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s3thwrit3sstuff · 1 year ago

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❝ Burn for you ❞

post-s6!Stiles Stilinski x werewolf!male!reader | nsfw, smut | sub.bttm. reader (AMAB) | not proofread | wc: 4k

warnings: omegaverse dynamics (r!), praise kink, biting, scratching, spanking

req: can I ask for a stiles fic, like reader(m) is a werewolf n went into heat and the only person he actually trusts from the pack is stiles so he just bursts into his room in the middle of the night all hot and sweaty and stiles is just dumbfounded until he realised what was wrong and he helps him all night 😋😋 anyway and like end it with some cuddles n stuff if you can, oh and like a shit ton of praise just like mass amounts, plus like biting, scratching maybe a few smacks here and there and that's it! (bottom amab reader pls)

"This is insane," by all accounts he was right. Stupid, cunning, frantic and witty Stiles Stilinski was right. This was insane. "Stiles," but here you are — countering his factual statement. "Stiles, please..." The hands in his hair stop and he looks at the state you're in. Actually looks. His eyes take in the wildness in your eyes that, once upon a time, would've made him flinch as they glow in the dim lighting of his dorm room. Yet at this moment, they're anything but frightening, instead they're desperate.

There's a startling realization that the werewolf before him was desperate for him that makes Stiles choke on his own spit. The hands in his hair travel down to cover his mouth but you know it's still in that annoyingly slacked-jaw pose. Why were you sneaking into his dormitory room through a window!? "Stiles!" You land on your feet and now Stiles has a werewolf in his dormitory room. The carpet silences the thudding your shoes make as you reach for the collar of his shirt. It's new. Sheriff Stilinski probably bought some new clothes for Stiles for Christmas —that's not the point. The point is, his shirt is new and you're stretching the round collar wider at the front, claws teasing the fabric as you grit your teeth together to stop your fangs from making an appearance. "Hey, easy, easy!" His palms rest on your face. Stiles squeezes your cheeks together when he feels fur attempting to sprout. He shushes, twisting his head on a swivel around his tiny room. His roommate said he'd be out but the lights from underneath Stiles door is on and he sees shadows moving. He can handle a werewolf in distress but handling that whilst keeping the secret of the supernatural away is a juggling act he'd rather not attempt. He's had his fill from his high school days. He'd rather not repeat it again in college.

What were you even doing here? Last time you two called you'd been in Beacon Hills, California helping his father out with some rogue werewolves. What the hell were you doing in Quantico, Virginia!? "(Y/N)," his eyes are set in a determined squint. Yours are furrowed, eyebrows meeting in the centre that makes a slideshow of memories appear behind Stiles eyes with every blink. The second time he says your name it's softer. As if he recalls who you are and you squeeze your eyes shut at the warmth in his voice. Shoulders sagging and grip loosening, you lean forward to bury your face in the crook of Stile's neck.

Everything is fuzzy. There's someone else nearby — two someone's, to be exact, but everything beyond Stiles' door is irrelevant.

Everything beyond Stiles is irrelevant.

Stiles wraps his arms around you. You swear you can feel every scar on his palms and finger pads despite the jacket you wore. It's mindboggling how amplified Stiles is right now.

He eyes the shadows from his door. They pause and Stiles grip on you tightens. It elicits a gasp from you as you clutch the front of his shirt again. Stiles ignores how hot his ears feel as your lips brush against his skin and how he can feel the tips of your teeth (not fangs, thankfully) whisper along the thickest junction between his neck and shoulder — or he tries to. His pulse quickens and you're so close too him you can feel it, see it, hear it. Your hands are flat against his sternum. With your eyes aglow you tilt your head down to spread your fingers across his chest. "Shh, shh, my roommates asleep," Stiles would thank Tom (his roommate) for being considerate but a few giggles escape the girl he's brought over and Tom is pushed against the door. The sound is decidedly too loud for an already sensitive werewolf so you lips curl in distaste. Your growl only cut short by Stiles hands smacking itself over your mouth so hard your head tilts back.

"Stiles — !" "(Y/N)" his whisper is sharper than you're used to. The frown etched onto his face is so familiar but so...grown. It had only been a year since graduation. Since that mess with the Wild Hunt and everything in between. Stiles looks so adult now. Oh, there's still mischief written all over his face but everything that was soft-edged was sharper and there was this hint of a stubble along his jaw and chin. The bags under his eyes were probably because of wild nights roaming Beacon Hills woods for dead bodies but it seemed college exacerbated it tenfold. It reminded you of the Nogitsune when it had Stiles but he wasn't pale and he was still familiar. You're staring. You realize that you are but Stiles just looks so handsome and the memories are flooding in faster than you can stop them. His hands smell like energy drinks, spilled pen ink, dusty cold-case files Stiles definitely had no authority to be snooping through and home. Stiles flinches, chest concaving away from you when you whimper and tug at his shirt.

No, not whimper.

Moan.

"...Your roommate has company too," Tom's girl whispers barely reach his ears through the door. Their shadows stumble away with a few 'hushed' giggles but Stiles only tears his eyes away when he hears his roommates door shut.

"What the - Are you hurt? (Y/N), it's 2 am — You-You're supposed to be in Beacon Hills!"

Why is he so far away from you? He's pacing again, combing through his hair again and he's rambling again.

"Stiles," he doesn't pause as you call for him. He's too frantic to see the way you're panting or the way your cheeks are heated. "You know you're supposed to call me first when things happen!" He gasps and spins to looks at you. "Is it an emergency? Does Peter have another kid running around or something? Hunters? Are you —"

You're breathing too hard. He inches closer again. It feels like he's teasing you. Moving to-and-fro like a sly fox teasing a wolf.

"You're hurt?" "Stiles," the whine is high in your throat. A keening almost. It makes Stiles hands hover over your shoulders when he'd been gripping you so tightly minutes before. "Stiles, I need you"

"Need? Need...Need me to - For what exactly?" Your jacket is shrugged off. He can see the way your shirt is sticking to your skin. To his relief he sees no wounds, no blackened veins bulging and spreading across your skin because a hunter gave you a dose of Wolfsbane poisoning. It leaves him more confused. More flustered. "Somethings happening to me," you take steps forward. Stiles lets you. "What's wrong, (Y/N)?" He wants to turn on the lights in his room. Moonlight looks wonderful on you and the table lamp is less headache inducing to work in during these times but he's frozen with concern.

What if you were cut by a tiny blade covered in Yellow Wolfsbane? Or some other type of poison — a Kanima maybe? No, you weren't paralyzed. You weren't dying, if you were dying he' be sure you'd be more panicky but goddammit what if you were and you didn't realize it!?

"Derek...Derek said it happens to werewolves wuh-when we've...matured," Stiles wasn't there to witness the chaos the pack went through with the other wolves. Blissfully unaware of the embarrassment that lasted for days and it wasn't as though Scott was going to tell Stiles about the time he was so painfully horny after his 18th birthday that Malia and him effectively traumatized Melissa. "Matured...?" "Stiles, my birthday just passed," you don't want to say it. It kills you every time you even think about it so why would you want to say it out loud? "Happy...birthday?" But Stiles wasn't catching on. Derek had advised you about holing up somewhere. Said something about finding someone to partner up with. Preferably a pack mate and not some stranger in a bar. The notion was far too embarrassing. Scott was like an older brother to you and he was dating Malia who you think would probably not mind if you decided to spend your heat with the two of them. You minded though. So, no. Derek was a definitive no. Too much angst, too broody and too old for you and Lydia didn't deserve to be subjected to anymore werewolf biology nonsense then she already had. There were more pack mates but they were all a no but, Stiles...? He made you feel so safe. His brilliance was blinding (sarcastic quips included) and his valor in deathly situations were enough to make you swoon. Such kindness despite the torments life had thrown his way. Even now, he's showing it. He's holding you, tender and sweet, and his eyes are scanning you for injuries. "Stiles..." Your eyes meet. His brow furrows and his hand is cupping your cheek again. "Stiles, I'm...I'm in heat." His mouth opens then closes then opens before closing. Stiles is doing that thing where his brows are moving on their own and his eyes are blinking rapidly which means he's thinking. "Whaaat does that mean? Just - just as a clarification ya' know" You groan. The pants you're wearing has been achingly tight and you can't stand it anymore. "Dammit, Stiles! I need you to fuck me! I'm in heat, I feel - I feel like my skin is on fire and I - I just, fuck, please, Stiles, please" There's tears in your eyes. Embarrassment be damned, it's too much. It felt like your senses were fucking with you, it's been like this for days, symptoms of oversensitivity steadily raising until it reached its boiling point that caused you to drive all the way to here. But all of it washes away when Stiles is holding you. All your focus is on him and it relieves you of so much pain why the fuck isn't he holding you now? "Please, I need you, I need you so badly."

Stiles catches you when you trip over your own feet, faceplanting into his chest where he can feel your open-mouthed breathing. Your hands cling to his shoulders, his wrap themselves around your middle as you cry. "It hurts, Stiles. I can't, I can't think I just — Mmf, you smell so fuckin' good," your gaze lifts up and Stiles groans into your mouth when you surge forward to kiss him. It's a shitty kiss. Sloppy, messy, and there's a clear lack of coordination but fuck it was hot. His tongue brushing against yours along with his lips.

You feel the dry patches he has — clearly college has triumphed his basic needs so you fix it by wetting his lips with your tongue. His grip tightens as you push him back, back and back until the back of his knees knock onto his bed. He falls. You fall too. It's not the first time he's had a werewolf over him but it is the first time he's had a werewolf in heat on top of him. He prefers this compared to the other instances. The window of his room, where moonlight floods in, cast you in this blue hue. It contrasts with the warm hued light of his desk and the colours look so fucking good on your skin. Your lashes are dark with tears. Stiles is certain he's tasted a few of them while kissing you. He reaches up and wipes the evidence of their path away. You turn your nose into his palm like a puppy and Stile's plaid patterned pajama pants feels a little tight. A tear slips and Stiles uses both hands to hold you. Those pretty eyes flutter open and Stiles gulps. You were (Y/N) (L/N), a longtime friend. One of the first guys that made him realize he was bisexual. A cherished friend, someone he could imagine one day meeting up for drinks even after decades have passed. Here you were, on his lap. "Why, why me...?" It was a fair inquiry. He lived miles away and he hadn't been available as of late too. You? You were a looker. So handsome and kind it made Stiles feel guilty every time he jerked off and your face appeared in his thoughts. You could have anyone you wanted. If the werewolf thing was stopping you from getting with anyone...well, it wasn't as if there were a shortage of werewolves in Beacon Hills. The sounds of your breathing muffles the beat of silence. Then, you're leaning down and Stiles places a hand on your chest to stop you. "You...You don't want me?" He feels your muscles tensing. Ready to dart if he nods but he doesn't. "I...I really want you, (Y/N)" You lean again and again he stops you. "Stiles, please —" "Why me, (Y/N)?" He knows you're thinking. You have this tell on your face when you do and since you're just inches away from him he'd be blind not to see it. "Because I...I trust you, Stiles. Muh...More than anyone else. I don't just need you, Stiles, I...I want you" It's his turn to talk but he's quiet. You're whimpering again, hips twitching as you try so very hard not to act on impulse despite the way your body is on fire. There was this annoyingly loud voice in your head just chanting Stiles name and it's killing you that he is so, so, close but not fucking you. When Stiles kisses you it takes you aback, teeth clacking and all but neither of you care. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and he's gripping the back of your neck as he all but devours you. Your hands slide up his shirt. He flinches, pulling away from the kiss and squeezing your neck. "I bruise easily," you're confused. He motions to your hand with his eyes and your eyes widen when you see your claws fully extended. "Shit, Stiles, I'm sorry —" He cuts you off with his mouth. Your eyes are rolling back and he swallows every pathetic noise as he grabs your hips, ass, then your thighs. The yelp you let out when he twists you surprises you both. He's between your legs now, above you and grinning boyishly. "That's — That's new," he nods before diving in to mottle your neck. Your fingers are curled into fists as you arch your back into him. "Learned some self-defense moves, came in handy, huh?" Your laughter dies when you feel Stiles teeth playfully bite into your flesh. "I mean, it works against werewolves" Both of you glance at the wall behind you when you hear repetitive thuds, followed by a squeal of pleasure. Stiles wants you to scream on his dick like that too. You gasp, whispering out his name when Stiles undoes the annoying obstacles that is your pants. Your boxers have a wet patch on them and you nearly kick Stiles off when he presses a kiss on it. He's hastily tugging your pants away from your legs but you're not cold at all. Everywhere he touches you feels like he's setting you on fire.

But it's good. Not like "before Stiles", not like "without Stiles" burning that makes you feverish and turns your skin unbearably lonely. Stiles touches spreads this delicious burn across your skin. Your shirt is next. Stiles doesn't help you with, just watches as you take it off and toss it to the side. He's over you again, kissing you again and you're so overwhelmed you can't help the noises you're making. His fingers ghost along your navel but you've no time for foreplay. You grab his wrist and guide it down to your crotch, bucking your hips up from his ghost-like touches. "Fuck, you're pent-up," You're nodding in agreement, balls tightening as he finally, finally, slips a hand into your underwear. Your torso twists to the side, moaning like a whore as he holds your cock in his hands. "Really pent-up" Stiles jerks his wrist and you're biting your hand to keep the noises down. "Don't, not like they're holding back" Stiles reminds as the headboard banging grew more incessant. He pulls your hand away, pinning it down as he watches your face. His fingers are so good, palm warm and your precum is excessively leaking down. Probably a side-effect of the whole "in heat" thing. His thumb digs into your slit and he's groaning at your wanton moans. Curious, he slides his hand down. "Stiles," you feel him touch your balls but he slips further down to your perineum then to your twitching entrance. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "You're wet" Stiles astute observation makes you dig your heels into the mattress. "You're wet"

"Stiles!" You can't handle this. You need him inside you not have a QNA session. "You've fought werewolves, a Kanima, hunters, the Wild Hunt, the Nogitsune, fuck — You survived holding Derek Hale up in a pool full of water while he was paralyzed for hours, stranger things have happened than my ass being self-lubricating!" You spread your legs, holding your thigh open as you try to catch your breath. He watches, entranced, as your fingers slip into yourself. It slides in with ease and familiarity. You're pumping one finger then two and then three. The way your rim stretches and clenches — Stiles sees it all. Stiles towers over the foot of his bed, over you, and you're relieved as you spot his hands replacing yours. His fingers are longer than yours and it has you melting as he pumps into you. "Shit, you're so warm" "All for you, baby, just for you," his ears are burning again. You look so blissed out but Stiles knows this isn't what you want. His shirt is the first to go and after stepping out from the puddle of checkered patterns Stiles is naked too. His cock is just as pretty as he is. There's moles on it, veins decorating the underside of it. It's long, more girthy near the base. "You manscape...?" You ask. "Shut up," Stiles replies. Stiles splits your legs apart, they're cushioned on the top of his thighs as you wrap your arms around his neck. The tip of his nose bumps into yours, lips catching yours again. He only pulls away when you feels his head catch on your rim. Stiles watches your face as the pressure gives and he's inside of you. He's biting his lower lip, wanting to only hear you (Tom isn't helping but that's not in his control). "Oh fuuuck, Stiles, Stiles your — " Stiles nods, pulling his hips away a bit before inching more inside. It has you whining. The delicious drag of his dick makes you clench and he hisses. "You feel so fucking good," he whispers against your Adam's apple, grinning as it bobs when you gulp thickly. Your claws are out again but he's electing to ignore it as it leaves kitten scratches across his shoulders. "God, (Y/N), you're so tight, so warm — Jesus fucking Christ, I —"

His words are making you squirm. It feels like an eternity but once he's fully sheathed inside of you it feels like all those days of overstimulation hell was worth it. The both of you moan and Stiles relishes in your velvety walls as they welcome him. "Like you were made for me," You whimper out his name. He notices your eyes are wet with tears and so he braces himself on his elbows, pushing you further up his bed. The jostling makes his dick pump into you and you mewl sweetly. "Don't have to cry, pretty boy, I've got you," he cradles the back of your head and places his forehead on yours. "Stiles..." Your eyes widen as he thrusts into you. He's watching closely. Your face scrunched up in ecstasy as he moves in and out of you. "You're so beautiful, fuck, (Y/N)" He hisses again when you clamp down at him. Only looking away to see your cock twitching in a tell-tale sign of an oncoming orgasm. Stiles chuckles as he grips at the base making you groan, shaking your head. "Hey, shh, relax, I'm helping you out. I'm not an asshole," he does that thing with his wrist again and your back arches. You see white and he slows his thrusts down, his back stinging but it's not the worst thing he's been through.

Stiles kisses down your throat and chest. He rubs soothing circles in your hips but he's still so painfully hard inside of you. The very feeling has your cock filling up again. He wraps his lips around your nipple, twirling his tongue around it and letting his teeth catch it as he pulls away. The entire thing has you shuddering. Stiles grabs a handful of your ass then maneuvers you onto your stomach, slipping out of you smoothly before positioning himself behind you. "FBI training?" You pant out as you look at him from over your shoulder. It makes Stiles laugh. "No, uh, just good ole' experience and porn" You roll your eyes at him and he grunts as he grips your hips. "Oh, I'll give you a reason to roll those pretty eyes," His pulls almost all the way out then slides back home. You moan out his name, clutching onto his bedsheets so hard there's a distinctive ripping sound. None of that matters though. The position you're in makes Stiles go in so deep it feels like you're in heaven. Your back is bowed and your face is in the sheets. Stiles sucks his teeth as he watches the way your ass ripples and bounces with every thrust in. You're writhing on the bed, moaning out his name as he plows into you. Stiles can't help himself. He lifts his hand and you squeal at the impact of his hand against you ass. "That feel good?" With the way you're backing up on him, he assumes that means yes. He squeezes your ass in his hands, watching the flesh blush because of his hands. Every spank makes you tighten around him and he groans as he soothes the stinging with his kneading hands. "So good for me, fuck, (Y/N), that's it just — Ah shit, shit, shit, your ass feels so good" Your cock is hanging heavy between your legs. Stiles grip on your hips is almost bruising. Your sweat slicked skin under moonlight has Stiles approaching his orgasm quicker than he anticipated. "I'm going to — " "Yes, yes, yes! Inside me, inside me, Stiles"

His thrusts become more and more erratic and you feel your second orgasm coming at you like a freight train. He's so beautifully loud the closer and closer he gets to his orgasm, you're whimpering as he ruts into you. His hands slide up your hips and he curls his arms around your shoulders to pull you up. Your back flushed against his chest. Stiles kisses you, messy and hot, and you only pull away to moan out his name as you come all over the bed sheets. He's not far behind, he fills the inside of your ass with thick ropes of cum and every involuntary twitch of his hips makes you let out whiny moans. His thighs twitch but Stiles makes sure you don't fall in your own cum. He lays you down next to it, slipping out of you with a groan before he bunches up his blanket to toss it to the pile of dirty laundry. You cling the second he lays next to you and he does not object. He pulls you closer, catching his breath as he kisses the top of your head. "That felt good?" You nod, asking him the same question with a scratchy voice. "Fuck yeah it did, holy shit," You grin as you grasp at his chin to give him a rewarding peck. "You're so...You're so hot, you know that?" "Stiles," you bashfully glance away (an odd time to be bashful but that can't be helped) and Stiles squeezes you closer. "I'm serious! I'm not saying it because of the post-sex glow or whatever — which, by the way, you are glowing" Your guffaw, hiding your face with your hands as he continues look oh-so-proud of himself. "I slept with (Y/N), I spanked his ass — He wanted me" "You're talking to yourself," you murmur, ear twitching as you hear Tom and his girl also coming down from their romp. How nice. Orgasms for all it seems. "And it's wants not wanted" He feels something twitch against his hip. Stiles peeks down and laughs in disbelief. "I still want you, Stiles..." Your eyes glow again. The way you're nosing his neck makes his dick raise to attention. "Stiles," you call. "I've got you, (Y/N)," he answers.

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lovelytsunoda · 11 months ago

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tell me something girl (are you happy in this modern world) // tom “iceman” kazansky

summary: after thirty years of marriage, heather kazansky reflects on the time she spent and the love she shared with tom as she prepares to write her eulogy and say goodbye to her husband.

pairing: tom kazansky x wife!oc (named heather)

warnings: canon character death (Tom) and mentions of gooses death from the original movie, depictions of grief, mentions of mental health and medication,

authors note: this is the fic I firmly believe I was put on this earth to write. I wanted to do so much more with it, but honestly would have ended up with like 16k words or something like that.

April 2022, Miramar, California.

“is that the admirals wife?”

“jake, shut the fuck up.”

heather kazasnky had never thought of herself as an impressive woman. she always found herself timid, shy and a little anxious. it wasn’t until the first offshoots of gray started to sprout in her hair, and she’d watched all three of her children grow up that she truly thought sh had done something impressive with her life.

she sat alone at a table in the corner of the hard deck, oblivious to the wandering eyes of her husbands trainees as her slender fingers navigated the keyboard of her MacBook.

“heather?”

she started at the voice, cheeks marred with the flush of someone who had just been sobbing as she turned to look at the speaker.

“peter,” she hummed. “it’s good to see you, maverick.”

heather got to her feet, pulling the other pilot in for a tight hug. “nice to see you too, heather. how are you doing.”

“the best I can. the kids are supposed to be coming up tonight to help with the funerals.”

there were always going to be two funerals. the first was the formal military funeral, where her husband would be buried in the same cemetery as nick bradshaw, and the other was more like a reception, something more human and less structured. for the people who knew him not as admiral kazansky, but as tom.

“I miss him, mav. the house feels strange without him in it. I’ve spent so long being heather kazansky, I don’t know how to go back to being just heather.”

maverick shook his head, taking a seat next to her. “you’re still you, heather. you’re still a mother to three incredible kids, and grandmother to two.”

“with another on the way.” she coughed, somehow managing a smile. “joshua’s new girlfriend is expecting. he told tom before he died.”

“congratulations, heather. how are the kids doing?”

“as well as can be expected. as usual, mitchell is the glue holding us together. cassie’s a wreck. she always was her father’s daughter. and for it to happen so soon after she had jamie just seems cruel. tom was going to retire, did you know that? he was ready to put his papers in, we were going to go to greece. it was finally us time again. he gave so much of himself to this country, and I was so excited to finally have him back.”

pete rested a hand on heathers shoulder, squeezing it through the fur of her cardigan. she was strong despite her age, still well built and sturdy, face marred with laugh lines but not a single telltale old woman wrinkle. “I’m so sorry, heather.”

“thank you.”

she turned back to her laptop, showing the other pilot what she was doing. “I’m gathering pictures for the reception. but most of them are of me. tom always had his fucking camera with him. I should have let the kids do this part. all I’m doing is making myself cry.”

she cast her eyes back to her laptop screen, resisting the urge to reach out and run her finger over the photo, soaking in the good memories as they came flooding back. in the picture, she and tom stood on one side of the kitchen counter, laughing with each other as they cut gingerbread cookies.

it had been their first christmas together.

“oh my god,” maverick laughed. “is that iceman in a cable knit?”

“he was so nervous about meeting my dad for the first time. I had to talk him out of wearing his dress whites.”

December 1985, Richmond, Virginia.

they had been together for six months, give or take the few weeks his team had spent deployed in the gulf, and nothing had intimidated tom kazansky more than meeting his girlfriends father. he had wanted to wear his navy dress whites in an attempt to make a good impression before heather had laughed and made him change into jeans and a sweater before they left the apartment.

even then, he had changed sweaters four times before setting on the white cable knit he was currently wearing.

iceman knew how stressed his girl got during the holidays. her family could bring out the worst in her, and they were both highly strung when they walked in the door.

now, she was off to the side with her sister, cradling a mug of hot coco in her hands as she watched him with a smile, chuckling as he dropped a cup of flour down the front of his jeans.

“you really like him, don’t you?”

heather looked back at her sister, who raised her eyebrows as she took a sip of her hot chocolate.

“I do. I really do, abigail. he makes me feel like I’m worth loving, if that makes sense. everything with tom is just so…easy.”

abigail frowned. “he’s a lieutenant, isn’t he? that means he’s going to be deployed a lot. are you sure you can handle that?”

heather sighed, taking a sip of her drink. “we’re trying. he was out in the gulf for a few weeks in september, and we got through it.”

“he’s barely taken his eyes off you since you got here. and when he looks at you, I don’t see anything other than pure, unfiltered love. I bet he’s got a polaroid of you in his cockpit.”

heather laughed, a warm and giddy feeling in her chest. it was clear how much her family loved iceman, and how quickly they were welcoming him into the fold.

“you know I’m losing him for two months in the new year. he’s off to california, got into some fancy fighter jet training program.”

“you can still go see him, right?”

“yeah, I’ve got a few vacation days saved u- oh fuck.” heather cursed, thrusting her mug into abigail’s arms as she saw what her boyfriend was doing. “give me one second, I’ve gotta stop him from screwing up the gingerbread.”

she pushed up the sleeves of her jacquard sweater, socks skidding across the kitchen tiles as she loosely knotted her hair behind her head.

“kaz, sweetie, give me the rolling pin. you’ve gotta knead the dough.” she smiles softly, putting herself between the pilot and the counter.

one of tom’s flour coated hands came to rest as her waist, his chin on the top of her head as she watched her dip her hands into the bowl of flour, and proceed to knead the gingerbread dough by hand. her lovers hands came to rest over hers, his lips soft and warm against her skin as they kneaded the gingerbread dough together.

“see, you don’t always know everything, lieutenant.” she hummed giddily, running her thumb over his wrist.

“yeah, but I know I love you, and that’s all I need.” Tom laughed, gently using his finger to guide her head towards his and placing a soft kiss on her lips.

April 2022, Miramar, California.

heather paused, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "i loved that man so much, pete."

the hard deck was getting busier, off-duty pilots and seamen flooding in from the base at miramar as shifts changed for the day. heather knew all about the dagger squad and the hazy series of events that brought pete mitchell back to the academy, often having to speak for her husband in meetings once his first cancer operation had left him unable to speak for himself.

"auntie heather!" a familiar face looked over from the pool table. bradley bradshaw was a spitting image of his father, right down to the way that his moustache was trimmed.

for heather, it sometimes felt like seeing a ghost.

"brad!" she perked up, waving him over to the table. "how are you?"

when she first came to visit her husband at miramar, somethign about carole bradshaw had pulled heather in. she hadn't known the bradshaw's long, but by the time that goose's accident happened, she felt like she had known that family her whole life.

she did what she could to help carole out afterwards, especially when it came to raising bradley, but as rooster got older and time flew by, it was so easy for carole and heather to fall out of touch.

"you look just like your dad." she hummed, hugging the pilot. "it's like seeing nick again."

bradley nodded solemnly. "i was sorry to hear about admiral kazansky."

"thank you. it had been a long time coming, but there's no way to properly prepare to lose the man you love."

rooster gestures to the group behind him, the mismatched group of people coming to meet him at the table. “aunt heather, I’d like you to meet the dagger squad: jake, natasha, robert, reuben and javy. we knew the admiral well.”

“hi.” heather said weakly, introducing herself. “I’m heather, the admirals wife. or, widow, I guess. I’m still not used to saying that.”

“are you getting ready for the funeral?” jake asked, promptly getting jabbed in the rib cage by natasha.

“what hangman means to say is: we all respected your husband very much, and we would be honoured to help you plan his memorial service.” phoenix corrected, taking heathers hand between both of her own.

“thank you for the offer, natasha.” heather smiled. “bradley, I want to show you something.”

she sat back in front of her laptop, using the touchscreen to pull up a video taken the first summer she came to visit miramar. she had timed the visit to coincide with her birthday, a small selfish part of her unable to fathom spending her birthday without tom.

bradley pulled up a chair next to the table, watching as the screen crackled to life, the date stamp in the corner reading june of 1986. they were inside the o bar, the video opening with heather resting her head on tom’s shoulder, then panning over to the massive birthday cake and sparklers set in front of her. carole bradshaw sat on one side of her, and charlie blackwood was at the head of the table, sitting next to maverick.

“is that my mom?” Bradley smiled fondly. “she looks so full of life.”

“she was.” heather laughed. “and you might remember charlie, she was one of mavericks many lovers.”

“hey!” pete scoffed. “things just didn’t work out.”

“she was always too good for you, pete.” heather laughed, pointing to another space on the screen. the group was singing happy birthday, supported by a rockabilly piano backing track. “bradley, there’s your dad.”

goose was sitting in front of the grand piano, a toothpick hanging between his teeth as he hammered away at the ivory keys, aviator glasses over his eyes.

“happy birthday dear heather, happy birthday to you.”

the camera panned back to heather and tom as she blew out the cake candles. tom pulled her in to a soft kiss while the rest of the table cheered, and then the video cut to black.

“mitchell has been digitizing all of this stuff for us. I caught tom watching our wedding videos before he died.”

“remember when slider and wolfman got absolutely shitfaced at your wedding and tripped down the reception stairs?” maverick laughed to himself “did anybody ever get that on video?”

heather shook her head, a bright smile on her tear stained face as she hunted through the original wedding folder. “I’ve got you one better.”

September 1987, Monterrey, California.

mrs. heather kazansky. she could get used to that.

she was sitting with her sister and tom’s parents, the former two who were conversing with each other in polish. she twirled her wedding band on her finger, face flushed and spirits high as she looked on at her husband.

tom was with maverick and slider, the group of aviators dressed in their best white uniforms, beer bottles lifted high as they drunkenly hollered the words to an old rod stewart song.

“and I know your name is rita, because your perfume smells sweeter.”

abigail was filming, zooming the camera lens in on heather as she asked: “are you sure you don’t wanna back out now? till death do you part, you’re bound to this dumbass now.”

heather laughed, playfully smacking at the camera. “yes, I’m sure!”

“stay with me, come on stay with me!”

sliders voice was three decibels louder than everybody else, and he was also significantly drunker. one of the bridesmaids had her eyes on him, and there wasn’t a doubt in anybody’s mind that ron kerner would have somebody in his bed that night.

iceman’s face was flushed, his arm thrown around maverick as they rocked on their feet, skin sweaty and hair mussed.

but in the midst of all this chaos, he still managed to look over at his new wife, blowing her the softest kiss. she smiled, catching the kiss in her hands and pressing it to her heart, a moment her sister was able to capture frame for frame on digital video.

tom had watched the video hundreds of times as he sat alone in his office, struggling to come to terms with the fact that he’d be leaving not just the love of his life, but his three beautiful children as well.

April 2022. Miramar, California.

“that’s the kind of love that people only dream about.” natasha smiled softly. “you’re lucky you got to spend as much time with him as you did. most couples don’t make it as long as you guys did.”

heather smiled shakily, reaching for her drink. she’d left the sprite so long that the ice had half melted, condensation dripping down the glass.

“he was so good with the kids, you know. I was on and off depressed for a while after joshua was born. my mental health had never been perfect and I was on a low dose anti-anxiety medication for a long time. but after Josh was born, everything just got so much harder and I could barley get out of bed in the mornings. tom would take the kids to school, make their lunches. he was teaching full time at top gun by then, so he took a few days off to stay with me, make me feel like myself again.”

“he was a good man.” robert smiled, rubbing her shoulder.

“yeah, he was.” heather bit her bottom lip, pulling a photo up on her laptop that had the dagger squad letting out a chorus of ‘awe’s’

the picture was taken in 1989. tom was dressed in a gray waffle knit shirt, a pair of pit viper sunglasses on his forehead as he held a smiling baby in his arms. mitchell’s wide eyes looked up at his dad, his tiny fingers wrapped around in of tom’s larger ones.

his name was mitchell ronald kazansky, because tom had made a lame bet with maverick and slider (that he lost) and had to name his firstborn after both of them (because he was a fucking idiot at times, but she loved him anyways).

the boys were both easy children, but cassandra? she was a daddy’s girl through and through, and tom would have moved heaven and earth for his little girl. whatever cassie wanted, she often got, well into adulthood even. she was the spitting image of her father, from her honey blonde hair right down to the birthmark on the underside of her jaw.

when tom walked her down the aisle at her wedding three years ago, he cried all the way to the altar. but not half as much as he sobbed when he held his granddaughter for the first time, cancer-stricken and barely able to speak, but still brimming with joy as he held jamie to his chest.

“he lead a good life. one he was proud of. he used his last words to tell me as much.” heather choked out, overwhelmed by emotions. “I just wish we’d had more time.”

pete placed his hand over hers, squeezing it reassuringly as natasha rubbed her back, and rooster gently squeezed her shoulder.

there was still so much love that heather kazansky still had to give.

still so much love that she was surrounded by.

and maybe that was tom’s way, even from the grave, to tell her that everything would still be alright.

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