#space under deck

[bethanycantdraw]

Deck - large traditional backyard deck idea with a fire pit and a roof extension Deck - idea for a sizable, traditional backyard deck with a fire pit and an extension to the roof

[brynhallavellan]

Deck - Traditional Deck Inspiration for a large timeless backyard deck remodel with a fire pit and a roof extension

[yuri-on-ice-ice-baby]

Traditional Deck in New York Deck - large traditional backyard deck idea with a fire pit and a roof extension

[ghostwatchpublishing]

New York Deck Covered Example of a large classic backyard deck design with a fire pit and a roof extension

[storyarcade]

Roof Extensions - Traditional Deck Example of a large classic backyard deck design with a fire pit and a roof extension

[hairyisgood]

Traditional Deck in New York Deck - large traditional backyard deck idea with a fire pit and a roof extension

[arrowarcher]

Traditional Deck - Roof Extensions Inspiration for a large timeless backyard deck remodel with a fire pit and a roof extension

[star-trek-fandom-confessions]

Response to confession 660 (sort of? sort of also became its own confession by getting longer than I intended lol): I kind of have always been a bit...I guess frustrated? by the take that NuTrek doesn't really "feel like real Star Trek" or other things in that same vein, because I know when DS9 came out it got hit by the same accusations of being too dark to be real Trek/"it's not Trek because they're on a station and not a ship"/not really generally feeling like "real" Star Trek. And it is true- in a lot of ways its still different from many of the other Treks, but at its core it still very much is Star Trek and it has come around to being pretty beloved.

I feel kind of the same about a lot of the modern Trek shows. I don't even like some of them very much (namely Discovery and Picard- I actually love Lower Decks and SNW) but I don't think they're lacking in Trek qualities; they are both a bit darker in tone (but again, so is DS9) but where they falter and where they succeed I think they do so in ways that are honestly pretty common to the franchise, which I adore but think has always honestly been a bit messy and produced some pretty big duds as well as it has masterpieces.

I also kind of have never really understood the take (which I've seen several times, not just in this confession) of marking The Orville as the best "real" NuTrek (not because I don't enjoy it, I do), because if one of the things that's wrong with some of NuTrek is its tendency to be nostalgia-baity (and I think that's a fair critique, it is)- than The Orville, being at its core a riff on classic Trek- also is nostalgia bait-y. Personally I think all the positive traits listed for The Orville (which I do agree with! I think it's a good show) also apply to SNW. I think it does a great job balancing interesting moral dilemmas (Under the Cloak of War my beloved) with silliness and joy (I mean, there's a musical episode!) and also is capable of fusing both together (it was imperfect in its execution, but I think its fair to say Charades was trying to do this and was still overall a really enjoyable episode)

I guess basically the end point of my long ramble is that I agree NuTrek is flawed, but I also think all of Trek is flawed and that NuTrek isn't flawed in a markedly different way. And despite its flaws, its still also got great parts to it and I think at its best it is doing what it should- fusing the core essentials of Trek with things that move the franchise forward in tone and vision (though as much as I honestly love SNW, I do want another show that's set sometime post DS9/VOY so we can explore more of that part of the timeline. My ideal show would be one that fuses SNW's general tone and storytelling style with that later part of Trek's timeline).

.

[mappinglasirena]

The Stairs Under the Bridge

If you've been following my blog for a while, you know that one of the many mysteries/points of discussion that come up repeatedly is: what is happening in the space under La Sirena's bridge? There's a door leading there from the mess hall and we see Picard walk through it in S01E06, "The Impossible Box", but we never find out what that space is being used as.

(At least, we don't know what its in-universe use is. We know from set plans that in the studio, the space apparently held the playback setup.)

We got a glimpse of a cross-section of the ship in the Blu-ray set tour, which has some impossible geometry happening under the bridge...

(That is not a proper floor and something is definitely clipping through it!)

... and if you remember my post from a while back, I speculated that the most likely explanation is that the model has an extendable ladder there, that would allow people to board/leave the ship by a means other than the loading ramp. This would fit with the early idea of the season 1 writers to have Picard board La Sirena in a space port, rather than beam him on board while she's in orbit.

Well, a couple of weeks ago, we got confirmation that this is indeed what the production team originally intended.

Dave Blass, the production designer for PIC Seasons 2 and 3, tweetet some images showcasing a cross-section of the Sirena set/model:

As you can imagine, this gave me enormous joy (and a not too small amount of glee)! I have long insisted that the panorama windows, i.e. the exit the Motley Crew use to get off the ship once she crash-lands on Coppelius, don't really work as a proper access point to the ship. There is a three foot drop right inside the window the crew needs to bridge, no proper hatch, no ladders, etc. The only reason it makes for such a convenient exit is that Sirena is buried in a few metres of dirt, bringing the window level with the ground.

And indeed, La Sirena has, or at least was originally intended to have, a proper access to the front of the ship, one with a ladder and hatch and everything! And it's located in the mysterious space under the bridge!

But, me being me, this schematic also immediately raised a question: Isn't that ladder a bit too short?

If you remember this post, it seems like one of the changes made during Sirena's design process was that the wings were dropped quite a significant amount. Where the early concept art has the ship sitting fairly low to the ground, she is raised much higher when she reaches her final form.

Essentially, we went from a configuration that might have looked something like the version on the top to the actual model on the bottom:

This change increased the ship's clearance significantly.

For the non-imperial-measuring among us, the height of the ladder given in the schematic shared by Blass, 14' 10 1/2", translates to about 4.8m. However, when you line up the orthogonal view of the ship with the cross section, the length of the ladder is not really enough to reach the ground once the ship has landed.

(The green line indicates the bottom of the stairs.)

There is some speculation that maybe Sirena can fold up her nacelles for landing, and that might be true. There are rooms extending into the wings that would end up at an odd angle, but I suppose with artificial gravity, anything is possible -- if somewhat unlikely.

Still, if we presume Sirena's wings are rigid in general, the distance from the tarmac to the belly of the ship (here: the stage floor in the schematic) is a bit larger than 4.8m.

I wanted to adapt the ladder accordingly, but getting good measurements by converting between feet, pixels, and metres is a bit of a hassle. So instead, I simply used the measurements already on the schematic and extended the ladder so that the ship's clearance would be 5.5m or around 18ft.

This brings the total length of the ladder to about 21ft or 6.5m, and overlaid on the orthogonal ship view, it looks like this:

(The green line once again indicates the bottom of the stairs.)

As you can see, this length requires for the outer engines to fold up a little bit and would have the lowest point of the nacelles basically sitting on the ground. I personally think that would make a lot of sense, and in season 2 we did see that the outer engine pods are on hinges and can definitely fold down.

(It's subtle, but they do move back into their resting position towards the end of the gif.)

It was never confirmed that the engings can fold farther up as well, but looking at how they're attached, I think it makes sense that they could.

Now, in the adjusted S1 concept art of Sirena at the space port, the outer engines are in their normal positions and the wings are actually fully off the ground, with the ship resting on extended landing gear:

So, my extended ladder is the absolute minimum length needed to account for the dropped wings. In all likelihood the ladder would have to be even longer than that, because the clearance would be over 5.5m.

One thing that playing around with all of these views and measurements made me realize, though, is that La Sirena is quite a bit larger than I usually picture her. I have this realization about once every two or three months, so to make it easier to internalize, I asked the wonderful @regionalpancake to assist me.

Google helpfully suggests that 5.5m / 18ft is about half the size of a telephone pole or of three Michael Jordan's standing on each other's shoulders. It is also the size of...

... one average adult giraffe. (This is more or less helpful, depending on when you last went to the zoo, but I really enjoyed that as a visual aide.)

And because Regionalpancake is a good sport (and extremely proficient at adding animals to La Sirena), she also gave me this second edit:

(She also helpfully removed the spacedock workers who were a little to tall in comparison to Sirena. Hopefully, the friendly Averagely-Sized Adult Giraffe will make the ship's real dimensions slightly easier to gauge.)

So, now we have an idea of what might lurk beneath La Sirena's bridge!

I imagine in-universe, there is more stuff stashed under there than just the stairs, though. Perhaps the space gives easier access to the phaser banks in the nose of the ship, or to some other flight control or power distribution machinery. And there's still the question of why Picard, after a very emotionally draining conversation, chooses to head into this space rather than going straight upstairs to his cabin or to his study on the holodeck. (Yes, I know the Doylist answer is because it was the more dramatically satisfying blocking/staging choice, but on this blog, we like to dig for Watsonian explanations, too!)

My personal guess is still that there's some communal washroom down there, because those have to be somewhere on the ship, and that space would actually make sense, being in such close proximity to the bridge and mess hall.

But, since we never saw any of it on screen (and won't ever see La Sirena on screen again), I guess the space under the bridge will always remain a canonical mystery -- and thus available for any interpretation your writing /mapping/ headcanon might require ;)

[quailfence]

[Image Description: Six gifs from Star Trek of queer characters. The gifs are tinted various colors so that together, they look like a rainbow. 1: Lenara and Jadzia rub their noses and foreheads together. Then Lenara reaches up, preparing to kiss Jadzia. 

2: Gray holds Adria’s head in his hands. Adira grins, then begins to speak and rolls their eyes.

3: Seven and Raffi kiss

4: Reno stands at a computer panel. She looks over her shoulder and speaks.

5: Culber and Stamets lie in bed together. They are holding hands, and Culber has a hand on Stamet’s cheek. 

6: A live-action Mariner raises a hand and speaks, confused. End Description.]

[Plain text: (rainbow flag emojis) happy pride (rainbow flag emojis). End plain text.]

@startrekdescribed

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈 HAPPY PRIDE 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

[em1i2a3]

Carry The Zero

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry (or The Void) x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess because Bob is in here. Other than that there is nothing too extreme happening in here, it’s a bit emotional, but there is fluff in here, I would kind of describe this as a Hurt/Comfort fic than anything. There are mentions of abuse and there is also some heavy petting maybe? I mean, I’ll put that in here to cover my booty lol.

Authors Note: My second viewing of Thunderbolts truly got my mind racing for what to write in regard to Bob. Thought I would put out this lil blurb and probably add more to it later in another segment or something! Anyways! Enjoy y’all and happy premiere weekend!!! :)

Word Count: 6,784

The room wasn’t built for two people, that’s what you knew for sure. It used to be a storage space, at least that is what you assumed judging by the various filing cabinets that lined the area, the dented lockers that were near the door, and the strewn papers that nobody decided to throw away in preparation for the move-in. The only thing that was the saving grace was the fact that the place had a window that let you look out onto the city. But it still didn’t truly make up for the cramped space, even though they were able to shove two twin sized beds inside it and call it a room–which showed how effective their planning was throughout all the chaos.

The Avengers Compound was still under renovations after a security breach took out part of the living space, meaning everyone needed to be shuffled like cards in a losing deck. Room assignments were given unwillingly to everyone, and you had been paired with Bob.

It was weird to be rooming with someone who had the power of a million exploding suns as people liked to say, because even though he carried that on his sleeve sheepishly, his personality certainly didn’t match that of a person who could take down the entire world. He was shy, quiet, and careful, tip-toeing around you like you were going to snap at him at any second–which was not the case at all.

Compared to the other options you had you actually preferred to be rooming with him.

The first few days had passed in near silence. You didn’t talk much, you’d only go into your room to sleep or change, and when you would do something outside of those two things Bob would rush out pretty quickly, apologizing nervously under his breath, like he thought you were obligated to time alone.

He’d go to bed early, and you’d catch him reading beneath the awful buzzing lamp that was left in the room from before the two of you moved in. You never really asked him what he was reading because the title was always changing, like he couldn’t finish anything, or he had so much time to himself he was finishing books like they were snacks.

Then there were little things you began to notice.

He’d pace a lot, wring his hands in his lap, or pick at the skin on his fingers. He was clean, he never left shoes in the middle of the room, and always lined them up neatly under his bed frame, even yours. He would flinch at loud noises, like if there was a childish argument happening in the communal kitchen and things got too high in volume he would get a little twitchy. He was observant, and paid attention to everything around him–sometimes you would hear him talking to himself, repeating fragments of conversations from earlier in the day, like it grounded him in some way.

He had his routine and you respected it as much as possible, but tonight was entirely different.

You were coming in late from training, and a med bay visit.

The scrape on your shoulder wasn’t serious, but it was bad enough to have Bucky send you down to get checked out. It was standard–some antiseptic, a lecture from one of the nurses about being more careful and aware of your surroundings, and then you were released with a warning, and a fresh bandage. You were exhausted, sore, and annoyed with yourself for not paying attention and letting your guard down during a simulation, especially because the past few nights had been like that.

By the time you reached your floor, the halls were quiet. There wasn’t any bickering or discussions happening in the kitchen, nobody was lingering in the living room with post-mission jitters, it was just peace, for once.

You stopped at the fridge to pick yourself up a bottle of electrolytes, then paused, eyeing the row of them. You bit your inner cheek, and after a second of hesitation you grabbed another one for Bob, tucking it against you.

You figured he would be awake like he always was when you were on your training nights. You weren’t sure if he was just waiting for you or if he was just incapable of resting when you weren’t accounted for, but you never asked.

Slowly, you moved down the hall, twisting the cap off your drink with a wince when you strained just a little too much, causing the bandage to sting beneath your shirt. You gritted your teeth and let out a frustrated grunt.

“Gotta take it easy on yourself.” You heard Bucky say from behind you. You turned on your heel, seeing he was still in his training gear, also holding a bottle of electrolytes as well, “You’re gonna burn out if you don’t take breaks.” You shifted under his gaze.

”I want to be better, that’s why I’m training. If you got your ass handed to you on the field you would be doing the same.” He shook his head.

”No. I would be resting and seeing what I could do better the next time. Don’t come to training for the rest of the week, just relax and recoup, we’ll revisit your regimen when you’re better.” Before you could say anything he typed his code in for his room, and was out of your sight. You could feel your body seething as you turned back around to continue making your way down the hall. You’d seen it coming from a mile away just by the way he was watching you during the simulation but you never thought he would say anything to you like that. It just added another layer of annoyance as you reached your room.

You pushed the door open gently, careful not to let the hinges creak too loudly. The room was dark, which was unexpected, Bob’s light wasn’t even on. The only thing that was illuminating the room was the shimmer of city lights, casting silver-blue shadows across the floor.

Bob was in bed, lying on his side facing you, with his blanket tugged up to his neck. His face was soft in the low light–features relaxed, eyes closed. Sleeping, or at least you thought he was. You lingered in the doorway for a moment, squinting in the dimness of the room to see him a bit better.

His light brown hair looked a little messy, like he’d been shifting around for a while before finally settling on the position he was in now. You wondered how long he was lying like that, or if he had been waiting for your return but fell asleep in the process, and now you felt even worse than before.

You let the door close softly behind you with a gentle click, removing your shoes slowly, one at a time. Every motion felt heavier than it should have–dull with fatigue, and edged in frustration. You padded across the narrow space, keeping your steps quiet, with the extra bottle of electrolytes tucked against you, the condensation seeping through your training jacket.

You crouched slowly beside Bob’s bed, biting back a wince as your muscles tensed in protest, while you placed the bottle down on the floor, angling it so he’d see it when he woke up. It was a small, quiet offering, just something kind, a consideration in a way. You took your next moves slowly as you stood up and turned to your own bed with a tired exhale, putting the cap back on your drink and throwing it onto your bed. One hand rose to the zipper of your training jacket, pulling it down in a swift movement, teeth grinding while you pushed the fabric off your shoulders, feeling pain erupt from your ribs and shoulder now, the muscles pulsing with burning heat.

The cool air of the room hit your skin instantly, and your tank top didn’t do much to hide any of your injuries from the environment. Your back arched with the grating sting that came through you, and one hand came up to press against the bandage, making sure it was still on properly and not tugging at your skin. The ache was sharp and pulsing, and when your fingers came away damp, you already knew there was blood seeping through the gauze. You grimaced but didn’t consider making another trip to the med bay. You were too tired to care at this point, and it wasn’t something that would cause you to bleed out, so it was a morning issue to deal with.

You turned toward your dresser, collecting a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of sage, throwing both articles of clothing down onto your bed with a soft plop. You rolled your shoulder gently, testing the range of motion in it with a quiet wince before reaching for the hem of your tank top, peeling the rough fabric up your skin carefully, trying to avoid the worst of the sting, though even at your slowest pace you could feel the movement pulling at the wound.

The cotton clung briefly to the tape of the gauze and the dried sweat that coated your skin before finally giving way, and coming off completely. You let out a sigh of relief, as you let the fabric fall to the floor, reaching for your sweater next. The bandage on your shoulder throbbed with every shift you made, but it was the deeper bruises scattered across your body–ghosts of impacts from the past few days–that ached beneath your skin like an echoing thunder. You glanced down at yourself, taking in the way they bloomed across your ribs, stomach, and hips, at this point you could see more bruises than your actual flesh at this point, and they were tender, dark and swollen. Maybe Bucky was right, maybe you really did need a break…

Your fingers curled loosely into the hem of your sweater, but you didn’t think to pull it on yet, you just continued to look down at the wreck that was your body, and the longer you stared, the more numb you became. It was easy to take a break but it wasn’t deserved, you couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes during missions, and you knew you weren’t going to listen to Bucky, you would keep training until your body gave out.

You closed your eyes for a moment, before lifting the sweater towards you, ready to retreat into its softness, ready to disappear and call it a night, but then you heard it.

A breath. Sharp and quick. You froze in your spot.

Then came the sound of movement, the shuffling of the blanket, the mattress creaking under the shifting weight.

Your eyes darted toward Bob’s bed instantly, seeing that his back was now turned towards you. His blanket was pulled up around his shoulders, almost covering his whole head, but there was tension in his posture now, like he was more alert, and less relaxed.

Another breath was inhaled, only it was thinner this time, and wet, followed by a muffled sniffle. Your brows furrowed, and you worked quickly to throw your sweater on without hurting yourself so you were covered up completely, before making your way to his bed, crouching down on the floor, keeping your attention fixated on him. His shoulders were rising and falling now in uneven motions, and now you were piecing together that he was actually crying.

”…Bob?” You whispered, voice soft and low, like if you made it any louder than the volume you were at now it might shatter him. You could see the shuddering in his shoulders halt at the way you said his name, and he pulled the blanket higher over his head, like he was trying to shield himself from your eyes.

”I’m sorry…” Your brows pulled together in confusion as you leaned against the bed a little more, watching the outline of his frame beneath the covers, seeing the small tremors still running through his shoulders. You bit the inside of your cheek as you reached out, your hand hovering for a breath before resting gently against the curve of his back. He was radiating heat through the blanket, but he was stiff beneath your touch, like he didn’t know what to do with the comfort you were offering.

“Bob…Why are you apologizing?” You asked softly. He took in another shaky breath, but didn’t answer. You let out a sigh, rubbing your hand up and down his back like your mother used to when you cried, trying to soothe him, to calm him as much as you could.

”I…I saw the bruises.” He said, barely a whisper. Your hand on his back froze for a moment, “I-I didn’t mean to look, I swear, I just-“ His breath hitched, realizing that you were probably throwing daggers into his back with your eyes, “I just woke up…And saw them, and I couldn’t…Couldn’t stop remembering…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, it was just too much, as another set of sobs escaped his throat. You could feel your gaze soften at the noise, almost like a piece of your heart was breaking for him, continuing your movements along his back, pressing just a little harder into the muscle.

“Is there anything I can do? Do you want some electrolytes or something?” He shook his head.

”No…P-Please just stay…” His voice was hoarse, cracking under the thickness that coated his throat from the tears. You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, staring at his shoulders as he continued to cry, curling in on himself beneath his blanket.

You continued rubbing his back, keeping a steady and consistent rhythm. The heat of him radiated through the blanket like a furnace on the verge of burning itself out. Every time your hand passed over his spine, his shoulders seemed to loosen by a fraction.

“C-Can I ask something…Kind of w-weird?” His voice broke through the quiet again, in such a timid whisper that you barely heard it.

“Sure.” You replied, hearing him sniffle again. There was a long pause, and you could feel the hesitation, like he was trying to put his words together properly so whatever he was going to say didn’t come off creepy. You continued to run your hand over his back, waiting patiently for him, watching his figure rising and falling beneath the blanket, still seeing it shaking. In your mind, you were worried, you hadn’t seen him like this before, and there was a moment where you considered calling Bucky or Yelena to come help you, but then his voice broke through the thoughts.

”…Could you…” He took another breath, “Could you…Please hold me?” The question came out strangled, like it had clawed its way out of his throat before he could second-guess it again. You blinked slowly at the request, not because you were unsure of your answer, but because the way he said it was so gentle, and embarrassed it caught you off guard in a way.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting him to say, you thought maybe he was going to ask you for a tissue, but this was something far more vulnerable, something you never thought would come from Bob of all people, even though you knew he was sensitive. Inside you hesitated only because you didn’t want to hurt him by possibly doing the wrong thing, yet your heart ached watching him break down beneath his blanket which at this point was drowning him because of how much he had curled up beneath it.

“Of course…Just let me change out of these training pants first okay? It’ll just take a second.” There was no response to that, just movement. He shifted towards the wall so he was giving you enough space to get in, still hunched over like he felt guilty for the area that he occupied. You quickly stood up, and made quick work of shimmying out of your training pants and putting on your cotton sleep shorts, which was probably the best idea since you felt him burning through the blanket he was wrapped in. You brought your attention back to him soon after, returning to the side of the bed, your eyes roaming over the lump that resembled his body.

With a gentle hand, you tugged the edge of the blanket down just enough to uncover the top of his head, revealing his light brown hair again which looked dampened with sweat beneath the illuminating city lights that shined through the window. He didn’t say anything, or protest being exposed to you, so you took that as a good sign to continue.

You slid into the space he made for you, careful not to jostle the cocoon he made for himself too much, and eased your bad arm underneath his pillow so your scraped shoulder could rest in a neutral position where your bandage wouldn’t rip off your skin completely. You pulled up the blanket slightly, getting in behind him, scooting closer until your chest met his damp back.

His navy blue t-shirt was soaked through completely, and it wasn’t helping that he was wearing long pants to bed either. There was a fear he was gonna pass out from heat stroke or something, but he had mentioned it several times that he ran hot in general, you just didn’t see it to this extreme. He smelled like a salty rain storm, or like ozone, it was something indescribable to you in those moments, but it was what he typically radiated, it was familiar.

Slowly, you brought your arm over his torso, placing your hand onto the hard plane of his sternum, the muscles beneath his shirt twitching against the unfamiliar touch that you introduced to him.

Neither of you spoke, you just laid against each other in pure silence, listening to each other's breathing–his trembling, yours steady. He could feel your hot breaths against his neck and tried to pay attention to it, as you pushed down the blanket a bit with your elbow to shed the makeshift shield from his body. It took him a while to compose himself enough to speak again, but when he did, you were hanging off of every word.

”…When I saw the bruises…” He rasped, “All I could think about was me. When I was a kid…” The mentioning of his childhood immediately felt like a blow to your stomach. He had said something about how he was raised in passing, but it was an off handed remark that nobody really paid attention to. You figured it was something he didn’t want to talk about, but hearing him say this only made you dread what he was going to continue with.

”After he’d hit me…I’d go over to the mirror, just to see how bad it was. I’d tell myself it didn’t hurt, even if it did, I’d just lie to myself, because I knew if I cried, he’d just get angrier. He was always in the mood to beat me up so when he had a reason I think it made him feel justified in some…Messed up way.” Your chest tightened at his words, thinking about how scary it must’ve been for him, and how terrified he must’ve felt not knowing when his own father would strike. You didn’t speak right away, but you did shift, sliding your hand up higher on his chest, so you could press your palm flat over his heart. His shirt was soaked there too, yet beneath it all you could feel the frantic fluttering of his pulse, like a bird rattling against its cage.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your breath tickling his neck again. He didn’t respond, though he didn’t recoil either.

“None of that should’ve ever happened to you,” You continued softly, brushing your thumb along the fabric against his heart, “You were a child, and you didn’t deserve that.” He let out a breath like he was trying not to begin sobbing again.

”You don’t have to say that.” You raised your head a bit, almost in disbelief that he truly thought that what happened to him was somehow okay or justified.

”I do, Bob.” You murmured, inching just a little closer, feeling your body screaming in protest as your injured shoulder moved the wrong way, causing you to hiss through your teeth. Bob noticed instantly.

”You’re hurting,” He said quietly with guilt sinking into every syllable.

”I really couldn’t give a crap about that right now Bob, trust me I’ve been through worse. You’re hurting right now too and I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?” You replied back, your voice low, but lacking bite, not that you intended to have it sound stern or anything.

Bob shifted beneath your touch, slowly rolling onto his back like the weight of your words cracked something loose inside him. You adjusted carefully to give him space, keeping your injured shoulder angled away from the impact of his back pressing against your arm, even though the ache felt like white noise beneath the tension that was beginning to rise in the room. When he settled on his back you adjusted yourself so your chin rested against his chest, keeping your hand splayed in the same position over his heart.

His eyes didn’t find yours at first, they stared blankly at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city lights catching the shimmer of the tears that were still pooling in his eyes. Now that you could see him fully, you realized how bad things really were. His skin was blotchy, and flushed from how hot he was. His cheeks were stained with fresh tears, mixing with sweat that created this overall sheen on his skin in general, which made his hair cling to his forehead. A long, old kind of hurt settled over his face, the kind that hid quietly within the corners of a person.

He inhaled shakily, and every exhale got caught somewhere between exhaustion and restraint. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your chin, and it made you ache in a way that put a hole deep in your chest.

”Bob…” You murmured, barely louder than the sound of the city humming outside the window, “Look at me.” At first he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixated on the ceiling, distant and confused, still taking in those short bursts of air. Your hand left his chest, bringing them up to his jaw, coaxing his attention with the lightest touch you could give him.

“Look at me Bob,” You whispered again.

Then slowly, his eyes shifted downward until they found yours. The moment his gaze landed on you, something cracked open between you both–it was quiet, and delicate, but present and grounded in the center of it all. His expression was drawn, and his lashes were clumpy and wet with tears, framing his shimmering blue irises.

The skin surrounding his eyes were raw, almost a blood red, like someone had scratched it and left their marks streaking down his flesh. You didn’t flinch away from it though, you just looked at him with such focus, like your gaze could settle the storm that was in him. You could see his lip tremble slightly under your gaze as he tried to hold himself still, tears brimming in his eyes again, threatening to spill.

”I hate remembering…I can’t stand it. I don’t want to remember this stuff…I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I don’t want you to associate me with being weak.” You raised your eyebrows, now raising your head up to you were looking at him a little better, resting your hand against his chin now.

”I don’t, ” You stated, watching a set of tears flow out of the corners of his eyes, swallowing loudly, “I don’t associate you with weakness.” You whispered, brushing your thumb along the smooth skin of his cheek.

”I associate you with patience…With overwhelming kindness, and with strength so deep it doesn’t even have to be displayed. You could burn the sky down…You could use all the pain inside you to destroy the planet…Yet you help, you listen, and you keep going. That’s not a weak person Bob.” You wiped one of the tears away with your thumb, feeling him hesitate before leaning into your touch.

“Y/N…I’m not right in the head…You don’t understand…You’ll never understand.” You shook your head, and sighed.

”I don’t have to understand everything to care about you,” Bob’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, like the words that you said hit him like a truck. You could feel the tension in his jaw, as he clenched it tightly, trying to contain himself a bit.

“I used to think that if I could just bury everything deep enough maybe it wouldn’t make me feel so contaminated…But then when I got the serum…And The Void came…And that awfulness manifested into something bigger…I realized that it just wouldn’t go away. I’m dangerous Y/N…I’m not someone that can be fixed. I know you care, but I can’t risk hurting you.” You shifted closer to him, moving up slowly, dragging your chest along his. His eyes followed your movements, turning his head when you settled near his shoulder, feeling your hand leave his cheek.

“You don’t scare me Bob. You’re just saying this stuff because you think it’ll make me give up on you, but I’m not that easy to sway.” You whispered, reaching down to touch one of his hands, which caused him to flinch. He was already bracing himself, preparing to be pulled into one of your memories, but it didn’t happen…It was like…Things were quiet. Just pure emptiness, and the only thing he could see was you. He stared at you as you wrapped your fingers around his hand, seeing his brows draw together.

“H-How are you…Doing this?” He asked quietly, like he was afraid he was going to disturb the peace and get thrown into your mind out of nowhere.

”I locked it out.” He shook his head at you quickly.

”That’s impossible…It always gets in…” A small smile came up on your lips, hearing the disbelief in his voice, the way he was almost entirely taken aback by what you had just said. You leaned in a little closer to him, like you were going to tell him a secret, feeling his breath fanning over your face.

“Before I was recruited, I was part of a different team. Black-ops, kind of like what the X-Men used to be, but very much under the radar. It was just…Constant missions, we were a clean up crew basically, picking up the scraps that nobody else wanted…” You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth twitching with the memories of your team, how close you all were, how none of you took crap from anyone…Similar to what you had now, just a little better because of the tether you all had between each other.

“We ran into a lot of people with gifts. Telepaths. Empaths…Stuff like that. Some didn’t even know they were projecting until it was too late. Others weaponized it. Pulled secrets out like stitches and drove people insane without ever touching them.”

Bob was still staring at you, eyes wide and brimming with tears, his chest rising beneath you in short bursts.

“It was mandatory,” You continued. “To train in mental shielding. Neural control. The discipline to lock down your own mind so tight it’s like a vault. We trained until our thoughts didn’t even echo. You learn to breathe around psychic pressure, to mask trauma with static, to reroute memories into dead space. You learn to feel someone reaching for you…And then cut the line.”

Bob swallowed hard, hearing the way you explained everything to him step by step, while still holding his hand, running your thumb over the back of it.

“I wasn’t trained to stop the Void,” You said gently, “But I was trained to stop something similar to it. And apparently, it’s just close enough.” You watched his lashes flutter like he didn’t know whether he was going to cry again or if he was just going to sink into the mattress and disappear entirely.

“…That’s why the mental noise isn’t so loud when we're alone in a room together…” He whispered under his breath, almost like everything was clicking in his mind, as his hand began to tighten around yours now, matching the same hold you had, “…Mental shielding…Who knew that would be the thing that makes everything go quiet.” You smirked at his comment, already hearing the tension in his voice wavering, feeling his breath sticking to your cheeks, shifting in front of him so your noses bumped slightly.

“Technically it’s still quite an experimental thing, but…It works when needed I think.” You can see his lip twitch slightly, drawing into his mouth just a little bit, as if he wanted to get a taste of your breath that coated it.

“It’s…Amazing.” Was all he could muster up to say, continuing to hold onto your hand tightly, like it was anchoring him to this quiet space in his head that he had not been able to reach since taking the serum. “…All I hear, and all I feel…Is you and I had no clue until now…” The sound of his voice made your spine tingle, and goosebumps raise on your skin.

It was shocking that moments ago he was this wreck, then suddenly it was like he was on top of the world. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been touched like this in so long, or maybe it was because he finally had a break from all the noise that kept draining him, you had no clue…But what you did know is how soft his eyes had become, and how deep his breaths were now that he was a little calmer, and not being treated like a threat of some kind.

You shifted again, getting almost unbearably close to him now, the fabric of the blanket sliding down slowly, exposing your clothed bodies to the silvery-blue light just a little more. Bob didn’t move, but his eyes never left yours, he kept every ounce of attention on you, waiting for your next action, hanging on every moment. His breath hitched when your knees bumped gently against his thigh, as the warmth of your bodies radiated like twin heartbeats pressed just barely apart.

Your noses were brushing against one another, and if you tilted your chin up by just a little bit, you’d be kissing.

”I’m glad I’ve been able to make it go quiet for you…Even if it’s not permanent.” A faint smile slowly appeared on his face–crooked, and trembling, but so genuine.

“It’s more peace than I thought I’d ever get…So thank you.” He replied back, his hand squeezing yours, not in desperation, but with something closer to awe, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around the situation that was happening in front of him. His breath brushed across your face as he watched your eyes roaming over his. You couldn’t help but stare at him, to take him in now that he wasn’t crying, to admire the person who was in front of you. It was hard not to lose track of time studying his features, and how they were just…Him.

There was a long pause between the both of you, a snippet of time suspended into the universe where nothing else existed beyond the narrow bed and the hum of the city beyond the window. His chest rose slowly, puffing out warm shallow breaths against your lips, and for a second it felt like he was hesitating on something…But then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t fast, or sweeping like he was trying to catch you off guard. It was careful, like every little millimeter he closed between the both of you was an offer for you to pull back, but you didn’t take it.

When his lips met yours, it was a soft, trembling brush of mouths that lingered more in intent than execution. He kissed like he was afraid you were somehow going to disappear, but you could feel how much he truly wanted this. His lips were warm, and slightly parted, and you could taste the faintness of tears and salt, still hesitating to go the full mile.

There was a moment where he was about to pull back, and that’s when you took the opportunity to fully lean into the kiss and throw logic out the window, just for this one cut of time

Your lips moved against his, answering the softness of his approach with something more certain and grounded. The taste of him was still there, but now it was amplified tenfold from how much more pressure you were placing on the kiss now.

He was stiff at first, the tension in his jaw made it evident, like he was unsure of what he was allowed to do, what he was okay to give back, or like he was bracing himself for the possibility of you pulling back before he could even try to meet you where you were at. But then your hand let go of his, and slid up to cup the side of his face, and he let out the smallest gasp of disbelief against your mouth. Your thumb brushed gently beneath his eye as your lips molded to the shape of his mouth with a tenderness that shattered whatever restrain he’d been holding onto.

Your arm shifted beneath the pillow, bending just enough so you could lace your fingers into his damp hair, pulling him in more with such grace that it made him groan. His hand moved to your neck then–his shaky fingers pressing softly just below your ear, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw as he located your pulse instantly. His touch wasn’t possessive, it was filled with care, and curiosity. He wanted to feel the warmth of your skin, the steady–or not so steady–rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his fingers, he craved to be closer to you, and every moment that passed was giving him the signal that you wanted that too.

He shifted gently, slowly turning onto his side without breaking the kiss, being cautious not to put anymore unwanted pressure on your arm beneath him as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in until your bodies were flush against one another. You could feel the dampness on your sweater from his shirt, and your bare legs brushing against the cotton of his sleep pants, which only overwhelmed you more, knowing it was going to be a challenge to stop this from going too far.

His hand splayed out on your back, twitching against the fabric that covered it as you parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue to brush against yours with the softest flicker of hesitation, tasting you like he was drinking something sacred. The breath he let out against your mouth made your skin prickle beneath your sweater, and it only encouraged your response.

You angled your mouth to his, encouraging him to continue, feeling him follow suit in an instant, matching your energy bit by bit, syncing with the way you moved against him. When your hand slid further into his hair, and curled within the damp strands, gently tugging, he let out the smallest, softest moan–it was so quiet and desperate it sounded like it had been buried within him for years. It made your head spin hearing it, and it only made you shift yourself towards him even more, feeling his thigh nudging between your legs so the both of you can completely mesh together. It was such a subtle move, but it lit up every nerve ending in your body like it was nothing.

Bob’s hand slid beneath the hem of your sweater, craving the feeling of your skin beneath his touch. His fingers traced the small of your spine, barely putting enough pressure on it, yet he still managed to send shivers through your body. He was getting bolder, but kept his awareness at the forefront, like he was cataloging every reaction you gave him, terrified that he might cross an invisible line and ruin the moment.

You felt the muscles in his arm shift as he pulled you even closer, putting more pressure between your bodies until you felt every rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat pulsed through you. His knee shifted again, nudging further between your thighs, pressing it gently into the thin cotton fabric that covered your most sensitive area, eliciting a gasp from you now. You could feel yourself falter control for a moment, moving your hips just a little to test the friction that you wanted, and that’s when you both realized just how far this could go–and how close you already were to getting there.

His hand tensed against your back, and the kiss slowed down, until he found the correct moment to pull back, just a few inches. His lips were still parted, only now they were swollen and wet with saliva. He was out of breath, and you mirrored the same sentiment, as the both of you tried to even your racing hearts before they exploded. His pupils were dilated, and in the dimmed lighting you could only see a faint glisten of blue that rimmed the darkness that took over, the burn was there, the want was there, but there was the looming fear that you both were going from zero to one hundred really quickly, and that’s when regrets could be made, and neither of you wanted that.

”…We can’t do this…” He whispered, his voice cracking from being the first one to speak. You nodded faintly, your fingers still toying with his hair, reluctant to let go completely, but understanding him.

”I know,” You murmured, “Not like this…Not tonight.” You clarified. He closed his eyes, a soft exhale brushing your lips as his fingers twitched against your pulse point on your neck again.

”It’s not that I don’t want to,” He added quietly, “God I do…You have no idea.”

“I know,” You said again, running your thumb along his cheek, soothing the skin there, “Me too…I want to as well…But we’re not ready. Especially after being in the headspace that you were in a few minutes ago.” He nodded slowly.

”I don’t want it to be something that will be confused for a moment of distraction.” You stared at him, hearing how serious he was about it, “And I don’t want to ruin anything.” He added softly, opening his eyes again to look at you.

”You’re not ruining anything, we’re just pressing pause…And that’s completely fine, and it’s the best decision to make for right now.” He gave a small, nervous smile at that and leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours, “We’ll talk more about it later…But for now how about we just relax hmm?” He let out a shaky breath, the heat from it hitting your lips and invading your mouth for just a split second.

”Yeah…I’d like that.” You smiled faintly, as your bodies untangled just a bit from one another, removing the both of you from the intimate position you had found yourself in moments before. His knee shifted out from between your legs, and rested against them instead, letting the tension unravel and disappear slowly.

He wrapped both arms around you now, carefully noting your injury, and you folded yourself into his chest, letting your hand rest on his ribs as he pulled the blanket up to shield the both of you.

You both stayed there, nose to nose, breath to breath, hearts beating unevenly against one another until sleep came over you like a harsh wave.

[waywardsalt]

the single hardest thing to figure out about linebeck’s ship is the cannon and the salvage arm

[invoncible]

I’d love to see Invincible!variants meeting OG reader with powers/super strong because in their world, their reader is normal. I’d like to see their reaction when they’re expecting someone weak and then they suddenly fly off or get decked in the face!

INVINCIBLE VARIANTS & reader who can put them in their place ✧˚. ft. nogoggles!mark, mohawk!mark, viltrumite!mark, the surviving 8 cw. canon typical violence

— this is so funny ily nonnie but uhh rereading this i feel like i lost the plot, hope u enjoy nonetheless lol <3 ! — reader is with MAIN!mark & has scarlet witch type powers

when multiple versions of your boyfriend were zipping around the planet causing indescribable amounts of destruction, you were a little confused. all of these guys... were mark? what mark could've been if things went a little different?

you held back a little when fighting them because they had the face of the boy you loved so much, but after seeing them in action... they had to go.

you were flying beside your mark, the only good one apparently, when cecil barked in your ear.

"y/n, i need you." your comm buzzed to life with cecil's instructions.

"kinda busy, cecil." you muttered under your breath.

"please, i know you're done with me. i know both of you are. but don't turn your back on the people who're in danger."

"what does he want?" your mark snapped, the distaste evident on his face.

"help." you answered him with a sigh, your moral compass guilting you into seeing where you were needed. you promised mark you'd be back soon.

"just tell me where the problem is." you shot back at cecil.

NOGOGGLES!MARK

"i need you at guardians' HQ."

you narrowed your eyes in concern. "the guardians are down?"

"it's a batshit crazy version of mark, what do you think?"

you rolled your eyes and rerouted your flight path to guardians' base. within minutes you warped right in the middle of the action.

"what the fuck..." you whispered in horror. kate and her duplicates were out, shapesmith was ripped in half—immortal was the only one still going and even he was struggling.

"nice, they sent someone else!" mark stopped immortal's punch nonchalantly with one hand, grinning down at you from where he hovered in the air. he squinted then gasped, throwing immortal to the ground.

"y/n? why would they send you?" he floated down to you, approaching you like a wild animal.

"you know me?" you stalled, eyes darting around your periphery to make sure that the others were at least alive.

"do i know you?" he laughed, figuring that was a good enough answer to your question. he circled around you with an approving hum. "aww, you playing dress up? i like this color on you—"

activating your power, your tendrils of chaos magic snaked around his body, picking him up and throwing him across the room. you flew to where he landed, lifting the debris of his prior battle telekinetically and sending the slabs of concrete crashing into his body.

your feet touched down on the ground as you walked calmly towards his fallen body squirming under the projectiles. he shot up and out of the pile of rocks with a feral grin on his face.

"holy shit. you're nothing like my y/n." he set his fists and accelerated towards you.

you stopped him with the raise of your hand. his punch stuttered in time and space as he tried his hardest to push past your power and land a good one. you ducked under him, yanking at his ankle and slamming him to the ground so hard he bounced.

"yes," he chuckled lowly, wiping the blood dripping on his chin. "yes. can i take you home with me?"

"no."

"i'll fight you for it," he stood up, rolling his neck. you cringed when you heard the cacophony of cracks that followed. "wanna fight me for it?"

"s'not gonna be much of a fight." you smiled, shifting your weight before taking off again, gaining altitude and using your power as a jet engine to collide your leg with his face.

to your shock and horror, he just stood there and took it with a smile, his body skipping across the floor like a rock over a lake .

"oh..." he grinned, sliding to a stop and licking the blood off his teeth. "oh. i love you."

you blinked in confusion, tilting your head. your body warmed as you channeled your power again, a ball of energy accumulating over your palm. "i'm... going to kill you."

"i know!" he laughed, punching his fist into his palm as he got hyped up again. "that's the best part."

"you're actually enjoying this." you meant it as a question, but there was no room for debate. this mark was 100% delighted by the fact you were trying to kill him.

mark swayed on his feet, blood dribbling from his split lip. his breathing was uneven—you couldn't tell if it was from exertion or excitement—and of course that fucking grin was still there.

"you’re so fun," he groaned, licking his teeth. "i love my y/n, but i bet they could learned a thing or two from you—"

you didn’t let him finish. with a flick of your wrist, your energy surged forward, wrapping around his throat. his words choked off into a strangled gasp as you lifted him into the air.

"i'm not them," you said, voice steady even as you watched him gasp for air.

then, with a sharp twist—you snapped his neck. his body dropped to the floor, limp. you stared for a second, waiting for any signs of movement. nothing. finally, you let out a breath and turned away.

"ugh..."

you froze and spun around. his voice was wet, choked with laughter.

"you're not making it easy to stay away from you."

MOHAWK!MARK

"the penitentiary. prison's getting ransacked."

you were at the scene within the minute, zapping into existence just to see mark with a fuckass mohawk fighting off some heroes tasked with taking him in. they were unsuccessful of course, as when you arrived they were in piles of limbs and blood on the concrete.

his eyes flickered to you, widening in recognition. "y/n..?"

you raised your eyebrow. guess he knew you, or a version of you in his world. it didn't matter to you.

he lit up and tossed a severed hand to the side. "oh, hey!" he walked towards you. "what're you doing here, babe? i know you love when i go crazy but this is a biiiiit dangerous—"

you restricted his movement, pulling him towards you with your magic. you squeezed and squeezed until you heard his breath hitch. "i'm not your y/n."

"yeah, i can see that." he crooned, feigning an impressed tone. "you got a little power now? if you wanted me close, you don't have to be rough. just ask. i'm happy with any version of you." he failed to hide his little grunt, squirming in your hold.

if your grimace was any indication of your sentiment, he didn't take it to heart. he took it as motivation. he broke through your magic, pummeling through the air towards you. unfazed, you slapped him off course with a bolt of magic. he crashed into the wall with a groan.

mark stood up, the dust and rocks falling off his back. "my y/n was a sweetheart."

"i can be sweet," you mumbled more to yourself, brows furrowing as you strategized how to finish him off quickly.

"just not for me, though." mark grinned. "i see how it is. is it the hair?"

"kinda." your eyes flickered up to his hair and you couldn't stop the little smile on your face. all you could think about was your mark with that style. it worked on him, not that you'd admit it.

you picked him up and slammed him down, picked him up and slammed him down again, over and over until he was hanging limp in the air.

satisfied, you synthesized restraints from imagination and fastened them over him. you barely climbed out of the sunken crater you carved with his body when he coughed up blood, eyes fluttering.

you pressed a finger to your ear. "cecil, send someone else to bring this guy in. i've got to get back."

"you just gonna throw me around and leave?" he scoffed, words slurring together from the beating.

"someone's gonna take you in, and you're gonna tell us everything about how you got here." you sigh and barely spare him a glance over your shoulder.

"i won't talk." he sang teasingly.

"you will."

"i'll do it maybe if you come a little closer." he egged you on, a stupid little smirk on his face. "got something real special to say to you."

"shut up."

he groaned petulantly and started to push against your magical binds.

"stay." you narrowed your eyes.

his eyes darted up to yours, staring for a moment before huffing a short laugh. he leaned back against the caved-in pavement, man-spreading and getting comfy against the slope. "yes, ma'am."

VILTRUMITE!MARK

"he's off fighting spawn. the poor guy's probably already dead."

"got it."

"watch out for this one, y/n, he's..." cecil sucked in a breath. "i dunno. full viltrumite indoctrination?"

"i can handle him." you reassured him before phasing over to the variant's location.

you watched as he ripped the hero apart, flying him into the highway below for good measure. you soared down behind him, saving all the cars that were launched from the road and setting them down at a safe distance.

mark watched as the cars were gently rescued. he turned around like he had all the time in the world and looked pained upon seeing you.

"please no." he sighed softly. "they shouldn't have sent you."

"why not?" you humored him, stepping gracefully over the rubble.

"i won't stop all this. not even for you, my love."

"i'm not your y/n..." you pursed your lips, getting a faint sense of deja vu. you felt like you said this a few times already.

"don't worry, it'll be over soon. why don't you wait all this out—"

you teleport before he can finish, reappearing behind him mid-air. a surge of energy coils around your hands as you slam a concussive blast into his back. he stumbles forward, muscles tensing from the impact.

he spun around in a flash, hand gripping your throat as he shoves you back-first into the nearest building. the collision sent shockwaves rippling through the complex, glass shattering, debris crumbling to the ground.

"cute tricks." he breathed against your ear. "this is new. but don't make me fight you."

you stabbed your fingers into his pressure points, channeling your power through his nerves. his grip faltered for a fraction of a second, enough time for you to flip, plant your feet on his chest, and kick him off you.

mark spiraled back, barely catching himself mid-air. he wipes the blood from his lip from being effectively electrocuted, chest rising and falling.

"join me," he whispered, watching you in awe. "join me. we can rule the universe together."

"the fact that you think you can ask that and get a good answer proves that you don't know me at all."

"i do."

"you don't."

"we could have everything." he floats towards you. "power. control. be reasonable, won't you?"

you phase behind him again, placing one hand on his back and charging up your energy. he tries to turn around, but you're a second faster, releasing the pent-up force directly into him. mark grimaces in pain as the blast sends him spiraling into the air, flipping and tumbling before crashing into the ground below with a deafening thud.

you crashed onto the ground, unwilling to let him have another opportunity to get up. he saves you the trouble and holds a hand up in surrender.

"i won't fight you." he says simply.

you shake your head incredulously. "it's not a choice."

"i'll come find you when this is all over." he dismissed you easily, walking off your attacks.

"what—?"

he took off at supersonic speed, leaving you in the dust.

THE SURVIVORS

"they're all hovering over mark's house."

"what?! is—"

"debbie and oliver are fine. they're safe elsewhere." cecil cut you off.

you groaned and teleported over to mark's house. unfortunately, they were in your usual spot, hovering over the roof. you hung there in the air for a split second before they all pounced on you.

"we can't all have a y/n, can we?" full mask mark exclaimed, being the first to grab you and spin away from the group with you hidden safely behind him. "i'm taking them and mom back with me."

"you lost mom and y/n?" omnimark shook his head, like a father disappointed in a child. "how can you be trusted with this one?"

you narrowed your eyes. "i'm literally right here—"

"shut the fuck up." prison mark snapped at full mask mark, pushing past omnimark and jabbed a finger at the soft one of the bunch. "i'm tired of your bitching and whining. keep mom, i guess, i don't fuckin' care. but give 'em back."

"i hate you guys." sighed omnimark.

"who said you were getting them?" unmasked mark scoffed and crossed his arms.

"no one's getting me." you broke up the fight, momentarily forgetting that they were all mass murderers just cuz they had your pretty boyfriend's face.

"yeah, cuz you'd rather settle for that stupid fucking mark from this world."

"why'd you say his name like it's a slur?" you deadpanned. "aren't you all technically mark?"

"we're getting off topic." omnimark held out a hand to calm the congregation. "for what it's worth, i have my y/n safe and sound back home—"

"oh for fuck's sake."

© invoncible

[arkaiveofurown]

sitting on his lap

Pairings: Zoro x Reader, Sabo x Reader, Law x Reader, Ace x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000 words

tags: suggestive, fluff (?)

my masterlist here ♡

——

Zoro

The Sunny’s crow’s nest smells of steel and sweat, the late-night breeze slipping through the open hatch as you climb up to find Zoro mid-training, shirtless, katanas resting against the wall. His chest heaves, muscles glistening under the moonlight, and he glances over with a grunt.

“What���re you doin’ up here?” he asks, wiping his face with a towel, his tone gruff but not unwelcoming.

Below, you can hear Sanji’s flirtatious banter with Nami, the crew’s usual chaos a distant hum.

You shrug, leaning against the doorway.

“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d bug you instead of sittin’ on some boring deck chair,” you say, a smirk playing on your lips.

Zoro snorts, sitting on a bench, spreading his legs slightly as he gestures to his lap with a nod.

“Fine. Park yourself here if you’re gonna waste my time.”

Your stomach flips, but you don’t back down, crossing the small space and settling onto his lap, the heat of his bare skin burning through your clothes. His hands hover awkwardly for a moment before resting on your hips, firm and unapologetic.

“Didn’t think you’d actually do it,” he mutters, voice rough, his good eye scanning you with a mix of suspicion and something hotter.

You grin, shifting to get comfortable, feeling the hard planes of his thighs beneath you.

“What, thought I’d be scared of the big bad swordsman?” you tease, poking at his chest.

His grip tightens, a low growl rumbling from him.

“Keep runnin’ your mouth, and you’ll see how bad I can be,” he shoots back, the edge in his tone sending a thrill through you.

“Oh, I’m shakin’,” you reply, sarcastic, leaning back against him, your head brushing his shoulder.

“You should be,” he grunts, one hand sliding up your side, calloused fingers rough against your skin. “Or you wanna find out how sharp my edge really is?”

The back-and-forth cuts deeper, tension coiling tight.

“All talk, Zoro. Where’s the action?” you challenge, turning to face him, your legs straddling his lap now, the position bold and intimate.

His jaw clenches, and his hands grip your waist hard, pulling you flush against him.

“Fuck, you’re askin’ for it,” he growls, his breath hot against your neck as he leans in, teeth grazing your skin.

“Then give it to me, tough guy,” you murmur, fingers tangling in his green hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.

His control slips, and he shifts beneath you, the hard bulge in his pants pressing insistently against your core, sparking heat that pools low in your belly.

“Damn it, you’re gonna regret this,” he warns, voice thick with need, his hand slipping under your shirt to grip bare skin, rough and demanding.

“Make me,” you dare, rolling your hips against him, earning a guttural groan as his fingers dig into your flesh, the promise of raw, unrestrained heat hanging in the air.

The crow’s nest creaks under the weight of your shared tension, the night swallowing every sound except the harsh rasp of his breath against your ear.

——

Sabo

Smoke curls from a nearby campfire as the Revolutionary Army’s temporary base hums with quiet tension. You’re hunched over a map with Sabo in a dimly lit tent, the flickering lantern casting shadows across his scarred face. His gloved hand brushes yours as he points to a supply route, and the contact—brief, accidental—sends a jolt through you.

“You’re distracted,” he says, voice calm but edged with amusement, his sharp eyes flicking up to meet yours.

Koala’s voice cuts in from outside the tent, teasing, “Don’t let Sabo bore you to death with strategy, y’know!”

You smirk, shaking your head.

“Nah, I’m just tired of sittin’ on this hard-ass crate,” you grumble, stretching with a dramatic sigh.

Sabo leans back in his chair, a rare playful glint in his gaze.

“Well, I’ve got a better spot if you’re game,” he offers, patting his lap with a subtle, challenging tilt of his head.

Your heart skips, but you play it cool, raising a brow.

“Oh? Think I won’t take you up on that, Chief of Staff?” you quip, standing and stepping closer.

His smirk widens as you lower yourself onto his lap, the fabric of his coat rough against your thighs, his body solid and warm beneath you.

“Didn’t peg you for shy,” he murmurs, his tone dipping low, one hand resting lightly on your back to steady you.

You scoff, shifting to get comfortable, acutely aware of every point of contact.

“Shy? Nah, I just don’t wanna break your fancy noble legs,” you tease, and his quiet laugh sends a thrill through you.

“Trust me, I can handle a lot more than you think,” he replies, his voice smooth, suggestive, his fingers pressing just a bit firmer against your spine.

“Oh, really? Care to test that theory?” you challenge, turning slightly to face him, your knee brushing his side.

His eyes darken, and the air between you crackles.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I might just show you,” he says, his free hand hovering near your thigh, teasing but not quite crossing the line—yet.

The banter flows, each jab and retort building a slow, simmering heat.

“You’re all talk, Sabo. Where’s that revolutionary spirit now?” you taunt, leaning closer, your breath mingling with his.

His grip tightens, pulling you flush against him, and his lips curve into a dangerous smile.

“Careful what you wish for. I don’t play fair when I’m provoked,” he warns, his thumb tracing a slow circle on your lower back.

Your pulse races as you tilt your head, lips inches from his.

“Good. I don’t want fair. I want trouble,” you whisper, and his restraint snaps for a fleeting moment—his hand slides to your hip, firm and possessive.

“Fuck, you’re pushin’ it,” he growls, shifting beneath you, the tension of his body evident, the hard press of him against you igniting a fire in your core.

“Then do somethin’ about it,” you dare, your fingers threading through his blond hair, tugging lightly.

His breath hitches, and he leans in, lips brushing your neck as he murmurs, “Keep this up, and I’ll have you pinned against this map in two seconds flat.”

The promise hangs heavy, your skin tingling where his mouth grazes, the tent suddenly far too small for the heat exploding between you.

——

Law

The Polar Tang’s engine hums deep below deck, the dim light of the control room casting Law’s sharp features in stark relief. You’re perched on a crate, watching him scribble notes in his medical journal, his coat slung over a chair, leaving his inked arms bare.

“You’ve been starin’ for five minutes straight,” he says without looking up, his voice dry, cutting through the quiet.

Bepo’s muffled snoring echoes from the next room, a reminder of the crew’s rare downtime.

You shrug, swinging your legs.

“Just wonderin’ how you don’t get tired sittin’ in that stiff chair all day,” you reply, a teasing lilt in your tone.

Law’s golden eyes flick up, piercing, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“If you’re so concerned, I’ve got a better seat right here,” he says, leaning back and gesturing to his lap with a casual, almost clinical precision that somehow feels loaded.

Your breath catches, but you mask it with a grin, hopping off the crate.

“Don’t mind if I do, Captain,” you say, sauntering over and settling onto his lap, the hard lines of his frame unyielding beneath you.

His smirk doesn’t waver, but his hand rests on your thigh, light yet deliberate, sending a spark through you.

“Comfortable?” he asks, voice low, almost a purr, as he tilts his head to study you.

“Could be worse,” you shoot back, shifting slightly, feeling the subtle tension in his grip.

“Didn’t think you’d actually take me up on it,” he admits, his tone dipping into something warmer, less guarded.

You lean in a fraction, testing the waters.

“What, thought I’d chicken out? You don’t scare me, Law.”

His eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flashing through them.

“Careful. I’m not as predictable as you think,” he warns, his fingers tightening just enough to make your pulse jump.

“Oh? Gonna show me somethin’ new, then?” you challenge, your hand brushing his collar, lingering near the ink of his tattoos.

The exchange sharpens, words slicing through the charged air.

“You’re playin’ a risky game,” he murmurs, his free hand sliding up to your waist, slow and calculated, like he’s dissecting every reaction.

“And if I am? You gonna cut me open, doc?” you tease, your voice breathy, daring him to push further.

His smirk turns predatory, and he pulls you closer, the heat of him searing through your clothes.

“Might just dissect every damn inch of you if you keep talkin’ like that,” he growls, his thumb brushing the edge of your hip, teasing the skin beneath.

Your breath hitches as you grind down subtly, earning a low, rough sound from his throat.

“Fuck, don’t start what you can’t finish,” he warns, his grip turning possessive, guiding your movements with surgical precision.

“Who says I can’t finish?” you whisper, lips hovering near his, feeling the hard length of him press against you through the fabric.

His eyes darken to molten gold, and his hand slips under your shirt, fingers splaying across your bare skin as he mutters,

“Then let’s see how much you can take before you’re beggin’.”

The promise sends a shiver down your spine, his touch igniting every nerve as the room’s hum fades into the pounding of your own heartbeat.

——

Ace

The deck of the Moby Dick sways under a crimson sunset, the air thick with salt and the distant roar of waves. You’re leaning against the railing, watching Ace toss a playful fireball into the sky, the flames licking the dusk before fizzling out. His grin, wide and reckless, pulls at something deep in your chest.

“Oi, you gonna stand there gawkin’ all day, or come closer?” he calls out, wiping sweat off his brow, his tattooed arm flexing with casual strength. Marco, perched nearby on a barrel, chuckles low.

“Careful, Ace, don’t burn her with that hothead charm of yours.”

You roll your eyes but step forward, the wooden planks creaking underfoot. Ace’s dark eyes lock on yours, daring, teasing, as he pats his thigh with a smirk.

“Got a seat right here if you’re tired of standin’.”

You hesitate, pulse quickening, but his playful taunt—“What, scared of a little heat?”—pushes you over the edge.

“Fine, hotshot, don’t cry if I steal your spot,” you shoot back, striding over and sliding onto his lap with a boldness you don’t fully feel. His thighs are firm beneath you, warm even through the fabric, and his breath hitches for half a second before that cocky grin returns.

“Damn, didn’t think you’d actually do it,” he murmurs, voice low, his hand hovering near your waist like he’s testing the waters.

You shift slightly, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint scent of ash and sea clinging to him.

“Thought you liked surprises, Ace. Or am I too much for you?”

Your words drip with challenge, and his laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against you.

“Oh, darlin’, you’re playin’ with fire now. I don’t back down easy.” His fingers graze your hip, light but deliberate, sending a shiver up your spine.

Around you, the crew’s noise fades—Thatch whistling somewhere, Vista barking orders—but all you hear is Ace’s teasing drawl.

“So, you gonna stay here all night, or you got other plans to mess with my head?”

The conversation stretches, each word a spark fanning the tension.

“Mess with your head? Please, I’m just keepin’ you grounded,” you retort, leaning back against his chest, feeling his heartbeat pick up. His arm finally loops around your waist, pulling you tighter, and his lips brush near your ear.

“Grounded, huh? Feels more like you’re settin’ me ablaze.”

His voice is husky now, suggestive, and you turn your head just enough to catch his gaze—dark, hungry, but still laced with that boyish mischief.

“Careful, Ace, I might just fan those flames,” you whisper, your hand resting on his chest, fingers tracing the edge of his open shirt.

He groans softly, a sound that shoots heat straight through you.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, his grip tightening as he shifts you on his lap, the friction deliberate and maddening.

The world narrows to the heat between you, the slow grind of your hips against him, and his low growl of “Keep that up, and I’m draggin’ you below deck right now.”

Your breath catches as his hand slides lower, thumb brushing the edge of your thigh, daring you to push further into this dangerous game.

[keithyp00]

•·.·´`·.·•• You're Lying (and other things Sam won't stop saying) ••·.·´`·.·•

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: language, mild suggestiveness, comedy, romance, light-angst, found family, slow burn payoff, excessive teasing, established relationship, Sam being annoying

Trope: Everyone thinks you're not really dating. You are. No one believes you.

Word Count: 2.0K

Author Note: Guys this is just like my last one, this is to help me mentally prep for an AP exam tomorrow morning so if this is bad I am so sorry. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You and Bucky were dating.

Like- really dating.

In the 'he's seen you at your absolute worst and still kisses your cheek like he doesn't look at you any differently' kind of way. The 'you keep an extra toothbrush at his place and he makes your coffee how you like it without asking' kind of way. The 'he pulls you into his lap during team movie nights and smiles against your shoulder, murmuring words into your ear like it's not the most dangerous thing he could do' kind of way.

And no one believed you.

Especially not Sam.

"Oh, come one," he said, flatly, as he walked in on you and Bucky curled up on the couch. "This again?"

You blinked. "We're watching Pretty Woman, Sam."

"You're spooning."

"We're affectionate."

"You're not even kissing! He's probably just cold. You know he runs cold. Like a cyborg space lizard or something."

Bucky growled. "Cyborg space-?!"

"Right," Sam interrupted. "Sure. Keep telling people you're dating. I'll be over here living in reality."

You buried your face into Bucky's neck. "I hate him," you mumbled.

"You love him," Bucky corrected with a sigh. "You just want him to validate our relationship."

"I want him to believe in our relationship. There's a difference."

Sam, in the kitchen, called out: "I don't!"

Bucky flipped him off without looking.

~~~~~

The problem wasn't that you and Bucky didn't act like a couple.

The problem was that you didn't act like a normal couple.

You didn't post mushy selfies. You didn't wear matching shirts. You didn't coo pet names across conference tables. You just... existed. Comfortable. Quietly in sync. The kind of romance that felt more like a heartbeat than a firework.

Too subtle for people like Sam Wilson, apparently.

"You didn't even kiss when you got back from that mission," Sam pointed out, a few weeks later. "She was gone for five days, man."

Bucky, polishing a knife, didn't look up. "I kissed her afterward. In private."

"See, that's the problem! You hide it. Makes it look fake."

"I'm sorry," you snapped. "I didn't realize our love life was for public broadcast. Want us to livestream the next one?"

Sam looked delighted. "That's a strong reaction. I hit a nerve. This is faker than Tony's allergy to gluten."

Tony called from down the hall: "It's real, you bastard!"

~~~~~

At first, it was funny.

Then it got exhausting.

You weren't insecure about your relationship- Bucky made sure of that, every day, in a dozen quiet ways. He cooked for you. Kissed your temple. Held your hand under tables. Brushed his thumb along your jaw like it was the most precious part of you.

But still. No one believed it.

Not Nat, who called it "convenient physical proximity."

No Clint, who claimed he'd never seen you kiss with tongue (as id that were a valid benchmark).

Not even Steve, who offered a gentle "Are you sure he's not just emotionally dependent on you?"

It all came to a head one night at a bar.

You'd just finished a mission and everyone was letting off steam. Sam leaned against the bar counter beside you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"So," he started. "You and Barnes still 'dating'?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

"Hmm. Okay." He sipped his beer. "So if I leaned in and kissed you right now, he wouldn't deck me?"

You stared at him.

"Try it," Bucky said darkly from behind, voice like cracked gravel.

Sam smiled. "Still not proof."

Bucky grabbed your hand. "You want proof?"

"Bucky-" you warned.

"No, no. He wants a show. Let's give him one."

He yanked you flush against him, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you.

Not a polite kiss.

Not a we're-dating-I-swear kiss.

A I-know-every-inch-of-your-mouth-and-I-love-you kiss.

Hot. Possessive. Unapologetic.

You melted into it, clutched his shirt, kissed him back with something that sounded like a whimper because Jesus.

When he pulled away, Sam blinked. "...Okay. Damn."

"Believe us now?" Bucky raised a brow.

Sam blinked again. "Not really."

You grabbed a pretzel stick and stabbed it into the foam of Sam's beer. "I hope you step on RedWing."

~~~~~

Even after that, the teasing didn't stop.

Because of course it didn't.

"You probably practiced that," Sam said a few days later.

"What?"

"That kiss. You planned it. Just to throw me off."

Bucky rubbed his temples. "You are the most annoying man I've ever met."

"You're just mad I cracked the code."

"There is no code!"

You yanked open the fridge, pulled out a tub of frosting, and started eating it with a spoon. "I actually cannot live like this."

Sam pointed at the spoon. "See? No real girlfriend would let her boyfriend see that."

"Bucky bought me this frosting."

Bucky looked like he was about to get up and beat the shit out of Sam if he didn't start walking away.

~~~~~

Eventually, you gave up.

Let them believe what they wanted.

You and Bucky still kissed behind closed doors, curled together on the couch, whispered sleepy confessions after long days.

Until-

One night, you got sick.

Really sick. The kind of body-aching, fever-drenched flu that turned you into a grumpy, sniffling, corpse with a bag full of used tissues beside your bed.

And Bucky took care of everything.

He brought you soup. Rubbed your back. Helped you shower when you were too weak to stand. Brushed your hair out of your face. Slept beside you even when you told him not to.

Sam stopped by to check on you and walked in on Bucky holding your hand while you slept, forehead pressed to your wrist like he was praying.

He backed out slowly.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't tease.

Didn't breathe.

The next morning, there was a small gift basket on your nightstand.

From Sam.

With a card.

"Okay. You win. He loves you. I won't say another word. P.S. Please don't tell anyone I'm capable of this level of sincerity. I have a rep to protect."

~~~~~

You- of course- showed Bucky the card.

He smirked. "About damn time."

You kissed him with a smile.

And this time, no one questioned it.

~~~~~

The peace lasted exactly five days.

Five beautiful, uninterrupted days.

No teasing, no smug side-eyes, no Sam accusing you of being part of an elaborate CIA cover operation. Just you, Bucky, some early morning kisses over coffee, and one blessed evening where you somehow convinced him to slow dance in the kitchen to 40s music.

And then Sam broke into your new apartment. One you thought would give you full time peace compared to the Avengers compound.

(he claimed he "used the spare key." You knew he just picked the lock.)

"Morning, lovebirds," he smiled brightly, leaning against the doorframe like this wasn't the worst intrusion since Ross kissed someone else while he and Rachel were on a break.

You stared at him over Bucky's shoulder, still wrapped in his hoodie with sleep-mussed hair and a mug of tea between your palms. "It's 7:13 a.m."

"I brought bagels."

"And chaos."

Sam strolled in. "And relationship advice."

Bucky looked up from the couch, dead-eyed. "Why?"

"Because now that I know you two are the real deal, I gotta make sure you stay real."

You rubbed your temples. "We're not a gas leak, Sam."

"No, but you're both stubborn and weirdly avoidant and emotionally repressed, and frankly, I'm impressed it took me this long to be needed."

Bucky mumbled, "I'd rather be waterboarded."

Sam ignored him and slapped a notebook onto the table. "Step one: scheduled communication check-ins."

"Oh my god-"

~~~~~

You tried ignoring him.

Didn't work.

Because Sam became relentless. He started showing up with couple's quizzes.

Brought you a deck of 'relationship conversation starters.'

Installed an app on Bucky's phone called 'LoveTracker.'

("It's like Find My iPhone, but romantic," he said. Bucky installed it in twelve seconds.)

And worst of all- he documented everything.

"Bucky," he'd say mid-mission, "when was the last time you complimented her non-physically?"

You stared at him. "Non-physically?"

"Yeah. Like her intelligence. Or her moral compass. Or how she hasn't murdered me yet."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I call her my girl every morning."

"That's possessive endearment, not a compliment."

"I tell her she's smarter than Tony."

~~~~~

Somewhere around Week 3 of Sam's Unsolicited Couples Therapy, something unexpected happened.

He stopped being annoying.

(Okay, no. He was definitely still annoying.)

But... he also started being kind of helpful.

Like the night you and Bucky got into your first real fight.

It wasn't explosive. Just sharp. Quiet. Full of jagged silences.

You'd been on back-to-back missions, and Bucky had started pulling away. Fewer cuddles. More brooding. Less talking. You tried to be patient- God, you tried- but when he snapped at you for asking what was wrong, it all unraveled.

"I'm trying to help," you said, voice trembling.

"I didn't ask for it," he muttered.

The room froze.

You didn't cry.

You never cried in front of him.

But that night, you shut your bedroom door behind you and curled up alone.

Bucky didn't come in.

Not until morning.

But Sam came over first.

~~~~~

He found you on the balcony, hoodie pulled over your knees, cold tea forgotten beside you.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just sat down next to you, offered a granola bar.

Then, quietly: "You know, when Sarah gets mad at me, I do this thing where I pretend I'm not scared I'll lose her. But I am. I always am."

You looked over. "You think Bucky's scared?"

Sam tilted his head. "That man loved you like it's gonna be taken away from him. Like he's holding something he thinks he shouldn't have. So yeah. He's scared."

You didn't cry.

But you breathed.

And it helped.

~~~~~

Bucky apologized that afternoon.

He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, breathing hard like it took everything in him to walk in.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For being a coward. For making you feel like you weren't wanted when you're the only thing I ever want."

You looked at him.

He stepped closer. "I never learned how to let myself be... this happy. It scared the hell out of me. But not as much as losing you."

You opened your arms, and he came apart in them.

That night, Bucky fell asleep with his hand on your heart.

And you whispered, "You're safe with me."

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam dropped off muffins.

"I told you you'd fight eventually," he said smugly.

You grabbed the muffins and shut the door in his face with a smile.

~~~~~

Over time, you adapted.

You didn't expect Sam to be a normal friend, he didn't know how to do that. But you did start to appreciate him as a part of your life. Your weird, overinvolved, chaotic platonic marriage therapist.

He became your sounding board.

Your crisis texter.

Your sarcastic but loyal brother figure who threatened anyone who looked at you funny and called Bucky 'lover boy' just to watch him twitch.

One night, you all sat around a campfire during a retreat mission. Quiet stars. Crickets. Steve snoring faintly in the background.

Sam looked over at you both.

"You know," he said, voice softer than usual, "you're actually really good together."

Bucky looked at him. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. But I mean it. You make him more human," he said to you. Then, to Bucky: "And you make her feel protected without caging her."

You blinked.

Bucky squeezed your hand.

Sam threw a marshmallow at you both. "Don't get soft on me. I'll revoke my own compliment."

~~~~~

Months later...

You stood at the edge of a field after a joint mission, hair tousled, laughing with Bucky as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Sam walked past, muttering into comms.

"She's in love, he's in denial, and I'm still unpaid for all their therapy."

You smiled to yourself.

You were real.

You were loved.

And you had the most chaotic friend group in the world.

Which honestly... was kind of perfect.

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find. 

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.” 

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off? 

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter. 

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter. 

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash. 

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass. 

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good. 

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.” 

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.” 

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors. 

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots. 

All but one. 

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl. 

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now. 

- 

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday. 

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base. 

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off. 

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room. 

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.” 

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.” 

Smug prick. 

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.” 

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room. 

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.” 

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.” 

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.” 

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?” 

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?” 

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.” 

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.” 

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought. 

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive. 

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not. 

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.” 

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off. 

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost. 

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign. 

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs. 

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit. 

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.” 

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs. 

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along. 

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room. 

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.” 

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.” 

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms. 

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest. 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.” 

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.” 

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.” 

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.” 

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off. 

You like her. No bullshit. 

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried. 

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble. 

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely. 

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room. 

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen. 

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?” 

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.” 

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.” 

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.” 

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe. 

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?” 

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.” 

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.” 

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall. 

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team. 

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad. 

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean. 

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. 

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good. 

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms. 

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?” 

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly. 

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?” 

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.” 

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead. 

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.” 

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now. 

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face. 

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of. 

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet? 

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall. 

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when— 

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room. 

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again. 

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to. 

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks. 

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.” 

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.” 

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them. 

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.” 

You snort quietly. 

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in. 

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes. 

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.” 

- 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance. 

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight. 

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley. 

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start. 

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip. 

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence. 

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment. 

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep. 

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him. 

Ugh. Gross. 

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there. 

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack. 

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet. 

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass. 

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.” 

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?” 

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.” 

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-” 

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief. 

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.” 

“Punishment?” 

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself. 

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-” 

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!” 

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.” 

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.” 

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.” 

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.” 

“It’ll be too late.” 

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley. 

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod. 

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.” 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar. 

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid. 

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections. 

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley. 

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time. 

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles. 

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles. 

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.” 

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.” 

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.” 

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear. 

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults. 

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?” 

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.” 

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?” 

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?” 

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”  

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.” 

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer. 

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does. 

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer. 

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over. 

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.  

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.” 

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.” 

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay. 

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.” 

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips. 

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.” 

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?” 

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.” 

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.” 

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.” 

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”  

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him. 

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.” 

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.” 

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner? 

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke. 

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to. 

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull? 

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.” 

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf. 

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.” 

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.” 

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words. 

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to? 

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings. 

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them. 

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech. 

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door. 

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water. 

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?” 

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.” 

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe? 

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm. 

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink. 

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest. 

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.” 

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue. 

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?” 

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.” 

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.” 

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.” 

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter. 

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.” 

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely. 

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?” 

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found. 

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.” 

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.” 

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at. 

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?” 

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.” 

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.” 

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.” 

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you. 

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?” 

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping. 

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.” 

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move. 

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…” 

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth. 

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.” 

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows. 

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still. 

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur. 

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?” 

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.” 

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away. 

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.” 

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?” 

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck. 

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him. 

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral? 

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?” 

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.” 

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?” 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.” 

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?” 

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway. 

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?” 

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?” 

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-” 

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?” 

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.” 

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.” 

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?” 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.” 

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” 

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.” 

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect. 

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” 

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.” 

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.” 

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.” 

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?” 

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?” 

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.” 

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar. 

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.” 

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?” 

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot. 

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly. 

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable. 

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap. 

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm. 

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin. 

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving. 

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap. 

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself. 

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief. 

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.” 

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours. 

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not. 

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you. 

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct. 

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable. 

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover. 

- 

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like… 

Holy shit. 

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit. 

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe. 

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life. 

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door. 

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed. 

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early. 

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case. 

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?” 

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.” 

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.” 

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk. 

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices. 

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.” 

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?” 

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?” 

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.” 

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you. 

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.” 

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking. 

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?” 

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.” 

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move. 

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?” 

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet. 

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time. 

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame. 

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective. 

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light. 

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening. 

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well. 

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery. 

You're never living this down. 

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.” 

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.” 

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.” 

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.” 

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again. 

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?” 

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.” 

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?” 

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.” 

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-” 

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused. 

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk. 

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.” 

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together. 

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills. 

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit. 

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone. 

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning. 

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him. 

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left. 

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought. 

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last. 

- 

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world. 

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut. 

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with. 

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone. 

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in. 

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit. 

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you. 

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?” 

You don’t react. 

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.” 

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.” 

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault. 

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?” 

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up. 

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn. 

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does. 

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?” 

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out. 

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care. 

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you. 

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.” 

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.” 

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.” 

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.” 

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths. 

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.” 

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle. 

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place. 

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room. 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly. 

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots. 

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement. 

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful. 

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?” 

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too. 

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.” 

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive. 

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended. 

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do. 

At least you’ll die happy. 

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask. 

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction. 

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.” 

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.” 

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.” 

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible. 

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back. 

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest. 

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next. 

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast. 

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.” 

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base. 

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six. 

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.” 

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat. 

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.” 

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.” 

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?” 

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.” 

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp. 

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask. 

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.” 

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust. 

All you need is the green light. The words. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever. 

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn. 

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline. 

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

You’re gone before they can take their next breath. 

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind. 

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up. 

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.” 

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.” 

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat. 

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate. 

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.” 

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.” 

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.” 

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze. 

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.” 

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.” 

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp. 

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?” 

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly. 

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?” 

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!” 

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy. 

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly. 

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there. 

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun. 

Then you wait. 

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation. 

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps. 

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement. 

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit. 

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams. 

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin. 

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop. 

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly. 

Jake looks up. 

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger. 

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide. 

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.” 

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown. 

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face. 

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?” 

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.” 

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base. 

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.” 

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you. 

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend. 

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline. 

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.” 

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.” 

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you. 

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-” 

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm. 

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.” 

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything. 

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.” 

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh. 

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-” 

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside. 

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.” 

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?” 

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots. 

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared. 

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.” 

You don’t think. You just move. 

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word. 

And then you kiss him. 

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this. 

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match. 

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash. 

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching. 

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.” 

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.” 

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw. 

“We’re never living that down, are we?” 

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.” 

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest. 

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room. 

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.” 

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting. 

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him. 

END.