the asterisk (*) indicates nsfw fics, if you’re a minor please stay away from them.
PETE “MAVERICK” MITCHELL
we've got time. *
Capt. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell was assigned as team leader on the detachment mission and you worry you don’t have enough time for goodbyes or forevers.
my girl.
Maverick comes home from the mission, happy and well. But that was not what you’ve been worried about while he was gone. This is part two to “We’ve Got Time”.
head over heels.
Reader harbors secret feelings for Maverick for over a year. Little did she know, so did he.
just a number. *
After a fun day out surrounded by the younger TOPGUN pilots, Maverick proves to you that age is truly just a number. Not that you needed reminding. 😉
sweet child o’ mine.
A short, fluffy, and domestic drabble about Maverick and pregnant!reader.
girl dad.
Headcanons of Maverick as a girl dad (shared with Hangman’s headcanon)
his only.
She was the admiral’s daughter and all the boys love her, but her heart was his and only his.
JAKE “HANGMAN” SERESIN
a love that will last.
One night stands are not really your thing, but they are definitely his. So when emotions get in the way, the best thing you could do for yourself was to stay away. Turns out, Hangman had other plans.
me, myself, and i.
Jake “Hangman” Seresin isn’t exactly the right person to ask for commitments from. But what happens when the two of you grow up and realize all you want is one another?
you and i.
Jake knew he wanted you, and you couldn’t lie and say that you don’t wnt him. But could you trust him again? This is part two to Me, Myself, and I.
beach view. *
You were the shy and soft-spoken to his adventurous and outgoing. But his confidence is contagious, and when you’re around him, you always do things you never imagined yourself doing. Including sex...at the beach 👀
girl dad.
Headcanons of Hangman as a girl dad (shared with Maverick’s headcanon)
getting the hang of it (part 1) and (part 2). *
part one has a sexual assault scene and part two has an almost smut, please tread carefully
Hangman annoys the hell out of you, but turns out it was because he just didn’t know how to handle his own feelings. Enemies to lovers stuff, you’ll love it I promise.
the way you love me series (part 1) (part 2)
Four-part series about Hangman and shy reader based on I Love The Way You Love Me – Boyzone.
BRADLEY “ROOSTER” BRADSHAW
ticklish.
Tickle fights. That’s it. That’s the whole plot.
stay forever.
Rooster stays with reader through labor; although maybe she was the one staying with him through it.
pairing: ethan hunt x f!reader
word count: 10.1k
cw: smut, swearing, making out, unprotected sex, rough sex, f!receiving oral, penetration, light bondage, dirty talk, gun usage, knives, blood, wounds
summary: vienna was a night you buried somewhere between gunfire and guilt. but ghosts don’t stay dead—not when one of them is ethan hunt. four years later, he finds you in new york, living like you never tore the night apart. one night, one apartment, and the space between anger and want collapses into something neither of you can name.
VIENNA. 2012.
Vienna has the kind of elegance that one would envision during their last breaths of life. The mansion rose like a flower, the petals being the balconies that glistened with chandeliers, the halls tinged with the touch of perfume and champagne.
But this was no ordinary vacation for you. Not with a false name on your passport, not with the weight of a pistol strapped against your thigh beneath your silk gown.
You're here on orders. A single objective: ensure the death of Minister Otto Kapp. He was the kind of man whose death would shift markets, send shockwaves through parliaments, and open doors for much darker individuals. He didn't even know a blink of your existence, but you knew every inch of his mind—his routines, his secret accounts, how his right eye twitches when he lies.
There wasn't a title to summarize your work. All you knew was that one day, someone needed you to get a job done, and since then, that's what you've been accomplishing. This morning was no different when you saw a box with a satin red bow on top outside the door of the Italian villa you were hiding out in.
The contents of the box are now wrapped around your body: a silk red dress with a thigh-high slit and a low neckline.
These people really did not know how to dress to hide weapons.
From your position, nursing a cold glass of champagne in your hand, your eyes trace his every move. The glint in his blue eyes and the crinkle of his smile are frozen as if they were painted on as he raises his own champagne flute to toast to some faceless dignitaries.
But the sudden crawl of goosebumps grows on the back of your neck, the feeling of someone's eyes follows you. Your eyes don't lift off of the man now caressing the lower back of a woman (who clearly wasn't his wife) for a few more breaths, until you can't bear it anymore.
When your eyes shift to him, he doesn't look away. Daring. His piercing green eyes look into yours as your breath dares to hitch, but he would notice, so you hold it. Within the blink of an eye, the direction of his eyes shifts down to the minister, and it becomes clear to you—he is after the same thing.
His eyes revert to your face, and your instinct tells you to flee as he moves closer. Closer. Closer. Your heels click against the marble ground as you brush past hundreds of people—how many fucking people can be on a singular balcony? If this is how morally grey rich men got to live, you wouldn't be opposed to doing some witchcraft to turn into one.
Then again, you were on a mission to finalize his assassination.
By the time you got to the bottom floor—same level as Kapp—you thought you were in the clear, until you hear—
"May I?" he asks as he sneaks a hand around your waist. His voice was low, almost drowned out by the music.
You tilt your head to meet his eyes, studying him. His face was handsome, yes, but something about it invites you as if you belonged.
"Why not," you murmur as he guides you to the crowd of dancers with a slight smile on his face.
You should have been focused on your mission, on the minister nearby, on the assassin you knew was already in place. Instead, you found yourself watching the man before you, trying to read him as he no doubt tried to read you.
Soon, your senses return, and your eyes subtly search the area for the assassin. The man was dressed in a black tuxedo, looking perfectly at you. All he was doing was staring at you and waiting for your go-ahead signal.
The assassin's eyebrow raises as you lock eyes briefly, asking you if he should proceed. You purse your lips together to symbolize 'no'.
"First time in Vienna?" Your eyes relocate to his, only now realizing how little space you two have between each other.
"Do I look like a tourist?"
"No," he admitted, lips tugging into something resembling a smile. "Well, maybe an experienced one."
You let yourself laugh, low and soft, because it disarmed him. His eyes flicker—he didn’t expect you to be amused. "So, why'd you choose me to dance with tonight?"
A fire in his eyes—you could feel yourself slipping deeper and deeper into this narrative that maybe this handsome stranger you met five minutes ago could sweep you away from this treacherous life.
Were you that desperate to escape?
"You seem to know something I want."
That shattered the narrative. You felt stupid. Five minutes of a dance with a man whose name you aren't aware of, and you thought he was your knight in shining armor.
You compose yourself, looking to see if he noticed anything off other than your momentary silence. "Tell me your name first, and then I'll rack my mind as to what you might want to know."
"Ethan, and you are?"
As the waltz carried you in sweeping circles, your lips brushed his ear, close enough to pass for a lover’s whisper. "Third balcony, left wing. Watch the man in the black tux. He’s armed."
You felt him stiffen almost imperceptibly, then recover. He glanced just enough to confirm your words without betraying his attention. He trusts you. "Your parents really must've wanted for you to have a unique name."
His feet start to move toward the third balcony, and his hand pressed firmly against your back. It seeps into your skin, but you find it pleasant.
The man in the black tuxedo shifted, posture too rigid, hand dipping beneath his jacket. Ethan angled you just enough that your dress glittered under the chandeliers, drawing eyes away from his line of sight. "I can't help but wonder why you're helping me."
"Well, let's just say you're my charity case for tonight," you lie straight through your teeth as your hand grazes his chest. The reality was that if you diverted Ethan, the black tux guy could get the job done faster, and you'd be out of here for good.
Out of the blue, your eyes catch sight of the rise of the gun equipped with a silencer. A clear shot at the minister's exposed temple—until you stumble deliberately, pulling Ethan with you. The slip forced him into the line of fire just as the shot cracked. The bullet smacked against marble, a puff of dust exploding near the minister’s head.
Screams erupted. Glass shattered. The crowd faltered into chaos.
Black tux bolts to the terrace exit. Ethan steadies you, and you slip your hand from his grasp. "Stay here." His voice hardened to steel.
"As if," you shot back, already moving.
The two of you weave through the panicked crowd, heels striking the cold marble ground, tuxedos and gowns shuffling as they attempt to escape. Black tuxedo pushed past servers, knocking over tiny portions of food and sparkly drinks, earning him a few good curse words in German. He lunges towards the east corridor, leading Ethan to pick up the pace as you flank him, now two steps ahead.
The corridor narrowed, lit by red exit signs. Black tuxedo pulls a blade when his gun jams. He lunges—not at Ethan, but at you.
Your face audibly read: What the fuck, man?
When the knife slashes through the air for the second time, you don't hesitate. Your sharp heel drove down on his instep, your elbow snapping up into his jaw. He reeled, stumbling straight into Ethan's grip. One clean knee to the stomach, and the black tuxedo is whining in pain on the floor.
Your mind runs at a thousand miles per hour. How the hell would they finish the operation if the assassin is a near-dead man? You did think that he deserved every ounce of pain he received for attacking you while being aware that you're the asset for tonight, bastard.
Kneeling, you retrieve the knife from the ground and shank the unnamed man to find his gun. Fucking idiot, he didn't even know it was on a safety lock. This operation could not get any worse. Now you just had to hope there was a fall-safe.
"You handled yourself well," he says, voice low, rough from adrenaline.
You tilt your head, lips curving. "What, did you expect me to scream and faint?"
The rupture of gunshots spikes your eyes, and both of your heads whip around in the direction. After sparing each other a glance, you dash towards the origin of the noise.
When you reach the end of the railing, you lean your stomach against it, attempting to look to see what the commotion was. You reluctantly hand Ethan the gun you collected, praying to every god that it wouldn't end up aimed at you.
"Schaut da drüben! (Look over there!)" A man spoke out from the mob of 5—all wearing leather jackets and black sunglasses like they were the Terminator—pointing at you, which led everyone to whip their heads to where you and Ethan stood.
God, you hope these people know you're the asset. But all hope is shattered when you feel the grip on your arm that pulls you away from a bullet aimed at your face.
He rushes you to a corridor and presses you against the stone wall, searching you for any wounds. "Are you okay?" His voice was saturated with care, which you fail to comprehend. Who could care for someone they just met that easily?
You don't respond, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how to feel that you were about to betray a good-hearted man. His eyebrows furrow in anticipation as he waits for your answer, attempting to ground you by placing his hands on your shoulders, which were decorated with the thin straps of your dress. Maybe he thought this shocked you, that you were inexperienced.
Another rupture of a bullet makes your heads turn in the direction, and your eyes snap back to each other in a silent conversation of 'fight or flight?'. But when a slender man appears around the corner, fight was the only option present in both of your minds.
He lunges at you, blade flashing. You met it with everything you had: palm against forearm, a cracked heel into ankle, a hip shove that turned his momentum inside out. He spun and came at you again, but this time his blade nicks your ribs—thin, hot pain lancing under your ribs, a wet bloom that tasted like copper the instant it opened.
And you were hoping to keep the dress after the operation.
Ethan's eyes flash to your wound as the man launches himself at him. He hauled the blade-wielding man off with a roll, a throw, hands that became a restraint as if his fingers themselves had been taught to tie knots. He kept the other man controlled with the kind of efficiency you’d spent years studying to emulate. He rushed to your side in a single motion.
Your fingers glaze the area that was now pooling with blood, coating your fingers—never take an assignment from these people again is a note you make to yourself.
"You're hit," he said. His tone was different than before, no more playfulness, but rough, yet full of concern.
"Just a scratch," you lie. This operation was escalating in the wrong way and way too fast for you to handle. Attempting to make your lie reality, your eyes squish shut as Ethan pushes you into a nearby service room. Your daydream only fails when you feel droplets of blood trickling down your lower torso and your forearm as you apply pressure.
Your eyes flutter open to the sight of Ethan frantically searching for something, and you're lost on what it could be. The service room was an antechamber lined in gilt and mirrors that threw fractured reflections of the chaos outside. You finally feel the cold tile you sat upon when Ethan rushes to your side, now applying pressure with the handkerchief from his suit pocket.
"Press here," he orders. His fingers are steady, no tremor; they work the fabric until it is swollen with red. He didn’t ask you questions. He didn’t narrate the situation. He only applied himself to the task with a focus that made something ache behind your ribs that had nothing to do with blood.
He brushes the hair from your forehead. His fingers left a line of wet on your temple—blood, not sweat. Your breath hitched. You could have pushed him away and worked your escape, but the sharpness of his care burned in a place you’d kept iced for years. For the first time in a long time, the mask slipped, and something honest peered through.
A smile peered at his lips as your breathing calmed, "I still don't know your name."
For a moment, you considered telling him the truth. That you weren’t his friend, or even his ally, that you were here to dismantle his mission brick by brick. But the words lodged in your throat.
Instead, you gave him a name. Not your real one, of course—it never was. But you whispered it softly, like a secret you had no business sharing. "Amelia." His green eyes search yours as though he could peel back the layers of deception with nothing but his gaze.
"Alright, then," he murmurs, voice gentler now, like he was committing it to memory. His hand pressed harder against your wound, grounding you to him in a way that makes your chest ache. "I’ll remember it."
And you knew he would.
"What's the guarantee you'll have the chance to meet me again?"
The thudding sound of footsteps shifts your attention to outside the shut door, and the hushed voices of the men searching for you only made you wonder what the hell they were doing instead of killing Otto Kapp.
Ethan's eyes reluctantly tear away from your face, slowly bringing himself to a stance. "Stay," he barked, but it came out more like a plea than a command.
Four minutes pass.
You don't stay.
The handkerchief is soaked with blood as you drag your feet behind you. All that was on your mind was to find Kapp, finish the job, and get out of here.
Far behind you, you could hear the grunts of pain and possibly overexertion from the assassins and Ethan. Every room you had searched thus far has no sight of Kapp, and your heart begs that he does not have a secret safety dungeon that has lasers reinforcing it.
Your pulse thuds in your ears as you press against the marble wall, hand clamped over the wound that wouldn’t stop leaking. Each step tugs like you're wading through wet cement. Every second you aren't at Otto Kapp’s side is another chance for him to slip away.
But Ethan’s voice haunted the corridor behind you: his grunts, the sharp impact of fists and bone. And—God help you—the faintest call of your name—the one you gave him.
Amelia.
You shove the thought away, forcing your body forward, each heel-click against the floor a drumbeat against the thin thread holding you upright.
The last salon door opened into a vaulted chamber, empty except for its glittering chandeliers and—at last—Kapp, flanked by two men with rifles. His eyes bulged when he saw you, a flash of recognition or maybe just the fear of a cornered man.
Your pistol is already in your hand, slick with blood where you’d palmed it.
"Minister." Your voice rasps, weak but sharp enough to slice the silence. "We’re overdue for a conversation."
The bodyguards lift their rifles. You fire first.
The next moments blurred into pain and fire—one shot taking a guard in the chest, another grazing your shoulder as you staggered sideways. The red silk clung to you, soaked, ruined. You almost didn’t feel the second bullet because your ribs already burned like hell. But you felt Ethan’s presence, somewhere behind you—his voice cutting through the haze, shouting your name, Amelia—as your final shot found Kapp’s temple.
He drops like a paperweight, useless.
You could feel your body drifting in and out of stability, your blood-drenched gun slipping out of your hand as your back rested against the hard wall, chest heaving with each pleading breath.
The desperation in Ethan's voice grew as he heard the ricochet of bullets, similar to how his voice ricochets off the walls of the golden chamber.
Your blood-stained hand leaves a print on the wall as you push yourself into balance. You had to flee. Your clumsy steps gravitate to a door opposite to the direction of Ethan's voice—your mind runs quicker than your hasty steps. What if Ethan could help? Get you to a hospital or patch you up himself. Maybe he would take you to the organization he is appointed to, and the sculpting of your skills would be used for good.
But as the cold air of the Vienna night brushes upon your body as you rummage yourself outside, you know he couldn't do anything to save you.
At the same time as your realization, Ethan bursts into the room, greeted by the lifeless bodies of two guards and the cold, stiff body of Otto Kapp. You were gone.
The only proof of your existence to him was the handkerchief covered in your blood and the memory of your face etched into his memory.
NEW YORK. 2016.
The buzzing city of New York never dies down, even as you attempt to find a moment of peace in your morning.
It was a normal Friday for you, a nice walk down Central Park, headed to the local bakery. Four years ago, a normal Friday would've been head-locking someone until they pass out from lack of oxygen.
Your headphones tightly press down onto your ears, the only focus of yours being the sound of your music and the rhythm of your swaying keys.
In twenty minutes, the bell of the bakery's door chimes as you open it, the fresh scent of pastries infiltrating your senses.The warmth clings to your skin like a second coat. The glass case glitters with tarts and croissants, the kind of decadent normalcy you had trained yourself to crave. You slide your headphones down to your neck, letting the soft hum of the city fade into the smell of sugar and espresso. This was your life now—safe, small, forgettable.
And that's what you found peaceful.
Your name draws out of the cashier's mouth. One of the only friends you've made was Stacy. "I was wondering when you would show up. Thirty minutes later than usual—you're slacking," she playfully scolds.
"Last I checked, sleeping in wasn't a crime." But being a murderer is. You grin, sliding your card across the counter.
Stacy takes the card in between her fingers, sliding it into the credit card terminal. "Since when do you sleep in? You act like someone is always fucking chasing you," she retorts. That wasn't entirely wrong; it seems like no matter how much you attempt to forget, your past is engraved into you. It determines you.
Stacy works swiftly at bringing you what you usually drank—your idea of normalcy is the absence of change. A simple cappuccino, extra dry, and an almond croissant.
Maybe it was the comment Stacy made about your behavior, but the insistent draw of someone's eyes traces your figure vigorously. Goosebumps rise on the back of your neck as you have an internal battle on whether to turn around and look or stay put, seeming unsuspecting. In all seriousness, it could just be a creep, and you would seem overtly paranoid; that's a dead giveaway of a cover. Yet, your tense shoulders never loosened.
The faint murmur of your name picks up your ears, and your eyes dart to meet Stacy's. "You okay? Seem to be lost in thought," she inquired.
A second of silence passes as you attempt to decide what to say, but like muscle memory, a soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Maybe sleeping in isn't my thing. Guess it's leaving me feeling… drowsy."
She hands you your croissant, placed in a brown bag, and your coffee in a to-go cup with a small smile on her gloss-covered lips.. "By the way, this random ass guy has been sitting in here for like forty-five fucking—"
"What does he look like?"
Stacy's eyebrows furrow as her eyes squint. "Like an ordinary Joe Schmoe—brunette, green eyes, not that tall, somewhere in his forties, maybe late thirties—if he is any older, he looks damn good for his age." Maybe you were too quick to ask her. "Why the interest?" She asks.
Seems oddly familiar.
"Oh, no reason. Just… curious, you know? Maybe I know him or something."
"Or something…" She laughs it off, thank god. "Well, time for me to pick it up before the rush comes in. See ya later?"
"Same time as usual tomorrow, Stace." You step away from the counter and move the brown bag and cup of coffee into one hand, pulling your phone out of your coat pocket. No new notifications, but that isn't what you are checking; it was just a ploy to see if you were going to be approached and give you a chance to see your surroundings using the glass of the screen.
But after around two minutes of standing near the brown wood-planked wall, your boots are on the move yet again, pushing open the black door back onto the street. Maybe you were just being paranoid—that guy could've been there waiting for someone, unfortunately getting stood up on a coffee date.
The cold New York wind brushes your long hair past your shoulders as you take a sip of your coffee. The further and further you walked down the street—to an aimless destination—you could feel the numbing of your fingers from the cold being soothed with the warmth of the pastry and coffee in your hands.
No matter how adamant you are to rid yourself of this bickering anxiety, your nails still dig into the bag. You feel as if your footsteps are being echoed—but from far behind. And it doesn't take long to realize your delusions are reality. Your breathing picks up; the only factor that grounds you is the crowds surrounding the city.
Would he be so brave as to attack you in public during broad daylight?
There isn't a night you didn't pray that your past won't catch up with you, but with the amount of blood on your hands, it was only inevitable.
Tossing the paper cup into the nearest bin, you begin working on your croissant. Act normal, no one will suspect anything. Your feet mindlessly carry you on the path to your home, like a robot.
A group of college students spills onto the sidewalk ahead, loud and oblivious. You slide into their chaos, letting them carry you half a block, trying to disappear into chatter and laughter. But when the crowd thins, you take a sigh of relief. His presence was no longer trailing you.
"Amelia," he calls, now walking by your side. You keep your head straight, trying to convince yourself it was your mind playing tricks on you. That only works until you feel his shoulder pressed against you in the confined crowd, the memory of the warmth of his fingers pressing on your wound in Vienna flashing back to you.
You swallow visibly and tilt your head to the side, making contact with the green-eyed man. "Pardon me?"
He doesn't say anything; he looks at you with a gentle smile on his face. In four years, Ethan didn't change much, except that his hair was shorter and his eyes got a little duller.
"Oh, right, Amelia isn't your real name."
The beat of your heart picks up as you attempt to control your breathing, aware that he notices it all. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
This time, your real name spills from his lips, and the abrupt stop in your steps is masked by the red light of the crosswalk showing the stop hand. An elderly man presses the button to indicate that people are waiting to cross the road.
"I don't know you, and I would appreciate you leaving me alone." You turn your body fully to face him, dressing yourself in a facade of confidence.
The smile on his face only grows, but now you can properly study the details of his face. He started to grow a little stubble, and the tip of his nose was rosy due to the cold. Finding someone who could kill you then and there, attractive, is a death sentence.
"You know me, I know you. I don't think you could forget me that easily, right? Four years ago in Vienna—"
"I've never been to Vienna," you dismiss. Distaste fills your mouth, covering the remnants of the almond croissant as your hand tightens its grip on the brown bag until it crumples.
You want to tell him to leave, to vanish back into whatever shadow he crawled out of, but your body betrays you—your chest rises a little quicker, your pulse hammering against your wrist.
His eyes lock onto your face, scanning it like he's going to forget—like he did in Vienna. The city’s chaos around you fades until all you can hear is the phantom echo of Vienna—the pop of gunfire, his voice calling a name that wasn’t yours, the heat of his hand pressed into your bleeding ribs.
For a dangerous, fleeting second, you want to feel that again.
And that’s what terrifies you most.
You couldn't deny that you often thought about Ethan after Vienna. You went on every search engine you could to search him up, but without a last name, it was useless. Google's "search by image" feature can only do so much with sketches. When you were in the field, you feared using your contacts to ask if they recognized him; you didn't want to put him in more harm than you did that one night.
Leaving always seemed like a difficult process until it happened. Two years ago, you were on yet another operation when you got a fatal wound and were deemed 'useless'. They let you go, and they knew you couldn't do any harm to them since you never knew any names or where you received your information. All that would happen if you attempted to rat them out was harming yourself.
Ethan's silence frightens you; the beep flashes a pixilated man walking on the crosswalk, signaling for you and the crowd to cross the street. As your feet begin to move, Ethan joins you by your side.
"If you're going to follow me, don't be a pussy when I call the cops."
He scoffs, shaking his head from side to side. "You're unbelievable." Cocky. In that moment, you slightly wish he would get run over on this very road.
He spoiled your fucking mission in Vienna, he spoiled your fucking breakfast, and now he's spoiling your fucking mood. Why should you feel any sort of compassion, empathy, or intimacy with this man just because he was the only ounce of care you felt in those years of running, bleeding, and hiding?
Maybe that's why. He cared—
He cares.
Both of your feet land on the other side of the road and stop. You turn to talk to him. "I suggest you leave me alone. I'm not who you think I am. But I wish you luck in finding her. What was her name? Amelia? Nice name." Your eyes trace the line that forms in his jaw as he clenches it; it seems like you really got on that last nerve. "Good luck."
You turn, walking back in the direction of your apartment building after tossing the brown paper bag onto the concrete. You feel like shit. Why don't you trash the sidewalk as well?
Weeks pass by—weeks with no sight of him. Yet, every green-eyed stranger you met made your heart skip a beat.
Were you right to avoid him?
There is no going back now.
You're waiting for the train to come when you feel a pair of eyes on you. Brushing it off, you convince yourself it's just your paranoia. That was an effect of Ethan's visit; you were constantly looking over your shoulder. But as you peer around your surroundings, a certain pair of green eyes doesn't catch your eye, and a breath you didn't know you were holding leaves your mouth.
The train slowly comes to a stop, and a fraction of the herd of people standing behind the yellow line makes their way inside. Fortunately, you were able to grab a seat, smiling at the elderly lady sitting next to you as your headphones tightly hug your ears. You could feel sleep directly behind your eyes, the need to rest, but your constant awareness won't let you give in.
Also, it's not a smart idea to fall asleep on public transportation.
Thirty-five minutes pass until the train comes to an abrupt stop and the doors open with a bursting sound. You swiftly get to your feet, grab your bag in one hand, and make your way off the train and onto the steps to exit the subway.
It was early December. The sight of Times Square's giant tree covered by string Christmas lights invites your eyes as the bottom of your boots engrave themselves onto the sidewalk with remnants of shoveled off snow.
Four years ago, you were escaping through every crack and surviving off of every crumb that was available to you. Now, you feel peace. You can take a stroll from work, which was at a local art gallery, to your apartment without clutching a pistol between your experienced hands. Except for the fact that Ethan had to go and fuck it all up. Honestly, you would carry a gun on you if it weren't for security and the dangers that come along with it—a life you were trying to discard into the void of your past.
Stepping into your apartment building, you loosen your wool gloves from their grasp on your fingers. Mr. Fosterman was standing by the mailbox. He lives down the hall on your level. You approach the mailbox, opening the metal door labeled '3B' and grabbing a few envelopes.
"Good evening, Mr. Fosterman," you greet him.
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Patrick, honey?"
He was a sweet old man. Whenever his wife baked any goods—which are always delicious—he would be at your doorstep offering some. Mrs. Fosterman, or Melissa, would call you over to their apartment and watch reruns of old shows she adored, like Bewitched or I Love Lucy. His daughter was only a few years younger than you. Maybe that makes him think of you as similar to a daughter.
You smile and nod your head at his retort and walk over to the stairs, paired with a brown wooden rail. The cold of the railing only grew your fingers numb, and you regret ever taking off your gloves in such haste, and are frankly too lazy to put them back on.
Walking three flights of stairs, feeling the shake of your keys with every step, you finally make it to the third floor. Noah and Finley—brother and sister, twins, six years old—are running around and giggling while playing catch with a styrofoam ball, the cheap ones from gym class in high school.
You raise your left hand, decorated with a silver watch, and see the time… 11:12 PM. "Isn't it a bit late for you kids to be out playing. It's Monday tomorrow."
A brunette boy with freckles covering his face like sprinkles on a cupcake shouts, "Winter break starts tomorrow."
His sister, born two minutes earlier than he, giggles as Noah misses his catch. "We'll be quiet, sorry, miss."
"Don't worry about it, kids, have a good night." A smile picks up on your lips as you rummage through your coat pocket for your keys.
You couldn't lie and say kids were never a thought in your mind. When you were a teenager, you thought about where you would be at this age. Your perfect life, with a man who cared for you and laughed with you, maybe two or three kids, and a dog who was their best friend.
Look at where you actually are.
The cold metal of your doorknob greets your palm as you twist it open, the dark of your apartment greeting you. Audibly sighing, you step inside, flick on the nearest light switch, kick off your slightly wet boots, and slip your coat off.
Many aspects of your life are bleak, but you attempt to make your apartment as nice as you mentally can. Tidiness helps you with the mess that your life is.
Every thought slips out of your mind as exhaustion is the only feeling that runs through your veins. You practically throw your coat onto the couch, landing right beside it, groaning into your hands and resting your head in them for a split second.
Peering through your fingers, you see a mug placed on your wooden coffee table. Did you leave that there?
Your fingers soon cover the gloss of the mug as you analyze it from all angles possible. This paranoia is seriously getting to you. You bring your nose to the brim of the mug—black coffee. Something you never had a liking for.
Before you even think of it, your legs extend into a stand, and you walk over to your kitchen counter. Your eyes immediately land on the coffee maker and you settle your hands ontop of the glass, feeling the warmth,
Someone has been in here.
Ducking down, you use all of your force to pull open the tightly compact secret compartment you hid under one of the kitchen drawers, taking your gun in your hands and switching off the safety lock. You really don't know how practical it would be to shoot this thing in an apartment building.
Your poor neighbors.
You hold up the pistol, ready to shoot if anything were to happen, as your feet make way to the next door in sight. It takes 15 minutes to check the rooms of the apartment—bathroom, coat closet, laundry, and the office—the absence of someone only increases your anxiety rather than soothing your worries. It makes you so anxious that you are leaning against a wall, attempting to remedy your shaking hands before going inside your bedroom. You guess this is how people feel after drinking five coffees in one day: heart racing, leg bouncing, and erratic breathing.
God, you hope no one is in there.
Your feet move before you put your mind to it. Exhaling slowly (and silently), you shove open the oak door of your bedroom, your arms and hands in a position ready to shoot.
And when you spot the lamp on your bedside table shining—unlike how you left it before—your front gets shoved in the wall, hands pinned behind your back by another, and your gun in their possession..
"Who the fuck are you!" You yell.
All you could think about is how this is your end. Some fucking asshole was going to kill you here. Ethan could've ratted you out to the trusted allies of Otto Kapp, and they were here to kill you. Fucking Ethan, such a prick—hot—but a prick.
The cold hands of the man behind you press into your back, gently tracing shapes in an attempt to… calm you?
"Nice place," he mutters. "Horrible coffee, though. You're out of creamer." It was a familiar voice, and the feeling of his breath brushing onto your ear results in your throat hollowing.
Soon, the man spins you around, now pressing your back against the wall, embracing your shoulders to hold them in place. The dimly lit lamp allows you to see parts of the man's face, and the realization hits you.
"Ethan," you sigh, it almost sounds as if you're relieved.
His lips quirk up in a smile as his eyebrows ascend and then descend in a split second, looking pleased. "So you know my name. I would think after the other day, you had your memory wiped of me."
His comment catches you off guard for a moment, "W-What are you doing here?"
His hands move down to your waist, shooting your eyes to widen. "I need to search you." He tilts his head as your hands wrap around his wrists, an attempt to loosen his grasp on you.
"You're crazy, right? You're in my fucking apartment; if anything, I should be—" The next thing you feel is his lips covering yours. That was a way to shut you up.
His mouth tastes like coffee and heat. As he tried to pull away, your hand wraps around the back of his neck, holding him in place. You mean to pull away after a second, a test of resolve, but you don’t. You linger. And it’s the lingering that ruins you both.
When his lips pull away from yours, you're left breathless. You don't know what to do with yourself, and your hands scramble to hold onto something.
"I'm sorry— I shouldn't have—" Your mind runs faster than your mouth, and Ethan has a primal look in his eyes as he stares down at your face. Those same eyes that searched you for wounds that night in Vienna. Those same eyes that said they would risk the world for you.
Ethan's grip on your hips only tightens in the time you're waiting for him to say something. "Can you fucking say something? You do all of this tracking me down, breaking into my apartment like a lunatic… kissing me, but now you can't—" You feel his thumb brushing your jaw, bring your words to an abrupt stop.
"Your front lock is cheap; you should change it," he breaks the silence. The words are on the tip of your tongue, begging to be released, but your lips won't let go for them to do so.
Your eyes stay on his mouth when he speaks, but it isn’t the words you’re hearing anymore—it’s the pulse in your throat, the pounding in your chest. The warning bells in your head scream at you to push him off, to remind him that this is insane, that you don’t do this anymore. But his thumb is still on your jaw, grazing lightly, and it roots you in place like you’ve been caught in some gravitational pull you can’t fight.
The soft call of your name from his lips brings your attention back. He says it in almost a whisper, nearly a plea. "You left— you vanished in Vienna. You killed Kapp, and I let you get away with it. I won't let you slip through my fingers again."
A shaky breath escapes your lips as your hand plays with the collar of his black sweater.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, though your voice betrays you with how unconvincing it sounds.
“I know.” His hand slides from your jaw down the side of your throat, lingering over your pulse like he’s confirming what he already suspects—that you’re unraveling. His body presses closer until the wall is cold at your back and he’s heat at your front, suffocating in the most intoxicating way.
Every decision you made, not going after him after killing Kapp, even betraying him by killing Kapp, you regret.
You may not have had much experience with or knowledge about Ethan Hunt—but the gentle touch of his fingers made you feel like he knew every inch of you.
The only ignition you need is the touch of his cold hands sliding underneath the fabric of your turtleneck, caressing your skin as goosebumps rise on it. You grab onto his shoulders, encasing him against the wall as you crash your lips back together.
Ethan whines a little at the back of his throat, and that sets you off even more. Your hands fall from his shoulders as you hear him sigh contentedly against your lips, and pull on the end of his sweater, somehow attempting to take it off without breaking the connection of your lips.
After thirty seconds of trying, Ethan chuckles, breaking the kiss. You're in such proximity to him that you can feel the vibration of his chest. He peels himself apart from you, grabbing onto the collar of his black sweater and pulling it off in one swift motion. The second he drops the top onto the scraped wood floor of your apartment, your eyes roam the newly found skin. Memorizing every freckle and scar.
It doesn't take long for you to get lost in your haze, and Ethan uses that to his advantage. He walks forward, making you back up until the heels of your legs hit the bottom of your bed. It takes just one push to send you falling backward onto your mattress. Your eyes glare at Ethan as he makes his way on top of you, now bringing his mouth to your neck while dragging down the neckline of your turtle neck—not even bothering to slip the thing off yet.
A whimper escapes from your lips as Ethan's lips suck on the pulse point, your lips becoming slightly agape. Your pupils are blown with lust when your hand grabs onto the small wispy hairs on Ethan's neck.
He can only get so far with the addition of your turtleneck; he soon starts to attempt to pull the top down further and gets frustrated when it doesn't work. "Desperate much?" You tease in a breathy tone. His head comes up to meet yours, hovering above you using the pure strength of his arms. His eyes stare down at you in an animalistic manner, like he was going to devour you.
He doesn't take him long to make you sit up and slip off your shirt—but the moment he does, his sight never leaves you. The black bra you wore encased your breasts, and his gaze wouldn't leave them. Following that, his eyes linger on the scar you have from that night in Vienna. The wound he pressed his handkerchief to, the blood of yours that he let shower his fingers.
You can see the gears turning in his head as his jaw tightens—is this some sort of signature Ethan Hunt look? "I still have to search you," he warns. He forces you to lie back down on the bed as he stands up, "Stay."
You watch, observing his every move, as he undoes his belt and slides his boxers and trousers down in one go. The strip of brown leather in his hands walks closer and closer to you, like he is circling in on his prey. He grabs your wrists, moving them above your head, and ties the belt around them, securing them tight enough to not hurt you but slightly dig into your skin.
"You're tying—"
"I don't trust you to stay put. You have a history of running away, sweetheart." Even if he calls you sweetheart, there was nothing sweet about his tone. The lust was dripping from his voice.
His hands begin under your bra, checking under the wire, letting his fingers slip slightly further, and he touches the base of your sternum. The touch makes your breath hitch, your chest rise, and your throat hollow. He reaches for the fabric that is placed between your breasts, and in one swift motion, he rips it apart while his other hand crawls under your back to move the bra off.
The way he was behaving should alarm you greatly—especially since you didn't know the man much—but you have never felt more enthralled in your life ever before.
Maybe it's the way he was staring at your newly exposed skin, but a blush rose onto your cheeks. "God," he curses. His cold fingers are tracing up your warm skin, all the way to your breasts, palming them with his hands. "So pretty." His voice was an octave lower, raspier, filled with need for you.
The only thought that runs through your head is—with that voice, he can do anything to you.
His hands move down, lower and lower, building up your anticipation. He grabs onto the hem of your jeans, slipping his hand under the waistband after unzipping it. What could you possibly hide there for him to search?
All you hope is that he didn't search everyone like this, just you.
Within the blink of an eye, the side of your face is pressed against the mattress, and a force is applied to your back. You could feel his touch roaming your bare back, inching closer and closer to your loosened jeans and the swell of your ass.
"So this is where you've been hiding out all this time? Didn't expect you to settle down like this," he snickers, his lips briefly placing a kiss in the shallows of your shoulder blades.
"Although I didn't know you that well four years ago. Now I know your favorite coffee order you get every singlemorning. I know every sale you make at that damn art gallery you work at. I know the flavor of fucking toothpaste you use," he continues.
His hands grab and grope your ass now, and you bite your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, attempting to conceal the moan threatening to spill out.
Your body jolts down as he thrusts the denim off your legs, leaving you in just your black underwear. Even if you couldn't see Ethan's face, you could feel the fire in his gaze as he traces your body.
"You're just going to stay silent? I remember you being quite the talker." The pace of your heart grows rapid as you feel the impact of his lips following the indent of your spine. You swallow hard, swallowing every thought of desire that ran through your mind—every single thought that rises blood all the way to your ears and makes you want to press your thighs together tight.
His voice comes as a rasp, a whisper, a threat. "There's so much I could say—that I want to say. But, all that runs through my mind is…" A hard kiss is left on the small of your back, surely growing the seed for a deep bruise. Ethan's lips drift all the way to your ear, a mix of rough and gentle kisses. "I wanna fucking tear you apart."
He flips you over, your eyes finally meeting his. The green orbs that haunt you every night since Vienna in the darkest hours of the night now seem different. His pupils swelled until his gaze was nothing but hunger, swallowing the light around them.
In the trance that Ethan pulls you in, you didn't notice him pushing your panties to the side until a soft moan breaks past the barrier of your lips, the feeling of his cold fingers brushing against your folds sending electricity through your veins.
Your wrists ache—not from the restraint of the belt—but from the need to hold onto him.
"Fuck, you're soaking wet for me." His finger presses up against your clit, you gasp, and his primal gaze only darkens.
Your voice croaks, "Inside… please." You hadn't felt this desperate for someone for as long as you could remember. Ethan Hunt did something to you. He infiltrates your every thought and fills the gap in the silence.
He occupied your every sigh.
Thoughts when you envisioned him doing the same things he did to you right now. You always felt embarrassed in those moments of weakness, feeling pleasure over a man you didn't even know the favorite color of. But right now, that pleasure is deemed valid; you yearn for that pleasure, but not as much as you do for him. You wouldn't enjoy this as much as you do if it all weren't with him.
Maybe you both entice each other that greatly. Maybe that's why he chased you down, finding out about every inch of your life after receiving a fake name four years ago.
Maybe that's why you didn't mind him finding out about every inch of your body.
Your pussy clenches at the thought of his fingers entering you, his calloused hand bringing you to the satisfaction one could only dream of. But all he does is collect your slick that pools onto his fingers, and you feel like screaming with frustration. Bucking your hips in an attempt to convince him only brings a smirk to his face; he's so cocky that it infuriates you while causing the wetness of your core to only grow.
His fingers walking nearer to your entrance makes you assume that he finally understands the memo—but you're mistaken—his hand snaps back and away from your pussy at all. Your eyebrows furrow in exasperation and temptation. "What the fuck are you—"
The next thing that greets your ears is the sound of your panties being torn apart from your body. This man definitely has a thing for ripping off your clothes. "Shut the hell up." Your lips seal tight.
Soon after, all you feel is his hot tongue pressing against your clit, slowly sucking. The cry you let out is somewhere between pleasure and pure tension. He sighs, his hot breath fanning onto where you need him the most.
The stability of grabbing onto the duvet that lies beside your head is obsolete; you need more. Swaying your hands in front of you, your hands land into the short brown stands of Ethan's hair. The sudden contact enables him to suck harder, nearly making you scream.
His nose bumps against your clit as his mouth moves around your folds, as his hands stroke around your thighs, soothing them as he secures your legs around his shoulders. Your nails scratch against his scalp, drawing out a moan from his lips. The vibrations send through your body like shockwaves.
You had never felt so intoxicated in your life.
Brown hair drenched with sweat, he pulls away from you breathlessly, his chin coated with you. His mouth reconnects with your core, but his eyes remain on your face, wanting to engrave every expression of pleasure into his memory so he could recall it on his last dying breath. "You—" Suck. "are such a pretty mess for me."
You feel like chanting his name as something slowly traces around your entrance. Ethan slowly pushes his middle finger into you, watching your face as it contorts, and all clarity vanishes from your mind.
His grin imprints itself onto you; you could only imagine the thoughts that ran through his mind, but the ones that ran through yours drowned them out. It doesn't take long for him to slip in another finger, and your back arches against the mattress as you feel him curling his digits inside of you.
The room is filled with the soft sounds of cars passing on the nearby road, and the rumbling pleas spilling from your lips.
You wonder what he thought of you before this moment. Did he think of you every passing day like you did? Or was this an act to blow off some steam?
He doesn't let that idea linger for much longer as he pumps his fingers in and out of you harsher. Your walls pulse around him, nearing the edge—but he unlatches his mouth from you and pulls his fingers out.
You open your mouth to complain—but the feeling of Ethan's lips trailing up from where you most desired him to your stomach… to your sternum… all the way up to your chin makes your mind woozy. His mouth lifts away from your skin, eyes greeting each other. You plant your lips on his jaw, tilting his head to the side.
"Ethan…" His hands go to your wrists, freeing you from the constraint of his belt. Slight red marks are present on your skin, but that was a problem for later. His fingers begin to trail up the side of your body, ultimately landing on the base of your hip.
It's not long before you feel him entering you. He pushes in, just the tip, but your eyes flutter shut. The grip on your waist tightens as he snaps his hips into yours, harshly, giving you a buzz you knew you were going to be addicted to.
You attempt to prop yourself up as his pace quickens, but he shoves you back flat onto the mattress, his breathing now strained.
"Fuck," he curses, hiking your leg above his shoulder and seizing the headboard of your bed. That noise, his breathless voice, makes your eyes open. Peering down between your bodies, you slightly see his rapid force and his cock filling you up.
You thought you could finish then and there.
You feel filled to the brim, moans and whimpers slip from your throat and echo around the room. You thought your neighbors would be awoken to the sound of your gun firing, but instead, it's the sound of a different ignition coming fromdeep within you.
Sobbing at the feeling of him shifting inside, your fingers slither their way to his back, and your nails imprint their crescent shape into his skin.
"Don't stop—"
"Wasn't planning on it, pretty girl."
That name evokes another scream from the core of your body.
His hips shift, entering you from a new angle. "I'm going to fuck you until your fucking legs are shaking," he mutters against your ear before closing his teeth on the skin on your neck. When you realize he's leaving a mark, you rut yourself up into him, whining his name—"Ethan, Ethan… fuck! Ethan!"
Ethan jerks inside of you, "So fucking tight. Did you think about me doing this to you? Did you yearn for me to fuck you senseless?" You can't reply, your mind cannot formulate the words coherently; all you can do is shut your eyes and nod your head.
"Eyes open. Keep looking." You control the need of your eyes to roll back and obey. His body is hot, pressed up against yours. You buckle abashedly up into him as your eyes prickle with tears, escaping the wells of your eyes and running down your cheeks.
Your nails unlatch from his back, not giving a thought to the scratches you may have left. Your fingers tangle themselves into his hair as you bury your face into his neck, kissing and biting in an attempt to silence yourself.
You feel walls gripping him tighter and tighter, the hastening of his breathing, the utter claim he possesses over your body as he pushes in deeper and deeper, harder and harder.
"Ethan, I can't—" He kisses your ankle; the tenderness he presents while he demolishes you makes your heart flutter.
Lifting your pelvis, changing the angle again, he tilts his hips to hit the spot inside of you that you ache for him the most.
"I'm gonna cum," you confess, whining into his neck and biting your lip so hard that you can taste the blood.
He groans at the feeling of your spasming around him. "I can fucking tell."
Small thoughts sliver into your mind as you reach the edge of your climax. Thoughts you thought about during late nights when you imagined his exact moment occurring while you buried your hand between your legs. But every grunt that falls from his lips, every snap against your hips, every word he says, brings you back, and you pray that this all isn't a dream.
You fall apart beneath him, the hot white pleasure ripping through your body. Ethan follows shortly after, burying himself deep within you. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you in a tight embrace as you both ride out your orgasms and caress the back of his neck. Both of your moans echo off the walls.
As you both come down from your high, you stay still in his hands, and you still have a grasp on him. All of your senses now return to you, and you relish his clutch not only on your body but also on your soul.
Infiltrating your nose, his scent comforts you as your grip loosens and he gently places you back down onto the white comforters. He slowly pulls out of you, observing every wince present on your face. You already miss his warmth.
He did keep up his promise—your legs are certainly shaking, even when you squeeze them together in a desperate attempt to stop them. His fingers brush away the drying tears from your cheeks and run into your hair, moving the strands that frame your face away. The dim light your lamp provides illuminates your face; Ethan looks at you as if you're glowing.
Questions appear as you get lost in the trance of his green orbs. What did this mean for the two of you? What was this all about?
Noticing the shift in your gaze, Ethan's eyebrows furrow in worry. "You okay?" His voice comes out softly.
You nod.
He lies down on his side beside you, and your face tilts in his direction. When you're with him, you feel safe—a safety you haven't had in god knows how long. He cared for you that night in Vienna without a second thought about who you were. He didn't execute you on sight when he found you four years later.
He's different.
The softness of his lips blesses you as he plants a soft kiss underneath your hairline. "That was nice." Your words make his mouth curl a bit in amusement, and your teeth go into a grin soon after.
"I can tell you may have messed up my back more than every single fight I've been in."
Your eyes shoot up in worry. Immediately sitting up, you attempt to move Ethan so you can see his back. "Ethan, show me your back. Why didn't you tell me to stop?" All that earns you is a chuckle, him snaking his arm around your hips and placing you back down onto the bed.
A comfortable silence fills the room as you look at him, capturing the image of the tender look in his eyes, fearing you may never see it again.
Ethan is the first to break the silence, placing his hand on the curve of your jaw. In a teasing tone, he says, "Amelia—"
"Don't call me that. I was stupid," you interrupt. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Everything. The running away, the killing, the lying, not even caring to fess up to the truth when I saw you again, everything Ethan." Your eyes run around his face, wanting a wince of expression from him, but all your eyes meet is his stare filled with concern. His thumb still traces your jaw, and the weight of his gaze crushes you. You can only imagine him leaving you as his jaw tightens.
"Don't," you murmur, attempting to tear your eyes away.
But his hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there. “I spent four years trying to find you, and I have no idea what compelled me to do it.” He pauses, and your mind races—surprisingly, in a positive manner. "But I like this."
"How can you be so sure?" You question, eyebrows furrowing. The sheer confidence this man possesses baffles you, but it feels like a warm blanket during a cold winter night by the fireplace.
He slightly cracks into a smile, "I tend to go off my gut a lot, and it really hasn't failed me yet."
You would soon find out that he wasn't kidding about that. When he dangled off a helicopter, rode a motorcycle off a cliff—landing onto a moving train, or fought someone mid-air on biplanes.
And for every stunt, every moment, you were there by his side.
A man who wanted to tear you apart—instead, put you back together.
notes: long time no see... working on this fic for two weeks while my drafts are begging me to finish them. sorry for the lack of posts, my classes have been kicking my ass. but expect more to come soon! i have two wips right now that are on the edge of being finished.
- hope you enjoyed, cj
When Jake stumbles into your office attempting to flirt with you, all you can do is humor the fact that your husband seems to have forgotten you.
▸ PAIRING: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Wife!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: Pure fluff, slight amnesia, injured Jake, sexual jokes
▸ WORD COUNT: 1.6K
▸ A/N: wrote a quick small idea because i love a good secret relationship and a flirty hangman
The crash outside piques your curiosity. You abandon the latest report you’re working on and get up to swing open your door right on time for a certain blonde aviator to spill into the infirmary. Jake barging into your office is not news; he barges in probably more than he really should, particularly when you’re with patients.
“Boundaries” becomes the most used word in your relationship.
Only thing is, this time, he’s looking at you with big, surprised eyes. The tinges of blue around his emerald eyes are even more prominent when they’re blown up. “Who allowed you to look this good, Doc,” he says with a swagger in his step, eyes droopy now as he leans against the doorframe.
Before you can question him, Rooster walks through the door, a pitying look at Jake. “He’s on the good stuff. Maybe too much of it.” You quirk an eyebrow. “Sedatives.”
Your eyes dart briefly to Jake who is still eyeing you with interest but now he has taken over your chair, propping his chin up on his palm with his elbow on your desk. That smug smile, albeit a little sleepier, is still plastered across his face.
“He crashed earlier–” The smile wipes off your face quickly and Rooster instantly adds, “Nothing big, managed to get out, but he landed wrong cause he ejected too close to the ground. We had to take him to the hospital. Most of it’s around his ribs, but he’s okay.”
Drifting over to Jake, you cup his face and tilt him to look up at you. While he’s busy giving you dark, flirty glances, you are checking him for any signs of permanent damage. He has a few scratches on his face, you notice now the new band-aid he’s sporting on his cheek.
You’re on your knees then and you’re slowly unbuttoning his uniform. If he’s really injured here, he should probably be wearing something more breathable. You remember he packed an extra short-sleeved shirt this morning.
“Whoa, at least take me out to dinner first,” Jake teases, which earns a roll of your eyes.
“Told his dumb ass he should be going straight home but he insisted on making a pit stop here. Something about getting a second look. He might’ve also said something along the lines of visiting the pretty doctor.” Your eyes snap up to Rooster, who holds his hands up in defense. “His words, not mine.”
Humored, you look at him playfully, accusingly. “So you don’t think I’m pretty?”
“That’s not what I said!” Rooster immediately replies, face flushing crimson. “Anyways, before I dig a deeper hole for myself, I’m going to leave him in your very capable hands. Whenever he’s done, one of the guys can drop him off at home.”
“I’m going to wrap up soon so I've got him, don’t worry.”
“You got his address?”
You fight to keep a straight face. “Yeah, it’s on his records.”
“Awesome, thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow.” With that, Rooster makes his exit, the door slamming shut behind him.
You wait a moment and thank the heavens that Jake has the false reputation of being an incorrigible flirt. That will hopefully throw off any suspicion of your relationship.
When you know you’re in the clear, you inspect Jake a little more closely. There are bandages wrapped around his abdomen and you wonder how severe the accident was if they had to give him sedatives. Then again, it’s entirely possible that Jake was being a little bitch and they gave it to him just to shut his mouth.
Aside from the minor injuries, he seems to be in pretty good shape. Physically at least.
Mentally – you look up at him and he’s still smiling stupidly at you – he’s perhaps not quite there yet.
“Jake, honey, I’m going to need to move you to the bed.”
“So soon?” His eyes blow up comically before the expression falls away to a confident grin. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
A disgruntled sigh slips past your lips. Even when he’s drugged up, he still manages to be insufferable. You position his arm around your shoulders and slowly help him to his feet. Jake leans his weight on you, but more so because he really likes being this close to you. The man is heavy to say the least. All six feet of him. You lead him carefully towards the infirmary bed with him nuzzling into your hair the entire time.
He hums thoughtfully and grins against the side of your head. His hot breath tickles your neck right as you plop him on top of the comforter. He avidly refuses to lie down, instead scooching his way in until he’s sat with his back against the wall.
Jake turns to you, grinning smugly with teeth in full view.
“Damn, darlin’, you smell so good. Do you have a boyfriend?”
You’re just sitting down on the edge of the bed when you hear it and freeze. “Come again?”
“Sweetheart, we haven’t even come once,” Jake retorts, seeming all too pleased with his joke. The ‘we’ is cute, very considerate of him to include both of you in the conversation. However, you’re too distracted by his question.
“You’re asking me if I have a boyfriend.” You repeat, incredulous.
Jake nods aggressively, likely jumbling his head even worse.
A smile tilts the corner of your lips. You raise your left hand, showing him the back of it. “I’m married actually.”
“Married?” He gasps, completely aghast. He looks crestfallen and then stares at the ring in annoyance. “I mean, of course, you’d be married. You’re so smart, and so pretty. You also embarrassed Rooster? God, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Who’s the lucky person? Do I know them? Are they on base?”
“You do know him, very well in fact. He is on base.”
A growl rises from his throat. “He better watch his back, I’ll get him if he even thinks about slipping once.”
“Really? How would you do that?”
“I could fight him.”
You chuckle. “Right, you’ll fight him. That might be a little hard.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s pretty tough. He’s tall. Very strong. Very handsome too.”
Jake scowls. “Alright, so he’s Mr. Perfect because you’re also perfect. Well, if I ever catch him not being perfect, I’m going to swoop in for the kill. Neither of you will ever see me coming.”
A grin stretches across his face at your laugh. “Good to know, Seresin. I’ll make sure to warn him.”
“Hm, so you’re really married,” Jake repeats again in a deep, disappointed sigh. He takes your left hand in both of his, looking down at the spectacular rock on your hand. He lets out a low whistle before he grimaces, realizing who he’s complimenting.
Actually, not even realizing who he’s complimenting.
“He did good, your husband.” Jake turns your hand, letting the diamond catch the sunlight. The facets sparkle, speckling the room with blinding polka dots. “Gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl.”
Heat creeps up your cheeks. “Thank you.” You pause before dropping another bomb on him. “I should also probably tell you that you’re also married.”
Jake jerks back, nearly getting whiplash from how quickly he turns to look at you. “I am? To who? I think I’d know if I was married.”
“A very lucky woman.”
“Well, shit.” Jake grunts. “Well, if I married her, then I’m sure she’s as perfect as you.”
“Probably more alike than you think,” you mutter under your breath.
Jake is smiling at you softly and you see his eyes begin to close. His eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open. It’s as if he is striving to commit your face to memory. “I think I’m kinda sleepy, Doc.”
“Well, you best get your rest then.”
“When I wake up, if you happen to be single, you let me know right away. Or even before I wake up, that might just do the trick.”
“You got it, Hangman.”
–
“I had the strangest dream,” Jake tells you on your drive home.
He’s in the passenger seat, his head still spinning a little from the heavy slumber. He had woken up when everyone else was long gone and found you flipping through your novel, waiting for him. He didn’t seem to remember what happened just an hour prior, so you let it play out, told him he just slept the entire time.
“Hm, what about?”
“I was flirting with this woman,” he says, sounding even more confused than you should be. “I promise, sweetheart, I’d never hit on anyone else. I haven’t hit on anyone else, not since that time I flirted with you when you first joined.”
You hide your smile, focusing instead on the road. “Yeah, was she pretty?”
Clearly, a part of him does think so because he hesitates before responding. “Would you be upset if I said she was? I can’t even remember her face. I just remember thinking she was so fuckin’ stunning.”
“Should I be concerned about this fictional woman?”
“Definitely not,” Jake scoffs, crossing his arms over your chest. “Dream woman could never compare to you. The real deal.”
You let out a little mm-hmm as you pull out something from your pocket. His dog tag dangles from your hand, glimmering right next to the wedding band he keeps around his neck. “Rooster gave it to me before he left. Said you dropped it in your landing.”
He gratefully accepts the necklace and clasps it around his neck. “Thank you, did he ask about the–you know.”
“You mean your wedding ring? The one you’ve been wearing since you married me a year ago? The one you keep secret from your squadmates because no one knows you’re married and you let them believe you’re still a cocky, unbearable flirt?”
Jake laughs. “That’s the one.”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
You smirk, “Told him it was a purity ring.”
“Darlin’,” he groans, “I have a reputation to maintain.”
Not really an ask, but I just wanna say that I'm glad you're back! I LOVE Frost and Anchored, they had me in tears 😭
Also, your Mav fics are some of my favorites! I've read them countless times 🫶🏻 You were one of the first fanfic writers that I discovered when I started my Tumblr, you're awesome!
You don't know how much this means to me! I'm sobbing rn 😭
Truly appreciate you taking the time to read my work and sending me this message.
✧ Broken ribs suck. You don’t just “walk it off.” Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts. Characters with rib injuries won’t be doing heroic sprints.
✧ Concussions aren’t instant naps. Dazed vision, nausea, dizziness, maybe even personality changes, but they’re not going to collapse neatly like in the movies.
✧ Blood loss is sneaky. It’s not just about dramatic pools of blood. It’s dizziness, confusion, and the body getting cold as circulation tanks.
✧ Adrenaline lies. Someone can take a serious injury and not feel it until the fight’s over. That “I didn’t realize I was bleeding until later” trope? Very real.
✧ Twisted ankles are brutal. One bad step and suddenly running is off the table. Even walking hurts like hell. Perfect way to ground a chase scene.
✧ Burns linger. Even small burns hurt more than most people expect. Blisters, infection risk, constant pain, it’s not just a cool scar later.
✧ Dislocated shoulders = useless arm. Characters can’t keep swinging a sword or firing a gun. They’re basically fighting one-armed until it’s fixed.
✧ Shock is a thing. Pale skin, trembling, rapid heartbeat, and eventually disorientation. A character might not even realize how bad their wound is.
✧ Stitches aren’t magic. Getting sewn up is painful and recovery takes time. They’re not instantly battle-ready after a needle and thread.
✧ Scars tell stories. Some fade, some don’t. Some stay sensitive forever. Don’t forget the aftermath when the wound becomes part of the character.
first of all, FROST IS SOOO BEAUTIFUL, I CRIED. second of all, could you write out the scene where maverick held frost when iceman passed?
Here you go! Thank you so much for giving me the idea. I had written out that scene but decided to take it out for the sake of brevity, but I'm glad I get to actually post it! 🧡
warnings: A more detailed depiction of Iceman's death (obviously a headcanon), age gap, slow burn, and some profanities
summary: Maverick comforts you the night your father, Iceman, dies and in the silence and grief, the two of you realise that there is no way you would ever leave each other again.
pairings: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x fem!Kazansky reader
word count: 2.5k
songs to set the mood: I Do — 98 Degrees | Love Is A Stillness — Sam Smith
author's note: This is a deleted scene from "Frost" because the fic got too long. You don't have to read it to understand but you can read it for all of the context and to know what happens next! Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list.
"His secretary called, saying you were personally summoned to the Kazansky estate. His condition dropped drastically this morning and he- uh," Warlock hesitated as he and Maverick both talked in the hallway. "Well, he might not have long," he finally stated.
Maverick's jaw clenched as he tried to swallow the ball that suddenly lodged in his throat.
"Go, Captain. Don't worry, we've got it covered," Warlock said.
Arriving at the residence in his bike, Maverick could instantly feel the sombre atmosphere, a stark contrast to the joyful one he arrived to a week ago.
He walked toward the master bedroom, every step heavy as if he was pulling a huge weight with him by the ankles. Maverick could hear the laughter of the three Kazanskys coming from the bedroom, and he never thought that hearing those laughter could devastate him so much.
He leaned against the doorway, watching while you sat on the edge of the bed beside your dad, who was propped up against the pillows. Your mom sat on the other side, and your brother was by his feet. The four of you held each other close. There was nothing more he could wish for his best friend than to be loved this much.
Maverick’s eyes shifted from Iceman to you. You’d clearly been crying, and maybe you were still holding back tears. Though you smiled, he could tell it was more for your dad’s sake than your own. He watched that smile and wished he could take whatever hurt was hiding behind it. He didn’t care if it doubled his own. He never wanted to see you pretend to be okay again.
It was several minutes before Maverick realised that Iceman had been observing his soft gaze on you. In that moment, Iceman knew how perfectly the two of you would fit together. Like two pieces of a long lost puzzle. You would be able to give Maverick a reason to finally stay anchored — to stop flying away from the life that had been waiting for him. He would be the next best person to make sure you know that you are always loved.
"You look like shit," Maverick quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
Iceman managed a chuckle, which sounded more like huffs, and beckoned Maverick to come closer. He rested a trembling hand on Maverick's shoulder so that he would lean in.
"You're home. Stop running," Iceman whispered. No matter how painful it was for him to speak, he needed to make sure Maverick understood. "She'll be the best thing that has ever happened to you."
Maverick pulled away. His gaze shifted to you and he had to, once again, admit that Iceman was right. He had been running. He had been avoiding. He thought you deserved better, and he realised that he could also step up and be that 'better person' you deserved.
"Dad, you remember when I asked you to teach me how to throw a baseball around?" You asked, your turn to bring up the good memories you had with your father.
Iceman's lips twitched in a weak smile, his eyes were fluttering open and close as if he was close to falling asleep. "Boy," he rasped, unable to manage anything else.
You and your mother giggled. You begged your dad to teach you how to throw a baseball because a boy you liked was in the Little League Major Division and you wanted nothing more than to impress him, much to your dad's dismay. The only reluctance Iceman had about teaching you baseball was the fact that you might get your first boyfriend out of that.
In the end, though, you enjoyed throwing around a baseball with him so much you joined the school's baseball club for a little while until the crush fizzled out and you realised that you loved the biology lab more.
"I'm glad you taught me. It was one of my favourite memories growing up," you said softly, leaving a kiss on his temple. "I love you, Dad," you said, a tear finally slipping on your cheek.
Iceman tried to open his eyes to look at you but they fluttered close again. He squeezed the hand that has been holding your mother's lightly and she leaned in close. It seemed like ages, he tried to get the words out one by one with every bit of strength he had left.
"I love you. Forever." he said. Your mother echoed his words, eyes blinking back the tears so that he wouldn't see her cry. Too late, though, your father opened his eyes. Even in his last moments, he was still concerned for her wellbeing — as if he didn't want to go if she was not ready.
You couldn't help the tears running down your cheeks anymore. You balled your father's sweater into your hands, clutching tightly like your life depended on it.
Your mother left a kiss on his lips and then on his forehead. "It's okay, honey. We're gonna be okay. You can rest now," she said.
Your brother held onto your father's blanket-clad leg, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed.
Being right next to your father, you were able to hear his ragged breath as he took the last few short breaths he could. The doctors had adjusted his meds so that he wouldn't feel pain. So that he can just close his eyes and it will be like falling asleep. He had signed the DNR papers, if the time came, he did not want to be resuscitated.
You have been feeling his chest move beneath your hand, and you felt it still the moment he released his last breath.
With that your cries grew louder. You were a doctor, you didn't need to feel his pulse or read the heart monitor to know.
"No, Dad, wake up," you sobbed. "Wake up," your sobs were quiet.
You gave his body a little shake, begging please. "Please, Dad, please," you cried a little louder this time.
Your mother wrapped both arms around his shoulder and sobbed quietly, pressing her cheek against his and closing her eyes as if she wanted to memorise his every detail before he was truly gone forever.
Your brother had buried his face in your father's hand as he sobbed.
"Dad, please! Don't go, don't go!" Your sobs turned into screams and you shook him a little harder as if that would help. You needed more time. Just a little more time with him.
Your mother held your hand, trying to stop you gently. It was not an easy thing to do, she knew that better than you ever could, but she knew she had to let go.
Maverick couldn't hold back his tears anymore as he watched his best friend go. He placed his hand on Ice's leg, holding tight because it was all he could bear to do.
He watched in pain as you shook your father's body like you were waking him up from a particularly deep sleep.
"(Y/N)," he called out softly, standing up and grabbing hold of your arm, gentle but firm.
"No," you resisted at first, prying your hands off.
"I know, I know," he whispered, strong arms enveloped your shoulders, keeping your arms trapped so that you would stop and let him go.
"No, please don't," you begged Mav to let you go.
"I got you. I know, I know," he repeated a few times as he finally got you pressed against his chest. He placed a protective hand on the side of your head as you sobbed into his chest.
Maverick buried his lips into your hair, subtly and gently pressing comforting kisses on the top of your head.
The doctor gingerly stepped towards your side and Maverick took it as a cue that the two of you needed to move out of the way. He moved off the bed and pulled you with him, propping your body up as he held you close.
You knew the routine all too well: they had to check his pulse, breathing, and pupils. Once they were sure there was no longer a sign of life, the doctor quietly declared his time of death.
"Time of death: 19:39," she said respectfully and quietly.
Your knees buckled, and you would've fell to the floor if Maverick hadn't been holding you up. You let go of Maverick and laid next to your father, curling up to his side like when you were a little girl.
Maverick looked at you with pain in his eyes. He didn’t know when he started whispering the words — maybe to Ice, maybe to himself. Either way, the promise sank deep, binding him in a way no flight deck ever could.
I promise, Ice, he swore. I promise she'll be happy. I promise she'll be safe. I promise she'll be loved.
Everything happened in a blur: nobody moved for an entire hour after the doctor declared his time of death. But as soon as the initial shock toned down for your brother, he sprung into action. Wiping his tears, he started making calls and arrangements. Your mother followed suit, standing up and started to get inside the closet, busying herself with your father's attire and anything she could get her hands on.
You, on the other hand, stayed by his side until the people from the funeral home arrived.
Maverick had to peel you off him despite your weak protests.
"No, don't take him away," you whimpered, but Maverick had hauled you off the bed and into his arms and he carried you all the way to your room.
"He's not gone," you denied, repeating it to yourself.
Maverick laid you on the bed and you curled to your side as he knelt on the side of the bed.
"He's gone, (Y/N). I'm sorry," he sniffled. It was clear he was mourning the loss of his best friend too.
You shook your head again.
"We have to let him go," he whispered, placing a hand on your back and the other on top of your head.
Instinctively, Maverick pressed a kiss into your temples, rubbing circles on your back as he soothed you. He let a silent tear roll down his cheek.
If it wasn't the most devastating day of your life, you were sure you would have felt the zoo running amok in the pit of your stomach at the gesture.
Exhausted, you drifted off to sleep. You could still feel Maverick's hand soothing you as you slept.
You didn't feel it, but he pulled your blanket, tucked you in, and left a kiss on your forehead.
You woke up in a haze, eyes heavy and swollen and your head dizzy from dehydration. The light in your room was dimmed and the sky outside is still dark. You couldn't help but wonder what time it is. When you turned your body to look at the clock, you saw Maverick sleeping on the loveseat next to your bed.
When you fell asleep, Maverick walked out and helped your brother out with all of the arrangements. No reason the young man should handle all that on his own. He finally walked into your room again with a bottle of water because he was certain you'd be thirsty. He was right. You grabbed the bottle and drank like you haven't had water in days.
You looked around your bedroom and your eyes finally adjusted to the light. It was one o'clock in the morning. Nothing felt real. Is it possible that it's just a dream?
You leaned back against the headboard and replayed everything in your head. It is real. It can't be. But it is. You battled with yourself into accepting the reality and before long you were quietly sobbing.
Maverick woke up at the sound. "Hey," he called out.
You jolted a little, surprised.
"Sorry," he said as he got up and sat on the edge of your bed facing you. He placed a steadying hand on your arm.
"I'm okay," you said, shaking off the tears away although they kept threatening to fall.
He reached a hand on your face and wiped the tear away and smiled sadly, as if saying, it's okay. You can cry. I'll be here.
"Why were you sleeping on the chair?" You asked.
Maverick glanced at the chair, "Uh, your mother took the guest room and your brother's kids are in the other one. I was gonna sleep on the couch in the living room, but I thought I should stay a little while in case you woke up and, uh..." he wasn't sure how to conclude.
"In case I start wailing again," you chuckled ironically.
Maverick smiled a little, it was correct but maybe not the words he would have used.
"Why don't you go back to sleep. It's gonna be a long couple of days," he said, getting up to head for the living room couch.
Without a thought, you reached for his hand and stopped him in his tracks. It wasn't a premeditated, it was your reflexes protecting you from the feeling of grief and loneliness and he was that protection.
Maverick looked back at your hand and then at you.
"Don't leave me alone," you pleaded softly.
Never, Maverick quickly thought. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me.
He hesitated for a split second. He wanted nothing more than to stay with you all night and hold you close to him, to feel your heartbeat against his, to soak in every bit of you, and to be sure that you are safe with him.
Still, as he looked at your trembling fingers and your puffy eyes, he had to consider the state you are in. You were devastated, and the last thing he wanted was to have something good be tainted by timing.
He knew that if he chose to stay right next to you tonight, there would be no undoing it. Maverick searched his heart for any sign of doubt. And for some reason, it was not a decision he was afraid of making.
He stepped towards the bed gingerly as if he was carefully crossing the invisible line that had separated the two of you. When he got to the edge, he slipped off his shoes and climbed into bed.
You scooted to the other side and laid your head on the pillow. He arranged the pillows, smoothed out the blanket, and adjusted his position to stall as he regulated his pounding heart. The two of you maintained a careful distance and it wasn't until you both settled, facing each other, that you realised your heart had been racing just as fast.
"Thank you," you whispered, a tear slipping off your cheek
He instinctively reached out, brushing it away. "Of course," he said. I would do anything for you, he added quietly.
He tucked your hair back, his thumb softly grazing back and forth on your temple. "Go to sleep, I'm not going anywhere," he murmured.
In the way he looked deep into your eyes, you knew that his words carried the weight of forever. You could feel it in every inch of your body.
Your eyes fluttered close, your hand finding his. Neither are you.
synopsis: y/n stark has always balanced legacy and purpose, building a life that’s entirely her own. johnny storm has always been fire and flash, until meeting her makes him want something steadier, something real. between late nights, family dinners, and quiet moments that mean more than words, their worlds begin to entwine — and love finds its way in.
word count: 5k
a/n: here i present to you… stark’s daughter x johnny storm 🤍 fluffy, a lil angsty if you squint, but mostly soft soft soft. been so excited to write this one for u guys, hope u enjoy 🫶
The first time Johnny sees her, the sky over lower Manhattan is a chalky blue and the pop-up clinic’s banner is snapping in the wind like a patient flag of truce.
He’s supposed to be at the Baxter’s outreach booth explaining UV safety and why “spontaneous combustion” is not contagious, but the second he clocks the woman in the white coat moving through the crowd—steady hands, dimple in her cheek when she smiles, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she kneels to a little girl’s eye level—his brain short-circuits and quietly reboots around a new axis: her.
Dr. Y/N Stark.
He knows the name before anyone tells him. It rides the current in the air the way some names do, the way his does when paparazzi get bored and yell it like a fire drill. But nothing about her feels like a headline. She feels like the breath you didn’t realize you were holding until you finally let it go.
She’s taking a blood pressure reading on an older woman whose grandson is clutching a crumpled trading card of the Human Torch. Johnny squats down beside the kid with a grin. “Think she’ll let me sign that or am I competing with a real celebrity over there?”
The boy eyes him, then the card, then the recognizable flame emblem on Johnny’s jacket. “You… you’re not on fire.”
He widens his eyes, whispers, “That’s my day off look,” before pulling a pen from behind his ear and scrawling across the laminate. When he looks up, Y/N’s watching, amused, the corners of her mouth tilted like she’s decided he might be a clown, but at least he’s a gentle one.
Their gazes lock. Something simple slotting into place. He stands; she rises; the world is suddenly just the two of them and a ridiculous banner flapping overhead.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, and it’s not perfunctory; she says it like she means it. “You’re helping us pull bigger crowds.”
Johnny wants to say You’re pulling gravity, sweetheart, but he remembers he promised Sue he’d behave. So he smiles instead. “Any excuse to wear a lanyard. Stark Foundation partnering with the Baxter makes us look like we have our lives together.”
Her eyes soften. “The foundation’s my favorite mess to wrangle.”
He hears what she doesn’t say—women who had to leave in the night without a bag, children with quiet eyes, endless intakes for checkups and court affidavits and rides to shelters. She built a place where people can land without breaking. He knows a thing or two about building safety nets out of thin air and stubbornness; it makes something in his chest ache.
He sticks his hand out. “Johnny.”
“I know.” She takes it. Warm. Brief. Steady. “I’m Y/N.”
He knows that too, but it feels like a permission when she says it herself.
All day he orbits: fetching water, hauling boxes, translating medicalese into soft jokes with fidgety kids. Every time he glances over, Y/N is exactly where purpose lives—hand on a shoulder, a murmur of reassurance, a laugh that eases tight shoulders. Every time she glances over, he’s right there—finding chairs for grandmothers, letting Franklin (who’s wandered out with Reed and Sue to “see the science tent”) tuck himself into his side, and agreeing when Ben growls that he’s carrying something the size of a refrigerator “because you’re young and allegedly flame-proof.”
By late afternoon, the clinic’s buzz is a hum. Y/N sinks onto the curb with a paper cup of coffee and exhales like the day finally let go of her collar. Johnny lowers himself beside her, close enough that their knees almost bump.
“You didn’t even take a lunch,” he says.
“Lunch is a construct,” she replies, dry. Then she tips her head toward the crowd. “You were good with that teen who was scared to get tested.”
“Who, Marco?” He shrugs. “I’ve been the guy who smiles his way through panic. Recognizes his own.”
The admission hangs between them, earnest and unvarnished. Her gaze flickers; warmth. “Thank you for coming,” she says again, softer this time. “Not the lanyard answer. The real one.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Thank you for existing.”
Her laugh startles out of her, bright as glass in sunlight. He tucks the sound away like a firefighter pocketing a memento from the first blaze he ever beat back.
He goes home that night with the kind of certainty that usually scares him. It doesn’t, this time. It steadies. It points.
He showers, changes, and then—God help him—makes an appointment.
Not with her.
With Pepper Potts and Tony Stark.
Pepper opens the conference room door on the forty-sixth floor and smiles like she’s already on his side. Tony watches him over steepled fingers with the kind of expression that turns even genius billionaires into girl dads. FRIDAY has probably already trawled through every traffic camera in a mile radius of the pop-up clinic and pulled every moment Johnny glanced at their daughter like she hung the moon.
“Mr. Storm,” Pepper says, offering her hand.
“Mrs. Potts,” he replies, shaking it. “Ms. Potts? CEO Potts? I… this is a minefield.”
“Pepper is fine,” she says, amused.
He sits. His heart drums. He has fought supervillains and vacuumed a live star into his chest before. This is worse.
“I’d like,” he says, voice unexpectedly steady, “your blessing to court your daughter.”
Tony blinks. “Court.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re not in 1812.”
“I can light myself on fire and fly,” Johnny says. “Time is a flat circle.”
Pepper bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Tony’s mouth tugs despite himself. “Why not just… date her?”
“Because I’m serious,” Johnny says simply. “And ‘date’ sounds like I’m prepared to set the bar at good tapas and consistent texting. I want to be introduced to your security protocols and her favorite soup recipe. I want to be known in your house as someone who can be leaned on and not moved.”
Pepper’s eyes gleam. Tony leans back in his chair, considering. “And if I say no?”
“I’ll wait,” he says. “I won’t go around you. She’s your heart. I respect that.”
The room goes very still. Tony’s gaze flicks to Pepper’s; a silent married people conversation passes like light through fiber-optic cable.
“Pep,” he says.
She nods. “I already approve.”
“Of course you do,” Tony mutters. “You approve anyone who looks at her like she radiates Wi-Fi.”
“She does radiate Wi-Fi,” Pepper murmurs. Then, to Johnny, “You’ve got good instincts. You’ll need them.”
Tony sighs. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying prove it.”
“How?” Johnny asks, not flinching.
Tony tilts his head. “I’ll let you know.”
It’s not a test with a rubric. It’s a locked door to a room Johnny has already decided to live in. He nods. “Okay.”
As he stands to leave, Pepper squeezes his forearm. “She’s not easily impressed,” she says fondly. “But she falls hard when she does.”
“So do I,” he says.
“God help us,” Tony mutters.
If Johnny is a comet, his courtship is the tail—bright, persistent, impossible to ignore. He texts good morning, but always after checking her calendar through the very appropriate shared schedule he asked for first. He learns the lullabies she hums when rocking fussy babies after shots—it turns out they’re Motown. He doesn’t show up to the clinic with flowers; he shows up with boxes of peri pads and donation gift cards and a volunteer list Reed formatted after a long evening of “helping” that was mostly Reed building a database while Y/N and Johnny chose pastel label colors.
He waits for her after shifts in his beat-up convertible (despite a dozen cars Stark Industries would happily lend him) because she once said she likes how old engines sound like loyal dogs. He puts his phone face down and off whenever she gets in. He never makes her feel like she’s being rushed out of her own calling.
The first night he waits, she steps out of the clinic, shoulders dropping when she recognizes the car. She’s exhausted. There’s a smudge of ink across the heel of her hand and a stubborn curl has escaped her bun.
“You didn’t have to,” she says, sliding in.
“I wanted to,” he replies. He lifts a paper bag. “Also, you once mentioned your favorite soup is the ginger chicken from that hole-in-the-wall in Queens.”
She blinks. “I mentioned that…?”
“Once,” he says, gently proud. “In passing. On my day off look.”
She opens the bag and the steam is heaven. “You’re absurd.”
“Criminally,” he agrees, pulling away from the curb into the soft wash of evening. “Seat belt.”
She clicks it as the city flows past, lights like slow meteor showers. When she takes her first spoonful, she makes a quiet sound he wants to spend the rest of his life earning in other categories. He keeps his eyes on the road and his hands careful.
By the third week, Tony’s tests start showing up like pop quizzes in a class Johnny very much wants an A in.
Test one arrives by way of Happy, who corners him at the Stark garage with a set of keys and a deadpan: “Miss Potts has an early breakfast briefing. Dr. Stark’s car won’t start. FRIDAY’s ‘mysteriously’ down. Think you could handle a 5 AM rescue without texting her first?”
Johnny could fly her there. He doesn’t. He shows up at five sharp with a thermos of coffee he asked Pepper’s assistant how to brew (“two sugars, splash of cream, not the oat one, it made her sad once, long story”), and a polite knock on the guesthouse door.
Y/N answers in an oversized sweatshirt, blinking sleep from her eyes. She grins when she sees him. He makes himself stay in the doorway rather than step into the warm halo of her space. “Car trouble. I’m your chariot.”
“You could’ve sent a driver,” she says around a yawn as she grabs her bag.
“I’m courting you,” he reminds her lightly. “I’m not outsourcing the chivalry.”
She looks at him for a beat longer than necessary, the kind of look you give a sturdy thing you’re not ready to call home yet. “Okay.”
Tony pretends not to be standing behind a curtain watching them pull away, but Pepper sips her tea and says without looking up from her tablet, “You could just ask FRIDAY to switch the kitchen screen to the driveway camera.”
“I like the tactile experience of suffering,” Tony mutters. Pepper squeezes his hand under the table.
Test two is subtler. FRIDAY pings him with a request to “sign for” a delivery at the clinic when Y/N’s overbooked. It turns out to be a palleted mountain of donated supplies with a note from Stark Industries Legal about complex tax documentation. Johnny could punt to Reed. He doesn’t. He calls Ben instead.
“Paperwork?” Ben says, incredulous through the speaker. “You, me, and a stapler. We’ll have a good cry after.”
They set up at a back table. Y/N peeks her head in, sees them elbow-deep in forms, and opens her mouth to protest. Johnny shakes his head. “We’re good. Go be a superhero.”
Her eyes shine. “Thank you.”
Ben leans toward him as the door swings shut. “Kid?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re doin’ fine.”
Test three is just life. It arrives on a Wednesday night when a fever knocks Y/N flat. He gets a text—three words: feeling kinda awful—and he is at her door in twenty minutes with the same ginger soup, electrolyte packets, a thermometer, and an overnight bag he will absolutely not use unless she asks him to stay on the couch. He knocks and steps back.
She opens the door, flushed, hair falling out of a braid. “Hi,” she croaks, embarrassed to be less than perfect in front of him.
His instinct is to kiss her forehead. He doesn’t. He holds up the bag like a peace offering. “Hi. Soup and a stern talking-to if you try to check your emails.”
It turns out there’s something sacred about choosing the softest part of an evening and filling it with small tasks. He measures acetaminophen. He tucks a blanket around her legs and queues up a season of the cooking show she likes because “the stakes are low and the butter is high.” He tidies her kitchen. He asks where her favorite mug is and then memorizes the answer. He keeps his heat on a low simmer, palms warm as he presses the mug to her hands.
“I’m gross,” she says, mortified.
“You’re human,” he says, matter-of-fact. “And you’re letting me take care of you. Which is incidentally my favorite thing that’s happened to me all week, so please don’t ruin it by apologizing.”
She breathes a laugh and tips her head to his shoulder. He stares straight ahead and feels the press of her temple through his T-shirt like a vow he’s getting to borrow.
When he leaves at midnight, he writes a note and tapes it to her door so she’ll see it in the morning: You beat fevers for a living. You can beat one for yourself. Proud of you. —J
She keeps that note in a drawer with letters from her parents and a hospital tag from the first baby she delivered on her own. Later, when she lets him see the drawer, he reads it again and swallows around the ridiculousness of being included in her archives.
Sunday dinners at the Baxter become habit. The apartment hums with the lived-in chaos of family and science experiments. Reed tries to plate food like molecular gastronomy and then laughs when Ben eats his test sphere in one bite. Sue delegates with the ease of someone who once managed a crisis in space with one hand and a crying toddler in the other. Franklin flings himself at Johnny the first time he walks in with Y/N, arms latching like a koala.
“Uncle Johnny!” Franklin announces, then notices Y/N and adds with solemn gravity, “Doctor Y/N.”
“Hi, bug,” she says, crouching to eye level. “How’s your week?”
“I built a volcano,” Franklin says. “I named him Mr. Quiet because he sleeps a lot and then boom.”
“Relatable,” Johnny says dryly.
At the table, Reed sets down a dish and nods at Johnny. “We have to talk about the database index you helped set up for the foundation. Elegant.”
“Reed,” Sue says gently, putting a hand on his forearm, “napkin.”
Reed blinks. “Ah.” He shifts his napkin from under the vase to his lap. Y/N hides a smile. Johnny leans in. “This is what our kids are going to be like,” he whispers, and then nearly swallows his tongue because he said kids and our in the same sentence out loud in front of her.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she tucks her foot around his ankle under the table like a secret. “Mr. Quiet,” she whispers back.
Later, after Franklin falls asleep on Ben’s rocky shoulder during an animated movie, Y/N and Sue wash dishes while the men argue in the living room about a fantasy league Johnny somehow conned Reed into joining.
“I like him,” Sue says without looking up, voice low intended for Y/N only.
“I know,” Y/N says, cheeks warm.
“He’s different with you,” Sue adds. “Lighter, but… steadier.”
Y/N thinks about his convertible idling outside her clinic. The soup. The note. The way he takes up space in a room without swallowing air from anyone else. “He’s trying,” she admits. “But it doesn’t feel like performance. It feels like him.”
“Because it is,” Sue says softly. “He can be ridiculous. But this? This is not one of those times.”
Y/N nods, feeling the truth of it land.
In the living room, Ben elbows Johnny. “You gonna ask Reed for, what, a dowry in lab equipment if this gets serious?”
“Shut up,” Johnny mutters, flushing but smiling. “I’m doing this the right way.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ben says, unexpectedly gentle. “And I also know you’re terrified you’ll mess it up. That’s usually a good sign.”
Johnny glances toward the kitchen, where Y/N is laughing at something Sue said, head thrown back. He feels it in his bones—the yearning like tide, the patience like coastline. “I’d light the whole sky up for her and still call it subtle,” he says, half to himself.
Ben snorts. “She knows.”
One night, after a long day at the foundation, Y/N finds her father in his workshop, the glow of holograms painting him younger than he is. He’s fiddling with a circuit board, but she knows the work isn’t the point.
“Hey, trouble,” Tony says without looking up. It’s what he called her when she was five and broke into a gummy-bear jar using a magnet and a butter knife.
She sits on the stool across from him. “Are you giving Johnny a hard time because of me or because of him?”
Tony’s mouth quirks. He’s been expecting this. “Yes.”
She stares.
“Okay, okay,” he sighs, setting the tool down. “Because of me. I know he’s… fine.” He grimaces like the word tastes cheap. “I know he’s better than fine. I know he does the thing where he looks at you like the room got oxygen back.”
She swallows. Tony meets her eyes. His are tired around the edges. “When I look at you,” he says, and the words come out rusted with love, “I still see a kid in light-up sneakers who used to fall asleep on my workbench with a wrench in her fist because she wanted to fix what I was fixing. I still see you sprinting down the hall when you heard the elevator ding because you thought it meant I was home. That’s the movie that plays in my head when anyone says your name.” He inhales slowly, his voice kicking around his chest. “So when a very charming young man who can literally become plasma asks to court you, a part of me wants to put him in a box, label it ‘radioactive,’ and fire it into the sun.”
Y/N’s smile wobbles. “He is the sun, Dad.”
“Exactly,” Tony says, exasperated. Then, quieter, “I’m scared of losing you to any life that doesn’t call me every Sunday night to complain about paperwork.”
“I’ll still call,” she says, reaching across the bench, palm up. He takes it. Their hands are the same shape. She squeezes. “You’re not losing me. You’re adding someone who takes the late shift when I get sick and remembers which mug I like. He’s not trying to replace this. He’s trying to fit into it.”
Tony stares at their joined hands, at the grease smudge on her knuckle. He nods once. “I’m still going to threaten him.”
“I would be offended if you didn’t.”
He sighs. “I hate when you’re reasonable.”
“Genetics,” she says, dry. He groans, but he’s smiling.
Later, he finds Pepper in bed, reading. He sinks down beside her and she sets the book on her stomach, waiting him out like she always has.
“She asked me why I’m giving him a hard time,” he says, and then presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Pep, I—when I look at her, I see all the versions. I see the toddler who used to wedge herself under the table during board meetings and draw. I see the teenager who learned to solder because she thought it would make me proud, and the med student who pretended she didn’t need me to proofread her personal statement, and the woman who builds clinics out of thin air and stubbornness. I don’t know how to stop being the guy standing at the elevator waiting to hear those little footsteps.”
Pepper shifts, sliding her hand over his chest, settling it there where his panic lives. “You don’t have to stop,” she says. “You just widen the space so someone else can step in.”
“What if he drops her?”
“He won’t,” Pepper says, certainty like steel. “I’ve seen the way he sets himself on fire and then makes sure no one gets burned. He learned that the hard way. He’s grown into it. He looks at her like she’s not a puzzle to solve or a trophy to display. He looks at her like something to protect and marvel at.”
Tony stares at the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll give him the talk.”
Pepper smiles into his shoulder. “Be nice.”
“I said the talk,” he mumbles. “Not the cuddles.”
The night it happens, the city is damp from a storm. Johnny’s in the workshop doorway like a kid called to the principal’s office. Tony’s at the bench, not tinkering for once. Pepper is not here; this is a father thing.
“Sir,” Johnny says.
Tony jerks his chin at the stool. He spends a minute looking at Johnny the way a man looks at a parachute he’s about to step off a cliff wearing. “You waited.”
“I told you I would,” Johnny says simply.
“You showed up when she was sick.”
“Yes.”
“You learned paperwork.”
“God help me, yes.”
Tony exhales. “You love her.”
Johnny opens his mouth to say something light. He doesn’t. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Johnny could list facts: her work, her laugh, the way she tucks her foot around his ankle under tables like a secret. None of that is the marrow of it. So he tells the truth. “Because when I’m with her, I stop performing. Because I have spent years being the loudest person in any room so no one could hear the crack in my voice. And she is… quiet in a way that silences the noise. She sees me. And I see her. And… I want a life where our seeing each other is the point, not the perk.”
Tony rubs a hand over his mouth. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Somewhere in the tower, an elevator dings; Y/N is probably coming home, toeing off her shoes in the hall, turning on lights in the way he can already map with his eyes closed.
“Okay,” Tony says finally, voice thick and wry and resigned. “Okay.”
Johnny’s breath leaves him like a wind changed directions. “Okay?”
“You can court my daughter,” Tony says. “Which in regular people words means you can date her as if I’m watching, because I probably am.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny says, grinning helplessly.
“But,” Tony adds, pointing a warning finger, “if you hurt her—if you dim her in any way—I will invent a machine specifically to locate you in any dimension and then I will deliver a very long, very boring PowerPoint about respect before I throw you into the Hudson.”
“Understood,” Johnny says, trying not to laugh and not entirely succeeding.
Tony glares. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” Johnny says. “I am too.”
Tony’s mouth quirks. “God help me, I believe you.”
Johnny stands. He holds out his hand. Tony looks at it like he might bite it, then takes it. His grip is firm and brief and says more than he knows how to.
“Go,” Tony says, flicking his fingers toward the door. “She’s probably pretending she doesn’t know you’re outside like a golden retriever.”
Johnny’s chest feels too full for his ribs. He goes.
When Johnny knocks, Y/N is waiting on the other side like a person who’s been listening for footsteps. She opens the door before he can drop his hand.
“You talked to him,” she says, eyes searching his. She can read him easily now, like an old blueprint.
“I did,” he says. “He threatened me with a PowerPoint.”
She laughs, relief shaking through her like a tree shedding the last weight of rain. Then she sobers. “And?”
“He gave me his blessing,” Johnny says, voice careful with the size of it.
Her hand finds his shirt, fingers twisting in the cotton. She lifts on her toes and kisses him. It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s home—gentle and sure and threaded with the memory of soup and notes and Sunday dinners and paperwork and a thousand little choices made in her direction. He kisses her back with gratitude and hunger and the kind of restraint that will be fun to abandon later when time is theirs.
When they break, she rests her forehead against his. “You really did all that,” she whispers.
“I’d do it all again,” he says, truth simple as weather. “Twice. In worse shoes.”
She smiles into his mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like me ridiculous.”
“I do.”
He reaches for her hand, laces their fingers. “Come on,” he says softly. “There’s a convertible downstairs and a city that owes us an overpriced dessert.”
She shakes her head, amused. “You can’t court me with crème brûlée.”
“I can court you with anything if I bring you home on time,” he says, mock-pious. “And if I tuck a sweater in the backseat because you always forget the wind on bridges.”
She pauses. “You remembered?”
“I’m building a map of you,” he says. “I’m going to get every street right.”
Later, on the bridge, she does get cold. He wordlessly reaches behind the seat and shakes out the sweater. She slides her arms into it and gives him a look that could melt steel. He keeps his eyes on the road and lets his heart do whatever it wants.
Back at the tower, Tony watches through the kitchen camera as Johnny walks her to the door and doesn’t step past the threshold. He hears them laughing, sees the way Y/N leans against the frame like she’s learning how to be soft without putting anything down. Pepper slips her hand into his.
“You did good,” she says.
“I did terrifying,” he corrects, but his eyes are warm.
Pepper tilts her head. “You see it now?”
He nods. “Yeah. The way he looks at her.” He swallows. “Like she’s oxygen.”
Pepper smiles. “Told you.”
He squeezes her hand. “If he hurts her—”
“You’ll build the machine,” she says, deadpan. “I know.”
They stand there a while, listening to the muffled rhythm of voices in the hall, the sound that means their daughter is happy and safe and—miracle of miracles—seen.
What follows is mostly ordinary, which is the point. It’s Johnny waiting outside the clinic with puzzles for the waiting room and a thermos that is somehow always at the precise temperature she likes. It’s Y/N showing up to the Baxter after a brutal shift and falling asleep with her head in his lap while Reed narrates a documentary in a soothing monotone and Sue drapes a blanket over them without comment. It’s Ben teaching Johnny how to make a better roast chicken “because you can’t just serve soup forever, hotshot,” and Johnny pretending not to cry when Y/N says it tastes like home. It’s Franklin handing Y/N a crayon drawing of “Auntie Doctor and Unca Fire,” and Johnny having to excuse himself to the bathroom for a second to do breathing exercises because he is not built for this much goodness all at once.
It’s Tony sending Johnny a calendar invite titled “Periodic Review of Worthiness” that is actually just brunch and an excuse to talk about old cars. It’s Pepper hugging Johnny in the hallway and whispering, “Thank you,” like a prayer she doesn’t say out loud often.
It’s the quiet seasons of yearning that don’t end when love is returned; they deepen. Johnny still looks at her some nights like the first time he saw her, kneeling in a white coat in a city that needs a million small kindnesses. He still feels that snap of the banner in the wind whenever her laugh rings down a hallway. He learns the particular geography of loving a woman who belongs to herself first and to the world with the rest of her time. He decides that his job is to make sure she is never cold when the wind picks up; to make sure there’s soup when a fever lands; to make sure her foundations—literal and otherwise—are buttressed and balanced; to be her oxygen and her quiet, both.
On a Tuesday, months into their orbit, they sit on the floor of her office after hours, backs against the wall, feet tangled. The clinic is dark except for the lamp she insists on because fluorescent lighting “feels like being scolded.” Her head rests on his shoulder; his arm is around her waist. The kind of silence that comes only when everything that needs saying has been said, at least for the day.
“You still waiting for me after shifts?” she murmurs, already knowing the answer.
“Every day you’ll let me,” he says.
She tilts her face up. “Okay.”
He kisses her hair. “Okay.”
Downstairs, the city keeps breathing. Upstairs, in a workshop, a father pretends not to check a camera feed he swears is just for security. Across town, Ben falls asleep in front of a game, Reed’s hand resting absentmindedly on his ankle like a human paperweight. Sue tucks Franklin in and texts Y/N a photo of Mr. Quiet, the volcano, with a construction-paper heart taped to its side. Y/N texts back a row of exclamation points and a selfie of Johnny attempting to look dignified with a stethoscope around his neck. Sue sends back a heart and a single word: family.
Johnny looks at the screen and feels the word settle where it’s been wanting to, in the space between his ribs that used to echo. He pulls Y/N closer; she goes easily, like she belongs exactly there.
“You know,” he says into her hair, soft as prayer, “I asked to court you because I wanted to do this right.”
“You are,” she says.
“Feels like I’ve been courting you since the banner,” he admits. “Feels like I’ll never stop.”
She smiles against his shoulder. “Good,” she says, and the room is suddenly full of every version of forever that matters. “Don’t.”
warnings: Depiction of Iceman's death, injury, age gap, kissing, and some profanities
summary: He was fearless in the sky, but on the ground, Maverick had no idea how much he meant to you. You patched him up, again and again, but watching him risk everything would break you one day. He sought for escape in the skies, but what he truly needed was you — the anchor to finally make him feel grounded.
pairings: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x fem!Kazansky reader
word count: 7.3k words (this one got away from me haha)
songs to set the mood: Never Knew I Needed — Ne-Yo | Spend My Life With You — Eric Benet ft. Kevin Davis | The Only Exception — Paramore
author's note: The story is set in between Top Gun: Maverick movie, so expect some of their dialogues here (mainly the Maverick & Iceman scene in the Kazansky home, and the final mission). Please let me know what you think! I'm also restarting the tag list, so let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.
It was a beautiful day, the golden sunlight illuminating the porch where you and your father, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, sat. You were both facing the garden, where your nephews ran around playing soccer with your brother while your mom set the table for a nice family dinner.
"Does he know?" your father asked. His voice was coarse and low, but every bit as gentle as it had always been.
"No." You shook your head. "I don’t think I’ll ever tell him."
Speaking had become difficult for him ever since the cancer came back. Now, he spoke in short sentences, used gestures, or typed on his computer or tablet. Around family, though, he always tried to avoid typing because he wanted every interaction to feel as real as possible.
This time, he simply looked at you, as if asking, why not?
Inhaling deep, you shrugged and it took you a moment to say what you have always thought. "Because he won't feel the same way."
Tom waved you off, as if to say something along the lines of why think that way when you haven’t even spoken to him yet? Or maybe, he’d be stupid not to feel the same.
You chuckled. "You're taking this better than I thought you would."
He laughed, which was followed by a coughing fit. Swiftly, you knelt down right in front of him and held up a glass of water. Tom took a sip and settled down.
"Your heart chose him," he said; his illness making each word come slowly, but to you each word carried weight.
It was the explanation your brain needed to understand why you had not been able to get this man out of your mind.
"And the fact that he's your best friend doesn't bug you?" you teased.
Tom shrugged. "Wouldn't be able to stop you," he grinned.
He was right. Growing up, your dad had always been strict, in the way most military fathers are. It worked out for your brother, who knew from the start that he wanted to be a fighter pilot just like him. But you? You were still figuring things out. Which, more often than not, meant a bit of a rebellious streak whenever your dad reminded you that curfew was at eight or to not date a boy he knew was trouble.
You sat back down on your chair as soon as you were sure he was okay.
“What do I do, Dad?”
Tom smiled, remembering the time you asked him to teach you baseball because a boy you liked was in the Little League Major Division. Only now, you were all grown up and this was more than just a crush. This was a steady feeling you had developed over the years from getting to know Maverick.
When you were little, Maverick was still the young troublemaker gallivanting around the world, escaping one girlfriend after another. You only knew him through your dad’s stories and a framed picture on the console table.
You first met Maverick while you were a resident at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in D.C. He brought in a fellow officer who was injured while trying to stop a mugging gone wrong. Of course, you recognised him immediately from the picture in your family home, but it didn’t register for him until he saw you in your white coat, your name embroidered above the breast pocket.
During his six-month stay in D.C., Maverick somehow became one of your most frequent ER patients — and that was how the two of you became close: the playful banter that was exchanged while you were stitching him up as he lay on the hospital bed.
You were recruited by the Naval Medical Center San Diego soon after finishing your residency as a trauma surgeon. You were also assigned to be the on-call doctor for Top Gun's instructors and students. That was around the time your father received his first cancer diagnosis, and you wanted nothing more than to stay close to him so you took the job without hesitation.
"Don't let fear choose for you. He'll come around," he said, implying that even though it looked like your feelings aren't reciprocated, he knew that what Maverick needed was someone who can make him feel grounded and at home after years of being in the air. Be patient. He'll get there.
Although he can be trouble, Maverick always has the best intentions. Iceman figured that a little bit of trouble was exactly what his type-A daughter needed, and leaving her in the hands of a good man could be the last good thing he did for her.
"Doctor Kazansky," Nurse Jacobs called out to you.
You looked up from the stack of charts you needed to complete to see his worried face.
"Come with me. It's Captain Mitchell."
You pushed your chair back and matched his pace as he led you toward the elevator to the helipad.
"What is it this time?"
"Bird strike. Both engines failed and he had to eject seconds before it hit the edge of a cliff. GCS was twelve when they found him. Possible concussion and right ankle injury."
You reached the helipad just as the medevac helicopter touched down. You half expected them to haul him out on a stretcher. Instead, he was sitting by the door, grinning the moment it slid open.
He limped toward you. “Hey, Frost!” he called over the roar of the blades.
Medical staff didn’t have call signs, but the Top Gun students during your first year gave you one anyway. You were the doctor on standby aboard the carrier or medevac aircraft during special missions, and the name stuck. It was a logical choice — not just because you were Iceman’s daughter, but because you handled every case, no matter how gruesome, with calm, steady detachment.
ER staff wheeled a gurney toward him and he waved it off.
“Wha- no! Get on the gurney, now, Captain,” you ordered, pointing at it.
The chopper blades slowed to a stop, leaving the two of you locked in a brief stare-off before he finally sighed and plopped down, trying — and failing — to hide a pained wince.
“Why didn’t you stabilise his spine?” you asked the first responder who’d evacuated him.
“He refused. Moved around so much to avoid it, I’m afraid his neck might actually break,” the man said.
You rolled your eyes.
“It’s not his fault,” Maverick muttered, folding an arm under his head as they began to wheel him inside.
“Stabilise his neck, please,” you instructed the nurses, who immediately complied despite his look of protests.
Everyone worked around him quickly as he laid there, bored out of his mind and with almost zero regard to his own safety after what happened.
Initial assessments found that he had sustained only superficial cuts and bruises apart from his right ankle, which showed a hairline fracture. It should heal fairly quickly if he stayed off it. Per protocol, he was to remain under observation for forty-eight hours and stay grounded until the fracture healed.
Anticipating a childish escape attempt, you made sure to place his leg in a light cast and suspended it with the help of the Ortho team, ensuring he couldn’t get out of it on his own.
"This is unnecessary," he muttered, glaring at the contraption that kept his leg pinned midair.
You’d dismissed the nurses after the major parts of his care was finished, sparing him the embarrassment of being fussed over. It was just the two of you now.
"You’re a flight risk," you said evenly, eyes on the gash above his brow as your hands moved with clinical precision to close it with neat, even sutures.
"Well, you’re talking to a fighter pilot. Evading is kind of my job," he said, his tone light, almost smug.
"Yeah, from heat-seeking missiles, not your doctor," you replied, clipping the last suture before moving on to the next injury.
He chuckled, the sound low and rough, his eyes following you as you circled to the other side of the bed.
"How did this one happen?" you asked, carefully peeling back the sterile bandage covering the gash along his forearm.
"Let’s just say it wasn’t a smooth landing," he said, attempting a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
You exhaled softly, injecting him with lidocaine to numb the area. The expression on your face made him pause: worry, unmistakable and unguarded. He’d seen you handle far worse without blinking; you’d once treated a pilot with half his leg torn open without so much as a flinch. The concern etched across your features was something entirely different.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
You smoothed your expression before looking up. "Nothing."
"Tell me, (Y/N)," he pressed.
"You keep getting injured," you began, the words spilling faster than you’d rehearsed in your head. "You never give yourself enough time to recover and I have to keep improvising ways to patch you up fast with minimal recovery time. But I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to save you."
The words left your mouth like a practiced speech that you had to take a deep breath at the end. You can feel his eyes on you, but he didn't say a thing until the silence became so uncomfortable so you looked up at him.
"It wouldn't be your fault," he said.
You wanted to scream, I don’t care whose fault it is, I just don’t want to lose you.
"It'll feel like it is," you countered.
For a long beat, Maverick said nothing. Something in the way your voice cracked near the end lodged itself under his skin. He wanted to make a joke to defuse the tension like he always did, but the sight of you standing there, trying to hold yourself together, made it impossible.
Two things broke that day: one, a piece of his heart when he realised he’d been the cause of your worry. And two, the icy wall he’d built around it when he let your light slip through the cracks.
You knew you'd hit home with that speech because it was exactly how Maverick felt about Goose. He was on his best behaviour after that, much to everyone’s surprise. Nurses hung around the station across his room just to see it with their own eyes.
He didn’t fidget with his cast, didn’t complain about the meds, and actually used the crutches on the second day, just like you prescribed. He left them behind after discharge, of course, a tiny act of rebellion, but he was never late for a check-up or his psych evaluation.
You were in your office, sorting out your charts when he showed up, leaning against the doorframe. He had just taken off his cast a few days ago and from what you were told, he hadn't gone back up in the air. Just on-the ground training, and you were certain that Cyclone was glad about that.
“Hi,” you said, suspiciously. “You’re not on my rounds today.”
“Headed to PT,” he replied, all casual pride.
You raised a brow. “Since when do you actually go to PT?”
He shrugged. “Since someone told me I should start doing it for once.”
You tried not to smile, but it was impossible. “She must be very wise."
He stepped further in, still not leaving. You could feel the space around you shift — that faint charge he always brought with him, like the air was trying to decide whether to let you breathe easy or not.
“Want me to walk you there?” you teased.
Maverick chuckled. “Sure. So you can vouch for me to Iceman later.”
You laughed, grabbing your charts so you can head straight to the ER after. He followed, his limp barely noticeable now, but every so often, you’d catch him stealing a glance at you.
“How’s he doing?” he asked quietly as you reached the corridor.
You didn’t have to ask who he meant.
“He’s… hanging in there,” you said. “Spending more time at home. Taking it easy.”
Maverick nodded slowly. “Doesn’t sound like him.”
“No,” you said softly. “Doesn’t sound like you either.”
That earned you a small, crooked smile. You’d learned that was his tell. The look he gave when someone caught him off guard with the truth.
At the PT door, he stopped. "It came back?" He asked.
You nodded. "No one knows yet," you said. "You should come see him. He’d like that.”
He nodded, his mind pondering something you couldn't understand.
"Anyway, are you coming to the party on Friday night?"
"What party?" He asked.
"The one at the Hard Deck. For Hawkins," you said. Hawkins was everyone's favourite Top Gun nurse — a beloved man by everyone who had ever walked through the doors of the infirmary.
"Not sure I was invited to that," he said with an awkward smile. He wasn't offended in any way, but he liked seeing you flush.
"I'm sorry. I thought everyone was invited. Your students definitely are," you laughed awkwardly.
"Ouch," he said, feigning a hurt look just to mess with you.
"How about you be my plus one?" you offered, feeling flustered.
"Is that a pity invite?" he raised his eyebrow.
"No! Just… an invite," you said quickly, sounding more apologetic than you meant to.
Maverick chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s fine, (Y/N). I don’t think they’d want to have fun with their Captain hanging around.”
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” you urged, stepping a little closer. “Please?”
He sighed the kind of long, resigned breath that meant he was already giving in. The last thing he wanted was to crash a party where he didn’t belong, but saying no to that look on your face was impossible.
“Alright, fine,” he said, pointing a finger at you. “But if the music dies down when I walk in, I’m leaving.”
“Deal,” you grinned.
"Ah, glad you came, Captain," the therapist greeted him at the door, pleasantly surprised that he showed up.
Maverick was booked for two intense therapy sessions a week for the next six weeks, with one follow-up sessions every few weeks. The physical therapist reported to you that he had attended eight sessions diligently before he started lobbying for early clearance, promising to attend the monthly follow-ups — which he ended up missing half the time.
Still, it was a record-breaking attendance, and you liked to think you had something to do with that.
In reality, Pete had been trying to pressure his therapist to clear him early since the very first session. The fact that he survived eight sessions to get on the therapist’s good side so he wouldn't report his absence to you surprised even himself.
On the day of the second session, he made an excuse that he had been summoned by the Commander of the U.S. Pacific Fleet. Nobody could argue with his get-out-of-jail card.
Maverick arrived on his Kawasaki and greeted your mother with a warm hug before walking into your father’s study. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked around. It still amused him how the little shit he knew back in their Top Gun days now had an adult study with a massive mahogany desk and what looked like a thousand-dollar chair.
At the sight of his best friend and the knowledge of his illness, though, his smile dropped. "Admiral," he greeted, pulling up a chair next to him. "How's my wingman?"
Iceman smiled and began to type, I want to talk about work. When Maverick refused and offered to do something for him instead, Iceman pointed at the screen again, indicating that Maverick could do something for him by talking to him about work.
"Alright," he gave up. He began to talk to him about Rooster and the mission.
It's time to let go, Iceman typed.
"I don't know how," Maverick replied, holding back his emotions. "I'm not a teacher, Ice. I'm a fighter pilot. Naval aviator. It's not what I am, it's who I am. How do I teach that? Even if I could teach it, it's not what Rooster wants. It's not what the Navy wants. That's why they canned me the last time.
"The only reason I'm here, is you. If I send him on this mission, he might never come home. And if I don't send him, he'll never forgive me. Either way, I could lose him forever."
Again, Ice gestured at the screen. When Pete nodded, he got up, gave his best friend a hug, and reminded him that it wasn’t out of sheer nepotism that he vouched for Maverick around all this time. It was because he knew his friend was capable of more.
He held up his index finger; one more thing he wanted to say. “Stop giving my daughter a hard time, will you?”
Pete laughed at that. “She told on me?”
It was Ice’s turn to laugh.
Maverick shook his head with that familiar grin. “She’s great, Ice. She’s tough. Sharp. The only lieutenant commander brave enough to boss me around,” he chuckled.
He said it easily, too easily. It was the kind of praise you give someone you admire. But when Iceman tilted his head with that knowing smirk, Maverick realised he’d been talking longer than he meant to. About the way you handled emergencies. The way you spoke your mind. The way you looked at him like he was still worth listening to.
Iceman didn’t need to say a word. The look alone said, You really don’t see it, do you? There were so many things he wanted to say to him about you. Love her. Cherish her. Choose her. And maybe threaten to kill him a little if he ever hurt you for good measure.
“Take care of her. For me,” he said.
Maverick could sense there was more to that. “I’ll do my best,” he replied, not yet grasping the weight behind the words.
“Not like Rooster,” Ice managed before a fit of coughing overtook him. He wasn’t talking about responsibility — not the kind Maverick felt with Rooster. He was talking about devotion.
He might not have been able to speak much anymore, but he wasn’t blind or deaf. Maverick loved her. He was just too scared to admit it.
You found Maverick waiting for you by the front doors on Friday night, leaning casually against his bike. The Kawasaki looked exactly as people said it would — sleek, loud, and a little reckless.
“Wow, the infamous Kawasaki,” you said, walking up to him with a smile.
He glanced up, grinning. “You sound impressed.”
“I’m mostly impressed it’s still in one piece,” you quipped, folding your arms.
He laughed, the sound easy and familiar, though the setting wasn’t. All the years you’d known him, your paths had only ever crossed inside the boundaries of the hangars, hospitals, and briefing rooms. Out here, under the streetlight and the sound of the ocean beyond the fence, it felt… different.
“Here,” he said, offering you the spare helmet.
You hesitated for half a second because something about this felt like stepping across an invisible line. Then you grabbed the spare helmet from his hand and hopped on the bike.
You arrived at the Hard Deck in ten minutes, the sound of laughter and a jukebox playing country music spilling into the parking lot.
“Heeeeey, Dr. Frost!” Hawkins shouted, waving a beer in one hand and a bedazzled cowboy hat on his head. He was tipsy, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with mischief — the classic Hawkins you knew from the base, only louder.
You raised an eyebrow. Neither the prolonged “heeey” nor the cowboy hat was something sober, professional Hawkins would ever do. And calling you Dr. Frost was not standard protocol.
"Are you drunk already?" you asked.
"Uh huh, and you have to keep up. It's the weekend, (Y/N), let loose a little," he shimmied and as he thrusted the half full glass of beer towards you.
That was when he spotted Captain Mitchell right behind you and all the colour drained from his faced. His snazzy grin disappeared.
"Oh, Captain Mitchell," he greeted, feigning sobriety. "Thank you so much for coming!" Hawkins managed.
Maverick glanced at you at the fake gratitude he expressed while you pretended not to hear.
"Happy birthday, Hawkins," Pete said.
"Thanks!" He replied excitedly. "Yeah, so um, the main event should be starting soon. In the meantime you can go and get some drinks, or there's also the Hawkins' Special called The Hawk that Penny concocted in honour of moi," he lifted his cowboy hat at the end. "It's gin, cranberry juice, splash of rosé, and a dash of grenadine," he laughed.
"That's a whole lot of pink," you quipped.
"That's the point, honey," Hawkins said as he pointed you both to the direction of the bar and left
Maverick instinctively placed a hand on your back, smirking. “Looks like we’re in for an interesting night.”
You could feel the skin underneath your jacket burn at his touch, but you didn't show it. Instead, you laughed, shaking your head. “Understatement of the year.”
You sat at the bar and actually ordered The Hawk, wanting to see what it would actually taste like while Maverick ordered a glass of beer.
He glanced around the room and finally stopping after he spotted Rooster at the pool table with the rest of the crew.
Your gaze followed his before turning to him. "How's that going?" You asked. You knew Rooster and Maverick had some troubles, but you never knew what exactly.
"He still hates me," he simply said, taking a sip from his drink.
"It's not your fault," you said, thinking that Rooster hated him for what happened to Goose.
"I pulled his papers from the Naval academy. It took years off his career," he said. "It's kinda my fault," he shrugged.
This was a new revelation to you. "Why'd you do that?"
"His mother never wanted him to fly. Not after what happened to Goose. She made me promise before she died, so..." he couldn't even finish the sentence. Ever since Goose's death, Maverick knew he had an obligation to keep Rooster safe.
"Does he know that?"
"He will always resent me for what I did. Why should he resent her too?" he said rhetorically before sipping his drink.
"That's a tough decision to make," you said.
He hummed and nodded. "I just wish I would've done some things better."
"He'll come around," you said, looking back at Rooster. "If there is one thing I know for sure, it's that the people who love you the most can hurt you the deepest."
Maverick smiled softly. Hearing it made him feel a little comfort in a way he hadn’t in a long while.
You were attending the medical briefing for the uranium enrichment plant mission when your phone rang. Your mother rarely called you at work unless there was an emergency, so you excused yourself and took the call outside.
"Sweetheart,” her voice wavered. "You need to come home. Now."
"Is everything okay?" You knew it was not, though.
"Your dad’s vitals dropped this afternoon. Dr. Reed thinks… this might be it."
Your heart sank to the pit of your stomach. You didn't return back to the meeting room to excuse yourself, instead you just left.
When you entered their bedroom, your father was already in bed hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor. His doctor and nurse stood nearby, quietly monitoring him, making sure he was comfortable.
“Dad…” you called softly. Your mother and brother stepped aside, giving you space.
He managed a weak smile and extended an arm toward you. You rounded the bed, dropped to your knees beside him, and wrapped him in a careful hug.
“What hurts, Dad? How can I help?”
Moments like these made you regret not specialising in oncology. You were a doctor — you should know what to do. You should be able to save him.
But he shook his head gently, already knowing the thoughts spiralling through yours.
"Why don't we go to the hospital, okay?" You looked around. At your mom, your brother, and the doctors.
“Just sit here with me,” he said, smiling faintly. It was time, he knew it and he was at peace with that.
You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks as the realisation hit: he didn't want to fight anymore.
"Sweetheart, just sit with me," your father said again.
“Okay,” you whispered.
All three of you sat around him and in that last moment, you exchanged some stories to make him smile. To make him forget the pain and to make sure he knew he was loved because of how much he had loved all three of you.
Your dad's eyes shifted to the doorway where Maverick stood, quietly watching the four Kazanskys share their moment. Iceman managed a weak smile. His world was finally complete.
Maverick stepped in softly, sitting on the edge of the bed across from you. For a moment, the two of you were connected by the man you both loved most.
He wanted to hug you so much, to shield you from the pain that he knew was about to overcome you but all he could do was watch you try to be strong for everyone else. It broke something in him, seeing that strength crack in real time. He’d seen countless people grieve, but yours… yours broke him in a way he didn’t expect.
"You look like shit," he said, trying to lighten the mood.
Your father smiled, too weak to laugh. He gathered what little strength he had left and motioned for Maverick to come closer. Maverick glanced at you and your mom before leaning in. Your dad placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. From a distance, it could’ve looked like a hug in one last quiet moment. But you could see your father’s lips move, whispering something only Maverick could hear.
When he finally looked up, Maverick met your eyes as he gave a small nod to your dad.
A last request. A last command. Not out of duty, but out of love for both of you.
She'll be the best thing that has ever happened to you.
Hours later, Tom “Iceman” Kazansky passed surrounded by his loved ones. It looked as if he were simply falling asleep. It was the most peaceful death you had ever witnessed. Maybe it was just your imagination, but you could’ve sworn a faint smile lingered on his lips.
Mission completed.
You were given ten days of compassionate leave to grieve your father’s death. But him dying in your home left you feeling haunted, so two days after the funeral, you were already back at work.
You worked the late nights just so you’d have an excuse to crash in your office at Top Gun or the on-call room at the medical center and you convinced Cyclone that you were ready to join the Top Gun pilots on their mission to destroy the unauthorised uranium plant.
Being home reminded you of the sound of his last breath. Of the way your mother and brother sobbed. Of the wail that tore out of you when you could no longer feel his heartbeat, and the doctors quietly declared his time of death.
You remembered the way Maverick held you, stopping you from shaking your father’s body, as if you could somehow bring him back. It was all too much. Maverick never left your side the entire time except for when he pounded his winged badge on your father's casket and gave him a last salute. That alone brought you to tears.
It was eight in the evening and you arrived at Top Gun after working a 12-hour shift at the medical center. You planned to stay in your office the rest of the night before leaving for the mission bright and early tomorrow.
As you entered the infirmary, there he was. Maverick.
He wore his standard Navy slacks with a fitted white button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows after an official meeting with the crew.
"Mav? Are you okay?" You rushed over, scanning him instinctively for injuries.
"I needed to see you," he said.
You blinked, momentarily disoriented. "You couldn’t text me? This entrance is for emergencies."
He cracked a tired smile. "Guess that makes this one, then."
You chuckled. "We're seeing each other tomorrow. I am coming with you, you know?"
He nodded. The thought of tomorrow’s mission had been gnawing at him. He’d gone over every risk with Cyclone and Warlock, every possible outcome, and somehow all roads led back to you.
He knew you loved him — that was what Ice was trying to say that day in the study and again before he passed. Standing there now, watching you in that sterile hallway light, exhaustion written all over your face, it finally clicked.
It wasn’t just grief binding him to you. It was the way you moved through pain without flinching. The way you kept everyone else steady, even when you were falling apart.
It hit him quietly, not like lightning. It was more like gravity. Something that had been pulling him all along, and he’d only just noticed.
He loved you too.
But love didn’t change who he was. If it came down to it, he would still make the call that might cost him his life if it meant saving the others. Especially Rooster.
You just lost your father. He couldn’t bear the thought of you losing him, too. But if that was what the mission demanded… he needed to be ready. And he needed you to be ready, too.
"Take a walk with me?" he asked, stretching his arm toward you.
You took it without hesitation, even though you weren’t sure where he was headed.
He led you out of the compound, walking toward the beach. Darkness surrounded you, broken only by the glow of the streetlights behind you and the full moon hanging low on the horizon.
When you arrived, your gaze shifted to the stars splattered across the sky, and for a moment you forgot that Maverick had brought you here to talk about something important.
He took that pause to study you, bracing himself. Instinctively, he squeezed your hand a little tighter, earning your full attention.
"I don't know what will happen tomorrow. It's a risky mission and I… I might not-"
Before he could finish, you reached up, pressing a light kiss to his lips. No turning back now.
Maverick was stunned for a split second, eyes searching yours. But half a second later, his arm was around your waist, pulling you in. The hand holding yours squeezed a little tighter as he kissed you deeper.
She'll be the best thing that has ever happened to you.
The words echoed in his mind as he savoured the way your hands cupped his cheek, the warmth of your touch cutting through the chill of the night air. The feeling of your soft lips against his, careful but sure. Maverick pulled you closer as if it were even possible, unable to get enough of you.
He wanted to bottle up every sensation; the press of your body, the brush of your hands, the way your perfume mingled with the salty ocean breeze. He wanted this night forever cemented in his memory.
He pulled away slowly, only because he had to. Maverick rested his forehead against yours, trying to find the words he had rehearsed over and over on his way to you.
“(Y/N). This mission is dangerous for everyone. But if it comes down to it, I’ll have to… I’ll have to save him or anyone else in the team for that matter,” he said.
Your face fell and your eyes prickled from the tears that was welling up. It pained him to have to tell you, but he owed you this because you will be on the carrier with him. You’ll be listening in to all the conversations and decisions being made. He needed you to be prepared for that.
“If it does happen, I need you to let me go,” he said. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew how unfair they were to you. He wished he hadn’t spent all these years running, because then he could have been with you sooner, so that when the time came, there would already be beautiful memories for you to hold onto.
You swallowed hard and nodded. The calm, collected facade you wore for everyone else was gone. He broke through your walls and laid your heart bare.
“Okay,” you finally said, your voice slightly coarse from holding back so many emotions at once. He’ll come around, your Dad told to you once. “I know you’ve made up your mind, but promise me that you’ll at least consider that I’ll be waiting for you to come home safely.”
“I promise,” he said, his heart bursting wide open for you. Maverick never had anyone waiting for him to come home. It was the reason he was reckless and had almost zero regard for his own safety. But looking at the sincerity in your eyes, the last thing he wanted was to fly away from it. Instead he wanted to stay grounded, right here with you.
He promised himself to tell you that when he came back.
The next morning, the Top Gun base buzzed with activity. Your medic team hopped aboard the carrier and immediately ran through checklists and team briefings.
It would take around four days for the carrier to reach the plant, time in which you needed to ensure every personnel was fit and ready for the mission.
Maverick had picked his team on the first day, and all six of them were required to meet with you and your team every morning for checkups.
The last checkup took place in the mission briefing room as the team geared up. Maverick pulled you into a quiet hallway, away from the noise. He found a corner and guided you against the wall, pressing a hand above your head to trap you there.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “What are we, in high school hiding from the teachers?”
He chuckled. One last moment of rebellion, in case he didn't make it. His other hand slid up yours, sending shivers down your spine, before he pulled you in by your forearm and kissed you.
The kiss dragged you back to that night at the beach — the conversation that had been haunting your nights ever since. Now, it was your turn to memorise every detail: the feeling of his white shirt beneath the half-zipped flight suit, the brush of his fingertips against your skin, his warm breath like soft wisps on your cheek, and his lips, soft yet insistent, on yours.
You could stay like this forever if it weren’t for the announcement blaring over the PA system.
“I have to go,” he said lightly, as if stepping out for groceries rather than into a mission.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him tight. “Be careful,” you whispered.
He buried his nose into your shoulder. "If I don't make it back..." he began, and your heart thumped with dread and sadness, but you were determined to not show it to him. You wouldn't send him off like that. "I love you," he declared simply and quietly, and all the weight on his chest lifted off like a relief.
You squeezed him tighter, allowing a single tear to drop and hoped he didn't notice. Wiping it off, you pulled away from him and looked him in the eyes. "I love you too," you said.
He walked you back to the elevators that would lead you back to the medic bay. You watched him disappear behind the metal doors and you wrapped your arms around yourself to shake off the fear gripping your heart.
Please. Let him come home to me.
You were assigned to the Combat Information Center to monitor any incoming medical issues and to keep your team ready. It gave you a front-row seat to the mission unfolding.
"Dagger One, up and ready on Catapult One," you heard him report, and you whispered another prayer under your breath.
"Support assets airborne. Strike package ready. Standing by for launch decision," Comanche called out.
Without hesitation, Cyclone commanded, "Send them."
You’d never had a problem being in the CIC before, but today was different. At that moment, you were grateful for the chair they’d set out for you. Your legs felt weak, you weren’t sure they could hold you up otherwise.
You tried to focus on Maverick’s voice over the comms: his calm report on the first SAM site, the heads-up to Phoenix, the encouragement he gave Rooster. It shouldn’t have mattered to you, but hearing him meant that he was still alive.
The room erupted in cheers as both teams hit the bullseye, but you knew the fight wasn’t over. Even if he hadn’t lost consciousness from the high Gs he was pulling, there were still missiles coming for his tail.
"We're not out of this yet," Maverick struggled to say, wanting to make sure his team stayed sharp. "Here it comes!" And you knew the missiles had found him.
Your fingers tugged at each other as you heard the overlap between the pilots, communicating with one another to avoid the missiles.
"Shit, I'm out of flares!" Rooster yelled out.
"Rooster, evade, evade!" You could hear Maverick respond.
"I can't shake them. They're on me, they're on me!" Rooster exclaimed, panic lacing his voice.
And the worst sentence you never wished to hear came, "Mav! No!" Your heart plunged to your stomach.
You hand clasped over your mouth, the whole thing happened so fast that it hadn't registered until Phoenix reported, "Dagger One is hit, I repeat Dagger One is hit. Maverick is down!"
"Dagger One, status. Status! Anyone see him? Does anyone see him?" You could hear someone say, but your vision was already blurred by the tears in your eyes.
"I didn't see a parachute!" another responded.
If it does happen, I need you to let me go. His voice echoed in your head. Pull it together, you thought.
Hastily, you wiped your eyes off turning your body to the bare wall to gather yourself. You were still here to do your job. Please. Let him come home to me.
You made a mental note of what needed to be done as soon as the pilots came back. You ran the checklist in your head.
Initial visual assessment. Look for signs of immediate trauma. Airway, breathing, circulation, then neuro check. Look for signs of a concussion.
Please. Let him come home to me. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to regain your focus.
Then trauma assessment as soon as they get to the medic bay. Check for fractures, lacerations, or internal injuries, and any High-G side effects.
"Tell him there's nothing he can do for Maverick. Not in a goddamn F-18!" Cyclone's words cut through your thoughts. Please. Let him come home to me.
You watched as Cyclone denied Hangman's request to fly air cover or even Warlock's request for search and rescue. It broke your heart, but you knew your place. He was right. We could not lose anyone else, and you tried to take comfort that he made the decision with you in mind.
"Get 'em home now," Cyclone said to the crew. "Frost, get ready for inbound," Cyclone addressed you.
Straightening your expression, you nodded. "Yes, Sir." You stepped back, and spoke over your own earpiece to your team to start preparations.
You ignored Bob's voice over the speakers saying, "He's gone. Maverick's gone," and kept your voice steady.
You turned back to the screens to see Phoenix and Payback's aircraft heading back to base, but not Rooster's.
"Dagger Two is hit. Dagger Two is hit!" a crew member said.
And the horror on everyone's face is unmistakable. No one heard anything from Rooster no matter how many times they asked him to come in.
The room was silent, with a few crew members coordinating for Phoenix and Payback's return.
You can hear Warlock and Cyclone strategising on how to get rid of the bandits still in the air so they could launch a rescue mission without losing anybody else.
Phoenix, Bob, Payback, and Fanboy were on their way and you'd have to leave for the medic bay to oversee the team assigned to them as soon as Cyclone cleared you.
"Sir, we're receiving a signal from Rooster's ESAT. There seems to be a malfunction."
"Have you lost him?" Warlock followed up.
"No, Sir. He's supersonic," the crew replied, incredulous.
"He's airborne," Warlock realised.
"In what?" Cyclone asked.
In that moment, a spark of hope appeared in your heart. It had to be. Please. It had to be him. Maverick.
"Sir, overwatch reports an F-14 Tomcat is airborne and on course for our position," another crew reported.
You smiled.
"Can't be. It-it can't be," Warlock muttered.
"Maverick," you said out loud, one hundred percent certain. The relief on your face was unmistakable. There was no doubt in your mind that he was coming home to you.
Cyclone and Warlock turned to you; you nodded. They moved fast.
“Comanche, I want a positive ID on that F‑14. Track him and keep him in sight,” Cyclone ordered.
“Tell Hangman he’s on overwatch. Maintain separation — no aggressive moves until I confirm. Keep eyes on Maverick,” he added to the comms crew.
Your heart pounded, a mix of dread and something dangerously close to hope.
Hangman’s voice blared over the speakers. “Bandit on their tail. Looks like they’re out of ammo. Requesting permission to engage.”
The crew looked up at Cyclone, waiting for permission.
Cyclone nodded.
"Dagger Spare, you are cleared to engage," the crew said. You could hear the slight tinge of satisfaction on her voice as she gave the orders too.
"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, this is your saviour speaking. Please fasten your seatbelts, return your tray tables to their locked and upright positions, and prepare for landing" Hangman said in his cheeky voice, clearly speaking to the two pilots on the other aircraft.
"I am good Rooster, I'm very good," he said again, and that was confirmation enough that Maverick and Rooster were alive. "I'll see you back on deck."
Everyone in the room chuckled, clapped, and hugged. For the first time since the mission started, you were finally able to breathe properly.
Cyclone turned to you. “Frost, ready the medbay for two inbound,” he said, a satisfied smile on his face.
You ran to the medical bay, wanting nothing more than to be there as soon as possible. Through the windows, you could see the F‑14 approaching from a distance.
The medbay doors opened directly onto the runway for quick access in case of injury. You watched, heart in your throat, as Maverick’s plane touched down into the barricade with no landing gear.
Phoenix, Bob, Payback, and Fanboy abandoned their medical checks, and you instructed your team to stand down and let them through.
You stepped out, standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on Maverick as he climbed out of the cockpit and onto the tarmac.
You tracked his movements until his gaze finally met yours.
Maverick weaved through the crowd, his smile meant only for you, despite the high-fives and pats on the back from everyone else.
“You're back,” you whispered, voice thick, tears welling at the corners of your eyes.
He took your hand in his and pulled you close, cupping your face as he kissed you. He didn’t care who was watching anymore.
Maverick pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m home,” he murmured, before pressing his lips to yours again.
omg I was recently going through my tumblr likes to reminisce (as one does) and I rediscovered your blog lol!!! just wanted say that your fics were my Roman Empire back in June 2022 and hope you're doing well 👍👍
Ah, the good old days. I truly wish writing stories can be my full time job. I keep coming back to it over the years but never really published anything.
Thanks for thinking of me! It means a lot 🧡 Hope you're doing well now too
the way you love me: a million things (part 2). | jake “hangman” seresin x reader
the lyrics: The way that your fingers run through my hair and how your scent lingers even when you're not there; and I like the innocent way that you cry at sappy old movies you've seen thousands of times.
warnings: Mentions of abandonment issues, being abandoned by a parent and a partner
pairings: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader
word count: 2,882 (10 minutes reading time)
author’s notes: I’m back? I can’t believe this took three years hahahahaha. I was in the middle of writing this when life got in the way, and it just fell through the cracks. Over the years, I keep on coming back to edit this because I still love the premise so much. This time, I decided to just post it haha. This is is part two to the The Way You Love Me series!
PART ONE: The Way You Love Me: Slow & Easy
songs to set the mood: I Love The Way You Love Me ; Nothing ; What Else Ya Got
“You’ve never seen Die Hard?” Jake gasped. “That is like the greatest movie of all time!”
You laughed as you grabbed a piece of tissue to wipe your lips from the smidge of pasta sauce you could feel on the corner of your lip. “It’s not my fault, that movie is so old and I can’t seem to find it on Netflix,” you shrugged.
“Oh my God,” he muttered, as if you had just said the most abominable thing ever.
“Hey, you’ve never watched The Notebook! That’s just as terrible a crime,” you pointed out.
Jake’s pout turned into a slow smirk. “Alright, fine. We’re watching both tonight,” he said with determination.
“It’s 8 o’clock already. What time are we gonna finish if we watch both now?” you asked. It might’ve been the wrong thing to worry about on a date with a man you liked, but considering both movies were nearly two hours long, the thought of getting home late by yourself had you slightly worried.
“Well, good thing I don’t have work tomorrow,” he wiggled his eyebrows as he rented both movies on his phone.
You gave him a pointed look. “Yeah, but I do. And unlike you, I can’t just show up late looking like I rolled out of bed and still have everyone love me.”
He chuckled, leaning back into the chair, totally unbothered. “Sweetheart, if you think I’m letting you walk out of here at two in the morning, you’ve got another thing coming. You can crash here—couch, bed, take your pick. I promise, I’m a gentleman.”
Your heart did a little flip at that, though you tried to hide it with a roll of your eyes. “A gentleman who forces me to watch Bruce Willis blow things up for two hours.”
“A gentleman with great taste,” he corrected smoothly.
Tonight was your third date with him, and instead of an amusement park like the first one or a day out at the beach like the second (both his ideas, of course), you had asked for something quiet at one of your places. Jake immediately suggested his. You hadn’t known what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a delicious spaghetti and meatballs dinner he’d cooked.
You twirled a few strands of noodles around your fork as he set his phone down. “I can’t believe you cooked this all by yourself. I didn’t exactly peg you as the cooking type,” you said.
Jake smiled proudly as he bit into a meatball. “I gotta be honest,” he said, swallowing before continuing, “I didn’t. I don’t actually know how to cook.”
“What?” You raised both brows, fork pausing mid-air.
“I was just reheating it in the pan when you walked in because I ordered too early and it got cold,” Jake chuckled.
“Oh, man. I was just starting to like that about you,” you mumbled, a little bummed.
“Really?” He leaned closer. “What else do you like about me?” Jake asked with a charming smile.
You kept your lips tight as you munched on your food and looked away, giving him a little shrug before diverting your gaze to your plate. You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks and you hoped he didn’t notice.
Jake laughed. “Aw come on, (Y/N). Don’t be shy, you can tell me. I won’t make fun of you,” he teased.
“I’m not being shy, I’m just scared your head might implode,” you returned, thinking you had a nice comeback at his tease.
“Because of the multitude number of reasons you like me?” Jake grinned, completely unfazed.
You laughed at the way he twisted it around and nudged his feet under the table.
“Footsies under the table? Wow, you need keep it in your pants, (Y/N),” he continued.
“Stop!” You protested a little, flushing at the way he kept on teasing you.
“Alright, alright,” he raised a hand in defeat, but the smile on his face was unmistakable; he was always excited about getting under your skin.
Although you already know how the movie would turn out, it still tugged your heart strings like it was a puppet. Jake, however, was not paying attention because he was too busy watching you. A small smile remained constant on his lips as he watched your expressions change. He had to hold back a chuckle when you frowned at a particularly tense scene in the movie.
“I thought you said you've watched this thousands of times?” he asked with a low voice.
“I have,” you replied. “But that doesn't mean it stops being sad,” you pouted.
He placed his arm around your shoulders, and although your eyes remained glued to the television, your body sank lower into his arms as you braced yourself for the sad ending. Before you could stop yourself, the tears fell on your cheeks.
Jake’s smile widened; not out of amusement, but out of the strange, fuzzy sensation he felt in his chest as he watched you cry at the sappy movie. You were truly the softest and purest soul he had ever encountered. When the credits rolled, you sniffled and wiped your tears. Jake pressed a kiss on your temple.
“Sweetheart,” he cooed, pulling you in close.
You giggled, feeling silly. “It’s so sad, he didn’t stop loving her even though she forgot about him.”
His thumb brushed over your cheek and wiped the remnants of your tears away; when he saw you smiling, he finally let out a laugh.
“Okay, Die Hard?” You grabbed the remote next to you, about to hand it to him when you realised he hadn’t taken his eyes off you. “What?”
“You’re cute,” Jake chuckled. His face inched closer and closer to yours, the world coming to a halt and it was as if he was moving in slow motion.
The tip of his nose brushing against yours. You wondered if he could tell that you were holding your breath; trying to regulate your own heartbeats so that it wouldn’t ram against your chest embarrassingly fast.
His lips brushed against yours, asking for permission; you tilted your chin just the slightest bit and his lips pressed against yours, gentle and soft while his hands pulled you closer, prompting you to shift in your seat. When you turned your body to face him even more, he took the opportunity to kiss you deeper, his tongue slipping in and his grip on your waist tightened.
Your body pressed against his and you could feel his heartbeat like echoes to your own. If you were standing, you were sure your knees would have buckled. Jake’s grip on your thighs tightened as he let out a little grunt. That was when you snapped out of it.
Not yet, you thought.
“Jake,” you called in between, your hand bracing on his shoulders. It didn’t register to him at first, so he only hummed as he pulled you in closer. “Jake, wait,” you said as you began to pull away.
The man immediately stopped and looked up at you with concern. “You okay?” He asked, slightly panting and out of breath.
You chuckled a little and nodded, leaning your forehead against his as you took a deep breath.
“What is it?”
“I’m just…not ready yet,” you admitted hesitantly, teeth pulling at your lower lip.
“Alright,” he nodded, immediately understanding. “Okay. That’s okay,” he reassured you.
“I’m sorry,” you pulled away to look at him. “It’s just-“
“Don’t apologise, (Y/N). It’s alright,” Jake smiled sincerely, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry I rushed into this,” he added.
“No,” you shook your head, unsure of what to say, but you definitely didn’t want him to feel bad. You looked at him with doubt, trying to see if he was really okay. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you chuckled, trying to lighten the mood and he grinned along.
You took a deep breath and decided, screw it, you were just going to admit it. “I’ve just…never really done that before,” you said, looking down at his collar just to avoid his eyes while your cheeks heated with embarrassment.
“What?” Jake asked, not really understanding for a second there, but then it dawned on him. “Wait, you mean you’ve never had sex with anyone before?”
“It’s embarrassing, I know,” you said as you tried to get off him, cheeks flushing and heart pounding, nervous at how he will receive the information.
He chuckled, pulling you back into his embrace and tilting your chin up. “It’s not embarrassing,” he said to you, making sure you were looking into his eyes to see how serious he was. “It’s a big deal, so you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, alright?”
You pursed your lips and nodded, still trying to look away from him as Jake smiled, amused at the way you were trying to hide your embarrassment and blushing.
“Do you mind me asking why?”
You shrugged and sighed, “I guess I’ve just never really found anyone I trusted enough.”
He nodded slowly, processing the information. “What about your exes, did they mind?” He asked, hand mindlessly rubbing your back.
“I’ve been broken up with once because I refused,” you chuckled, reminiscing your past dates.
“Wow,” he scoffed, incredulous as to how someone could do that to you for setting a boundary.
“But I understand, some people need that to build a connection. I guess for me, I just wanted that connection first before anything further happens,” you shrugged.
Jake nodded again and there was a little lull as he processed everything that you just told him and you waited for him to respond.
“Jake, I understand if you don’t want this anymore. I won’t hold it against you.” You’ve been here before; your past dates would say they’re okay with it because they don’t want to seem like an ass who only cares about sex, but turns out it’s a dealbreaker for them. You wanted to give him a chance to back out so that he wouldn’t feel too guilty about wanting an out, and to protect yourself from the hurt.
“Hey, no, no, no,” he shook his head, brows furrowed together as he cupped your cheek with one hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” Jake said. “If time is what you need to trust me, then you can have all the time you need.” he explained.
“I guess all we have left to do is find other activities to do to replace all the sex we should be having,” he teased.
You chuckled somewhat half-heartedly. There was this nagging feeling inside you, like a warning sign that is telling you to be careful because he might say that now, but what if he changes his mind down the line? You can’t get attached. You can’t let your guard down. You were all too familiar with that feeling: the feeling of loving someone only to have them change their mind and leave.
“What’s on your mind?”
You pursed your lips and shook your head, not sure if you wanted to bring it up.
He looked at you for a moment and understood the doubt you must be feeling. “You’ve heard it before, haven’t you?”
“A couple times,” you shrugged. “It’s got nothing to do with you, it’s just...a little too familiar and I’ve learned to be careful.”
“What is?”
“People leaving after saying they wouldn’t.”
He didn’t say anything, instead he waited patiently for you to explain.
“When I was little, my mom would tuck me into bed every night, read me a story, and ask me what my favourite part of the day was. Then she’d kiss my forehead and tell me she loved me forever and ever,” you mimicked the childish tone you and your mom used to use when you said that last phrase.
“I was eight years old, and that night was like any other: she read me a story, asked me about my day, kissed my forehead, and told me she loved me. But the next day, she left. She decided she loved someone else more than she loved my dad and me, and she wanted was a new life with that man. All we got was a note.”
“She filed for divorce from my dad a month later. I remember the process being quick, because I’d seen my friends’ parents get divorced before, and it was always messy and long. But not this one. She just wanted the divorce; she didn’t fight for anything—not even me.”
You couldn’t tell, because he was looking at you intently, trying to keep a neutral expression. But his heart broke silently for you. He knew that feeling all too well. Though his parents were still together, he knew what it was like to not be loved the way a child should.
His father, a stern military man, hid affection behind rules and discipline; Jake could sense his mother’s love, but it was never steady enough to lean on when his father’s hand came down for every broken rule.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
You shrugged. It had been ages since it happened. You’d gone through all the textbook phases: struggling in school after your mom left, crying often, clinging to your dad with separation anxiety when his duty kept him away, slipping into a rebellious streak in hopes of catching your mom’s attention. And finally, it was Aunt Penny—your dad’s younger sister—who took you to therapy.
“I’m okay now,” you smiled.
Jake leaned for ward and kissed you for a few seconds. As he looked into your eyes, he could feel it on the tip of his tongue: the words ‘I love you’ threatening to slip out. But the man held himself back. You needed time, and he needed to earn your trust; however long that would take, he couldn’t see himself anywhere else but right here with you.
Your movie plans were abandoned because he was way more interested in listening to you. The two of you talked all night, his arms around you and your legs his lap.
The night only ended when he could visibly see you struggling to keep your eyes open, no matter how much you wanted the conversation to carry on.
“You wanna stay over?” He asked gently, stroking your hair. You smiled, closing your eyes slowly but then shook your head no.
“I should go home,” you said sleepily, but leaned forward to nuzzle into him as if contradicting your own words. He chuckled and pressed kisses on your forehead until you let go.
“Come on, let me drive you home,” he said.
Jake drove slowly, one hand on the steering wheel, and the other holding yours. He did not want the night to end either, because this meant that he was getting closer to leaving you.
He had only two weeks of downtime before heading back to Fresno, and if it were up to him, he’d spend every waking hour of it with you. Hell, if he was wishing for things, he’d wish you were coming with him in three days.When he stopped in front of your house, you were already half-asleep. He shifted the car into park and waited, letting you take your time.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you wanted the night to end.
You finally sat up, forcing yourself to break the silence. “I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you, Jake.”
He nodded, but his hand tightened around yours, refusing to let go.
“I’ve only got three days left here,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “And I don’t want to ask you to be my girlfriend over the phone.”
You chuckled, even though your chest ached. You knew the long-distance stretch was inevitable—the six-hour drive meant you couldn’t just see him whenever you wanted. And if deployment came soon after, it would be even longer before you had him back.“Well,” you said softly, “I guess that just means you’ll have to come back to me sooner.”
“How about now?”
“‘How about now’ what?”
“How about you be my girlfriend now?”
You laughed. “Is that really how you’re asking me?”
He chuckled. “Alright, one second.”
He opened his car door, jogged to your side, and opened yours. Offering his hand, he helped you out and walked you to your front door.
His smirk widened into a grin, but his eyes softened in a way that made your heart flip. He leaned in, his thumb brushing over your hand.
“Be mine, (Y/N),” he said quietly. “So I’ll always have a reason to come back to you.”
You smiled. It wasn’t exactly a question—but you’d expect nothing less from him. Jake Seresin always knew what he wanted.
“Okay,” you nodded, shrugging as if it were no big deal, even though your heart was practically pounding out of your chest.
“Okay?” He raised a brow, grinning wide, that cocky little smirk he wore like a second skin.
“Okay,” you repeated, the word bubbling out with a laugh.
Jake’s laugh followed, low and warm, before he hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you in, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that left no room for doubt.
I just saw your post and let me tell you that I love all your fanfics! I will love to have you back, you are so talented
OMG HELLOOO! 🥹 thank you so much for this, babes. Tbh with you, ever since posting it I’m still struggling to get any story done. I’ve been typing but it all just turns sooo sucky hahah.
This means so much, tho! I will try and post one of the ones I’m working on, hopefully soon 🤍
he calls me sweetheart 🧡 @pmitchell - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
