HEARTFIRST (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader)

2.

Your phone buzzes, pulling you from your memory. You fish it from your pocket, a message from Natasha on the screen. Laughing, you rise from the sand, shoes in hand, and head back down the beach towards the base.

The Hard Deck is packed, the sunset casting the beach shack in a golden orange glow, the string lights on the porch just beginning to light up in the dark. You shoot off a quick text to Natasha, who was waiting for you inside. Squaring your shoulders, you make a promise to yourself to actually remember tonight. You were a guest here, after all, you should be on your best behavior.

"You alright there, sweetheart?" A shadow creeps over your shoulder, the silhouette stretching farther across the sand as he gets closer.

You turn to find Hangman, that stupid ken doll smile plastered to his lips.

"Perfectly fine, thank you very much." You step away from him, walking towards the bar, hoping he'd pick up on your curt reply, but he follows you closely, humming to himself. "Can I help you?" you ask, turning back to him as you step through the threshold of the door.

The room is buzzing, music blasting from the vintage jukebox in the corner, the floor practically shaking as the crowd dances along to a track you couldn't quite make out over the chatter and laughter. It would be a lighthearted, inviting environment if it weren't for Hangman hanging over your shoulder.

"Just wondering if you came back for a repeat of last night, is all." He takes his bottom lip between his teeth and raises an eyebrow, his gaze drifting down towards the low cut of your top.

"You must not have been very memorable," you say passively, looking around the room for Natasha. It's a sea of khaki uniforms – she could be anywhere. "I don't remember last night, so it doesn't count."

Hangman nods, releasing his lip from between his teeth, running his tongue across the skin. He brings a hand to his chin, rubbing at his stubble, watching you. The action brings something to the forefront of your mind, something familiar about the way his hand runs over his chin, his eyes intent on you.

A hazy vision of him comes out of your memory as someone passes by with a tray of tequila shots.

"Jake," he mumbles between kisses, his lips hot and wet as they move down your jawline and neck, sucking harshly at the space just above the hollow of your collarbone. "Call me Jake."

You hum in agreement, pushing him gently against the bar, not particularly caring what his name was. Tequila made you like this: needy and hot. This man was the perfect way to take your mind off the burn of the alcohol at the back of your throat. He groans and pulls a barstool underneath him, sitting down, beckoning you onto his lap with a wag of his finger. Following solely the direction of your desire and the tequila, you submit to him, sliding onto his lap. He grips your hips, running his hands over your thighs as you reconnect your lips. He lights up every one of your senses, his hands warm as they lightly stroke up and down your legs. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and a musky cologne mix when you breathe him in, eliciting a groan from you as his hand travels around your middle and up your back, stopping at the base of your neck, his fingers knotting in your hair.

"You sure you don't recall?" Jake's – Hangman's – voice reminds you you're still in the bar. You force yourself out of your memory, his face coming back into focus, that smile still taunting you.

"Nope, can't say I do," you lie. He narrows those gorgeous green eyes, considering calling you out, but he thinks better of it.

"Well, I'll be around if you need a refresher." He brushes past you, placing his hand on the small of your back to get by, the smell of his cologne hitting you. Breathing him in, you force a smile, ignoring the electric feeling of his fingertips traveling across your skin.

"That's it, we can't come here anymore," you groan. Natasha shakes her head as you approach, opening an arm to pull you in for a hug.

"But why? I love this bar," she complains, taking a swig of beer.

"I obviously cannot be trusted to make good decisions here," you sigh. "And those decisions won't let me forget." You nod in the direction of Hangman and his friends near the jukebox.

"Bagman bothering you again? I'll have Fanboy and Payback beat him up for you."

Two men perk up from their positions around the pool table, the taller one stepping forward, leaning on his cue. "I've been waiting for an opportunity."

You look between the men and Natasha. She takes another drink, her eyes widening.

"Shit, right, uh, guys this is my friend – the one from college," she gestures to you. "And these are the guys: Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, Omaha, and Bob." She points to each man as she goes through the list and you do your best to keep track.

"Hi," you wave. They return the gesture with a variety of smiles, waves, and cheers.

"There, now everyone's acquainted," Natasha smiles.

The night kicked off from there, the beers flowing along with the conversations, everyone talking loudly about the newest mission that brought them all together. You sat on the edge of the pool table as they all played around you, giving you pointers. You listened intently as they all took turns telling you about how they got into the Navy and how they became so fascinated with flying in the first place. It was sweet, how they took you into their little family, you were beginning to understand why Natasha spoke so kindly of them; why she liked it here so much.

You dismissed yourself from their festivities early, not wanting to succumb to the alcohol nor another cocky Naval pilot with a pretty face. When you emerge from the bar, the night is cold, the moon high in the sky, its bright light illuminating the silver sand. Shivering, you cross your arms and rub at your skin roughly trying to warm the goosebumps away.

The sound of tires rolling over loose gravel followed by the echo of backfire in the distance raises the hair on the back of your neck, forcing you to look back into the parking lot. The sight of a beat up, rusting, pick-up truck stops you in your tracks, your feet frozen in place as the door swings open, a familiar figure stepping out.

Bradley Bradshaw.