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outerbankies · 2 years ago

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listen… cat and jake spin-off?

Always Ever Only You Part 12 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Asking your friends for help when you need it is starting to feel good instead of scary. Even listening to Cat open up doesn't sting like it once did. Bradley starts to have an ominous feeling about his upcoming mission, and when the details are revealed, he's left wondering what his career will be like in the future.

Warnings: Angst, swearing, fluff

Length: 4400 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Always Ever Only You masterlist. Gorgeous banner by @mak-32

There was truly something to be said for the way you felt after you talked to Dr. Genevieve. Even though your period was a few days late, and you had been holding out hope, you didn't go quite to pieces when it did end up starting. Sure, there were some tears as you opened up a new box of tampons, but you didn't dwell on it as much as you had the past several cycles in a row.

In fact, when you thought you couldn't take the physical pain of your cramps and the mental pain as well, you called Maria. You told her that you didn't want to be alone and asked if she could stop by. And she came over with a backpack and some donuts.

"What's in the bag?" you asked as you bit into a Boston cream.

"Clothes for tomorrow," she replied, petting Tramp while she ate a chocolate donut with sprinkles. "I figured I could sleep over."

"You don't have to," you whispered, now feeling a little embarrassed.

But she just shrugged. "I've been a little lonely, too. My new roommate has never been as fun as you were."

"Nobody is," you added, biting into a second donut. You figured you earned it, since you'd started to get back on track with what you were eating. "Thanks for joining me in the cafeteria at work."

"Thanks for actually coming to lunch. Cam is hella boring to eat with every day."

You groaned and headed for the couch with a bottle of wine. "Ugh, I left you hanging with Cam. I'm sorry." You were going to be better about taking care of everything. Yourself, your marriage, Bradley, and your friends.

Maria just laughed and followed behind you with two glasses and a corkscrew. "I love him, but he's still a dude. And just inherently dumb. He can't help it."

The girl talk ended up spiraling into a great weekend, and when you went to work on Monday morning, you still felt good. And Bickel had been a saint, not acting weird or giving you too much distance at all since you broke down hard in his office. Sure, maybe he was asking you how you were feeling with a little more frequency, but he kept your workload the same and never questioned anything you handed in to him.

And then there was Cat. Since you kind of blew the Jake thing up in her face, she'd been very quiet. Jake was still claiming nothing was going on now, but you'd never have been able to get an answer out of Cat one way or the other. And now you were thinking maybe you should have just minded your own business. Because Jake seemed melancholy, and he hadn't actually ended things himself even after he learned about Uncle Hondo.

"Good morning," you said to Cat later in the week when you walked into the lab. She seemed surprised you were greeting her.

'Hi," she responded, slipping back into her usual state of calm immediately. "If you're about to ask about the calculation set, I'm almost done. I just need another hour or two."

"No rush," you replied. "Um, actually, I was wondering if you wanted to join me for lunch today?"

She eyed you skeptically. "In the cafeteria?"

You shrugged. "Or my office?"

When Cat didn't respond right away, you wanted to kick yourself. But then she said, "I feel like you and I just keep getting off to bad start after bad start with each other. I'd like to eat with you, but I don't want to go down to the cafeteria. At all. Just looking at Lieutenant Seresin makes me want to hide."

"Care to elaborate?" you asked cautiously.

She just smirked. "Sure. Over lunch. In your office."

---------------------------

Bradley had stripped down to his underwear and gym shorts, and he was currently trying his hardest to meditate on his bed. Bob had spent the last several weeks patiently trying to explain to him exactly what went into it, but Bradley would reach a state of calm and then inevitably get distracted.

He cracked his eyes open to see Bob in a state of complete relaxation on his own bed. Something about this just didn't work as well for him, and his brain was buzzing, so Bradley reached for his notebook instead. There were too many things he wanted to write down. It felt like he wasn't going to be able to stop emptying out all of his feelings now that he started, and after several weeks, the notebook was mostly full.

The desire to be at home was overwhelming. Thinking about eating homemade Marry Me Rooster with his wife perched on his lap was all that was getting him through this deployment. As soon as he was home, he'd make sure you knew exactly what you meant to him. There were no conditions on his love, and he was embarrassed and crushed that maybe he made you think there were.

He only had a few more weeks to go. But things with the mission were looking abysmal. Slayer and Charmer were getting worse to deal with by the day, and the way the admirals praised them was beyond ridiculous. Like the shiny, new aviators were somehow better than the ones with more experience. Like Bradley, Nat and Bob couldn't keep up now. It was hard to keep believing that the admirals would actually put the best team together to complete the mission.

"Wow," Bob suddenly said, stretching his arms over his head and removing his glasses. "That was a great session."

"Yep," Bradley agreed, nodding as he scribbled in the notebook. "Really good, Bob."

But the other man was already pulling the bedding up to his shoulders, and Bradley knew he'd be asleep soon. "Good for you," he muttered, returning to his notebook.

Nat and Bob were so good to him, this deployment should have been a breeze. And it had improved since he got to talk to you over facetime in the commanding officer's quarters, but he thought he'd go ahead and start a countdown in the notebook anyway. Just eighteen more days until he should be arriving back in San Diego. And he was hoping like hell he would get to call you again before then.

But a few days later, he still hadn't been selected for another facetime session. And Bob and Nat got called out onto the tarmac after dinner for a repairs inspection that was performed on their Super Hornet. So Bradley headed to the gym for a workout by himself, and the room was thankfully fairly empty. He put in his ear buds and got out his phone. He selected the playlist you made for him last year called This is what a gym playlist should sound like, Bradley and he smiled.

Pretty soon he was sweating, working his way through some bicep curls, when he saw Slayer out of the corner of his eye. He would ignore him. No problem. Only two weeks left to go. Only a few more days until the mission. "Do not engage," Bradley muttered to himself.

But of course he couldn't control what Slayer decided to do, and the idiot wandered over toward him. And then he snatched his phone off of the bench, and Bradley was on his feet immediately, still clutching the fifty pound dumbbell in his left hand.

"What the hell do you want?" Bradley asked, plucking one ear bud out. "It's bad enough I have to see you in the classroom all day."

Slayer just laughed, and Bradley realized he was staring at his lock screen. "Just wanted another look at your wife. How much younger is she, old man? She got a grandpa fetish or something?"

Bradley's fingers tightened around the dumbbell, and he wished he'd given more of an effort to meditating with Bob.

He was seething. And then Slayer asked him, "You know what? Why don't you just give me her number so I can keep her warm next time you're out of town?"

Bradley had to fight the urge to throw the dumbbell at him. "You talk an awful lot for someone so stupid."

"And you strut around like you own the place for something who can barely fly."

Bradley's blood was boiling now. The admirals had pumped these kids so full of bullshit, there was going to be no arguing with him. Instead he snatched his phone out of Slayer's hand and pocketed it. "And you're slow as shit versus an old man. Now get back to your bunk, it's almost curfew for the children."

Slayer smirked at him as he backed away toward an empty weight bench. "Just wait. You'll see."

--------------------------

You had made it this far, you could make it two more weeks. But you got your period again, right on time. And you knew it was ridiculous to get choked up when you had to get the tampons and pads out again, because Bradley wasn't even home. You hadn't had intercourse since he left six weeks ago. You knew there was no way. But just the idea of knowing another cycle was ending had tears stinging behind your eyes.

When you heard the doorbell, you quickly washed your hands and rushed out to where Tramp was practically howling at the front door. "Chill out," you told him. "You'll be happy. You loved him last time."

"Hi," Cat said as soon as you opened the door, and you saw Hondo pull away in his green Chevy. Jeremiah was in her arms, and once again, he smiled when he saw you. Things at work were a lot better, including having several nice conversations with Cat.

"Sorry, little guy," you said softly as they came inside. "No Rooster this time."

Cat laughed. "I think your dog will suffice. He loves animals."

When you closed the door, you watched Tramp follow them over to the couch, and then he started licking Jeremiah's little hands nonstop while the baby laughed. "If he's annoying, I can put him out back for a bit."

"No," Cat said as she and her son both laughed. "This is great." And then Jeremiah broke free from her arms and stood with both hands on Tramp. And you swore your dog had never been happier either.

A little pang of sadness struck your heart as Tramp looked all too delighted at the attention he was being given. You were searching for a safe topic of conversation. Cat had been joining you for lunch on occasion, which was great. But now you found that you had so many friends, you needed to juggle your time with them. Cam and Cat were a little awkward around each other. And Cat wouldn't tell you exactly how she felt about Jake, but you knew Jake was sad and Cat was avoiding him.

So you asked her, "You still feel like hiding from Jake at work?" It seemed like a safe enough topic, and you almost laughed when she covered her face and collapsed dramatically against the arm of the couch.

"Please! You keep asking me about this!"

"I'm curious by nature," you claimed. "And you never really told me anything."

She glanced at you as Jeremiah went crawling across the floor after Tramp. "I'm still embarrassed that I even kissed him in the first place. Uncle Bernie and I had it out several times about all the push ups, but he was just trying to take care of me. And I know that sounds like an excuse, but... keeping someone like Jake away from me is probably his top priority while Jer and I are living with him."

You tried to keep your composure, because you and Cat seemed to finally be getting along, but you just couldn't understand why she wouldn't give Jake a chance for real. "He's a good guy, Cat. God... I can't even tell you how many times he's helped me out and made me feel safe."

She turned to face you where you sat at the other end of the couch. "He's exactly like my ex husband. A cocky, handsome aviator who is too smart for his own good."

You shrugged and kind of nodded, because that definitely sounded like Jake. "Well whatever your ex did to piss you off, I doubt Jake would be the same. Are you afraid he won't accept Jeremiah?"

She swallowed hard. "I'd rather not even find out where he stands on his opinions about my son. And listen, there's a reason why my ex husband never met Jeremiah. And it's the same reason I never let him know our son's social security number or where we ran off to. I'm sure he has a hunch that I was able to transfer to Top Gun, but Mike is definitely too scared to come sniffing around for more while I'm with Bernie."

You shook your head in confusion. "Come sniffing around for more of what?"

"Money," she said simply, but her jaw was set, and she looked ready for a fight. And you should have probably known all along that there was more than what she had told you over the past few months. You were pretty sure you were the only one who even knew about Jeremiah, besides Bradley and Cam. And if Cat was the type of person who took their time opening up to people, you were surprised that you were the one she was talking to about this.

"He wants your money?" you asked softly.

Since she borrowed your car, you knew she didn't have one, and she said that she was broke. But your jaw dropped open when she said, "Mike was dishonorably discharged from the navy for showing up to work drunk and drinking while on base. He tanked his own career, and nobody in Annapolis could even look at me the same after that."

"Why would he do that?"

She laughed, but she looked like she was going to cry. "Because I told him I was pregnant."

Jeremiah was laying on his back now while Tramp licked his neck, and he was giggling up a storm. "I'm so confused," you told her. "He didn't want you to get pregnant?"

"Well he told me he would be happy to have kids. But by the time I told him I was pregnant with Jer, he had already opened four credit cards in my name. He had already lost all of our savings. And he knew I was going to find out about all of it as soon as I mentioned us opening a bank account for our unborn child."

"Oh."

When she met your eyes, she shook her head. "He has a gambling addiction." You watched as she wiped at her cheek. "I used to own a beautiful house," she said, glancing around longingly. "I had a car. He and I had money saved. But he managed to lose all of it, plus the credit card advancements in my name. I owe more than half a million dollars in money that I didn't spend. Money that I never saw. And that doesn't include what I've paid to my lawyers. Mike did all of that while I thought we were building a life together."

"Holy shit," you whispered. You felt nauseous just thinking about it. And you were suddenly even more thankful for Bradley.

"So yeah... cocky, headstrong aviators might be my type on paper, but I can't get involved. And I'm sorry I was leading Jake on. But, it's not just him. I can't get serious with anyone when my life is a trainwreck that I will never be able to recover from. I'm going to be spending the rest of my life trying to make sure this doesn't all fall to him," she said, nodding toward where Jeremiah was now crawling back toward the couch with Tramp following right behind him.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I don't know what else to say except that you didn't deserve any of that, and neither did Jeremiah."

She reached down to scoop him up into her arms as he yawned. "Yeah well, I hope you're smarter than me. I hope you had a prenup."

You sat quietly and watched as she kissed Jeremiah's forehead and reached into the diaper bag she brought with her so he could eat some cereal. Cat had been honest with you. She told you months ago that she was jealous of you, and now you knew why. You had all these things that you were taking for granted.

For some reason, you thought she ought to know that you'd been jealous all along, too. "You still have something so good though. Something I wish I had."

She looked at you like you'd completely lost it while Jeremiah ate some Cheerios. "What? A marriage that ended in shambles and a career that is hanging on by a thread? Or the inability to ever have someone take you seriously in a relationship ever again?"

"No. Jeremiah."

She looked at you, and her face dropped. "Oh." And maybe she realized that meant you and Bradley had been trying unsuccessfully, but you changed the subject before she could ask any questions.

"But that doesn't matter, really. And you know, there are some things we do have control over here."

"Like what?" she asked, and when you smiled softly, she smiled back.

"Jake. I think you might be surprised by him, Cat. I think he'd be good with Jeremiah."

"No," she replied right away. "I'd rather not even find out. Besides, it's already too late with Jake. Even if he was going to stop sleeping around, it's done. He asked me out at least fifteen times. And I said no at least fifteen times."

"If he asked you out again, would you say yes?"

You jumped several inches when your doorbell rang again, and Tramp ran for the door like he was a professional guard dog. "We didn't even order a pizza yet," you said as you stood. But the closer you got to the door, you thought you knew who it must be, and you answered it anyway.

"Angel," Jake drawled, bending to pet Tramp who immediately turned into a puppy again at the prospect of pets from one of his favorite people. "Just thought maybe you'd want to get dinner and head to the Hard Deck later?"

When you didn't respond right away, Jake pushed the door open wider and let himself inside. Then you watched him freeze up as he saw Cat sitting on your couch with Jeremiah in her arms. "Cat."

She looked absolutely mortified as she stood up, but she had nowhere to go. She was reliant upon Hondo coming back to pick her up, and Jake was staring right at Jeremiah. "Jake," she said so softly, you could barely hear her across the room.

He huffed out a short breath and ran his fingers through his hair, past the scar on his forehead from the last time he was deployed with Bradley. You weren't sure what you should do, but then he simply said, "You have a kid."

Cat's chin was in the air again, and you knew she wouldn't let Jake or anyone else say one negative thing about that child without consequences. "His name is Jeremiah."

"Jeremiah," Jake repeated, and two sets of matching dark eyes were looking right at him before Jeremiah yawned and fell asleep on his mom's chest. "He's adorable."

Cat sank slowly down so she was sitting on the couch once again, and she looked like the fight was gone, almost like she was exhausted now. You nudged Jake in the ribs and then reached for Tramp's leash where it hung near the door. "I'll be right back. Just going to take him out." But nobody was listening to you. Once the leash was clipped on his collar, Tramp pulled you out onto the front porch. You caught one last glimpse of Jake taking up residence in the spot on the couch you'd vacated, and then you closed the door.

You puttered around the yard with Tramp before deciding to just walk him down to the beach and back. But the early spring air was chilly when the wind picked up across the sand, and you wished you'd taken a minute to grab Bradley's sweatshirt from the hook as well.

Playing a comparison game in your mind would get you nowhere, you knew that. Everything Cat told you was completely fucked up, but she had to know how that Jeremiah was worth it. And you knew that Bradley was enough, even if it was just the two of you. But now you were a little worried about Jake putting his foot in his mouth.

When you hustled back down your block, shivering as the breeze picked up some more, you saw that Jake's car was still in your driveway. And when you cautiously let yourself back inside with Tramp, you found Cat and Jake sitting very close together on the couch. And Jake was holding Jeremiah while he slept.

-------------------------

Bradley knew it would be a short call. The mission was scheduled for a few days from now, weather depending. But if he was allowed even five minutes with you, he'd take it any day of the week.

When you answered his facetime call, you were sitting in your office with your lunch in front of you. "Roo!" you gasped, dropping your fork into your burrito bowl. "I miss you!"

"I miss you, too, Sweetheart."

He watched as you turned to someone off screen and said, "Okay, thanks."

"Who are you eating lunch with?"

"Cat," you replied quickly, and he was a little surprised by that answer. "She just stepped out into the hallway so we could talk. Please tell me you'll be home on time, Bradley."

He smiled and said, "Haven't been notified of any changes, so I think so. Please tell me you got plenty of hot sauce in there."

You laughed and tipped your lunch so he could see all of the green hot sauce. "Absolutely. You know how I like it."

"I do," he replied softly as he examined your face. Beautiful. Just gorgeous. And you looked so much happier now. You looked like you'd been sleeping better.

"I wish I was sharing my lunch with you."

He nodded. "I've been thinking a lot about our dining room. And how it feels so good to hold you on my lap while we eat a meal off of one plate."

You gasped softly. "I've been thinking about that too." When your eyes drifted closed, you added, "And how you wrap your left arm around me and kiss my neck while he eat."

"Baby Girl." His voice was raspy, and he was aching to be with you right now. "We'll do everything."

But he only had one more minute with you, and he wanted to know how you were doing. When he asked, you said, "I can tell you when you get home. Tell me about the mission."

"I can't say much. Teams get selected tomorrow morning. Flight is weather dependent. You know the drill."

"I do. I just want you to be safe," you told him softly. "Need you to come home."

"I'll be there so soon. I love you."

And after that, he still felt so good as he got to the classroom a few minutes early the next morning. Admiral Dean smirked at him as he took his usual seat, and the room started filling up. Other than the fact that he had to stare at the back of Slayer's head, he was ready to get this mission in the air and get home.

"As you well know," Admiral Dean started, "the final details will not be set in stone until the day of the mission. So we are left with two options, and we need to be clear on both of them. Option A: the two teams will fly in formation and strike the communications tower first before proceeding to the enemy base. This is the preferred option as we would be removing multiple streams of communication first, but we may need to switch to an alternate flight path if they have too many aircrafts in the air. So that brings us to Option B, in which you will strike the base first and then loop around to the communications tower."

Bradley's brain was literally numb from listening to this information over and over again. He understood the importance of what needed to be done, but this was overkill now. When he glanced at Nat, she looked like she was on the verge of falling asleep. Until Dean spoke again.

"If there are no questions, that brings us to team selections. Four aircrafts will be flying this mission. We've chosen the best, and I am already convinced of the success of this mission. The teams will be as follows: Slayer will be paired with Phoenix and Bob."

His heart sank. Shit. That was supposed to be Bradley's pairing. Fucking Slayer. But it probably didn't matter too much if he was flying alongside a different two-seater, just as long as he was in the air with his friends. Really, all four aircrafts were responsible for keeping each other safe, so he wouldn't be too far from them at all.

"And the second team will be Charmer paired with Terror and Mack."

It took a second to register. But slowly, it seemed like everyone in the room was turning to stare at Bradley. Admiral Dean looked smug. Nat and Bob looked distraught. And Slayer looked damn near delighted. Then Charmer turned to him and laughed.

And Bradley had the fleeting thought that his career was over. He was the oldest aviator in the room by a few years. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was falling short with proving himself in the air just as he had been messing things up on the ground with you. And that sick, embarrassed feeling in his stomach was there to stay as all those thoughts took up permanent residence in his mind.

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Oh. That stings. That really hurt my feelings. Bradley could fly circles around them. And how do we feel about Jake? Cat? Jeremiah? Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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#noooo but fr #this is my comfort fic rn 🥹#love going through it with these characters #poor old roo #already so torn up over how he left things with bg #now he has to deal with slayer? and doubting himself as a pilot?#bob is doing his BEST!#also side detail how sweet is it jake just popped over for dinner 🥰#you love to see dagger squad holding it down while roo is gone!#and unfortunately. slayer is an amazing callsign HAHA

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trickphotography2 · 5 months ago

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Rooster wasn't for you. You were opposites in so many ways - he was an extrovert to your introvert. The center of attention to your wallflower. You weren't interested in a one night stand, and he couldn't offer more. So his volunteering to help with Friendsgiving was just a friendly gesture after you returned from a deployment...right?

Word count: 7.8K

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“Just a minute!” you called, swiping a strand of hair from your face. The knocking stopped, and you quickly washed the flour from your hands, drying them on the towel thrown over your shoulder while heading to the door.

And there, standing on your front step as the sun started to rise, was Bradley. His normally styled curls were sleep-mussed, his grey t-shirt clinging to his arms and untucked from his Navy PT sweatpants. The smile on his face grew as he took you in - sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt dotted with flour, fuzzy socks, and not a stitch of makeup. The difference from your normally put-together appearance was stark. “Morning, Duch.”

“You’re late.” Laughing, he held up a bag of microwavable frozen corn.

“Had to turn around when I forgot my contribution.” Rolling your eyes, you stepped back to let him in, watching to ensure he removed his shoes before following you into the kitchen.

“The turkey’s already thawed and in the sink. I just need you to clean it out, and I can take it from there.” Bradley nodded, tossing you the corn before going to the kitchen. You put it in the freezer and walked to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands before resuming your spot at the counter, picking up your bread lame and staring at the unbaked loaf. A part of you wanted to do a simple score, knowing that it would just be eaten, but the hostess in you demanded a more intricate design. The indecision tore at you. To buy time, you sprinkled the top with more rice flour.

“Can you get me the trashcan?” Bradley asked, and you nodded, quickly abandoning your project. After you set it beside him and pulled off the cover, he tossed the netting and plastic. You couldn’t help but notice his biceps flex as he shifted the turkey. But you shrunk back when he reached into the cavity and pulled out the giblets and gravy package, shaking your head at his raised eyebrow. He discarded them as you braced yourself, nose scrunching when he removed the neck. “You alright there, Duch?” he teased.

“Gross.”

“It’s just a turkey neck,” he said, holding it closer to you. You jumped back.

“I will throat punch you if you touch me with that.” He laughed, edging it closer, and you raised a fist. There was a reason a condition of you hosting everyone for Friendsgiving was someone else cleaning the turkey.

“Didn’t take you for being squeamish.”

“You would be, too, if your grandpa chased you around the house with it when you were a kid, and you had to lock yourself in a bathroom to escape.” At his barked laugh, you shook your head. “I told that to my ex, and he thought it was funny to put it in his zipper and chase me around the house with it. If floppy dick isn’t attractive, a turkey neck sure as shit isn’t.”

Bradley choked on a laugh. For as prim and proper as you were at times - hence the callsign Duchess - you sometimes reminded everyone that you also had a military sense of humor. “Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ‘floppy dick,’” he smirked, dropping the neck into the trash.

Shrugging, you glanced away from him when the oven beeped, alerting that it was preheated. “You’re right. Bob probably has a pretty one.” A rosy flush crept up his cheeks as he turned back to the turkey and forced a laugh. Bradley didn’t want to hear that you were thinking about Bob’s dick. “Put it in this afterward, and I’ll dry it.” After dropping the roasting pan beside him, you rewashed your hands.

Standing in front of your bread, you bit your lip to keep from giggling as you contemplated scoring a dick into the dough but decided to go with a traditional wheat stalk. To your surprise, he grabbed the roll of paper towels by the sink and patted the turkey dry, even the cavity. As you removed the Dutch oven from the preheated oven, he tied up the trash bag and took it out. After putting the bread into the oven, you set the timer and moved to the sink, glancing at Bradley when he came back in. Standing beside you, he reached for the soap and lowered the water temperature before scrubbing his hands. Removing the hand towel from your shoulder, you draped it over his after drying your hands. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Thanks for taking care of the turkey.” Standing by the island, you crouched to retrieve a cutting board. The sound of other cabinets closing made you peek over the countertop to see him rooting through the overhead storage. “Are you looking for something?”

“Coffee mugs.” Biting back a retort about making himself comfortable, you pointed to the right of the stove. You bit your tongue when he grabbed two mugs - including your favorite - and went to the wet bar where the full pot was finished brewing. Placing the cutting board on the counter, you grabbed a knife from the block and were surprised to see a mug of coffee beside your workstation. Murmuring your thanks, you grabbed the creamer from the fridge along with packages of herbs and butter. “What are you making?” Bradley asked.

“A marinade since I didn’t brine the turkey.”

“You want a hand?”

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. “I’ve got a schedule.” He didn’t need to know that you were already behind after falling asleep on the couch early last night and forgetting to set your alarm. And he definitely didn’t need to know that you’d only been awake for 20 minutes before he arrived. If you put your head down and focused, everything would still be ready to eat at the agreed-upon 3:00 PM. Some of your time to get yourself ready would just have to be sacrificed. For some reason, you’d insisted that everyone dress nicely for Friendsgiving. Wearing a uniform almost every day didn’t give you any opportunities to dress up, and sometimes it felt nice to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt.

Setting your tablet up, you navigated through the bookmarked recipes and rinsed the herbs before pulling them from the stems. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you and sipped his coffee while glancing around the kitchen. Seeing him relaxing there, one leg crossed over the other and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, made something flutter in your chest.

“You know, you could have saved a lot of time if you’d just agreed to let Hangman fry the turkey.”

That made you snort. “I just finished my renovations - the last thing I want is for my house to burn down.” It had taken months to get your home exactly how you wanted it. After twelve years in the Navy, you were ready to put down some roots, and buying a home had seemed like the smart thing to do. Living in a construction zone for the last year hadn’t been fun, but a well-timed deployment meant you weren’t there for the worst of it. The results were worth the pain, and you’d jumped at the chance to host when you got back and realized most of the squad had no plans for Thanksgiving. You couldn’t wait for them to see the changes in the Craftsman that had been a definite fixer-upper when you purchased it. The kitchen had been completely gutted and replaced with double ovens and quartz countertops, and the smaller kitchen island had been moved and changed to a wet bar with a wine fridge, replaced with an oversized one. The popcorn texture was scraped from the ceiling throughout the house, the floors redone, and the walls painted. The primary bath had been updated with a large soaker tub and walk-in shower, and you loved the giant closet. The guest bathrooms still needed work, as did the yard, but those were projects for later.

“It looks good, Duch,” he said softly, gaze holding yours for a long moment. You felt those inconvenient butterflies again and shoved them aside, dropping your eyes to the cutting board. Bradley wasn’t for you. You were too different - he enjoyed nights out at the bar, while you liked to spend time at home. He liked being the center of attention while you preferred to blend into the background. Besides, he didn’t seem much like a relationship guy, given the number of flings he had at the Hard Deck, while the idea of casual dating gave you hives. Pushing away from the counter, Bradley reached under the sink for a trashbag, putting it into the can before washing his hands. He moved closer, nose twitching slightly at the scent of rosemary, and braced his big hands on the countertop beside you. “Alright, what can I do?”

“You don’t - ”

“Lemme help.” His eyes met yours, smiling when you sighed.

“Fine. The meat injector is in here,” you said, bumping one of the drawer handles with your hip. “And I’ll need the chicken stock from the pantry.” Pouring the stock, herbs, and a couple of sticks of butter into a stockpan, you handed Bradley a silicone spatula and told him to stir. You rolled your lips together to keep from smiling when he pulled his phone from his pocket and watched videos of turkey injections before declaring he would be in charge of it. Reluctantly, you agreed. Once the marinade had cooled, the bird was given a second drying, you had finished the coffee, and Bradley had rewatched the video three times, it was time. He studied the turkey through narrowed eyes as you tried not to laugh. “You want to - ”

“Ah!”

“The breast and thighs - ”

“I’m doing it, Duch,” he cut you off.

“Well, remember that if it turns out dry.” The unimpressed look Bradley shot you made you grin as you put your chin in your hand and motioned for him to proceed. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he filled the injector and hovered the needle over the turkey. His eyes darted to you, and you raised an eyebrow. “You can tap out at any time, Rooster.” Instead of replying, he pierced the meat and pushed down on the plunger. You couldn’t help but laugh when he yelped, marinade spraying in his face after pushing too hard. But when he reached to wipe it away, you caught his hands. “Don’t put turkey germs all over your face,” you scoffed, towing him toward the sink. You held his chin while cleaning his face with wet paper towels.

“Now you’re just messing with me,” he chuckled when you scrubbed his mustache, but he didn’t pull away. His breath was hot on your hand, and his smile soft when you reached up to dab away a speck of garlic in his eyebrow. Balling up the paper towel, you shook your head.

“Wash your face with soap to make sure you don’t get salmonella. Cyclone’ll kill me if you’re out with food poisoning.” Turning on the water, you ensured it was warm before getting a clean washcloth. The oven timer beeped as you dug through the linen closet, and you hurried back into the kitchen, throwing the towel on the sink beside him and grabbing the pot holders to take out your bread. Once it was on the wire rack to cool, you moved to the turkey.

“What’re you doing?” Bradley demanded, turning while drying his face.

“Taking over.” You gasped when he closed the space between you in a few strides, wrapped his arm around your waist, and lifted you away from the counter. “Bradshaw! What the hell?”

“Told you I’m doing it,” he chuckled in your ear. Once back on your feet, you spun in his hold and stared at him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his cocky smirk.

“Fine, but if you waste more of my marinade, you’re out of my kitchen.”

“Deal.”

Thankfully, there were no further incidents, but you kept a close eye on him while slicing up a loaf of bread you’d baked two days before and let go stale for stuffing. After covering the roasting tray with tin foil, the bird went back into the fridge to rest for a few hours. “Thanks, Rooster. I guess I’ll see you later?”

“What else can I do?”

“You don’t - ”

“I want to help. I haven’t…” his eyes dropped to the floor as he shrugged. “I never got to do this before. My mom and I would always go to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving before she died, and it always seemed kinda fun.”

Everyone on the squad knew that Bradley’s parents had passed when he was young. He didn’t mention them often, but you noticed he’d get quiet sometimes when people talked about their families. So his volunteering the information felt important, and glancing at the clock showed that you were still behind schedule. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” he asked, excitement flashing in his eyes.

“Don’t look so happy - you’re doing prep work. You can peel potatoes, assemble the veggie tray, and roast the garlic. I need to work on sides and desserts.”

And he did. Bradley followed your instructions, grimacing while peeling potatoes over the trash can until you took out a plastic bag and put it in the sink for him to do it there. You kept an eye on him as he cut the spuds into uniform pieces after explaining that they wouldn’t cook evenly for the mashed potatoes, somewhat worried that he would cut himself. Rather than deal with the onions, you delegated the task and tried not to laugh at his near-constant sniffles and swipes at his watery eyes as you diced peppers. Once you dug out the hand-me-down crystal platters, he arranged the veggies you’d prepped the night before while making pies. Dips were mixed, and cans of olives and bottles of pickles were opened and drained before being plated.

Other than bumping into one another when going for the fridge at the same time, it wasn’t too bad sharing the kitchen. The coffee pot was quickly emptied, and Bradley brewed another between shredding blocks of cheese. You sang along with your playlists, his deep voice joining on a few songs while teasing you about others. When you sang about karma being a kink, he watched your hips sway at the sink, clenching his jaw when you sang a breathy ‘oh god.’

He slid the roasting tray into the oven when the turkey was rested and ready to cook. “Now what?” he asked, turning to look at you.

“Now we keep an eye on it for about four hours. Baste and re-inject it every hour or so,” you shrugged. A glance at his watch showed it would be almost 2:00 PM by the time it was ready. As though realizing it would still be hours before eating, his stomach grumbled its discontent. He blushed when you smirked. “I guess the least I can do is make my sous chef breakfast. Get the muffins and butter from the fridge for me.”

“Did you make these?” he asked, setting the containers beside you as you heated a skillet on the stove.

“I did - family tradition is grilled muffins on Thanksgiving morning. You okay with blueberry?” At his nod, you started slicing muffins in half. Rather than giving you space, Bradley stayed at your elbow. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by sizzling butter. His gaze met yours when you glanced up at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth.

An image of reaching up to bury your fingers in his messy curls and tugging his mouth down to meet yours flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched with the urge to do it, eyes drifting to his mouth and lingering there for a moment too long. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you forced yourself to look away, heat creeping into your face.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached up to shift a strand of hair that had fallen from your messy bun. “I’m glad you're back, Duch,” he said, voice slightly raspy.

Forcing a laugh, you plated two muffins and handed them to him. “Everyone misses the mom friend of the group when she’s deployed.” Your eyes darted to his stomach when it growled again, just in time to see the front of his sweats twitch. Pretending you didn’t see it, you nodded to the living room. “The parade is recording if you want to watch it.”

Bradley opened his mouth as though he would say something before taking the apparent dismissal. Alone in the kitchen, you touched your cheek and felt warm skin. With a deep breath, you grilled yourself a muffin as the sound of the broadcasters came from the living room. After topping up your coffee, you joined him. He sprawled on one end of the couch, plate balanced on a thigh as he sipped his coffee. Sitting on the opposite side, you crossed your legs and let out a soft groan. Only a couple of hours standing in the kitchen and your back was already starting to protest. “What else do you have to do this morning?” he asked after a moment.

Mentally running through your list, you sighed. “I need to do some cleaning and get into the attic. I’ll start cooking a bit closer to noon, so things just have to be warmed up.”

“What do you need from the attic?”

“My nice china. My parents bought my sister and I sets for our hope chests when we were kids.”

“What’s a hope chest?”

“You know, stuff you’d need once you get married?” When his eyebrows shot up, you shrugged. “They weren’t really serious about it - it was more of a joke. But, every once in a while, they’d buy something for us and put it away for when we were older and say it was for our hope chest.” Taking a bite of muffin, you gave him a sad smile, “Mine’s more of a ‘hopeless’ chest,’ though. I guess they finally gave up on me getting married because they gave it to me when they sold their house and moved closer to the grandkids. I figured I’d get it out and use it instead of having it sit in the cardboard boxes it’s been in for over two decades.” Something passed over Bradley’s face but disappeared in an instant. Wanting to change the subject, you asked, “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing. It’s just another Thursday.” When you frowned, he lifted a shoulder. “A couple of times, I went to the Officer’s Club, or someone would invite me over. But most of the time, I just make myself a turkey sandwich and catch up on sleep. What about you?”

“If I’m not with my family, then this. When I first commissioned, I went to the O-Club with some friends but missed cooking and hanging out. And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.” He nodded even though he didn’t. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. “So I invited a couple of people from my squad over, and that was that.”

“It’s a lot of work.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s worth it.” Bradley’s fingers curled around his plate and in his sweatpants, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. When he shifted forward, you quickly stood and reached out your hand for his empty plate. “Do you want another one?” Shaking his head, he stood and took your plate.

“Do you?” Swallowing hard, you shook your head and watched him walk back into the kitchen. Biting back a groan, you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself. Things had been…different… since you’d gotten home. And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. You’d thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. He was still there, partnering for foosball in the Ready Room and coaxing you to go to the Hard Deck. Making sure that you sat next to him in briefings. Offering to look at your car when it made a noise.

Friends. That’s what friends do for each other. After all, he did the same for Nat.

Collecting the empty coffee mugs, you followed him to the kitchen and watched as Bradley cleaned up the mess and set it in the sink. “Don’t feel like you have to stick around, Rooster. I can handle getting everything ready.”

“I’m happy to help if you want me here. I’d just sit at my house watching TV and wait to come back if I went home.”

Chewing the inside of your lip, you bit back a wave of want. “Don’t think this gets you out of the dress code,” you replied, forcing your voice to be cool while allowing your eyes to run the length of him. “I’m serious - slacks and button-downs, not sweats.”

Laughing, he snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure I run home and change to pass your inspection.”

The rest of the morning was a blur, punctuated by moments of stark clarity.

Bradley’s hands on your waist as you climbed down the attic stairs.

Biceps flexing as he carried your Christmas tree to a spare bedroom to set up tomorrow.

His elbow bumping yours as he dried the china and set it aside.

The look of concentration on his face when he basted and injected the turkey again.

His body passing close to yours as he emptied the dishwasher and you assembled dishes.

Just after noon, he went home to get ready while you showered. People were due to arrive around 1:30 PM, and you were back on schedule with your unexpected assistant.

Sooner than you expected, there was a knock at the door. Groaning, you capped your mascara, shimmied into your black sheath cocktail dress, and went to answer it. Bradley stood on the porch, having changed into a pair of slacks and one of his nicer Hawaiian shirts, hands in his pockets. Folded over his arm was a coat, and he grinned at you when he caught you looking at it. “Wasn’t sure if I would pass inspection without a sports coat,” he chuckled, allowing his gaze to rake over you. A flush rose on your cheeks as you reached behind yourself to pull up the dress zipper. It caught just above the top of your thong. “You look… you’re fine.” Chuckling, he shook his head.

“Turn around, Duch.” After a beat, you stepped back to allow him inside and did as he said.

“There’s a hook and eye at the top,” you said and inhaled sharply when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. The smell of his cologne enveloped you, and you bit back a moan when his hand moved to your lower back and tugged the zipper up. After a beat, you turned to face him and were surprised by how close he was. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked down at you, hand resting on your waist.

“You look fine, too,” he said softly. Your hands itched to move to his chest. Bradley’s eyes drifted to your lips, and your breath caught as his fingers flexed around you. If asked, you would have sworn you felt the lightest pressure pulling you closer - but then someone knocked on the door. Stepping out of his hold, you smoothed your hair down and ignored the brief moment his hands hung in suspension before being shoved back into his pockets.

“I came early to see if you needed a hand,” Phoenix said when you opened the door. In her hands was a tray, and she’d also chosen a cocktail dress for the occasion. Her normally tied-back hair was loose around her shoulders.

“Hey,” you smiled, hoping that you weren’t blushing. Nat’s eyes shifted over your shoulders and narrowed slightly.

“What are you doing here?”

“Same as you - seeing of Duch needed help.”

“He’s been here all morning,” you blurted out, flushing when both sets of eyes landed on you. “He’s taking care of the turkey.”

“The guy who hates cooking is in charge of the main dish?” Nat smirked. “Probably would have been better letting Hangman fry it.”

“He’s being supervised,” you assured, glancing over your shoulder to see him rolling his eyes. Stepping back to let Nat into the house, you accidentally bumped into Bradley, who held your hips to steady you. Quickly moving away from his touch, you took the tray from her and motioned for them to follow you into the kitchen. “I haven’t had a chance to put any drinks out, but there’s some coffee left and wine chilling. I still need to make the cocktails, but there’s also soda and flavored water.” The two followed you, exchanging a look that you missed.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bradley tossed his coat onto the wet bar and moved to the oven, flipping on the light to check the turkey before glancing at his watch. “I need to do the last basting, right?”

“It’s about that time,” you agreed, glancing at the clock. Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured ‘Jesus Christ’ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders.

You could feel Nat watching as you worked together to remove the turkey and then return it to the oven, popping olives into her mouth and smirking. “Looks like you guys have it down,” she said. “Don’t need my help at all.”

“Nope,” Bradley said, drowning out your, “You can feel free to relax.”

“Might as well do something since I’m here,” she shrugged, pushing off her elbows. “What can I do?”

And so, with a third set of hands, you set them to making large batches of seasonal cocktails while you cut the bread you’d made that morning, covering it with slices of brie and dried cranberries before drizzling it with honey. A quick scroll through your schedule gave you the times to start cooking, and you preheated the second oven.

The house slowly filled as more of the squad arrived. Countertops were quickly covered with their contributions - thankfully, more than beer and wine, and only a few sides repeated - and you mentally shifted your schedule to accommodate the additional dishes.

Mav, Penny, and Amelia were the last to arrive, with her new bartender, Georgia, in tow. Penny had asked you if she could invite her, given that the woman was new to the area and didn’t have anywhere else to spend the holiday. You’d replied with, “The more, the merrier,” just like you had for everyone else’s requests to bring a guest.

But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyone’s glasses were topped off and that they didn’t need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. And, while she’d adhered to the dress code, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see that her breasts were nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress.

“You need anything, Duchess?” Payback asked, setting down the pitcher of spiced ginger pear and bourbon.

“I’m good,” you replied, wiping your hands on the dish rag thrown over your shoulder and blowing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Turkey should be done in a few minutes; once it rests, we can eat.”

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, glancing over at your full house. Aviators were sprawled across your living room and spilled out into the backyard. It was exactly what you’d hoped for when redesigning the house - plenty of space to comfortably entertain.

“I’m happy to, Payback,” you smiled, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. “Beats having a quiet house for the holidays.”

“Want me to get the turkey out for you?”

“I’ve got it covered,” a voice said behind you, and you couldn’t help but wonder about Bradley's slightly sharp tone as you pulled away from the hug.

“Got it,” Payback replied, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Duch.” Squaring your shoulders, you turned to face the man behind you and forced a smile.

“I’ll clear off a spot on the stove for you to put the pan, and then we’ll let it sit for half an hour.”

“Then it’ll be done?”

“Then you’ll have officially made your first turkey,” you nodded. When the timer went off, Bradley quickly pulled the bird from the oven and set it on the stove, closely inspecting his work.

“Does it look right?”

“Yes, relax.”

“Did you make it?” a smokey voice asked, and you felt your shoulders rise. Glancing at Georgia, you saw Bradley’s eyes dart between you.

“He did,” you answered, smiling at the woman.

“I just followed her directions,” he replied.

“It looks great!” Georgia giggled. Forcing a smile, you undid the apron strings and pulled it off before excusing yourself. You could feel eyes on you as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom and shut the door, retreating to your en suite.

After washing your hands for the millionth time, you quickly applied lotion while examining your appearance in the mirror. Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing.

Not that you were trying to grab anyone’s attention.

A knock on your bedroom door startled you, and you peeked out to call, “Who is it?”

“Rooster.” Glancing back in the mirror, you saw your cheeks were slightly pink and scowled at your reflection.

“Get it together,” you hissed before turning off the light and going to open the door. And there he was, smiling down at you.

“Your phone was going off,” he said, holding up your cell. When your eyes flitted toward it, the device unlocked to show your family group chat was going off. Taking it from him, you swiped up to see videos and pictures. A smile crept onto your mouth as you clicked the first and heard your older sister’s voice.

“Guess what?” she said before tossing a card down and throwing her hands up. Cheers and laughs broke out, and you could hear your nephew complaining as your grandmother said, “Looks like Mom won!”

The camera panned to show your other nephew licking whipped cream off his pie, utterly unfazed by the family now pounding on the table in a drumroll. Catching Bradley’s interested expression, you moved so he could see the screen. Scrolling through the other videos, you watched your mom roll down a hill with the boys and your dad holding a glass of wine with your brother-in-law. The sight made your heart clench, and you sighed. Being away from family on the holidays was the worst. Thankfully, they all understood that your job didn’t always give you the flexibility to be with them.

“Looks like a fun group.”

“They are. I’m glad I get to spend Christmas with them.” He nodded, a flicker of sadness and something else in his eyes. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Mav’s already told me I’m spending it with him and Penny.”

“Sounds like fun.” You knew a complicated dynamic existed there but didn’t want to pry. His shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to your now dark phone. And that’s when you recognized the look on his face - longing. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” When he saw your unconvinced expression, he sighed. “Holidays kind of suck when you don’t have family.”

“I’m sorry, Bradley.” Something in his expression changed when you said his name and reached out to touch his arm. His eyes darted from your hand to your face, and you quickly pulled away. But he was faster, catching your fingers and holding tightly. Your breath caught with the intensity of his gaze, and he stepped into your room. His breath was warm on your face when you refused to retreat. Lifting your chin, you saw his throat bob when he swallowed.

“Hey, there’s a timer going off,” Bob called down the hall.

“Be right there,” you yelled back, pushing lightly against Bradley’s chest and forcing space between you. But when you tried to shake off his hand, he held fast. “I need to go, or something will burn,” you breathed. Reluctantly, he nodded and released you.

You’d already removed the green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese from the oven when Bradley reappeared. Unsurprisingly, Georgia glued herself to his side as he sipped his drink. Though you could feel him looking at you, you refused to meet his gaze.

When everything was ready, you looked over your kitchen and nodded approvingly. When the guys offered to carve the turkey, you turned them all down and delegated that task to Bradley. “He earned it,” you said, glancing at him before busying yourself with opening another bottle of wine. With Coyote and Fanboy at his elbows critiquing his cuts, you steered clear of that part of the kitchen and chatted with Penny while pulling out silverware.

Hangman refused to let you go around the room and tell people that food was ready, instead pulling out a chair and helping you stand on it before whistling loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Dinner’s served!” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder, his arm around your hips to keep you steady. “Thank you for bringing something, and please help yourself. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone - I’m glad I get to spend it with you.” Lifting your wine glass, you took a quick sip and laughed when Hangman lifted you off the chair to set you back on the floor.

Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone at the table, so the group spread into the living room. You took a few pictures and sent them to your family.

Someone stepped in front of you, pulling your attention from your phone. “You’re not gonna eat?” Bradley asked.

“Just waiting for the line to clear,” you replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shook his head.

“Come on, Duch.” His fingers curled around yours, drawing you from the counter and into the line. Grabbing one of the smaller salad plates, you let him push you in front of him, taking small amounts of almost every dish while he served himself larger portions. After topping up your wine, you walked to the living room and felt him behind you, ignoring Georgia's attempt to get his attention. He motioned for you to take the last spot on the couch and sat on the floor. “Jesus,” he moaned after taking the first bite of turkey.

“Mmmm,” you agreed. “You did a good job.”

“Who would have thought the guy who made the barracks evacuate after he burned ramen would make a good turkey,” Nat smirked. Bradley flipped her off, unable to keep the proud grin off his face.

Dessert was eaten, and the last bottle of wine finished before 7:00 PM. The house felt quiet as it slowly emptied, and you hugged everyone goodbye. Already, tentative plans for a Christmas party formed even as you fought off a yawn. After assuring Penny that you were fine cleaning up, she left with Mav and Amelia in tow.

Which left only Bradley.

The sound of running water drew you back into the kitchen, and you paused in the doorway at the sight of him rinsing silverware and loading the dishwasher, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder. “I can take care of that,” you said quickly. Bradley glanced at you and shook his head.

“Relax, I’ve got it. Can the plates go in here, or do they need to be hand-washed?”

“They can go in there.” Ignoring the order, you walked around the house, picked up empty glasses and forgotten dishes, and set them by the sink. Donning your apron, you surveyed the leftovers, “Did you want any of this?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a plate.” Nodding, you started to put the food away. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lot left. Everyone had been happy to take leftovers, and you were glad you’d had the forethought to buy containers for them to keep.

The silence was comfortable, and you were stifling yawns with the back of your hand. Between the turkey, wine, and lack of sleep the night before, you were ready to change back into comfy clothes and pass out. Without prompting, Bradley started to cut up what was left of the turkey, placing some in the containers you’d portioned for him before putting the rest in the fridge. You started the dishwasher when it was full and wiped down counters. After tossing the rest of the turkey, he took the trash out.

When the door swung shut, you took the opportunity to stretch, moaning when your back popped before bending at the waist and letting your arms dangle. As much as you enjoyed hosting, your body took a beating, being on your feet all day. You would definitely need to invest in some mats to make the kitchen floor more comfortable before your next full day of cooking.

Even when the door opened, you felt too good stretching to stand up straight. You heard Bradley chuckle and then the sound of water running, followed by the snap of a trashbag being shaken out. Finally, you stood and threw out a hand to steady yourself when the world spun. Hands wrapped around your hips and drew you closer. “You okay, honey?”

The term of endearment caught you off-guard and had clearly slipped out by the flush on Bradley’s cheeks. “Honey?” you echoed, quirking a brow.

“Duchess,” he corrected.

“Rooster.” Your hands rested on his forearms, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers clenched around your hips. Taking a deep breath, you felt your chest brush his. His lips quirked into a wry smile. “What?”

“Just waiting for something to interrupt.” At your questioning look, he chuckled. “Been trying to kiss you all day, and something always gets in the way.”

“What?” you breathed, shock written across your face.

“Been thinkin’ about kissing you since that night at the Hard Deck, actually.”

“T-the Hard Deck?”

“Yup. Before you deployed.” Heat rushed to your face at the memory - or lack thereof - of your going away party. There had been one too many shots, and you had a vague recollection of Bradley driving the Bronco. Of him telling you not to throw up while he helped Nat into her apartment before taking you home. Half carrying you to bed and making sure you had water and medicine - warm hands on your face and a raspy laugh.

“When I was drunk?”

“When you told me you liked me.” Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. “But that you didn’t think I was a relationship guy.”

“Roo - ”

“I am. A relationship guy,” he clarified, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “For the right woman.” Your mouth was dry, unable to force out a single word. “I was gonna say something before you left, but you avoided me. And then you were gone for three months.”

“I… you messaged me.”

“Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to say over email,” Bradley chuckled. “I like you too.”

“What about Georgia?”

That drew him up short, and a confused look crossed his face. “The bartender?”

“Yeah. She… I mean, she’s clearly interested. And more your type.” Groaning, he leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Honey, I’m not interested in her. And she’s not… ask Nat. She’s been on my case about my” - he lifted a hand to make air quotes - “‘hoe phase’ since I got out here.” That drew a snort from you, and Bradley pulled away to smile at you bashfully. “Gimme a chance, Duch.”

Hesitating a moment, you took another deep breath and gave the butterflies in your stomach free rein. Hands shaking, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded, unable to keep from matching his smile.

Moving slowly, as though afraid to spook you, Bradley leaned down and brushed his nose to yours. “As much as this is doin’ things for me,” he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, “I think we’re done in the kitchen tonight.” Biting your lip, you could only nod, leaning away as he tugged it over your head, balled the apron up, and tossed it behind you. With his hands back on your hips, he walked you backward and lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your knees. “This alright?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, allowing yourself to reach out and run a hand through his curls. Bradley's eyes closed when you lightly scratched his scalp, and he swayed closer. His breath ghosted over your lips and -

“Fucking Christ,” he groaned when his phone started to buzz. You jumped, feeling the vibration against your shin, and laughed as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck. Your breath caught, feeling his lips on your throat. When he reached into his pocket and scowled down at the screen, you saw Nat’s name before he sent the call to voicemail.

Leaving the phone on the counter, he smirked and guided your legs around his waist as your arms went around his neck. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you. In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused long enough for you to slap the walls until the lights turned off before walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it. Your knees dug into the cushion on either side of him, forcing the hem of your dress higher.

From this angle, he had to look up at you. Hands migrated from your ass to thighs, callouses lightly scraping and fingertips darting under the fabric to trace shapes on your skin and drag the hem higher. Lightly, you ran your thumb along the scars on his chin before ghosting over the ones on his cheek that had always intrigued you. A moan rumbled from his throat as he followed your touch, mustache tickling the delicate skin of your wrist. Blushing, you wondered how it would feel on your inner thighs. He chuckled, kissing your cheek, “What’re you thinking that’s got you red?”

Rather than answer, you turned and kissed him - just a light brush of your lips against his that seemed to catch him off-guard. You stared at one another for a long moment until he guided you closer. His mustache prickled, not unpleasantly but different, when he kissed you again. It was sweet and unhurried, a direct contradiction to the hardness you felt straining against his zipper.

Pulling away, you smiled tentatively down at him, seeing the remnants of your lipstick on his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and you leaned forward to press your lips to them. “Hi,” you said softly.

“Hey.”

“You like me?”

“Yeah. You like me?”

Rather than reply, you captured his lips again. “Drunk words,” you said between kisses, “are sober thoughts.” He barked a laugh before tugging you closer and licking into your mouth.

“Shoulda said something earlier,” he chided, gripping your ass tightly. “Coulda been doing this for a long time.”

“Blame the tequila.” The word came out as a moan when he trailed kisses down your neck, and you felt him smile.

“Thank god for tequila,” he mumbled, nuzzling your breasts and making you grind down on him. Bradley caught your hands when your fingers trailed down his chest to tug at his shirt. “Nuh-uh, honey. Gonna take you on a couple of dates before we get to that.”

“What?”

“No more ‘hoe phase.’”

“Maybe just one more night?” That made him laugh again as he shook his head.

“No, Duch. Wanna do this right with you.”

“I’ve heard the stories. I know you would.” When you rocked against him, he pinned your hand at your lower back and stilled you with a hand on your hip. He growled your name and smirked when your thighs clenched.

“Liked that, huh?” he teased. “Ms. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?” Heat flooded your face, and he chuckled again. Without warning, he stood, and you squeaked, trying to keep from falling. But he held you steady and set you on your feet, towering over you. “Can I stay over?” You didn’t hesitate in nodding, and his kiss was rough before he pulled away and swatted your ass. “Go get ready for bed while I lock up.”

When you emerged from the bathroom, face cleaned and in your panties and a tank top, Bradley was lying in the middle of your bed in just his boxers. Groaning, he looked at you and shook his head. “Where are those sweats from this morning?”

“You want me to wear sweats to bed?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. His hand drifted down to his hard cock, squeezing lightly. “You’ve seen me in less at the beach.”

“Trying to do this right, honey.” Rolling your eyes, you walked to your dresser and pulled on sweatpants before digging out a pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed when you tossed them at his head, setting them aside as you circled the bed to lie beside him. Quickly, he pinned you beneath him, settling in the cradle of your thighs. As he licked into your mouth, you felt his hips rolling against yours. “Still too damn sexy,” he murmured against your lips.

“Housewife lingerie does it for you?” you teased, running your hands through his hair. Rather than answer, he looped an arm under your knee and drew it up, allowing you to feel him better. “Fuck.”

“Not tonight.”

And, unfortunately, he was true to his word. Anytime your hands strayed to his boxers, he pinned them over your head, seemingly content to tease and kiss all night.

Eventually, though, you could no longer keep from yawning. After setting his alarm - Bradley was on duty in the morning while you’d taken the day off - he tucked you against him, your back to his chest. His cock pressed against your ass as he kissed your shoulder, hand slipping under your shirt to brush the underside of your breast. Sighing, he murmered, “Best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.”

You couldn’t help but agree.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Do I think that Bradley has a raging domesticity kink? Possibly.

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#rooster x reader #rooster x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster fanfic #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw fic #top gun fanfic

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ruerecs · 7 months ago

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𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒈𝒖𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒔 𝒊𝒗.

JAKE 'HANGMAN' SERESIN.

secret wife by @ddejavvu

the beanery by @callsign-peach

left at the alter by @tip-top-cloud-surfer

watermelons by @promisingyounglady

loving you is easy by @thewulf

start the year right by @theharddeck

when jake met polly by @honkytonk-hangman

TAKE A BITE by @dearsnow

BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW.

valentines S.O.S by @bellaireland1981

for you i'd wait forever by @katsu28

carolina? by @senawashere

angel in the infield by @bradshawssugarbaby

between friends by @sometimesanalice

NATASHA 'PHOENIX' TRACE.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOU by @moonlight-prose

call out our names by @lenafromthenordiccoven

let your senses guide you by @topguncortez

nat discovers your nipple piercings by @sehnsuchts-trunken

ROBERT 'BOB' FLOYD.

'cause you're so smooth by @bussyslayer333

pretend by @attapullman

four eyes by @promisingyounglady

i got chills, they're multiplying by @deakyjoe

deserve it by @withahappyrefrain

i'm not sorry

it's inevitable

by @drabbles-mc

BIRDS OF A FEATHER by @dearsnow

shopping lists by @sebsxphia

JAVY 'COYOTE' MACHADO.

bones, hearts & marriages by @hangmanssunnies

and i want to make her mine by @beyondthesefourwalls

BRADLEY 'N' JAKE.

it's to you i will always return by @blue-aconite

up the ante by @sometimesanalice

no keying cars by @foreverrandomwritings

why not forever? by @roosterforme

thick thighs save lives by @ddejavvu

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callsign-bobsgirl · 7 months ago

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Baby On Board

Pairing: Bob Floyd x f!Reader Summary: There seems to be a misunderstanding between you and the Dagger Squad about your husband's callsign. Word Count: 1.3k Warnings: Unbeta-ed, rusty writing and one clumsy allusion to smut. Otherwise none.

When the gang found out that Bob could actually talk to women, they were shocked.

When the gang found out that Bob had been talking to, coming home to, and loving on the same woman for the past ten years, they were somehow less shocked.

What shocked Bob — although in retrospect it probably shouldn’t have — is just how adamantly everyone insisted on getting to meet the Mrs. Bob Floyd. The mystery that the quiet WSO kept under wraps. This Friday at the Hard Deck, seven o’clock.

Which is what he groaned into your neck early that afternoon after Mav had sent everyone home early as a reward. The two of you lazed about on top of the covers, the box of clothes half unpacked and forgotten at the foot of the bed the minute Bob walked through the bedroom door.

“I was hoping to keep you to myself for just a little longer,” your husband whined; turned humming as you ran your hand through his hair.

“I’m more hurt you didn’t immediately tell them about your hot wife in Lemoore,” you muse, “I mean what if I came down to surprise you, hmm? What if I popped down to the Top Deck before we permanently moved down huh? And that … Flameman or whatever tried to hit on me because he didn’t have it burned into his skull that I’m the lovely Mrs. Floyd hmm? What then?”

Groaning, Bob lifted himself to his elbows, pressing kisses to your jaw, “When we meet Hangman at the Hard Deck, he’s probably gonna hit on you anyways, if nothing else than to try and get a rise out of me.”

“Ah yes, you and your famous impulsive temper,” you tease.

Sliding a hand from Bob’s torso up to his shoulder, you quickly flip him over so you’re on top. Grinning cheekily you lean back on your haunches, getting to work on Bob’s belt while he fiddles with the hem of your t-shirt, waiting for his turn to strip you of the offending cloth.

“I’ll talk to my sister, see if she can’t reschedule some stuff for Friday,” you say, reaching your hand down your husband's briefs and getting a pleased hum in response.

—

When the two of you walked into the Hard Deck, you for the first time, you let Bob lead you through the crowds of people and he pointed out the different ranks of aviators, the obvious gaggles of tag chasers, and the old-timers who were loyal to the bar. You did your best to listen but you were busy smoothing down the sundress Bob loved so much and it was really loud in here.

“Stop worrying,” Bob leaned down to say in your ear, “You can run miles around these guys.” The WSO paused for a second, “Maybe not … physically, but in every other way.”

You laugh as you slap the back of your hand against his chest, “will Phoenix be here at least?”

“You see the guy in the Hawaii print?”

“Uh-huh”

“See the woman who just jabbed him with the pool stick?”

“Yeah?”

“Phoenix.”

The two of you approach the pool table everyone is crowded around but before you can announce yourself, a boyish-looking man with amber skin whistles and waves across the pool table, bringing everyone’s attention with him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bob!”

Everyone clamoured to meet the new arrivals, but you didn’t miss how one of them — a blond, cocky-looking son of a bitch with a toothpick dangling from his lip — held back, only to eventually push his way past an ‘LT. Fitch’.

“Well Darlin’, it sure is nice to finally meet you,” his grin sure does take over his face, huh, “callsign Hangman, but you can call me Jake,” he says with a wink.

You share a look with Bob — who had just returned from the bar with your cocktail and his peanuts — and yeah, Hangman was exactly as you imagined him.

Saying a quick thanks to your husband and making sure to drag your fingers across Bob’s as you take the glass from him, you turn back to the other blond who won’t stop with the cocksure smirk. If Bob hadn’t warned you that Jake, for all that he was like … well this, was harmless and wouldn’t actually try anything; you’d be throwing the drink in his face.

But you also figured the alcohol would do better in you than on him.

Later in the evening, after everyone had had a few drinks and you’d loosened up, Topman sauntered back over to your stool where you were admiring your husband bent over the pool table.

“I gotta admit, I am mystified at how our Baby on Board managed to snag you,” the pilot kept going, finally getting a chuckle out of you.

‘Cause yeah, ‘Baby On Board’, that was funny you’d give Bagman that one. You didn’t get why it made the rest of the squadron look at you weird though.

“What?” you ask.

You also couldn’t stop yourself from chuckling when Rooster swatted the back of Hangman’s head, but Phoenix is the one who elbows herself up to Hangman, going between glaring at him and raising her eyebrow at you.

“You … you do get what Bagman’s saying about Bob here, right?”

You nod, still not getting where the miscommunication lies.

“That Bob is … you know, a baby?” she explains.

Right as you emphatically exclaim, “fucks!”

And boy if that didn’t get the guys hooting and hollering, as your husband’s face turns bright pink.

Did these guys not get it? There’s a reason your Robby was one of the only two squadron members who’d even made it down the aisle. The way his hair was never out of place in uniform, how it bounced when he was out of it, and how soft it felt between your fingers. Those blue eyes that demanded your attention and turned you into a puddle when they darkened. Did his squad think you could let him do more than an hour of yard work in the summer, chest all sweaty and glistening before you beckoned him back into the privacy of the house? Or even worse, when he danced from the kitchen to the living room, carrying mugs of hot chocolate, on Christmas in those ‘family matching’ pyjamas.

‘Bob is a baby’ for the best of the best in the navy, these people were fools.

“I don’t get what the big fuss is,” you tell the aviators, “honestly, with every year that passes I half expect a kid to reach out from wherever he’s been deployed over the years.” Which gets another round of laughter out of your husband’s colleagues.

Robby knew you knew how insanely in love with him you were and how much you trusted him, and you knew how deep his devotion to you was — which is why instead of defending himself he just hid his red face in your hair. Already hearing the jokes he’ll face on base next month. You bringing a hand up to clumsily yet comfortingly cup his jaw helped though.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Payback says sincerely, “it's just that the Bob we know, the Bob we work with … it's kinda hard to see the Bob you know in him.”

And that’s when you realize. If Robby hadn’t told his squadron anything about you, then he definitely hasn’t said anything about …

“No I get it, my Robby can be on the quieter side, and probably downplays his moves at work” You hear Robby groan in your ear, knowing exactly what you’re about to reveal; and you gear yourself to revel in the shock you’re about to create.

“But he did get three kids out of me.”

The yelps of surprise and demands of proof had everyone in the bar glancing over at the pool table, but you and Bob just laughed at them as he handed over his wallet: showing off the five of you in the small ID window.

_____________________________________________

A/N: this is 100% from my own misunderstanding of Hangman's joke the first few times I watched the TGM, I truly thought he was implying Bob must always have a baby on the way because look at him??? Anyways, first time posting in the fandom. Come on over and say hi! And ... idk, live laugh love long and prosper.

also s/o to @sailor-aviator for helping my brain when it wasn't braining ♡

#bob floyd x reader #bob floyd fanfiction #robert bob floyd #top gun maverick #robert bob floyd x reader #top gun fanfiction

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crinkled-emotions · 1 year ago

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Day 10: "Talk to me, Goose."

I'm so behind it's not funny but I spent a little extra time working this one. The original prompt is here:

I did end up reworking it a little. I hope that's okay.

Warnings: Rooster and Maverick discussing Goose's ejection, Rooster having a chat with a psychologist (mentioned)

“How is he?”

“Very lucky. Cuts and bruises, maybe a broken rib or three. He’s staying tonight for observation, they think he could also have a concussion.”

Maverick tilted his head toward the closed exam room door.

“Go on. I’ll talk to the others. Are you going to be okay?”

“Just glad he’s gonna be alright, sir. Uh, Mav... are you... this was really similar to-“

“-go and see your friend; I’m fine.”

Maverick waved off the younger aviator despite the building anxiety, taking a deep breath. The Lieutenant stepped into the hospital room and Maverick rounded the corner back into the main waiting area.

“Where is he?”

Stepping into the bathroom only a couple metres from the exam room, Maverick paused to splash water on his face. It was reminiscent of when Viper had come to tell him-

Come to inform him-

Come to express his condolences.

“Mav?”

He startled to attention, wheeling around to check the stalls. Rookie mistake; you always check the stalls before you have a mental breakdown.

Sure enough, Coyote and Hangman were standing by the stalls, both with crestfallen looks on their faces. Neither looked like they’d been sick, nor were they panicking. Maverick tried to recall who he’d seen in the waiting area; Phoenix and Bob had been huddled together as they always were, and Payback was going in to see how Fanboy was doing. They’d ejected, but something had gone wrong and Fanboy’s parachute had fallen over him to the point it had almost drowned him. Payback had clung to him and screamed until medevac could get them out-

“Mav...”

That was Coyote; of course it was. Coyote, who kept Hangman in check, teased Phoenix in a way that only made her smile rather than frown in frustration, who called Rooster out when he-

Rooster.

“Move.”

Coyote and Hangman stepped aside, giving Maverick room to step into the stall. Rooster was leaning on the wall, knees drawn to his chest and head in his hands. He briefly glanced up when Maverick approached, eyes rimmed red and cheeks flushed.

“You look like shit, Mav,” he deadpanned. Maverick sighed.

“Bradley...”

“Don’t Bradley me; I’m fine. I... are you?”

“God no. You don’t look much better.”

By the door, Coyote and Hangman exchanged looks.

“We’re going to... go get coffee for everyone... you two want some?” Hangman eventually asked. Both shook their heads.

“Maybe grab some water, if you can find some?” Maverick suggested. Coyote put a hand on Hangman’s shoulder.

“Let’s go, man.”

The pair quietly (for once) made their way out of the bathroom, letting the door close behind them. With them gone, Rooster turned to Maverick.

“Y’know I had no idea about the full details until Hangman told everyone?”

“You wouldn’t fly off the handles like that if you’d known everything.”

Maverick reached over, slowly placing his hand on the back of Rooster’s neck. They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, in silence for a moment. Rooster scrubbed at his eyes, sighing.

“It was exactly like I dreamed it was. Today, I mean, it was exactly like what I thought happened to dad.”

“Oh, Bradley...”

Maverick swallowed, rubbing firm circles over his back. He could feel the minute tremors wracking through his godson’s body and he made sure to keep physical contact because that was the only thing that used to help his panic attacks when he was younger. He’d read Bradley’s file; there was no mention of panic attacks so he could have grown out of them.

Looking at him now, Maverick could see the way this was quickly becoming one.

“Hangman and Coyote take you in here?” Maverick asked him softly. Bradley shook his head.

“They’re the only ones who also read the docs; knew I’d be having a hard time.”

He glanced over at Maverick.

“I wish I’d never gotten curious. Ever since I heard Payback screaming over comms it feels like the words are constantly replaying in my head.”

Maverick hummed.

“It feels like I’m never gonna dry off again,” he confessed, “like I’m always going to be the guy walking into the hospital soaked to the bone.”

Rooster’s eyes looked like they were far away; no one could blame him.

“Hey; are you ready for today?”

“Fuck no.”

Phoenix hummed, reaching down to tie her boots. Rooster stayed by her bedroom door, and when she stood upright she frowned at him.

“Are you alright?”

“Guess so,” Rooster murmured. Phoenix patted his arm.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. It’s okay not to be ready.”

“What about Fanboy, huh? He’s the one that nearly died.”

“Yeah but he doesn’t have nightmares about his dad’s death.”

Phoenix gestured toward her living area.

“You came here because you couldn’t sleep, right? Because of the nightmares?”

“Phoenix-“

Rooster swallowed, turning on his heel.

“See you in class.”

He was gone before Phoenix could call after him or tell him to go home; she’d stayed with him the first night after Fanboy’s accident, then she’d woken early that morning to find he was coming in to crash on her couch because he didn’t want to wake Maverick or sleep in an empty house. She sighed, grabbing her jacket as an afterthought before following Rooster out to their cars.

“You... look like shit.”

“Thanks, Bob, I really appreciate that.”

Bob rolled his eyes, stepping over the bench in the locker room to sit beside Rooster.

“No, seriously. You look like shit. When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t want to talk about it Bob.”

“Rooster...”

Bob sighed.

“If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. No one’s gonna ask questions; we were all there.”

“I’m good. I swear, I’m fine.”

Bob scoffed.

“Sure man, and I’m best buddies with Hangman.”

He stood, grabbing his helmet and leaving Rooster to his own devices. He reached for his phone, checked the time, and then scrambled to get ready. They had a hop planned for the morning and then a second later in the afternoon which were just to make sure that everyone was okay to get back in the air after Payback and Fanboy’s accident. It had been decided that Rooster, Phoenix and Bob were going first to try and work out whatever kinks were between them (that came out wrong... eh) but Maverick was going up shortly after with Coyote and Hangman to make sure that they were alright too. Phoenix had quietly suggested that Maverick and Rooster be separated for the first hop for the good of both of them and to her surprise they’d gone along with it. Payback was staying on the ground for the next couple of days to recover as well but he’d also been booked for a hop with Maverick pending his psych eval. He swore up and down that he was okay but after his own accident back in 86, Maverick wanted to hear it from a professional first.

“Alright, let’s check in. Phoenix and Bob?”

“All systems go, Maverick,” Phoenix replied. She did her last check of the systems and glanced over her shoulder at Bob who smiled and nodded.

“All systems green, Mav,” he agreed. Maverick checked his radio and then frowned when he realised he couldn’t see Rooster moving around in his jet. He was sitting completely still and Maverick waved his hands at him then sighed.

The joys of being short.

“Rooster, are you there?”

The radio was probably the smarter choice. He could see Phoenix glancing through the window of her jet to check on him, Bob finally looking over too and reaching for his own comms.

“Mav he’s hyperventilating; you better get up there.”

Maverick waved down one of the techs who pulled the ladder to Rooster’s jet back down, giving Maverick access to the cockpit. He managed to get Rooster to open the canopy and sat on the edge, hand on his shoulder. Rooster’s chest rapidly moved as he kept his hands away from the joystick and any of the other buttons he enjoyed playing with more than Hangman’s. He reached his hands out and made contact with Maverick’s flight suit, shakily working it between his fingers.

“You’re alright. Look at me, kid. It’s okay. Feel my breathing, shhhhh...”

Maverick worked his helmet off for him and ran his fingers through Rooster’s hair, trying to keep his attention.

“Breathe Bradley, just try to focus on your breathing. I’m gonna unzip your suit a little to give you some room to breathe, yeah?”

Maverick carefully undid the safety clasp on Rooster’s flightsuit then unzipped it about halfway down his chest. He stopped to just watch Rooster for a moment then turned to glance over his shoulder to the ground. He wasn’t surprised to find Phoenix and Bob down there, but he was surprised to Hangman and Coyote also waiting.

“What’s goin’ on up there?” Coyote called. Phoenix looked anxiously between the others and Maverick, borderline ready to get up there herself. Hangman and Coyote stood on either side of her and Bob, ready to stop Phoenix.

“It’s all good, kids. Go inside; me and Rooster are just gonna sit here a minute.”

The four on the ground exchanged looks, and then shrugged.

“Okay... be careful.”

They wandered off and Maverick turned his attention back to Rooster. His eyes didn’t look as wild, and his breathing had settled but now he just looked pale. He slowly turned to Maverick, brows furrowed.

“Am I ever going to get past this?”

With Rooster safely back on the ground and in the shower, Maverick made his way into the kitchen and set about fixing a sandwich. He found the bread, and the butter... but then he saw the cutting board Carole and Goose had been gifted by his parents for their first wedding anniversary and he took a deep breath to centre himself as he leaned on the kitchen sink.

“Talk to me, Goose. Could really use a little advice right now.”

“I don’t think dad would have much to say; he was always the hugger parent.”

Maverick whipped around. Rooster stood by the entrance to the kitchen, sweatpants and a hoodie on with his hair back to its natural soft waves rather than gelled straight. He shrugged, joining Maverick by the window facing the backyard he used to play in; now he drank beer, played guitar and on... more than one occasion, got so high he wasn’t buried with the grief of losing his parents at a young age.

“You’re right; your dad used to hear you cry and instead of being tired or maybe a little frustrated he would just hold you.”

Maverick nudged his shoulder, taking a seat at the dining table.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked quietly. Bradley shook his head.

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Roos you had a panic attack before you could even get in the air; that’s twice in what? A couple days?”

“Mav,” he sighed, “I just said-“

“-I know and I hear you, but this isn’t something we can sweep under the rug. These aren’t the same as your panic attacks when you were a kid, it’s different and I know it’s because of what happened with Fanboy.”

“Fuck, Maverick, what do you want me to say? That I could have not read the paperwork, not read your statement? Not seen Fanboy nearly die due to drowning? Goddamn, what else, fuck I ejected myself and I don’t remember feeling like this. I just- I-“

Rooster slammed his hand on the dining table and Maverick reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

“What do you need right now? One phone call and I can have psych assess you, or we can go for a walk, we could get takeout...”

“Can we just... sit on the sofa and watch reruns? Like we used to?”

Maverick swallowed the concern and the need to yell at his godson to get the help he needed. He gently touched Bradley’s hand.

“Of course, Roos. If that is what you need, that’s what we’ll do.”

They headed over to said couch; Maverick sat up but Rooster kicked his feet up into Maverick’s lap, rested his head on the arm and then promptly fell asleep.

Maverick couldn’t say he blamed him.

The second, third and fourth attempt to get in the air didn’t go much better. Eventually Cyclone requested a psych eval and no one was surprised when Rooster quietly struggled his way through it. He went to see his parents’ graves, and then spent some time in flight simulations to try and soothe his nerves. He’d never had this problem, not even really when they’d simulated water ejections in flight school and for a split second he’d gotten stuck underwater in the tank.

Eventually Fanboy got cleared to go back in the air and he did it with eagerness, ready to overcome whatever lasting anxieties he had. The others had all been flying for weeks at that point but the psychologist on base had gently suggested that the accident had triggered something in Rooster’s mind and that if he wanted to get back into a jet, he’d have to put some hard work in. It wasn’t going to be pleasant.

So he did.

And it wasn’t.

He returned to his better eating habits, he tried to improve his sleeping schedule (as best he could whilst still being in the Navy) and he tried to make sure he was in the gym at least once every two days as much as he hated it. He spent time with Maverick reminiscing about his childhood and he spent time making new memories to replace the grief of the old. He came to work and learned more about what it was to be a half decent aviator and then he got used to being back in his jet.

When the fifth attempt looked like it was going to be like the others, Fanboy climbed the wing himself and sat, waving at Rooster.

“Get your ass in the air!” He yelled, “someone’s gotta kick Hangman down a couple pegs!”

“Get off the wing!” Rooster yelled.

It was like something had finally clicked and he started the take off process. Fanboy scrambled down to get clear, jogging back to the others standing by the hangar.

“Please tell me he’s going up,” Phoenix murmured. Bob nudged her shoulder.

“Give him time.”

“I can’t look.”

She turned her back but the others watched on with baited breath.

Then they heard the roar of the jet engine and smiled.

Finally.

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geminiwritten · 17 days ago

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at first sight ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: the squad challenge hangman to charm any girl in the bar, and phoenix chooses you, but you end up making more of an impression on him than he's is expecting

notes: i asked for some inspo and i got some! i hope this is okay, i wrote it in a day and just had a bit of fun, so let me know what you think! (i also got another request for jake, and honestly if he's who y'all want, i'm so here for it)

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, text screenshots, and it's a little horny but otherwise fine (let me know if i've missed anything!)

word count: 3304

“Any girl in the bar?” Reuben echoes Jake’s words, disbelief saturating his tone.

Jake nods. “Any available girl in this bar.”

Bradley chuckles into the mouth of his beer bottle as he tips it to his lips while Mickey and Bob crane their necks to survey the busy bar.

“What about that one?” Mickey nods toward a high table where a woman is sitting by herself.

Jake rolls his eyes. “I said available. She’s clearly got a date and he’s just gone to get a drink. Do you see the keys on the table?”

As if on cue, a tall man with thick brows and a very square jaw places two drinks on the table before sitting across from the woman.

Javy chuckles as he subtly points toward the main door where two women have just entered the bar. “What about one of those two, Hangman?”

Jake’s green eyes dart toward the door before returning to his friend and narrowing. “Be kind, Coyote. I would prefer under the age of sixty-five.”

Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Prefer, but you’d be open to-”

“No.” Jake scowls across the table at her.

The group share a laugh before they all return to scouring the bar for an acceptable target. Jake Seresin makes big claims about his ability with ‘the ladies’ but the dagger squad are yet to witness such skill in action.

“Her.” Natasha says, brown eyes focused on someone at the bar.

Every single one of them turn to follow her gaze, and Jake’s mouth twists up into that signature smirk.

You sigh and slide your phone out of your back pocket, opening the text chain that made you leave the restaurant you’d been waiting at and order an Uber to the nearest bar. Another message pops up as you stare at the screen, asking where you are and if you got a table yet. You roll your eyes and take a screenshot before going to your text thread with your best friend and sending it to her.

You slide your phone back into your pocket just as the bartender places the beer you ordered in front of you. You glance up with a small smile and open your wallet to find your credit card, but someone beside you is quicker to hand the man some cash.

“It’s on me,” the stranger says, wearing an irritatingly gorgeous grin.

Your eyes narrow as you assess the man beside you. He’s wearing a well-fitting pair of jeans and a dark green button-up shirt, untucked. He’s effortlessly handsome, with sparkling green eyes and light brown hair that is perfectly combed into place. It’s almost as if someone cast a spell on a Ken doll to bring him to life. But you can tell by the way this man is grinning at you that he is much more devious than a newly animated children’s toy.

You pick up your drink and turn to face him, silently asking him to explain himself.

“Hangman.” He winks.

You frown. “I prefer Pictionary.”

His pretty smirk falters for a second before he fully processes what you said, and then he chuckles. “No, it’s my callsign. I’m a naval aviator.”

You’d figured as much – duh, you live on North Island – but you’re not in the mood for this guy’s bullshit right now. “That must be so fun for you.” You push off the barstool with your drink in hand. “Thanks for the beer.”

“Wait a minute.” He doesn’t block your path, but his words are enough to stop you out of sheer habit. “I didn’t catch your name.”

You give him a tight smile. “That’s because I didn’t throw it.”

Despite the dim, yellow lighting inside the bar, his eyes still sparkle like freshly tumbled jades. He doesn’t look as smarmy as he had a few moments ago, he looks more intrigued than cocky now. His smile isn’t quite as smirky, and his gaze is less predatory, but his eyes are still raking up and down your body. On any other day, you’d be willing to give this charming man a run for his money. You’d drag him into a booth and see if he could keep up with your verbal warfare before deciding whether or not you wanted to take him home. But not tonight.

“I’d be willing to earn your name if you give me a chance.”

You look down at your beer and sigh quietly before glancing back up at him. “Look, Hangman, I don’t doubt this routine – this charm – works on most girls, but you have really picked the wrong one tonight.”

He raises one challenging brow. “You look like the right one to me.”

“The right one for what?” You cock your hip and hold it with your free hand. “A good one-night stand or something real? Because you don’t strike me as a guy who’s looking for something real, and I’ve just about had it with one-night stands.”

His mouth pops open, but no words come out.

“And while I don’t doubt that it would be a really good one-night stand, because- well, I’m not blind, I’ve just had a really crappy day and would like to drink my beer in peace while I craft a careful and incredibly scathing text to the asshole who put me in this mood.”

You pause, waiting for him to respond or tell you that you’re crazy, but he doesn’t. He just looks at you with that same curious stare, like you’re a fascinating piece of art in a gallery.

“So, thank you for the drink, but could you please let me have my pity-party alone? You can go tell your friends you got my number, and we can just pretend that I reacted to this whole situation like any other normal person would have.”

His brows pinch as you offer him another tight smile before turning and walking toward a spare table. Once you settle in one of the chairs – your back to the room –, you have to resist the urge to turn around, because a tiny part of you wishes that you could have humoured him. He was hot, there’s no denying that, but he also seemed like an actual gentleman – an experienced gentleman, but one, nonetheless. Which is something that your life is sorely lacking.

You pull your phone out again and open up your text conversation with Declan – the guy you thought you’d been dating for the past three months.

You were supposed to have met for dinner at 7PM, and you'd been waiting at the restaurant since 6:45PM because you were so excited for your date. But after those texts, you threw your napkin on the table and walked right out the door. You hailed a cab and told the driver to take you to The Hard Deck, a bar you’ve only heard of from your friend. The same friend who you’d sent the screenshots of your conversation with Declan.

You shake your head and decide to compose a ‘get fucked’ message to Declan later. You're tired and a little upset, so you tip your beer to your lips and scull the rest of it, plonking the glass down harder than necessary as you stand up.

You call an Uber to take you home and when you slide into the back seat, you feel utterly drained and more than a little guilty about blowing off that gorgeous guy. You open your phone and tap on your text messages, pulling up your conversation with your best friend and typing out a few new messages.

Natasha’s ambiguity would usually make you nauseous with curiosity, but after the day you’ve just had, you can’t find the energy to be anxious about whatever it is she wants to talk about. You send her an affirmative text, accepting the boozy brunch, before tucking your phone away and staring out the car window for the rest of the drive home.

Jake has been lying awake for over an hour by the time his alarm goes off. It’s Saturday, which means he doesn’t have to be at the base, but he still likes to start his weekends early with a good workout. Normally, he’d jump out of bed at the sound of his alarm and slip straight into his gym gear, but not today. He’s barely slept, and he feels like his consciousness is on a completely different plane of existence.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

You’d caught him completely off-guard last night. When Natasha had pointed you out, he could clearly see that you were gorgeous, which is why he was more than happy to accept the challenge of ‘charming’ you. Then you had the audacity to be witty, and Jake Seresin is nothing if not a sucker for a woman with a sharp tongue. You didn’t fall for his smirk or his cheesy lines, but you weren’t rude about it either. You’d clearly had a bad day, and he felt bad for borderline harassing you, but now he feels even worse for not at least getting your name.

Jake has never believed in love at first sight, but last night is starting to prove him otherwise.

His workout today is half-assed, and he knows it, but he doesn’t bother pushing himself any further by the time his hour in the gym is up. Usually, he wouldn’t leave until his whole body was slick with sweat, but not today. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see your face, and then he doesn’t want to open them again. He’s worried that the details will start to fade, and he never wants to forget the face of the woman who has so thoroughly rocked his foundations. So that’s why when he gets home, he lays on the couch and closes his eyes, trying to burn your image into the back of his eyelids.

A couple of hours and a lot of unsuccessful internet sleuthing later, his phone rings, the screen lighting up with Natasha’s caller ID photo.

“Hello?”

“Bagman, you sound tired.”

“I’m busy. What's up?”

“Well, now you sound depressed.” He can hear the amusement in her voice. “Are you still bummed about striking out last night?”

He doesn’t care about striking out, he cares about the fact that he’s now seemingly obsessed with a mystery girl he might never see again.

“I’m not in the mood, Phoenix.”

“Alright, alright. I just wanted to see if you were coming to the beach barbecue tonight.” He can hear another muffled voice in the background, but he can’t discern who it is. “It was Payback’s idea, and everyone else is in, but you didn’t reply to the group chat. So?”

There’s a beat of silence. Jake is usually always down to hang out with his friends, but he has half a mind to spend his night scouring every bar and restaurant in town to see if he can run into you again.

“Come on, Seresin,” she presses. “One of my friends is coming too, and I really think you’ll like her.”

At that, Jake’s curiosity piques. Natasha has never offered to set him up with any of her friends before. In fact, she has distinctly threatened him should he ever try to go near any of them.

“You want to set me up with your friend?”

She scoffs. “Well, no, but- Look, you’ll understand if you come. Am I counting you in?”

He lets out a long breath as he falls back against the couch cushions. “Yeah, sure.”

- Three Hours Earlier -

You stare at your best friend in disbelief. You’ve barely taken a sip of your first mimosa, and she’s already telling you that not only was she at that bar last night, but she was the one who told the gorgeous man to approach you.

“Are you mad?” she asks, holding her champagne flute in front of her face as if it could protect her.

You take a deep breath before blowing it out through your nose. “Well, no, but I’m kind of hurt that you saw me walk into the bar and didn’t come say hi.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “That would have ruined all the fun.”

You raise your brows. “The fun of sending one of your friends into a losing battle?”

Her smile is sheepish. “Look, if you knew Hangman like I do, you’d completely understand. And when I saw you sit at the bar, of course I wanted to come and give you a hug, but then I had this beautiful opportunity presented to me. You got to take out a little bit of frustration on the male species, and Hangman got a nice big bruise on his ego. It was a win-win.”

You take a generous sip of your mimosa and point a finger at her. “Win.”

She gives you a wink before taking a big gulp of her own drink. You spend the rest of the morning talking about Declan and crafting a simple but nasty message to send him before you block his number. After three mimosas and a shared croissant, you’re starting to feel a little boozy.

“Okay, I think we should stop.”

She nods. “Probably. I still need to go shopping for tonight. You’re coming, right?”

You roll your lips and avert your eyes, instead deciding to stare at the crumbs on the plate between the two of you.

“Come on, please.” She leans forward, doing her best puppy-dog eyes. “I know you don’t know my navy friends, but you’re never going to if you keep avoiding meeting them. Plus, Hangman should be there.”

Your heart begins to thump heavily against your sternum, which is ridiculous because you barely know the guy.

“I guess I should probably apologise to him.”

She scoffs. “You don’t need to apologise. I was kind of hoping that maybe you’d reject him again.”

You roll your eyes. “Nat, come on. I was rude to the guy, and he was perfectly-”

“Wait.” Her eyes go wide. “You actually think he’s cute, don’t you? Like, not in a flippant ‘that guy is hot’ kind of way, but in the way where you can’t stop thinking about him.”

Your pulse thrums even faster. “Pfft, no.”

“Oh, my God.” She holds a hand up to her lips to stifle her laughter. “You don’t want to apologise to him, you want to fu-”

“Nat!” you exclaim. “We are in public.”

She can’t stop giggling, her brown eyes like saucers above the hand covering her mouth, and it only takes a few more seconds before you dissolve into laughter too. You’ve definitely had enough mimosas for the morning.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually you compose yourselves enough to pay and exit the cafe. Neither of you had driven this morning, thankfully, so you decide to Uber to the nearest grocery store to get supplies for tonight’s beach barbecue.

You’re turning into the cold aisle where all the meat is cut and packaged when Natasha pulls out her phone and calls Hangman. It’s stupid the way your heart races when you hear his muffled voice, but you can’t help it. You’ve been thinking about this man nonstop for the past fourteen hours and now you’re going to see him tonight. You’ve never really believed in love at first sight, but the memory of those sparkling green eyes is starting to convince you otherwise.

Hours later and after trying on every bathing suit you own, you find yourself walking toward the gazebo on the beach where Nat’s location on your phone is pinging. There’s a fold out table with a portable barbecue on it and half a dozen beach chairs scattered across the sand. There’s also a volleyball net set up, where two very fit men are batting a white ball back and forth.

You’re starting to think that maybe you were doing yourself a disservice by not meeting Nat’s navy friends sooner.

“Hey!” Nat exclaims, yanking two beers out of the ice tub before jogging toward you. “I’m very impressed that you didn’t bail.”

You roll your eyes and try to be discreet about surveying the group for a face you’ll recognise. “Of course I didn’t bail.”

“Come meet everyone.” She links her arm with yours and leans in to whisper in your ear. “Hangman isn’t here yet.”

She points at the two men playing volleyball and tells you that they are Rooster and Payback. Then she pulls you into the gazebo’s shade and introduces you to Coyote, who is manning the barbecue, and Fanboy, who is second in charge. Harvard, Fritz, and Halo are occupying a few of the beach chairs, and apparently there are two more naval aviators on their way. One of which you’ve already met.

Everyone is super nice and incredibly fucking fit. It doesn’t take long for you to relax and enjoy the conversation with Fanboy while Nat argues with Coyote about what ‘medium rare’ looks like.

“Oh, and here’s another one,” Fanboy says, glancing over your shoulder with a grin. “This is Hangman.”

Your heart almost leaps out of your chest when you turn around and come face to face with those gorgeous green eyes.

He smiles, and it’s hot enough to melt your bikini bottoms. “Pictionary, right?”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah, that’s right. Nat tells me you’re actually Bagman?”

He rolls his eyes and turns to your best friend, who is grinning like a maniac. “Jake Seresin, this is my best friend. Have you two met?”

Jake.

He says something to Natasha along the lines of calling her evil, but you’re not listening anymore. You’re too busy drinking him in, and oh my, is that a big drink.

He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts, and his taut tan skin is making your mouth water. He has to have been sculpted by the gods, that is the only explanation for this man. Your eyes rake across his broad chest, the smattering of hair at his sternum, and down his defined abdominals. You can imagine licking every line, tasting every inch of his skin and following that V with your tongue below the waistband of his shorts.

Natasha nudges your ribs as she walks past, and you only just catch her wink before you look up and find Jake’s eyes on you. He’s smirking, and this time, it’s working. “Phoenix said you wanted to tell me something.”

Oh yeah, he definitely knows you were just checking him out.

You clear your throat. “I- um, I wanted to apologise for being rude last night. I’d had a bad day, but you honestly didn’t do anything wrong. Any other day I’d probably have jumped right into bed with you.”

Your eyes widen and you smack a hand over your mouth, heat crawling into your cheeks as you realise what thoughts you just let slip through your lips. Jake laughs, his smirk morphing into a genuine and breathtaking grin.

“I’m so sorry,” you say quickly. “I have no filter sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He licks his lips and looks you up and down, like a predator sizing up its prey. “You don’t have anything to apologise for, but considering this is any other day, why don’t you start by telling me your name? Then we can see about jumping into bed.”

You can feel yourself melting faster than a popsicle in the sun. It’s not that you want to be immediately smitten by this ridiculously gorgeous and charming man, but you can’t help it. Ever since last night, you’ve had a weird feeling about him. A feeling that makes you think he’s important to your story, one way or another.

All you can do now is hope that it’s in a good way.

END.

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #imagine #oneshot #one shot #fanfic #fanfiction #glen powell #glen powell x reader #hangman #hangman x reader #top gun: maverick #top gun #maverick

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inky-writing · 4 months ago

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Coming soon

#tumblr #fanfic #fandom #requests #top gun #maverick #robert floyd #bob floyd #robert “bob” floyd #reader #y/n #x reader #x y/n #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd x y/n #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x y/n #callsign #top gun maverick

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simpforrooster · 5 months ago

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you're literally about to faint.

jake 'hangman' seresin x f!reader

summary: jakey ghosts reader after he graduated topgun and now that he's back, he needs to get her back.

t/w: cursing, mentions of blood [nothing too graphic], angst, rooster taking care of reader. jakey is afraid of blood. not proofread. ill do that later gators.

your arm wipes down the bar top with a mind of its own as you watch the naval aviators fill the hard deck.

so far, all the aviators are top gun graduates you’ve met at one time or another. natasha, bob, coyote. rooster stops by the bar for a hug. you let him go and admire the view as he joins natasha and bob at the pool table.

only one person is missing.

hangman.

jake.

taking stock of who’s here, hangman should be sauntering in any minute. they’ve called the best of the best back for…well whatever it is they’ve here for.

“well hell, i must’ve died and gone to heaven.” a southern-drawl fills the space behind you. holding strong, you don’t turn to him, making him step in front of the bar.

he decided not to wear his service khakis, instead donning a flannel and fuckin’ stetson cowboy hat.

ugh. he’s playing dirty.

his green eyes hold yours as he tips his hat to you.

that fucker.

jake slides into the stool across from you. “how’ve you been, love?”

rooster’s gaze tears a hole in the side of your face. you can hear him now. don’t get involved with hangman…again. he’s bad news.

too bad jake has proved just how bad he is.

jake swept you up in a passionate relationship while he was attending top gun. once he graduated, your plan was to stay in miramar, and he had no control over his deployment.

he left without a word. never called. never wrote. never visited on leave. you couldn’t believe it. rooster couldn’t even get the words “i told you so” out once he saw how truly heartbroken you were.

“how’ve i been? jake, it’s been three years.” tears prickle the back of your eyes and you pray they remain at bay. you’ve cried enough of this blonde man.

your grandmother always warned you against blonde men. now you know why.

a smirk sits on his beautiful face, and for a second, you think you spot his confidence falter. as quick as it happened, he steels his gaze. being, or looking weak, wasn’t something jake allowed to happen.

"oh come on, angel. it hasn't been that long," he says. his eyes move slowly across your face, like he's memorizing your features. or checking his memory to make sure he remembered you exactly.

you make yourself busy by drying glasses and putting them in their pyramid home. if you look at jake too long, he'll pull you right back in.

"you really lived up to your callsign, didn't you," you say to the glass and not him. "you sure did hang me out to dry."

this strikes a nerve, the words cut through him like butter. "y/n, that's hardly fair."

the glass in your hand slams to the counter, shattering in your hand. "fair? you know what's not fair? waiting for you. for anything from you." his eyes lock with yours and your chest heaves under the weight of finally getting these feelings out in the open.

"it's not fair what you did to me," the words are low, almost inaudible.

jake's gaze flits down to your mouth...no...your hand?

he opens his mouth to say something, but no words come. he tries again, swollowing hard. he points.

looking down, you understand what he was trying to tell you, and now that the adrenaline has run it's course, pain shoots through your hand.

the two of you balk at each other, both paling. "baby, your hand," he breathes.

rooster immediately jumps into action. "hangman, you're in the motherfucking navy!" rooster rounds the counter and cradles your hand in a towel. he guides you to the bathroom.

"i'm not a fucking medic, asshole," jake shoots back, suddenly feeling better at the prospect of rooster taking care of your wound. tears fall down your cheeks, and you don't know if its the cut or jake.

jake is on rooster's heels as rooster thrusts your hand under the running water. "you did a number on this, girl." the nickname sends warmth through your body. rooster's hands fall to your hips and he boosts you onto the counter so he can get a better look at your hand.

jake falters taking in the two of you, rooster holding you like you're the most precious thing. soft 'shh's fall from his lips as he tries to calm you down. him standing between your legs with a little too much familiarity.

"okay, i get it," jake tells his shoes. "she's with you, so i'll just..." he gestures to the door.

"fuck," rooster swears under his breath. "we aren't together, seresin, and if you are hoping to earn another chance with her, you better get in here."

rooster has the would clean and wrapped. he steps aside, letting jake approach you. you cradle your hand to your chest, and jake has the decency to look sheepish.

"i don't do blood," he admits.

you manage to chuckle. "neither do i."

rooster rolls his eyes. "it's a good thing i stepped in, then. you two fools just staring at each other while y/n/n potentially bleeds out." rooster turns on his heels and out the door. "idiots," he mutters.

"he's right," jake sighs, "i am an idiot." he sets his hands on his hips, letting out a breath, his head falls toward the ceiling. "i know how long it's been."

"i was devastated, jake," you tell him. "the worst part was not knowing what i did for you to just ghost me."

he shakes his head, "nothing. you didn't do anything."

your hand falls to your lap, your shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world has fallen on them. "well, i mean if that's it." you slide off the counter, and make to step around him.

jake stops you. "can you just not."

"jake, if you're not going to have an adult conversation about this with me, then i have nothing more to say to you." jake walks you backwards, your bottom hitting the counter. more suave than rooster, he gently pushes you onto the counter.

your body betrays you by allowing goosebumps to form. jake smirks at this. "you lost a lot of blood. you need to sit," he murmurs in your ear. you feel woozy with him this close to you. every moment the two of you shared comes rushing back and you have to hold yourself back from grabbing the collar of his shirt.

"no i didn't, hangman."

"you're literally about to pass out," he points out.

"that's not from the cut," you admit.

a genuine smile spreads across his face. "that right?" he drawls.

shaking your head, you push him back. "i can't think when you're in my bubble."

"you've never complained before," he flirts. he cradles your face in his hands. "i'm sorry," he breathes.

the tension leaves your body at the apology and you lean into his touch. "i thought it would be easier not to have you. i've never done real. i've never felt the way i do about you with anyone. it felt...feels too real. i freaked out."

"you can't still have feelings for me after this long," you say.

jake tilts your face up toward his. "say that again looking at me."

"you can't--" jake stops you by bringing his mouth to yours. you melt into his touch and it feels like no time has passed. he pulls you flush against him, your legs coming around his waist.

"i couldn't bare to hear those ridiculous words come out of your pretty mouth again," he says against your lips. "of course i still have feelings for you."

"jake," you sigh. he changes the angle of the kiss, deepening it with a sweep of his tongue across your bottom lip. granting him access, you grip the bottom of his flannel with your good hand, pulling him as close as you can.

"tell me you don't feel the same thing and i will stop." his expert mouth works against yours for a moment longer before moving to kiss along your jaw. you crane your neck, making sure he has all the room he needs to linger those kisses along your neck and collarbone. which he does, and it drives you just as crazy as it did years ago.

"i told you i can't think when you're this close," you murmur.

jake chuckles against the soft skin of your neck. "good, then my plan is working."

"your hat is getting in the way," you tell him, placing your own kisses along his jaw.

"it's gone" he reaches up and grabs his hat, setting it on the counter.

"not forever, i hope. i do quite like it," you say, pulling his mouth back to yours. "you knew coming in wearing it was going to make me fold."

"it was one of my plans," he says, smiling against the kisses.

"one of them?" you push back, looking at him.

"i was prepared to do anything to get you back, darlin'."

you answer him with another earth-shattering kiss.

#top gun maverick #top gun #top gun maverick fic #hangman fic #hangman imagine #hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin fic #jake seresin fanfiction #hangman top gun #jake hangman seresin #top gun hangman #jake hangman fic #top gun fanfiction

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callsign-joyride · 2 years ago

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Hi!! I was wondering if I could request #8. Breaking down mid-hug because they just needed this so much with Bob for your Fluffy Fall Fantasy. Cuz, well, I could really use a really awesome hug b/c things have been shit lately. Thank you so much! ❤️

Head Over Heels | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: Bob has to work late, leaving you at home alone with your three kids for the first time.

Content warnings: None

Prompt: 8. Breaking down mid-hug because they just needed this so much

This was written for my Fluffy Fall Fantasy event. Feel free to send in requests!

You knew that Bob would be staying late at work. It was something that he frequently had to do because of all of the paperwork that needed to be filed after a flight or a lesson, but it was hard to get used to, especially after you had your third baby. When he ranked up to Lieutenant Commander, he was granted longer paternity leave, and he didn’t need to stay late as often. The baby was six months old, and the other two kids were six and four. It was the first time that he needed to stay late since the baby had been born, and you were on the verge of a breakdown.

When Bob had to be deployed, you didn’t really tell the kids. Deployments were always called “work trips” around them. So, you didn’t explicitly tell them that Bob was staying at work late, but they had somehow figured it out by dinner time. You got the older kids to eat leftover spaghetti with the promise of a piece of candy for dessert. By the time they had finished eating, you had almost entirely forgotten about the candy as you looked at your food-covered children.

“Everyone needs a bath,” you said as you started to clear the table.

“What about our candy?”

“You can have it after you take a bath.”

“But you promised!”

“Yeah, mommy! You promised!” You sighed. The kids were right, but you were just exhausted. Other parents weren’t lying when they said that it “takes a village”. The only thing was that you didn’t really have a village. Your parents and in-laws lived in a different state, and all of your neighbors were a bunch of twenty-year-olds who you didn’t want to bother. The kids were occupied with pieces of chocolate while you took the youngest out of his high chair.

“I want both of you to be ready for a bath when you’re done with your candy,” you said as you went upstairs. The kids were good listeners, you gave them that. As soon as you were done bathing the littlest, your four-year-old walked in with his pajamas. All of the kids were bathed and ready for bed by some miracle, and you put the baby to bed first.

The garage opening woke the baby up, and you were watching TV in the bedroom that you and Bob shared. It had been a few hours since you put the baby to sleep, so you got your time to relax, but you had never been more excited to hear a garage door open. You could hear Bob putting his things away in the laundry room while you rocked the baby back to sleep, and you smiled and waved as he walked by the room.

“What’s going on in here?” He whispered.

“This little guy woke up when you opened the garage. I think the other two are still asleep, though.”

You looked down and realized that your son was sound asleep on your chest. You slowly maneuvered him to the crib before leaving the room and closing the door. Bob was starting to get ready for bed when you made it back to the bedroom, and you turned off Gossip Girl before joining him in the bathroom. As soon as he wrapped his arms around your waist, you started to cry.

“Hey, is everything okay?” He asked as he wiped your tears with his thumbs. You sniffled and nodded your head.

“Yeah, today was just really hard. I love you and I love the kids but it was so stressful not having you here. I didn’t even get a chance to clean off the table!” You exclaimed. Bob chuckled and pulled you in for a tight hug.

“You’re an amazing mom. I know it’s not easy being away from our families but we’ve made it work. But this was your first time being alone with all three kids for a while, so I can see why you’re stressed. What do you want to do if I have to stay late for work again?”

You took a moment to think before pulling away from the hug and wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Do you think you could see if Penny or Amelia could come by and help out? At least until the kids are a bit older.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Amelia would love that. Do you want me to clean off the table for you after my shower?”

“It can wait until the morning. I’m dying to get back in bed.”

“And I’m dying to get in bed with you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said after you lightly smacked his chest and chuckled.

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charliemwrites · 1 year ago

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Guilty By Association Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak

You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.

Content: Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)

“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”

Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.

Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.

“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.

You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.

“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.

You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.

“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.

Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.

No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.

Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.

You hurt.

When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.

“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.

“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”

Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”

You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.

“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.

What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.

“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”

“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.

It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.

You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.

At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.

Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.

“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.

“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”

“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”

“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”

You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.

“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.

“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.

“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.

You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”

Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”

“Pardon.”

You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.

You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.

You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.

“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.

“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”

You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”

She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.

“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”

“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”

His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?

He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.

“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.

“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.

As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.

You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.

Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”

Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.

At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.

Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.

“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”

He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.

“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”

He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.

“I’m here to apologize.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”

You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”

“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.

“Thanks, Soap.”

He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.

“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”

He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”

It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.

At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.

Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.

The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.

It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.

“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.

You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.

With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.

“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.

You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?

“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”

He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”

When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…

“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.

“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”

“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”

He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.

“That you can’t ask us to help you.”

A block of ice drops into your stomach.

“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.

He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”

You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?

You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.

“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.

You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.

“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”

You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”

Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.

“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.

You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”

His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.

“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”

He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.

“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”

You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.

“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”

He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.

“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”

You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.

“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.

His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”

His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”

“Yessir.”

His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”

You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.

“Cold?” he asks.

This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.

But you don’t want to do that. Not really.

And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.

“No, sir,” you whisper.

His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.

“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.

“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.

Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.

“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”

You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.

“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.

“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”

Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.

“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”

You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.

“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”

You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.

“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.

He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.

“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”

Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.

“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”

Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.

“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.

“Please what, darling?” he teases.

“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”

He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.

“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.

You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.

He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.

“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”

He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.

He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.

It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.

“Do you need to cum, doll?”

“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”

He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.

His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.

He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.

“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”

You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.

“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”

He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.

“Price…?” you ask after a while.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”

He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”

You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”

His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #commissioned work #john price x reader #captain john price #tf 141 #medic reader #former shadow reader

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