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callsignthirsty · 3 years ago

Note

Listen: cyclone and you have been dating forever but everytime he comes home ranting about Pete Mitchell and his idiotic decisions you can’t help but wonder what other idiotic decisions he would make in the bedroom. And because Beau what’s everything for his girl - he’s willing it make it happen.

Hey Sunny — Okay. So. The sailor sandwich fic. It’s finally here. I hope it’s everything your thirsty little heart wanted ❤️

Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x F!Reader x Pete "Maverick" Mitchell Word Count: 6000 Warnings: Smut, possessive Cyclone, Mav following the rules, then Mav breaking the rules, piv with and without a condom (wrap it before you tap it!) Minors DNI

Sailor Sandwich

Iceman would be rolling over in his grave laughing if he knew, but Cyclone really hopes he doesn't. This is Ice's fault, anyway — bringing Maverick back to North Island when they both knew he was a shitty teacher the first time.

He'd hoped some tension would've eased once the mission was flown. That hope, however, had been quickly dashed. It wasn't anything against Maverick personally until it very suddenly was. Because Pete "Maverick" Mitchell was everything Iceman had promised he'd be, but in all the worst ways. And he hadn't strictly kept those thoughts to himself.

Cyclone has been complaining about Admiral Kazansky's pet pilot for weeks, and you have been there to listen every night when he gets home. Warlock should send you flowers because Cyclone knows that the Rear Admiral can only take so much, and he seems to have worked with Mitchell before.

And Jesus, Cyclone is getting a headache just thinking about this getting out to Warlock. Because Cyclone, to put it in the simplest terms, doesn't want this. But he hadn't been able to say 'no.'

The problem began where most of Cyclone's do: when he makes a very stupid, very avoidable mistake. The particular day's infraction? He forgot his lunch at home. And you — his darling girlfriend, love of his life, and perfect angel who has never done anything wrong, ever — decided to bring it to him. Typically, this would lead to a pleasant lunch in his office, a sweet kiss, and Cyclone would return to his day with a rare smile.

But, well, Maverick.

Now, Cyclone doesn't believe that Maverick knew you were his girl when he started hitting on you. Even Mitchell had a moral compass. And frankly, Cyclone can't blame him — except that he can and he absolutely will. Because when Cyclone arrives on the scene, Maverick is laying it on thick and has you practically wrapped around his little finger.

It had been an awkward night, to say the least, but Cyclone couldn't bring himself to deny you anything. Especially not when you asked so pretty and gave him that look. Which is precisely how he'd ended up booking three consecutive rooms at the Grand Hyatt with you sitting on the bed and Maverick knocking on the door.

Cyclone moves to stand between you and Maverick when the door shuts. "If we're going to do this–" and god help him because you were "–there are going to be rules." Maverick looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but he resists. Whether because he knows it's childish or for Cyclone's benefit is up for debate, and Cyclone chooses to focus his glare on him. "Number one: if she says 'stop' for any reason, you stop." Maverick nods. "Number two: You want to touch my girl–"

Without missing a beat, Maverick shoots you a cocky wink. "I think we can all agree that I'm here because she wants me to touch her."

"–you will do exactly as I say. No veering off-script."

"Should I submit my requests in writing, Admiral?"

Cyclone chooses to ignore him. "Number three: no kissing."

"At all?"

"C'mon, Beau," you say from your spot at the edge of the bed. "He's got to kiss me a little bit."

"Yeah, Beau."

"If you kiss her lips, you're done," Cyclone practically growls. There's no room for argument. No bargaining his way into more. Give Maverick an inch, and he'll steal a multimillion-dollar jet.

"Fine," Maverick agrees.

"And no marks."

"That rule number four?"

"No. It's a non-negotiable part of rule three."

"Hey." You stand from the bed, cup your boyfriend's cheek and give him a sweet kiss that's meant to calm, but Cyclone remains stiff as a board. "We won't do anything you aren't comfortable with."

Cyclone hesitates, and you clock the reaction just like you pin a name to the emotion swimming in green eyes: unease. Instead of telling you that he isn't comfortable with any of this, that you're his and he doesn't want to share, he says: "That's why we have rules."

Your eyes follow your boyfriend's as they once again land on Maverick, who is trying to act casual. Brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, you bring Beau's attention back to you. "Don't think about anyone else." Easier said than done, you know, so when he opens his mouth to object, you cut him off with a gentle "It's just you and me right now" as your eyes drift to linger on his lips. "Just do what you'd normally do."

And that sounds a little too much like the don't think, just do that Cyclone keeps hearing over the comms, but then your hands are in his regulation short hair, and you've tipped onto your toes for a kiss. Getting lost in your kiss is practically second nature at this point. Cyclone lets his mind go blank, hands that know your body better than his own landing on your lower back and gently pulling you in. He tilts his head to the side and slots his lips against your own, feeling the way that your smile curls and your breaths quicken.

And Maverick is being so uncharacteristically quiet that it's easy to forget that he's in the room. Until he clears his throat, and the illusion is shattered.

You eye Maverick, intrigued. From the way that Cyclone's hands clench, you hazard that his look is far more irritated. Maverick, though, looks hungry. Eyes rake over you, vintage bomber jacket hugging him in all the right ways, aviators tugging down the collar of his t-shirt. Just as you think that you wouldn't mind Mav having a taste, Cyclone lets you go. Your eyes follow him as he sits at the standard-issue desk near the foot of the bed.

"Permission to engage?" It's sarcastic but not unkind. You roll your eyes anyway.

Cyclone must be surprised, but the only thing that gives it away is the rise of a single brow. "Permission granted."

Maverick crosses the no man's land between the threshold and the bed in three quick steps, then he's all up in your space. And he's so different from your boyfriend, a mechanic-rough hand cupping the curve of your jaw and drawing you close enough that you're worried he's about to break a rule right off the bat — after all, Maverick isn't known to be a rule follower. He stops just short of your lips but breathing in your air. "Normally, this is the part where I'd kiss you," he husks, and you gulp because you definitely want him to. "But I think I'll see how far playing by the rules gets me."

Chapped lips brush over your cheek, down to your jaw, and you sigh. You moan at the light scrape of teeth as he trails down your neck to your collarbone, lips taking your skin with gentle pressure.

"Mitchell." A warning.

Maverick releases your collarbone with a wet noise. "No marks." He steps away from you and tips your jaw up so Cyclone can rake his eyes over you to assess any perceived damages. Anything that can be left behind. All the while, your skin grows cold where Maverick's spit lingers, the disappearance of his body heat leaving you chilled. When he gets a nod to continue, Maverick takes you by surprise. You fall onto the bed with a surprised squawk, bouncing on the mattress.

"Rule number 2," Cyclone snaps.

"I do what you say."

"Did I tell you to push her onto the bed?"

"No."

Cyclone's fingers steeple the way they usually do when he's agitated. "So what were you doing?"

Maverick's green eyes lock with yours, and his tongue peeks out to wet his lips. "Can't kiss her lips, so I was going to get my mouth on something else." You moan, a thrill racing up your spine and thighs clamping together to relieve some of the pressure that's building up there.

Cyclone's eyes harden, and he leans forward in his seat. "Exactly as I say. Are we clear?" Maverick nods. "Take off her shirt." Maverick shrugs out of his bomber, letting it crumple to the floor as he pushes your shirt up until it bunches in your armpits. "She's beautiful, isn't she?" Cyclone asks, but he doesn't expect a response. He knows you're beautiful. Maverick knows you're beautiful — that's what started this whole mess.

Maverick dips down like he wants to put his lips on all of your freshly revealed skin. "Can I–"

"No," Cyclone cuts him off. "Take off her shirt." Maverick pouts but complies. He lifts the shirt over your head with a bit of help from you, and now you can feel where he's beginning to fill out his jeans. "Now, her bra."

A single hand reaches around your back, and you feel your bra come undone. Maverick looks up at Cyclone, his hands carefully avoiding you though you can feel the heat radiating off him. Can feel his need to touch. "What now?"

"Touch her."

Maverick doesn't need to be told twice. His hands are on you. Running up and down your sides, thumbing over your nipples until they pebble, pressing kisses right above the waist of your jeans. You sigh into each new caress. Then his hands move further down, kneading at your jean-clad thighs and scratching at the sturdy cotton twill until you shiver at the faux-cool sensation.

He's propelled up at your gasp, lips finding their way up to your nipple as his hips settle against yours, and the friction of jean-on-jean lights your clit aflame.

"Pants." The instruction gives Maverick pause. He bites his lip like you wish you could.

"Hers or mine?"

Cyclone's lips twitch like he's pleased that Maverick asks. Like the simple question proves that Maverick is actually going to play nice, for once. Like he's the slightest bit reassured. "Hers." And when Maverick's fingers first brush embossed metal: "Slowly."

Going slow is as much torture for you as it is for Maverick, but he's staying true to his word and seeing how far following orders will get him. He plays with the pull of your zipper before dragging it down one tooth at a time. You bridge your hips to help him kick your pants onto the floor. Your panties, however, remain because Cyclone hadn't said anything about them one way or the other. They're cute, lace trimmed and delicate but nothing special; you don't want your boyfriend thinking that you've dressed up for the occasion. Special or not, Maverick appreciates them if his groan is anything to go by.

His head thunks against your hip bone. "What about her panties?"

"Leave them." So the lace stays. Clinging to your hips. Then Maverick looks up at you from between your legs, his eyes tracing from your lips (still red and puffy from Cyclone's kiss) down to the fabric stained dark at the apex of your thighs. He licks his lips as his stubbled cheek nuzzles against the inside of your knee. Calloused hands run up and down the outside of your legs.

"Aw, sweetheart," Maverick purrs. "Already so wet." You spread your legs shamelessly, not the slightest bit self-conscious about how Maverick and your boyfriend are both still wearing their clothes.

"Don't touch," Cyclone says when Maverick reaches up toward your core. Instead of taking it back, Maverick lets his hand hang there for a second like he's thinking about touching anyway. But then Maverick brings it down on your leg, massaging circles into the sensitive flesh of your upper thigh with his thumb to keep himself from doing anything reckless. "Make her feel good, but don't touch her pussy."

Maverick stands back to take his shirt off, undoes and takes off his belt but doesn't reach for the button or zipper as he toes off his shoes. Then he's between your thighs, fingers roaming up to play with the flimsy fabric of your panties and tickle high up on your thighs, but never coming close to scratching your itch. Lips and tongue tracing up from your knee almost to the seat of your panties and drawing in a deep breath, his heady groan sending little waves of pleasure straight to your pulsing cunt.

"What do you know," Cyclone muses after some time of watching Maverick flawlessly follow his orders, "you can teach an old dog new tricks." You aren't entirely sure whether or not Maverick heard him. Regardless, his head stays buried between your thighs, kissing and licking just shy of soaked lace and breathing in deep, a hand coming down to palm himself.

"Beau." His name is a whine on your lips as Maverick continues to rub the inside of your thighs raw on his cheeks while dutifully avoiding what you need the most.

"What, baby?"

You arch your back, trying to shove your hips closer to Maverick's roaming tongue, but to no avail. "Please."

"Please, what?"

"Let him touch me."

"He is touching you." And there's no way to hide all of the disdain that leaks into the simple fact as he glares at Maverick hunched between your thighs. But he relents. "Mitchell." Maverick sits up to look at Cyclone, his lips pink and breathing the slightest bit sped up. "I believe you said something about putting that mouth to work."

Maverick swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "I did."

"Well," Cyclone gestures to the bed, to you, "get to it, then."

Maverick doesn't waste a second taking your underwear off, just thumbs it to the side and dives right in. You both groan from the first touch of Maverick's tongue to your slick folds. "Taste so good, sweetheart," he rumbles. Another desperate noise slips past your lips at the praise, your back bowing at the sudden, electric touch after so much teasing.

And Maverick is ravenous. You can feel it in the way his hands press your legs up and further apart so that he can sink his tongue further into your pussy, lick at your walls, and moan as his lashes flutter. The way his nose nudges against your clit until you're rolling against his lips with your head tossed back and hair spilled across the pillows. "That's it," he husks as you grind against his face, loving the dichotomy of smooth tongue and rough cheeks. You're on the cusp, your cunt buzzing with each new touch, but you need more. "Don't worry, sweetheart," Maverick murmurs, a hand releasing your hip and trailing down until a thick finger prods at your entrance and presses in, "I've gotcha." And he does because that's it. That's perfect. You press into his finger and his mouth, see the light at the end of the tunnel and feel your walls begin to squeeze down around him and–

"That's enough."

With a reluctant groan, Maverick releases you. He turns to say something but is hit with a box of assorted condoms. "Oh," Maverick says, looking at the box like he isn't entirely sure what he's expected to do with it. Like, aren't we a little old for this? He tries to return the box to Cyclone. "I'm clean."

"That is so not the point." There is abso-fucking-lutely no way in hell that Cyclone will let Maverick raw-dog his girlfriend.

Breaking the seal on the box, Maverick cards through the condoms. He kicks the rest of his clothes off as he rips one of the foils open and rolls it onto himself, spitting into his palm to slick over the latex and give himself a little relief. And you can't help but stare as the rest of him is revealed to you: all golden skin and well-hewn muscle from years in the cockpit. And for a small guy, he sure had a big cock.

"How are we doing this?" Forest green eyes are on you, but the question is undoubtedly for Cyclone — he's the one running the show.

"On her hands and knees," Cyclone says with certainty as if he'd already thought about it — about how missionary was too intimate and spooning was too soft. "I want her to look at me while you fuck her." Maverick rearranges you until you're on your knees. Bent over the bed, resting on your forearms with your ass in the air.

You can't help but look at Maverick over your shoulder, giving your ass a cheeky shake when you catch him staring, but Cyclone brings your attention back to himself with a gentle command — always so gentle with you. "Eyes on me, darling."

Then, he's giving Maverick the okay.

If given the time, you'd be able to go on and on about how Maverick's hands fit on your hips. But you're not. Maverick gives you a split second, then he's slowly sinking into you, and your mind blanks. "Fuck, sweets," he groans through gritted teeth. "So fucking tight 'n hot. No wonder Cyclone wanted to keep you all to himself." You moan helplessly at the stretch and his praise, eyes threatening to close as you fight to keep them locked on Beau. You aren't sure if you're burning from the desire or the shame of how much you like Maverick fucking into you while Beau watches, has been watching this whole time.

Eventually, Maverick's hips press snug to your ass. You can't help that your thighs quiver at the stretch, and your walls clench around him in sweet anticipation.

"Wait," Cyclone commands from his throne.

"Yeah," Maverick says, but it sounds like it's been punched out of him. Like he's a little breathless. Like you have as much of an effect on him as he has on you. "That's not going to be a problem." You clench down on him again — on purpose this time, just to be cheeky — and delight in the shiver that runs up Mav's legs.

Maverick leans down to kiss your shoulder, only to back away when Cyclone shoots him a look. His hands shift uncertainly at your sides, petting you and rubbing reassurances into your skin, fingers following his eyes to where you're joined and running a finger over your stretched pussy lips. Slowly, you begin to relax beneath him, Cyclone's eyes no longer boring into Maverick's and, instead, lingering on your face. And it's without looking at him that Cyclone finally gives Maverick permission for takeoff.

Except, Maverick still isn't really in control.

Yes, Maverick is inside of you. Stretching and filling you deliciously, but Cyclone is the one to set the pace. A slow in-and-out that serves to wind you both up more than it does satisfy the want that's been building in your loins. The odds were always stacked against him from the beginning. Maverick was bound to break eventually. And he does, spectacularly, when you shove against him with a high-pitched keen.

Sunkissed hips cant back, strong hands pulling you into the next thrust, each faster and firmer than the last. Maverick leans down, delivering a nip to the base of your neck that stings delectably. You rock with the motion of it, lips falling open as Maverick gets a couple glorious thrusts in that make your eyes roll before Cyclone seizes the reins once more.

"Mitchell." It's nearly a shout. Cyclone's hands white-knuckle the arms of the desk chair. Maverick's hips stutter to a stop as he gets ahold of himself.

You whimper beneath Maverick. You want to push back against him, desperate for stimulation. For someone to fuck you, to fill you. But, something in the clench of Cyclone's jaw tells you it's best to stay still.

"Since you can't do what you're told…." You watch, thighs trembling as Cyclone reaches down. You hadn't noticed the bag sitting in the shadow of the desk, but he's tossing something onto the bed. Cool metal lands on downy sheets. "Lie down," Cyclone directs at Maverick. His tone leaves no room for argument. "Hands above your head." You're not surprised when Maverick doesn't move and Cyclone's eyes simply shift to you. "Cuff him to the headboard."

"Wait," Maverick says, slipping from your warmth to sit on his heels as you take the cuffs in hand. "You're serious?"

"Rule number two," Cyclone recites, "you want to touch my girl, you do exactly as I say. What part of that didn't you understand, Captain?"

"The part where–"

"Because I think I was pretty clear."

"Is this another one of those laws as immutable as gravity?"

The muscle in Cyclone's jaw ticks. "Cuffs or leave. Your choice." Beau may be a pushover when it comes to you, but Cyclone isn't known to bluff. You watch the two of them with rapt curiosity and a growing discomfort as the tension builds to fill the room. Finally, Maverick caves and flops back onto the bed. When you turn to look, his hands are above his head.

You take the key from Cyclone's outstretched hand, then crawl up the bed to work the metal tight around Maverick's wrist before looping it around the corner beam of the sturdy wooden headboard and securing the second cuff. It doesn't look comfortable, but you can imagine that Maverick has been in tighter spots. Honestly, you're a little disappointed that the cuffs haven't been used on you, but there will be time for that later.

For the first time since he took his seat at the desk, Cyclone moves. He settles on the other side of the bed, leaning against the headboard so he can see your face, but he's purposely avoiding looking at Maverick. "Do you think you can ride him?" he asks. You nod with a pitiful noise, your cunt clenching around nothing and feeling empty just at the thought. "Alright." He nods for you to get to it.

You straddle Maverick's lap, run your hands up his chest and scrape your nails down, down, down until he's arching into the pain. Then, you line him up and sink onto him with a satisfied groan, head thrown back as your ass rests on his thighs. You grind against him for a minute, getting used to being on top and a feel for his cock so much deeper inside of you; then you rise up and let gravity bring you crashing down. Maverick moans, his cheeks flushing pink and mouth hanging open as you work up to a fast pace. Much faster than Cyclone had allowed your first time around. "Jesus– fuck," he curses. "Look so good bouncing on my cock, sweetheart."

More praise tumbles from his lips, and just when you can feel your orgasm growing low in your belly, hands grip your hips. You stutter out of sync.

When has Cyclone moved from the headboard?

Maverick's eyes blink open and settle curiously over your shoulder as Cyclone guides your hips in a much slower rhythm, one that has you whining in protest. This isn't nearly enough, but Cyclone knows that, and it's all that he'll let you have. "There you go, baby," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, and you wish he'd lick it, but he doesn't. "Nice and slow. Can you do that for me?"

You nod, gulping. Sure, you want Maverick, but you'll always want to be good for Beau. Even though everything in you screams to go fast, to chase that glorious high, you force yourself to move to the beat of Cyclone's drum, jolting each time Maverick strikes that spot inside of you that makes you see stars but knowing that you're not allowed to chase that feeling.

Cyclone's hands return to your hips more than once to slow you back down as you subconsciously begin to speed up.

"Beau," you whimper.

"What, baby?"

"I wanna cum." You can feel it simmering low in your gut, but it's still too far away. Too far out of your grasp. "I can't–"

"I know." He leans in and takes your earlobe between his teeth, and a shiver races up your spine. "'Cause only I can make you cum."

"But I need–"

Cyclone brushes your hair back so he can press a gentle kiss to the skin where your neck meets your jaw. "If you want to cum, it'll be on my dick. My tongue. My hand. Not his," he spits out the last bit without sparing Maverick so much as a glance.

Maverick opens his mouth to say something clever–

"If you want to cum, I suggest you keep it to yourself."

–and closes it with an impudent glare, but the effect is ruined by his exertion-pink cheeks and the clench of his jaw each time you take him to the root. Then, the next time you try to drop onto Maverick's cock, Cyclone's hands stop you. You look over your shoulder with a question on your lips, but his eyes are on Maverick.

"Fuck her."

Maverick doesn't. From the corner of your eye, you can see that he's just as confused as you. "What?"

"You heard me," Cyclone says, his hands increasing their grip on you until you're sure there will be bruises in the morning. "That's what you wanted, right?" And his tone is mean, but his words are true.

Maverick shifts beneath you to plant his feet against the pillowtop mattress and thrusts up. Gently at first. As if he's testing that Cyclone really means it, really wants him to fuck you. But Cyclone just holds you steadily above him. Then, because Cyclone has let him have full rein or because Maverick's a little too far gone to care, he lets out a needy moan and picks up a fast and dirty pace.

Your back arches, nails digging into Maverick's chest. "He's getting close, isn't he, baby?" Cyclone says, his forehead pressed to your sweat-slick temple as he holds you at just the right height for Maverick to hammer into you. Lets the Captain use you to chase his own pleasure.

"Don't talk about me," Maverick pants, "as if I'm not here."

But Cyclone ignores him. "You can feel it, can't you?" he continues in your ear. "How badly he wants to cum." Your thighs jiggle as Maverick increases his speed, his cock finding your sweet spot and slamming into it over and over until you're practically howling. "What do you want?"

You don't even have to think about it. Don't have the brainpower to think of much else right now. "Wanna cum."

"Not now," Cyclone snaps. "Not with him. He's just a pretty tool, baby. What do you want?" All that comes out the next time you open your mouth is a strung-out mewl. "Want Mitchell to cum so I can fuck you?"

"Yes," you hiss, clenching around Maverick's cock at Cyclone's words.

"Fuck!"

"Ask him nicely," Cyclone murmurs, his eyes sharp as he catches the hand that darts toward your clit.

"Mav, fuck. Cum for me. Please, please, please."

That's all it takes for Maverick to lose it. His thrusts grow sloppy, the cuffs rattling against the headboard as he flexes his arms and arches into you as he finally breaks, filling the condom with a strangled groan. His eyes closed and head thrown back as his hips stutter to a stop. He's oversensitive, jerking as your hips follow his to the bed.

Usually, you'd be more sympathetic, but Maverick had gotten off, and you still haven't.

He'd gotten you so close at the end, his hips pistoning into yours, pressing against your sweet spot each time, and then… nothing. Cyclone hadn't let you finish yourself off.

You don't have too much time to dwell on it.

Cyclone's grip on your hips changes. Maverick hisses as Cyclone snatches you off his sensitive, softening cock and bends you over so that your face is stuffed into Maverick's tits. Cyclone wastes no time ripping off his belt and pushing his slacks down far enough to get his dick out. Then, he's rutting into you with a sharp thrust that has you keening.

Maverick gasps and tries to jerk away, but you're pressed tight to him. Your middle rubbing against his overstimulated cock as Cyclone sets a brutal pace. One hand fisted in your hair and pulling back so your moans aren't caught against Maverick's chest. "Yeah, baby? That good?"

"Yes."

"Tell him." The hand releases your hair and instead presses down on your neck until your cheek is pressed into Maverick's chest as Cyclone's hips snap into yours. "Tell him how good I make you feel."

You do what you can to look up at Maverick with Cyclone's hand burning against the back of your neck. "'S so good. Fuck!" Cyclone smacks your ass with his free hand, and that's harder than he usually plays with you.

"Come on, darling. You can do better than that," he goads. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.

"Beau!" Your eyes are glassy as they meet Maverick's. "Fuck. So good."

"Looks like I've fucked the words out of her," Cyclone says, smug. "What's your excuse?"

Maverick doesn't have anything to say, possibly for the first time in his life. Brows bunching and drawing down to wrinkle his nose. His dick wasn't ready for this. For your face shoved into his chest. Moaning so sweetly in his face but just out of reach. If only he were younger, but he isn't — and though his dick twitches in a valiant effort to get hard again way too soon, everything about his current situation is too much.

Cyclone startles when you jerk away from a particularly rough thrust with a soft cry, your head turning to peek at him over your shoulder, tears collecting in the corner of your eyes. And he realizes that he's been gripping your hips way too hard, little half-moons marking the spots where his short nails had dug into your soft skin. What had he let himself slip into?

Beau pulls back gently and gathers you in his arms as he picks you up off Maverick and lays you down atop the cool sheets on the other side of the bed. On your back, this time, as he wipes away the tears that still threaten to fall from your lashes. He presses slow kisses into each angry mark framing your hips, then up to your neck. When his lips finally find yours, it's soft. The kiss tastes like love and an apology, and you can't help but melt into it as your fingers trace up Beau's arms and around his shoulders.

He stays poised over you, massaging your thighs and only abandoning his gentle kisses to pull his shirt over his head and kick off his slacks. Then, he asks if you're ready and, at your nod, pushes into you gently, capturing your lower lip between his own as you gasp. He knows that you're close — he's kept you there all night — but he lowers himself on top of you until your chests are pressed together, and you're sharing the same breath through your noses, lips brushing together and your heel tracing a line up the back of his leg.

Once he's dizzy from breathing you in and your heart flutters against his ribs, he moves. Your head tips back, so he mouths at your jaw, lets himself taste the salt on your skin, feels the breath as it escapes your lungs in a silent plea, and you tremble in his arms. He's kept you on the cusp for too long; he knows that. You're not going to last long, but that's okay. He doesn't need you to. He just needs you.

"Tell me what you need, princess." His earlier questions were bitten out, but this one washes over you like silk. Wraps around you and draws you further under his spell. Your head lolls, turns to the side, but before you can catch Maverick's eyes — which isn't your intent — Beau is turning you back to him with gentle fingers on your chin. "Eyes on me." He kisses your forehead. "I've got you."

You whimper. Needy and in love and so very far gone for this man who would give you the world if you asked. "Beau."

"I know." He licks at the corner of your lips, follows it up with a small kiss. "What do you need, baby?"

You need to cum, but you don't know how to put it into words, your thoughts loose and your tongue looser. So you settle on: "Please."

"Shh," Beau soothes. "I know what you need." He presses one last kiss to your lips before pushing up onto his forearms. "I'll take care of you." You mewl when he rolls his hips into the cradle of yours, still gentle but firm. Confident and caring and perfect. Moves like Maverick isn't in the room. Isn't still on the bed with his wrists bound and cock spent.

Your fingers scramble for purchase along Beau's back, nails pinching as you attempt to drag him in for another kiss, but he resists so he can look at your face. The way your heavy lids threaten to close as pleasure takes you and your lips twitch and your brows crinkle. "So good for me," Cyclone whispers like it's a secret he's letting you in on, and you shudder, goosebumps rising along your arms, nipples taught and tingling where he brushes against them with each sway of your bodies.

You reach your peak with Beau's name on your lips and he doesn't last much longer, pressing your mouths together with a grunt as he shudders through his own high.

You're still catching your breath, limbs pleasantly fuzzy, when Maverick speaks up to let you both know that he's losing feeling in his fingers. In response, Cyclone kisses your cheek and suggests that you go and get a shower started in your room. "I'll be there soon," he assures you as you grab your clothes and disappear through the door that adjoins this room to the room you and Beau will be sleeping in, careful to leave the door ajar for him.

You've just stepped beneath the spray when you hear the heavy adjoining door shut, followed by the rattle of the chain lock. Then, cold air rushes in to replace the steam that the bathroom door yawns away, and Beau joins you. He gathers you in his arms and hugs you close, your back to his front, and you relax into him. Together, you stand under the warm spray, unmoving until Beau squeezes some of the hotel's expensive shampoo into his palm and begins working it into your hair. It lathers as he runs his fingers over your scalp in a gentle massage that never fails to lull you into a half-sleep. Floating somewhere high and loved and not entirely in your own body. Once he's done, he slowly turns you, tips your head into the spray to get rid of the suds, then goes through the same process with the conditioner before he grabs a soft washcloth and runs it over you gently.

Before he can wrap his hands around you, you turn to hug him, your face pillowed against his collarbone and over his steadily beating heart. "You know I love you, right?" Because this shower isn't for you, it's reassurance. It's for Beau. He hesitates before bringing one of his arms to wrap around your shoulders, the other hanging low, weighed down by the wet washcloth as water cascades over you both.

You try to gather all your love for him and put it into your eyes. Because you need Beau to know that Maverick was fun, but he — Beau — is it for you.

"I know," he says softly, but it echoes off the tile anyway.

"And nothing will ever change that."

The kiss on your forehead feels like thank you as Beau hugs you the slightest bit tighter. Holding you close until your skin begins to prune.

That night, you fall asleep in the middle of a movie, Beau's shirt falling off your shoulder as you curl further into him beneath the luxurious hotel linens and draped in his love.

Maverick is the furthest thing from your mind.

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callsignthirsty · 2 years ago

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#17 "When I get home I expect you to be undressed and waiting on all fours for me." With Cyclone 🫣

@deadratio — come get your man Also, big thanks to @purelyfiction who helped me a whole helluva lot with this. You're the best ❤️

Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x F!Reader Word Count: 1830 Warnings: Masturbation, dirty talk, phone sex (kinda-sorta-almost), daddy Minors DNI

Smut Prompt #17

There's something about coming home to an empty home that makes you just… well. As your keys find their home on the hall tree, you fail to place the feeling that falls over your home like a shadow each time Beau leaves. Even the armchair in the living room — your usual perch, book in hand as the wall clock ticks in the background — feels wrong now as the quiet lingering and longing settle deep into your bones.

"Yearning," you mumble as epiphany strikes. You've given up on your book, having only gotten a couple of pages in before realizing that you'd absorbed none of the words.

He's been away at conferences since you'd gotten together, but this is the first time a conference has been delayed — curse the weather in upstate New York. As it is, the conference began the very day it was supposed to end, and now as the sun continues to blaze a trail through the sky, there's no time to pop open a bottle of red. You help yourself to a heavy-handed pour and check the time in New York.

7:48 PM.

It isn't even 5:00 PM on the west coast, and Beau's undoubtedly seated around some dinner table making polite conversation with some admiral or another.

Beau would've been home by that time had your time zones been the same. Khakis creased from a day of desk work, skin tacky from roasting in his office with nothing but the admin building's ancient AC unit to combat the San Diego sun. He'd slide into his spot behind you while you finished dinner. Press a kiss into the curve of your neck as his arms wrap around you, biceps testing the limits of the cotton twill as the lingering scent of his body wash lights up something in the fuzzy reaches of your hindbrain, and he towers over you. Cradles you to his chest. Praises your efforts for the day and beckons in the night.

It's hardly night now, though, as you, your glass, and your pinot finds your way to the bedroom. A sigh escapes your lips when you see how empty the bed is. It's not that you're surprised. You knew it would be empty. But it's one thing knowing and another seeing.

You feel like a new woman after one incredibly indulgent bath and three glasses of wine. Not a less lonely one, but certainly different.

You don't bother dressing as you return to your shared bedroom and make a home for the remaining pinot on your bedside table atop a coaster. A smile tugs at your lips as your fingers brush the coaster. You couldn't have given two shits about condensation rings on your furniture before Beau, but Beau had opinions. It was one of the many ticks that had you smitten with the vice admiral.

Stretched out on the duvet, you sigh again in defeat, boredom, and yearning. The wine and the bath have made everything warm, but you aren't ready to go to sleep yet, so instead, you stare at your phone's lock screen. Your finger traces over his cheek, and the phone's screen warps. You click the screen off and back on until Beau smiles back at you. This photo is a closely-guarded favorite. A side of your Beau that no one else gets to see immortalized in 4K. The Beau who stirs beside you in the early hours of the morning and rouses you with whisper-soft kisses across your shoulders. Some mornings, those kisses move in one of two ways.

Lashes flutter closed with an alcohol-fueled whine. You'd give the world to feel the mattress dip beneath Beau's weight beside you. His steady breathing at your side as he slips into one of his deep sleep sessions. To trace mindless patterns across his arms until he woke with a shiver. Until he'd gather you to his chest and roll on top of you, voice raspy as he asks if his princess needs attention.

She does, you think to yourself, blinking back to your lock screen and Beau's smiling face. It takes fumbling hands long seconds to unlock your phone and tap on Beau's contact. The phone rings, and you can see him in your mind's eye. Dressed in his service blues, a political smile, Warlock at his side.

A second ring. Your tongue feels heavy as you try to think of what you'll say past the 'baby, I miss you' that runs on a loop through your mind. Would you ask him to step outside and entertain you for a while?

"You've reached the voicemail box of Rear Admiral Beau Simpson. I am currently unavailable. Please leave your name and number, and I will return your call as soon as feasible. Thanks."

Beep.

Your lips move before your brain can catch up. "I think you know my name, Admiral," your voice sounds like velvet brushed backward to your own ears. "It sounded so pretty coming off your lips when you were unavailable with me before you left." You bite at your bottom lip even as it curls into a grin. This is different from where you thought the night would take you, but the wine appears to have both you and Beau's voicemail along for the ride. "I wish you were here with me," you confess as your fingers trace the folds of the duvet. "Beside me. Inside me."

Your cheeks heat, suddenly hot between your thighs. "Fuck," you whine, "I'm so empty, Beau." Your legs fall apart of their own accord as you roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to conjure images of his handsome face. The spark that lights his eyes when he has you exactly where he wants you. Wanton. On your back. Calloused hands inspecting every inch of your body as if he expects there to be a test later. His tongue leaving cold trails across your skin. How perfectly he melds with you, stretching you wide. The little grunts that sneak out as he husks your name into the curve of your neck.

Oh, if only he were here. But he isn't, so it's your hand that drifts to your splayed legs, your fingers that gather and spread the slickness that accumulates at just the thought of him. "God, Daddy," you gasp, "wish you could feel how wet I am. See how much I've missed you." The last word trails off on a moan, lost as two of your fingers slowly enter your aching cunt. It's nowhere near the satisfying burn of his fingers. There's simply no comparison. Another whimper falls from your lips as you try to satisfy your burning desire. "Can you hear it, daddy? How wet your baby is?" you ask as you drive your fingers back in with a wet squelch that you hope the phone picks up.

"It's not the same," you gasp, brows drawn in disappointment. "My fingers are too small." A third finger joins the two already pumping in and out of you, and your breath hitches. "They don't feel the same. Don't feel as good." Your head tips back, mind recalling pleasured snippets of past encounters, touches that continue to burn you even though he's an entire country away. Your legs tense, shaking at the recollection of endless nights, his cock splitting you apart, your own voice echoing, calling his name in the pleasured silence of memory until a quiet, desperate "Beau" slips past your lips and onto the recording.

'Look at what a good girl you're being for Daddy.' You can practically hear him, and the imagined praise has your back arching, fingers curling. 'Aww, Princess, you feel so good on Daddy's cock.'

The air in the room is thick, hard to gulp down as your fingers continue to work at your core even as a cramp builds in your wrist. Sound leaves you freely, your mind and body too loose from the wine to be self-conscious as you writhe and whimper. "Daddy," another lewd cry.

You have no idea how long you've been like this. Ear pressed to the phone as you chase your high. You don't dare pull away for fear that you'll break the spell that's fallen over you, and the ball in your stomach is so tight. "But you're not here," you say, and a breathless laugh almost leaves you at the absurdity of the situation. "Guess I'll just have to take care of myself tonight." You wet your lips with a flick of your tongue. "Sweet dreams, Daddy."

The phone slips from your hand as the call ends, and your attention narrows until you're solely focused on the pleasure zinging through your veins. Each movement of your fingers is strategically matched with a hand-picked memory from the vault in the bank of your mind. Your palm rolls over your clit, knowing that your fingers won't be able to reach the spot within you that Beau can — the one deep within you that makes your stomach flip, jaw fall slack, and eyes roll back. The way his cock pushes deep with each thrust, hips crashing into yours as if he can't stand to be anywhere but buried to the hilt in your heat.

Your legs twitch to circle his hips, desperate for it. For him. This doesn't compare. Not in the slightest. But it does the job.

A hiss and a silent cry escape into the early evening, splotches of white obscuring your vision. It's nothing compared to the heights Beau will take you to when he gets home, but the pleasure rolls through your veins all the same and makes your lids heavy.

It's sometime later that your phone buzzes from its place on the ground, and you scramble to pick it up. But it's only a promotional text.

It's 10:07 PM in New York.

If previous conferences are anything to go by, Beau's night is still going strong. And you had called him in the middle of it to desperately plead for him to come home and take care of you. Begged. Whined.

Wine.

The pinot sits where you left it on the nightstand, the glass empty but enough of a nightcap left in the bottle to carry you back to dreams of brawny arms wrapped around your waist and hot breath puffed against the back of your neck as you press your nose into Beau's pillow and breathe him in.

When sunlight spills across the bed to wake you the next morning, you find yourself refreshed. In your pre-caffeine haze, you go about your morning routine before you return to bed with a piping cup of coffee and the book you'd abandoned the night previous.

Your phone buzzes on the bedside table with several notifications. Among them is a photo of an updated ticket from ALB to SAN. But that's not all.

Daddy: When I get home, I expect you to be undressed and waiting on all fours for me.

#thirsty answers #thirsty's smut prompt list #beau cyclone simpson x reader #beau cyclone simpson x f!reader #female reader #cyclone x reader #top gun smut #top gun smut prompt #user: deadratio #user: purelyfiction #no beta we die like goose #i'm running on fumes posting this #we'll all be reading this for the first time in the morning

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