royalinkblot

[royalinkblot]

🏳️‍🌈Top Shelf Jealousy 🥃🍸 🏳️‍🌈

🛑🛑🛑 NSFW-EXPLICIT 🛑🛑🛑

The Officers' Club at Miramar was a storm of celebration, soaked in red, white, and blue. It was the 4th of July, 1987, and the Flyboys had a lot to be proud of. The Layton Mission had been a flawless triumph, and now Maverick and Iceman were not just co-pilots—they were wingmen in the deepest sense of the word.

The evening was thick with heat and sweat, the kind that clung to your skin and mixed with the buzz of pride and cheap beer. Laughter, the clink of glasses, and the sound of a live cover band spilling out 80s rock filled the O Club like smoke.

At the corner table, Maverick leaned back in his chair, talking to Hollywood and Wolfman, who were practically melting into each other. They'd made up after their dramatic fallout over some jealousy debacle, and now they were all hand-holding and heart-eyes, radiating bliss.

“I’ve never been jealous of anyone,” Maverick declared, tipping his beer. “Jealousy is stupid.”

Hollywood snorted. Wolfman just smirked knowingly.

As if summoned by the gods of irony, Iceman walked in.

No. Glided

Like a goddamn runway model walking through a heatwave—Iceman returned from the bar, tall, golden, glowing with smug triumph. A vodka martini shimmered in his hand.

“Guys, look!” he said, with a blinding grin. “Got free drinks from the ladies.” His eyes sparkled like he just won a dogfight without breaking a sweat.

Maverick's head whipped around. His jaw clenched. His pout could've been registered as a natural disaster.

Maverick started. Then sulked so hard it was visible from low orbit, his face soured like milk in the desert

“I could’ve bought it for you,” he muttered, sulky. “I would buy you all the vodka in the world. Top shelf, even. Not that cheap shit.”

Every Flyboy at the table paused, the moment suspended like a MiG in a stall.

Slider, face in his hands, like he was looking at a car crash happening right in front of him: “What the hell is happening? I want to look away and yet I can’t.”

Goose, deadpan: “Never been jealous, huh? Bullshit, honey.”

Hollywood and Wolfman, now smugly in sync: “So jealousy is stupid? Guess he's joining the club now.”

Sundown, whispering as he scribbled in a napkin: “And here we observe the beginning of Maverick’s jealousy display. Note the puffed cheeks. Brain activity: minimal. His brain has left the building, folks,”

Chipper, sipping his drink and daydreaming aloud: “I want a free drink too…” Then, turning to Sundown: “Sunny, buy me a drink.”

Sundown didn’t even blink. “On it, baby.” He was already halfway to the bar.

Meanwhile, Iceman, still effortlessly perfect, raised the martini like an offering. His cheeks were puffed like a smug chipmunk as he grinned.

“You like vodka, Pete? I can share with you.”

Maverick, eyes locked on him, murmured under his breath, “Marry me.”

Iceman froze. His cool exterior cracked just slightly, a tremor in the Force.

Then he dropped the glass, grabbed Maverick’s wrist, and hoisted him up like a sack of hormones. Their lips crashed, the kiss steamy, messy, and loud enough to drown out the band.

“I accept, my reckless menace,” Iceman growled into Maverick’s mouth.

The table exploded. Goose nearly fell out of his chair. Slider screamed. Hollywood and Wolfman clapped like seals. Chipper, with the drink Sundown got for him, was watching the display with barely content amusement, and Sundown looked like they just saw a unicorn in aviators.

“I love you, Ice,” Maverick whispered, dazed.

Without another word, Iceman stormed out of the bar with Maverick in his arms—still kissing, still clinging—biting his neck with reckless passion. Maverick moaned, loud enough to make a lieutenant at the next table choke on her beer.

The girls who’d bought Iceman the drink glared daggers.

Maverick turned his head mid-air, flipped them off with flourish, stuck out his tongue, and then—in front of God and country—kissed Iceman in a way that should’ve been classified.

The Flyboys lost it. Laughter shook the room. Someone choked on a peanut. Someone else called it “better than the Layton mission.”

Slider shouted, “This is so against protocol!”

Sundown screamed, “Screw protocol, I’m getting popcorn!”

It was the hottest Independence Day Miramar had ever seen.

And from that night on, no one ever believed Maverick when he said he didn’t get jealous.

🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑

Outside the O Club, the night was thick with heat, the air still echoing with music and laughter. Fireworks crackled in the sky above Miramar, but Maverick didn't see them.

He only saw Iceman—his golden hair haloed in red and blue bursts, his eyes dark and stormy, his hands locked around Maverick’s waist like he was afraid to let go.

They stumbled into Iceman’s barracks, door slamming shut behind them like a closing cockpit. Maverick barely got a breath in before Iceman had him pressed against the wall, mouths crashing together again in a kiss that made the Fourth of July look tame.

"You're insane," Iceman murmured against Maverick’s lips, breath hot, voice thick.

"You're glowing," Maverick whispered back, smirking, but his voice cracked with want. "You always do after a kill."

“This isn’t about a kill,” Iceman growled, dragging his mouth along Maverick’s jaw. “This is about you.”

Their hands moved in frantic, practiced rhythm—like dogfighting in a bedroom instead of the sky. Shirts hit the floor, buttons popped, boots kicked off like they were burning.

Iceman pinned Maverick to the bed, hovering above him like he was savoring the sight. His body moved like silk over steel, every motion deliberate, every touch designed to make Maverick lose his mind. Maverick's hands clawed at Iceman’s back, legs wrapping around his waist.

Then—teeth. Lips. Tongue.

Iceman’s mouth moved to Maverick’s neck, and he bit. Not hard enough to hurt, but deep enough to brand. Then again. And again.

Maverick arched, groaning into the dark room, nails digging into Iceman’s shoulder blades. "You’re marking me—"

"I should mark you," Iceman hissed, voice pure gravel and lust. "You're mine, Pete."

Iceman let his hands roam all over Maverick's body, as if he wanted to forever commit the feel of his muscles to memory, as if Maverick were the eighth wonder of the world. Moving down, Iceman left more love bites, applying more pressure to the areas that made Maverick moan in that way that was quickly driving Iceman crazy.

"Ice, please." Maverick slid his hands into Iceman's blond hair and pulled, almost unconsciously, too consumed by the sensations Tom was awakening in him. The way Iceman's lips closed around his right nipple and sucked had Maverick practically doubling over in bed, bringing his chest closer to Tom's mouth as he opened his legs as wide as he could, making room for Iceman and grinding himself against Iceman's erection, feeling his dick slide against his own. "Don't stop."

"I wasn't planning on doing it." Iceman switched to the other nipple, giving it the same attention, sucking hard and biting hard enough to send sparks shooting up and down Maverick's spine. Tom had never considered himself a tit man, but Maverick's drove him crazy. Every time he saw him changing in the locker room, he had to physically restrain himself from jumping on Maverick.

Once satisfied with his work, Maverick's nipples red and swollen from the attention, Iceman continued down Maverick's body, leaving more marks on Maverick's abdomen, until he reached his cock.

And without a second thought, he swallowed it in his mouth, earning an extremely pornographic moan from Maverick, "Oh shit, Ice, please." Iceman sucked like his life depended on it, with astonishing efficiency, determined to worship Maverick's dick like he'd wanted to since he'd first seen Maverick in the Top Gun classroom.

Maverick raised himself up on his forearms, his legs spread wide, not wanting to miss a thing about what was happening, mesmerized by the sight of Iceman's lips closed around his shaft, those perfect lips full, red and glistening with saliva, doing things to him that were definitely ruining him for anyone else (which was good because Maverick didn't want anyone but Iceman. Ever).

"Ice, as much as I'm enjoying what you're doing, I'm about to cum, and I'd rather do it—oh shit—do it while you're fucking me."

With a disgruntled grunt, Tom pulled off Maverick's cock, giving the head one last suck, savoring the precum coating it. "Ice, come on, stop teasing and fuck me already."

"So impatient," Tom mocked adoringly, kissing Maverick's pout and proceeding to open Maverick with his lube fingers. Maverick rocked against the fingers that grazed his prostate with a cruel rhythm, whining and moaning, dragging his nails along Iceman's back, leaving red trails that only increased Iceman's arousal. "You want me so bad, my beautiful menace?"

"Yes, fuck, yes, please."

Iceman loved watching Maverick undone by his fingers, lost in lust for him, moaning with tears in the corners of his eyes. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Maverick Mitchell wasn't just a threat in the sky, he was also a threat in the bedroom, especially to Tom's sanity. He would never recover from the feeling of Maverick against him, in his arms, his lips, his beautiful eyes, the beautiful sounds he made for him.

Iceman was also on the edge, as hard as he had ever been for anyone else, so without being able to wait any longer, he took his fingers out of Maverick, lubed his dick and entered Maverick in one long, non-stop, slow and measured motion, drawing a muffled moan from Maverick, who held him tighter, closing his eyes and throwing his head back at the sensation of Iceman finally inside him.

Iceman hid his face in Maverick's neck, kissing the skin he could reach, taking a deep breath to keep from cumming just from the feel of Maverick around his cock. Hot, tight, and silky. Perfect.

Maverick clenched his walls around Iceman, and that was the only signal Tom needed to start thrusting. At first, in long, slow strokes, letting Maverick get used to the sensation, but once Maverick relaxed completely, surrendering to the feel of Iceman's cock's tip rubbing against his sweet spot, Iceman increased the intensity of his movements, taking on a fast and precise rhythm, devastating yet exquisite.

"Ice, I want... I—fuck." Maverick could barely form words, his sentences cut off by moans and whines. Iceman didn't stop his movements, but leaned back on his arms to look at Maverick, watching his lips part in a soundless moan.

"What is it, Mav? What do you want?" Iceman slowed his thrusts, still devastating.

Instead of answering, Maverick wrapped his legs around Tom's waist, and in a move of astonishing dexterity, switched positions (Iceman never pulling out of him), straddling Iceman, placing his hands on Iceman's pecs, giving them a light squeeze that made Tom grunt.

"God, Mav." Iceman gripped Maverick's waist, his fingers leaving imprints that would definitely be visible for weeks.

Instead of answering, Maverick gyrated his hips in controlled circles, the new position making Maverick feel Iceman deeper inside him. Maverick bit his lip, consumed by the sensation.

Unable to resist, Iceman rose, pulling Maverick against his chest and kissing him deeply and filthily, his tongue forcing its way into Maverick's mouth, who placed his hands on Tom's neck and rocked gently.

Still kissing Maverick, Iceman braced his feet on the bed, tightened his grip on Maverick, and thrust enthusiastically in small, spurting motions, eliciting soft "ahs" from Maverick, who kissed him back with gusto, and something else they both knew was more than just pleasure and lust.

Feeling close to climax, Maverick pushed Iceman back onto the bed, spreading his legs wider, arching his back, and resting his arms on either side of Ice's head. Ice placed his hands on each of Maverick's ass cheeks, squeezing the globes and rubbing his fingers where his cock split Maverick open.

"Ice, Ice, Ice." Maverick chanted Tom's name like a mantra, his movements faster, bouncing on Tom's lap, the slap of their skin creating a harmonious symphony that mingled with their moans and grunts. Maverick rode Iceman like a professional cowboy, lost in pleasure, his thighs burning with exertion but unwilling to stop, not when Iceman looked this good, his eyes fully dilated, the blue glowing with love and pleasure, his lips parted, swollen and red, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Maverick surrendered to the sensation of pleasure that consumed him, his arms giving way, causing Maverick to lie on top of Iceman like a blanket, his face pressed against Iceman's. Iceman wasted no time kissing Maverick sweetly. His hands, still on Maverick's ass, served as leverage as he bent his legs and thrust into Maverick, his rhythm erratic as he was so close to cumming, but he refused to come before Maverick did. He wanted to see Maverick cum first, see his face contort in ecstasy.

And he didn’t have to wait long, not when in a respite from their passionate kisses, Iceman latched onto one of Maverick’s nipples, licking, sucking, and eventually biting, which seemed to be what sent Maverick over the edge, coming without touching, moaning gutturally, holding Iceman’s head against his chest, and grinding against him, his walls clenching as he rode out his orgasm, squeezing Iceman’s cock and bringing out Iceman’s climax, drawing an almost pained grunt from him.

Without thinking, Iceman bit Maverick's shoulder, eliciting a moan and causing him to shiver. Iceman moved on to kiss Maverick's neck again, leaving more love bites.

By the time it was over—when Maverick was limp, sweaty, utterly wrecked in Iceman’s arms—his neck was a constellation of red, dark love bites trailing down his throat and collarbone like a flight path.

Iceman kissed each one, murmuring his name like a vow. Maverick could only hum, eyes heavy-lidded, smiling like he just landed a perfect carrier approach.

"You’re evil," he mumbled.

"And you're mine," Iceman replied, stroking a hand down Maverick’s spine.

They lay tangled in the sheets, the room still hot with the remnants of fireworks and breathless promises. Outside, the last bursts of color faded into the night sky.

But inside—Iceman was still burning, and Maverick had never felt more home.

[royalinkblot]

Goose on the Loose: Mission Makeout (An unauthorized romantic military operation—and possibly a war crime) 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

(This is part of my pride month series)

Nick "Goose" Bradshaw had faced down MiGs, diaper duty, survived Mach 2 flat spins, and once ate gas station sushi on a dare. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for this. For them.

He slammed his locker shut with the force of a thousand repressed sighs. "That’s it. I’m done. I can’t anymore."

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, his best friend, his brother in all but blood, his tragically dense pilot, had once again spent ten minutes in the locker room having what could only be described as a foreplay argument with Tom "Iceman" Kazansky.

It had begun with “You’re dangerous,” had dipped briefly into “you’ve got no discipline,” and ended in a slow-motion towel snap that could get someone pregnant.

Goose was losing it.

🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿

At home, Goose paced the living room, baby Bradley gurgling happily in Carole’s arms. She hummed as she rocked the baby, her gaze warm and patient.

“I’m telling you, babe—it’s not just me! They stare! They compliment insult each other! They even checked out each other's asses in formation!”

Carole—his radiant, patient goddess of a wife—handed him a mug of coffee and waited for the rant she knew was incoming.

“It’s like Top Gun: Pride and Prejudice out there, Carole,” he said, throwing himself into a chair. “They eye each other like it’s a duel. A slow burn duel. I saw Ice check out Mav’s ass today. Twice. Once during warm-ups, and again when Mav dropped his pen. It’s like they’re flirting through gritted teeth.”

Carole blinked. “You sure they’re not just rivals?”

Goose leaned in, whispering urgently: “They almost kissed in the locker room. Like, noses-brushed kind of kiss. That’s not a rivalry. That’s a crisis of repressed sexual longing!”

Carole, ever the battlefield nurse to Goose’s emotional triage, just nodded. “Honey, are you saying you want Maverick and Iceman to… kiss it out?”

“I want them to stop staring! Or start doing something! For the love of Kenny Loggins!”

Carole chuckled. “Sounds like you need a team.”

That was the night Goose snapped. Maverick and Iceman were clearly locked in a Cold War of Lust, and by God, he was going to end it.

🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿

And Carole was right, Goose couldn't do it alone. He needed a team.

He knew just the guys for the job. Oh yeah. It was on.

Operation: Mission Makeout

Initiated at 0800 hours.

The first recruits were easy.

Slider, Iceman’s long-suffering RIO, sighed and said, “Finally.”

Hollywood and Wolfman high-fived.

Sundown muttered, “I knew those locker room vibes weren’t just sweat.”

And Chipper? He just whispered, “Bless you, Goose,” like a man finally freed.

They commandeered a conference room no one ever used and built a war board.

Photos. Incidents. A string connecting Maverick’s locker to Iceman’s bunk with a red thumbtack labeled “THE TENSION ZONE.”

A corkboard was wheeled in. Lines of red yarn were pinned between shirtless volleyball photos and the word “TENSION” written in all caps.

“I’ve seen it too,” said Hollywood grimly. “That time in the hangar, they locked eyes over a wrench. I think I heard music.”

“Slider and I saw them lean in too close. It was like watching a telenovela,” added Wolfman, clutching a margarita and distant trauma.

Chipper held up a diagram labeled IceMav Situation Escalation. “They keep almost kissing during flight checks. The danger is increasing.”

Goose slapped the board. “Then it’s time. Operation: Makeout is a go.”

Plan A: Get them alone together.

Result: They talked. About maneuvers. While slowly unzipping flight suits.

Plan B: Accidental karaoke duet of “Take My Breath Away.”

Result: They made eye contact. Then fled in opposite directions.

Plan C: Lock them in a supply closet.

Result: They played hangman on a clipboard and emerged looking even more sexually frustrated.

The squad was losing hope. Nothing worked.

The tension only grew.

At one point, Slider swore the air between them was physically vibrating.

“We’re gonna die of secondhand horniness,” Hollywood groaned, downing a shot of something neon green.

Goose look at his friends, all tired and mentally drained. “Let's go get drunk”

Everyone cheer.

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That’s when Carole intervened.

She found them at the O-Club, mid-spiral, nursing cocktails and heartbreak. Carole sipped her cocktail like a war general watching fools fumble the mission.

“You need to stop pushing them together,” she said. “You need to make them jealous.”

Goose blinked. “Jealous?”

“Yeah. Get under their skin. Make them act. Don’t be Cupid. Be the other guy.”

It was wildly unstrategic.

It wasn’t even on their corkboard.

But desperation is the mother of absurd.

Goose’s eyes narrowed. “You brilliant, beautiful genius.”

🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿

The next week, Sundown pretended to flirt with Maverick. Maverick’s eyes darted to Iceman, who was suddenly training alone shirtless for no reason.

Slider “accidentally” kissed Iceman’s cheek in front of Maverick. Maverick didn’t blink for thirty-two full seconds.

Goose faked an injury so Carole could get close to Iceman and thank him for “being such a good friend to Nicky.” Maverick short-circuited.

Goose had seen the signs all week: Maverick flexed his fists whenever Slider got any closer than necessary to Iceman, clenched his jaw whenever Wolfman laughed flirtatiously at something Tom said (Goose was worried about Maverick's molars).

Oh yeah. Carole was right. It was only a matter of time before something happened. Anything. Goose would be happy with something as basic as not having to watch Tom check Maverick's ass at least five times a day.

Then… it happened.

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On an ordinary day, as Goose, Slider, Hollywood and Wolfman were returning to the locker room after a hop, they heard it:

There was a scream—possibly Chipper—and then silence.

Everyone ran, worried that something serious had happened, what they found was Sundown crouching down, holding his head in his hands, muttering something about pale assess and emotionally stupid pilots.

Chipper was leaning against the wall, pale and barely holding on, saying, over and over again, "I just wanted to grab my towel. Just the towel. How was I supposed to know Maverick was going to explode and get all territorial over Iceman? Oh man, I'm never going to be able to use that towel again.”

Then the sound of a locker slamming open, bodies colliding, and finally, finally—

Kissing.

Passionate, triumphant, emotionally overdue kissing.

They emerged looking starstruck, glistening, and joined at the hip like a slightly homoerotic centaur.

Maverick was grinning like a cat who got the milk, his hair completely disheveled, his lips swollen, his neck looking like it had been attacked by a vampire, covered in love bites.

(Iceman was a biter. Good to know)

Iceman, for his part, looked absolutely smug, his lips red, his eyes bright, his clothes disheveled, a very subtle semi, and an aura of complete peace.

He was the embodiment of a man in love.

Everyone stood frozen, staring at Maverick and Iceman like ghosts, and then...

Screams, hugs, backslapping, and high fives. They did it, the mission was a success.

Slider lifted Goose onto his shoulders, Hollywood kissed Wolfman passionately, Sundown cried with joy, and Chipper told Maverick and Iceman they had to buy him new towels. Expensive ones. He deserved it.

Peace, they thought, had returned.

They were wrong.

Now Maverick sat on Iceman’s lap during briefings. Iceman casually bit Maverick’s neck during fuel checks. They made out in storage closets and hung signs reading Occupied – Danger Zone.

“HE CALLED HIM HIS ‘BELOVED MENACE’,” Wolfman whispered, eyes haunted.

Goose downed his whiskey. “We won the war, but at what cost?”

🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿

Years later, life was good, and the Flyboys were immune to IceMav's displays of love (and the occasional moment where someone would walk into a room to find Iceman bending Maverick in half and doing things to his ass). A lot of therapy was involved, but they were happy.

The Class of ’86, all admirals now, gathered at IceMav’s beachside house. They’d survived war, love, therapy, and at least three closet incidents involving caution tape.

That's when they saw it, almost in slow motion…

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw chatted casually with Jake “Hangman” Seresin across the grill. The air crackled. Meat sizzled with tension.

Hollywood dropped his beer. “Oh God. It’s happening again.”

Goose nodded solemnly. “It’s hereditary.”

Carole leaned back in her chair, sunglasses on, and smiled like a prophetess watching fate unfold.

Slider handed out tequila shots and a pamphlet titled "So Your Friend Is Being Emotionally Held Hostage By Sexual Tension: A Survival Guide".

They tried to warn Dagger Squad.

They tried.

But love… love always flies at Mach 10.5.

(Somewhere, in the distance, Great balls of fire plays on loop).

[royalinkblot]

Top Gun: The Gay Agenda (A Goose’s Lament)🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

1986, Miramar, California.

Nick "Goose" Bradshaw was a patient man. A devoted husband. A loving father. A steady RIO. A rock. But as he sat in the locker room, towel around his neck, while Pete "Maverick" Mitchell ranted in full, barely-repressed-gay-glory about one Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Goose realized something truly chilling:

He was going to die surrounded by idiots.

"—and he's got these stupid, pretty blue eyes, Goose. Like—like oceans. Judgy, Arctic oceans. And his jaw? What the hell? It's like Michelangelo carved it himself. It's infuriating. He’s got these annoyingly capable hands and this silky, mocking voice like a villainous opera ghost, and he—he thinks he’s better than me just because he’s tall and broad and slim and hot! And don’t get me started on that beauty mark—I wanna punch his stupid angel face and kiss it at the same time and that’s messed up, right?!"

Goose stared at his best friend for a long, harrowed moment. “Mav.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart. You're in love with Iceman.”

Maverick blinked at him.

Goose turned, stood, and walked directly out of the locker room to call his wife.

That night, at the Bradshaw’s house, Carole, radiant queen of his universe, cackled like a banshee as Goose paced.

“I’m telling you, babe,” Goose moaned, massaging his temples. “It’s mutual. I overheard Iceman call him a ‘stupid green-eyed cutie.’ That’s not combat language, Carole, that’s foreplay!”

Carole nearly dropped the baby.

“I have spent weeks, WEEKS, keeping those two from killing each other or accidentally making out on the flight deck! And now? Now I have to make sure I knock before entering the locker room or I’ll walk in on Maverick’s legs around Iceman’s waist again! There were noises, Carole. Noises. I need hazard pay.”

But for all his complaints and grumblings, Goose was happy for his friends. And for himself, because, at last, he could put an end to the saga of emotionally repressed gay pilots.

He must have suspected this wasn't the case.

Goose never thought he’d be grateful for witnessing one emotionally-repressed Navy homoerotic slow burn resolve into a marriage, but the peace that settled after Ice and Mav tied the knot was glorious. Until…

The Phone Call.

“Hey, Dad?” Bradley’s voice, now grown and inflected with slight frustration, echoed through the line.

Goose smiled warmly. “Hey, kiddo. How’s flight school?”

“Fine. Mostly. Except this one guy—Jake Seresin. Ugh. He’s got these stupid pretty green eyes and this smug beautiful smile and he talks in this Texas drawl like he’s hot or something—he’s got dimples, Dad. Dimples. I swear, I wanna punch his annoyingly handsome face right in the—"

Goose froze. The coffee cup slipped from his hand in slow motion.

“Carole,” he whispered, handing over the phone like it was a live grenade. “Talk to your son about his OBVIOUS crush for Seresin. I—I can’t go through this again.”

On the other end: “WHAT?! It’s not a crush! I don’t even like him! He thinks he’s so slick just because he—he flies like he was born in a cockpit and he’s always—NO, MOM, STOP LAUGHING—this is serious!”

Goose was already on the other line, calling Iceman and Maverick.

“You DID this to him!”

Goose’s furious screech could probably be heard from orbit.

Maverick’s laughter came in unholy wheezing bursts, while he tried to say: “Technically, Goose, we never corrupted him. He’s just… following in our flightpath.”

“YOU TAUGHT HIM TO CRASH INTO GAY FEELINGS AT MACH THREE!”

Maverick wheezed, “I’m so proud of the kid. He’s even ranting like me!”

Iceman took the phone. “Hi, Goose.”

“Don’t you ‘Hi Goose’ me, Ice Prince of Gay Pining! This is your fault too!”

Iceman reply, calm and dry. “We accept full responsibility for corrupting your son. We’ll send a fruit basket. And tissues.”

“You cursed my bloodline with emotionally constipated, pilot-loving disaster men! You infected my son with your drama! Now he's as emotionally constipated as you two assholes”

Maverick gasped. “Goose. Goose. Did you just say that out loud?! Honey!”

“DON’T 'HONEY' ME, DEAR. I HATE YOU BOTH. I WANT NEW FRIENDS.”

“You’ll never do better,” Ice said serenely.

Carole could be heard in the background, howling.

Goose thought it couldn't get worse.

Until it did. Until it happened.

The Closet Incident

A week later, Goose received a call from Admiral Ron "Slider" Kerner. Current CO of NAS Pensacola. Goose braced for a tragedy.

“Hey, Goose. Slider here.”

Goose immediately felt dread.

“You're not going to like this, but—well—I just found Bradley and….”

Silence.

And then…

Goose isn't sure he heard correctly, but he swears something sounded like a dog choking on a bone. Was Slider choking?

“Bradshaw!” Slider chortled. “You’re not gonna believe this—I just caught your Gosling and Seresin in a storage closet. Doing things. Noises, Nick. NOISES”

Goose blue screen. He must have misheard Slider. He prayed he did.

“Say again?”. Please, PLEASE, tell me I heard wrong. Goose was at his wits' end, and he was sure this was just his imagination playing tricks on him. Trauma response. A form of PTSD. That must be it.

Instead: “Bradley and Jake. Storage closet. Caught them mid-thrust. Jake saluted me while still having your son inside him. Just thought you’d want the full picture, Admiral Dad.”

Goose screamed into a pillow for eleven minutes and then started therapy.

He was absolutely billing Iceman and Maverick.

After Slider's call (which the entire Top Gun '86 class knew about, thanks to Slider and Maverick), Goose was confident nothing worse could happen. Sure, the call he had with Bradley where they discussed guidelines for proper conduct regarding storage closets use in the Navy was awkward, but now everything was back to normal...sort of.

And then it happened again. On an ordinary day, a bomb landed on Admiral Nick "Goose" Bradshaw's desk.

In the form of a letter.

Dear Admiral Bradshaw,

Please accept my formal apology for the incident in the supply closet. While our timing was… unprofessional, my feelings for Bradley are entirely sincere.

I'd like to take this opportunity to officially ask for your blessing to have a relationship with your son (even though we've already had sex—again, sorry for the inconvenience—and we've done other things).

I really care about Bradley; he's perfect. I want you to know that I will always treat Bradley like the prince he is, because I'm sure your son is becoming my world.

I promise to always be the best version of myself for your son, because that's what he deserves. He makes me want to be better. To fly better. He's my wingman. And I will always take care of his wing.

Also, Bradley told me that you're close to Admiral Kerner (and I must confess that you and your friends intimidate me), so could you ask him to stop making faces and sounds every time he sees me? I'm worried he'll die of suffocation from laughing so much.

Respectfully,

Jake “Hangman” Seresin.

Goose practically ran the entire way home. Read the letter to Carole. Then together, they called Maverick and Iceman and read it again.

As Carole read the letter (and cried with laughter) Goose stared off into space like a man haunted by the ghosts of his past and Maverick could practically be heard on the floor laughing (gasping for air) Iceman, always composed and serene, said: “I like him. He asked permission. Good manners.”

Goose, finally out of his trance, said, "Iceman, you're paying for my therapy forever, man. This is worse than when I had to listen to you read poetry to Maverick while we were on the USS Enterprise.”

Iceman: “Fair.”

And so Admiral Goose Bradshaw carried on, wiser, wearier, and only mildly traumatized. He had survived the IceMav saga, and now the BradleyJake operation was well underway.

Sometimes, he looked up at the stars, wondering if future Bradshaws would continue this glittering, chaotic legacy of falling for their cocky flyboy nemesis.

He prayed not.

But just in case?

He increased the Navy’s mental health budget.

And added “Emotional Disaster Preparedness” to flight school training.

[royalinkblot]

Icepup.

It started like any normal day in the Kazansky-Mitchell household: eggs over-easy, black coffee, and the hum of ocean breeze rolling in through the open windows. Tom "Iceman" Kazansky was on his second cup of coffee, flipping through the morning news on his tablet, when the roar of a Kawasaki engine cut through the peace.

Seconds later, the front door slammed open.

“MAV!” Tom shouted instinctively, before even looking up. “You could try using the do—what the hell is that?”

There stood Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, still wearing his bomber jacket, aviators halfway down his nose, and cradled in his arms was—no. No. No no no.

“A puppy, Ice!” Maverick beamed, as if he’d just come home with a six-pack, not a squirming, golden-furred labrador that looked like it had no idea what was going on.

Maverick held the puppy up like Simba from The Lion King. “Look what I found! He was being given away outside the base. It was fate!”

Tom stared. The puppy blinked up at him.

“Mav,” Tom began slowly, “how the hell did you get that thing on your motorcycle?”

Maverick’s grin widened. “Tank bag. He loved it.”

Tom’s brain stuttered. “You put a puppy. In your tank bag.”

“I padded it!” Mav said defensively, already lowering the puppy into his arms. It squirmed, tail wagging frantically, and let out a tiny, enthusiastic bark before cuddling and yawning.

Tom’s arms crossed, military-stiff. “Absolutely not. We are not getting a dog.”

The puppy let out a tiny, hopeful bark.

“No,” Tom said flatly. “Absolutely not. You cannot bring home a dog on impulse. This is a living creature, Maverick, not a leather jacket you found on clearance.”

“But look at him,” Maverick said, and then—God help him—he took off the aviators and widened his eyes in a way that should’ve been illegal. “He’s just a baby, Ice.”

Tom closed his eyes. “Don’t—don’t do the eyes.”

“The puppy eyes?” Mav cooed, nudging the dog forward. “Or my puppy eyes?”

Tom groaned. “Stop trying to weaponize your face.”

Maverick’s face transformed into a look of pure, weaponized heartbreak. His eyes shimmered with exaggerated sorrow, lips pursed into a pout so practiced it might as well have been a Top Gun maneuver. Even the puppy seemed to get the memo, resting its chin on Maverick’s forearm and giving Tom an impossibly adorable look of its own.

The puppy sat, tilted its head, and let out another tiny bark. Tom’s heart—traitor that it was—twitched.

“No,” he said again. But less firmly.

Maverick dropped to his knees, scooped up the dog again, and gently set it in Tom’s lap. “His name is Icepup.”

“Oh for God’s sake.”

🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶

Two weeks later, Maverick came home late from a training run. The house was dark except for the soft glow of the living room lamp. He tossed his keys in the bowl by the door and kicked off his boots, moving quietly so as not to wake Tom.

He stopped short in the hallway.

There on the couch was Tom, in his Navy sweatshirt and sweatpants, one arm draped over a now slightly-larger golden labrador who was belly-up, snoring softly.

Maverick didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

Tom’s head rested against the arm of the couch, his hand resting protectively over the pup’s side. They were both out cold.

Maverick smiled so hard it hurt. He snapped a photo on his phone.

Then, in a whisper to himself: “Absolutely not, huh?”

Icepup snored.

Maverick didn’t say a word. He just curled into the recliner across the room, watching his two favorite people sleep, and thought that this—this—was better than flying.

Tom Kazansky is 100% the guy that doesn't want the dog, but two weeks later, Mav comes home to them both cuddled up together on the couch, asleep.

[royalinkblot]

The jealous one.

To most people, it was obvious who the jealous one in the relationship was. Maverick was loud, reactive, and expressive. He had a glare fine-tuned for any poor soul who dared to flirt with Iceman, and it was a well-known running joke on base.

"Don’t look at Kazansky too long or Mitchell’ll bite your head off," someone once whispered to a newbie pilot. They weren’t wrong—Mav would snap, though it was rarely more than a sarcastic comment, a pointed glare, or an arm slung around Ice’s waist with exaggerated flair.

But what no one saw, what no one could see, was what happened behind closed doors. Because in truth, Maverick didn’t mind the looks Ice got. Didn’t mind the flirtation. Hell, he thought it was kind of funny. Of course people wanted Ice. He was six feet of lethal grace and glacial control, jaw carved from stone, and that fucking smirk—who wouldn’t try?

What did matter was the aftermath.

Because Tom Kazansky didn’t like to share.

Not even in looks.

They were at a Navy benefit event, all suited up, pressed and polished. Maverick, in his dress whites, stood with a drink in hand while Ice spoke with an Admiral across the room.

Mav caught a brunette Lieutenant approaching him, eyes raking him over in that unmistakable way.

"Commander Mitchell," she said, voice like syrup. "I’ve heard stories."

Mav chuckled. "All lies, I’m sure."

She giggled, touching his arm. "Even the one where you landed your F-14 with no landing gear?"

"Especially that one," he said with a grin, amused and unbothered.

Unseen across the room, Iceman's expression cooled several degrees. His glass was clenched a little too tightly. The Admiral talking to him noticed the shift and trailed off mid-sentence.

Ice gave a polite nod, eyes still burning a hole through the back of the Lieutenant's head.

They didn’t speak of it until they got back to the hotel.

Maverick was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt when he heard the click of the door locking behind them.

“Something wrong?” he asked, not looking up.

“You tell me,” Ice said quietly, but his voice had that steel edge.

Mav turned, confused for a beat, then laughed. “Wait, are you jealous?”

“No.” Ice stepped closer. “I’m possessive.”

Before Mav could respond, he was pinned to the door. Ice’s mouth crushed against his, teeth nipping at his bottom lip hard enough to sting.

“Hey, hey—Tom—”

“You let her touch you.”

“She was just—”

“You smiled. You enjoyed it.”

Maverick grinned, breathless. “You're insane.”

“You’re mine,” Ice growled, dragging Mav by the waistband into the bedroom.

And that night, Ice didn’t stop until Maverick was marked from neck to thigh. Love bites bloomed like war medals—proof, warnings, promises.

It happened again during a Top Gun training week. A civilian engineer—some tall blond guy with a charming accent—was getting a bit too close during a hangar tour. Laughing at Mav’s jokes, leaning in to explain flight mechanics, even brushing dust off Mav’s shoulder.

Ice stood across the hangar, watching like a hawk.

Slider muttered under his breath, “Oh, hell. Here we go.”

Maverick shot Ice a knowing glance. "Don’t start."

Ice said nothing. Not then. Not until hours later, when they were alone in Maverick's bunk, lights low, door locked.

“I could break his nose,” Ice said, tone calm and casual.

Maverick blinked. “Jesus, you serious?”

Ice straddled his hips, hands already under his shirt. “I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

“I’m not a thing, Kazansky,” Mav teased, fingers tangling in blond hair.

“No,” Ice agreed, biting his throat hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re everything.”

Mav didn’t walk straight the next morning. And the bruises on his collarbone had to be covered with a scarf in Southern California.

It became a private joke.

Everyone thought Maverick was the jealous one, the possessive one. And Mav never corrected them. He played the part. Smirks and snarls, handsy and territorial. But really? He didn’t mind.

Because when the world was done flirting with Ice, Ice always came home to him.

The real fire didn’t burn in Mav’s chest. It burned in Tom’s. Quietly. Deeply. Obsessively.

And Mav?

He loved it.

Every possessive touch. Every furious kiss. Every whisper of mine.

Because under all that cold, Tom Kazansky burned hotter than anyone he’d ever known.

And Maverick had the marks to prove it.

[Was inspired by this prompt]

Ok Icemav fic where everyone thinks mav is the jealous one in their relationship cause he generally shows it more, getting annoyed with any girl or guy trying to hit on ice. But in all honesty he doesn't mind too much cause look at his boyfriend obviously people will hit on him.

Where as ice is the one who actually burns with jealously even if someone so much as look at mav, it's so much worse cause their relationship is most hidden of the public eye, so everytime anyone so much as to looks at mav with appreciative eyes, ice would not do anything then but later behind doors he will make sure mav is marked all over to prove who's he is.

Like borderline obsessive possive ice makes me feral 😩.

[royalinkblot]

My husband.

Top Gun had never seen a happier, tighter crew of instructors than the four who walked the halls of Miramar like they owned the place.

Goose and Maverick, still the inseparable pilot and RIO duo, were legends in the air and at the O Club. Goose had moved Carole and little Bradley to San Diego months ago—sunshine, beaches, and the kind of family life Goose had always dreamed of. Carole adored having Mav around, especially with the way he doted on Bradley. He’d earned his title as godfather ten times over.

Slider had mellowed over time too. Maverick was no longer just that hotshot punk from the first day at Top Gun. Now, he was a comrade, a brother, and the only pilot crazy enough to fly wingtip-to-wingtip with Iceman without flinching.

And Iceman… well, he and Maverick had become something deeper. It started in the skies over the Layton rescue mission—each trusting the other with their lives. It grew over night flights, post-mission beers, and late-night talks beneath a star-streaked California sky.

Eventually, it happened.

One quiet afternoon in the locker room, Iceman, ever the cool-headed ace, let his heart break formation.

"I think I’m in love with you," he said, voice soft, unsure.

Maverick blinked, stunned for a second. Then he kissed him. Without a word, with years of adrenaline and affection behind it. It was real.

Goose cheered. Slider actually clapped. It was weird.

And life was good.

Until the Cold.

Maverick didn’t get sick often, but when he did, it hit like a jet wash. Fevered and wrapped in blankets, he curled up on the couch of their shared beach house, blinking drowsily through the fog of NyQuil. Iceman, freshly back from a training sortie, walked in with soup, only to be greeted by Maverick sitting up, cheeks pink and nose red, whispering like he’d seen God:

“My husband…”

Iceman froze mid-step. “What?”

Maverick’s face crumpled. “Where’s my husband?”

“I—Mav… we’re not married.”

That’s when Maverick cried.

Ugly, dramatic, full-on waterworks. He stumbled out of the blankets like a broken-hearted Victorian ghost, shoved his feet into mismatched slippers, and fled.

✈️✈️✈️✈️

He took shelter at Goose and Carole’s.

Goose opened the door to find Mav sniffling into a scarf and dragging a fuzzy blanket behind him.

“Mav?” Goose blinked. “Are you… crying?”

“I lost my husband,” Maverick hiccupped, eyes puffy.

“Oh boy.” Goose ushered him in.

Carole made tea. Bradley offered him his favorite airplane toy. Maverick sobbed into the couch, mumbling about rings and kisses and how he thought they were married because they kissed so many times.

Meanwhile, Iceman was panicking.

He’d dealt with dogfights, ejections, flameouts—but nothing in the rulebook prepared him for a delirious Maverick declaring phantom vows and then leaving him.

Slider walked in as Iceman paced. “Hey man,” Slider said casually, dropping his gear. “You know where Mav is?”

“He left” Iceman whispered, haunted. “He said we were married. I said we weren’t. Then he cried and ran away.”

Slider blinked. “Well. Did you want to be married?”

Iceman stared. “What?”

“Did you want to be married?” Slider shrugged. “He’s got a fever and the emotional stability of a paper airplane right now, but if you love him—and I know you do—then fix it.”

✈️✈️✈️✈️

It took Iceman ten minutes to drive to Goose’s house.

Goose met him on the porch. “He’s still weepy. Might be hallucinating a little.”

“I brought him soup,” Iceman said.

“Then go marry your pilot.”

✈️✈️✈️✈️

Inside, Maverick was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket burrito. His eyes widened when he saw Iceman.

“I lost you,” he mumbled.

Iceman dropped to his knees beside him. “You didn’t. I’m right here. I just didn’t know… I didn’t know you thought we were married.”

“I dreamed it,” Maverick whispered. “And it felt real.”

Iceman took his hand. “Would you want it to be?”

Maverick blinked, then nodded.

“Ice, I want it to be.”

Iceman smiled, kissed his fevered forehead, and said, “Then when you’re better, let’s make it real.”

One Month Later.

On a sun-drenched San Diego beach, surrounded by aviators in sunglasses and beach attire, Maverick and Iceman exchanged rings.

Goose was best man. Slider cried (but denied it).

Carole caught the bouquet.

Bradley said it was the coolest wedding ever, mostly because there were jets in the sky and Maverick let him wear aviators.

And when Iceman leaned over to whisper, “My husband,” Maverick beamed and whispered, “Told you.”

[royalinkblot]

Chapters: 25/25 Fandom: Top Gun (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage Sex Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Carole Bradshaw/Nick "Goose" Bradshaw Characters: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Nick "Goose" Bradshaw, Carole Bradshaw, Rick "Hollywood" Neven, Leonard "Wolfman" Wolfe, Charles "Chipper" Piper, Marcus "Sundown" Williams, Ron "Slider" Kerner, Original Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School Summary:

When Maverick Mitchell, a quiet 5’7” freshman with too-big dreams and heartbreak-green eyes, walks into Miramar High, the last thing he expects is to catch the attention of senior golden boy Tom “Iceman” Kazansky—6’5”, brilliant, beautiful, and completely out of reach. But between library glances, varsity jackets, and awkward sex talks, something undeniable begins to spark.

Through confessions gone wrong, cheerleader drama, stolen kisses in crowded cafeterias, and a grand promposal for the ages, Maverick and Iceman learn how to love—and fight—for each other in a world that isn't always kind to boys like them. From high school hallways to college decisions, family introductions to forever promises, this is a story about first love, growing up, and choosing each other, discovering love is more than a feeling.

I'm posting works I wrote a while ago, so I apologize for the spam 🥹♥️

[royalinkblot]

Chapters: 11/11 Fandom: Top Gun (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Jake "Hangman" Seresin Characters: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Ron "Slider" Kerner, Nick "Goose" Bradshaw, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Carole Bradshaw, Charlotte "Charlie" Blackwood, Chester "Hammer" Cain, Penny Benjamin Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Nick "Goose" Bradshaw Lives, Protective Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Protective Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky Lives, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Mention lavender marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Unrequited Love, pinning Summary:

After the Layton rescue, Maverick lays his heart bare, confessing his love to Iceman—only to be met with silence and a retreating back. Tom Kazansky isn’t ready. Not to risk his career, not to face the world’s judgment, and certainly not to face his own fear. Maverick, devastated, moves on the only way he knows how: by flying.

A few months later, Iceman appears at his front door, ready to be with him. But is he ready to let go of his fears? Tom struggles to hold himself together, torn between who he is and what the world expects. Pete aches with the feeling of never being quite enough, always wondering if love is worth the price.

They fight. They break. They make up. Through it all, they stay—imperfect, bruised, but still wingmen in the truest sense.

In the end, it’s not about running anymore. It’s about choosing to stay, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

This is my firts IceMav fic ever plubish, please be kind! 🥹♥️

[royalinkblot]

First choice

The bottle was already halfway gone when Hangman spoke.

"Yeah, wine is cool and all," Jake said, voice too casual to be truly casual. "But have you ever been someone's first choice?"

Maverick blinked. The question hit harder than the pinot noir. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared out past the porch railing, toward the ocean, where the waves rolled in under a navy-blue sky streaked with the last dying colors of sunset.

Jake didn’t push. He just sat there, barefoot on the wooden step, glass dangling from his fingers, face turned toward the wind.

Maverick took a long sip from his glass. Let it burn, let it settle. Let the memories come like they always did, uninvited.

Iceman had chosen Sarah.

He remembered the day Tom had told him. It was raining in Annapolis. They were both in uniform. Standing too close, pretending it didn’t mean anything.

“She’s good to me, Mav.”

“She’s not me.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still going to marry her.”

“I have to.”

There was no big fight. No confession of love. Just a quiet sort of heartbreak that settled into his bones. And Maverick, true to form, had smiled and nodded and told him he was happy for him. Then he went back to California, went faster and higher and lonelier until he forgot what it meant to be wanted.

He shook his head now, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

"No," he said. "I haven’t."

Jake let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Me neither." He tilted the bottle, poured more wine into Maverick’s glass, then his own. "Pass the bottle."

They clinked their glasses like a toast to lost causes.

Maverick turned to him. "What happened?"

Jake didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back on his hands, eyes on the stars. Then, softly, he said, “Bradley.”

Maverick’s stomach tightened.

“I didn’t even know I wanted him until he was already someone else’s,” Jake continued. “I thought we were just fooling around. He’d smile like the sun, get that look in his eye when he saw me, and I—God, I really thought maybe I was wrong about being the guy people flirt with but don’t stay for.”

Jake exhaled sharply. “Then came Luke. Perfect, sweet-talking, picture-frame boyfriend material Luke. And Bradley… chose him.”

Maverick closed his eyes. “He told me they were serious.”

Jake nodded, downed the rest of his glass. “Serious enough to introduce him to Carole’s old friends. Serious enough to stop answering my texts.” His voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I was the one who got left behind because I was too much. Turns out, I’m just not enough.”

Maverick put a hand on his shoulder. It was a rare gesture between them—gentle, real.

"Ice used to say I was impossible," he said. "Fast planes, fast bikes, no promises. I kept waiting for him to say ‘but I love you anyway.’ He never did."

“He still with her?”

Maverick nodded. “Yeah. They’re in New York now. Penthouse. Charity galas. It’s the life he thought he needed. I’m not part of it.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was thick with shared hurt, unsaid things, and mutual understanding.

“We saved the damn world,” Jake muttered. “You’d think that would count for something.”

Maverick laughed, and it was bitter and tired. “You’d think.”

The bottle was almost gone now. They drank slower, more out of habit than enjoyment.

"Sometimes," Jake said, looking out at the moonlit water, "I think maybe I was built for war, not love."

"Maybe we just haven’t met the people who know what to do with us," Maverick said.

Jake looked at him, eyebrows raised. “That too.”

They sat like that for a while, the waves breaking rhythmically below, the stars above silent witnesses. Two men who had given everything to the sky, only to find the ground beneath them colder than they remembered.

No declarations. No promises. Just this:

Heartbreak. Wine. And the bitter, fragile comfort of not being alone in it.

(Got inspired by this quote. might do a follow up)

Top Gun - Incorrect Quote 276

Hangman: Yeah wine is cool and all, but have you ever been someone's first choice?

Maverick: *Remembers that Ice choose Sarah and not him* No...

Hangman: *Rooster left him for someone else* Me neither. Pass the bottle.

[royalinkblot]

Take It From Me (it’s yours to keep)

Present day:

The late sunlight spilled across the runway in liquid gold, casting long shadows over the line of fighter jets. Jake “Hangman” Seresin leaned against his Mustang, arms folded tight across his chest. The warm wind toyed with the collar of his jacket, but he didn’t notice.

His eyes were locked on one man.

Bradley Bradshaw stood across the tarmac, talking with Phoenix and Bob. That laugh—loud and unrestrained—hit Jake like a shot to the chest every damn time.

He was still so painfully beautiful. Still awkward in a way that made Jake’s gut twist. Still the same man Jake had been in love with since Annapolis.

But now there was no mission, no danger, no war between them.

Just silence.

And Jake couldn’t hide in that silence anymore.

Then:

Jake could still remember the first time he saw Bradley.

Day one. Freshman orientation. Pressed uniforms, hard edges. And then him—a quiet, serious young man with warm eyes and too much weight already on his shoulders.

Jake had noticed right away how Bradley’s hands would tremble slightly when holding a pencil, how he’d duck his head when praised, how his voice deepened when he was nervous. And he noticed how he’d sneak glances at Jake across the room—like he wanted to say something, but never would.

Bradley was proud, loyal, and painfully careful.

Jake was reckless, golden, and hiding behind too many jokes.

He used to stay up late just to watch Bradley sleep in their shared dorm room, that soft golden-brown hair falling over his forehead, lips parted slightly as he dreamed.

That was the first time Jake knew he could love someone so hard it hurt.

Now:

Goose Bradshaw's death defiance was well known. He had survived the impossible, a canopy malfuction, a tailspin, a broken neck. He had risen through the ranks to Admiral. Still warm. Still fierce. Still carrying his son’s future in his hands like it was sacred. Maverick—still a Captain by choice—was the eternal outlier, impossible and brilliant. But no one dared to call him reckless anymore. Not when the Commander of the Pacific Fleet was holding his hand.

Tom “Iceman” Kazansky had crushed throat cancer years ago and came back stronger than ever. Now he ran fleets—and still made time to remind Maverick to eat something other than Pop-Tarts.

And Carole? She ran the best restaurant in Coronado and knew absolutely everything that happened in Bradley’s life—down to his flight rotation.

This was the family Jake had always wanted.

And the man at the center of it? The one he’d run from, wanted, dreamed of?

Bradley.

The breaking point:

The Hard Deck was glowing with golden lights, windows open to the ocean breeze. The Dagger Squad had gathered—Phoenix, Bob, Coyote, even Fanboy and Payback nursing beers at the corner table.

Jake hadn’t expected to see Bradley walk to the stage.

He certainly hadn’t expected the piano.

It had been wheeled in from the back, covered in an old quilt. Penny had dusted it off. Bradley had requested it quietly, earlier that day.

Now, he sat down, fingers trembling slightly, a hush falling over the bar.

He didn’t speak. He just looked at Jake.

And began to play.

The notes were slow, aching. Familiar, but raw. “Tennessee Whiskey,” stripped down and full of feeling.

Bradley sang—his voice low, rich, barely louder than the keys. His eyes never left Jake’s.

“You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey

You're as sweet as strawberry wine...”

Jake couldn’t breathe. The bar disappeared. The squad faded into background noise. All he could see was Bradley, baring his soul with every note, every breath, every flicker of emotion across his face.

By the final verse, Jake was already moving.

He reached the piano just as the last chord fell into silence.

“You learned that for me?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Bradley’s eyes searched his, wide and unguarded. “I’ve been learning you for years.”

Jake didn’t hesitate.

He pulled him into a kiss that was deep and filthy and aching, full of all the years they’d wasted. The room exploded in cheers—Phoenix whistling, Coyote shouting something about “finally,” and Goose slapping the bar with a proud, loud laugh.

Maverick grinned. Iceman just nodded, eyes glinting with knowing.

The coming home:

They didn’t make it far.

Bradley’s back hit the wall just inside Jake’s apartment, their mouths locked, desperate.

Jake had never touched him like this before—but every inch felt like memory. Like destiny.

Clothes were shed clumsily, hungrily. Bradley's shirt hit the floor, followed by Jake’s, their bodies pressed chest-to-chest, sweat already beading under the heat of months—years—of buried want.

Jake dropped to his knees, kissing down Bradley’s stomach, groaning softly when Bradley’s hand tangled in his hair. He worshiped him with his mouth until Bradley was shaking, moaning his name like it was sacred.

Then Jake climbed into his lap, straddling him, lips hovering over his.

“Tell me you want this,” Jake whispered, breathless.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Bradley said, voice thick, wrecked. “Every second.”

Jake sank down onto him, slow and smooth, head tipped back, a broken moan spilling from his lips. Bradley held his hips like he was afraid Jake would disappear, and they moved together—slow, deep, relentless—until Jake was crying out his name and Bradley was spilling into him with a low growl, kissing his throat like it was holy.

After, they lay tangled in the sheets, drenched in sweat and quiet laughter.

Bradley kissed the curve of Jake’s neck and murmured, “You’re mine now.”

Jake smiled, exhausted and happy. “Damn right I am.”

In the end:

Sunday dinner. Goose and Carole’s place.

The grill sizzled. Maverick was nursing a beer. Iceman had his arm draped over his shoulders, sunglasses on, relaxed and smiling.

Jake and Bradley stood by the piano inside—Bradley playing softly while Jake leaned over, watching his fingers with awe.

Carole peeked in and whispered to Goose, “He’s happy.”

Goose chuckled. “So’s Seresin. I haven’t seen him smile like that since flight school.”

The sun dipped low again, painting the room gold.

Outside, Phoenix yelled across the lawn, “Hey, lovebirds, get out here!”

Jake laced his fingers through Bradley’s. “You ready?”

Bradley just smiled. “Let’s go home.”

By: M.

(Please don't steal my work)

[royalinkblot]

Thank you @cherryblossomspringrain and everyone who got me to 5 reblogs!

Wings of Home

In an alternate 21st-century world where the skies are still dominated by fighter jets and adrenaline, the rules of biology have shifted—men can carry life, and love flies in any direction it chooses.

Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell never imagined he’d trade afterburners for baby bottles. Yet here he was, cradling two squirming bundles of energy in a quiet San Diego beach house he shared with Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, former Top Gun admiral, and the love of his life.

Their children—Ace and Nikola—had inherited Maverick’s restless spirit and Iceman’s razor-sharp calm. At five, they already argued like co-pilots in a storm. Nikola wanted to be a pilot, just like her dads. Ace, on the other hand, was obsessed with engines, often disappearing into the garage with a wrench twice his size.

Ace, five years old and a whirlwind of mischief, was every bit his father’s son. He had Maverick’s wild grin and an uncanny ability to find danger in the most innocent of activities. Nikola, his twin sister, was thoughtful, precise, and already questioned the mechanics of the world like a tiny engineer. She reminded Tom of himself—focused, unshakable, with eyes that saw everything

It hadn’t been an easy journey. The pregnancy had shocked Maverick more than any dogfight. He’d grounded himself reluctantly, worried the Navy wouldn’t understand. Iceman, ever the quiet force, had stood by him, shielding them both from the storm of public scrutiny.

Now, years later, Maverick looked out at the backyard, where Ace was trying to teach Nikola how to do a barrel roll—on the grass.

“Tom,” Maverick called from the kitchen, smiling. “They’re going to kill each other.”

Iceman walked in, coffee in hand. “Nah. They’re just practicing teamwork.”

Maverick chuckled. “Is that what we called it in flight school?”

Tom kissed him softly on the cheek. “Something like that.”

Out there, the world still raced with sonic booms and tight turns. But in here, in this quiet slice of an extraordinary world, Maverick had found something he'd never expected—his best mission yet.

Fatherhood.

Maverick stood by the window, sipping coffee, watching the twins in the backyard. Ace was building a ramp out of beach chairs. Nikola was supervising with a look that clearly said, this is a terrible idea, but I’ll help anyway.

“Tom,” he called, grinning. “Ace is about to launch himself into orbit.”

Iceman entered, wearing his favorite Navy sweatshirt, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, at least Nikola reinforced the base.”

Maverick turned to him, eyes softening. “How’d we get so lucky?”

“You broke every rule,” Iceman said. “And I backed you up. Like always.”

Maverick leaned into him. “Yeah. But this? Us? The kids? This isn’t luck. This is the best kind of flight plan—unpredictable, but worth every second.”

Outside, Ace shouted, “Three… two… one!” and launched off the ramp with a war cry. He landed in the sand, laughing. Nikola clapped exactly twice, then went to help him up.

Maverick watched them, heart full. He’d chased speed, defied death, and flown higher than most dared dream. But nothing—no Mach speed or kill streak—matched the way Ace looked when he laughed, or the quiet determination in Nikola’s eyes.

This was his top mission.

And he wouldn’t change a single thing.

Chapter two

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home

Bonus Chapter: Fire in the Sky (and at the Dinner Table)

Part I – Milo Meets Rooster

Milo “Bullseye” Cohen didn’t expect to run into Bradley Bradshaw in the middle of a quiet gym on base, but there he was. Sleeves rolled, sweat gleaming on his shoulders, and that signature Bradshaw mustache proudly intact.

“Bullseye, right?” Bradley asked, tossing him a towel.

Milo, already a little breathless from Ace’s workouts, nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir. I—uh—yes.”

Bradley smirked, easy and warm, but with a pilot’s steel in his eyes. “Relax. You look like you’re waiting for a security clearance review.”

“I’m dating your son,” Milo said.

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Ace isn’t my son.”

Beat.

“He’s basically your nephew and your godson.”

“…Fair.”

Milo swallowed. “He’s amazing. And I love him. And I’m going to protect him with my life.”

Bradley stared at him, then smiled. “That’s good. But let’s be clear—Ace doesn’t need protection. He’s his fathers’ son.”

That terrified Milo more than anything else.

Part II – Noah Meets Hangman

Noah “Menace” Bearsley had survived solo missions, the Mojave heat, and Navy politics. But meeting Jake “Hangman” Seresin outside The Charming Goose Café? That rattled him.

Jake was leaning on his truck, boots scuffed, aviators perched on his nose, every inch the movie-poster version of a Navy pilot.

“So you’re the kid dating my niece,” Jake said with a grin. “Menace, huh? Got a real call sign or just leaned into chaos?”

Noah grinned automatically. “Chaos is kind of my brand.”

Jake’s smile didn’t waver. “She’s precious, you know. Ice’s girl. Maverick’s girl. You break her heart and I’m not responsible for what half the Navy might do.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I mean literally. You’d be on a watch list.”

Jake’s grin grew sharper. “But if you’re good to her, you’ve got us all behind you. That’s a power network most people would sell their souls for.”

Noah nodded, his throat dry. “I’m good to her. I love her.”

Jake’s expression changed. Just slightly. A little softer.

“Well,” Jake said, pushing off the truck. “You got guts, Menace. Let’s hope you’ve got grit.”

Part III – Sunday Dinner Chaos

The Kazansky-Mitchell-Bradshaw block lit up like a summer barbecue on steroids.

Goose and Carole had set a long table in their backyard, just next to Ice and Mav’s. Platters of ribs, grilled fish, roasted corn, and Carole’s famous peach cobbler covered every inch of surface.

Nikola sat beside Noah, who looked like he was sweating through his shirt. On the other side, Ace and Milo whispered furiously over drinks that may or may not have been spiked by Goose.

Because, yes—that Goose. Nick “Goose” Bradshaw, aviator legend, the man who somehow cheated death and got funnier for it. And he was telling stories with Slider and Viper like it was still ‘86.

Jake and Bradley arrived late, hand in hand, carrying their (not a baby anymore, but still) baby boy, Mitchell Nicolas Bradshaw. The crowd exploded with excitement. Noah had read their profiles. Milo had studied their missions. Both sat in horrified silence.

“This is your family?” Noah whispered to Nikola.

She sipped her lemonade innocently. “Mhm. Isn’t it awesome?”

Milo leaned to Ace. “Your uncle is a living legend, your godfather is a culinary genius and ex-pilot, and your father is Iceman.”

“Yup,” Ace grinned. “But he still can’t work the espresso machine.”

Throughout the meal, Maverick grilled Noah about flight patterns. Iceman asked Milo about operational chain-of-command protocol. Goose made jokes so fast Milo choked on his drink. And Jake? Jake told embarrassing stories about his Top Gun days so exaggerated they made Bradley groan and Nikola howl.

By the end of the night, Milo and Noah were both wrung out and sitting in deck chairs as Nikola and Ace slow-danced on the grass to “Great Balls of Fire,” courtesy of Goose and Bradley at the piano.

Iceman passed them each a beer. “You did well.”

Maverick nodded. “Still not sure we don’t scare you.”

“You absolutely do,” Noah admitted.

“I’ll never sleep again,” Milo added.

Maverick grinned. “Good.”

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home

Bonus Epilogue: Meet the Boyfriends

It was a quiet Saturday morning in the Kazansky-Mitchell household.

Saturday mornings at the Kazansky-Mitchell household were sacred—coffee, soft jazz, and the occasional dramatic reading of military policy by Iceman. Maverick had just fixed the espresso machine, Iceman sat at the kitchen island reading defense reports he wasn’t technically supposed to have anymore, wearing reading glasses and a navy blue hoodie that said “World’s Chillest Admiral.” when Nikola strolled in, glowing like the sun off a titanium fuselage.

She looked effortlessly beautiful—platinum-blonde hair in a sleek braid, soft pink lipstick, tailored flight suit hugging her slim, athletic frame. Feminine, graceful, and deadly in the air, Nikola was a perfect blend of elegance and danger.

“I brought someone,” she said, setting her helmet down with a soft clink.

Behind her stepped a man that nearly made Maverick choke on his espresso.

Lieutenant Noah “Menace” Bearsley was 26, tall, tan, with wild brown hair and a reckless grin. His flight jacket hung open, revealing a confident swagger and a devil-may-care attitude. He looked exactly like Maverick did at that age (bar the height: he was definitely taller than Maverick, the jerk)—cocky, handsome, absolutely trouble.

“Big fan, sir. I’ve studied the Black forest footage, the Siege of Garat, the Night Carrier Run—”

“Which of those was classified?” Iceman asked, softly.

“...All of them, sir.”

“And yet you studied them.” Maverick’s coffee mug paused mid-sip. “You’re five years older than my daughter.”

“Hypothetically.” Noah nodded. “Yes, sir. And she’s more mature than I am, so it balances out.”

Nikola beamed, clearly unbothered. Iceman was trying to remember if he owned a gun.

Before either of them could react, Ace entered—blue-grey eyes gleaming, hair slicked back, flight suit casually unzipped at the neck. He looked like a movie star and walked like he knew it. Next to him was a towering man with military bearing and soulful brown eyes.

“Dads,” Ace said coolly. “This is my boyfriend.”

Chief Petty Officer Milo “Bullseye” Cohen, Navy SEAL, gave them a sharp nod. Calm, polite, and built like a god, he had a quiet intensity that rivaled Iceman himself.

“Pleasure to meet you, sirs.”

Iceman blinked. Maverick gasped.

“This one’s you,” Maverick whispered to Iceman. “He brought home you.”

“And Nikola brought home you, in 1986,” Iceman whispered back.

The realization hit them like a low-altitude barrel roll.

Cue Panic. Parental panic.

“Alright,” Maverick barked. “Family room. Now. All six of us. We’re having a talk.”

Everyone groaned. Nikola flopped onto the couch like a dramatic soap opera star. Ace smirked. Milo stood at attention. Noah looked both amused and mildly terrified.

Maverick pointed at both young men.

“We know how charming pilots and special ops guys can be. We were those guys.”

Iceman nodded. “That’s why you’re getting the talk. Yes, even at 21.”

Nikola buried her face in a pillow. “Please, just let me crash a jet instead.”

Maverick continued. “Respect. Protection. Communication. If either of you break their hearts, I will fly a restored Tomcat into your apartment.”

“And I’ll backseat it,” Iceman added, deadpan.

Noah raised a hand. “Are we allowed to be terrified and flattered at the same time?”

“Yes,” both dads said in unison.

Maverick paced. “Let’s make this simple. Our kids are badasses. Brilliant, beautiful, Top Gun-winning pilots. If either of you so much as scratch their hearts—”

“I’ll personally oversee your reassignment to Antarctica,” Iceman finished.

Nikola smiled sweetly at Noah and ran a hand along his sleeve. “They love me a little too much.”

“I love you a lot too much,” he whispered back, charmed and doomed.

Ace threw an arm around Milo’s waist. “Good luck surviving them, babe.”

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

Noah had faced enemy fighters, dodged missile locks, and once landed an F/A-18 with half an engine. But nothing—nothing—compared to stepping into the Kazansky-Mitchell home and coming face to face with the two most legendary figures in naval aviation.

Admiral Tom “Iceman” Kazansky was every bit as intimidating as the stories said. Unshakable posture, eyes like cold steel, and the kind of silence that made you overthink your breathing. Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell—cool, infamous, unreadable—wasn’t easier either. He watched Noah like a hawk with a radar lock.

Noah’s voice came out a little too fast when he said, “Big fan, sir. I’ve studied the Black forest footage, the Siege of Garat, the Night Carrier Run—”

“Which of those was classified?” Iceman asked, softly.

Noah’s stomach dropped. “...All of them, sir.”

Maverick arched an eyebrow. “And yet you studied them.”

He swallowed. “Hypothetically.”

Nikola’s hand slipped into his. She didn’t even flinch, and that gave him a second wind. She believed in him. The problem was… he wasn’t sure he was enough for her. Nikola was a prodigy—fighter pilot, hacker, walking storm of brilliance wrapped in silk and titanium.

Noah could fly, sure, but he still felt like some wild kid from Pensacola with a cocky grin and an engine to prove himself. What if they saw that? What if they thought he wasn’t good enough for her?

“Relax,” Nikola whispered to him later on the patio, when Maverick had wandered off to lecture Ace about the perils of falling for SEALs.

“I can’t,” Noah whispered back. “Your dad’s an admiral who won Top Gun and can probably kill me with his pinky. And your other dad just looked at me and I forgot my name.”

Nikola smiled. “I love you.”

And that one phrase nearly made him cry.

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

Milo had walked into war zones quieter than this living room.

Ace—cocky, brilliant, absurdly attractive—sat beside him with a lopsided grin and no sense of danger. He had brought Milo, a SEAL with five years on him, into the home of Iceman and Maverick, who might be retired but ran deeper in the Navy than the ocean itself.

He’d met presidents and Joint Chiefs. But here? He felt like a recruit all over again.

Admiral Kazansky looked at him with that terrifying brand of calm power. Maverick said very little, which somehow made it worse.

Milo sat ramrod straight, replaying every interaction he’d had with Ace in his head—was that one kiss in the hangar technically public? Did that off-duty beach weekend break regs? Had he ever accidentally called Ace “baby” over comms?

And then there was the other panic-inducing thought:

He wanted to marry Ace. Had for months now.

But if he said that—if he let that slip—they’d discharge him with a boot print on his ass and a polite letter of death. Or worse, they’d disapprove, and Milo didn’t think he could handle that. Not from them. Not from Ace’s family.

So he stayed quiet. Almost too quiet.

Later, on the porch, Ace touched his shoulder gently. “You okay?”

“I want to marry you,” Milo blurted. “I mean—not now. I mean yes, now. I mean, someday. And also I think your dad could absolutely kill me with a spoon.”

Ace blinked. Then smiled slowly. “You’re lucky I like honesty.”

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

Later, when everyone had gone to bed and the house was quiet, Maverick and Iceman sat on the back porch, fingers intertwined. Iceman took a sip of his tea and said to Maverick, “They’re both scared of us.”

“Good,” Maverick replied, arms crossed. “They should be.”

And somewhere in the hallway, Ace shouted, “WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU!”

“I WASN'T WHISPERING.” Maverick yelled back. "AND I MEANT EVERYTHING I SAID".

Iceman smiled faintly. “But they love our kids.”

Maverick sighed. “That’s what matters.” He opened and closed his mouth, trying to put his thoughts into words, looking adorable. Many decades later, Tom Kazansky fell in love again. “Do you realize what we’ve built?” Maverick whispered.

Iceman kissed his temple. “A legacy. A home. A future.”

Inside, two of the most brilliant pilots on earth texted their partners emojis of fighter jets, kisses, and flames.

And just beyond, under the quiet hum of the stars, love carried on—loud, loyal, and legendary.

Bonus II

The End (Again). (Probably)

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home—Final Chapter: The Sky Belongs to Us

The journey from child prodigies to Navy legends wasn’t easy—but Ace “Blaze” Kazansky-Mitchell and Nikola “Icestorm” Kazansky-Mitchell weren’t just any pilots.

After completing their dual PhDs before they turned eighteen, the twins stunned the world again by choosing not to stay behind closed doors in research labs or accept lucrative contracts from the private sector. Instead, they submitted applications to the United States Naval Academy, following in the footsteps of the giants who raised them.

They crushed it.

Nikola became a cyber systems warfare expert and test pilot. Ace specialized in propulsion and combat flight tactics. Their instructors described them as “a perfect storm of brilliance and boldness,” just like the legends who trained them.

Their graduation from Top Gun was a moment of history. They weren’t just the youngest to ever qualify—they tied for the top spot. On the final mission, they flew in perfect sync, winning the challenge in a move so daring, so brilliant, it was dubbed “The New Maverick Maneuver.”

Their names were etched into the Top Gun Hall of Fame, right beside Mitchell, Kazansky, Bradshaw, and Seresin.

Bradley and Jake found their own path through legacy.

Jake continued to serve, rising steadily in the ranks, eventually taking command of a carrier air wing. He was still cocky, still golden, but now grounded by love and responsibility. His devotion to Mitchell Nicolas Bradshaw—now a bright, imaginative pre teen—was unmatched.

Bradley, after decades in the cockpit, stepped away from the Navy to chase something else he'd always loved: food. He attended culinary school with the same quiet passion he'd once brought to flight, and when Carole retired, she handed him the keys to The Charming Goose.

Bradley transformed it into something new—Southern comfort meets coastal bistro. It became the most beloved spot in San Diego. He wore Hawaiian shirts, rocked his signature mustache, and taught his son to play piano beside Goose every Sunday afternoon.

Carole and Goose became doting, enthusiastic grandparents—singing lullabies off-key, sneaking sweets before dinner, telling bedtime stories about a young pilot with a mustache and a heart too big to fail.

Every Sunday, the family still gathered.

The twins returned from deployments or tech symposiums. Jake flew in between operations. Mitchell played tag with Viper’s grandkids. Hollywood and Wolfman told exaggerated stories about their missions. Slider brought wine. Brooke brought homemade pasta. Maverick brought a crooked grin and Tom brought the peace in his eyes.

And when the sun set low and the ocean gleamed gold, Iceman and Maverick always ended up on the porch swing together.

They didn’t need words anymore.

They had lived through loss and fear, war and wonder. They had built a family from ashes and ambition. They had raised two brilliant, loving children. They had watched their godson find love and purpose. They had grown old together, hands still intertwined after all this time.

Sometimes, Maverick would whisper, “Still flying with me?”

And Iceman would smile, lean in close, and say, “Always.”

Wings of Home

The End.

First Chapter

Bonus épilogue

Bonus scene I

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home—Chapter Twelve: Sundays in San Diego

Fifteen.

It was a number most people associated with awkward years, high school crushes, and driver’s permits.

But for Nikola “Icestorm” Kazansky-Mitchell and Ace “Blaze” Kazansky-Mitchell, fifteen meant something entirely different: a dual acceptance letter into a classified, joint PhD program in Physics and Aerospace Engineering, sponsored by a collaboration between MIT and the Naval Research Lab.

Maverick framed the letter. Iceman cried—quietly, but Maverick saw it.

Nikola stood tall on the day they were formally announced. Platinum blonde hair pinned in a slick braid, green eyes sharp under her wire-rimmed glasses. She wore a bomber jacket over her dress shirt, and her signature satchel was patched with both code symbols and Top Gun insignia

Ace had one arm slung around her shoulders. His dark blonde hair had grown longer, always falling into his blue-grey eyes. His voice had deepened but still carried the thrill of excitement whenever he talked about prototype thrust systems and new plasma dynamics.

“We’re not leaving home,” Ace had insisted. “We’re building from here.”

And that’s exactly what they did.

Bradley and Jake had just come in from the beach, sand still on their bare feet, Mitchell Nicolas Bradshaw bouncing between them with cheeks flushed from the sun and curls damp from saltwater.

He was only two, but already had the stubborn jaw of his grandfathers, Goose’s mischievous eyes, and his father’s voice—he could already sing the chorus of “Great Balls of Fire” (off-key, but with passion).

Bradley was still flying part-time with the Navy and teaching at Top Gun. Jake ran flight safety for one of the squadrons, but both were blissfully in their dad era—racing tricycles in the driveway, covered in juice spills, falling asleep on the couch with Mitchell sprawled across their chests.

“Mitchell,” Jake had said one night, watching their son sleep, “for Mav.”

“And Nicolas,” Bradley added softly. “For Dad.”

It was perfect.

On Sundays, all of them gathered—every one of the original crew, now comfortably folded into their second act.

Goose and Carole still lived next door to Mav and Ice, still holding hands when they walked through the garden, still singing badly and laughing hard. Carole ran The Charming Goose, now expanded into a second location, while Goose wrote a memoir he claimed he’d never publish but read aloud to anyone who sat near the firepit long enough.

Hollywood and Wolfman, both now fully retired admirals, arrived with wine and stories from their last international tour. Slider showed up in his crisp Senator suit before immediately changing into cargo shorts. His wife, Brooke, a renowned trauma surgeon, helped Ace refine a research paper on biomaterials for pilot safety suits.

Sundown, Chipper, Merlin, and Cougar usually took over the grill. Hondo manned the music.

Iceman, ever the composed host, wore soft sweaters now and tended to the herb garden with Maverick. His health was good. Strong. His laugh was richer in this part of life—easier.

And Maverick, finally at peace, often found himself leaning against the porch railing with a beer in hand, watching his family—his flight—laugh and live.

That Sunday, as the sunset melted over the Pacific, Nikola sat cross-legged on the deck with Mitchell in her lap, explaining orbital velocity like it was a bedtime story. Ace adjusted the baby’s toy fighter jet and whispered, “You’ll have the best call sign when you grow up, little dude.”

And in the golden hush of evening, Maverick looked at Tom and said, “We did good.”

Tom smiled. “We flew through fire. But yeah… we landed exactly where we were meant to.”

(Next is the épilogue)

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Épilogue

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home—Chapter Eleven: Where We Land

It had been 13 months since the twin chaos of Nikola and Ace’s birthday. The pastel fighter jets and chocolate frosting were long gone, replaced with science fair trophies, new prototypes of robotic drones in the garage, and stacks of college-level textbooks—despite the fact the twins were still only in high school (the skipping of the grades having surprised no one)

But even in a house full of genius, today marked something even bigger.

Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, now officially the Secretary of the Navy, stood at the polished podium on the Pentagon’s west terrace, sunlight gleaming off his uniform’s newest set of bars. Cameras flashed. Reporters murmured. Admirals straightened in their seats when he raised his chin.

He didn’t smile much in public, but when he said, “My office will remain in San Diego,” the corners of his mouth quirked just enough. The message was clear: I’ll lead, but on my terms.

Back in San Diego, the Kazansky-Mitchell home buzzed with quiet pride. The black ops mission Maverick had led weeks earlier was still classified, but the results had rocked certain circles. It was quick, brutal, successful. A rogue cell neutralized. Hostages rescued. Zero casualties.

And Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, still technically retired, was once again the name whispered with reverence through secure comms and briefing rooms.

Now, he was home.

His boots were back on the porch. His arms around Tom. His smile softer, the lines around his eyes deeper.

“Got home in time for the awards assembly,” Maverick said that morning, ruffling Ace’s hair as the boy wrestled with his backpack, which had a holographic F-35 sticker and a football keychain.

“You always do,” Ace said, grinning. “I already told everyone my dad’s the coolest human missile alive.”

Maverick snorted. “Thanks, I think.”

Nikola rolled her eyes but smiled, her platinum blonde hair flowing down her back in sleek sheets. Her green eyes, so sharp and curious, narrowed over her breakfast code—a logic puzzle she was solving with one hand while brushing her hair with the other.

She had her father’s heart-shaped lips, a perfectly sloped button nose, and the same delicate beauty mark on her jaw that Tom had carried since his first day at Top Gun.

She was stunning, effortlessly so, but it was the intelligence in her gaze that could stop you cold.

“Are we going to talk about the fact that I was asked to design a cyber fortress for the base’s AI system… at seven?” she said coolly, twirling her stylus. “I should be paid for this.”

Ace scoffed. “Only if you let me pilot the drones.”

He had Maverick’s mouth—full, expressive, constantly smirking—and Tom’s jawline and beauty mark. His hair, a dark honey blonde, fell in straight angles just like his sister’s, and his eyes—blue-grey storms—were always calculating.

He was loud. He was brave. And when he wasn’t helping Nikola hack into simulation servers for “educational reasons,” he was designing new wing shapes out of cereal boxes.

They were chaos. They were brilliant.

And they loved each other ferociously.

Later that night, when the house settled into the low rhythm of post-dinner quiet, Maverick stood on the back deck, watching the kids through the kitchen window.

Tom joined him, now changed out of the ceremonial uniform into sweats and a soft tee. Still impossibly regal.

“You really said no to the Pentagon,” Maverick murmured, leaning against him.

“I said yes to you. And them.” Tom’s arm slipped around his waist. “And my office gets a view of the ocean. So.”

Maverick smiled.

Inside, Ace was showing Bradley a new design—Jake looking over his shoulder like a proud big brother. Nikola sat beside Carole at the kitchen island, arguing playfully over frosting ratios for another cake while Goose loaded the dishwasher and sang Fleetwood Mac.

Their life was a constellation of what should’ve been impossible. But it was real. Built through grief, love, war, survival, and the kind of devotion that didn’t break under pressure.

Just like them.

Maverick took a breath, let the wind ruffle his hair.

“I like where we landed,” he said softly.

Tom kissed his temple.

“We haven’t landed yet,” he said. “We’re still flying.”

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter ten

Chapter twelve

[royalinkblot]

Wings of Home–Chapter Ten: In the Quiet of Morning

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the kitchen at the Bradshaw house was already alive with light.

It was one of those warm summer mornings where everything felt soaked in gold, the air humming with the promise of pancakes and memories.

Nick “Goose” Bradshaw stood at the stove flipping flapjacks with his usual flair, humming an old rock ballad off-key. Carole leaned against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that read #1 Mom, Still Winning, her robe draped over her pajama set, curls a little messy, smile easy and wide.

Bradley was perched on the counter, whisking eggs in a mixing bowl like it was a mission briefing.

“Careful, Rooster,” Carole said with mock sternness. “I don’t want eggs on my ceiling again.”

“That was one time,” Bradley laughed.

“Twice,” Goose corrected, flipping a perfect pancake onto the growing stack. “Second time was during your ‘aviator breakfast maneuver,’ remember?”

“I was six!” Bradley defended, grinning. “And you encouraged me.”

“I encourage innovation, not kitchen acrobatics,” Goose teased, nudging his son with his elbow. “Big difference.”

The kitchen smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and home.

Goose glanced over at Carole and smiled. There was still that same flutter in his chest when he looked at her, even after all these years. He remembered the first time they met—he was a cocky cadet at Annapolis, and she was in college just a few towns over, visiting a friend.

She’d crashed a party, wore a red scarf and laughed at his jokes like she meant it.

Goose had been head over heels before he even knew her last name.

They’d married young. Young and brave and stupid in love. And then they had Bradley, who came into the world loud and full of opinions—just like his parents. Goose remembered holding him for the first time and thinking, This is it. This is the mission I was meant for.

Next door, Maverick and Iceman were probably still sleeping, wrapped up in their own quiet rituals. Their lives had twisted and turned together like rope—impossible to pull apart now. Goose was proud of them. Proud to have them as family. Maverick was his best friend. Tom, his brother-in-arms.

Bradley had grown up between both homes, loved completely by four parents who had built a village around him.

A soft knock sounded from the back door, followed by a familiar drawl: “Permission to enter the breakfast danger zone?”

“Come on in, Hangman,” Goose called, laughing.

Jake Seresin stepped inside, hair tousled, wearing sweats and that unmistakable grin—but there was a touch of hesitation in his eyes.

Bradley hopped off the counter and crossed the room in two strides, giving Jake a quick kiss. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jake said, then turned to Goose and Carole with a respectful nod. “Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw.”

Goose grinned, handing him a plate. “Call me Goose. Everyone does. And sit. Eat. You’re officially family now—no need to stand on ceremony.”

Carole offered Jake a warm smile. “He says that now. Wait until he tries to rope you into family karaoke night.”

Jake laughed nervously but relaxed under their easy warmth, taking a seat beside Bradley at the island.

Bradley slid Jake a mug of coffee. “Mom’s got rules. Compliment the pancakes, or she cuts you off.”

Carole arched an eyebrow. “Bradley.”

“I’m just saying, I had to earn the syrup privileges.”

Goose chuckled. “He’s not wrong.”

As the kitchen filled with the sounds of forks clinking and laughter echoing against the tile, Jake looked around and felt something settle deep in his chest. This wasn’t just breakfast—it was belonging.

Later, they’d head outside to help Maverick mow the lawn while Iceman read the paper on the porch and the twins ran around with DIY cardboard jets on their backs.

But right now, in the quiet rhythm of coffee, pancakes, and teasing, Jake felt it:

He was home.

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter eleven