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lieutenantfloyd · 3 months ago

Note

I absolutely adore the way you write for Cyclone. I was wondering if you'd be open to writing about Beau where his wife is having a bad day and she's just really in her own head and not really paying attention and he helps pull her out of own head in his own quite steady loving way

Beach House - Cyclone x Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: When life gets to you, your husband Beau helps in the only way he knows how—by being there.

Warnings: domestic fluff, light angst, husband! Beau trying his best.

Author's Note: Thank you for this request and the kind words!

Read on AO3

Beau had never been good at these kinds of things. Let anyone who knew him tell it, he was all firm looks and practical advice. Not a warm and forgiving bone in his body.

But he had a good head on his shoulders. A strong pair of hands—not soft, but always warm and just as steady—that he was ripe to use whenever he felt the situation called for it. Beau was not a gentle man, but he was one who fixed problems.

Tonight Beau stood in the kitchen, holding a mug uncomfortably in those same hands he silently prided himself on and had spent the day using to sign off on papers he still didn’t feel quite qualified to handle. The steam rising from the mug taunted him in his staring, a steady stream not too dissimilar to the thoughts running through his mind. He glanced around the too quiet house as if that would give him some direction. He could hear the clock ticking away in the hallway and the faint sound of the ocean and wind funneling in through the open back door. There was no TV in the background, no dinner baking in the oven. And most of all, no you.

When the door slammed shut on the rare occasion Beau arrived home in the evening earlier than you did, you hadn’t said a word as you flung your bag onto the strategically placed hooks in the hallway—all Beau’s doing—and kicked your shoes off with the last bit of energy you had. They landed vaguely under the hall entryway table—a bright addition to the space you had suggested—and headed out the back door, still yet to speak a word.

That was two hours ago.

Beau, again, was not a man to hover. Dawdling away idle time was a sin of great measure in his book. There was always something to be done, and in his commanding mind, idleness was akin to laziness, and laziness akin to failure. Yet in the two hours you’d been outside, a myriad of tasks had been completed. A new bulb in his bedside lamp. The complete reorder and organization of the kitchen junk drawer. New linens put on in the guest bedroom. All quiet things, chores and charges he knew had been on your list for weeks or, in the rarest of cases, had been asked of him mindlessly over dinner when both of you were set in avoiding the topic of your respective days.

Still, those tasks had only made a dent in the overall load of life lately. Not one of them had helped him forget that brief flash of complete fatigue he’d seen in your eyes.

He didn’t know what had happened that day. If anything, he was the type to expect you to come to him with any problems, complaints, or just a random story instead of relying on close looks and guesswork. Too much expended energy, he told himself. But tonight you hadn’t offered, hadn’t sought him out in his office or on the couch to ramble on about all those small details with that bright eyed look while he listened with a far more rapt attention than he’d ever dare to admit to. No, you just…left. It was an act all too familiar to not bother him, though if anything that was his MO, not yours. Maybe that’s why it ate at him more and more as the minutes passed. You hadn’t offered up a word, and he just didn't know how to ask.

So there he stands, back against the counter and still holding that mug, the warmth of it against his hand doing little to make up for what should be flowing through his bachelor pad-turned-marital home. Beau was a well rounded man, prideful in that. So he bit the bullet and stepped out of the back door.

The slight chill in the air reached him first, then did the cotton candy sky and the now louder sound of waves. It would have been a beautiful night in San Diego if the weight of everything wasn’t looming over him, but again he steeled himself and forged ahead.

Sitting in a metal deck chair just beginning to rust was you, knees pulled up and expression as unreadable as you always joked his was. Your arm rested on your knee and your head rested atop that, face turned towards the horizon and the ocean you could just make out beneath it.

Beau paused, debating his next move, then took a step forward. The weathered boards creaked under his weight, and you finally glanced up. You didn't say anything, just watched him almost curiously for a second before going back to the view.

That wasn’t a rejection, so permission it was.

Beau stepped quietly over to you, posture as straight and expression as unreadable as ever. He cleared his throat and held out the mug.

"No milk," he says simply, "Just honey."

You glanced at him again then. Only now does he see that your eyes are tired, and it takes more effort than he’d admit to bite back a curse.

Eventually you reach out, taking it with the smallest of smiles. It doesn’t lift at the corners, but at least it’s a start.

"Thank you," you say, voice quiet as your fingers wrap more firmly around the mug, as if the warmth of its contents is shaking the frigidity from your being in real time.

Beau nods firmly, letting a beat pass before he takes a seat in one of the adjoining chairs scattered around the deck. Now a few feet away, he lets out a sigh and settles in to stare vaguely where you are, though really he’s lost in thought.

“…you can say it,” he chimes in after a moment.

He didn’t even need to look over to see your brows furrow, and a part of him finds some kind of amusement in your expression—purely because he can tell it’s forced.

On a good day, you picked at him. Nothing genuine or even that specific, just liking comments made about his firm disposition. He’d gotten more and more into the habit of sighing lately, something he hadn’t even noticed until one day you chimed in about his “old man habits” from your spot across the living room. It’d earned you a hardline scowl then, which only spurred you on more, much to his complicated amusement.

He’d expected another comment then—or at least what’s what he told himself. Your jokes and well meaning annoyances were expected, not wanted. But now that they were missing he couldn’t help how his instincts screamed for him to fix it. That’s what he does, after all. He wanted to ask what happened. To have all the necessary details typed up, filed, and pushed across his desk by the end of the hour. But that's his own wants speaking, not what you needed.

So he sat.

You sipped your tea at irregular intervals, and the sun fell lower and lower right on schedule. He checked his watch, and fought the urge to sigh at nothing. There was a ribbon of discomfort in the silence between you, but nonetheless he persisted.

Time passed. Minutes first, then larger chunks. He stopped counting around the thirty minute mark because it truly didn’t matter. Instead he focused on what did. The tangible. You were breathing deeper, taking longer sips of tea that even he had to admit must be somewhat refreshing. You looked better, too. Maybe not perfect and far from happy, but less like the sky was falling. Less like everything you both knew had been pulled into question. He finally lets the sigh escape.

"…your age is showing," you mumble.

There she is, he thinks. And damn it if he doesn’t feel a hint of amusement tug at the corner of his mouth

He glances over. "Bad day?"

It’s your turn to look at him now, eyes just a little brighter. "Yeah."

“I figured,” He nods firmly. Almost simple in gesture. Accepting.

You watch him for a while longer, eyes tracing over his features in a way that felt like home to you after all these years—second nature, in a sense.

"It’s not a big deal, just a bad morning then things piled up and…yeah. By the time I got back I didn't have the energy to explain it all, and then I felt stupid for thinking about it that much at all."

"You're not stupid,” he says firmly.

You know that. Of course you know that. But on certain days logic just seems to go out the window.

“Yeah. Yeah of course, I just…” You trail off there, and he jumps right in.

“If it causes you to shut yourself off like this, it’s a big deal,” he says, adding on with those words said in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

You nod faintly, blowing on your tea despite the fact that it hasn’t been anything but lukewarm in half an hour.

“I just don’t want you thinking it’s your job to fix it.”

It’s his turn to pause at that, he briefest of looks flashing through his eyes, something you would’ve called hurt if you didn’t think you know better.

“Anything to do with you is my job. You’re my wife.”

You looked at him again, more directly this time. Blowing on your tea once more to give you a minute to think. Something in your own expression flickered, his words being something you always knew to be true but at the same time never spoken aloud, at least not directly.

Beau takes his own breath. He wasn't good at this. He didn't know how to throw out words of comfort or even positive emotion explicitly. Those things didn’t occur to him. But what he had was time and attention to detail that rivaled none. He could notice a shoelace tied wrong from across the room just as well as he could tell when to shut up. Which he did then. Letting you work through your own thoughts in a silence that wasn't absence, but presence. All from a man who loved you more than life itself. That, he figured, had to count for something.

You both sat like that, together for a long while. Candy pinks gave way for deep blues until somewhere down the street, you could hear a party being thrown.

Finally meet the neighbors, you thought. Another task on your list that had gotten pushed back and then forgotten. You’d lived here for years, made the place your own in a way Beau never got around to in all the time since he’d bought it after being stationed. He’d kept the place bare enough to be functional, white plates that screamed economical and a few extra places to sit so he could pretend he ever had people over if anyone asked. It was smart. Boring maybe, given the hopelessly neutral grey-beige-brown theme he fell victim to in the name of practicality. But really it was nice enough. Then one year you moved in after a long and somewhat unprompted situation, and in with it came comfort and colors and nights spent together just like this. He was reluctant, of course he was, ranging from mild grumbling to straight up vetoing your idea to repaint half the house together next time he was on leave. Life went on, and he was still Beau, though things…changed. The dishes in the cabinet were still that same white porcelain but the towels in both bathrooms were fluffy, vibrant, and definitely not purchased at the Navy Exchange.

There was a metaphor there. Beau didn’t think about it.

The tea cooled, and most of the house now was a softest blue hue.

Eventually, you shifted. Setting your mug on the ground then leaning over just a bit so you can rest your head against his shoulder. Beau tensed--an old habit he never could quite shake--before he began to relax just enough.

He puts an arm around you, pulling you a hair closer with his hand on your middle as steady as ever before he speaks.

"I mean what I said," he speaks, slow and quietly, "I’m here, doll. I'll always be here."

You let out a breath at that, finally steady and sure yourself.

"I know you are.”

His grip tightened, assured at your words but he didn’t smile, not exactly. Instead, when you glanced up you spotted him looking first, the faintest hint of affection in his eyes—something you’d happily tease him for at a later date once tonight has blown over.

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lieutenantfloyd · 3 months ago

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I’ve read and re-read welcome home like 6 times and I’m obsessed with the idea of grumpy cyclone x sunshine reader. Would you ever consider writing more of them?

Thank you and yes, absolutely! I love the trope and he’s so perfect for the dynamic lol. I have a few drafts laying around that are kinda on the back burner as the moment due to life stuff, but if anyone has any requests I’d love to work on those as well!💕

#asks #answered #top gun maverick #top gun #top gun x reader #top gun imagine #top gun x you #top gun x y/n #top gun maverick x you #top gun maverick x reader #top gun maverick fic #top gun maverick fanfiction #beau cyclone simpson #beau simpson #beau cyclone simpson x reader #beau simpson x reader #cyclone simpson #cyclone top gun #cyclone

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lieutenantfloyd · 4 months ago

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I’m dying to see a version of All Shook Up with Cyclone 🤣

Welcome Home - Cyclone x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: To brighten things up after another long day at work you play a prank on your husband Beau, making him question not only his limited patience but how he got himself here in the first place.

Warnings: fluff, domesticity, husband! Beau, very much grumpy x sunshine energy.

Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive! Between this request and how much fun I had writing All Shook Up I couldn't help but push through my (slight) writer's block this week and do it all over again, this time about our beloved admiral, Beau.

Read on AO3

It had been a surprisingly mellow day on base, though still a thick layer of tension rested on the perpetual line of his shoulders as he exited his vehicle and made his way to the front door.

It was anything but rare to see Beau arrive home late, usually long into burning the midnight oil, uniform still pristine but mood anything but. Days spent dealing with the Daggers and general high-level nonsense he was neither at liberty to or willing to share meant your beloved husband truly did live up to his reputation—firm, unyielding, and entirely allergic to any kind of simple, joyous fun.

Which to you, made him the perfect candidate for a prank.

His footing is steady as he crosses the yard and ascends the porch, the part of him only you got to see relieved to be home earlier than average and with tonight's sports viewing schedule already pulled up on his phone.

Though as most moments of peace seem to do in his life, that feeling is ripped away when he reaches the front door that…won't open.

His brows furrow instantly, stepping back on a heel to check the familiar porch and then further up the home's siding until the number plate set in the masonry confirms that this is, in fact, his home. He tries the door once, then again, his frustration mixing with a kind of bewilderment at how the hell he'd been seemingly locked out of the stately home he feels he frankly pays a bit too much for.

Just before his fourth go at opening the door, a sound to the left draws his attention.

Kneeling on a couch seated in front of a large window you've just slid open, you peek your head out and address the man in front of you with words spoken in a tone that sucks out whatever bit of normalcy he has left in his tired mind.

"Who are you and what is your business?" You say, half out the window and matching Beau's ever hardening gaze.

"Excuse me?"

"Who are you and what is your business?" You repeat, eyes nearly shining with silent glee.

He stares at you for a long moment. Then at the door. Then you again.

"What the hell is this?" He finally asks.

You bite back a laugh, fully committed to your display, or at minimum getting a rise out of him.

"Given your uniform and general demeanor, Mr.-" you pause, squinting to read his name plate as if you truly don't know him, "-Simpson, I regrettably have to inform you that you aren't allowed inside these quarters."

He outright scoffs at that, rubbing a tired hand over his equally tired eyes as he shifts his weight and calls upon whatever patience he has left.

"And why, exactly, is my own wife denying me entrance into my own home?" He questions flatly, just the faintest hint of exasperated tension lacing his words.

Leaning further out of the window, you clear your throat and go to speak, fully unable to hide your wide smile now.

"As explicitly stated in the Third Amendment of the United States Constitution, I—being a private citizen and all—am under exactly zero obligation to quarter soldiers and other such personnel."

With a long beat of unblinking silence, Beau lets out a heavy exhale. First through his nose then forcefully from his chest until air escapes out both passageways as his expression darkened—a sign of his building frustration.

"This isn't funny, you know," he says.

"Speak for yourself, Admiral."

He rolls his eyes at that, and you know you've got him.

"Oh, so you do you know me?" he says, his voice a touch less bitter and instead weighted by his dry sarcasm.

When you don't answer, simply smiling pleasantly at him, he lets out another breath before folding his arms over his chest and leveling you with a stare.

"Just so I'm clear, you're using the constitution against me?"

"Yes."

"Your husband."

"Yeah, babe."

"The Third Amendment."

"Mhm."

"In our own home."

"Correct."

By now, he's somewhere between downright exasperated and fighting back a laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose and mumbling something to himself that sounds faintly like your name followed by a rare, reluctant term of endearment. Only then do you see that you do, in fact, have him exactly where you want him—just as in love with you (and you're unending antics he's sure are destined to drive him insane) as he's always been.

After a minute of silent collection on his part, he fixes you with the kind of glare that's ruined careers and sent men scrambling. Though where enmity should be and so often is, his dark blue eyes are filled with a light sense of actual amusement.

He sighs then, rubbing his temples and voicing your name.

"Yes honey?" You smile.

"Open the damn door."

"No."

That nearly gets a curse from him, but he's too in control and far too much of a traditionalist to let himself curse in front of his wife, much less at her and over something so bewilderingly trivial.

After a short lap taken around the porch, he tries again. Now waging his verbal attack from a different angle.

"Over the course of just today, I have dealt with more overarching incompetence than I ever once signed up for," he says to you dryly, "and yet I'm standing here, having this conversation instead of sitting on my own damn couch and watching the Padres game, who by the way are-" He pauses, checking his phone for a beat, letting out a tense breath and rubbing his temples once more, before resuming his argument, "-Closing out the second inning."

"That sucks," you say with an unhideable smile.

"You have no idea."

For a long moment you both just stay there, him standing on the porch while you maintain your position in the window. Your expression is so peaceful it'd piss him off if he didn't find you so annoyingly beautiful. He instead settles for attempting to wear you down with a firm expression, his eyes steely and lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.

"Mrs. Simpson," He says finally, breaking the long silence, "may I request your permission to enter what is, again, my own home?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely…" You say with that same smile, withdrawing from the window and closing it.

He lets out a breath as you do just disappear back inside, a part of him genuinely expecting you to simply head upstairs and get in that bed he's spent his day longing for, instead of following through and allowing him entry.

A second later the door opens, you leaning agains the inside frame, and he can't help the way his eyes always soften just the smallest bit as his gaze lands on you.

"Is that a yes?" He asks finally.

With the nod you give him he steps forward, closing the distance between you and putting his hands on your hips with a sigh.

"Remind me again why I married you?" He says, voice entirely sarcastic.

"Because I'm pretty and willing to put up with you, with your total of three moods and one expression?" You joke back.

That earns another sigh, though this time it leans more towards a laugh and you don't miss the slightest of smirks ghosting over his features. "Something like that," he mumbles, leaning in to put a kiss to on top of your head.

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lieutenantfloyd · 4 months ago

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Vacationing with Rooster ♡

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lieutenantfloyd · 4 months ago

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Currently thinking about him <3

(Credit to evcrfilms on TikTok)

#not writing #top gun #top gun maverick #rooster #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #miles teller #miles teller x reader #top gun movie #top gun fandom

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lieutenantfloyd · 5 months ago

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Something I'm always thinking about is Bob and High School Sweetheart! reader being the embodiment of the reverse grumpy x sunshine trope. More specifically, them being complete opposites and how it all somehow just works.

Bob was born and raised in their tiny southern town and is by all accounts the perfect son, if not a tad shy. The perfect southern gentleman. This, of course, led to him being a target amongst his peers and the apple of every elder’s eye.

She's the town's quintessential black sheep, having learned to keep her head down in most spaces or else. Towns like theirs aren't exactly polite to those that stand out, and lord did she stand out. But Robert noticed—what with his newly corrected vision—the pretty girl across the isle and three pews forward, being sharply shushed by the same gaggle of church ladies who fawned over him at Wednesday supper, and knew from that moment on he was a goner.

By the time senior year comes around, They both are settled in their reputations. Bob is nothing but an easy target for bullies, while she's dead set on scaring off anyone who so much as looks at the poor boy too long. Soon after he starts following her around school like a little lost puppy, more than a little blatant for her attention but far too meek to admit it. Little did he know that deep down, she felt the same way.

A short while later, they were all but inseparable, and at eighteen they were married.

Even now, Bob and his wife seem like complete opposites, though in reality, they share the exact same values and interests.

Whether it's telling the waiter his order is wrong or cussing out someone at the bar who insists she could do better than him, Mrs. Floyd never hesitates to stick up for her darling husband. On the flip side, Bob has also been known to abandon his quiet corner seat and go toe to toe with any man who suggests Mrs. Floyd should lighten up and smile more.

With Bob’s social anxiety and some bad past experiences, they tend to avoid spending too much time in public. Instead choosing to stick to quaint little places like libraries, record stores, or more often than not, their shared home.

As they get older and with each passing year their love grows and changes. Getting somehow stronger and yet more subtle. It's in the little things now that their love is shown—no longer grand gestures but small actions that show just how often they each are on each other's mind.

Mrs. Floyd keeps a spare eyeglass cleaning and repair kit in her purse. Bob never quite notices how his glasses are only ever smudged when he’s deployed, or how the broken screw in the left arm seemed to up and magically fix itself overnight.

Bob grabs a jacket from the closet even when she insists she won’t get cold. She never notices how the moment a chill enters the air he’s already slipping it off, or how that jacket always conveniently matches her outfit while having been a stark contrast to his own.

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lieutenantfloyd · 6 months ago

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Do you know the trend where if you have a significant other in the military you say they can’t come into your house but amendment 2 or 3 which say “ no quartering of soldiers without consent”

That with cyclone or Bob

All Shook Up - Bob x Reader

Word Count: 1.0k

Summary: After seeing a trend where military spouses tell their loved ones they aren't allowed inside under the 3rd Amendment, you decide to play a prank on your sweet, returning husband Bob—that is until you get the words out, and he reacts in the only way Bob knows how.

Warnings: fluff, domesticity, husband! Bob, very mild accidental hurt/comfort.

Authors Note: This idea is so funny to me! I'm already working on Beau's version, and I'll definitely be posting that soon.

Read on AO3

The sun had just begun setting when you put your plan into motion. Grinning to yourself as you set dinner to cook in the oven, you check out the kitchen window for any sign of Bob's car. Your husband had been away on a training exercise all week and had just called you thirty minutes ago stating he was close to home.

Minutes later as you spare the driveway another glance, you see Bob climb out of his car, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. You couldn't mask your almost childish excitement as you left the kitchen and trod over to the door. Even after the years you'd been together you never got over just how handsome he was. But today you had other things in mind.

You hear the soft thud of his boots on the porch followed by the jingle of his keys before the door opens.

"Honey I'm home," Bob calls out just as you appear.

His brow furrows when you don't answer, instead just standing and watching him without an ounce of your expected warmth.

"Honey?" He tries again, "Is everything all right?"

You let another long second pass, his brows furrowing, before you answer.

"Oh, yeah," you say casually, "you just can't stay here."

Bob's eyes instantly widen behind his glasses. His gentle gaze fills with a look that is somewhere between confusion and heartbreak.

"I..What?" He questions.

You clear your throat, initial plan shattering but doing your best to follow through with your prank in light of his expression, knowing it'll be easier to explain in the end when you're both—hopefully—laughing.

"It is my right as an American citizen to exercise whatever rights I have the liberty of holding—including the third amendment of the United States Constitution, no quartering of soldiers and related military personnel without consent," You say, still standing in the entryway opposite Bob and the half open door.

Bob blinks, expression leaning more towards the confused end of things. For a second it looks like he's about to say something, only to remain silent. He glances at his hand still holding the doorknob, then over his shoulder outside before slowly—slowly—backing out and closing the door all without a word.

You let the silence hang for a second before you yourself grow confused. You had expected him to laugh or maybe fight back, or...really anything except actually leave . Yet as you're left standing there, your first instinct is to chase after him.

Crossing the distance and pulling the door open, you see him about to get back in his car.

"Bob!" you call out, earning a hurtfully hopeful glance back over his shoulder from the man, "I'm just messing with you!" you continue.

Bob's gaze drops and a brief flash of regret goes through you. He looks genuinely bewildered, as if he's going back through and cataloging months and years' worth of interactions to figure out where all this was coming from.

With a sigh you close the door behind you and step off the porch, padding softly down the steps until you're close enough to wrap your arm around the waist of your hopelessly sweet husband.

"I promise, It's just a prank, Bob," you reassure his worrying mind, "I thought it'd be funny, not that you'd just…”

You trail off, gesturing vaguely at everything as a brief flash of knowing crosses his eyes.

"Oh," he says after a long pause, brows still furrowed but tone far less tense, "I was so confused."

He returns your embrace, setting his bag on the ground and slinging an arm gently around you.

"I thought maybe something happened I didn't know about."

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you look up at him.

"You thought I'd kick you out over something you didn't even know?” You ask incredulously.

"Maybe If I forgot an anniversary or didn't text you goodnight–" He stammers, raising his free hand to rub the back of his neck, "I don't know what you think is worthy of invoking the constitution over, but it felt serious."

By now a soft blush has risen onto his cheeks and you can't help but place a kiss there, his flushed skin warmed under your gentle touch.

"You are too sweet for your own good, honey," you muse with a laugh, "You thought this was it? Really?"

"Well, I...It sounded serious!" He defends again with a bashful smile.

You can't help but laugh again, looking up at him in near warm-hearted wonder.

"You're always welcome to quarter here, or anywhere else I stay, for that matter."

Bob lets out a breath of relief, whatever tension was still held in his body leaving as your words provide the last bit of reassurance he needs.

"I...really didn't want to sleep in the car.”

You pat his back with a laugh and guide him up the steps and back inside before closing the door behind you both.

"Welcome home honey," you try again, a hint of joking still in your tone, "A place you'll always have a bed."

"Good to know," he chuckles softly, "Please, don't scare me like that again."

"I promise," You smile, pulling him in for a proper kiss this time, "I'll make it up to you."

"Yes please," he sighs, only to be distracted by the smell of roasting chicken coming from the kitchen.

"You...made dinner?" He asks gently, always so surprised by the little things even when they're a part of your daily routine.

"Of course I did. Can't have you going hungry, now, can we?"

Bob blinks then nods faintly in agreement.

"Good, go get changed while I finish up down here."

At that Bob practically melts in your arms like he does every time he comes home, never more relaxed than he is in your presence—even if it's your attempt at a prank that shakes him up to begin with.

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