#top gun: maverick fanfiction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sushiwriterhere · 11 months

Text

new rules

summary: "Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone. Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again. Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him." rating: explicit (18+ mdni) pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader word count: 8.5k (this got away from me sorry y'all) warnings: angst (lack of communication!), idiots pining, PiV (unprotected), oral (f receiving), hangman x phoenix (blink and u will miss it), no use of y/n. notes: thank you to @waklman for letting me bounce ideas off you! im very nervous abt this one, i feel like its dif from my other stuff so pls pls let me know what u think! my other works are here

Friends with benefits is maybe an inaccurate way to describe what’s going on between you and Bradley. Friends? Sure, since he asked you if you were using that bench at the beach and then he’d introduced himself. With benefits? You’re not sure if they really could be classified that way.

Bradley’s almost always a perfect gentleman.

He doesn’t ignore you in the daylight, but the two of you never talk about the way he finds himself in your bed most nights rather than not, drunk or sober.

It had started one night when you’d turned down an invitation to go to the Hard Deck, instead choosing to do a night of self care. You’d spent too long doing your eyebrows and managed to get a sheet mask to fully cover your face for once. You lost count of how much time you spent in the shower as an indulgence, and threw on the comfiest clothing you owned. Then, you sat yourself down in front of your TV to numb your mind with some perfectly trashy reality television.

Around 11:30, your phone had rang. Picking it up and squinting at the brightness, you saw Bradley’s face grinning back at you, the picture from one of your many beach days since you’d met.

Despite your best instincts you’d picked up. What if he was stranded? What if something had happened? You’d steeled yourself for the worst.

Instead, Bradley had just opened with a simple, “Hey.”

“Bradley? Is everything okay?” You could hear the noise of the Hard Deck in the background, but it had been yelling and there weren’t any sirens.

“Yeah,” His sigh had come over extra loud through the speakers, “Just uh, was just thinking about you.”

“Okay,” What the hell? You remember mouthing the words to yourself as someone on screen had thrown a drink in someone else’s face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He hadn’t responded to your question, instead he’d just said, “Are you at your apartment?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Bradley is everything–”

“I’ll see you soon.” And with that, he’d hung up with a definitive click.

You’d stared at the dimming screen of your phone for probably almost five minutes. Surely he couldn’t have been that drunk–god, was he planning on driving? Calling him during that was probably a bad idea.

Great, leave it to Bradley to stress you the fuck out on a Friday evening when you’d been aiming for peace. You’d tried to refocus on your show, but you weren’t even paying attention to the words.

No more than five minutes later, there had been a knock at your door. You’d stood slowly, not sure that this was actually happening.

You’d opened the door to a Bradley with flushed cheeks and a glint in his eye, leaning against the railing outside your apartment. It was only after a moment of silence that you realized you were wearing an old Navy shirt of his, loaned to you at the beach a few weeks ago. You could feel the way his eyes started at your legs and dragged up your frame, taking everything in.

“Bradley?”

He’d pushed off the railing and backed you into your apartment, letting the door swing shut behind the two of you. You’d backed into the living room til your back hit a wall, your heart in your throat. You couldn’t look away from him, not with the way he’d been crowding into your space, leaning into you.

“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was a tone he’d never used on you before, and you remember the way your heart had hammered in your chest.

He’d been so warm and so close, setting all of your nerve endings on fire. It wasn’t that you hadn’t realized that Bradley was attractive–the man’s whole job was to stay in shape and be clean cut. He was beautiful. But you’d kept that to yourself, afraid of crossing that line, afraid that you’d ruin something that was turning out to be one of the strongest friendships you’d had in years.

You still feel that fear, despite all the lines that have been crossed since that moment.

The way he’d kissed you had wiped every thought from your head. His hands had slid up your thighs to grip at your waist under his shirt hanging loosely on you. His mouth had moved smoothly against yours, making you sigh and wrap your arms around his shoulders.

By the time the two of you had made your way into your bedroom, he’d lost every piece of clothing but his briefs and his dog tags. They’d dug into your sternum as you’d pressed yourself against him, the cool metal warming quickly between the two of you.

The way your blood had been rushing in your ears from adrenaline had drowned out the way he’d murmured to himself as he’d kissed down your body. He never did pull his shirt off you. He’d simply maintained his grip on your hips, lifting your thighs over his shoulders as he’d pulled your panties down and licked desperately into you.

Your hands had gone to his hair out of reflex. He had been rocking you steadily and you think you’ll always remember how you felt when you’d realized it was because he was grinding his hips against the bedframe, so turned on from getting his mouth on you.

He’d eaten you out like a man starved, his nose bumping into your clit as his tongue fucked you. It had been messy and loud but you hadn’t cared about the neighbors or your dignity, not with the way his fingers had finally curled into you.

“Bradley,” You’d gasped when you finally came, back arching and fingers tightening in his hair to the point where your knuckles ached.

He’d held you through it, had let you rock your hips against his face and not complained at all. In fact, he’d seemed delighted by the way you’d let yourself just feel, pleasure wracking your body and consuming your mind in a haze.

Kissing his way up your body, he’d slid his hands under the shirt and groped you gently. You remember the way your mind had stayed cloudy and you’d floated, tethered only to the real world by the way his thumbs flicked gently at your nipples.

“I’m here, I’m here,” He’d panted into your mouth as you whined when he’d sat back slightly to kick off his briefs and hitch your thighs over his waist, “I’ve got you.”

The first time Bradley had ever slid his cock into you, you knew you’d never be the same, that you’d never be able to go back. Not when he’d kept himself hovering over you just barely, propped up on his elbow, with his lips still brushing yours and his dog tags catching in the sheen of sweat along your sternum. Not when he rocked into you inch by inch, making the world around you blur into nothingness.

You’d let yourself fall apart under him, let yourself sink into the mattress and just take whatever he was willing to give you. He’d fucked you deeper and more gently than anyone before–to this day, you’re not even sure you can classify it as ‘fucking’, that always felt too vulgar for the way he’d brushed his lips over your cheekbones and murmured sweet nothings.

But saying Bradley had, and still does, made love to you means trying to find something from nothing, means discerning some sort of level of connection he’s never made clear. You’re not trying to break your own heart more than you already are.

In spite of that, you can’t forget the way he’d held you like you were precious, like you were everything to him. He’d cum inside you with a guttural moan, a punched out gasp at the way you’d clenched around him. It had made you realize that was all you’d ever wanted, Bradley warm around you and inside you, him making you feel complete in a way you hadn’t known you weren’t whole before.

He’d been a perfect gentleman when you’d both come down, easing out of you so he could clean up. He’d massaged your thighs and hips where you were sure you would’ve been aching the next morning if he hadn’t, had apologized under his breath at the fingerprints now dotying your hips. He’d thumbed at the collar of the Navy shirt where it had stayed on your frame the entire time, looking pensive but never saying anything.

You’d woken up alone the next morning, a sticky note on the bedside table reading–Had to run for work. Thanks for having me over. A messy heart and a hastily scrawled Bradley closing off the message.

And so it went. So it goes.

During the day, you and Bradley are the paragon of good friendship–he’ll send you memes when he gets access to his phone in between flights and lessons, you’ll pick him up after work to go to the beach. The two of you don’t talk about it–because what is there to talk about?

No words are ever exchanged about the way that Bradley clears out a drawer for you at his place, you just find a few of the things you’d left at his place in there one day. You never give back his Navy shirt, not when you find yourself wearing it more often than not. Nothing is said about how you start picking up his favorite flavors of ice cream and his preferred brand of coffee creamer, you just make a habit of throwing them into your cart when you go to the store.

And everything is fine. It really is. You disregard the side glances from Phoenix and Bob as they see you leave with Bradley on Friday and Saturday nights, you ignore the way Hangman wiggles his eyebrows at you when Bradley insists on paying for your drinks. Just friends, is all. Just friends.

They can make their assumptions, whisper while you’re out of ear shot, but they don’t see the quiet, comfortable domesticity that you and Bradley engage in when the two of you are alone. You go back to his after beach afternoons since it’s closer to your favorite spot, and the two of you will shower (separately) and make dinner together. Sometimes you’ll sleep over if you’re working remote the next day, sometimes you’ll go home.

On weekends, Bradley picks you up in the morning, trunk holding a cooler full of drinks and snacks, and you two will go to the beach again or go on a hike. Sometimes Phoenix or Bob or the whole crew will come along, sometimes they won’t.

Just friends. And it’s fine.

Until everything isn’t fine.

Bradley and you have been at this for a few months now, and you can feel yourself cracking. You’re reaching out to kiss him when you do wake up together, before your brain is awake enough to stop you, reminding you that that’s not what you two do. On an outing to a boardwalk teeming with life and populated by those games you can win stuffed animals at, you resist the urge to press him against the railing of the pier and lick the taste of your shared gelato cone out of his mouth.

When the dam finally breaks, it begins like any other night. You have a margarita and a half in you, some concoction that Phoenix insisted you try that’s actually good. Bradley’s already done a rendition of My Way at Penny’s request, but for now the jukebox is blaring some 80s hit Hangman picked out.

You can feel yourself swaying to the beat, just letting the warmth of the moment sink in as you’re surrounded by your friends, the people you love.

“Hi,” Bradley breathes into your ear as he sidles up next to you, his arms coming to settle around your waist. You can feel his warmth through the flimsy fabric of the dress you’ve got on.

“Hi Brad,” He hates it when people call him that–lets you get away with it though. “What’cha doin’?”

“Waitin’ for you.” He leans his entire body weight against you, making you slump against the table you’re standing next to.

“Ah! Bradley, stop it.” You try to stand, but the way he’s laughing makes it hard to shake yourself from his grip, “What do you mean you’re waiting for me? I’m waiting for you.”

The grin he shoots you is electric, and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, right here in the middle of the Hard Deck, with all your friends around and in Penny and Mav’s line of sight. That thought makes your heart skip a beat.

“Come home with me?” He whispers, just barely letting his voice rise above the background noise, and when you don’t respond immediately, “Or let me take you home?”

That’s all it takes, really, for you to agree. The way he’s so willing, so malleable, for you. You’re leading him out by the hand without responding to his questions, making your way to the Bronco that’s parked in the back corner of the lot.

Bradley keeps the foolish grin on his face the entire time he drives back to your apartment. The warmth radiating from him doesn’t abate when he licks into your mouth once the two of you are inside. One of his palms rests against your heart, the other working its way up your thigh and inside your panties that are already damp.

“You’re so good to me,” He murmurs, dipping his fingers below your waistband and brushing through your curls, feeling just how slick you are.

All you can do is whine as he picks you up and makes his way to your bedroom. For once, he doesn’t trip or stub his toe on anything, and it somehow heightens the intensity. Normally, you and Bradley seek comedic relief of some sort, something to cut the tension and keep it from making your chest tighten in a way that feels like a warning. This time, you aren’t granted any such reprieve.

He undresses you slowly and deliberately, letting his fingertips drag lightly up your sides and over your shoulders. He shrugs his Hawaiian shirt off easily, and lets you yank his wife beater over his head without complaint.

Then, the two of you are just staring at each other, both panting lightly. You’re propped up on your elbows, staring up at him only in your panties. Bradley’s got one hand about to pop the button of his jeans, but he’s frozen. You feel like you can’t move but also like something might be changing.

You don’t want it to change, you don’t want to lose Bradley in more ways than one. If this is what he’s willing to give you, you don’t want this to change.

He nearly falls over when his foot gets stuck in his jeans, and even that doesn’t break the tension. Once he’s climbing over you, enveloping you, kissing up your stomach and neck, you forget all about decorum and keeping up appearances.

The whine that echoes around the room is pathetic and high pitched, but it’s the only way you think to communicate to Bradley how bad you need him in that moment. His hips are rocking gently against yours and you want the layers gone, you need to feel him.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” And his hands are around your hips, dragging your underwear off you unceremoniously.

Although he makes a good attempt at going down on you, you don’t let him. You dig your fingers into his shoulder and yank at his hair to keep his face level with yours and kiss him desperately.

“I want to eat you out, please?” The depth of his voice sends a shiver through you.

Normally he wouldn’t even have to ask, but you don’t want that right now. You just want to feel him inside you.

“Need you in me, please,” You take a heaving breath before the pleading spills out of you, “Pleasepleasepleaseplease–”

He shushes you as you scrunch your face up, not knowing how else to convey your desires in that moment, “Okay. I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

You almost wail in protest when his fingers slide into you. You can’t figure out why you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out, why you feel so fucking needy.

“Sweetheart you gotta let me prep you somehow, just–”

You feel like the embarrassment might kill you when you keen at the feeling of his fingers inside you. The way you’re trying to be good, you really are, because he does have a point. Plus, you have to be fair to Bradley, this isn’t just about you.

So you hold still, let him work his fingers in and out of you as you pant and clutch at his shoulders like a lifeline. His mouth presses against yours, works its way over your cheeks and down your throat. He sucks a mark gently into your collarbone, and you ignore the way your brain reminds you about having to cover that up for work.

He doesn’t shut up the entire time, just keeps telling you how good you’re doing for him, how good you feel, how he’s been thinking about this all night. The world seems to go right-side up again when he pushes into you.

You whimper at the way he rocks his hips ever so gently before pulling out. He kisses you again and again, only letting his lips leave yours so he can kiss your forehead or cheeks. The motion of his hips is a steady tempo, he keeps time with your breaths that turn into moans when you start feeling that telltale coil in your stomach.

He runs his tongue along your teeth and you’re done for. You clench down on him and dig your nails into his skin, bucking your hips up as your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave.

Bradley fucks you through it like every other time, yes, but this time there’s something about the way he stutters out a moan and his hips match the faltering rhythm as he finishes right after you. The shallow rocking of his hips continues and you try to ignore the prickling of tears at the corners of your eyes.

Something tells you that this time, you shouldn’t have let Bradley take you home. When he pulls his face back from yours and he rolls the two of you onto your sides without pulling out, he’s got this look on his face that screams unspoken words. He cups your face and strokes your cheekbone with his thumb without saying anything.

The two of you are quiet as he cleans you up, as you dress yourself in another one of his shirts.

When you wake up the next morning, Bradley isn’t there. It doesn’t shock you necessarily, sometimes he stays, sometimes he has to leave to be on time for work.

What does send a terrible feeling trickling down your throat and into your stomach is the post-it, all four square inches covered in sloppy hearts. Bradley had signed his name in the bottom left corner, characteristic chicken scratch labeling it as him even if the name wasn’t enough.

This has to end.

Don’t pick up the phone, he’s only calling because he’s drunk and alone.

You last about three rings before you cave in, waiting for the sound of his voice to echo around the apartment. You’re holding your breath.

“I knocked.” Is all he says before you’re on your feet, making your way to the door.

There he is, and although you know he isn’t really drunk, you know he’s got a beer or two in him from the way he doesn’t try to hide how he looks at you. You hate the way you’re weak for him.

You’ve been caving to him more than once a week since that first night, since Bradley had knocked your world off kilter. Though you’re in bed together almost every night, whether at his place or yours, you don’t have sex nearly every time. Part of you thinks that might make it worse. It really had been fine at first, but the first morning you’d cried at the sight of that sticky note covered in hearts, you’d known you had to try and put an end to this.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” He tries, a crooked grin splitting his face as he walks toward you, but you know he doesn’t mean his words at all.

“Bradshaw, have you been drinking?” You want to not want this, want to not want the way his gaze pins you down, the way the length of his body against yours just feel so right.

Let him being drunk and you being sober be the excuse, you beg silently. You can’t manage to force out that maybe he should go home, sleep this off in his own bed. You can’t find it in yourself to tell him to leave, to reject his advances. Watching as if outside your own body, he shuts the door behind him and walks up to you.

Your chest aches with unconfessed feelings when he takes your face in his hands and lets his forehead rest against yours. His lips are soft and warm against yours, his mustache tickling you lightly when it brushes against your face. The whine you let out matches his soft groan, and the two of you stand there making out for a few minutes, almost as if you’re both content to just drink each other in without further motives.

“I’ve got you sweetheart, I’ve got you,” And he’s picking you up.

You yelp at the way you’re suddenly lifted from the ground and you bury your face in his neck. You hate heights, your feet off the ground anything more than a few inches sends you spiraling in short order. But it’s Bradley who’s holding you, and some part of you knows he’d never let you fall, never let you crash into the ground.

The way you two fall into your bed is too natural, it makes your stomach churn. His fingers find their place on your hips, around your thighs. It’s all too easy. You wish it would be a bit more awkward, that the chemistry could be imagined or false–instead you’re confronted by the way your bodies flow with one another’s all too easily.

Again, somehow, you’re in nothing but his Navy shirt.

Maybe I should give it back, the thought flits through your mind and you feel guilty immediately. Bradley always seems to take a special sort of pleasure from fucking you in his shirt, and you selfishly want to keep that bargaining chip, to have something that tethers him to you. If he won’t come back to press you into your sheets, then maybe he’ll come back one last time to get his shirt when this inevitably unravels.

“Sweetheart,” He groans softly when his fingers reach the way you’re embarrassingly wet between your legs.

It takes everything in you not to jerk back from his touch–you still don’t know how to confront the way you’re so responsive to his touch. His mere presence.

“I missed you.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself, your lips part and you breathe the words before you can do anything about it. He chooses that exact moment to dip a fingertip into your fluttering, but empty, hole, and you arch your back and moan. Instead of responding, he kisses you hungrily, all pretense gone.

This isn’t something entirely tender, not anymore. He’s searching for something, a certain reaction, with the way he adds and then curls his fingers inside of you. He finds it when you jerk underneath him at the way he pets at that spot inside you you can never seem to reach on your own.

He mumbles against your lips, “There you go,” As you squirm under him, the press of his fingers inside you relentless.

He works his fingers in and out of you, not taking anything in return. It’s all you can do to hold on to him and whine pitifully. Every sensation feels amplified, feels electric because it’s him.

The two of you settle into a familiar rhythm for as long as it takes for Bradley to make you cum the first time. You’re rocking against him through the aftershocks and you can feel the way he’s hard against you through his clothes.

He’s still dressed. The realization sends a bolt of shame through you, but it doesn’t linger long.

He’s shoving his jeans down his legs, not bothering with wiping his hand clean and you shiver at the thought that he’ll have to put them on again, you streaked across them. He makes quick work of his boxers too, and it occurs to you that he must’ve lost his shirt somewhere along the way when he presses his bare chest against your still clothed one.

“Bradley, Bradley,” You chant, “Take off my shirt.”

It’s the most demanding you’ve probably ever been with him, but he laughs at you anyways. There’s a glint in his eye as he sits up, his hard cock bobbing between his thighs. The sight of his naked form between your spread legs makes you swallow hard and your mouth water.

“I like you in my shirt.” There’s something unsaid there, something about claims and ownership that isn’t truly possession, but a reminder of who belongs to whom regardless.

You pull it off your head in protest, and grab his wrist to drag him back down to you. You let yourself indulge in trailing a hand down the firm planes of his body down to where he’s smearing precum against your thigh. He’s heavy and pulsing in your hand and a light hiss rushes through his clenched teeth when you grip him tightly and twist with your wrist.

“Fuck, fuck, not gonna last if you–” Bradley cuts himself off with a groan as you swipe your thumb over his head.

It’s your turn to laugh, “You just got here.”

“Well, have you ever had sex with yourself? It’s tough out here–give a guy a break.”

The both of you dissolve into giggles at that, as you try to imagine how you would look sprawled under yourself. You can’t picture it, but the image of Bradley under or over you makes you think you might understand.

He lines his hips up with yours once you’re both done making fools of yourself at the thought of you having sex with yourself (it reminds you of a drunk hypothetical you’d spent thirty minutes on with Hangman once–would you have sex with a clone of yourself?).

The first push of him inside you cuts through the lighthearted mood immediately. It always shocks you how perfectly he fits inside you despite his size, how incredibly full you feel when his hips meet yours. The gentle friction of the neat curls at the base of his cock against your clit always provides a stimulation that makes your brain go fuzzy.

The snap of his hips against yours is more intense this time, a sort of rhythm that makes you briefly think about the way the headboard might start knocking against the wall. But all thoughts, really, fly out of your head when Bradley brings a hand up to your nipples, the steady stroke of his fingers over the swell of your breasts as practiced and knowing as everything else he’s doing to you.

All you can do is run your hands down his back, scratch your nails against his skin ever so often when he brushes against something so sweet and perfect inside you. You clench around him just to see the reaction it’ll get, and you’re rewarded with a broken groan.

“You’re not fighting fair,” He gasps, and he hitches one of your thighs up so he can press more insistently into you.

You have a clever comeback somewhere in you–something about how you weren’t aware that the two of you were fighting, but it’s swallowed as he presses his lips into yours again. He seems absolutely intent on showing you exactly how you make him feel because the sensations of pleasure become overwhelming.

“Fuck sweetheart, you feel perfect, god you’re so wet for me,” He’s rambling mindlessly, but you let it happen, clinging to any expression of emotion, any sliver of dedication in his tone that you can hold on to til the next time you find yourself in this position.

You know he’s close when his grip on your thigh tightens forcefully and the strokes go from long and deep to slightly shorter and stunted. He’s grunting and gasping, but it’s all the best thing you’ve ever heard.

“Come for me Bradley, I want to feel you,” And at that, he follows your orders, listens to you for once in his life.

Everything is hazy as he keeps himself hovering over you and continues to rock his hips. You start to try and tell him he can pull out before his fingers find your clit and he dives back in to kiss you passionately.

Bradley is a perfectionist at heart, an overachiever. You suppose it isn’t entirely ridiculous that that extends to his performance in the bedroom–he’s insistent you finish every time, and always more than him. Feeling the way he’s still warm and heavy inside you, his lips firm against yours, brings you over the edge more quickly than you’d like to admit.

Still, you heave a shuddering gasp and let the pleasure wash over you. It’s overwhelming and all consuming, but he’s there through all of it til you feel yourself come back into your own body.

You think he might be writing something on your skin, the way his finger loops and dips softly over your hip bone as he kisses you gently. He’s softening inside you and you can feel the mess the two of you made under your hips, except he isn’t moving, not yet at least, to rectify that situation.

For once, you don’t push him to go clean up or scold him for another set of ruined sheets, you just let yourself bask in the moment as you imagine a world where the two of you will talk about this in the morning. You think of a timeline where this is where you end up because it’s where you’re meant to be, not because it’s something you’re choosing despite how it hurts you every time. You think of a place where Bradley is yours and you are his, wholly and completely.

Don’t let him in, you’ll have to kick him out again.

“Didn’t you have a date tonight?” You breathe into his mouth.

Bradley just hums in response, brushing his lips over yours, down your jawline and your throat. His breath comes in warm puffs over your collarbones before he pulls back.

Hands pinned above your head, you squirm under his gaze. There’s something so intense about the way he’s looking at you, but you can’t bring yourself to squeeze your eyes shut to avoid it. Both of you lost your clothes somewhere on your way to the bedroom, and you’re thinking about how to persuade him to be the one to pick it all up when this is inevitably over.

He smells like expensive cologne, and he’s got some product in his hair that made it difficult for you to brush your hands through it earlier. Plus, Phoenix had been dropping unsubtle hints earlier in the week (Hangman had affectionately called her out, a little sigh following— “You’re being such a shit stirrer.”)

“Bradley,” You try again, this time with a slight whine.

Did he seriously ditch some girl that’s probably been waiting on their date all week for this?

He responds by whispering your name back to you, the same tone undercutting the way he says it, “That doesn’t matter, I’m here now.”

The urge to keep complaining rises in you but he preempts your worries by licking into your mouth when you open it.

He presses you into the mattress, weighing you down as he kisses you languidly, as if he’s trying to taste every part of you, as if he’s trying to memorize the sounds that escape you when he does. The warmth of his body makes your mind fog, and for the time being, everything else but this goes quiet.

Distantly, you know that in the morning, he’ll have to leave. At the very least, he’ll have to go back to his to grab his stuff for the beach, a change of clothes. It isn’t kicking him out, but watching him leave again and again has started to build this pit at the bottom of your stomach.

It would be different, you think, if the two of you were together. Because then, him leaving wouldn’t mean much where there would be an implicit promise and understanding that he was going to come back. Every time he closed the door behind him, you swallowed the fear that that would be your final memory of him.

You’re selfish though. And you want to focus on the feeling of his touch instead of thinking about how you may never get to have this again.

He makes it easy. Bradley pulls his shirt off and his dog tags make a gentle clinking sound as they hit each other and then finally come to rest on his chest. He looks like a god, backlit by the setting sun coming through your windows.

This is how you want to remember him. Smiling down at you as he dives back in to kiss you breathless, twitching when you skim your fingertips up his sides because he’s ticklish.

He makes short work of your shirt and sleep shorts, then his jeans are discarded. He stops briefly when his fingers reach the waistband of your underwear, a silent question that you answer by lifting your hips and letting him pull them off you.

Every time he’s between your legs, he has this reverent look on his face, and it makes your chest twist at the fact that this time is no different. He holds your thighs open gently but firmly, and he presses his face into your pussy. Then, his tongue is darting out and licking up your core, flat and wide.

You’d asked him once, if he likes going down on you. With a gleam in his eye, Bradley had said it was second only to being inside of you. You think of that as he eats you out enthusiastically, as you bury your hands in his hair and pull.

He slides his tongue in and out of you, curls it around your clit and sucks in a way that makes your back arch and your thighs clenched around his head. Then, he’s slipping a finger inside and fucking you slowly with it. It makes you shiver as you realize how close you are.

“Sweetheart, fuck, you taste incredible,” He murmurs, more to himself than anything else, pulling back briefly to make eye contact and you feel the way your breath quickens at the intensity of his gaze.

It only takes a few more minutes of him licking into you, tonguing at your clit, and adding another finger before you feel that familiar swooping in your stomach, before you’re choking out his name. Your back arches so much it aches, but it’s all you can do as the pleasure is all consuming. Bradley works you through it like every other time, holding you and letting you take what you need from him.

Then, he’s on you in an instant, kissing you furiously and sliding his hardness up and down you, covering himself in your slick. It’s filthy and sloppy but neither of you seem to mind. He lets himself rut against you til you’re hooking your legs around him and digging one of your heels into his back.

“Alright, alright,” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but you know he’s more affected than his light tone lets on.

The first push into you is always the most intense, but you suck in a deep breath that you force out through your teeth.

“I know, I know,” He croons, pressing little kisses all over your face as you adjust to him.

Bradley inches into you slowly, inch by inch. The initial stretch subsides til it’s replaced by the sweetest feeling of fullness, the way you can feel all of him.

If there’s one thing the Navy’s good for, it’s the sheer strength Bradley possesses and has to maintain. You feel it in the way he fucks you, his back muscles rippling as you hold on for dear life. You feel it in the way his hips press into yours, shunting you slightly up the mattress.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are his hips meeting yours and the slick between the two of you. Momentarily, he pulls away from kissing you to look down to where he’s disappearing inside of you, that ring of you collecting at the base of his cock. His groan is guttural and broken.

“Fuck, Bradley, it feels so good.”

He leans down again to kiss you sloppily, and the simple action of him burying a hand in your hair and twisting his wrist makes your heart skip a beat. He always knows exactly what you need when you need it.

“C’mon, come for me, sweetheart, let me feel you.”

And because you’ve never been able to deny him anything, there you are, hurtling over the edge again. He’s everywhere around you, inside you, and his tongue in your mouth is the last thing you need to feel that wave crest inside of you. Bradley’s moan is deep as he feels you bare down on him and he follows you shortly after.

The moments after, when the glow is still settling and your mind is still hazy, are your favorite. Your mind is too foggy to focus on the fact that you know he’ll be leaving, but present enough to feel the way he doesn’t stop pressing kisses to your lips. You’re cognizant of how he cleans you up tenderly and presses his fingers into the skin of your thighs and hips just to watch it dimple.

In those precious few minutes, that’s all that exists to you.

Don’t be his friend, you know he’s going to wake up in your bed in the morning. If you’re under him, you’re sure as hell not getting over him.

You’re trying to ignore him, you really are. You start going to the beach an hour earlier than you usually do, hoping that he’s maintaining his schedule. Every tall brunette jogging across the sand sends your heart into overdrive.

You still see Bradley when you go to the Hard Deck for a drink, but you keep a respectable distance between the two of you. If Phoenix mentions a round of pool, you jump at the chance, while asking Bob and Payback if they’d like to be the opposing team. You ignore the way your heart jumps into your throat when you can feel his eyes on you.

Every note of Great Big Balls of Fire feels like a stab in the chest, and you hold back tears of frustration when you see some girl wrap her arms around his neck and rock along with him as he belts out the lyrics. You’re a fool.

You’ve been ignoring his calls about Saturday morning beach runs and the memes he sends during the day go unanswered except for the little reactions iPhones let you send. You suppose it’s only fair that he gets to ignore you a little bit too.

Your little charade doesn’t last long, not truly in the grand scheme of things. Bradley doesn’t put up with you skirting his advances for long–he knows what he wants and he’ll be relentless til he gets it. And right now, he’s trying to corner you.

And you’re weak for him. You should’ve known from the start that you wouldn’t be able to resist him. You can’t even now, even when you’re only getting him in pieces.

It’s not exactly your bravest moment to be hiding slightly behind Phoenix so he can’t see you (if you can’t see him, he can’t see you, right?) while she stares at you with an endlessly amused expression in her eyes. She doesn’t move to expose you, though.

“What’cha doin’?” Her tone is light, but you can tell she means business.

The two of you are friends yes, but she’s known Bradley for a million times longer. There’s some girl-girl solidarity, but if you were in her shoes, you might have a few bones to pick about potentially throwing Bradley to the wolves on this one. You wonder for a moment if he’s been talking to her about all this, but again, is there even anything to talk about?

“Just uh, trying to see where Hangman’s at?” You sound like you’re asking her a question, and she quirks an eyebrow.

She stretches the syllables of her next word out, letting it hang in the air, “Right. Even I don’t look at Hangman with that sort of intensity.”

That’s not entirely true, but you don’t really feel like getting into a competition with Phoenix of all people, over who’s looking at whom how.

“Sweetheart? Can we talk?”

You’d let Phoenix distract you for just a split second, and there he is, in all his glory. Bradley is beautiful, yes, but he looks tired. His sunny’s are hanging haphazardly from a floral button down that looks like it’s maybe seen better days, and he’s got dark circles marring the perfect tone of his tanned skin.

This time, Phoenix just side-steps you and lets Bradley into your space.

His presence is just as affecting there, in the middle of the Hard Deck, as it was the first time you saw him on the beach. Even with how tired he looks, he’s still glowing just slightly in the evening sun.

“Hi, Bradley,” You breathe, not daring to speak louder, as if that would make the moment real.

You can feel Phoenix’s eyes on you, the way that Bob and Payback are starting to let their attention drift to from the game of pool. This, you don’t want anyone else to be witness to. This is something between just the two of you. You don’t really need the whole world to witness your imminent heartbreak.

“I don’t want to do this here, is my place okay?” He looks so nervous, as if you’re going to push him away. It’s funny really, what you know is about to happen, and yet he still looks like this is about to break him entirely.

Nodding, you let him lead you out of the bar. It feels like deja vu, how however many weeks ago you were tracing these exact steps but making your way towards a very different fate.

The two of you are silent in the Bronco, and Bradley doesn’t bother turning the radio up to belt along to the 80s classic on the radio. Everything feels like you’re underwater, like the world is out of focus. You think you might start crying, but you try and swallow it down, be an adult.

Pulling into the driveway, it’s silent in the car when he turns the engine off. Neither of you go to get out, but you know you can’t sit here forever. This had to happen at some point, had to come to a close. That doesn’t make getting out of the car and waiting for Bradley to unlock the door any easier, though.

You toe off your shoes and let him get you a glass of water. Then, you’re standing on opposite sides of his kitchen, the pristine shine of the countertops and appliances making him feel a thousand miles away. You two are usually tumbling in, mouths locked together, or walking in with groceries, prepared to spend a comfortable evening cooking and watching a movie. This is everything coming apart at the seams.

“Bradley,” You start, not really knowing where you’re going, but just wanting to break the silence.

He looks distraught and your stomach drops with guilt.

This is your fault.

He says your name once as he settles back against a countertop, and it hangs in the air between the two of you, til he starts speaking again, “I’ve been trying to figure out where I went wrong, what lines I crossed, and I guess at some point I realized it was all of them. I shouldn't have pushed you, I shouldn’t have–”

“I thought that that was all I could have of you, so I was selfish and I took it.” You say, the words tumbling out of you before you can stop yourself from interrupting him, but still unable to tear your eyes away from him, “But I was hurting you. I still am, and god, Bradley, I’ll make it up to you somehow, I’m so sorry.”

It’s almost funny, really, the way you’ll look back on this moment a year from now and laugh at the way the two of you are talking past each other, unwilling to acknowledge that your deepest desires could be attainable. But for now, all you can feel is the guilt in your veins, your heartbeat pounding your chest.

“What?” He’d looked at the floor for a moment, but when you finish speaking he’s looking at you intently. “What did you say?”

Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself and start from the beginning, “I thought that you coming to me, like that, was the only way I could have you. And, and maybe it was me taking advantage because you were sometimes not super sober, but I would never–”

“I was always sober. Every time. I would never do that to you. What do you mean that was the only way you thought you could have me?” Bradley’s standing fully now, not leaning.

“I thought you drank before, to, y’know, make it tolerable.” You regret the words as soon as you say them, “Sorry, that’s–you’re not that kind of person.”

He smiles ruefully, “I’m still focused on the part about that being the only way you could have me.”

Here it is.

“I love you, Bradley. And not just as a friend, but more. But I didn’t want to push that on you, and so I thought–”

“You love me?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

Then, he’s laughing in that hysterical way when people are so overcome, the only way it’ll escape them is if they double over in giggles. But he’s trying to compose himself as quickly as he started.

“I tried to tell you so many times how I felt, I left you all those post-it notes, god, I thought you were seeing them and just didn’t feel the same.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“The hearts. That’s how I,” He heaves a shuddering breath, his voice thick with unshed tears, “That’s how I told my parents I loved them before I could really write. I was saying it to you every time I left.”

“You love me?” You’re crying now, and he squeezes his eyes shut til tears run down his cheeks too.

His laugh is bitter but you know that’s not directed at you, “Was the sticky note covered in hearts not clear enough?”

You feel the way your cheeks warm and your stomach churns as you try and defend yourself, “You were thanking me for letting you sleep over?”

At that, he laughs, genuine this time, breaking the sadness that has been building in the air. Finally, he makes his way across the room to you and crowds into your space, wrapping you in his arms and pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes are closed.

“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning, a plea, and a prayer all in one. “I meant every heart, every I love you, from the very first one I left.”

“I kept them all. In my bedside table.”

Then his lips are on yours. The kiss is salty, reminding you of all the emotion that’s been building for the past few months, every moment you didn’t confess, every moment you assumed the worst, it’s all there. But you don’t want to dwell on that now, now that you’ve heard him say something plucked from your wildest dreams.

“Say it again,” You whisper when his lips leave yours ever so briefly as the two of you are stumbling to the bedroom.

And he does. As he’s undressing you, he says it. He mumbles it against your lips and into your mouth.

He says it against your bare skin as he presses you into his bed, the sheets smelling like him before he puts on cologne. It’s muffled momentarily by the way he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, but you feel the way his jaw works anyways as you cup his face. You let your legs fall open around him and feel the way he slides his fingers into you.

When he’s pressing into you, he’s saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you.

In those moments between start and finish, when the world falls away and all you know is the warmth of his body against yours, the slight slick of sweat on your skin, that’s when you think you realize that he means it. The motion of his hips is deep and insistent, as if to try and leave a permanent reminder that he was there.

You’re crying, you realize. And he’s kissing the tears away like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pressing his forehead to yours as his lips keep forming the words. At some point, you’ve started saying them back to him too, choking them out despite everything so that you know that he knows that you love him.

When you finish, it feels like a supernova exploding inside of you. It starts in the center of your body and pushes its way to your fingertips til you’re gasping for air and he fucks you through it. Bradley cums moments later, filling you with his warmth in a way that’s both familiar and still thrilling.

He rolls gently off you, and you hiss as he slips out. That’ll be a mess to clean up.

But he’s looking at you, brushing your sweaty hair from your face, and his eyes are shining so brightly that it feels like looking at the sun. You want to look away, but you think that losing your vision in return for staring at the way his eyes crinkle in genuine happiness is well worth the price.

I love you, he mouths. And you believe him.

You whisper it back.

tagging: @sebsxphia @roosterbruiser @bradshawburner @gretagerwigsmuse @sometimesanalice @joaquinwhorres @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @bradshawsbitch @seresinsweetie @notroosterbradshaw @genius2050 @peachystenbrough @rhettabbotts @theharddeck @wkndwlff - tagging ppl either by request or whom i feel like are horny for bradley soooo pls let me know if you'd like to be added/removed

#bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick #top gun: maverick fic #rooster fanfic #rooster x reader #no use of y/n

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the-authoress-writes · 6 months

Text

If You Please

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Lawyer!reader

Written for @roosterforme’s Top Gun Rocktober Playlist Fic Challenge

Synopsis: It’s not everyday that one’s best friend gets married, it’s not everyday that one is asked to be said friend’s Maid of Honor, and it’s certainly not everyday one meets a gorgeous, blond naval aviator.

Much less that one gets to dance the night away with the aforementioned naval aviator.

Warnings: Nothing, really, just a prerequisite creepy cousin, and a little teensy bit of cursing, but other than that, I don’t think there’s anything else.

Author’s Note: This is my first fic written for a fic challenge, and I am so grateful to @roosterforme for organizing this, and for allowing me to use one of my favorite 80s songs—Alannah Myles’ “Black Velvet”, as well as to @bradshawsbaby, who made the absolutely gorgeous moodboard for this fic.

You are both incredible, lovely people, and amazing writers!!

Everyone should go check out their stories—go, seriously.

I’ve made liberal use of lines from the song in this fic, but it’s just so absurdly appropriate for Jake that I didn’t even really feel that bad.

It’s also my first time writing Jake, so I’m not exactly sure I did him justice, but I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone thinks!

One down, one to go!!

And so, here we go!!!

She looked at her best friend dancing with her new husband, a smile on her lips.

She couldn’t be happier for her best friend, Cristina Nievara, formerly Cristina Machado.

The wedding was perfect, and went off without a hitch, and now, as the Maid of Honor, she could now relax—the hard part was over.

She sighed, sipping from her glass of rosé, rolling her neck from side to side.

At that moment, as if the very air shifted around her, or some preternatural sense alerted her, she became aware of a masculine presence behind her.

“Everyone’s dancing.”

At the smooth Texan drawl, a smile involuntarily split her lips. “That they are.”

“Everyone but you, Counselor.”

She angled her head to look into the emerald eyes of Jake Seresin. “Neither are you.”

“Hmm—little old me, well, I’m just waiting for the right partner.”

Her mouth ran a little dry, and she sipped from her glass again, trying to keep her composure. “And who would the right partner be?”

He hummed lightly, “I have an idea; she’d be kind, gentle—sweet, even—but opinionated when she needs to be, absurdly competent, insanely beautiful, and incredibly sexy.”

She hissed a breath between her teeth. “That’s quite the criteria.

Not sure you’ll be able to find a girl like that.”

“Well, I’m thinking I’m looking right at her.”

She couldn’t help it, her head whipped around to face him, so fast she worried she got whiplash, for her to find that his gaze was fixed intently and intensely on her.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she swallowed reflexively. “You sure you’re looking right?”

Jake made a show of looking at her up and down, his gaze somehow respectful despite the intensity she could see in his eyes. “I know I’m looking right.

Would you like to dance, Counselor?

Only if you please, though.”

She huffed a chuckle, shaking her head. “Well, since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse?”

And she set her glass down, before placing her hand into his outstretched one.

As Jake led her to the dancefloor, she mentally looked back—a month ago, never in a million years did she imagine that she’d be dancing with this man.

One month earlier…

She had no idea how Cris had managed to rope her into this.

But that wasn’t completely the truth; actually, she did.

Her best friend, Cristina Machado, was getting married to her fiancé, Gabriel Nievara, in her and Gabriel’s hometown of New Orleans.

And of course, Cris had to have her best friend as her Maid of Honor.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Cris, on the contrary, she’d do anything for that woman, they were each others’ ride-or-die since college, but it was moments like this, where she was currently being hit on by Cris’ creepy cousin, Marco, that almost made her reconsider.

And this was only a family and friends get-together at the large Machado family home a month before the wedding.

Marco was going on and on about how much money he made as a real estate agent, and she had been trying to get out of this conversation repeatedly, but she couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

If she had more energy, she wouldn’t hesitate to tell him off, but she had just come from a too-long deposition (literally throwing her dress on after), and her attitude was habitually completely different from the shark she had to be as a lawyer and in courtrooms, like a coat she put on, as a way of keeping her work separate from her personal life.

At this point, she was debating on dissociating from exhaustion, or looking for a way out, any way out—she was even debating the merits of just running away, and locking herself in the bathroom, which was looking more and more appealing by the second—when a drawling voice proclaimed, “There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you!”

She turned and saw a vaguely familiar dark blond-haired man striding towards her, looking rather like something out of a grocery store romance novel, with his movie star-blinding smile, in a pair of dark jeans, and a thin jacket over a henley, Wayfarers tucked into the collar.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I—I just got caught up with Marco,” she beamed, relief coursing through her.

“Well, uh, Cris wants to talk to you, asked me to come get you,” he nodded.

She latched onto that like a drowning woman. “Oh, I better go then, Maid of Honor stuff, you know—it was a pleasure talking with you, Marco, hopefully I’ll see you around,” she said, all in one breath, as she backed away, before immediately turning to follow her savior.

She blew out a breath, running a hand through her hair. “So, Cris wanted to talk to me, right?”

He clicked his tongue, glancing back to Marco, now on the prowl for his next hapless victim, “Not really, I just saw you looking like you would rather the Good Lord struck you dead then and there rather than continue talking with Marco.

But then again, most people tend to look like that when they talk with him.

So I decided to rescue you.”

She blinked. “Oh—well—thank you so much for the assist.

That was pretty good back there.”

“Not a problem, I’m used to coming in clutch.

And I am very good,” he winked, which made her huff a laugh as she fought the urge to tug the collar of her dress—how did it seem to get two or three degrees warmer just then?

He continued, sticking out his hand, “I’m Jake, Jake Seresin.”

She reciprocated the gesture, telling him her name, to which Jake replied, “Mmm, pretty name for a pretty girl.”

She rolled her eyes, “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Can’t help it if it’s true,” he smirked.

God, why was it so hot?

Even for New Orleans, November had absolutely no right being this hot.

“So, uh, how do you know Cris?” she blurted, saying the first thing that came to mind.

“Through Javy,” Jake replied, referring to Cris’ older brother, “we—we’re both in the navy, but I’ve known the Machados for almost fifteen years,” he finished, almost bashfully.

At that moment, it clicked for her who Jake was; she’d seen him in the Machado Christmas photo for several years. “I know Javy’s a pilot, so, are you—”

“We prefer the term naval aviator—but yes, we both fly F-18s,” he finished, a somewhat smug and proud look on his face.

“Fighter jets, huh?

You any good?”

At this, he looked indignant. “‘Any good’?

I graduated number one in my TOPGUN class, you are looking at one of the best fighter pilots in this country.”

“Okay,” she nodded, a chuckle escaping her as she ducked her head, “my sincerest apologies.”

When she looked back up, she saw him turn to face the deck, rubbing the back of his neck, the stone on the ring on his right middle finger catching the light.

“Uh, apology accepted,” he murmured. “And er, Cris is up there on the deck if you wanted to talk to her anyway,” he gestured, turning to face her again.

Well, her romance novel moment was nice while it lasted.

“Ah, I know when I’m not wanted,” she nodded.

“No,” Jake literally yelped, garnering several glances, which made him rub the back of his neck again, “I mean, no, it’s, it’s not like that, I just thought that you might want to be around friends, not a random stranger.”

“Well, I’d hardly call you a random stranger—you did save me from Marco, so I’d say that at least puts you firmly in acquaintance territory,” she deadpanned.

An honest to God guffaw escaped him, and she couldn’t help but note the way it made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

When he got control of himself again, he breathed, “In that case, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Same here.”

Silence soon fell over them, but strangely, she didn’t feel it was in any way awkward—it felt almost easy, despite the inexplicable rising tension which she could feel beginning to draw tightly.

“Jerk!!!”

She whipped her head in the direction the call had come from, grinning when she saw the jumping figure of Cris, on the deck, as Jake said, who was waving her hand, beckoning her over.

“Bitch!!!” she eagerly called back, replying with the matching nickname she had for Cris, which the latter always joked Supernatural stole from them.

“Huh… so it is true, girls call each other that,” she heard, and she turned to see Jake watching her with a grin on his face.

“It’s a thing we have,” she brushed off, knowing that others might find that strange.

“Hey, no judgment here—I call my wingman Chicken or Big Dick.”

That actually made her splutter. “I’m going to need an explanation for those nicknames next time.”

He looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite pin down. “‘Next time’, huh?

You uh, looking forward to a next time?”

“Yeah, if only to get an answer for why those nicknames for your wingman,” she breathed. “You’re going to be around—for the wedding, right?”

She tried not to sound too hopeful.

“I’m thinking I will be, and I think for the in between,” he stated, seriously.

“Okay, so I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” and he warmly nodded in a way that made her oddly think that if he were wearing a Stetson, he’d be tipping it to her, before going off towards the grill which was currently being manned by Mr. Machado.

She exhaled sharply, then began to ascend the stairs to the top of the deck, where she was immediately intercepted by Cris.

“I see you met Jake,” Cris grinned.

“Yeah, I did, it’s nice to finally meet the odd man out on your guys’ Christmas card,” she breathed, trying to keep her tone light.

“Mm-hmm,” Cris replied, an odd glint in her eyes. “You two looked… cozy.”

“I—he saved me from Marco, and I was making conversation, you know, but he was nice; a little cocky, but nice,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Uh-huh.”

That glint was unfortunately still present in Cris’ eyes, and she lightly shoved the other woman in the shoulder. “It’s not like that, you—you are just… projecting because you’re so stupid happy with Gabriel.

We literally had one conversation, for God’s sake.”

Her best friend poked her in the arm, “‘One conversation’ was how it started for me and Gabe.

And I’m not projecting, you and Jake looked very comfortable together.

And for another thing, you cannot tell me you did not notice how hot he is.”

“Cris!” she hissed, glancing around to see if Gabriel was around. “You are engaged!”

“I am an engaged woman, but I can admit when a man is hot as hell.

And Jake Seresin is hot as hell,” Cris stated, raising her eyebrows, looking expectantly at her.

At first, she just stared, not sure what Cris wanted from her, but when it clicked, she sighed, “Seriously?”

“Admit it.”

“I—” she pinched the bridge of her nose, “I—w—oh, fine.

Jake is hot.

Happy?”

“Very.”

And with a smile, Cris practically bounced over to the other side of the deck.

“Cris! Cris!” She hurried after her best friend, knowing the other woman was undoubtedly planning something. “What are you planning?” she called, soon catching up.

“Planning what?”

“My bestie here finally met Jake, Jav,” Cris beamed, turning to face her older brother.

“Ah, that’s good,” Javy nodded, before also catching the glint in his sister’s eyes. “Okay, glint, you have a glint, what happened?”

“I had one conversation with your friend, Javy, and Cris is blowing it all out of proportion,” she interrupted.

Unfortunately for her, Javy’s eyes lit up in what was practically a carbon copy of Cris’ expression. “Oh. Cozy?” he asked, addressing Cris.

“Very,” her best friend nodded.

“Huh.”

In what was an unnerving display of sibling synchronicity, they both looked at her with identical glints.

“No.

Absolutely not.

Whatever you two are planning, no.”

“What makes you think we’re planning anything?” Javy protested.

She offered them a raised eyebrow.

Javy sighed, “Cris wants you happy, I want my boy happy—you could be happy together!”

“No, I am not going to be matchmade at a wedding!

It’s a walking cliche!” she protested.

Cris and Javy looked at each other, some sort of understanding passing between them.

“Okay, fine, we won’t try to set you up with Jake,” Cris sighed.

“Thank you!”

That was a month ago, and well, if they weren’t going behind her back, and orchestrating things like puppetmasters, which was highly unlikely, she could only chalk the amount of times she’d been thrown together with Jake to fate.

She had been seated with him at every lunch and dinner they were both invited to, paired with him at every wedding-related event and activity, every friends and family outing.

And somehow, there was always one person extra in the outing, and somehow, Jake was always the one to drive her, and only her, in his rental.

If she were being honest with herself, she wasn’t going to complain, especially not when it led to easy conversations allowing her to see below the cockiness, to see and know Jake, and she definitely wasn’t going to complain when it came to the… very hands-on crash courses she received from him when it came to mini-golf and bowling.

She was only human, after all.

And now, after numerous dinners, wedding related events and activities, after getting to know and see him, she could honestly say that she was more than halfway in love with Jake Seresin.

But she was uncertain of where things stood with him.

Yes, he hadn’t looked once at the bridemaids and various women who’d been throwing themselves at him, but that wasn’t a guarantee of anything.

However, that didn’t stop her from taking pride in the somewhat dumbstruck, glazed way he looked at her as she stood there on the altar, his eyes only for her, even as Cris was walking in her very elegant and beautiful dress down the aisle of the church.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at her like that.

The next time their gazes met, Cris and Gabriel had just been pronounced husband and wife, Gabriel dramatically taking Cris in his arms and dipping her before kissing her, to whoops and cheers.

She couldn’t help the way her eyes drifted to Jake, only to find that he was already looking at her, and she swore that that was longing she could see in his piercing gaze, but she couldn’t completely determine the expression before she had to follow Cris and Gabriel out of the church, and from there, they hadn’t seen each other.

Until he asked her to dance.

Now, as they moved on the dancefloor, all she was aware of was him, the feeling of his arms around her, his eyes gazing into her very soul, making heat like fire dance along her spine—but it wasn’t like a wildfire, relentless and uncontrollable.

Rather, it was like a cozy fire on a cold day, one you wanted to just lie down in front of—getting closer and closer until the fire seeped into your veins, into the very marrow of your bones, into your very soul.

And wasn’t that more dangerous?

The filament of her mind that was still cognizant of things, dimly registered that Jake was leading her fluidly and elegantly across the floor.

“You’ve got moves, Seresin,” she said.

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Enduring two years of cotillion and being pressganged into filling in for uneven numbers at Annapolis’ Ballroom Club will do that to a person.” He gracefully spun her before pulling her back into him. “You ain’t half-bad either, counselor,” he drawled in that slow, southern style.

“I too, bear the scars of cotillion,” she smiled.

That provoked a chuckle and a smile from Jake—and like it always did, that smile did its level best to bring her to her knees.

It wasn’t the obnoxious shark-like grin he had when he was being annoying on purpose, nor the cutting, sarcastic one he used when he was knocking someone down a peg or two.

No.

This one, which she’d only seen directed at her, was like his whole soul was smiling, and it had an innocence about it, despite the fact that at first glance, this man seemed made for nothing but sin.

“Well, in that case, you’ve got very graceful and elegant scars.

And I must admit, I’ve never had such a beautiful woman dancing in my arms before.”

She couldn’t help but scoff and laugh incredulously.

“What?” Jake inclined his head.

“I don’t know if you’re bullshitting me or being honest with me, because I somehow can’t believe that I’m the most beautiful woman you, of all people, have danced with.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What exactly do you mean?”

“You—you want me to spell it out?”

He hummed, “Let’s just say this witness would like a little leading here, counselor.”

She laughed, before sighing, “You, Jake Seresin, are… well—more than a little bit attractive, and I cannot believe that there wasn’t more than one pretty southern belle in your arms.”

He smirked wickedly, “You sayin’ I’m hot?”

Flustered, she exclaimed, “O—objection—hostile witness!”

“Overruled, witness will answer,” he easily parried.

“Th—that’s not your line.”

He playfully sniffed, “I’m still thinking I’d like an answer, there.”

“You’re killing me here,” she breathed, wanting to duck her head and hide, but in Jake’s arms, there wasn’t exactly any place to escape.

Jake leaned closer, pressing her against him, clouding her senses even more, as he ducked his head to murmur into her ear, his breath warm against her neck, “But you like it.”

She looked up at him, blindly following his lead, placing her trust in him to not let her fall flat on her face, and whispered, “You’re trouble, Jake Seresin.” She shook her head, picked up the frayed threads of her wit and courage, and plowed on. “Yes, I think you are more beautiful than any man has a right to be.

And not just because of the way you look.”

Jake, who had been wearing a somewhat smug expression during her declaration, froze at her last sentence. “That’s new.”

“What?”

“Someone seeing more than a pretty face here,” he replied incredulously.

“I’d kind of have to be blind to not see it, but, I’ve seen what you’ve shown me—what you’ve let me see, and while I won’t presume to completely know you already, I… I like what I see; in every way.”

Some sort of emotion broke in his eyes, something the shadowed dancefloor didn’t really allow her to see clearly, but he murmured, “Dance with me?”

“We already are,” she smiled gently.

“I mean…” he strangely foundered, before continuing, “may I fill your dance card, counselor?”

Teenage her wouldn’t believe what was happening. “Won’t it be boring, dancing with me all night long?”

“Don’t care.

May I?

Only if you please.”

They danced through a more brightly lit area, and she saw the honesty in his piercing sea foam eyes.

In that moment, something told her that if she said no, she’d regret it for the rest of her life, leaving her longing for one more dance. “Well, looks like I’m yours for the night.”

Jake blinked, a rough chuckle escaping his mouth. “You are, huh?”

“Not—not like that—I—” she stammered.

He laughed this time, full and loud, “Relax, counselor, I don’t make it a habit of taking what I’m not given.

I was raised a good Christian boy, after all.”

“Didn’t even know the word good was in your vocabulary,” she breathlessly replied.

“Oh, don’t you remember, counselor,” he leaned in, voice dipping low, making everything fade into the background, “I am good—I’m very good.”

Her breath hitched, and he swept her across the floor, the two of them dancing the night away.

An hour and a half later, the night was wrapping up, and it was time to send the new Mr. and Mrs. Nievara to their honeymoon suite in the hotel upstairs.

She and Jake promptly got separated, eventually finding herself in the press of women lined up for the bouquet toss.

She personally disliked it because it baffled her how a literal bunch of flowers could turn a group of women into feral cats.

So, she was determined not to reach for it, no matter what.

Cris walked to the center of the dancefloor, and counted down. “Three, two, one!!”

In the space between one blink and the next, a massive bouquet of red roses was in her arms, and she couldn’t help but gawk.

Most of the women cheered as they dispersed—though some sent her dirty looks—while Cris approached her, beaming from ear to ear. “Thank you so much, Jerk, I don’t know how I would have been able to make it through without you.”

She clasped Cris’ arms, “It was my pleasure, Bitch.

Now you go get some rest with that husband of yours—” she paused, considering, before finishing with a wink, “or not.”

Cris just laughed, “You too—don’t think that I didn’t notice who you danced with—or rather, who you danced the night away with.”

She scoffed, but Cris whispered, “You do know the tradition behind the bouquet toss, right?”

“Cris—”

“I’m not saying you’re going to be walking down the aisle with him any time soon, but what I am saying, is let things play out, you never know.”

She stared at Cris’ earnest face for a beat, before slapping her lightly on the arm. “You’re so in love, it’s fried your brain.”

“I’m thinking yours is too.

Think about it.”

And with a final hug, all the guests cheered as Gabriel carried Cris out of the ballroom.

Soon after, she was hanging around Candice-Marie, the wedding planner, trying to help in any way she could, but the kindly older woman, with whom she’d been working closely leading up to the wedding, shooed her off, saying, “You go on now, you’ve done enough, sweetheart.

I can handle this.

You go enjoy the rest of your night with your handsome gentleman,” she winked.

She didn’t even have time to reply, or to be shocked, before she was swiftly left alone in the middle of the dancefloor.

She turned, blinking, seeing Jake slowly walking onto the dancefloor to stand before her. “So… looks like it’s just you and me, counselor.”

“Certainly looks that way, Lieutenant.”

He mock-winced. “What happened to ‘Jake’, I thought we were getting along so well.”

She couldn’t help her laugh. “I’m sorry—Jake.”

He fleetingly grinned, before turning serious. “So…”

“So… no plans for a… wild night with Javy?

Night’s still young… ish.”

“He can survive without me.

On the ground, at least,” he teased, inclining his head. “So it looks like my dance card’s empty.

I’m all yours.”

“Oh, are you?” she said, poorly concealing her laughter, at the way the tables had turned from earlier.

He looked at her, wondering what was funny, and she got to see his lightbulb moment. “I—I did not mean it that—I mean—unless—I—I mean—I’m—I’m just going to shut up, now,” he lamely finished.

“That was incredible and adorkable.”

“I’ve been called many things in my life, but never adorkable.”

“First time for everything, I guess.” The moment hung for a beat, before she continued, “Well, you’re in for a pretty boring night, then, because I am exhausted, and I am going to go up to my hotel room,” she sighed.

A frown creased his brow. “You live in New Orleans, and yet you rented a hotel room.”

“I am what, again?”

Jake clicked his tongue, an expression like he was berating himself on his face. “Exhausted.”

It was late, she’d had a couple of drinks (though that excuse was wearing a little thin, given that she’d drank them hours ago), so she allowed herself to be a little silly, and she whipped out double finger guns. “Star witness, here.

But… you can walk me to my room.”

His eyes lit up, and he extended his elbow in the old-fashioned way. “Lead the way, madam.”

They slowly walked out of the ballroom, moving towards the elevator bank.

It was a decent walk, and it was done in a comfortable silence, during which she narrowly kept herself from leaning her head against his arm.

When they arrived at the elevator bank, there was still a decent crowd of people from the wedding stood there, which made her groan. “This is going to take forever.”

“If you’re up for more of a walk, there’s another elevator bank up on the mezzanine,” Jake offered.

A despairing look up at him. “Stairs?”

“Stairs.

But you’ll be in your room sooner.”

She deliberated. “Fuck it—stairs.”

This time, she followed him up the grand oak staircase, wincing with each step—no matter how broken in a pair of heels were, at a certain point, they all became instruments of torture.

At the top of the stairs, she saw that there was blessedly, no one around, but the thought of walking one more step in her heels was a bridge too far, and she tugged Jake towards the mezzanine railing. “Wait, let me take these off.”

Keeping one hand on the wood rail, she eased the strap of her heel out of the buckle, when she overbalanced, and lurched forward.

Strong hands caught her to a firm chest, and she looked up into his verdant eyes, her whole being caught.

“God, but I really want to kiss you right now, counselor,” he rasped, his voice, pure tone draped in yearning.

“Technically, I don’t kiss on the first date,” she instinctively spoke, and she could see his gaze shutter as he began to loosen his grip slightly, when she drew him even closer, pulling him in by fisting her hand in the lapel of his black velvet suit jacket. “But… technically… we’ve already had so many first dates, haven’t we?”

It took him a moment, but she could literally see the shutters on his gaze being flung open, being replaced by a mischievous sparkle. “We have, haven’t we.”

“Hard to see a reason why you shouldn’t kiss me, in that case.”

He smiled, the innocence of his little boy’s smile contrasting with the smoldering desire in his viridian eyes.

The next thing she knew, Jake’s lips were on hers, and he was kissing her.

In a split second, the fire that had warmed her very soul, now rushed through her blood, consuming everything that wasn’t Jake Seresin, until the only coherent thought was of him.

If not for his arms around her, the deep, searching caress of his mouth on hers was enough to bring her to her knees then and there, his kiss a new religion.

The kiss lasted a moment, it lasted eternity, but she knew that from that point on, she’d never have enough—he’d always leave her longing for more.

The breath which so rudely surged into her lungs seemed like poor recompense for his kiss.

Jake looked about as wrecked as she felt, his lashes fluttering over half-lidded eyes, his forehead leant against hers. “An absolutely stunning, whip-smart woman who sees me and likes it, with a gorgeous smile and laugh—damn, I think I’ve found the reason my dance card’s going to be full for the foreseeable future,” he murmured.

A sound between a chuckle and a gasp of air slipped from her lips as a thrill raced through her.

“Only if you please though,” he added, a teasing note in his voice.

“I very much please,” she replied.

“Yeah?”

God, his smile—screw halfway in love—her heart was his through and through.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Now kiss me again.”

Jake chuckled, “Well, since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse?”

He kissed her again, and in that kiss, forever laid at her feet, spread out before her.

What does it say about me that I know exactly what model Ray-Bans Glen used in TG:M?

😂

I did totally take the the “Jerk. Bitch.” interaction from Supernatural.

If you look at the nametags in TG86, below the names, you’ll see “TOPGUN 1”, so I’m going to assume there’s more than one TOPGUN class/session in a year, at least in the TG/TG:M universe.

There’s a headcanon going around that Jake and Javy were either tied, or one and two respectively, in their TOPGUN class, so I went with that.

(I headcanon that Bradley and Natasha were in the same TOPGUN class, and Natasha was number one, while Bradley was number two.)

I vacillate between Old Money!Jake and Working/Middle Class!Jake on a fairly regular basis, but for the purposes of this story, I went with Old Money!Jake.

Apparently, cotillion is still alive and well in Texas, so Jake having that experience is highly plausible.

USNA does have a Ballroom Club, although, like with most things in fanfiction, I might be taking liberties with the time of its establishment, because I don’t know when that got started.

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#the defense department regrets to inform you your daughters are *ded* because of the navy(al aviators)#top gun rocktober #top gun: maverick #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fic #top gun maverick fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #glen powell

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phoenixsbby · 2 years

Text

From Here On Out - Hangman x WSO!reader

summary: returning home after your crash means facing the reality of your new relationship with Hangman

readers callsign is ‘bluejay’

WC: 4.7k

a/n: our favorite WSO (sorry Bob/Fanboy) is back!!! yes, this is a part 2 to All This Time

warnings: SMUTTTT, swearing, Simp Seresin™

Two weeks. 14 days. 20,160 minutes. An exact measure of how long it’s been since you were rescued from enemy territory. The same exact measure of how long it’s been since you last saw Hangman. The same exact amount of time that’s passed since you and Hangman kissed.

The thing is, you weren’t actively trying to avoid seeing him ... at first.

The day after you were brought back to base, you woke up feeling like you hadn’t survived the crash after all. Your entire body was sore, you were too cold then too hot and your lungs felt like they were crumpling up further inside you with every breath you took. A quick trip to the medic confirmed it, you had pneumonia.

Debriefing your mission would have to wait, your first order of business directly from the Admiral was to rest. And rest, you did. For an entire week, you stayed home, slept, and binge watched too many bad movies to count. By the time you felt better, you’d never been more ready to get out of your house and back in the sky.

After only one day apart from Hangman, you missed him. The proximity you shared on the mountain was like a drug that was too quickly flushed out of your system. You craved those feelings, the warmth, comfort, and safety, immediately once they were gone. Then you were gifted time to brew with the idea of it, reuniting. And suddenly, the idea started to morph into something else entirely - it terrified you.

What if everything Hangman had said to you on that mountain was a lie?

In the cold, our blood vessels constrict which means the normal amount of blood that typically reaches important organs such as the brain, doesn’t. Maybe the weather had pushed him to say those things, maybe he wasn’t thinking straight or needed to convince you he felt something for you when in reality, he just needed your warmth to survive. Now that the blood returned to its rightful place, maybe he won’t feel the same.

So instead of talking these worries out like the mature adult you are, you’ve been dodging him.

The first time you see him after the crash is the same day you’re back on base after being cleared to fly again. The anticipation of returning to the backseat of your jet and possibly seeing Hangman had been vibrating deep in your bones, making you jittery. The minute you step foot in the cafeteria to grab breakfast and see the unmistakeable dirty blonde hair on the back of Hangman’s head, you hide. You literally duck behind the corner of the wall and hold your breath.

A few people give you strange glances as they flow in and out but, luckily no one you recognize catches you. You can practically picture the look Phoenix would give you if she saw you now; arms crossed, a crooked smirk, one eyebrow raised. Busted. You wait there an unreasonable amount of time before your stomach growls, protesting loudly against your wimpy behavior.

You aren’t sure which is due to kill your first; your hunger or your fear of rejection.

You know you need to eat before reporting to your superior to get started for the day, fuel is as important for the pilot as it is for the jet. And you only have 15 minutes left at this point. Swallowing your pride, you peak around the corner and breath a sigh of relief when you see Hangman is no longer siting at the table. With a quick scan around the rest of the cafe and with no Hangman in sight, you finally leave your perch to get some much needed food.

You’re pathetic and you know it. But at least now you can be pathetic and full.

You saunter up the buffet and pile your plate high with all the eggs and bacon that can fit. You audibly groan when there aren’t any strawberries left in the fruit bowl - you suppose you deserve that for being such a coward.

You take the seat next to Bob, in the same seat once occupied by Hangman, and instantly start chowing down.

“Hi, Blue.” Bob greets you. You’re so hungry all the sudden, your intense focus on getting as much food in your mouth can’t be shaken by his presence. You grunt in response, mouth full and getting fuller by the second.

“Hangman left this for you.”

“Hm?” You hum and finally take your eyes off of the plate in front of you to look over. You meet Bobs eye and he motions to the table. You glance down and freeze mid-chew.

A bowl of strawberries.

Hangman left you a bowl of strawberries.

“Seemed like he was really looking forward to seeing you.” You feel the heat rush to your cheeks at the mere idea of it, Hangman waiting for you, eager to see you.

When you look up to Bob again, he’s smirking. You roll your eyes and shove him in the arm playfully before reaching into the bowl and taking a big bite of the ripe fruit.

— —

In the following few days, you really weren’t intentionally dodging Hangman, your schedules naturally fell into opposing rhythms. He’d be in the air while you were assigned a briefing, you’d be in the backseat of a jet while he was taking his lunch break. And by the time the days came to an end, you were too exhausted, still recovering from pneumonia to even think about being anywhere after work other than your bed.

The distance between you and Hangman lasted until one sweltering California day. The AC in the base must have been broken, the rec room was so hot and muggy, you thought you might suffocate. The warmth was practically lulling you to sleep as you waited for your turn to go up for training.

You’re basically nodding off when you feel a hand rest on your shoulder, gently shaking you back into the land of the living. You look up, connect your eyes to Nat’s and take in her grin directed down at you.

“Did you hear about Hangman?”

Suddenly, you’re not tired at all, a giant spike in your heart rate has you straightening up on the couch. Who needs coffee when you have adrenaline suddenly coursing through you?

“What about him? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Great, actually. He’s being promoted. To Captain.”

Holy shit. Hangman’s being promoted. He would officially become Captain Jake Seresin.

He deserves this, he’s an amazing pilot and is becoming a great leader. Being Captain was something Jake has always wanted and suddenly, you want nothing more than to see him despite your raging fear that nothing will come of your mountain side confessions. It doesn’t matter anymore, you’d take that rejection if meant you got to witness how happy you know he must be.

When training exercises are over, you start roaming the halls aimlessly until you find him. The base was eerily quiet, like everyone had cleared out just for you and Hangman to have this moment together. Similar to the first time you saw him when you returned to base, his back is to you when you find him but there he is, unmistakable, you think you’d recognize him anywhere.

“Captain!” You call out from down the hall. He immediately spins around, most likely at the sound of your voice rather than his new title. Regardless of why he turns so quickly, his grin is as bright as ever.

At first, you walk at a normal pace toward him, trying to act causal like his presence even from a few hundred feet away isn’t sending your heart into a tailspin. But then you remember what it felt like to be held by him, to have his arms wrapped so tightly around you and to feel warm and secure and happy. Then your pace quickens, your footsteps are moving faster and faster with the need to close this gap between you.

You’re outright jogging by the time you reach him. You throw your arms around his neck and practically jump on him, pulling an ‘oof’ out of him when your body comes in contact with his. His arms instantly wrap around you, holding you firmly against him and yeah, why did you avoid this for so long?

Being in his arms feels so good and so right.

His laughter comes out muffled against your hair and your shoulder, you can feel the vibrations of it radiate from his chest against yours.

“Congratulations.” You say, the sound of your voice coming out as suppressed as his laugh.

“If I knew being promoted was all it took to see you, I would have told people a lot sooner.” He says as he pulls away a bit, just enough to look down at you. You feel the heat prickle in your cheeks, slightly embarrassed thinking back on your behavior. By the way he’s holding you, it’s clear the weather had no effect on what he’d said on the mountain, he meant every word.

“I’m sorry.” You groan and hide your face in your hands. “I’m an idiot.” He laughs before gripping your wrists and pulling your hands away.

“Yeah but, at least you’re my idiot.” You scoff and give him a frisky shove in the chest. You’re still close, faces only inches apart.

“I thought,” You swallow thickly, here goes nothing “maybe you’d change your mind. You know, once your body temperature was regulated and the blood made it back to your brain.” You try to chuckle though, it comes out faint.

“Nope.” He grins, soft and sweet. “I’m warmed up and still, I feel it all.”

“Thank god.” You mutter before connecting your mouth to his. You feel him smile against your lips before moving his in perfect rhythm with yours, like this isn’t just your second kiss but something you’ve been sharing forever. The kiss is slow and conservative but drips with passion and an understanding that this is only the beginning.

You pull back slightly, a thought suddenly popping into your head. “Wait, I’m technically kissing my superior. Is that allowed?”

“Who cares?” Jake replies, eyes still shut, lips still slightly pursed, before reattaching your lips.

Conservative is not the word you would use to describe this second kiss. From the minute your mouths are pressed back together, Hangman’s tracing his tongue along your bottom lip, begging for entrance. You deepen the kiss and let his tongue explore your mouth while his hands roam your body. Your core temperature skyrockets past baseline and you’d love nothing more to peel the flight suit off your body to burn Jake’s palms with the heat of your skin. It's clear he wants it too by the way he contours your hips, down your backs then back up, across your neck, he needs every part of you as much as you need every part of him.

You’re suddenly accurately aware that you’re in the middle of a military base when his teeth naw into your bottom lip, pulling a shameless moan from the back of your throat. He lets out a deep, husky, chuckle as he breaks away from the kiss.

“So, Cap, any plans tonight to memorialize your big promotion?” You keep your bodies close and fiddle with the collar of his g-suit.

“People are getting together at the Hard Deck, I think. My plan was to swing by,” He traces the pad of his thumb across your jaw, leaving sparks of electricity in the wake of his touch. “shamelessly hoping to run into you.”

“Well if you aren’t set on that plan, I’d love to do something for you. To celebrate and well ... make up for lost time.” You bite your lip as Hangmans fingers dig deeper into your hips.

“Say when and where and I’m there.”

“My place at 7? I’ll cook for you. But, we’re keeping it casual. I’m a Weapon Systems Officer, not a professional chef. “

— —

You’re halfway through cooking dinner for you and Jake when you hear your doorbell ring. Your eyes flicker to the clock: 6:38 pm.

When you open the door, you fight back against the seize of your heart that threatens to kill you at the sight of Hangman in a henley and sweats, holding a bottle of wine.

“You’re early.” You raise your eyebrows and smile regardless.

He shrugs, “Haven’t you made me wait long enough?” He grins as you roll your eyes and grip him by the shirt, tugging him past the threshold of your door.

“Well, early admission isn’t free.” You lead him to the kitchen and hand him the spoon you were using the mix the sauce. “I’m putting you to work.”

“You can work me all you want, baby.” He winks and you let out a noise somewhere in between a laugh and a groan before guiding his hand with the spoon to start stirring. You work in tandem while swapping stories about growing up and your years in the academy. You laugh and flirt until your entire house smells like roasted garlic and rosemary and you’ve had one too many glasses of that wine.

When the food’s ready, you eat tucked close to each other, bodies always touching in some way, in your small breakfast nook. You share more pieces of yourselves and by the time the food’s gone, you feel like you’ve known him your whole life. Not just Captain Seresin, or Hangman, you feel like you really know Jake and have never wanted him more, flaws and all.

“Growing up in my house, we had a rule,” He says as he stands up, clearing your plates off of the table “whoever doesn’t cook, cleans. So let me handle this.” You bite your lip to stop from grinning too wide, you’re worried if you do the grin may be stuck on your face forever.

“I can’t let you do that, you’re my guest.” He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t budge. “At least let me help. We’ll tag team it.”

“Need I remind you what happened last time we were put on a team?”

“Hey!” You laugh and stand up. “We made it out okay, didn’t we?” You rest your hands over his on the stack of plates and hold his gaze, basking in the way his eyes sparkle down on you.

“That we did, m’love. That we did.”

After a small game of tug of war with the dishes and putting on the cutest, softest puppy dog face you can conjure, you end up working together. He washes, you dry and put away. You work flawlessly together, again, like you’ve been at this for years.

When the last plate is put away, Jake places his hands on your hips and turns you to face him. The dim light in the kitchen casts everything in a soft, amber glow, one that highlights the sheen of Jakes skin and the specks of gold in his eyes. Wordlessly, he pulls you closer and closer until he can connect your lips together, the kiss thick with passion and sweet like honey. There’s lingering hints of pasta sauce and red wine on his tongue, you’re sure you could get drunk on his taste alone.

You loosen your jaw and let him run his tongue along your bottom lip before swirling it with yours. You know where you want this to go and you start to feel like he feels the same when he pulls away and nips and sucks his was down your jaw and neck, still pulling and pushing, grabbing and tugging at your clothes the way he did on the mountain.

You half expect a helicopter to pull you apart again but, there are no interruptions coming this time. If you want all of it, you can have it. The question is, does he?

“Tell me what you want, Captain.” Your request comes out breathy and drawn out as an effect of his lips and his tongue dragging across all the sensitive spots of your neck.

He freezes momentarily against you before dragging a hand through your hair to cradle the back of your head. He tugs gently at your roots, making sure you’re looking him directly in the eye. His once sea glass green eyes have turned dark like a forest, blackened by the size of his pupils.

“You know,” he inches his face closer “once I take you to the bedroom and get you moaning that title, I’m never not going to be turned on when you say it at work.”

“Good.” You smirk, nudging your nose against his. “Maybe I want you to always be thinking about it. Maybe I want your mind to constantly be on me.”

“Already is, trust me.” His eyes flutter shut momentarily before they reopen only half way. “Do you remember what I said about how long I’ve thought about this, about your skin?” He pushes a hand up your shirt, tracing dizzyingly slow lines across the waistline of your pants. You nod pathetically fast, begging him with your body to dip his hand down just a bit lower.

“I need to taste it, to taste you. All of you. Can I?” His hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your pants and stills, waiting for the go ahead to take you apart.

“Yes. God, yes” You all but moan. He tugs and in one fluid motion, your pants are down by your ankles and across the room.

“You want to do this in the kitchen?” You release a weak chuckle while he runs his hands back and forth over the bare skin of your upper thighs.

“Is that a problem?” He pushes the hem of your shirt up slowly, again waiting for your confirmation.

“No, sir.” You bite your lip at the way he flushes a deep red. Next thing you know, your shirt has joined your pants on the floor and you’re bare in front of him. All parts of your mind, body, and soul are suddenly screaming for this man.

You contemplated for some time about whether or not you should forego wearing undergarments tonight. You figured the two of you would be frantically ripping each others clothes off and couldn’t be bothered with pesky layers slowing you down. However, this is anything but frenzied. It’s not hectic, the way he touches you, it’s measured and fervent, like he needs to touch every inch of your exposed skin and commit it to memory.

He’s starved, ravenous for your body but instead of diving straight in, he plans to savor the taste of it, of you.

“You’re gorgeous.” His thumbs trace half moons along the skin under your breasts, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “So perfect.” He tips your chin up and lays one more burning kiss against your lips before getting down on his knees in front of you. You have to fight every instinct you have to drop your jaw at the sight of it, at him kneeling in front of you like you are his alter and he’s about to prove his devotion.

His hands drag their way across your stomach and down your hips before they reach the top of your thighs. He hitches one of your legs over his shoulder, spreading you open wider for him. You should feel embarrassed, timid maybe. But like everything else that you’ve experienced with him tonight, you feel nothing but comfortable.

When his lips connect with your hip, as they trace lazy, wet kisses across the span of your naked skin, you whimper. He keeps one hand wrapped firmly around the leg perched on his shoulder, digging his fingertips deeper into your flesh after each sound he coaxes from you. His other hand drags across your inner thigh before it dips down, skimming over your already soaked core. You involuntarily jerk against him and feel the grin that forms across his lips press harder into your skin.

He’s methodical in the way he touches you, exactly where and how you need him to. You aren’t surprised it’s no different from the way he flies, with confidence and precision that ensures nothing but success.

A deeply rooted sound of pure pleasure falls from your lips when his mouth finally meets your clit, the feeling of his warm tongue and vibrations of his own groan stimulating you in a way you never knew you’d needed. The way his tongue works you is mind bending, your body chemistry will forever be altered after this experience. You will no longer be just a WSO harboring a crush on a fellow pilot, you will be a WSO who came against the mouth of her superior, Captain Jake Serein, in record time, naked in her kitchen.

“Oh my god, Jake.” You cry and let your head fall back and meet the wall behind you with a thud as you shudder, as all the muscles below your belly button lock and throb.

“I know, baby, I know.” He mutters into you, kneading at your thighs and peppering light kisses on and around your clit as you come down.

You grip his shoulders hard and pull him up the second you regain feeling in your limbs, satisfied but no where near satisfied enough. The sight of a small spot of yourself still glistening on his chin and the tangy sweetness of your own taste still lingering on his tongue when you kiss him has more searing hit ripping through you.

He wraps his arms around you and hoists you up, letting you guide him to your room before he places you on the edge of your bed. With you sitting and him still standing, you’re perfectly aligned with his lower half, your field of vision is filled with his bulge pressing tightly against the material of his sweatpants. You’re desperate to make him feel as good as he did you, he deserves that. You reach out, letting your palm press and rock against his cock until he groans.

He hooks a finger under your chin and lifts you head up so you’re looking at him through fluttering lashes. He brushes some lingering hair off of your forehead, away from your face so he can see all of you sitting pretty below him.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” You ask as he drags the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip.

“Fuck.” He releases a hoarse chuckle that settles directly in your core, leaving you more soaked than before. “I want this mouth wrapped around me so bad. But, I know I won’t last and I need to be inside you.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” You fist his shirt in your hands before pulling him over you and wrapping your legs around his waist, needing his hips flush against yours, needing his lips to be devour your own. You bunch up his shirt and pull at it up and over his head. You take your time exploring his bare chest and stomach, the way he did with yours, letting your hands skim over every inch of his soft skin, over every dip and ridge of his hard muscles.

You yank at the waistband of his sweats until they’re dropped low below his hips and he takes over, then they’re on the floor and you’re both bare, open to each other in every way a person can be.

“I know you typically like to be the one in control,” You don’t let him hover back over you. Instead, you kneel on the bed and motion for him to sit down “but, I thought maybe I could be the one in the front seat this time.”

You push him back until his body meets the headboard then you straddle him, pressing your inner thighs against the outer flesh of his.

“Sweetheart, when you’re like this,” he runs a hand up your thigh before dropping it low into your folds and stroking your swollen clit “dripping wet, all for me ... I’ll do anything you want me to.”

“I’ll remember that.” You gasp as his fingers draw tight circles against you.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts as you align his tip over your entrance, already begging and sucking him into you slightly. He grunts against your skin at the feel of your slickness, the way you’re desperate for him.

When you do sink down, adjusting to his length, you think you’ve done everything up until this moment right. All that time spent with you two bickering instead of simply talking, scowling instead of smiling, it didn’t matter. You’d do it all again if it meant you ended up here, on top of him, while he holds onto you like you’re the the life line he needs to survive.

“Oh, Jake.” You moan as your hips move on their own accord, instinctually grinding and bobbing to chase the alluring high you feel building inside you. By the way he lets his head fall back and moans your name, you can tell if feels as good for him as it does for you. And that fuels you, to know you can break him down to a whimpering mess below you.

“I didn’t think you could be anymore perfect.” He says, voice strained and gravelly. “But, the way you fit me just right. Baby.” He groans, digging his fingers into your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll bruise. You’re tormenting him, the way your rocking your hips is driving him absolutely mad and the sight of a thin layer of sweat gathering, glowing against your skin ...

If he doesn’t gain some control soon, he may just die.

The cries and moans are spilling from your lips without your control, like a pipe inside you has burst.

“Y/N.” Jake drags a hand through your hair and pulls you to look at him. “I need-“

You don’t let him finish, you don’t have to because you know exactly what he’s going to say. You want him to take over too. This pleasure that’s shooting through you has your once solid form turning into liquid, making it hard to continue. You nod and let him flip you on your back. Suddenly, he’s thrusting into you with such speed and power that your eyes start to roll into the back of your skull.

He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, sucking it, kissing it, moaning your name into it like he needs you to understand how crazy the sensation of being buried inside you makes him.

When he pushes himself up straighter, when he wraps your legs around him and pulls you further onto him, when he digs his nails into your skin and his eyes glaze over, you know what’s coming. You move your fingers down to your own clit only to have them shoved away and replaced by Jakes. That’s all you need to be seeing stars, to feel a burning, white hot flash of pleasure overcome you. He pushes over the edge, you push him back and for a blissful moment, the truest thing in the world is the way you need each other.

You’re panting into his mouth by the the time you feel yourself come back to your own body, with Jakes sweaty chest pressed against you and his lips connected to yours. When he pulls away and looks into your eyes, you see a promise of infinite potential, something so exciting and hopeful that digs its way into your chest and thrums like a jet engine.

“From here on out,” he laces his fingers with yours, pushing your hands above your head “it’s you and me.” And you wholeheartedly agree. From this point on, there will never be a part of you that exists without him. He’s burrowed himself into your skin and made a home there. You’d have it no other way.

You smile, “You and me.”

— —

#hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman fic #jake 'hangman' seresin fic #jake 'hangman' seresin #top gun #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #hangman fanfiction #jake seresin fanfiction #top gun: maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #jake seresin fic

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goldustwomun · 2 years

Text

take a chance on me (b.b.)

pairing: bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x ex! mother! reader

summary: your daughter stumbles upon a photo of you and a mysterious man, immediately noticing the similarities between him and her. nothing good can come from revisiting the past, especially one you’d hoped to avoid because you’d never gotten the courage to tell him, the man from the photo, that he’s a father.

warnings: major rip-off of the mamma mia! plot but this was purely for enjoyment so xxx; angst angst angst; swearing; allusions to sex; a lot of exposition so sorry ‘bout that

wc: 9.2k+

note: had so much fun messing around with this request (thank you by the way!!). listening to the mamma mia! soundtrack the whole time and now yearning for an island romance<3

ps. reader’s age is slightly hinted to being over 30 but that’s only if you do the math and i left the daughter’s age ambiguous (she’s a teen, over sixteen at least); also, daughter’s name is poppy!

pps. i probably won’t be writing a second part to this because i love the ambiguous ending; let your imagination run free lovelies :))

more of my work x

The summer heat was thick and just about everywhere, like sticky honey you can’t wipe clean off your fingers after spreading it onto a piece of too-burnt toast.

You were on the verge of giving up, trekking back home and collapsing onto the sofa with a stand-up fan aimed at your sweat-slick face.

Maybe the dungarees hadn’t been your best idea when it came to thirty-degree weather, but the utility of them, their pockets filled to the brim with spare screws, a cylinder-shaped glue for the hot glue gun you’d lost in your storage room a week back, a few hair ties for when the one currently holding yours up snapped for the third time that day.

Practicality over comfort, as was your motto for the past over-a-decade of your life. As it had been, since you’d found yourself pregnant after a one-night-stand (turned many, many night-stand) you’d yet to shake yourself free of).

You were never one to ask for help, and when it came to raising your child, things hadn’t changed. No matter how desperate you were, working two jobs on an island you didn’t speak the language of, an infant perched on your hip, whaling in your ears whilst you simultaneously cleaned the rooms of the little bed-and-breakfast you’d landed a job at.

When you weren’t taking care of your kid or working, you were thinking about one of those two things, or both.

And it wasn’t like you hated it entirely; she was the best thing to ever happen to you, could have arrived at a more opportune time, but she was your best friend if you’d ever had one. So saying she was a mistake or something you regretted– it was an unfathomable thought that had only crossed your mind once, sat in the doctor’s waiting room, pregnancy test wrapped in toilet paper, clutched tight in your trembling hands.

“Ma’!” she yelled now, your little Poppy with her chocolate-brown curls, sun-kissed skin from all the time spent at the beach. Remarkably like her Father, but you’d never tell her that.

“I’m here, I’m here!” you answered in a similar, exasperated fashion, bent over a crack in the intricately tiled mosaics that covered the floor of the plaza.

You still worked at that bed-and-breakfast, though now it was yours and had expanded to a vast number of the buildings at the centre of the island. Everyone helped out, whether out of kindness or a small fee, and you were grateful for the community, the small army, you had behind you, catching you every time you stumbled (far too often than you’d ever admit).

“Need help?” Poppy asked, amused, hands perched over her white-tiered skirt clad hips, looking like the stubborn replica of her mother, of you. Her head just about obscured the sun from beating down on you anymore than it already was, framing her with a halo of gold that tinted the edges of her hair.

“I’m alright, love,” you assured, heaving yourself straight with a pained groan. Poppy crowded you, arms going around your shoulders to help you up. “Why don’t you go help Esme. She’s in the storage room, looking for the hot glue gun.”

“Still haven’t found that thing?”

“No, I– fuck. Everything disappears around here. Swear we’ve got a ghost or something, the only logical explanation.” Poppy nodded along, taking your finger-pointing at the supernatural with a deathly seriousness.

“Makes sense if you ask me, ghost with a hankering for rusty tools,” she agreed, voice solemn. “Aaaand you’re sure I can’t help you here?” she asked again, murky brown eyes baring right into your soul. You brushed her off, nudging her in the direction of the sweet old lady, Esme, with her wonky English accent and pastries to die for.

“If you see anything you like, put it to the side!” you called after her retreating figure, shaking your head as she chucked a ‘thumbs up’ behind her back.

Not only was she the spitting image of her Father, or rather, the man who got you pregnant as you called him in your head, but she walked and talked with that same air of breezy confidence that got him into your pants in the first place.

You’d hoped a few more of your mannerisms (and none of your risky mistakes) would have brushed off on her as she grew up, but other than your resolute anger and little patience, she was nothing like you.

Always headstrong, sometimes teetering on the precipice of arrogance, but she usually relented and bugged you with her incessant chatter until you forgave her.

Would stare up at you, all watery and doe-eyed, hair curling around her chubby cheeks still splotchy from her tantrum, near ready for tears again until you were shushing her with a carrot stick coated in hummus (her favourite but you worried she’d turn into a chickpea or something close to it).

Even if she was part-chickpea, you’d love her forever.

Named her Poppy after the bunches of wild, scarlet-red flowers you’d seen breaking through the stones of the Acropolis when you were pregnant and needed a break from the island. Your Poppy was a lot like that; able to push past even the most inconceivable of hardships, past whatever unmovable stone that might be surrounding her, threatening to cage her in, until she was illuminating the world around her. Painting it a little brighter for everyone to enjoy.

Your very own field of flowers.

Poppy could admit that even with having grown up on the island, she could never get used to the heat or the muggy feeling of her clothes sticking to her like a second layer of skin. But she persisted, finding Esme with a cloth tied around her head as a make-shift hat in the barn they used for storage.

It was… falling to pieces, and still, that was an understatement.

The blue doors looked more grey than anything ocean-like, the junk crammed inside, stacks on stacks of unlabelled cardboard boxes she worried had a family of something disgusting in at least one of them. The ceiling had caved-in in places, allowing beams of sunlight to penetrate through, and acting as a door for the birds to fly in and build their nests.

So yes, the barn was falling to pieces, the entire hotel was, actually. But what worried her the most was that her Mother seemed close to the same fate despite being so young, so she’d persist where she had to.

“Little girl, come help me with this box would you!” Esme ordered from somewhere within the labyrinth of boxes. Poppy picked her way through, using the groans Esme exerted as a homing-beacon and eventually bumping into the older woman. She was caked in dust and dirt, but didn’t seem to care all that much if the grin on her face was any hint of her mood.

Esme was rather grumpy a lot of the time, so a smile like that, one that screamed mischief, and her eyes beaming with that all-knowing look she got sometimes after visiting the psychic on the other side of the island… Well, something told her this couldn’t be good.

“What’s in this particular box, May?” Poppy questioned, huffing as she pushed it onto the ground.

“You’ll see in a moment–” Esme tssked at her impatience, patting her back so Poppy would move into the light so they could see its contents more clearly. When it was in place, Poppy looked-up at her from her crouched position on the floor expectantly, still unsure of where this was headed.

“Don’t give me such a dumb look, little girl, open it!” she scolded, frowning so deeply Poppy worried her mouth would be stuck that way permanently.

Sometimes she thought it already was. “Okay- Okay– Stop calling me that,” she added under her breath, pulling back the hole-ridden flaps and immediately rummaging through, wondering what all the fuss was about.

“This just looks like a bunch of old junk, May. I don’t think the glue-gun is in here.”

“Keep looking,” she insisted, peering over her shoulder. It was only a few minutes later that her hand came down on Poppy’s shoulder, gripping tight enough that Poppy stopped shuffling things around, hand stuck on a tattered journal she’d never seen before. “That one– take that out.”

“This?” Poppy asked inquisitively, lifting it from the box and standing up so Esme could see.

“Yes, this,” she nodded with a relieved sigh, flipping open the first page. Inside, Poppy admired the elegant script, eyes widening at the name inscribed on the first page.

“This was Ma’s?”

Esme held it out to her, confirming her wild thoughts, doing little to halt the curiosity currently poking at her mind. “This was your Mother’s when I first met her. Maybe… younger than you, or the same age, I’m not sure. But she was beautiful, and hardworking, and very, very pregnant.”

A forced laugh stumbled past her lips, disbelieving as she carefully turned to the next page. A stray photo, not stuck down like the others, flew out of the bottom. Poppy scrambled to pick it up, not wanting it to get lost amongst the piles of stuff they desperately needed to sort out.

In it was her Mother, looking radiant with her head tilted back in laughter, flowers in her hair, an arm around her waist that belonged to an unfamiliar man. “And– this guy, who’s he?” Poppy’s heart was hammering now, knowing the answer before Esme could even respond.

He had her curls, unruly and deep brown. And something about him, the fluidity in his shoulders, the ease with which he carried himself, the look on your face. It couldn’t be…

“I’m not sure. I never knew his name but he was following your Mother around that summer, like a lost puppy. Very cute,” she murmured appreciatively, gaze fixated on the photo in your hand.

Poppy’s heart sank, hating the lack of answers, the not-knowing. She needed to know, could feel the fire stoked in the pit of her belly that would keep her up until she found out more, more, more.

You wouldn’t say anything. You were tightlipped about the ingredients in your famous pasta sauce, so anything about Poppy’s potential Father would be a no-go, a dead end she couldn’t get herself stuck in and clue you in on her snooping.

“What happened to him– the puppy man?” Poppy did nothing to hide her curiosity, knowing deep down that Esme had lured her to this box for a reason.

Everyone could see how you were wearing away, working yourself to the bone everyday for a dream that seemed just about unreachable. You needed someone, anyone, to help you, and Poppy wouldn’t always be there to do just that.

She knew you didn’t need a man, bursting into your life and fixing your problems. It’d have you biting at his heels until he was running off into the sunset. But a partner– a companion, maybe, who could support you when the job was brutal and rough and you were nearing a breakdown like no other– you deserved, at the very least, that.

Poppy would make sure of it. It didn’t take long for her to do the calculations, nine months minus her birthday and she had an approximate date to look for. She thumbed through the journal, marking the pages that mentioned any indication of when you’d written in it, and shoved it into the back pocket of your denim shorts to search through later.

She’d find him if it was the last thing she’d ever do.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be, but she needed to see you smiling like you had in that picture. And Poppy had an inkling, a feeling, a certainty like no other, that the answer to all of your problems, maybe her’s as well, would be found with the man with the funny moustache and wicked grin.

The internet was a powerful machine, and one, Poppy thought decidedly, she’d be forever grateful for. It didn’t take long to hunt down the mystery man from the photo. She smiled, somewhat maniacally, really, at the screen as she read through the email she received from the United States Navy.

She’d gotten the idea after noticing the dog-tag around his neck, nestled against his bare chest. It was hard to see at first, what with the obnoxious printed shirts he wore in every photo, but Poppy was nothing if not thorough, meticulous, error-free.

Anyway, it wasn’t like the Navy had actually responded to her far-fetched cries for help, but she did find a help-centre that was rather effective in hunting down men who had gotten someone or the other pregnant while deployed internationally.

Poppy wondered how often this kind-of thing happened that they needed a whole department for it, suddenly trying to burn the image in her mind of a few more miniature him-with-the-moustache-s walking around the Earth.

But it couldn’t be, not with the way he had stared at you in that photo. And you’d kept it, all these years, so it had to have meant something.

Bradley Bradshaw. She scoffed, what a dumb name. And his callsign? Somehow worse– Rooster. She hoped eternally her maybe-Father wasn’t a proper moron now, and could still live upto the photos she had of him (of which she found many more hidden between pages in your journal).

He was quite attractive, almost two decades earlier. And you– well, even today, you were ethereal in Poppy’s eyes. Carefree and determined.

“Pops– hun, I’m going down to the post office, need anything mailed?” you asked from the other side of her bedroom door.

“Yeah! One sec,” she replied, frantically shoving all of the post-it notes and pictures back into a drawer in her desk, doing one last scan of her room to make sure she hadn’t left anything lying around before snatching up the letter– to Rooster– from beside her laptop.

Poppy opened the door to see you resting against the door frame, flipping through the letters (bills, probably) you had clutched in your hand. You held out your hand, waiting for her to drop it in your palm, but she quickly yelled out, “No!” which had you looking up from the dreaded envelopes with a raised brow.

“No…?” you asked, confused at her unusual outburst. “So you don’t have any mail?”

“No,” she repeated, dumbly, mouth forming words that never made it out. “No– I have a letter, but I’ll come with you. Drop it off myself,” she explained eventually, nodding along as if she was trying to convince herself.

You relented, sending another curious look towards your daughter but stomping down the stairs, creaks following, to the car. “I’m leaving now so put your shoes on!” you sang.

She sighed out of relief, shoving her feet into her trainers and barreling past you into the front seat of your Jeep. “God, Poppy– what’s gotten into you? Acting like a five-year old, I swear,” you grumbled, irritated and lethargic enough to have her wincing with guilt.

This was a good thing, right? Sure, you’d be angry– scratch that, furious, murderous, down-right irate, when you found out, but you’d understand. She was doing this for you.

“Sorry,” she appeased, kicking her feet onto the dashboard that earned her another withering glare from you. It did little to dissuade her as she continued talking. “Just giddy, that’s all.”

“Giddy? About a letter?” Poppy hummed in agreement, watching the ocean and mountain-side trees rush by, painting an array of abstract strokes across her vision. “Is it for a boy?” you asked, teasingly, side-eyeing her before returning to concentrating on the winding road ahead.

“Mmm, funnily enough, yeah,” she giggled, loving how you were entirely clueless.

“Interesting,” you murmured, then reaching across the console to squeeze your daughter’s bare knee. “Be careful, yeah?”

Poppy’s eyes flashed, chest-clenching painfully as she worried her lip between her teeth. Her hand moved to rest across yours. You’d never opposed her love-life, of her having one, but Poppy had always wondered why your own dating history was so sparse, time spent, instead, taking care of her or, later on, the hotel.

“Always, Ma’, you know that,” she made sure with a tight grin, praying you missed how it didn’t reach her eyes.

This was a good thing, she reminded herself. This was for you.

Poppy was jumpier than usual, like a skittish cat, you observed silently. Slamming doors and screens shut when you walked by. You didn’t necessarily care what she was up to until she was rambling off, a mile a minute, going on about an excuse you hadn’t asked for.

You were a good mother, one that didn’t pry or push when you wanted the gossip and highlights of your kid’s life. Had built a relationship, a friendship, even, with your daughter where she voluntarily shared the information without you ever needing to bat an eyelash.

So you tried not to worry, to let the mishaps distract you from the seemingly never-ending list of work you had tugging your attention elsewhere.

But that was another thing about being a mother; worrying was second nature, a muscle that unknowingly worked itself sore whenever your daughter was out of your sight.

She’d go off during the day, by the beach with her friends, at the dock helping with shipments or sailing into the late afternoon, returning only when the sun was sinking into the horizon and the sky was all shades of purple, pink, a burning orange.

She’d give you a soft, routine kiss on your cheek as you sat on the dinner table, skin sticking to the plastic cover you’d laid on the surface to protect the wood. Spew details of her day, who said what, who kissed who– though always failing to mention the letter from a month ago, the unknown boy she was secretly buzzing about was still unknown.

You hadn’t forgotten the letter, not recognising the address, some small town in America with little significance to you.

Poppy sat across from you now, talking around a mouthful of the sandwich you’d made the both of you with the leftover baguette from the bakery across the street, one that hadn’t sold that day so was priced cheap.

“--and then, you’ll never guess, but Dom was changing on the boat and basically flashed everyone. Tony and Riley included. I felt so bad, almost pushed the boys overboard and she was so red for someone who, basically, never got embarrassed.”

You snorted, stopping mid-bite. “Just because someone doesn’t make their emotions obvious doesn’t mean they don’t feel them. And I hope they’ll apologise to her.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” she agreed enthusiastically, eyes wide as if digesting every single one of your words. “And they did right after I threatened them. It wasn’t awkward for long, they’re not a bad bunch or anything. It was an accident, Dom said so herself.”

“That’s good,” was all you answered, now distracted by a letter in your hand you’d pulled from the pile as Poppy talked. She was watching you intently, burning a hole through the paper, and, being her Mother, you already knew she was dying to know who it was from.

“It’s for you,” you said eventually, putting her out of her momentary misery as she squealed and snatched it from your hand. You watched discreetly, touched by the sight of her mouthing the words as she read the letter. “Is it from that American boy of yours?”

“American?– what– I mean, how do you– how do you know he’s American?” she stuttered messily, mouth agape and ready to argue.

You reflexively held up your hands in surrender. “Hey, love– I just saw the sender’s address, that’s all,” you assured.

She collapsed back into her seat, mumbling an apology for getting all worked up.

It was now or never, you decided, finally sick of the anxiety coursing through your veins these past few weeks.

“Poppy, you’re… alright, right?” you asked, struggling to find the right words and sighing, forehead resting against your palm while the other crossed the table, holding your daughter’s hand, grip light and featherlike, in comfort.

“I mean– you’d tell me if you were in any trouble, or anything. I wouldn’t judge or–”

“Ma!” she scolded, sounding appalled by your line of questioning and roughly pulling her hand out of your grasp.

“Don’t ‘Ma’ me, Pops. You’ve been going mental for weeks now! I’m allowed to fret, I’m your Mother!” you retorted, standing up abruptly, chair screeching against the linoleum tiles as you dropped the plates into the sink.

“It’s nothing, I swear–”

“Is it drugs?” you asked suddenly, turning around to face her.

She looked completely aghast, arms crossed against her chest defensively and, what was likely subconsciously, pouting at you. “If it’s drugs, Pops, we can get help. I’ve got money saved up and I know a decent doctor on the mainland. I’ll get you an appointment tomorrow if you let me–”

“Ma!” she screeched again, parroting your earlier movements, walking right up to you, holding your shoulders firmly, and shaking as she spoke, or rather, yelled. “I’m not on drugs, don’t be stupid!” You scowled at her, pushing her off of you.

“Then what is it because I’ve been wracking my brain for what could possibly have my child on fucking edge and–”

“I found a journal!” she interrupted, voice loud and exasperated. You whipped around, pinning her down with a stare you’d mastered over the years. She froze on the spot, likely shocked she’d let it slip in the first place.

“You found a– a journal? Where? Who’s?” you asked succinctly, hiding your shaking hands behind your back.

“Uh– it was– Esme, she– it’s her’s, and she wanted me to help her find the name of this guy who’d visited her when she was younger. I reached out and it’s a letter from him, that’s it. I was excited for her,” she explained, but the way her voice wavered made you certain that wasn’t the whole story.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?” you reasoned, still unbelieving. It was too convenient of an explanation.

“Because she told me not to! You’re– you’re a bit harsh, sometimes, a bit cynical when it comes to love,” she said, hesitantly, mouth twitching with a smile at how you were now the one pouting. “Anyway, you’re always telling me to butt out of people’s business so I thought it’d be best to just keep it to myself.”

The two of you, mother and daughter, stood in silence for many long minutes, bathed in the nauseating yellow glow of the kitchen lights, flickering bulbs casting ugly shadows across your faces. But it was home, the one one you knew, so you never complained, at least not out loud.

Not when Poppy was around to hear you. “Okay, I believe,” you relented, returning to the dishes, though Poppy nudged you out of the way.

“Why don’t you let me do this, huh? Go sit down for a bit, I’ll finish tidying up.”

You opened your mouth to protest but Poppy was quick to give you a look– the look. Same one you’d mastered after many years of dealing with her fits, and evidently, she seemed to have learnt it as well. You acquiesced reluctantly, hands raised for the second time that night, and fell back, fainted more like, onto the sofa.

Poppy stood, hunched over the sink, and you watched her from your position in the living room.

Something– a nagging feeling you couldn’t quite get rid off– poked at you, at your brain in all of its aching, slimy glory– that the story she fed you was just that– a story, fictional. But you trusted her, unlike some other mother’s who’d lecture you over the cabbages in the market about how you were too lenient with Poppy, how she’ll end up just like you.

You griped internally. She’d be lucky if she turned out anything like you. Your gaze returned to her, shoulders moving as she scrubbed at the dirty dishes.

Okay. Maybe not exactly like you.

He arrived on an assuming Tuesday, a single bag strapped to his back, all brown skin and smouldering looks hidden behind decade-old sunglasses. Poppy couldn’t believe it, not one bit, as she greeted the stranger while working at the pier.

He had her curls, unruly and deep brown.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, lips pulled into a frown to hide the urge of flinging herself at him with no explanation at all.

“Yeah, I’m looking for this address–” he fumbled with a piece of paper, pulling it from his back pocket. It was a letter, her letter, and he jabbed at the address, her address, on the front of the creased envelope. “--or if that’s not familiar, Poppy? She said her name was Poppy. Do you know anyone like that around these parts?”

She snorted. What were the chances?

She’d almost bailed on her shift, persuaded by Ben and his pretty smile to sneak out to the hidden beach on a nearby island. You’d managed to coerce him into going another day, mumbling an excuse or two in between kisses as you rushed down to the dock.

And then there he was, looking a lot like the lost puppy Esme had described to you. He still had the same odd facial hair, though it fit him a little better, having aged well.

“Poppy? Yeah, I know her,” Poppy mused, pulling at her bottom lip in faux-thought, eyes darting between the letter and the confused man holding it.

“Right, well–” he cleared his throat, shifting his weight between his feet. “Can you direct me towards her?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” you nodded vehemently, hoping he couldn’t see the grin threatening to take over your features.

He sighed defeatedly after waiting for you to continue, and after you failed to expand on the information, he shoved the paper back into his pocket. “Okay, thanks for the help”-- sounding not the least bit thankful.

Better put him out of his misery, she thought eagerly, looping an arm around his shoulder, having to lean up on the tips of her toes to reach. “It’s actually you’re lucky day, Bradley–” you began, that same grin winning its battle.

“How do you know–” he cut you off, then stopped himself, pausing as he turned to face you. “Oh…”

“Oh!” she mirrored, though a lot less like she’d had some sort of epiphany. more mocking and exaggerated.

“So you’re Poppy?” he asked, stupidly, bashfully, shaking his hair out of his eyes. They were slightly longer, the strands, than in the photos, but he had that same boyish charm you’d sensed.

“The one and only,” Poppy enthused..

“So you’re–”

“Her daughter? Yeah, that’d be me,” she finished for him, teetering towards something more serious, more solemn, bracing yourself for the moment of realisation as the both of them walked up to the road, identical gaits and hair and noses, where Poppy’s Jeep (or the one she’d borrowed from you) was parked.

It never came.

“And your Dad?”

You choked on a breath that never made it down the right pipe, halting in your steps. “My Dad?” you asked, bemused.

“Yeah– is he around? Would love to meet him, your Mother as well, of course. I was really surprised by the letter but I think–”

“My Dad isn’t around. Never met him,” she explained slowly, frustrated by how he really wasn’t understanding. Had she not been obvious enough?

Shit. Would she give him a fucking heart attack if she told him now?

She looked him over, deciding he wasn’t so old that an unannounced confession would kill him.

“I’m sorry about that, men can be real dickheads,” he stated, as if knowing from experience, not bothering to censor his language, and she liked him just a bit more for it.

He was perfect for you.

Poppy watched, unspeaking, as he settled into the passenger seat, admiring the interior of the car– probably the one thing you owned that wasn’t ripping at the seams. “So, where are we headed?”

“The hotel Ma’ owns, it’s at the–”

“Centre of the island?” he interrupted, staring distantly out at the unwavering landscape.

Bradley-- Rooster let out a shaky breath, one she tried not to notice, understanding that the two of you, meeting after all these years– it wasn’t going to be easy. Not when there was a significant part of his life he didn’t even know existed, one that came in the form of her.

“You remember,” you pointed out, surprised and sounding more like a statement rather than a question.

“Yeah, I mean– I remember everything. How could I not?” There was something beneath his words, a weight to them that had her shifting uncomfortably in her seat, foot colliding with the accelerator as they hurried home.

“So you’ll be staying here,” she announced, shoving her shoulder against the barn door and coughing at the dust that attacked her senses once she managed it open. Bradley– or Rooster, as he’d told her to call him– followed close behind, cautious with every step as he took in his dilapidated housing.

“Here?” he questioned out loud, pushing at the bunches of hay lining the floor with the toe of his combat boots. He was sweating like it was no one’s business and Poppy giggled to herself, finding amusement in his unspoken disgust.

“Yeah, here. The hotel’s all booked up–” a lie, she just couldn’t have you stumbling upon him before she’d planned how it’ll all go down. “So this was all we had left. I’ll find a spare mattress for you, and the bakery across the road– owned by a sweet, old lady–” another lie, it was Esme and there was nothing sweet about her. “--who can help you with showering, food, all the necessities.”

He stared intensely as she spoke, as if not really listening to a word she was saying.

“What is it?” she asked eventually, breaking free from his gaze as she busied herself, distracted herself, with collecting the boxes into a corner, out of the way to allow him some more room.

Rooster shook his head, convincing himself to look elsewhere, and smoothed his hair back.

“Nothing, sorry. You just– you’re so much like your Mother. It’s crazy, really.” She beamed at him, suddenly sitting on the floor opposite, and he joined her amongst the dust and hay.

“Really? You think so?” He nodded, laughing at her eagerness. “She said once, I don’t think she knew I was awake and I was really young, or younger,” she amended then continued. “She said I reminded her of my Dad, but I couldn’t ever tell you if it’s true or not.”

“Can’t say I knew him either–” Brilliant, it was all just brilliant. “--but you’re as… fiery, I guess would be an appropriate word, as she was.”

“And what was she like?”

He was ready to answer, not needing even a moment to think his response through, but your voice from outside the barn had Poppy’s eyes widening with fear, heart sinking low in your chest.

“Poppy! You in here?” You struggled with the door, pushing all of your weight into the crumbling wood.

“Fuck–” she cursed. “You need to– you need to hide, like– now.” He watched, perplexed, opening his mouth to question the sudden turn in events but she held up a finger, shushing him like he was a child and not her Father-who-didn’t-know-it.

“I’ll explain later just– please,” you begged quietly, urging him deeper in between the organised junk and out of sight.

She inhaled, exhaled, steadying her thrumming heartbeat. “Ma’! Y-yeah, I’m here, one second.”

Poppy pulled on the handle, hauling it open but the circular, metal ring broke-free from the door.

“Another thing to fix, I guess,” you noted, nodding at the rusted metal in her hand. “What’re you doing in here?” you asked, as if only now aware of where the both of you were.

“Here? I’m just– glue gun, yanno. Esme still couldn’t find it so I thought I'd try again.”

“Alright you flaky weirdo. I swear, you wouldn’t even need drugs to act all high and jittery, manage it just fine all by yourself,” you mumbled, dismissively pushing past her and heading straight towards the area Poppy had, moments earlier, shoo-ed Rooster towards.

“You can't go there!” she burst out, holding out a hand in front of you that you glowered at.

“Yeah, and why’s that?” you asked, voice tight and ready to pull the Mother card you never really enjoyed playing. You’d earned it, sure, but it was a little demeaning considering how old your daughter now was.

“Because– Because–”

Shuffling footsteps alerted your attention towards the disarray, squinting between the piles, searching for where the noise originated from. “Is there someone else here?”

“Yes! There is!” Poppy admitted, and your stare returned to her. She could see, right past your head, where Rooster was stepping into the light, assuming she was about to explain his presence, but she shook her head imperceptibly– not yet, go back, go back

You stared expectantly, waiting for a response. “It’s Ben,” she blurted, not sure, even herself, where she was headed. “And he’s– well, you see– he’s naked. Yeah, we were about to have sex and you walked in and he’s all embarassed.”

You sputtered, all but sprinting towards the door and unable to look behind you so you missed how Poppy relaxed minutely. “Oh– wow, okay. Just– that’s not what I was expecting,” you stuttered, palm shielding your eyes. “I mean, firstly– not here, gross, that sounds unbelievably unhygienic. And secondly– use protection.”

You didn’t stay any longer, escaping to the outside, and Rooster appeared beside Poppy almost immediately.

She turned, ready to barrage him with excuses and explanations she hadn’t thought of yet. “I’m so sorry, she’s–!”

“She doesn’t know, does she? That I’m here?” he asked, though he didn’t need you to respond to know the answer.

He groaned into his hands, bending at the hip and breathing raggedly. “Okay, so– I’m gonna go before she does find out. It was nice meeting you Poppy,” he said, all in one go with no room for you to interrupt.

“No you can’t– she’s just–”

“No, I really, really need to leave,” he bit out, not facing her as he strapped his bag to his back.

“If you just give her time–”

“You don’t understand!” he exploded, eyes fluttering shut as he visibly attempted to calm himself. “The last time she saw me– it wasn’t– it wasn’t good. And I left the next day, without a word of apology or justification or–” Rooster sighed as if he’d had this argument with himself countless times before. “--so no, I can’t imagine she’ll ever come around.”

He stopped at the boundary of the door, calling behind him. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Then he left, again.

At least he apologised this time, she thought bitterly.

You were stepping down from the hardware store, or hole in the wall, really, when you saw him.

A flash of saturated colour, mind-numbing prints, and broad shoulders. You gasped, frantically searching around yourself as if questioning if anyone else had seen a ghost from their own past.

No. They seemed to be going about their day as usual– Johnny sweeping at the cobblestone directly in front of his store, Mia laying fresh fish on ice, ready to be sold, her six-year old daughter tugging on the bottom of her dress with tears in her eyes.

No one was phased, except you. You looked back to where you’d seen him, but he wasn’t there anymore, only an empty street corner with nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

What the-- You rushed forward, intent on finding out the truth as your boots slapped loudly against the pavement, dodging busy workers and locals, all, now, staring at your wild movements.

“Child– where are you in such a hurry to?” Esme yelled, head poking through her bakery window with a scowl at the abrasive noise you were making in your pursuit.

“I’ll explain later, May!” you hurtled back, not stopping despite the burning in your legs, your chest.

Still, you carried on, making it all the way to the edge of the city centre, rushing to a stop as you stared across the abandoned gravel road. There was no one there except you, and you panted, exhausted and head-pounding, as you scolded yourself for such a stupid daydream. The heat had never gotten to you like this before.

It felt so real, him.

“Hey,” a voice greeted, cautiously, from behind you. Your eyes closed, hands clenched at your side, before you turned to face the tentative owner.

“Hey yourself,” you answered, surprising yourself at how civilised and steady your voice sounded to your own ears.

Bradley fucking Bradshaw. It was real after all.

“Are you okay?” he asked, hurrying towards you and letting his bag drop to the ground between the two of you, pulling out a water bottle and holding it out in front of you. A peace offering of sorts.

You only stared at it, like it’d bite you if you got any closer. “Take it, sweetheart. It’s fucking miserable out here.”

The endearment had you flashing your eyes at him, fire or rage or something somehow hotter– the sun had nothing on you in that moment, but he stumbled back, remembering himself.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded between gritted teeth, chin turned up at him.

“Sightseeing,” he said simply with that reaching grin that had you melting years earlier.

You scoffed impatiently. Poppy really had gotten her knack for lying, or royally sucking at it, from him.

“That’s bullshit. Why are you really here?”

There must have been an edge to your voice that had him spilling the truth, because you were stunned when he explained.

“Poppy– you met Poppy?” you asked, forcibly nonchalant, arms no longer dangling stupidly at your side but rather picking at the straps of your dungarees, loose threading growing longer as you pulled at them.

“Yeah, she’s a good kid,” he said, nothing giving away– not in his words, his body language, the look on his face– that he knew. Knew she was his.

He sat on the edge of the pavement, right by your feet, and patted the burning space next to him. You blew at a strand of hair tickling your nose, hating how you listened, even then, and sat right next to him, shoulders brushing the slightest bit and you were scampering to put some more distance between the two of you.

He smirked, quiet, leaning his arms on his bent knees, and his head on top, turned towards you as he watched you fight yourself.

“So, how’ve you been?” he asked, waiting, patient, all things you could never be.

“I’m fine,” you grumbled dryly, accidentally meeting his eyes, Rooster’s smirk deepened, before darting away. “You?”

The mid-afternoon heat bared down on the both of you, colouring your shoulders darker and doing nothing to help the heavy thumping against your skull, like a jackhammer or a fucking normal hammer– whatever. It just hurt bad.

Rooster noticed, silently offering his water to you again which you reluctantly snatched from him, gulping almost half of it down before he decided it was safe to speak.

“Still get migraines from the heat?” he asked, though it was more an observation than a question. You nodded, placing the now-empty bottle between your feet.

“I’m fine, as well. After I left–” you visibly winced, glaring against the rays of the sun as you willed yourself to look anywhere but at him, not when the tips of your ears were burning, ringing, making you dizzy and woozy and about ready to throw up all over your worn boots.

“--I went back to training and was then deployed overseas for a long time. Been training new recruits for the past few years now. It’s–” he stopped, glancing at you momentarily, but decided to continue. “--it’s nice. Feels like I’m moulding them to be better versions than me because I sure wasn’t picture perfect by any means.”

“No, you really weren’t–aren’t–” you agreed, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know I never said sorry, and it seems pointless now but–”

“Bradley,” you said his name and his heart stopped. He was dead and even though it was you that had killed him, right there with your voice alone, it was also only you that could bring him back to life. “I really don’t want to hear this,” you begged, and you never begged– never.

What had he done to you?

“Please, sweetheart–” Again with the nickname. You bristled beside him, standing up all of a sudden as if you were about to run in the opposite direction of his familiar ruggedness. “I need you to hear this, just a second–”

“No– you don’t,” you growled out of frustration, tugging your hair free and pressing your fingertips into your skull, anything to soothe the ache growing there. “--you don’t get to need anything, you, you– fucking prick!”

He said nothing, baffled, shocked, certain nothing he said now would make this situation any better. It was downhill from here.

“You said you loved me– promised me the fucking world and a ring and a life together, and the next morning, you left! You fucking– you left!” You were yelling now, unafraid, unabashed, uncaring if anyone could hear. They couldn’t, and if they could, they wouldn’t clue you in that they were.

The people of this town loved to know the darkest, most confidential secrets of its inhabitants, all without ever showing their face. This wasn’t any different.

“I had to!” he insisted aggressively, pushing off the rubble and invading your personal space, leading you back, back, back– until you hit a wall. You held him at arm's length, hand pressed against his hard chest, holding him there.

If he got any closer– well, if the past was anything to go by, you wouldn’t remember to stay mad long.

“I had to!” Rooster repeated, desperately. You said nothing, so he went on. “I got a letter– they needed me back, I can’t– I can’t tell you why–” You sneered, typical. “--but, I was going to come back. I swear it.”

His breathing was loud, dense in your buzzing ears. It’s just words, nothing but words– you repeated to yourself, over and over again. Bradley stepped back, giving you space and himself, as well. But his despairing stare– it pierced something inside you, something you hadn’t thought was still there.

“I wrote letters,” he stated.

“I know, I got them,” you retorted acridly, slumping into the wall for support.

“You never responded.” Again, stating facts.

“I was busy.” Being pregnant.

He nodded, unable or unwilling, you weren’t sure, to argue. An emptiness stretched between you and him, the kind you don’t think any words, half-hearted i’m sorrys, or passionate confessions could ever fill.

He bent to pick up his backpack. “Is there anything, and I mean anything, I could say to make you forgive me,” he asked, voice dejected and the rest of him following suit.

You shook your head, words failing you.

Rooster, Bradley– he turned to leave, accepting defeat, and something roared in your chest, urging, begging, pleading for you to stop him.

You don’t know why you did it, or how you thought it would ever be even a half-decent idea, but it spilled past your lips before you knew what you were saying, confessing, like a foot jamming between a door, forcing it open for someone, anyone.

Bradley.

“Poppy,” you said, loud enough for him to hear. He stopped but didn’t face you. “Poppy. She’s– she’s yours.”

His bag– the poor thing had been rattled all day– fell off his shoulder, and he spun, in slow motion, questions discernible on his face but struggling to make it out of his mouth. “How– We didn’t– I used–”

“What’s that thing they say– ninety-nine percent effective.” You shrugged blandly. “Guess we were the one percent.

It was strange having a man in the house, but there he was– Bradley Bradshaw, or Rooster, sat right at your kitchen table looking a lot like a man you’d once loved but hoped to forget.

There’s this story you loved to tell Poppy when she was young, dealing with the realities of bullies and snarky kids with nothing else to do but poke fun at her absent Father and questionable living circumstances. It was ironic, really, because it wasn’t like they were exactly well off, but kids were mean and you were sick of seeing your daughter upset everyday when there was nothing you could do.

So you told her the story of Pandora’s Box, or Jar, actually, as she corrected you, having read about it in the library but still entirely enchanted by your way of storytelling. It was like letting her in on a secret only grown-ups knew and Poppy was downright bewitched to be a part of the club.

It was never the whole let-out-everything-awful-and-wrong-with-the-world part of the story that was your motivation for telling it, or her love for hearing it, but rather, the ending.

After all the evil, poverty, greed and general nasties had escaped, tainting the world and the humans that inhabited it– out came hope, fluttering on its weak wings but beautiful all the same.

At the time, you’d believed hope to be this beacon of light, something to keep you going when nothing else could, when the bullies had you down bad.

Now, however, you saw hope as a cruel joke.

That after all of this negativity that had made mankind wrought with sin and selfishness, hope lingers about for no reason other than to yank your chain, keep the wheel of capitalism turning, the public nothing but a lot of pigs with hope dangled in front of them like an out-of-reach carrot.

You’d admit it’s a pessimistic take on the story, but it wasn’t long after Poppy was born that you realised hope was a sweet lie fed to the ignorant.

The proof of it sat right in front of you, looking exactly the same except for the way in which his hair tickled the tops of his ears, having grown out from his previous military-ordered buzzcut.

“Can I get you something? Tea? Water?” you asked, words maddeningly courteous as you yanked the fridge door open, searching for something to offer your guest.

He hadn’t said a word since you’d blurted it out an hour ago, instead, guiding him back into town, to your house, Poppy nowhere insight (likely hiding out until she’s certain you’ve cooled down, though unluckily for her, the very sight of her would have you revved up and raging whenever she dared make an appearance).

Rooster stared at a single tile on the opposite end of the kitchen, fixated and motionless like a statue and nothing like the passionate, begging man from earlier.

“Helllooo?” you asked again, waving a hand in front of his face that snapped him from whatever trance he’d been under. He blinked at you, face blank enough to unnerve you. He should’ve said something by now, right?

“Water would be good, thank you,” he answered eventually, hoarse like he hadn’t spoken in years. You nodded, pulling a glass from the cabinet and letting the sink run into it before placing it on the plastic-topped table in front of him.

You sat down on the only other usable chair that happened to be right next to him, the other two with the unstable legs and missing backrests having only been kept to make your kitchen look a little less incomplete.

You both sat in silence, one that seemed just about never ending and had you gnawing on your lips and nails like a mad man. He looked over at you, noting your anxious state, and pulling your hand away from your mouth. It was infuriating, the way he acted like no time had passed.

Well it had if your daughter was any indication. A whole lifetime had come and gone, for you, at least, and he couldn’t ignore it away, not like the rest of his problems or like he’d done with you. You were about to say as much, going off like you’d been itching to since you’d set sights on him, but he beat you to it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He wasn’t looking at you, but you didn’t need to see him to hear the distress in his voice, and beneath that, a restrained sort of anger.

“I had nothing to tell,” was all you offered him, and his gaze snapped to you in the blink of an eye, his temper apparent on his features as that one vein at the top of his forehead stood proud, face going scarlet as he held himself back.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spit out, unbelieving. “Nothing to tell?” he repeated. “I have a daughter, for Christ’s sake! One I would’ve loved to know about if you’d done me the courtesy of actually letting me in!”

Your hands clenched into tight fists, fingers twitching. “What? Like you were any better when you up and left?”

He was shaking his head at you, unwilling to hear anything you were saying, and you were no different. “It’s not the same fucking thing, you know that. I had to leave. It’s my job, my duty, to my country and to–”

“Well what about me, huh?” you bellowed, reaching decibels you didn’t think were physically possible. Yet there you were, defying all odds. “What about your duty to me? To us? You promised–”

“I know what I promised you, but how could I give you anything– a life, a home, a family, a future– if I was broke and unemployed. Money doesn’t grow on trees, sweetheart, not here in the real world.”

You couldn’t take it, exploding out of your chair. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, what you’d been through, what you’d fought past. But he followed close behind, grabbed you by your wrist until you had no choice but to face him.

Rooster’s breaths escaped him in hard bursts, and you looked no better with the flush creeping up your neck and the scowl permanently etched to your face.

“That’s pure coming from you, the same man who was throwing away his life to join the army, giving up a paying job, all because his ego wouldn’t let him work for his Dad.”

Bradley recoiled like you’d slapped him.

“You weren’t around to see me working two, sometimes three if I could manage it, jobs– for years, Bradley, years. It was hard, so fucking hard, but I did it because I had someone dependant on me. I wasn’t alone, living like some unattached bachelor. I worked myself to the bone for her– for Poppy.” You were close to sobbing by then, the weight of it all finally registering. “Because if I didn’t, no one would.”

He looked like he wanted to argue more but thought better of it in the end, letting go of his hold on you and moving to lean his forehead against the wall in the living room. You watched, not wanting to move lest he remember you’re still there and end up going for a second round. You couldn’t, yearning for respite of any kind.

And his head turned from where he was, catching the chest of drawers nestled in front of the window with photos of you and Poppy adorning every inch of its surface. He walked over, wordless.

You joined him where he stood, hand brushing against his, by accident, you’d tell yourself later, but when you tried to move away, he slipped his fingers through yours, squeezing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though there was no one else to hear it, no one but you.

You nodded, accepting his apology, then realising he wasn’t looking at you, you said, “Me too. I’m sorry.”

He reached forward, picking up a photo of Poppy at age two, hair in pigtails, chubby knees covered in sand at the beach. It was the first time she’d gone into the water and you wanted to live in that moment forever, freeze it and hold it close to your chest. It had seemed like the biggest milestone at the time, and you remember wishing he was there to treasure it as well.

“I know why you did it,” he admitted, and you faltered from where you stood. “And I’m not going to stand her and pretend like I would have dropped everything, put everything on pause, for the two of you. I can’t guarantee that, knowing who I was back then.” You inhaled shakily, eyes glassy from barely-held-back tears.

Bradley turned to you abruptly, hand sliding out of yours to hold your face instead, close and intimate. Like nothing had changed.

You didn’t fight it, savouring the feeling of being held, of relinquishing control to someone else, if only for a second. “But that’s not who I am anymore. I don’t care about what happened and what didn’t. I’m here now, and, if you’d let me, I’d like to stay. Learn a little more about you, and about– about Poppy, as well.”

You searched his face for any hint of a lie, that innate urge to protect your child at all cost threatening to label Bradley’s confession as pretence. It’d be easier if it was, you thought, if things weren’t so complicated and you could just say no.

But no matter how hard you looked, how long as well, you found nothing, only love and a sincerity you couldn’t possibly fault, even if you were still broken and bruised from years of delayed burn-out.

So you did the only reasonable thing one could do. You nodded, complimenting it with a watery smile he chuckled lowly at.

“Yeah? Gonna take a chance on me, sweetheart?” he asked, needing confirmation but unable to hide his budding rapture.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Okay, okay. I think– maybe, we can work something out.”

He grinned and fuck– was he a vision. No matter how you framed the past, it was all going to be both of yours’ fault for what happened, and how it did. His for leaving and yours for keeping the child you shared a secret.

And it wasn’t like the road ahead was going to be at all easy, you’d accepted your fate already. But maybe, and you might have been overstepping or consumed by an unexpected wave of euphoria that impaired your judgement– but maybe a family was worth fighting for.

After all, the best things in life, the things truly worth having and celebrating, were never meant to be easily acquired, otherwise you’d just take them for granted.

You didn’t take this for granted, and you didn’t let the hassle deter you.

For the first time in a long time, you had hope, and there was nothing cruel or funny about it.

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demxters · 2 years

Text

— 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader

summary: in which you find the handsome stranger of your dreams in the form of one of your frequent bookstore visitors…

wc: 1.1k

warning(s): slight second hand embarrassment from y/n but other than that none!

a/n: baby, baby boy i love you. this is the first time i’ve written in MONTHS and i’m glad it was for the loml bob floyd. feedback is greatly appreciated! <3

(gif credit @unicornships )

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

The chill of the crisp autumn air blows through your little shop just as the door swings shut. It sends a pleasant shiver down your spine from where you kneel in the romance section to take inventory.

Your fingers delicately skim the spines of your favorite novels as you count and check them off your sheet. Too caught up in your own daydream of being swept away by a handsome stranger, you don’t hear the footsteps coming down the aisle when you stand up on your feet.

All the air leaves your lungs as you lose your footing. With eyes clenched shut and awaiting the inevitable you brace for the impact that, strangely, never comes.

A comforting warmth wraps around your middle, breaking your fall.

“Careful, miss!” Your savior makes himself heard.

You deeply inhale to catch your breath, surrounding yourself in the mystery man. Your heart skips a beat at the feel of his chest to your back. He’s lean, yet muscular (not that it mattered, but it was a plus). And his scent… he smelled like a mix of warm spices and laundry detergent in a way that reminded you of home. Your eyes just almost fall shut in his warm embrace. Almost.

“Uh, miss?” The arm on your waist loosens and you feel a firm hold on your shoulders.

God, was he gorgeous.

The naval aviator with the perfect hair and adorable glasses has been there five times since Monday, not that you’ve been counting. It is currently Wednesday.

“Hi,” you gasp breathlessly. Your eyes flick to the patch on his chest. “Lieutenant Floyd.”

A small smile graces his features as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hi, Y/N.”

“You-you know my name?” A flutter bursts in your chest.

“It’s, uh, on your name tag,” he points to the pin on your apron.

Duh. You feel like an idiot. If you weren’t hot earlier, you certainly are now. You wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole right then and there. “Right,” you clear your throat. “Of course.”

He nods and awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck.

He opens his mouth to speak but you’d rather not embarrass yourself any longer so you point to the register before bolting.

You leave Bob standing in the aisle with pink tinted cheeks. He feels his palms start to sweat as he watches you walk off. Bob’s desperate for another interaction with you. Your wide eyes and rambling sent his heart into a frenzy. The moment he discovered your hidden gem of a bookstore in Fightertown, USA, he knew for certain that it would become his favorite place to frequent. The plethora of books and cute bookshop owner was a plus. He has wanted to talk to you for so long and now that he has, he’s scared you off.

Just talk to her. Bob scoffs to himself as he picks a random book off the shelf. Some advice that was, thanks Hangman.

He makes his way back to the front of the store to see you flipping through a Better Homes and Garden magazine. Bob takes a deep breath, puts some confidence in his stride and makes his way to you.

The sight of your newfound favorite customer with your favorite book in his hands has you practically throwing your magazine to the floor.

“You all set, Lieutenant?” You hope the shakiness in your voice isn’t obvious.

“Bob.”

The puzzled look in your eyes urges him on.

“Earlier you called me Lieutenant Floyd. But you could just call me Bob,” he shrugs.

“Bob,” you test out. It’s a simple name, no more than three letters, yet it feels right on your tongue. Like his name was meant to fall from your lips. “Alright, Bob, your total is $4.50, military discount included.”

He completes the transaction in silence and you rock back and forth on the heels of your feet. You desperately want to say something, anything but you can’t. You’ve never been this nervous around a boy before.

“That’s my favorite, you know.”

Bob looks down at the book in his hands, realizing he didn’t even care to look at what he grabbed. “The Notebook?”

You hum in response as you fiddle with the corner of your magazine. “It’s the perfect amount of romance, true love, and tragedy.”

“Like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. My opinion on Romeo and Juliet has almost gotten me killed on multiple occasions, so I don’t want to delve into that.” You dismiss with a shake of your head.

You’re rambling again and Bob smiles. You were just the cutest thing. He could listen to you ramble all day if you’d let him. “I’d love to hear that opinion. Promise I won’t kill you.”

The most beautiful sound falls from your lips at Bob’s poor attempt at a joke. That’s when he knows, he’s absolutely enamored by you.

“You say that now, but once I tell you what I think, you might change your mind.”

“Not possible,” he grins, leaning forward on the counter. “You’re too cute to kill.” Bob’s eyes grow wide at his words. Now it’s his turn to be embarrassed. He’s about to apologize, about to take it back and run out of the store when you stop him.

“You think I’m cute?”

The way your face lights up makes Bob think his embarrassment was worth it. “Yeah,” he lets out, turning redder by the second.

“I think you’re cute too,” you smile, placing a gentle hand atop his on the counter.

Bob’s watch goes off startling the both of you and you pull your hand off his. He finds himself already missing the warmth. “Shoot, I’ve got to run.” He grabs his copy of The Notebook. “Say, what are the chances of me taking you out sometime?”

“I’d say it’s looking pretty good, Lieutenant.”

The wink you send him makes his heart rate rise. “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

You watch him leave with a lovestruck grin. The squeal that comes from you echoes through the empty store. Who’d have thought your handsome stranger would come in the form of adorably shy, Bob Floyd?

+bonus:

“The Notebook? Really, Bob? I didn’t take you for a hopeless romantic,” Phoenix teases, taking the book off the table and skimming through the pages.

“It looked interesting,” Bob mutters.

A slip of paper falls from its pages, catching Phoenix’s attention. Bob walks over to her and peers over her shoulder, curious to what she found.

For when you’re in the mood for some killer opinions:

xxx-xxx-xxxx

-Y/N

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

#top gun: maverick #tgm #robert bob floyd #robert floyd x reader #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd fic #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd fanfic #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fic #samwlscns writing

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callsignthirsty · 2 years

Text

So, when’s Glen Powell going to drop his fic rec list?

#we’re waiting #glen powell #top gun: maverick #tg:m #fic rec list when?#glen powell’ s fic rec list #we know you’re snooping #hangster #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #i said what i said #top gun fanfiction #top gun: maverick fanfiction #fanfic recs

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dameronscopilot · 1 year

Note

hi, my sunshine person

I am coming into your inbox to ask you for your absolute most depraved thoughts about a Bradshaw. either of them will do. just one of them.

fair is fair.

you always know exactly how to make my brain short circuit 🧡

so here's the thing. when it comes to my beloved, goofy daddy Nick Bradshaw, it's all soft, tender, silly thoughts. but Rooster?

-> 18+

Content: NSFW, smut, unprotected p in v, switch!Bradley, creampies, oral sex, spit kink

Bradley loves to see you splayed out beneath him, mouth hanging open, back arching upwards, and fingers digging into the mattress as he fucks you until you can’t think straight. He loves when you gasp for him to fill you up, when you’re so goddamn needy for it, you’re crawling back into his lap and stroking his softening cock for more while his cum is still dripping out of your cunt. He knows he could fuck you past the brink of overstimulation, and you’d still be begging for it.

But some nights, he wants something else.

Those nights find him at your mercy, his hard shaft straining against the thin fabric of his boxers as you ride his face. He can’t even be bothered to dig the heel of his palm into his throbbing, leaking cock, because he’s too pussy drunk on your breathy, unabashed moans each time he laps another firm, broad stroke through your soaked folds.

When you eventually settle down into his lap, engulfing his length in the wet, sticky warmth of your cunt, Bradley could easily grasp your hips, fucking up into you until you’re writhing in his arms, coming for him once more. But instead, he’ll gaze up at you patiently as you use him as you please, easing up and down on his shaft, relishing each push and drag that stretches open your tight, soaked channel until you reach your climax.

And it’s then, when his thigh muscles have begun to burn from restraint, when his cock is fucking aching with the pressure of his impending release, that he lets his head fall back against the wall—only for you to firmly pull on his hair, his pupils blown wide with lust as his lips fall open of their own accord. Because when you lean down and spit in his mouth, that’s what finally sends him hurtling over the edge, fingers roughly digging into your sides as he chokes out a moan and comes so hard the edges of his vision go white.

#answers from the cockpit #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick #miles teller fanfiction #bradley bradshaw smut #copilot sleepover

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almostgenerallyalways · 1 year

Text

cross my heart

Pairing: Jake Seresin x fem!reader (pilot!reader - callsign: Savannah) Category: smut / NSFW (18+), fluff because I want everyone to be happy always Word count: 3,6k CW: language, allusion to past bad sexual experience (non explicit), me not having any idea how the navy works, literally googled “aircraft carrier diagram”, don’t expect any actual details about the mission lol Author’s note: first time writing tgm and went a lil off the rails. shoutout to @callsignvalley @seasonsbloom @ohcaptains @clints-lucky-arrow @steadfastconviction and like, a lot of other amazing writers in this fandom whose fics I obsessively read in October Summary: On the eve of what may be the biggest mission in your naval career, the answer to your problem comes to you in the form of Lt. Jake Seresin

Squeezing into the squad galley at a quarter to nine on the eve of the mission, Jake is surprised to see you sitting at the steel high-top table, still in uniform. Days on an aircraft carrier generally start early and end early, and considering the stakes of tomorrow’s mission, the rest of the squad retired to their bunks immediately after dinner.

“Hey, Vanny, still up?” He enquires, noting the way you’re slumped over the counter, head in your palms. He flicks the switch on the electric kettle sitting on the small counter.

After a moment, you look over at him. “So are you, Seresin.”

He gestures to his outfit, sweatpants and a white t-shirt. “I tried to sleep, still too wired. Thought I’d come make myself an herbal tea.”

That makes the corner of your mouth twitch, to his relief. “Can you make me one?”

He sets to work, and a short while later, sits down on the stool next to you, handing you a steaming mug. You mumble a thanks, and both of you sip chamomile in silence for a minute, before you apparently grow tired of Jake staring a hole in the side of your head.

“What?” you glare at him.

He smiles, amused. “Just wondering what’s keeping our unflappable Savannah up the night before a mission. Nervous?”

You stare at the wall. “No.” You take a sip of tea, then concede: “Yes. I guess. In a way.”

He goes a little soft at the way your cheekbones color slightly, and tentatively reaches out to rest his hand on your wrist, still holding your mug. “It’s okay, you know. I know you haven’t done as many of these as some of us, but don’t think anyone flying tomorrow isn’t feeling nervous. Or scared.” He rubs his thumb over the protrusion of your wrist bone, soothingly, he hopes. “I still get scared.”

He wouldn’t say that to just anyone on the squad, and he thinks you know it. In preparation for this mission you two were paired up often, and there’s a trust between you that can only come from eight weeks of preparing for life-or-death together. You’re a good pilot, a great one: not as much of a risk-taker as some of the squad, but solid and dependable, immaculate in your execution, and a stealthier flyer than anyone there. The number of times you snuck up on him and had him locked on your radar before he even realized you were anywhere in the vicinity is, frankly, a little embarrassing to him.

Though you didn’t know each other beforehand, you having been a few years behind him at TOPGUN, he feels like he knows you now – what makes you tick.

So it’s all the more flooring when you turn to him, and after a moment of seeming to examine him, brows furrowed, you ask: “Seresin, will you have sex with me?”

He chokes on his tea, a little, takes a deep pull of air and pulls back his hand from your wrist. He must have misheard you, so he asks, in a tone much higher-pitched than he would like: “Excuse me?”

You don’t seem bothered by his reaction, continuing to fix him with those big eyes, jaw set in a determined look he’s come to know all too well over the past weeks, on the tarmac, in your jet. Never here, in the cramped squad galley past bedtime, looking at him like you’ve made up your mind. “I asked if you’ll have sex with me. Tonight, to be clear. Now, ideally, considering we’re up at 5 AM.”

He turns towards you more, opens and closes his mouth once or twice, before settling on: “Vanny, I need a bit more context here.”

Feels a little like he should kick himself for not just saying yes, Savannah, please, lead the way.

You turn away your gaze from him again, and the color in your cheeks heightens, but he’s not sure he likes it this time. He watches you swallow, before you speak, not sounding as sure of yourself as a minute ago: “I’m not scared, exactly, for tomorrow. Or maybe I am. In any case, I don’t have any illusions about what’s at stake. I know we might not come back.”

And there it is again, the determined set of your jaw: “And for some reason, and trust me – I know it’s ridiculous – for some reason the idea my brain is stuck on is that the last time I had sex was fucking terrible, with my fucking terrible ex who made me feel small and worthless, and I just… don’t want his to be the last hands on me.”

And if that doesn’t fucking break his heart in two, because you deserve – so much more. Everything, Jake thinks, one hand somehow already on your thigh, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from tangling the other one in your hair straight away, from burying his face into your neck, because he needs to know one last thing: “Vanny, why me?”

You’re silent for a beat, and his eyes snap up to yours. He doesn’t know what you see in his face, but it must be good – you smile that wry smile of yours, the one that always feels like a reward to him. You reach out and run the back of your fingers over the side of his throat, and he swallows hard. “Well, Seresin, I’m not going to lie – First of all because you’re here, and I thought you might say yes.”

Then your eyes soften a little, and if he had any hesitation before, you wipe it out altogether: “But mostly because I trust you. Completely. And if you said no – which I would totally understand – I know you’d still get it. That you won’t hold it against me.”

You can’t know, he thinks, how much that means to him. You weren’t around for his more volatile Hangman years, rarely even use his callsign. He’s matured a lot since then, has learned to put the squad before his ego, but still – his reputation follows him. But you never – never held that against him. He started with you from a clean slate.

“Alright, jeez.” He says, grinning, trying to keep his tone light, probably undermined by his now desperate grip on your thigh, the urgent way he’s already pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, the fact that he feels his sweats straining against him. “Could’ve bought a guy a drink first, but fine, Savannah, I’m in.”

* * *

You stumble back to Seresin’s bunk – as a higher-ranking officer, he has private quarters, while you share with Halo and Quicksand, who are hopefully long since asleep. You try to make as little noise as possible, in the narrow, echoing steel hallways, because you don’t need anyone finding out about this: fraternizing is strictly off-limits, even more so within the same squadron, and your CO would boot both of you off the mission without a second thought.

More likely they’d just boot you, because Seresin’s got double insignia to your single, and he’s a man; this is still the Navy, and you’re a realist. So you try to be quiet.

But it’s real goddamn hard with Seresin’s hands under your shirt, burning trails up the side of your ribs, and his body flush with your back, nose pressed behind your ear. You fumble with the doorhandle, and you feel, more than hear, his hot chuckle as he nips at the skin over your pulse point. “What’s the matter, baby girl, do you need help?”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but it cannot be convincing, at this point. The latch finally clicks, and he scoops you up, depositing you in the cramped, windowless room.

He locks the door behind him, and for a second you just stare at each other, by the low light of the reading lamp left on over his bunk. The carrier creaks around you, the sounds of its merciless progress through the high seas ever-present, seeping up from the engine room three decks below, reminding you that every minute brings you closer to the inevitability of tomorrow’s mission.

All day it’s been making your skin crawl, but right now, with Jacob Seresin looking at you like that, you think you wouldn’t notice if you were down in the engine room itself. Or standing in the middle of I-5.

One more beat, and it’s like someone’s fired a starting pistol: his hands cradle the side of your face, and he’s bearing down on you, finally kissing you in earnest. Your brain blanks out for a hot second.

Somewhere in the back of your head, it occurs to you that you’ve never been kissed like this before, and it would almost be sweet, the way he’s pressing his forehead to yours, roughly tangling his fingers in your hair, if it wasn’t for the hard length of his erection pressed into your abdomen.

He's talking to you, cursing incoherently under his breath, and of course he’s a talker – of course he never shuts up – and you have to grin, pull back for an instant. “Damn, Seresin. If I’d known you’d be so into the idea, I’d have asked you back on base.”

He chuckles darkly, hands never leaving your hair. “It might surprise you to learn, Vanny,” he presses another kiss to your mouth, to your throat, “that I’ve thought about this a fair amount. I mean, I’m willing to bet every guy on the squad has, but I’m definitely bringing up the average.”

It makes your knees weak, thinking about him thinking about you, and you need to take back some semblance of control, so you make quick work of the buttons on your shirt, shrugging out of the fabric. You’re just wearing a black sports bra, because everything on the carrier has to be functional, not pretty, but still Seresin seems to come up short for a moment, eyes drinking you in.

As if snapping out of it, he groans. “Baby girl. You gotta give me some warning before you pull stuff like that.” He kisses you again and guides you back, insistently, until the back of your thighs hits the edge of the bunk. His calloused hands roam the planes of your exposed skin, your arms, your stomach, your sides.

“You’re so beautiful, Vanny,” he’s murmuring into your ear, seemingly almost trembling as your hands find their way under his shirt, travel up the solid muscle of his back. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’ll give you anything you want.”

You meet his eye, but find you suddenly can’t get the words out. You don’t know if you’re just getting shy (and how inopportune that would be, right now, with Jake Seresin’s thumbs hooking under the stretchy material of your bra, your nipples responding immediately, goosebumps appearing on your skin), or if it’s the intensity of his gaze that has you at a loss for words. You open your mouth, close it again.

“I’ll tell you what I want then, Vanny,” he says, kissing you again, hard, one hand traveling down to grab your ass. “I wanna make you forget anyone else ever had their hands on you. I wanna make you feel so good you won’t remember ever feeling small.” His hands fumble with the button on your khakis, and your head buzzes with the feeling of him, face pressed into your neck, speaking directly into your ear. “I wanna make you cum so hard you won’t remember that guy’s name, alright, Vanny? Is that what you want?”

You already feel like you’re about to explode, but you manage to wrench his face into your field of vision, meeting his eyes. Standing your ground. So he knows you really fucking mean it when you say, “Yes, Seresin. I want all of that.”

The devil himself couldn’t slap away the smirk that spreads over his face, as he looks down at you, his hand finally dipping into your soaked panties. When his fingers make contact with your clit, your knees buckle, and his other arm wraps around you, holding you up. “Alright, baby girl.” He inhales deeply, into the skin of your throat. “But you’re gonna have to call me Jake.”

* * *

You lose track of time shortly after he makes you cum on his tongue. You think you may cry, you’re not sure, because you feel like your brain is on reduced capacity as Jake comes up to grin down at you, as he rubs his thumb over your cheekbone, kissing you tenderly as if he didn’t just make your entire body short-circuit. “You taste so good, baby girl,” he’s saying, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You look so pretty coming for me, Vanny, I wanna make you feel good always, wanna hear you say my name-”

“Jake,” you interrupt him, holding him by the back of his neck, forcing his eyes to focus. Your hand goes to the front of his sweats, where there’s a dark stain of pre-cum, and your brain doesn’t know what to do with that information.

You trace your palm down his length, impossibly hard, and he groans, closing his eyes, so you call him back to attention: “Jake. Please tell me you have a condom.”

And of course he does, you wouldn’t have expected otherwise. He stands up to get it, takes the opportunity to step out of his sweats. Your mouth goes a little dry.

His pupils are fully blown as you nudge him back onto the thin mattress, move to take him into your mouth, but you barely get the chance to run your tongue down his length before he’s pulling you up by your hair, gently, restrained: “Baby girl. Vanny. I’m not gonna last three seconds if you do that right now.”

He takes the condom from you, tears it open and rolls it down his cock, and for the first time since you crossed the threshold into this room you have a second and a half to really look at him, to think, and you think:

Fuck.

Because somewhere between your proposition in the squad galley and this moment, right now: you sitting on Jake Seresin’s thighs, watching him laying down before you, glistening with sweat, looking up at you like you’re the only thing that could possibly matter in the world, something changed. You know it. You can’t bear to let yourself wonder if he knows it.

Then he’s pulling you in towards him, almost dragging you down for an open-mouthed kiss, and you’re gripping the base of his cock, letting yourself sink down onto it, going slow to accommodate the stretch of him.

All the while, he’s speaking lowly, frantically, directly into your mouth: “Vanny, Vanny, Vanny, fuck, baby girl, my girl, feel so good, feel so –”

Cuts off when you bottom out, and the expression on his face would make you laugh if it wasn’t for everything else that is happening right now. As it is, your heart does a funny little jump, and all you care about right now is making him feel good, make him feel like he’s made you feel.

You tentatively roll your hips, and he groans, so you keep doing that, supporting yourself with a hand on his shoulder, finding your rhythm, and it’s not long before his fingertips are digging into your hips so hard you think he may leave marks, and you want that, want to go up into the sky tomorrow with his fingers printed on your skin; proof that this happened, that for this moment deep in the cavernous steel halls of this Nimitz carrier, Jake Seresin made you feel just like this.

“Vanny.” He’s saying, and you brush your hand over his jaw, feeling like this whole ship could sink right now and you wouldn’t care. “Vanny, beautiful girl,” he brings his palm to your clit, presses his fingers between your bodies, “You’re doing so good, Vanny, I can’t fucking – I’m gonna – I need you to come, baby girl, you’re so good for me, you feel so good on me, you look fucking perfect on top of me, I can’t –”

“Jake.” Your voice breaks, and you’re there, right where he wants you, right where you want to be, and your whole brain stutters and whites out, and you’re kissing him desperately as you come, emotion high in your throat.

Feel his shaky hold on your hips, fucking into you erratically now, any sense of control gone. It’s only a few more moments before he’s groaning into your shoulder, a guttural sound that hits somewhere deep in your chest, and you ride him through it, burying your face into the side of his, telling him how good he’s been, how perfect.

It takes a minute or two for either of you to breathe anywhere near normally again, and then you’re drawing yourself gently off him, and he takes a second to wrap the condom in a tissue before he’s pulling you back down to his chest, pressing kisses to your temple. “Holy shit, Vanny,” he rasps, and he seems delirious with it, and you’re glad it’s not just you – you feel absolutely stupid with it.

You prop yourself up on one elbow to look down at him, and you can’t help the grin that breaks out across your face at the sight of him. You wipe a bead of sweat off his brow, leaning down to kiss the hollow of his throat, his mouth, his cheek, murmuring thank you, thank you, thank you.

He wraps his arms fully around you, so you collapse against his chest again, groaning: “Knock it the fuck off, Savannah, I swear to God if you say thank you one more time –”, but the rest of that sentence is forgotten as he buries his face in the crown of your head.

“Stay a little while.” You hear him say, muffled. “I know you have to wake up in your bunk, but just… don’t leave yet, baby girl.”

And you’re fairly fucking sure you’d give him anything he wanted right about now, so you stay, letting him rub circles into the skin of your back. After a while he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep: “I’m glad you’re not my wingman tomorrow. I don’t think I could’ve done this, if…”

He trails off into nothing, but you get it, understand what he’s trying to tell you, and you wrap your arm around his waist a little tighter, keep on laying there listening to his heartbeat until its slowing rhythm tells you he’s fallen asleep.

* * *

The mission is fucking terrifying, but you do what you do best: shut the non-Navy part of your brain off and fly like you’ve been trained to. Don’t think, just do.

“Hell fucking YES, Halo!” You shout, as you clear the last danger zone, heart in your throat, and she laughs, exhilarated. You and her are a well-oiled machine, completely in tune, playing off the beat of each other’s actions and reactions.

It’s intoxicating as always. There’s something about being up in the air, hitting every mark exactly as planned, then abruptly changing gears, accounting for the unaccountable – it makes you feel larger than life. Makes you feel like you were born to be up there.

You take a few seconds to enjoy the feeling, now that you’re safe to do so, and follow your lead fighter in the direction of the carrier. Clear skies all the way there.

It’s also fucking exhausting. By the time you climb out of your jet and hit the searing tarmac of the flight deck, you’re exhausted, drenched in sweat. You feel like you’ve used all the available adrenaline in your body, and you’re ready to keel over.

Then Jake’s wingman comes in, closely followed by Jake himself - the very last jet to land.

Always with the penchant for the dramatic.

You chug water, waiting for him to emerge, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. People are excited now – the last pilot safely on deck, minimal damage. Mission accomplished. There’s something charged in the air, relieved, exhilarated even.

You watch Jake take his helmet off, his eyes immediately searching the throng of people around him, before he spots you.

When he starts towards you, pushing past engineers and pilots and LSO’s with the widest fucking grin you’ve ever seen on his face, you know you’re in deep trouble. Your stomach swoops. It doesn’t stop your own smile from spreading.

He comes to a halt in front of you, too close for propriety. The proximity makes your skin flush, which is a feat, considering you’ve just spent the better part of an hour roasting in the cockpit of a Super Hornet.

“Seresin.” You look up at him, telling yourself you can’t kiss him. You really can’t kiss him right here in the middle of the flight deck, if you have any sense of self-preservation left for your career, you remind yourself; but the point is moot when he lifts you, extra fifteen pounds of flight gear and all, into his arms.

You let out a surprised laugh, and over Jake’s shoulder, you see Halo giving you a look, like: really?, but after another second passes, the corners of her mouth twitch up, and she nods at you almost imperceptibly.

And Jake, his sweat-drenched face pressing into your neck, is whispering: “Alright, Vanny, seeing as how you’re still alive, will you still need me?”

So you slide your hands into his damp hair and look down at him, grinning, hoping your face conveys all the things you can’t yet say: “You better count on it, Jake.”

----

omg thank you bb for reading if you made it this far

almostgenerallyalways’ masterlist

#top gun: maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x you #hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman x you #jake 'hangman' seresin #jake 'hangman' seresin x reader #jake 'hangman' seresin fanfiction

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lass-that-is-gone · 2 years

Text

Oral Fixation

JAKE “HANGMAN” SERESIN X PILOT READER (CALL SIGN: KITTY)

SUMMARY: In which you notice that Hangman probably has an oral fixation, and you wonder what else he can do with his mouth.

A/N: 18+ Only. Basically just me putting my lascivious thoughts on Hangman in writing.

---

You’re pretty sure you’re not the only one who noticed, but Hangman seems to have an oral fixation. And by oral fixation you do not mean his usual foot in mouth remarks. It’s the toothpicks, nail-biting, gum-chewing and right now, drinking. You watched him take a miniscule sip from the beer he was holding, his lips puckering and wrapping around the bottle hole. You watched the golden column of his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Unconsciously you swallowed as well, your throat surprisingly dry.

With a satisfied sigh, Hangman put the beer bottle down and surprised you by catching your gaze. You quickly averted your eyes, deciding that the Hard Deck’s cobwebbed ceiling was a much more entertaining sight that evening. Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment, what a rookie move to be caught staring!

Still, you found yourself watching him again. This time he was rubbing his thumb against his lower lip as he strategized his next shot at the pool table, and you noticed his lips was glistening from the beer he drank earlier. A thought of his lips wet with your juices came into mind, a sweet sensation blooming in between your thighs.

Unbidden, you remembered that time he flipped a toothpick with his tongue. It was the action that started your fixation on his oral fixation.

And then he caught your gaze again. This time he winked.

Fuck.

You turned the barstool around, fight or flight response triggering, heart beating a mile a minute. You saw your abandoned martini in front of you and downed the contents straight.

“Easy, Kitty.” Hangman whispered to your ear as he leaned on the bar counter beside you.

“H-Hey, Hangman. Didn’t see you there.” You stammered. Poor choice of words.

Hangman just smiled at you, reaching for the skewered olive in your drink and popping it in his mouth. He watched you watch his mouth move, liking the way your innocent face looked almost entranced—eyes half lidded and full lips parted in wonder. Internally, he was listing all the things he would do with that carnal mouth.

“I-I was saving that for last.” You commented, pouting playfully.

“I’m sorry, honey. You see, I always gotta have something to keep my mouth occupied.”

Damn. You licked your lips. “I noticed.”

Hangman leaned in and whispered, lips lightly touching your ear “Want to know what else I can do with my mouth?”

You nod in ascent, entranced by the smell of him. You’ve never been this close to Hangman, always distancing yourself from him in order to avoid being the butt of his cruel jokes. You felt his hand settle on your thigh, bunching the thin fabric of the skirt you decided to wear that day. His hand burned as he drags it up to your hip, his thumb rubbing over the fabric of your panties.

“I’ll meet you outside in ten.” He whispered again.

You hopped off the stool and try to casually walk out, but it proved to be difficult when every step caused a delicious friction between your legs. Goosebumps broke out on your skin as soon as you stepped outside. There’s a chill in the air but you could feel something burning in your core. Your mind was already flashing scenarios of what can happen and you feel yourself become wetter.

A sliver of light paints the porch as Hangman opened the door. He puts his hand on the bottom of your spine first, and it made you yearn for the feeling of that big, warm hand on your ass. Squeezing. Massaging. Spanking.

He surprised you by wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush to his side. His hand rested dangerously close to the underside of your breast.

He led you to the dim parking behind Hard Deck, ushering you towards his car. A burst of courage runs through you then, as you stood on your tiptoes and touched your lips to his neck, right underneath his jaw.

The pleasure made Hangman swear before he pulled you close and devoured your lips in a bruising kiss. He kisses just like you thought he would, passionate, thorough and searing. You were busy trying to breathe through the kiss that you didn’t notice he has already backed you against the door of his car. His legs between yours, knees grinding up the junction between your thighs.

You keened in pleasure, your hands fisting the fabric of his shirt in an effort to keep yourself upright. You were embarrassingly close, you can feel your juices soaking your panties and quite possibly, his jeans as well.

And then fucking stops.

“You look absolutely delicious.” He smirking, but his eyes were heated as he eyed you. You can see the sizeable tent in his trousers, as well as the wet patch on the knee area. “Panties please.” He says, palm outstretched.

Lust has clouded your mind and you wondered if you heard him wrong. “What?”

“Your panties. I need it.” He says matter-of-factly.

You tried to remove it as graceful as you can, because you can feel Hangman’s eyes on you the entire time. The fabric is embarrassingly soaked and smelled strongly of your sweat and juices.

But Hangman all but brought it to his face and inhaled.

“Get in, let’s head back to base.” He orders.

He probably broke a few laws with how quickly you got to the base. He parked in front of BOQ, and made a bee line to his quarters.

He kissed you as soon as the door closed, his hands grabbed your ass to hoist you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your now unclothed core settling right over the hardness of his cock.

“Fuck, Jake, please.” You mewled, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as you kissed him desperately.

“So damn needy,” He drawls as he settles you on the edge of the bed. “Spread your legs.”

Like a puppet, you did exactly what he told. “Lift your skirt up.”

As you lifted the fabric and revealed your glistening pussy, Hangman grabbed the edge of the skirt and put it to your lips. “That stays there. Understand, Kitty-cat?”

With the fabric in your mouth, you could only tearfully nod. Stripped away with the ability to talk and demand, your pleasure is left in his mercy. Hangman kneels in front of you, his hot breath fanning against your entrance.

“Fuck. You’re dripping.” You felt his thumbs spread your folds apart, “Such a pretty pussy.”

He started by lapping at the juices around your folds and labia, feather-light touches that drove you insane. Tears streamed down your cheeks at the sheer torture.

“Delicious, too.”

He then licks right along your slit, tongue swirling around your engorged clitoris. Your back arched in pleasure. You grab his hair again and grinded, chasing the orgasm that he has been denying. It seemed that Hangman finally took pity on you, because as soon as he started sucking on your clit, you were a goner.

You could feel yourself convulsing from the intensity of your orgasm, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

Hangman did not even blink as he watched you reach your peak. You looked surreal, a sensuous goddess lush and inviting on his bed, in his moonlit room. It was a sight that would haunt him forever.

You felt weak as the last dredges of your orgasm faded. You opened your eyes and found him already shirtless and unbuckling his belt, gaze on you the entire time.

You smiled at him, you’re a hand travelling south to your pussy, fingers baring your entrance to his view. “This pussy isn’t gonna fuck itself, Seresin.”

You rolled over on your hands and knees, Hangman settling himself behind you. His rock-hard cock was rubbing against your slit, and you trembled, still sensitive from your orgasm.

“Language, miss. Where are your manners?” He admonishes. Pain and pleasure blooms as he smacks one of your ass cheeks.

You looked over your shoulder and smiled seductively. “Lt. Seresin, will you please, fuck my pussy?”

“That’s better.”

He enters you in a single stroke.

“Fuck!” You moaned, shocked at the sudden intrusion of his cock. You’ll never let him know, but he was the biggest you’ve been with, his cock stretching the walls of your vagina deliciously with every slowly thrust.

“You feel so fucking good.” Every word punctuated by a deep, sensuous thrust, stoking the beginning of another climax and making you clench your walls tighter. “Cumming already, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes. I’m close. Please.”

He didn’t reply, instead he spread your legs wider and gripped your hips as he thrust in a faster pace and deeper angle. There’s a difficulty in forming coherent thoughts, all you could feel was the blinding pleasure of being fucked raw and all you can hear were moans and the obscene sound of flesh hitting flesh.

You felt his fingers on your clit then, applying just the right pressure and rubbing it just the right way that had you teetering on the edge.

“J-Jake—”

“Cum. Cum on my cock.”

And you did. He followed with his own climax shortly, pulling out just in time to spill his cum on your ass and lower back. Hangman reached for the tissue box on his nightstand and tried to clean you up as much as he could before he collapsed beside you, panting.

This time you flipped over to lie on your back, exposing your breasts to the cold air making them harden. Hangman heaves himself up and takes both breasts in his hands before putting one pebbled nipple in his mouth.

“Hey!” You complained half-heartedly.

“I think you forgot. I need to keep my mouth occupied.”

-End-

#jake seresin #hangman #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin fic #hangman fanfiction #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #jake seresin smut

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bradshawssugarbaby · 3 months

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#jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bob floyd x reader #tgm fanfic #top gun maverick fic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fic #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick #jake seresin #bob floyd #bradley bradshaw

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wildbornsiren · 2 years

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nsfw alphabet | b.b.

NSFW Alphabet B.B. author’s notes: I love this man. He’s filthy, and you can’t change my mind. Thank you all so much for the likes and reblogs. Makes me happy.

what: a collection of not safe for work headcanons for one Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw. Gender neutral reader. 3,064 words. warning: adult content. Do not read or interact with this post if you are under the age of 18. Explicit sexual content, frank discussion of adult themes. If you’re a minor move on.

A: Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) Rooster will go get you a glass of water and make sure you drink it. He checks in with you on an emotional level, making sure that everything he said and did was okay. Lingering, wandering touches as he gives slow kisses, or simply lays close to you. When movement is something that you can tolerate, he’ll help you to the shower or bath. He washes your hair and spends time washing your body. B: Body part (their favorite body part of theirs, and also their partner’s) Rooster is proud of his hands. They’re used to operate a fighter jet, bring a bar of strangers together in a song as he pounds the keys of a piano. They’re also the first thing that touches you. On a partner? He’s a leg man. More often than not he’s trying to figure out how to get between them. When you’re sitting together, his hand rests on your knee, or higher up on your thigh, fingers splayed on the inside. He likes to have you sit on his lap, keeping a grip on your hips, or wrapping his arms around your waist, hands resting on your thighs.

C: Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) When he’s with someone who is on birth control, he fucks you raw. He wants to fill you completely and keep you filthy and sloppy. When his cum slips out, he’ll gently push it back into your body. If birth control isn’t needed and you’ve both got a clean bill of health, it’s much of the same. Spitting is for quitters. Once you sent him a photo of the wet spot of his cum in your underwear a couple hours after a quickie. Minutes later, he sent you a video of him jerking himself off, desperate and whispering some of the filthiest things you’ve ever heard. D: Dirty (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Dry humping is something that gets him going almost as much as the thought of having his mouth on your genitals. Since it was bit cool for a spring day the two of you to cancel plans for a hike and picnic. Instead, Rooster had sprawled out on the couch, ‘reading’ a magazine that had fallen onto his face, muffling his snoring. You’ve cleaned up the living room, face softening when you catch yourself watching him sleep. “You don’t have to stare you know.” His voice was low and rough, sleep heavy on his tone. He shifted on the couch, sitting up, discarding the magazine. He crooks his finger at you, beckoning you to him. “C’mere.” You drift closer, and he pulls you down onto his lap. You straddle one of his thighs, fingers brushing mussed curls from his face. “You needed that nap.” You didn’t miss the slight darkening of his eyes when you shifted your hips grinding against that solid warmth under you. “I can think of a few things I need.” He rumbles, mouth against your neck, one hand creeping under your shirt, palm skimming up your back. “Do something for me baby.” “Anything.” The warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his moustache against sensitive skin, and the way his hands, oh his hands map your body like he’s touching you for the first time all over again. “I wanna hear you.” He murmurs. Both hands make their way to your hips, encouraging the rocking motion you’ve started. The friction was delicious, building between your legs as you grind against his thigh. “And it’s my thigh or nothing, baby. I’m not helping you.” E: Experience (how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) In general, he’s experienced. He likes sex, it’s a perfectly natural urge and he gets it as often as he can. If you’re having just a hook up, it’s good sex. He tries to read what you like and set a pace/rhythm that works for both of you. If you’re having sex on the regular? This is a man who remembers how to get you to moan, curl your toes and whimper nothing but nonsense and his name. He knows how to touch and kiss you and knows what to say to make you feel like you’re the only thing on his mind—because you are. F: Favorite position (this goes without saying) Sit on this man’s face. He will enthusiastically, without any want for reciprocity will make you cum over and over. You were hesitant at first, but he soothed your fears and waited until after to tease you that ‘if I died babe, I’d go happy’ Cowgirl: He wants to touch as much of you as he can. With you on top, his hands can wander, and he can watch you grind yourself on his cock. Missionary: It’s close, intimate. He can be all over you, overwhelm you with his scent, the power in his body. He loves it when your nails rake down his back, or you bite his shoulder. G: Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous?) He's playful when initiating sex. He’ll pepper your face and neck with kisses, sneak a couple gropes. He’s kind of the terrible dirty jokes. He has been known to send you terrible flirty messages during the day when he wants to let you know that you’re getting when he gets home. ‘I may not go down in history, but I'll go down on you.’ ‘Wanna go on an ate with me? I'll give you the D later.’ ‘Twinkle twinkle little star, Let's have sex inside my car.’

‘They call me Rooster, watch what this cock-a-do-to-you’

When it comes down to fucking, this man puts his whole self into it. Expect to fuck all night and be properly worn out and delightfully achy in the morning.

H: Hair (how well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?) Rooster takes care of himself. He’s fit, clean and well groomed. Body hair is kept shaved or short because he’s got a lot of texture/wave.

I: Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect) Sex with Rooster is a playful experience. Even when you’re having anniversary sex or reuniting after he’s been gone. He wants to make his partner feel good and forget the world around them. The intimacy comes after. He holds you close, his hands will wander, mapping every inch of your skin. He’ll kiss freckles, scars, telling you exactly what he loves about you. He wraps himself around you, overwhelming you with his physicality. Rooster often falls asleep on top you, his head tucked against your shoulder or chest as you talk. J: Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Rooster jerks it often. It’s a way to blow off steam and scratch an itch if he can’t be with another person. He watches porn, often of the performer masturbating as well. He’ll match their pace and have himself a nice little mutual masturbation session. If watching porn isn’t an option, he’ll scroll though his phone and jerk it to photos and sext messages that you’ve exchanged. As a result of his inspiration, he strokes himself slow, letting the fantasy take over. It’s almost lazy, getting caught up more in his partner’s imagined response. He tries to keep quiet, but soft grunts and moans will let anyone who’s listening know -exactly- what he’s doing. If that’s not an option, he jerks it in the shower, and with that the volume filter is gone.

K: Kink (one or more of their kinks) Exhibition: He likes to show off what he can do to you. He’s also into the thrill of getting caught. Praise: This man has a praise and affirmation kink. All it takes is for you to tell him that you’re proud of him, or that he’s doing good and he’s hard and ready to go. Give him praise while you’re fucking? He loses his mind, and it is some of the best sex you’ve ever had. Dirty talk: ‘you’re my fuck toy’ ‘I’m going to ruin you for anything else’ ‘come on baby cum on my face, I want you to soak me’ “You’re so messy.” Breeding: He wants you full of him, and he likes knowing that he can fill you until it spills out around his cock. If he’s in an aggressive mood, he’ll often have you lay there after he’s rocked your world and watch it slowly leave your body.

L: Location (favorite places to do the do) Penetrative sex? Any flat surface that will hold your combined weight. He’s fond of fucking in the shower as well. Oral? Anything he can get you on, with your thighs as earmuffs. M: Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going?) A brilliant smile, sense of humor, sharp wit. Someone who can keep up with him mentally. He likes softness compared to what he’s surrounded himself with all day. He likes dirty talk/dirty messages. He has a high libido and wants to be on, in or under you any time, he’s deeply romantic and will want a partner who wants to be taken care of. N: No (something they won’t do/turn-offs) He doesn’t like restraints. He wants to touch and be touched. Sensory deprivation is another hard no. O: Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill) This man will eat you for hours. He loves going down on his partner and having them lose control. He uses his mouth and fingers, incredibly patient, and enthusiastic. He doesn’t care how sloppy it gets and wants you all over him. He’ll stop occasionally and bring himself up to kiss you on the mouth so you can know what you taste like to him. He takes pride in his head game, and it is possibly the best you’ve ever had. He likes fucking but would rather spend an afternoon wearing your thighs as sunglasses—one leg on either side of his face. Rooster enjoys receiving head, and that’s often how you spend your quickies. You on your knees, mouth wrapped around his cock, one of those hands in your hair as he moans uncontrollably. He comes quickly when you give him head so it’s a perfect way for you to get an urge sated. P: Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?) Aside from quickies, when Rooster takes you to bed, you’re there for a few hours—if not all night. He enjoys foreplay, taking it as a personal challenge to get you as wound up as he possibly can. You’ll be begging for more by the time his mouth gets to work. You’ll be sweat soaked, trembling, voice hoarse and needy, body aching when he slides into you. Q: Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often) Quickies are a necessity for being with Rooster. When he’s working, even when he’s at home there’s a chance he could be called away. You’re familiar with most bar bathrooms, the secluded hallways, locker rooms, cars, the beach… if he can get you away without either of you being missed, and you’re down to get it on, it’s on. The quality doesn’t suffer, it just means that you get more chances to get him on you, and all over you.

R: Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?) Rooster has asked for a few things. You’ve fucked him at work, in a supply closet in a hangar, in the middle of the day when anyone could stumble upon the both of you. He will never do anything to get you into trouble and will protect you as best he can. It’s about the thrill of getting caught for him, not actually getting caught. You have had a threesome with him and another man. Everyone was enthusiastic, willing and very satisfied at the end of it. You and the other two will never speak of it again, but the song ‘Slow Ride’ never fails to make you blush.

S: Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?) Rooster can go all damn night. He’ll switch between oral and intercourse to allow yourselves to rest between rounds. When he’s stationed on base, you’re getting it on four to five times a week. Penetrative sex he lasts for twenty minutes, half an hour at the longest. When it comes to giving oral he's there until you’re tugging him up because you’re overstimulated and it’s just this side of being too much. He doesn’t last long when you suck him off and can quickly bounce back after he’s come for a second round or actual penetrative sex. T: Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) He doesn’t have toys, he’s a porn guy. He’s up front about his porn habit and will watch it with you if the mood strikes you. He's not challenged or intimidated by your toys. He’ll use them if you need them to have a complete positive sexual experience and sees them as tools. If his partner needs a little extra, he reassures you that it’s fine. He wants to make you feel good. If you are open to toys, he likes plugs. He wants to fill you, keep you full and have you constantly aware that you’re full of him. U: Unfair (how much they like to tease) He doesn’t tease in the traditional sense. He’s very playful when it comes to intimacy. Occasionally you’ll get teasing dirty messages, or voice notes. Sex is an interactive experience, so he very much gives as much as he takes. V: Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make) Soft moans, groans. Low grunts when he’s pounding you into the mattress. W: Wild card (random headcanon for the character) “What’s in the oven? Smells good.” Rooster’s voice cut through your focus, and you looked up from the cake you were frosting. He’s in his flight suit, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen watching you. A glob of frosting slides off the knife, and he follows it with his gaze. “You’re not supposed to be home yet.” You offer a small smile. He had been called out on a three-day mission, low risk and he was home earlier than he had told you he would be. “Briefing didn’t take as long as it normally does.” He said, stepping into the kitchen and closing the distance between you. His touch is warm and light, one finger lifting your chin to kiss you softly on the mouth. “Again, what are you making? You taste delicious.” Your breath catches in your chest when he smiles, that slow wicked grin that makes his eyes crinkle. “Well, dinner is in the oven, and I’m attempting to frost this cake.” He grins again, soft kisses landing on your neck, his arms around your waist pulling you closer to him. “Do we have time to shower?” “You have time to shower.” You correct him, if you joined him in the shower, dinner would turn to ash, and you’ve spent way too long preparing the meal and calling his aunt for the recipe for the roast. “Please?” “No chance, Bradshaw.” You shake your head in the negative. “You shower, we eat dinner, talk like civilized adults, have cake and then you can take me to bed and wreck me.” He chuckled, the sound sending warmth pooling in your belly. “You always know what to say.” As he speaks, one hand reaches for the frosting bowl. You tap his hand with the spatula, and he draws it back. “That hurt.” “You’ll ruin your appetite.” “Not a chance of that darlin.” He winked, making another pass at the frosting and getting some on his index finger. He licked some of the frosting and grinned again. “This is good. Have you tried it?” He lifted his hand to you, offering the frosting.

Your hand closes around his wrist, fingers sliding along the back of his hand as you bring it closer to your mouth. You lift your gaze to meet those gorgeous eyes gazing down at you full of adoration. A darker emotion ekes in when your tongue darts out, licking some frosting from his fingertip. He breathes a little deeper, not breaking the eye contact as you take his finger into your mouth, sucking the frosting clean. You let go of his hand, watching as it takes him a few moments to engage his brain enough to lower it. “Go shower, it’s almost time to eat.” X: X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) This man is built. He works hard to keep himself in shape, he lifts weights, eats properly, he likes to run and swim so his muscles are a bit leaner. Body hair is shaved or trimmed very close to his skin. He’s a little longer than average, with matching thickness. Y: Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) His favorite part of the day is going to work or sleep with your taste still on his tongue. He likes to have sex; he likes making his partner feel good. At home, he’s often just in a tank top and sweats for easy access. He’s got a high drive, and when he returns from duty or a long mission, you’re not leaving the house for a couple days. When you moved in together, you christened each room, nearly every piece of furniture and every car that you have ever driven. If you take him to visit your family, it’s doubly stressful because you know this man, if he can, will get you away from everyone and have you every chance he can get. Z: Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward.) It takes him a while to come down from the heightened emotions and physicality of fucking. He’ll sit up, completely comfortable in his body, playing with your hair as he talks your ear off. More often than not, you’ll need to remind him that he needs get up in a few hours to get up for work, or that -you- have a meeting in the morning. Eventually, he’ll lay down, he needs be touching you somehow as he drifts off to sleep. It could be anything from just his hand touching yours because it’s hot as balls in the house, or being a living, breathing, weighted blanket for you.

#Bradley Rooster Bradshaw #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x you #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x reader #Bradley Bradshaw x you #Bradley Bradshaw x reader #Rooster x reader #Rooster x you #reader insert #smut #smut headcanons #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun: Maverick fanfiction

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sushiwriterhere · 1 year

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coming home to you

summary: "It hit him like this sometimes, all tsunami and three-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and lightning strikes, just how much he wanted you." rating: explicit (18+ mdni - so nsfw it's not funny) pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x f!reader word count: 3.5k warnings: ass play, somnophilia (slight if you squint-ish), dry humping, thigh fucking, PiV (unprotected, pls wrap before u tap irl), rimming, cum play, squirting, no use of y/n. notes: this is 1000% the most nsfw thing i have ever written so pls dni if ur a minor (srsly im not fucking around) and otherwise pls give feedback!! doing my best with characterization, hope y'all enjoy! my other works are here tagging: @sebsxphia @roosterbruiser @waklman - tagging ppl either by request or whom i feel like are horny for bradley soooo pls let me know if you'd like to be added/removed

He didn’t know when he had become like this, all desperate and needy for your touch.

When you’d started dating, Bradley did his best to be the gentleman his mother raised him to be: opening your car door, always paying on dates, bringing flowers, and walking on the outside of the sidewalk. He did his best not to gawk at you when your dresses cut low on your chest or when you bent over in front of him to pick up the bobby pin you’d dropped in his doorway.

But it really was getting difficult.

You’d started staying nights. Bradley wasn’t a prude or anything like that, he was human and he had needs and he wasn’t going to let some complex about sex prevent him from being with you. But there were things that he wanted that he wasn’t sure you wanted.

It all started when he got home from a long day, far too long, of training. Mav had ‘shot him down’ more times than he could count, and it was a small blessing that each of the penalties had been fifty pushups and not two hundred. Nevertheless, his arms ached and he was developing this nasty knot at the base of his neck that made him want to never put a helmet on again.

When he pushed open his front door, he could hear you bustling in the kitchen, clearly having come over to make dinner. Your jacket was thrown over the back of the couch, your keys in the bowl by the door–god it almost seemed too good to be true to his exhaustion-addled brain. He moved on autopilot as he dropped his bag in the laundry room and made his way to you.

Standing in front of the stove, you were stirring something that smelled like tomatoes and basil and everything heavenly, all the while softly singing along to whatever your phone was playing.

“Bradley! You startled me.” You jumped as his arms wrapped around your midsection and his forehead came to rest on your shoulder, “Missed you while you were at work.”

All he felt like he could do was to just stand there, borderline useless, as you threaded one perfectly manicured hand into his hair and continued stirring with the other. Your nails felt like heaven scratching at his scalp, sending tingles down his spine. God he wanted you so badly.

It hit him like this sometimes, all tsunami and three-hundred-mile-an-hour winds and lightning strikes, just how much he wanted you. It was in the mundane moments mostly–watching you cook, your focused face when you were reading a work email. He didn’t think it would ever stop stealing his breath.

“Bad day.” He mumbled, leaning his weight into you as you leaned yours into him.

He let himself follow your gentle, but stunted, shuffle around the kitchen as you salted the pasta water and threw more spices into the sauce.

“Can I help make it better?”

The complete pureness and kindness in your voice made Bradley feel a little nuts–because that’s just who you were. So giving and open, always there to support him, always there to listen to him rant about his latest spat with Mav or worry about another deployment.

Now it wasn’t like Bradley was just leaving you hanging, but the near-perfect ebb and flow of your relationship made his chest ache. It also made that terrible possessive thing in his chest bare its teeth and whisper dark thoughts. It was the part of him that wanted to hide you away from prying eyes, that bared its teeth when men let their heads follow you across a room.

He’d met you at the Hard Deck. You were new in town and looking for somewhere not too fancy, not too dive-y. You wore this sundress that Bradley knew he’d remember for the rest of his life, and you’d been all teeth and crinkled eyes when you smiled at how he played the piano. He didn’t play the piano for female attention, but when you looked at him like that, well, maybe it didn’t hurt.

You were a bit of a social butterfly, introducing yourself as someone who was looking for friends and did anyone know of the best taco place in town and would the pilots maybe have any beer recommendations? He couldn’t help but be drawn to you. And when you’d given him just a bit of shit about the mustache and Hawaiian shirt combo, it was over for him.

Your relationship progressed at just the pace Bradley preferred–first date he had dropped you off with a chaste kiss on the cheek. On the second date you’d surprised him just a bit by pulling him in by the collar of his shirt to kiss him stupid on your doorstep. You had straight up asked if he was planning on having you stay over before your third date; you wanted to bring your overnight supplies and really you liked being prepared.

Now here he was, with his nose tucked into your neck, back slightly aching from the angle, inhaling what was uniquely you. He didn’t want to come home to anything else on a bad day, or a good day for that matter.

“This is making it better, even though my back is kinda aching.” He admitted quietly, and he was almost offended by how hard your body shook with laughter.

“Okay well, if you let me go, we can eat and watch trash TV then I’ll massage out that knot at the base of your neck.”

Bradley would be a fucking fool not to marry you.

About one Bachelor episode later, Bradley could feel himself starting to nod off despite his best efforts. He had given up a long time ago trying to pretend like he didn’t care, and instead embraced that he loved the drama and the cat fights. He was sitting on the floor leaning up against the couch in between your knees, with your fingers digging into just the right spot. He could die a happy man right here.

The sensation of your fingers pressing into his skin, your nails scratching at his hairline, made something curl pleasantly low in his stomach. There wasn’t anything technically embarrassing about sporting a semi when your girlfriend was giving you a massage, but he still felt the flush in his neck. You had clearly noticed because you let one of your hands curl around his jaw and turn his head to the side so you could press your lips into his.

When your hair tickled his face, he shuddered.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah Bradley?” You cooed, letting your hands fall to his shoulders so you could push yourself to standing.

The two of you stumbled slowly to the bedroom, the move slightly awkward with the way Bradley kept leaning on you but also kept trying to press his lips into yours. Stripping of everything but underwear, Bradley let himself fall onto the bed without getting under the covers. He watched you brush your teeth with one eye open, the bathroom lighting giving your figure a fluorescent backlit halo.

When you made it to bed, you shoved at him, “Go brush your teeth, Bradley, I’m not kissing you if you taste like tomatoes while I’m minty.”

With only a light amount of grumbling and complaining, he forced himself to brush his teeth and complete at least one part of the skincare routine you had set up for him. He didn’t want anything in the way of fucking you tonight–as soon as dinner was over, it had been occupying almost all of his thoughts.

You squealed when he used the remaining amount of his energy to launch himself into bed, bouncing the both of you. For a moment, he just let himself go heavy on top of you.

“Babe.” He grunted in response to the pet name, “You’re heavy.”

Lifting his head, Bradley pecked your lips and pulled back to look at you without rolling off, “Didn’t you want a weighted blanket?”

Your pout made his head spin, “Weighted blankets don’t usually have bony–oof!–elbows.”

Ever the drama queen, Bradley rolled off you with a huff. You giggled at his antics, and the sound of it made him feel like someone had lit his heart on fire.

The two of you settled under the covers eventually, legs tangled together with your face pressed into his chest. Your fingers occasionally stroked down his pecs, the sensation was slightly odd against his fine chest hair but it made him shiver more than anything else. You seemed so comfortable petting him and snuggling into him, so who was he to disturb that.

He felt himself starting to drift off when your lips pressed to his, plush and warm. Your hand stroked his cheek, as if urging him to just drift (don’t think, just do) and let muscle memory guide the way his lips met yours. And boy was he ever content to do just that.

Half asleep, he rutted against you, just giving himself permission to feel and feel good. One of your hands clutched at his hip while the other tugged him into a kiss at the back of his neck, your lips moving gently against his in a wonderful contrast to the way his cock felt grinding on you, despite the two layers of clothing.

“Can I—” He couldn’t think straight at that moment.

He was overwhelmed all of a sudden by all the exhaustion and frustration of the day, by the need to feel you and have you close. He grabbed at his briefs before yanking them down just enough for his dick to be free and he almost groaned at the relief.

You were hardly deterred by how desperate he seemed, and instead took it in stride. But when you went to take your panties off, he stopped you.

“Bradley? What’s wrong, what do you need, baby?” You asked as his hands wrapped around your wrists to center himself.

He cleared his throat, momentarily embarrassed, but overall too desperate and wanting for it to really affect him.

“Can I fuck your thighs?” He whispered. “I want to make you cum first, but after that?”

It wasn’t necessarily the wildest thing in the world; rationally, he knew that. But he never wanted to encroach, never make you feel uncomfortable, didn’t want to make you feel used. It’s just that sometimes when you wore skirts and bent over, or when you were reaching for a glass or plate on the mornings you stayed over and his shirt rode up over the curve of your ass, he could see that spot at the top of your legs where your thighs touched—and all he could think about was what it might feel like to hold you by your hips and slide his cock there.

You shivered and murmured that of course he could. He dragged you over him so that your legs were framing his hips and pulled your still-clothed cunt over his cock. Clearly you were almost as affected as he was with your panties sporting what felt like a decent sized wet spot at the crotch.

But he wanted more. He wanted them soaked so that your thighs were slick with it, so that he could pull them to the side and let the bite of the waistband center you while he pressed his head into your clit. He wanted to lose himself in you.

Your gasps and whines were mind altering, the stuff that Bradley stored away for moments alone while deployed. He tried to let you control the rhythm, just letting himself massage at the fat of your ass and the muscle of your thighs. The broken moan you let out when he dragged his fingertips up your back made him grit his teeth.

He knew you were close when the steady rhythm of your hips began to stutter, as if the mechanics of the motion was all autopilot, whatever it took to get you there. When you came you licked into his mouth and tried to kiss him, but mostly just ended up sloppily pressing your lips together with tongue. Bradley didn’t care though, because the feeling of your soaked panties dragging over his dick was making him feel crazy.

Eventually, he eased you off of him and onto your side so that his chest was plastered to your back. He made easy work of his boxers, sliding them off and losing them immediately in the mess of bed covers. The thin layer of sweat between the two of you was just more evidence of what had happened, and the way you jerked from oversensitivity when he played with your nipples was another reminder. And god, just like he had wanted, the insides of your thighs were slick with the mix of your cum and his precum.

Framing his hips right against yours, he gave an experimental thrust right into that spot he always stared at. He absolutely was not going to last long. Everything was just so much—from the way you kept twitching from the onslaught of sensations to the slight roughness of your panties against him to the way you twisted your head back to kiss him messily. All of it was so much against the smooth glide of your thighs.

Bradley let one of his hands move away from your nipples to pull the fabric to the side, and he groaned at the sensation of his sliding cock sliding up and down the length of your pussy. You wailed at how the head of his dick rubbed right up against your clit again and again and he could feel just how much arousal was pouring out of you. Your hand shot out to grip his hair and he mouthed at your neck, tasting salt and something so distinctly you.

“F-Feels so good, Bradley, always feels s-so good,” You gasped.

When you started thrusting back against him, he was done for. He scrambled to pull your panties further to the side just enough so he could slip the head of his cock into you, and the sensation sent him over the edge. Despite your orgasm, you clenched around him, tight, hot, and everything he had ever wanted and more. A few more thrusts and he felt his orgasm spreading to his fingertips, making his brain go fuzzy. He was sure he was babbling some nonsense as his cock caught on the edge of your hole and the slight resistance made his teeth hurt.

You groaned at the sensation of him finishing in you, content to let him ride out the aftershocks with little stutters of his hips. Eventually, he came back to earth and that bone-deep satisfaction washed away the stress from the day. You two lay there for a moment, catching your breaths.

“Fuck, you’re incredible.” He whispered, easing himself out of you and helping you shimmy out of your underwear.

“Thank you, babe,” His chest felt tight at your tone and the soft look in your eyes as you stroked his cheek when he leaned over you to climb out of bed.

“Anything,” his throat welled up a bit and he cleared it, “Anything for you.”

Honestly, cleaning you up after fucking your thighs was the least he could do. After stripping completely and padding to the bathroom to clean himself off, Bradley wet a washcloth and pulled on another pair of briefs just to be comfortable.

When he got back, you had settled with one of your feet flat on the bed, the knee of the leg closer to him slightly raised with one arm thrown over your eyes to block the gentle light from the bathroom. You looked so beautiful. The rise and fall of your breath accentuated your chest and you looked so at peace.

The moment was broken when his eyes reached the place where he could see his cum dripping down the crease of your ass.

Suddenly Bradley felt very awake. Dropping to his knees on the carpet, he tugged you to the edge of the bed, and tilted your hips upwards.

You were a sight to behold. Your thighs were still wet from where he had been fucking them and your pussy was glistening from your orgasm. But it was the way his cum steadily pulsed out of you, over your puckered hole, and onto the mattress that made him feel like he’d died and gone to heaven. He felt his cock twitch with interest.

“Bradley?” You said softly, slightly confused at the way he seemed to be frozen between your legs when he was usually so determined to get you cleaned up.

His tongue felt like it was made of lead—he couldn’t respond. All he could do was stare as his thumbs gently pulled your cheeks apart so he could get a better view.

The ah sound you made when he stroked his thumb over your asshole felt like a punch in the gut. The stuttered, gasping moan you let out when he finally, finally licked it could have made him finish right then and there.

“Oh god, oh fuck, babe—” For a split second Bradley thought you might pull him away, reject him in that gentle way of yours you always used when redirecting him.

Instead, your hands shot out to his hair and yanked. Hard. Your hips bucked up and you pulled his face into you as he dived in eagerly.

Maybe he’d confess it to you after this was over, but this was the stuff that haunted his imagination when he thought about you late at night. Some primal part of him wanted to be the one to have you every which way you’d let him, and now that he knew that it was on the table, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get enough. He’d come shockingly quickly into his own fist more times than he could count since he’d started seeing you to the thought of fucking you in your ass, to the thought of rimming you til you couldn’t take it anymore.

The noises you were making were heavenly–moans and whimpers for more. He held your hips down so you couldn’t escape his tongue, his thumbs holding you open for him. It was all you could do–beg for more. The slick pouring from your pussy was overwhelming and the grip on his hair was borderline painful, but it kept him grounded.

“Bradley!” You wailed when he inserted a finger into your spasming cunt and curled it upwards in a petting motion.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen you quite like this. When he opened his eyes, your chest was heaving, your face barely visible from how you’d thrown your head back in ecstasy, a thin sheen of sweat covering your torso. It was potentially the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his life.

When he added a second finger, your hips bucked up so hard he almost lost his grip on you. But he could feel the way you were close around his tongue as it circled and gently pushed past the initial ring of muscles. It took all his focus to not cum in his boxers from the thought of imaging how you might feel, clenched around his cock as he pushed into your ass.

“Babe, I think I’m going to–!” Was all you managed to get out before your orgasm hit you.

Bradley would never forget where he was when he made you squirt for the first time–there, on his knees in front of you, exhausted from a long day of work. The noise you made seemed to be torn from your chest as you rode out your orgasm on his fingers and tongue. For a moment, your body moved on its own accord, chasing and trying to prolong your pleasure.

And in that moment, when he couldn’t resist any longer and reached down to palm himself for a bit of relief, his own orgasm stole all the air from his lungs. Leave it to Bradley to come in his boxers like a high schooler from rimming you for the first time.

Slowly, gently, he pulled his fingers out of you, not missing the way your fingers flexed in his hair and you clenched around him. You tasted incredible as always, slightly salty with something else that was just so you. He’d never get tired of it.

There was a moment of silence before you pushed yourself to your elbows, an absolutely wild look in your eyes, “Bradley Bradshaw you are a menace.” And then you collapsed in a fit of giggles.

He sat there, fingers half way out of his mouth, chest and face soaking wet with you, and watched as you laughed to yourself about how horny he was for you not even moments after he made you squirt.

“Are you making fun of me?” Now he was laughing a bit too.

Then you were crawling over to him as he stood slowly, pulling him down and over you. Your lips pressed together over and over as you stroked his hair, over his shoulders and down his back.

“You silly, horny, man. I love you so much. Let’s shower and go the hell to sleep.”

read the next part of this series here

#bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #top gun: maverick #top gun: maverick fic #bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #top gun: maverick fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #no use of y/n #coming home to you universe

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the-authoress-writes · 5 days

Text

Up Where We Belong

Part One

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Mentions of hospice and family member deaths, age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: The plot bunnies have reproduced at an unholy rate, and I am so stupid for writing this, especially since I have another chapter of “Wherever You Go”, to write, the first chapter of “Safe and Sound” and a MavDad story to finish.

The second part and another Mav story is lined up, but at this point, I’m not going to complain, because at least I’m writing, and Mav is finally getting more of my writerly attention.

We’ll see what gets finished next, 😂.

#writerlife

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs—I can’t stop, apparently)

So here we go!

She had always been somewhat interested in planes—it was hard not to be, when most of her family was in commercial aviation.

Her father had flown for nearly thirty years for American, her younger brother was currently a first officer coming up on his command upgrade with Delta, and her grandfather, whom she affectionately called PopPop, had flown for Continental.

Some of her fondest memories were looking over her grandfather’s maps and airport diagrams, and sitting on his lap while he taught her how to use an analog flight computer.

But one day, when she was home from her freshman year of college, where she was taking her degree in English, her grandfather took her up to the attic to show her something.

It was a footlocker from World War II, the faded paint on the outside reading “USAAF”.

“This was your granduncle Joseph’s—my eldest brother.

He was a P-51 pilot.

He ran many successful missions in his aircraft until he got shot down saving his wingman’s life, near the end of the war.”

PopPop opened the footlocker, revealing a faded American flag folded into a tricorn lying neatly atop several dark greenish-brown uniforms.

PopPop gently lifted the flag and uniforms out of the footlocker, uncovering yellowed, brittle-looking maps, a compass set, and a thick stack of letters, tied together with a black ribbon.

It was the stack of letters that PopPop lifted out, and held out to her. “Look at these, and read them.”

She did, and the story the letters contained was beautiful and heartbreaking.

Her granduncle had fallen in love with a woman who was a member of the French Resistance, named Céline, whom he’d met during a covert resupply mission, and they even had plans to marry after the war.

But she’d died in a skirmish with German soldiers in Paris, leaving him so bereft that he’d taken to writing letters to her specter, just to have an outlet for his grief.

The last letter in the pile was heartwrenching, where her granduncle Joseph talked about how he was only living because she would want him to, only being careful in the air because she’d want him to.

She’d cried reading the letters, and she’d asked PopPop why he’d wanted her to read the letters.

“I wanted someone else to know their story,” he’d simply replied.

“No one else knows?”

He hummed, considering his answer. “Sometimes you keep some things to yourself until the right person to tell comes along.”

A few years passed, and when PopPop was on hospice, the two of them were watching “Band of Brothers”, when she remembered Uncle Joe, as she’d taken to calling him in her head.

“What’s going on in that bright head of yours, darling?” PopPop’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, uh, nothing much, I was just remembering Uncle Joe.

Thinking that he and Céline deserved better.”

“They did.”

She shook her head, “I wish I could write them a happier ending, you know?”

PopPop hummed weakly. “Well, why don’t you?

If anyone could do it, it would be you.

If you do that, I’m sure in a few years, those English professors of yours would be saying that they taught a great American author.”

She was shocked and touched. “Wha—I—well, I guess I could, but, are—y-you’d be okay with that, PopPop?”

He laid a cold hand on hers, “I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else, my dear girl.”

“Okay,” she smiled tearily, and nodded, the two of them returning their attention to the episode.

A week later, PopPop passed, and many things happened over the ensuing years that caused the idea of writing about Uncle Joe to be put on the back burner.

In fact, she forgot all about it, until she was sitting on her couch a couple of weeks after having been let go from her job as an English teacher at her local high school.

She was mindlessly watching an episode of some show she couldn’t even remember the name of, when her eyes landed on the footlocker which PopPop had given to her in his will.

The memory of PopPop encouraging her to write about Uncle Joe came back to her, and she paused the episode, strode over to the footlocker, carefully opened it, and drew out the letters.

Madly, over the course of the next several hours, she reread the letters, numerous research-related tabs quickly opening up on her phone, tablet, and laptop.

As months passed, she made good progress on her first draft, but somewhere along the way, about slightly less than halfway through her intended story beats, she hit the dreaded dead end, writer’s block in full force.

Rereading the letters did nothing—every line she wrote, she deleted; she felt lost, and like she’d completely lost Uncle Joe and Céline’s voices.

She felt right back at square one.

Then, one day, as she was looking at her brother’s latest Facebook reel from his layover in Korea, she saw an advertisement for the Apple Valley Airshow, which would feature an aerobatic demonstration with an actual, airworthy P-51.

Maybe seeing the aircraft her Uncle flew would shake something loose in her brain so she could move forward.

She didn’t even hesitate—she immediately booked a ticket, and prepared herself to take down a lot of notes.

The airshow was absolutely wonderful, and even though she never got as into aviation as the rest of her family, it was still something which fascinated her, and seeing the planes made her marvel all over again at the miracle that was aviation, how humankind had successfully taken the skies for itself through brutally elegant means.

Finally, it was time for the reason she’d come—the emcee began, “Now, everyone, you’re all in for a treat, because up next, we have a nearly eighty-year-old aircraft, a P-51K named Bianca, and she’ll be giving us an aerobatic demonstration!

So let’s give a warm Apple Valley Airshow welcome to Bianca and her owner and pilot, US Navy Captain Pete Mitchell!”

She clapped along with everyone else, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the P-51.

Soon, the sound of a propeller engine grew louder and louder, and then, there she was.

Bianca was gorgeous, gleaming silver with red markings, the American star roundel on her side.

The shining aircraft got closer and closer to the ground, towards the crowd, and just as she was about to worry that the P-51 was in an upset condition, the plane pulled up slightly, buzzing the transfixed people.

Laughing in awe and delight, she clapped with everyone, and watched as the daring pilot put the plane through a series of hair-raising spirals, rolls, dives, and elegant, breathtaking passes with such precision, skill, and ease, just knowing that whoever was flying that old girl had aviation in his blood as surely as it ran in hers; it made her wonder what her granduncle would say about how the venerable fighter was being flown.

Before she knew it, the demonstration was over, and with another low pass and wing wave, the P-51 flew off to land.

It actually took her a moment to come back to herself, she was so stunned by what she saw, and she knew she had to see Bianca up close.

After asking for directions to the flight line, she scanned the row of planes, eventually spying a flash of red.

She walked over, catching sight of a tall, mustached man a few years younger than her, standing in front of the aircraft, wearing a borderline-obnoxiously-loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over a white tank and jeans, stereotypical Ray-Bans pushed up onto his head.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” the man replied.

“Is this the P-51 which flew a few minutes ago?

She is a P-51, right?”

“That’d be a yes to both questions, ma’am.”

She chuckled grimly at the idea that her age was maybe showing enough for her to be ma’am-ed by someone only a few years younger than her. “Are you the owner?”

He scoffed, good-naturedly. “Nah, that’ll be my dad.

Hey Dad, someone wants to talk to you!”

A moment later, a man stepped out from under the P-51, and she’d absolutely be lying if she said her breath didn’t catch.

First off, if she had to guess, he was older than her, but there was something about him which made him seem younger than his age.

Then there was the fact that he was absurdly good looking—ridiculously so, in fact; impossibly raven-dark hair, mischievously sparkling, brilliant green eyes, and a physique that people half her age would kill for, all sinewy muscle, visible with the snug white t-shirt and jeans he was wearing.

The final nail in the proverbial coffin was his smile—God, it belonged in a museum, because it was a work of art, and coupled with his roguish air, everything about him screamed the most delicious kind of trouble, sending echoes of Whoopi Goldberg’s voice saying, “You in danger, girl,” through her head.

“Hi,” he began, extending his hand.

Luckily for her, she was quick on the draw, and extended her own hand, proffering a “Hi,” of her own, though she kicked herself at the fact that the next words out of her mouth were, “Are you the owner?”

Oh, well—couldn’t win them all.

His grip was firm and calloused, but gentle, without the cool metal band she expected on his fourth finger, quick eyes observing the lack of even a pale band of skin on the same finger, and she shook herself from the observation in time to hear his, “That’s me—Pete Mitchell, you can call me Mav.”

At her quizzical look, he continued, “It’s short for my callsign, Maverick—I’m Navy.”

She nodded, “The emcee did say you were Navy, and that tracks; judging from that impressive demonstration, you don’t strike me as the kind who blends in.”

“Thank you—I aim to please,” he grinned.

Miraculously, she managed to ignore his brilliant, beautiful smile, somehow mustering a “Well, you certainly delivered,” before she introduced herself.

A cough from the younger man, Pete’s son, made her realize that she hadn’t let go of Pete’s hand, and vice versa, which caused the two of them to practically spring apart.

“Oh, uh, this is my son, Bradley,” Pete introduced the younger man, reaching nearly comically up to wrap an arm around Bradley’s shoulders.

“Nice to meet you, Bradley,” she replied, trying to recollect herself while her mind acted like it was the first time she’d interacted with a good-looking man.

“Nice to meet you too, ma’am.”

“I look that bad, do I?” she chuckled.

“Just the way he was raised,” Pete proudly said, patting his son on the back.

Embarrassingly, she just then remembered the reason she was here. “Oh, I—I actually had a few questions for you, Pete, about the P-51, because I’m writing a book, and I wanted to get some details.”

His eyes lit up. “Details about this old girl, huh?

I can do that; come on, let me show you around.” He moved to the side of the aircraft and gestured grandly. “Bianca here’s a Dallas-built North American P-51K, with a Packard V-1650-7 engine and an 11 foot diameter Aeroproducts propeller.

She was donated to the Civil Air Patrol in 1946, and I acquired her in 2001.

I’m not sure if she ever saw combat, because her military flight logs were lost, but I know for a fact that she routinely patrolled the California skies way back when.

Let me show you the controls.”

He nimbly boosted himself up to the wing and held his hand out to her. “Come on up.”

“Uh, is this a wise decision?” she asked, glancing between his hand and the wing. “She is nearly eighty-years-old.”

Pete laughed, “She’s stronger than she looks, and these girls were made to withstand this sort of thing, come on.”

Deciding to trust his judgment, she took his hand and jumped up to the wing at the same time as he pulled her up, causing extra momentum which propelled her body into his.

He caught them on the edge of the cockpit, and after a second, she realized that she was pressed up against his body, both hands resting against his…very solid chest.

She prayed that her suddenly pounding heart and the burning flush on her cheeks could be discounted as a reaction to her stumble.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, scrambling back to put some distance between them for her sanity’s sake, while trying not to fall off either wing edge.

“Eh,” he waved off, “that’s my fault, I should have said I’d pull you up,” as he shifted to kneel on the wing. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied breezily, “I believe you were about to show me the controls?”

“Mm-hmm, come here.”

They slowly adjusted themselves into a configuration that enabled them both to see into the cockpit, and he pointed out the many gauges—explaining each one—and the literal stick stick, which looked nothing like the controls of any aircraft she’d seen in person or in the movies, as well as her general flight capabilities and technical specifications.

A further glance to the right showed something she didn’t expect to see. “I thought the P-51 was a single seat aircraft?”

Pete absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, “They are—I made a… few modifications.”

“Oh.”

“You want to sit in her?” he offered, gesturing to the pilot’s seat.

She was not about to pass up an opportunity like that. “I—wh—sure!”

He carefully helped her into the cockpit, and once settled, she breathed in and out while she absorbed this moment, and imagined her granduncle sitting in a seat similar to this one, looking out at the boundless sky. “Wow,” she reverently murmured.

“I know, right?”

“This is amazing, that aircraft like this is still around and still flying, I mean—this is history,” she said, getting slightly emotional.

“It is; she is.”

After a few beats longer, she sighed, and reached for his hand so she could get out, and he carefully eased her out of the cockpit, onto the wing, then both of them back onto the ground.

“Thank you, for showing me around, this was really helpful, Pete, I think this really helped me.”

“You’re welcome,” he nodded easily. “If I may ask, what kind of book are you writing?”

For the briefest second, she instinctively recoiled from the idea of telling the story, but then, some part of her heart said that Pete Mitchell was someone she could tell this story to. “It’s uh, a fictional version of my granduncle Joe’s love story; he was a P-51 pilot during World War II, and he was in love with a woman in the French Resistance named Céline.” She turned to look at Bianca’s gleaming fuselage. “But they both died in the war; she was killed by the Germans, and he got shot down saving his wingman soon after.

I never even knew until my first year of college, when my grandfather told me the story through the love letters my granduncle and Céline wrote.

When my grandfather was dying, I told him that I wished they had a happy ending, and… well, he told me to write it for them, since I was an English major.

So here I am,” she shrugged, turning to face Pete.

He looked grave and touched. “That’s… that’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I have to admit, I’ve wondered if what I was doing was disrespectful.”

“I know quite a few people who deserved happy endings that didn’t get them,” he glanced into the distance, a wistful, pained look in his eyes. “If I can help at least two people who didn’t have their happy endings in this world get it somehow, I’m more than willing to help.”

She sincerely replied, “Thank you for the validation,” wondering what his story was.

“You’re welcome.

And uh… you know what?

Gimme a second.”

He leapt back onto the P-51’s wing, and rummaged through the cockpit, pulling out a flight log book and a pen, hastily writing something on a page, before he tore it out, and leapt back down.

“Here, it’s my number—if you had any more questions, feel free to call, I’d be happy to answer them.”

If she had been placed in a similar situation as this maybe twenty years ago, she’d have probably done something to embarrass herself, because this—things like this didn’t happen to her—they only happened in movies, but here she was.

He gave her his number—yes, it was if she had any research questions, but still.

‘Get a grip, woman, just because you didn’t see a ring doesn’t mean he isn’t in a relationship,’ she told herself, trying to project “Respectable Professional Woman”, while her inner adolescent was trying its level best to come out.

“Th—thank you,” she managed to get out, with only a minute stammer on the first syllable.

“I’m serious, call if you need anything—I mean—there’s not a lot of people out there who can tell you what it’s like to actually fly one of these beauties.”

“Be careful,” she chuckled, already determined not to call unless it was absolutely dire, “You don’t know if I might take you up on that offer.”

“It’s what I gave you my number for,” Pete winked, and she commended herself for keeping it together.

Deciding to quit while she was ahead, and while she still seemed like a normal human being, she came in for final approach, as her dad would put it, with, “Alright—I better go, I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

“It’s fine, it’s always a pleasure to talk to someone about this girl.”

“Thank you again,” she stated, honestly grateful, feeling the creative juices flowing and simmering in the background.

“You’re welcome.”

And with that, she walked away, exhaling evenly for so many reasons.

That night, she wrote and wrote just as she expected, and the story was flowing.

That is, until she hit another wall just before the next weekend.

And this one was even more stubborn than the first.

It didn’t help that she had written herself into a corner with this dogfight scene she was on—she had no way of knowing if the tactics were sound, and she was thinking of completely cutting it, but it seemed so stilted without it, and she had no idea of how to avoid writing this scene.

But one part of that thought, she realized, wasn’t true.

Her gaze landed on her coffee table.

The sheet of flight log paper with ten numbers written on them stared tauntingly back at her, daring her to call Pete.

“Nope, no, I am not going to do it,” she told herself. “No—absolutely not.

I’m sure he has better things to do than answer stupid questions.

No—I will not call him.”

The paper raised a nonexistent eyebrow.

“No!” was her battle cry, and she turned back to her laptop screen, but it offered no relief.

The depressing reality of her blinking, unmoving cursor cackled at her in harmony with the flight log paper.

It was like that healthy cereal ad from years ago, with the little girl in a prim uniform, enticingly calling “Donuts?”

However, after ten more minutes, the dictatorship of the blank page grew too cruel and harsh, and she folded like a house of whatever was more insubstantial than cards.

“Fine,” she muttered, snatching up the paper. “I’ll call, but if he doesn’t answer, it’s no skin off my back—I’ll manage… somehow.”

At least that’s what she told herself.

She dialed the number, heart pounding as the phone rang…

And rang…

And rang.

She was just about to breathe a sigh of conflicted relief and hang up, but then the line clicked, and she heard a slightly breathless “Pete Mitchell.”

“Hi,” she blinked, cursing herself for not thinking through what she was going to say. “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the Apple Valley Airshow—”

“__, right?

The writer.”

“Yeah, that’s me, you said I could call if I had any questions,” she scratched her head.

“Uh-huh.

I’m guessing you have one,” she could hear the smile in his voice.

“More like a lot, really.

I’ve unfortunately written myself into a corner, it’s this dogfight scene, and there’s no way I can currently remove it without sacrificing practically all of my progress since last week.

I just need to know if the tactics are sound.”

“Huh.”

“I—you know, I can figure it out myself, if it’s too much trouble—”

He interrupted, “No, it’s no trouble, I’m more than willing to help, in fact… uh, this might sound—weird and uncomfortable—or—both, really, but if you want, why don’t you come out to my hangar tomorrow, we can talk about this, rework your scene if we need to, without having to do video calls or text or email.”

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes wide.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything,” he chuckled.

“I—thank you for the reassurance, by the way—but I mean, that’s a lot of confidence in how well I can write a dogfight.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” he assured.

“I’ll just prepare to be ripped to shreds,” she half-teasingly replied.

Pete snorted. “Even if it were that bad, I wouldn’t rip it to shreds—I save that for my new students.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know what’s worse, being torn apart or the porcelain treatment.”

“How about a balance, then?”

“I’d be very happy with that.”

“So… is that a yes to coming out to my hangar?”

“I… suppose it is,” she replied, before she could convince herself otherwise.

She was a mature, responsible adult, and she was capable of being said mature, responsible adult.

(And if time permitted, she was even capable of looking respectfully, when he wasn’t watching.)

(She was only human, after all.)

“Perfect, I’ll send you the address; I have to warn you, it’ll probably be a bit of a drive, is that okay?”

“That’s fine, after all, where else will I find someone with experience flying the P-51?”

“You could always try the local VFW post,” he joked.

“What are the odds my local VFW has a former P-51 pilot?

I’ll go with the expert I’ve already met.”

“Alright, alright, I already agreed to help, no need to butter me up,” he lightly said, humorously.

“Just send the address,” was her amused response.

And that was how she found herself on US-395 North making the three-and-a-half hour drive from her apartment in San Bernardino to the Mojave, praying that she wouldn’t somehow make a fool of herself today.

To be continued…

Next Part

Was part of this story inspired by Atonement?

Maybe.

I didn’t really have the movie in mind when I wrote the plot device, but I realized the similarity after the fact.

Analog flight computer

USAAF

Band of Brothers

The Apple Valley Airshow takes place every year in the town of Apple Valley, located in San Bernardino, California.

(I considered setting this story at the annual Miramar Airshow, which takes place at MCAS (formerly NAS) Miramar, but I imagine that Mav would probably want to avoid going to MCAS Miramar for obvious reasons.)

Roundel

I don’t think that most pilots would do very daring aerobatic stunts in a plane as old as the P-51, just because she’s a darn P-51, and she’s a flying piece of history, but this is Mav, he absolutely knows what his girl can handle, I’m sure he knows how to make something look more crazy than it actually is, and bottom line, let’s just suspend our disbelief, 😂.

Did I introduce Mav in that way just so I could use that gif?

Probably absolutely.

It’s a great shot, and I do not blame me.

“You in danger, girl.” Timestamp 1:35

All the information about the P-51 is taken from the information available about the model and history/registration of Tom’s P-51, except for the details of her name and the military flight logs being missing, as the history available for N51EW never mentions if she saw actual WWII combat.

She is registered in the FAA database with the serial number 44-12840, and her name since 2006 has been “Kiss Me Kate”.

(I know why she’s named this, and it hits something in my heart that Tom never bothered to rename her.)

Her name in this story will be explained later, but those who follow me on my main blog, @oh-great-authoress, might have a hunch as to why I named the P-51 “Bianca”.

The ad I mentioned was a real Kellogg’s Special K ad.

VFW

The travel time between San Bernardino and Mav’s hangar is estimated using the travel time from San Bernardino to NAWS China Lake, and then a further hour and twenty minutes from there.

Taglist

@valmare

@callsign-skydancer

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@tadomikiku

@malindacath

@aviatorobsessed

@lynnevanss

@djs8891

If you’d like to join my taglist, just send me an ask!

#not me 👀 at men literally old enough to be my father #but my reader DEFINITELY is—and he’s not old enough to be HER father #bahaha 🤣#top gun: maverick #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fic #top gun maverick fic #pete maverick mitchell x reader #pete mitchell x reader #pete maverick mitchell #pete mitchell #tom cruise

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phoenixsbby · 2 years

Note

can you write something with Hangman where y/n is pregnant and she’s at a Dagger Squad dinner and she received some comments about how big her belly is compared to the other women, so she refused the chocolate cake dessert and Hangman follows her after the dinner in the kitchen, seeing her crying and stuff ?

thank you for the request :')

warnings: mentions of body size/weight, swearing

——

You’ve been eyeing that chocolate cake since the minute you arrived at the barbeque your husband, Lieutenant Jake Seresin, had been invited to. It was huge and looked moist and mouth watering and you could only partially blame the pregnancy hormones for wanting to shove the entire thing in your mouth with your bare hands. You’ve waited patiently though instead of giving into your chaotic, intrusive thoughts.

You’ve gone through the motions of talking with all of your husbands colleagues, you’ve spent time playing yard games with different members of the Dagger Squad (you totally didn’t get too excited and caused a scene when you and Rooster beat Bob and Phoenix in corn hole), and you ate your fair share of dinner.

And when it’s finally time for dessert, you do not hesitate in stepping up and grabbing a big piece of that beautiful cake. You see no shame in it, wanting to eat dessert. Not only because your pregnant and rightfully deserve to treat your baby to this homemade masterpiece but also, because if someone wants to eat some cake then who gives a fuck?

The piece of cake you have dangling at the threshold of your mouth freezes mid air when you make direct eye contact with one of your least favorite pilots you’ve had the (dis)pleasure of knowing since Jake had been stationed in North Island. Cobra.

You hold eye contact for a beat of silence, still with your cake hovering, and watch as he raises his eyebrows and dips his gaze down to your body. You can feel the judgement rolling off of him, in the way he’s staring at you when your eyes reconnect.

Without taking a bite of the cake that’s been teasing you all night, you place your fork back down on your plate.

“Can I help you?” You try to keep your tone sweet but there’s no missing the rigidity behind it. You completely stopped caring about being polite to this guy pretty quickly after hearing about the multiple sexist “jokes” and negative comments about other pilots he’s made in the past. You’re not a pilot yourself but, you’ve heard enough stories from Jake about Cobra to how shitty of a teammate (and person) he is.

“No, I just ..” Cobra purses his lips and shakes his head. You roll your eyes so hard, you’re surprised they don’t fall out of your head.

“Just what?”

“You really think you should be eating that?” He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as he says it and you’ve never been a violent person but suddenly, you’re ready to swing.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on Y/N.” He grins and your blood turns from lukewarm to boiling hot inside your veins. He takes a step closer to which you react by taking one backwards. He dips his head close and adds, “We both know you’ve gained a some weight recently. You don’t see any other females here shoving cake in their mouths, do you?”

You haven’t told anyone that you’re pregnant other than your husband. It’s still early and it’s been a busy, stressful time at work for Jake so, you both agreed to push off telling everyone for now. And yes, during the time since you found out, your body has changed which is completely healthy and natural when you’re growing another human inside you! But the fact that Cobra doesn’t even know that and is still commenting on your weight, it makes you sick.

You want to scream and yell at him, to tell him off, to ask him where he gets the nerve to talk to anyone about their body but, all you do is blink. Your eyes instinctually flicker around the other women at the party. The other wives and girlfriends and pilots at the party are all beautiful and fit in their own right. Suddenly, despite knowing your body is doing its natural thing to support you during this stage in your life, you feel inferior to them in every way.

“Sorry to be so up front about it.” Cobra adds. Sorry my ass. “But, I think I’m doing you a favor. Maybe switch the cake out for some fruit or something.”

You glance down at the cake on your plate, the once delicious dessert looks about as appetizing as a pile of dirt and worms now.

An arm wraps itself around your shoulders and pulls you into a firm body. You glance up and see Coyote looking at you with furrowed brows.

“You okay?” He discreetly wipes a tear off of your cheek that you didn’t even know fell. Despite the answer being no, you nod weakly.

“I need to use the bathroom.” You croak out before shoving your plate in Coyote’s direction and making a beeline for the house. Faintly as you walk away, you hear Coyote throw a ‘what the hell did you do?’ at Cobra. But, you don’t care enough to stop or listen to the ways Cobra will spin this so he’s the victim. All you care about is getting away from these people to cry your eyes out and try your best to not make a scene at your husbands work party.

You don’t find the bathroom, instead you find a small secondary pantry in the back of the house to have a mini break down in. You slump against the wall and finally let all of the tears you can feel prickling at your dry eyes fall.

You feel like you’re being ripped in half. One half of you, the arguably more reasonable half, knows there is nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone’s body is unique. Some bodies are small, some are big, they all change under different circumstances. Body size does not determine a persons worth. Nothing gives someone the right to comment on another persons body the way Cobra did yours. The only person who should feel ashamed here is him.

Yet the other half of you lets his words stick to your skin like glue until they seep through many, many layers of yourself, until you can feel them festering inside of you. Maybe you could be making better eating choices? Maybe you should be eating more fruit? You don’t know because this is your first pregnancy and its hard to be a mother! But, you’re trying your absolute best to figure it out. Shouldn’t that count for something?

You’re outright sobbing when you feel arms encase your body and pull you flush against a hard, warm chest. One hand cradles your head while the other rubs soothing circles against your back. One deep inhale of a spicy and sweet familiar scent is all you need to know who’s holding you - Jake.

“What’s going on?” He murmurs into your hair, voice laced with concern as he squeezes you tightly against him. He knows what’s going on, Coyote came and found him the minute Cobra told him what he had said to you. Despite Cobra trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, Coyote could see right through the bullshit.

Jake had two options; hit the fucker that thought it was okay to comment on his wife’s body or find his wife who he knew needed him in that moment. It was a no brainer (okay, he did consider hitting Cobra for a hot second), he had to find you.

“I-“ you try to explain it but, the words collide with a sob that’s already lodged in your throat.

“Take some deep breaths.” You feel him inhale a deep breath of his own, hold it, then release an equally long exhale. “Come on, baby.” He inhales another, prompting you to follow along.

The first few breaths you take are jagged and short, some leave you gasping for more air. But after continued encouragement from Jake, eventually your breathing returns to a somewhat rhythmic state. Your heart no longer feels like its jackhammering its way out of your ribcage, your thoughts about your body and being a good mother are no longer stirring up a storm in your mind. You feel calm there, in that pantry, wrapped up in your loving husbands embrace.

“There she is.” He smiles, soft and sweet, as you pull away from him just enough to see his face. He wipes away the lingering wetness of tears on your cheeks before leaving his hands there to cup them.

“I feel-“ you struggle again to find words to accuracy describe this feeling. You settle on motioning the shape of a balloon with your hands and take another shaky, deep breath.

“Whatever that snake said to you out there, it’s not even remotely close to the truth.” Jake tilts his head and rubs his thumbs gently across your skin.

“Isn’t it? I mean, I have put on some weight.”

“Because you’re pregnant, Y/N.”

“But, we’ve all seen those women who stay in such good shape when they’re pregnant like you can’t even tell they’re pregnant until the day before they pop that baby out! And all they drink is kale smoothies and their favorite midnight snack is baby carrots. They definitely do not eat chocolate cake!”

“Y/N,” Jake tilts your head up away from your belly to look him directly in the eye. “Everyone’s body is different. And I happen to think yours is amazing.” You scoff and try to look away but, he holds your eyes to his. “Whether you gain or lose weight, if you grow a foot or shrink a foot, I will always think your body is amazing. Not only because you’re growing our baby in there,” he places a hand on your lower stomach “but also because it’s yours. You are so beautiful.”

You melt into his touch and rest your forehead against his. You have no idea what you did to get so lucky in loving a man like this, one of the good ones. He kisses you slowly, letting every ounce of his love translate from his lips directly to yours.

You groan the second your lips break apart and slump into his hold. You feel his laugh vibrate against your chest as he holds you up.

‘What is it?”

“I can’t believe I let that dickhead talk me into not eating that cake. I bet it’s all gone by now.” You pout into his chest before he puts his hands on your forearms and pulls you off of him. You narrow your eyes at the way he’s smirking at you.

Wordlessly, he reaches behind you and by the time he’s fully back in your field of vision, he’s holding your plate with the same piece of cake on it from before. You gasp and smile, so bright and contagious and Hangman can’t believe he gets to witness something that gorgeous.

“Oh, I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you.” You squeal as you take the plate from his hands and don’t hesitate in sticking a forkful of cake into your mouth. You moan and let your eyes flutter shut at the gooey goodness of it. “You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jake chuckles as his thumb swipes away a crumb from the corner of your mouth.

“Uhhhh … I was talking to the cake.”

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake 'hangman' seresin x reader #hangman x reader #hangman fanfiction #jake 'hangman' seresin fanfiction #top gun: maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #jake 'hangman' seresin #hangman blurb

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enchanting-eloquence · 2 years

Text

Teaching you respect (Jake Seresin)

Summary: Jake Hangman Seresin is a good guy... until those times he regresses back to cocky pilot mode. Reader girlfriend decides it's time to teach him a lesson. Smutty smutty smut.

4.5k words (I got carried away!)

Author notes: Thank you so much for reading. I'm still newly returned to this Tumblr fic lark so all comments, likes or shares would be massively well received, thank you!

Warnings: Did I mentioned smut? Minors, there’s nothing for you here - do not engage and move it along! Femdom, a little angst, some edging, mild degradation, bad language, unprotected sex (be safe kids!), I think that's all but tell me if I've missed anything.

Teaching you respect

Frustration was a word you were used to when it came to dealing with that arrogant ass boyfriend of yours, Jake Seresin. And that wasn’t surprising. After all, he had a knack for winding everyone up the wrong way. If truth be told his quick mouth, cocky grin, and self-praising attitude were all things that had won you over for him back when you’d first met.

But there were sometimes he pushed even you too damned far.

You’d made no secret of the fact you were mad at the bar; refusing a new drink when he’d offered and telling him in no uncertain terms that you were leaving there and then, whether he liked it or not.

Of course he came with you. Jake might’ve been an arrogant ass, but he was protective too, and he also knew only too well just who he should be keeping happy when it came down to it.

You would’ve happily walked home alone, setting off from the bar while he was saying his goodbyes and walked as fast as your heels would take you even as he chased behind calling your name.

Not that it took him long to catch up; those long legs outstripping yours by almost double-time until he was walking backwards in front of you, asking what was wrong, and if you were ever planning to tell him what the fuck he’d done that was so damned bad.

You were almost back to your place when you finally caved at those baby blues looking pleadingly at you with the kind of puppy dog expression you knew only came out on special occasions.

“You even have to ask?” You fumed, keeping your rage quiet for fear of waking the neighbours. “The way you talked about your ex like that? And in front of me? Are you fucking kidding.”

For a second he looked reluctant - apologetic even, but quickly the puppy dog face was gone, replaced by the cockily raised brow and smirk you were all too used to.

“Oh baby,” he asked, hands moving out towards your waist as he stepped closer and tilted his head, “is someone a little jealous?”

Holding up your hands you stepped back and away from him. “Jealous? No.” You looked him up and down, “I knew about your past when we started this thing. And I also know that you know you’ve got it way better here than you ever did before.”

Again he smirked, this time as much in appreciation as arrogance before stepped forwards again and reaching to pull your face closer to him. “Yes ma’am.”

You swatted his hand away. “This isn’t jealousy Jake, it’s respect. It was fucking disrespectful of you to sit there telling that story while any woman is with you - especially your own damned girlfriend.” Still holding your hands up you walked around him and unlocked the door into your apartment.

It took a moment but eventually he followed, trailing a few paces behind you on the stairs at a distance you guessed was as much about checking out your ass in tight jeans as it was trying to appear apologetic.

You were still seething when you walked into your shared bedroom and dropped your handbag, moving to the dresser to take out the large silver hoops from your ears when he walked up behind you and placed his hands on your hips, moving his head to drag a small kiss down the side of your neck.

Shrugging yourself away, you snapped. “Jake stop. This isn’t something you charm your way out of.”

“Baby come on, you know I’d never speak about you that way.”

You refused to meet his eyes, even in the reflection, and instead continued your night time routine, slamming jewellery and make up remover down onto the dresser with much greater force than usual as you moved.

“Yeah? And I bet you would’ve said the same thing about her once too, huh?”

Out the corner of your eye you saw his reflection in the mirror, shaking his head and letting out a short almost disbelieving laugh in response. It was enough to have you whirling, all pretense of restraint gone.

“Oh you think this is funny?” The force with which you turned and walked towards him was enough to have him stepping back and into the bed, leaving him with nowhere to go as you advanced towards him. “It’s not fucking funny Jake. It wasn’t funny when you were some slutty pilot breaking hearts and talking shit about the women you screwed, and it’s not funny now when you claim to respect me.”

His cheeks flamed with anger, but his voice was smaller than usual. “I do respect you.”

Still furious you jabbed a finger into his rock hard chest. “Yeah, so you say. I swear, Seresin, someone should teach you a goddamn lesson. Show you how it feels not to be top dog for a change.”

His eyes narrowed, this time just a hint of anger creeping in under the arrogance. “And I guess you’re going to do it, huh?”

This was usually the point in a fight when you’d walk away - take yourself off for to the kitchen for a drink, or to the bathroom for a long shower to give yourself some space. Both options would always end the same way, with Jake giving you just a few minutes’ space before coming in to join you, covering you in kisses and touches that quickly turned your fury into a different kind of fire. It was his way of apologising, you knew; a way to make it up to you without having to delve into emotions he hadn’t been taught to connect with or words that didn’t trip off his confident tongue. And while there were times you longed for the words, for the outward admission that he had been wrong, the man was just too damned talented for you to turn down a physical apology; especially once he’d fucked the anger out of you.

But tonight that wasn’t going to cut it. Tonight, as you stared up at that perfect face of his, something inside you snapped and you found yourself stepping forward - close enough that he toppled backwards onto the bed behind him, mild shock in his eyes if you stared down at him.

“Yes. Yes I think I am. And don’t you think it’s time you were taught a goddamn lesson?”

The shock took over his face for just a second, before lust won out, eyes darkening and gleaming white teeth coming out to graze his bottom lip as he nodded at you slowly.

“What was that Seresin? Use your words lieutenant.”

He cleared his throat, the faintest hint of a smile on his face as he replied. “Yes ma’am.”

You nodded and stepped back. “Good.” The sight of him looking up at you went straight to your womb. If truth be told power play wasn’t something the two of you had experimented with a lot in the bedroom; not that things were always vanilla – far from it – but whenever you took a turn down that road, Jake’s physical strength, confidence, and all-round alpha male vibe meant that he was always the boss. It was just the way it had always been, and the way you’d both always liked it, loved it in fact. But then maybe that had gotten a little too comfortable, and maybe tonight was the time to change it.

“I want you undressed. Now.” You told him, folding your arms across your chest.

His eyes widened and you saw that same hint of a smile on his face, making you wonder for just a moment if he was planning to argue; maybe to reclaim control by throwing you down on the bed as he’d done plenty of times before. But apparently intrigue over what was about to happen won out, and before you knew it he set to work on the white shirt he’d worn out that evening, fingers working slowly as his eyes stayed fixed on yours.

Despite your quickening pulse, you forced yourself to look bored, even rolling your eyes as you exhaled loudly. “Did I ask for a striptease lieutenant? No, I want you undressed. Get on with it.”

This time his eyes widened enough that he almost looked abashed, the voice that replied ever so slightly quieter than usual, “yes ma’am.”

And in seconds the shirt was off, discarded on the floor to show that gloriously chiselled chest and the abs that never failed to make you drool. The converse followed quickly, before he unhooked his belt and let his jeans drop to the floor, placing his thumbs into the waistband of white boxer shorts.

You raised a finger. “Ah ah. The underwear stays. We can’t have you getting any ideas tonight. Now sit.”

Obediently he dropped to the edge of the bed like a stone, his face a picture of uncertainty as disappointment replaced the usual cocky smirk.

Slowly, purposefully, you leaned in until your lips were within a breath of his. “Tonight. I am in charge. And that means no touching - of me, of you - unless I say so. Do you understand?”

He nodded, clearing his throat as you raised an eyebrow. “Yes ma’am.”

You nodded and moved your lips to his, revelling in the power that swelled within you as he moved in for the kiss, and you simply grazed your teeth against that plump lower lip before pulling back again and staring into his eyes.

“And baby? Bingo.” You murmured him, referencing the safe word you both used whenever things got hot and heavy in the bedroom.

He nodded, his voice hoarse as he repeated it, in time for you to pat his cheek and then move backwards, staring intently into his eyes as you began to slowly remove your shirt. His eyes widened as you let the shirt fell from your fingers to the floor and you slid your hands over your red lacy bra, over your stomach and waist. Slowly, deliberately, you unbuttoned your jeans, taking down the zipper and swinging your hips gently from side to side as you wiggled out of the tight denim.

In front of you, your boyfriend bit his lip and balled his fists on his thighs.

“Baby,” he began in a low voice.

Immediately you stopped moving. “Did I tell you you could speak?”

Jake shook his head slowly and pursed those perfect pink lips together, his jaw twitching silently.

You nodded and moved your hands back up, sliding your bra straps off your shoulder and moving the cups down to reveal your full breasts. “Then maybe,” you continued, sighing as you ran your fingers over hard nipples. “You should keep your damn mouth shut.”

Closing your eyes for a moment you moaned, and continued to move one hand down to the front of your matching panties before stroking two fingers over the damp lace. Biting your lip as the pressure sent a shot of pleasure through your body - a shot that deepened when you opened your eyes to find Jake staring back at you intently, his diamond cut jaw set.

“Oh my. I bet you’d kill to have your fingers in these panties right now wouldn’t you?” Sliding your fingers inside the lace you sighed again, “to feel just how wet it is in here. How wet I get all on my own, without any help from you?”

The jaw tightened and eyes narrowed but he stayed still, his knuckles white now on the side of the bed and the tent in his boxers growing bigger by the second.

Closing your eyes again you began to rub a finger over the tip of your clit, squeezing your legs together rhythmically to heighten the pressure, and moaning as your pleasure increased before dipping your fingers inside of yourself.

“So wet. You murmured, looking directly at him. “Bet you’d like a taste, wouldn’t you?”

Eyes still narrowed; Jake gave a small nod.

“Use your voice lieutenant. I asked you a question.”

If he was surprised he didn’t show it, game face well and truly on as he answered roughly. “Yes ma’am.”

You retrieved your fingers from your panties and held them in front of you, examining them like a new discovery and you moved your fingers apart to watch the slick spread between them. “So wet….” Your head snapped up. “Open your mouth.”

His jaw dropped on command as you strode toward him and placed your fingers in front of Jake’s lips. Immediately he leaned forwards, taking them deeply into his mouth as he sucked and swirled his tongue around them. God the man had a good mouth - especially when it was quiet. Without warning you pulled your fingers free and grabbed his chin, the blond scruff scraping your hand as you tilted it up to meet you and crashed your lips together in a filthy open-mouthed kiss that was all too heavy on the tongue. Jake leaned in, giving as good as he got with the kiss while reaching back to grasp the cheek of your butt.

Immediately you stepped back, practically throwing his hand back at him.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing? I give you an inch and you take a mile. Is that the way you think this works Seresin?!”

“Baby I -.”

“What did you call me?!” Your arms folded over your chest, a gesture that also pushed your breasts up and together in the most unsubtle way possible.

Tightening that sharp jaw once again Jake exhaled loudly. He looked furious, and for just a moment you thought he might call halt to the whole thing. But your man was a good navy guy, and he knew how to follow orders, even when he hated them.

“Ma’am.”

You shook your head in feigned disgust, amazed at just how much the flash of anger in his eyes was turning you on; at how hot it was to stand over this prime specimen of manhood you got to call your own and have him answer your every order. The very thought of him submitting to you in this way made you bolder. Bolder and wetter. And so you shed your bra and panties before flicking a hand towards the bed. “Lie down. If you’re determined to use that mouth of yours then you might as well do it properly.”

As he lay back against the pillows, you could’ve sworn you saw Jake shiver in anticipation, a sensation you knew only too well from all the times he had been the one in control. This time though the control was firmly in your hands.

You were in control as you climbed onto the bed.

In control as you crawled over the top of him, pausing for just a moment to let your heat rest just above the tent in his underwear where his thick cock now stood at full mast.

In control as you lifted your hips without so much as touching him and continued to crawl up his body until you rested your naked, wet sex right in the centre of his rock hard chest.

And in control as you gazed down into those sharp green eyes with a firm look on your face.

“Here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to eat my pussy and make me come, do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You gave a short nod and grabbed his hands, moving them up to your thighs. “And while you’re there you will keep your hands right here. No touching me unless it’s with that cocky mouth of yours, and certainly no touching yourself, no matter how hard that cock might be. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”

And with that you closed the distance between your lips and his, placing your knees either side of his head and lowering yourself quickly onto his face. You felt him moan into your wetness as he got to work, his tongue licking a long, wet stripe through your folds and moving back down in a point to fuck up inside you. Trying to move deeper and deeper as his nose pressed against your clit. Eyes rolling back in your head, you bit your lip, and tried desperately not to grind against his face as you fought to appear unimpressed. After a few moments you lifted back up to give him breathing room and looked down at him, his handsome face wet and visible between your legs.

“Oh lieutenant. You’re good. But I believe your order was to make me come. And you know, I’ve got to wonder if you’re up to the challenge.”

You saw the effort it took to bite back a retort as Jake’s face twisted into a scowl and he jerked his head up to attack your wetness with renewed vigour.

Maybe it was the way that glorious tongue was working your clit round and round, only to be replaced a second later by the suction of his lips, before his tongue took the lead once again; or maybe it was the surge of power that came with having him not only obey your orders but leap to the task at hand, but your release came quickly - a hot and heavy quake that tore out of your throat with a cry and crashed through every part of you, causing you to grip a hand in his short blond hair and pull him closer even as every muscle in your body tensed to send you rising up off of his mouth and he dug his nails into your thighs trying to pull you closer.

Lifting up again you took a moment to compose yourself, breathing heavily before you lay down next to him and planted a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Oh baby you did so good. And followed my orders to the letter, anyone would think you were an army man.”

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, causing you to laugh softly as you placed a hand on his chest and trailed a finger down his front.

“You made me feel so good, I think you deserve to feel good too, don’t you?”

Circling his lips slightly, Jake nodded, and you moved up to hover above him, continuing to straddle him as too allowed your hand to move behind you to his boxers. He was so hard now that the fabric was straining with the fullness of his erection, and as your scratched gently up the underside of his length through the fabric, you heard him hiss in a way that told you he was full to bursting. You grasped the base of his cock and began to rub slowly through his underwear.

“So hard for me huh? Feels like someone likes the taste of my pussy don’t they?”

He nodded, biting his lips and keeping his eyes firmly on yours as you continued to stare at him.

“Or maybe you like taking orders. Is that it lieutenant? You get off on being a good boy who does what he’s told?” You punctuated your words with a few sharp tugs of his cock, before bringing your hand to rest on his balls and squeezing just hard enough to make his eyes roll back in his head. You laughed softly as you returned to his length and felt him throb under your hand.

“Please.” He croaked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes, lieutenant?”

“Touch me,” he gasped as you jerked your hand up again.

You bit down on your lower lip, considering. In truth you wanted nothing more than to take that beautiful cock out and worship it with your hands and your mouth, before sliding it deep inside you and riding to your next, rapidly approaching orgasm. But that wasn’t part of the plan for tonight, not yet.

And so instead you leaned your body down closer to him, wriggling slightly so that your naked sex ground down over his bulging underwear and your face was by his ear.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you? Me to take down your underwear and pull on that dripping cock of yours until you explode? Maybe even move down and take it into my mouth?”

He was all-out panting now, his eyes keenly fixed on yours and all arrogance gone from them as he gazed pleasingly at you. “Yes.”

“I bet you would. And do you think you’ve been good enough to deserve that?” You squeezed harder and upped your pace.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “You’re gonna make me cum like this.”

Moving your hand to his jaw you stared hard into his eyes as you kept going. “Am I? Gonna make you cum in your pants? So hot for me that you can’t even wait until I actually touch you. So horny at being my good little pet that you cum all over yourself?”

He gasped and stiffened as he jerked his hips up, a sign that you knew meant he was about to orgasm.

And just like that you moved away.

“What the fuck?” Jake’s voice was a mixture of outrage and frustration as he began to sit up, his eyes blazing and his hand reaching out to grab yours while you simply slid off of him and sat up next to him, pulling back from his touch.

“I beg your pardon? Is that any sort of a question to ask a lady?”

His handsome face was a mixture of lust and fury as his lips pursed ready for speak again.

“Choose your next words carefully lieutenant,” you told him. “You want me to stop that’s fine, but know that either way I won’t be making you cum just yet.”

You stared at one another for another moment, his jaw working and his eyes narrowed. If you had thought for one moment that he was genuinely unhappy, you’d have stopped in an instant - headed out to the kitchen and let the usual make up ritual play out. But you knew your man, and knew this was all ego, an ego that might just benefit from being taken down a peg or too.

“What’s it to be Seresin? Have you had enough? Can’t take it anymore and need to give in?”

He huffed out a breath. “No ma’am.”

You nodded. “Good. Then you’ll cum when I say so and not before, do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And while those balls of yours might be full to bursting right now you’ll just have to wait, because I need more from you before I decide you deserve to cum.”

Biting your lip, you lay down next to him, curling your body against him until every part of your front was connected to his side. He began to shift to face you but you held up a hand.

“Ah ah, stay exactly where you are. Eyes up, and while you’re there put those hands where I can see them. No. Touching. You see, you might not deserve to cum yet but all this being in charge is making me so wet,” you pushed your naked pussy against his thigh and heard him groan softly, “and I just don’t think I can concentrate until I’ve gotten off.” You began to move again, your clit buzzing from the contact with his rock hard leg. “And I know how much you love to see me touching myself, how much you love to make me come on your fingers.” You gasped as he flexed his muscles under you. “But bad boys don’t get what they want. And until you can prove to me that you can be trusted to do only as I say, I guess I need to find another way to get the job done.”

You could feel his heavy breathing through bitten lips, and saw his eyes gazing sidelong as you as he tried desperately not to move his head, nor his hands which were flexing in fists on his stomach.

“Oh Jake,” you moaned. “Remember the last time I rode your thigh? On the beach outside of the Hard Deck, people right inside – so close you had to put a hand over my mouth when I came? Remember?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You loved it didn’t you? Talked right through it telling me how hot it made you to know you could make me come without even touching me. Just by sitting there talking to me, remember?”

His jaw was so tight now you swore it must be painful.

“Bet it would give you a kick if I came on your thigh tonight. Remind you that even when I’m in charge, you can still make me come without trying huh?”

He was quiet, even as you pulled back.

“Roll over lieutenant,” you murmured. “And remember, no touching.”

As he turned to face you, you opened your legs. Pulling apart your outer lips with one hand, you began to squeeze your clit, pinching and rubbing it alternately while your other hand stroked circles around your pussy. Your juices were making it hard to focus your fingers, especially with the growing bell of lust that seemed to expand inside you with each touch.

“Fuck Jake I hope you’re watching closely,”

You murmured, closing your eyes and bucking your hips towards his with a shudder. “This is how I take care of myself when you’re not here. Want you to know how good I can make myself come without any help from you.”

Working first one and then two fingers inside yourself you moaned and began to touch your clit with your thumb as you moved the other hand to stroke across the soft skin of your body.

You opened your eyes and found Jake watching you intently, his cheeks red, eyes slotted, and teeth biting down on that bottom lip hard enough that you wondered if it would bleed.

The sight only spurred you on to put on a better show, moving your hips and your fingers as you moaned his name.

“My eyes, look in my eyes while I make myself come.”

He groaned softly and met your eyes, a connection you loved but he would often avoid – not out of discomfort, simply from a desire to fixate elsewhere.

“Want to touch you.” He said, his voice thick and low.

You nodded, “I know.”

“Want to taste you,” he paused, “please Ma’am.”

And how could you resist when he was so polite? You took your fingers from your pussy and held them towards him for a moment, before capturing them in your own mouth and sucking them clean on a moan. His expression was somewhere between frustration and sheer sex as you removed them with a satisfied sigh and began to touch yourself again.

“Oh don’t worry, you still get a taste.”

You grabbed his jaw firmly and pulled him towards you, pushing your tongue into his mouth. His moan was loud enough to barely be muffled as he sucked the juices off your tongue, and then met your lips with his own, his tongue swirling around yours as he tried to convey all his feelings in a kiss.

It was a damned good kiss. Good enough that, together with the pressure on all of your most sensitive spots, your release came quickly, leaving you screaming into his mouth as you crashed over the edge. Your eyes shot open and you saw him gazing back at you, his stare hard while he continued to kiss you. You let him do it, taking control with his mouth for just a minute while you regained your senses and pulled back.

“Well, that mouth of yours sure has had a workout tonight huh? Maybe it’s time I did the same,” you licked your lips. “What do you say lieutenant?”

He nodded, his throat too dry to speak, and thrust his hips up aimlessly from the bed, causing you to let out a low chuckle as you moved your attention down and removed his boxer shorts.

His cock was harder than you’d ever seen it, the head red and angry looking and a thin stream of pre-cum leaking from the tip. Even his balls seemed to stand to attention as you took in the whole sight while moving to kneel between his thighs.

You thought about going gently, teasing him for a while with your tongue, hands and tits as you often would. But this wasn’t a night for gentle. And so, grasping the base of his dick in one hand, you lowered your mouth quickly over his length.

As his thickness slid down your throat, you gagged slightly - it was always a struggle to accommodate the sheer size of him - but the movement only served to add extra suction for him, leaving him crying out.

“Y/n, fuck.”

You paused and stared hard into his eyes, causing him to nod and set his lips again, forcing himself to be quiet as you moved your head around him, varying the depth and angle so that his tip was continually stimulated by every part of your mouth, before lifting back up and sucking as you used your lips and hand to jerk him off. He was moaning softly now despite himself, while bobbing his hips up and down almost imperceptibly, slightly enough that you knew how much restraint it must be taking him not to fuck your mouth.

God you wanted to make him cum, to watch those eyes fly open and hear the loud string of curses and praise that you knew would leave his lips as he finally exploded down your throat. Wanted it, but also found yourself throbbing once again as you thought of depriving him just a little longer.

You removed your lips from his dick with a pop, and looked up at him, “feel good lieutenant?”

“Y, yes ma’am.”

“Good enough to cum?” You licked a long stripe up the vein that ran base to tip.

He nodded, the blend of discomfort and pain evident in his face.

“Tell me then, tell me what you want.”

Swirling your tongue around the head, you fixed your eyes upon him and began to tongue his tip pointedly.

“Want you to take me down your throat. To hold my balls while you deep throat me until I shoot my load in your mouth. Want to see you full of my cum.”

You nodded, biting back a moan, and did as he said, deep throating him again as you moved your hands to his balls and teased them.

He arched his back, gripping the sheets once again as he desperately tried to prevent himself touching you. His cock twitched in your mouth.

“So, close.” He hissed. “So, fucking, cl-.”

And you pulled away from him, stopping all stimulation in a way that had his hips rising to fuck the air, and a long whine leaving his lips.

“Oh Jake, a whine, really?”

“I need to cum,” the first words out of his mouth were needier than you’d ever heard, twisting something inside your womb in a way that was about lust just as much as power as you raised an eyebrow.

“Ma’am, please.” His voice was small and pleading. “I’ll do anything.”

Instead you moved back, just far enough that no part of your body was touching his, but close enough that there was no way he could move; no way for him to squeeze his legs together or roll to the side and fuck into the blankets. And, since your man was used to following orders, those hands were still gripped by his sides.

“Well well, so needy for me aren’t you lieutenant? Funny isn’t it, how the big slutty ace from earlier was laughing at a woman for how much she wanted him, how much of a slut she was for him. And now look at you, desperately fucking the air and begging me to let you cum. How is it to be the needy slut lieutenant?”

You saw the whites of his eyes as his hips bucked.

“Oh you like that do you? Like it when I call you a needy slut. Maybe you should remember that, next time you’re talking about me in a bar - next time you’re talking about any woman in a bar.”

He hissed and looked into your face, dazed from the sex hormones flooding his body - dazed from you.

“Maybe you should remember how it is to be the one who isn’t in control, who’s teased past the point of thinking, the next time you decide to act like a cocky asshole. Well, what do you say?”

“Y, yes ma’am.”

You nodded, the walls of your pussy fluttering in a desperate need to be filled as you watched him looking this suppliant and wanting.

“Yes what?”

“I’ll remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That I’m a needy little slut.” You laughed softly.

“That too, although that wasn’t what I meant. Remember what lieutenant?”

His eyes closed for a moment, more in an attempt to calm his desperate urge to cum than to delay the words. “To show some respect.”

“That’s it.” You murmured, placing a hand on his abs and feeling him twitch. “Good boy.” You climbed up, opening your legs until your soaking sex hovered just over his pulsing erect ion.

“Do you think you’ve learned your lesson now lieutenant?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Think it’s safe for me to fuck you now? To let you touch me while you fill me up?”

He growled the next words out, “Yes. Please, yes.”

And like that you were dropping down on him, his entire length sliding easily inside your over-ready cunt in a way that made you both cry out. You gave yourself a second to get used to him inside you - even after all of this time it still took a moment to get comfortable with how deep he went - and began to ride him steadily at an angle that allowed you to ground your clit against his hard lower abs.

His hands were on your hips, gripping tightly as he did all he could to bounce you even harder and faster on his dick, the punishing rhythm enough to force a sudden and choked cry from your throat.

“Gonna. Cum.” He moaned, looking at you in surprise. “Can’t. Hold. On.”

“You can,” you painted, trying to regain composure. “You can and you will. We’re going to come together Seresin, you understand?”

He nodded, his pupils blown wide enough to turn those green eyes black as he watched you with the razor sharp focus of a man used to life and death situations. You slowed your bounces as you concentrated on the friction you needed to ride out one more orgasm.

“You’re going to wait for me to come so I can milk everything out of you, so that you can pump me so full of your cum it’s dripping out of my pussy. So that your cock is covered in my juice too. Understood.”

He grunted. “Yes. Ma’am.”

“Tell me one more thing,” you asked breathily, your eyes fixed on his. “Whose orders do you follow?”

“Yours ma’am. Only yours.”

It was enough to send you shouting right towards your peak, crying out as you began to ride him for all you were worth and reaching down to grab his hair as you pulled him up for a hot kiss.

Again his hands grasped your hips, pulling you into him as he thrust once, twice, three times and sent you into raptures, following close behind with a loud cry into your mouth as you felt rope after rope of thick cum coat your walls and shoot all the way into your womb.

You continued to ride him gently for just a moment, both of you putting more effort into the kiss as you came down from your high and regained control of your mouths. His hands were on your back, in your hair, and you had no desire to stop him, entirely blissed out as you let his touch ignite a path of fire on your overstimulated skin.

“Baby,” he murmured, moving his lips to your neck. “You are fucking phenomenal.”

You laughed, moving back to look at him. “Not too much?”

He returned the laugh into your skin, shaking his head ever so slightly as he spoke. “Absolutely not.”

Continuing to kiss your neck he pulled you down to lie with him, but you braced yourself to pull back again.

“Jake, baby, I think I need to clean up before we-.”

His strong hands were firm on your arms. “Let me, you lie here.”

And so you did, lying back onto the pillows and slowly coming back from what felt like an out of body experience, you took your turn now to watch his delicious ass leave the room, trying to remember the last time he’d volunteered to go and take care of you in this way. It wasn’t that he was selfish usually, not at all as your regularly satisfied body could attest to, more that he showed his feelings in other ways.

But tonight was different. And as he strode back into the room with a towel and washcloth in hand, you found yourself grinning.

“Something funny baby?”

“I was just thinking how nice it is to have you take care of me… Maybe you do like me being in control after all?” You teased.

He perched on the side of the bed and stroked his hands up your thighs to part them.

“I just want you to know,” he murmured, eyes low but hands firm on your skin, “how much you matter to me. How much I,” he swallowed, “respect you. Always.” He glanced up, “even if sometimes I need to be reminded. I hope you know that, I never want to lose you.”

You sat up and rested a hand on his cheek until those eyes - still bright but somehow less cocky now - met yours. “I’m going nowhere baby.” You pecked a soft kiss to his lips and then grinned, “and if you ever forget? Well then I know exactly how to remind you now.”

He raised an eyebrow and bit his lip as the trademarked Hangman smile returned, suddenly pushing you back and pinning you to the bed as his lips moved to within a breath of yours. “Oh baby, that kind of promise might be enough to make me forget.”

And with that, he was kissing you deeply, his hands on your waist and his cock already beginning to swell again above your centre.

“Again Jake? Already?”

“Oh baby, I’m always ready.”

“Needy.” You moaned teasingly as you fisted a hand in his hair.

“For you, always.”

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