#top gun:maverick

[mcu-and-buckybarnes-things]

[spiderispunk]

2 A.M.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Smut (18+). Friends With Benefits. Oral Sex (m + f receiving). 69ing. Brief Assplay.

All mistakes are me own. Comments/reblogs are appreciated!!

You swore you were done with this. Done waiting for flirty 2 a.m. texts. Done with hastily packed duffle bags and sweaty trysts in wrinkled sheets. Done with walks of shame the next morning, the delicious ache between your thighs a reminder of all the dirty things you’d gotten up to in the past few hours.

Though, it can’t really be called a walk of shame if it felt so good, and you weren’t really ashamed, can it? And it did feel good to see your phone light up well past midnight with a corny text from Rooster.

Bradley.

The message from him lights up your bedroom now. Casts the room in a soft blue glow. You swipe open your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you formulate a response.

You up? It reads. 

You roll your eyes. Those college tendencies had still not left him, even though he was 5 years removed from the Naval Academy, and considered one of the best pilots in the country. Hell, he’d flown an incredibly dangerous mission six months ago, and was still sending You up? texts. 

Typical Bradley. 

Maybe that’s part of his charm. The boyish air about him. Youthful confidence that borders slightly on cockiness. It reminded you of old times. Sneaking in and out of dorm rooms before the sun rose, quickies in-between classes. Cheap beer and dim, crowded basements. 

Maybe it’s the freedom and the mystery that draws you back to him. Rooster throws himself back into the orbit of your life every three months or so without warning. You fuck round for a couple weeks, and then he disappears into whatever Navy void he came from until the next time he swings back around. Like a horny comet. 

No feelings. No strings. Just the best sex you’ve ever had in your life…followed by the worst dry spell of your life. And a strange empty ache. You’d never admit it to his face– don’t want to inflate his ego anymore–but Bradley might have ruined other men for you. 

At least, that’s what you think now. Fresh off of involuntary abstinence and a super disappointing fuck.  

And so, even though you swore to yourself you’d be done with all this, you send a quick response. 

Yes :)

* * *

Bradley’s neighborhood is nice. A quiet line of almost identical brown townhouses with immaculate yards. Must be military. That would explain the harsh conformity, and the high concentration of American flags on the porches. 

All of the houses’ windows are dark, except for the one your car rolls to a stop in front of. 

Bradley throws the door open and pulls you inside before you can even knock.   

“Someone’s eager,” you tease, as you're crowded back against the door. 

Bradley’s hands come to rest on either side of your head. “No time like the present.” His soft brown eyes are full of mirth. 

He looks the same as he did a couple months ago. Same bright eyes and easygoing smile. It brings faint laugh lines to the surface of his freckled skin. He’s only wearing a pair of grey sweats, so the vast expanse of his body is laid bare before you. Your gaze traces the planes of tanned skin, from the solid muscle of his arms, to his chest and then down to the waistband that hangs low across his hips. 

“Like what you see?” Bradley ticks an eyebrow upwards. 

You roll your eyes, but you’d be a liar if you said otherwise. “Jesus you’re a walking cliche. You’re one ‘Come here often?’ away from a free membership to the Corny Club.” With great effort, you drag your gaze up from the glaringly obvious bulge at Bradley’s crotch, to his shining eyes. 

“Baby, I’m already a card-carrying member.” He leans in closer, and you catch a whiff of his body wash. “That’s my most effective pick up line.”

Vanilla and Sandalwood. The reaction is immediate, you want to bury your nose into his neck and breathe him in deeper.   

You suck in a deep breath. “Does it work?”

“You tell me,” Bradley whispers.

His parted lips brush yours, a teasing, barely-there kiss. You lean forward, chasing the touch of his mouth, but Bradley leans away, wearing a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Now who’s eager?” He teases.

You ignore him, and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders to pull him back to you. You had no problem going after what you wanted, something Bradley really liked about you. You thread your fingers through his hair and mold your lips to his. 

Bradley presses a hot groan into your mouth. His tongue licks against yours, testing the waters. He meets no resistance. In fact, you almost whimper, body melting against his. You feel the heat of his body against yours, even through the fabric of your t-shirt. It leaves your skin prickly, your nerves singed. 

One of his large hands leaves the door, and slides down the curve of your spine. His fingers slide over the waistband of your shorts, grabbing at your ass and trapping you against his body. Instinctively, you rock your hips against the thigh he’s placed between your legs. 

Funny how well the two of you meshed together, even after months apart.

The back of your head hits the door, a quiet moan falling from your lips at the sweet pressure. Bradley’s lips leave yours to trace open-mouthed kisses across your jaw and down your neck. He guides the greedy grind of your hips at a nearly torturous pace. 

“Fuck,” you whine when he nips at your pulse. You use the grip on his shoulders as leverage to get a better angle. 

Bradley watches you, eyes alight with amusement. “It’s that easy, huh?” 

“Shut up,” you groan. Your clit catches on the crease of his sweatpants so well, reducing you to a puddle. It’s good. It’s great even. But it’s not enough. 

“Nearly drooling for it,” he whispers. “When’s the last time you got laid?” 

The answer? It’s been a long fucking time since you’ve had good sex. Actually, if you had to actually count, it would be 137 days exactly: the last time Bradley was stateside. There was that guy from a few weeks back, but he’d jackhammered his way home in 3 minutes– a personal record even for bad lays– and hung you out to dry. You’d left that encounter missing Bradley more than ever. Even entertained the idea of sending him a text just in case he was back home.

“I said shut the fuck up.” You tug his bottom lip between your teeth and pull. 

Bradley moans, a deep rumble in the back of his throat. You smile victoriously, digging your teeth in a little harsher before letting go. Bradley’s eyes meet yours, widening a bit as his tongue traces over the indent your bite had left behind. 

His cheeks flush a ruddy red, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. “Shit,” he mumbles, and surges forward to kiss you again.   

Bradley’s everywhere. He pins your body back against the door. His lips slide over yours hungrily. Tongue pressing into your mouth as if he’s trying to bury himself inside of you. He rucks your shirt up to palm your breast. He squeezes, pinching your nipple between his middle and forefinger. The pain, the pleasure of it all almost makes you dizzy.

Brain foggy, and body keyed up to 11, you pull away from him. “Bradley,” you sigh, blinking rapidly as the world comes back into focus. 

Bradley noses at the underside of your jaw. “Mmm?” He presses soft kisses to your neck.

“We gonna take this to the bed? Or did you wanna fuck me up against the door?” 

He pretends to think about it for a moment. “Dunno. Door has its merits. I don’t have to move. And I can do this.” He shifts, rolling his thigh against your clit. 

A moan tumbles clumsily from your lips. “You can do that on the bed, and it gives us more room.” 

“Room to do what?” 

You tilt your head to whisper in his ear. “I could suck your dick...” 

Bradley chuckles. “You could do that here.”

“I could suck your dick while you eat me out.” You bite your bottom lip.

He pauses. A grin spreads across his face, lighting up his eyes. “Now that is a convincing argument.” 

“Yeah?” Your answering smile is just as wide. 

“Uh huh.” Bradley frees himself from your grip and takes a step back. He hooks a finger into the front of your shorts and tugs forward. “Just don’t come too early.” 

“Me?” You scoff, letting yourself be pulled forward. “What makes you think I’d do that?” 

“Yeah, you.” He guides you back through the townhouse with ease. “You just got finished humping me against the door.”

“Weren’t you the one who pinned me to the door as soon as I walked in?”

Bradley pushes the door to his room open and flicks on the light. “So?” 

“So, you’re just as riled up as me.” You lick your bottom lip. “If anything, you should be worried about…premature completion,” you finish awkwardly.  

Bradley tosses his head back and laughs. A deep, belly-aching guffaw. The rich baritone notes bounce off of the walls of his small bedroom. Warmth bursts in your chest and your heart leaps, in spite of the fact that you’re the source of his laughter. It’s infectious, bubbling up inside of you until it slips through the cracks of your smile, and pretty soon peals of your own laughter twine with his.

“‘Premature completion?’” He gasps, holding a hand to his chest. 

You punch his shoulder lightly. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m sorry.” Bradley makes a show of wiping nonexistent tears from his eyes. “It’s just such a funny way of putting it.” 

“Rooster,” you snap.

He presses his lips together and makes an attempt at a somewhat serious face. It lasts all of three seconds before he’s laughing again. 

You cross your arms over your chest. “Well not all of us are as crass as you and your Navy buddies.”

“Sorry. It just makes ya sound like a science textbook.” 

“Fuck off.” You roll your eyes. 

Bradley’s laughter turns to quiet chuckles. “Okay, okay. No need to get so feisty. Even though I love it when you do.” He pulls you close and loops an arm around your waist. “I believe you were gonna show me the merits of a bed.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Now who sounds like a textbook?” Your finger traces over his lower stomach.

“Still you,” he answers cheekily.

You ignore his gentle ribbing. “You’re wearing too many clothes.” 

“You’re wearing more than I am.” He tugs at the waistband of your shorts. 

“Then you should fix that,” you say coyly. 

Bradley smirks. “I will.” He sits on his bed and beckons you forward. 

You move to stand between his spread legs and rest your hands on his shoulder. You’re immediately glad that you did, as Bradley’s lips latch onto your peaked nipple and suck on it through the fabric of your tank top. 

“No bra.” He mumbles against the growing wet patch. He looks up at you through heavy-lidded eyes. 

You shake your head. “It’d just get in the way.” 

He hums under his breath. “It would.” His teeth tease your breast, skating over the sensitive skin. Bradley pulls your tank top down and switches to the other breast. His fingers lightly pinch and roll the nipple he’s not currently sucking on. 

You moan quietly, and slide your fingers into his loose curls. Bradley doesn’t need much encouragement. He’s greedy, eager. His lips smack against your breast, hot tongue sweeping out to taste your skin. Your knees grow weaker with each passing moment. Each swipe of his tongue. Each of his wrecked groans. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, burying his face into your chest and inhaling the scent of you. Jasmine and ginger. Your body is so fucking warm it drives him crazy. His dick hardens in his sweatpants. His pulse thuds loudly in his ears. He wants to be inside you. Needs it like he needs air. 

It’s been too long since he had you like this. Willing and pliant under his touch. Bottom lip trapped between your teeth as he touched you. Bradley’s lost count of how many times he’s gotten off to the thought of this moment. Memories he’d replayed over and over in his head as he stroked his cock. The echo of your soft cries in his ears as he came all over his hand. 

This, the real thing, puts all his daydreams to shame. 

Bradley’s unoccupied hand slowly slides up your inner thigh. His thumb flicks under your shorts, and he chokes when he meets, not the pesky lace he was expecting, but the softness of your wet pussy. 

“Jesus.” He inhales sharply. “No panties either?” 

You shrug, hoping to come off as nonchalant, even though your heart thuds in your chest. “They’d just end up on the floor.” 

“Are you trying to kill me?” He looks up at you, umber eyes eclipsed completely by desire. 

“I’m trying to fuck you,” you remind him. And then, growing impatient, you push him backwards onto the bed. “You’re always getting distracted,” you chide playfully, and pull your tank top over your head. “It’s a miracle you’ve managed to keep your plane up in the sky this long.” Your shorts are quick to join your top on the ground.  

Bradley grins up at you. “They don’t have distractions like you up in the sky. And it’s a good thing they don’t.” His dark eyes roam your body. “C’mere.” 

“Yes, sir!” You give him a mock salute and he rolls his eyes. 

The annoyed look melts away when you climb onto his lap. It turns into slack-jawed reverence when you grind your down against the obvious erection Bradley sports. His fingers grip your hips and he holds you tighter against him as he rocks up to meet you. A sweet groan escapes his parted lips. 

“I think,” you begin, walking your fingers up Bradley’s chest, “that I could make you come before you could make me.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Trying to bait me into a bet? Us aviator’s don’t go down easy.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing. And if I win, you have to,” you pause for dramatic effect, “let me be in charge the next time we see each other.” 

“Done.” He cocks his head to the side, that signature boyish grin etching dimples into his cheeks. “What if you don’t? What do I get if I make you come first?” 

“Well name your stakes, Lieutenant Bradshaw.” 

“When I win–” 

“If.” 

“When I win…” Bradley thinks for a moment, and then bashfulness flits across his face. “You have to let me take you out one night. And not to the Hard Deck either. Somewhere nice.” 

“Take me out? Like on a date?” You ask and he nods. Your breath catches in your throat. 

That’s not what this was. This was casual. A 2 a.m. text. Flirtatious banter. Sex to scratch an itch and a See you next time. Not expectations or permanence. Not dinner and a night on the town.

Then again…Bradley’s a good guy. He’s sweet, definitely easy on the eyes. He takes care of you in his own way. Makes you laugh until you cry, and you genuinely like being around him. Plus, he fucks you like none other. Can make you see stars with just his fingers and tongue. You can’t say that for most of the other guys you’ve been with before him or since. 

Would one date be so bad? It was just dinner, not a marriage proposal. Who knows, maybe something good could come out of it. Or, if it was terribly awkward, you two could just pretend it never even happened in the first place. 

You must hesitate too long, because Bradley shakes his head. “Forget it. I’ll do something else.” 

“No, wait.” You smile, and his expression lightens. “I’ll go out with you, Bradley.” You lean forward and kiss him sweetly. “But you gotta earn it first.”

A steely resolve settles over his face. Bradley cups your jaw, before you can pull away and slots his lips against yours. He moans into your mouth as his tongue licks against your bottom lip. You surge forward, opening yourself up to him, getting drunk on his kiss. It’s a messy, desperate clash of lips and teeth. Battling tongues and noses that bump against each other with the desire for more, more, more. 

More skin. More friction. More of each other. 

His large hand slides down your spine and squeezes your ass, rocking your hips against his crotch. You sigh at the sweet friction of your clit against his sweatpants. His cock, hard and pressed against your inner thigh, makes something heavy pool in your belly. It’s not long before your lips are moving down his body in search of it. 

You press open mouthed kisses across his jaw, down his neck and torso. Bradley groans above you, his hand pressing against the back of your head, and you can’t tell if he’s pushing you lower or trying to get your mouth back on his. Still, your lips continue their trek lower, over the planes of his stomach, to the carved lines of his hips. 

You run the tip of your tongue over the muscles that lead to his cock. The choked moan he lets out has you clenching your thighs as your clit throbs. You only get his sweatpants down a little more to kiss the top of his thighs, when the hand on your neck squeezes. 

“Wait,” Bradley chokes out. 

You look up at him, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Yes?” 

“You’re cheating,” he says, chest heaving.

You sit up and tug his sweats down his legs. “If all it takes is a few kisses to make you come, this is gonna be easier than I thought.” 

“You’re gonna need the head start.” He winks and taps his chin. “Get your ass up here.”

You raise up on your knees and turn slowly, wiggling your hips as you position yourself slowly. “Having second thoughts?” 

Bradley’s hand lands on your butt sharply. “Not a chance. I’m taking you to dinner.” He rubs the sting away with his large palm. “Fucking beautiful.” He pulls you right over his face. 

You hum, and wrap your hand around his stiff cock, feeling the weight of him in your palm. His breath hits your cunt in wrecked gasps, making you shudder. Under normal circumstances, you’d stroke him slowly, relishing his quiet groans. Watching his sanity slowly slip away. Teasing him until he got impatient and either begged for you or took matters into his own hands. 

But these are not normal circumstances. You have a job to do. 

You lean forward, mouthing at the base of Bradley’s cock. You run your tongue over every ridge and vein, from top to bottom. 

“Shit.” Bradley moans. “Fuck, that’s it.” 

This’ll be a piece of cake. With the way he’s moaning under you, Bradley will be coming in no time. You’ve got him hook, line and sinker. You can almost taste the sweet victory…and then Bradley recovers from the shock. 

He pulls your hips down onto his face and slowly drags the tip of his tongue from your clit to your entrance and back again. He hums at the taste of you, wrapping his lips around your clit and working at the nerves with a flat tongue. You can’t help it. You moan lowly, and rock your hips down onto his chin–all thoughts of the bet wiped clean from your mind. 

“Bradley,” you whine and drop your forehead against his thigh. 

Electricity races up your spine and you shudder. It’s almost overwhelming. Bradley knows your body too well. Knows all the things that have you careening towards the edge already. It’s embarrassing how worked up you are. Your toes curl against the pillows, and you try to will yourself to get a grip. At the very least, to stop helping him win. You swear you can almost feel his cocky grin against you. 

You might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

Bradley chuckles, and it snaps you back to reality. You won’t go down without a fight. 

You wrap your lips around his cock, matching the fervor with which his lips move against your cunt. You swallow him down, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth. Your hand glides over his cock easily, aided by the mess of your saliva. 

His chuckles turn into a moan. You’re not out of this just yet.

It’s a desperate race. Hot and sticky. Fueled by desire and broken moans. Your bodies writhe against each other, hips lifting and pushing, seeking the warm embrace of lips and spit. Muffled groans and smacking sounds fill the room. 

But it can’t last forever, and you won’t last much longer.

You let his cock slip from your mouth and kiss down the shaft. Your hand keeps its steady rhythm, even as Bradley presses a finger into your entrance. Your lips travel over his thighs, teeth digging little marks into his skin. Then, slowly, gently, you suck on his balls. 

Bradley loses it. His hips buck up into your hand. He groans and pulls away to bite out a curse. Jesus. His head spins, and he swears he feels his soul leave his body for a moment. He breathes harshly through his nose, steadying himself. In. Out. In. Out. And then a second finger joins the first thrusting into you, and his tongue swirls around your clit once more. 

Your legs begin to tremble around his head, the tell tale sign of your orgasm. Holding yourself up has become a chore, and Bradley doesn’t let up. Determined to make you come. Determined to get that first date. But you’re just as determined to bring him to the edge with you.

He takes one of his fingers, slick from the warmth of your dripping pussy, and teases your ass. Pressing the digit into you just slightly. At the same time, Bradley slurps your clit back into his mouth. The combination is lethal, and it’s the breaking point.

You come with a cry that’s muffled by Bradley’s thigh. You rock your hips against his face wantonly as the embers turn into a wildfire. Bradley groans as you explode on his tongue. He works you through it, greedily kissing your clit while his fingers still fuck into you. Licking and sucking at your cunt until you’re an overstimulated puddle. Only then does he pull away with a filthy pop, and a harsh smack to your ass. 

You collapse onto the bed beside Bradley, and stare up at the ceiling. “Wow.” You can’t even be upset about losing, fucked out and sated as you are. 

You wait for the inevitable teasing, but it never comes. Instead, Bradley kisses your ankle, and rubs his thumb over your knee. Content to sit here with you in comfortable silence until your breathing has settled. 

When the rise and fall of your chest has finally begun to steady, Bradley breaks the silence, propping himself up on his elbows to grin at you. “Best two out of three?” 

[milobyelo]

“It’s not everyday you see a film loved by both the military and gay community” NOOO I WAS NOT EXPECTING THAT LET ALONE THE FIRST 5 MINUTES OF SNL

[wulka303]

Thought occurred to me

But a really sad one

Imagine the Dagger Squad noticing ring on Maverick's finger. They don't question it before the mission because well it's none of their business but after some time when Mav becomes the squad dad they start to get curious.

They still don't come to Mav and simply ask him, Rooster doesn't want to elaborate either so they are left with one option.

They start an investigation. Like Mav's little ducklings analyze his relationships with Penny, Hondo and hell even Cyclone and they still have no idea who might be his spouse.

They are even more curious when Mav starts buying bouquets of blue and white flowers. They try to guess who might be getting them but Amelia said that her mom would definitely keep them in the Hard Deck, Hondo is away for some time and Cyclone isn't even a flower person.

After some time they get tired of investigating and finally proceed to ask Mav who his spouse is and if they even know this lucky person.

Mav simply laughs and tells them they did know him. And after confusing them even more he asks if they want to meet his husband.

They agree and the whole Dagger Squad is going on a trip to the cemetery. Their mood becomes low when they realize that whoever this man is is dead and Mav is actually a widower.

They don't say anything when Mav stops before Admiral Kazansky's grave and they notice bouquet of blue and white flowers.

Mav simply kneels in front of the grave and caresses the white stone with his fingers.

"Ice I know you weren't exactly ready to become a dad but well" Mav says now looking at stunned Dagger Squad. "Looks like I managed to adopt grown up adults and they wanted to meet you"

They still don't dare to say or do anything until Bob kneels next to Mav. After that they all kneeled in front of the grave and listened to Mav telling them stories about his not-so-secret relationship with an admiral. They laughed and they cried and they spent whole afternoon with their dads.

Buying blue and white flowers for Admiral Dad (as they liked to call him) became a squad tradition and Mav would lie if he said he didn't cry the first time he saw his kids with flowers at his husband's grave.

[strangerstuffandthingsimagines]

The Gallows (Hangman x Fem!reader)

Summary: They call you Angel, sometimes you wonder if “of death” was too long. When tasked to join the best of the best, you are forced to confront your past.

Warning’s: descriptions of injuries (reader is a medic), mentions of sexual content, semi-steamy?,cursing, mentions of sibling death, ptsd (the reader and Hangman both have shared trauma), alcohol consumption

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Call sign: Angel”

It sounded like a nails of a cat clinging to a chalkboard, slowly, painstakingly trailing down the black slate, dragging each syllable out like a taunt. An-gel. 

The office felt stuffy, like one of those old silver-screen detective films your grandma would make you watch whenever you visited for Christmas, though there was nothing comforting or warm about it. 

Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson is across from you, flipping through your entire naval career in a package of papers. “Quite an impressive portfolio you have here.”

“Admiral Kazansky vouched quite heavily for you. I don’t know if that should delight or terrify me.” he sighs, scanning through the pages without so much as looking up at you. “You’ll be working under the command of Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, I’m sure you’ve heard about him.”

Slapping the folder down, Cyclone rises from his seat with the the sound of leather creasing and wheels rolling against the linoleum. “Follow me. I’ll take you to the debriefing room, maybe you’ll be good at keeping Maverick...grounded.”

Orientation never sat well with you. You stopped bothering to focus your vision on the pilots and WSO’s before you; To take in their faces or remember their names. It became a bad habit that morphed into second nature, instinctual to the very structure of your DNA. It was easier that way.

There was an eeriness to the echo of Maverick’s voice as it reverberated throughout the aircraft hangar, his eyes flickering to you for a moment. 

“This mission will be physically demanding on your bodies and minds. That is why we have brought in Lt. y/n “Angel” y/l/n.  One of the best flight surgeons the navy has to offer.” It’s all so formal that it feels forced. Undeserved. Unwarranted. 

The walk from the entrance of the hangar, to where Captain Mitchell stood was gruelling. You pictured yourself being ushered to the gallows, or maybe a pyre like a witch, either way, both of those situations seemed more appealing than this.

“Thank you.” you saluted back - It was muscle memory at this point, not respect. “It an honour to work with you Capt. Mitchell.”

“We’re down three of our best today to G-tolerance training. Don’t worry, you’ll get well acquainted soon enough.” he grins, looking your way for a moment. He could practically feel the tension radiating off your body in a cold heat. 

Orientation went by in a haze, you hadn’t paid much attention to the formalities and empty social interactions, not when everything in the very fabric of your being told you “No, you aren’t ready. Run. Run. Run.”

“Phoenix.” a firm, but eager hand reaches out to you, breaking your daze like a slap to the face. Your palm meets her’s and you think maybe, just maybe, you can do this. Maybe you can try. 

Before you are even aware you’ve spoken, you agree to meet at the Hard Deck for drinks. Then you remember you haven’t touched booze since you got so drunk they had to pump your stomach. Then you remember why you had gotten so drunk in the first place. Then you kind of want to scream, and you kind of want to cry.

But you don’t. You never do.

~~~~~~~~

A stale breeze ocelots throughout the room as you lay in the dark, alone in a loose tee and your underwear. Giving a grunt, you roll onto your back and run a finger across the creases of your sheets, that imprinted into the flesh of your cheek, pondering how you might muster the strength to get up and dress for the bar tonight. 

You move in thoughtless motion, tugging on the loose blue jeans that are too hot for California, and a white tee you’d probably stain at some point throughout the night. You take your time on the ride over, even the twinkling lights of gazebos and restaurant patio’s seem so bleak.

With a quick movement, you switch off the radio and settle for the sound of tires grinding against asphalt. Music wasn’t enjoyable anymore, not like it used to be, not when you were sixteen in your brothers jeep, cruising around with his best friend and it’s all so easy. 

Your eyes felt painfully heavy, you almost feel stupid for getting behind the wheel. You want to give in and close your eyes, to just float and forget.

~~~~~~~~~

“There you are, fuck! We were about to send out a search party,” Phoenix laughs as she slides of the barstool with a rum and Coke in hand. It’s all so exhausting. Socializing, growing close - friends even, and then the inevitable doom of being disappointed. 

“Hey.” You smile softly, suddenly feeling so small. The gazes of your new crew consumed you and you hold your breath. “Thank you for inviting me out, it’s nice to…”you wonder where exactly you were going with that sentence, then settle on sounding like a moron. “…get out.”

“No, thank you for being the one to lug one of our sorry asses out of the sea one of these days.” Laughs another, your eyes shift toward the name badge. Payback. “My bets on “ol Fanboy here.”

“You realize if she’s pulling my ass out of the water, you aren’t far behind.” Fanboy counters, elbowing his pilot in the ribs. “Right?”

“Hey Rooster!” Phoenix shouts over the loud chatter of the bar. “Come say hi to our new doc!”

You’d forgotten how ingrained peoples callsigns were into their identity. Land, sky, or sea, their callsign was more valuable then their real name.  It hadn’t been quite as intense when you were working in the hospital, but they did exist.

“Hu-heyyy,” he drawls out, a little drunk already no doubt. You couldn’t help but smile when you saw him. It were as if the literal sun had been captured in his body, its light threatening to rip through the seams of his tacky Hawaiian shirt. “Nice to meet ya!”

He looked for your name tag, only to realize you had been the only one not in uniform. Civvies was a strict rule you had made for yourself, no matter how tired you were, you never wore your uniform off the base. Plain and simple. 

You tell him your name, but he waits for the name that really counts. You clear your throat as you brace yourself with the back of a chair. “They call me Angel.”

“We gotta hear how you got that name.” Payback presses before taking a swig of beer. “I bet it’s one hell of a story.”

The politics of a call sign was just another example of military machismo. It made sense logically, why they were necessary but you had heard your fair share of awful ones to take them too seriously - T-bag, Tiny (last name Richard’s) and Hot crotch to name a few.

Truth is, Angel had been misogyny, thinly veiled as a joke. It’s such a clear memory, you remember it better than your cousin’s wedding that was only a few months ago. The men of the element you’d been assigned didn’t think of you as an equal, but a young, naive girl. 

A pet name. A patronizing pet name, the very same ones women had become accustomed to since the dawn of time. When you were quiet, wide eyed and new, you were “princess”, “baby face”, “darling”, “sweet cheeks”, when you stood up for yourself, or commanded the way the others had, suddenly you were “woman”, “bitch” or reduced to just simply “female”. 

Lieutenant James “Big Bird” Larson was the worst of them; his taunt’s never took a day off - you weren’t sure if he was capable of ever shutting the fuck up. It wasn’t until shrapnel blasted through his throat, slitting his carotid artery that he was quiet. The blood had spurted like an Italian fountain, the kind you would find in the romantic stretch of Venice that was riddled with wishes in the shape of coins. You had pinched the vein and listened to his gurgled prayers before his wound could be stabilized by back up medics on route.

They still called you Angel, but at least now they had a reason. At least it felt earned.

The comment lingers in the air, you avoid the bait like the plague before gladly taking the hard seltzer Phoenix handed your way. The burn made you cringe as it slithered down your throat like salt in a wound. The last time you’d drank alcohol also happened to be the first and last time you got wasted beyond comprehension.

“Well?” Urges fanboy - damn, so close - with a sigh you give in. 

“This guy was bleeding out, so I was pinching off the gash. If I let go he would’ve died…so he said I was his guardian angel.” You over simplified as per usual. “Just medical shenanigans.”

“Dope shit right there.” Fanboy beamed, grateful it wasn’t ironic or an omen that your platoons didn’t have a high rate of survival. 

Meandering chatter continued amongst your new comrades, your eyes flickering to the door here and there just to confirm you still had an exit. It felt…insincere. Somehow, you were doing them a disservice by pretending to be present. 

You wanted to care about the light hearted jokes, the pool games, the songs they sung at the top of their lungs, but it felt physically impossible. So, alone you sat at the table, more focused on the tiny bubbles of your drink that float periodically to the surface, than joining their game of pool. 

“Hangman! Coyote! Get over here so we can kick your ass at pool.” one of them shouts, it didn’t matter who had yelled the name, it mattered who answered the call.

“In your dreams, Rooster.” his voice is the same as you remember, still dripping with cockiness and oozing with cool. Your fingers curl around the cool glass in your hands, pressing your fingertips into it so hard your nails could have snapped clean off. 

Water blasts through the windows with a shriek of breaking glass, flooding the bar, uprooting chairs and tables, carrying bottles and bodies. It’s cold and all consuming, and you’re back. Most times it came to you whilst you slept, vulnerable and defenceless, that’s when those memories invaded your mind and possessed your body.

The water is red, a frighteningly, bright red, and it leaves the taste of pennies on your tongue. The body floats. You fought the water with every muscle in your body, and your throat burns as a mixture of salt water and blood sting your lungs. You nearly have him in your arms but it’s just so hard, you almost have him, his parachute ghosting at your finger tips as you reach, desperately trying to cling to him.

“No” It’s horrible the way it comes out, like a strangle in the back of your throat. “Please, no, please!”  And suddenly you’re praying, and wondering if God exists at all in the same breath.

“Angel, you good?” Phoenix asks, resting her chin on the que, concern washes over her face.

Hangman’s attention shifts from the pool game onto Phoenix for a moment, following her gaze he settled on you. A look of confusion falls into a soft, sullen look.

“No.” you squeak out, your head shaking ever so slightly. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t dare move until you do. Digging your heels into the varnished wood floor, your chair  screeches as you get to your feet. It’s more of a whisper this time, but it slips out again. “No.”

Jake Seresin had run through your life like a tornado through a small town, and you’d spend far too long digging through the debris and picking through the pieces that broke apart in the chaos , to put yourself through that again. You slap a five, or maybe it was a ten, you couldn’t be sure or really give a damn, down on the table. It’s a sickly feeling that creeps up from the pit of your stomach and radiated throughout yours nerves, seizing your spine and rendering you fingers numb.

“Sorry.” You choke, a lump forming in the back of your throat. “Sorry I just have a headache, erm, I guess I forgot to eat today.” You realize in that moment how terrible of a liar you are. Fibs never came easily to you, it was something you wished you worked on, like a fine skill you could hone when necessary.

Gently Bob taps the cup to your arm, now convinced you are famished beyond compare. You yield, taking a few peanuts in your hand.

“Thanks.” You don’t even like peanuts, but you force them into your mouth and chew, and chew and chew until it’s mush. Make them believe you take care of yourself, you remind yourself. “Hey tonight was really fun-” you begin, realistically you’d spent all of what you rounded up to as ten minutes at the Hard Deck. “But I’m not feeling so good, so I think I’ll just head home.”

“Yeah, no, no of course.” She knows it’s a lie, but she smiles anyways.

The second you slip out the back door you gasp for air, taking in as much as physically possible. It almost hurts how far you push your lungs. You brace yourself on the patio ledge, thankful for the privacy of such a pathetic moment. Your head pounded like you’d just been on a three day bender despite having but a lick of alcohol. The bile rises faster then you can even realize what’s happening. Emptying out what little you have, you stifle a sob and heave and heave and heave. 

Upside down, the world felt simpler somehow. Perhaps it was due to the fact you couldn’t physically think for a moment, but you weren’t going to waste a moment of peace going over the logistics.

The blood rushes back to your brain as you straighten up. Like divine intervention, your vision clears suddenly, and you set your sights on an unopened bottle of water. Had it not been screwed on so tight, you wouldn’t have trusted no one had put their lips to it. There were worse things, you thought, there were definitely worse things. Taking the warm water in your mouth, you swish it about and pretend it’s not the flavour of melted plastic in the California sun.

Your face buries into the palms of your hands as you lean your elbows on the rail, the sound of waves crashing  did well to ease some of your nerves that had been drawn taught.

~~~~~~~~~

Scrambling for your keys as you round the Hard Deck, you freeze just before the drop of the curb. He’s taller then you remember, but perhaps you’ve just forced him out of your mind so often, you simply forgot what he really looked like in person. Even the way he leans against your car is self righteous. It’s your beloved army green jeep, but Jake Seresin could have convinced you it belonged to him had he spoke it into existence.

“You’ve grown up. Christ it’s been forever hasn’t it?” The cool and collected nature of his tone had all but shrivelled and died, what was left was something you couldn’t quite decipher. “I thought our reunion would be a bit more explosive.”

“When have I ever been explosive?” You asked, patting around your jeans for your damn car keys.

“I can think of a few times.” He smirks, but it falls when he see’s how frantic you are to find a means of escape. “Really, are you that desperate to avoid me?”

You ignore him, patting at the denim of your pockets over and over as though the keys might magically appear. 

“Look at me, please.” Jake pleads, but you don’t.

It isn’t until you hear the sound of metal meeting metal that your eyes snap up to catch his gaze for the first time in two years, dangling the key ring in front of himself. Coaxing you to step closer like he were holding a string of yarn out to a kitten.

“You left them on the table inside.” He answered before you could even think to ask.

“Oh.” 

Twirling the key ring around his finger, he quickly retracts them into his palm. You couldn’t recall ever putting them down. “Can we at least talk?” 

“I’d rather not.” It’s empty. You’re empty. It physically pained him not to reach out, to touch and comfort you. He thinks of the Claremont Motel.

Jake’s jaw sets in a hard line, grinding his teeth ever so slightly. “You can’t avoid me forever. I’m inevitable.” His words struck you like a freight train, knocking the wind from your lungs.

“Why? What more is there to say?” You ask, the moon catching in the teary glow of your eyes. You leaned against the hood of your car, stabilizing yourself as the world spun and your stomach flipped.

“It doesn’t even have to about that. I just wan’t to talk. I literally would settle for a discussion about the goddamn weather…how’ve you been?”

“I’m fine.”

“God you’re such a shitty liar.” he conjures a low laugh, with a grin that stirred something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Fine, I’m not fine.” You shakily concede. The last time you’d been fine was a time you weren’t sure even existed. “Jake, I-I don’t know what you want from me? If you want to talk, there’s really nothing else to say.” Something clicks in your mind, like a puzzle piece you had spent ages trying to place in it’s spot, sliding into the curves and aligning the edges. “Nothing that couldn’t have been said two years ago.”

Jake had knocked the wind out of himself before, at least three times if he were to count, but this was nothing any physical push could cause. This was a wind he’d held onto in the chambers of his lungs for so long, never thinking it would be stirred again.

“I just want to talk. Please, can we just talk.” His walls are reinforcing, stubborn determination trickling through his demeanour. “Christ, I’ll settle for a chat about the weather…I just miss you.”

“No.” Your teeth grit together, ready to spit, throttle and scream at him. But you breathe out, it’s slow and focused. “The weather is lovely, with zero humidity and a light breeze, and you, Jake Seresin, do not miss me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Trust me,  I’ve spent a long time coming to terms with the ugly truth that you don’t.” It visceral, it’s somewhere between depressed and furious, but it’s so calm that it confuses him.  

Waiting, and waiting and waiting, so much time waiting on Jake.

You would have been happy with an e-mail, a voice mail or just any trace of proof that you weren’t just a vessel for his guilt for one night. You hated how badly you wanted him to want you - but you put that dream to rest. 

Dreams were silly, and you’d grown far too familiar with nightmares to really mourn the loss.

~~~~~~~~~

Drunk off boxed wine you picked up at a overpriced market on the way home, you sat on the floor of your bedroom, sinking into the lush, fluffy white rug you’d spent way too much money on. The pale blue glow of the television offering the only light you would allow. Anything could of been flashing across the screen, you would have been none the wiser. 

There’s a small part of you, it’s minuscule, but you find yourself praying to hear a knock at the door. To have someone hold you and let you sob. Your eyes close and you find yourself pretending the muffled voice on the tv are a crowded room, and you aren’t so incredibly alone.

~~~~~~~~~

Hangman fucked up. Badly.

It was such a small interaction but it stuck to him like glue. The smile your way, the the meeting of gazes, the air of hope that maybe, just maybe, you would give him an inch, but you resisted by a mile. To make matters worse, you’d been so excruciatingly warm to Fanboy. The pressure of G-force had royally wrecked his neck, and Jake could not tear his eyes away, watching as you pressed and prodded the tender flesh at the nape of his neck, feeling for displacement or injury that was worse for wear - you were practically jacking him off.

You even laughed at something he said. What the actual fuck?

It played over and over like a scratched disk, repeating and repeating, anxiety building in his chest. It was a stupid mistake, it was such a colossal rookie mistake. Nearly clipping Phoenix’s wing, Hangman lost control for a moment after getting caught in the  jet wash, descending into a terrifying flat spin. White noise fills his ears, the radio fell on deaf ears, someone was hollering his callsign frantically - Rooster maybe? No, no maybe it was Coyote, or Payback?

“Hangman pull the fuck up!” Alphabet’s voice jolts him back into a plane of existence neither here nor there, that for a moment he��s alive, and Hangman’s flying a two seater. “Pull-up!”

And he does. Just hardly recovering from the death spin.  

The debrief that followed was tense, uncomfortable and could have been avoided had he just focused. 

Had he not gotten Alphabet killed.

 Finally dismissed, his fellow TOPGUNS stretched and yawned as they rose from their seats,  meandering toward the exit but lingering about the room as they slipped into conversation. A chorus of  “I need a drink after that” and “Let’s get wasted” filtering out of their mouths.

It wasn’t often Hangman was criticized or his technique critiqued, more often than not because he didn’t screw up, but led by example. He couldn’t make anymore mistake from here on out, he refused to, but that started with you.

“You’re going to get me killed.” He sings, striding toward you with . there’s hint of anger interlaced with the smoothness of his voice. “But I guess you wouldn’t hate that, would you?”

You quirk a brow his way, hands deep in your medic bag. It’s so ridiculous you almost don’t acknowledge it. “Sorry?” 

“This whole cold shoulder shit? It’s getting in my head. We need to talk this shit out, right now” It’s just above a whisper, not wanting the others who lingered around to hear. 

“You can’t be serious.” You sigh, zipping up the bag without so much as meeting his eyes. 

“Look, I get it. You hate me. I’m a horrible person. But we need to leave that shit outside of the base, it’s affecting my work.”

“You are the one that keeps bringing it up. Just stick to your own shit and I’ll stick to mine.” your throw your hands up in bewilderment - It sounds simple in theory but it was far more complicated than that. “I’ve literally not said a word to you today.”

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” It’s louder than he’d hoped. Rooster’s attention now drawn to the two of you. Phoenix and Fanboy take notice soon after. Bob had noticed long before the others, but dare not get in the middle.

“You good over there?” Rooster asked as he stepped away from the group. 

“It’s nothing.” Hangman snaps, looking over his shoulder with a venomous look in his eyes.

“Look, if we’re going to be working together, we need to at least try to-to come to an understanding” he offers, the sound of his voice reverberating throughout the room as he focuses back on you. 

“Jake-“ you start, but he’s still going, wound up like a toy car that’s only started his race. 

“I mean, with all due respect, I just want to be able to do my job and not be distracted.” He continues, your knuckles pale at your sides as they ball up the material of your uniforms. 

“Jake.” You make another attempt, but it’s futile.

“But I can’t, because you’re acting like a child.” Now he’s really getting riled up, but you were no stranger to that. “You’re being selfish, you realize that don’t you? How long can you hate me for?”

“Hangman!” You bark it out like an order, and it takes him by surprise. You don’t give him a chance to overpower the conversation. “I don’t hate you.”

The truth punches him in the throat, you swear his face softens from the hardness he usually carries. 

“I never did,  but it’s so hard being near you. When I look at you, I see him dead. I hear him every day. I hear his screams. I hear the static of his com being crushed. I look at you and it all comes back.” The words break apart with a sob, you pout your lips with a twist - a feeble attempt to not cry. “When I look at you it makes me physically fucking sick.”

“Woah, woah guys, chill out!”  Phoenix advances on the situation, ready to pull you out. “It’s been a long day, let's just cool off.” Phoenix tries but you dodge her touch, swerving around her attempt to peace keep. 

“Hurting him wasn’t enough, was it?” you hiss - it’s cruel and you know it is. Protecting his conscience was no longer a concern.

~~~~~~~~~

The hot steam of the shower seemed to soothe the tension you’d developed in your muscles after your little run in with Jake, but the thought of him grazing near death today set your stomach in painful knots you were struggling to ignore. The cool tile brought relief to the headache you’d developed as you couldn’t stop reliving the horrible, stupid, awful fight in your head. The rhythmic thud-like heart beat in your temples was growing louder by the second.

Thud.Thud.Thud.

Pushing off the shower wall, you feel around for the tap, carefully listening as you weren’t sure if you were going crazy - sure it felt like a percussion was sounding off in your skull, but that was not just a headache.

Grabbing a towel, you quickly wrap around your check and tuck it into itself, securing it atop your breasts as you stumble out of the shower. Sliding your feet into the dry, cotton slippers you wore about the house post shower, and crept out of your bathroom. 

Your heart raced, keeping with the frantic pace of the knocking. “Hold on!” You holler, discreetly tip toeing around furniture so you didn’t alert whoever was waiting outside the door of your proximity - a skill you mastered from the countless times your neighbours tried to invite you over for wine.

 Peeking through the peep hole, you freeze.

“Jake?” You ask, the distorted fishbowl view of him was almost humorous. You unbolt the chain, and slide it across before turning the main lock. Just a crack, you open the door and peer out.  “Sorry I didn’t hear you over the shower…”

“Can I come in…and talk?” God, he really wanted to do that huh? 

“I’m not really dressed.” You almost laugh, but he’s so serious that you can’t bring yourself to. 

“Don’t worry, nothing I haven’t seen.” He purses his lips matter-o-factly to the side. He’s looking at you, waiting for permission, and against all better judgment you let him in.

“You-how do you know where I live?” It’s squeaky, not at all how you wanted to convey the question. 

“The jeep.” It’s not original to own a four door jeep in army green, not in a town that is etched into a naval base. But you know how he knows. It’s the same way dog tags all feel the same, but if you blindly felt through a pile of silver names, you could pick his out every time. You’re brother had that effect on people. His soul stashed away into little pieces of a life left behind. 

You linger in the entrance of your small apartment for a moment, not quite sure what to say or do. Protectively fingers clutch the tucked knot of towel, and you feel his eyes stealing glances.

The last and only time you’d been so naked in front of him was the night of the funeral. Both on grievance leave for the next three days, you decided to stay in a motel. You couldn’t handle being at home, not without your brother. It was so empty. The absence of his hollering laugh, or the sound of old sixties rock and roll blasting from his speakers as he’d roll up in his jeep - just coming home as you were waking up. It would kill you if you’d spent another second in that painfully quiet house. You were sure of it.

Your feet ached as you walked around the town you grew up in, leaning into Jake, passing back and forth a bottle of whiskey in a brown paper bag, searching for memories of your brother in the streets, and the stop signs he drove through, or in the tree’s he climbed when he was twelve and you were just nine, worrying yourself sick he’d fall and crack his skull. In truth you both drank that night, but not enough to get wasted, just enough to ease the sharpness that made a home for itself in your chest.

For weeks you’d thought about how he reclined you on the hotel mattress, lips on yours, a salty taste on your tongue as quiet tears slipped from his eyes and mixed with your own. His loose tie dangling down and sending shivers across your skin as it brushed your neck. For months you could feel the ghost of his touch climbing up your pantyhose clad thigh, slipping beneath the black skirt of your dress, slipping into you.

You’d spent so long believing he hadn’t given the night at the Claremont much thought, just another drunken escapade for the books, but Jake still felt the imprint of your heel that hooked around his leg when he kissed you against the motel room door; the husky moans that sung at the back of your throat as you ravaged each other in kisses. He closed his eyes more often then not, and tried to relive that moment, to memorize every detail and sensation, to chase that high for as long as possible. He thought about it when he climbed altitudes, he thought the higher he went the closer he’d get to that feeling again - not once, not even close. Not by a long shot.

You could hear the whispers of sweet nothings still humming in your ears when you tried to focus, when you tried to drown out the aching feeling that you couldn’t shake. You think of that dingy hotel room, lit by nothing but the milky glaze of moonlight and the “Vacancy” sign flickering in seedy neon reds. The feeling of his lips on your jaw, down your neck, peppering  across your breast, lower and lower, here and there and there.

“Why did you make me go through it alone?” it’s courage mixed with fear and it leaks through the cracks of your voice, like downpour on an old roof.

It’s so vivid in your mind; the morning haze bleeding through motel curtains, seeping onto your bare skin. The nervous excitement that settled in, as flashes of the night came crawling back into your consciousness like a hangover. It’s the devastation of his clothes not strewn about the room, entangles with yours, and the absence of a text - god, you hadn’t been worth a ten second text - and the absence that follows for months, dragged onto two years.

“Because I’m a coward.” It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said. The facade of top gun, machismo, ladies man surrendered, leaving behind the man who stood before you. It was almost voyeuristic, like a sight unseen - a sight you weren’t supposed to see, and yet there you were, baring witness. “I was scared. I couldn’t face you sober. If I stayed I thought you’d realize you hated me.” 

 His gaze is distant, like he doesn’t want to be there. He can’t be there. A raw pain simmering in the blue of his iris, he couldn’t face you then or and he couldn’t face you now

“I was such a fucking idiot back then.” He sighs, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Slowly he nodded, settling on the statement. “I was being stupid and reckless, all for a stupid mission I didn’t even end up going on in the end.”

Rivalry was nurtured by the military, encouraged by old men who hadn’t put their lives on the line in decades. They made you feel like you had to be the best, it was terrifying to think you weren’t. It was unbearable how hard the pressure to be the top of the class became, but when Hangman was running out of chances, Alphabet was there to spare another life.

He had been warned they were too high, that the others weren’t on their asses anymore, but it was too late. Higher and higher he made them fly, he wouldn’t be shot down - he wouldn’t allow himself to lose. Jake had surrendered to G-LOC, they both had. 

While Jake came to, and ejected when it counted, it was too late for Zach, the timing was all wrong. Tangled in his parachute, slammed against the cliff sides, shattering bone on bone - it was all too gory to even imagine. He knew you didn’t have to though, and that’s what killed him.

“Honestly, I wish it was me.” He stifles a sob, pinching the bridge of his nose as he drops his head. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, it’s all so caring and sweet and he doesn’t deserve it. He knows it. “What I said before, about hurting him…it wasn’t fair.”

“I wish I could go back.”

“We can’t, Jake. We can’t. I think it’s time we stop trying to.” you reach for his hand, still clutching the towel with your other.

He finds himself pressing a kiss to the flesh of your knuckles, it’s hesitant, careful. You pull free before grabbing fabric of his shirt and putting all your faith in the towel, pulling him into you. Pull. Pull. Pull.

You’d spend so much time pushing, you couldn’t stand to waste another second of not being in his orbit. Your lips find his, and a cross between a moan and whine murmurs against your mouth vibrates. It’s messy at first, his reaction time off but he quickly comes to, a firm hand finds your waist and he walks you back. 

For so long you wanted to be numb, to rid yourself of feeling. Whether you’d achieved it through booze, or an edible here or there, as long as it let you forget, as long as it could lull you to sleep in the sanctity of your bedroom, that’s all that counted.

But now you wanted to feel everything. The sting of his teeth biting at your lip, the light tug at your hair, the taste of his tongue that had the lingering flavour of his favourite strawberry sports drink - everything, all at once. The strength of his grip dug into your waist, too afraid he’d lose you if he didn’t anchor you in place, he could’ve cried. 

“Promise me.” You murmur between breaths, his mouth finding your neck.

“Anything.” He breaks away, cupping your face in the palm of his hand.

“Promise me that you want me.” You almost weep, it’s such a terrifying thought. “That you want me, not just need me right now.”

“I want you,” he breathes, dragging the pads of his thumb along your cheeks as you clutch his wrists. “I want you so much that I can’t breathe.”

For the first time, in a long time, you could look at the man who made you feel this life altering fight or flight, and felt safe.

 As dawns kiss painted you in it’s pale golden light, wrapped and entangled sound Jake’s legs, he allowed himself a sliver of forgiveness. Your touch was healing, even in slumber, even when you didn’t try. 

There wasn’t a chance in hell that Jake “Hangman” Seresin was running away, not from this, not from you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: This is my first TG:M fic, I hope it’s okay. I literally went off the deep end lol, enjoy! Reblog’s and comments make me feral, I will kiss you if you do. Let me know if you liked it <3

[sunlightmurdock]

Don’t fear the reaper

[cassraven]

Random thought but here me out IceMav shippers of Top Gun and TGM fandom:

Over the years living with Ice and Mav being together (Wingmen, Best Friends, Lovers, Partners, Married Spouses happily) Ice encourages Mav to have as many hobbies as his heart desires whether or not it’s odd or strange (not usually hobbies others, society would think a navy military man like Mav/Pete would have or be into hobby wise.)

So Mav take up quiet hobbies of either being or all hobbies of: Knitting/Crochet/Miniature Model or Diorama making houses or model airplanes or ships/Handsewing or Hand Embroidery sewing embroidery hoop art.

Ice proudly wearing or displaying in their house’s walls or rooms Mav’s various masterpieces or finished projects. (Little Ship Dioramas or Planes displayed in Ice’s office at the base. Hoop embroidery portraits of Navy dressed Geese. Or knitted/crochet stuffed animals or blanket throws everywhere.)

All the gang of their 86 Fly Squad, Their Baby Goslings/Kids of the Dagger Squad, Bradley “Rooster” Baby Goose, Viper, Jester, Carole, and even Penny and Amelia all own a gifted craftily handmade gift made by Mav (Everyone loves/covets said item made with love and special for them by Mav/MavDad/Uncle Mav!)

Thoughts? What do you think Mav would enjoy doing as a unexpected hobby or craft besides working on repairing/fixing/building his and Ice’s bikes, cars, planes?

[girl-in-the-chairs-void]

Idk if this has been said yet, but:

[mcu-and-buckybarnes-things]

Maverick: I’m going to propose to Ice tonight.

Slider: Surely you can’t be serious.

Maverick: I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley.

[noona96n]

Hangman: Kinda gay for a man to have dark circles. Why aren't you not getting any good night sleep? Too busy thinking about other men??

Rooster: Kinda gay for a man to be well-rested. What are you dreaming peacefully about? Other men?

[milobyelo]

The real reason Iceman and Maverick’s chat log was empty during the movie Is 100% because Maverick asked something stupid and was so embarrassed afterwards he just deleted the chat so no one would know.

Maverick: Is Pink Panther a lion?

Iceman: Say that again but slower

Maverick: I don’t get it?

Iceman: He’s the pink PANTHER

Maverick: Okay but is he a lion?

Iceman: Mav, angel, light of my life, he’s a panther

Maverick: Is that a kind of lion??

Iceman: No it’s a fucking panther

Maverick: I just googled, they are not pink??

Iceman: AND LIONS ARE???

[theactofprocessingwords]

well somebody had to do it

[wulka303]

And they were wingmen

[greymoonfeelings]

flufftober day 1: wearing each other’s clothes

pairing: Jake Seresin x Fem!reader

word count: 1k

warnings: suggestive comment

scroll for a surprise!

•••

“Babe, where are the costumes for the party tonight?”

Jake saunters out of the steamy bathroom, a white towel tied around his waist. He finds you stretched out on your queen size bed, casually scrolling through your phone. It takes him by surprise, he thought you’d be getting ready.

“What are you talking about?” You shift your gaze to him, clueless as to what he was referring to.

“The Halloween party tonight?”

You shake your head, it doesn’t ring a bell. You’re sure you would have remembered needing costumes for a Halloween party and when you checked the calendar this morning there was nothing noted.

“Rooster’s been talking about it for weeks. It’s his first party at his new house. He said we all have to dress up or we owe him $40.”

“It looks like you better pull out your wallet.”

“It looks like you better pull out your wallet.”

“Damn, I swore I wrote it on the calendar.”

Jake leaves the room, heading into the kitchen to double-check. His forehead slumps against the wall when he sees the empty square on the calendar.

“Don’t you have spare cat ears or anything?” He hollers from the kitchen.

“Why would I have cat ears laying around?”

“I don’t know! You collect all sorts of weird stuff!”

“Unfortunately, cat ears aren’t one of them.”

Jake reappears, flopping onto the bed beside you with a loud groan.

“I really don’t want to be in debt to that man.”

You rack your brain trying to come up with a solution. A simple one comes to mind. “I have an idea, but I’m not sure you’re going to like it…”

An hour later you’re standing next to your boyfriend, putting the final touches on his look before stepping back to examine your work.

“I truly am an artist,” you beam, admiring the crisp winged eyeliner you’d drawn.

“Oh my god.” Jake looks in the mirror horrified. “I look like my sister.”

“Wait.” You scurry out of the bathroom to find the perfect item to complete his costume.

You return with a neon pink wig in your hands. You stand on your tiptoes, gently placing it over Jake’s short blond hair.

“Now you look like your sister.” You giggle at the grimace that flashes across Jake’s face.

“So you have a wig laying around but no cat ears?”

“Jess made us wear wigs for her bachelorette party.” You shrug. “Just be glad I didn’t pick the highlighter yellow one.”

“This is ridiculous.” Jake pulls at the black rayon top that stretches against his chest. On his hulking form it fits like a crop top and he looks like he just raided a teenage girl’s closet.

“I don’t know, I think it’s kinda hot.” You lick your lips, trailing a hand down your boyfriend’s toned abs.

His eyebrows furrow as he watches your reflection in the mirror. “Really? This is turning you on?”

“Minus the wig, you look like lava girl.”

“Well, what are you gonna wear?”

“Only the best of Jake Seresin attire. Denim on denim and your big ol’ cowboy hat.”

Jake trails behind you into the bedroom. You rifle through the closet to find his jean jacket and pluck his tan cowboy hat off the top shelf.

“See, now we both look silly.” You motion to the way the denim jacket hangs off your body.

Even though Jake was sour about his costume, he couldn’t help but smile at you. Seeing you in his things made his heart skip.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful, honey.” He pecks you on the lips, the bangs of his wig tickling your forehead.

“Maybe we should stay home instead.” Jake looks at you suggestively. “I could leave the crop top on.”

“As tempting as that sounds, we should go to the party. You did say it was really important to Rooster.”

Jake groans, annoyed with himself for commenting earlier.

“Cheer up, Princess.” You lovingly pinch Jake’s cheek, causing him to roll his eyes.

“You gonna make fun of me all night?”

“I think I’ll let your friends do that for me.”

You knew his friends well enough to know they’d get a kick out of seeing Jake all dolled up. He could be a real egotistical asshole, but seeing him like this would surely knock him down a few pegs.

———

Rooster opens the front door to his new house, whistling at the sight before him. Jake pushes into the house with a grumble, bumping against Rooster in the process. You walk in behind your boyfriend, rolling your eyes at his dramatics.

“What’s wrong with strawberry shortcake?”

“He’s embarrassed.”

You can hear the laughter coming from the other room, no doubt it was at the expense of Jake and his costume. Rooster gratefully takes the case of beer from your arms before leading you to the rest of the guests.

“Looking good Hangman!”

“Give us a twirl!” Fanboy insists and everyone cheers in favor.

Jake begrudgingly turns around, giving everyone a full view of his ridiculous costume.

“You’d look a lot prettier if you smiled more.” Phoenix antagonizes him further with the usual comments that women get.

“Oh, c’mon guys, he’s already in a bad mood, don’t make it worse.” You come to your boyfriend’s rescue with a drink in hand.

“Was this your idea?” Coyote asks. “It’s one of your better ones.”

“Well if someone had given me more than two hours notice, I may have been able to get us actual costumes.”

“I like strawberry shortcake and cowgirl barbie.”

“Agreed. You’re looking mighty fine in that cowboy hat, girl.”

“Thank you, partner.” You tip your borrowed hat in Phoenix’s direction.

“I don’t sound like that.” Jake grumbles.

“Sure you do, sugar.” You continue with the fake southern accent. “Now who thinks they can out-drink me, the greatest pilot the US Navy has ever seen?“

As the night progresses, Jake’s bad mood disappears and he fully leans into pretending to be you. He starts mimicking your personality and becomes the night's main entertainment, dancing on top of tables like a sorority girl and singing Mariah Carey at full volume. You’ve seen him let loose before when drunk but never to this degree. It’s nice to see him having so much fun even if you’ll be the one babying him tomorrow morning when his hangover hits.

[avada-kedavra-bitch-187]

Tryna find a fic where Jake Seresin gets with a single mom - series

I think in one part the principal of her kid (her kids a boy and the principal a man) and he kinda sexist or something. I just remember the principal upsetting her and Jake flipping out when he finds out

It’s better man universe by @sweetlittlegingy

The parts i mentioned are the chapter better man (the principal) and I Don't Start Shit, But I Can Tell You How It Ends (Jake flipping out)

[jourquet]

the way hangman knows his only real competition to the mission is rooster is doing things to me. hangman always assessing rooster with way more attention than everybody else. how rooster keeps cornering him after training, hands pulling and shoving in equal measurements. the constant tension that makes hangman take a sharp intake of breath; when rooster is too close. too warm. too human. hangman can do nothing but follow. to the jaws of death, so be it.