#tom doesn't get tethered in save from his love to her

[pasukiyo]

Hey! I really love your Riddle fics :)

Could we maybe get one where reader is in a relationship but has an attraction to Tom that she keeps under wraps? Like she tries to hide her crush on him but gets caught staring at him in class & etc- So he decides to do something about it.

It can be a little angsty too!

Hope it doesn't sound dumb, the idea just randomly came to me and I really like how you write for his character.

THIS CARNAL TETHER

tom riddle x f!ravenclaw!reader word count; 4,695 warnings; cheating!, fingering, smut! notes; vincent welch is not in canon, he is just an oc i made up for this particular fic! summary; you should've been over this crush years ago. but it's hard when tom riddle plagues your every thought and your boyfriend falls flat in the places you just knew tom wouldn't...

 All is quiet in the Ravenclaw common room, save for the scratching of her quill against her parchment and the fire crackling in the hearth in the room’s center. It’s well past curfew and many are already in bed, but she stays awake, lounging on one of the many sofas, her Charms homework in her lap. Moonlight spills into the common room through the many windows and her parchment is illuminated solely by the lamp at her side. 

 Sleep weighs heavily on her eyelids and she pauses her scribbling to dig her knuckles into them, mouth parting to make way for a yawn. She stretches out her weary muscles, rolling her neck around in her shoulders just as footsteps permeate the once silent common room and she blinks through her tired vision as Vincent Welch marches towards her, a scowl twisting his lips. 

 She raises an eyebrow as he plops down onto the space on the sofa beside her with a huff, lolling his head back until it hits the top of the seat. His eyes flutter closed and she grants him this small moment of peace until her curiosity can no longer be tamed. 

 “Is everything alright?” She asks and he sighs, threading his fingers through his locks of golden brown, pushing them away from his face. He doesn’t reply at first, but his lids peel back open and he locks his fingers over his stomach, blinking up at the stars glimmering on the ceiling. 

 “That damn Tom Riddle is going to be the death of me,” Vincent mutters, his clipped tone dripping with venom. She stiffens at the name and clears her throat, carefully placing her quill down onto the parchment in her lap. “Oh,” she simply says, casting her gaze down to the floor, unable to meet her boyfriend’s eye. 

 She can feel Vincent hastily move beside her and she wrings her hands together, willing the blood biting at her cheeks to dwindle. 

 “Ran into him earlier in the prefects’ bathroom and do you know what he said?” He asks and she presses her lips together, humming, prompting him to continue. “He thinks that I am not adequate enough to be a prefect. He thinks Dippet made a mistake in giving me the title,” Vincent scoffs and she can see the shaking of his head through her periphery. 

 Still, she does not yet turn to fully see him. 

 “I think the mistake Dippet made was making him Head Boy,” Vincent continues, leaning back into the sofa again. “It certainly didn’t aid in reducing his ego, don’t you agree?”

 She tries, really tries, to not let visions, even thoughts of Tom Riddle into her head, especially not with Vincent sitting right beside her. It’s entirely inappropriate, as well as it is unethical to think of another man when already committed to another. 

 And yet, she still cannot help the way her heart skips a beat when she thinks of the Head Boy like she’s a silly little first-year again, giddy and enthralled with her first crush. She’s crossed this bridge many times before but still, she teeters in the middle because no matter how hard she tries to continue pushing forward, to finally forget Tom once and for all, there’s still a part of her that desires to look back, to run back, even. 

 And how foolish this crush has made her, since Tom never so much as acknowledges her. In all her seven years at Hogwarts, she could only picture a handful of times where Tom has so much as glanced her way, and still, she finds herself plagued by wicked thoughts of betraying Vincent, of sullying whatever reputation she may or may not have had to indulge herself in these fantasies. 

 She feels sweat collect on her hairline and suddenly, everything is too much. The fire crackling in the hearth is too much, the velvet cushions of the sofa is too much, Vincent’s presence at her side is too much, these nefarious thoughts of Tom Riddle are too much, and all she really longs for is her bed, for sleep to overcome her so that she may escape her own mind for even just a moment. 

 She suddenly rises from her seat, clumsily hugging her parchment to her chest and Vincent stares up at her curiously, a hint of concern in the mossy green of his eyes. “Are you alright?” He asks and she notices his hand rise, reaching for hers and she moves away, albeit non-discreetly. 

 “I’m going to bed,” she announces and she has to swallow the lump in her throat, taking in a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m just… feeling really tired,” she murmurs, which isn’t exactly a lie. “I’ve been working on this for a while, I think it’s starting to make my head ache a bit,” she adds, breathing an awkward laugh. 

 Vincent blinks, his lips twisting in pity and he reaches for her hand again, grabbing it before she’s able to step away again. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t think he notices as he stands, leaning in to press a chaste peck to her lips. 

 “I hope you didn’t stay up for me,” he mutters, a guilty look creeping upon his face as his thumb soothes over the back of her hand. 

 She didn’t, but she appreciates that sentiment all the same. 

 She nods and forces a tight-lipped grin, ineptly pulling away from him and backing away. 

 “No, no, I just… well…” she trails off, cursing herself beneath her breath for being so ungraceful with her escape. “…well. Goodnight!”

 She hastily turns, making her way towards the staircase and not picking up her pace until she’s certain she’s out of his sight. 

 Needless to say, she’s still plagued with thoughts of Tom Riddle when she wakes the following morning. She feels awful for it and it even makes her feel sick to her stomach, so much that she skips breakfast altogether. She hurriedly scribbles down the rest of the answers to her Charms homework before she breaks for class, although the entire walk makes her feel even worse, considering this is a class she knows Tom Riddle will be in. 

 Her heart pounds against her chest as she climbs the steps down, leading to the Charms classroom. The majority of the class has already arrived, but she keeps her head ducked as she makes her way towards her seat, for she knows Tom Riddle is just on the other side of the room. Vincent sits next to her and he grins at her arrival, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek as he bids her good morning. 

 Her heart should flutter, her stomach should be doing somersaults, she should want to kiss him back. But her body was reacting to all the wrong reasons— because she could see Tom Riddle just from the top of her vision. Her heart should beat for Vincent, her stomach should do flips for Vincent, she should want to kiss Vincent. 

 The warmth in her cheeks should be for Vincent, but instead, they warm for the boy who does not care for her, for a boy who has never even blinked twice at her. 

 “Morning,” she replies, trying to smile but turning away before he realizes she’s not. The professor enters and she’s saved from further conversation with Vincent for the time being but still, she fights a battle to keep her eyes away from Tom. 

 She tries, she really does. But it’s so hard when she envisions the pinkness of his lips, the dark, inviting obsidian irises that seem to absorb the pupils in his eyes, the stony expression that seems to always be on his face, the one where his brows are knit and his jaw is set. It’s hard when she thinks of his hands and how his fingers look curled around his quill, how they move when he writes, how the veins on the back of them protrude when he stretches them a certain way. 

 Surely one look would not hurt, right?

 Just a swift glance, a fleet of the eyes, nothing more. Her gaze would not linger, only graze, and it would be for only the smallest of seconds, so nobody would notice. 

 Even as she tries rationalizing it, a small voice in the back of her mind protests, reminding her it is unwise, foolish even. She pushes the thought away and blinks up across the room to where Tom Riddle sits anyways, and she’s mesmerized. 

 He’s completely focused on the professor, transfixed on whatever lesson he was currently teaching (she hadn’t been paying attention, so she wouldn’t now.) His hands are just as she imagined them moments before— his fingers are wrapped around his quill, veins jutting from the skin on the back of his hand. 

 His lips are as pink as she remembers them, although they glisten now, as if he’d been swiping his tongue between them. And his eyes— they are as black as night, as bewitching as any spell in the book. She stares at them now and wonders how lost she might get in them, when—

 “Ahem.”

 She blinks herself out of her trance and finds that her professor now stands before her, a brow raised expectantly. 

 “Yes, Professor?” Her voice is small with embarrassment and the evidence comes in the form of blood biting her cheeks as she sinks down into her seat. “Your homework?” The professor asks and she clears her throat, dipping her chin as she rummages through her bag, fishing out the piece of parchment. “I apologize,” she says, handing over the scroll. The professor simply huffs, stalking away. 

 When he moves, she finds that Tom Riddle’s eyes are set on her, and those pink lips that were so tightly pressed in a firm, thin line before were now quirked to one side. His eyes, dark as they are, illuminate with something she can’t quite place— curiosity? Amusement? Humor?

 No matter the case, mortification seeps through her skin and she sinks further down into her seat. She feels Vincent lean into her shoulder, his breath fanning over her ear. 

 “Are you alright?” He asks in a whisper and she grumbles, pressing her lips together as she avoids looking across the room at Tom altogether. She settles on the wooden desktop before her and she reaches out to fiddle with the feather of her quill. “I’m fine,” she clips. “Just tired.”

 Vincent doesn’t attempt to question her further, more due to the fact that the professor was talking again rather than because of her behavior. She tries to still the beating of her heart as images of Tom looking at her flood her mind— it was driving her mental that she couldn’t quite decipher what that gleam in his eyes meant. 

 It was all she could ponder, and she was grateful that class ended before the professor had a chance to call her out again. 

 Vincent speaks beside her but she doesn’t hear a single thing he says as she swiftly gathers her things, tossing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, making her hasty exit. She cannot be in a room with Tom Riddle any longer— the mere presence of him had her acting foolish. 

 She makes a sharp right as soon as she leaves the classroom and begins her descent down the short staircase there, but she freezes where she stands almost as soon as she rounds the corner. 

 Tom Riddle lurks in the shadows of the staircase, arms crossed over his chest, back pressed to the wall. She presses her lips harder together to stifle any sounds that may emit as she turns, fully prepared to walk back up the stairs and find another route to her next class. 

 That is, until he speaks.

 Her name drips like oil from his lips and she feels like she’s been set ablaze. She’s never heard him say her name before, never even heard him fully acknowledge her before. It’s like a symphony and a cacophony to her ears all the same and she’s uncertain whether her heart skips beats out of fear or in delight. 

 Her mouth opens and closes and she feels stuck to the very ground she stands on as words try but inevitably fail to escape from her lips. She settles on shakily saying, “Tom,” feeling her very bones rattle as if just speaking his name caused some sort of internal earthquake. 

 Her arms drop to her sides and she brings her hands together to thread her fingers through one another. Tom stalks closer and the lingering fear in the back of her head that someone— that Vincent— could see them now has her shaking, but she’s incapable of moving. So, she allows him to draw near, even if it feels like with every step he takes, she comes closer to bursting. 

 “Is everything alright?” He asks, his voice dropping one sultry octave, and she thinks to herself if she had a galleon for every time someone has asked her the very question over the past twenty-four hours, she would be rich. 

 Her throat constricts around words she tries to speak and her mouth suddenly feels like a desert, so she settles on nodding her head in reply. Tom Riddle clicks his tongue as he finally comes close enough that he towers over her, like the moon in an eclipse. She tries to still the quivering of her jaw, but she’s certain her efforts come to no fruition, for those eyes as black as coal scour her face, the corners of his lips twitching in amusement. 

 “You seemed awfully distracted in class today,” he continues, speaking so matter-of-factly, she almost forgets she’s being interrogated. “It is unlike you, you know. To be so… sidetracked.”

 Her chest begins to rise and fall as she tries to will herself to breathe, and words muster on the tip of her tongue. This time, she finally speaks. 

 “Forgive me, Tom,” she says as steadily as she can manage. “But I fail to see how my performance in class today is any of your concern.”

 She’s just as surprised at herself as he is when she says it. His brows raise ever so slightly and she thinks: this could be her chance to escape, to rush down the last remaining steps and be rid of the nightmare. She makes her attempt to step away from him and she even manages to make it past him before a hand clasps around her wrist, his grip so tight, she’s nearly knocked to her bum. 

 “I don’t think that’s any way to speak to someone who is showing you concern,” he practically hisses, and his words feel like thorns slicing into her skin. “Or your superior, may I remind you.”

 She rolls her lips together and makes a feeble attempt to break away from his grip, but to no avail. “Forgive me, Tom,” she basically pleads, rounding her eyes in what she hopes is an expression soft enough, he’d spare some mercy on her. “I’m just… I’m just tired, is all.”

 “Tired?” He repeats and she nods. The corner of his lips curve, “yes, I suppose it must be exhausting trying not to think about me when your boyfriend is around, hm?”

 Weaves of horror thread through her cheeks like spider silk at the creeping realization that Tom Riddle knows she’s been staring at him, that she’s been plagued by thoughts of him. She isn’t sure how he knows of course, but at that moment, the answer didn’t matter. All she cares about now is fleeing, to find a moment alone where she can collect herself. 

 She breaks free from his grip at last and breaks down the rest of the stairs, turning the corner into the girls’ restroom, kneeling over to chase air back into her lungs once she’s alone. She feels impossibly hot, as if she were a volcano close to eruption. 

 After more than a few minutes have passed, she finally believes she can breathe, that she’s collected, that she’s calm, cool. She’s entirely late for Transfiguration, but Professor Dumbledore adores her; it shouldn’t be a problem if she’s a little tardy. She takes a deep breath as she approaches one of the bathroom mirrors, switching on the faucet and leaning over the sink, cupping water into her hands to splash them onto her cheeks. The cool water sends shivers slithering down her spine but it is refreshing— she feels better. 

 All that’s left to do now is leave and never run into Tom Riddle again. Simple. Easy. 

 She stands and wipes at her face with the sleeves of her robe, switching off the faucet and when she opens her eyes, she finds that she is no longer alone. 

 Tom Riddle stands behind her figure in the mirror and with a gasp, she turns, backing into the sink. She’s not sure whether to cry or run away or just let her desire take over her now, but what’s for certain is that all the work she made to calm herself has completely flown out the window. 

 “You’re so easy to read, you know,” he speaks as if they never stopped talking, slyly slithering back into conversation with great facility. Purely true snakelike fashion. “I always thought you Ravenclaws were supposed to be clever, but that boyfriend of yours is as dim as they come.”

 Tom stalks closer and again, she’s unable to move, left to simply watch as he caves in on her, his hands on either side of the sink she’s backed up into, caging her. In a matter of seconds, she’s whisked into his game of cat and mouse, prey and predator. The only problem is, she’s not sure if she wants to run. 

 Not when he’s so close she can smell him, that she can feel his breath on her face, his arms brush against hers, his legs subtly weaving their way between hers. 

 “How he cannot see that you do not desire him the way you desire this…” Either of their gazes drop to her lap as Tom’s fingers slither up her knee where her robe parts, the tips pushing her skirt up and up until his hand rests on the soft, pillowy flesh of her thigh. 

 Gooseflesh creeps down her arms, all the way down to her legs as she tries to comprehend that this is reality and she is not dreaming. Her bottom lip quivers and that irritating flutter in her heart is back, inspiring a tingle low in her belly. 

 “…how he cannot see that he’s not enough for you, that what you want is risk, is beyond me,” he whispers near her ear and his hand finds her center, a ghostly touch above her panties and she gasps, instinctively locking her fingers around his wrist. Her eyes find his and for a moment the world stills and there is no more Hogwarts, no more girls’ bathroom, no more classes and homework and professors, and no more Vincent. 

 Her world is solely Tom Riddle, a sea of oblivion she loses herself endlessly in. She’s sucked into his abyss and she is forever falling, forever damned to be lost in his void. But there is a rush that comes with being tethered to Tom Riddle in this twisted, carnal bind. There is a certain warmth that draws her in, that makes her feel at ease, like a moth to a flame. 

 She realizes that perhaps he is right. Being with Vincent was always too safe, too simple, too plain. Vincent is just too good, too docile, too nice. Tom Riddle may seem duteous on the outside, yes, but he is also authoritative, dominant. There’s something so appealing about risk, about danger. 

 Even just being here alone with Tom Riddle in the girls’ bathroom was more of a risk than Vincent ever even dreamed of taking. The faster the realization that she isn’t satisfied with Vincent creeps in, the more she realizes that Tom was even better than she initially imagined. The ache deep in her belly blossoms and she glances down to his lips before peering back up into that endless ocean of obsidian in his eyes. 

 “It seems that you’re only now coming to terms with what you want,” he speaks again and she swears his face is closer now to hers than it was before. She holds her breath, waiting for him to continue. “You see it now, don’t you? That you want this, that you’ve been craving this.”

 The hand on her underwear begins to move again and she exhales, gasping for breath as his fingertips reach the waistband, slowly inching beneath the fabric. His brows draw together and his fingertips halt just above her mound and it feels like her body is kicking, screaming for him to keep going. Her hips squirm but he holds them down with his free hand, never once breaking their gaze. 

 “I think I’d like to hear you say it,” he says, and her brows knit. She shakes her head, “what?” She sputters, trying to subtly rock her hips again but to no avail. His grip tightens on her flesh and she whimpers as he leans closer until their noses almost touch. His gaze darkens and suddenly, she’s under his trance, frozen by the crease between his brows. 

 “Say that you want me,” he whispers and his voice drips with derision, pulling her deeper into the murky waters of his black ocean, further into submission. “Then you can have what you so desire.”

 Fear stops her heart, but her libido resuscitates it. 

 Her mouth parts and she closes it again, recollecting herself before she tries again. 

 “I…” her voice is unsteady and she swallows, starting again. “…I want this. I want you, Tom.”

 Tom inhales sharply and for a moment, all is still again. She wonders if maybe he’s changed his mind, if he doesn’t actually want to do this, if the thought suddenly disgusts him, even. She feels so hot, like she could melt into a puddle of magma any moment now. She waits though, because how could she walk away now?

 The world is still one moment and it’s spinning out of control the next. 

 Tom Riddle’s lips crash into hers like lightning striking the earth and her ground rocks, but his hand finds the side of her neck and she’s stable again. Their tongues are in a war that Tom will eventually win, and when he does, she’s malleable. The hand partly inside her underwear sinks further down until the pads of his fingers trace a stripe from her nub to her core and back up, a relentless pattern that leaves her mind spinning. 

 She whimpers against his mouth as he finds her clit again, his fingers rubbing small, tight circles against it as if to vex her. She lolls her head back to the mirror as his mouth breaks away from hers to venture lower towards her neck. She pants as he finds a delicate patch of skin, suckling it between his teeth as he applies more pressure to her aching center. Her legs twitch and her knees begin to wobble, prompting Tom to use his unoccupied hand to lift her up onto the sink so that she now sits. 

 She yelps and clasps a hand over her mouth to suppress any louder noises that may emit when he sinks his teeth into her neck, pulling away to admire his work. His fingers swirl around her clit before trailing down to her sopping cunt, using his middle and forefinger to work her open with a scissoring motion. 

 Her eyelids flutter close and she’s seeing stars, much like the ones on the ceiling of the Ravenclaw common room. She imagines she is one of those stars, a little ball of gas that burns brighter and brighter with each pump of his fingers, each kiss his lips grace upon her skin. 

 Tom swirls his tongue over the tender mark on her neck, already bruising, no doubt. His mouth leaves trails of kisses all the way up her chin to her mouth again, his free hand making its way to the back of her head to fist a handful of her hair, and she opens her eyes again. She feels small beneath his gaze, but it’s not because of how he stares at her, it’s how he stares into her, like he’s a spider crawling into her mind, a vine twisting around her brain. 

 He’s got her completely under his control between his gaze and his fingers pumping inside of her and she’s never once been so utterly someone’s before until this moment. A line forms between her brows as he works a third finger into the mix and it feels like he’s practically digging her orgasm out of her. 

 She pants and reaches out for him, for anything on his body she can hold onto.  She settles for his elbow, the one on the same arm as the hand he has woven through her hair, her opposite hand falling to the side of the sink, her fingernails scratching the white surface. 

 “Tom, I’m…” she pants as he curls his fingers inside of her, using the pad of his thumb to circle her clit again. Her back is arching off of the mirror and somewhere in the back of her mind, she thanks Merlin that miraculously, nobody has walked into the bathroom yet. “…I’m going to… I’m…!”

 “Do it,” he encourages beside her ear, his breath like smoke on her skin. “Poor things’ been so neglected, hasn’t been fucked enough. You must’ve been waiting so long for me to come save you and give you an orgasm, hm?”

 She nods, feeling the salty bite of tears in her eyes. It’s all simply too much, being stuffed full of Tom’s fingers, his thumb on her clit, his fingers in her hair, his body so close to hers, his voice telling her such wicked things. To think that none of this would’ve happened if she hadn’t been caught staring at him earlier. That it took her dating someone whom Tom loathes such as Vincent to get her where she is now. 

 “Then do it,” he hisses again. “Come all over my fingers. Show me how neglected this poor cunt has been.”

 Such a dirty thing for him to say and yet, it’s exactly what she needs to send her over the edge. His fingers hook inside of her heat and her body spasms when she comes undone, her toes curling while her lips fall in a silent scream. Tom gathers her mouth to seal them in a kiss once more as she rides her orgasm out on his fingers, and she moans against his lips, allowing his tongue to swirl over hers. 

 It feels like she’s been falling forever, but Tom eventually pulls his fingers away, eyes spilling into hers as he brings them to his lips. She feels like she could have another orgasm just watching him taste her on his fingers. 

 She reaches forward to cup the back of his head, pulling his mouth down onto hers, tasting a mix of his spit and her cum on his lips. It’s all very obscene, but it makes it all the more gratifying all the same. 

 Tom eventually pulls away, his lips prettily pink and glistening with spit, and he backs away, dusting off his robes. She feels the crease form in her forehead as he begins making for the door and she tilts her head, mustering the energy to call after him. 

 “Where are you going?” She asks and he turns only to peer over his shoulder. She can see his raised eyebrow and she suddenly feels stupid for asking the question. “To class,” he replies and then, the corner of his mouth curls into a nefarious grin. It’s enough to even send shivers slithering down her spine— how wicked he looks, grinning like a devil with remnants of her release on his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you and your boyfriend in Defense Against the Dark Arts later.”

a/n; whew. i'm honestly surprised i got this one done LMFAO. anyways, THIS REQUEST HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY INBOX FOR MOST LIKELY OVER A YEAR AND I'M SO SORRY TO THE ANON FOR TAKING SO LONG TO WRITE THIS 😭 i still hope that if you are reading, you enjoy it! i hope this is angsty enough 😭

anyways, i hope everyone who reads this enjoys it! i absolutely love writing for tom and this is the most fun i've had writing for him since probably wrapped around your finger and its sequel :)

🪄 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! 🫶

TAGLIST

@your-nanas-house

@sallowsarchives

@michelle-26

@iamthejam

@lyis

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Wanna Bet?

Happiest of birthdays to my wonderful, fantastic gf @hangsters! For my very favourite person, I tried to write their very favourite thing which is some soft hangsters so the rest of you let to hopefully enjoy this proposal fic too! Love you baba 💙💙💙

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed this!

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Jake Seresin knows how lucky he is. And he doesn't just mean that he hasn't died in a fiery plane crash yet.

He knows he's lucky to be standing here, after such a rough childhood and such a fight to get where he is. He knows he's lucky to have his wings. He knows he's lucky to have the Daggers, to have his family, to have the Admiral and the Captain. And he knows he's damn lucky to have Bradley and their daughter.

But there's still something left that Bradley can give him.

--------

The word ‘home’ had always given Jake Seresin a headache. 

Hearing it had always made him feel like he was looking at a magic eye picture, surrounded by people who were nodding along while he gave himself a migraine trying and failing to squint just right and see what they all saw. Or a word from another language jutting up like an uneven paving stone, tripping him when everyone else seemed to understand. A word that set a small storm raging inside his stomach, that raised the wary little hairs on the back of his neck. 

Jake understood it as he got older, not that it brought him any kind of comfort. It just made him feel lonely, to realize that the idea of home wasn’t something you were only supposed to half believe in, like heaven or Santa. That a home was just another thing he lacked, another thing he had to hide, another way he wasn’t built right. The place people pointed to and told him was home, he would nod along and agree, all the while counting down the days until he could leave. Jake had told himself he’d find where home actually was and hoped to hell they’d at least call him the right name. 

He’d found something close to it in the Navy, in the wings pinned to his chest and a patch that proudly declared Lt. Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin. Maybe home was in the sky somewhere, where he at least felt like he was in control, where he was the best of the best and always ready to prove it. But even in the Navy, people would ask about home. They’d ask Jake where he came from, they’d ask about Texas, they’d ask about his family, like everything here was temporary and there was supposed to be somewhere else to tether himself to. And the headache would come back. 

Then he’d thought maybe his home was Bradley Bradshaw. If he didn’t have a place to anchor himself to, maybe he needed a person. Someone who seemed to find everything funny, who was always saying everything was going to be okay. Someone who was soft and warm, who listened to him when he spoke about all his missing pieces because he had pieces missing too. For a little while, Jake had dared to hope. 

And then it had all fallen apart. He’d just stopped looking, after that. 

But as Jake Seresin leaned against the wall of The Hard Deck, lazily twirling the same pool cue he always used, so often that it probably had slight indentations of his finger prints, listening to his daughter squeal with laughter as her Pops threw her up in the air and caught her, a thought occurred to him. 

The word hadn’t hurt in quite a while. Maybe home had found him, rather than the other way around. 

“You going to take your shot, babe, or are you just gonna stand there and let me win? I mean it saves you the trouble of lifting your arms, I get it…”

Jake left his thoughts behind and smirked at Bradley standing at the end of the table expectantly, “You wish, Bradshaw. I was just making sure your Uncle Mav isn’t about to drop our daughter over there.”

Bradley followed his gaze, to where Maverick was making airplane noises as he set little Poppy on his shoulders and did laps of the bar, his sunglasses sitting crookedly on her face as she giggled. 

He grinned, “Ah, Uncle Tom’s watching them. He’s on it.”

The admiral was sitting at the bar, half in conversation with Penny, half watching his husband and granddaughter with a kind of fond wariness Jake often saw on Iceman’s face when he looked at Maverick. 

“Hey,” Bradley sauntered over, perching on the edge of the pool table, eyes shining mischievously.

“Hey,” Jake willingly shifted his attention to his boyfriend, “Don’t worry about me, I can beat you with half my brain somewhere else.” 

“You seem pretty confident about that,” he shot his eyebrows up in theatrical surprise, “Very unlike you, Hangman.”

Jake gave a bark of laughter, the kind only Bradley could really pull out of him when he was trying to be cool, cracking the snarky armor he wore for everyone else. Because this was a Bradley he could trust, this was a Bradley who made sure that only laughter came up through those cracks. Jake would say he didn’t recognise this Bradley, after how tangled and messy and painful everything had gotten the first time around, but that wasn’t quite true. This was the Bradley he’d known, the Bradley he’d fallen for. He just didn’t have that fear anymore. 

“What can I say, Rooster,” Jake shrugged, hip checking Bradley off the corner to the table so he could line up his shot, “Night after night of whooping your ass at pool, I’m starting to believe in myself.”

“Enough to make a bet?” 

Jake cocked an eyebrow up at him. Bradley wanting to make a bet on anything, darts or pool or beer pong, usually ended with sex. Which was more than alright in Jake’s book, if they could convince Ice and Mav to take Poppy for the night. Never a tricky thing to do, especially if it was Ice you asked. 

So he smirked and gave the barest flick of his wrist, sending the balls clacking and rattling, sinking two of his balls in one effortless move. 

“Y’know…a bet sounds fun,” he grinned, winking at Bradley as he straightened up. 

Bradley sniffed, “I can’t tell if you’re trying to intimidate me or turn me on…because both are working.” 

Jake snorted, going to snag his beer from the top of the jukebox, leaning against it so he had a good view of the way Bradley’s khakis stretched over his ass when he bent to take his shot, “Thanks…what’s the stakes then? What are you looking to lose?”

Bradley missed the pocket by an inch, wincing, “Fuck…okay, if I win…it’s the backseat of the Bronco.”

Jake rolled his eyes fondly, “Course it is, that’s what you always pick. What do I get if I win?”

Bradley turned, a mischievous glint in his eye, “Not telling. You have to win to find out.”

Jake hesitated at that, narrowing his eyes. He searched Bradley’s face for any sign that he was being set up here, that this was going to end up being like the bets he made with his sister, Sofia Mitchell, ones that had ended with Bradley getting his legs waxed on their bathroom floor or Sofia having to spend a day with a Sharpie version of Bradley’s mustache. Actually, it was mostly Bradley who had to do the ridiculous forfeits, despite the fact that most bets were his idea. 

Jake’s thoughts must have shown on his face because Bradley laughed, holding up his hands, “It’s nothing bad, I swear. It’s not even dumb!”

“By whose metric?” Jake could feel his mouth pulling into a smile, the kind of smile that would definitely show Bradley he’d won. 

“I ran it by plenty of people. Sensible people! Uncle Tom, Nat, even Coyote said it was a good idea.”

Jake tilted his head, “Alright then, Bradshaw, you’re on. The Bronco’s suspension will live another day.”

“Nothing wrong with my baby’s suspension…” Bradley muttered, ducking out of the way obediently, retreating to where his beer was resting on top of the jukebox. 

“Yeah, I’m sure Poppy’s suspension is fine,” Jake approached the table, leaning down with renewed focus now this was a competition, grinning smugly when he sank another two balls. 

After that, it could have been any other night at The Hard Deck. That sounded dismissive but Jake couldn’t put into words how comforting it was, being here in amongst the bubble of noise, the voices and the music and the clinking of glasses. He’d always felt safe here, surrounded by walls of other people’s lives. He loved the smell of the old wood, the clinking of the glasses up ahead, the way the music out of the jukebox always crackled ever so slightly. Everyone wore the same uniform or had a set hanging in their closet. Everyone spoke the same language. The Hard Deck was everything Jake had hoped the navy would be. 

It was better with more of the Daggers than they’d been able to get together for months. Fitting friendships around deployment schedules was a headache they all knew well but it seemed like the stars had aligned tonight. Phoenix and Bob were facing off against Payback and Fanboy at the dart board, Coyote was taking bets from the other Daggers on which team would win. Just like the first night they’d all been called up to Top Gun, circumstance drawing them all back into the same place, laughing like they were still those kids who thought they had nothing left to learn. 

And it was better with the two guys he was getting comfortable thinking of as Uncle Tom and Uncle Mav- although he still called them Admiral and Captain to their faces, just to see them smile. With them and with Sofia, who was over with the Daggers viciously cheerleading for Bob and Phoenix, Jake had learned what family was supposed to feel like. He remembered how to be called ‘son’ by someone without flinching, he remembered how to be a big brother, stretching muscles he’d feared had atrophied.  

And it was even better with his daughter, now sitting up on the bar and swinging her legs, probably talking Ice’s ear off about the bug she’d seen in the garden that morning. He listened with a patient smile, one hand ready to flash out and catch the cup of juice she was holding, the one that was creeping over into a tipping position as Poppy’s attention wandered. Leaning against the bar, Maverick listened too, stroking those bronzy curls that came straight from Bradley. 

Jake felt a tightness in his chest but a welcome one, like an embrace. After he’d spent his childhood so lost and isolated, his daughter was surrounded by people who loved her. It was just true, a fact like it could have been printed in the manual of his plane. Poppy Bradshaw was never going to wonder what home meant. 

He’d been on leave for the last week, being run ragged by his little girl and her endless supply of energy. But now he was getting a break, a reminder of what his life had been like before her, all he wanted was for Poppy to run over to him and ask to get up on his shoulders again. 

In fact, it was strange that she wasn’t doing that. Jake would have expected her to have squirmed under Ice and Mav’s radar by now, to be standing on her tiptoes and peering over the edge of the pool table, demanding to play too. But she was still sitting up on the bar, now telling Penny all about the bug too, surprisingly patient. Perhaps even more surprisingly, Maverick was being patient too. 

It was almost as if they were waiting for something. Jake frowned, the instincts he’d carefully honed to a sharpened point over years as a pilot starting to buzz. 

“Jake? Come on, you’re not even watching me embarrass myself,” Bradley sighed as the ball he struck completely failed to roll into the pocket. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch the next one,” Jake said airily, telling himself he was being stupid and paranoid. He didn’t have anything to worry about. 

After all, it was clear Bradley was putting up a fight, for all his self deprecating jokes. They’d been together- for the second time- for three years now and they still didn’t go easy on each other when it came to anything even remotely competitive. In fact it had gotten worse, they still had a week left on their ban from the dartboard over in the corner. They even managed to make the karaoke machine a sport on some nights. 

So the game quickly took them over. Jake just let himself have fun, crowing shamelessly when his shots landed, teasing Bradley as he tried to focus, somehow making flirting an essential strategy. Jake remembered when his venom had been a defense mechanism, a way to push people back and take control of how they felt about him. But now it was just fun, playful, easy, all snapping teeth and pinching Bradley’s ass when he bent over, a game where they both could be winners. Now, this was just what being in love looked like. Bradley hadn’t asked him to change who he was to love him, he’d just done it. 

Jake completely forgot about the little warning alarm his instincts had set off. Which he’d feel a little stupid about when he thought about it later because he really should have noticed that the Hard Deck crowd seemed to be taking a bit of an unwarranted interest in their game. That Ice, Maverick and Poppy took a seat at a table close by, watching them like hawks. That the Daggers had abandoned the darts game midway through and were leaning against the walls. That for a moment, even Penny and Jimmy stopped serving, coming out from behind the bar to watch.

And that Sofia slipped off to punch in some numbers on the jukebox that, if he’d been paying attention, Jake would have recognised. 

It was a hard won battle but finally, Jake sank the nine ball with a trick shot he felt should go in some kind of hall of fame. 

“And that's how you do it, Bradshaw!” he whooped, twirling the cue in triumph, bowing exaggeratedly at the cheers and applause his victory received. Slow Ride even kicked in just at the right moment, it couldn’t have been more perfect if he planned it. 

Behind him, Bradley chuckled ruefully, “Well…guess I should be lucky you love me for other reasons, huh?”

“Damn straight cos it aint your pool skills, son,” Jake cackled, going over to reward himself with the rest of his beer, which he’d pretty much left forgotten on a table as he’d focused on the game, “Let’s have that mystery prize, then. It better be good…”

“I sure hope so,” Bradley’s voice sounded strange all of a sudden, like he was struggling to get his words out, “Turn around and you can have it, Hangman.”

Maybe it was that voice. Maybe it was the fact that, apart from the perfectly timed song, things had gone oddly quiet. Maybe it was the fact that he’d just realized that only Admiral Kazansky’s influence could get everyone in the same room at the same time. But for whatever reason that little alarm started buzzing again, adrenaline shooting through Jake’s veins. 

And he immediately made his peace with it. Jake wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. 

The moment was designed to be perfect and it was. Bradley was on one knee, his smile holding all the hope in the world, that belief that things would be okay, the one he’d lost the first time Jake met him. The ring in his hand was a navy ring, undoubtedly, but an older one, one that could only be Bradley’s father’s. If Jake had held out any hope of keeping his eyes dry, it went then. 

“What do you say, Jake?” Bradley’s own eyes were damp, his smile crooked. 

“Fuck yes,” Jake laughed helplessly, seizing Bradley’s lapels, dragging him up to kiss him hard. Unapologetic, unashamed, unafraid. 

The bar erupted around them, they had moments before they were tackled to the ground by Maverick first, then Sofia, then Poppy. But even when they did, the same word would be thumping behind his heartbeat, on his lips, running in currents down his nerves. It would stay there long after they’d been pulled to their feet, after they’d danced and drank and partied the rest of that night away, even after they’d said their vows or in all the years they’d get after. Jake Seresin wasn’t ever going to lose that word again. 

Home.