#Maverick Pro

[nixies-creations]

Hangster, Famous AU: Pro Golfer Bradley x Actor Jake.

"Rumors have been swirl about a rather....torrid affair between yourself, Jake, and professional golfer, Bradley Bradshaw. Is there anything you'd like to say about the rumors?" Jake bites back the urge to sigh heavily as Javy asks the question he's been dreading to receive for his upcoming press tour for his latest movie. Instead he shoots his best, and oldest, friend a glare and thanks whatever deities that are looking down at him that at least he's been asked this while doing Javy's podcast and not on one of the many talk shows he's been booked to do for the next few weeks. Small mercies he guesses. He lets out a huffing laugh and says, "Well I'm sure some would love a little truth about an affair or so, to stir the pot as my Memaw would say, but truth his Javy, Bradshaw and I have been friends for a few years now, since he was hired as an instructor on one of my first major break out roles. The problem I believe stims from us both being out and proud queer men, who happen to be good friends for nearly a decade now. Besides, everyone know I ain't look to be settled down now and everyone knows Bradshaw's ridiculously devoted to his husband." Javy lets out a little laugh before swiftly moving on to his next question. ~~~~~~~ "Not lookin' to settle down now, baby?" Turning, Jake grins, big and bright as he sees Bradley leaning up against the doorway to the room Javy records in, wearing a pair of Jake's own sweats and his oversized hoodies, "Hey, darlin'." Shoving himself up and off the couch, he strides over, hands reaching out to cup Bradley's scruff covered cheek and tilts his head down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "Why would I need to look to settle, when you already got me to do that nearly thirteen years ago, honey?" Bradley lets out a soft hum, kissing back once, twice and then again before drawing back to smile dopily at him. "That is a fantastic point, sweetheart." "And you are ridiculously devoted to your husband," Jake adds, lips some how stretching into a wider, brighter grin, "I should know, since I'm him."

[stopthatfool]

thinking about twink maverick and wondering how people think he’s a twink. genuinely. I look at these images and see, while yes a short man, a man who is also muscular and probably weighs a ton in pure muscle

If he’s a twink then everyone in that movie is a twink. and i dont think that’s correct.

According to wikipedia, this is what they say twinks are:

So let’s break this down.

1. Late teens to twenties

Sure. Maverick is in his twenties. But only looking at age would technically make me a twink so whatever. Let’s move on.

2. Slim to average physique

Maverick does not have an average physique. That man is built. He is in peak physical condition. He doesnt just sometimes work out, he is actively working out. Look at his arms! His trapezius! Those muscles are clearly developed and strong! In certain uniforms, his waist appears smaller, but that’s what the flight suit does to all silhouettes. Maverick is built like a brick, yes with hips, but he’s not little. He’s short of course, but he’s not small. He’s not lithe, he is muscular, he is BUILT! Look at the left bottom picture. Look at how rectangular. Look at how NOT lithe he is. Look at how not skinny he is. Like come on now.

3. Youthful/feminine appearance

While he is extremely youthful looking as Tom Cruise always appears, i disagree that tom cruise/maverick in Top Gun looks feminine. But that’s not to say that tom cruise has never appeared feminine or twink-like in any way. Legend (1985) is an example of his twink and feminine abilities. But for maverick i would argue that he looks very masculine. Boyish, which some argue is another visual feature for twinks, but not feminine (in my humble opinion).

4. Little to no body hair

To think that maverick has no body hair is just maverick unibrow erasure and i wont stand for it. But seriously. While tom cruise was waxed and oiled up for top gun, this is also happy trail erasure. I will now provide proof.

One of them is from mission impossible but um idc. It’s proof that Maverick HAS body hair, both around his chest and in … lower areas… but Maverick is not hairless enough to be a twink, especially because he doesnt fall into the other necessary categories to excuse/ignore his body hair.

5. (Kind of a half point because not all definitions and understandings of the word twink align with this) but it seems a lot of modern connotations of the word twink are parallel to exclusively bottoming

See here the most popular definition of the word twink on urban dictionary. I dont think that Maverick exclusively bottoms. Maverick FUCKS too. Like it’s not just Ice doing the fucking. Like Mav fucks. He fucks, guys you dont understand he fucks.

Therefore, Maverick, in my opinion, is not a twink. He is Maverick. The end.

[kristiano1979]

All hail the king

[flmboyz]

Clean 1972 Ford Maverick

[blazingstar29]

What's your thoughts on mav wearing ice's clothes and being swamped, like sweater paws and everything 🥹🥹

first of all, YES. second of all:

They both choose to spend their money on different things, that's how it starts. For Maverick it's an obvious choice, his bike. Everything goes into the Kawasaki and what's left goes into less exciting things like rent and groceries. Ice on the other hand pools his money into clothing. Only a few pieces at a time, nothing crazy, but he's a firm believer in comfort and longevity. Which also means he's never out of fashion, though he does play into trends he think will last. (slider calls ice a sloane ranger and he didn't talk to him for a week)

He buys the softest wool jumpers and light, breathable cotton t shirts. It's a luxury he can justify. It's also a luxury Maverick's never bought into (white shirts and blue jeans all year round baby). When they move in together, it doesn't take him long to discover these items of clothing.

It's love at first sight.

Maverick starts to come home and shed his uniform before donning Ice's soft clothes. Some of them are already oversize on Ice which means most of them hang past Maverick's hips. He can't help it though. As much as he loves the uniform, when he's tired and a little bit over stimulated, all he wants is familiar, gentle fabrics.

The first time Ice sees him wearing on of his shirts, Maverick is standing in the kitchen. The collar slips down on one shoulder, exposing the freckled skin. Ice fucks him in it before the week is out.

When the winter months draw in, Maverick continues to steal the clothes. The jumpers are harder, because if he wants to get stuff done the sleeves are just too long and piss him off. But when he's not doing anything? He secretly enjoys the way it the jumpers loose and baggy. It makes him feel safe. Once or twice he uses his sweater paws to slap Ice on the ass.

But some quick notes

Maverick thinks that Ice's woolen sailing jumpers are way to scratchy and thinks its the reason rich people are so grumpy

"imagine wearing that all the time. you've got your awesome boat and you're wearing an itchy jumper. i'd be grumpy too"

ice wears mav's shirts for funsies but they're tight enough to give him a public indecency charge

Mav loves steaing ice's shirts and jumpers and any tops really, but he hates the feeling of trousers being too big, so ice gets to keep those

eventually ice offers to show mav where he buys his clothes so he can have some of his own but mav said he'd still love them just as much if they were college handouts

after this, ice goes to the thrift store and buy some random shirts and wears them for a while. that way mav can have some of ice's shirts to do odd job and work on his bike

[compacflt]

if you're open to angsty prompts - tgm mission goes bad and Ice gets to accept Bradley and Mav's flags at their funerals? (but only if you're feeling angsty. if not, feel free to ignore!)

San Diego, California. November 2016.

It should not be surprising that the complicated politics of a funeral like Mitchell’s supersede even the national grief of losing him, but of course it is. The Defense Department and the new administration (loudly Tweeting out of their asses because the President-Elect hasn’t yet been sworn in) want to hold it in Arlington. Do it in D.C., show American unity, show how proud we are of our fallen aviator, who sacrificed himself for America’s national interests, bury him in Virginian soil next to Kennedy’s eternal flame… It’s not a terrible idea, geopolitically speaking. But the Republican leadership of the state of Texas wants a piece of him, too. Why not bury him in the National Cemetery in Dallas? That’s where he’s from. Lay him to rest in the soil of his forefathers, as all good men should be. But the entire Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy, it is argued by people who aren’t Kazansky, also has a stake in this. Bury him at sea. He gave his life for the Navy. This is how it ought to be. Bury both Mitchell and Bradshaw at sea the way we buried other American Navy heroes like John Paul Jones. (When he hears this argument, Kazansky also remembers that we buried Osama bin Laden at sea, too.)

The whole political clusterfuck is put to rest at last in mid-November, when someone bothers to ask Kazansky what he thinks, and Kazansky says, “I’ll remind you that there’s absolutely nothing left of him to bury. But Mitchell lived in California for the last thirty years of his life. He told me he’d want to be buried in San Diego. I don’t really care where you put him. But that’s what he said he wanted.” And after Pacific Command leadership hears this and communicates it to the White House, everyone all of a sudden bends over backwards to organize a joint funeral in San Diego, where Bradshaw’s parents are buried, anyway. Maybe it really is fitting. Okay.

It’s a funny thing, ritual. The military’s full of it. A funeral: that’s a ritual. So, too, is promotion, retirement, commissioning in the first place. So, too, is the everyday ritual of getting dressed, donning battle gear, which today is dress blues, the way it was the day Mitchell died. Medals instead of ribbons. The President posthumously gave Bradshaw and Mitchell Medals of Honor. Their bodies would be wearing them, if there were bodies to bury. The President prehumously gave Kazansky and Seresin Medals of Honor as well. Kazansky’s is sitting around his throat like a noose. He feels like nothing but a body himself, no soul, already passed-on. They’ll lower Mitchell’s empty casket into the ground this afternoon and Kazansky’s already thinking about climbing inside it before they do. He’s not so un-self-aware that he can’t see the absurdity in that thought. But he’s also not so self-aware that he isn’t having that thought.

It’s the highest-profile funeral Kazansky’s attended in a few years. The Secretary of State is here. The Secretary of Defense is here. The Secretary of the Navy is here. The Vice President is here. He, too, has only recently lost a son; he, too, has already lost someone he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. They don’t talk, but when they shake hands, it feels like stronger solidarity than all the Sorry for your losses Kazansky’s received over the past couple weeks. Everyone here knows about him and Mitchell, in a way that had once been Kazansky’s worst nightmare; now, his actual worst nightmare having been realized, he can’t bring himself to care, and no one’s making a big deal out of it. When they say, Sorry for your loss, they don’t mean in the “loss of two highly strategic assets for the U.S. Pacific Fleet” sense, they mean in the “loss of the only two people you cared about more than your career” sense. Sorry for your loss. It’s not so bad. And because everyone knows, in a way that had once been Kazansky’s worst nightmare, no one bats an eye when Kazansky realizes his actual worst nightmare and accepts Mitchell’s folded flag. No, they weren’t legal family. But everyone knows they were close enough.

He tacks his own Naval aviator wings onto Mitchell’s empty casket. Twenty-one guns fire. He salutes. They lower two empty caskets into the ground and he’s still standing. It doesn’t really mean anything. It’s not really a goodbye, because neither Mitchell nor Bradshaw are actually inside. He watches Seresin struggle not to cry. He stands before a few hundred people and makes a short boring speech about service and sacrifice that he did not write. This is all political. This is all just for show. Most ritual usually is. So who gives a fuck.

He disappears before anyone can pin him down to apologize again and again, but finds that his intended hideout location has already been claimed: by the time he makes it to Goose’s grave, Seresin’s already standing there alone, his hands in his blues pockets, his cap tucked under his arm.

“I just,” says Seresin stupidly. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is sallow. They’ve never really spoken, the two of them, but Kazansky’s heard the rumors about him and Bradshaw. And he’s sure Seresin’s heard the rumors about him and Mitchell. They’re in the same leaking boat, here. “Bradley talked about him all the time.” Gestures down to the grave. “And about you. And about Maverick.”

Kazansky says, “Would you want to have lunch with me? I’m not very hungry. But maybe we can talk.” He’s trying. Too little too late, but he’s trying.

He exchanges his jingling blues coat for a regular suit jacket in the armored Suburban. Takes the Medal of Honor off as he does. Seresin, still only a lieutenant, doesn’t have the luxury of a general staff who will carry around a wardrobe change on his behalf. He’s gonna have to make do with his dress blues. He’s nervously fingering the Medal of Honor around his neck, and will continue to do so long after they’ve taken their seats in a restaurant downtown where Kazansky used to take Mitchell out for dinner, not so long ago. He can hear his chief flag aide kindly whispering to their waiter: Somewhere in the back. Where they won’t be bothered. Everyone’s being so kind.

“I could kill him,” Seresin says after a few minutes.

“Who?” says Kazansky incuriously. He’s been running his fingers over the condensation on his water glass. Now his fingertips are wet. Actions and consequences.

“Cyclone. He’s the one who refused to send me. And he didn’t launch search-and-rescue, either.”

Kazansky blinks, then looks down at his menu. “No, son, that was me.”

Seresin’s Then I could kill you goes unsaid. It’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Kazansky’s read through the menu—every word—twice. Then Seresin says, “Why?”

“You would’ve searched for the rest of your life and rescued nothing, and blamed yourself.”

“I blame myself for not going anyway. For not disobeying orders. —Maverick would’ve gone.”

Yeah, he probably would have. Kazansky remembers, in a split second, a story Mitchell had only told him a few years ago, lying next to him in the dark, a little tipsy after dinner and touchy-feely as he always was lying next to Kazansky in the dark: I don’t think I ever told you the story of how I saved Cougar’s life. His warm hands, gentle and unhurried, sliding up and down Kazansky’s abdomen: it’s so funny the details you choose to overlook at the time, and only remember when you lose them. / Well, I never wanted to ask. You hate telling those stories, I thought, Kazansky had said. Because it was true. At any party, Mitchell could tell the stories of how he saved Cougar’s life and how he ejected out of a flat spin at TOPGUN and how he shot down three MiGs not two weeks later—but he’d always have nightmares about all of it the night after. He hated telling those stories. He’d only do it if people asked, so Kazansky never asked. / You’re here in bed next to me, Mitchell said, so I’ll sleep just fine. Let me be a hero for you for once. —It was the day I saw that first Soviet MiG up close. Remember that? Negative four-G inverted dive? That was real, baby. Scared the shit outta Cougar. Messed him up bad. I mean, he thought we were all cooked. He wasn’t gonna land, I mean. Or if he tried, he was gonna plow right into the side of the boat. Couldn’t see straight. You ever been so scared you couldn’t see straight? He was dipping his wings, power too low, basically drunk-driving his Tomcat, I mean, it was freaky. So I touch-and-goed my F-14. / Against orders, surely, Kazansky’d said. / Oh, of course. You’ve met me, haven’t you? Of course, against orders. We were both outta gas. But I took off again and circled around to find him, and guided him in, you know, level off, call the ball, there you go, Coug, you got it, you got it. Don’t know if he ever told you this—he probably did ten million dollars of damage to that plane. Fucked up the landing gear and snapped off his tailhook and ground up into the fuselage. / But he lived. / But he lived, Mitchell said, and that’s how I got sent to TOPGUN. And that’s—with a soft sweet kiss—how I met you. / My hero, Kazansky’d said.

“Yeah,” he says noncommittally. “Maverick would’ve gone. —But he’d have searched for the rest of his life and rescued nothing, and blamed himself.”

Seresin says, “Is that what happened with him and Bradley’s dad? Is that what happened with Goose?”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for another while. The waiter comes by to take their orders. Kazansky’s not hungry and orders a beer. Seresin’s starving and orders a burger and a side of onion rings and a glass of wine.

“Can I ask you a question?” Seresin says after another few minutes. “Are you, like, a coward, or something? —That speech you gave was pretty neutered, sir. You loved him and you can’t even say it at his funeral?”

It’s a stupid, immature question. The Navy doesn’t deserve to hear that out loud. Nor does Mitchell’s empty casket. Only Mitchell did, and too late now. Kazansky shrugs. “If I were a brave man,” he says, “do you think I would have let him go?”

“I’d like to think I’m a brave man,” says Seresin. “I let Bradley go because I trusted him to come back. —Honestly, I’m kind of fucking pissed about it, to be honest. Sorry for the language. But it’s the truth. The night after he died, I mean, I went apeshit. Tore up our photos, punched the wall, cried myself fucking dry, that kind of stupid shit. I was so mad. I trusted him to come back, and he didn’t. Thought he was a good pilot. —Sorry. Is that sacrilegious to say? We aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, are we? I don’t care. I’m still mad about it. I know I shouldn’t be. But it’s the only thing I know how to be, is angry. Does that make sense?”

“It makes sense.”

“Are you angry?”

“Yes, but not at Mitchell. You know that saying, we have old pilots and bold pilots, but never old, bold pilots? Maverick was an old, bold pilot. We both knew he was living on borrowed time. That’s how he lived.”

“Pretty fucking defeatist.”

Kazansky shrugs again. He is a man defeated.

Seresin says, “Are you gonna be okay?” Then, in the resulting silence, he says, “Sorry, stupid question. Sorry. It’s just—“ He hesitates. It’s only now that Kazansky sees the dark circles under his eyes, the tremor in his hands, the desperation in the stiffness of his shoulders. “Look, it’s just that I don’t think I’m going to be okay, and you’re a lot older than me, and I keep thinking you have, like, the answer. Some wisdom, you know what I mean? How am I gonna be okay? You’re the Commander of the Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy. Aren’t you supposed to know what to do? Aren’t you supposed to give me orders? What do I do?”

“If I were a wise man,” Kazansky says, “do you think I would have let him go?”

Seresin is quiet. His food comes. He immediately launches into it, eats ravenously and silently for a few minutes.

Then he says, around a bite of his burger, “You know, I was gonna ask him to marry me.”

“Bradshaw?”

“Who else?”

Kazansky blinks. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah,” says Seresin. “You know, fucking everyone is.”

“Lunch is on me,” Kazansky says.

Home, afterwards, is silent and lonely. Of course it is: Mitchell’s not here. Of course. Kazansky’s settling into it. Life so rarely gives you a choice, when assigning you ritual, routine. There’s still legal paperwork to fill out. That he can do. And there are still letters of condolences to respond to: Thank you for your kind words. Maverick was… figuring out how to end that sentence will give Kazansky a way to occupy his time for a while. And there are flowers to throw out—no one wants flowers after someone they care about has died. They stink up the house and permeate everything with their reminder of grief and mourning, and you’ll find the dried petals even months later and grieve and mourn all over again. Kazansky throws them all out before they can start shedding. There are friends to call and thank for coming. “I don’t know what to say,” Slider says over the phone. / “Yeah, neither do I,” says Kazansky, so they sit in silence on the line together for a while, and that’s pretty nice. / “He was the best of us,” says Sundown, and Kazansky thinks about what Seresin had said a few hours ago: Thought he was a good pilot. It’s a cruel thought, but sometimes the only thing you can be is angry: if Maverick really was the best of us, he should’ve come home. / “You know, I’m still in his debt,” says Cougar. “He saved my life thirty years ago. It’s so fucking stupid, you know what I mean, this idea that I should’ve saved his in return? Feels like it’s my fault that he died. Maybe I’m too superstitious. I’m indebted to a fucking dead man. I’ll never be able to pay him back. —Sorry, Ice. Sorry. I don’t mean to make it all about me. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” says Kazansky. “Don’t, um—look, I’m just curious. How did he save your life? Would you mind telling me?”

“I don’t remember too much of it, to be honest,” says Cougar. “That’s why I quit, isn’t it? Something wrong with me. I was so scared I couldn’t see straight. You ever been so scared you couldn’t see straight? I wouldn’t have landed if it weren’t for Maverick. Or, if I had tried, I think I would’ve plowed into the side of the boat. Dipping my wings, power too low, basically drunk-driving my Tomcat. There was something wrong with me. You know, they could’ve kicked him out for that stunt, touch-and-going his F-14 like that. We were both outta gas. It could’ve killed him, too. But he guided me in. Saved my life. —I don’t think I ever told you this. I probably did about ten million dollars of damage to that plane. Fucked up my landing gear, snapped off my tailhook, ground up into the fuselage.”

“But you lived.”

“But I lived,” says Cougar. “And I came home to my family. Only ‘cause of him.”

“He was a hero.”

“He was a fucking hero,” says Cougar. “To the very fucking last. Sorry you had to go and fall in love with him. They advise against that, don’t they?”

“What, falling in love with heroes?”

“Yeah. —Sorry. Not funny.”

“A little funny. In a cosmic sense. Means it’s my own fault.”

Cougar pauses. “It wasn’t your fault, Ice.”

There’s still a Fleet to be run. Still work to be done. Kazansky can do that. People will laud him for the rest of his life for his professionalism under duress. He works when he should be grieving. Work is a ritual, too. Take some time off, sir, one of the Chief of Naval Operations’ aides had begged him. You need time. But he can’t. Only thing to do is keep working until all the work is done. The geopolitical situation after the mission, which was still classified as a success, is quite bad. They knew it would be. A bombing mission on Russian territory right near the American general election? Yeah, that’s bad. Russia’s Foreign Ministry has openly stated that if they find any remains of Mitchell and Bradshaw’s bodies, they will not extradite them home to the United States. I’m sorry you had to hear that, the President e-mailed him personally. But it’s fine. Kazansky likes the chaos. Means there’s work to do. He works.

When he can’t work anymore, because he’s done all the work that needs to be done, he takes care of another ritual. Life assigned him this one without giving him a choice, too. It’s past 2200. He turns no light on. He’s not sleeping in their bed, which is pretty cliché, and maybe he should be stronger than that, but you do have to make some concessions to your own grief when something like this happens. But he’s strong enough to sit on the side of it that had been his and open his phone and dial the number of his only favorited contact and hold the phone to his ear. It gives the dial tone five times, as is routine, and then Mitchell picks up the phone, as is routine. Hi! Captain Pete Mitchell here! Unfortunately I’m not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message, or if it’s Navy business, you can shoot me an e-mail at C. A. P. T. dot P. dot Mitchell at navy dot mil. Thanks! Bye. Maybe Mitchell’s just busy. Maybe Mitchell’s somewhere without cell service. Maybe Mitchell’s just out flying.

Kazansky considers leaving a message, as is routine; realizes he doesn’t know what to say, as is routine; and hangs up, as is routine.

He takes all his medals off the rack of his double-breasted blues coat, packs them back into their clear-plastic-velvet boxes. He considers, momentarily, throwing out the Medal of Honor with the flowers. But he’s too self-aware to do that. He hangs up his coat on its felt-lined hanger, steams it straight, does the same to his slacks, slips the ensemble back into its garment bag, hangs it up next to Mitchell’s in their closet. This is a ritual, too. He takes a shower. He eats something. He answers a couple e-mails. He climbs into a bed that is not his own. He holds one of Mitchell’s college sweatshirts over his face and breathes in. He takes stock. His fuel gauge is reading pretty low. He knows his wings are dipping. If he really thought about it, he’d say he’s so scared he can’t see straight. And the truth is—he’s not so un-self-aware that he can’t recognize this, however numbly—Maverick’s not coming home to guide him in to land. Maverick’s never coming home again. Thought you were a good pilot. He closes his eyes. He tries to sleep.

[hughesvolpe]

We love a cast that fights for fair wages and fair treatment

[writercole]

Drive Me Crazy

Summary: A chance at a promotion becomes more than a chance encounter and a date is far better than par. Words: 1330 Warnings: bad puns, objectification, innuendo, language Credits: @princessmisery666 for being the best beta ever. A/N: I could not have done this without my Opie. This AU has been in development for quite some time now and literally would not exist had my Ope not forced me to watched this stupid movie about these stupid planes and stupid hot boys. I still have strong negative feelings about Tom Cruise.

Carla knew that her best chance of getting her promotion lay in impressing her bosses at the golf game she was invited to at the end of the week. The only problem was her lack of skills.

Everyone at the office raved about the golf pro at Sandy Dunes Country Club. When she called, she was informed that lessons were available to non members at a higher price and more limited schedule. She booked for every available afternoon slot.

Now that she’d arrived, twenty minutes early for her first lesson, staring at the lavish landscaping in front of the columned building through her windshield, she wasn’t sure she had made the right decision. Golf had nothing to do with her job in marketing. Her performance over the last several years garnered rave reviews from both superiors and clients alike and her colleagues adored and respected her. She didn’t need to be good at golf.

My marketing game is on par, I don’t need a golf score, too. That thought drew a laugh from her and gave her the courage to go meet this golf pro, Bradley Bradshaw.

“Who names their kid Brad Brad, anyway?” she muttered under her breath as she stepped into the lobby. Her sneakers squeaked with every step she took, giving her the feeling that everyone was staring at her, judging her.

She saw a group of men standing over by the pro shop, impeccably dressed and impossibly handsome, all three of them. One of them looked like a living Ken doll and another looked straight out of the California surf. The third reminded her of a more handsome Ricky Ricardo with his jet black hair and brown eyes. They all looked up as she passed, her eyes darting away quickly to avoid being caught, though they didn’t seem to care if they were taking their turn to ogle her as their eyes followed her inside.

She scanned the small shop, spotting another broad shouldered man, his back towards her as he arranged stock behind the counter. She approached slowly, still dreading the actual lesson but slightly less apprehensive about meeting her instructor. If he was half as attractive as the male models standing at the door she’d have trouble paying attention, but at least she’d have some eye candy. 

“Excuse me,” she called, stepping up to the counter. As the man turned, she had to suppress a gasp. His eyes drew her in immediately. Warm and dark, they reminded her of tidepools on the beach, the sand turning the ocean water a brownish shade before it washed back out to sea. 

The depths of his enchantment deepened when her eyes landed on the soft brown mustache, something that would have been commonplace forty years ago but had fallen out of fashion - and rightfully so - yet somehow, this man pulled it off. The faded scars on his cheeks told of a deep past, something that piqued her curiosity without him ever having spoken a word. As his eyes focused on her face, his lips curled into a soft smile, making her swoon inside.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked. His voice was rich and velvety, wrapping her in a warmth that made her feel safe.

“I’m looking for Bradley Bradshaw? I have a lesson at 3,” she said, controlling her voice well enough that he didn’t hear the tremble of anxiety or the breathlessness of her attraction towards him.

“You’ve found him. It’s nice to meet you.” He rounded the edge of the counter and extended his hand. His hand engulfed hers, calloused and warm and strong. 

“You say that now. But by the time our lesson is over for today you may feel differently.” She chuckled as she let his hand go, casting her eyes down in embarrassment.

“Why’s that?” 

“Oh, I’m terrible at anything athletic.” 

His eyebrows raised and his arms folded across his chest as he eyed her in disbelief. “I highly doubt that, sweetheart. I bet you could run circles around me.”

“Well, running isn’t really athletic and -”

“Running builds stamina. It’s important for pretty much every other sport as well as…other activities.” He winked and her face flushed, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth as her eyes found anything else to look at. The whistles and cheers from the group of men were silenced with a single look before he turned his attention back to her. “Let’s head out to the driving range. See what you’ve got.”

She let him walk in front of her when an idea crossed her mind. “What does driving have to do with golf?” she scoffed with a tsk. When Bradley turned around, his mouth ajar and eyebrows furrowed, it took everything in her to keep a straight face.

"You're kidding right?"

"I know about the golf carts but I mean, I drove here in a car. Shouldn't that count for something?"

Bradley scrubbed his hand down his face, folding his arms across his chest covering the sigh that escaped him with a hand over his mouth.

"I told you I'm not athletic!"

"That's not - I mean I - You -" he stammered as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, resting his hands on his hips when his gaze returned to her. When his eyes landed on her face, her eyes twinkled with mischief and her bottom lip pinched between her teeth, his jaw dropped. "You're fucking with me."

Laughter burst from her mouth, her head tipping back before she doubled over. Several long moments later, struggling to catch her breath, she wiped tears from her eyes. “The look on your face, Bradley. It was worth everything,” she stated through her laughter.

“Worth me dropping you as a client?” he offered.

“Oh, absolutely. I don’t even want to learn golf,” she shrugged. 

“So why hire me?”

“It’ll give me an edge for a promotion,” she sighed. “Old white men and their boys clubs. They invited me to go golfing with them this weekend at some private course and I know zip about how to play.”

“Old white men and - you wouldn’t be talking about Mitchell, Simpson, and Caine, would you?”

“How did you know that?” she questioned, her eyes narrowing.

“They play on my dad’s course.”

“Wait, Goose is your dad?”

“Yeah, they were all in the Navy together -”

“Before they retired and went their separate ways and get together every couple of weeks to hang out.” She shut her eyes and groaned. Of course that would be the case. “I’ve heard their stories a thousand times. I work for Caine Technology.”

“In that case, I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Bradley smirked, “he sucks at golf. So do the other three, my dad included.”

“Then how did you become a golf pro?”

“Sorry, that information is reserved for a second date.”

“A second date? I wasn’t aware this was a first date,” she flirted.

“Well, this isn’t, exactly. But I had planned on offering to buy you a drink afterwards at this great place I know that just happens to be attached to a restaurant.”

“Did I just ruin your plans?”

“Depends on what your answer is.”

“And if my answer is yes?”

“Then I guess you haven’t ruined my plans.” Bradley tucked his hands in his pockets and grinned at her, a boyish smile that made his eyes light up.

“Good,” she smirked, but her expression soon sobered and she looked very serious. “But my plans consist of beating your dad’s friends at golf so I need you to show me everything you know.” 

“In that case, let’s work on your short game first. None of them can putt worth a damn,” he chuckled as he offered his arm and led her to the practice area. His track record with women had him sitting pretty in the nest as an Eagle, but with Carla, he wanted to get an ace or at least avoid the sand and land in the green.

[could-they-be-a-pro-wrestler]

How successful would Lt. Jake 'Hangman' Seresin…

Would you like to submit a character? Click this link if you do!

[radracer]

Ford Maverick

[reylatek]

The Foundation vs Fight Or Flight (Rockstar Pro Amped - Sep. 14, 2016)

[abirddogmoment]

We did barn hunt for the first time in over a year and Mav absolutely rocked it!

[lunapwrites]

I don't know what goat I have to sacrifice to which deity to get Ford to stop calling and texting me thinking I'm my partner (this after speaking to them several times EACH and saying "no, please remove this number and use the other one on file. yes, that one.")

[kristiano1979]

Luka Dončić y su nueva era

Llevo viendo basquetbol, y en especial la NBA, desde los años 90s. Pude disfrutar la era Jordan y los Bulls, a los Spurs de los 2000s y, por supuesto, a la dinastía de los GSW. Luego de eso, dejé de seguir a esta liga y retomé en 2021 con el tremendo campeonato de los Bucks y Giannis.

Siendo un irrestricto seguidor de los gloriosos verdes #BostonCeltics, creo que hace mucho que veía a un jugador que represente mi forma de ver el juego y, de alguna forma, a la misma vida también. Y ese es Luka Dončić.

Este post es un tributo al gran Luka Magic o Luka Legend, que el tiempo le dé la razón y se premie como corresponde a esta legenda en formación.

[crystlizabeth]

My Marauders era Face Claims!

By me Cryst☆

Kiki layne as Aurora Sinistra

Ella Rattigan as Narcissa Black

Lois Garrel as Severus Snape

Cody Fern as Lucius Malfoy

Lovie Simone as Crystal Maverick

[triviareads]

The problem with western romances is that there will inevitably be heroes called mavericks in the title or in the text and I'm forcibly reminded of John McCain.