Mickey smiled as he watched his daughter posing in her poofy mint green dress that was decorated with white flowers and sparkles across the bodice. She looked like a princess, and Mickey could barely control himself. He’d been on the brink of tears since seeing her walk out of her bedroom that afternoon.
“Hey, you okay, baby?” you asked, wrapping an arm around his waist. Mickey gestured to your daughter, “She’s a fuckin’ princess…” he murmured. “I can’t believe she’s 15. It feels like it was just yesterday- watching her run around in one of her princess costumes.” Mickey smiled, reflecting on when he’d walk up the driveway only to have her run across the front yard in one of her princess dresses to greet him.
You squeezed his waist, “C’mon, let’s get some pictures with her before the party.”
heyooo, i really love all of your writings, and you are very talented 🥺🫶
may i request for top gun maverick with husband!mickey 'fanboy' garcia x civillian maverick's daughter!reader please? when you heard that mav called mickey to join a mission, you kind of mad to your dad cause it is dangerous for mickey (worried). however, mickey always ensuring you that he will be okay cause he has your dad and the daggers. sooner, you got message that mav and mickey were the main in this mission, you got so worried because you did not know the survivors. when they got home, you felt relieve that both of them were save (kinda you hug mickey first, checking he had scratch/bruise and mav's like "okay, you forget about the old man").
thank you so much! cheers 💁♀️
AHHH YES YOU CAN. I haven't written for Mickey and this is just ahhh so cute. I feel like reader has to be a jet mechanic or something. She's always around the team but doesn't actually fly. You got it!
💝+ a kiss that isn't meant to happen but does so anyway from this list with fanboy🤍
this turned out VERY unserious but like 90s romcom unserious if that makes sense? anyways i hope you enjoy!! | [wc - 1.1k]
This was bad. This was very, very bad. You couldn’t recall a time when you’d been in a situation this bad.
Mickey was off limits. Before you ever even met him, you’d set that rule for yourself. It didn’t matter that with every little thing your friend told you about him, you found yourself liking him more and more. It didn’t matter that when you did finally meet, you hit things off uncomfortably well. It didn’t matter that somewhere along the line he’d become one of your closest friends. It didn’t matter that their relationship had only lasted a couple months and had ended amicably. It didn’t matter that you’d fallen hopelessly, utterly in love with him.
He was your friend’s ex-boyfriend, which meant he was off limits.
And now you were sitting next to him at a baseball game, the seats so small you were practically in his lap, and his arm was around the back of your chair.
This was very bad.
“These are good seats,” you said for maybe the billionth time.
“Thanks. I won them on the radio,” he replied for the billion-and-first time.
You tried desperately not to read into the fact that when Mickey won Dodgers tickets, you had been the first one he’d called, his voice loud and exuberant as he word-vomited: “I bought tickets no I didn’t buy them I won them I won Dodgers tickets I was the seventeenth caller and I won tickets there’s two of them for this Saturday are you free do you want to come do you want to come to a Dodgers game with me please?”
Mickey was one of your best friends, and you were one of his. It made sense that he’d want to take you with him to an event like this. Did you know much about baseball? No, not really. But you knew enough to know when to cheer and when to boo and when to shout, “Aw, come on!”
This made sense. This was completely platonic. There wasn’t anything to read into here.
Maybe if you said it to yourself enough, you’d start to believe it, too.
On the field, the players scrambled into action. A Dodgers player sprinted for third and got tagged out. The stands roared.
“Aw, come on!” you said.
Mickey glanced at you and laughed. His arm moved, bumping against your shoulders, and you went stiff as a board. Surely he knew what he was doing. So why the hell was he doing it?
He must be messing with you. Mickey was always teasing you like that. The other night at the bar Hangman had made some offhand comment about ‘When are you two going to just get together?,’ and ever since that, Mickey had been playing things up around everyone. That must be what this was. He was just teasing you, enjoying watching you squirm.
This was normal. Mickey was off limits.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, his mouth so close to your ear that you nearly jumped out of your skin. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I’m gonna get something to drink!” you almost yelled, standing so abruptly that your shoulder knocked against Mickey’s chin. You immediately cringed, reaching out to cup his face and blurting, “Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“S'okay,” Mickey grunted. “Are you okay?”
You opened your mouth to reply and apologize again, but a whistle blared down on the field. The teams began to switch, and music began to play, and the jumbotron began to play a kitschy, red-and-pink heart animation.
“Here comes that kiss cam!” the announcer said loudly. “Pucker up, fans!”
“God, I’m thirsty!” you said hoarsely. “Do you want a drink, Mickey? Maybe some ice for your face?”
His hands were still on your wrists, his gaze serious. “I really need to ask you something.”
“Wouldn’t you rather ask me with a nice, cold Coke in your hand?” you blurted, panicked heat coursing through your skin.
Overhead, the announcer said, “Alright, you two, how about a kiss?” You cast a quick glance towards the jumbotron as an elderly couple chastely pressed their lips together. The crowd aww-ed.
“No, I'm okay,” said Mickey, tugging at your arms. “Can’t you sit down?”
“Or a hot dog,” you rambled, your mouth working independently of your brain. “Or nachos! Don’t you want nachos?”
“Are you okay?” asked Mickey, his eyebrows knitting in concern. “Maybe you do need some water.”
On the jumbotron, the camera found a little boy sitting with his mother in an oversized Dodgers jersey. The announcer said, “And a kiss for mom! How sweet.”
“I’m okay,” you said quickly. “It’s just hot up here. Don’t you think it’s hot up here? Mickey, can you let go of my hands, please?”
He did, but he angled his legs across the aisle so you couldn’t run away. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No!” you yelped, scrubbing your hands across your face. “No, you didn’t—you haven’t—you’re great. This is just me.”
“But I just—”
“And how about these two? Oh, are we interrupting something?” said the announcer, and when you jerked your head to look over at the jumbotron, you saw yourself.
This could not be happening.
“How about a kiss?” said the announcer.
You sat down in your seat, hard, your face burning. Your heart was pounding your chest, and you could feel your blood pulsing in your head. Mickey was shaking you gently and saying something, and when you looked over at him, everything else seemed to fade away.
“We don’t have to,” he was saying, trying to give you a bolstering smile.
You said something. Later, you’d have a hard time remembering what exactly it was you said, but you were pretty sure it was something like, “I wish we could.”
“We’re waiting,” said the announcer. People were chanting, encouraging you.
“We shouldn’t,” you said.
“Shouldn’t we?” said Mickey. His fingers brushed the hair at your temple, grounding you as his hand cupped the side of your head.
“What about that question you wanted to ask?” you murmured, unable to focus on anything except his eyes, pinning you in place.
“Forget the question,” said Mickey, and then his other hand came up to the other side of your face and he kissed you. You sighed into his mouth, which maybe would have been embarrassing, but this was Mickey. If you couldn’t be yourself with him, you couldn’t be yourself with anyone.
And what a kiss. It was like listening to your favorite song—every rhythm, every beat, every crescendo and every fade, it was all familiar and expected and anticipated and satisfying.
When he pulled away, you felt calm—and profoundly silly. The kiss cam was long gone; the game was going again. It was just you and Mickey in the seats he had won on the radio.
Your mouth fumbled for words. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t—I just—I didn’t plan for this.”
That more than anything else is what finally made Mickey break into a beautiful, wide smile. “Well, jeez,” he said, “I’d sure hope not.”
congrats on returning to fic writing hehe! 💝 would u be able to do bouquet or pda from the valentines prompt list for fanboy? i love the way u write him
thank u anon!! i went with bouquet for this one bc i couldn't get one specific image out of my head lol. this was a lot of fun to write hope u enjoy! | [wc - 1.2k] | join my prompt party!
It wasn’t like Mickey to be late. I mean, with things like family brunches, or dinners, or group parties, yeah, sure, he wasn’t the most punctual. But with you it was different. With you, he was always right on time. No matter what.
But here it was, Valentine’s Day, and you were alone in your apartment, and he was late.
You knew that today was busy for him. He’d had brunch with his sisters, and then dinner with his parents across town, and after that he hadn’t been able to get out of going for a few beers with Hangman and the guys, but he’d promised to come over at nine o’clock on the dot. You guys didn’t even have anything particularly extravagant planned; probably just watching a movie and…well….
Anyways, it was nearly nine-fifteen now, and he was nowhere to be seen. An outgoing message sat in your thread, lonely and unread: Are you on your way?
There was a heart-shaped box of chocolates open on the coffee table. There were chocolate-covered strawberries cooling in the fridge. You’d lit a couple candles. A stuffed teddy bear you intended to give to Mickey was sitting on the sofa next to you. She’s All That was queued up on the tv. Everything was ready. There was just one thing missing.
You checked your phone again even though it hadn’t buzzed. Still nothing.
It wasn’t like Mickey to be late.
As the clock ticked closer and closer towards nine-thirty, you contemplated calling him, decided against it, contemplated calling Natasha, decided against it, contemplated calling Hangman, and ultimately decided you just wanted to call it a night and be alone. You’d hear whatever apology Mickey had in the morning. Right now, you just wanted to go to bed.
You turned off the tv and blew out the candles, and just as you were moving to put the lid back on the chocolates, there was a pounding at your door so loud that you jumped.
You rushed to the foyer and yanked open the front door, an irritated admonishment prepared on your lips, but it fell away as soon as you saw who was there.
Mickey was standing in a nice jacket and jeans, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He was panting like he’d just ran a marathon, and when you stuck your head farther out the door, you couldn’t see his car parked anywhere in the driveway or on the street.
“Mickey? What—?” you started to say, but then he straightened up and your voice trailed away once more.
“I’m…sorry…” He wheezed. “Hangman…stole…keys…wouldn’t let…me leave…. Ran…all the way…here…. I’m so sorry….”
And in his hand was a cluster of flowers that you recognized as belonging to your neighbor at the end of the street. They were wilted from his run, some snapped in the middle, but the sight of them nearly brought tears to your eyes.
He looked at them, realized what poor shape they were in, and his face fell. “Oh no,” he sighed. “I wanted to—oof.”
You flung yourself into his arms, holding him close. He was warm from his run, and his chest was still heaving, but he was here. After a moment, you felt him toss the flowers down and wrap his arms around you, cradling you tightly against his chest.
“I thought you forgot,” you admitted quietly.
“Are you kidding?” he asked, his breath finally coming back. “This is all I’ve looked forward to all day.”
You stepped back, shoving his shoulder gently. “Why didn’t you call me when you knew you were gonna be late?”
Mickey blinked dumbly at you like a deer in headlights, and then his lips quirked sideways in an embarrassed smile. “Because…I’m an idiot? And I forgot? And was just focused on running as fast as I could?”
A laugh bubbled out of your chest of its own volition, and as Mickey smiled sheepishly, you grabbed his face in your hands and kissed him deeply. He made a soft, contented noise in the back of his throat, and his hands splayed across your spine, pulling you closer to him. One of your hands threaded through his close-cropped hair, holding his head in place as your mouths moved together, and you arched forward so that your chests were touching from shoulder to sternum.
He tilted his head and groaned, and your mouth fell open for him. One of his hands tightened at your waist, and the relief and affection you felt for him combined into something heady and intense, replacing every anxiety you had with insatiable want.
You staggered backwards, pulling him with you into the house. He made a soft, surprised noise and broke away, saying, "But the flowers—"
"We'll get another bouquet later," you said, shutting the door. As soon as you did, his mouth was back on yours and his hands were tracing your sides, pressing you gently against the door.
You shoved his shoulders, pushing him deeper into the house without breaking contact. As the two of you careened off the walls and stumbled deeper into the living room, Mickey pulled away to glance around the room and catch his breath. He was already winded, but his eyes were bright and he was smiling as he panted, "Oh, hey, you decorated—”
You kissed him again, swallowing his words, and continued moving across the rug, pulling him by his shirt. He laughed against your lips, fumbling with his coat. When your legs hit the back of the sofa, you tumbled backwards onto the cushions, breaking away long enough for Mickey to finish taking off his jacket.
You scooted back, giving him room to join you, and moved the teddy bear gingerly onto the table. Mickey’s eyes followed the movement, and he said, “Aw, is that for me?”
“Would you get down here?” you demanded, fighting back a laugh.
“Hold on, hold on, I haven’t taken my shoes off,” he protested, fumbling with the laces.
“Mickey,” you said, your voice stern.
He stood up and gestured around the room. “You set all this up! We had a nice evening planned. What about the movie?”
“Mickey,” you said slowly, leaning forward and enunciating clearly, “forget—the—movie.”
“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows lifting. And then, again: “Ohh.”
“Yes,” you said with a nod, grinning. “Oh.”
He leaned down and kissed you softly, his hand cradling the back of your head, but just as you reached up for the hem of his shirt, he pulled away again. You fought the urge to sigh heavily as he said, “I just ran, like, thirteen blocks. I’m gonna go clean up real quick, but then I promise—we’ll do Valentine’s right. I’ll make it up to you.”
He started down the hall towards the bathroom, already undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“Okay,” you said, dramatically falling back on the couch and watching him go. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer. I’ll just find some way to entertain myself.”
Mickey froze and turned to you, his hands stilling halfway through the buttons. When he saw the teasing smile on your face, he pointed an accusatory finger at you and said, “Thirty seconds. Time me.” Then he turned and ran into the hall, skidding into the bathroom and out of sight.
You threw your head back and laughed at his antics, reaching for the remote again as the faucet turned on. As you got comfortable on the sofa and waited for him to come back out, you thought of the flowers on the front stoop.
It wasn’t like Mickey to be late, but he always found some way to make it up to you.
ooo maybe 28 for fanboy?? or number 8? buzzing over ur writing btw
i went with #8 for this bc i just think that’s soo cute<33 i love writing fanboy this was so fun
8. accidently hitting the other one with a snowball meant for their friend
word count: 1.7k
It was snowing in San Diego. As in San Diego, California.
You looked up to check if the sky was falling, but just got a few more soft flakes to land on your cheeks. You couldn’t help but smile in childlike wonder, spreading your hands and letting the tiny crystals collect on your sleeves. When your best friend had told you he was back in town at TOPGUN and he wanted to see you on his one weekend off, you couldn’t have predicted something like this happening.
His voice broke through your reverie at that exact moment. “Hey, you with us?”
You blinked, looking over to where he was standing with another pilot—the callsign ‘Phoenix’ seemed to ring a bell. She looked just as awed as you were at the sudden flurry, but she was better at hiding it.
“Yes,” you said, jogging to catch up with them. “Sorry. I can’t believe this. We haven’t gotten snow in—”
“Twenty years?” interrupted Reuben, holding out a palm and watching as a few flakes collected in it. “Thirty?”
“Something like that,” murmured Phoenix. Then she blinked and shook herself. “Sorry—we’re gonna be late. Everyone’s waiting for us at the Hard Deck. Come on.”
By the time Reuben’s car had rattled its way off base and down to the beach, the light flurry had turned into a proper fall. When he parked outside the Hard Deck, he nervously squatted by his tires, checking to make sure they were handling the cold okay.
Phoenix laughed at the sight of you both anxiously preening over the vehicle. “California kids,” she said with an amused shake of her head. “Come on, let’s go.”
The Hard Deck was crammed with officers and pilots who were trying to escape the sudden snow, but when the three of you muscled your way to the bar, Reuben looked around in confusion and said, “I don’t see them.”
It was Phoenix who flagged down Penny the bartender and asked where their friends had gone. In reply, Penny just smirked and jerked her thumb over her shoulder, gesturing back towards the oceanfront behind her.
“You’re kidding,” said Reuben.
Penny shook her head.
“Is this Fanboy’s idea?”
“He said something about a snowball fight,” said Penny coyly.
Reuben dropped his head and groaned, but Phoenix tugged you both by the sleeves, saying, “Come on.”
You’d heard tale of this ‘Fanboy’ from Reuben—his new backseater from Whidbey Island, a charming and rambunctious WSO who’d barely been out of TOPGUN three years. It was hard to tell from the stories if Reuben hated having a backseater or admired the kid’s tenacity; maybe Reuben didn’t even know himself. Either way, at the mention of his callsign, you’d be lying if your interest wasn’t piqued.
Phoenix led the way onto the back deck and farther down the steps, onto the sand and snow where a bunch of grown adults were bundled in thick jackets and hurling snowballs that were fifty percent sand at each other, giggling like little kids.
“Oh my god,” said Reuben.
“Phoenix!” wailed one of the men on the edge of the group, taking a few steps up the beach towards you. “Thank god you’re here! They’re killing me! Ack!”
Right on cue, a different pilot nailed the guy in the back of the head, sending him staggering and brushing ice and wet sand out of his hair, wiping at his glasses.
“Hey!” cried Phoenix, already taking off at a run towards the group, bent double to gather a snowball of her own as she went. “Pick on somebody your own size, you leave my backseater alone!”
“Children,” said Reuben quietly, shaking his head. “They’re a bunch of children.”
Piff. A pitiful handful of snow and sand scattered across the back of his Carhartt. Without turning around, he said, “You’re about to enter a whole world of hurt.”
An utterly childish giggle ripped its way out of your chest and you began to sprint across the sand towards the larger group, listening to Reuben give chase behind you, his laugh loud and raucous across the expanse. Blood pounded in your ears as you ducked between two burly pilots, crouching to gather up a few snowballs. It hadn’t been snowing long enough to get any genuinely good powder—the balls were mostly ice and grit—but no one seemed to care. The novelty of a beachside snowball fight in San Diego was too alluring for pesky things like logic to interfere.
All around you, the pilots worked as a team, turning this silly childhood game into a ground-level dogfight.
“Coyote, heads up!”
“On your six, Phoenix!”
“Break right, Rooster, break right!”
Of course, you didn’t have a callsign, but everyone pretty quickly picked up on the fact that you were Reuben’s friend, giving you the complimentary nickname ‘Payday.’ Maybe it lacked some originality, but it was forged in the heat of battle, which you thought was pretty cool.
It was the cry of, “Payday, help me out!” that screwed everything up.
You weren’t sure who’d called for your aid; maybe Rooster, or even Yale. But you jumped to your feet, snowball in hand and ready to defend anyways. Across from you, someone else stood up: a tan man with short, dark hair just visible underneath a gray beanie pulled low over his ears. His strange posture confused you briefly: his arm flung forward, one leg pitched out behind him, his grin huge and white and destabilizing.
Then icy-sharp pain bloomed across your cheek and you fell backwards, hitting the sand hard.
Everyone froze.
Someone—Hangman, you thought—shouted, “Shit, Mickey, not the face!”
The one who hit you—Mickey, you presumed—cried, “I was aiming for Rooster’s shoulder, I swear!”
Your ears were ringing and your face was so cold that it was numb. You lifted one dizzy hand to your cheek, stunned to realize it came away with blood, ice, and sand all combined on your fingers. There were a few people kneeling next to you in the sand, but most of them gave you space, which you were grateful for. Reuben had hold of your arm and was shaking it gently, saying, “Are you with me?”
“I’m okay,” you grunted, shifting mostly upright and trying to wipe the sand out of your eyes. “Just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Are you okay?” a new voice asked, and a firm hand grasped your forearm, hauling you smoothly to your feet despite Reuben’s protests of, “Easy, Mickey!”
You were prepared to have some sort of biting retort or withering remark at Mickey’s expense, but when you met his eyes, the words fell away. His grip on your arm was firm and present, grounding you to the sand and snow beneath your shoes. While there was a definitive mischief-making tilt to his mouth, there was no humor in his eyes at the moment. His brows were knit and his gaze was fixed on the spot on your cheek where you knew you’d been struck.
Realizing you’d never answered his question, you stammered, “Oh, I-I’m okay. It was just an accident.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mickey rushed on. “I was aiming for Rooster behind you, and you stood up as I was throwing, I wasn’t trying to—”
Then Rooster himself was there, pushing in between the two of you and giving you a little more breathing room. “Careful, Fanboy,” he said, his tone light but authoritative. “I don’t know if Penny is equipped to treat talking-induced concussions.”
You blinked, something nagging at the back of your head as you glanced between Reuben, Rooster, and Mickey. Something familiar, like you were staring at a puzzle missing one piece, and the piece had just been handed to you. And then, like wires connecting—
Oh.
Fanboy.
“Oh!” you yelped, taking half a step back. “Mickey’s—that’s—you’re Fanboy?” You glanced back and forth between him and Reuben, who’d buried his face in his hands.
“Wait,” said Fanboy, looking as lost as you’d felt a few moments ago. “You know who I am?”
“You’re the backseater!” you blurted. “From Whidbey Island! Right, Rueben? This is him?”
Before Reuben could speak, Fanboy said with a huge, shit-eating grin, “You’ve been telling your friends about me, Payback?”
Reuben stepped forward, his hands extended placatingly. “Okay, this is getting—”
“I’ve been so curious,” you interrupted, side-stepping your friend so you could keep talking to Fanboy. “From day one, he has always had something to say about you.”
Fanboy grinned, one corner of his mouth pulling up higher than the other. “Good things, I hope.”
“Fifty-fifty,” you said, matching his grin.
“Okay, maybe you should go take a seat at the bar,” Reuben said, laughing nervously and taking you by the elbow. He glanced over your head, gesturing with his other hand. “Hey, Bob, could you give us a hand over here?”
Before Bob could react, Fanboy had come up to your other side, easily slipping your hand through the crook of his arm and waving Reuben off with an easy, “I got it from here, Payback. You guys finish up the snowball fight, okay?”
Reuben looked like he’d rather swallow a lemon than finish up the snowball fight, but he stayed quiet and watched as Fanboy led you up the beach and back onto the deck. You half-expected your best friend to come storming up after you in less than five minutes, but soon enough, the group had gone back to their childish games, whooping and hollering and having a great time.
Meanwhile, Mickey sat you down at a table where you could look out the glass and still see the snow falling on the water. Penny gave him some basic first-aid supplies, and he cleaned up your small cut, saying like he was almost impressed, “You’re gonna have a gnarly shiner, probably. Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” you said, feeling strangely sleepy as his fingers brushed at your cheekbone, sending chills down your spine—and not from the cold. “Makes me look cool.”
He smiled widely at that, like he didn’t even notice he was doing it. Feeling strangely shy, you shifted back to front, watching as Phoenix and Rooster worked together to pepper Hangman with a fierce bombardment of snowballs. The flakes over the beach fell like glitter, shimmering and twinkling in the dark late-afternoon light, and without meaning to, you murmured, “It’s beautiful.”
“It really is,” replied Mickey, but when you glanced back at him, you had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the snow.
