#miles teller x reader

[barnesonfilm]

just like heaven

★ summary: getting called back to top gun was supposed to be just another mission, another means to an end. then bradley bradshaw smiled at you across the bar, and somewhere between dogfighting, late nights, and impossible odds you find something that feels a lot like heaven

★ pairing: bradley bradshaw x aviator!reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, loosely follows tgm plot, inaccurate military everything probably, readers callsign is shadow, one night stand, unprotected sex, oral f receiving, cum play, dirty talk, big dick bradshaw

★ word count: 15.8k

★ notes: my first top gun fic ✈️☁️ i hope i did her justice! happy top gun summer <3

The moment your feet touched American soil, you could only think of three things: a greasy cheeseburger, a glass of top-shelf whiskey, and getting laid. Three things that did not happen on overseas naval bases. 

You were practically jittering just thinking about it as you went through your reintegration briefings. By the time you finally hauled your suitcases into your apartment and unceremoniously dumped them across the living room floor, you barely spared the place a glance beyond making a mental note to leave your cleaning lady an extra tip. A scalding shower washed months of recycled air and ocean salt from your skin, and less than an hour later you were back behind the wheel, windows down, chasing the first taste of freedom you’d had in months.

Your old Mercedes-Benz 380SL rumbled into the gravel parking lot of the Hard Deck, the first bar your GPS had thrown your way. It had been years since you’d been back to Lemoore. Even then, memories of the place had long since dissolved beneath a haze of flight hours, classified missions, carrier deployments, and the relentless cycle of detachments that had followed your graduation from Top Gun. What little you did remember felt distant now, like recalling someone else’s life, but tonight that hardly mattered. All you wanted was a stiff drink, good food, and a reminder that you were finally home.

The place buzzed with the easy kind of noise only a military town dive bar could produce. Pool balls cracked against one another somewhere in the back, laughter spilled over the music pouring from the jukebox, and every other patron seemed to be wearing their khakis. Naval aviators were packed shoulder to shoulder around high-top tables, gold wings glinting beneath neon beer signs. 

The open barstool was your oasis in the desert as you slid into it, sighing happily to see the tiny menu laminated and stuck to the bar. 

The bartender, an older woman with the most beautiful skin you’ve ever seen, walked over. “What can I get you?”

“A cheeseburger,” you answered without hesitation. “The greasiest one you’ve got. Fries, too.”

She arched an eyebrow, amusement written all over her face. 

“And a double of your best whiskey on the rocks.” You smiled widely as she nodded. 

She placed the order and slid over a frosted glass for you before attending to someone across the bar. You took the time to check your phone, avoiding the real reason you were back here. You just wanted one night where it felt like you were you again, and not just property of the United States Navy. 

“A greasy cheeseburger,” Penny, you learned, had slid the basket of food over to you. 

If it were any other circumstance, you would have been embarrassed by the moan that left your mouth after your first bite. 

“Good?” She asked, her hands pausing from shining a glass as she watched you. 

You nodded, eyes nearly closed. “It’s perfect.” 

A sharp laugh escaped her. “You just get back?” 

Your eyes open, finally placing the burger down to take another drink. “How’d you know?” 

You’re in civvies, and even have makeup on for the first time in months. But you reckon she’s worked here long enough to see it in every person that steps through the doors. 

“Come on,” Her eyes are playful, “No one acts like that about those cheap burgers unless they haven’t had one in a while. How long?” 

“Two years,” You sighed, “Haven’t been home for longer than a few months in about 5.” 

She made a noise of understanding; her life had been so intertwined with the Navy for years, she knew just how much it takes from someone. 

“Well, we’re glad to have you back. Hopefully it’s for a little longer this time.” She smiled, “Burgers on me.” 

Your head snapped up. “Absolutely not.”

You were already reaching for your wallet when she held up a hand.

“My bar,” she said matter-of-factly. “My rules.”

“I can’t let you-”

“Tell you what.” She pointed toward the half-empty whiskey glass in front of you. “I won’t take your money unless you order another one of those. Then we’ll call it even.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Welcome home.” 

She gave the bar a light tap with her knuckles before disappearing toward the kitchen, leaving you alone with the comfortable hum of conversation surrounding you. 

By the time you finished, the basket in front of you held nothing but a few lonely fries and a crumpled sheet of wax paper slick with grease. You slid a crisp fifty-dollar bill beneath one of the coasters anyway, hoping she’d find it after you were gone, then tipped back the last swallow of whiskey. It burned all the way down, drawing a wince that settled into a satisfied smile as you set the empty glass back onto the bar with a quiet clink.

You slid off the barstool with a contented sigh, fishing your keys from your pocket as you prepared to call it a night. The burger had done its job. The whiskey had done its job even better. Maybe you’d save the third item on your list for another evening.

The front door swung open before you could take a single step.

A man ducked beneath the frame with the easy confidence of someone who’d been walking into the Hard Deck for years. Aviator sunglasses hung from the collar of a faded Hawaiian shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms. Sun-kissed skin, broad shoulders, and a mustache that made you stop in your tracks. He was navy, that much was obvious. He might as well have been a walking poster child for an aviator. 

He slid onto the stool beside the one you’d just vacated, where you stood still half in and half out. 

“You’re back,” Penny was already reaching for a bottle. “You’re here a few days before the crowd.” 

“You know me too well.” He says. “I just couldn’t stay away, Penny. You know me.” 

“Yeah, right.” She grinned. 

He grinned, all practiced charm, and accepted the beer she slid across the counter.

It wasn’t usually your style to go after other Navy pilots. Too many complications. Too many chances of crossing paths again in some hangar halfway around the world, or discovering six months later that you’d unknowingly hooked up with someone from your own air wing.

As a rule, you avoided it.

But rules had exceptions. And tonight that exception had a mustache that you yearned to feel against your skin, and muscles flexing with each rise and fall of his arms. 

Besides, out of the hundreds of aviators running through this town, what are the chances that he was one of the dozen who had been picked for this special assignment? 

You eased back onto your stool as though you’d never intended to leave, setting your keys back onto the polished wood.

“Penny, my dear,” you called, a devilish smile tugging at your lips. “Think I could trouble you for another whiskey?”

She didn’t even look at the register, or you as you tried to slide your card across the bar. Instead, she plucked the folded fifty-dollar bill from beneath the coaster and held it up between two fingers.

“I told you,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “My bar. My rules.” 

You sighed, snatching the card back. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that until I left.” 

“Oh, honey.” Penny laughed. “I notice everything.”

She slid the bill back across the bar toward you before reaching for the whiskey bottle anyway.

“First refill’s still on the house.” Before you could protest again, the man beside you leaned an elbow onto the bar, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“You can’t get one past Penny.”

You turned toward him. “That so?”

He nodded solemnly, though the grin threatening his mouth ruined any attempt at seriousness. “Trust me. You don’t want to end up on her bad side.”

”He’s learned the hard way.” Penny smirks, dropping off your drinks before she decides that she knows exactly what’s happening between the two strangers. 

Bradley turns to you, his gaze wandering from your boots to your jeans, lingering for the briefest second on the low cut of your top before finally settling on your eyes. There was nothing crude about it. If anything, it was almost appreciative, accompanied by the smallest lift of one corner of his mouth when he realized you’d caught him.

”So,” He starts, “What brings you here?” 

It’s such a cliché line; it almost makes you laugh. You hold up your glass, swirling around the amber liquid and the ice together. “This.” 

He clinks your glasses together, “Touche.” 

There’s a brief lull, the two of your eyes shamelessly on each other. 

“I’m Bradley.” He offers. 

You give him your name with a smile, and he immediately repeats it back after you. As if he’s testing the shape of it in his mouth, but not for the first time tonight he’s decided. 

The conversation moves easily after that, effortless in a way that surprises you. You don’t talk about work. Neither of you ask the obvious questions. You don’t mention where you’ve been, and he doesn’t ask why you look like someone who hasn’t slept properly in months. He doesn’t elaborate when he mentions not being home in almost a year, and you don’t express your same sentiments about it. 

You’re just two strangers sitting at a bar pretending, for a few hours, that the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Music comes up first, some argument over whether old records are better than anything made now. He has strong opinions, the kind that make you laugh because he says them with complete confidence. 

“You’re very opinionated for someone I just met,” you say, resting your chin lightly against your hand.

He looks at you over the rim of his beer, which Penny silently dropped off.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re usually right.”

A slow grin pulls across his face. “I usually am.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That might be the most annoying answer you could’ve given. God.” 

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

The way he says it is cocky, but honest. There’s no malice in it, just the darkening of his eyes. It’s just an observation, and maybe that’s what makes it worse. He’s right. You could have left an hour ago. You had already gotten almost everything you came here for. The burger, the whiskey, the small piece of normal life you’d been craving since you stepped off that plane. But you were exactly where you wanted to be, with his eyes desperately trying not to look down your shirt with each flirty glance you threw his way. 

When last call came, you were shocked to look at the clock and realize it had been hours since Bradley slid into the seat next to you. The Hard Deck had slowly emptied around you without either of you really noticing. The loud groups of aviators had filtered out one by one, the music had been turned down, and the warm buzz of conversation had faded into the quiet sounds of closing. 

Somehow, through all of it, the two of you had stayed exactly where you were, caught somewhere between wanting the night to end and not wanting to be the one who ended it.

Bradley glances around at the emptying bar before looking back at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“I think we’re getting kicked out.”

You look around, pretending to be surprised by the chairs being lifted onto tables and Penny wiping down the counter.

Eventually, you slide off the stool, grabbing your phone and your keys.

“Goodnight, Penny.” You wave goodbye. 

Penny looks up from behind the bar, already knowing exactly what she’s looking at.

“Stay out of trouble, you two.” 

There’s something about the way she says it that makes you feel like she means more than the words themselves.

You smile. “Always.”

He bids her goodbye as well, before turning back to you. 

“Let me walk you to your car?” He asks, and it makes you chuckle. The two of you are circling it, both of you just itching and waiting for the other person to make the first move. 

The two of you step outside together, the cool California night air immediately replacing the warmth of the bar. The parking lot is quieter now, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes as you both slowly make your way out.

Your shoulders brush on the short walk, before you’re leaning against the side of your car. 

A low whistle escapes him. “No way.”

You glance back. “What?”

He looks between you and the Mercedes, impressed despite himself. “That’s yours?”

You smile, suddenly a little more proud than you mean to be.

“Yeah, I helped rebuild her a few years back.”

“God, you’re a dream. You, not the car.” He walks around the front of it slowly, appreciating the lines of the car. “But the car's great too. Gorgeous car for a gorgeous girl.” 

Your cheeks warm; before you can respond, your eyes drift past him toward the other side of the parking lot.

“And I’m guessing that’s yours?”

He turns, following your gaze.

A bright blue Bronco sits under one of the parking lot lights, standing out against the rows of ordinary cars.

“That obvious?”

You blow out a playful puff of air. “Yeah, kinda.” 

 His body is still only a few inches away from yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him despite the cool night air. Close enough that you’re both very aware of the fact that neither of you has actually said goodnight, and that neither of you really want to. 

“Well, I guess I’m gonna-“ You go to turn, before he says your name in his deep tone. 

You turn back to face him, and he steps closer, your back pressing harshly against your car door. His body cages yours in, close enough that the space you’ve been carefully dancing around all night finally disappears.

“Can I?” The question is quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of the distant waves and the empty parking lot around you.

You answer by closing the distance.

The first touch of his lips against yours is everything you expected and somehow nothing like you imagined. Warm, certain, and long overdue after hours of pretending you weren’t both waiting for this exact moment. His mustache brushes against your skin, and the small laugh that escapes you is swallowed by the kiss because somehow that detail you’d been thinking about all night is even better than you had pictured.

Up close, he smells like sandalwood and something unmistakably him, a trace of the night air and jet fuel clinging to his clothes. He tastes like whiskey and heaven. 

You rise onto your toes, your hands finding their way around his neck and pulling him closer, though there’s barely any space left between you. His hand settles at your waist, steadying you, and for a few minutes there is no bar, no tomorrow, no reason to think beyond this moment.

The kiss is hot and messy. Two people who had clearly been aching for this moment for longer than they’d be willing to admit. His hands are roaming shamelessly, gripping your ass harshly through the fabric of your jeans. The touch has you mewling into his mouth, your hands reaching up to harshly grip at his sun-kissed locks. 

When the two of you finally pull apart enough to remember that you’re in public and the night eventually has to move forward, you give him your address. He repeats it back with that same little smile he had when he first said your name, like he’s committing it to memory.

He leaves you with one more kiss, alongside a wink that has your body shivering in anticipation. 

“See you soon.” He says, and you watch him jog to his car with a pep in his step. 

When you get into your Mercedes and see his blue Bronco following behind you through the quiet California streets, you realize you aren’t thinking about anything else at all.

Bradley is by your side the moment he steps out of the car, even as your hand is in his, dragging him up the stairwell. He’s making it difficult by pushing you against the wall every few seconds, his lips harsh against yours. His mouth moves down your neck to your collarbone, sucking and biting at your sensitive flesh. You’re so dazed by the sensation you nearly drop your keys. 

“You,” Your breath is not as steady as you willed it to be, “Bradley, are trouble.” 

“Yeah?” He pants, his hands heavy on your hips as he stands behind you. The press of his bulge in his pants presses against your back. He presses a little further, teasing as your hands fumble with the locks. 

“Yes.” You bite back a moan, finally getting the key inside of the lock. 

“If you were wearing a little dress,” He whispered with a soft kiss to your earlobe, “I’d take you right here against the door. Let everyone know just how good m’making you feel.” 

The whiskey has warmed your veins, but not enough to do something as reckless as that. Even if he makes it sound good. Even if the thought has you clenching your thighs together and dragging him into your now open apartment door. 

He slams the door behind him, stalking you through the hall as you both shed your belongings in various places. Keys are thrown on counters, shoes are kicked off god knows where, and you’re pulling his egregiously bright shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor. 

He bends down and picks you up in one swift motion, making you squeal. Your hands are clinging to those biceps you were drooling about earlier, your thighs wrapped around his waist. 

There’s no time before his tongue is in your mouth again, carrying you blindly across your apartment’s layout. It’s when he realises he has no idea where he’s going that he pulls away. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” He pants. 

You laugh; it’s ugly and loud, but it makes Bradley’s eyes sparkle at the sound of it.  

“Down the hall, last door on the left.” You giggle, and he takes you right there. Slamming the door with his foot, you’re amazed by his athleticism when you’re gently pressed against your mattress. 

You both take a moment, lost in the moment and each other's eyes before there’s a reminder of why you're there in the first place. Clothes are being tugged at, jeans discarded on the floor as you fumble around with your top. 

He helps lift the fabric off your shirkers, his eyes darkening at the sight of your lacy bra. 

“You know,” He whispers, mouth dry, “Been trying not to stare at your tits all night.” 

“I know.” You sigh contentedly, your hands running up and down his rock-hard abs. The small trail of hair leading into his boxers tickled your fingertips. “Why do you think I wore this shirt?”

“I’m really-” He unclasps your bra with one hand, lips trailing down your neck, “A respectful gentleman. But god. These are perfect.” 

Your giggle is cut off with a moan when his mouth attaches itself to your hardened buds, his other hand palming your tits harshly. The soft tickle of the hair above his lips makes you moan his name gently. 

“You know,” You start, copying him, “I've been imagining what that mustache feels like against me since the moment I saw you.” 

He pauses for a brief moment, his honey brown eyes flickering up to you, where your nipple was still in his mouth. 

“Really?” He hums, pulling away with a soft strand of spit attached to his glossy lips. 

You nod, propping yourself up on your elbows. Your thumb reaches out to wipe away the spit, softly petting his upper lip. 

“You’re so fucking hot.” You admit, as he takes your thumb into his mouth with a pop. 

“Says you.” 

Within seconds, you're pushed onto your back again, your head falling back into the pillows. His hands are traveling down your body, his thumbs hooked into the side of your soaked panties. 

“How do you feel about feeling this mustache against this sweet little cunt?”

He has barely touched you, and your eyes are already rolling into the back of your head at his words alone. “Fuck, yes. Please.” 

The barely there fabric is dragged down your legs and tossed somewhere far away as Bradley’s fingertips dig harshly into your thighs. His breath is hot and teasing as he kisses up and down your inner thighs before settling exactly where you need him. 

His tongue drags experimentally up your wet heat before his lips wrap harshly around your throbbing clit. 

“Oh god.” You whimper, your legs tensing in his hold as he took his time slowly lapping against you. It was slow, sloppy, and the hottest thing a man had ever done to you. His own moans were muffled into your cunt, as he devoured you like a man starved. 

As long as it had been for you, it felt like it had been even longer for him. He ate you out like he was relishing the fact you were even letting him. His mustache brushing against your sensitive skin, just enough to add more fuel to your already burning pleasure. You were a babbling mess, your hands alternating between tugging at his hair and gripping the sheets like a lifeline. 

With a frantic cry of his name and a harsh tug on his hair, you came against his mouth. It was glorious, as he coaxed you through your high, his frantic moans of encouragement spurring you on while his own hips ground gently against the sheets for the slightest bit of relief.

“You taste incredible.” Was the first thing he said when he came back up for air, his face wet and glistening from your release. 

Your chest was heaving, your stomach rolling at his words. “Come here.” 

Who was he to deny your beckoning finger? He pulled his boxers down swiftly, his hard cock slapping the skin harshly once it was free from its confines. Your mouth watered at the sight of him, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. It was long and veiny, a thick patch of curly hair at the base. 

You almost said a thank-you prayer to god, who was clearly not in the room. 

“Like what you see?” He asked, his voice thick with anticipation as he crawled back onto the bed in between your legs. 

“You know,” You sighed once his lips pressed gently to your neck, “Most cocky men aren’t always packing; can’t be too sure.” 

A giggle escaped you as he laughed against you, the damp hair tickling your neck. “Cocky?” 

“The cockiest.” You tease, wrapping your legs around his toned thighs, pulling him closer to you. “Now come on, give me your cock.” 

He shakes his head gently; he almost thinks he could fall in love with you right here.

“Yes, mam.” He presses his lips to yours again, your mouth opening instinctively for him. You could taste yourself against his tongue as he pressed against your weeping cunt. He pushed into you slowly, each of you letting out sighs of relief into each other's mouths. 

He was dragging himself inside of you once inch at a time, the hot drag making your body feel aflame. 

“God,” Your nails dug into his forearms, “You’re so b-big.” 

“Taking me s’well.” He spoke through his teeth, his eyes furrowed shut to avoid already finishing from how tight, warm, and wet you were wrapped around him. 

When his hips met yours, his thighs trembling. His lips kissing and sucking at whatever bare skin of yours he could reach as you molded around him. The first thrust took both of your breaths away, as he pulled halfway out of you before sinking back in. 

“Fuck.” You cried out, pulling him close as he began to fuck into you expertly. 

It had been a long time, too long, so any sex would have sufficed, but this man was sex on legs and knew exactly how to angle his hips to make your eyes roll in the back of your head. 

Your heels press harshly in the back of his thighs, urging him to keep going as he found a rhythm that had both of you melting into each other. It’s otherworldly, the feeling of him stretching you out on each lewd slap of his hips against yours. 

You can feel his hand slide down your slick skin to widen your legs for him, his eyes looking down to where he was sliding in and out of you. 

“God,” He groans, his palm pressing against your lower stomach, “Taking me like a fucking dream. S’good baby? Tell me how fucking good it is.” 

“L-like I said, cocky.” You tried to tease, but instead it came out breathy and shaky. 

“You like it,” He grinned, slamming himself even harder into you. “She fucking loves it; she’s screaming for me.” 

You wanted to roll your eyes at him referring to your cunt as a ‘she’, but you couldn’t think of anything as he pounded into you. Especially not when the pads of his fingers find your clit. The bed was creaking loudly, and you couldn’t get the taste of his name out of your mouth as he talked you through it. 

Your release comes quicker than you thought it would, and Bradley’s thankful because with each jolt of your tits as he thrusts, he was worried he was going to cum inside of you.

“M’gonna cum.” 

He leans down, pressing you harder into the bed. His lips against your neck. 

“Cum around my cock, there you go.” He cooed, as you threw your head back in pleasure, “Fuck you’re so beautiful cumming around me.”

If he thought you cumming on his tongue was perfect, this was otherworldly.

He’s nearly growling as you clench around him, your release pulling him even deeper inside of you. His hips lose their rhythm, stuttering as his jaw drops. 

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He’s gritting his teeth together when your still trembling legs pull him even closer. When he can’t take it anymore, he pulls out of you harshly, his hand wrapping around his cock and tugging harshly until thick ropes of his cum splatter on your lower stomach. His eyes are shut, his abs glistening and tensing, and pleasure is written all over his face as he whimpers out. 

You bask in the haze for a moment, both of your panting breaths syncing as you tried to catch your breath. You were still seeing stars behind your eyelids when the bed shifted. 

“Let me get you a washcloth.” He whispered, kissing your forehead gently. You remember the soft drag of the cloth, cleaning you up, and how he wrapped you softly in the sheets. Exhaustion and orgasmic bliss had seeped deep inside of your bones, your eyes fluttering shut. 

There’s not much to remember after that. 

You wake up to the feeling of your bed shifting, which makes you freeze. Your eyes open lazily to see the naked man rolling out of your bed, only covered by the thin top sheet wrapped around his waist. You watch him with amusement, as the memories of last night come flooding back to you. When he not-so-subtly sneaks out of the bed, he jumps when he looks back to see your now awake frame. 

“H-hey,” He whispers, his voice slowly getting more high-pitched, “Good morning. How are you?” 

You have to bite your lip to stifle your laugh, “Good morning.” 

“I uh,” He starts, still clutching the sheet like a lifeline, which gives you a wonderful view of his v-line as he awkwardly stands there, “I uh have this work thing? I swear I wasn’t just gonna sneak out on you.”

”Yeah, you were.” You whispered in amusement. 

“N-no!” His voice sounds even higher than before, “No, no I swear-“

“I’m not-” You start, but your voice is so hoarse, and you don’t know if it’s from the whiskey or screaming his name all night long. “I’m not looking for anything serious. I’m not home very much.” 

He visibly relaxes, all the panic draining from his face. “Fuck, thank god. Neither am I. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here.” 

You laughed outright this time, sinking farther into the tangled sheets. “By all means,” you teased through a yawn. “Sneak out.”

The blanket slipped carelessly down your shoulder as you reached overhead, exposing a sliver of bare skin before you noticed. His eyes betrayed him almost instantly, flickering toward you before he caught himself and jerked them back up to your face with all the subtlety of a teenage boy. A faint flush crept up his neck.

“Last night was really fun.” He added softly, “Like really fun.”

”Yeah, it was.” You smiled lazily at the man as he awkwardly scooped his clothes up from the floor. 

It’s a comfortable yet awkward silence as he shuffles around. You wrapped the blanket tightly around yourself before climbing out of bed, the hardwood cold beneath your feet. Every step reminded you of the night before, your muscles aching pleasantly enough to make you smile despite yourself.

“I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded, falling into step behind you.

Just before you reached the front door, he tipped an imaginary hat with exaggerated politeness.

”Well,” You breathed out, “Thanks for last night.”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Thank you.”

For a second neither of you moved. He stood in your doorway with his boots finally laced, hair still hopelessly messy from your fingers, while you remained wrapped in nothing but your blanket, hoping the neighbors weren't there to side-eye you. 

“Well...” You smiled, rocking back on your heels. “Have a good life-”

“Oh, hey.”

His hand slipped between the door and the frame before you could close it, earning an amused look from you.

“If you ever end up back at the Hard Deck…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “And you want to grab a whiskey or something…” His grin returned, hopeful but entirely unassuming. “I’d be down.”

You couldn’t help smiling again. I’ll probably never see you again, Bradley.”

His smile lingered for another heartbeat before he took a step backward into the hallway.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Bradley.”

You closed the door before you could watch him disappear toward the elevators.

The door was slammed before you had a chance to watch him walk to the elevators. It was better this way, easier. 

By Monday morning, it already felt like another life.

Your apartment looked like a staging area more than a home. Flight gear was spread across the kitchen table beside intelligence reports, satellite imagery, weather data, and a stack of folders stamped with enough black ink to make it a waste of paper. A half-packed duffel sat open on the couch while your phone buzzed relentlessly somewhere beneath a pile of paperwork.

You answered it with a grunt, shrugging your bag over your shoulder. “Mav, I’m on my way in-“ 

“Change of plans, meet me in the hangar, get your flight suit on.” His voice crackled through the receiver, making you pause in the middle of your kitchen.

“You sure about this, old man?” 

When Maverick met with the graduates regarding the mission, it went better than he expected, all things considered. A few cocky pilots and pissed-off admirals were the least of his worries with the weight they were putting on his shoulders. He went to dismiss them into flight checks before practice, before he paused.

”Before we get started,” Maverick said, waiting until the room settled, “there’s one more thing.”

A few heads lifted from the mission packets scattered across their desks.

“An additional aviator has been assigned to this detachment; you haven’t met them yet.” 

That immediately drew a few curious glances around the room.

“For the past several years, Lieutenant Y/l/n has been conducting surveillance for this mission.” Maverick gestured toward the topographical map projected across the screen. “Every route you’ve studied, every radar profile you’ve reviewed, every piece of reconnaissance you’ve been briefed on has her fingerprints all over it.”

The easy chatter that had filled the room moments before disappeared.

“She’ll be flying this mission alongside you,” Maverick continued. “Whoever is selected as strike lead, Lieutenant Y/l/n will be their wingman.”

Hangman leaned back in his chair, looking around the room as though she’d been hiding in plain sight the entire time.

“Where is this elusive stealth pilot?” he asked, pointing theatrically around the room. “I’d kinda like to know who’s gonna be flying next to me.”

A few quiet laughs rippled through the room. Another eye roll from Phoenix, a scoff from Rooster. 

Maverick only smiled.

“Oh,” he said, gathering the folders from the podium. “You’ll meet her.”

Within minutes, the briefing shifted into flight assignments and simulation parameters, and the conversation drifted back to fuel loads, attack profiles, and timing windows. The mysterious pilot was almost forgotten about as practice teams started. 

For the next several hours, the team ran through formation exercises and simulated combat scenarios, pushing each other harder with every pass. Maverick was currently putting them through the wringer in dogfighting. You hid in the shadows, just outside of reach, watching them the entire time. It was three rounds of pilots before you decided to make your entrance. 

”Uh..” Bob’s hesitant voice crackled over the frequency, uncertainty bleeding through even beneath his practiced calm.

 “Where is he, Bob?” Phoenix demanded, craning her neck beneath the canopy, her eyes darting across the empty sky where Maverick had disappeared only moments before. A beat of silence stretched just long enough for panic to settle in. 

“I d-don’t know,” He yelled back, the radar empty below him, “Is he? He’s underneath us!”

“Nope.” Maverick’s voice arrived with infuriating confidence. “I’m right here.”

His jet erupted into view directly ahead of them, slicing through the clouds with effortless precision.

“Wrong, Bob,” Phoenix muttered, instinctively checking behind her as she tried to speed up to meet Maverick.

The coms crackled loudly, “Below, below, Phoenix,” Bradley warned, his voice sharper now as something flickered beneath her aircraft.

She jerked the jet up, “What?” 

“It’s not hitting the radar; who is it?” Bob asked, his palms against the glass. 

Then a voice, bright with amusement, cut across every frequency.

“Hi, everyone.” You chuckled. 

Every head snapped downward.

“This is Lieutenant Y/l/n speaking. I’ll be assisting you all on this mission. I’m sure Maverick mentioned me.” 

Your F-18 was so impossibly close beneath Phoenix’s that, for several seconds, you’d been swallowed entirely by her shadow, matching every movement so perfectly you looked like an extension of her own jet. It was an old trick, one that required absurd precision, nerves of steel, and absolute trust in your own instincts. Against the glare of the morning sun, there had been nothing to see until you wanted to be seen. Especially not as everyone was focused on Maverick. 

“Joining the fight?” Rooster asked, trying to pretend he wasn’t both equally amused and terrified of the stunt you just pulled. 

You peeled away with a smooth roll, dropping toward the hard deck so low it made Bob suck in a breath over the radio before leveling out. Across the valley, Rooster’s aircraft broke from the pack, immediately catching your attention. Your helmet turned first. Your jet followed a heartbeat later.

“There she goes,” Maverick murmured, almost sounding pleased.

You immediately lit the burners.

The distance between you and Bradley evaporated with frightening speed. He caught the movement in his mirror just as your nose slipped inside his turn, matching him through every evasive maneuver. He climbed. You climbed. He rolled. You rolled tighter. The missile tone shrieked through his headset before he’d even finished trying to shake you.

“Tone, tone, tone.”

You laughed over the comms as the simulated kill registered. “Fox Two.”

Bradley groaned loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Maverick couldn’t hide the grin in his own voice.

“That, everyone… is Shadow.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Phoenix let out a low whistle. “…Badass.”

“Lesson one,” You said. “The most dangerous pilot in the sky isn’t the one you can see, it’s the one you can’t.” 

The engines had barely finished whining down before you were climbing out of the cockpit, helmet tucked beneath your arm, adrenaline still buzzing pleasantly beneath your skin. Heat shimmered off the tarmac as the canopy lifted, and you couldn’t stop the grin stretching across your face, the kind that only came after a flight where everything had gone exactly right. Maverick was already waiting beside the line of parked fighters. Sunglasses hiding whatever smug expression you knew was underneath them.

“Hell of an entrance, Y/n.”

You laughed, accepting the quick side hug before bumping his shoulder with your own. “An entrance you orchestrated.” 

“I think it showed, em.” He offered, leading your way into the hangar where the rest of them stood surrounding the radios. 

You scanned across the crowd as you approached, taking in the faces of the pilots you would be flying beside. Most of them looked exactly as you expected, curious, skeptical, still trying to figure out who exactly had been hiding underneath the radar for the past few hours. You offered them a small smile.

“Lieutenant Y/l/n,” you began, your voice carrying through the hangar. “I know most of you have already met me in the air, but I figured an actual introduction was probably overdue. We know Maverick has a flair for the dramatics.” 

A few quiet laughs moved through the group.

“I’ve been assigned to this mission as your reconnaissance specialist and wingman. I’ve spent the last few years collecting intel on the target area, studying the terrain, the defenses, and every possible route in and out. My job was to make sure you have as much information as possible before we ever leave the ground.”

You continued speaking, settling into the familiar rhythm of a briefing, until your eyes moved across the group one more time. Until you paused; a familiar face standing among the pilots was a face you had not expected to see. A mustache, messy brown hair, and an expression that shifted from curiosity to complete disbelief the second he recognized you.

”And uh-“ Your words caught somewhere between your thoughts and your mouth. For one brief second, the confident lieutenant who had slipped beneath their radar disappeared, replaced by the woman standing in her apartment doorway a few days ago watching one Bradley Bradshaw walk away.

His face mirrored yours, confusion and shock before a small smirk of satisfaction pulled at his lips. He was shaking his head, a small laugh of amusement nearly slipping out at the absurdity of it all. 

You cleared your throat nervously, looking anywhere but in his direction as you continued. “As I was saying, my role is to make sure everyone here has what they need to get home.”

“I’m here because Maverick asked me to pass along a skill set that’s kept me alive more than once, and if it helps even one of you make it home when this stops being practice and starts becoming real, then I’ve done my job. Nobody in this room needs another lecture about being the best pilot. You’re already here because you’re among the best. What keeps people alive isn’t talent. It’s trusting the person flying next to you enough to know they’ll be exactly where you need them when everything goes sideways.”

A few deserved glances towards Hangman’s way make your brows quirk up. 

“And you, Hangman.” You set your helmet down on one of the desks, a little harder than necessary as you rounded to the man sitting casually, “You pulling that shit out there? Do you think that makes you more of a man? To leave someone hanging like that?” 

“They can’t keep up-“ 

“Or maybe you can’t follow rules to save your life. You wanna be wing leader? Not in my world, Lieutenant. I may not have final say, but I’ll be damned if I’m up in the sky with only you looking out for me.”  

Hangman held your stare, his ridiculous smirk not budging in the slightest.

“Well, aren’t you something, Shadow.” He said, playing completely unfazed as per usual. 

You held the eye roll back for the sake of professionalism and spun on your heels.  “I have a feeling,” you replied as you turned on your heel, “this is going to be a very long few weeks.”

A laugh echoed somewhere behind you. “It sure is,” Rooster chimed in.

The sound of his voice sent an involuntary chill down your spine.

You refused to look back, to acknowledge him in any way. 

Instead, you busied yourself gathering your notes while Maverick wrapped up the remainder of the briefing, assigning study material and dismissing everyone for the evening. Conversations immediately broke out around the hangar as pilots compared notes from the day’s exercises, arguing over dogfights, laughing about blown maneuvers, and already trying to size one another up before tomorrow’s training.

The second Maverick dismissed the room, you slipped out a side door before anyone could stop you, weaving through the maintenance bays toward the locker rooms with your helmet tucked beneath your arm. If Bradley had recognized you, and judging by the look on his face, he absolutely had, you weren’t quite ready for that conversation yet.

Most of the squad was still lingering in the hangar, giving you just enough time to shower away the sweat and lingering smell of the cockpit. Hot water beat against your shoulders until the tension slowly began to loosen, though it did very little to quiet your racing thoughts. 

He was good (really, he was good at a lot of things, but you really tried your best not to go there). There was a high chance he’d be selected to fly wing leader, so you couldn’t avoid him forever. 

You pulled on a fresh shirt and jeans before stuffing your flight suit into your duffel bag. Your locker slammed shut with a metallic clang as you zipped the bag over your shoulder.

“Well, well.” The voice came from directly behind you. “I thought you said we’d probably never see each other again.”

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment before letting out an amused sigh. “Funny,” you muttered as you turned around. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Bradley leaned casually against the row of lockers. His hair was still damp with sweat from the flight, stubborn curls refusing to stay where they’d been pushed. A dark streak of grease was smudged across his forehead, and his flight suit hung open around his waist, revealing a sweat-soaked olive undershirt that made him look like every tag chaser's wet dream. 

He caught you looking, and there was that cocky smirk again.

“I swear,” you said before he had the chance to speak, lifting a hand in surrender, “I wasn’t given a roster. I had no idea who was getting called back for this mission. I have the same clearance as you, and Mav didn’t tell me anything.” 

He held his hands up, “I believe you. You looked like you were gonna shit yourself up there.” 

“I just didn’t know,” you began, shaking your head as you searched for the right words, already aware you were dangerously close to overexplaining yourself. “I figured you were a pilot. I mean, obviously. I just had no idea you’d be called back for this mission specifically.”

“I’m just that good, sweetheart.” 

You hated this; you hated how you somehow managed to hook up with the hottest man alive who just so happened to be the man you were more than likely going to have to put your life in his hands in just a matter of a short few weeks. 

“So am I.” You barked back automatically, perhaps a reflex from years of being looked down upon as a woman in this field. 

“No one’s managed to get a lock on me in years,” he continued, holding your gaze without the slightest hint of teasing now. “Then you show up out of nowhere, tuck yourself underneath Phoenix’s shadow, and stick yourself on my six before I even knew you were there.”

The way he said it, the admiration in his voice and the glazed look in his eyes. It made your body ache, a subtle warmth growing in your lower belly.

“You gave me a fight, a little one anyway.” You whispered, teasingly. 

“I was caught off guard,” he defended, shifting on his feet, “I’d love to go head to head with you up there. No rules. Would be a real sight to see.”

You forced yourself to clear your throat, breaking eye contact before your thoughts wandered elsewhere. The conversation had drifted dangerously close to sounding like foreplay, only this time the setting wasn’t your apartment.

“We’re professionals.” You nodded once, convincing yourself as much as him. “We can fly this mission together without there being any issues. Right?” 

Bradley considered you for a moment, humming thoughtfully before his gaze drifted from your eyes. It wandered, entirely unapologetically, over your face, your shoulders, down just enough to make your pulse quicken before lazily returning to meet your eyes again.

“Yeah,” he replied, taking his time with the answer. “I think we can.”

“Oh, don’t do that.” You groaned, leaning your head on the locker. 

He blinked with exaggerated innocence. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what.”

A fake gasp escaped him as he pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.

“Excuse me?” he said, sounding thoroughly offended. “You’re the one looking me up and down.”

A flush crept up your neck as you ripped yourself upright. “I was not.” 

He just stood there, crooked smile still on his face. “Whatever makes you feel better.” 

You could feel his gaze on you, even as you attempted to gather your belongings. 

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” he asked, laughing again.

“Looking at me like you’ve seen me naked.” You seethe out, throwing the bag over your shoulder. 

“Oh,” he replied with entirely too much satisfaction. “But I have.”

A groan escaped you as you dragged a hand down your face. “We can’t do this. Seriously, no one on the squad can find out. It was just one night. Besides, we agreed it was nothing serious. We’re adults. Adults have one-night stands all the time.”

“Agreed.” He says, and you can’t find it in yourself to believe him with that smirk still beaming. 

“I just don’t want it to complicate the mission.” You settled on, “We need to be able to work together.”

Bradley studied you for a moment before nodding, the teasing still lingering in his eyes even if he chose not to push any further.

”I agreed, Shadow.”

He let your callsign roll easily off his tongue, smiling as though he’d been waiting all day for an excuse to use it. Something about hearing it from his lips made your stomach do an annoyingly noticeable little flip. The same lips that- yeah, you needed to leave. 

“Goodbye, Rooster.” 

You didn’t need to turn to know that he watched you leave, each sway of your hips intentional as you slammed the door behind you. 

The weeks that followed were on such a tight schedule you hardly had time to think about that fateful night. Training began before sunrise and rarely ended before dusk, each day blending seamlessly into the next as Maverick pushed the squad harder than any of them thought possible. Your chest ached at the end of each night, G’s making your lungs ache on the walk back to your car. Tensions were high as Rooster and Hangman competed against each other for the wing leader spot. 

You knew it would be Bradley; there wasn’t a doubt in your mind. The mission suggestion was all but written up the moment Hangman left you in the air over a dozen times in the first round of simulations. He was a good pilot, a fearless one, but he would get everyone killed, and you knew Maverick knew it too. 

Even with this, the squad slowly started to become your family. Bob and Phoenix were impossible not to like, and before long the four of you had fallen into an easy rhythm of grabbing late-night dinners after training or ending particularly brutal days at the Hard Deck, trading stories over greasy burgers and pitchers of beer while Payback and Fanboy argued over pool in the background. Even Hangman and Coyote occasionally wandered over to stir the pot before inevitably insulting Bradley enough to start another dick measuring contest, as you and Phoenix called it.

“They’re measuring again.” She’d whistle with a shiver of disgust from where she sat beside you.

You’d roll your eyes, “Should we bring out the rulers, boys?”

“Yeah, you’d like that, huh, Shadow?” Hangman would smirk, sending a filthy wink your way.

Bradley’s jaw would clench at that, before his Rooster persona was back on. “I think we all know I’d win, right Shadow?”

You’d roll your eyes and gulp down the rest of your beer, pretending like your heart wasn’t racing.

You got to know Bradley, the real Bradley Bradshaw that was behind the cloak of Rooster. He talked about growing, about his mother, about Goose, though those conversations came much later and only after the bar had emptied. He told you about how he puked the first time he took Gs, and you exchanged deployment horror stories. You learned about his friendship with Phoenix and his ongoing feud with Hangman, and how it all started years back

The first time someone convinced him to climb onto the piano for you at the Hard Deck, you laughed so hard you nearly slid right out of the booth. Phoenix caught your arm before gravity could finish the job, shaking her head as Bradley belted out Great Balls of Fire with absolutely no shame. He was in his element, and it looked good on him. Almost too good.

You’d catch yourself staring at him a little too much, letting your mind wander to places they shouldn’t go. During lessons, you’d find yourself watching his back, your eyes lingering on the scar on his chin, or the curl that always escaped out of his helmet when he showed up to practice with damp hair. 

Flying with him was a different ballpark, so different from being with him in between the sheets. It was almost more intimate, getting to know someone so quickly and so deeply. You knew when he was about to push a maneuver harder than planned because his breathing changed just enough over the comms for you to hear it. He learned you always checked high before low, that you favored patience over impulse, and that whenever you said, “I’ve got you, Rooster,” he never had to look twice to know you meant it. 

You matched his speed within fractions of a knot, mirrored every bank and climbed until it felt less like two aircraft carving through the sky and more like a single thought split between two cockpits. Thousands of pounds of steel and miles of open air separated you, yet somehow you became more aware of him there than you ever had been standing inches apart.

But amidst the camaraderie amongst some of the dagger squad, tensions were growing higher on the flight deck, after yet another failed simulation. Even on Bradley’s six, practically touching his jet while targets were acquired, you were still too slow. It was too risky; there was still too much room for error.  The tactical debrief felt suffocating. Maverick’s face was pressed into a hard frown as he looked at each of you, disappointment etched into his features. 

“Why are you dead?” He started, shooting daggers into Bradley, “You’re team leader up there, why are you dead? Why is your team dead?” 

Phoenix breathed out, frustration rolling off of her shoulders, “Sir, they’re the only ones who made it to target.” 

“A minute late. He gave the Enemy aircraft time to shoot him and his wingman down,” Maverick said, making Bradley tense from where he was sitting next to you. “They’re still dead.” 

“You don’t know that-“ 

“You’re not flying fast enough,” Hangman interjected. “You don’t have a second to waste.”

”We made it to the target.” 

“And superior enemy planes intercepted you on your way out.”  The room went still again. 

Bradley shrugged, ”Then it’s a dogfight-“

”Against fifth-generation fighters.” The vein in Maverick’s neck is protruding, his eyes locked on Bradley's. 

You couldn’t just sit there and let him take the brunt of this, so you clear your throat, “We’d still have a chance.” 

There’s a brief silence; you can feel Bradley’s appreciation as he shifts in his seat. “If we got intercepted, they’d think there’s only one. We have the element of surprise, and with Rooster up there and me-“

”In F-18s?”

Bradley shakes his head, ”It’s not the plane, it’s the pilot-“

”Exactly.”

Maverick's words make the tension in the room climb until it feels impossible to breathe normally. You slowly leaned back into your chair, watching the exchange unfold with a tightness in your chest. You knew there was history there, short clipped words from Bradley and the way Maverick watched him like a hawk. It wasn’t your place to pry, so you didn’t. 

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission, sir.”

All eyes turn to Hangman as he scoffs,  “You really don’t get it. On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here or a man doesn’t come back.” He takes his time to gaze over at Phoenix, then to you with an arrogant look on his face. “No offense intended.”

You’re ready to bite back before Bob leans forward in his seat, “Yet somehow you always manage.”

”I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative is all.”

Not even Maverick’s interjections get Hangman to stop the tirade he’s dead set on continuing. 

“We’re going into combat, son. On a level no living pilot has ever seen. Not even him. It’s no time to be letting the past hold you back-“

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bradley cuts him off, his body shifting to lock eyes with the man. 

Hangman looks around the room, waiting. This is what he was waiting for, his grand finale and final show off to drop the bombshell he’d be clinging onto for just the right moment. 

“I can’t be the only one who knows that Maverick flew with his old man?” And there it is. You heard Bradley’s stories; his dad died flying. He never said anything special, and you didn’t pry. 

“Or that Maverick was flying when your old man-“ 

Maverick’s attempts at settling the peace fall on deaf ears; it all happens so fast. Before Hangman can even get all of the words out, Rooster is leaping from his seat, heading straight towards the blonde. He grabs his collar, and it’s chaos from there. You follow, slipping in between the two men as hands pull them back from each other. The entire class now stood, separating them as best they could. 

“You son of a bitch-“ 

Everyone was yelling, spit flying as you pressed your palms into Bradley’s chest. His arms were being held back by Bob and Phoenix, as you tried to push him away.

“Bradley,” You tried to redirect his attention, “Bradley, he’s not worth it. I promise he’s not worth it.” 

His eyes, full of fury, met yours and couldn’t help but soften just the slightest bit. Unfortunately for you, this moment was not in isolation. It wasn’t a gentle moment in the hanger, or the corner of Hard Deck, or in the locker room. This subtle display of knowing was out in the open for everyone with eyes to see. And Hangman? He was one of the most observant people you’ve ever met, and you hated it about him. 

Once things were settled, they let Hangman loose, but with a glance towards Bob and Phoenix, you made sure they didn’t do the same for Bradley. You could feel his heart beating wildly underneath your palms; he wasn’t thinking clearly. The moment he was free, he’d do something to jeopardize this mission and his career.

“You’re dismissed.” Maverick’s voice booms through the crowd, but everyone’s adrenaline is still pumping. 

“He doesn’t have what it takes,” Hangman looks to Maverick, “You know I’m right.”

Then his gaze is on you, your body still pressed against Bradley’s as he writhes, wanting nothing more than to land a punch to the side of the cocky man’s face. He goes to leave, but waits until he’s all but nose to nose with Bradley before saying his final remarks.

“Wow, Bradshaw.”

The room immediately shifted, everyone preparing for yet another fight to break out. 

“You know, I knew you wanted it bad,” Hangman continued, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “I just didn’t realize you wanted it that bad.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone, not as eyes filtered amongst the crowd. Another revelation made. It sounded like everything was underwater when you turned, your body jerking harshly. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” You snap, before you feel an arm wrapped around your waist. Somehow Bradley has freed himself from their grips, and used it to pull you back. This action itself seemed to all but confirm his suspicions. When Hangman clicked his tongue. 

“Watch it,” Bradley warned, tensions rising all over again. 

“I said you’re dismissed,” Maverick yelled once again. 

Bradley’s grip loosened, but he didn’t let go immediately. His eyes flickered toward Hangman, who was already walking away, then back to you. He gave you the smallest shake of his head; it wasn’t worth it. You swallowed the anger building in your throat, watching Hangman disappear through the doorway.

You stepped out of Bradley’s grip as if it burned you, walking back to your seat as the crowd slowly dispersed. He wanted to follow you, to talk, but he let his friends guide him gently out of the room while you lingered back. When the final pilot walked through the door, Maverick cleared his throat. 

“I didn’t know you knew Bradshaw.” He said, his arms leaning against the table. 

You scoffed, “Yeah? I didn’t know you did either.” 

“Fraternization code of conduct states-“ 

“Don’t quote the book at me,” you snapped, the words leaving your mouth before you had the chance to temper them. The silence that followed made you immediately regret the tone. You straightened in your chair, rubbing a tired hand over your forehead. “Sir.”

He was quiet, waiting for an explanation. 

“We met the day I got back; I didn’t know anything besides his name.” It felt ridiculous admitting this to your superior. “We’re not in a relationship. We’re the same rank, and he’s not my superior nor am I his. And when I advocated for him to be strike lead…” You shook your head. “That had nothing to do with the fact that I know him. I’d have said the same thing if we’d never met outside of work.” Your voice softened, conviction replacing frustration. “He’s a damn good pilot, Maverick. You know this.” 

The room was quiet again. You looked at him expectantly.

“Your turn.”

That’s how you ended up here, seated outside on the beach in front of Hard Deck. Your feet in the warm sand, with a jacket thrown over your shoulders. Maverick told you everything, from pulling Goose out of the water to pulling Bradley’s papers. It weighed heavily on you to know Bradley had so much riding on this mission. 

You were being lulled by the sound of the waves crashing against the shore before a voice spoke up from behind you. 

“Figured I’d find you out here,” Bradley spoke up, slowly creeping up until he was sitting next to you. 

 You smiled softly at him, “Penny rat me out?” 

“Not to brag,” He whispered with a chuckle, “But I think I’m her favorite.” 

You were glad he was feeling better, especially after the events earlier. You wanted to hear his laugh, and that scared you. All of it scared you, whether you’d be willing to admit it out loud or not. The mission stakes, the way your chest felt when you looked at Bradley, the unknowing of the future. 

“How are you feeling?” You turn to look at him, as he rests his arms on his knees. 

“More level-headed,” he admitted, rubbing absentmindedly at the scrape across his knuckles. You don’t ask how he got it. “Still pissed.”

“I figured.”

“I hate that he got to you.”

You turn in confusion, “Hm?” 

He sighed, still watching the water.

“I don’t care what he says about me.” He paused, swallowing hard enough for you to notice. “My d-dad…” His voice caught just enough to betray him before he found it again. “That’s different.”

There wasn’t any bravado behind it, no attempt to shrug it off with a joke the way he usually did. It was simply the truth. You thought back to everything Maverick had told you only an hour earlier, about Goose, about Carole, about promises and guilt and thirty years of trying to protect someone while going against their own wishes. Bradley wasn’t just carrying his own expectations into this mission. He was carrying his father’s memory, his mother’s hopes, Maverick’s regret, and now the impossible responsibility of leading a team through something they weren’t expected to survive. 

He let out another slow breath before continuing. “But he went after you because he knew it’d get a reaction.” He finally looked over at you, the moonlight catching the exhaustion written across his face. “Out of both of us.”

Your chest tightened, but you shook your head almost immediately. “He didn’t get to me,” you promised. “You’re not a woman in the Navy if you let one comment about fucking your way to the top get into your head. If I threw punches every time someone assumed I was sleeping with somebody important, I would’ve been arrested years ago.” A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Besides…”

You let the pause linger just long enough. “Phoenix and I are gonna kill him.”

There it was, that laugh you’ve been aching to hear. 

“What?” He got out, his chest aching from how hard he was cackling. 

“You heard me.”

You kept your expression perfectly serious. “We’re gonna dump him somewhere off the eastern seaboard. Phoenix’s idea. Bob volunteered to be lookout.”

He laughed- oh, he laughed loud enough to echo over the surf, shoulders shaking as he doubled over slightly. The sound settled somewhere deep in your chest, warming places you hadn’t realized had gone cold, and you caught yourself smiling long before you meant to. It’s infectious, and you’re both laughing off the horrors of today until your sides hurt. 

You brush your shoulder with his playfully, but he keeps your shoulders touching before you could pull away. 

After you both catch your breath, he leans in a little closer, a more serious look washing over him. “I want you to know, Hangman is wrong.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s an asshole.” 

“No, I mean…” He looked away again, watching the tide for a second before gathering the courage to continue. “I know we didn’t know each other before that night, but I never once did anything with the intention of you helping me get strike leader.”

You nod quietly, but let him continue. 

“I mean…” He laughed awkwardly at himself. “Obviously, having the best recon pilot in the Navy watching my six doesn’t exactly hurt my odds, but…” His voice trailed off as he searched for words that didn’t seem to come naturally. “I’d have been sitting out here talking to you anyway, despite it all.” 

“You know, Bradley, much to my dismay, or my attempts to not,” You trailed off, letting your knees knock into each other, “I happen to like you.” 

“You sure know how to sweet-talk a man.” He chided, making you fully press your shoulder into his a little more. 

“Just,” You sighed, fingernails picking at a thread on your shorts, “Wish we met in different circumstances.”

He nodded, “You gonna give me some spiel about how the Navy comes first? 

You let out a quiet laugh. “Why? Is that the same speech you’ve been giving women for years?”

He snorted, shaking his head, before looking back out toward the horizon. “I’d be lying if I said the Navy doesn’t come first. It has to. It always will, at least while I’m wearing the uniform.” He paused, drawing a slow line through the sand with the heel of his boot. “But I think that’s what makes this so frustrating.”

”When I told you I wasn’t looking for anything serious, I wasn’t lying.” You started, “I mean, you know how it is. It’s impossible to date, to do anything in our lives. But, I don’t know. This feels different, and it’s scary.” 

“You were the first person I’d slept with in over a year.” He admits, a small, almost embarrassed smile on his lips, “I don’t know if you know this, but there aren’t a lot of women on naval bases.” 

A toothy grin pulls at your lips, “You were mine, too.” 

There’s a silent lull between the two of you, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the ocean and quietly mourning a life you didn’t have. One where meeting someone didn’t come with a countdown clock attached. One where you could go on dates without wondering if either of you would be shipped away. One where liking someone didn’t immediately come with the terrifying realization that the thing you wanted most was also the thing that could hurt the most. 

That wasn’t the life you had. Right now you couldn’t focus on anything else but the mission. A mission that had a timeline, one that was closing in faster than either of you wanted to admit.

“Maybe in another life I would have met you and asked you out on an actual date first,” He whispers. “Maybe in another life we could give it a try, instead of worrying if we’re gonna go down in a fiery blaze.” 

“Hey,” You poke his chest, “That’s not funny.” 

“Just so you know…” His voice softened. “I like you too.”

You smiled sadly, leaning into him on purpose this time. His arms came around you, pulling you into him as you watched the sun set over the California skyline. 

 The route that had just become muscle memory, the terrain etched into everyone’s minds through countless simulations and live runs, had been changed. Dogfighting was expected; squads were exhausted.  Somewhere between all the infighting, the squad slowly stopped feeling like a group of strangers thrown together by circumstance and started resembling an actual team. Maybe this had something to do with Maverick’s football day, which was a day you spent grateful for sunglasses as you got to ogle a very sweaty, very fit Bradley running underneath the hot sun.

He knew it too, as you had dropped the ball (literally) quite a few times in distraction. This is why when he slung his sweaty bare arm over your shoulder, you couldn’t even deny the accusation.

”Am I distracting you, Shadow?” He asks, sweating all over you while the boys yelled for him to stop flirting and rejoin the game. 

“Shut up.”

”You’re not being very subtle, Bradshaw.” 

“Never said I was trying to be,” he grinned, and you could envision his sparkly eyes behind those aviators. “At least now you can ogle me in my flight suit without shame.” 

“That would imply I had shame in the first place.” You smirk, slinking your fingers together with his. He took your hand in his, making your heart soar until he turned it against you, pulling you against him. 

“Bradley, Bradley, put me down!-“ 

Bradley carried you halfway across the sand before tossing you into the water, and the second you surfaced, laughing and wiping salt from your face, you knew you would remember that moment forever.

It was a good day. A really good day, followed by a very bad one. You sat there with Bradley’s hand wrapped tightly in yours while you waited to hear if Phoenix and Bob were okay. The uncertainty was unbearable, the silence between updates stretching longer than it should have. For someone who had spent years flying into dangerous situations, waiting on the ground had always been the hardest part.

When the news finally came that they were alive, that they were okay, it felt like a fifty-pound weight had been lifted from your chest. You left him and Maverick with a swift kiss to Bradley’s forehead, pretending you didn’t hear the screaming down the hallway.

The days were coming faster, deadlines were pushed, and before all of you knew it was the day of. You boarded the carrier with the rest of the team, the ocean stretching endlessly around you as the ship carried all of you closer to the mission. Your bag was dropped into the barracks beside Phoenix’s room. You were as ready as you were going to be. 

Pre-flight checks, mission debriefs, medical evaluations, and more were all a blur as you walked through it on autopilot. No one ever talks about the mental strength it takes to know you have to pull off not one, but two miracles to bring all of your friends home and complete the mission. You looked around at the group of people you had grown to love, even Hangman, and felt a painful stab in your chest as you all said your good nights after dinner. Hangman didn’t even make a single joke about it being the last supper; the tension surrounding everyone was different; this was real. 

You couldn’t sleep. You were almost positive nobody else could either.

The carrier had gone quiet hours ago. The steady hum of the ship beneath you should have been comforting, something familiar after years of deployments and long nights spent away from home, but tonight every vibration felt like a reminder.

You had flown dangerous missions before. You had stared down impossible odds and climbed into aircraft knowing there was a chance you wouldn’t climb back out. You had trained for this. Prepared for this. Studied every inch of the terrain until you could probably fly the route with your eyes closed.

But you’ve never flown a dangerous mission with people you considered family.  Especially not with someone you may have been in love with. 

Eventually, exhaustion started to win. Your thoughts blurred at the edges, your body finally beginning to surrender to the need for sleep when a knock echoed against your door.

You were awake instantly. For a second you didn’t move, hoping maybe you had imagined it. Then it came again, even more frantic than before. You pushed yourself out of bed with a quiet groan, dragging a hand over your face as you crossed the small space of your bunk.

“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your eyes as you reached for the door.

You swung it open harshly, “W-what?”

Then you saw him. Bradley stood there looking anything but tired. His hair was messy, his breathing uneven, and there was a nervous energy radiating off him that you had rarely seen. This was the same man who could fly straight into enemy territory without hesitation, who could stare down Maverick during a debrief and argue his point until everyone else backed down.

But standing outside your room in the middle of the night? He looked terrified.

“Bradley?”

“I can’t.”

The words came out immediately, almost like he had been holding them in the entire walk over.

He took a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can’t sleep.”

You stared at him, your exhaustion slowly fading as you realized just how serious he was.

“I can’t go to sleep,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I can’t go into tomorrow without doing this.”

Before you could even respond, his lips were on yours. You kissed him back before you could think about it, your fingers finding the fabric of his shirt as if grounding yourself through him was the only thing keeping you steady.

Everything else faded away as you pulled him into your room, the door slamming shut. Nothing else mattered, not when you pulled him into your twin-sized bed. His body on top of yours, kissing you as he’d never get the chance to again. He took his time, kissing every inch of your skin he could and prying the sweetest noises out of your mouth. 

He made love to you, pushing into you with a cry of your name. Then, he fucked you like it was his last night on earth, because it might have been. You fell apart underneath him over and over until you could barely keep your eyes open anymore.

The morning came almost violently, the alarm blaring in your ears as you snuggled into Bradley’s chest. You would do anything to turn it off, to get just a few more minutes in his arms.

“Hey...” He whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. 

You sighed, burrowing yourself into him. 

“Come on, sweetheart.” He coaxed you out of bed. “I gotta be on the other side of the boat in like 20 mins, and I don’t think Nyx would appreciate me in the girls' shower.” 

“But I would.” You grumble, helping throw him his clothes as the two of you readied yourselves for the day as much as you could. 

He could see the faraway look in your eyes as you watched him leave. “Hey, it’s all gonna be fine.” He said with a kiss, “I’ll see you out there.” 

All you could do was nod to keep your emotions in check. You wanted to believe him; you really did. You and Phoenix helped each other get ready, fixing loose strands of hair, adjusting collars, checking straps, making sure every piece of gear was exactly where it needed to be.

There was comfort in the routine, familiarity in the way you two moved around each other. In knowing that even when everything else felt uncertain, there were still things you could control.

Phoenix zipped up your flight suit while you helped fix the collar sitting crooked around her neck. Neither of you said much; there wasn’t much to say. 

When you went to meet the squad on the runway, it smelled like sea salt and jet fuel, the early morning fog rising off the side of the boat. Everything was a blur of adrenaline and verbal checks with command until the clock ticked. 

Bradley’s met yours on the way to your jets, soft and almost heart-wrenching as you clutch your helmet to your side. 

“Don’t do that,” You yell out. Even with the sounds of jet engines and water rushing against the side of the carrier, you know he can hear you. 

He raises a brow. “Do what?” 

A sense of déjà vu hits your chest, making you smile despite yourself. “You know exactly what.” 

He walks a little closer, and up close you can see it on his face. “Y/n-“

”Stop.” You cut him off, making him pause. ”Stop looking at me like you’re never gonna see me again.”  

“I’m not-“ Before he has a chance to continue, you keep talking, “Because you will, Bradley. Up there.” 

You point to the sky, a small smile on his face despite the nerves wracking his body. 

“I got your back, Y/n.” He promises, as the boat horns signal you all to head to your jets. 

“I got yours.” 

Settling into your cockpit always feels like coming home after a long day; you know the ins and outs of this jet like the back of your hand. The mission objective has been drilled into your head. All the information you’ve sent to higher-ups, all the sleepless nights this is what it has all led to. Now that you were here, you could feel your stomach twisting with anxiety and something else as you watched Bradley’s plane race ahead of yours on the jetway. 

When you’ve served as long as you have, or flown as many hours, sometimes it all blurs together. Your body was on autopilot; the only thing running through your mind is the checklist of everything needed for you all to make it out of this alive. 

In moments of extreme stress, the body has a way of protecting itself. It narrows your focus until there is nothing else left. No fear. No doubt. No room to think about the fact that the person flying in front of you is someone you had kissed goodbye only hours ago, someone whose hand you had held in the dark while both of you pretended tomorrow wasn’t coming. From the moment your thumb hit the countdown clock, everything became a blur of commands and instinct.

You became one with your jet, every adjustment made without hesitation, every maneuver calculated by muscle memory alone. Bradley’s aircraft stayed directly next to you, close enough that you could track every movement, close enough that you could trust him to be exactly where he needed to be.

For a moment, it almost felt easy. The first miracle happened. The second happened by the scrap of your fucking teeth. And ironically, you think that was the easy part.

Ten Gs slammed into your chest, the pressure crushing down on you until your lungs felt like they were filled with tar. Your body fought against the weight, every muscle straining as you forced yourself to keep breathing, forced yourself to stay conscious, forced yourself to keep flying.

You pulled up hard, coming alongside Bradley just as the belly of his jet skimmed dangerously close to the snow-covered rocks below. The wings of your aircraft passed close enough to each other that for a split second you could feel the danger of it, the razor-thin margin between control and disaster.

“Now get out of there.” Cyclone’s voice crackled through your headset, and suddenly the entire weight of the world was back on your chest. 

The moment you came back to, alarms were blaring, smoke was flying, and SAMS were practically everywhere. You were all fighting for your lives. It was your turn to dodge and weave, firing countermeasures, trying your best to outmaneuver the agile missiles. 

“Rooster,” You called, hearing nothing but silence as you watched his jet drop slightly, “Don’t go into G-LOC on me.”

Bradley gasps for breath as his vision returns, brought back by the sound of your voice, then the symphony of alarms blaring in his ears. This is the dogfight you all knew would happen; here it was. 

“Shit. They’re everywhere.” You’d never been so thankful to hear his voice. 

Payback cut in fast, “Get low, get low.” 

Another alarm screamed.

Your eyes snapped toward the warning display just as another missile locked on. You reacted before thinking, firing your own countermeasure and watching the missile veer away from its path. The maneuver forced you to break away, your aircraft pulling in the opposite direction as you avoided the impact.

For a few terrifying seconds, you and Bradley weren’t flying side by side anymore.

“Fuck,” You seethe, “Can barely fucking see. Rooster, 3 o’clock.”

Then chills fill your bloodstream when he speaks, “I’m out of flares.” 

You turn back, and you can see the missile coming straight towards him. A scream leaves your throat as you drop your throttle, an attempt to help even if it’s fruitless. You can’t watch him die; you won’t, and then suddenly Maverick’s in the direct line of the missile. Maverick releases flares, but he’s too late. And he knows it. You all know it.

The missile hits Maverick’s engine. A fireball shreds his engine; all you can do is fly from above, watching him fall. Your stomach is in knots, and if you had eaten anything this morning, it would have been thrown up all over your cockpit; you’re sure of it. 

You can barely hear Phoenix call it, “I repeat, Dagger 1 is hit. He’s going down.”

You feel the tears filling your eyes as you dive below the SAM radar once again; the absence of the alarms had never felt so loud in your life. 

“Dagger 1. Status. Has anyone seen him? I didn’t see a chute.” Bradley asks, and the denial in his voice makes you stifle back a sob.

Payback speaks, “He’s gone, Rooster.”

“W-we have to circle back,” Bradley says, and you watch his hesitation as you all get back into formation.

”Dagger, you are not to engage. Repeat, do not engage.” Comms says, but you can see it. In the way he’s flying, you press your jet feet away from his, just enough to see him through his canopy. 

“Dagger Two. Return to carrier.” Another order came through your headset, louder this time. “Acknowledge.”

“Rooster, those bandits are closing,” Phoenix’s voice cut through the static, steadier than anyone felt. “We cannot go back.”

“Dagger, Comanche, bandits thirty east.”

“Rooster,” you breathed, your voice cracking despite every effort to keep it level. “He’s gone. We have to go.” You eased your jet closer, slipping into position just long enough to look through the glass. You needed one last chance to pull him back. His helmet turned ever so slightly, and through layers of plexiglass, oxygen masks, and the roar of two engines pushing to their limits, your eyes met, yours pleading. 

Please don’t leave me too. Please. 

His shoulders barely moved as he took one slow breath.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he says before he circles and falls back hard. 

“Bradley, Bradley,” You kept calling his name, your voice growing louder with every desperate attempt to reach him, but the distance only widened.

 His aircraft became smaller and smaller, swallowed by mountains, smoke, and cloud until there was nothing left to look at except the empty patch of sky where he’d been flying only seconds before. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself when the explosion bloomed against the horizon. You didn’t flinch. 

Enemy aircraft were already closing the gap, warning tones screaming relentlessly through your headset as instinct forced your hands to keep flying while your heart shattered somewhere miles behind you.

“Dagger Two is hit,” someone called over the radio, their voice tight with disbelief. “I repeat, Dagger Two is hit.”

Your hands trembled violently around the throttle, every muscle in your arms threatening to give out as the fireball reflected faintly across the glass of your canopy. You wanted to turn around. Every part of your body fought the training that had been drilled into you for years. You wanted to dive after him, to ignore Cyclone, ignore the mission, ignore the four other pilots depending on you and find whatever was left. Instead, you shoved the throttle forward and forced yourself to stay in formation, tears blurring your vision.

You couldn’t look back.

You knew if you looked back, you wouldn’t stop. And it wouldn’t help the rest of your friends get home.

So you stared ahead while your mind betrayed you, replaying the night before in cruel, perfect clarity. The feel of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. His fingers lazily tracing circles across your back as the carrier rocked gently beneath you. The warmth of his voice in the darkness, his sweat-lined skin pressed against your own. 

“When all this is over,” He hummed, your sweaty bodies still panting as you draped yourself across his chest, “I’m gonna take you to get a real burger.”

You jokingly moaned, “God, you sure know how to sweet-talk a lady.” 

“M’serious.” He shifted, cupping his face in yours. “You deserve an actual date. Something casual because I know you hate that fancy shit, but something worthy of you. Something that makes you happy.” 

“You make me happy. Happier than I thought I could be.” You whispered, your cheeks grinning against his hold as he pulled you back in for another kiss. 

Your jet hit the deck harder than it ever had before, the violent impact ripping you out of the memory so abruptly your entire body lurched forward against the restraints. You can’t speak, you can’t think, you can barely breathe. The canopy was barely clear before you were forcing it open, stumbling out onto the deck so quickly you nearly missed the ladder altogether. 

Someone was shouting your callsign. Someone else barked an order for you to stay put. You heard none of it. All you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat and the echo of Bradley’s voice repeating I’m sorry over and over until it drowned out everything else. Your boots slammed against the concrete as you ran, weaving through deck crew and mechanics. Every step hurt, your lungs burned from the G-forces, your legs threatened to give out beneath you, but you kept running until Dagger Spare came into view.

You hauled yourself onto the boarding steps of Jake’s jet. It wasn’t until you grabbed onto the side of his cockpit that you realized your helmet was gone. You didn’t remember taking it off. You didn’t remember throwing it aside. Somewhere between the landing and the sprint across the flight deck, it had simply ceased to exist. None of it mattered. 

Jake nearly jumped at the sight of you. His eyes widened beneath the visor as he took in your face, your shaking hands, the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.

“Shadow-”

“If they call…” Your voice cracked so badly you barely recognized it as your own. You tried again, forcing the words out through a throat that felt like it was closing. “If there’s anything… if anybody hears anything…” You swallowed hard, your chest heaving. “You have to go. You have to save him.”

Someone behind you shouted your name again, louder this time, and you flinched so violently it startled even you.

“They’re not gonna let me fly,” you whispered, panic spilling out faster than you could stop it. “They’re gonna ground me.” You grabbed the edge of his cockpit so tightly your knuckles turned white. “I’m trusting you. If there’s any chance he’s alive… any chance at all…”

He looks at you, a soft mist over his pale blue eyes. “I promise, Y/n.” 

You turn with a curt nod, seeing Phoenix following alongside Hondo. The second you reached her, whatever strength had been holding you upright disappeared. You collapsed into her arms without a word, burying your face against her shoulder as sobs finally tore free from your chest. She held onto you just as tightly, her own tears soaking through your flight suit while your hands clung desperately to the fabric at her back.

”I never even got the chance to love him, Nyx.” You sobbed. 

“You did, you do.” She whimpered, “He knew, he knew, Y/n.” 

The minutes that followed blurred together in a haze of adrenaline wearing off and grief settling in. Someone draped a blanket over your shoulders. Medics came in to poke and prod, protocol, but Bob told them to give you a minute. He slid juice boxes over to where you and Phoenix were curled into each other on the couch; you thanked him for very politely telling them to fuck off. 

Then it was just what remained of the Dagger squad wallowing in what should have been a successful mission on paper. 

After what felt like an eternity, Mickey finally broke the silence.

“Why did he do that?”

No one answered immediately.

Phoenix sniffled beside you, still absentmindedly combing her fingers through the hair that had fallen loose from your bun sometime during the mission.

“Because it’s Bradley.” She whispered, “He would’ve done the same for any of us.” 

You squeezed her hand harder, willing the tears away. 

The silence settled over the room again, heavier this time. Bob sat with his head buried in his hands, absently pressing buttons on an old phone that lay on a table for decoration. Reuben had somehow acquired a handheld radio that you were fairly certain belonged to someone much higher ranking; the speaker pressed tightly against his ear while he listened to every transmission coming through.

No one paid him much attention until he suddenly sat forward.

“Overwatch is reporting signs of a jet on course for our position.”

“Fighters?” You sniffle, Phoenix's hands stilling from where they were combing through the hair that had freed itself from your bun. 

“In a F-14 Military piece?” He asked, a spark lit underneath all of you at the realization. 

You sit up, almost immediately 

“What?” 

“How the fuck did they get an F-14 in the air?” 

“You’re joking.”

Reuben cuts off everyone’s questions, waving his hands to silence you all. 

“Rooster’s ESAT is back online. It’s them.” He whispered, before his voice got louder, “It’s fucking them!”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until Phoenix grabbed both sides of your face.

“They’re alive,” she repeated, her own voice cracking around a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Did you hear him? They’re alive.”

The breath you pulled into your lungs was the first real one you’d taken since watching Bradley disappear beneath the smoke. Your knees buckled so suddenly that Bob was beside you before you could hit the floor, steadying you by the elbows while Phoenix held onto your shoulders. Relief crashed through your body so violently it almost hurt. Your chest ached. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every muscle that had been locked tight since the mission finally gave out all at once, the adrenaline crashing in waves. 

“Oh my God,” you whispered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh, my God.”

The room erupted around you.

Mickey let out a disbelieving laugh, throwing both hands over his face before turning in a slow circle as if he had too much adrenaline to contain. He tackled Rueben into a hug that nearly sent the radio skidding across the floor. Bob was jumping up and down, his arms still on both of his girls. 

All of you migrated toward the observation windows overlooking the flight deck, the radio turned up as loud as it would go. Every transmission made your stomach knot tighter, your heart in your throat as they sent Dagger Spare up in defense. 

You watched nothing but the open ocean through the windows, while your nails dug crescent moons into your palms as your heart threatened to beat itself out of your chest. Phoenix reached for your hand without saying a word, your fingers intertwining so tightly they almost hurt. 

“Foul deck, foul deck, raise the barricades. Maverick and Rooster landing.”

You were already running before the call had finished, shoving through the doorway with the rest of the squad close behind. Boots thundered against the metal stairs as all of you raced toward the flight deck, your lungs burning from the sprint, your heartbeat somehow louder than the alarms and engines surrounding you.

The jet was beat up and smoking, crew swarming around to put out the fire as the canopy slowly lifted open. He looked exhausted beyond anything you’d ever seen, his flight suit streaked with soot and grease, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his movements slower than usual as he climbed onto the wing. He was filthy. 

Someone shouted something behind you, but it dissolved into meaningless noise as your feet carried you forward before your brain had the chance to think. You shoved through deck crew, through sailors, through officers, your eyes never leaving him for even a second.

There was no chance to think before you were in front of him. The corner of his mouth tugged upward into that impossibly familiar grin, tired and crooked and overflowing with relief the second your eyes met his. It was the same smile that had greeted you that night at Hard Deck, the same one that had become so easy to find across briefing rooms and cockpits and late nights.

”You asshole!” you yelled, shoving both hands against Bradley’s chest hard enough to make him stumble half a step. “You almost got yourself killed!”

The words had barely left your mouth before his hands were on either side of your face, calloused palms warm against your flushed skin as he pulled you into him.

The kiss was anything but gentle.

It was frantic and relieved, weeks of burning tension and memories of last night poured into it. Around you, the crowd erupted into cheers, but it all dissolved into background noise the second his lips found yours. You melted into him despite every intention of staying angry, catching the unmistakable pull of a smile against his mouth as though he already knew exactly how this was going to end.

When you finally drew back, your forehead rested against his for a moment, both of you laughing quietly as you caught your breath.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, trying and failing to sound convincing. “Don’t think that gets you out of it.”

“I know.” His thumbs brushed lightly over your cheeks, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that made your heart ache. “So let me make it up to you.”

”You finally gonna let me fuck you in the flight suit?” 

Bradley’s eyes went comically wide, instinctively pulling you a little closer, the roar of the crowd around you swallowing your words before anyone else had a chance to hear them.

“No,” he blurted, before immediately catching himself. “I mean-yes. Eventually. Absolutely, but that’s not what I meant.” He laughed, sweat dripping from his brow. “Let me take you out. On a proper date, give me a chance to ask you to be mine.” 

“But you said-“ 

“Oh, fuck it. Fuck all the reservations we both had.” He smiles, and it’s so wide it looks just like heaven. “I almost died, and all I could think about was how I regret never getting a chance to call you mine.” 

His eyes sparkled as you nodded, so quickly you were afraid you’d get whiplash. 

“Bradley. I’d love to be yours.” 

Before he could say another word, you grabbed the front of his flight suit and kissed him again, the crowd cheering even louder around you as he laughed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist like he had no intention of ever letting go.

[vamplvs]

I WANT SOMEONE BADLY

INCLUDES -> bradley "rooster" bradshaw x fem!reader WARNINGS -> jealousy, pining, alcohol, bradley is an idiot (lovingly) WORD COUNT -> 4.7k SUMMARY -> bradley has long since been the designated performer for the daggers, and that's no different when he's jealous, pining, and well past tipsy.

NOTES -> i've been sitting on this for so long but here she finally is <3 it's a little corny, and a little trope-y, but i had a blast writing it. the songs are "layla" by derek & the dominos and "i want someone badly" by jeff buckley! originally the first song was going to be "slow hand" by the pointer sisters if anyone wants to give that one a listen, too. as always: comments & rbs are much appreciated, and my asks are open!

it's been a year now since the mission from hell, and everyone is scattered across the continent. hangman and coyote are stationed out in the midwest, bob and phoenix are in south carolina, and everyone else has found a new crew.

you and bradley have been lucky enough to stay stationed in san diego. bradley, of course, is still flying with the navy, while you spend your days teaching at top gun. safe to say, the two of you have stayed close between the occasional movie night, brunches with mav, and beach days—when you have a day off anyways. when you don't, bradley finds a way to visit you at top gun despite it.

it isn't easy to coordinate yearly leave among the rest of the crew, but when they finally manage it during the dead of summer, the hard deck is already full of life. people crowd around the bar and the tables, chatting and laughing over the music.

bradley catches the wide grins on mav and penny's faces when they see the daggers walking in, ready to wreak havoc. their smiles only grow wider when the group pulls mav into a group hug, bradley leading the charge.

it's the first time in a long time that they're all in the same place at the same time, and hell if it isn't making people nostalgic. there's some classic rock song from mav's old piloting days ringing through the jukebox. hangman has, predictably, started up a betting pool around the billiards table, dragging mickey, javy, and a reluctant bob with him. the others hover in their own circles, leaving you, natasha, and bradley to catch up at one of the high tops.

it's been exciting talking to her again after so many months have passed. she and bob have been stationed out in south carolina, and it comes with story after story about the antics that the two of them get up to—well, more like the ones natasha pulls bob into.

by the time you decide to get more drinks for the three of you, your stomach is aching from laughter.

bradley just watches as you wander up to the bar. he takes in the sway of your hips, your easy confidence, all of it.

"still haven't done anything about that, then?" natasha asks, leveling a deeply accusatory look at him.

"about what?"

"rooster, you can't be serious." when he looks at her incredulously, she bursts into laughter. "oh, come on, you two have been dancing around each other for a year now! we all see it."

his ears go pink. "that's not-"

"oh, don't you deny it. i have eyes."

"i am serious!" bradley is sure you have no interest. it's been a year—more than that if you include your time at top gun together and a few sparse meetings between that and the big reunion last year—and he's been quietly pining all the while. if there was even a chance with you, he would have taken it by now.

"whatever you say," she replies, her head turning to you.

and when bradley follows suit, he sees you standing all-too close to a man at the bar. he's tall, classically handsome—all in all, the kind of guy you'd expect to see in a rom-com—and he stands so close that his arm is nearly brushing yours. you laugh and smile at something he says, and the hand he puts on your arm sends a chill through bradley. it sinks like a pit in his stomach, churning through the several beers he's had and their subsequent buzz.

the chill turns into a sickening haze when he sees the man pass you a napkin that surely has his number on it.

"told you so," bradley mutters, turning away to face the game of eight-ball that jake is still running. the clattering of the balls and the cheers are more than enough to drown out the pulse roaring in his ears.

he entirely misses your polite rejection, the way you nod your head back to the team, and the hop in your step when you finally turn to bring the drinks back.

"ugh, sorry i took so long. poor penny is still teaching mav to make cocktails," you say with a laugh when you return. you hand them their beers with little ceremony, before following bradley's eye line. "bagman still running the betting pool?"

"you know it," bradley replies, keeping his eyes locked ahead of him. the thought of seeing that man's number in your hand makes his palms sweat.

"you'd think he'd learn that bob kicks his ass every time." that makes bradley and natasha laugh. "his entire job is aiming a laser at a tiny pinprick, pool is no big deal."

"and yet, he insists on betting against him," nat sighs.

the night continues with more drinks, more pool, and more stories from their deployments. jake tells some story about his greatest exploits—which javy quickly interrupts by informing the entire team just how spectacularly jake fumbled only a week later. the team laughs, and it's back to business as usual.

eventually, javy and jake push bradley to the piano, insisting he play something good—citing the first time they were all at the hard deck together. nostalgia is one hell of a drug after a few beers. he warms up, hammering down a few notes and a glissando into an opening chord.

the bar's attention is caught on him and the piano. a handful of older couples immediately recognize the song, standing to dance—which would include penny and mav if they weren't manning the bar. but they sway to the song, mav against penny's back with his arms around her waist. he whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh.

"what'll you do when you get lonely and nobody's waiting by your side?"

your eyes are stuck on bradley, too. his glasses sit comfortably on the end of his nose, his standard patterned button up is open, and he bleeds a confidence so easy that it's impossible to take your eyes off him. he looks good doing what he loves, and he knows it. and maybe there's some self-satisfied part of him deep down that's pleased to see how he's stolen you're attention.

"you've been running and hiding much too long you know it's just your foolish pride."

as he ramps up to the chorus, the bar is ready to sing along with him. "layla," they all cheer, you included.

"you've got me on my knees"

his eyes drift over to yours for just a fraction of a second, his wide grin splitting even wider before he flits his gaze away to where natasha, bob, and mickey are all shouting the lyrics. well, natasha and mickey shout the lyrics at bob, while he sort of mumbles them quietly, embarrassed by the attention.

it's only a few minutes of bradley performing, but with the pressure of your eyes on him, it feels like an eternity. he's not sure he's ever been more aware of who he's looking at when he sings. there's a woman who has sidled up to the piano, singing every lyric with tequila on her breath, and it takes everything in him not to roll his eyes at her and find yours in the crowd.

he finishes the song with one final, dramatic chord, and the bar erupts into cheers. his eyes lock onto yours and you tip your drink toward him like a salute, whooping along with the rest of the bar. you gesture to the space next to him with a raised brow, and he turns to see the same woman from before leaning against the piano with a nearly empty cocktail glass in her hand.

she introduces herself, but bradley's mind is elsewhere. his eyes scan the space you were just in to find you gone. were you really playing wingman just now? the woman is saying something about his hands, but bradley can't care less, not with your apparent disappearing act. he excuses himself politely, ignoring her pout and the way her friends urge her to find another guy to hit on.

people are packed tightly around him, patting him on the back and clapping for him. he smiles politely in return. the longer he searches for you the more concerned he gets. you aren't by the bar or with the rest of the team by the pool table. hell, he doesn't even find you by the jukebox despite the ever changing cycle of music it goes through.

when he finally takes a step outside, he sees you sitting at the stairs leading down to the beach. it's a lot quieter outside, with the chaos and noise of the hard deck trapped within its walls. you're mindlessly twirling your drink in your glass.

"nice playing in there," you say with a glance over your shoulder.

"thanks," he says simply, taking a seat next to you. his glasses hang from the neckline of his old, white tank. the silence between you is thick, and right when he's going to break it by saying something that'll probably be stupid, you interrupt.

"no luck with that girl?" bradley is taken aback.

"what?" your eyes stay focused on the beach in front of you. the crash of every wave is steady and familiar.

"she spent the entire song singing at you, rooster," you tap your shoulder against his in what's supposed to be a playful gesture, but it falls flat.

"oh, yeah," he responds dumbly, "dunno, she's not really my type." he nearly winces as he hears himself say it.

you fall silent again, and bradley joins you in it. it's not uncomfortable, necessarily, but it's heavy. there's so much more he wants to say. that she's not his type because you are, because he's spent a year looking into your eyes, laughing at your jokes, going warm when your hands touch him. that he's spent a year wishing he could say something to you without messing what you have up.

it took ages for you two to get to where you are with the easy banter and the quiet movie nights. the two of you have spent long enough laughing about your almost-rivalry back in your top gun days that he knows you care about this friendship just as much as he does. and the last thing he wants to do is lose that by running his mouth.

"i should get going," you say. "i have to prep for next week's classes."

bradley watches as you leave for a second time that night, mumbling a quiet goodbye after you.

-

on leave, the team spends time exploring san diego again. they go to wine and beer tastings, try new cafes and restaurants, and even find the time to hike through the torrey pines natural reserve—that one is bob's request, and boy, does it deliver. it has the entire team winded by the end of it—except, miraculously, for bob, who brought a camera to take pictures with. 

but bradley's favorite, of course, is the afternoon they spend at the beach in front of the hard deck. dogfight football is up and running the minute people put their bags down. jake just can’t resist the urge to goad people on, so bradley gets wrapped up in the competition, too. initially, it's shirts versus skins, but with the hot san diego sun beating down, everyone is stripped to their trunks pretty quickly, not that it does much to dissuade the heat from tearing through them.

all the while, you're trapped at top gun teaching classes until later in the day. bradley's not even sure you'll be able to make it with the way things have been going with the new class of pilots. so, he puts you out of his mind, focusing on the game at hand—and how badly he wants to knock jake down on his ass just to teach him a lesson about talking shit.

when penny brings out lemonade for everyone, the sun is still bright overhead and unbearably hot. bradley's skin is sticky with sweat, and he holds the icy glass to his cheek with a sigh. sitting on his towel with the drink in his hand is easily the best decision he’s made all day. natasha takes no time in jogging over to him with a smug grin.

"saw you chase the love of your life outside after layla the other night," she sips on her lemonade like it proves something.

"she's not the love of my life-"

"oh, yeah? then why do you follow her around like a lost puppy?" he doesn't have a response for that and clears his throat, trying to pretend that his ears aren't burning. "she totally dug it."

"nat, she tried to set me up with another girl. i got wing-manned." the memory of your raised eyebrow and the way you asked if he had any luck with her make his stomach churn.

natasha snorts. "oh, please, if she was actually wing-manning you, she wouldn't have run outside to avoid the aftermath." bradley tries to formulate some kind of intelligent response, but gets cut off by natasha perking up. "speak of the devil!"

bradley turns to see you walking over with your towel in hand. he tries not to stare, god, he tries. but you're wearing a button up you borrowed from him months ago, and it's open over your bathing suit. there's something about that and the shorts you're wearing that makes the blush spread from his ears to his cheeks and down his neck. you look unfairly good in his clothes.

"all good things i hope!" you reply with a smile so bright bradley swears you've stolen the sun for yourself. natasha is quick to pull you into a hug—one that you're ready to reciprocate.

"rooster was just telling me how much he misses you," she nudges him, and he has to fight the urge to strangle natasha.

"it's only been a week, bradshaw, missing me that bad already?" you toss down your beach towel and sit next to him, still laughing at her words.

he tries to play it off with a shrug. "what can i say? i've been spoiled." natasha gives you a cryptic look that he can't decipher. as a matter of fact, he doesn't even get the chance to try before jake is calling everyone to the shoreline for a rematch. half the beach groans, complaining about the heat, and the other half start up their goading once more.

“c’mon, rooster, afraid of getting your ass handed to you?” jake calls, tossing the football in the air in a way so cocky only he could manage it.

you laugh when natasha drags him over to jake, already placing a pair of sunglasses over your eyes to sit and watch from afar. he shrugs apologetically at you. "get his ass, bradshaw!" you cheer.

-

the game only officially ends when the sun starts to set. it's been on and off for the rest of the afternoon, with people taking breaks to swim and cool off throughout. somehow, you and bradley never quite end up in the same place at the same time. it isn't until everyone is packed back into the hard deck that you get the chance to talk properly.

the two of you sit at a high top by the end of the pool table, drinks in hand once more as the team's usual chaos unfolds around you. it’s like a do-over of the week before: the betting pool going strong around the billiards table, the same old rock songs playing through the jukebox, and you and bradley tucked into a corner of your own.

"i thought you said you weren't going to make it today," he prompts, looking at you over his beer.

"that was before the admiral interrupted with some group punishment for breaking the hard deck," you say with a laugh.

"oh, you've got a maverick, then?" he nods his head over to where mav is desperately trying to wipe down a spill on the bar top that he no doubt caused.

"something like that," you reply, "there's always some kind of rivalry at top gun, but these two..." bradley laughs at your grimace.

"no worse than us, i hope." he taps his bottle against your glass in a mock toast.

"bradley, they are so much worse." he watches you launch into some story about your students, your smile echoed on his face.

and so conversation flows along with the drinks, the two of you wrapped up in your own world until jake—being the bastard he is—interrupts to drag bradley away to the billiards table. for a second time that day, bradley is pulled away from you against his will.

he is going to tear jake to shreds for this, beers be damned.

he relishes in your cheers whenever he knocks the stripes into the pockets. until your attention is taken from him, that is.

somehow, between his turn and the next, the same man from the weekend before has found his way to the table bradley left you at. he's taken up bradley's seat and is apparently content to just chat you up without any care for the rest of the crew observing this newcomer to their night out. even bob is prickling at his presence.

and if bradley breaks when the next game starts with a little more force than strictly necessary, no one says anything about it. if he plays a little harder, if he's a little snappier, every time he looks over and that man is closer to you, then quite frankly, it isn't anyone's business but his.

he drops his cue on the table and marches off to get another drink when he sees you lean in to hear the guy better. he hears jake call after him, but he pays him no heed. god, he needs another beer if he's going to put up with this tonight, too.

mav gets bradley a drink with a raised eyebrow. "trouble with the girl?" mav asks, nodding over to where you're sitting.

"how'd you-"

"bradley, i've known you since you were a kid," he responds like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "just say something."

"it's not that simple, mav, she's..." bradley trails off. perfect? is that what he means? unattainable? uninterested? he takes a long swig from his beer, a comfortable buzz settling in his chest. whether that's the beer or the thought of you, he's not sure.

"if you want to keep pining, that's on you." mav shrugs. "but take it from me, doing something about it is better than nothing."

"now you're playing wingman?" mav scoffs at that, but it doesn't have any heat.

"i'm trying to play dad, but whatever works for you, kid."

bradley goes quiet and lets mav get to the other patrons asking for drinks—which he is almost certainly going to ask penny for help with. he watches as they dance around each other gracefully, like despite mav's inexperience behind a bar, he knows exactly where penny's going to move. he watches the gentle hand that mav puts on her waist, and christ, he's in deep. all he can think about is you.

he thinks back to that movie night you had a few months ago. the two of you maneuvered around your small kitchen making popcorn and hot chocolate. he had pulled the same stunt—a hand on your waist to guide you out of his way. a hand that you hadn't pulled away from. he remembers the warmth of you next to him and your smile when you finally got to curl up on the couch with a warm mug and an oversized bowl of popcorn between you.

he thinks about the brunches you've had with mav and penny, and how they almost felt like dates. you had made a joke about getting introduced to the parents so soon, and the tips of bradley's ears had gone warm. if he were introducing you as his girlfriend, it would have gone spectacularly. you hit it off with mav immediately, somehow. even though you technically had met him before at top gun, there was a difference between captain pete “maverick” mitchell and mav, the closest thing bradley has to a father—even if he’d never outright say it to mav’s face. but getting that man friendly outside of a plane-related situation was a feat he could have kissed you for.

he thinks to last week. the grin on your face when he looked at you while he was playing, while he sang at you—no, sang to you.

and that's precisely where the too-loud, too-tipsy, only slightly jealous part of bradley's mind kicks straight into overdrive. he slams back the rest of his beer and takes a glance over his shoulder to where you're sitting. the man still sits across from you, but like you sense him looking, your eyes meet his with a concerned furrow to your brow. he's not sure how long he's been standing at the bar, but based on the look you give him, it's been long enough.

he turns and marches over to the jukebox, unplugging it unceremoniously. the bar lurches into a chorus of groans until bradley takes a seat at the piano.

"now i-" he starts, his voice ringing into the near silent bar.

"i want someone badly"

the first chord he strikes on the piano summons a round of whoops from the pool table.

"got a girl here tonight, want someone new"

he pretends not to notice the way your attention is focused on him again, pretends that the heat on his face is from beer and beer alone. his head is down, intent on staring holes into the piano keys. couples around the bar are starting to sway together, and he dreads the thought of you getting up with the guy you've found. he's sure that the man is offering you a hand right about now, that you'll take it, and bradley will have to walk off to drown his wounds with another drink.

"'cause i, i cry all over madly don't do anything, do it for me."

the daggers have found themselves by the piano, arms thrown over shoulders and swaying. they sing along and it's a small comfort in a sea of strangers. he hears natasha's voice above all, singing the lyrics with a passion that she always carries with her when he does this.

"i wanna know am i sure that i have your love?"

and that's when bradley figures it's a good idea to look out into the crowd that's around him. it's cruel how easily he can find your eyes amongst the throng. you stand a ways away from him, alone and glowing under the warm lights of the hard deck. your mouth is slightly parted, but he can't figure out if its shock or something else. and then there's that look in your eye. he'd almost believe you're in love with him.

or maybe bradley's just drunk.

"if you're leaving, just make sure it's right now i want someone badly"

the crowd cheers when he hits a high note, but his eyes are locked on the way your jaw clamps shut.

"could it be true that someone is you?"

the final chord rings out along with varied forms of praise from those around him. natasha asks him a question, but he's already on his way outside before he can hear it properly. adrenaline is crackling through him viciously, bringing a shake to his hand that he hasn't felt since he first started training in the flight sims.

he sits on the steps of the hard deck with a thud. the porch is blessedly empty, leaving him to process exactly what he just did. the cool ocean breeze is doing wonders to sober him up. or maybe that's the dread pooling in his stomach. he can't tell anymore.

did he seriously just fucking serenade you? what kind of rom-com bullshit-

"you um, you played really well in there." your voice, gentle and soothing, pulls him from his spiral, and his head whips around to face you.

"thanks," he replies shortly, and his tone makes himself wince. there’s a distinct sense of deja-vu that hits bradley suddenly, like he’s entered some fucked up kind of parallel universe. the two of you stand awkwardly on opposite ends of the deck. your hands fidget, and tomorrow, bradley will surely blame the beers on the way his eyes linger on them.

it takes you another moment to move toward him, taking a seat by his side. you're so close that he can smell your perfume over the breeze, and isn't that just the cruelest trick yet? that he can't reach over to you and kiss you breathless, that he can't hold your hand in his. instead, he just sits miserably next to you, reliving his own stupid idea to play jeff buckley in the hard deck.

man, if he's thinking like this, he must really be gone.

"was that-" your voice cracks, "nat said i should come out and talk to you."

"of course she did." he picks at the corners of his nails.

"she said that was for me." your voice is indecipherable, and bradley's not sure he can stomach looking you in the eye right now.

he sighs, running a hand down his face. it's too hot out, now. the cool breeze from before has been sucked away by your presence.

"i just didn't want to see you with him, anymore," he mutters. there's another horrible, tense silence between you, and it's not one that he's in any rush to break.

"was that what this was? jealousy?" your voice is impossibly small.

"no, i-" jealousy made it sound like he had any kind of claim over you. jealousy sounded like he thought he had a chance at keeping the careful balance of his sanity and your friendship.

"so you sing that for all the girls in there, then?" you press, and in a world where he isn't head over heels for you, it would have been infuriating.

it still is infuriating, and bradley can't help but laugh.

"no, god, no." his laugh is shaky and a little dejected. he finally turns to face you, trying his damnedest to suck in every anxiety he has about this. he thinks, quite possibly, that this is the only time tonight he's been grateful for the alcohol.

that same heavy silence fills the air between you.

your eyes are wide when he looks at you, filled with something unreadable and maybe a bit of hope. his eyes flit between yours, and maybe, just for a moment, they linger on how your lips are upturned ever so slightly.

"just kiss me already, bradley."

and he does. by god, he does, and it's like a breath of fresh air. your lips are soft against his, and if it's a little clumsy, he doesn't mind. not when his hand is on your cheek, and yours is in his hair, and you taste like heaven on earth. the kiss lasts a lifetime, or it feels that way to bradley, anyways. it's the entire year he's spent wishing to be by your side wrapped into one small moment.

when you finally pull away from him, the two of you are panting. your foreheads rest against each other, and bradley can't seem to get his hands off you. the same one stays on your cheek and rubs small circles while the other is tentative against your waist. he's nearly giddy at holding you so close.

"you have any idea how long i've been waiting for you to do that?" you ask.

"probably about as long as i have," he replies with a hoarse voice.

"didn't think you were interested." you give him an incredulous look when he starts laughing, but that only makes him laugh harder.

"i should've listened to natasha so long ago." at that, you join him, head tilted back, and laugh into the sky. it's a long moment where the two of you giggle like schoolgirls outside the hard deck, and bradley wouldn't change it for the world. "think anyone will notice if we leave?"

you think for a moment and reply, "nat definitely will."

"she'll consider it a win." and that sends another round of laughs through you both.

the next morning, the team makes a plan to get brunch at a little cafe nearby, and if they notice that you and bradley arrive together and sit just a bit too close, no one says anything about it.

no one except for natasha, that is.

she finally catches a moment with bradley alone when people are saying their goodbyes.

"you finally did something about your pining?" she asks, a grin already spreading across her face.

bradley shrugs, but the smile he dons is telling, and the gentle kiss he places against your temple when you walk over to him, even more so.

[639-hear-me-out-bby]

playlist: back to being friends by sombr guilty as sin? by taylor swift (rachel bochner ver.) the hardest part by olivia dean

the living room couch cradled me as i sat on his lap, straddling him. his eyes followed the path of his hands as they trailed along my plush sides, then paused to give my thighs a gentle squeeze. he looked up at me, eyes glossed and enthralled.

“still so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured.

i closed my eyes as he leaned in, closing the space between us. i braced for the feel of his lips—but instead, there was only a breath of air between us, his exhale brushing softly against mine. i opened my eyes to find him gazing at me like i’d hung the stars in the sky.

his hand rose to my neck, fingers gentle as they traced along my jaw. his other hand found mine, guiding it to his chest.

"feel this heartbeat? that’s what you do to me—every beat, every thud, it’s all you," he said slowly, his eyes locking onto mine.

“don’t do this. w-we can’t,” i pleaded, eyes glossing over as i shut them. i leaned my forehead against his with a shaky sigh.

"then we stop." his voice was barely above a whisper, but it wrapped around me like a promise. his hands loosened their grip, falling still on my sides, though his forehead stayed pressed to mine. the silence between us pulsed, thick with everything unsaid.

“i just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, softer this time, like the words themselves might shatter us. "but i don’t know if i can keep pretending that i don’t want you… that i haven’t always wanted you."

my fingers clenched lightly at his shirt, still resting against his chest. i could feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm—steady, strong, wanting.

“you think i’m scared of getting hurt?” i whispered, a shaky laugh escaping me. “i’ve been hurt by you before… but that doesn’t stop me from wanting you, does it? you’ve always been my weakness.”

the words hung in the air, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. the faint patter of rain against the window added to the stillness, its rhythmic tap an almost haunting reminder of how long we’d waited. i pulled away, searching his eyes for something—maybe the same fear, the same longing. then he said, "then let me show you how sorry i am,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a need that mirrored my own.

without another word, i crashed my lips against his, hungry and breathless. his hand tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss. his other hand gripped my waist, guiding my hips against his with a desperate kind of need. shaky moans and low grunts slipped from his lips, each sound a reminder of how much we’d both been holding back.

the rain outside continued its steady pitter patter, but inside, the world had fallen away, leaving only us—caught in the heat of a moment that would have no easy end.

a/n: prompts from @urfriendlywriter !! hoping this lil piece would break my stump. ciao!

[sunbeamlessreads]

Debrief This - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot

❝ You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw? ❞

[bradley bradshaw x reader]

~6.5k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, locker room , language, emotionally volatile intimacy, rough sex, brief unsafe sex

anger first. pride second. then friction, fire, and everything that follows.

notes: this was a request!! im so sorry this took like a million years. i literally started this like a month ago and i just finally finished it. my apologies for any typos. i really hope you enjoy it!! <3

my masterlist

request guide

The ready room was colder than usual.

Not in temperature—in tone. The kind of cold that settled in your chest, made your breath feel too loud, your shoulders too tight. Everyone sat like they were still strapped into their cockpits—posture perfect, movements spare, adrenaline sinking deep into flight suits that hadn’t had time to cool.

You sat three seats from Rooster. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to pretend you couldn’t feel the burn of him in your peripheral vision. Just enough to keep your pride intact.

The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.

But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.

It just showed that it worked.

Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.

“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”

You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.

Cyclone didn’t make them wait.

“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”

The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.

Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.

No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.

Cyclone turned slightly.

“Bradshaw.”

Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.

“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.

And didn’t look at you.

That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.

You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.

You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.

“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”

The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.

Cyclone looked like he might say something.

He didn’t.

Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.

Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.

“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”

Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t. 

Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.

“Hell of a move.”

That was it. No smirk. No punchline.

The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.

You stood slowly. Picked up your helmet.

Rooster stood, too. Perfectly timed. Predictable. Predictably perfect.

You both moved toward the exit at the same time.

And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.

He didn’t react.

But you felt him turn.

Not a full look. Not dramatic.

Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.

And chose not to say a damn thing.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.

Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.

Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.

“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.

“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”

Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.

“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.

Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”

She disappeared around the corner.

Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.

Three long seconds passed.

Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.

Behind him, Phoenix slowed.

Turned her head.

Heard the door close quietly behind him.

She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.

Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.

You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.

Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you heard his voice.

“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”

Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.

He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”

You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”

He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.

“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.

“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”

You took a step toward him, not away.

“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.

“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”

You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.

“Say that again.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re a goddamn liability.”

Your hands hit his chest. Hard.

He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.

You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.

Your breath was short. So was his.

“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”

It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.

“You tell me.”

And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.

You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.

You didn’t care.

You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.

Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.

He groaned.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.

The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.

This wasn’t control.

This was surrender.

And neither of you wanted to stop.

His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.

You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.

You grabbed them. Yanked.

He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.

Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.

He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.

You reached for his belt.

His hand covered yours.

Eyes locked.

Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just urgent.

You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.

“That all you got, Lieutenant?”

He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.

“You never shut up, do you?”

You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.

“Make me.”

He did.

His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.

You arched against him.

His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.

“You started it.”

His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.

You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.

You wanted this.

You wanted to win.

So did he.

You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.

“Keep doing that,” he warned.

His voice was dark, torn at the edges.

You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer.

He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.

You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”

You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.

“Then do it, Bradshaw.”

He froze for half a second.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.

You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”

He didn’t move.

Not for a second.

Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.

Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.

His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.

He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.

You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”

He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.

Not pushing in.

Just there.

Teasing.

Taunting.

His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“Fuck. You.”

Close enough.

He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.

You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.

You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.

His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.

You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.

“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”

You arched against him. “Hard not to.”

His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.

The bench creaked beneath you.

Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—

You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.

Your voice broke.

“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.

You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Jesus fuck—”

His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.

“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.

You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.

“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”

His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.

Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.

For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.

You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.

Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”

His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”

You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.

“We’re both so fucked.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.

“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”

You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.

Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”

He blinked. Once.

You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.

When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.

“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”

You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”

He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.

Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.

His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.

He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.

“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.

“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.

“Not my fault you finished too fast.”

He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.

“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”

“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”

“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even pretend to give you space.

His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.

“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.

“You smell like me.”

His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.

You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”

You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.

His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.

“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.

“Mmhm.”

You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”

“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”

His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.

“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”

“That’s the idea.”

You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.

And it was working.

He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.

“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.

You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”

He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.

You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”

“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.

You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.

“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”

“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.

He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.

Then, softer: “You good?”

That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”

One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.

The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.

His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.

That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.

The part where he didn’t pull away.

You swallowed.

The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.

You cleared your throat. “This…”

He stilled. Just slightly.

You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.

You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.

Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:

“But it does.”

Your heart kicked.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.

So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.

You didn’t look back as you walked.

You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.

He caught it one-handed.

Didn’t say a word.

You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.

You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.

Didn’t need to.

You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.

You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.

Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.

You didn’t look. But you felt him.

You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.

Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.

Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.

You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.

You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.

When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.

You looked at him—just briefly.

Eyes met.

Held.

Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.

You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.

Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.

So you braved to break the silence.

“You heading over to Penny’s?”

Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.

“I was planning on it.”

You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.

“No point in going in separate cars, right?”

His mouth curved. Barely.

“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”

You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.

“Think we’re a little past whispers.”

He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”

The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.

He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.

Because maybe it had.

And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.

No hesitation.

No need to ask.

Just there. Still with him.

Still in it.

The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.

He smelled like your soap.

And that was a problem.

You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.

You didn’t move.

Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.

You knew it without looking.

“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.

He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.

“Is that how you want to play it?”

“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”

He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.

“Easier to lie?”

“Easier to not make it a thing.”

There it was.

You saw his jaw tick.

“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.

You met his eyes.

“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.

“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”

That landed.

He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.

Like he didn’t like it, but understood.

“You don’t regret it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”

He was quiet for a long beat.

"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."

It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.

"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.

Then he nodded again.

“Okay.”

He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.

“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”

You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.

“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”

He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.

You stepped out.

Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.

The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.

Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.

Just contact.

It wasn’t a move.

It was steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.

The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.

You stepped through it first.

Rooster followed you in.

And the noise swallowed you both.

The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.

You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.

One look at you. Then Rooster.

Then back again.

She didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”

You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.

She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.

From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.

“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”

Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”

You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.

Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.

“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”

Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”

“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”

“Tight landing window,” Fanboy added. “Risky reentry.”

“Zero cockpit visibility.”

“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.

They high-fived behind her anyway.

Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.

“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”

The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.

Rooster didn’t flinch.

He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.

A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.

A low, subtle pull.

He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“So we’re not even gonna pretend?”

Rooster didn’t blink.

“Nope.”

She sighed and shook her head once.

“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.”

He looked back toward the bar—toward you.

His voice stayed even.

“She always does.”

notes: i hope you enjoyed it!! <3

taglist: @valkilmher @icemansgirl87 @milesalexanderteller

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!! <3

© Copyright, 2025.

[sheluvssspompom]

Ok so who’s ready to take one for the team and write some Jaafar Jackson (as mj or himself) and *MORE* miles teller fics (u could also throw in him as John Blanca cuz that long hair had me clawing at my seat)???????

[shhuuga]

just a night of getting O-ver your ex !

🍰 — ur fav x you ofcc

🍬 — i haven't written in so long forgive me if trash :<< ilyyy tw for cheating kinda and tw for public kynk kinda

...

"i bet your stupid boyfriend couldn't fuck you like this, hm?" his voice rattles in your ear, sending a wave of involuntary shakes down your spine that makes you arch further up off the backseat of his truck.

your eyes flit open for half a moment before rolling back in your head again. he grunts over you, a hand leaving your hip to wrap around your neck, his thumb and pointer finger squeezing your cheek so your lips purse loosely. his eyes zero in on the way your tits are barely in the tank top you're in, nipples peaking up over the fabric.

"can't hear you, sexy. he fuck you this hard, huh? this deep?" his hips rut against yours harder, his thick pubic hair lighting soft fireworks against your clit, the friction making your calves protest against his broad shoulders. "he fuck you this good? tell me."

your lips part to speak, and you try. you really do try to offer him a word of disagreement. another sharp, expectant thrust knocks the wind out of you and a loud moan along with it. he just shakes his head, picking his tempo up and forcing the truck to rock a little quicker.

"i"ll take that as a no. fuck, baby. bet you've never creamed this much in your life.." he mutters more to himself than you, barely acknowledging how practically braindead you are from pleasure. his other hand leaves your hip, instead peeling your hands off his chest and holding them down to press on your own stomach, feeling the outline of his cock rubbing your palm through the thick skin of your stomach.

"i can't- i'm gonna—" your voice barely hits his ears, his eyes falling closed as he feels your pussy close down on him. his head falls backward, his hips stuttering for half a moment before he continues his pace, pushing a little tougher against your tight cunt.

"come on, baby. give it to me, come on mama. cum on me." his voice falters, brows furrowing as he holds back his own load, too focused on hitting your g-spot over and over again.

your moans alert the people walking past the parking lot, but you don't seem to mind, letting out your sounds of ecstasy without shame. his own don't go unnoticed. if only you'd checked to make sure your ex boyfriend didn't still have your location, then you wouldn't have been surprised to see him getting out of his car across the street.

[emeraldserenade]

You Cheated ~ TG:M Characters

synopsis: Their reaction to you saying they cheated on you

Characters: Robert "Bob" Floyd, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Natasha "Phoenix" Trace, Jake "Hangman" Seresin, Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia, and Javy "Coyote" Machado.

tw: fem!reader, their Sim cheated on your Sim, barely edited.

SMAU, request

➽──────────────❥

Robert "Bob" Floyd:

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw:

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Natasha "Phoenix" Trace:

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Jake "Hangman" Seresin:

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia:

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Javy "Coyote" Machado:

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

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[tongue-like-a-razor]

Doctor Doctor, Gimme The News | Part II

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Doctor!Reader

Summary: You receive a particularly difficult patient by the name of Bradshaw and you try your best to resist his charms.

CW: tall Bradley, Mavdad, it's still goofy XD

WC: 1800+

Part 1 | Masterlist

You’re sitting at the bar with a drink in your hand, waiting for your friend to finish flirting with the bartender so you can pay your tab, when you hear a familiar voice from behind.

“Almost didn’t recognized you without the stethoscope.”

You glance over your shoulder wearily, instantly recognizing the tall aviator you met at the clinic earlier in the week. Bradshaw, was it? “Yeah, I get that a lot,” you say, giving him a polite smile before turning away.

Bradley doesn’t take the hint and plants himself on the barstool next to you. “So, are you gonna tell me your name? Or am I just gonna have to keep calling you Doc? Might get a bit awkward in bed.”

You snort into your drink as you’re taking a sip. Bradley grins, clearly pleased that he’s made you laugh. His slightly narrowed eyes sweep over your face with a quiet confidence, and you find yourself rather enjoying his attention. “Well, for the sake of making things less awkward,” you respond with a small smile, and then tell him your name.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, and then leans forward slightly to add, “again.”

You bite into your lip to suppress your widening grin.

“I was hoping I’d run into you, actually,” he comments, turning away to flag down the otherwise occupied bartender.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, feigning surprise.

“Yeah,” Bradley responds, tapping on his beer bottle and nodding at the bartender. He turns back to you and shrugs. “Saves me from having to fake an illness to come see you.”

You eye him somewhat reproachfully. “That would be extremely inappropriate.”

Bradley laughs. “If you think that’s inappropriate, I’m not gonna tell you what I planned on doing once I got there.”

Your eyes widen at the insinuation. “Lieutenant!” you exclaim.

Bradley continues chuckling. “Don’t worry, you’d have liked it.” He winks and then nods at the bartender who’s brought him his beer.

You stare at him because his boldness is mindboggling. “You shouldn’t be drinking with a head injury,” you point out.

He looks at you with amusement. “What head injury?”

“The one that brought you to my office?”

“You know what brought me to your office?” he says, and then points a thumb over his shoulder at a crowded table near the back of the bar. “Captain Maverick Mitchell. My self-appointed father figure,” he says in a tone that’s half-grudging, half-affectionate. “And possibly fate,” he adds as an afterthought.

You blink at him skeptically when he glances back at you. “Wow,” you say. “Pulling out the big guns.”

Bradley laughs again. “I have quite the arsenal.”

“Oh, I bet,” you say with a chuckle. “Aviator, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bradley responds proudly. Then he nods at the glass you bring to your lips. “Looks like you need a refill.”

You shake your head. “I was about to head out actually.”

Bradley purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “But then I arrived and changed your mind, right?”

You laugh slightly. “Not quite, Lieutenant,” you respond, rising from your stool and waving at the bartender. “I’ve got an early morning.”

Bradley gets out of his seat and pulls out his wallet. “Allow me, please,” he says.

“That’s not necessary,” you reply uncomfortably. You don’t like feeling indebted to anyone.

Bradley gives you a more serious look. “It’s the least I could do for nagging you this evening.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads of its own accord. You find Bradley reasonably attractive, sure. But it’s the way he carries himself that’s really got you hooked. You can hardly pull your gaze away. “Don’t forget about the part where you were the most obnoxious patient.”

Bradley lets out a hearty laugh. “That deserves a whole pint, Doc.”

You give him a smile. “Maybe another time,” you say politely. Despite his persistence, you can’t jeopardize your position at the clinic by consorting with a patient.

But before you turn to leave, Captain Mitchell approaches the bar and, upon perceiving you, he exclaims, “Oh! It’s the doctor!” He gestures in your direction while looking at Bradley.

Bradley gives him a flat look. “No shit,” he says.

Maverick glances between the two of you and then nods in realization. “You’ve spotted her already.”

You press your lips together to conceal a smile as Bradley brings a hand to his face like he’s thoroughly embarrassed by his ‘self-appointed father figure’. “Hello again,” you say to the captain, extending your hand.

“Good to see you, Doctor,” Maverick replies with a knowing grin, shaking your hand. “Almost didn’t recognized you without the stethoscope.”

“Oh god,” Bradley groans. “That's embarrassing.”

Maverick looks over at him with a confused expression while you giggle. “I was actually planning on scheduling him in for a follow-up,” Maverick says. “Noticed some concerning behaviors.”

You raise your eyebrows while Bradley watches Maverick’s profile incredulously.

“New behaviors?” you ask, glancing back at Bradley.

“No, no.” Maverick waves a hand nonchalantly as he settles onto a barstool. “Not new.”

Bradley shakes his head. “Why are you such a shit disturber?”

Maverick laughs and claps him on the back. “You buy the lady a drink yet?”

You drop your head slightly to hide your growing smile.

“I was trying to,” Bradley declares. “Before your ass showed up.”

You look up apologetically at the two men who are now watching you expectantly. “I’m not…thirsty.”

Maverick winces while Bradley’s shoulders visibly fall. “It’s his fault, isn’t it?” Bradley says, gesturing at Maverick with his thumb again.

“How is it my fault?” Maverick exclaims.

“It’s not his fault,” you attest, glancing at the captain.

“You should talk some more about my concerning behaviors,” Bradley retorts.

Maverick snorts. “I was kidding!” he says. “She knows!” he gestures at you. “You know, right?”

You glance between the two men patiently, wondering if they realize just how much they have in common. “Neither of you is driving tonight, right?” you ask, feeling, for some strange reason, a sense of responsibility for them.

Maverick turns to face you with a jolt. “I’m sober,” he asserts.

Bradley’s eyebrows converge in a dubious expression before he looks back at you. “He’s not driving,” he confirms.

“And you?”

“This is only my second beer!” he exclaims.

You meet his gaze with a smile because you don’t want him to feel attacked. “Okay,” you respond gently. “Drive safe.”

You start to walk away when you hear Bradley say, “Can I walk you to your car, Doc?”

You turn to face him again, about halfway to the door. “You know my name now,” you say, and he grins at you.

“I do,” he agrees. “That was for old times’ sake.”

You sigh. “Sure, Lieutenant. You can walk me to my car.”

…

Out in the parking lot, Bradley muses, “I’m thinking of maybe dislocating my shoulder next week. That’s an easy fix, right?”

You look over at him sharply. “That’s not funny.”

Bradley grins. “Not even a little?”

You roll your eyes at him and continue walking.

“Come on, Doc!” he calls after you. “My sense of humor is a good thing, remember?”

You smile to yourself and slow your pace to let him catch up. “There are other ways of getting my attention besides injuring yourself,” you remark as he falls back in step with you.

“Such as?” he asks.

You approach your car and unlock the door. “I can’t give away all the answers, can I?”

Bradley presses his lips together and grins. “Does that mean I have a shot?”

You lower your gaze coyly. “I don’t know, Lieutenant.”

“That’s not a ‘no’,” he points out.

You smile, glancing back up at him. “No,” you agree. “I suppose it’s not.”

Bradley’s eyes sparkle mischievously as he holds your gaze. “Can I take you to dinner?” he asks.

“No,” you reply almost immediately. Then, after a beat, you add, “Not yet.”

Bradley licks his lips, still grinning. “I’ll take it.”

You chuckle slightly, reaching for the door to your car.

“Can I stand here with you a little longer?” he asks, his voice a little more raspy when it isn’t bursting with confidence.

You pause, your hand still on the door, shocked at how desperately you want to oblige. How delightful it would be to just say yes on a whim. Without considering the repercussions or weighing the pros and cons. Without deliberation or apprehension. Impulsively. The word itself makes you flustered. “Okay,” you say, glancing up at him as he shifts a little closer.

Bradley smiles at you and leans his back to the car. He stands quietly for a few moments, just existing beside you, which you find both endearing and infuriating. You don’t have a lot of time on your hands and simply standing around is a colossal waste of it in your books. But something about the warm evening breeze paired with the smell of the ocean and Bradley’s crisp cologne makes the experience less harrowing, and maybe even possibly pleasant.

Still, you’re restless. “So, when you said you wanted to stand here, you actually meant stand here…” you comment.

Bradley glances down at you with an amused expression. “You got something else in mind, Doc?”

You half-snort, half-chuckle. “I just thought maybe you had something else to say. I didn’t realize we’d be standing in silence.”

Bradley grins at you. “It’s called being present.”

You study him with a slight grimace, genuinely trying to keep your cynicism at bay. Being present isn’t a kind of luxury you can often afford. Most days, you don’t even get a chance to eat sitting down. “What does that accomplish?” you ask.

Bradley, who’s still watching you with a smile, replies, “Does everything you do have a purpose?”

“Of course,” you say. “Why else would I do it?”

Bradley raises his eyebrows and puts his hands into his pockets. “That’s very practical of you.”

“It’s efficient,” you point out, trying to highlight the importance of productivity.

Bradley nods patiently. “Sounds like you need a night off, Doc.”

You laugh. “I just had a night off. But it had a purpose – my friend needed help wooing the bartender.”

Bradley chuckles. “Has the purpose ever been to just have a good time?”

You make a face and shrug. “That’s not really a priority of mine.”

“Wow, Doc, you’re a hoot,” Bradley replies facetiously.

“I warned you,” you remind him, opening your car door.

Bradley leans his arm over the frame of your car as you climb inside. “You know you leave me no choice, right?” he says, ducking his head slightly to peer into the vehicle.

“What are you talking about?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“We’re going to have to rearrange your list of priorities,” he says.

You watch him for a moment, marveling at his persistence. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before flitting back up to your eyes again, and you wonder what it might feel like to be kissed by a guy like Bradley. It would probably be sexy and spontaneous. It would probably catch you off guard and possibly even offend you a little. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t mind being mildly offended if it meant kissing Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw. “I’m not sure that’s a realistic goal,” you say. Your tone might be sarcastic, but the statement is fairly accurate.

Bradley grins. “I don’t mind a challenge.”

Rooster Tag List:

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