#top gun: maverick fic

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Got My Mind Set On You - Jake Seresin x Reader

A/N: I know I said fluff, but somehow I got to spicy stuff instead. Oops.

pairing: Jake Seresin x reader

content/warnings: suggested smut.

word count: 1.7k

Jake Seresin leaned casually against the rustic exposed wooden beam of the dimly lit bar, his gaze fixed on you as you shared a moment of laughter with your friends across the room. With the air of someone who knew they were being watched, he flicked another dart effortlessly towards the board, the satisfying thud of it hitting the bullseye punctuating the room. He took a slow sip of his beer, the corner of his lips curling into a self-assured smirk as his friends marveled at his accuracy.

Javy couldn't help but prod at Jake's seemingly supernatural dart-throwing abilities. "How do you do it, man? You never even look at the board."

Jake chuckled, tapping the side of his temple with his index finger. "Photographic memory, my friend. I've got every angle mapped out up here," he said with a grin, never once breaking his gaze from you.

Bradley, ever the skeptic, scoffed from the sidelines. "Oh, please. Anyone can get lucky tossing darts at a board."

A challenge hung heavy in the air as Jake raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Care to put that theory to the test, Bradshaw?"

Bradley, never one to back down, accepted with a lazy smirk. "Fine. But don't blame me if your girl decides she wants a more skilled pilot."

"Bring it on," Jake replied, his confidence unwavering.

With practiced ease, Bradley sent his first dart flying, hitting the bullseye just as he predicted. Jake's expression remained cool, but there was a flicker of admiration in his eyes as Bradley repeated the feat with his second shot. Bullseye again.

Jake's smirk faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, raising his pint glass towards the dartboard. "You can't do it a third time."

Bradley's competitive spirit flared as he confidently launched his final dart, only to miss the mark by a fraction of an inch. He turned to Jake, a hint of defiance in his eyes as he admitted defeat.

Jake couldn't resist a playful jab. "Not quite perfect, Bradley."

But any teasing was forgotten as you appeared beside him, your touch warm on his shoulder. "Hey there, sugar," Jake greeted you with a smile. "See me get a perfect streak?" Jake purposefully drawled out the word ‘perfect’, resulting in a dramatic eyeroll from Bradley. 

Jake's smile softened as he wrapped an arm around you, his gaze never straying far from yours. You grinned as he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, nodding your head as you spoke. “Sure did, honey. You did great!”, you gushed.

“I am great, darlin’, you know that.”

Bradley groaned and rolled his eyes before downing the rest of his beer. With an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head, holding his empty glass up to you and the others before speaking.

“Anyone down for another round? I’ll buy.”

You chuckled at Bradley's offer, exchanging knowing glances with Jake before nodding in agreement. "I could go for another," you said with a grin, feeling Jake's arm tighten slightly around your waist.

“Sure, thanks man,” Jake started, handing Bradley his empty glass, “After, why don’t we rematch? We can switch to the pool table, if you guys would rather, that way you might actually have a chance at beating me.”

Bradley scoffed and shook his head. “Fine, you’re on.”

Javy, always up for a good time, eagerly agreed. "I'm in. Let's see if lightning strikes twice for old Bradshaw here."

Bradley shot Javy a mock glare before laughing, his competitive streak undeterred. "We'll see about that," he retorted, already heading towards the bar to order everyone’s drinks.

As Bradley disappeared into the crowd, you leaned into Jake's side, relishing in the warmth of his presence. The soft buzz of conversation and clinking glasses enveloped you, creating a comforting backdrop to the evening.

"You know, I think Bradley's just jealous," you whispered teasingly, tilting your head up to meet Jake's gaze.

Jake chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at you. "Can you blame him?" he replied, his voice low and playful. "After all, he's got to compete with the best."

You rolled your eyes affectionately, swatting his chest playfully. "Smooth talker," you teased, but couldn't hide the smile that tugged at your lips.

“Besides all that, I’ve got the best girl, so really, poor Bradley didn’t stand a chance, did he?” Jake whispered as he leaned into your ear, his green eyes fixed on yours as he planted a soft kiss on your lips. 

“The best girl, huh?” You mused, raising an eyebrow, “That’s a new one for me.”

“Mhmm,” Jake hummed as he gave you a playful tap on the nose with his index finger. “You better get used to it, honey.”

As you all rounded the pool table, gathering into your teams, Bradley furrowed his brow as he gestured to you and Jake as Jake kept you close to him for his team.

“Oh no you don’t loverboy.” Bradley chided, shaking his head, “She’s on my team. Together you two’ll just end up getting handsy on the pool table and make us all lose our lunch.”

“He’s got a point there, don’t he?” Jake shrugged as he conceded, letting go of his protective, loving grip on your waist.

You watched as Bradley lined up to take his shot. Observing his form carefully, you tried to make mental notes so you could match his game - you weren’t the greatest at pool, Jake usually used teaching you as an excuse to put his hands all over you, not that you complained. It just resulted in some incredibly short lessons in pool, and some playful sessions in the bed of his Ford F-150. 

Bradley leaned in close to your ear, whispering softly as he came up with a game strategy. “How well can you accidentally distract Jake?”

“Oh, easy,” you responded with confidence, nodding your head slightly as your gaze fixated on Jake, who was lining his pool cue up for his turn.

“Perfect, do your thing.”

You sipped your cocktail and fiddled with the straw, your lips encircling the tip in a way that you knew Jake would interpret as suggestive. Sure enough, as soon as Jake looked up at you, sea-green eyes locked in a gaze at your mouth as it played with the end of your straw, he missed his shot, causing the cue ball to bounce off the edge of the table, not striking anything in its path. Jake straightened his posture, raising an eyebrow at you as you set your glass down to take your own shot. Bradley smirked from behind his beer bottle, admiring your technique for riling Jake up better than any amount of trash talk ever could.

During Jake’s next turn, you shoved your glass into Bradley’s open hand, before fiddling and unbuttoning the top two buttons of your plaid shirt, exposing just enough cleavage to have Jake’s mind wandering. Once again, as soon as Jake caught a glimpse of you, he missed his shot, shaking his head and grumbling to himself as Javy joked about him being off his game.

“I’m not off my game. Everyone has one off game.”

“Just admit it, Jake, you’re not as good at pool as they are. Bradley’s got you beat.”

Jake scoffed and rolled his eyes again, before leaning over to take his next shot, trying to follow up after you sink one of the balls into the pocket, eliciting a high-five and a cheer from Bradley. As the game progressed, Jake caught on to your little game. His cheeks blushed when you whispered what you wanted him to do to you later that evening, he had to clear his throat to cover the involuntary moan that threatened to escape his mouth when your hand caressed his bicep, and he had to position himself carefully behind the pool table while he tried to focus his mind on anything other than the mental image you put in his head when you described what kind of underwear you were wearing under your skirt. 

After losing another round, Jake felt a simmering frustration bubbling beneath his skin, an insistent urge gnawing at him with every passing moment. He clenched his jaw, struggling to rein in the primal desires coursing through him. All he could think about was laying you down on the smooth surface of the pool table, indulging in the raw passion that pulsed between you. But he knew he couldn't act on those impulses, not here, not now.

Instead, he tossed the pool cue down with an uncharacteristic huff, the weight of his competitive nature hanging heavy in the air. His typically composed demeanor faltered, a rare glimpse of vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he turned away. You exchanged a knowing glance with Bradley, silently acknowledging the tension that hung between you all, before following Jake's retreating figure outside.

The night air enveloped you like a thick blanket as you stepped out of the dimly lit bar, the humidity clinging to your skin like a second layer. Concern etched across your features, you approached Jake cautiously, your footsteps echoing in the quiet night.

"Jake?" you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as you closed the distance between you.

"Mhmm?" His response was gruff, his body tense as he leaned against the side of his truck, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"Are you alright?" you asked softly, furrowing your brow with worry. "I wasn’t trying to be a dick—Bradley and I just thought it’d be funny if I, you know, distracted you a little."

Jake chuckled, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes as he turned to face you. "I'm not mad."

"You aren’t?" Relief flooded through you, easing the tension in your shoulders.

"Of course not," he reassured you, his gaze softening as he reached out to pull you into his embrace. "I mean, you got me good, I’ll give you that."

"I did?" A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, grateful for his understanding.

"Sure did, Sugar." Jake's smirk was equal parts wicked and enticing, sending a shiver down your spine.

"But now it’s my turn to get you back." His words hung in the air like a promise, igniting a fire in your veins as you met his gaze with a playful challenge of your own.

[ofstoriesandstardust]

steady love (j.h.s.)

a/n: loosely based on real events... thanks to @cottagecorifor indulging me

summary: You think someone is following you home, so naturally, you call Jake.

second star to the right (and straight on 'til morning)

warnings: reader thinks someone is following her but is never in any real danger, swearing, unedited

word count: 1.1k

“There now, steady love, so few come and don’t go/will you, won’t you, be the one i’ll always know?”

You swallow as you glance behind you, the shadowy figure still maintaining a good distance behind you. You clutch your pepper spray together, before fishing your phone out of your jacket pocket. 

The cold San Diego air nips at your fingers as curse silently, dialing Jake’s number and pressing the phone up to your ear. He answers on the third ring even though you’ve already started chewing on your lip. 

You can hear music in the background and Natasha’s laughter in the background. He must be having dinner with Javy and Nat, something you feel a momentary twinge of guilt for interrupting. 

“Hey sweetheart, how’s it going?” He says, a smile clear in his voice. 

“Jake-” You say, twisting back around to see if the man behind you had gotten any closer. You can’t be sure but you think he is. “Hey, I think I’m being followed, can you please just stay on the phone with me until I get to my apartment?” 

There’s a skidding of a chair in the background as his voice turns hard. “Where are you right now? Are you in your car or did you take the bus?”

You swallow. “I’m walking back from the bus stop. I’m like a block from the intersection of Rosewood and Melvin. I’m not far from my apartment building at all.” 

You think you hear keys jingling in the background with the sound of a front door opening. There’s a few seconds of silence that feel like minutes as you hear Jake get in his truck and start the engine. “Okay sweetheart, I want you to try and make it to the intersection. You can try and lose him at the crosswalk.” 

“I don’t even know if this guy is following me.” You mutter, suddenly feeling slightly stupid. 

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re alone and it’s dark and you don’t feel safe.” 

You eye the nearing intersection with nerves growing in your stomach. It’s more well-lit than the rest of the road but you also have nowhere to go if this guy really did want to hurt you. 

“I should’ve called Bradley and have him meet me halfway. Hey Jake- I’m gonna call you once I get back to my apartment, I’m gonna call Bradley.” 

“You’re high if you think I’m letting you get off the phone right now, sweetheart.” Jake’s voice is firm, hard and cold, and you swallow the sting of the fact that Jake is mad at you. 

“Jake, really, I think I’m being overdramatic, it’s fine-” 

“I texted Bradshaw when I left my house, he’s going to meet you at the intersection. Do not hang up the phone until you’re with him, do you understand me?” 

“Yeah, yeah, okay I see him. I’m at the light now.” 

“Great. I want you to tell me if you want pepperoni pizza if he’s still behind you, cheese for no.” 

You glance next to you as you press the button for the crosswalk, unable to keep in the startled gasp at the fact that the man was right behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” 

You swallow as the man gives you a curious glance before pressing the button for the opposite crosswalk. The light goes green and he begins his walk away from you. 

“Hey, sweetheart, can you hear me? Are you there?” 

There's a desperate note in his voice as you swallow again, eyes flickering across the street as you see Bradley’s broad figure come into the light. 

“Yeah, I’m- I’m fine Jake. He was just right behind me but he’s gone now.” 

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Hey, I’m crossing the street now, I see Bradley, I’ll call you in like ten minutes.”

“I’d really prefer you stay on the phone with me.” 

“He wasn’t even following me Jake, he was just some man going for a walk.” You snap, walking across the street to where Bradley is waiting. “I’ll call you when I get back to my place.”  

You hang up the phone as you jog the last few steps up to Bradley, finally letting yourself breathe. His eyes skim over you before the area around you. 

“Are you good? Do we need to take a few laps around the block?” 

You shake your head as the two of you begin to walk back to your building. “Fine. The guy wasn’t even following me, I just think he got off at my stop.” 

“You don’t usually come this way.” Bradley comments as the two of you walk. 

“Yeah.” You let out a huffed laugh. “A car drove into the side of the bus as it was letting me off.”  

Bradley’s eyes grow wide. “Are you being serious?” 

“Yep. Pretty sure that guy was on the bus and just managed to get a headstart to the next stop on everyone. Dude’s a fucking fast-walker.” 

“Sorry.” Bradley says, waving a hand. “The car hit your bus?”

-

You’re settled on Bradley’s couch, recounting the story to Bob and Mickey and Bradley’s girlfriend Jordan, a slice of pizza in your hand when Jake opens the front door rather abruptly. You barely have time to hand the plate off to Bob before Jake is pulling you off the couch and into his arms. 

“Jake-” 

“What the fuck, dude. Do you know how scary it was to get that call?” 

Jake briefly pulls back, eyes scanning over you, before he wraps you in another tight hug. You swallow as his hand comes to rest on the back of your head.

The two of you stand there for what is starting to feel like an embarrassing amount of time when you hear Jake whisper, “I just got you. I can’t lose you yet.” 

The words are so quiet you almost don’t think he even realizes he said them out loud. Guilt prickles at you again. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

“Mad at you?” 

He still won’t let you go but you can picture how big and wide his eyes are. 

“Well, I know you always hate it when I take the bus but I can’t be asking you for rides every time I have to leave the house just because I don’t want to spend money on gas-” 

“Sweetheart, yes I would prefer it if you stop taking the bus. But, you- you can’t be responsible for some sleazeball following you home.” 

“Well, he wasn’t really following me. I just sort of panicked.” You say sheepishly.

“Watching your bus get hit by a car will make you all kinds of shaken up.” Bradley comments, grin clear in his voice. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jake says, glancing at Bradley before looking back at you. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

[sushiwriterhere]

in a heartbeat

summary: "Maybe he just didn’t need the fanfare, maybe he needed to ditch the plans and just hand the rock to you over Chinese takeout and let that be it."  rating: explicit (no minors!) pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader word count: 3.9k warnings: very fluffy, PiV (unprotected), no use of y/n.  notes: this is my first fic in a while and im fighting writers block something awful. this is not proofread :( pls lmk what you think <3! my other works are here part of the coming home to you universe

four days before.

“I’m gonna go out for drinks with the girls Saturday.”

“Uhhh, you can’t.”

Did he need to loop your coworkers into the proposal plan too? Phoenix having dragged it out of him so they could all help was bad enough. Bradley could feel his headache building behind his eyes. He tried to avert eye contact to make the conversation feel natural, instead focusing his gaze on the onion he was trying to caramelize. 

“I can’t?”

Bradley’s never been controlling, never tried to tell you who you can and can’t hang out with, and certainly never with that particular tone in his voice. He heard the mail you were inspecting drop onto the granite countertop as you turned your full attention on him.

“Why?”

Fuck.

He could hear the way your eyes were narrowed from the uncharacteristically steady tone of your voice, the way one eyebrow was raised expectantly. 

In the back of his mind, Bradley also saw the picnic blanket, candles, and bottle of your favorite wine stashed at Mav’s. There were the flowers he had to pick up and arrange on Friday while you were working, the homemade meal Javy promised him that he needed to grab on Saturday around midday. 

“I made dinner reservations at this new place down by the beach, and the only time they had was Saturday evening.”

“And you forgot to tell me until now?”

Bradley didn’t forget. Not about these types of things. Ever since your first date, Bradley had been nothing but proactive. He planned dates, cooked meals, doted on you. Forgetting just wasn’t like him. 

“Made the reservation this morning and you seemed busy.” He finally met your eyes and he watched as your gaze softened and you turned back to the stack of mail.

“Bradley Bradshaw you are a sap.”

And the moment passed. 

You and Bradley had talked about marriage, you have. You’d talked about it enough for him to know what kind of ring you wanted, that you wanted a small, intimate ceremony, and that you’d lost more than enough sleep over whether to invite your parents. You’d talked enough to know Bradley would probably have the Dagger Squad as best men (people?) and that he’d let Phoenix be part of your bridal party if you wanted, that he wanted Mav right there next to him, and that there would be an empty chair for Goose and Carole. That was one thing. 

Getting down on one knee and actually going over that line? That was another. 

The rational part of his brain had always insisted that you would say yes, that you also knew from very early on, if not the beginning. The unhelpful part of his brain kept telling him the ring was the wrong size or that a seagull would swoop down and steal the shiny thing right from his fingertips before you could even say no.

three days before.

Bradley’s checked the ring at least six times since he, Javy, and the other guys came into the shop. The sound of the velvet clicking back against itself then sliding open again was starting to grate on his nerves, but he wanted to give Bradley the benefit of the doubt. He remembered what it was like, that lump in your throat, the way his brain tended to keep him up about every disagreement, every time he should’ve apologized instead of stewing on his anger. 

Javy, instead, choose peace. He watched calmly as Bradley opened the box again, and brought a finger up to trace the gems before deciding against it.

Doesn’t want to smudge it.

There was clearly something on his mind, because the ring had been paid for months ago and the re-sizing and adjustments were included in the price. But there Bradley was, stuck to the shop floor, looking like he was trying to decide between getting sick right there and maybe saving it for the trees outside the shop’s doors.

“What’cha thinkin’ about there, Rooster?” Jake sidled up to Bradley’s side, voice a low murmur, as if trying not to startle the man. 

Regardless, Bradley jumped slightly, jostling the open box and the sound of the box snapping shut echoed harshly around the showroom. Bradley looked like he might’ve decided on getting sick inside. 

“Should I get a second one? What if she doesn’t like this one?” 

Across the room, a sales associate perked up just slightly, clearly looking to score on another guy so nervous he looked like a ghost. Vultures.

“Bradley, my man, we’ve been over this a thousand times. Phoenix got her Pinterest, it’s all a certain style, and it’s definitely the perfect ring.” 

Jake and Bradley had begun to get along, rather begrudgingly at first, then very amicably, after the mission and Jake saved Bradley’s life. Seeing him comfort Bradley was something else though, Javy acknowledged. It was kind of nice to have that tension dissipate from within their team.

“But what if I need another perfect one?” 

“Are you gonna propose to her twice?” Bob had popped up on Bradley’s other side, silent as ever. “Usually there’s a second one for the wedding, but I’m here for a bit of a new tradition.”

At that, Bradley deflated a bit. The box in his hands clicked open, then shut again.

“No, no new tradition.” He murmured, before slipping the box into his pocket.

two days before.

Bradley knew Mav loved him, but he wasn’t sure how much he would after this whole ordeal. They must’ve run over the schedule at least a thousand times, forward and backward, even while flying over their comms. At this point, Bradley was sure he had the entire Dagger Squad reciting the plan in their sleep. He hoped he at least wasn’t, he didn’t need you to be clued into anything. 

“Nothing has moved since the last time you were here. Go home, Bradley.” Mav’s voice carried through the house as Bradley unceremoniously burst through the door. 

He’d started leaving work fifteen minutes early last week, just to double check that everything was in its place, that nothing had broken or spontaneously combusted. It was just enough time for him to stop at Mav’s place on the way home, do his round, and make it home around the same time as usual so as not to rouse suspicion. 

“I’m just–”

“Just checking yeah, get outta my house Bradley and go be with your fiance.” Mav had rounded the corner into his back room, all bathed in sunlight and a picture-perfect reminder of why people loved living in California. 

He was the picture of relaxed domesticity, dish towel over his shoulder, spatula in one hand that he was clearly thinking about hitting Bradley with as he paced the room and ticked things off on his fingers as he murmured to himself. 

“You’re gonna wear a hole in my carpet, and I happen to really like that rug.” Bradley stopped walking but the way his fingers twitched at his sides clued Mav into the way he was clearly still running through the run of show in his mind. 

“She’s not my fiance yet.”

“And she never will be if I murder you for breaking into my house and giving my wife a heart attack.”

“Penny’s not even home at this hour.” 

Mav had never seen Bradley like this. He’d missed graduations and recitals and all the shit you don’t get to see as an estranged god-father, but he’d done enough wondering about what he was like in those moments to have come up with this scenario. Bradley truly was the perfect mix of Goose and Carole–all Goose’s easy romantic energy, ever creative, ever attentive, and just as much of Carole’s eye for detail and desire for things to go right. 

“Bradley.”

Mav watched as the fight eased out of Bradley’s shoulders and his hands relaxed at his sides, “Right. Sorry.”

“Look son, you don’t have to be sorry for wanting this to go right. And you’ve only got a little of sorry to be about starting to drive me insane.” At that, Bradley cracked half a smile and Mav considered that a small success. “You like this at home?”

A sharp laugh echoed around the wood-paneled room, “Oh absolutely not. She’d know in a heartbeat.”

“Well, then you have your answer.” The gears were turning at a million miles an hour as Bradley tried to decipher what he meant. “She knows you in a heartbeat, which means she knows how she feels about you. And we both know what that means for Saturday.”

Bradley nodded, the picture of relaxation and ease all at once. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

one day before.

Bradley was starting to think the gash on his finger was some sort of awful omen, something terrible that had been awaiting to reveal itself until the last moment. He’d arranged flowers for you probably a million times at this point, had even done it blindfolded (only cheating a bit so he didn’t lose a finger) just to amuse you. Now, as he stared at the blood bubbing up from his middle left finger where he’d just stabbed himself with the scissors, the entire thing felt like some sort of cosmic joke.

He’d never doubted that he wanted to marry you, not even when you’d argued or insisted on shoving your ice cold fingers and toes up against him in the dead of night. Not once had he wavered since that initial thought in his brain, and he was even more sure when he went to open that fucking bank account that he’d been diligently adding a sizeable portion of his paycheck to. (What? He wanted to be sure he could afford exactly what you wanted, DeBeers advertising campaign be damned.)

Maybe he just didn’t need the fanfare, maybe he needed to ditch the plans and just hand the rock to you over Chinese takeout and let that be it. 

The only thing keeping him going despite all his nerves, aside from his deep love for you, was the way you’d once leaned against him when the two of you were spending a week away in the mountains. Overlooking something that felt like it was right from a postcard, you’d told him exactly how all the little romantic things he did made you feel. 

“Every time you buy me flowers, I get this little feeling in my chest, like something curling around my heart.” Bradley remembered keeping himself from making a joke, something about heart attacks, trying not to break the moment as the fog hung low over the trees. 

“From the moment you picked me up for our first date and insisted on opening the car door, bringing me flowers, they all make me get that little squirmy feeling that no one’s ever given me before.” You had pressed yourself to his side but not met his eyes, as if your confession was too powerful, too heavy to make when looking at him, “And some of it’s because I’m a sap at heart and you somehow know what I want before I do, but some of it’s just because it’s you Bradley. Always has been, always will be.”

The words said next would keep him going in his darkest moments, kept him together on long deployments, kept him pushing through every moment of doubt in the planning process.

“So if you ever decide to propose to me, even if it’s just you asking me over coffee, just know I’ll get that feeling, just because it’s you.” 

At that, you’d turned to face him, shifting so you could hook your chin over his shoulder where he turned his face to yours. He could see every lash, every spot on your face that he loved to press his lips to when you were too sleepy to protest. You’d graced him with a tiny smile, somehow just a bit melancholy, but all too loving. 

Bradley shook his head, clearing the memory as he scrambled to keep his blood from spattering on the countertop. He was going to have to grit his teeth through the pain of using a liquid bandaid so the pictures weren’t ruined by a regular bandaid. 

You’d compromised on drinks being Friday, so he had the evening to himself. All the time in the world for flowers, for a barbecue at Javy’s (home cooked meal to be picked up that night instead of Saturday morning), and for waiting up for you to text that you were ready to go home. 

the day of.

Bradley thought he’d be blinded by panic, or doubt, now that he was counting down hours and minutes in place of days or weeks. Instead, all he felt was a sense of serenity, almost like he was floating through the motions. 

The day started like every Saturday he’d had since you moved in and he’d been granted a relatively permanent station at Top Gun with Mav and the rest–you pressed up against him, your hair tickling some part of his bare skin, and the type of bone deep satisfaction with life that came with going to bed with a full belly and the love of his life at his side. He stared up at the ceiling fan as it made its lazy rotations and thought about how today was marking the difference between two parts of his life. 

After today, there would always be a time before the proposal, and after. 

The morning was lazy as you insisted you didn’t have a hangover but let Bradley cook you a plate full of turkey bacon, gently scrambled eggs, and a few hashbrowns. He knew you would be fine by afternoon, and after that excited to hang out at the beach before dinner. 

He was sort of counting on it. 

Apparently he’d underestimated your ability to bounce back because the way you draped yourself across his bare back was a little less than innocent as your hands smoothed over his shoulders and down his stomach. He slowed the way he was chewing the last of his hashbrown as you pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot under his ear. 

“Good morning, Bradley,” You crooned lowly.

“Mornin’.” 

His stomach jumped as you ran a nail over one of his nipples, and kissed at his shoulder. Tilting his head to the side to give you more room to work with, he took a slow drink of his water. 

Maybe he wanted you to work for it just a little, what with how badly he’d been stressing these last few weeks. 

And work for it you did. The light drag of your nails just barely there on his stomach and arms had him getting hard faster than he thought was humanly possible. But there was just something about the warmth of your chest at his back, the thinness of some shirt you’d stolen from him doing little to hide the swell of your breasts, that did it for him. Hell, it was really just that it was you that got him going. 

“I missed you last night.” You whined, just a bit, as he finally turned around on the barstool and gathered you into his lap. 

You could definitely feel the way he was hard against the soft give of your thighs, but somehow in that moment, all he wanted was you near. Sensing that somehow the moment had maybe passed, you curled in his lap and stretched your arms around his shoulders, apparently just content to be touching him.

“I missed you too.”

The way your lips met his was almost as natural as breathing, and then the moment wasn’t so innocent anymore. Your lips slotted against his as you kneaded at his arm muscles and part of Bradley was incredibly satisfied that you were enjoying just how much effort he put in at the gym. Sure, he had to be fit for his physical, but how hard he went on his biceps and shoulders was purely for your benefit. 

When the two of you finally stumbled back into the bedroom, Bradley thought he might pass out from how hard he was. Everything about you was amplified somehow. Your skin was softer and the gentle scent of whatever perfume you’d worn last night filled his nose. The give of your hips and thighs was easier and all he wanted was to sink his teeth into you and never let go. You might even let him.

Sprawled underneath him you looked like a goddess, bathed in the rising morning sun, nipples gently peaked as your chest rose and fell. 

“I love you.” 

It was so tender in comparison to the way you sat up and worked a hand inside Bradley’s boxers to grab firmly at his cock. He groaned as you shoved at the little clothing the two of you were wearing and in a moment, your skin was a beautiful contrast to the crisp white of the sheets. 

Bradley made to go down on you but you kept his face in your hands, “Been ready to go since I watched you scramble those eggs.”

He couldn’t hold back the way he barked out a laugh, that one was new. “The way the white and yolk were combined really do it for you?”

You smacked at his chest indignantly as he propped one of your thighs over the crook of his elbow, “Your back and arms look nice when you whisk, you asshole.”

You weren’t so huffy as he slid into you, gentle as ever. Bradley knew he wasn’t the biggest ever, but he also knew he wasn’t anything to scoff at either. He kissed away any discomfort he could see on your features til you rocked your hips up against his insistently.

“Give it to me like you mean it, babe,” Grinning all cheerfully, Bradley cursed under his breath as he felt you bear down on him.

After that, there was little to be said beyond whispers of I love you and the occasional swear word. Sometimes sex between the two of you was raunchy and heated, and other times it rounded out his Saturday mornings in a way that left him sated like nothing else. Sometimes he thought it might be better than flying. 

You came first, digging your nails into his shoulders and breathing his name in repeat. The feeling of you squeezing around him did little to keep him from coming and besides, the way you scraped your nails down his chest and begged him to let go definitely did him in. 

Clean up was quiet kisses and gentle shoves in the direction of the en-suite bathroom, Bradley making sure the water wasn’t too cold for you as you peed. (It was the little things.)

-

Fuck what Bradley had thought earlier about being serene, he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin. Holding your hand as the two of you made your way down the beachfront towards the space behind the Hard Deck, you were chattering on about some coworker’s baby shower and Bradley was focusing way too hard on not absolutely eating shit with the way the sand was shifting under his feet. 

In the distance, he could see the candles and the picnic blanket like a homing beacon. He couldn’t see Mav or Javy or anyone else, but he knew they were all hiding somewhere, ready to burst from the shadows in excitement. Harvard was also brandishing a camera even though Bradley couldn’t see any hint that he was around–turns out he was a more-than-amatuer photographer and had volunteered to capture the moment. 

“Bradley, what’s all this?” Your voice reached a winded sort of pitch as the two of you finally reached the set up.

It was perfect, and part of Bradley finally exhaled. The picnic blanket from your fourth date, the little tea candles doting the beach, and the bouquet of flowers resting at the corner of the blanket, right within Bradley’s reach.

Gently dropping your hand, Bradley picked up the flowers and pressed them into your hands. By now, you’d clearly caught on that something was happening because your eyes were wide and slightly teary, and there was a ghost of a wobble in your lower lip. 

Tan suit be damned, Bradley dropped to one knee and pulled out the velvet box that had been burning a hole in his pocket since before the two of you had gone out to dinner. (The dinner reservation had actually been real, to his credit.)

“Oh my god,” you whispered, bringing a hand to your mouth in a way that betrayed the way your hands were shaking. 

Bradley inhaled deeply, before popping open the lid of the box and letting his eyes flick down to where the ring was sitting, nestled right where it was supposed to be.

As if unable to stop yourself, you opened your mouth and blurted, “If you’re about to ask me what I think you are, the answer is yes. A thousand times yes.” 

Blinking up at you, Bradley didn’t move a muscle as you kept going, “Oh my god wait you probably have a whole speech, I’m so sorry, I’ll shut up now.”

Distantly, Bradley heard a shutter clicking but neither of you broke eye contact as his face broke into a huge smile. He kept going according to his plan, the unspoken understanding passing between the two of you that you’d never live that down.

He said your first name like a prayer, before launching into the speech he’d rehearsed for months now, “I have loved you since I met you. I love every part of you–your laugh, the way you’re passionate about your work, the way you love everyone around you with such intensity. I love you when we argue, I love you when we’re together and apart. You consume my every waking thought, and grace me with your presence when I dream. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. I want to bicker about how we go through junk mail, the right way to parallel park, and what show we’re going to watch on Thursdays for however long you’ll let me. I want you by my side for the good, the bad, in sickness, and in health.” He said your name again, before asking the question he already knew the answer to, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, oh my god yes.” 

Miraculously, Bradley slipped the ring on your finger without incident, then gathered you up into his arms and pressed your lips together. His cheeks were wet with your tears. 

“I love you so much, Bradley Bradshaw, you are my everything,” You choked out when he set you down unable to stop yourself from sticking your hand out in front of you and crying harder when you saw the ring of your dreams adorning your hand. 

“I can’t believe you said yes before I asked,” He breathed before pulling you into him to kiss you fiercely one more time.

-

“She said yes before I even opened my mouth,” Bradley chuckled as you giggled by his side, hands never leaving the new ring on your finger.

“That’s not nearly as bad as you were for the last three months,” Javy crowed, and the crowd was in uproar as Bradley attempted to defend himself. 

Above all the noise and the lighthearted teasing, Bradley knew one thing–he was happy. And you had said yes.

----

tagging: @sebsxphia @roosterbruiser @bradshawburner @gretagerwigsmuse @sometimesanalice @joaquinwhorres @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @bradshawsbitch @seresinsweetie @notroosterbradshaw @kmc1989 @peachystenbrough @rhettabbotts @theharddeck @wkndwlff @waklman @blue-aconite @thedroneranger @bibitches-r-us @sunlightmurdock @laracrofted @jupitercomet - tagging ppl either by request or whom i feel like are luv <r bradley. pls lmk if you'd like to be added/removed

[bobbyonboard]

Peppermint [Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Reader]

Summary: i saw this tiktok of lewis pullman and it was so goddamn sexual my brain wouldn’t shut up until i wrote something about it. also know as--it’s 115 degrees in Lemoore and the AC in Bob’s truck is busted. 

Warnings: swearing, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected sex, hair pulling, please assume the reader is always on some sort of contraceptive in my fics unless i state otherwise, bob is a switch and no i will not be taking any questions at this time, minors DO not interact with me you lil shits 

Word Count: 2.2k

Author’s Note: y’all were so nice with my last one regarding Rooster, I had to write one for my main man!!! also cannot get over I have like 300 new followers. never be afraid to come talk to me!!

“Fuck. Off,” you grumbled in the direction of the television as you heard the chipper weatherman inform you that the high today in Lemoore, California was going to be a record-breaking one hundred and fifteen degrees fahrenheit. One hundred and fifteen fucking degrees. You never hated the Navy more than you did in that moment. Who the fuck gets stationed in Lemoore? No beaches, no shade. Just heat, and lots of it. But where your husband goes, you go–and unfortunately, you both were stuck in Lemoore. 

The July air was thick and it wasn’t even nine in the morning, so you made sure that you didn’t have a single thing to do that day except stay inside the apartment, laying upside-down on your couch directly in front of your tiny window AC unit. You’d always loved being a teacher, but days like this, when you thought you actually might melt if you went outside, you were sure as hell glad you had summers off. 

Your day passed by lazily, only shuffling between the couch and the kitchen to get more water what seemed like every thirty minutes. Before you knew it, it was already four o’clock, and you were expecting Bob home any minute. 

Bob had told you that morning he was heading out to run a few test flights on some newer planes, so you expected him to come home freshly showered from the Naval base locker rooms, smelling of Old Spice and car air freshener that had been blasted over his clothes from his aggressive truck air conditioning. But instead, when you lazily glanced over your shoulder to the sound of keys jingling, you were greeted with…well, certainly not that. 

Bob’s hair was frizzed and stuck straight up in the back, almost as if he had just taken off his helmet. His clothes were stuck to his skin, large sweat stains covering most of the material of his t-shirt. His cheeks were a dark shade of red, and his eyes looked as though they were currently in the process of holding back unshed tears. 

“Bobby?,” you frowned, quickly standing up, crossing the room, and quickly taking his duffel bag from his hand to toss on the floor. “Honey, whassamatter? You okay?,” you asked, putting the back of your hand on his forehead and physically wincing at how hot his skin was to the touch. 

“Pipes burst,” was all he murmured out, bottom lip trembling just slightly, and it was quite literally breaking your heart to see him so miserable. “We landed and–and went to go shower and they told us a pipe burst, so the showers weren’t working. So I couldn’t shower and–,” he started to breathe a bit heavier, almost as if his own clothes were weighing him down worse than any g-force. 

“I got to the truck and the AC was just blowing out hot air. So I rode all the way home with the windows down and I’m just so hot,” he finally whimpered, and you just brushed his wet hair out of his face with a soft coo. 

You hated to see him like this. You couldn’t imagine how hot he had to be in that plane today, only to land and not be able to cool down like his body so desperately needed. An idea suddenly popped into your brain, and you were taking off down the hallway. 

“Put your arms up, honey,” you purred ever so gently once you returned, producing a cold packet of wet wipes. You pulled one out of its bag, sighing softly at the gentle smell of peppermint, and you immediately began to wipe down Bob’s face and neck. 

“Thank you-u-u-u,” he practically sobbed, arms stuck straight out at his sides as you began to slide the wipes under his t-shirt, along his shoulders, under his armpits, his chest, and his waist. “What does it do?,” he asked after a moment, almost afraid to open his eyes for fear that this was all some fever dream and he’d be standing back on the tarmac, dripping sweat. 

“I keep these in my little fridge in the bathroom, with all my skin care stuff,” you hummed sweetly, pulling a fresh wipe out and continuing on the bit of skin where you left off. “It helps me freshen up before I go to bed at night, or when I come back from the gym and I’m just too tired to shower before bed,” you chuckle, ghosting a feather-light kiss over his brow as you continued to work on cooling him down. 

“Feels so good,” he whimpered, and his once red cheeks were now only a soft pink, his breathing returning to a relatively normal pace. 

“Good, baby. You’ll feel better in just a minute, yeah? Got this AC on you, and you smell all peppermint-y,” you teased, and you don’t know if it was the practically obscene noises Bob was letting out, or the way he was absolute putty in your hands, but you let the wipes in your hand dip a little lower into the waistband of his pants. 

A strangled moan escaped Bob’s lips, and you just let one hand pop open the buttons of his pants, sliding them down his legs. 

“Gotta get you completely covered,” you whispered, dropping down to your knees where you began to work on wiping down his thighs. After mere seconds, you glanced up to see a ten already forming in your husband’s boxers, and damn, if that didn’t make a girl’s ego soar. 

“M’sorry,” he almost cried, shivering under your touch. “Just–feels so good. You make me feel so good.”

“I always wanna make you feel good, honey,” you purred, peppering his thighs with kisses and feeling the leftover peppermint oil tingle your lips. You eventually stood back up (despite a noise of protest from your husband) and stripped him down to only his boxers, getting a final fresh wipe out of the pack and letting it drag along his skin. 

“Come sit,” you took his hand, leading him over so he was directly in front of the AC unit, resting on the plush couch as he immediately tossed his head back out let out a pornographic moan, which caused you to clench your thighs together in delight. 

“Y’so good t’me,” Bob practically slurred, completely overwhelmed with the lavish attention he was receiving, and his skin began to prickle when the freezing cold air blew against his minty skin. 

“You deserve it all, Bobby,” you whispered, moving to straddle his hips, your thin pajama pants and his boxers the only thing separating the two of you as you wiped his cheeks down for the final time, before pressing a chaste kiss to the apple of each one. 

Bob said your name with a strangled cry, hips immediately rocking up to get some friction, any friction at all. And who were you to deny such a pretty boy something he wanted so desperately? So you just relaxed yourself slowly, lazily rocking down on his achingly hard cock and letting out a soft moan of your own. 

Your nipples were hard from where they were currently being assaulted by a barrage of cold air from the unit, and they were settled right in front of your husband’s face, which proved to make his next task considerably easier. He hooked his fingers in the straps of your tank top and tugged them down your arms before his lips were wrapped around your right nipple, sucking on it lightly and letting it roll between his teeth. You let out a soft cry, your fingers tangling immediately in his damp hair as you began to rock yourself against him a bit faster. 

It was only a few minutes before he pulled off with an obscenely wet ‘pop’, letting his head rest against your sternum. 

“Y/N–,” Bob choked out, his hips stilling immediately. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” was all you said, lifting yourself just slightly out of his lap to give him a moment to focus. 

It didn’t take him long at all, because just a second later you were being pushed onto your back on the couch, with your lover’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts and panties, sliding them down your legs and tossing them to the floor. Not a moment was wasted as he immediately licked a long, hot stripe between your folds, fingers digging into your hips. 

“Robert,” you gasped, and you swear you could feel that son of a bitch smirk, even face first in your cunt. If his hair wasn’t already a mess, it certainly was now, the way you were tugging on it and rocking your hips against his face to try and get the perfect rhythm. 

It didn’t take long. It never did with Bob. He somehow knew exactly what to do to have you coming on his tongue in five minutes flat, keeping your hips pressed down to the couch. 

“Bobby–,” you tried to warn, but it was too late. At your cry of his name, he gave a certain flick of his tongue and you were coming fast and hard, riding his face like your life depended on it, his tongue pressed flat against your clit as you shook with each pulse of your orgasm.  

You barely had time to think, no less to actually say anything, before he was tugging you into a new position. You were bent over the back of the couch, face perfectly aligned with the air conditioning as Bob got behind you, one knee on the edge of the couch. 

“You ready for me, darlin’?,” he asked, and God, you could have died right there. 

“Always, baby.”

You felt him slide into you smoothly, using one hand to guide himself and the other slide up your body to your hair, gathering a handful and giving you a harsh tug. The way he bent you had your chest getting covered with cold air, nipples hard enough to cut diamonds. 

“Fuck, you always feel so fuckin’ good,” he moaned, putting his other knee on the couch as he began to piston his hips against your ass, the slapping sounds your skin made filling your small apartment, loud enough to be heard even over the roaring AC. 

You, however, were unable to respond, due to the absolute overwhelming pleasure that was coursing through your body. Your head and neck began to ache deliciously, and the way the head of Bob’s cock brushed against your sweet spot with each thrust had you mewling under his hands. 

“I’m not gonna–,” Bob grunted, and you understood, Whenever he was needy, he never lasted long, and that was certainly fine by you. Like you said–it was an ego boost. 

“S’okay, baby,” you panted, and he reached forward to play with one of your tits, his chest pressed to your back as he fucked you even harder. 

“So good for me. Fuckin’--fillin’ my pussy up. Fuck, Bobby, you’re gonna make me come again,” you practically sobbed, and the fact that the two of you were sweating from exertion but also cool from the air conditioning made everything that more sensitive. 

The praise went straight to Bob’s dick, and you could feel it twitching already. 

“Please–,” he gasped, trying so hard to last until he could make you come again. 

“Go ahead, honey. Come for me. Come for me, Bobby,” you groaned, wincing in pleasure at how your sensitive cunt was already teetering on the edge of orgasm. 

You had barely finished your command before Bob was spilling himself inside of you, letting out a high-pitched whine as he emptied himself. He managed to let the hand that was in your hair slide down your body and move to your pussy, fingers rubbing quickly at your clit. 

“Baby, come for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock,” he practically begged, even though he had already orgasmed, he would simply die for the chance to feel you clenching on his softening cock still inside of you, practically milking every bit of come he had given you. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned, gripping tight at the back of the couch as you felt your orgasm wash over you for the second time that evening, cringing out softly each time your cunt squeezed your husband’s cock, feeling it nestled deep inside of you. 

Soft whimpered and moans spilled from Bob’s lips, along with various words of filth that didn’t exactly form a coherent sentence, but they were so goddamn sexy all the same. 

As he pulled out slowly, he leaned over to press a soft kiss to the small of your back before two of you landed in a messy pile on the couch, trying to catch your breath. 

You curled up next to him, almost (dare you say) chilly from the constant cold air on your skin, and your eyes closed to enjoy those post-coital moments together before you had to get up and clean yourselves off. 

“You know,” Bob started, fingertips brushing lightly over your sides. “Bet we could really cool down in the shower.”

taglist: @walkonthewiidside​

people that might be interested in this idk: @bradshawsbaby​ @callsignbob​ @thebradleybradshaw​

[mitchellpete]

Kinktober Day 14 - Virginity

pairing: pete “maverick” mitchell x f!reader

cw: virginity loss (mav), oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex

word count: 1637

kinktober masterlist here.

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

-

You didn’t believe him at first. He had to have been messing with you. 

There’s just no way somebody like him was still untouched, inexperienced. Certainly not with the way he presented himself, his outward demeanor, his very big ego. All the pilots in Miramar were the same, so you thought. Some were very easy to take home. It was a regular occurrence, watching them leave the bar one by one, somebody on their arm every time. You could have sworn Maverick was one of them. 

But apparently not.

You didn’t pry, didn’t ask why. You’re sure he had his reasons. Besides, he’d made it clear that he wanted you, and that was fair enough.

It was late, and you’d dragged him to your place, expecting nothing but a make-out session. He was a very good kisser, that you knew—frankly another reason why you couldn’t believe he’d never had sex before. Maverick’s hands had a different idea tonight, dipping against the curves of your body. Wanting to feel everything. It was when he elicited a moan out of you, right against his mouth, that you pulled back. 

“What are you doing?” you’d asked, brow cocked playfully.

Panting from his own heavy kisses, he looked at you. Blinked slowly. “I wanna fuck you.”

Your stomach flipped at his words. “That so?”

A nod.

That’s how you both ended up here: Mav laying back against your mattress, shirt off and chest covered in wet kisses and small little bite marks. Whining softly the lower you traveled. 

“Shh, just relax,” you whisper, running a hand up and down his thigh. 

Maverick sniffles, lets his head fall back against the pillow as your needy hands reach for the button on his Levi’s. He’s already hard in his pants, his body tingling in anticipation. “Okay, okay,” he breathes.

You’re gentle as you unbutton his jeans, taking your time to excite him further. He lifts his hips slightly as you start peeling the material down his thighs, his head bowing again to watch you strip him. You get his jeans off fairly easily, folding them in a messy square and tossing them aside. You kiss up his thighs, feeling him tense underneath your lips as they get closer to his hard on. 

He gasps when you press an open-mouthed kiss over his clothed cock, hips jerking. You laugh lightly, “Baby, I’ve barely touched you,” you coo. 

He whines. “Don’t—oh, don’t make fun of me.” 

You mouth at the thin material of his underwear, his cock twitching underneath. He squirms, wanting more, both hands reaching into your hair. He doesn’t pull, simply rubs his thumbs over your scalp, gentle.

Your fingers curl around the waistband, but you look up at him just to be sure. “You sure about this, Mav?”

“Don’t ask. I’m all yours,” he pants, fingers twirling strands of your hair.

You smile, amused. It stirs something in you, the desire to unfold him. It turns you on intensely knowing you get to make him feel good. That he’s leaving it all up to you.

Pulling his underwear down, his cock jumps free, lands taut against his stomach, hard and leaking. Just the sight of him sends a jolt through you, arousal taking over your body. Your mouth salivates as you lean in, but you don’t want to overwhelm him, remembering to take it slow. You press a soft kiss to the side instead, Mav’s hips continuing to squirm. 

“You want a blowjob?” you ask softly, batting your lashes up at him, your mouth hovering over his length.

Maverick’s lips tighten together, holding back a moan just at your words alone. He nods, head moving quickly.

“Use your words, Mav,” you whisper, leaning in to press another kiss to his heated shaft, tongue slightly dipping against the vein.

He gasps again, removes his hands from your head to curl his fingers around the sheets instead. “Y–yeah, yes.”

You know not to do too much; he did say he wanted to fuck you, after all. Maybe just a few strokes of your mouth and then you’ll give him what he really wants. 

You’re still gentle when you take him into your mouth. Mav’s entire body goes frigid, a strangled moan leaving his lips. One fist remains bunched in the sheets and the other goes up to his mouth, teeth biting down on his finger to hold himself together, relishing in the new form of pleasure budding inside of him. 

You let all your spit gather as your mouth sinks around him, allowing it to leak out all over his cock. It slides all the way down, slicking him up. Maverick’s moans are muffled by his fist, but his cheeks turn an unbelievable pink as the pleasure flows in his abdomen. After a few up and down strokes of your mouth, you let go of his dick with a pop, instead running the flat of your tongue from the tip down the underside. You notice his squirming, how tight his face is pulled together as he tries to hold off his imminent orgasm. So soon already, poor thing. 

You almost want to pull back, but you allow him your tongue just a bit longer as you reach down to unbutton your own pants. Tongue swirling lightly around his shaft, you manage to yank your jeans down the best you can, slipping them off along with your underwear. You feel your arousal pooling down below, and that’s when you finally remove your mouth, spit dripping down your chin. Mav watches as you climb up the bed to straddle him, wiping at your lower face. You slip out of your shirt, throwing all your garments to the floor. 

You remove his fist from his mouth, leaning in to capture it in yours for an eager kiss instead. You take his throbbing cock into your hand as you kiss him, wet and slick from your blowjob, and scoot forward to mount him. At first, you just rub yourself against him, slicking up your folds. 

You get another gasp out of him—right against your mouth—when you test his tip against your slit, feeling to see if you’re ready enough for the stretch. When you pull away from the kiss, Maverick looks broken, his body flushed. He needs more. It’s enough to have you actually pushing the tip inside, watching his lashes flutter in a dreamlike daze.

“Oh—oh, God,” he breathes, fist coming up to cover his mouth again, but you grab his forearm before he can quiet himself. You want to hear every noise he makes.

It takes you just a second to adjust to the slight stretch, though his heated face and his little whines edge you on. You slide down inch by inch until you’re fully situated on the hilt, watching as more and more desperation paints his face.

His lips look cracked from biting at them, so you lean down again to continue kissing him, using your tongue against the plush of his lower lip. His cock fully inside you, you allow him a breather, hips momentarily still. 

“‘m not gonna last,” he rasps against your mouth, hips shallowly thrusting up. “Gonna cum.”

You kiss at the corner of his mouth, trailing down his jaw and underneath it. “Just a minute, Mav. You can do it.”

“Mmm—I don’t—fuck—” He shivers underneath you as you begin to roll your hips. “Oh, fuck.”

You roll your hips as you continue kissing down his throat, tongue finding his collarbone, teeth nipping at the skin underneath. It’s when you pull back and sit up straight that you actually begin sliding up and down on his cock. Slow at first, but there’s a fiery urge inside you, too, and you need it just as much as he does. Your pace quickens without warning, hands against his chest for leverage. You look down at him; you focus on his face, on how intoxicated he looks. His cheeks are crimson, teeth poking out of his parted lips. He stops moaning, the sounds seemingly trapped in his throat before he’s able to choke one out, and then another, and another, sporadically over a few seconds at a time. 

Through your own moans, you ask him, “You like that, Mav?” 

Mav only cries out in response, his hands finding your hips as you bounce, throwing his head back against the pillow again.

Your hips work magically for the both of you; Mav is practically torturing himself trying not to let go, and you’re seeing stars from the angle he’s reaching inside of you. The pleasure turns to electricity, jolts coursing through your body when he suddenly reaches up to cup your breasts, squeezing deliciously. You tremble at his touch, fingernails digging into his chest.

That’s enough to send him over the edge, and Mav cums without warning in warm spurts inside of you. Overwhelmed by the tight, wet heat, he sputters underneath you, groaning loudly. You watch his body jerk and his legs tense, and the sight alone brings you to your own edge. You lean down to capture his mouth in yours as you both cum. Maverick kisses you languidly, mouth vibrating against you as his moans continue to spill freely. 

Not wanting to overstimulate him, you slide off of him and slip into his side. He immediately wraps an arm around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His heavy breathing doesn’t slow; utterly blown away by the orgasm, relishing in it. 

You pant against his neck, head leaning against his shoulder. He’s warm, slightly sweaty and you can feel his heartbeat, quick and booming in his chest. You run your fingers over his chest, feather light touches to help him relax. 

“That was..” 

“Shh,” you quiet him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “Take it all in for a sec.”

[the-authoress-writes]

If You Please

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Lawyer!reader

Written for @roosterforme’s Top Gun Rocktober Playlist Fic Challenge

Synopsis: It’s not everyday that one’s best friend gets married, it’s not everyday that one is asked to be said friend’s Maid of Honor, and it’s certainly not everyday one meets a gorgeous, blond naval aviator.

Much less that one gets to dance the night away with the aforementioned naval aviator.

Warnings: Nothing, really, just a prerequisite creepy cousin, and a little teensy bit of cursing, but other than that, I don’t think there’s anything else.

Author’s Note: This is my first fic written for a fic challenge, and I am so grateful to @roosterforme for organizing this, and for allowing me to use one of my favorite 80s songs—Alannah Myles’ “Black Velvet”, as well as to @bradshawsbaby, who made the absolutely gorgeous moodboard for this fic.

You are both incredible, lovely people, and amazing writers!!

Everyone should go check out their stories—go, seriously.

I’ve made liberal use of lines from the song in this fic, but it’s just so absurdly appropriate for Jake that I didn’t even really feel that bad.

It’s also my first time writing Jake, so I’m not exactly sure I did him justice, but I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone thinks!

One down, one to go!!

And so, here we go!!!

She looked at her best friend dancing with her new husband, a smile on her lips.

She couldn’t be happier for her best friend, Cristina Nievara, formerly Cristina Machado.

The wedding was perfect, and went off without a hitch, and now, as the Maid of Honor, she could now relax—the hard part was over.

She sighed, sipping from her glass of rosé, rolling her neck from side to side.

At that moment, as if the very air shifted around her, or some preternatural sense alerted her, she became aware of a masculine presence behind her.

“Everyone’s dancing.”

At the smooth Texan drawl, a smile involuntarily split her lips. “That they are.”

“Everyone but you, Counselor.”

She angled her head to look into the emerald eyes of Jake Seresin. “Neither are you.”

“Hmm—little old me, well, I’m just waiting for the right partner.”

Her mouth ran a little dry, and she sipped from her glass again, trying to keep her composure. “And who would the right partner be?”

He hummed lightly, “I have an idea; she’d be kind, gentle—sweet, even—but opinionated when she needs to be, absurdly competent, insanely beautiful, and incredibly sexy.”

She hissed a breath between her teeth. “That’s quite the criteria.

Not sure you’ll be able to find a girl like that.”

“Well, I’m thinking I’m looking right at her.”

She couldn’t help it, her head whipped around to face him, so fast she worried she got whiplash, for her to find that his gaze was fixed intently and intensely on her.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she swallowed reflexively. “You sure you’re looking right?”

Jake made a show of looking at her up and down, his gaze somehow respectful despite the intensity she could see in his eyes. “I know I’m looking right.

Would you like to dance, Counselor?

Only if you please, though.”

She huffed a chuckle, shaking her head. “Well, since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse?”

And she set her glass down, before placing her hand into his outstretched one.

As Jake led her to the dancefloor, she mentally looked back—a month ago, never in a million years did she imagine that she’d be dancing with this man.

One month earlier…

She had no idea how Cris had managed to rope her into this.

But that wasn’t completely the truth; actually, she did.

Her best friend, Cristina Machado, was getting married to her fiancé, Gabriel Nievara, in her and Gabriel’s hometown of New Orleans.

And of course, Cris had to have her best friend as her Maid of Honor.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Cris, on the contrary, she’d do anything for that woman, they were each others’ ride-or-die since college, but it was moments like this, where she was currently being hit on by Cris’ creepy cousin, Marco, that almost made her reconsider.

And this was only a family and friends get-together at the large Machado family home a month before the wedding.

Marco was going on and on about how much money he made as a real estate agent, and she had been trying to get out of this conversation repeatedly, but she couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

If she had more energy, she wouldn’t hesitate to tell him off, but she had just come from a too-long deposition (literally throwing her dress on after), and her attitude was habitually completely different from the shark she had to be as a lawyer and in courtrooms, like a coat she put on, as a way of keeping her work separate from her personal life.

At this point, she was debating on dissociating from exhaustion, or looking for a way out, any way out—she was even debating the merits of just running away, and locking herself in the bathroom, which was looking more and more appealing by the second—when a drawling voice proclaimed, “There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you!”

She turned and saw a vaguely familiar dark blond-haired man striding towards her, looking rather like something out of a grocery store romance novel, with his movie star-blinding smile, in a pair of dark jeans, and a thin jacket over a henley, Wayfarers tucked into the collar.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I—I just got caught up with Marco,” she beamed, relief coursing through her.

“Well, uh, Cris wants to talk to you, asked me to come get you,” he nodded.

She latched onto that like a drowning woman. “Oh, I better go then, Maid of Honor stuff, you know—it was a pleasure talking with you, Marco, hopefully I’ll see you around,” she said, all in one breath, as she backed away, before immediately turning to follow her savior.

She blew out a breath, running a hand through her hair. “So, Cris wanted to talk to me, right?”

He clicked his tongue, glancing back to Marco, now on the prowl for his next hapless victim, “Not really, I just saw you looking like you would rather the Good Lord struck you dead then and there rather than continue talking with Marco.

But then again, most people tend to look like that when they talk with him.

So I decided to rescue you.”

She blinked. “Oh—well—thank you so much for the assist.

That was pretty good back there.”

“Not a problem, I’m used to coming in clutch.

And I am very good,” he winked, which made her huff a laugh as she fought the urge to tug the collar of her dress—how did it seem to get two or three degrees warmer just then?

He continued, sticking out his hand, “I’m Jake, Jake Seresin.”

She reciprocated the gesture, telling him her name, to which Jake replied, “Mmm, pretty name for a pretty girl.”

She rolled her eyes, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Can’t help it if it’s true,” he smirked.

God, why was it so hot?

Even for New Orleans, November had absolutely no right being this hot.

“So, uh, how do you know Cris?” she blurted, saying the first thing that came to mind.

“Through Javy,” Jake replied, referring to Cris’ older brother, “we—we’re both in the navy, but I’ve known the Machados for almost fifteen years,” he finished, almost bashfully.

At that moment, it clicked for her who Jake was; she’d seen him in the Machado Christmas photo for several years. “I know Javy’s a pilot, so, are you—”

“We prefer the term naval aviator—but yes, we both fly F-18s,” he finished, a somewhat smug and proud look on his face.

“Fighter jets, huh?

You any good?”

At this, he looked indignant. “‘Any good’?

I graduated number one in my TOPGUN class, you are looking at one of the best fighter pilots in this country.”

“Okay,” she nodded, a chuckle escaping her as she ducked her head, “my sincerest apologies.”

When she looked back up, she saw him turn to face the deck, rubbing the back of his neck, the stone on the ring on his right middle finger catching the light.

“Uh, apology accepted,” he murmured. “And er, Cris is up there on the deck if you wanted to talk to her anyway,” he gestured, turning to face her again.

Well, her romance novel moment was nice while it lasted.

“Ah, I know when I’m not wanted,” she nodded.

“No,” Jake literally yelped, garnering several glances, which made him rub the back of his neck again, “I mean, no, it’s, it’s not like that, I just thought that you might want to be around friends, not a random stranger.”

“Well, I’d hardly call you a random stranger—you did save me from Marco, so I’d say that at least puts you firmly in acquaintance territory,” she deadpanned.

An honest to God guffaw escaped him, and she couldn’t help but note the way it made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

When he got control of himself again, he breathed, “In that case, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Same here.”

Silence soon fell over them, but strangely, she didn’t feel it was in any way awkward—it felt almost easy, despite the inexplicable rising tension which she could feel beginning to draw tightly.

“Jerk!!!”

She whipped her head in the direction the call had come from, grinning when she saw the jumping figure of Cris, on the deck, as Jake said, who was waving her hand, beckoning her over.

“Bitch!!!” she eagerly called back, replying with the matching nickname she had for Cris, which the latter always joked Supernatural stole from them.

“Huh… so it is true, girls call each other that,” she heard, and she turned to see Jake watching her with a grin on his face.

“It’s a thing we have,” she brushed off, knowing that others might find that strange.

“Hey, no judgment here—I call my wingman Chicken or Big Dick.”

That actually made her splutter. “I’m going to need an explanation for those nicknames next time.”

He looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite pin down. “‘Next time’, huh?

You uh, looking forward to a next time?”

“Yeah, if only to get an answer for why those nicknames for your wingman,” she breathed. “You’re going to be around—for the wedding, right?”

She tried not to sound too hopeful.

“I’m thinking I will be, and I think for the in between,” he stated, seriously.

“Okay, so I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” and he warmly nodded in a way that made her oddly think that if he were wearing a Stetson, he’d be tipping it to her, before going off towards the grill which was currently being manned by Mr. Machado.

She exhaled sharply, then began to ascend the stairs to the top of the deck, where she was immediately intercepted by Cris.

“I see you met Jake,” Cris grinned.

“Yeah, I did, it’s nice to finally meet the odd man out on your guys’ Christmas card,” she breathed, trying to keep her tone light.

“Mm-hmm,” Cris replied, an odd glint in her eyes. “You two looked… cozy.”

“I—he saved me from Marco, and I was making conversation, you know, but he was nice; a little cocky, but nice,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Uh-huh.”

That glint was unfortunately still present in Cris’ eyes, and she lightly shoved the other woman in the shoulder. “It’s not like that, you—you are just… projecting because you’re so stupid happy with Gabriel.

We literally had one conversation, for God’s sake.”

Her best friend poked her in the arm, “‘One conversation’ was how it started for me and Gabe.

And I’m not projecting, you and Jake looked very comfortable together.

And for another thing, you cannot tell me you did not notice how hot he is.”

“Cris!” she hissed, glancing around to see if Gabriel was around. “You are engaged!”

“I am an engaged woman, but I can admit when a man is hot as hell.

And Jake Seresin is hot as hell,” Cris stated, raising her eyebrows, looking expectantly at her.

At first, she just stared, not sure what Cris wanted from her, but when it clicked, she sighed, “Seriously?”

“Admit it.”

“I—” she pinched the bridge of her nose, “I—w—oh, fine.

Jake is hot.

Happy?”

“Very.”

And with a smile, Cris practically bounced over to the other side of the deck.

“Cris! Cris!” She hurried after her best friend, knowing the other woman was undoubtedly planning something. “What are you planning?” she called, soon catching up.

“Planning what?”

“My bestie here finally met Jake, Jav,” Cris beamed, turning to face her older brother.

“Ah, that’s good,” Javy nodded, before also catching the glint in his sister’s eyes. “Okay, glint, you have a glint, what happened?”

“I had one conversation with your friend, Javy, and Cris is blowing it all out of proportion,” she interrupted.

Unfortunately for her, Javy’s eyes lit up in what was practically a carbon copy of Cris’ expression. “Oh. Cozy?” he asked, addressing Cris.

“Very,” her best friend nodded.

“Huh.”

In what was an unnerving display of sibling synchronicity, they both looked at her with identical glints.

“No.

Absolutely not.

Whatever you two are planning, no.”

“What makes you think we’re planning anything?” Javy protested.

She offered them a raised eyebrow.

Javy sighed, “Cris wants you happy, I want my boy happy—you could be happy together!”

“No, I am not going to be matchmade at a wedding!

It’s a walking cliche!” she protested.

Cris and Javy looked at each other, some sort of understanding passing between them.

“Okay, fine, we won’t try to set you up with Jake,” Cris sighed.

“Thank you!”

That was a month ago, and well, if they weren’t going behind her back, and orchestrating things like puppetmasters, which was highly unlikely, she could only chalk the amount of times she’d been thrown together with Jake to fate.

She had been seated with him at every lunch and dinner they were both invited to, paired with him at every wedding-related event and activity, every friends and family outing.

And somehow, there was always one person extra in the outing, and somehow, Jake was always the one to drive her, and only her, in his rental.

If she were being honest with herself, she wasn’t going to complain, especially not when it led to easy conversations allowing her to see below the cockiness, to see and know Jake, and she definitely wasn’t going to complain when it came to the… very hands-on crash courses she received from him when it came to mini-golf and bowling.

She was only human, after all.

And now, after numerous dinners, wedding related events and activities, after getting to know and see him, she could honestly say that she was more than halfway in love with Jake Seresin.

But she was uncertain of where things stood with him.

Yes, he hadn’t looked once at the bridemaids and various women who’d been throwing themselves at him, but that wasn’t a guarantee of anything.

However, that didn’t stop her from taking pride in the somewhat dumbstruck, glazed way he looked at her as she stood there on the altar, his eyes only for her, even as Cris was walking in her very elegant and beautiful dress down the aisle of the church.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at her like that.

The next time their gazes met, Cris and Gabriel had just been pronounced husband and wife, Gabriel dramatically taking Cris in his arms and dipping her before kissing her, to whoops and cheers.

She couldn’t help the way her eyes drifted to Jake, only to find that he was already looking at her, and she swore that that was longing she could see in his piercing gaze, but she couldn’t completely determine the expression before she had to follow Cris and Gabriel out of the church, and from there, they hadn’t seen each other.

Until he asked her to dance.

Now, as they moved on the dancefloor, all she was aware of was him, the feeling of his arms around her, his eyes gazing into her very soul, making heat like fire dance along her spine—but it wasn’t like a wildfire, relentless and uncontrollable.

Rather, it was like a cozy fire on a cold day, one you wanted to just lie down in front of—getting closer and closer until the fire seeped into your veins, into the very marrow of your bones, into your very soul.

And wasn’t that more dangerous?

The filament of her mind that was still cognizant of things, dimly registered that Jake was leading her fluidly and elegantly across the floor.

“You’ve got moves, Seresin,” she said.

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Enduring two years of cotillion and being pressganged into filling in for uneven numbers at Annapolis’ Ballroom Club will do that to a person.” He gracefully spun her before pulling her back into him. “You ain’t half-bad either, counselor,” he drawled in that slow, southern style.

“I too, bear the scars of cotillion,” she smiled.

That provoked a chuckle and a smile from Jake—and like it always did, that smile did its level best to bring her to her knees.

It wasn’t the obnoxious shark-like grin he had when he was being annoying on purpose, nor the cutting, sarcastic one he used when he was knocking someone down a peg or two.

No.

This one, which she’d only seen directed at her, was like his whole soul was smiling, and it had an innocence about it, despite the fact that at first glance, this man seemed made for nothing but sin.

“Well, in that case, you’ve got very graceful and elegant scars.

And I must admit, I’ve never had such a beautiful woman dancing in my arms before.”

She couldn’t help but scoff and laugh incredulously.

“What?” Jake inclined his head.

“I don’t know if you’re bullshitting me or being honest with me, because I somehow can’t believe that I’m the most beautiful woman you, of all people, have danced with.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What exactly do you mean?”

“You—you want me to spell it out?”

He hummed, “Let’s just say this witness would like a little leading here, counselor.”

She laughed, before sighing, “You, Jake Seresin, are… well—more than a little bit attractive, and I cannot believe that there wasn’t more than one pretty southern belle in your arms.”

He smirked wickedly, “You sayin’ I’m hot?”

Flustered, she exclaimed, “O—objection—hostile witness!”

“Overruled, witness will answer,” he easily parried.

“Th—that’s not your line.”

He playfully sniffed, “I’m still thinking I’d like an answer, there.”

“You’re killing me here,” she breathed, wanting to duck her head and hide, but in Jake’s arms, there wasn’t exactly any place to escape.

Jake leaned closer, pressing her against him, clouding her senses even more, as he ducked his head to murmur into her ear, his breath warm against her neck, “But you like it.”

She looked up at him, blindly following his lead, placing her trust in him to not let her fall flat on her face, and whispered, “You’re trouble, Jake Seresin.” She shook her head, picked up the frayed threads of her wit and courage, and plowed on. “Yes, I think you are more beautiful than any man has a right to be.

And not just because of the way you look.”

Jake, who had been wearing a somewhat smug expression during her declaration, froze at her last sentence. “That’s new.”

“What?”

“Someone seeing more than a pretty face here,” he replied incredulously.

“I’d kind of have to be blind to not see it, but, I’ve seen what you’ve shown me—what you’ve let me see, and while I won’t presume to completely know you already, I… I like what I see; in every way.”

Some sort of emotion broke in his eyes, something the shadowed dancefloor didn’t really allow her to see clearly, but he murmured, “Dance with me?”

“We already are,” she smiled gently.

“I mean…” he strangely foundered, before continuing, “may I fill your dance card, counselor?”

Teenage her wouldn’t believe what was happening. “Won’t it be boring, dancing with me all night long?”

“Don’t care.

May I?

Only if you please.”

They danced through a more brightly lit area, and she saw the honesty in his piercing sea foam eyes.

In that moment, something told her that if she said no, she’d regret it for the rest of her life, leaving her longing for one more dance. “Well, looks like I’m yours for the night.”

Jake blinked, a rough chuckle escaping his mouth. “You are, huh?”

“Not—not like that—I—” she stammered.

He laughed this time, full and loud, “Relax, counselor, I don’t make it a habit of taking what I’m not given.

I was raised a good Christian boy, after all.”

“Didn’t even know the word good was in your vocabulary,” she breathlessly replied.

“Oh, don’t you remember, counselor,” he leaned in, voice dipping low, making everything fade into the background, “I am good—I’m very good.”

Her breath hitched, and he swept her across the floor, the two of them dancing the night away.

An hour and a half later, the night was wrapping up, and it was time to send the new Mr. and Mrs. Nievara to their honeymoon suite in the hotel upstairs.

She and Jake promptly got separated, eventually finding herself in the press of women lined up for the bouquet toss.

She personally disliked it because it baffled her how a literal bunch of flowers could turn a group of women into feral cats.

So, she was determined not to reach for it, no matter what.

Cris walked to the center of the dancefloor, and counted down. “Three, two, one!!”

In the space between one blink and the next, a massive bouquet of red roses was in her arms, and she couldn’t help but gawk.

Most of the women cheered as they dispersed—though some sent her dirty looks—while Cris approached her, beaming from ear to ear. “Thank you so much, Jerk, I don’t know how I would have been able to make it through without you.”

She clasped Cris’ arms, “It was my pleasure, Bitch.

Now you go get some rest with that husband of yours—” she paused, considering, before finishing with a wink, “or not.”

Cris just laughed, “You too—don’t think that I didn’t notice who you danced with—or rather, who you danced the night away with.”

She scoffed, but Cris whispered, “You do know the tradition behind the bouquet toss, right?”

“Cris—”

“I’m not saying you’re going to be walking down the aisle with him any time soon, but what I am saying, is let things play out, you never know.”

She stared at Cris’ earnest face for a beat, before slapping her lightly on the arm. “You’re so in love, it’s fried your brain.”

“I’m thinking yours is too.

Think about it.”

And with a final hug, all the guests cheered as Gabriel carried Cris out of the ballroom.

Soon after, she was hanging around Candice-Marie, the wedding planner, trying to help in any way she could, but the kindly older woman, with whom she’d been working closely leading up to the wedding, shooed her off, saying, “You go on now, you’ve done enough, sweetheart.

I can handle this.

You go enjoy the rest of your night with your handsome gentleman,” she winked.

She didn’t even have time to reply, or to be shocked, before she was swiftly left alone in the middle of the dancefloor.

She turned, blinking, seeing Jake slowly walking onto the dancefloor to stand before her. “So… looks like it’s just you and me, counselor.”

“Certainly looks that way, Lieutenant.”

He mock-winced. “What happened to ‘Jake’, I thought we were getting along so well.”

She couldn’t help her laugh. “I’m sorry—Jake.”

He fleetingly grinned, before turning serious. “So…”

“So… no plans for a… wild night with Javy?

Night’s still young… ish.”

“He can survive without me.

On the ground, at least,” he teased, inclining his head. “So it looks like my dance card’s empty.

I’m all yours.”

“Oh, are you?” she said, poorly concealing her laughter, at the way the tables had turned from earlier.

He looked at her, wondering what was funny, and she got to see his lightbulb moment. “I—I did not mean it that—I mean—unless—I—I mean—I’m—I’m just going to shut up, now,” he lamely finished.

“That was incredible and adorkable.”

“I’ve been called many things in my life, but never adorkable.”

“First time for everything, I guess.” The moment hung for a beat, before she continued, “Well, you’re in for a pretty boring night, then, because I am exhausted, and I am going to go up to my hotel room,” she sighed.

A frown creased his brow. “You live in New Orleans, and yet you rented a hotel room.”

“I am what, again?”

Jake clicked his tongue, an expression like he was berating himself on his face. “Exhausted.”

It was late, she’d had a couple of drinks (though that excuse was wearing a little thin, given that she’d drank them hours ago), so she allowed herself to be a little silly, and she whipped out double finger guns. “Star witness, here.

But… you can walk me to my room.”

His eyes lit up, and he extended his elbow in the old-fashioned way. “Lead the way, madam.”

They slowly walked out of the ballroom, moving towards the elevator bank.

It was a decent walk, and it was done in a comfortable silence, during which she narrowly kept herself from leaning her head against his arm.

When they arrived at the elevator bank, there was still a decent crowd of people from the wedding stood there, which made her groan. “This is going to take forever.”

“If you’re up for more of a walk, there’s another elevator bank up on the mezzanine,” Jake offered.

A despairing look up at him. “Stairs?”

“Stairs.

But you’ll be in your room sooner.”

She deliberated. “Fuck it—stairs.”

This time, she followed him up the grand oak staircase, wincing with each step—no matter how broken in a pair of heels were, at a certain point, they all became instruments of torture.

At the top of the stairs, she saw that there was blessedly, no one around, but the thought of walking one more step in her heels was a bridge too far, and she tugged Jake towards the mezzanine railing. “Wait, let me take these off.”

Keeping one hand on the wood rail, she eased the strap of her heel out of the buckle, when she overbalanced, and lurched forward.

Strong hands caught her to a firm chest, and she looked up into his verdant eyes, her whole being caught.

“God, but I really want to kiss you right now, counselor,” he rasped, his voice, pure tone draped in yearning.

“Technically, I don’t kiss on the first date,” she instinctively spoke, and she could see his gaze shutter as he began to loosen his grip slightly, when she drew him even closer, pulling him in by fisting her hand in the lapel of his black velvet suit jacket. “But… technically… we’ve already had so many first dates, haven’t we?”

It took him a moment, but she could literally see the shutters on his gaze being flung open, being replaced by a mischievous sparkle. “We have, haven’t we.”

“Hard to see a reason why you shouldn’t kiss me, in that case.”

He smiled, the innocence of his little boy’s smile contrasting with the smoldering desire in his viridian eyes.

The next thing she knew, Jake’s lips were on hers, and he was kissing her.

In a split second, the fire that had warmed her very soul, now rushed through her blood, consuming everything that wasn’t Jake Seresin, until the only coherent thought was of him.

If not for his arms around her, the deep, searching caress of his mouth on hers was enough to bring her to her knees then and there, his kiss a new religion.

The kiss lasted a moment, it lasted eternity, but she knew that from that point on, she’d never have enough—he’d always leave her longing for more.

The breath which so rudely surged into her lungs seemed like poor recompense for his kiss.

Jake looked about as wrecked as she felt, his lashes fluttering over half-lidded eyes, his forehead leant against hers. “An absolutely stunning, whip-smart woman who sees me and likes it, with a gorgeous smile and laugh—damn, I think I’ve found the reason my dance card’s going to be full for the foreseeable future,” he murmured.

A sound between a chuckle and a gasp of air slipped from her lips as a thrill raced through her.

“Only if you please though,” he added, a teasing note in his voice.

“I very much please,” she replied.

“Yeah?”

God, his smile—screw halfway in love—her heart was his through and through.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Now kiss me again.”

Jake chuckled, “Well, since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse?”

He kissed her again, and in that kiss, forever laid at her feet, spread out before her.

What does it say about me that I know exactly what model Ray-Bans Glen used in TG:M?

😂

I did totally take the the “Jerk. Bitch.” interaction from Supernatural.

If you look at the nametags in TG86, below the names, you’ll see “TOPGUN 1”, so I’m going to assume there’s more than one TOPGUN class/session in a year, at least in the TG/TG:M universe.

There’s a headcanon going around that Jake and Javy were either tied, or one and two respectively, in their TOPGUN class, so I went with that.

(I headcanon that Bradley and Natasha were in the same TOPGUN class, and Natasha was number one, while Bradley was number two.)

I vacillate between Old Money!Jake and Working/Middle Class!Jake on a fairly regular basis, but for the purposes of this story, I went with Old Money!Jake.

Apparently, cotillion is still alive and well in Texas, so Jake having that experience is highly plausible.

USNA does have a Ballroom Club, although, like with most things in fanfiction, I might be taking liberties with the time of its establishment, because I don’t know when that got started.

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[demxters]

— 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader

summary: in which you find the handsome stranger of your dreams in the form of one of your frequent bookstore visitors…

wc: 1.1k

warning(s): slight second hand embarrassment from y/n but other than that none!

a/n: baby, baby boy i love you. this is the first time i’ve written in MONTHS and i’m glad it was for the loml bob floyd. feedback is greatly appreciated! <3

(gif credit @unicornships )

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

The chill of the crisp autumn air blows through your little shop just as the door swings shut. It sends a pleasant shiver down your spine from where you kneel in the romance section to take inventory.

Your fingers delicately skim the spines of your favorite novels as you count and check them off your sheet. Too caught up in your own daydream of being swept away by a handsome stranger, you don’t hear the footsteps coming down the aisle when you stand up on your feet.

All the air leaves your lungs as you lose your footing. With eyes clenched shut and awaiting the inevitable you brace for the impact that, strangely, never comes.

A comforting warmth wraps around your middle, breaking your fall.

“Careful, miss!” Your savior makes himself heard.

You deeply inhale to catch your breath, surrounding yourself in the mystery man. Your heart skips a beat at the feel of his chest to your back. He’s lean, yet muscular (not that it mattered, but it was a plus). And his scent… he smelled like a mix of warm spices and laundry detergent in a way that reminded you of home. Your eyes just almost fall shut in his warm embrace. Almost.

“Uh, miss?” The arm on your waist loosens and you feel a firm hold on your shoulders.

God, was he gorgeous.

The naval aviator with the perfect hair and adorable glasses has been there five times since Monday, not that you’ve been counting. It is currently Wednesday.

“Hi,” you gasp breathlessly. Your eyes flick to the patch on his chest. “Lieutenant Floyd.”

A small smile graces his features as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hi, Y/N.”

“You-you know my name?” A flutter bursts in your chest.

“It’s, uh, on your name tag,” he points to the pin on your apron.

Duh. You feel like an idiot. If you weren’t hot earlier, you certainly are now. You wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole right then and there. “Right,” you clear your throat. “Of course.”

He nods and awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck.

He opens his mouth to speak but you’d rather not embarrass yourself any longer so you point to the register before bolting.

You leave Bob standing in the aisle with pink tinted cheeks. He feels his palms start to sweat as he watches you walk off. Bob’s desperate for another interaction with you. Your wide eyes and rambling sent his heart into a frenzy. The moment he discovered your hidden gem of a bookstore in Fightertown, USA, he knew for certain that it would become his favorite place to frequent. The plethora of books and cute bookshop owner was a plus. He has wanted to talk to you for so long and now that he has, he’s scared you off.

Just talk to her. Bob scoffs to himself as he picks a random book off the shelf. Some advice that was, thanks Hangman.

He makes his way back to the front of the store to see you flipping through a Better Homes and Garden magazine. Bob takes a deep breath, puts some confidence in his stride and makes his way to you.

The sight of your newfound favorite customer with your favorite book in his hands has you practically throwing your magazine to the floor.

“You all set, Lieutenant?” You hope the shakiness in your voice isn’t obvious.

“Bob.”

The puzzled look in your eyes urges him on.

“Earlier you called me Lieutenant Floyd. But you could just call me Bob,” he shrugs.

“Bob,” you test out. It’s a simple name, no more than three letters, yet it feels right on your tongue. Like his name was meant to fall from your lips. “Alright, Bob, your total is $4.50, military discount included.”

He completes the transaction in silence and you rock back and forth on the heels of your feet. You desperately want to say something, anything but you can’t. You’ve never been this nervous around a boy before.

“That’s my favorite, you know.”

Bob looks down at the book in his hands, realizing he didn’t even care to look at what he grabbed. “The Notebook?”

You hum in response as you fiddle with the corner of your magazine. “It’s the perfect amount of romance, true love, and tragedy.”

“Like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. My opinion on Romeo and Juliet has almost gotten me killed on multiple occasions, so I don’t want to delve into that.” You dismiss with a shake of your head.

You’re rambling again and Bob smiles. You were just the cutest thing. He could listen to you ramble all day if you’d let him. “I’d love to hear that opinion. Promise I won’t kill you.”

The most beautiful sound falls from your lips at Bob’s poor attempt at a joke. That’s when he knows, he’s absolutely enamored by you.

“You say that now, but once I tell you what I think, you might change your mind.”

“Not possible,” he grins, leaning forward on the counter. “You’re too cute to kill.” Bob’s eyes grow wide at his words. Now it’s his turn to be embarrassed. He’s about to apologize, about to take it back and run out of the store when you stop him.

“You think I’m cute?”

The way your face lights up makes Bob think his embarrassment was worth it. “Yeah,” he lets out, turning redder by the second.

“I think you’re cute too,” you smile, placing a gentle hand atop his on the counter.

Bob’s watch goes off startling the both of you and you pull your hand off his. He finds himself already missing the warmth. “Shoot, I’ve got to run.” He grabs his copy of The Notebook. “Say, what are the chances of me taking you out sometime?”

“I’d say it’s looking pretty good, Lieutenant.”

The wink you send him makes his heart rate rise. “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

You watch him leave with a lovestruck grin. The squeal that comes from you echoes through the empty store. Who’d have thought your handsome stranger would come in the form of adorably shy, Bob Floyd?

+bonus:

“The Notebook? Really, Bob? I didn’t take you for a hopeless romantic,” Phoenix teases, taking the book off the table and skimming through the pages.

“It looked interesting,” Bob mutters.

A slip of paper falls from its pages, catching Phoenix’s attention. Bob walks over to her and peers over her shoulder, curious to what she found.

For when you’re in the mood for some killer opinions:

xxx-xxx-xxxx

-Y/N

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

[laracrofted]

baby, i'm high octane (v)

synopsis: on fourth of july, nora and jake dance around each other.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: 18+, minors dni, swearing, alcohol consumption, existential dread, pining and yearning, kissing, no smut here but come back for the next chapter (wc: 7K)

note: i'm sorry for being so slow. i rewrote this chapter like eight times, i'm not even kidding. i also apologize in advance for where i ended this chapter, but the good news is we'll have seven chapters instead of six 😌

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tagging // @theharddeck @frenchyjuju @bioodforbiood @cursedtobe @roosterbruiser @t-nd-rfoot @bethbunnyy @filmflux @djs8891 @mayhemmanaged @sometimesanalice @eli2447 @bradshawsbitch @hangmanbrainrot @startrekfangirl2233 @kandierteveilchen @lostinwonderland314 @hangmanscoming @dempy @mlibbydp @stvrlighttsworld @bellaireland1981 @clancycucumber230 @kmc1989 @averagereader35

June slips away over the weekend, a quiet and unassuming end.

As June fades into July, Sunday becomes Monday becomes Tuesday and so on until soon enough, Fourth of July has arrived and more importantly, so has a long weekend.

God bless America.

On the morning of the Fourth, Nora sleeps in for once.

She wakes up a few minutes before 11:00 AM and refreshed – or at the very least, a little less tired than usual – and reaches for her phone, which is once again, buried under her pillows.

A slew of unread notifications are waiting for her when Nora rolls over and looks at the screen.

Two missed calls. Eleven unread messages. One unread email Nora has definitely been meaning to read for a week now. Definitely.

She ignores the email – because really, what's one more day? – and scrolls through the rest of the notifications.

Natasha, 9:40 AM: Are you awake? 

Natasha, 9:41 AM: I'm going with no because I knocked and didn't get an answer.

Natasha, 10:00 AM: We're heading out to North Coronado Beach in 10-ish. Payback is bringing his girlfriend. Come join us when you're awake if you'd like!

Bradley, 10:05 AM: Do you have any sunscreen I could borrow?

Bradley, 10:06 AM: Phoenix really wants you to come to the beach btw.

Her smile grows as Nora scrolls down and discovers a message each from the rest of the Naval aviators and even one from an unsaved number with a Louisiana area code that she has to assume is Javy.

"Oh my god," Nora laughs. A loud and delighted sound in the soft quiet of the morning. Natasha’s persistence is both amusing and very touching.

She sends Natasha a quick I'm awake, just need to get dressed as proof of life and stares at Jake's message for a solid 30 seconds, gnawing on the edge of her bottom lip.

She swears under her breath and clicks on the message.

Jake, 10:30 AM: So are you really sleeping or are you just afraid to face me in beach volleyball?

Nora, 10:58 AM: Sorry, who is this?

He responds less than a minute later.

Jake, 10:59 AM: Ha ha

Jake, 10:59 AM: Come to the beach.

Jake, 11:00 AM: Javy and I need another person. 

Nora, 11:01 AM: Have you looked on Tinder?

Jake, 11:02 AM: For volleyball, smart ass. We're playing 3 on 3. 

Jake, 11:02 AM: Everyone wants you to come.

Jake, 11:02 AM: I want you to come.

She's never been so grateful to be alone than right now. No one else should have to witness the stupidly wide smile pulling at her lips right now, uninvited. She reads the message again, feeling kind of giddy, which is actually kind of ridiculous.

Like objectively ridiculous.

She is kind of ridiculous. This is getting out of hand.

Like on Sunday morning for instance.

She had woken up in the aftermath of Bradley’s party and that damn dream and remembered the night before in such excruciatingly vivid and cinematic detail – high resolution and state-of-the-art surround sound, like the goddamn IMAX of sex dreams – that she had to deep clean the entire apartment as a distraction.

A several hour get up close and personal with the checkered blue in the bathroom, wondering whether it's ever been cleaned, and later, in a sudden panic, open all of the windows in case you've accidentally poisoned yourself with bleach fumes deep clean.

Her one goal? Don't think about Jake.

So Nora wiped down the counters and didn’t think about Jake and vacuumed the living room, between and under the couch cushions included, and didn’t think about Jake and scrubbed the shower and didn’t think about Jake so hard that Nora needed an actual shower afterward. A cold one.

"Get a grip," Nora says out loud now.

She looks out of the window and sees nothing but a clear and cloudless blue. A perfect beach day.

She'll go, of course.

She'll go because Nora loves the beach – and always has – and because Natasha was kind enough to invite her and because Nora wants to meet Reuben's girlfriend and hang out with all of them.

No other reason.

She wonders, not for the first time, not even for the first time this week, when she became so well versed in lying to herself.

She blows out a prolonged breath and responds to Natasha.

Nora, 11:05 AM: I'll be there in 30.

"Not playing, Rogers?"

Noon is bright and beautiful and clear as Nora lowers her sunglasses ever so slightly and glances up from her book at Bradley. Blinding sunlight pierces her blue eyes almost immediately, and she has to hold up a shielding hand to be able to see him.

Hand still raised, Nora shakes her head in answer.

She had definitely overpacked for the beach. She always does, wanting to be prepared.

A well-worn paperback from her nightstand. Sunscreen. A reusable water bottle. An assortment of snacks. A portable phone charger. Chapstick. A claw clip. More snacks. An old film camera, in case Nora feels inspired.

(She loves the way California looks on film. All faded blues and greens.)

After seeing Reuben serve, Nora had never been more grateful for her own overpacking. Natasha and Reuben alternated subbing in for Nora on Jake and Javy's side, and Nora found a good patch of sand on the sidelines where she can watch from a minimum safe distance.

Nora loves a good bit of healthy competition, like all Leos do, but she's nowhere near competitive enough to play with them. She's much happier here.

"I decided I don't need a concussion," Nora says simply.

"We would've gone easy on you," Bradley protests immediately. His grin is just mischievous enough that Nora doesn't believe him.

"Now I'm convinced," Nora drawls dryly.

Bradley laughs, bending over and reaching into the cooler that Reuben's girlfriend, Gracie – a pretty nurse with a deceptively powerful spike – brought. It's filled with lemonade and water and soda and at the very bottom, beer.

His hand sloshes around in the ice until Bradley pulls a couple of beers from the depths. He offers one to Nora wordlessly.

She is still drinking a can of cold brew from La Colombe so Nora waves him off. He drops the second beer back into the cooler with a faint splash and closes the lid.

"Scooch over," Bradley asks and nudges her leg with the side of his sandy foot.

A cool breeze blows in from the ocean as Nora moves over, and Bradley smells like a summery mixture of coconut sunscreen and sweat, dropping down next to her.

He had to dive for a pass in the last game, and his calves are sandy as Bradley kicks out his legs and buries his toes in the sand.

Ice cold condensation rolls down the side of Bradley's fresh can of beer and drips down his arm onto Nora's legs. She sets her book aside with a frown, not wanting him to drip water on the pages, which are already a little wrinkled from her dropping it in a pool once.

She crosses her legs. Wipes the water from her skin.

Her damp palm smears across his bare shoulder as Nora wipes the water on him. Just to be annoying. She's surprised – and kind of alarmed – by how warm Bradley's skin is, scorching.

His shoulders are already a concerning shade of pink, and Nora asks, "Did you even put on the sunscreen I brought you?"

His chin dips in a nod, and Nora can see smudges of sunscreen residue around his reddening ears. "I burn easily."

He cracks open the beer with a crisp pop and fizz sound, like a sound effect from a Bud Light commercial. A wave of foam rapidly rises, and Bradley slurps it down with a muttered curse, only barely avoiding spilling it all over his lap.

"You should put on more," Nora says. She looks at his back and grimaces. "You're like giving off heat right now."

Another sip, and Bradley lets out an exaggerated ah! sound. "Are you offering to put it on for me? If you wanted to rub my shoulders so badly, you could've asked."

"It's a spray," Nora deadpans.

He visibly holds back a grin, mustache twitching, and Nora rolls her eyes.

Bradley pulls his sunglasses down with a crooked pinky and absentmindedly watches the current game over the edges of the golden rims. Drinks his beer. Reuben, Mickey, and Gracie are facing off against Jake, Javy, and Natasha right now while Bob is refereeing.

She pulls her book back into her lap and leans her chin on her open palm, reading, interpreting his silence as the end of the conversation.

Silly her, right?

She only manages to get through another paragraph and a half when Nora is interrupted again.

"So..." Bradley cuts in casually. "What's up? I feel like I haven't seen you all week."

Her brow scrunches as Nora frowns slightly. "You've seen me."

A drop of sweat rolls down his neck as Bradley shakes his head. "Barely."

"We had lunch yesterday," Nora reminds him. Did Bradley fall on his knees or on his head during that last dive?

"You're usually around more, like in the Ready Room, but I hung out in there a few times between drills, and you were always gone."

"I was in the hangar," Nora explains, deliberately oblivious. She knows Bradley is asking after the why – not the where.

"Why?" Bradley asks, directly so Nora can't dodge him again. She makes a face.

Why, indeed.

Frankly, because Bradley happened to be paired with Jake on a lot of the same drills and so, happened to be on the ground at the same time as him.

Nora isn't avoiding Jake. Per se.

Avoiding him would be unprofessional and also, kind of impossible and not really fair to him. He hasn't done anything. It's her. She has just been a little more... scarce than usual.

Bradley is more collateral damage than anything else.

He looks over before Nora has a chance to compose her face. "Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like..." Bradley searches for the right phrase. He seeks wisdom in another sip of beer. "...you're my bunkmate on the carrier about to ask if I can find another place to crash for the night so I can get laid.”

She stares at him blankly. "I'm confused. Are you getting laid? Or am I?"

"Don't change the subject, Rogers."

"Me?" Nora exclaims. "You're the one with the confusing analogy."

"Just..." He waves his beer around. "Tell me."

Sighing, Nora sneaks a subtle – or rather, hopefully subtle –  glance at Jake.

Shirtless, Jake is gleaming in the golden glow of the sun, glistening with an attractive sheen of sweat, all muscles and sun-kissed skin, rolling and flexing and all of those delicious words. He is wearing a backwards baseball cap, damp strands of golden hair swept across his forehead and underneath, making him look ruffled and boyish and so goddamn handsome.

And Jake's arms. His massive arms.

One of those arms wipes across his glistening forehead as Jake spikes the ball and sends Reuben and Mickey diving into the sand on the other side of the net. His cocky grin is blinding.

And even from here, Nora feels her pulse quicken. She feels like a dropped can of soda, one hard shake from bursting open.

She needs to get a grip and soon.

"You don't want to know," Nora promises.

"Tell me," Bradley nudges. "How bad can it really be?"

Well. She did warn him.

"I had a sex dream about Jake."

He chokes. A stream of beer dribbles down his chin and splashes across his bare chest, running down his abdomen in rivulets. Nora holds back a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. 

"Why would you tell me that?" Bradley looks pained, asking the question like, What did I ever do to you? Like, Why do you hate me so much?

"You asked," Nora replies calmly.

Mopping the beer from his chest with a balled-up shirt, Bradley looks pained. He coughs into his elbow. "I did not ask about – "

"Besides," Nora continues, ignoring him. "I needed to tell someone, and I couldn't scar Natasha like this so early in our friendship. I need advice."

"What... exactly is the problem?" Bradley asks, slow and reluctant, with a comical lack of enthusiasm; like she's forced the question out of him at gunpoint.

"Well, I guess I like him." Nora draws her knees in and brushing sand from her skin, warm from the sun, rests her arms on them. "Which is probably a bad idea, I know."

"Probably," Bradley echoes. He bobs his head from side to side, weighing his words, considering. "But really, what's a good idea?"

Surprise makes Nora look at him, sharp and sudden. "What does that mean?"

His shoulder drops into a shrug. "I guess, I mean Hangman is a good enough guy. You could do worse."

Brows raised, Nora asks, "Really? When exactly did you guys kiss and make up?"

Bradley wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Is that what gets you hot these days?"

He laughs when Nora digs her elbow into his side. She snorts despite herself. "You're such an ass. But really, aren't you going to try to talk me out of it? I expected you to be against the idea."

His laughter cools into something more thoughtful, more contemplative as Bradley asks, "Did you know my mom took six months to agree to go out with my dad?” 

She shakes her head.

A kind of sad smile pulls at his mouth. A ghost of a smile. "Yeah. She wanted him to prove himself or something. She wanted someone who'd be serious about her. He obviously did, or I wouldn't be here."

A pause, and Nora patiently waits for him to continue.

"My birthday always brings up a lot of memories. I'm 36 now. Another year older than my dad ever got to be, which never gets any less weird. I never asked, but if she’d known how it would end, I bet she would’ve done some things differently. I know she would’ve done anything for six more months with him.” 

Bradley says, "You like him. He likes you. And you've got what? Four more weeks here?"

A cool dread pools in the bottom of her stomach at the reminder, and Nora nods with a wan smile. Her opposite fist clenches and unclenches where Bradley can't see.

"Exactly. You're not gonna be here forever. Why not see what happens?"

Her knees drop open as Nora crosses her legs. She brushes sand from her ankles, runs her thumb over the delicate bone there, a soothing back and forth motion, meditative. Contemplating.

"He'd just be so..."

Ahead, as Javy prepares to serve, abdomen rippling as the Naval aviator raises his arm high, Jake cups his large hands around his mouth and heckles Reuben and Mickey. They give him the bird in unison, and even Gracie narrows her eyes.

Jake grins widely. So damn pleased with himself.

She drops her gaze before Jake can catch her watching him.

"So smug," Nora finishes. "He'd be so goddamn smug."

Bradley laughs. "Can't argue with you there."

He winds an arm around her shoulders, sympathetic and sweaty, and Nora leans her head on his shoulder. Her own shoulders are warm from sunshine. Her cheeks are pink.

She's probably overdue for a dip in the ocean.

"Do you know where you're going after this? At the end of this project, I mean?" Bradley asks quietly, and when Nora doesn't respond right away, looks at her sidelong. His brown eyes are warm in the afternoon sun, honeyed with flecks of amber. "Or should I not ask?"

Her answering sigh is almost lost amongst the sounds of the ocean waves, gently crashing against the shore, almost but not quite. "Please don't ask."

He acknowledges her words with a hum. "Gotcha."

Soon, Bradley finishes his beer and rejoins Natasha and Bob for the next game, huddling up, and Nora can feel Jake's eyes on her like she can feel the sun on her shoulders, like a burst of warmth.

She gives up any hope of reading her book and lays down. Closes her eyes. Basks in the warmth of the afternoon; in the sounds of gulls overhead and shouts of laughter; in the rush of salt air over her skin, on her tongue.

Everything else washes away, caught in the rising tide and carried out to sea. At least, for now.

A few hours later, after Nora has gone home and rinsed the sweat and sand from her skin and dressed again, she catches a ride with Natasha and Bob to the Hard Deck to meet the rest of the Naval aviators.

Penny is hosting something of a private Fourth of July barbecue – but with more alcohol and aside from a party-sized bag of Lay's chips Nora saw on the bar, no barbecue – in the early evening before San Diego's annual firework show, which kicks off around dusk.

The Hard Deck bar is a sea of khaki uniforms and crisp denim and shades of red, white, and blue, and Penny clearly decorated for the occasion.

A paper banner of red, white, and blue stars hangs across the large windows in the back, rustling like autumn leaves in the slight breeze from the side door. And cross-legged on a barstool by the windows, a cute but highly impractical pair of pale blue suede cowboy boots on her dangling legs, Nora leans an elbow on her knee, watching Jake and Natasha's nine ball game.

Dressed in a linen button-down, which pulls deliciously over his back muscles, Jake knocks a hard-to-reach ball into a pocket with a devil-may-care smirk. Natasha visibly winces.

"Think I want a rematch, Bagman," Natasha announces with a resigned swig of beer.

"Oh, Bagman again, is it?" Jake lets out a low and mocking whistle. "Haven't heard that one in a while. You must really be pissed, huh, Phoenix?"

Brows raised, Jake flawlessly executes a series of complicated shots while holding her dark gaze, which grows progressively steelier with every click and clack.

"Nora," Natasha says in a scary calm voice. "You can probably reach him best over there. Would you mind strangling Bagman for me?"

"Happily," Nora quips.

Jake makes a whole show of clutching his chest and pretending to be deeply offended, which lasts for all of 20 seconds. "No one likes a sore loser, Trace."

And Bob – who until now has been quietly observing from a barstool on Natasha's end – carefully sweeps cracked peanut shells and popcorn residue from his lap and chimes in with some much-needed optimism.

"You can still win. You still have..."

He launches a long-winded and strategic breakdown of all the different strategies and angles Natasha has left in her arsenal, counting them off. As if Natasha is competing in some Las Vegas championship, not playing a few amicable – well, maybe semi-amicable – rounds in a dive bar.

And while Nora is a very casual enjoyer of pool and doesn't understand half of what Bob is saying, she does understand that Jake is beating Natasha. Badly. Obnoxiously so.

An argument will definitely break out if Jake wipes the floor with Natasha. Nora can feel it in the air, like a crackle of electricity, an indigo downdraft before a summer storm.

So as Jake grows closer, setting up for the coupe de grâce, Nora catches the crisp sleeve of his linen button-down, fabric pulling tight across his muscular bicep. 

He pauses. Turns. 

Forehead wrinkling, Jake looks down at Nora, expectant.

He smells... so damn good. Focus.

"Don't be an asshole," Nora says coolly.

"You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid."

She gives him a withering look, and god, Jake definitely wants to laugh. She can see it in his eyes, bright and gleaming and green and so close.

"About the game," Nora clarifies dryly. "Don't be an asshole about the game."

His gaze drops down to where Nora is still holding his sleeve. She releases it as if burned.

Amusement creases the corners of his eyes, and Jake drawls, "No promises, sweetheart," and pulls away.

Even so, Jake's next move – one that could've easily been a game ender – is a little less precise, a little less powerful than his previous one. It’s not enough to sink the nine ball. 

And Natasha lives to see another turn. 

A Tears for Fears song comes on as Natasha openly celebrates, drawing her fist down, victorious. Bob and Mickey cheer and clap from the sidelines. Her own personal cheerleaders.

Nora's lips curl upwards.

Three Naval aviators are notably absent from the group at the back of the Hard Deck right now. Reuben is with Gracie, who wanted to get a good spot for the fireworks on Harbor Island, and Bradley had gone straight from the beach to Captain Mitchell's and is now late.

(Bradley sent her a message peppered with various emojis and general incoherence but ending in L8, which was easy enough to understand.)

Javy is around here... somewhere. He vanished into the crowd like 20 minutes ago for a refill and some snacks and never came back. He's probably catching up with some of the Naval officers who had waved at him as Javy came in.

She knows Javy would've clapped for Jake, had Javy been here.

So Nora claps for him, a light clap, catching Jake's attention with the motion, not the sound. She's rewarded with a broad grin as Jake leans on the cue.

He retrieves his half-full glass from the counter underneath the windows and tips the amber liquid in her direction. A gunslinger in an old Western, tipping his cowboy hat at the nearest woman in the saloon. 

She raises her own glass in return, and Jake grins, wide and slow and sensual and damn. He looks her up and down, gaze lingering on her cowboy boots, not saying a damn word, not needing to say a damn word.

A warm feeling rises in her chest like Nora's overindulged in champagne. Goddamn.

Jake still wins in the end, but not by as much as he could've.

As Natasha racks the pool balls, resetting the table for the next game, Nora drains the rest of her Old Fashioned, which was mostly ice now anyway, and carries her empty glass over to the bar.

Penny is busy performing her duties as hostess – meeting and greeting and mingling. She'd made her way over and said hello soon after Nora arrived – so a bartender Nora doesn't recognize is behind the bar right now.

She sets her glass down and pulls out her phone for a distraction while Nora is waiting. She opens Instagram and after scrolling, sees Natasha posted a couple of pictures from Moonlight Rollers on Sunday morning.

In one of the photos, Nora is leaning on Natasha's shoulder, lids lowered and sparkly, grin wide and drunken. Another is a group picture where Bradley has a big arm around both Natasha and Nora's shoulders, standing on either side of him, trying not to fall on his ass again.

A smile lights up her face as Nora likes the post and shares it on her Instagram story. Adding a disco ball and some confetti in the corner.

It's been a while since Nora's posted on Instagram. How long has it been? Since France, maybe?

She clicks on her profile and – 

"Hi. You're Nora, right?"

He's definitely around her age. Cute enough with sand-colored hair that curls around his ears and dimples. Blue eyes. He looks like a classic California surfer.

He looks vaguely familiar, but Nora can't remember his name.

"Depends," Nora says coyly. She slides her phone into her back pocket and crosses her arms. "Should I be worried?"

He's confident enough to laugh. A slightly apologetic sound.

"Not at all. I probably should've led with..." He sticks out a hand, smiling. "I'm Aidan. I'm an AM on the Naval base – an Aviation Structural Mechanic. I've seen you around."

Ah. She can place him now.

Aidan had supervised one of the camera installations last week. She'd exchanged all of five words with him. He looks different, not dressed in coveralls.

He's not the only one. She probably looks different too.

She's braided her pale hair down her back, and a vintage Born in the USA Word Tour shirt slopes over her shoulders, cropped and loose, barely grazing the denim waistband of her light wash cut-offs – which are a smidge shorter than she remembered.

"Have you?" Nora asks. "I must be pretty memorable."

Aidan flushes, and Nora bites back a smirk.

"You're, uh... We don't have a lot of civilian contractors on the base right now. It'd be kind of hard not to remember you, I think."

Her mouth opens in a smile. "I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

"You should," Aidan promises in a rush of breath. His blue eyes zero in on her empty glass. "What're you drinking? Maybe I could – "

"Making friends, Hollywood?"

Of course. Nora kind of wants to laugh.

She actually does laugh when 'Born to Run' by Bruce Springsteen comes on over the speakers, covering her mouth, and Jake bites back a smile, eyes sparkling, looking so damn pleased with himself.

Nora looks at him over her shoulder from under her dark lashes, blue eyes crinkling. "Wrong album, Texas."

He only grins.

Heart racing, Nora looks away. "You know Jake, right, Aidan?"

Nodding, Aidan grunts, "Hangman" with a neutral expression so practiced Nora knows all of the AMs must hate Jake. How many F-18 repairs have probably needed to be done in the months the Daggers have been stationed here?

"Howdy."

Jesus Christ. Nora rolls her eyes.

Jake regards the AM with a glued-on insufferable asshole smile until Aidan inhales – one of those sharp well, I better go inhales – and sure enough: "Well, I should get going."

"Oh, so soon?"

Nora kicks Jake in the ankle. His grin only widens.

Aidan looks between them with an unreadable expression and says, "Maybe I'll see you around, Nora. Happy Fourth," with a forced smile and leaves.

After, Nora bites down on the inside of her cheek to hold back a laugh.

"You're so irritating," Nora says.

"Am I?" Jake counters. "Why're you smiling then?"

She doesn't answer.

Grinning, Jake spots the bartender and flags him down with a quick and efficient, "I'll get another beer and another Old Fashioned for the lady here. Thanks, man."

"Presumptuous. And what if I wanted something else?"

His brows rise. "Did you?"

No but...

She could have.

“We’ll never know now,” Nora replies, stubborn, chin raised.

Jake reaches over and gives the end of her braid a gentle and light-hearted tug. So playful and casual. She gapes at him, and Jake grins down at her, shaking with suppressed laughter, eyes alight.

Her stomach does a somersault and then some. A full Olympic routine.

"Excuse me? Are you 12?"

But Nora is laughing.

Jake slides into the empty space beside her. Close enough for Nora to feel the warmth of him.

"What were you and AM Aidan chatting about over here? You know Phoenix made him cry once?" Jake asks. He sounds unbearably amused.

"Literally nothing. He was definitely about to ask me out though," Nora replies.

"Poor guy," Jake croons. His smirk is smug as all hell. "You'd eat him alive. Guy like that wouldn't even know what to do with you."

His words are drenched in implication, like Jake would know.

And against her will, Nora flushes.

He notices, of course, because Jake notices everything.

Luckily, the Hard Deck bartender chooses that exact moment to come back with their drinks. He sets them down. A beer for Jake. An Old Fashioned for Nora.

"Tab?"

"Seresin."

Nora opens her mouth, and Jake pulls on her braid again. She smacks his hand away.

"Don't be so stubborn, Hollywood. Let me buy you a drink."

She eyes him. "And what's the catch?"

A dimple carves into his cheek. "Maybe I'm just a nice guy."

"You are not a nice guy," and Nora doesn't mean for it to come out like it does, like it's a good thing, like she likes that about him.

His gaze is burning, and Jake is closer than ever before – shoe nudging between her boots, knee brushing against the inside of her exposed thigh – and Nora feels like a struck match held over a puddle of gasoline, like one wrong move, one right one will set her ablaze.

"Oh yeah?" Jake murmurs. “What am I then?” 

Her bottom lip catches between her teeth, and Jake follows the movement, gaze darkening. His fingers spasm around the neck of the beer bottle, and Nora remembers another moment, a moment in this very bar when Jake's fingers brushed the side of her neck, warm and calloused and deliberate.

A call vibrates her phone in her back pocket.

Her caught breath escapes in a rush. She doesn't even look at the ID before Nora answers.

"This is Nora Rogers."

Jake eases back, lids low, and Nora swallows against her suddenly dry mouth. Plugs her ear to better hear the person on the other end.

It's so loud in here, but Nora manages to make out a few words.

"Nora, it's Jenna."

A breath punches from her chest, and Nora freezes.

In her peripheral, Jake frowns around his beer.

"I know, I know," Jenna is saying, oblivious, even as Nora feels like a hand has clawed between her ribs and slowly squeezed. "Who calls out of the blue anymore, right? But I saw your Instagram story, and I was like, I should give Nora a call while I have a minute... Are you there? It's kind of loud. Can you hear me? Nora?"

"Oh, um..."

Nora looks up at Jake, eyes wide. He doesn't hesitate, good in a crisis like any good Naval aviator would be. He sets his drink down and pulls the phone from her unresisting fingers.

"Nora's a little busy right now. She'll have to call you back later. You have a good Fourth, ma'am."

And Jake ends the call before Nora can even breathe.

She stares at him, unblinking.

"Nora?"

Not sweetheart, not Hollywood. Nora.

She snaps out of her daze and manages, "I need some air."

And Nora lets Jake pull her though the crowd and out of the side door, into the cooling summer air.

Evening sun cools on the blue horizon of the ocean as Nora is sitting in the bed of Jake's Chevy, legs dangling and swinging restlessly over the edge, hard metal pressing into her skin.

She doesn't mind. It's kind of grounding, actually.

She breathes in the salt air. Breathes deep and out.

"What's going on?"

Ah, damn.

"Ah..." Nora blinks her eyes open and discretely wipes at the moisture under her lids. "I'm fine. Just needed a minute."

She wonders if Jake can hear the strain in her voice, the strange reediness. She can hear it. Can see right through her own words. She wonders if Jake can do the same, can see right through her like Nora is made of the sea glass that dots the shore.

Metal creaks as Jake hoists himself up and squeezes in next to Nora. He is so damn broad, pressed against her entire side. His bare arm is warm against hers.

He gets comfortable, stretching out his legs.

Leans a hand behind her back.

His arm brushes against her side again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jake asks, voice a gentle rumble.

She blows out an uneven breath. "About what?"

"You looked a little upset inside, is all."

"I'm not upset," Nora says. A reflex. A lie.

"Come on..." Jake coaxes with a small smile. "You're a bad liar, sweetheart. What's going on? Tell Uncle Jake."

She's surprised enough to laugh, a choked and breathless sound. "Uncle Jake? What is that, like a sex thing?"

"You're so..." He chuckles, low and warm. "No, Nora. It's not a sex thing. Ma called me earlier. Apparently, my niece caught War of the Worlds on cable the other night, even though I know Sarah would never let her watch a PG-13 movie. She's seven."

"So now," Jake continues. "She's scared of fireworks. She's convinced some Independence Day aliens are gonna burst right out of ‘em.” 

Nora cracks a small smile. "And did Uncle Jake talk some sense into her?"

"Damn straight," Jake affirms with an oh-so-serious nod. "Told her I would've seen any aliens from my plane and shot ‘em right out of the sky.” 

He kind of rolls his eyes, like Can you believe what I put up with?, but Nora can hear the unbridled affection in his voice. He loves it. He loves being this person who can calm a scared little girl down and make it all better.

And Nora's delicate heart cracks wide open.

His shoulder bumps against hers, gentle. "Got any aliens I can shoot out of the sky for you, sweetheart?” 

She sighs. "I'm not upset, exactly. I'm... frustrated with myself."

His brows furrow in question, and rather than explain, Nora offers her phone and lets him read the incoming messages for himself. It’s easier. 

Jenna, 6:58 PM: Hi! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to catch you in the middle of something.

Jenna, 7:01 PM: Are you still considering that project I talked to you about in May? Take a beat, I don’t need an answer right this second, but I do need an answer kind of soon. 

Jenna, 7:01 PM: I’m resending the pitch now. Check your email!

Jenna, 7:02 PM: (And maybe write me back for once)

Another message comes in as Jake is reading.

Jenna, 7:05 PM: Also, WHO was that guy on the phone? He has a sexy voice.

Nora snatches her phone back and locks the screen, holding her arms close.

A smirk wavers on his face, flickering on and off like an old light bulb, but Jake doesn't make a comment. His mouth settles in a line as he studies Nora.

“What’s wrong with the project? Why don’t you want it?” 

She blinks at him, surprised, and Jake shrugs.

“You would’ve given her an answer before now otherwise, right?” 

And damn if Jake doesn’t hit the nail right on the head. 

“You’re right. I don't want it," Nora says. An admission. "But I know I should. So... I'm aggravated with myself."

"Why?"

She pulls her legs up and crosses them, fiddling with a loose thread in the denim. She explains in a hush, "Because now, I only have a month left here, and I'm in the same place I was before I came here. I don't have another project lined up at the end of this one, and I haven't even been looking, really."

He is looking at her with soft attention. A breath. 

Nora continues, "I really used to love what I do, but I don't know, I've been so drained and uninspired and god, just so fucking exhausted for the past year and a half." She smooths her hands over her cheeks, still flushed from the humid bar. "I thought if I had a change of pace, maybe I could recharge and feel creative again so..."

"You came here," Jake finishes, understanding.

"So I came here," Nora repeats in a soft voice.

She came here, and now, Nora is stuck. Again.

"Documentaries have been a part of my whole... identity for so long that I don't know if I could do something else. I feel like I'd lose a part of myself if I ever stopped. And I've been this person for so long that I don't know if I could do something else. I don't know if I'd even know how."

A car pulls into the beachside lot and parks a few rows over and idles there, and over the sound of the engine and the crash of the ocean waves, Nora can make out the chorus of ‘Fade Into You’ by Mazzy Star. Her mom’s favorite song. 

It feels like a sign. 

And Nora says, “I guess I don’t want to look back a decade from now and be in the same place I am right now.” 

“Which is?”

“Wondering if I’ve made the wrong choice.” Nora watches the horizon. A sigh escapes from her lips. “Wondering if I’m too late to make the right one.” 

“Look at me,” Jake says, soft and gentle but firm. "Hey."

Nora leans her chin on her shoulder and meets his gaze, and Jake is looking at her with such intense green, open-faced and sincere. 

"You could march into Cyclone's office on Monday morning and quit right then and there and – "

"Actually, Admiral Simpson's not my – ” 

"You could..." Jake raises his voice to drown out her interruption until Nora presses her lips together. "...quit and never make another documentary ever again and still be an incredible person. I mean, hell, Hollywood, you're beautiful and clever as hell and at times, kind of mean."

A smirk brims on her lips, and Jake grins, a flash of white. 

“You could be anything.” 

She stares at him. “How could you possibly know that? You’ve only known me for like a month.” 

“I know enough.” 

He sounds so sure, so certain.

And Nora likes him. She likes him so much her chest aches. She holds a hand over her collarbone, rubbing at the sore spot over her heart, pulse racing underneath her palm.

"Thank you, Jake," Nora says softly.

His eyes are soft. "Of course, anytime."

A beat passes, and Nora could so easily let the moment fade.

She could go back inside and spend the rest of the weekend pushing him from her mind and wanting him.

Jake is so handsome in the golden glow. He's looking at her like...

No one's ever looked at her like Jake is looking at her right now.

She swallows hard and says, "You were right before."

His mouth quirks. "I usually am, but about what?"

A few strands of short hair come loose from her braid and fall in her face as Nora shakes her head.

“I do kind of like you,” Nora admits. “I kind of like you a lot.” 

His lips part in a smile. “You like me.” 

She bites down on the inside of her cheek. Hard. “Go ahead. Get it over with."

“And what exactly am I getting over with?"

“You really aren't going to be smug about this? You were right. Get it over with."

Nora waits. Drums her fingers on the surface of her thigh while Jake is quiet, suspiciously so. 

“What? Nothing?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll find a way to be smug later," Jake promises with a slow smirk. Later oozes with suggestion. Sparks dance across her skin where Jake's arm is pressed against hers.

“You like me,” Jake repeats again, voice soft. 

Her chin dips in a nod.

“And what are we gonna do about that, sweetheart?” 

It’s all Nora can do not to squirm under his gaze. 

She replies, “Nothing. Just wanted you to know,” in a voice so paper thin, so breathless that even Nora doesn’t believe herself. 

You’re a bad liar, sweetheart, echoes in her head. 

And like he knows, a smirk kicks up the edge of Jake's mouth. 

In a movie, this would be a moment, the moment. 

A director would ask the camera to get in close and closer still, documenting every microcosm of their expressions, every glimpse of emotion in their eyes, and in the background, a delicate instrumental would build and build, a gradual swell, like an ocean wave. 

Grow louder and stronger until in a dark theater, surrounded by strangers and popcorn grease, or at home on the couch, whoever is watching catches themselves holding their breath, until the world drops out from under them, until…

He leans in close, locked and loaded with a clever countermove.

“Bull…” 

And unable to let him have the last word, even in this, especially in this, Nora closes the distance between them and kisses him.

And kisses him and kisses him, hand dipping in the open space where his linen shirt gapes from his collarbone and running her fingers over the golden skin, warm from the sun, over that damn chain. 

Hooking it around her index finger, Nora gives it an experimental pull, the smallest and slightest of tugs, and Jake reacts like Nora has reached inside his chest and pressed an on switch. 

A warm palm slides up the slender length of her neck, settling on her nape, and anchors her against him. He breathes her name against her mouth, like a prayer, like a confession.

Nora Nora Nora. 

Pulls her in and in and in until Nora is all but on top of him, impossibly close.

She wants nothing more than to crawl over him and – 

A car alarm wails from behind them.

She pulls back, breathing hard, and like a magnet, Jake follows.

He rests his forehead against her bare shoulder, catching his breath, pressing a kiss to the new freckles from the afternoon and another.

“Um…” Nora starts.

He kisses the side of her neck once, and Nora cuts herself off with a rush of breath, gripping his biceps for balance. 

“We’re…” Nora tries again. “We should…” 

He pauses. Pulls back so Nora can see his face.

His pupils are blown wide.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Nora asks, both a question and a plea. Please want to get out of here.

“Yes,” Jake breathes and kisses her again, his answer a groan against her mouth. "God, yes, Nora."

He doesn't even get his credit card from the bartender.

Less than a minute later, Jake is cutting across Coronado in his Chevy like an F-18, cutting across cooling blue skies.

Between stop signs, Jake reaches across the bench seat and laces their fingers together, pressing a firm kiss to her knuckles.

Her other hand drifts out of the open window, and for a brief moment, as the wind catches her fingers just right, Nora closes her eyes and feels like she's flying.

end note: likes are appreciated, but comments and reblogs are amazing. i'd love to hear from you! and all my love to @sometimesanalice for letting me ramble to you for months about this fic and @roosterbruiser for beta reading!

read the next chapter!

[chaostheoryy]

Duly Noted (A College AU)

[Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw X GN!Reader]

Summary: As a studious undergrad on track for graduating with stellar marks, missing class because of the flu was by far the worst way to start your week. Fortunately for you, there’s one bright-eyed classmate who cares about you more than his reputation as a C-minus college athlete.

Rating: General

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.3K

A/N: Well, since my inbox has been dry as the Sahara, I decided to come up with an idea of my own. So, without further ado, here’s the college AU Rooster fic that no one asked for! (No beta, per usual. We out here raw dogging these mistakes.)

Where are you?

Still in bed…

You’re playing hooky without me???

I’m not playing hooky! I’m sick!

You okay?

Yeah I’m alright. Got the flu I think.

Need me to get you anything? I can bring you medicine or snacks after class.

Nah, I’m good. Thank you though!

If you change your mind, lemme know.

Bradley frowned. As benign as the flu was, the thought of you being ill left a bad taste in his mouth. He knew fully well just how much that course meant to you and your degree. While he spent every class lounging in his chair and letting his mind wander to God knows what, you would bury your nose in your notebook or laptop and take notes on everything the professor said as if your life depended on it. He could only imagine just how disappointed you were missing out on a whole lecture’s worth of information.

Dammit…

As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew right away what had to be done.

“Hey, ’Tasha,” he whispered. “Natasha.”

The dark haired woman one row in front of him turned. Eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a sharp line of irritation, her gaze made daggers feel blunt.

“The hell do you want, Bradshaw?”

“You got a pen I can borrow?”

The question took her by complete surprise. Her brow raised, the scowl on her face melting into an amused smirk.

“You’re joking.”

Bob Floyd, her glasses-wearing friend and study partner, was drawn to her disbelief. “What is it?”

“Jockstrap over here is actually going to take notes.”

Bob glanced between her and Bradley. It took him a second to process what was happening but as soon as it hit him, he cracked a massive grin that rivaled Natasha’s.

Bradley rolled his eyes. “Alright, don’t make a big deal of it. You gonna lend me a pen or not?”

“Y’know, part of me wants to say no,” Natasha mused, “But watching you exercise those dusty ol’ brain cells is honestly a rare treat.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She reached into her bag and grabbed an extra pen which she tossed back to him. “Give that back to me after class or I’m gonna beat your ass.”

Bringing two fingers to his temple, he gave a little salute. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, unable to hide smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

For the first time that semester, Bradley Bradshaw’s untouched notebook was stained with ink.

* * * * *

You had fallen back asleep within minutes of his last text. The previous night had been an absolute nightmare. Violent chills had racked your body and made it impossible to get comfortable. Combining the shivers with the upset stomach and stuffy nose, you were miserable. Any rest you could get throughout the day was God-sent.

Your early morning nap lasted a good two hours. It was the most sound, dreamless sleep you’d had in the past week and, if it weren’t for the fact that Bradley called you just after 10am, you probably would have slept three times as long.

“Hello?” You answered groggily.

On the other end of the line, Bradley hissed. “Shit. Did I wake you up?”

“It’s okay. I’ve got all day to sleep. What’s up?”

“I don’t wanna make you get out of bed but I kinda need you to open the door.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Well, I know you said you didn’t need anything but I stopped at the store for stuff anyway. Can you come let me in? I would have one of your roommates open the door but I guess they’re both in class or something.”

You blinked. He was outside of your apartment.

“Yeah, hang on. I’ll be right down.”

Despite the protests of your body, you hurried out of bed. You ditched the sweat-soaked pajama shirt in the laundry basket and threw on a clean tee before stepping out of your room into the main hallway. A short walk to the front door and you pried it open to find Bradley standing on your welcome mat with paper bags of groceries nestled in both arms. He perked up the second he laid eyes on you.

“Hey,” he greeted with a soft smile.

“Hey. Come on in.”

You stepped back to let him inside, closing the door behind him as he headed for the kitchen. It wasn’t the first time he’d come over and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. As one of your closest friends and long-time classmate—it was honestly crazy to think you’d been in classes together as far back as the 7th grade—the two of you spent more time together than apart. Neither of you would have had it any other way.

“I’d give you a hug,” you said as he started unpacking the grocery bags, “But I don’t want to get you sick too.”

He chuckled. “I think I could take the hit.”

“Just ‘cause you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

You spotted a bottle of Gatorade on the counter where he’d unloaded stacks of soup cans and Tylenol. Taking the bottle, you slunk over to the couch where you could watch from a safe distance. The last thing you wanted was to share your germs with one of the school’s star baseball players. As much shit as Jake Seresin gave you and Bradley, something told you that the dickwad would be all the more annoying if he found out you were the one to force Bradley onto the bench for a week.

“How was Simpson’s class this morning?”

“Oh, thrilling as always,” he replied caustically.

“Bob answer every question?”

“You know it.”

You laughed. “Figures. At least we know that means somebody besides me knows their shit. I’ll have to get his notes later so I can catch up.”

“No need. I got you covered.”

Bradley paused his kitchen organization and dug in the backpack he’d discarded on the dining room table. Grinning proudly, he pulled out his notebook. Yes. His notebook—the one and only busted red spiral notebook with a sticker of a goose in aviators slapped on the bottom right corner of its cover.

“Wait. Don’t tell me…You actually took notes for me?”

“Sure did!”

He strolled over and dropped the notebook in your lap before collapsing on the cozy little armchair across from you. The look on his face as he watched you go through his notes was priceless. With big eyes and a triumphant smile, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a golden retriever waiting for his owner to give him a treat. And boy did he deserve one.

The thoroughness of his notes left you stunned. With six pages of organized, neatly scripted notes, it was by far the most effort you’d ever seen him put into classwork.

“Jesus, Bradley,” you said, “You really went all out on this didn’t you?”

He chuckled. “If I wanted any shot at making something up to your standards, I kinda had to. Plus, Bob and Natasha were eyeing me the entire lecture.  I think I finally get what peer pressure’s like now.”

A dull ache echoed in the back of your head as a reminder of your crappy night’s sleep and irritating affliction. You should’ve gone back to bed but you couldn’t pry your eyes from Bradley’s notebook. It meant the world to you that he’d done that. To think that he’d actually put that much effort into notes taken on your behalf when he wouldn’t even have bothered to jot down a single bullet point for himself. 

You flipped through the pages again, unable to hold back an awestruck sigh. “God, I wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

The statement was out of your mouth and lingering in the air long before your brain processed the consequences. What on God’s green Earth compelled you to say that? Were you high on over the counter flu meds? Or had the fever actually fried your brain?

You wanted to take it back. Especially when you dared to glance up and found Bradley gaping at you. 

Oh, for the love of God, you thought as fresh, non-fever related color rushed to your cheeks. Of all the ways to confess, this is the one you go with?

In all honesty, you should have seen it coming. It was only a matter of time. 

He’d been your best friend for the better part of a decade. Inseparable from the moment you met. Every big life event from birthdays to buying your first car, he was the first one to celebrate with you. Hell, the guy passed up a full ride to play baseball at the University of Florida just so he could go to the same school as you. 

Slowly but surely, as the years rolled on and childhood faded into the past, the friendship that you treasured became the key to your happiness. The goofy, thrill-seeking kid you’d come to adore and trust with your entire being grew into a selfless gentleman. Though he never lost that edge that separated him from perfectionists and academics, he’d clearly come into his own. It would have been impossible for you not to fall for him.

“Did you just say you wanna kiss me?”

Bradley’s voice reeled you back in from the sea of your internal torment. He didn’t sound angry or even disgusted by the notion. In fact, he almost sounded delighted—a theory that was backed the moment you looked over and saw a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and, despite the outcry from every defense mechanism tucked away in your subconscious, you forced yourself to reply. “I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice registering just above a whisper.

“Good.”

Your brow furrowed at his reply. You wanted to ask what he meant, to see if your confession was something the foundations of your friendship could withstand. But he was on his feet and crossing the distance between his chair and the couch before a question was even formulated in your mind.

“Bradley, hold on. I don’t wanna get you si—“

The protest died on your tongue. Warm, gentle hands cupped your jaw as his lips met yours. It was a sweet kiss. There was no hurry, no hesitation. Just the taste of a decade’s worth of fondness and pent up intimacy. Between the soothing caress of his fingertips at the nape of your neck and the bristle of his mustache just above your upper lip, you swore his kiss was better than heaven itself.

His hands kept their post along your jaw when he pulled back to look at you. The smile on his face was unbearably reverent. Anything softer than that look in his eyes and you would have suffocated.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” You asked.

“How long have we been friends?”

Both of you chuckled. Turns out you weren’t the only one who’d gradually fallen over the years.

“Well, thank you,” you said.

“For what?”

You patted the notebook still sitting in your lap. “For thinking of me this morning. And for not flipping out when I said I wanted to kiss you.”

“This may come as a surprise,” he said with a lopsided smirk, “But I think about you a lot.”

Your brow cocked. “Oh, really?”

While it was clear from his tone that he meant it in an innocent, heartfelt manner, you couldn’t help but toy with the more explicit connotation of his words. And let’s be honest, you were guilty of having thoughts that strayed a little too far off the path of purity.

“Hey!” Bradley’s hands fell from your neck and one of his palms playfully shoved you back against the couch by the forehead. “Settle down. You’re supposed to be sick, not horny.”

You reached out to smack his thigh. “And you’re not supposed to be kissing people when they’re sick, dumbass. Jake’s gonna kill me if you end up missing a single practice.”

“Relax, sweetheart. I’ll just OD on Emergen-C when I get home.”

He ignored your childish pout and plopped down on the couch next to you. Rather than drape his arm over the back of your seat like he normally did, he hooked it around your shoulders and pulled you into the warmth of his embrace. Your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his neck where the scent of his cologne lulled you into dream-like contentment. You’d always thought he smelled good but nuzzling into him like that made it hard to overlook just how right it felt to be engulfed in his presence.

“You need anything?” He asked after a long moment of agreeable silence. “I can make you some soup if you want. I also got some mac n’ cheese if you’re feeling up to it. I don’t know how bitchy your stomach is acting right now.”

“Bradley?”

“Hm?”

“Shut up and let me fall asleep on you.”

A delightful, weightless sensation twisted in your stomach when you felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. Now there was a feeling you never realized you wanted.

“Alright. You sleep. We’ll get you to eat something when you wake up,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You hummed your approval and closed your eyes. All of your senses zeroed in on him. The way he smelled of cedarwood and ocean breezes, the way his chest rose and fell beneath you with each breath, the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked your shoulder. All of it was new and exciting. And yet, at the same time, it was as if you’d been indulging in the gifts of his adoration your entire life.

In a stark contrast to the evening prior, you fell asleep in record time. 

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Urban Cowboy - Jake Seresin x Reader

pairing: Jake Seresin x f! reader

warnings/content: smut, unprotected p in v, mildly mean!dom Jake, teasing, jealous Jake

word count: 3.2k

The sounds of some 80s pop song echoed throughout the Hard Deck, a cheap colourful strobe light flashed around the room, its rainbow coloured beams striking random bargoers as they began to dance along to whatever was playing. It was new idea your aunt had come up with - doing theme nights at the bar once a month as a way to freshen things up and breathe new life into the military bar scene. 

Since you moved here four months ago, you’d gotten familiar with the regulars - there was Bradley Bradshaw, a man far older than he looked, with a penchant for comandeering the piano if the bar needed livening up, Natasha Trace, who had a fiery personality and often kept the other guys in their place, especially when the beers were flowing and they started flirting with unsuspecting patrons, Robert Floyd, the shy backseater who was always polite, tipped well and seemed to be the permanent designated driver on nights out, Reuben Fitch, who stood about a foot taller than you, and always had a witty comeback on hand, just in case, Mickey Garcia, who was sweet, but could talk anyone’s ear off about Star Trek, and Javy Machado, resident score keeper and pool table champion. 

Leading the group, was your Aunt Penny’s boyfriend, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell. He often would come in, finding a table at the back of the room for his squad before abandoning them to spend the evening at the bar, chatting your aunt up and offering up any excuse to come behind the bar and sneak a hand to her hip or steal a squeeze of her rear. It was sweet the way your aunt and Pete were loved up, like a couple of teenagers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. 

This afternoon, Pete came in at four o’clock sharp, just as he promised to help set up. As he hung a couple of decorations you and your aunt had managed to find online, he turned to you and smiled, watching as you prepped the theme night’s cocktail menu.

“I forgot to tell you, another one of my guys is going to be here tonight. He’s been off training at a different base for the last few months, just landed in this morning. You’ll like him. He’s a firecracker.”

“Isn’t that your way of saying he’s a cocky asshole?”

“I wouldn’t say asshole. He’s just very…confident. I think you’ll like him though.”

“Are you talking about Jake?” Penny piped up as she looked at Pete, watching as he climbed up the step ladder to hang another decoration from the ceiling.

“Yeah, don’t you think they’d hit it off?”

“I think she might hit him.”

“What? No way. Jake’s not that bad.”

Penny scoffed and shook her head, laughing. Holding her hands up in surrender, she walked away, retreating back to the bar to begin making sure all the key ingredients to your drink menu were where they needed to be. You continued to stuff the evening’s special menus into their plastic protective sleeves, shaking your head at Pete’s attempts to try and set you up with someone from his squad. It wasn’t the first time, you’d been on a date with Bradley once before, but found the age gap was too great between the two of you, with Bradley in complete agreement that you were much better suited as friends than lovers, and on a date with Reuben, who, despite efforts between the two of you, there was no chemistry shared there. 

As five o’clock approached, you hurried into the back stockroom to change into your themed outfit for the night, pulling your hair out of the velcro rollers that Penny had helped you wrap your hair up into, creating the perfect 80s voluminous curl that would make even Christie Brinkley jealous. Your tight fitting Daisy Duke style shorts accentuated your curves, hugging your thighs and hips in all the right places, your crisp white button down shirt tied just under your bra, showing off your tanned, soft midsection. A pair of mid-sized silver hoop earrings hung from your earlobes to complete the look. Your aunt’s stash of Aqua-Net hairspray was all you needed to finish it off, stepping out the back door to shake your curls out and spray them with enough hairspray to ensure they wouldn’t budge for the night. 

You reentered the bar to find Pete’s friends piling in, the other regular patrons all trickling in and getting comfortable as they came through, turning the bar into a sea of cheesy fake mustaches and 80s style Hawaiian shirts, brightly coloured polos and coordinating Bermuda shorts, wigs and legwarmers. The evening was quickly livening up, and you got to work behind the bar with your aunt, pulling pints and mixing drinks, firing off orders left right and center as the bar filled with partygoers. 

An hour into the night, Bradley approached the bar, his aviator sunglasses perched atop his chocolate coloured curls, his loud, brightly coloured Hawaiian print shirt buttoned just enough to allow a few sparing curls of chest hair to peek out from the top. He leaned against the bar, smiling at you, his mustache neatly combed to closer resemble a style from the 80s. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he was trying to emulate Tom Selleck. You’d seen pictures of Bradley’s dad and Pete from back in the 80s, and recognized the shirt anywhere. It was clear Bradley was dressed identically to his father, and you had to admire the dedication he had to the theme. 

“What can I get you, Bradshaw?”

“Hi dollface, I’ll take a Budweiser. And a chance to take you for a spin later?”

“We’ve done this before, Bradley,” you laughed as you cracked the top off the beer bottle and slid it across the counter to him. Bradley shook his head as he sipped the frothy liquid, grinning as he set the bottle down on the counter.

“I didn’t mean you. I’m practicing. I can’t be dressed like this and not use some kind of weird 80s shit to impress a girl, right? I’m just…using you for practice. Did it work?”

“Bradley, why don’t you, I don’t know, just, be yourself?” 

“Because tonight I’m not myself. I’m some single 39 year old in the 80s trying to get a date, apparently.”

“Well then, gag me with a spoon, that was gnarly. Try a different line. One that doesn’t begin with “dollface”?”

“Got it, thanks!”

You watched as Bradley sauntered away to go try his luck with a pretty blonde over by the jukebox. You smirked to yourself as you heard Bradley start singing along to Madonna, carrying the tune with an impressive baritone that you weren’t expecting. You knew he could sing, but singing Madonna was a whole new side to him. Turning your back for a moment, you began fixing a drink for yourself, mixing together the ingredients for a Shirley Temple. You looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered blonde man approach the bar counter, his hair slicked back, and a blonde mustache that made poor Bradley’s look unimpressive rested on his upper lip. The most stunning pair of bright green eyes looked at you, and a set of perfectly straight, whitened teeth fresh out of a Colgate commercial flashed a smile at you.

“Hi Darlin’, I’ll take whatever’s on tap.”

“Sure thing,” You nodded, trying hard not to audibly gulp at the adonis of a man standing in front of you. 

“Are you new ‘round here?” he drawled, “I’d remember a pretty face like yours.”

“Uh, within the last four months, yeah.” you nodded as you finished pulling a pint of draught for him, the frothy head of the beer perfectly resting in the glass. 

“Oh! That’ll explain it. Lieutenant Jake Seresin, at your service, m’am.” He winked, and you felt yourself melt a little at the sight of this human embodiment of a Ken doll flirting with you. 

“You’re Jake?”

“Depends who’s askin’, Honey.” His accent was thick and heavy, something straight out of those reruns of The Andy Griffiths Show that your mom made you watch when you were a child.

“I’m Penny’s niece,” you nodded, giving him your name and laughing softly as your cheeks blushed, “I moved down here to help her out with things around here while I try to figure some life things out.”

“I see,” he smirked, sipping his beer, the foam brushing against his mustache as he set the glass down. “And does that list of things you’re figuring out include finding a strong, charming, handsome Southern boy?”

“It might, do you know any?” You quipped, raising an eyebrow as you sipped your own drink, pretending to feign disinterest in the handsome stranger before you.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“That so, hun? Who? Do I know him?”

“Not yet, but I think he sure would like to know you, Darlin’.”

You shook your head, your curls bouncing as you started to laugh, unable to control yourself. Jake was as bold as he was handsome, and you were suddenly realizing what Pete was referring to when he said that Jake was confident. He practically exuded a cocksure confidence from every pore in his body. And while that would normally repulse you and send you heading for the hills, with Jake, it felt different. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, his magnetic charms and graces pulling you in, and your inhibitions wearing down. However, you also knew how to deal with men like this - he was in need of an ego check, and you were just the person for the job. 

“Is that right? Well, you tell your little Southern-fried wannabe cowboy of a friend that if he’s interested, he’s going to have to stick around the bar all night. I promised Aunt Penny I’d help her make sure this night went smoothly, and I don’t need a knockoff Dukes of Hazzard cast member distracting me.” 

“Wannabe cowboy?” Jake gasped in feigned offence, clutching his chest dramatically as he slipped into an even thicker accent than earlier, “Now Darlin’, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re breakin’ my heart over here. One thing I ain’t is a wannabe cowboy. You know, I used to ride in rodeos as a kid? Was one of the best there was for under 15 year olds, ‘til I decided to join the Navy instead.”

“Oh, so you’re like, a real cowboy then,” you teased, your voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“S’pose you could say that. Only one real way to find out, ain’t there?”

“Take you to a farm and watch you wrangle cattle on horseback?” you retorted sarcastically.

“You’re funny, I like that.”

“I bet you do.” 

Jake leaned in across the bar, a smirk forming on his lips as he looked at you, his bright green eyes fixated on your lips as you spoke. His long eyelashes fluttered at you as he eyed you up, practically undressing you with his imagination. You grinned as you gestured to the sign behind you, reading that if you disrespect a lady, you owe everyone a round. 

“Watch it, Lieutenant. If you’re not careful, I’ll go ring that bell and you’ll learn a very expensive lesson.”

“Oh, Darlin’, I can guarantee, I ain’t gonna learn anything from it. I’m just dumb enough to do it again. Can’t help myself around a pretty girl like yourself.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you laughed at his relentless attempt. You knew the only reason he persisted was because you were teasing him, but at the same time, you didn’t mind the attention he was giving you. He wasn’t as tall as Bradley, or as broad shouldered, but he was built like a linebacker, with a solid frame and the accent alone was enough to drive you crazy.

It was almost 11 when Jake stopped you again, this time, outside of the stockroom when you’d disappeared back there for more maraschino cherries and pineapple juice. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, causing his pastel-coloured polo shirt to bulge around his biceps. His lips curled up in that annoyingly perfect smile once again as he stood in your path.

“Hey, Honey, need a hand with that?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you shrugged it off, shaking your head as you smirked at him, “You often follow girls into storage rooms?”

“Only the ones worth following.”

“Wow, Lieutenant, with a response like that, it’s a wonder you don’t have a trail of broken hearts following you around.”

“What is your issue, anyway? You got a thing against blondes? Pilots?”

“Please,” you smirked, shaking your head, “I went on a date with Rooster. He’s a pilot.”

“Is it ‘cause I’m from Texas?”

“No, it’s because you’re probably the most arrogant prick I’ve ever had the displeasure of coming across, actually. God, it’s like you think all you have to do is flash that stupid handsome smile and I’ll throw myself at you.”

Jake’s face fell slightly as he raised an eyebrow at you. You could tell he wasn’t used to having a girl put him in his place like this, but his crestfallen gaze was quickly replaced by that shit-eating grin he seemed to never go without sporting. 

“Honey, you’re real pretty when you get mean like that.”

“You’re impossible,” you sighed in exasperation.

“But you love it, don’t you?” 

Jake closed the gap between the two of you as he spoke, taking a couple steps closer to you. You bit your lip as you hesitated, thinking about the consequences that might follow if you acted on your desires. 

Fuck it. 

Your hands gripped the fabric of his polo shirt, pulling him down to your height as you crashed your lips into his passionately. You kissed a slow, hot trail up to his ear, a breathy moan escaping your lips as he put his hands on your hips to bring you in as close as possible, his body heat radiating on to you. 

“You gonna show me just how good you are, Cowboy?”

“Yes, m’am. I reckon I could show you a better time than any other man in here.”

Jake’s hand slipped down your curves, reaching around to cup your ass cheeks as he hoisted you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around your waist. You quickly discarded the cherries and juice that were in your hands, wrapping your arms around his neck to steady yourself. Jake’s lips worked their way along your neck, wet, fervent kisses that made your body squirm with pleasure, your arousal growing and burning in your stomach with each second. 

“Back door?” He murmured against your neck, his hands keeping a firm hold of your ass.

“Two steps behind me, to the left,” you panted, nodding your head as he sucked on your skin. 

It was unseasonably warm for May, the humidity hanging in the air as you left the air conditioned building. Jake pushed you up against the wall, using it as leverage as he quickly reached down to undo your shorts and wiggled them out of the way. He ran two of his thick fingers along the outside of your lace underwear, stroking the dampened fabric as he smirked to himself.

“Someone’s eager, aren’t ya, Darlin’?”

“Just shut up and fuck me, ok?”

“Now, that any way to ask for it?”

A wicked grin appeared on his face as he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, stroking at your clit with a feather light touch, just enough to make you whine for more. 

“Jake, I swear to fuck, if you don’t take me right now.”

“Shhh, Sugar, don’t want anyone to hear, do ya? Unless you get off on getting caught,” He purred as he coaxed his fingertips inside of your dripping entrance, pumping them into you with precision.

You tossed your head backwards as Jake thrusted his fingers further into you, each movement harder and faster than before. The determined look in his eye alone was almost enough to send you over the edge. This man was hell-bent on making you orgasm, and he was on the right track to get you there within a matter of seconds.

“Fuck, s-so close, Jake,” you keened, your fingers gripping his thick blonde hair as he brought you to your climax.

“That’s it, Sugar. Look at you, you’re a mess and I ain’t even started on you yet.”

“J-Jake, please,” you whimpered, coming undone as he fucked his fingers into you at a breakneck pace.

“Speak up, sweetheart, can’t hear ya.”

Your head started to spin as he pulled his fingers out of you, causing you to whine at the loss of contact. Just as you opened your mouth to speak, he slammed his hips forwards, shoving his thick cock inside of you, causing you to cry out in ecstasy at the sudden fullness. Trying to be quiet, you secretly thanked your lucky stars that the sounds of Your Love by The Outfield blared throughout the club. Just as the chorus picked up, Jake rocked his hips forwards again, fucking himself into you with enough force to make you feel as though he might blow your back out right then and there.

“That’s it, Sugar, takin’ me so well,” Jake smirked, “What was that you said about bein’ a wannabe cowboy? Bet those other boys can’t fuck you like this, now can they?”

You were practically rendered speechless by Jake’s precise, rhythmic thrusts into your cunt, his masculine grunting and teasing proving enough to throw you back over the edge once again. Your legs began to shake and shudder while he bucked his hips up into you, his eyes full of lust and hunger as he brought you to your second orgasm of the night. Your walls clenched around him tightly, eliciting a low, pornographic moan out of Jake. 

Raking your fingers through his hair, tugging on it as you threw your head back, you screamed out his name, louder than you intended. You lost your ability to hold yourself together as Jake’s thrusts became sloppier, his own orgasm following close behind yours. 

“Fuck, am I good?” He groaned, his eyes pleading for permission.

“On the pill, you’re good,” you panted, nodding quickly as Jake let himself go inside of you, your name falling from his lips like a sacred prayer as he repeated it over and over, praising you.

“Now, how ‘bout letting a strong, handsome Southern boy take you out on a date so he don’t feel so bad about fucking you until you can’t walk a couple hours after meetin’ ya?” He grinned as he readjusted himself and pulled his clothes back up. 

“I think I can fit you into my schedule, on one condition.”

“Mhmm? What’s that?”

“Next time, you come wearing a cowboy hat.”

“Deal, Sugar, I’ll even let you wear it.” 

[ofstoriesandstardust]

interlude (b.r.b./j.h.s.)

a/n: i posted the first half of this months ago and it seemed to do fairly well so i'm posting the rest of it now that it's finished... enjoy.

summary: You're afraid that all you'll ever be to your boys is an interlude.

warnings: insecurities, polyamory relationship, swearing, angst

word count: 3.4k

in-ter-lude

noun

“an intervening period of time”

The bed is cold. 

It’s the first thing he notices as the gray morning light bleeds through the blinds. He groans, turning over in the bed as he blindly reaches out to find you. 

His hand just meets colder sheets, a hint of warmth emanating from Bradley if he reaches a little bit farther. 

The cold sheets don’t surprise him, even as he sits up in the bed, blinking at Bradley’s sleeping figure. Bradley’s out, dead to the world, sleeping like a rock, per usual. 

Jake slips out from the cold covers, lacking your usual warmth. The coldness doesn’t phase him, not anymore. 

Most days they found you up long before the sun, pacing the kitchen, or nursing a cup of cold coffee at the kitchen table, or tucked under the sheer blanket tossed on the couch for decoration. The bed so often lacked your usual warmth, but so did you, the light dimming in your eyes as you retreated further and further into yourself as the days went by. 

It concerned him, the way you were slipping through his fingers like smoke as the days went by, something he could never quite catch, no matter how hard he tried. 

Getting stationed at Miramar should’ve brought you all closer together, not driven you further apart. 

Jake shivers, stopping by the thermostat to turn on the heat as he winces at the cold hardwood of Bradley’s home against his bare feet. 

He really hopes you had half a mind to grab one of their sweatshirts or sweatpants before disappearing down here this morning. He hopes you’ve grabbed one of the thicker blankets from the coat closet by the front door that they keep for movie nights. He hopes you’ve made yourself a cup of warm tea like you used to instead of letting your coffee go cold. 

The sight of you not at the couch doesn’t surprise him, nor does the empty kitchen. It’s the sight of both of them void of life that does. 

He peeks his head out the kitchen window, wondering if perhaps you’ve migrated outside. 

It’s the driveway that’s one car emptier than usual that makes his gut turn, concern and panic alighting in his stomach. 

“Bradley!”

-

You aren’t really sure when things began to feel off.

Well, that’s not entirely true. 

You knew exactly when the seed had been planted. 

It had been early on, the relationship still new as the three of you fumbled and stumbled in explaining the dynamic to others, especially those who had known Bradley and Jake when it had been just Bradley and Jake. 

A night out at the Hard Deck was meant to be a fun, a happy conclusion to a rather long week. 

“One might say you’re nothing but a bed warmer for Bradshaw while Seresin’s gone.” The pilot had said.

The consideration you’d given the words had been fleeting at the time, Bradley pulling you into a dizzying kiss that had you forgetting the words as quickly as the man had said them. 

But the words had remained tucked aside and revealing themselves over time, targeting your worst fears. 

That one day your boys would realize they didn’t want to be yours anymore, that this interlude in their relationship had been nothing more than a fun experiment, a phase in their lives before they settled down for more. 

And it was selfish of you to stay when you knew that you were someone who was there in the times when Jake couldn’t be, that you were only filling a gap that would no longer need to be filled once Jake decided to remain on the ground for good. 

It wasn’t fair to you. Or them, either really. Letting them live in this false reality where you were the perfect match. 

You loved them. You did.

But sometimes you thought they loved the idea more than they ever really loved you. 

-

You hadn’t been expecting the day to come so soon.

You knew that it would come eventually, that one day you would no longer be able to run from what you had known for months, that every day you spent loving them and every night you spent in between them was a blessing. 

It wasn’t something you took for granted, became something you treasured the longer time went on as you knew you were getting closer and closer to the end. 

You had just been, foolishly, hoping for more time.

Time, a fickle thing.

Jake hums into your bare shoulder as his fingers trace nonsensical patterns into your shoulder. Distantly, you both can hear Bradley clattering around in the kitchen as he attempts to make you all a belated breakfast after spending the morning in bed. 

Jake would be leaving in the morning for a new deployment and there was only so much time to engrain every curve of Jake’s body into your memory before you would go without it for three months. 

“I can hear you thinking from here.” You tease and you feel the curve of Jake’s mouth move upwards against your skin. 

“I was just wondering…” He trails off, pressing a kiss to the skin. “How would you feel if this was the last deployment?”

Your stomach sinks, even as you desperately try to hold on to the rapidly fraying threads of hope that the day you’ve dreaded isn’t finally upon you. 

“What do you mean?” You ask in a whispered voice, thankful you’re faced away from the man. 

“I’m taking a permanent position at Miramar with Bradley. Looks like I’m going to be stateside for a while.”

You swallow, feeling your blood run ice cold at the words. 

Three months. You had three months, maybe four, with them as yours. And then… and then they would remember why they didn’t have a third before you. You would have served your purpose. You would no longer be needed and they would be kind to you about it, not so callous and cruel as to toss you out, but it would be clear that your paths were diverging.

You’ve taken too long to respond to Jake and he must be nervous about your reaction because you can feel the slight tremble of his fingers against your skin as they resume their patterns. 

“Whatever makes you happiest, honey. I’ll be right here.”

-

Bradley’s biggest insecurity is one he’ll never say out loud, too afraid of breathing life into the fears. 

He sees the way you are with Jake, how soft you are with him, the warmth Jake only seems to bring out of you. 

He often wonders if that softness is better suited to what Jake needs, that one day Jake will realize he needs soft more than he needs push-and-pull, you need Jake more than you need Bradley. 

Jake’s only been gone for two weeks when you begin to pull away. 

Bradley notices, because of course he does. He notices everything he can about you, because he knows that to be known is to be loved and that all you’ve ever wanted is to be known by someone. 

He notices, because you roll over away from him in bed, not wanting to stay up and talk to him. He notices, because you don’t stay long enough to shower with him before work in the morning. He notices, because you’ve gone back to wearing your own sweatshirts instead of theirs. He notices, because you spend less nights at theirs than you used to, creating a house filled with ghosts. 

And he wishes he could say that he knew you were just missing Jake. 

But he knew what missing Jake looked like. When you missed Jake, you pulled in closer to Bradley, seeking out his stability, the consistent reassurance that he would always be there that the job at Top Gun offered. 

This went deeper than that. 

And Bradley couldn’t help but turn in, wondering what it was he had done to make the change in you. 

-

In some ways, you thought it would be easier this way. To say goodbye to them before you were forced to. To prepare yourself for the break, to try to learn how to live without them before they made that decision for you. 

In many ways, it was harder. 

You craved Bradley’s touch, hated the ache in your soul every time you got further away when he tried to get closer. 

You couldn’t remember the last time the two of you had had dinner together, basking in the warmth of each other’s company as you danced around the kitchen, fingers sticky from pasta sauce as you inevitably abandoned the food to make out against the stove. 

You miss the twinkly in Bradley’s eyes, his mussed hair, the way his cheeks colored red enough to matching the lingering marinara. 

You can’t remember the last time the two of you hunkered down on a Saturday to work together, eventually only completing a fraction of what needed to be done as the two of you came up with every excuse to not do the essays and homework assignments and lesson plans. 

Jake had always been the one to keep you both on task, anyways. 

You missed Bradley, craved for him in the same way you did Jake while he was deployed. 

But yet, this was different. Because Bradley was right there, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to cross the line you had drawn and go to him. 

I’m telling you Jake. She’s been different since you’ve been gone. 

“How’s school?” 

You raise your head, catching Jake watching you from the other end of the couch. He’s got a nervous smile on his face, the fingers clutching the neck of his beer bottle a bit too tightly being the dead give away to his concern. You stare at him, almost wondering if there’s someone else he’d be asking. 

There isn’t, only you and Jake in the room. You can hear Bradley in the kitchen, rattling off the takeout order for the local Chinese place down the street from the boys house. It’s your favorite, though you know Jake’d much rather be having burgers for his first night back. 

“How’s school going? You’re almost finished with your thesis, right?” 

Jake knows the answer, that you’re two months and a final defense away from completing your degree. 

You also know he’s trying to make conversation, trying to push around and see if he can't figure out what’s been bugging you without ever really asking. Find out why, according to Bradley, you’ve been off.

You shrug, looking away from Jake’s sea-glass eyes that can always read you too well. 

You hear Jake shift on the couch when Bradley hangs up the phone, leaving the kitchen. “Chinese should be here in about thirty minutes. What Real Housewives franchise did we decide on?”

-

He can hear Bradley groan as he takes the stairs two at a time, heart beating through his chest. 

You’ve never left on Sundays. 

Sundays were your day together. 

Like clockwork, the three of you would have a slow morning in bed. You always bemoan the fact that the boys couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, but they knew that you secretly loved the way they actually had time to savor your body in the way they felt it should be. 

You’d all have breakfast together, hanging out on the couch in a tangle of limbs as you watched cartoons. It was Bradley’s idea, the first time you had done it, the child at heart that he is. 

Then Jake and Bradley would go for a run. You’d do the laundry and tidy the house from the week. Get it ready for the next. 

And then the boys would come home, all sweaty and gross and give you kisses on your cheek as you cringed and complained that they smelled. 

They knew you loved it anyways. Loved them anyways. 

After coaxing you into the shower with them through all your reluctance and hesitation, they’d take a thoroughly delightful detour before Jake would make you all lunch. 

Maybe in the afternoon, you’d all try to bake a new pastry, or watch one of the sports games on television, or take naps in the sun on the couch. 

And then you’d get takeout from somewhere, soaking up the last few hours of one another’s company before the week started over. 

It was all so domestic and intimate, so uniquely yours. 

You didn’t live with the boys (not yet anyways, they’d been trying their damndest), but despite all that, you never missed Sundays with them. 

Sundays were the one day that were yours and yours alone, living in a bubble where nothing could touch you. 

And you were gone. 

It felt like an ending Jake hadn’t ever seen coming, an iron punch to the gut that has him doubled over, one he couldn’t avoid no matter how hard he tried. 

He enters the bedroom as Bradley looks at him, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. 

“She’s not here.” 

Bradley glances at the empty bed, giving a soft shrug of his shoulders as he falls back under the covers. 

“Jake-” 

“No, she’s not here. She’s gone.” 

Bradley freezes, looking at him. The fear is evident on his face, that you’ve left them for good. 

For all Bradley had tried to get answers out of you, Jake had backed off, letting you have your space. In turn, Jake found you spending more time with him than you did Bradley. 

He knew that for all the million conversations he’d had with you since being home, they’d all been nothing more than surface level. He could see that your guard was up, that you were there but weren’t really there. 

But he didn’t look at you like Bradley did, with that knowing look in his eye. 

And the more Bradley pushed, the further away you got. 

And Jake feared that Bradley was going to push you right out the door. 

And he knew Bradley feared it too. 

“Where are you going?” Bradley calls after him as he slips back down the stairs. 

“To bring our girl home.” 

-

The knocking at your door startles you out of your daze and you pull yourself from the couch, socks sliding against the shitty wood of your apartment floor as you walk over to it. The door reveals a tense Jake and an apprehensive Bradley standing behind him. 

You blink. “Hello?” 

“You left.” 

Jake’s tone is blunt, no room left for argument. 

“Okay?” You say, clutching the edge of the door tighter. “Am I your hostage now? Not allowed to leave the premises?” 

“It’s Sunday.” Bradley speaks, tone much softer than Jake’s. “We always spend Sunday together.” 

You sigh, turning. The boys follow you into the too-small apartment, one of them shutting the door as you sit at the kitchen island. 

“I had to work on my thesis.” 

It’s not untrue. 

Books are scattered over your counter, your laptop sitting open with a nearly final draft on the screen but it hadn’t been the reason you’d left before both the boys were awake this morning. 

But if they asked, you weren’t even sure you could explain why you had left this morning, just that you woke up feeling like you needed to. 

“So? You could’ve done that at our place.” Jake shoots back, his words still cutting with an edge you weren't used to being on the receiving end of. 

Bradley puts his hands out as if to placate the man. “Okay. Okay. I think that we have reached the point where we need to talk.” 

We need to talk.

Your head hangs at the words, a lump already growing in your throat. 

Bradley walks to the opposite side of the island, trying to catch your eye. “You’ve been pulling away from us. Ever since Jake told you he’d be settling at Miramar permanently, you’ve been weird. Why?” 

You shrug, unable to meet his eye as tears begin to sting. The tip of your nose has that familiar itch too, and it’s all you can do to not break down in front of them as you play with the strings of your hoodie. 

Bradley rounds the counter, sitting down in the chair next to you. Jake takes his place leaning on the counter from you. Bradley hesitates briefly before setting his hand on your bare thigh, rubbing slow circles into the skin with his thumb. 

“Please talk to us, sweetheart.” 

You reach up, rubbing the edge of your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt before sighing. 

“Some days… Some days, I feel like I’m nothing more than a bed warmer for you.” 

“Where the hell did you get that idea?” 

“Jake.” Bradley reprimands, squeezing your thigh. “Sweetheart, wh- where did we ever show that? We love you.” 

You sniff, glancing up at the ceiling. “Back- back when we started this, there was a night where we were at the Hard Deck. Some guy said to me that I was just a bedwarmer for you while Jake was gone. That that’s all I’d ever be.”

“And you believed him?” 

“Jake.” Bradley says again, shooting him a look to which Jake responds by throwing his hands up in the air and walking away from the counter. 

“Not at first.” You admit, shaking your head. “But- the two of you were together before me. And I knew that there would be a day where the two of you would go back to wanting it to be just the two of you. And I knew that day would come when Jake wasn’t spending months at a time halfway around the world. You don’t need me anymore.”

“Don’t- don’t need you anymore?” Jake asks incredulously, walking back t​​o where he’d been standing. “Darling, of course we need you. You complete us, you’re everything we want.” 

A tear trickles down your face as you meet his sea-glass eyes. You pay it no mind as Jake continues talking again. “Yes, yeah, Bradley and I were together before you came along. And yeah, that was fun and where we needed to be during that time of our lives. But darling, you don’t get it. You complete us. It’s important to me that you know that. And maybe we don’t say it enough or show it enough, but God, if it was just Brad and I again, we’d kill each other.” 

“That’s a bit harsh.” Bradley mutters. 

The only sign Jake gives that he heard Bradley’s words is a roll of his eyes, continuing to speak. “Darling, you balance us. You give us both exactly what we need. You give me space to be vulnerable, to allow myself to feel like even after all the shit I’ve done, I’m still worthy of being loved. You match Bradley’s kindness tit-for-tat and the two of you can laugh hours into the night, I know. Bradley and I- we’ve had our issues, our fights and our screaming matches and our nasty insults. And with you, we don’t do that.” 

Bradley squeezes your thigh again. “Where Jake’s going with this sweetheart, is that Jake and I have both been through our own shit. And I know you have too, I’m not denying that. But when it was just Jake and I, it was a 110 percent all the time or nothing at all. And with you, we’ve been able to slow down, remember what’s important to us. That this is built on a foundation of love. Of trust and communication. And that foundation starts to fall apart if you don’t talk to us.” 

You sniff, looking down at your hands. “I’m sorry.” Your voice is watery as a few more tears slip over. 

“You think I still don’t have my fears? That maybe you and Jake will decide you’re better off together just the two of you than with me? That maybe the two of you will just become two more people in my life who have left?” 

“I didn't know that.” Jake admits softly, his shoulders deflating. 

Bradley gives a half shrug. “Was too scared to say anything. Didn’t want to find out that I was right.” 

You sniff again, the tears threatening to overwhelm you.

You were so overwhelmed by all of it. By Bradley’s admission of his own fears, that he didn’t see how loved he was, how much you needed him in the same way you needed Jake. By their equal professions of love for you. 

Jake finally rounds the counter, to come sit on the other barstool next to you. He pushes some hair away from your face, pressing a tender to kiss to your forehead and swiping away your tears.

“This isn’t just an interlude for us, darling. You’re our future.” 

[sushiwriterhere]

it’s not rotten work (not if it’s you)

summary: Four times you, Jake, and Javy danced around the truth, and the one time you confronted it.  rating: explicit (18+ mdni) pairing: Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x f!reader x Javy ‘Coyote’ Machado word count: 4.2k warnings: idiots pining, mmf PiV (unprotected), m/f oral (receiving/giving, face sitting), cockwarming, hangman being hangman, light angst, dacryphilia a bit, mention of violence (stabbing), no use of y/n.  notes: companion fic to my 'a little bit of fun' drabble. thank you to sana and amelia (@laracrofted @theharddeck) for the inspiration! this one's definitely more heavy on the emotion, so please let me know what you think!! tagging: @sebsxphia @sometimesanalice @waklman @joaquinwhorres @gretagerwigsmuse @lewmagoo @genius2050 @seresinsweetie @teacupsandtopgun

one.

Neither Javy nor Jake really reacts when you’re the one to initiate conversation in your group chat.

Bad day. Someone pick me up?

Javy responds with a thumbs up and then a simple-Hangboy’s in the air. See you at 5.

Neither of you speak on the ride to their place; Jake’s usually the one to fill those silences. Javy just places his hand palm side up on the center console and wraps his fingers around yours when you place your hand in his. It’s the sort of companionable silence that stirs feelings you don’t really have the energy to identify.

An hour and a half later you’re settled in Javy’s lap, one of Jake’s old Navy shirts falling loosely around you, Javy’s cock inside you. It brings you a rare type of peace.

He’d made you shower and eat, guiding you through the motions with a tenderness somehow not at odds with his broad shoulders, the military uniform he’d removed when he climbed into the shower with you. You’d talked in low tones over a recipe of his grandmothers’, him coaxing you to tell him about your day. They already had a half-empty pint of your favorite Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.

He’d undressed you from the waist down the same way he’d dressed you after your shower—gently, slowly, like you were something precious and fragile. You very pointedly did not cry. He took you apart on his tongue once, kneeling between your legs as you melted into the couch.

When he slid into you, your mind finally went quiet.

Javy’s got some game on in the background, the lull of the commentary giving you something to tune out as you drift. He’s solid and warm below you, inside you, a constant like the rate of acceleration due to gravity. Occasionally, he’ll shift or smooth his hand down your back or adjust the blanket that’s draped over you, but otherwise the two of you are still.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been napping til you hear keys in the door. You recognize Jake by footsteps alone, the way his keys jingle as they drop in the bowl by the door, the sound of him sliding his boots off til they land on the floor with a soft thump.

“Hey, thanks for getting her.” Javy nods against you, his chin bumping the top of your head where it’s buried in his chest, “She tell you what happened?”

Javy smooths your hair so his hand comes to rest over the ear not pressed into him, but you hear their conversation anyways, “Boss yelled at her in front of everyone for something that wasn’t actually a mistake. He didn’t apologize.”

The way Jake scoffs is muffled but your mind can picture his face, “I’m gonna give that asshole what’s coming to him one day. I keep telling her to quit. We’ll take care of her while she looks for another job. ”

Javy laughs gently, jostling you despite his best efforts, “And what? Get us dishonorably discharged in the process?”

It makes your chest clench when he says 'us' instead of 'you', as if Javy would be right there alongside him on your behalf. A pause, and Jake says something you don’t catch.

Javy’s response gets drowned out by the buzzer sound from the game, by the way his hand is still covering your ear. You only catch “never agree”.

Jake is apparently unsatisfied with Javy's answer because you can hear it in the way he leaves the room. You drift off again.

The next time you come to, it's because your dream had you squirming in Javy's lap, reminding you of how he still had you nestled on his cock. Then, there's a kiss being pressed to your forehead. You open your eyes to see Jake’s face in front of you, his hair dripping wet onto his shoulders.

"Hey baby," He murmurs before pressing your lips together.

It's heated, it's possessive, like he's trying to convey everything he feels he's unable to say through the way he licks into your mouth. Javy grabs the back of his neck so he can peck Jake, the kiss so chaste in comparison to the way Jake was just devouring you. It warms you beyond just the way Javy's body heat does.

They've been doing that more often, like they're discovering something beyond years of longing, beyond years of ribbing on each other to try and relieve what they didn't realize was sexual tension.

When you three finally make it to Javy’s bedroom, they take you apart the way they always do. But somehow, it’s infinitely more tender.

Javy fucks you first, rocking into you as you sprawl on his king size mattress. Jake’s there the entire time, kissing away your tears and petting over your stomach to press down on your lower abdomen.

Neither of them stops talking the entire time.

“So beautiful and smart, our girl—”

“I can feel Javy in you baby, you’re taking him so well—”

“God where would we be without you—”

You sob as you cum for the second time that evening, and Javy fucks you through it all. You’re so overwhelmed by the way their words wash over you like the sun on a summer day. The baritone of Javy’s voice murmuring “our girl” rattles around your mind til he finishes inside you.

Then it’s Jake’s turn. He’s just as, if not more, gentle than Javy.

Javy slips off the bed to go clean himself up. When he rejoins the two of you, Jake is already so close. He pulls out at the last minute, fisting his cock til he finishes on your stomach and chest, a punched out moan leaving him.

It’ll never cease to amaze you the way they manage to make you finish with such ease as Jake’s fingers find your clit and he plasters himself all over you so he can kiss you. It should be gross, the way his cum makes him slide a bit against you, but it grounds you instead. You can feel where the mix of you, Jake, and Javy is running down your thigh.

You’ve got Javy’s hand in a vice grip. They’re here, they’re real.

When it’s all said and done, Jake appears with a wet washcloth to wipe down your forehead, between your legs. Eventually, he carries you to the bathroom so you can pee and brush your teeth (“Javy got to carry you earlier while he was inside you, mind you, so it’s my turn.”).

Laying between them, you start to feel human again. You have half a mind to ask what they were bickering about earlier, but sleep is dragging you under before you can act on it.

two.

Jake's been irritating you all night. He begged you to come to the Hard Deck, claiming lonely since Javy was out of town for the weekend, some trip to DC neither of them wanted to discuss.

Distantly, you know this is how he shows affection. Like a teen boy, he’s poking and prodding at you. In between his turns at pool, he’s pulling you into his arms, grabbing at your waist, yanking on the ends of your hair. Something about Jake just requires he’s touching you at all times when you’re within his general proximity.

Natasha sets a beer down in front of you, before settling in across from you, “I don’t know how you put up with it.”

Your thing with Jake and Javy isn’t exactly a secret, but no one addresses it. It’s just sort of, there. The rest of the Dagger Squad seems to have just accepted the dynamic, brought you into the fold.

“Put up with him?” You nod at Jake, who’s trying to show Rooster some pool move that apparently requires one leg on the table. The tension between the two of them has eased considerably these days.

She laughs, “Either of them really, Hangman and Coyote. They feed off each other’s energy in the worst way sometimes, I think I’d go crazy.”

You’re silent, trying to figure out a way to respond. The three of you haven’t defined what this is, haven’t talked ‘feelings’, despite the amount of time you spend at their place, the way your days are filled with each other. You’re not sure how to explain that it just works somehow—on the outside it might seem like you lean into Javy more, but the reality is more complicated.

Jake and Javy are bonded by years in the Navy, nothing quite like constant near-death experiences to foster love. They do feed off each other, but in the way that they’re so familiar they’re almost one. Javy does steady you—but he also riles you up like no one else. Jake brings out the livelier side of you, but he’s also fiercely and openly protective of you.

You're stubborn and unmoving where Jake goes with the flow. You're snarky and sarcastic where Javy is calm, at ease. It just works.

Natasha just looks at you expectantly, and you shrug. Unsure of what to say.

You settle on, "They do drive me crazy, but I think I'm not totally gone yet."

Her laugh echoes above the background noise of the bar.

Back at the guys’ shared apartment, you fuck Jake slowly, keeping your lips pressed together. You whine into his mouth when he hitches your thigh up on his bicep, the position hitting something inside of you just right.

In that moment, he doesn't comment on the change of pace from your usual, more intense sex—he leans into it. He presses his lips to your forehead, then leans his against yours. His grip on your hip and thigh aren't as bruising as they usually are, they’re more grounding.

Jake always talks during sex, never shuts up. This time, he’s whispering more than anything else, and you can’t understand him. You want to ask but the way he’s fucking into you makes you lose all ability to speak.

When you finish, you keen and arch your back as Jake licks a stripe up the side of your neck. You shudder as he cums right after you. The two of you lay there for just a moment, taking deep breaths.

Jake presses his lips to your forehead one more time before pulling out and sitting up, "You wanna talk about it?"

Of course he noticed something was up–that's just who he is. A hurricane of a man, but still attentive to every little detail.

You consider him for a moment, his naked form, completely at ease with your eyes roaming over his body. You think of telling him about your conversation with Natasha, about the way it had made you think through the three of you. Instead, you shake your head and curl onto your side, and wait for him to get back into bed.

three.

Surprisingly, it’s Javy’s who’s been pushing you. Jake’s been hesitant to open his mouth on the subject, but you don’t miss the way he perks up slightly when you and Javy start getting into it again.

“I have a perfectly good apartment of my own, Javy!” It’s repetitive, like a swing dance, at this point. “I don’t get why you want me to move in.”

“Sweetheart, if you’d listen to me, you’d ‘get why’. You live in a bad area of town, and I’m laying awake every night worrying about whether to expect a phone call from the nearby hospital.”

Jake focuses intently on the crossword he’s pretending to do as you and Javy both stare at him expectantly. The last time he’d voiced his opinion, you’d threatened to call his mother and tell her he was trying to tell you what to do. Theoretically, he knows she’d be on his and Javy’s side, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with that.

(You haven’t threatened Javy in the same way, and he wonders if it’s because his mom is the only woman in this situation with a more stubborn disposition than you. Maybe it’s just because it’s Javy.)

"Well, maybe you should worry less." You snark. Javy doesn't respond and Jake can hear the way his eyebrow raises.

“Seventeen across, 'unconcerned',” Jake half mumbles to himself, half trying to break at least some of the tension.

“Perfunctory,” you snap at him from where you’re glaring at Javy, because of course you know.

"That's not an option, sweetheart." Javy's using the tone that says his decision is final, that he won't change his mind–it's one that you fucking hate.

Jake barely manages to stand up to intercept you when you turn around and head for the door, sans any of your possessions but your phone. He wraps his arms around you and refuses to release you despite the way you squirm indignantly in his hold.

He eases his grip just enough so he can lean down to whisper in your ear, "Baby, at least consider it?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake sees the way Javy just stares at the two of you. His expression is nearing anguish, and Jake gets it. The way you pull back every time they try to bring you closer feels like ripping barbs out of their skin. The emotional pain is so intense it rivals physical.

It’s not entirely about safety this time, not really.

"He's being a dick." You murmur, finally acquiescing and wrapping your arms around Jake's torso.

"We're not trying to control you babe, we want you here. He just maybe should've led with that. We want you to be safe." A little good cop, bad cop. Sorry, Javy.

To his surprise, you just say, "I know."

There's no fight left in any of you. Not since someone got stabbed outside your apartment building a month ago and the three of you, well, you and Javy, have been arguing non stop about it.

You just want it to stop—the tension every time you leave their apartment for work, the shared knowing that you won’t necessarily return. Jake clearly is getting sick of the arguing and you and Javy aren’t any less exhausted.

Turning around in Jake’s arms you look at Javy, “You—You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Javy’s in front of you in an instance, taking your face in his hands and kissing you fiercely, “I’m sorry, too. We care about you, we want you to be safe.”

There’s much left unsaid, but in that moment, all the words spoken are more than enough.

four.

When you wake up, you're alone in bed. You vaguely remember Jake getting up in the middle of the night and him and Javy talking in low tones as Jake got dressed. He kissed you goodbye and promised to come home safe. Javy had gotten back in bed.

The curtains let the gray of the morning light leak into the room, washing everything in a sort of hazy filter. There's clanking from the kitchen, but for just a moment, you let yourself lay there, absorbing the moment. The sheets still smell like that combination of Jake and Javy that lulls you to sleep every night.

For a second, you're overcome by a fear that one day you'll turn to your right and you won't be able to bury your nose into the pillow and smell Jake. He's only gone for the weekend, but it's that part of you that rears its head every time one of them leaves. Every deployment, every work trip they're not allowed to discuss, every morning they leave for training.

The bed dips next to you as Javy climbs in–you hadn't noticed him come back into the room. He smells like sweat just a bit, and you giggle sleepily when his fingers ghost up your ribs.

"Get out of the bed, Javy, you're sweaty," You groan, turning away from him as he drags you backward into his chest.

"Really," He laughs, "You didn't mind so much last night."

Despite your protests, you snuggle back into him, feeling the way his workout shirt slides against your bare skin. It's the sort of closeness that isn't just physical—it's about knowing your partners' boundaries, about knowing that they don't actually mind that you just came from the gym and then climbed right into bed. The sheets need to be changed anyways.

Javy kisses right below your ear and you hum happily. His lips ghost over your cheek but don't reach your lips.

"Go shower," You murmur as you turn around to kiss him.

He doesn't respond. He can't–not with the way you're flush against him, only wearing a pair of boxers where he’s only in a shirt. Not with the way you lick into his mouth lazily, humming when you taste the juice he drank. Not with the way your hands run down his stomach and grab clumsily at his hardening cock.

If you weren't awake before, you sure are now–especially with the way Javy's warm and calloused hands skim your nipples and lift your leg to hitch over his hip.

He rolls the two of you so his weight is pressing you into the mattress. There’s something so distinctly soothing about the position, the way he’s warm and heavy and everywhere on you. You move your hips in a steady rhythm against his.

When his hands find their way into the pair of boxers you stole from Jake, he finds you already soaking. You can feel the way he smiles smugly against your mouth. That just won’t do.

Shoving at his shoulder, he lets you turn the two of you over again. You kiss his neck, working your way down his body. Making a show of wrinkling your nose at his shirt, he yanks it off in one fluid, yet desperate, motion.

The instant you wrap your lips around him, his hands are in your hair.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re—”

He doesn’t get to finish his thought, not when you slide your mouth down the length of him, fighting your gag reflex at the way he nudges the back of your throat. There’s something so sensual about the way your nose almost brushes the curls at the base of him.

“Shit, shit, Jesus,” This is the way you like Javy best, all his boundaries down, just letting himself feel, “Your mouth is so fucking good, god, how do you—ugh, fuck!”

You’re pulling out every trick in the book. You fist the base of his cock in tight grip and let your spit ease the twist of your wrist. He shudders when you pull your mouth off him to lazily tongue at the sensitive spot at the underside of the head.

You know he’s getting close when his hips start thrusting, despite the way he usually holds himself back. The groan he lets out when he comes down your throat is guttural.

“You’re a menace,” He gasps out, and the glaze of his eyes is so familiar, so welcomed in the way that it makes your chest clench with pride and something else.

“You didn’t seem to mind just now,” Reflecting his words back at him before you make a show of swallowing deeply.

He drags you up his body while tugging off the boxers, “I mind because I wanted to fuck you.”

You giggle at the way he fakes his frustration, but you’re cut off when he lifts you up and over him til you land on his face. His strength never fails to stun you.

Javy settles you directly on his face. There’s still a part of you that feels overly exposed in the position but he wastes no time. He licks into you without reserve, burying his tongue in you and closing his eyes and humming in satisfaction.

Javy knows your body through and through—he knows what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, how he can drag this out or rush to the edge. This time, he’s savoring the moment, bordering on torture. His tongue is slow, purposeful, as it circles your clit and fucks into you slowly.

You can hear the way you’re whining as if you’re outside of your body. Your voice sounds foreign even as you beg Javy please, please, fuck right there, please don’t stop, please.

When you come you slam your hand on the headboard and moan something deep in your chest. Javy smooths his hands over your waist and ass as you come down, shaking slightly. He slides you off him and down the bed til the two of you are face to face again.

You think he might be murmuring something as he presses your lips together, again and again, but you can’t quite make it out.

plus one.

The Hard Deck seems so far away from here, where you and Javy are sitting on the beach behind it. Jake's only a few feet away, inside getting the three of you a round of beers. The noise of the crowd celebrating the end of another week is dim and distant.

You and Javy are sitting side by side, just barely touching. The heat radiating off him is unreal, as always. The two of you are talking about Jake and Javy's families, having drifted to the subject after recalling the way Jake's mom had squealed at the sight of you when she'd FaceTimed earlier in the day. His mom absolutely loves you.

He shrugs, “Momma and Amy knew about Jake and I before we did. I brought you up once and they figured it out.”

That surprises you. You knew Javy's mom and Jake's mom were perceptive, yet open, women, but you hadn't expected this—them seeing not just Jake and Javy for what they were, but the three of you, too.

You lean into him, snuggling close, "What did they say?"

He presses a kiss to your hair before answering, his words muffled with the way his lips move against your skin, "They said you had to be one hell of a woman to put up with us."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" You pull back from him, and shock paints his features.

He laughs, a bit uneasily, "Who else is saying that?"

"I'm not 'putting up with you', I love you, I love Jake, I love you both." You push yourself to standing, unexpectedly frustrated. The sweetness of the moment seems acidic now. It eats at you.

This was hard enough for you to accept. Hard enough to rationalize, to try and understand what it meant that marriage certificates were for two names, that it was 'partners' and 'couples', that the world generally worked in twos. That's enough to try and deal with–much less with those closest to you pointing out how difficult it must be for you.

Javy can't even savor the fact that you've just said you love him, that you love Jake–not when your lower lip is wobbling and your chest is starting to heave in that way when you cry.

"Hey, hey," Javy's voice is steadying, as he stands next to you and takes your hands, "Look at me. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry."

It didn't even register to you that you're crying, but you feel it now. The telltale itch in your nose, the way your throat feels tight, your eyes watering. You rip one of your hands from his to wipe at your face messily.

"Woah, woah, what's going on?" Jake materializes next to you, the three beer cans dropping in the sand, forgotten in the instant he saw you crying.

"Everyone keeps trying to tell me it must be hard for me to love you, and it's not." Jake's mouth only drops a bit when you say love, an admittedly muted reaction in comparison to what you'd been expecting.

"I mean–" Jake starts, but he stops when Javy shoots him a look over your head. It's not the time for jokes.

He tries again, "We fought with you for a month to try and get you to move in with us, it's not hard for us to love you at all either."

For some reason, that just makes you cry harder as they pull you into them, "I didn't fight with you, I fought with Javy."

At that, the two men can't resist bursting into laughter.

"I'm-I'm sorry, sweetheart," Javy says as his laughter dies down, "We're not laughing at you."

You wipe at your tears hastily and giggle just a bit, "It is kind of funny."

“You love us?” Jake’s smile is cheeky, as much as it can be when he feels like you’ve split his chest open with your bare hands and are now holding his fluttering heart in your palms.

Fighting the urge to run or lie, you simply nod, “Unfortunately.”

Old habits die hard.

Later that night, when you’re pressed up against Jake’s chest with Javy at your back, they chant the words to you like a sacred prayer. They say it while they take you apart with their fingers, their tongues.

Jake says it in the way he curls his fingers inside of you, searching for the spot that makes your back arch and your thighs try to squeeze together. Javy says it in the way he inches ever so slowly into you, in the way that he tilts your hips so he can fuck your just so.

You say it in the way you trust them to see you so vulnerable, tears streaming down your face in pleasure, eyes rolled back. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[icezansky]

a fic by icezansky for chase_acow

rating: Teen and Up

summary: “Alright, here’s one,” he laughs. “I think Jake’s a cocky asshole and I’ll be surprised if he makes it to the merge. That's if he even manages to make it out of Tribal Council tonight.”

A Daggers Survivor AU.

relationships: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Jake "Hangman" Seresin

tags: Alternate Universe, Survivor (TV Series), Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Huddling for Warmth, Happily Ever After

words: 10,000

[mitchellpete]

Kinktober Day 18 - Mirror sex

pairing: pete “maverick” mitchell x f!reader

cw: age gap, set during top gun: maverick, handjobs, penetration, dirty talk

word count: 1587

kinktober masterlist here.

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

-

You awoke from your nap a few hours after dozing off on the couch. The sun had gone down in the midst of your slumber, moonlight pooling in through the window. There was a blanket draped over you now, one that you had not initially fallen asleep with. It smelled like fabric softener, the same one you used on Maverick’s clothes. Your half-lidded, sleepy eyes jolt open at the realization that he was home. 

After stretching the knots in your body—the couch really isn’t too comfy for naps—you swing your legs over the side and immediately skip down the hall towards your bedroom. The house is quiet and chilly. You’re not sure what time it is, but you fully expect Maverick to be in bed, or settling down at least. 

In your bedroom, Maverick is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you. 

Unable to contain your excitement after a long day without him, you exclaim, “Baby!”

He turns to look at you, a smile spreading on his face as you practically run and throw yourself at him from behind. You press your chest to his back, wrapping your arms around his frame. They settle on his chest, warm and damp from a shower. Your face peaks from behind his shoulders to meet him for a long-awaited kiss. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your lips, his smile still spread wide.

You pull back, aiming your kisses at his face instead. “When’d you get home?” 

He blinks slowly, enjoying your kisses. “About half an hour ago. I had a busy day.”

The corner of his mouth, his chin, the underside of his jaw. Firm, but soft underneath your lips. “Mm? What’d you do?”

“Beach day with the kids,” he sighs. “Dogfight football.”

You pull back, cocking a brow. “Dogfight football?”

He nods, smiling hazily. “Offense and defense at the same time.”

You snicker, staring at his tired face. You give him a few more kisses, this time to his lips, deep and passionate. “I wish I was one of your students.”

“Mm.. I don’t,” he murmurs, amused. “I felt like an old man today. Had to sit and let them take over after a while.”

It’s when you glance up and find yourself face-to-face with your reflections that you get the idea. The mirror facing the bed gives you a clear cut view of the bottom half of Maverick’s body, clad in nothing but a towel from his shower. 

“An old man, huh?” Your hands run up and down his pecs, massaging his skin. 

Maverick leans back, relaxing against your body. Staring at yourself in the mirror, at the way your hands roam on his chest, excites something deep in your stomach. Your lips move to his shoulders, his skin golden from being out in the sun all day. You want him to see it too.

You let your hands roam further, fingers trailing down his abs. He jerks slightly when they prod inside the towel, pushing inside and ghosting over his hip bones. He lets out a little moan at your touch, sold. You grin. 

Maverick chuckles at your eager hands, letting you unfold the towel from around his waist. The fabric falls, exposing his cock, soft against his thigh. He looks down, helps you move the towel out of the way before you stop him. 

“No—” You swat his hands away and then reach for his face, directing it towards the mirror. “I’ll take care of you. Just look.”

He does as he’s told, staring right at his reflection. He breathes out sharply when you reach down to take his cock in your fist. You lean your chin against his shoulder, watching yourself along with him.

Maverick looks almost shy—eyes dancing from you to your hand, to the bewildered look on his face. His expression is even more priceless when you lean over his shoulder to let a bit of spit drip down, coating the tip just enough to smoothen your movements. Moving your thumb over his slit, he groans softly as you spread your spit all over the flushed head. When his cock begins to harden in your fist, your palm moves south, loosely gripping his shaft in shallow up and down strokes. You watch his face, his lips parted, his lashes heavy on his eyes as he feels the waves of pleasure jolting through him. 

You add more pressure the more noises he makes, strokes quickening more and more. You watch him through the mirror, how his body jerks and how he’s trying very hard to keep his hips still. You continue pressing kisses to his shoulder, trailing up until your teeth graze his ear. He shudders, breathlessly moaning out your name.

It’s incredibly arousing to watch him come apart under your touch. He attempts to continue looking at you, though it’s difficult as he nears his orgasm, his eyes lidded in a daze. 

“Look at me,” you whisper. Your wrist is slightly strained but it’s all or nothing now; his eyes flick to you again and it’s then that you stroke furiously, pace hard and quick. He chokes out a moan, watching his cum spurt out against his stomach just a minute later.

You press an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek, and then another on his jaw, biting slightly on the skin underneath his jawline. He shudders again, body nearly going slack from the quick and sudden orgasm. 

You get another idea, pulling off of him and off the bed to strip yourself of your clothes. Panting, Maverick watches.

When you’re fully bare, you sink to your knees—your back to him—and immediately crouch down in front of the mirror. The rug digs at your knees but you try your best to arch for him, ass up. You watch through the mirror as he sinks to the floor with you, kneeling in your direction. Warm hands meet your ass and slide up around your waist. Making eye contact with you through the glass, he coats his fingers in enough saliva to easily rub you up and down. You’re so turned on that you’re sure you don’t need much prep, your walls already clenching around nothing. His fingers slide through your folds, your cunt growing slippery in arousal.

Only half-hard again, he strokes himself a couple times with the slick he’s gathered, hissing at the sensations.

When he slowly slips his cock inside, he forgets to keep looking at you. His eyebrows pulled together in white hot bliss, he looks down and watches as it disappears inside of you inch by inch. You allow him that momentarily, watching his face contort beautifully at the tight heat of your body. 

When he’s fully situated inside of you, his hips pressed to your ass, you remind him, “Baby, look at me.”

He groans, low in the back of his throat, and raises his head to meet your eyes through the glass again. 

You bite your lip, in awe at the picture in front of you. Maverick looks flushed, his muscles defined in the dim lighting, jaw clenched as the pleasure courses through his body. Best of all, there’s a look in his eye, one that reads of total submission. He’s all yours; he’s doing this for you. You should tell him how pretty he looks. 

Feeling full makes it hard to speak. You wait for him to move, but it seems he’s taking it in, soaking up how good it feels to just rock shallowly like that inside of you, your walls adjusting around him. 

“Fuck,” you whine. “You’re so pretty, you know that?”

He groans again, his cheeks turning crimson at your words, the heat licking up his ears. “Oh, sweetheart.”

He starts moving, pays no mind to the slight oversensitivity from cumming just a couple minutes prior, and fucks you through it. His strokes are sloppy and messy, aiming for another quick orgasm but really just getting to watch you unfold in front of him too. You’re biting your lip, the sense of self-awareness slightly intimidating. You watch as your body rocks against his, his hips slamming against yours and rutting your knees forward on the carpet ever so slightly with each thrust. It burns, but the pleasure inside of you feels bigger and better, his stare edging you on quicker than you can process.

“Oh, fuck—Pete,” you whine out, “Fucking—look at you.”

He tries to keep his composure, bites down hard on his bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his noises until you start to rock your hips back to meet his thrusts. You watch his face, how close to the edge he gets every time your hips slam together.

Neither of you last very long; you hadn’t realized just how dizzying it is to look at everything unfolding in front of you. Maverick’s second orgasm hits him hard, and you watch as he pulls out and falls back against the edge of the bed in a heap of moans and curses, stroking every bit of cum out against his thigh (and the floor, you realize). Moaning through your own collapse, your knees give out from the rug burn. You curl up on the floor for a second, letting the sensation course through you, but Maverick reaches for you with a strong arm. He pulls you to him, your body eagerly sinking into his. 

You laugh together, still in front of the mirror. Completely disheveled now, Maverick in need of another shower. You’re glad you get to join this one.

[the-authoress-writes]

Up Where We Belong

Part One

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Mentions of hospice and family member deaths, age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: The plot bunnies have reproduced at an unholy rate, and I am so stupid for writing this, especially since I have another chapter of “Wherever You Go”, to write, the first chapter of “Safe and Sound” and a MavDad story to finish.

The second part and another Mav story is lined up, but at this point, I’m not going to complain, because at least I’m writing, and Mav is finally getting more of my writerly attention.

We’ll see what gets finished next, 😂.

#writerlife

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs—I can’t stop, apparently)

So here we go!

She had always been somewhat interested in planes—it was hard not to be, when most of her family was in commercial aviation.

Her father had flown for nearly thirty years for American, her younger brother was currently a first officer coming up on his command upgrade with Delta, and her grandfather, whom she affectionately called PopPop, had flown for Continental.

Some of her fondest memories were looking over her grandfather’s maps and airport diagrams, and sitting on his lap while he taught her how to use an analog flight computer.

But one day, when she was home from her freshman year of college, where she was taking her degree in English, her grandfather took her up to the attic to show her something.

It was a footlocker from World War II, the faded paint on the outside reading “USAAF”.

“This was your granduncle Joseph’s—my eldest brother.

He was a P-51 pilot.

He ran many successful missions in his aircraft until he got shot down saving his wingman’s life, near the end of the war.”

PopPop opened the footlocker, revealing a faded American flag folded into a tricorn lying neatly atop several dark greenish-brown uniforms.

PopPop gently lifted the flag and uniforms out of the footlocker, uncovering yellowed, brittle-looking maps, a compass set, and a thick stack of letters, tied together with a black ribbon.

It was the stack of letters that PopPop lifted out, and held out to her. “Look at these, and read them.”

She did, and the story the letters contained was beautiful and heartbreaking.

Her granduncle had fallen in love with a woman who was a member of the French Resistance, named Céline, whom he’d met during a covert resupply mission, and they even had plans to marry after the war.

But she’d died in a skirmish with German soldiers in Paris, leaving him so bereft that he’d taken to writing letters to her specter, just to have an outlet for his grief.

The last letter in the pile was heartwrenching, where her granduncle Joseph talked about how he was only living because she would want him to, only being careful in the air because she’d want him to.

She’d cried reading the letters, and she’d asked PopPop why he’d wanted her to read the letters.

“I wanted someone else to know their story,” he’d simply replied.

“No one else knows?”

He hummed, considering his answer. “Sometimes you keep some things to yourself until the right person to tell comes along.”

A few years passed, and when PopPop was on hospice, the two of them were watching “Band of Brothers”, when she remembered Uncle Joe, as she’d taken to calling him in her head.

“What’s going on in that bright head of yours, darling?” PopPop’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, uh, nothing much, I was just remembering Uncle Joe.

Thinking that he and Céline deserved better.”

“They did.”

She shook her head, “I wish I could write them a happier ending, you know?”

PopPop hummed weakly. “Well, why don’t you?

If anyone could do it, it would be you.

If you do that, I’m sure in a few years, those English professors of yours would be saying that they taught a great American author.”

She was shocked and touched. “Wha—I—well, I guess I could, but, are—y-you’d be okay with that, PopPop?”

He laid a cold hand on hers, “I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else, my dear girl.”

“Okay,” she smiled tearily, and nodded, the two of them returning their attention to the episode.

A week later, PopPop passed, and many things happened over the ensuing years that caused the idea of writing about Uncle Joe to be put on the back burner.

In fact, she forgot all about it, until she was sitting on her couch a couple of weeks after having been let go from her job as an English teacher at her local high school.

She was mindlessly watching an episode of some show she couldn’t even remember the name of, when her eyes landed on the footlocker which PopPop had given to her in his will.

The memory of PopPop encouraging her to write about Uncle Joe came back to her, and she paused the episode, strode over to the footlocker, carefully opened it, and drew out the letters.

Madly, over the course of the next several hours, she reread the letters, numerous research-related tabs quickly opening up on her phone, tablet, and laptop.

As months passed, she made good progress on her first draft, but somewhere along the way, about slightly less than halfway through her intended story beats, she hit the dreaded dead end, writer’s block in full force.

Rereading the letters did nothing—every line she wrote, she deleted; she felt lost, and like she’d completely lost Uncle Joe and Céline’s voices.

She felt right back at square one.

Then, one day, as she was looking at her brother’s latest Facebook reel from his layover in Korea, she saw an advertisement for the Apple Valley Airshow, which would feature an aerobatic demonstration with an actual, airworthy P-51.

Maybe seeing the aircraft her Uncle flew would shake something loose in her brain so she could move forward.

She didn’t even hesitate—she immediately booked a ticket, and prepared herself to take down a lot of notes.

The airshow was absolutely wonderful, and even though she never got as into aviation as the rest of her family, it was still something which fascinated her, and seeing the planes made her marvel all over again at the miracle that was aviation, how humankind had successfully taken the skies for itself through brutally elegant means.

Finally, it was time for the reason she’d come—the emcee began, “Now, everyone, you’re all in for a treat, because up next, we have a nearly eighty-year-old aircraft, a P-51K named Bianca, and she’ll be giving us an aerobatic demonstration!

So let’s give a warm Apple Valley Airshow welcome to Bianca and her owner and pilot, US Navy Captain Pete Mitchell!”

She clapped along with everyone else, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the P-51.

Soon, the sound of a propeller engine grew louder and louder, and then, there she was.

Bianca was gorgeous, gleaming silver with red markings, the American star roundel on her side.

The shining aircraft got closer and closer to the ground, towards the crowd, and just as she was about to worry that the P-51 was in an upset condition, the plane pulled up slightly, buzzing the transfixed people.

Laughing in awe and delight, she clapped with everyone, and watched as the daring pilot put the plane through a series of hair-raising spirals, rolls, dives, and elegant, breathtaking passes with such precision, skill, and ease, just knowing that whoever was flying that old girl had aviation in his blood as surely as it ran in hers; it made her wonder what her granduncle would say about how the venerable fighter was being flown.

Before she knew it, the demonstration was over, and with another low pass and wing wave, the P-51 flew off to land.

It actually took her a moment to come back to herself, she was so stunned by what she saw, and she knew she had to see Bianca up close.

After asking for directions to the flight line, she scanned the row of planes, eventually spying a flash of red.

She walked over, catching sight of a tall, mustached man a few years younger than her, standing in front of the aircraft, wearing a borderline-obnoxiously-loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over a white tank and jeans, stereotypical Ray-Bans pushed up onto his head.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” the man replied.

“Is this the P-51 which flew a few minutes ago?

She is a P-51, right?”

“That’d be a yes to both questions, ma’am.”

She chuckled grimly at the idea that her age was maybe showing enough for her to be ma’am-ed by someone only a few years younger than her. “Are you the owner?”

He scoffed, good-naturedly. “Nah, that’ll be my dad.

Hey Dad, someone wants to talk to you!”

A moment later, a man stepped out from under the P-51, and she’d absolutely be lying if she said her breath didn’t catch.

First off, if she had to guess, he was older than her, but there was something about him which made him seem younger than his age.

Then there was the fact that he was absurdly good looking—ridiculously so, in fact; impossibly raven-dark hair, mischievously sparkling, brilliant green eyes, and a physique that people half her age would kill for, all sinewy muscle, visible with the snug white t-shirt and jeans he was wearing.

The final nail in the proverbial coffin was his smile—God, it belonged in a museum, because it was a work of art, and coupled with his roguish air, everything about him screamed the most delicious kind of trouble, sending echoes of Whoopi Goldberg’s voice saying, “You in danger, girl,” through her head.

“Hi,” he began, extending his hand.

Luckily for her, she was quick on the draw, and extended her own hand, proffering a “Hi,” of her own, though she kicked herself at the fact that the next words out of her mouth were, “Are you the owner?”

Oh, well—couldn’t win them all.

His grip was firm and calloused, but gentle, without the cool metal band she expected on his fourth finger, quick eyes observing the lack of even a pale band of skin on the same finger, and she shook herself from the observation in time to hear his, “That’s me—Pete Mitchell, you can call me Mav.”

At her quizzical look, he continued, “It’s short for my callsign, Maverick—I’m Navy.”

She nodded, “The emcee did say you were Navy, and that tracks; judging from that impressive demonstration, you don’t strike me as the kind who blends in.”

“Thank you—I aim to please,” he grinned.

Miraculously, she managed to ignore his brilliant, beautiful smile, somehow mustering a “Well, you certainly delivered,” before she introduced herself.

A cough from the younger man, Pete’s son, made her realize that she hadn’t let go of Pete’s hand, and vice versa, which caused the two of them to practically spring apart.

“Oh, uh, this is my son, Bradley,” Pete introduced the younger man, reaching nearly comically up to wrap an arm around Bradley’s shoulders.

“Nice to meet you, Bradley,” she replied, trying to recollect herself while her mind acted like it was the first time she’d interacted with a good-looking man.

“Nice to meet you too, ma’am.”

“I look that bad, do I?” she chuckled.

“Just the way he was raised,” Pete proudly said, patting his son on the back.

Embarrassingly, she just then remembered the reason she was here. “Oh, I—I actually had a few questions for you, Pete, about the P-51, because I’m writing a book, and I wanted to get some details.”

His eyes lit up. “Details about this old girl, huh?

I can do that; come on, let me show you around.” He moved to the side of the aircraft and gestured grandly. “Bianca here’s a Dallas-built North American P-51K, with a Packard V-1650-7 engine and an 11 foot diameter Aeroproducts propeller.

She was donated to the Civil Air Patrol in 1946, and I acquired her in 2001.

I’m not sure if she ever saw combat, because her military flight logs were lost, but I know for a fact that she routinely patrolled the California skies way back when.

Let me show you the controls.”

He nimbly boosted himself up to the wing and held his hand out to her. “Come on up.”

“Uh, is this a wise decision?” she asked, glancing between his hand and the wing. “She is nearly eighty-years-old.”

Pete laughed, “She’s stronger than she looks, and these girls were made to withstand this sort of thing, come on.”

Deciding to trust his judgment, she took his hand and jumped up to the wing at the same time as he pulled her up, causing extra momentum which propelled her body into his.

He caught them on the edge of the cockpit, and after a second, she realized that she was pressed up against his body, both hands resting against his…very solid chest.

She prayed that her suddenly pounding heart and the burning flush on her cheeks could be discounted as a reaction to her stumble.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, scrambling back to put some distance between them for her sanity’s sake, while trying not to fall off either wing edge.

“Eh,” he waved off, “that’s my fault, I should have said I’d pull you up,” as he shifted to kneel on the wing. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied breezily, “I believe you were about to show me the controls?”

“Mm-hmm, come here.”

They slowly adjusted themselves into a configuration that enabled them both to see into the cockpit, and he pointed out the many gauges—explaining each one—and the literal stick stick, which looked nothing like the controls of any aircraft she’d seen in person or in the movies, as well as her general flight capabilities and technical specifications.

A further glance to the right showed something she didn’t expect to see. “I thought the P-51 was a single seat aircraft?”

Pete absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, “They are—I made a… few modifications.”

“Oh.”

“You want to sit in her?” he offered, gesturing to the pilot’s seat.

She was not about to pass up an opportunity like that. “I—wh—sure!”

He carefully helped her into the cockpit, and once settled, she breathed in and out while she absorbed this moment, and imagined her granduncle sitting in a seat similar to this one, looking out at the boundless sky. “Wow,” she reverently murmured.

“I know, right?”

“This is amazing, that aircraft like this is still around and still flying, I mean—this is history,” she said, getting slightly emotional.

“It is; she is.”

After a few beats longer, she sighed, and reached for his hand so she could get out, and he carefully eased her out of the cockpit, onto the wing, then both of them back onto the ground.

“Thank you, for showing me around, this was really helpful, Pete, I think this really helped me.”

“You’re welcome,” he nodded easily. “If I may ask, what kind of book are you writing?”

For the briefest second, she instinctively recoiled from the idea of telling the story, but then, some part of her heart said that Pete Mitchell was someone she could tell this story to. “It’s uh, a fictional version of my granduncle Joe’s love story; he was a P-51 pilot during World War II, and he was in love with a woman in the French Resistance named Céline.” She turned to look at Bianca’s gleaming fuselage. “But they both died in the war; she was killed by the Germans, and he got shot down saving his wingman soon after.

I never even knew until my first year of college, when my grandfather told me the story through the love letters my granduncle and Céline wrote.

When my grandfather was dying, I told him that I wished they had a happy ending, and… well, he told me to write it for them, since I was an English major.

So here I am,” she shrugged, turning to face Pete.

He looked grave and touched. “That’s… that’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I have to admit, I’ve wondered if what I was doing was disrespectful.”

“I know quite a few people who deserved happy endings that didn’t get them,” he glanced into the distance, a wistful, pained look in his eyes. “If I can help at least two people who didn’t have their happy endings in this world get it somehow, I’m more than willing to help.”

She sincerely replied, “Thank you for the validation,” wondering what his story was.

“You’re welcome.

And uh… you know what?

Gimme a second.”

He leapt back onto the P-51’s wing, and rummaged through the cockpit, pulling out a flight log book and a pen, hastily writing something on a page, before he tore it out, and leapt back down.

“Here, it’s my number—if you had any more questions, feel free to call, I’d be happy to answer them.”

If she had been placed in a similar situation as this maybe twenty years ago, she’d have probably done something to embarrass herself, because this—things like this didn’t happen to her—they only happened in movies, but here she was.

He gave her his number—yes, it was if she had any research questions, but still.

‘Get a grip, woman, just because you didn’t see a ring doesn’t mean he isn’t in a relationship,’ she told herself, trying to project “Respectable Professional Woman”, while her inner adolescent was trying its level best to come out.

“Th—thank you,” she managed to get out, with only a minute stammer on the first syllable.

“I’m serious, call if you need anything—I mean—there’s not a lot of people out there who can tell you what it’s like to actually fly one of these beauties.”

“Be careful,” she chuckled, already determined not to call unless it was absolutely dire, “You don’t know if I might take you up on that offer.”

“It’s what I gave you my number for,” Pete winked, and she commended herself for keeping it together.

Deciding to quit while she was ahead, and while she still seemed like a normal human being, she came in for final approach, as her dad would put it, with, “Alright—I better go, I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

“It’s fine, it’s always a pleasure to talk to someone about this girl.”

“Thank you again,” she stated, honestly grateful, feeling the creative juices flowing and simmering in the background.

“You’re welcome.”

And with that, she walked away, exhaling evenly for so many reasons.

That night, she wrote and wrote just as she expected, and the story was flowing.

That is, until she hit another wall just before the next weekend.

And this one was even more stubborn than the first.

It didn’t help that she had written herself into a corner with this dogfight scene she was on—she had no way of knowing if the tactics were sound, and she was thinking of completely cutting it, but it seemed so stilted without it, and she had no idea of how to avoid writing this scene.

But one part of that thought, she realized, wasn’t true.

Her gaze landed on her coffee table.

The sheet of flight log paper with ten numbers written on them stared tauntingly back at her, daring her to call Pete.

“Nope, no, I am not going to do it,” she told herself. “No—absolutely not.

I’m sure he has better things to do than answer stupid questions.

No—I will not call him.”

The paper raised a nonexistent eyebrow.

“No!” was her battle cry, and she turned back to her laptop screen, but it offered no relief.

The depressing reality of her blinking, unmoving cursor cackled at her in harmony with the flight log paper.

It was like that healthy cereal ad from years ago, with the little girl in a prim uniform, enticingly calling “Donuts?”

However, after ten more minutes, the dictatorship of the blank page grew too cruel and harsh, and she folded like a house of whatever was more insubstantial than cards.

“Fine,” she muttered, snatching up the paper. “I’ll call, but if he doesn’t answer, it’s no skin off my back—I’ll manage… somehow.”

At least that’s what she told herself.

She dialed the number, heart pounding as the phone rang…

And rang…

And rang…

And rang.

She was just about to breathe a sigh of conflicted relief and hang up, but then the line clicked, and she heard a slightly breathless “Pete Mitchell.”

“Hi,” she blinked, cursing herself for not thinking through what she was going to say. “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the Apple Valley Airshow—”

“__, right?

The writer.”

“Yeah, that’s me, you said I could call if I had any questions,” she scratched her head.

“Uh-huh.

I’m guessing you have one,” she could hear the smile in his voice.

“More like a lot, really.

I’ve unfortunately written myself into a corner, it’s this dogfight scene, and there’s no way I can currently remove it without sacrificing practically all of my progress since last week.

I just need to know if the tactics are sound.”

“Huh.”

“I—you know, I can figure it out myself, if it’s too much trouble—”

He interrupted, “No, it’s no trouble, I’m more than willing to help, in fact… uh, this might sound—weird and uncomfortable—or—both, really, but if you want, why don’t you come out to my hangar tomorrow, we can talk about this, rework your scene if we need to, without having to do video calls or text or email.”

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes wide.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything,” he chuckled.

“I—thank you for the reassurance, by the way—but I mean, that’s a lot of confidence in how well I can write a dogfight.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” he assured.

“I’ll just prepare to be ripped to shreds,” she half-teasingly replied.

Pete snorted. “Even if it were that bad, I wouldn’t rip it to shreds—I save that for my new students.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know what’s worse, being torn apart or the porcelain treatment.”

“How about a balance, then?”

“I’d be very happy with that.”

“So… is that a yes to coming out to my hangar?”

“I… suppose it is,” she replied, before she could convince herself otherwise.

She was a mature, responsible adult, and she was capable of being said mature, responsible adult.

(And if time permitted, she was even capable of looking respectfully, when he wasn’t watching.)

(She was only human, after all.)

“Perfect, I’ll send you the address; I have to warn you, it’ll probably be a bit of a drive, is that okay?”

“That’s fine, after all, where else will I find someone with experience flying the P-51?”

“You could always try the local VFW post,” he joked.

“What are the odds my local VFW has a former P-51 pilot?

I’ll go with the expert I’ve already met.”

“Alright, alright, I already agreed to help, no need to butter me up,” he lightly said, humorously.

“Just send the address,” was her amused response.

And that was how she found herself on US-395 North making the three-and-a-half hour drive from her apartment in San Bernardino to the Mojave, praying that she wouldn’t somehow make a fool of herself today.

To be continued…

Next Part

Was part of this story inspired by Atonement?

Maybe.

I didn’t really have the movie in mind when I wrote the plot device, but I realized the similarity after the fact.

Analog flight computer

USAAF

Band of Brothers

The Apple Valley Airshow takes place every year in the town of Apple Valley, located in San Bernardino, California.

(I considered setting this story at the annual Miramar Airshow, which takes place at MCAS (formerly NAS) Miramar, but I imagine that Mav would probably want to avoid going to MCAS Miramar for obvious reasons.)

Roundel

I don’t think that most pilots would do very daring aerobatic stunts in a plane as old as the P-51, just because she’s a darn P-51, and she’s a flying piece of history, but this is Mav, he absolutely knows what his girl can handle, I’m sure he knows how to make something look more crazy than it actually is, and bottom line, let’s just suspend our disbelief, 😂.

Did I introduce Mav in that way just so I could use that gif?

Probably absolutely.

It’s a great shot, and I do not blame me.

“You in danger, girl.” Timestamp 1:35

All the information about the P-51 is taken from the information available about the model and history/registration of Tom’s P-51, except for the details of her name and the military flight logs being missing, as the history available for N51EW never mentions if she saw actual WWII combat.

She is registered in the FAA database with the serial number 44-12840, and her name since 2006 has been “Kiss Me Kate”.

(I know why she’s named this, and it hits something in my heart that Tom never bothered to rename her.)

Her name in this story will be explained later, but those who follow me on my main blog, @oh-great-authoress, might have a hunch as to why I named the P-51 “Bianca”.

The ad I mentioned was a real Kellogg’s Special K ad.

VFW

The travel time between San Bernardino and Mav’s hangar is estimated using the travel time from San Bernardino to NAWS China Lake, and then a further hour and twenty minutes from there.

Taglist

@valmare

@callsign-skydancer

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@tadomikiku

@malindacath

@aviatorobsessed

@lynnevanss

@djs8891

If you’d like to join my taglist, just send me an ask!

[rae-gar-targaryen]

take me by the heart, take me by the hand [mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!reader]

a/n: Just a lil something sweet for my Danny Ramirez babes that wouldn’t leave my mind after my hc’s yesterday -- it’s insufferable, I know. Sorry.

pairing: mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!reader (established relationship; all my readers are ambiguous, but I write them as latinx!readers; no use of y/n). It’s his sunshine girl, ultimate sunshine x sunshine pairing.

w.c.: 0.8k of sweet suggestion and the thin veneer of self-control.

warnings: none, other than some cheesiness, my writing, and the barest suggestion of smut. 16+.

summary: a drive-in movie, a little joke, and some sweetness with your Fanboy.

--

"Oh, Mickey," you croon, your voice a velvet purr in the dim light of his car, the flashing images of the drive-in's creature feature splashing light across your features as you snuggle up to him. 

Your lips trail from where you had been kissing along the slope of his neck to the fine bone of his cheek, thrilled at the feel of him as his hand grips your waist ever-tighter at your attentions… 

"... You're so fine," you hum, the compliment cased in the cadence of the old tune.

It was a movie date, a movie date, he repeated to himself. Lost in the throes of the very feel of your body pressed against his, snacks long-forgotten as his mind churned to keep up with just what you were saying, as your sinful tongue followed your cherry cola kisses, and where had he heard it before.

Pleased with yourself, you press your lips to the corner of his upturned mouth, enamoured with every smile in his arsenal.

"You're so fine, you blow my mind." He turns fully at the sing-song of your teasing words, a million-watt grin in full effect now before the warmth of his mouth realizes yours, like the warm, slow drip of sweet honey into full-bodied coffee, a splice of sugar entrenched in boldness. 

He kisses like a dream, your Fanboy. Dizzying and delicious, your head in the clouds, just like your pilot's.

He parts from your lips after what may well be either a single second or your heart's eternity. 

Who are you to say? 

When your love looks at you now through his dark, nacreous eyes ... They are glinting stars enmeshed in the depths of galactic oilslick. He pauses to nuzzle his nose over the peak of your own, his ever-present grin blinding to you, even in the low lights of the long-forgotten movie. 

His warm hands cupping your cheeks, everything about him so cinnamon-warm. You would swear he was moments from eternal love's undying declaration as he parts his lips to once more impart something to you, when --

"That was corny, amor," he whispers, a hair's-width from your mouth -- a good-humored secret from his lips to yours. "Truly terrible. Almost unforgivable."

If Payback had put you up to this, you weren't allowed to talk to him anymore, he decided. But the cheeky, pleased look on your face told Mickey it was all you. His sweet thing.

Quick as a flash, Mickey presses his lips against yours once more in a cheeky peck, loving the way his mouth slots so perfectly with your angelic lips. Loving the way you taste, in this moment, of Red Vines and cherry Coke. Loving the way the skin around your eyes would crease at the smile and slip of laughter that lit up your entire face. Loving the way your giving hands would cup his chin, as though he were immortal, eternal.

Sweet, he thought. You were sweet. And so far out of his league he'd fly to the tippy-tops of the clouds just to be in the same realm as you. Sunshine. Everything he does, he does for you.

Swatting good-naturedly his arm, your grin never far from your lips or from the dancing light in your eyes, you adjusted yourself on the beach seat of his old classic ride. Allowing yourself to sink ever-deeper into your boyfriend's embrace.

"You loved it," you sighed, resting your head on his shoulder and focusing once more, momentarily, on "The Creature from the Black Lagoon."

Mickey turns his head, eyes gazing out the passenger side window and into the velvet night sky as he grazes his lips, once more, as always, against your skin. Tenderly against your forehead this time -- as he allows his thoughts to swirl, twirl, like caramel-drizzled fondness on the feel of you in his arms, on the depths of his love for you.

Every moment to be savored. And he feels it in his chest, against his ribs, and in time with the beat of his heart. More G's than in a fighter jet.

"Yeah," he smiles -- he could never not smile with you -- against your skin. "Yeah I did."

He kisses you again, his mouth yearning to spill every truth to you as he sucks your lower lip between his own with reverence, scooping an armful of you and guiding you down, down, down. 

Your back against the bench seat and his thigh now slotted between yours… And your Fanboy above you, with no choice but to follow you and show you just how much he loved it, loved you.

"And do I have you?" He whispers into your skin, a slip of silky, amorous admission.

"You have me."

--

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