This Is Beautiful! Im Still Crying But I Already Know Im Gonna Reread This 100 Times

This is beautiful! I’m still crying but I already know I’m gonna reread this 100 times💕

how you get the girl

Synopsis: The story of how your best friend, Jake Seresin, finally admitted to having feelings for you, only to break your heart shortly after (10.3K). Inspired by the song ‘How You Get The Girl’ by Taylor Swift, written for the 1989 challenge hosted by @laracrofted. Amelia, I love and appreciate you so much. Thank you for beta-reading this, and for brainstorming with me -- this fic would quite literally not exist without you, so, this is for you.

Warnings: This story contains content that is intended to be consumed by those who are at least eighteen years old, such as breaking of promises, heartbreak, deep thoughts about death, angst with a happy ending, unprotected sex, arguments and strong language. Best friends to lovers trope, I guess? Minors do not interact.

Located in the very heart of USS Theodore Roosevelt — the aircraft carrier, on board which you’ve had the pleasure of living for nearly two weeks already —, is a briefing room crowded with naval aviators. Each one of them feeling more nervous than the other, but all of them just as determined to not let it show.

You’re there, too. Standing in between two fellow fighter pilots, who you would do absolutely anything for. Put your life on the line, even — risk yours in order to save theirs. Just like every single other person in this room would risk theirs in order to save yours. It’s a mutual sense of trust and loyalty that is shared between all of you, and it’s unlike anything else that’s out there, outside this very room.

It’s quiet here. The only sounds occupying the space being the breaths of nervousness that are escaping the lips of your colleagues every now and then, despite their best efforts trying to bite them back, and the steady humming of the air conditioning unit, that runs on full speed all day and all night — determined to keep the humidity of the foaming sea that’s surrounding you outside this room’s four walls.

Though no one has yet dared to say it out loud, every single one of you knows that this upcoming mission is one of which someone is not coming home from. Given the circumstances — it’s inevitable.

It’s a strange feeling. Knowing that in twenty-four hours time, some of the people that are now standing alongside you, will no longer be walking on this Earth, but instead walking in the air — chasing a white light, in hopes of it bringing them to eternal peace. Resting in greater tranquility than ever before, as by then they will be free from all the pain and suffering that comes with being held captive inside a living mechanism that’s known as the human body.

It could very well be you too, who gets to be the first one out of the twelve of you to say goodbye to the dream life you have spent years building for yourself. And damn that isn’t a scary thought.

Everyone is afraid of death. Some more than others. You haven’t realized it before, but you sure do now. While looking into the frightened eyes of your fellow pilots, it’s crystal clear — that anyone who says that they’re not afraid of death, is lying.

“This mission will be carried out right after sundown, and the men and women chosen will be expected to be up and ready by 1900.”

You swallow. The lump that sits in your throat doesn’t move. This feeling — this utter, emotional turmoil, that has caught a hold of your entire being, is something you’re not too familiar with. It has got your front teeth sinking into the flesh of your lower lip so hard, that all you can taste is the bitterness of fresh blood and the iron-like tang there is to it. You’re not ready for this — for what you know is to come. You’re not ready for this mission, nor to say goodbye to any of the friends you’ve made throughout the years you have spent serving your country.

Closing your eyes, you silently pray that your name isn’t amongst the ones called out by your superior. It’s selfish, you realize that. But turning selfish seems to be the way a human operates, when placed in a situation like this — where their life is on the line. It’s awful, and you’re not proud of your thoughts, but can’t really help them either.

“... and Hangman. The others will stand by on the carrier for any reserve role that is required.”

A shaky breath falls from your lips. It feels as if the world would have stopped spinning the second you hear Jake’s callsign being called out from the front of the briefing room.

No, you think. Not Jake. Pick anyone but him.

Despite you consciously trying to not think of it much during the past two weeks, a part of you knew all along that this was going to happen. Jake was always going to be one of the four aviators that are being sent for this mission. He’s too damn good of a pilot to not be one of them.

It’s not like Jake to choose a seat from anywhere but the front of the room, let alone from the very back of it, yet that’s exactly what he did today. And there he is. Standing behind his desk, holding his shoulders nice and square, not letting a fraction of emotion show through his hardened features as he patiently waits to be dismissed. It’s what you should be doing too, but aren’t. Instead, you’re looking at him. Staring over your shoulder at the man you care so deeply for — desperate to catch glimpses of that confident and cocky nature of his that you know lies beneath this current, suspiciously composed exterior of his.

Looking at him now — seeing him act all calm and collected even though there’s a storm raging inside of him —, it’s hard not to hate him for being as good of a pilot as he is.

You’re a smart woman. You realize, that you have no right to feel this way. Really, you do. You’re very well aware, that you have absolutely no right to be this selfish, wishing that Jake wasn’t one of the four pilots who got picked for this mission. Just like you know, that it isn’t right for you to look at him the way you’re looking at him right now — with hopeful eyes. With ones that are asking him to promise that he’ll be back in one piece. If not for him, then for you.

“You’re all dismissed.”

If it had been a different type of a mission than the one you just received a briefing for, the room would’ve quickly filled with a familiar, steady clatter. By now, you would all be talking about the upcoming mission in a rather excited manner, and everyone on the team would be wishing good luck to those who got picked out for it. There would most likely be smiles stretching onto all of your faces, too.

Today however, the room only falls into a deeper silence than before. It’s the kind of a silence that almost feels like a weighted, suffocating blanket as it settles upon you, as if in an attempt to make the inner thoughts that are racing through your head the only thing you’re able to hear, even when desperately trying to focus on the noises coming from your surroundings.

As of now, it feels like there is not a singular thing in your life that sits right. And this feeling that has captured your mind and body whole, is something that keeps you up the following night — though, it’s not like you even notice how the night begins to fall only mere minutes after being dismissed. You’re not usually oblivious to these things. In fact, it has been more than just a couple of times, when your teammates have found you climbing up multiple sets of stairs just to get to the upper deck in time to see how the Sun begins its race towards the horizon. Today however, you’re not in a hurry. You don’t care if you get to witness the enchanting, bright red sunset or not. You don’t care, if you get to feel the last rays of the Sun kissing your cheeks before you go to bed tonight or not. None of it matters.

The next time you see Jake, it’s after nearly fifteen hours of radio silence.

After the mission briefing that was held late last night had ended, all pilots — both, the ones that were selected for the mission, as well as the ones that weren’t — headed for their cabins, only to spend the night twisting and turning on a horrible twin-mattress, unable to fall asleep despite their numerous attempts in trying to do so.

You don’t remember the last time you slept as poorly as you did last night. You spent hours rolling around the bed that’s too damn small for an adult to fit into, trying to find a position comfortable enough for you to fall asleep in. Holding your eyes closed for hours at a time, even when knowing that with nervousness having skyrocketed your blood pressure the way it has, there’s not a chance of you falling asleep anytime soon. Not even the slow, fluid movements of the Atlantic Ocean succeeded in its venture of lulling you to sleep the way they usually do — the ocean being one of the only things that under normal circumstances, is capable of putting you to sleep within only a couple of minutes.

Having managed to get in two hours of light sleep last night, if even that, it’s hard to not let the tiredness that has been weighing down your eyelids for the better part of the day not bother you.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed. Surrounded by nothing but a deep, complete silence. Resting your elbows on top of your slightly parted knees. Still wearing your flight suit. You don’t recall the last time you showered, or changed. Some people would say that that’s disgusting, and remind you of how taking care of your body often makes you feel better mentally, too. You would tell them that none of that matters anymore — that nothing does in the face of death.

You’re not used to feeling like this. You’re not even sure what it is, that you’re feeling. Numb, lifeless. As if everything that ever mattered to you, had been taken away from you. As if all the people you ever loved, would’ve already been killed.

When you try to imagine a life without Jake Seresin — the person you consider to be your most cherished friend —, you can’t. There is nothing. There’s no life without him. Just infinite, ever expanding emptiness. And that’s how you know, that you would never recover from losing him. That’s how you know, that all the therapy the US Government would pay for, would go to waste, as nothing could ever fill the empty hole that losing him would drill into your chest, right to where your heart is located.

You’re jolted from your thoughts, as the sound of three, firm knocks echo through the door. A part of you knows already, despite you not having even opened the door yet, that it’s Jake who is standing behind it, while another part of you wishes that you were wrong — wishes that it was anyone, but him.

Placing your palms on top of your knees, you push yourself up. The bed squeaks as your weight is being lifted off its springs — an awful, rather loud noise that makes you grimace every single time you hear it. This bed too, is one of the many reasons you miss home as much as you do, whenever deployed.

Upon opening the door, you’re greeted with the image of Jake standing in the corridor. He’s still in his flight suit, and his hair is all messy, but damn if he still doesn’t look just as handsome as he always does. Though, you’re certain, that with all that tan skin and sharp features of his, not to mention a body that looks like it has been carefully carved out of clay, it’s practically impossible for him to look like anything less than handsome. Not even when his under-eyes are painted with shades of violet and blue, making it evident that he didn’t get any more sleep last night than you did. And not even when the thoughts that kept him up all night, have decorated the corners of his eyes with tiny little wrinkles — ones, that are not normally there.

“Hi,” you breathe out, taking in his appearance.

Jake doesn’t say anything for a minute. He only stands there, in your doorframe, letting his eyes linger over your frame. Carefully memorizing the way you look right now — the way the only woman he has ever really cared for looks right now, only hours before he is going to be sent on a mission he isn’t too sure he’s coming back from. You, too, are still in your flight suit, he notices. Your hair is all dirty and tousled. Your tear ducts are red and your eyes are all puffy and swollen from the amount of tears you’ve shed. Still, you look so fucking beautiful that Jake doesn’t think that he could tear his eyes away from you, even if he tried to.

Drawing in a deep breath, Jake breaks the silence, “We need to talk.”

Granted that he is right, you still end up giving your head a slight shake. Needing to talk and wanting to talk are two, very different things. And though it’s long overdue — the two of you telling each other how you feel —, and though it’s a conversation that really needs to be held, now is not the time.

“No,” you disagree with him, voice quiet.

Jake frowns. “I—,”

“Don’t,” you cut him off. “We’ll talk when you get back, okay?”

As you stand there, carefully eyeing each other, silence settles upon you. It’s heavy; like an invisible weight — shoving all the things Jake came here to say down his throat, keeping him from saying them out loud. It’s killing him, you can tell.

Biting your lip, you pull the door wide open. It’s a small gesture, and perhaps a mistake too, but it divulges plenty. It dispels the initial hesitancy; lets Jake know that you’ll be alright if he walks through the door now and takes you the way you need him to, even if he can’t promise you that he’ll be back to do it all again tomorrow.

Jake feels his throat growing tight; with apprehension, with arousal — with everything in between, really.

He stays still, hesitating.

But you’re tired of waiting. You’ve waited for so long already — for too long. Years you have spent longing for him in every way a woman longs for a man; longing for his touch, longing for the sense of safety and security he brings with himself to every single room he walks into, and for the love you know you share, but have never dared to show.

So, when he doesn’t move, you step aside. Urging him to come in in a tender, yet still persistent manner.

You watch him walk into the room. Eyes glued onto his back, of course — to all that muscle mass that has got the forest green fabric of his flight suit stretching over its entirety, very nearly making it tear from its seams. Swallowing once, you close the door behind you and lock it.

Feeling more brave than him, you make the first move. Catching a hold of the zipper of your flight suit and pulling it down, before pushing the fabric off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, leaving you standing there in a black tank top and a pair of lace panties — doing all of this when he’s still facing away from you.

Jake hears everything — really, everything. Even the quiet, rather gruff sound the zipper makes when you undo it; the sound those little interlocking teeth make whenever they’re being pulled apart. A sound that brings a promise of what’s to come as it travels through the chilled air. A promise of something, that wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

As he turns around to face you, he’s met with a pair of dark, lustful eyes looking back at him. Eyes that are asking — begging — for him to show and not tell you how he really feels about you — how he has felt about you for years, now.

“Fuck…,” Jake mutters, voice tight and husky, as he lets his eyes linger over your frame.

That black tank top of yours doesn’t cover much. Not the perfect mounds of your breasts, that are so very alluringly pressing against the stretchy, cotton fabric. Not the curves of your sides; those valleys into which he has thought about digging his fingers to once or twice before. And definitely not the part of your decolletage in which the ends of your collarbones are only mere inches from meeting, or the spot in between them that he’s dreamt of placing a kiss to every single time he has allowed his eyes to wander a bit further, than what’s considered as appropriate behavior from just a friend.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he tells you, breathless as only the sight of you like this is apparently enough to knock every single oxygen molecule out of his lungs. “So, so beautiful.”

You swallow, hard. Heat creeping up along the length of your neck, settling to warm the tops of your cheekbones.

“C’mere,” you whisper, voice a little more shaky now, as all the bravery that was coursing through your veins only minutes before, has all seemingly dissolved already; turned into dust that you have breathed out of your system, not a singular grain of it existing inside of you anymore. Still, even though you’re feeling all bashful now, you’re proud of yourself. It’s a brave thing to do — to make the first move for the very first time, with anyone.

Not having it in himself to say no to you, though it’s what he probably should do, he fulfills your wishes. With a few, long strides he crosses the distance between you; the distance, that was already too much to begin with. Invading your space and placing his hands onto the curves of your waist, before sliding them down, lower and lower, until he’s able to catch a hold of the hem of your shirt. Tugging the fabric slightly upwards — wordlessly asking for permission.

Bringing your hand up and cupping his cheek, running your thumb over its highest point, you pull him closer. Jake is the only person in the world, who you always feel like is too far away from you. The only person, who you’ll always want to hold onto tighter, who you’ll always want to pull in closer.

“Good God.” All those little muscles that are adorning Jake’s neck and jaw tense as the result of you looking up at him with those sweet, wide, puppy-like, fuck-me-eyes of yours. It’s unfair. You’re not fighting fair. “You sure about this?”

That’s a silly question to ask, you think. Of course you’re sure about this. You’ve never been more sure about anything in your life, than this — him. He’s the only thing that always has and always will remain the same. He’s the only person that has ever managed to capture such a big portion of your heart all to himself and hold onto it, keep it safe. In a way, it’s healing. He heals you. Every time the two of you are together, he’s doing it. He keeps you sane, keeps you going, and he doesn’t even know it himself.

“Yes,” you idiot, you want to add before continuing, but don’t. “I’m sure.”

Closing his eyes, he lets his forehead fall forwards to rest against yours. His chest feels tight. And whether it’s because of the close proximity of your bodies, or because the realization of how this is really happening is just now starting to settle in, he isn’t sure. Nonetheless, it feels as if every single nerve canal inside his chest would have grown so tight, that it almost hurts whenever a shock of electricity flows through them.

It’s funny, really. How Jake, the ladies man, as most of your fellow aviators know him, is more committed to doing the right thing than you.

“Kiss me,” you whisper — whine, almost. “Just kiss me, Jake.”

He does.

And it’s Heaven to both, you and Jake alike. Lips that were always meant to be dancing together finally meeting each other, falling into a harmonious rhythm, moving against each other with a tender urgency.

Your lips are soft and warm, like velvet pillows, and your chapstick tastes like strawberries. And by letting his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips hard, Jake manages to have you part them just enough so that he’s able to deepen the kiss; able to slide his tongue into your mouth, able to swirl it around yours once, then twice.

Soon, you’re undressing him. Fingers working on undoing the zipper of his flight suit, before pushing it off his broad shoulders. Catching a hold of the fabric of his t-shirt, helping him out of it. Allowing him to coax your head to the side and attach his lips onto the side of your neck while you slide your fingers under the waistband of his boxer briefs and push them down.

He is hard and heavy for you. It excites you, makes you chew on your bottom lip, to think that it’s you who he wants so badly.

He undresses you, too. Takes that black tank top of yours that already doesn’t cover much and pulls it over your head, tossing it onto the floor. Unhooks your bra with one, simple and swift movement of his fingers. Snakes his thumbs under the sides of your panties, sliding them down.

And damn if your body — all its hills and valleys, and that endless, silky veil of skin —, isn’t the most beautiful thing Jake has ever seen.

“Stop staring,” you whisper, almost whimper. “It makes me nervous.”

“I can’t,” he tells you simply, honestly. Really, he couldn’t, even if he tried to. Pressing his lips against the delicate skin of your neck again, moving them against it, making it vibrate as he continues, “God, you don’t even realize the hold you have on me, do you?”

You don’t, and neither does he — not fully. It’s something that can’t be put into words. A feeling that has haunted him for years, now. A feeling that almost works like a drug — one that always leaving him longing for more, one that he couldn’t ever get enough of.

“I need you, Jake,” you breathe, a fire already crackling inside your belly; warming up all the blood that’s circling your system, gathering beads of sweat onto your chest. “Fuck—, need you real bad.”

“You’ve got me,” he promises, bending his knees and sliding his hands all the way down your hips, stopping only when reaching the backs of your thighs. Gently, he picks you up, guides your legs to wrap around his waist, and carries you through the small cabin, before lowering you to rest on top of the horrible twin-mattress the US Navy refers to as a bed.

And though his lips quickly find yours again, you still feel the need to curl your fingers around the silver ball chain of his dog tags, still feel the need to pull him closer, because that’s how it is with him; he’s never close enough. He could never be close enough.

“Need more,” you whine in between kisses. “Please.”

“I’ve got you.” He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Continues to kiss his way down through the valley of your breasts, cherishing your skin with gentle nips as he goes. “I’ll give you everything. Promise.”

He couldn’t really give you anything less, than everything. He likes you too much. He loves you too much.

“Is this okay?” he asks, placing a kiss onto your lower belly; onto a spot that makes the fire burn a bit brighter and hotter inside of you, but that’s still too far from where you need him to kiss you the most.

You lift your head slightly off the pillows, letting your eyes fall down to meet his. Seeing how those wide eyes of his that are normally so clear and vivid with color are almost black now; darkened with lust, with admiration, with love, it really takes everything in your body for you to get the words out, “God, yes — yes please.”

He does it all so well. He makes it all feel so good.

Jake presses a warm, wet, sloppy kiss onto your clit before securing his lips around it. He might get even more pleasure out of this than you, he thinks, letting his eyes fall shut, savoring the taste of you thick on his tongue as he continues to move it in slow circles around your core. It goes without saying, perhaps, but in a span of minutes, he has gone from lusting for you, bad, to being completely, utterly drunk on you. Drunk on the heavenly sounds that slip your lips whenever his tongue grazes just the right spot, just the way you like it. Drunk on the way he feels all the muscles of your thighs tense time after time again, making it evident that he’s invoking a great pleasure within you — one, that you have not felt in a really, really long time.

He runs his fingers through your folds a few times, coating them with a mixture of his own saliva and your arousal, before daring to slide them into your heat. Slowly, one finger at a time, he begins to work you open for him — begins to massage your velvet walls in a way that makes you feel dizzy.

“Shit, Jake—,” you moan, letting your fingernails dig into the flesh of his shoulders while he continues to slowly pump his fingers in and out of you. Even the pace, in which he moves his fingers at, is perfect. He really is like that; too damn good at everything he does. “T-that’s so good.”

You realize it then, when a couple of dozen more white spots appear into your field of vision, very nearly blinding you altogether, that you’re already there; standing on the shore with your feet buried in hot sand, staring into the horizon, waiting for the quickly approaching ten-foot wave of ecstatic pleasure to reach you — to come and crash over you, and to dissolve your body whole.

Just the way you tremble above him is enough to draw a deep, husky groan from him. His breath it hot, feeling almost like steam as it brushes against your core. And that there; that one, singular, sinful noise he makes — the one that he couldn’t bite back, even if he tried to —, is enough to have your orgasm wash over you.

And if Jake wasn’t turned on before, he surely is now. Seeing the way all that pleasure you’re fully immersed in now, has decorated the entirety of your face with tiny little wrinkles that showcase just how good he’s making you feel, and the way you arch your back off that flimsy mattress on top of which he’ll have you for the first time, it’s no wonder, really, why he’s so painfully hard right now.

Climbing up and settling to hover over you, Jake lines himself up at your entrance. God, you look so beautiful right now. A panting mess under him, looking up at him through arousal blurred eyes, having not come down from your high just yet.

Suddenly, there’s a lump in his throat — one, that reminds him of all the things he wants to tell you, the things he needs to tell you. And when he swallows, it doesn’t move, not even an inch, but only grows bigger, only presses against the insides of his airways harder.

“Don’t,” you stop him before he manages to get the words out, voice quiet and raspy. “Don’t say it. Please. I can’t—,” Desperate whines escape your lips in a continuous chain while you wrap your shaky legs around his waist, gently tugging him closer.

“I just—,” he tries anyway. “I really—,”

“I know,” you whisper, running your fingers along his clean shaven cheek. “And I do too. So much.”

Really, you do. You’re so deeply, so fiercely in love with him, that you don’t even understand it yourself. And when he pushes himself into you — slowly, inch by inch, bottoming out — it’s like all of those feeling that you’ve been bottling up for so long, finally catch fire. Body bursting into flames so brilliant and bright, radiating heat into the room, warming up its chilled air.

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s a stretch; a good one. One, the feel of which falls somewhere in between pain and pleasure. An euphoric sting, so to say. A sensation that while it gently takes over your entire nervous system, begins to draw tiny little stars into the insides of your eyelids, mapping out all different kinds of constellations as it goes.

It being a miracle that your brain is still capable of producing even a singular, coherent thought right now, you can’t stop yourself from thinking about it; about how this might just be the first, and the very last time you get to hold Jake in your arms. The last time when you get to cup his cheeks and pull him into a kiss while he makes love to you; drives himself deeper and deeper into your dripping core with each thrust of his hips, leaving you breathless just by doing it so well — hitting just the right spots inside of you, making it all seem like your body was tailor-made for him and him only.

A thin sheen of saltwater floods your eyes, making your sight more blurry than what it already was. You squeeze your eyes shut again, determined to not let Jake see — determined to not make a scene, to not make a big deal out of it.

It happens soon after. You feel a cold, salty droplet falling onto your cheek. It isn’t yours, you think. Your tears are running down along your temples in steady, thin rivers, getting lost somewhere in your dirty, messy hair. But this tear — it landed on top of your cheekbone. Onto a spot where your tears simply couldn’t fall to, when laying on your back.

You swear your heart stops when the realization hits you; It’s his. Jake’s. The first tear he has shed in front of anyone in years. The only tear he has shed in front of you, ever.

You don’t dare to open your eyes, and you won’t be bringing it up later, but you can’t pretend that you didn’t notice what just happened — like you didn’t feel the salt stinging your cheek, like you didn’t feel his fingers digging into your skin harder; as if you’d disappear if he loosened his grip even the slightest bit. So, you swipe your thumbs across his cheeks, touch tender, almost feather-light, drying his tears before kissing him harder.

And the way you touch him, the way you hold onto him — it’s enough to push him over the edge; to have him falling into a void of ecstatic pleasure. To have your lips muffling the way your name falls from his lips like a goddamn prayer, while his thrusts start to become more slow, more shallow. To have him pulsate inside of you while painting your walls in a sheen of white, in a way that makes you dig your nails deeper into his skin, that makes you arch your back even more.

This moment, right here, is actually quite a beautiful image. Neither one of you know it just yet, but it’s something the both of you will look back at often; a memory you’ll hold dear for the rest of your days, a moment you’ll wish you could relive time after time again.

Clean up is quick, quiet. Neither of you say much of anything. You tell yourself that it’s because all that needed to be said is already shown, but really, you know that it’s because neither of you have the guts to really say anything. It’s all so fragile.

You’re laying on top of him now. The palm of your hand resting open on top of his hairy chest, your head resting on top of his shoulder. Fingertips drawing tiny little shapes onto his skin, mind wondering if Jake is trying to make out whether they’re stars or flowers which outlines you’re mapping.

“A flower.”

“What?” you ask, not really sure if you heard him right.

He hums. His fingers are grazing up and down along the length of your spine now, his touch ever so gentle — like a delicate caress. “Isn’t that what you’re drawing?” he asks, voice just barely above whisper. “A flower?”

“Yeah,” A hint of a smile washes over your lips. “I mean, it’s a tulip, to be specific, but a flower will do. It’s close enough.” It isn’t a tulip. Or it wasn’t a tulip, until just now — until you decided that it is one, though had you been holding a pen in between your fingers, the drawing that would now be adorning Jake’s bare chest now, would look nothing like a tulip.

Not really knowing what to say, but really enjoying listening to you, Jake stays silent. Burying his nose in your hair, breathing in the scent of the dry shampoo you spritzed onto your roots this morning. He realizes it only now, but he loves that scent — he’s loved that scent for a long time now —, and whether it’s because it reminds him of that one time he watched you get ready for a night out with your girlfriends, or because it’s just a scent he associates with you, he isn’t sure. Either way, it’s a scent that makes the smile on his lips stretch a little wider, makes him hold onto you tighter.

“Tulips are my favorite flowers,” you muse quietly. “Did you know that?”

Chuckling, Jake mutters into your hair, “No. No I didn’t.”

“I heard they have tulip fields in the Netherlands. Can you believe that? Like, tulip fields so big that wherever you look, all you can see is flowers,” you’re whispering now, heat settling to warm the tops of your cheeks. “It’s always been a dream of mine to go see them, I guess.”

Listening to you go on and on about these tulip fields you’ve heard of, Jake thinks about it — about how he wants to stay like this forever. About how badly he wants to hold you in his arms, to have your naked bodies intertwined; to have every single part of your body touching every single part of his. He would be happy if it was just this, just you and him, for the rest of his days. You’re all he could ever need, and all and more he could ever want. And he wants to tell you that, too, but knows that he shouldn’t. Telling you all the things he wants to tell you right before he leaves, when he can’t really make any promises of coming back in one piece — it’d be too selfish.

“We should go,” he says.

You tilt your head back, only enough to be able to get a good look at him. “You’d go with me?”

“Yeah,” he hums, running his fingers through your hair.

You fall silent. Only beaming up at him, the thought of Jake taking you to see tulip fields tugging the corners of your mouth upwards. You can see it all so clearly in your head; the two of you standing side by side, your head resting on top of his shoulder, his on top of yours. A sea of tulips stretching as far as your eyes can see — colors so vibrant, so lively that you couldn’t bite back the smile that’s adorning your lips even if you tried to. The Sun kissing your cheeks, your nose, your forehead.

Thinking about it, you can almost hear a pigeon crying far in the distance.

“What if I’m asleep when you get back?” you ask, though you know that it would probably be for the best if you didn’t.

“I’ll come straight here,” he mutters, kissing the top of your head.

You let your eyes fall shut. “Promise me you’ll wake me up.”

He hums again. “Promise.”

The next morning, at breakfast, with the cafeteria still immersed in the hush of daybreak, spirits are much more elevated than what they were yesterday. Of course they are; the word spread out quickly around the carrier — about how your teammates, those friends of yours that you hold dearest to your heart, made it back home safe. About how they managed to pull off something that wasn’t considered to be even possible. About how they put their lives on the line for the benefit of their country, and thus became the heroes of your time. Sort of.

Everywhere you look, you’re greeted with wide smiles and genuine laughs. It’s nice. It’s been too long since the last time such a relieved, happy atmosphere was holding the USS Theodore Roosevelt and all of the people stationed on board of it, in its embrace.

The space itself isn’t anything too fancy. Just a crowded room that lacks of natural light, that has tiled floors and that is decorated with awful, royal blue-colored cafeteria tables that are all placed just a tad bit too close to each other for your liking. Even the chairs are flimsy — crackling whenever weight is being shifted off or onto them. It’s cold, too; so cold that you find yourself pulling down the sleeves of your flight suit ever so often, in hopes of getting your fingertips to warm up.

It’s a steady, rather delightful-sounding clatter that the crowded space is brimming with, ever so gracefully placing smiles onto the lips of those who are not already smiling. It’s a sound you’ve grown fond of over the years — a sound that can be heard only on those mornings, when there are no worries nor fear weighing down the atmosphere.

You’re sharing a round table with three fellow aviators, none of which were selected for the mission, but of which all of them feel just as relieved and proud as you do, knowing that your friends exceeded all expectations, pulled off quite the impossible. You like this about the people you work with — how everything is infectious. Feelings passing from one teammate to another so seamlessly, that if you hadn’t ever paid attention to it, you’d be unaware of it now; of how the happiness of one makes the rest of the team smile too, and how if someone’s feeling down, the others wordlessly catch a hold of them, carrying them until they feel strong enough to stand on their own again.

Holding onto a cup full of steaming hot coffee — a rich, dark liquid that is supposed to lift the load that’s weighing down your eyelids often this early in the morning —, you let your eyes wander around the premises, making it very evident to everyone around you that you’re looking for someone.

“Who are you looking for?” It’s one of your teammates, a feisty brunette who everyone calls Bambi, whose question pulls you from your thoughts.

“Oh, um—,” you start, giving your head a slight shake before offering her a kind, yet still a bit awkward smile. “Jake was supposed to meet me.”

She raises her eyebrows in question. “Really?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Suddenly, there’s a look that screams nothing but utter pity adorning her features. “Oh, sweetie,” she sighs. “He left already. He and the others got airlifted out this morning.”

“What?” The question falls from your lips, without you noticing it yourself. Eyebrows shooting up, surprise written all over your face as you try to process what you just heard. “He… What?”

“Yeah. I think they got to choose whether they want to go home with us, or leave early,” Bambi explains what she overheard earlier, shrugging her shoulders.

“Oh,” you hum, confused. “Well, I guess I’ll see him when we get back home, then.”

Bambi is known to be a bit of a bitch at times — or more of, known to not really think about what she is going to say, before letting the words roll of her tongue. It’s no wonder, really, why the tone of her voice is as light and airy as it is, as she tells you, “I don’t think so. He and the others got promoted, you know, obviously, and I think they’re being sent to Fallon next week.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He didn’t tell you? Aren’t you guys like, best friends or something?” she asks, and though she isn’t trying to be particularly mean, with her putting emphasis on the words ‘best friends’, it does sound like she is being bitchy on purpose.

You zone out then. Your eyes, that only minutes before saw everything crystal clear, are now staring into the sea full of green suits and bright yellow safety vests, suddenly unseeing everything but a thick blur. The wrinkle that sits in between your eyebrows — an element of confusion — eases, your face falling lifeless as thoughts begin to race your mind with such speed that it causes your breath to get caught in your throat.

Jake just… Left?

The first month following your return home after the nearly three-week long period that you along with your teammates got to spend in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean was odd, to say the least. Full of days spent under the covers, shedding tears into the silk of your sheets, not really bothering to look after yourself. Holding onto hope that perhaps it was all just a big misunderstanding — that perhaps Jake didn’t have any time to come to say goodbye to you before leaving, even though in your heart, you knew that he did, and that he just chose not to. You tried calling him a few times, and even left him a couple of voicemails too, while you were at it, still being naive enough to want to believe that Jake wouldn’t just ignore you — that he’d listen to the messages you left him when he had the time, though you knew damn well that he wasn’t busy working, and that he had all the time in the world to return your calls, had he only wanted to.

The second month was probably the hardest, as the realization started to slowly settle in; Jake wasn’t going to return your calls, or listen to the dozen voicemails you left to his inbox. He wasn’t going to read any of your texts either, except for the little bit of them that could be seen in the notification center of his phone, before deleting them altogether. He isn’t coming back to you, like he promised. He wasn’t going to — and really, he never had any intention to — go to the Netherlands with you, to see the tulip fields you’ve always dreamt of seeing in real life. You spent most of your nights up, not being able to fall asleep no matter how hard you tried to, and later not even bothering to try, but heading outside and spending the night sitting on your backyard porch instead, staring at the constellations that were adorning the cloudless night skies. Letting tears roll down your cheeks, to stain the dry surface of your skin, to make it evident that it hurts like Hell — that you’re in more pain than you’ve ever been before, and that you don’t know what the fuck to do about it. Thinking to yourself that perhaps the two of you were never really best friends, or as close as you thought you were, but more of company to each other to fight the loneliness that seems to be one of the many perks that the profession of your choosing comes with.

The third month you don’t remember much of. God, you’re still not sure if you were dead or alive during that time. All the days that passed by were all the same to you; all just a blur. A thick haze. Gray in the sense that it didn’t really matter if the Sun was shining or not, since all the changes in your surroundings went completely unnoticed by you — or, truthfully, you didn’t really care enough to notice any of them. You didn’t feel the raindrops wetting your hair one morning when you left your house to take out the trash while it was raining. You didn’t hear the seagull that cried loud in the distance one evening when you were walking by the beach, the sand scratching the soles of your feet failing to make you smile like it used to before. You didn’t even see the cloud that kind of looked like a fighter jet that one day when you decided to walk to the grocery store instead of driving, in hopes that moving your body would make you feel better, only to realize that it doesn’t — that there’s really nothing in this world, that could ease the aching of your poor, broken heart.

The fourth month was a tad bit easier. You slept better — even managed to fall asleep in less than thirty minutes on most days. You ate better — felt hungry in the mornings, too, which was something that hadn’t happened in a long time. You found yourself smiling more often than not whenever spending time sitting on your backyard porch; whenever you saw a butterfly fly past you, or heard the neighbor's dog bark in excitement when his owners got back after a long day at work. You even started returning your mother’s calls — and told her everything, too. Slowly, you started to come to terms with what happened, and started to accept things for how they were going to be from then onwards. You stopped blaming yourself for being so arrogant and stupid for believing a man like Jake Seresin to keep their promises — accepted that you had made a mistake, and that everyone makes them, no matter how smart or dumb they are.

The fifth month was when you got your glow back. Your smile started to be infectious again, the way it used to be back then, all those months ago; capable of making the people around you smile, too. The creases around your eyes that used to be a permanent feature of yours made an appearance again, adorning the corners of your eyes most days, purely from smiling so hard for hours on end. Food started to actually taste like something — reminding you of all the little things that you used to be so grateful for before, of the things that used to bring you joy. You started enjoying your walks again — God, you started to look forward to them, even. Started looking forward to getting out of your house, getting to breathe in the warm summer breeze, getting to let the scent of saltwater tickle your nostrils, and to let the Sun kiss your cheeks and hairline. You started to enjoy listening to music again, and oftentimes found yourself not really caring what was playing on the radio, but enjoying listening to whatever tune there was playing in the background.

Cut to today. Six months later.

The scene, as well as the way you’re feeling right now, are both much more peaceful, than what you thought was ever possible. Losing one’s closest friend isn’t an easy thing to go through, let alone to recover from, but looking at you now, it’s safe to say that you surely have risen to the occasion.

You’re sitting at the dinner table, with your fingers curled loosely around a steaming hot cup of ginger tea. There are taper candles lit all over your little house — a few of them sitting on top of the oak wood dining table too —, casting a soft, warm hue into the space. Your eyes are glued onto a romance novel that rests open before you, and you’re taking your sweet time slowly going through its pages.

The Sun has already set for the day, making the faint glow of the street lamps the only light that’s pouring in through the wooden-framed kitchen window.

It’s raining outside. God, how you love it when it rains. And not only, because every single raindrop that falls from the skies looks like a tiny jewel, glistening and gleaming as it comes in contact with the dark pavement, but because the rain seems to envelope the places it visits under a great tranquility — a certain type of peace, that is one of the only things that gets the world of today slow down its movements; makes the people walk a little slower, makes them breathe a little deeper.

There are droplets banging against the window, too. Creating a steady humming to the background, that somehow makes you feel even more at home, than what you already do.

Six months ago, after getting back from your last deployment, the US Navy provided you with a nice, two-bedroom apartment. It’s nothing too fancy, but it isn’t shabby either. It’s cute and cozy, the warmth of the old, hardwood floors only adding to its homey atmosphere. You like it here. And whether it’s because you really needed to start fresh, in a place that doesn’t hold any old memories, or because your new home is just that beautiful and inviting, you’re not sure. Either way, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, but here.

A deep, rather content-sounding sigh falls from your lips. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles.

Lifting your eyes up the book you’re reading, you look out the window. See how the streetlights are glowing, how the raindrops are dancing on the ground. A soft smile tugs on your lips. It’s all so quiet, so peaceful. A little like how you wish your life could be for the rest of your days.

But things aren’t that simple.

You lower your eyebrows, a confused frown appearing onto your features, as you realize that there’s a tall, broad male figure standing on your driveway. His head is tilted forwards, so much so that you can’t really see his face, and you figure that he’s either staring at the ground deep in thought, or keeping his head tilted like that to keep water from getting into his eyes.

Who is bonkers enough to go outside without an umbrella when it’s raining this hard, you wonder, getting up from your seat and heading towards the front door.

As soon as you have pulled the door fully open, your heart stops. Like fully, completely stops beating. Thumbs twice inside your chest, banging against your ribs with such a force that it actually kinda hurts, before freezing in place. As you’re now able to get a little closer look at the man that’s standing outside your house, the realization suddenly falls upon you; that’s Jake. It can’t be anyone, but him. You would recognize those strong arms, those broad shoulders, that blonde hair of his — all of it, anywhere.

“Jake?” you call out to him, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the rain.

He lifts his gaze up from the ground, only to stare at you from afar in silence. He doesn’t know what to say. He thinks that there is really nothing for him to say — the fact that he is here now, standing in your driveway, under heavy rain, drenched from head to toe, tells all that he came here to say, really.

A shiver runs down your spine. It’s cold out here, in the moist air’s embrace, with the cool autumn breeze blowing through the loose knits of your sweater. Crossing your arms over your chest and curling your fingers around your biceps, you give yourself a tight hug — hoping that the gesture would warm you up, even a little.

“Hello?” you try again. “What are you doing here? It’s almost midnight.”

Jake still doesn’t say a thing. Only stands still, letting the rain fall upon him, not really minding how his clothes are pressing down all wet and heavy against his skin. He doesn’t mind how there are strands of his hair sticking to the sides of his face either, or how water droplets are gathered into his lashes.

“I’m not inviting you in, Jake,” you tell him, voice firm. As far as you’re concerned, you refusing to invite him in is everything but unfair. Rather reasonable, really. After what he did — after how he left you, you’d be a saint to invite him in. “So, if you’ve got something to say, you better start talking.”

You sound different than before. And you look different, too, Jake notices.

Your eyes are a lot darker now, than what they were the last time he saw you. They aren’t glowing anymore; not lighting up the way they used to, whenever laying your eyes on him. Though, Jake guesses that it’s only fair for him to see you like this — not happy to see him —, after what he did to you. After how he never answered your calls or texts. After how he cut all contact with you, though he promised to run straight back into your arms after getting back on that damn aircraft carrier on board which he ended up breaking your heart into a million pieces, instead of holding it as if it was made out of glass — you know, the way he was supposed to.

Looking at you now — meeting a cold, lifeless gaze instead of a warm and welcoming one —, it’s evident that you have spent the last six months repairing the damage he did. Months you have spent trying so damn hard to glue your heart back together, though a part of you has known all along, that a trauma like the one your heart has been through, can never be fully recovered from. It’ll always be there, in the back of your mind, showing itself in the form of trust issues and a need for constant reassuring.

“You know, I'd rather have you not waste any of my time, so, if you ain’t got anything to say, please get off my property.”

And though Jake does deserve to hear every single one of those words that fall from your mouth, he still can’t keep from raising his eyebrows in surprise. You have never spoken to him in this manner before. You never felt the need to. You trusted him enough — or, perhaps you were just naive enough —, to not feel the need to set boundaries with him.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Talk?” you question him, an unimpressed look rising to adorn your features. “You mean, like the last time?”

Jake clenches his jaw. Perhaps that wasn’t the question to ask you. “No. Look, I’m sorry. I never meant to—,” he tries, only to be cut off by you.

“Never meant to what, Jake?” The tone of your voice is dripping with venom; with a poison so strong that it’s capable of making anyone feel uncomfortable, even when hearing it from a distance. To say that you’re furious with him, would be an understatement. “Never meant to make a promise that you couldn’t keep? Or never meant to make me believe that we had a good thing going on, even though your only goal was to just screw anything with a hole in it for one last time?”

“No, fuck, I—,” he tries. His airways feel tight — as if all that poison your words are laced with would have already entered his bloodstream, slowly, one by one, making all of his organs shut down.

“Or never meant to make me think that you’d actually come back for me?” you go on, not caring to listen to what he has to say. “God, you know I was looking for you like a fucking idiot that morning.”

“I’m sorry—,”

“Oh, you’re sorry now too, huh? So sorry that you didn’t think of picking up the damn phone for the past six months? Seriously? Is this all just a fucking joke to you?”

“No!” Jake rushes to answer, raising his voice now too. “What kind of a person do you think I am?”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “An ass?”

Your guess isn’t far from the truth. Still, it elicits a defeated sigh from Jake. “Will you please let me explain?”

You draw in a deep breath in through your nose and hold onto it for a couple of seconds, in a desperate attempt to contain your anger, before releasing it out through your mouth with a much heavier sigh than what just fell from his lips. “Fine. You’ve got two minutes.”

“I freaked out.”

Groundbreaking.

“Oh, really?” you ask. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

Jake knits his eyebrows together. You’re certainly not making this easy for him. “Can you please just shut up and listen for a minute?”

It’s then, when you finally fall silent and give Jake a chance to explain himself.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he starts, pretending to not notice the apathetic look on your face. “And I had every intention to come back to you — really, I did —, but fuck, it all being for real from then on scared the living shit out of me. I mean, you know that I don’t do relationships — that I never have.”

“Cool,” you hum, and simply nod in acknowledgement. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that I’m in love with you. And I have been, for like, years now,” he tells you, really meaning it, too — those deep creases that are sitting in between his brows making it evident. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago, and fuck, I’m so sorry that I didn’t.”

Your heart picks up its pace, pumping blood into your veins with such a force that you can barely hear Jake over the humming in your ears. It’s pathetic, really; how all it takes for him to have you feeling this way are only a few, short sentences.

Jake squeezes his eyes shut, runs his hand along his face, thinking hard of what the Hell should he say to you — wondering if there even is an appropriate way to apologize for what he did, for how badly he treated you. “Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t come back to you like I promised, and I know that I messed up by leaving without saying goodbye. I never should’ve done that to you, and I’ll never stop beating myself up about it, but I just—,” he sighs, pausing for a while to look for the right words before he continues, “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me now, or ever, and I know that me just showing up here is incredibly selfish of me, but I guess I just needed to come see you in case there was even the slightest possibility that you’d be able to give me another chance.”

You’re not sure at which point did Jake walk over to you, but he’s now standing at an arm’s length away. All drenched, with water droplets running along his handsome features. A sincere look in his eyes — one, that tells you that he’s thought about this a lot; thought about you a lot.

You swallow, suddenly feeling an all too familiar lump in your throat.

“You used me.”

It’s a quiet whimper that falls from your lips. Hurt evident in your voice — so much so that it makes Jake’s chest tighten. Seeing you like this is so much more painful than what he thought it’d be. It dawns upon him just then; perhaps he loves you more than what he thought he did.

He shakes his head, wanting to reach out to you, but knowing that he shouldn’t. “No — I’d never.”

“You destroyed me,” you tell him, eyes getting glossier by the second. This is the first time you’re saying it out loud — the first time you’re admitting just how hard the last six months have been for you. “I don’t know if I can trust you again. Like, ever.”

Jake doesn’t feel like crying. He never really does, never really has. Still, the tightness in his chest only seems to spread around his body, soon taking over all his limbs, making him feel like his body is giving up on him. “I’ll take my chances,” he says, meaning every word. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t expect you to trust him, or to want to be with him. Doesn’t expect you to tell him that you love him too, though a part of him knows that you both will always love each other, no matter what happens.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

Really, you do. You hate that — even after everything he did —, you still love him, just as much as you hate this stupid effect that he has on you. You hate how he makes your heart beat faster with every step he takes towards you, and the way the close proximity of your bodies always makes your fingertips tingle. You hate how beautiful he looks — even now, that he’s standing there, completely heartbroken too, with tiredness weighing down his eyelids and with water droplets glistening on top of all that insanely beautiful, tan skin of his.

“I know,” he says.

And perhaps it’s another, even bigger mistake you’re making. Perhaps it’ll leave you even more hurt and broken than what you already are. Perhaps it’ll be the end of you — perhaps it’ll crush even the last bits of what’s left of your poor heart into a million, tiny little pieces. Yet still, you do nothing but reach out to him; bring your hands up and cup his cheeks, gently running your thumbs along his skin, brushing the rain out of his face — the way you did his tears that one, fateful night six months ago.

Your touch still feels the same. It’s gentle and loving, and it makes him feel like home. You make him feel like home. You always have.

It’s when he leans into your touch and presses a soft kiss into the palm of your hand, that a soft sigh escapes your lips, right before you tell him, “I made dinner. Come inside — We can talk.”

Authors note: i have been working on this fic so hard for like, weeks and weeks, and so, i truly hope from the bottom of my heart that you enjoyed reading this. please let me know all your thoughts :) ily!

Tagging some friends who might like: @callsign-magnolia @mayhemmanaged @blue-aconite @na-ta-sh-aa @cherrycola27 @bobfloydsbabe @wkndwlff @bradshawsbitch @hangmanssunnies @thedroneranger @desert-fern @shanimallina87 @dissonannce @sushiwriterhere @gigisimsonmars @ughthisisntright @briseisgone @clancycucumber230 @sunflowercharlie13 @teacupsandtopgun @ryebecca @djs8891 @topherwrites @gretagerwigsmuse

ᓚᘏᗢ ♡

This is so cute!!!

Sundays Are for the Boys | Hangman x Reader

Summary: Football Sundays are a sacred tradition amongst Jake and his friends, and he's quick to make sure you know that. But when the boys discover your favorite drink in the refrigerator, Jake makes an exception to his rule.

Warnings: Fluff, language, a tiny bit of smut, 18+

Length: 2600 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Seriously, who let Jake on my masterlist!? Written for Pick Your Poison! Banner by @thedroneranger

Dating Jake came with one firm rule: Sundays were for watching football with the guys. 

"I mean it," he'd told you months ago when you first started dating him. "I host every week. They come over around ten when the games start, and they don't leave until after the last game ends. No wives. No girlfriends. Just a cooler filled with cheap beer. Sundays are for the boys."

At the time, you thought it was cute that he wanted to spend the day with his friends. "That's adorable," you told him, kissing his cheek. But by the time football season arrived, Jake was already in his Dallas Cowboys jersey, shaking you awake on Sunday morning at nine.

"It's almost game time, Baby. The guys will be here soon."

You looked up at him from his bed with a little smirk. "You're really into this, huh?" 

He kissed your forehead and started to pull you to your feet as you laughed. "It's a thing. I told you this months ago." He patted your bare butt as you looked around for your clothes from the night before. "It's week one, and the Cowboys play the Eagles in the early game. I love putting Payback in a bad mood."

You kissed him before you slipped your underwear on. "I know you do."

He was antsy, and you knew he wanted you to leave, but you also knew he didn't want to say it as he kissed you over and over again. "Baby, you gotta go," he finally whispered as you smiled against his lips. 

"I know, I know," you replied, still amused as you finished getting dressed and packed up your stuff. "Go Cowboys."

Each week, your relationship progressed, but this little routine stayed the same. Jake would inevitably wake you up by nine if you weren't already up. He would be wearing one of his many Dallas Cowboys jerseys. He would walk you out to your car and tell you how much he loved you before you left him to entertain his friends. 

But one Sunday, you woke him up with a blowjob on his birthday. And you took your time with it. Did you have a bit of an ulterior motive? Sure. But it didn't detract from the fact that you wanted him to enjoy himself, and you certainly made sure he did. He was coming hard at exactly 9:42 with his hand on the back of your head and his cock tapping your throat. 

"Oh, fuck!" he groaned. "Fuck!" 

You licked him clean and grinned up at him before kissing his hip and whispering, "I love you, birthday boy." Then you climbed out of bed, kissed his lips and started to get dressed. "It's almost ten. I'll head out."

You saw him waver a bit before he nodded. Then his doorbell rang, and you just knew it would be the guys starting to arrive. He kissed you deeply one more time before pulling on his blue and gray jersey and some gym shorts. "Take your time getting dressed. I'll go let them in."

"Sounds good," you replied. And twenty minutes later, after you'd fixed your hair and put on the tiniest bit of makeup, you waltzed out into the living room where there were now six guys spread out on Jake's sectional couch with an open cooler of beer on ice in the middle of the floor and bags of chips seemingly everywhere. 

It was kind of fascinating, getting to catch a glimpse of this carefully curated world that he worked so hard to keep private. Your plan was to quietly sneak out the front door, but you had to stifle your laughter as you heard Bradley tell your boyfriend, "Your Cowboys look like a bunch of fucking pussies this week."

"You're one to talk, dipshit," Jake replied without missing a beat. "The Steelers are 2 and 4." He went back to sipping his beer.

"Both of you are delusional," Coyote told them as he cracked open a can and shoved a fistful of chips into his mouth. 

You skirted around the outside of the room as you eyed them in their various colorful jerseys while you thought they were completely focused on the game. Then you heard Fanboy call your name. "You're leaving?" he asked, looking at you as he ate some beef jerky.

"Yeah," you said with a little laugh as Jake got up to peck you on the cheek. "You know, Sundays are for the boys and all that."

Just then, the Cowboys scored a touchdown, and Jake hoisted you up in the air as you screeched in surprise. Half of the guys groaned, and half of them cheered, but your boyfriend held you tight as he tossed aside his empty beer can and said, "You can't leave until they kick the extra point." So you just stayed there, your feet not even touching the ground as Jake held his breath, and then the Cowboys went up by one more point. Then Jake walked you to your car, nipping at your neck the entire way.

"Don't you have to get back inside?" you whispered as he filthy kissed you, pressing you against the driver's side door. 

"I will," he grunted. "Feel like you're my lucky charm right now."

He kissed away all your lip gloss and messed up your makeup, but when you finally drove away, you had a smile on your face.

------------------------

"What are these things?" Reuben called from the kitchen. Jake turned to see what he was holding up.

"High Noons," he replied before focusing back on the game. "My girl's obsessed with them. It's like a fancy hard seltzer."

"Can I try one?"

"Yeah," Jake told him, knowing he'd just replace them later for you. 

Javy was currently sitting on the floor, practically in tears as the Saints gave up another touchdown to the Dolphins. Mickey's loud cheering had everyone else laughing. "Dude, you'll lose your voice again like last week," Bradley told him as he accidentally spilled potato chips all over the floor before picking them up and eating them anyway. 

"It'll be worth it if the Saints lose!" Mickey cheered. 

"Hey, what's that?" Bradley asked Reuben as he chugged the High Noon can and belched. "Some sort of girly shit?"

"Yeah, it's fucking good."

A minute later, everyone was drinking them, including Jake. "This is delicious," Bob muttered.

"For real," Reuben agreed. "Your girl has good taste."

Bradley snorted as he opened another can. "Not in guys." He and Reuben started cracking up at Jake's expense while he rolled his eyes. 

Then Javy was on his hands and knees crawling toward the TV and shouting, "Get him! Get him! That's a fucking sack! Fuck you, Fanboy! Fuck you, dude!"

The room was in chaos as Javy ground the potato chip crumbs into the carpet. When Jake's phone vibrated, he saw it was a text from you and realized he kind of wished you were here right now.

I miss you. Are you having fun with the boys?

He smiled as he checked the time. The Cowboys game would be starting in less than an hour, and they always seemed to play better whenever you were in the room for those fleeting few minutes before you left him to his Sunday tradition. He tapped his fingers on his thigh and contemplated texting you back. 

"Hey, Jake, are there any more of these things?" Bob asked, holding up his empty High Noon can. It was a testament to how good they tasted that Bob was even drinking one in the first place. He absolutely hated beer.

"I don't think so," Jake muttered, almost to himself as he read your text again. "Let me check." He started his response to you and then finished it after he looked in his nearly empty fridge.

I miss you too, Baby. Where did you get those High Noons? The boys drank them all, and they loved them. I'm going to need to stock up.

When he looked up from his phone, Javy was on his back, kicking his feet in the air, because the Dolphins had scored another touchdown. "No!"

"Hey, Hangman, you're out of chips," Bradley complained, shaking the empty bag into his open mouth before frowning. 

Now Mickey was dancing around Javy on the floor as the final score of the game flashed across the bottom of the screen. His Dolphins had beat Javy's Saints, and Reuben was already changing the channel for the next game that was about to start. But you had texted back again.

Why is that so adorable? I'm just about on my way home from lunch with the girls. Want me to stop and get another case or two? Maybe some snacks? I can drop them off.

Jake grinned; even the idea of you stopping by for a few seconds made him smile. He texted you back letting you know that he loved that idea, and then he stepped over the chaos on his floor and dropped down next to Reuben. Just as the intro to the Cowboys and Steelers was starting up, Jake said, "My girl's stopping by with more of those drinks and some snacks, so please behave while she's here."

"We will," they all replied in unison, though he highly doubted that would actually be the case. 

Then the game started, and they were all distracted, because it was Jake's team against Bradley's team. "Your precious Cowgirls are going down," Bradley muttered, practically licking the inside of the chip bag.

Jake realized he was hungry too as he flipped him off, and he could hear Reuben's stomach growling. The Cowboys were looking terrible in the first quarter, and now Bradley was sitting on the edge of his seat as the Steelers were poised to score a touchdown.

But then, just when you walked in carrying some fresh High Noons and a platter of hot wings, the Steelers threw an interception, and the Cowboys ran it back all the way for a touchdown. "Fuck yes!" Jake shouted, practically ripping the food and drinks out of your hands to get to you. "Come here, Baby. Come sit on my lap."

"Seriously?" you asked, clearly surprised as Jake pulled you along with him while the other guys tore into the seltzers and chicken wings like they were wild animals. Well, everyone except for Bradley who was on his knees on the floor, staring at the TV in shock.

"Thank you for the food and the High Noons," Jake drawled, grinning against your neck as he held you close. "You're the best." 

"You're welcome," you replied, really getting into the game now. "Cowboys are already up?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Bradley groaned. And it just kept getting better from there. Jake got to have you snuggled up on the couch with him while he ate wings and drank seltzers all afternoon. 

When you tried to leave at halftime, the guys whined for you to stay, and Jake pulled you closer to him. "Baby, no. The Cowboys have done nothing but get touchdown after touchdown since you got here. I need you to stay."

You laughed and opened a High Noon for yourself with an amused look on your face. "Alright, Jake. Whatever you need."

-----------------------

When you woke up on Sunday with Jake kissing your neck and whispering, "Time to get up," you groaned. You were still exhausted from working all week, but you stretched and slowly got out of bed. "Where are you going?" he asked, reaching for you as you stood and looked at him.

"Home?"

He shook his head like he couldn't be more confused. "Why? Baby, the Cowboys play at ten. The boys will be here soon."

"Yeah...." you replied, reaching for your clothes. "That's why I'm leaving. Sundays are for the boys."

Now he was honest to god pouting. "But, I don't want you to leave. I love watching the games with you, and the guys keep my place cleaner when you're here. They actually belch less too. Really, overall, they are much less insufferable. And besides..." he whispered, grabbing your hand and pulling you back into bed. "I think you're my lucky charm."

"Really?" you asked as he pinned your hands above your head on the pillow. 

"Mmhmm," he hummed as he kissed you. "You make my team do better, and you make me happy. Stay."

You were melting at his touch. "Well, how could I say no?"

The following week, Jake was opening a seltzer for you, and when you looked around, all of the guys were drinking them. Mickey tapped his can to yours. "These are delicious. I feel so sophisticated. You're a genius."

The week after that, Javy ordered pizza only after discreetly asking what your favorite topping was. "The rest of them would eat cardboard with red sauce on top of it, but I want to make sure you get the kind you like."

The week after that, Reuben and Bob both jumped up to get you a new can when yours was empty, and Bradley begrudgingly said, "I still like you even though Jake fucking ruined you by turning you into a Cowboys fan."

You started staying later and later, and you noticed that Jake filled the cooler with fewer beers and more seltzers each week. And on the last Sunday of the regular season, the guys showed up with a sad looking, half crumpled up gift bag and handed it to you as you rearranged the pretty charcuterie board you'd been working on for them. 

"What's this?" you asked, peeking into the bag at some pink fabric.

"It's for you," Javy said. "You're one of the guys now." 

Jake grinned at you from the open refrigerator where he handed out High Noon cans to everyone. "You knew about this?" you asked him as you reached into the bag and pulled out a pink Dallas Cowboys jersey with your own name on the back. 

"Of course I knew about it, Baby. I had to tell them your size."

"Thank you," you whispered as you looked at it, tears filling your eyes and blurring your vision. "I love it." When you looked up at them, they raised their seltzer cans in a toast to you, and you ran to Jake's bedroom to get changed.

You had your own jersey color now amongst the rainbow of teams everyone rooted for, and Jake kept you close as the Cowboys played. The cooler of slowly melting ice offered up High Noons to you and the boys, and by the time it was getting dark outside, you were standing next to the TV with your hands in the air. 

"Ready?" you asked them a little loudly as you giggled, but you weren't the only one who was tipsy and silly. "Here we go!" You led them in a hideous, off-key rendition of I've been waiting all day for Sunday night. After weeks of watching football, everyone had all of the ridiculous lyrics memorized, and it ended in laughter as you curled up next to Jake on the couch.

"I love Sundays," he said, his arm slung around your shoulders. "And I love you, Baby."

You kissed his cheek and whispered, "Sundays are for seltzer drinkers."

------------------------------

You slowly infiltrated, and now Sundays are yours. Thanks @thedroneranger for making pretty mood boards like this one and letting us write about them. And thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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not enough secret gardens and hidden passageways and bookshelves that open to a mysterious library these days. get working on that girls.

You will get farther in one week paying close, nonjudgmental attention to the unmet needs underlying your "bad" behavior than you will in a year of punishing yourself and demanding you become a different person. I'm right shut up.

“i’m getting tired even for a phoenix, always risin’ from the ashes’ 🤍