the beach. They were half-sunk in sand, tilted like drunk old men, but the moment Jake eased you toward one, you jerked away from his touch.

You rounded on him, voice still tight with leftover fire. “Why’d you hold me back?”

Jake blinked, clearly not expecting the bite in your voice. “Because you were about to break his jaw,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“So?”

He exhaled, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a slow step back like giving you space might defuse you. “So, you already won. The guy was on the ground.”

You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing. The moonlight made your features sharp, feral, still coiled like a spring. “Yeah, and I wanted to finish it. You didn’t have to touch me.”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, his own frustration peeking out beneath the surface. “Jesus, Crash. You think I did that to what—control you? Embarrass you?” He scoffed and shook his head. “I was trying to get you out of a bar fight before you lost your commission. You punched him once. That was enough.”

Your jaw clenched, lips parting like you were ready to snap back, but the words got tangled in your throat. The worst part was—you knew he was right. The second worst part? He hadn’t been rough about it. He hadn’t dragged you out. He’d been gentle. Almost… careful. And for some reason, that made you angrier than anything.

You looked away, fists still tight at your sides. “I didn’t need saving.”

Jake’s voice dropped, low and soft. “Didn’t say you did.”

He sat down slowly in one of the lounge chairs, elbows on his knees, watching you with that same unreadable expression he wore in the cockpit. Somewhere between studying you and preparing to be burned by you.

Then he added, almost like a confession, “You scare the shit out of me sometimes.”

Jake laughed, but it wasn’t amused—it was bitter, tired, raw. “You think this is about wanting you?” he said, voice cutting through the night air like a blade. “You think that’s the whole story?”

You squared your shoulders, already bracing for whatever self-righteous bull was about to come out of his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I bruise your ego? Again?”

Jake’s eyes flashed. “No, what bruised my ego was busting my ass for two years at the Academy just to have you breathing down my neck like a damn shadow every step of the way. You wanted it more than anyone. More than me. I won, Crash. And you still made it feel like I lost.”

You stepped closer, chest tight, voice sharp. “Yeah, you won. Top of the class. Best scores. Best pilot. Everyone sang your damn praises like you were the second coming of Maverick. And I? I was second. Always second.”

Jake flinched, just slightly, but you saw it.

“I was second to you in every damn brief, in every damn report card. And you want to know what that did to me?” you continued, your voice rising with every word. “It made me better. It made me sharper. It made me come back swinging every time just so I could finally say that I beat Jake fucking Seresin.”

Jake's expression tightened. “So that’s what all this is? This whole time? You’ve been trying to settle a score?”

“You’re damn right I have,” you said, breath shaking now, “because no one talks about who came in second. No one remembers her name. And I knew—I knew—if I couldn’t be the golden boy, I was going to be the storm that beat him.”

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric.

Jake ran his tongue across his teeth, pacing a few steps before whipping around again. “You think I had it easy? That it was all just handed to me? You think I liked being put on a pedestal I didn’t ask for, being the one everyone expected to fly perfect every damn time or else I was a failure?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the crack in his voice. He wasn’t yelling anymore. He was breaking.

“They never gave me space to mess up,” he continued, quieter now, but more dangerous. “They just expected me to win. And when you came in second, you had something to chase. I didn’t. I had something to lose. Every second. And then you showed up again at North Island, all sharp edges and scars, and suddenly I wasn’t the best anymore. Suddenly you were beating me. Outflying me. Outthinking me.”

He stopped, looked at you.

“You think I hate you for it,” he said. “But I don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “Then what, Seresin? What the hell do you feel?”

Jake stepped closer, breathing hard, eyes burning.

“I feel like you’re the only person who ever made me doubt myself,” he whispered. “And I hate that I fucking need you because of it.”

You shook your head, scoffing as your arms dropped from your chest, hands balling into fists at your sides. “You think I wanted to make you doubt yourself? That was never the point, Seresin. You were already standing on the podium. I just wanted to prove I deserved to be there too.”

Jake looked at you like he didn’t recognize you. “You think I didn’t know that?”

“You didn’t act like it,” you snapped. “You never once looked back. Not when they gave you that medal. Not when they handed you command over a squad you didn’t even respect. You didn’t look back at the person who came in second, who gave you a run for your goddamn money every time.”

“I couldn’t look back,” Jake said, voice low and shaking. “Because if I did, I knew you’d catch me.”

You blinked.

And then he continued, stepping closer like every word was pulled from a place he’d buried deep. “I saw you every damn day after graduation—when you got posted to Fallon, when your name popped up on the ranking boards. Every time I turned around, you were climbing higher. You were everywhere. And I couldn’t breathe, because I knew the minute you got the same chance as me, you’d be better.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because hearing it from him—from the golden boy who never broke—felt like the world cracking open.

Jake let out a breath, almost a laugh, except it sounded like it hurt. “I hated you for it. And I hated myself for hating you. Because no matter how hard I tried to outrun you, you kept showing up. Stronger. Sharper. Smarter.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper now. “So you tried to ignore me.”

Jake nodded slowly. “Yeah. Because if I acknowledged you, I had to admit you were everything I wasn’t.”

That made your chest tighten, your mouth part slightly with something soft and unspoken. But the fire hadn’t burned out yet—it was just turning blue-hot, simmering low and dangerous.

“So what now?” you asked, tone still laced with heat, but not just the angry kind. “You wanna tell me I’m good enough and shake hands and call it even?”

Jake's eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and there was something dark and hollow in his voice when he said, “I don’t want even with you. I want everything.”

The words knocked the air right out of your lungs.

And still, you stood your ground.

Because for all the fury, all the tension, all the years of circling each other like predators in the same sky—this was the moment that stripped it all bare.

And you had no idea what would happen next.

“You think you’re the only one who sacrificed something?” you yelled, chest rising and falling so fast it felt like your ribs might crack. “I gave up everything to be here! My family, my fucking sanity, years of grinding just to prove that I could be better than the boy they called untouchable!”

Jake was shaking now, fists clenched at his sides, face red with anger and something deeper, something that had been boiling under the surface for years. “And I never asked you to! I didn’t make you chase me!”

“No, you didn’t!” you shouted, voice almost hoarse now. “But you sure as hell enjoyed knowing I was always behind you!”

That did it.

Jake surged forward, hands gripping your face so fast, so rough, it made you stumble back a step—and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was a collision. A spark catching flame after years of dry kindling. His mouth crashed against yours like he was drowning in it, like kissing you was a punishment and a reward at the same time. Meanwhile, your hands curled into the front of his flight jacket, dragging him closer, not because you wanted to be held but because you wanted him to feel everything he’d made you carry.

Then, he bit your lip.

And you gasped against him, nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, gripping like he’d been starved for this exact contact. There was no space left—only the taste of anger and adrenaline and longing on his tongue.

And still, neither of you pulled away.

Not even for air.

His mouth was frantic against yours, all heat and teeth and helpless, frustrated longing. There was no finesse—no clever lines or slow lead-up. Just years of tension detonating between your lips. He kissed you like he hated himself for it. Like he couldn’t stop. Like the taste of you might ruin him, but he wanted it anyway.

You couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to.

Because the way his hands moved—sliding up your spine, gripping the back of your neck, then curling into your hair—it felt like a man trying to memorize you. Meanwhile, your fingers fumbled at his collar, bunching the fabric of his jacket like it was the only thing anchoring you. Your teeth clashed, lips bruised, but you didn’t let go. Neither of you did. Then his tongue slid past your lips and you groaned into him—soft and guttural, like something sacred just cracked wide open.

Jake pulled back just barely, panting, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were wild, his jaw tight, voice gravel when he finally spoke.

“I hate how bad I want you.”

Then he kissed you again—harder this time, like the words had cost him too much, and only your mouth could take the sting away. Your body curved into his as you answered with your whole damn soul, kissing him like revenge, like release, like all the nights you’d laid awake thinking about this moment and hating yourself for it.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because the more you kissed, the hungrier it got. The more his hands explored your waist, your ribs, the way your flight suit clung to your body like a second skin—the more he knew he’d never be able to look at you again without remembering the taste of your mouth and the fire of your fury.

And he didn’t care.

He kissed you like a man gone mad.

And you let him.

Jake kissed you like he’d been holding back for years—because he had. Every sparring match, every smirk, every insult thrown across briefing rooms and bar tables, they’d all been smoke screens for this. And now that the dam had broken, he wasn’t stopping. Couldn’t.

Your back hit the nearest lounge chair, and he followed, crowding you against the weathered wood like the night itself was bending around the two of you. His hands slid down your waist, then up again, palms splayed like he was trying to cover every inch of you at once. Meanwhile, you curled your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—a low, feral sound that made your knees weak.

He kissed you like your lips held answers he didn’t know he was asking. Then he pulled back just long enough to breathe, his forehead against yours, his voice rough and breathless.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him back in, crashing your mouth against his again—faster this time, deeper. His tongue found yours, hot and messy and perfect. The kiss turned hungry, frantic, like you were both starving and the other was the only thing left to devour.

Jake’s hands slipped under your flight suit, fingertips skating across bare skin, and it hit you like a gut punch—how long you’d wanted this. How long you’d hated wanting it.

But right now? You didn’t care.

Because his mouth was on your jaw, then your neck, then back to your lips like he couldn’t stand being away for more than a second. Then he breathed your name between kisses like a prayer and a curse, and your nails raked down his back through his shirt, trying to get closer, closer, still not close enough.

And God—when he bit your lower lip and tugged, just enough to make you gasp?

You almost lost it.

Your breath came in short, sharp pants—ragged and desperate. Your lips were red and kiss-swollen, smeared with the taste of him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his damn flight jacket like you could anchor yourself there. Jake’s hands were everywhere—your hips, your lower back, gripping you like he didn’t know where to touch first, couldn’t choose, so he chose all. His thumb dragged slow, filthy circles against the side of your neck, reverent in the most unholy way.

But you tilted your head back and let out a laugh, breathless and soaked in want, more of a whimper than a joke.

“Let’s not fuck on a beach chair like drunk teenagers,” you rasped against his mouth, voice wrecked and ruined.

Jake just looked at you, eyes wild, pupils blown wide. His mouth was parted like he wanted to bite down on the words you just said and swallow them whole. He blinked once, slow—like processing language took too much effort while his cock was already rock-hard and straining against the front of his jeans.

Then he exhaled, a groan caught halfway between frustration and reverence. He pulled back just enough to glare at you like you’d just suggested celibacy.

“My car,” he growled, voice hoarse and lethal. “Now.”

You didn’t even pretend to argue.

Minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of his truck, door slamming behind you. The inside was hot—day-warmed leather and sun-stale air—but it didn’t matter. Jake didn’t even touch the key. He turned, jaw tight, eyes burning like he could already see you bent over the console. He stared at you like a man seconds from snapping.

You stared right back.

And then?

You pounced.

Your knees straddled his lap before he could even speak, thighs spreading like a prayer turned sacrilegious. Your mouth crushed into his, all teeth and spit and hunger. The kiss was messy, obscene—more tongue than technique, more need than patience. Jake groaned deep in his chest as you rocked against the bulge in his jeans, hard and hot and already leaking.

His hands shot down to grip your ass, squeezing like he could mark his name there. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, voice broken. “You gonna ride me right here?”

“Unless you want me dripping down your thigh instead,” you hissed, and he swore, low and guttural, fingers fumbling to shove your panties to the side.

The truck shook with the force of your bodies—seat springs creaking, windows fogging like sin was sweating from your skin. His hand slid between your legs, cursing again when he felt how wet you were. “Shit,” he groaned, pressing two fingers inside without warning. “So fucking ready for me.”

You moaned against his neck, hips rolling down on his hand like your body knew him, like it had been waiting on this exact moment forever. “Jake,” you breathed, and his name on your lips damn near undid him.

He dragged his soaked fingers back out and smeared them along your inner thigh, grinning like a bastard. “You’re fuckin’ dripping, baby,” he murmured, eyes dropping to watch it. “Gonna make a mess all over me, huh?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Let’s get out of here first, yeah?”

You nodded, nails digging into his shoulders, and he kissed you again—harder, dirtier, tongue deep in your mouth like he wanted to taste every filthy thought in your head.

And still, still, it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

He started the engine with a jerk, jaw tight, knuckles pale from how hard he gripped the wheel. You shifted in your seat beside him, thighs still spread from straddling him moments ago, breathing like you’d just finished a damn marathon. The heat between you? Still alive. Still feral.

Jake didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. His voice would’ve cracked or cursed or begged. Instead, he yanked the gear into reverse with a force that nearly made the whole truck shudder.

You sat there, smug and aching, dress bunched up too high on your thighs, no underwear in sight because he had shoved them into your jacket pocket like a trophy. His scent was on your neck. Your slick was probably still drying on his jeans.

The silence was thick—dangerous. Carnal.

Jake’s jaw was clenched so hard it could’ve cracked stone. His right hand gripped the gearshift, but you felt the twitch in his fingers. Like he was seconds away from pulling over and fucking you in the backseat instead.

You shifted again, slow and shameless, and let out a little sigh. Just to test him.

His head snapped toward you for a second—eyes dark, wild, starving—then back to the road.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “You trying to get me arrested?”

You smirked, dragging one hand slowly down your own thigh, deliberately, until it brushed over your knee. “I dunno,” you murmured. “You’re the one with the loaded weapon.”

He choked. Literally choked on a breath. “If I crash this damn truck, it’s on you.”

You leaned closer, voice all syrup and sin, whispering, “I’m soaked, Jake.”

His groan was primal, a sound pulled straight from the chest of a man two seconds from wrecking. “Keep. Talking. And I will pull the fuck over.”

“Then pull over.”

The growl that ripped from his throat was almost a laugh—dark and wrecked and barely human. His hand shot across the console, gripping your thigh, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises. “You are not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” you purred.

The rest of the drive was a war. His hand stayed tight on your leg, dragging higher every few seconds, testing just how much self-control he had left. Your skin buzzed beneath his touch, your whole body humming with anticipation. Every red light was a goddamn curse. Every green one, a lifeline.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, neither of you had spoken in minutes—but the air was so heavy it could’ve been sliced with a blade. Jake slammed the gear into park, killed the engine, and turned to you.

No words. Just fire in his eyes.

And you? You looked right back at him. Still smug. Still aching. And so very ready.

The front door slammed behind you with a sound that echoed off the walls, low and final, like the starter pistol to something primal. Jake didn’t bother with the lights. There was no need—he knew this house in the dark, and he was already walking you backward down the hallway, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other gripping your jaw like he could keep you right there, right where he needed you.

Your breath hitched when your spine hit the cool wall, and he was already on you—mouth hot and unrelenting, tongue sliding past your lips like he owned every gasp he stole from you.

Meanwhile, your hands yanked his shirt up, impatient and clumsy, fingers skating over hard muscle and warm skin. He groaned against your mouth when your nails scratched lightly down his abs, but he didn’t stop kissing you.

If anything, he got rougher—teeth scraping your lower lip, then sucking it between his like he wanted to leave a mark. You kicked your shoes off blindly, one hand fumbling behind you for anything to hold onto as his thigh slotted between yours and pressed up, hard. Your hips rolled instinctively, a whimper escaping you before you could catch it.

Then Jake pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes glittering in the low light like something dangerous. His voice was low and hoarse, barely more than a breath. “Bedroom. Now.”

You didn’t hesitate. He let you lead the way, but only for a moment—his hands stayed on your hips, guiding you down the hallway like a man possessed.

By the time you stepped over the threshold of his room, he was already peeling your dress over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. It hit the floor with a soft whisper, but the sound was drowned out by the rustle of clothing and the hiss of breath through clenched teeth.

Jake didn’t stop moving as he undressed you, didn’t slow down even when his fingers found bare skin and heat and soaked thighs. He cursed, soft and reverent, under his breath, then leaned in to kiss the hollow of your throat. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin with each syllable. “You’re dripping for me.”

You were. You knew you were. And still, you didn’t care. You just wanted him—on you, in you, wrecking you. His touch was rough now, greedy. He walked you backward again until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were falling, legs spread, chest heaving, completely bare under the sharp, hungry gaze of a man who looked like he was deciding whether to kneel or devour.

Jake dropped to his knees like it wasn’t even a question.

Then, with one hand on your thigh and the other spreading you wider, he leaned in and tasted you.

His mouth was hot and slick and obscene, dragging through your folds with a slow, deliberate hunger that made your hips jerk against the sheets. Jake groaned into you like your taste was the only thing he’d been craving for days, maybe years. H

is tongue was relentless, flat and wide one second, then sharp and focused the next, circling your clit like he was memorizing the exact pattern that made you tremble. Meanwhile, his fingers bruised into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, because you were already writhing, already on edge from the buildup that started the second he growled “my car.”

You gasped, back arching as he sucked harder, and that only earned you another moan from him—deep and guttural, vibrating straight through your core. The sound sent shivers down your spine and made your thighs try to clamp shut, but his grip was unrelenting.

Jake didn’t just want you to take it—he wanted to wreck you with it. He wanted your legs trembling, your breath caught in your throat, your voice reduced to nothing but curses and moans tangled in his name.

Then he slid two fingers inside you, slow and thick, curling them just right, and your cry was sharp enough to echo. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging, anchoring, not because you wanted him to stop, but because it was too good. It was too much.

He was fucking you with his fingers and devouring you with his mouth like the world was ending and this was the only way he wanted to go out.

“Jake—shit—Jake, I—” You couldn’t even finish the thought. Every time your voice rose, he doubled down—faster, deeper, filthier. His mouth was soaked, your slick coating his chin, and he didn’t care. He groaned into it, tongue flattening again as your thighs began to shake. You were so close you could taste it, breath catching, legs threatening to give out.

“Come on,” he growled, voice low and wrecked against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And you did.

It hit you like a wave breaking loose, your entire body arching, gasping, clenching down on his fingers while your orgasm tore through you with vicious force. Your thighs shook. Your hands tightened in his hair. Your voice broke apart on his name as he kept licking you through it, slowing only when your legs finally gave out, twitching against the bed like you’d been electrocuted from the inside out.

But he didn’t stop.

Not really.

Even as your body trembled, even as your breath stuttered in your chest, Jake was already rising, standing between your knees, dragging his shirt off over his head. His chest heaved. His mouth glistened with you. His eyes? Still feral.

And then he reached for his belt.

He yanked his belt free with a sharp snap, the leather whispering through denim loops like a warning. Then, without a word, he unbuttoned his jeans, the fabric straining around his thighs as he shoved them down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking.

He stroked himself once, slowly, eyes locked on your bare, trembling form sprawled across his sheets, your chest still rising and falling in the aftermath of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to savor you, stretch this moment out, but restraint was slipping from his fingers fast, unraveling with every second you laid there, slick and spread and waiting.

Meanwhile, you reached for him, your touch greedy as your hand wrapped around his wrist and tried to pull him closer. He let you, but barely—he resisted just long enough to press the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your folds, dragging it slow, wet, and taunting. The sound alone was sinful, sticky and obscene, your slick coating him so thoroughly it made him shudder.

Then he pushed in—just the tip at first, then more, inch by devastating inch—and you both moaned at the same time, the kind of sound that was deep and guttural and torn straight from the soul.

Your walls stretched around him, velvet heat pulling him in, and Jake cursed under his breath as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, staying there for just a second—breathing heavy, hands on either side of your ribs, trembling with the effort it took not to lose it right there.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You feel—Jesus, baby—you feel like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t answer. You could barely breathe. You just nodded, wide-eyed, hands clinging to his shoulders as he started to move—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust dragging against the most sensitive parts of you with precision. Meanwhile, your moans turned needy, breath hitching with every grind of his hips, every wet slap of skin against skin.

Then he sped up, and the rhythm shifted—less careful, more feral. He fucked into you with a purpose, hips snapping forward like he was chasing something with every thrust, dragging moans and curses out of you until all you could do was hold on.

One hand gripped the headboard above you for leverage while the other tangled in his hair, desperate for something to anchor yourself as your body rocked under the weight of his. Jake leaned down to press his mouth to your throat, biting just hard enough to make you cry out before soothing it with his tongue, hips still slamming into you with relentless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking against the wall in time with each thrust. Your skin was slick with sweat, your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to keep him deep, to keep him there.

And Jake? He looked completely wrecked—hair wild, muscles tight, sweat dripping from his brow as he kept chasing that high, as he fucked you like he wanted to leave an imprint on your soul.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Jake’s rhythm started to falter—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer effort it took to hold back. His thrusts grew sharper, deeper, hips snapping forward with that brutal precision that made your breath catch every time he bottomed out.

Meanwhile, his eyes were locked on where your bodies met, watching his cock disappear into you again and again, coated in your slick and glistening in the low light like the filthiest fucking dream. His mouth dropped open with a growl that vibrated in his chest.

“God, you take it so well,” he hissed, voice low and wrecked. “Fucking perfect—so fucking tight for me.”

Then he leaned in, face flushed and hair damp with sweat, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow even filthier. “You ever think about what you’d look like,” he murmured, thrusting deep enough to make you cry out, “round and dripping, full of me?”

Your moan was instant, raw, involuntary.

Jake grinned, sharp and unholy. “Yeah,” he groaned, snapping his hips hard, making you jolt up the bed. “Bet you’d look so fucking good carrying me. All swollen, leaking for days—fuck, baby, I could make you mine. Over and over, till your pretty little body can’t hold any more.”

He was feral now, hips punishing, one hand reaching to grip your thigh and push it higher against your chest, folding you in half so he could get deeper. His cock dragged against your walls just right, brutal and perfect, making stars dance behind your eyes. You were gasping now, clutching at the sheets, fingers white-knuckled from how hard you were hanging on.

Meanwhile, Jake was falling apart right above you. “You want that, don’t you?” he growled, voice slurring with lust. “Wanna feel me come inside, wanna know I fucked you so deep, so good, you’ll still be dripping when you wake up.”

You couldn’t even form words. You just nodded, moaned, whimpered—anything to tell him yes, please, more.

Then his hand slid down to your lower stomach, pressing down lightly while he thrust, making you feel everything. “Feel that?” he whispered, completely wrecked now. “That’s me. All of me. Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so good, baby. Gonna come so fucking deep you’ll feel it in your throat.”

The way he said it—like a promise, like a prayer—was enough to send another wave of heat crashing through you. Your second orgasm slammed into you with no warning, tearing a cry from your throat as your walls clamped around him, squeezing, milking, begging.

Jake snapped.

He cursed viciously, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his cock pulsed, spilling into you with a low, guttural moan that sounded more like a man losing his religion. He stayed there, locked tight against you, hand still pressing your belly, like he wanted to feel his cum take root.

Even as you trembled beneath him, aftershocks rippling through every inch of you, Jake didn’t move. He just kissed your throat, your collarbone, your lips—slower now, reverent, but still with that edge of obsession burning in his touch.

And then? He pulled back just enough to look down between your thighs… and smiled.

The air was thick with sweat and sex, the room dim and humming with the afterglow of what you just did—but your pulse hadn’t slowed. Neither had your hunger. Jake lay flat on the bed, chest still rising and falling hard, face flushed and jaw slack, utterly wrecked from the way he’d come inside you. He looked dazed—blissfully fucked-out and completely unaware that you were far from satisfied.

You shifted beside him, still trembling a little, but a new kind of heat lit beneath your skin. Then, without a word, you swung your leg over his hips and settled yourself on top of him, thighs spread wide, still sticky from his cum. He blinked up at you, confused at first, but then your fingers wrapped around his cock again—slick and still rock-hard despite the fact he’d just finished inside you minutes ago.

He groaned, long and broken. “Fuck, babe—give me a second—”

But you didn’t give him anything. Not mercy. Not pause. Not relief. You just smiled slow, fingers stroking him deliberately from base to tip, your palm gentle at first, then tighter, then featherlight just to make him twitch. Meanwhile, your hips ground down against his stomach, heat rubbing into skin, body still greedy and dripping.

Jake’s hands flew to your thighs like he could steady himself, but his eyes were already wild. “Shit,” he muttered, head pressing back into the pillow. “Too much. Too—fuck, I’m still—”

“I know,” you whispered, tilting your head, voice syrup-sweet and soaked in sin. “You said you could handle me. So… handle it.”

Then your thumb dragged over his tip, spreading his own slick around the head, and he jerked, muscles twitching like he’d been shocked. His breath hitched, chest stuttering, hands tightening on your legs.

“You’re killing me,” he gasped.

“Good,” you purred, eyes locked on his. “Then maybe you’ll learn not to think you can fuck me once and call it a night.”

You leaned forward, hand still working him slow, torturous, squeezing just enough to make him twitch and throb under your palm. He was sensitive, overstimulated, every nerve on fire—and you knew it. You thrived on it.

Jake was panting now, voice strained and begging. “Please. Baby, I swear—fuck—stop teasing. Let me—let me come inside you again, please—”

But instead, you dragged your soaked core along the length of his cock without letting him in, slick smearing over him like temptation incarnate. You rocked your hips once, twice, just enough to let the head catch at your entrance, and his hands flew up like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you down or beg harder.

Then, with a smirk and no warning, you sank down onto him in one slow, devastating push.

His entire body arched. A sound ripped from his throat—something between a moan and a curse, utterly helpless.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’m not gonna last—”

“I don’t care,” you whispered, riding him slow and deep, your hands braced against his chest. “You’re mine tonight. I’ll take what I want.”

And you did.

You rocked your hips slow at first—taunting, grinding down until his cock was seated deep, then rolling your pelvis just enough to make him twitch beneath you. His hands flew to your thighs again, gripping hard like he was trying to ground himself, but you slapped them away, breathless and wicked.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured, grinding down harder this time, your cunt clenching around him so tightly it made him gasp. “You don’t get to hold on. You just get to take it.”

Jake looked up at you, eyes wild and pleading, sweat dripping down his temples. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue, but no words came—just a broken moan as you lifted your hips and sank back down, slow and deliberate, making sure he felt every inch. He was already throbbing, overstimulated, your walls squeezing him like a velvet vice, and the way he whimpered under you only made you ride him harder.

Then you started to pick up the pace.

Each bounce made the bed creak under you, your thighs slapping against his as you moved faster, harder, chasing the edge with no mercy. Your tits bounced with every thrust, sweat rolling down your spine, and Jake was completely wrecked.

His head was tipped back, mouth open, eyes fluttering, and his cock pulsed inside you like it was trying to come again already—hot and aching and too much.

“Fuck, fuck—I can’t—I’m gonna—” he babbled, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other hovering like he didn’t know if he should grab you or pray.

You leaned down then, your lips brushing his ear, voice thick and filthy and pure control. “You’ll do nothing unless I tell you to,” you whispered. “You hear me? You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

Jake whimpered. He actually whimpered, and the sound shot straight through your core like lightning. You rode him faster now, chasing your own high, slamming down on him with every bounce, making his cock hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. You clenched hard around him just to feel him twitch again, and he cursed—loud and raw—like it physically hurt to not come.

“Baby, please,” he begged, voice broken. “Please, I can’t—let me, fuck, let me come—”

But you didn’t slow down. You slammed down harder, faster, feeling him stretch you wide and full, every thrust making your thighs quake and your breath stutter. You were close—so close—and you wanted to drag him there with you. Not gently. Not sweetly. Ruthlessly.

You ground your hips in tight, punishing circles, your nails dragging down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake. “Beg for it,” you said, panting, your voice high and wrecked with pleasure. “Beg me to let you fill me again.”

Jake nodded, desperate, his voice nothing but air and agony. “Please—fuck, please, I need to—I wanna come inside you again, wanna fill you up, make you messy, baby, please—please—I’ll give you all of it, I swear—”

And with a final, devastating grind of your hips, you pushed yourself over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you so hard it ripped a scream from your throat. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, fluttering, pulsing, and Jake snapped.

He surged up, hips lifting off the bed to meet yours one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a loud, hoarse cry—cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you again, even more this time, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped down your thighs.

You collapsed on top of him, bodies slick and trembling, his cock still twitching inside you as your breath mingled in the heavy air.

But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You barely had time to breathe.

Jake’s cock was still inside you, still thick and hot, twitching with the aftershocks of his second orgasm, but he didn’t soften. Not even close. Instead, he gripped your hips in both hands and flipped you effortlessly, your back slamming into the mattress with a gasp before you could react.

The sudden shift knocked the air from your lungs, and before you could speak, he was already on top of you again—eyes dark, jaw clenched, sweat glistening across his chest like sin itself.

“Round three,” he growled, voice low and savage, dragging his cock out just enough to make your cunt clench. “You think I’m done with you?”

You barely had time to answer before he shoved back in, one hard, brutal thrust that made you wail.

“Do you have any fucking idea,” he hissed, pulling out again, slow and deliberate, “how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this pussy?”

He slammed into you again, harder, deeper, making the whole bed rattle beneath you. You clawed at the sheets, head thrown back, thighs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

Jake didn’t stop.

“Every goddamn night,” he gritted out, thrusting in time with every filthy confession. “In the shower. In my room. On base. Anywhere I could get my hand around my cock and picture you moaning like this.”

Then his hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding—just enough to keep your eyes locked on his. His hips snapped against yours, brutal and fast, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

You were already sore, already overstimulated, and yet you wanted more. You wanted it rougher. And Jake? Jake was giving it to you like he had a grudge against your body and worshipped it all at once.

“You made me wait,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, your legs pushed back until your knees nearly touched your chest. “Made me suffer. Made me fucking ache for this.”

You tried to respond—tried to tell him yes, to beg for more, to say you were sorry—but all that came out was a strangled moan as he slammed into you again, making your voice catch and your vision blur. Your nails dug into his biceps, clinging to him like you were drowning in the heat and weight of him.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t letting up.

His pace stayed relentless, cruel even, the kind of rhythm that bordered on punishment. His cock pounded into you like it belonged there—like it had always belonged there—and his words spilled out in low, breathless curses between every thrust.

“You think riding me was enough?” he rasped, leaning down to kiss your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “You think I was just gonna let you get on top, get your pretty little orgasm, and walk away?”

He thrust harder—deeper—and your entire body jolted, the bed slamming into the wall.

“No,” he growled. “Now it’s my turn. And I’m not stopping until I’ve filled you again. Until you’re ruined.”

And god, you were.

You could feel the mess between your thighs, the raw ache of your pussy from being used and stretched and filled again and again, and still—it wasn’t enough. Still, you wanted more. And Jake? He wasn’t even close to finished.

Jake pulled out suddenly, and you whimpered from the loss, from the aching emptiness he left behind—but he didn’t give you a second to mourn it. Instead, he grabbed your hips, flipping you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and hauled your ass up into the air.

Your knees barely hit the mattress before he had you positioned how he wanted—spine arched, face pressed into the sheets, and cunt on full display, flushed and dripping with the mess of everything he’d already given you.

“Stay just like that,” he growled, voice so low and rough it scraped through your spine like a knife. “Fucking perfect.”

Then he shoved back in, one hard, vicious thrust that made you scream into the pillow. He didn’t ease in. Didn’t rebuild the rhythm. He just fucked you—raw, hard, and punishing. His hips slammed into your ass over and over, the sound obscene, echoing off the walls with every brutal snap.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets, mouth open in a silent gasp, tears pricking your eyes as the pace pushed past pain and straight into ecstasy.

Meanwhile, Jake was groaning behind you, loud and ragged, hands gripping your hips like handles. “You hear that?” he growled, slamming into you harder. “That’s how fucking wet you are. You did this. You made me like this.”

He reached forward and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to hear the broken sob that slipped out of you. “God, I’ve waited so long to ruin this pussy,” he spat, driving into you deeper, harder, until the mattress shook and your legs started to give out. “All those nights with my fist wrapped around my cock, thinking about bending you over like this, fucking you so deep you can’t even stand after.”

Then his hand slipped between your thighs and found your clit—already swollen, already throbbing—and rubbed it in tight, merciless circles. The double stimulation made your back arch, a high, helpless moan ripped from your throat as your walls fluttered around him again, already spiraling into another orgasm.

Jake felt it. Saw it. And it only made him fuck you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Come again. Milk my cock. I want to feel it—want to feel you break around me.”

And you did.

Your climax hit you like a lightning strike, white-hot and blinding, your thighs shaking violently as your pussy clenched down on him, tight and relentless. You screamed into the sheets, body going slack beneath him as wave after wave ripped through you, each one more devastating than the last.

But Jake didn’t stop.

He kept going, chasing his own end like a man possessed, fucking you through your orgasm and into another, his moans turning into curses, then into praise. “So fucking good. So tight. You were made for this—fuck, baby, I’m gonna fill you up again. Gonna breed you so full it leaks out of you for days.”

His thrusts turned erratic—deep, savage, hungry—and then he buried himself one final time, cock throbbing as he came hard inside you, spilling deep with a loud, wrecked groan. His hips rocked through it, dragging it out, grinding into you as his cum filled you again, hot and endless, dripping down your thighs before he even pulled out.

You collapsed beneath him, completely destroyed, gasping and twitching, skin marked with sweat and teeth and everything in between.

Jake dropped forward over your back, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside you, and murmured against your shoulder:

“…still not done.”

Jake didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Even as you collapsed into the mattress, your limbs boneless and your cunt aching from how hard he’d just fucked you, he stayed buried inside you—hard again before he’d even finished panting into your neck. You felt the twitch of his cock still lodged deep, felt the drip of his cum leaking down your thighs, and just as you sucked in a breath to beg for a pause, he growled low and dark right in your ear.

“Get back up.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, legs trembling beneath you, but he didn’t ask twice. He dragged you up by your hips, repositioning you like a ragdoll, ignoring your protests, your stuttering cries of Jake, I can’t— because he knew. He knew your body better than you did by now. Knew you’d take it. Crave it. Come again before you even realized you could.

Then he started to move.

This time, it was brutal from the start. No buildup. No mercy. Just pure, punishing rhythm—deep, raw thrusts that had your voice breaking open in cracked sobs. You were already overstimulated, your clit throbbing with every slap of his hips against your ass, your walls fluttering weakly around him as he shoved his cock deeper into you, harder.

“You think I’m done?” he snarled, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking your head back again, your spine arching beautifully beneath him. “Nah, baby. I’ve barely fucking started.”

He slammed in again—hard enough to shove you forward on the bed—and your hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, legs struggling to hold your own weight. But Jake caught you, kept you upright, one arm wrapped under your stomach as he fucked you harder, faster, the wet slap of skin-on-skin growing downright filthy.

“Feel that?” he groaned, grinding deep, cock twitching. “That’s the third load dripping outta you. Gonna make it four. Gonna pump you so full, it’s all you can smell. All you can feel.”

You sobbed into the pillow, throat raw from moaning, and still—still—your body rocked back against him, desperate, greedy, utterly ruined. You didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t know your own name. All you knew was Jake. The way he filled you. The way he broke you.

Meanwhile, his hand reached down again, fingers working your clit with ruthless speed, rubbing tight, fast circles that made your entire body seize. “One more,” he muttered, voice barely a breath now. “Give me one more. Milk my cock again, baby. Show me you can.”

You didn’t even have time to answer.

Your orgasm tore through you like a goddamn explosion—loud, vicious, legs giving out as your pussy clamped down so hard around his cock, it made him curse. Your cry was sharp and raw, the kind of sound that came from deep inside your chest, and Jake rode it out like a man starved, fucking you through it, into it, until you felt yourself tipping into a haze that was almost too much.

He came again—loud, wrecked, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he spilled another hot, endless load inside your already used cunt. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t slow down. He pressed in, grinding, as if trying to force every last drop as deep inside you as he could.

Then he collapsed over your back, panting against your spine, chest heaving, body shaking from the sheer force of it.

And still, the only thing he could say—raw, reverent, filthy—was:

“…fuck.”

The room was quiet now—just the heavy rise and fall of breath and the soft hum of night air spilling through the open window. Your body was still trembling, skin slick with sweat and streaked with the rawness of everything he’d done to you, but the moment his arms wrapped around you from behind, the chaos softened.

Jake didn’t speak at first.

He just held you—tight and sure, like you were something precious. His lips pressed into the curve of your shoulder, a kiss so gentle it almost made you cry. And then, when he finally moved again, it wasn’t with hunger or force. It was careful. Reverent. Like he knew he’d already ruined your body and now he wanted to worship it in the wreckage.

He rolled you onto your back, slow and easy, his hand smoothing over your thigh as he settled between them again. His cock was still hard—of course he was, this was Jake—but there was no rush in the way he reached for you. He cupped your cheek, thumb dragging along your bottom lip, and whispered:

“You okay?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat, heart aching from how tender he sounded. And just like that, Jake leaned in and kissed you—really kissed you. No tongue. No teeth. Just slow, deep pressure. Lips brushing. Breaths mingling. Like he was pouring every filthy confession back into your mouth in the shape of love.

Then he entered you again—slowly this time.

Your breath caught. You were sore, still so swollen from everything that came before, but the stretch was familiar now. Comforting. Home. He sank in inch by inch, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed against your lower stomach, grounding you, holding you open for him.

And when he was fully inside you—deep and still, his hips flush against yours—he rested his forehead against yours and just breathed.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost like he was in awe. “You feel like heaven.”

Then he started to move.

It wasn’t rough now. It wasn’t fast. It was slow, aching, like he wanted to feel every pulse, every squeeze, every breathless whimper you gave him. He rocked into you gently, hips rolling with that practiced ease that spoke of pure control, his gaze locked on your face like watching you fall apart beneath him was his new religion.

Meanwhile, your arms wound around his shoulders, dragging him closer, your chest brushing his with every deep, dragging thrust. The sounds now were softer—the wet glide of his cock inside you, your breath catching, his low, broken moans melting into your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

And he meant it.

Every touch, every kiss, every deep, slow stroke of his cock inside your raw, used body—meant something. This wasn’t just fucking anymore. This was his heart, bared and messy and desperate to be felt. His lips pressed to your jaw, your eyelids, your throat. Like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like he wanted to kiss every part of you that had just taken him like that and now still, somehow, loved him enough to hold him this way.

He reached down between your bodies again, fingers ghosting over your clit—not fast, not rough, just soft circles, teasing and devoted. Your hips twitched, breath catching, and he whispered, “Give me one more, baby. Just one more. Let me feel you like that again.”

And you did.

You came slowly this time—quiet, shaking, moaning his name like a prayer, like you were unspooling thread by thread. Your walls fluttered around him, warm and wet and full, and Jake groaned as he followed you over that edge, coming deep again—but this time with a soft, aching moan, one hand curled into your hair as he buried his face in your neck and just breathed you in.

You held each other there, still joined, his cum leaking down your thighs, your heart thudding steady against his chest.

And in that silence, in the aftermath, Jake kissed your temple and whispered,

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Jake didn’t rush. Didn’t pull out right away. He just stayed there for a few more seconds, cock still nestled deep inside you, chest pressed against yours, his breath warm where it fanned against your collarbone. You could feel the aftermath—his cum leaking down your thighs, your body trembling with leftover pleasure, your heart beating so hard it hurt. You were used, ruined, absolutely undone.

And he kissed you like you were holy.

Then, finally, he pulled out slowly—so careful, so gentle—and sat back on his heels, just watching you for a second like he couldn’t believe you were real. His thumb brushed over your swollen bottom lip, and then he whispered, voice rough but soft, “Don’t move, baby. I got you.”

You heard the soft pad of his bare feet on the floor, the rustle of water running. A second later, the lights in the bathroom dimmed low, and the sound of the tub filling made your already-tired limbs melt deeper into the sheets. You could barely lift your head when he returned, one arm sliding beneath your back, the other under your thighs, and he carried you—completely naked, completely spent—into the bathroom like you were something fragile he’d accidentally broken and now wanted to piece back together.

The tub was already half full, steam curling in the air, and Jake had dropped a few drops of something into the water—lavender-scented, soft and floral, the kind of thing that told you he cared. Really, truly cared.

He stepped into the tub first, sitting down with a grunt, and then gently lowered you in with him, your back to his chest, his arms wrapping around you the second you hit the water. The heat enveloped your sore muscles, the ache between your thighs soothed by the softness of it, and you sank into him with a breath that sounded like the first real inhale you’d taken in hours.

Meanwhile, Jake’s hands never stopped moving.

One cradled your thigh under the water, thumb tracing lazy, slow circles over the bruises he’d left. The other brushed over your stomach, then up to your ribs, then back down again—just touching, just being.

You felt him shift, reaching for a soft cloth, and then he began to wash you, starting at your collarbone and working down. It wasn’t sexual. Not now. Not after what you’d just done. It was… intimate. Reverent.

“I made a mess of you,” he said against your shoulder, lips barely moving. “Gotta take care of my girl now.”

You hummed, eyes closed, breath hitching just slightly when the cloth brushed between your thighs. Jake slowed, soft as anything, cleaning you up with such care it almost made you cry. He kissed your shoulder again, then your jaw, then nuzzled into the side of your face with a low, satisfied sigh.

“God, I love you like this,” he whispered. “Soft. Safe. Mine.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss him. It was slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that doesn’t beg for more but just is—like a heartbeat. Like breathing.

And then the two of you sat there, soaking in the warmth, his cum floating between your legs, your bodies tangled and still, like nothing existed outside the walls of that steam-heavy room.

The bathwater had gone a little cooler, the lavender bubbles clinging to your skin in soft ribbons, and your back was still nestled to Jake’s chest—his arms loose around you, lips brushing every so often against your temple like he couldn’t help himself. The chaos of the night had finally calmed, but under the surface, there was still want. Not lust. Not hunger.

Need.

You’d tipped your head back, resting it on his shoulder, fingers lazily trailing over his thighs under the water when you murmured, “You remember that Taylor Swift song?”

He huffed a little against your cheek. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

You smirked, voice low and barely a breath. “Dress. The part that goes: I’m spilling wine in the bathtub, you kiss my face and we’re both drunk.”

Jake froze, then let out the softest exhale—like something in his chest cracked. “God. Yeah.” Then quieter: “That’s what this feels like.”

You turned, slow, just enough to see his face—wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead, eyes soft and ruined. You kissed him, and it tasted like salt and lavender and exhaustion. You were both drunk off it. Drunk off each other.

Jake shifted behind you, adjusting, and you felt the way his cock stirred beneath the water—half-hard, barely there, but responding to the heat of you, the softness of you leaning into him.

Your hand slid down without thinking, curling around him gently beneath the bubbles, and he groaned quietly into your mouth, his hand tightening just a little on your waist.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, and instead of answering with words, you lifted yourself just enough to turn around and straddle him, knees pressing into the slick porcelain, water lapping over the edge. The shift made the whole tub creak beneath you, but you didn’t care.

Jake looked up at you like you were something out of a dream, his hands finding your hips again like they belonged there, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left earlier with reverence now.

And when you sank down onto him—slow, so achingly slow—it wasn’t frantic or desperate. It was like melting. Like coming home.

His head dropped forward, forehead pressing to your chest, arms wrapping tight around your waist as you rolled your hips with gentle, fluid rhythm. The water sloshed with every movement, bubbles slipping down your back, and the whole thing felt suspended in time—like if you stopped breathing, the world would too.

Jake’s lips found your throat, then your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts, pressing kisses there like he needed them to live. And when he looked up at you again—eyes glassy, mouth parted—he whispered, “If I get burned, at least we were electrified.”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, your hands tangled in his wet hair. “We are,” you breathed. “We always have been.”

The rhythm stayed slow. Sweet. Every thrust was deep, gentle, intentional—your foreheads touching, lips brushing, his hands slipping down to cup your ass under the water as he rocked into you with that aching, all-consuming kind of tenderness. Like he didn’t just want to come inside you again. He wanted to leave a piece of his soul behind.

“Everyone thinks they know us,” he murmured, his voice cracked open now, his thrusts growing slower, more reverent.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “But they know nothing about us.”

Jake moaned quietly as your name slipped from his lips like a promise, and your hips stuttered as your orgasm built slowly—sweet, soft, warm like honey melting in your veins. You clenched around him, your breathing shallow, and Jake was right there with you—coming with a low groan that vibrated against your chest, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot, lost in the warmth of the water and the mess of both of you.

You stayed like that—panting, connected, tangled up in each other, water cooling around your bodies and steam curling in the air like a sigh.

And when he finally spoke again, it was so quiet, you almost didn’t hear it.

“I’d drown in you a thousand times,” he said, kissing your shoulder. “Just to feel this.”

The water had gone quiet again, soft ripples fading around your bodies as you rested on his chest, your heartbeat finally slowing. Jake’s arms were still around you, one hand lazily gliding up and down your spine, and your cheek was pressed against the slope of his collarbone where it felt safe—sacred, even.

The air was heavy with lavender, and the only sound left was your breathing and the occasional creak of the tub when either of you shifted.

Jake hadn’t said much since the last kiss. Just held you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

But then—soft. Almost too soft to hear—he whispered, “Can I tell you something without you laughing?”

You tilted your head, brows furrowed gently. “Jake. I’d never laugh at you.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly. His throat bobbed against your temple. Then he exhaled a shaky breath, and everything about him shifted—no swagger, no cocky grin, just Jake. Raw. Honest. Terrified.

“I think I’m obsessed with you,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Not in some unhealthy, possessive way. Not like that. Just—fuck, like I think about you all the time. You’re in my head even when you’re not trying to be. When I fly, when I sleep, when I’m laughing at something dumb on my phone—I’m wondering if you’d laugh too.”

You blinked. Your heart fluttered. And he didn’t stop.

“I’ve replayed every time you’ve touched me. Every sound you made. Every look you gave me. I think I’ve imagined kissing you in more places than I can count. Not just the sexy shit. I mean, like… the back of your hand. The corner of your smile. Your shoulder when you’re falling asleep.”

His hand was trembling slightly where it rested against your back, but his voice kept steadying the more he spoke. The more he gave.

“I wanna know every version of you. I want the quiet mornings and the late-night breakdowns. I want to kiss you when you’re angry and hold you when you’re too tired to talk. I want all of it.”

You could barely breathe.

And then he leaned his head back against the porcelain edge, looking up at the ceiling like the weight of what he was about to say might crush him.

“But none of that matters unless you want it, too,” he whispered. “So I’m asking. Just once. No games, no pressure. Will you let me? Let me love you? All the way? Because I swear, I won’t fuck it up. I won’t let you down.”

He turned back to you then, eyes glassy but so clear—like he was laying down every weapon, every mask, every part of him that pretended not to need.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be,” he said. “Just… let me.”

And there it was.

Not just love. Not just lust. Not just obsession. But devotion. Willing, reverent, forever kind of love. The kind that sits quietly in the bathroom at 2AM, holding you in a bathtub that smells like lavender and memories you haven’t even made yet.

Your voice came soft, trembling, nearly swallowed by the gentle ripple of water around your bodies. “Yes.”

Jake froze.

You felt it in the way his chest stopped moving, in the way his hand clenched ever so slightly at your hip. Your head was still against his shoulder, cheek damp from bathwater and emotion, but when you tilted your face up and looked at him—really looked—his eyes were already glassy. Not from lust. Not from tension. But from the sheer weight of being seen.

“Yes,” you whispered again, surer this time. “Love me, Jake. Please.”

His breath caught, like you’d just ripped the last bit of air from his lungs and replaced it with something sweeter. And then his hand came up to cup your jaw—slow, gentle, almost reverent—as he leaned down to kiss you.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just everything.

His lips moved over yours with unspoken promises, his thumbs brushing away the dampness on your cheeks, and you melted into him—soft and slow and safe. The water shifted around you, warm and quiet, wrapping you both in a kind of hush that felt sacred. Jake’s mouth broke from yours only to kiss your jaw, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose. Every touch was a vow.

Then, barely audible, he murmured against your skin: “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

You climbed into his lap again, this time not out of hunger or heat—but closeness. Wanting to be so near to him you didn’t know where your body ended and his began. You settled over him gently, your knees on either side of his waist, your arms looped around his neck like he was the only thing anchoring you.

When you sank onto him this time, it was slow. So slow. Like you needed to feel every inch of him stretch you, fill you, remind you that this? This was what love felt like. His cock pressed deep, and you both let out shaky, stunned breaths—like the fit of it was just as emotional as it was physical.

Jake buried his face into your neck, his lips parting on your skin as he whispered your name like a prayer. “So good,” he breathed. “So fucking good. You’re everything.”

You rocked against him in slow, lazy rolls of your hips, bodies slipping and gliding beneath the water, skin against skin. It was gentle, loving, like every thrust was a heartbeat. A reminder. He held you close, his hands traveling up and down your spine, over your ribs, his thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts in quiet reverence.

Meanwhile, your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as your lips found his jaw, his cheek, his temple. “I’m yours, Jake,” you whispered, lips grazing his skin with every word. “I always was.”

That made him shudder—a full-body reaction, like the weight of your words had sunk right through his bones. His hips bucked up a little harder, a little deeper, and his mouth found yours again. It wasn’t frantic. It was full—his tongue gliding against yours like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted when you gave him your heart.

“I want this,” he murmured between kisses. “Every night. Every morning. I wanna wake up with you like this. I wanna hold you when you're tired. I wanna—fuck—I wanna make love to you until you're too full of me to ever forget it.”

You whimpered into his mouth, your body trembling with the slow, warm build of pleasure that came not from force—but from feeling. The way he touched you. The way he kissed you. The way he looked at you like you were the only real thing he’d ever known.

He was close. You both were. But neither of you rushed it.

Because this time? It wasn’t about release. It was about belonging.

Jake’s breathing hitched as you rocked against him, his hands splayed wide across your lower back, fingers sifting through the suds to hold you steady. He was so deep inside you, and yet he kept whispering like it still wasn’t close enough. “You feel like… everything,” he breathed. “Like I’ve been chasing this without even knowing.”

Your head dropped to his shoulder, the crook of his neck warm and slick beneath your lips. You pressed soft kisses there—one after another—until you felt his pulse jump under your mouth. He was trembling now. So were you.

That quiet build between your thighs, that familiar ache curling in the base of your spine—it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t brutal. It was tender. It was yours.

“I’m gonna come,” you whispered, voice breaking. “With you. Like this.”

Jake’s hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you forehead to forehead. His nose brushed yours. His eyes were wide and aching as he nodded, as he begged, “Yeah, baby. Please. Come with me. I need to feel it. Just you and me.”

And when you did?

God, it was gentle. But devastating. Like something cracked open inside you. Your body went still, legs trembling around his waist, head falling back slightly as your orgasm swept through you like warm rain—waves, slow and shattering, moans slipping past your lips like prayers.

Your walls clenched down around him, and you felt him let go too—his breath caught, his whole body shuddering as he came deep inside you, thick and slow, his arms locking around you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

There were no words for a moment.

Just panting. Soft cries. The sound of water sloshing as you both stayed tangled, still joined, not ready to let go.

Jake buried his face into your neck, whispering, “I love you,” like it was something he’d been dying to say. “I fucking love you.”

You cradled his head to your chest and kissed his temple.

“I love you, too.”

He eventually stood, the water cooling now, and carried you out of the tub like you were made of silk and sunlight. He dried you off with that same reverent touch—one towel for you, one for him—and tucked you beneath the covers with care, as if the warmth of your body might flicker out if he moved too fast.

In bed, he curled behind you, bare chest pressed to your spine, his hand slipping to rest low on your belly, where his warmth lingered inside you still.

There were no more words left. Only silence. Soft breathing. The sound of your hearts syncing under the hush of the night.

And as your eyes fluttered shut, as the moon spilled soft light over your tangled limbs and tear-streaked cheeks, you felt it again—that current between you. Not fire. Not thunder.

Just electricity.

Because maybe the world wouldn’t understand what you were. Maybe they’d never know how much you’d given each other. How much you’d bled to arrive at this place—naked, vulnerable, utterly seen.

But at least?

At least you were both electrified.

#jake seresin #jake “hangman” seresin #jake seresin smut #jake seresin x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #pete maverick mitchell #top gun fandom #bob floyd #glen powell #glen powell x you #glen powell x reader #glen powell smut #avengxrz #top gun maverick #lewis pullman

259 notes · View notes