Latest Posts by brsdshaw - Page 2
kirks boyfriend
yes i made this
Rock music is made for horny people by horny people
From @/metallica's Instagram.
"20 years of @/robtrujillo and counting! Our brother joined the band #OnThisDay in 2003."
Happy 20 years Roberto Agustín Miguel Santiago Samuel Trujillo Veracruz! (I'm so funny) but for real, happy 20 years man. Hope to see u guys in concert one day!
MY RIDE THE LIGHTNING VINYL CAME 😭🙏🏾🙏🏾
COULD PLS WRITE ANY DATING HCS FOR CLIFF?? THERE IS NOTHING FOR HIM ON TUMBLR 🥲🥲☹️i’m begging for crumbs rn
cliff burton x reader
sfw headcanons!
note: i know!!!!:( he’s so underrated and for what. plus, it’s his birthday today! so there is not a better time to write some sweet head-canons about him.
requests are open!
.✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧
one of cliff’s more important personality traits is his integrity. bro’s honest; sometimes his honesty would be so sharp it would hurt the people he’d be talking to.
but with you, it was a different case. he was cautious— thought about what he was going to say and how he was going to say it out loud, careful not to hurt your feelings. he was still bluntly honest, though.
but hey! this doesn’t mean he’s rude, or cranky. he’s actually a sweetheart with most people (if they don’t get on his way).
and obviously, he has a soft spot for you.
most boyfriends are embarrassed to be mellow with their girlfriends in public, keeping all the cheesy stuff behind closed doors.
not cliff!
he truly doesn’t give a fuck. just in general, really, he never has cared about what people might think or say about him, so as soon as you guys started dating— he’d show you off. he doesn’t have a reason not to! you’re his girl and he wants everyone to know.
and this is connected to his love language; touch. cliff is a very touchy person towards you, but he’s subtle about it. its not like he’s constantly kissing/hugging you, but he likes to keep you close; and feel that you are close to him. hand on your thigh, rubbing your back, caressing your hips, playing with your hair— the list could go on forever. he just feels more calm and comfortable keeping you close.
he asks your opinion on everything he does. if we’re being completely honest, he doesn’t really care about it— nothing you could say would change his point of view.. but he still loves to hear your perspective on anything he can get it from. it’s his way of getting to know you better, little bits of information that help him put together the puzzle that is your mind. and it truly works out!
cliff doesn’t look like the type of person that would put much attention to detail since he’s always in his own world, but he always manages to surprise you with random things he knows and noticed about you.
you often see this in the gifts he gives you. you eyed something on that antique shop you guys went to last month? he got it. you bopped your head to a song on the radio on the ride home? he found out what record that was— got it on vinyl, too.
talking about music! one of his favorites things to do with you, is listen to music. more specifically; to show you different types of records so you can both talk about it. cliff is known for having a wide music taste— from motörhead to kate bush, and loves to discuss the ridiculous minor details that each song has. you were often surprised by his random knowledge, but you were mostly fascinated. his ideal sunday afternoon was you, a brand new music album, and acid.
going back to his unmeasurable uprightness! even though he’s a very likable guy— often being remembered as the cool and nice long haired dude— he doesn’t really have much of a filter. if he thought something was wrong, or he straight up didn’t like something; he won’t hesitate to make sure everyone knows that. so you’d often find yourself having to apologize to people when cliff would randomly flip them off, or yell fuck you’s around the room.
adding his personality, he’s also very witty. cliff is a very wise dude, and he’s also kind of like a child. so the mix of both get you a very funny but also old-souled boyfriend. and he’s also a big talker, so it’s almost like you’re dating a encyclopedia. a bullshit encyclopedia, though. he keeps you constantly entertained by speaking whatever was going on in his mind— because he trusts you enough to tell you whatever he thinks of right when he does.
we all know cliff smokes a bunch of weed. even though than he sees it more like a creative tool than a drug— he also does it for fun. and when he smokes around you, he gets impossibly clingy; if he sees you laying down when he is high— he will get on top of you, and won’t stand up for hours. just laying there; tracing random shapes on your skin with his fingers and talking a bunch of nonsense— interrupting himself once in a while to tell you how much he loves you.
if you bring that up when he is sober, though, he denies it.
and a stupid little last one: he really likes to play poker with you. cliff taught you how to play in one of many dates, and it became your thing! it quickly turned into something that is inevitable each time you see each-other. he’d play it every minute of every freakin’ day— and he’s also such a bad loser. the kind of guy that would throw everything to the air when he lost, and walk away in anger. a few kisses and everything was right, though.
If cliff has 100,000 fans, I'm one of them. If cliff has 10,000 fans, I'm one of them. If cliff has 1,000 fans, I'm one of them. If cliff has 1 fan, I'm that 1 fan. If the world is against cliff I'm against the world, if cliff has 0 fans IM DEAD 😵.
they always do jason dirty w these photos 😵🤘🏾😭
The Pyramid Arena Memphis, Tennessee - January 29, 1992 All photos © to the photographer
Pete “Rizzler” Mitchell
thank you for your time
2022 was wild
He's so dilfy ong
would y’all hate me if i said that i think that current day lars is still cute. 🙁
real
Brian May’s hands.
That’s it. That’s the post.
just spent half of my friday reading austin butler smut and i have NO SHAME
oh please slap ME bob floyd.
"yes lieutenant"
kinktober ‘22 day 2 (delayed): choking
pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x reader
Summary: y/n clearly doesnt know when to stop acting up, lucky for them a certain WSO is very willing to put them in their place.
Warnings: gn!reader, no mention of genitalia, mean dom!Bob, brat!reader, so many commas, slightly public sexual acts, dom/sub dynamic, established relationship, choking kink (obviously), reader gets called "slut" and"angel"
word count: 419 (there will be a longer part two tomorrow besties <;3)
a/n: Sorry for posting a day late ASKSJKAJK i’ve had a pretty shitty cold. This is a pretty short one but there will be a much longer part 2 tomorrow containing all the juicy events that shall follow. This is purely self indulgent towards my current top gun brainrot. Grammarly saves the day yet again.
Please let me know if I’ve missed out on any warnings. -Padfoot <3
You had been teasing him all night, the ‘shy’ WSOs patience running thin at an almost supersonic level. You’d pulled every manoeuvre in the book: brushing against him as you walked past, gently ghosting your fingers up and down his neck, covertly grinding against him as you lazily perched on his lap. Along with your blatant disobedience and taunts, he’d had enough.
“Outside. Now.” he ordered through gritted teeth, loud enough for the other pilots to here. This order of course received a comment or two from Bradley and Jake, egging your boyfriend on and offering no defence for you - as if you deserved it. Nat simply looked on with a knowing gaze. You were fucked to put it simply. Now, at this point there was no use in arguing against the already exasperated lieutenant. Thus, you simply followed on outside, not particularly wanting to get dragged out in front of everyone. The last thing audible as the door to the Hard Deck shut behind you, were the mocking (and frankly immature) whistles and jeers from Jake.
“Care to explain yourself angel?” it wasn’t a request but more so a command and definitely one that did not need a bratty response. Unfortunately: “I wouldn’t know what you’re on about Bobby. Might i suggest -” you were cut off by a hand gripping your throat followed by a surprised gasp from yourself. “Listen here slut, I have just about had it with you running your mouth whenever you get the chance. If you wanna act like a brat you’ll get fuckin’ treated like one. Understood?” he all but growled. This would be your chance to back down, apologise and maybe (just maybe) get off with a slightly lighter punishment than what you were bound to receive. However, there was a common theme with you in situations like this - you never knew when enough was enough.
“I’m sorry sweetheart, I think I might need a demonstration.” you jived, sweetly looking up at him, feigning innocence. “Still not backing down hmm? Fine get in the fuckin’ car and you’ll get a demonstration the moment we walk through the door.” you opened your mouth, ready to quip back at him but instead received a harsh slap to the face. “I’d suggest you shut that smart little mouth of yours unless you want more than that.” yet again you went to reply, this time a little warier - “unless it’s a ‘yes lieutenant’ i don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it”, “Yes lieutenant”, “Better. Now Shut it.”
It JUST started yall too fast 😭
Miles Teller for SNL
boyfriend reveal
George Harrison in A Hard Day’s Night.
FLABBERGASTED
She took me half the way there - P.M
Summary: the reader and paul get caught by john, her brother, doing things that ‘just friends’ don’t do
Pairing: Paul McCartney x reader
Warnings: Sexual content, oral (male receiving), denied orgasm, John walking in on the two in action
Words: 900+
a/n: thoughts and feedback are greatly appreciated, my loves :)
“What if- What if we get caught?” “We won’t get caught, darling, I promise you.”
Constant reassurance and roaming hands were all it took for y/n to give in, Paul’s pretty eyes on her body and puckered lips on her neck could win her over any day. It wasn’t hard in the slightest.
He trailed his lips down the length of her neck, arms desperately finding her waist just to pull her into his lap. She gasped, feeling his hard erection against her bottom, a wave of pride and a small smirk rushing over her, because she knew she did that, it was all her fault.
“Please, Pauly,” She batted her eyelashes, looking up at him with her big, innocent-looking eyes. She knew this would get him all riled up, wanting to fuck her fast and extremely fucking hard. It’s how the both of them liked it. However, when she talked like that, when she put on her innocent act, all he wanted was for her to suck him off till her jaw hurt like hell.
“You gonna make me feel good, doll?” He stroked the side of her cheek softly with his knuckles, lips turning up into a smirk as she nodded eagerly, knowing just how to please him in that moment.
Crawling off of his lap, she sunk to the floor, slapping his hands away as he attempted at unbuckling his belt. That was her job.
This wasn’t exactly the norm for either of them, the two were dating, though they hadn’t really gone as far as the occasional makeout session. Teasing touches and flirty remarks were usually shared between them, though both never really had the guts to do anything about the sexual tension that had built itself between them for god knows how long.
It had started off with a kiss, a kiss that brought butterflies to their stomach, a kiss that they couldn’t bring themselves to end. And it led them to this, to y/n on her knees in front of Paul with his underwear around his ankles and his cock down her throat.
They wouldn’t have had a care in the world if anyone saw them, unless it was her brother. John. All throughout her life, her brother had always been so protective of y/n, always telling the boys to lay off, and if they didn’t, he’d most likely kill them. It was all fun and games, at least that’s what everyone thought. Though, here she was, with her boyfriend Paul, her hand grasped around his length, while his were in her hair, guiding her as she bobbed her head to the rhythm of his upward thrusts.
Her tongue trailed the prominent vein that travelled along the length of his cock, earning a rather throaty moan from Paul in response.
“Oh, princess, I’m gonna cum in that pretty little mouth of yours,” she hummed against him seductively, looking up at him through her lashes, but before he had the chance to reach his high like the both of them had wanted for god knows how long, the last person they’d ever want to see right then had trudged through the door.
Oblivious to what was going on just metres away from him, he called out for their names, wondering just where they had gotten off to since he had left.
“Y/n! Where are yo- what the fuck!” His eyes widened at the scene in front of him, before realising how disgusting it actually was to him, covering his eyes from being so repulsed, but also from having the dignity to save themselves the embarrassment. Though that was kind of useless.
“Paul, I swear to god, if you don’t get your dick out of my sisters mouth I will kick you out of the band,” he scrambled to get up, pushing y/n away from his member, still standing up right, still wanting to cum so bad. He cursed John in his head, how could he leave him with blue balls? Though, he did understand that it was his sister they were talking about. He tucked himself back into his slacks, shoving his hands over his crotch, not wanting his band mate to see his still obvious erection that y/n had managed to cause.
“And for god sake, y/n. Sort yourself out,” he motioned towards her disheveled state, some of Paul’s pre-cum dribbling down her chin, something she desperately tried to get rid of with the back of her hand.
The two had convinced him to let them stay together while the others went out, the three oblivious to what was going on behind their backs. They hadn’t a clue that they were dating. How could they? They were always so discreet.
John’s voice was rather calm, though they could see the fire behind his eyes as he spoke.
“Y/n, you’re grounded, go to your room,” “but-” “What did I just say?” She huffed, kicking the carpet with her bare feet before plodding up the staircase. She knew better than to argue with him, especially in his state.
“Paul, I love you, but if you ever think of touching my sister ever again, I will fucking kill you,” he muttered, “you understand me?”
Paul looked at his hands, fiddling with his fingers bashfully. “I understand,” he squeaked, not daring to look into his burning eyes. “I didn’t hear you,” he mocked, urging him to say it again, just that little bit louder, all for his own satisfaction. “I understand,” he spoke, voice still wavering, though he wasn’t sure whether it was from his denied orgasm or the fright his friend inflicted upon him.
“And don’t think I’m not gonna tell the others about this,” he shook his head whilst walking out of the room, making his way up the stairs towards y/n’s designated bedroom. “Fucking asshole.”
goodnight to lewis pullman fuck the rest of yall
Yall are too funny
I don't see no smut for goose or Cyclone like come on people... this is an SOS for any of my top gun smut writers who see this.. PLEASE I NEED GOOSE SO BAD HES SO FUCKING FINE
A girl can dream
Cyclone is so hot idc what anyone says, Jon hamm is a Dilf and I'm here for it
Me.
Rooster has a tight grip around your mouth, making sure that no obscene sounds can be heard by anyone, no matter how much he loves the pathetic and completely embarassing whimpers only he can coax out of you. Your nails are digging into the mattress and bedsheets, probably ruining your manicure but you can worry about in the morning. With each rough thrust of his hips, you can feel your pelvis hitting the bedframe - no doubt leaving very unambiguous bruises.
"Be a good girl and keep quiet," he whispers into your ear. His raspy, authoritative voice makes it even more difficult for you to comply. "Or do you want everyone to know who’s ruining your tiny cunt?"
Even your most unsavoury of fantasies couldn’t compare with the sheer eroticism of Rooster. Little did you know, that you, too, outperformed his wet dreams. After all those early morning when he woke up with cum staining his underwear, now that he has the real thing, Bradley really can’t control himself. Not that you mind.
It’s difficult to keep your eyes open. No coherent thoughts exist in your headspace, only Bradley Bradshaw and the way his dick is deliciously stretching your vagina. You can feel his swollen tip hitting all the right spots and tears begin to stream down your face. Maybe it’s a good thing he is keeping your mouth shut - the lewd screams of unimaginable pleasure would surely wake up everyone on the base.
"Go on, pretty thing." His big hand slaps your ass and you yelp, feeling how your legs are shaking. Bradley’s fingers sneak around your waist only to sensually rub your clit in circles. "Cum on me."
And who were you to disobey Lieutenant Bradshaw? He sticks out his tongue slightly feeling you scream in his palm. Your body withers and squirms underneath him and Rooster revels in the tight clench of your vagina around his cock.
He’s still thrusting into your cunt until you stop shaking. Then you feel him pull out and, although you’re tired, you can’t help but whimper in displeasure at the sudden lack of his dick inside you. Bradley chuckles, proud of the effect he has on you. It drives him tirelessly insane that the main star of his sexual fantasies, of all the obscene scenarios he played out in his mind while jacking off, can’t get enough of him.
Just when you think that fun time’s over, Rooster grabs your waist and tosses you farther onto the bed. He wastes no time climbing on top of you and kissing up your legs. Bradley’s much bigger than you are, instilling a certain feeling of powerlessness in you - the same sensation of defenselessness against his prowess that made you ride your pillow on so many lonely nights.
His hand gently squeezes your neck, forcing you to look at Bradley’s face. In his eyes you saw a loving devotion, now clouded with primitive desire, primal lust.
"I’m not done with your sweet pussy."
And you can’t decide which one is more true: is Rooster pussydrunk or are you cockdrunk?
IM ALWAYSS ACCIDENTALLY WALKIBG INTO ANGST. i remember i read smr where i msrried bob and he DIED
I think it’s amazing how you fleshed out Hangman in Bad Habit, his backstory is so believable and how he’s just as fragile as the reader too. It was beautifully written 😭🥹
I’m not sure if you’re taking requests but it would be so interesting to see the reader being introduced to Jakes parents and standing up for Jake when his dad keeps making digs at him because you know she would have his back no matter what 💪🏻and Hangman just falls more in love with her ❤️
♡ pairing ; boyfriend ! hangman x female!reader
♡ wc ; 4k
♡ warnings ; angst, sappiness, toxic parents, some sexual innuendo and the tiniest, tiniest, tiniest breeding kink hint at the end (i can't believe i just typed that goodbye)
♡ note ; bad habit universe. anon, i need you to understand the way this ask made me go feral. i'm so sorry this got so long but i truly went INSANE i BLACKED OUT. goodbye.
Jake is jumpy before you even get in the car. He spends way too long picking out his pants and shirt, messing with the cufflinks, wrapping and loosening the tie around his neck a hundred times until you finally take it off him.
“It’s just your parents, Jake,” you say softly, letting the garment - dark green silk, your last Christmas present to him because it brings out his eyes - drop onto the hotel bed. “Don’t be nervous.”
It’s stupid advice, and you know it. You’re pretty sure the thought of his father has made Jake nervous his entire life.
But under the gentle pressure of your hands on his shoulders, some of the tension seems to drain out of him. He all but slumps against you with a sigh, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. Like all the fight just evaporates.
“It’s been so long,” he whispers against your skin, but what he means is: I’m scared.
You wrap your arms around him, wishing with a sudden, unfamiliar fierceness that you could shield him from anything bad in the world.
“It’ll be okay,” you whisper back, but what you mean is: I know. I’m with you.
On the drive, in a rental that smells too new, too clean, you’re the nervous one. Knee bouncing up and down, fingers drumming along to the pop songs on the radio but missing the rhythm entirely.
Jake puts a hand on your thigh, just above the knee, just below the hem of your floral sundress. Warm skin on warm skin, even with the aircon blasting. The last freckles of summer are still fading on the backs of his hands.
His touch, unfailingly, sends a shiver down your back.
“Nervous to meet the in-laws?” he asks, signals, and pulls off the highway. Outside the window, factories and strip malls make room for a residential area, for swingsets in back yards and sweet tea on front porches.
The words have heat rising to your face. You’re not even engaged, let alone married. Still, Jake’s been known to introduce you as the Missus, to carry a polaroid of you in his wallet, to talk to you about which tropical destinations you should spend your retirement benefit plans on when you’re both seventy. (You don’t tell him he’ll be seventy a good few years before you because it’ll just make him pout, and then you’ll kiss him, and then you won’t do any talking anymore.)
“Just… I’ve never met a boyfriend’s parents before,” you admit.
Jake hums, lifts his hand from your knee to tangle his fingers with yours instead, pulls them up to his mouth, and presses a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes never leave the road.
“You’ll do fine, sweetheart.” And then his smirk turns mischievous. “I love that dress on you. Will like it even more when I take it off you later, though.”
You laugh more for his benefit than because you actually find it amusing. There’s the familiar spark of desire, but it’s faint, muffled, distant.
It’s not hard to tell that Jake’s heart isn’t really in it. That’s okay. Yours isn’t either.
The house is perfect. Impeccably kept lawns, greener than the Texan heat should allow for, bushes trimmed into neat squares like somebody is exercising their personal vendetta on nature. Big windows and a car parked in a perfect parallel line to the curb. There’s something cold to it all.
On the walk up to the front door, while you’re careful not to step on any patches of that green, green grass, you take Jake’s hand, and you can’t tell if it’s for his benefit or your own. He squeezes back just once.
Jake’s mother is just like that house - so perfect it scares you.
She looks like one of those housewives in laundry detergent advertisements from the 50s. Manicured fingers, a string of pearls around her neck, lips painted a rosy shade of red.
Suddenly you’re sure your dress is too short, your hair isn’t styled carefully enough, you’re wearing too much make-up. You want to hide.
She greets you at the door, a smile on her face that seems almost a little nervous.
“Jake,” she says and kisses him on both cheeks but doesn’t hug him. They haven’t seen each other in two years.
You hang back, unsure, wishing you could go invisible, but Jake puts a hand on the small of your back, pushes you forward, smiles, and looks proud in a way you can’t explain.
“This is my girl,” he says, and there’s so much in it. Not girlfriend, because you’re more than that. Not wife, because you’re not yet. But his, always, always his, since that night he walked into you at the Hard Deck. His, even when you still swore up and down you hated him.
His mother shakes your hand, smiles not unkindly, and leads you into the house.
Jake and you sit on the couch as she hands you glasses filled with a sensible amount of iced water. An old, imposing grandfather clock ticks away the seconds.
“Your father’s in his study,” she says, eyes shifting rapidly like she can’t decide where to look. “I’ll check what’s keeping him.”
The whole house smells like the roast sizzling in the oven, like the steaming peach cobbler you saw through the open kitchen door when you walked in.
Jake is tense beside you, on guard. He sits on the edge of the sofa, palms spread on his knees like he’ll spring up at any moment and sprint out of the house, out of the state, back home to California, to the little apartment the two of you are renting. An apartment without lace curtains, without grandfather clocks, an apartment without grass or manicured bushes. But an apartment with warmth and sheets that smell like his shampoo, like your flowery body lotions, with a stain on the sofa cushion where you spilled red wine, with a burn mark on one of the kitchen counters from the one time Jake tried to cook dinner and set a pan down on the linoleum.
Not a perfect house, but a kind one. A home.
You loop your arm through his and press your cheek into his sleeve.
“You okay?” he asks softly. Even now, he’s still thinking about you, and you wonder how you could ever, for one moment, for one second, believe that he was selfish. Your chest feels tight, too narrow for all these emotions to fit inside.
You nod. “Are you?”
He’s about to answer when his mother comes back.
The man trailing behind her is unmistakeably his father. You can recognize the traces of Jake in his eyes, in the line of his mouth, but he lacks his charm, his boyish air. Lacks the flicker of kindness in the stiff smile. The hair at his temples has greyed with age, but his gaze is clear and sharp. It flicks from Jake to you, and his mouth twists downward.
Jake jumps up the moment his father enters the room, back ramrod straight. You follow slowly, choosing to hang back a little. Hiding at least partially behind Jake.
“Sir,” Jake says, voice different than you’ve ever heard, and you watch in amazement as they shake hands.
Involuntarily, you think of your own mother, smothering you in kisses after you got back from a school trip. You, pushing her away, glancing at your friends, saying, ew, stop, Mom.
Suddenly you think you might cry.
“This is her?” Jake’s father asks, waving a hand in your direction. He’s looking only at his son, you note, not at you.
“Yeah,” Jake answers and tells them your name.
You give him what you hope is a sweet smile, but his father ignores you.
“Is dinner ready?”
Jake’s mother nods. “Yes. We can go to the dining room.”
There are flags on the walls, plaques, and framed medals. Pictures of aircrafts and squadrons, men in uniforms that look dated now. There’s nothing new here, no traces of Jake apart from a framed photograph on the mantlepiece, him grinning into the camera at what you think might have been his senior prom.
It’s strange. You remember Jake telling you he sends all the mementos of his accomplishments to his parents. Maybe they keep them upstairs, you think, but somehow you doubt it.
When you get back home, you’ll ask him to hang them in your hallway instead. You didn’t even want him to put his Top Gun diploma on the sideboard near the entrance, but now you feel different about it.
All of them, you think. Everything. I’ll put out the award from the Spelling Bee he won in second grade.
In the dining room, Jake’s mother serves you roast and mashed potatoes and green beans in sensible portions on crisp white china.
“Your favorite,” she says, smiling at Jake.
You don’t say anything, but it’s on the tip of your tongue, burning there. Lasagna, you want to say, his favorite food is lasagna. One time he came home from a deployment and ate so much of it he got sick.
“Thanks, Mom,” Jake says, smiling a smile you’ve never seen. One that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Everybody makes small talk. His mother asks you a few questions about your teaching position, tentatively inquiring about your plans for the future.
“I’ll buy her a house,” Jake interjects, sounding serious and proud, and you stare at your plate to hide the smile.
He’s joking, probably. No way he means that.
His father doesn’t talk to you at all. He asks Jake increasingly aggressive questions about his last deployment, about the squadron he’s been assigned to, about when he’ll finally make the jump from Lieutenant Commander to Commander.
Jake hesitates, then he says, “Actually, Sir… I was thinking of teaching.”
The older man pauses, scotch glass halfway to his mouth, amber liquid sloshing against the rim.
“Teaching,” he repeats, a tension to the word that borders on danger.
Jake nods. “At Top Gun.”
His father sets his glass down on the tabletop with a sound softened by the silk cloth. You’ve gone quiet, frozen, as has Jake’s mother. Both of you staring like you’re watching a car crash - impossible to stop it, impossible to look away.
“Why,” Jake’s father says softly, “would you ever want to do that?”
Jake tips his chin up and answers, “Well… It’s close to home. And when we get married, when we get a house, I want to be there. Not on active duty, I want….”
And he’s mentioned it once before, but back then, you thought it was a joke. The idea of Jake torturing poor Top Gun hopefuls is a little unsettling, or at least it was, but you’re beginning to understand. You think he could be good at it, great maybe, teaching those people not to make the same mistakes he used to make.
When we get married, he’d said. Not if. When.
The thing Jake has loved most in his life - and you know this - was flying out there. Being in the midst of it all, in the thick of it, risking his life, always up in the air. The fact that he’s willing to give it all up for you…
Warmth blooms in your chest.
For the first time this night, Jake’s father turns his eyes right on you. They’re ice-cold. As cold as this house.
“Was this your idea?” he asks.
Automatically, you open your mouth to answer, but Jake is quicker.
“No,” he says. “It wasn’t her idea. It was mine. She had nothing to do with it.”
His father exhales a loud, shuddering breath, something that tears through the silence like a bull pawing at the ground.
“No,” he says finally.
“No?” Jake repeats, sounding hesitant.
“No.” Jake’s father places his cutlery delicately by his plate, smooths out the napkin in his lap. “No son of mine will give up a career to play house.”
“I…”
His father bulldozes over the interjection as if it hadn’t happened. “What, you can’t handle the pressure? Tough luck, boy. You gotta grit your teeth and get through it.”
There’s so much wrong with all of it. An emotion you can’t name rises up in your throat, makes your fingers clench into the fabric of the tablecloth.
“I don’t want to,” Jake says, trying to stand his ground. But something’s fading from him as you watch, some light dimming as his shoulders slump and his face falls.
You’ve never seen Jake like this before. All the cool melted out of him, all the bravado gone. Nothing but uncertainty left in its wake.
“You’ve always been weak,” his father says without looking at him. “Crying all the time when you were young, running to your mother. I knew it back then, and I see it now. Too weak for the Navy, too weak for this life, too weak….”
“Stop.” You can’t remember making the decision to speak, but suddenly your voice echoes through the room. Everybody’s looking at you. Your heart is in your throat.
And it’s so dumb. You can barely stand up for yourself. Last week, one of your student’s fathers yelled at you about a bad grade, and you just went home to cry into Jake’s chest for an hour. But this… it’s different. This ignites something in your chest, something violent and significant, something that demands to be felt.
You’d known their relationship was bad, but you hadn’t expected this. Nothing could have prepared you for it.
“You’re wrong,” you say, and wonder how your voice can sound so calm when on the inside you’re shaking, when the anger bubbles up into your throat like bile, when… “He’s not weak. Jake is the strongest person I know.”
Distantly, you’re aware of Jake’s head turning in your direction, but you keep your eyes on his father. Watch the twitch of his mouth, corners curling up into a smile dripping disdain.
“Oh, Jake,” he says, voice mocking as he turns to his son again. “Still need women to fight your battles for you?”
Jake’s mother says nothing, face turned down towards her plate, hands folded primly in her lap. The string of pearls around her neck shifts with every inhale, and for a moment, you ask yourself who’s worse: the one who does the hurting or the one who sits by and does nothing.
“I love him,” you say, and it’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it is the first time you say it in front of somebody else, somewhere outside the privacy of your bedroom, where you can convince yourself nobody exists in the world but him and you. It feels, somehow, significant. “He’s twice the man you’ve ever been.”
The eyes turn on you, so cold it sends a shiver down your back. And you don’t understand how you could have thought, even for a moment, that they looked alike. It’s like comparing a pencil sketch to an oil painting - night and day.
True anger courses through the words, through the voice, as he says, “You think I’m going to sit here and listen to some rude little schoolteacher my son picked up on the roadside try and tell me to….”
Jake’s palm hits the tabletop so forcefully the china jumps an inch into the air, the glasses rattle, and white wine spills into the casserole dish with the green beans.
“Don’t,” Jake hisses through clenched teeth, “ever talk to her like that again.”
Silence spreads.
His father chuckles. “What, you think that’s gonna impress me, boy? I don’t…”
“I don’t care,” Jake says. You can hear it in his voice, in the trembling of his breath - the anxiety, but the anger too. Your eyes burn. “For the first time in my life, I don’t care what impresses you. I just… I’m so tired of it. This is who I am. Either accept it or don’t.”
“Jake…” his mother whispers, but he won’t look at her. She throws a furtive glance at her husband, then at you. You can see the fear there, and you almost feel bad for her.
His father picks his cutlery back up and cuts into his roast.
“Sit back down, boy,” he says, the picture of perfect calm if it weren’t for the quiver in his hands. “Don’t cause a scene.”
You see the exact moment it happens. When the resignation finally sinks in for Jake. The acceptance of this thing he’s denied all his life.
His eyes flicker to you, and there’s something helpless in them. You think you hear the crack as your heart breaks.
And Jake is confident. Knows what he wants. Is so much clearer about it all than you with all your overthinking and spiraling and second and third and fourth guessing. Is so good at acting like he has all the answers that sometimes it makes you forget how good he is at pretending too. How sometimes, he needs you to take over.
So you get up, slot your fingers into the spaces between his, and say, looking only at his mother, “Thank you for dinner. I think it’s time we leave.”
Nobody says anything. Jake’s parents stay where they are, in their perfect, cold house, with their perfect, flavorless food and their lace curtains and grandfather clocks and no pictures of their brilliant, beautiful, warm son.
But you leave. You leave, and you take him with you.
The thought of Jake as a child, alone in this house, with that man in front of his door, almost chokes you.
You’re silent as you get into the car, silent as he pulls away from the curb, silent as the house fades smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. As it disappears from view completely.
You know you’ll never come here again. Something about it all is decidedly and vitally final.
Over the middle console, you watch Jake. It’s dark outside now, but the electronics of the dashboard illuminate him, the headlights of oncoming cars paint ghostly shadows across his features. You can’t read his expression, feel almost incapacitated by your own panic.
You don’t know what to say.
It’s impossible to tell how long you drive, but finally, Jake signals and pulls into an empty Walmart parking lot. Parks the car. Turns off the engine. And then he makes a sound you’ve never heard before.
With a start, with a jolt that zaps through you like a current, you realize he’s crying.
You’ve never seen him cry. Not when a bird strike took down his wingman last year. Not when you made him watch first Philadelphia and then Titanic in the most devastating double feature of all time.
It stumps you. Throws you for a loop. Makes tears well up in your own eyes.
“Oh, Jake,” you say, leaning across the middle console to wrap your arms around him, to press your face into his neck and hold him. Try and keep you both from falling apart.
And it’s so much pain. So much pain he’s carried with him every day, so much of it that you can feel it reverberate along your own bones as if it’s yours. And maybe that’s true. Maybe part of loving someone is feeling their pain as your own. Carrying it not for them but with them. Sharing it.
After what you just saw, you think you understand. Perhaps for the first time. All that cockiness and all that arrogance and all those things you hated about him at first. How they’re all just pieces of armor, something he’s built over the years to protect himself from that father and those expectations he could never meet and that cold, cold, cold.
You hold him until he calms, until the shaking of his sobs subsides, until he draws back and pushes himself into an upright position, says, “I’m sorry for crying.” He pushes a laugh out, but you don’t buy it. Not for a second. “That’s humiliating, huh? Bet you didn’t know you were dating such a pussy….”
“Don’t.” Your voice is firm, and it stops him in his tracks. “Don’t do that, Jake. That’s just him talking. There’s nothing wrong with crying. There’s nothing wrong with anything you did.”
His fingers flex around the steering wheel. He exhales loudly through his nose, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone so quiet you need to lean forward to hear him, “I guess some part of me just always thought… always thought that maybe, someday, he’d love me.”
And that’s it. It shatters you right there. Breaks you apart in a way you can’t explain.
You don’t know what to say. Maybe there is nothing to say. No words to make this better, to make him think the opposite. Not after what you’ve just seen.
“I guess…” His throat moves as he swallows. It’s so dark in this parking lot you can barely see more than the outline of him, shadowed by the darkness, but it’s enough. You know him so well, you could draw his face blind. “I guess that’s it, then. I guess I no longer have a family.”
It’s instantaneous. No, you think. I won’t let him believe that. Not for a second.
“Do you think I don’t have a family?“ you ask him.
Jake’s brows furrow, obviously confused by your question. “What?”
“Because my mom is gone, and my dad doesn’t care, and I don’t have any siblings or aunts or uncles. Do you think I don’t have a family?”
“No,” he says immediately, frowning. “You’ve got me. And you’ve got Penny and Phoenix and….”
“Then why would you ever think that about yourself?”
That shuts him up. He just sits there for a while.
“Jake,” you say, voice more gentle than it’s ever been. “It doesn’t change a thing. Not about the way I feel about you or the man that you are.”
He’s biting his lips, glancing at you from the corner of his eye and then away just as quickly.
“You don’t…” He clears his throat. “You don’t believe what he’s saying? That I’m… weak, or…”
You’re shaking your head before he’s halfway through the question.
“I meant what I said back there,” you reassure, reaching for his hands again. “Jake, you’re the best person I know. You can be an asshole, and a dumbass, and arrogant, and….”
“Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better?” he interrupts, but there’s amusement in his voice, and relief floods your chest in answer.
You say, “What I mean is… I think you’re remarkable.”
“Remarkable?” he repeats, and you can hear the frown in his voice.
“Remarkable. Because even with someone like him raising you, putting you down all the time, telling you all that bullshit… you still turned out so good. You still turned into the best man I’ve ever known.” You take a deep, deep breath. “The only man I’ve ever really loved.”
And when he turns to look at you, you can see the tears sparkling in his eyes.
You’re climbing over the middle console before you know it, settling into his lap with your arms around his neck and your knees pressing into the seat bis hips. Jake slots clumsy kisses over your eyebrow, your cheekbone, your nose, until he finds your mouth.
He tastes like salt and gravy and home.
“It shouldn’t be like that,” you tell him, drawing back to card your fingers through his hair. “With my mom, it was never like that. She was so warm and kind, and she was so happy to see me, always. Even if I showed up unannounced and drunk at three am. And she just wanted me to be happy, no matter in what capacity. That’s how it should be, Jake, that’s what you deserved. Someone who loves you unconditionally.”
“I do have that,” he whispers, voice husky. “I have you.”
And it’s like this: being with Jake is like drifting on a blow-up mattress through a pool. Being with Jake is like reaching the top of a mountain after hours of hiking. Being with Jake is like the first taste of ice cream on the hottest day of the year. Being with Jake is like the first winter snow, early in the morning when everything is still untouched and quiet. Being with Jake is like listening to the rain from beneath your blankets, warm and safe and cozy.
Being with Jake is everything you’ve ever wanted.
“Yes,” you agree, head spinning, chest tight, “you do. You’ll always have me, Jake. We’re our own family already. And when we have kids, I know you’ll be the most perfect father, and you’ll never, ever treat them the way your dad treated you. You’ll be so kind and so loving and….”
“When we have kids,” he interrupts you.
In his lap, your face inches from his, you freeze.
Suddenly you can’t look at him. Your cheeks feel like they’re burning. “I… I’m sorry, we never talked about this, I just….”
You move to climb off him, but he pulls you closer instead, holds you to him with hands grasping the backs of your thighs.
“Is that what you want?” he asks softly. “You want to have my kids?”
The way he phrases the question almost makes you scoff. But then you think about it for a second, this thing you haven’t even been brave enough to voice in the privacy of your own mind. This thing that perhaps, in your heart of hearts, you’ve always dreamed of.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “I do. I do, Jake.”
And he groans, pushes his face against your cheek, and you can’t see him, but you can feel the tears.
“I’ll give it to you,” Jake whispers. “I'll give you anything you want. A ring and a house with a blue door and a baby. I’ll give you a baby, sweetheart. My girl. My gorgeous, brave, brave girl.”
In the silence of the night, in the warmth of that car, it sounds like a promise.