Top Gun X Reader - Blog Posts

Look Me in the Eyes (Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: During naval training, your jet crashed and burned, taking your memories with it. But the lieutenant who saved you seems to know you better than he lets on. The only issue is that he refuses to tell you his name.

A/N: pfft half yall don’t read this anyway so imma just say rooster’s hot, oreosmama out *drops mic*

Word count: 3345

It’s not the pervading scent of antiseptic and boredom that has carved its way into your skin, nestling deep into the creases of your brow and your sneering upper lip—

It’s his unflinching gaze.

The lieutenant hovering over you, with a spoonful of green, gelatinous “dinner” posed over your lips, mumbles, “Open the hatch, the F-18 needs to land.” 

He’s a staunchly built man ornamented in the same naval jacket he’d been wearing when you first came-to in the hospital room, his lofty shoulders embellished in unfamiliar patches. Over the last two days, most of which have consisted of him lording himself over you or sitting back in the chair beside your bed, his five o’clock shadow has thickened, and the wrinkles underneath his teasing eyes darkened a shade.

The F-18 bumps against your sneer, and he chortles to himself. 

You know why you’re here. 

Well, sort of.

You know that it must’ve hurt. Like a falling-unconscious-due-to-pain kind of hurt. Black and blue splotches paint your temple and upper left cheek, and each time you force a smile, it aches. The rest of your body looks the same. In the first shower you’d been allowed, you twisted and turned as much as your burning abdomen could handle and had come to the conclusion that you were glad you didn’t remember much of what had happened.

The only real issue was that you didn’t remember much of anything. 

The story you had been told was haphazardly crafted, not unlike if a toddler had drawn a house with crayons and passed it to you, insisting it looked exactly like the one you lived in. 

It goes something like this: you were flying your jet when the engine stalled, and when you ejected, your head smacked against the windshield. You were lucky—you were unconscious when you had crumpled in on yourself, snapping five of your ribs like pencils, and when you’d landed on the ground, face in the dirt—you were so, so lucky. 

But the lieutenant says differently. 

When he found you, you were awake. You were echoing his name into the stagnant desert air, screaming and sobbing in ways that still keep him up at night. 

You know because he sleeps with folded arms on the edge of your mattress, and he rattles the metal skeleton each time he flinches. And the times when he thinks you’re too buried in exhaustion and slumber, his hand finds yours, fingertips light as air against your skin.

These are the only times the lieutenant bares that part of himself to you. 

In the mornings, when you can look him in the eyes and see the guilt buried underneath, he winces a smile onto his lips and asks if you remember anything yet. 

You don't.

And he winces again. “Back to the drawing board, huh?”

The lieutenant is a nice-enough man when he wants to be. The only issue is that he doesn’t seem to want to be. 

“Tell me your name,” you snipe, dangling over the precipice of flinging Jell-O across the room. 

This is a game he never wants to play, despite how often he wins. He has the whole naval base’s hospital staff refer to him as Sir or Lieutenant-no-last-name, and each time you ask, he’ll give you the same response.

“You know my name.” 

You don't. He’s a complete stranger. He can hold you hand and feed you Jell-O and help you hobble to the bathroom; he can brush the hair from your sweat-crusted face in the mornings and, on some rare occasions where he thinks he’s woken up before you, he’ll graze a feather-soft kiss on your bruised temple.

And you still haven't got a clue. 

Because whoever the lieutenant is, the tight grip he has on your heart is completely foreign to you. It’s a grip that says you and him aren’t just something definable—you were a we in this life; the pair of you have formed a way of living in tandem, your own intrinsic tango to which nobody else knows the steps. It’s not just like or a passing fancy. It’s not just hot static running through veins. 

This is fully fledged; this is oxygen now. The rise and fall of your chest is the rise and fall of his. The absence of it must be suffocating. 

So you don't know why he doesn’t like this game. He makes a question-answer into a back-and-forth, and then he winds and winds you up until you’re ready to snap. 

It’s not fair. God, it’s not fair. You deserve to know his name. Doesn’t he know it’s not just a tickle in the back of your mind anymore? If he was the one whose name you were screaming, didn’t you deserve to know what it was?

“Why do you keep doing this?” 

You watch his lips purse, the color bleeding out of them and into pink patches on his neck and cheeks. The spoon rattles against the tray, and the glob of green wavers in its curve. He refuses to hold your gaze like always. Self-inflicted torment disguises itself as burnt-sienna irises. The life you’ve forgotten is bowing his shoulders, and your crash, no matter the fact that he saved you, is eating away at him. 

Then the lieutenant smiles, in the fractured way—the way someone might laugh at a funeral. 

“Because knowing my name wouldn’t help you. You never called me by it, anyway.”

This, oh God—this is the closest you’ve ever gotten, and you’re still wading in the darkness. A name you’d never even call him by, what a wonder that does to your psyche. 

A name was a start; it was a first impression. There was a lot in a name. 

So you’d never called him by his name… so what?

So what, only lovers knew each other by more than a name? So what, he never called you by yours? So what, you didn’t want to ever call him by his name, never felt the urge, but felt it was rather proper considering you didn’t know what to call him at all?

He keeps you doggy-paddling for it.

The hospital room is polluted with silence for the rest of the night. Slowly, you finish the Jell-O as he sits back in his chair, watching, yet not quite seeing you. You missed when his staring felt like a buzzing fly. Now it’s a thunderstorm hanging over you, foggy and dampened, and you’re struck every few seconds with a shiver. 

He doesn’t reach out for your hand when you pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Twenty minutes past lights out, he stands and heads into the bathroom, slowly creaking the door closed and locking it before the shower faucet turns on and stays on for a long, long time. 

Where his hand should be is where he laid his jacket, one sewn patch erroneously rough against your palm. With another glance at the light underneath the bathroom door, you haul the leather jacket up into your lap, tracing the ridges and folds. You trails your fingertips along the jacket, searching for… something. Anything. 

Cold metal, a zipper slips underneath your fingers, and you sit up straighter despite the outcry of pain in your ribs. 

A pocket, and inside is a small plastic card—his ID. 

That, and a small, velvet box. 

No…

No, you won’t open it. 

No, no, because he shouldn’t even have that here. 

Why—dear God—why did he have that here?

It’s not for you. That’s for sure. You don’t even want to open it. No.

It’s not yours. It’s not yours to have, especially since he hasn’t offered it to you, and it’s not yours to wear, and it’s not yours to look at, to watch, iridescent, crystal devotion reflecting the moonlight from the room’s lone window. 

But when you lift the cover and curse the stars that the man whose name you don’t even know knows you so well, knows how beautiful it is in your eyes, and even worse, how well it fits on your finger, you know it’s yours. 

Well, not yours. 

It’s hers. The one before the crash’s. 

That’s her ring on your finger, and that’s her lieutenant grieving in the bathroom. 

This is her life, not yours. All you own anymore is the absence pulsing in your chest. 

You own the spasms in your veins, the brief and lasting panic of who am I, really?, the deficiency of life and past and love; the frail hold on this reality, on that man, on this ring. 

The rest is not yours, so you should let it go. 

Then, ideally, you should be able to float away, free from these junctions to a girl you don’t know. The man who loves her loves your face. He loves your body, and your voice, and each of the words falling from your lips, perhaps in the wrong order, yes, but he’ll rearrange them in his mind so that it matches hers.

Ideally. 

Ideally, it’s not this drowning feeling, a weight like a hand pressing hard against your chest, shoving you deeper and deeper under the current. She’s the one who breathes, not you. You don’t need to breathe. You’re an accident in this world. 

The I.D. slips from your grasp and falls to the floor. 

You’ve read it. You saw the name, the rank, the naval symbol. In the dim moonlight and the single glowing strip underneath the bathroom door, his not-really-a-smile smiles up at you from the vinyl floor. 

And now you see it, chrome duct tape peeling off the jagged stitches of a patch, the one over his heart. Another of his games: his missing call sign. 

It… fits him. Strangely enough. 

Is this what you called him?

The hospital room floods with a subdued yellow light carried out by the steam of the lieutenant’s shower. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his lower body, a sheen of wet on his cheeks you’re not certain was caused by the shower. 

Like you, this is his third shower in this room, but unlike him, he’s not wearing a smirk when he exits, bare feet padding along the cold tiles. He doesn’t spare you a glance while he pilfers through his black duffle bag, the one seated on the only other guest chair in the room—the one that never moves. 

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t look, because you hadn’t thought to take off the ring. It was a plan as half-baked as when you’d first decided to put it on. Some barbaric, frenzied part of you, the same one that had slipped it on and hugged it close to your heart, refused to yank it off. It was another you—not her nor you, but a new one that had fallen in love with him, Rooster, without memory or qualms, the one that had no issue with him lingering in every corner of your mind; no, in fact, she preferred it.

You don’t listen to her when the lieutenant pivots back to face you, a fresh pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and the rest sourced from the duffel bag in tow, one fist curled into his towel at his waist. His eyes land on yours, and your fingers slicken with the sweat of your palms, tremble like the thumps beneath your ribcage. 

At the worst moment possible, you notice, in the hazy yellow light of 10:07 PM, that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw’s eyes are achingly akin to whiskey. It’s the dark, thick kind that coats your tongue and hits you five seconds after you sip it like a freight train; heady, terribly intoxicating, and in large doses, coaxes out the worst side of yourself at an even worse moment. 

The ring clinks against the bed’s metal framework before shuddering against the tile floor, and his eyes leave yours to watch it rattle. The skin of your left ring finger burns from the swift twisting and tugging you’d employed in a state of tipsy panic—your plan had been to slip the ring unnoticed beneath his leather jacket, the same place you’d stuffed the velvet box. 

A breath tears itself out of the lieutenant’s chest. Tan skin rises and falls once, and his grip goes white-knuckle on his towel. 

Then he pads back toward the bathroom without a word and disappears behind the slammed door. Somehow, in some terrible way, it is even harder to breathe with him not in the room after that. 

But he bursts through the door a second later, completely negligent of the violent pacing of your heart, donned in clothes wrinkled and stretched in odd places from frantic dressing. He covers the distance with three long strides and slackens back into the plastic hospital chair, the heavy creases under his eyes never having looked so deep-seated. 

You see it now. The damage this whole experience has done to him. He’s been hollowed out, rigorously gutted to the point that one last revelation might finally crack him in half and let the despair pour out. 

You’re afraid to tell him all that you don’t know. That even though you had slid that ring on and off your finger, you still don’t know him. But, God, you want to tell him that you love him, despite knowing it won’t be enough. It’s not even enough to you, and it’s all that you have. 

Usually, he wears this sheen layer of tenderness over his face; it slips off every night when you close your eyes, and he smooths it back on in the mornings in the mirror. Some days he layers it on so thick you never even notice the grief hidden underneath. 

It must have gotten too heavy to bear. 

The silence hangs just as heavy. He runs both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin emerges pink, and folds his hands, knocking them against his lips. Veins in his eyes grow redder by the second, and your heart begins a slow crawl up your throat at the watery levels of his eyelines, waiting to spill. The ring sits on the floor untouched. 

“Do you,” he faltered, clearing his throat. “Do you… remember anything?”

He’s looking at you so intensely that your skin is searing. Shame washes over you, grasping your shoulders and burying you deeply into its chest. You want to cry. 

“Nothing.”

The lieutenant stares at you a second longer, stretching it out until you’re trembling. Then he looks away, down, before reaching and retrieving the ring from the ground. He observes it for just a second, the way it glimmers in night’s imperfect lighting, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, you’ve learned, will draw things out until the perfect moment has come. He will wait until the ache swells and culminates, with a tolerance so inexhaustible you wonder if, in all your time loving him, you ever bothered to wait up. He’s noticed how the darkness has swallowed both of you wholly, and only now does he offer reprieve. 

Bradley tells you your name.

And he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first second he saw you. 

He tells you that he can’t bear the thought of losing all that you’d had, and that his world had been crumbling apart before his own goddamned eyes ever since your jet’s engine had sputtered and died. He tells you that he’s so, so fucking sorry he couldn’t save you, sorry that your life ever got entangled so messily with his in the first place, and even more sorry that he’s so useless to help you find your way back, that you can’t seem to find your way back to him. 

And when you began to cry, he bolted up from his seat and held you, whispering apologies into your hair, and you cried a little harder, because you had found your way back to him, but he wouldn’t ever care, because it wasn’t the same path you’d taken before. 

You cry because it hurts to hold him, and even more because it hurts him to hold you. You want all of the I-love-yous he’s ever said to be for you, and you want that damned ring too. 

You want that goddamn ring on your finger right now because he’d promised you that it would be yours. That first moment he’d ever seen you, stumbling drunk in a crowded Hard Deck and spilling his beer half on his Hawaiian shirt, half on yours, that he’d make up for it by putting a spendy ring on your little finger right there, despite not actually knowing where right there was. The only one I’ll ever buy, he’d hiccuped, it’ll be yours, darlin’. 

“Rooster,” you croaked into his chest. “Roo.”

A provoked sob tore from your throat, your arms and ribs aching from how tightly you clung to him, even after he froze. You surfaced from the curve of his shoulder, hands sliding past his sides, over his thrumming chest, and up to cradle his damp jawline before drawing his face down to yours. He mumbled your name, whiskey eyes potent as ever, and you smothered the rest of his question against your lips. 

You couldn’t tell who was crying anymore. Your cheeks’ dampness was his, just the same as his lips pressed against yours so harshly, so numbingly you couldn’t quite tell where yours ended and his began. It must have been somewhere close to where his tongue met yours, making up for lost time as he fought hard and fiercely for everything he’d been starved of for three, going on four, unbearable days. His hands left their leverage against the bed and latched onto your hips, rough fingertips familiarly caressing the soft slopes of your sides, and when you offered an airy moan to him, he accepted eagerly with a tightening grip. 

You separated from him with a small cry, ribs twinging. Bradley pulled away in horror, and his dilated pupils struggled to sober up to join. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, larger hands now grappling at yours and trying to remove your grasp. “You need—ice, I’ll go get you some ice–”

“Roo, no,” you mumbled, refusing to let go of him. 

He paused, and his body shivered under your touch. The familiarity of his name from your mouth seemed as comforting to him as it was to you. His lips twitched and curled, and he breathed a small sigh. The hard lines of his face grew tender as he slid his hands down to your wrists, turning and pressing a kiss to each palm. 

His heart jumped and throbbed against your fingertips, and you had no doubt he could feel the same from yours. The heat of his damp cheeks had grown infinitely warmer under your touch, and for all the nights you’d spent with just a grasp on his hand, the change was more and more welcome. 

“Don’t leave me again,” he pleaded against the skin of your palm, voice thick and bittersweet, like honey seeping through your ears. “I don’t think I can handle that again.”

He steeled himself against your mattress with one hand when you tugged his forehead down against yours, lips just whispering against one another. You smiled. 

“Was it all the Jell-O that did you in, or…?”

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded, tongue pressed against his cheek. “It was. I hope you know we’re never having Jell-O in our house ever again.”

“Not even lime?”

“Especially lime.”

You huffed, “Fine.” You pulled away, despite how desperate Bradley was to follow you. He let you fall back against the pillows with your hand still in his grasp, and he settled onto the edge of the mattress, letting his spare hand find home in the pliant skin of your thigh. Your eyes rose to the ceiling. “But it’ll cost you.”

Soft lips brushed the back of your left hand before cold metal slipped around your finger. “One of these?”

“Exactly.”

Bradley hummed. “Gladly.”

It’s so fucking true

Our saviour (TGM, comfort)

Pairings: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Gn reader x Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Synopsis: you comfort your boyfriend after a nightmare.

Tw: angst,hurt/comfort,nightmare, death,crying,fluffy ending

Note: Jake is a bit oc but I love soft Jake and no one can change my mind.

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Jake was petrified...

He didn't make it...he didn't save them...he lost them.

Jake see the F-14 explode with wide eyes, frozen in a shock stare before everything crashed on him letting out a scream of despair

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"NO !"

Jake jolted awake and you had never woken up so fast in your entire life. Immediately, you light up the room, approaching slightly the man on your left.

"Jake ?"

He didn't respond, too far gone to his nightmare, the image spinning in his own head, he couldn't hear your soft calls of his name.

Jake was trembling of fear, hyperventilating. You see tears rolling down his cheeks.

It was not a sight unknown to you, after the suicide mission, nightmares were part of his nightly routine and you know that Jake needed time before talking about it.

So you sit on your knees and take one of Jake's hand and kiss it lightly to try and ground him:

"Everything is fine Jake, take some deep breaths, in and out"

"I'm here, I'm not leaving you"

And you continue with small praises to help him as much as you can.

When you feel Jake's breathing return to a good rhythm with only silent tears on his beautiful face and him squeezing back your hand, you smile at him with a soft look:

Yn: "Hey love, wanna talk about it ?

Jake: I-I didn't make it this time, they're a-all dead and I couldn't save them...Rooster and Maverick I failed them...I killed our boyfriend and we lost him because of me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

You've never seen your boyfriend so vulnerable, crying in your arms. It's killing you to see him like this.

Softly, your hands went to his face, wiping his tears.

Yn: "Jake, it was a nightmare. It's not real, you saved them Honey, they are alive thanks to you and your amazing pilot skills. You didn't fail them. I know it's hard but I'm still here, you're still here with me, Mav and Bradley are still here. You saved them they are okay"

Jake: But where's Roos ? He's not with us right now ! I-I-

Yn: Darling don't listen to your head. Brad is with Mav to spend the evening/night with him, remember ? I promise you they're okay but they need this time together and make their relationship stronger.

Jake: Yeah I know..."

He gives you a little smile for you to reciprocate with a sweet kiss on his cheek

Jake: "I'm sorry...

Yn: It's okay J, I'll always help you like you always help us. Now lay down with me, we  need our beauty sleep. A must to be on the Top."

He laughs a little at your small joke, making you smile, and joining you under the blanket. Wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer to your body, Jake let his head rest on your chest, finding more comfort, thanks to your body's heat.

Jake:...Thank you.

Yn: It's my thing to help you and not only in the air. Now close your eyes, I'm not going anywhere Love.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Jake woke up this morning, he felt two set of arms around his body, making him a little confused. He recognised you immediately, head on his chest snoring softly. Before he could even move, the other set tighten his grip on his belly to cuddle more into Jake's neck, a tired "Baby, go to bed..." was heard in the bedroom.

Trying his best to let you sleep, Jake slowly turned his head and smiled when he saw the face of his boyfriend.

Jake: Roos ?

Bradley: Hey." Bradley smiled at him softly.

Jake: What are you doing here ? I thought you were with Pops

Bradley: Well yeah but you needed me more than anything sweetheart.

The pet name was originally just for teasing Jake but this time, Bradley use it with only affection and care for his lover, making him blush.

Jake: How did you know ? That I had a fucking bad nightmare.

Bradley: Well, our amazing partner was really worried so-

Yn: -So I texted Brad after you fell asleep.

They looked at you and a tired smile appeared on your face.

Yn: Good morning handsomes.

Bradley: Did you just woke up like that ?

Yn: You were very loud

Bradley: "Loud" my ass, I was whispering !

Jake: You're always loud Bradley.

A small blush appears on Bradley's face. You were smirking.

Yn: That's what she said.

Jake: Oh my- Loves not like that.

You laugh and Bradley hide his blushing face in Jake's hair, mumbling a "I hate you both". You respond by coming closer towards Jake's chest, trying to bring your arms around him and Bradley. Jake let you and Bradley squeeze him, bringing your bodies together with a soft smile and tears in his eyes:

Jake: I love you so much...You don't know how much I care about you and I'm so glad we're together. Tha-Thank you so much...

Yn: Hey hey baby...don't cry. We care so much about you and you can see how much we love you !

Bradley: It should be us thanking you...you literally saved my life ! You're our saviour Honey.

Jake: I love you so much...Both of you.

You can't help it and you let out a few tears yourself. Taking Jake's face in your hand, brushing his tears, you kiss his check and his lips softly, putting all your love. Bradley did the same with the same passion as you and you feel Jake rest in your arms.

Bradley: We love you so much Love.

Yn: We'll be here when you wake up Babe.

Jake:...Love you both more.

"Our saviour"

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Thank you so much for reading this !I hope you enjoyed this story !

Sorry for my mistakes, english is not my first language :)

Y/N: You really put aside everything and came all this way for me? How did you even get here so fast?

Hangman: Several traffic violations.

Phoenix: Three counts of resisting arrest.

Bob: Roughly thirteen cans of energy drinks.

Rooster: Also, that’s not our car.

Nighttime Comfort

Summary: Bradley wakes up in a sweat after a nightmare about Mav getting shot down and you comfort him

Warnings: nightmares/flashbacks, crying, angst(?), fluff, use of Y/N

Words: 1460

❗️I wrote this all myself please don’t repost❗️

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The dagger squad got back from the uranium enrichment mission just over a month ago. Bradley was back at work only a week after he got back home. During these 4 weeks, Bradley has been having dreadful nightmares and flashbacks about the mission. You’ve only woken up to one of them, and he told you everything was okay and it was just a weird dream. You believed him and haven’t noticed anything weird since. Not until the other morning, when you came upstairs with his cup of coffee.

——————————————————————————-

Every Saturday morning since Bradley got back from his mission, you have made breakfast in bed for the two of you. This morning was no different. When you went downstairs to get the mugs of coffee, Bradley was slowly waking up but wasn’t fully awake. You had given him a kiss on the head before heading down. But when you came back up, you found him curled up on his side, wide awake but looking terrified as ever. You quickly put the mugs down on his side table and knelt down on the floor by his side of the bed. His fist was tightly gripping the duvet, and he was very tense.

"Bradley?!" Bradley, are you okay? What's wrong, baby? Talk to me, please." You frantically ask him.

He blinks a few times before loosening his grip on the duvet. You can see his muscles relax as he takes a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. You sat in silence for a minute. During that time, you reached your hand over to hold his, intertwining your fingers.

"I, uh.." he began, clearing his throat. "I didn’t want to scare you or make you worry. I’m sorry, Y/N." Bradley continued.

He sounded so sad and guilty. You weren’t sure why, though.

“Baby, what do you mean?" You asked.

"Ever since the mission.. I, I’ve been having some, uh, nightmares and flashbacks."

He paused.

"Specifically when Mav got shot down." Looking down at where your hands meet, not wanting to meet your sorrowful eyes.

"So.. when I woke up the other night and you said it was a weird dream.. it was a nightmare?"

You felt a little hurt that he hadn’t told you, but you also fully understood why he wouldn’t want you to know. When you said that, Bradley looked into your eyes, giving you a slight nod.

"Oh Bradley.. baby.. I love you so much. I need to know these things so I can help you. It makes me feel sick that you’ve been trying to deal with this alone.. I.. I want to help Bradley."

——————————————————————————-

Ever since that morning, you’ve been more attentive during the night. Bradley has had nightmares just about every night since, and you’ve woken up to help him every time. You can tell they’re starting to get less intense as well, which is a positive sign that he’s getting better. Bradley has been more open with you, which you really appreciated.

Everything seemed to be getting better until last night. Last night was Bradley’s worst nightmare.

—————————————————————————-

Time, 11:42 PM. Bradley was having trouble falling asleep, and even though you were asleep, you knew he wasn’t. You were trying to be more aware of things like this at night ever since Bradley told you about his nightmares.

Time, 12:31 AM. Bradley had finally fallen asleep.

Time: 2:28 AM. You woke up after hearing some whimpering. As you open your eyes and look around, you see Bradley slightly shaking, his face all scrunched up like he’s stressed out about something. He whimpered more; you were able to make out some words, like "no" and "Mav", You even thought you heard a "help" mumbled in there. You didn’t know what to do or how to help him yet, so you decided to gently place your hand on his. At first he jerked his hand away, but about 30 seconds later he woke up and sat up straight so fast that you thought it would give him whiplash. He starts looking around the room, breathing heavily and eyebrows furrowed. When his eyes finally catch sight of you, he locks eyes with you, and his eyes start to water.

—————————————————————————-

ROOSTERS DREAM

There’s a missile coming right for me. I released my flares to stop it. Success. But there’s another one coming for me. I try my flares, but they’re all out. Shit. I’m going to die. What is he doing? Mav was now flying over me and releasing his flares to stop the missile. Holy shit! He did it! He sav- Mav got shot down.

"MAV!" I screamed. “Mav, do you copy?!" I tried over the radio. No response. "We have to help him! Please!"

"Rooster. He’s gone." I heard Bob say to me.

"No.." I mumble to myself.

Then I felt something on my hand.. and I’m awake, back in my bed, in my room, in my house. I look around, and my eyes land on you.

—————————————————————————-

"Bradley? Bradley, look at me. Are you okay, baby?" You ask him as calmly as you could.

Next thing you know, Bradley breaks out into a sob. You felt so sorry for him, immediately wrapping your arms around him and hugging him close to you.

"Oh baby.. shh, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’m here, I’ve got you." You whisper to him as his sobs continue.

Bradley’s arms are curled up in between the two of you, holding onto the collar of the shirt you’re wearing. You rest your cheek on his head, taking one of your hands and slowly rubbing his back.

"I-I’m so sorry." Bradley chokes out in between sobs.

“Baby, it’s not your fault.. it’s okay." You calmly replied.

After a few minutes, Bradley manages to calm down enough that he can now breathe normally. You were still rubbing his back when he spoke up.

"That was the worst one yet." He said softly as another tear rolled down his cheek.

Bradley pulled back to sit and pulled his knees into his arms, dropping his head a little.

"If you think you can.. do you wanna talk about it?" You ask carefully, not wanting to scare him.

"It was just so realistic. It was exactly what happened that day.. I-.." emphasizing the ‘exactly’. He released a big sigh before continuing, "Y/N, he almost died. I almost lost Maverick. I’ve already lost my father and my mother, I don’t know what I would do if I lost Mav too. I mean, I pushed him out of my life for years, and I really regret it. But if I lost him right after we made up.. I don’t think I would ever be able to forgive myself."

At this point, you had a tear rolling down your cheek. When Bradley noticed this, he immediately started apologizing for making you cry, putting his hand on your cheek and wiping your tear away. You couldn’t help but lean into his touch and let out a breathy laugh.

You honestly didn’t know how to reply to such a sad and truthful confession from Bradley. You leaned in closer to rest your head on his shoulder and give him a big hug. Bradley loosely wrapped his arms around your waist, dropping his head onto your shoulder. You could feel the shoulder of your shirt becoming wet from his still-falling tears.

"Bradley I love you so much, I don’t think you even know. I am so grateful that both you and Maverick are back and safe.” Because if you died, I would kill you." You say the last part with a teasing tone.

You feel Bradley’s body shake in your arms as he laughs at your joke. You release Bradley from your hug and give him a sweet kiss on the lips. Your hand softly holds the back of his head as his hands rest gently on the small of your back. You pull back and rest your forehead against his, looking into his eyes.

"So.. you better now, baby?" You ask Bradley.

"Almost.. I think I’ll feel even better if you kiss me again." Bradley says while looking at your lips and back up to your eyes, pouting his lip a little and giving you puppy dog eyes. You lean your head back and laugh at his expression, but ultimately end up giving him another kiss to the lips.

When you both lay down again to go to sleep, Bradley wraps his arms around your waist and nestles his head into your shoulder.

"I love you, Bradley." You say barley above a whisper, not sure if he even heard it.

"I love you too, Y/N, thank you, my love." He replied.

Needless to say, you both ended up falling asleep with a smile on your faces.

Gonna post the rest tomorrow I think! If you guys have any request for Top Gun or really anything— lmk! Aha!

Sneak Peak of Upcoming fic!

at a Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x reader Smutty Fic🧎 because I’m too hyper to not share !!

A/N ; Please do not input my work into any ai along with Poe and C.ai! I also do not consent to my work being published on different sites without my consent! I also do not want my work translated without my permission! Ty!

I also have some stuff of Fanboy as well! ^^

NSFW UNDER THE CUT !!

He can’t help how he bites his lip, drawing a bit of blood as he holds in soft pants and whines. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch in your living room. His shirt unbuttoned and messy, his pants already off and littered on the floor by the couch. His eyes closed as he took in the pleasure. It’s been months since he’s had your touch, since he’s tasted you, since he’s breathed in your perfume that defined your scent so nicely. It’s all so overwhelming in such a good way that he can’t help but take it in. His cock twitching in the underwear he still had on.

You’re sitting on his lap, softly kissing up his neck and grinding down with soft movements. His hands are rested on your hips, kneading your soft plushly flesh in his hands, scooting you closer as a whine escapes his mouth. Your shorts hike up your thighs, and your shirt off. “Love you Robby, love you s’much” you mumble with each kiss you leave on his neck. Sucking and nipping along with kissing his flesh. He can’t help but gulp nervously as his eyes flicker open. Lidded they were, filled with love for you. His hair was messy and his glasses were barely holding on, inches away from slipping off his flustered face.

“Honey—B-Babydoll—“ he tries to speak, his voice stuttering within his mumbled tone. Your lips were too intoxicating to him. “Robbyyy” he could hear you whine out to him, your hips continued their actions. Your voice was filled with lust and need. “Sweetheart just—let me have more of you please—“ He couldn’t help but trail on a whimper. Begging to get more of you than kisses on his neck. His hands were still gripping on to your hips, but slowly starting to trail to your ass—yet his hands cradled and remained on your thighs for a good amount of time. The more he spoke, the more his little accent drawl spilled through. 

Pausing for a moment, your lips unattach from his neck as you pull away gently. Your eyes flicker open, admiring the scene in front of you. Bob breathing heavily, his mouth now open. His head tilted just a bit back as it gave you access to his neck that was now littered with wet kisses and hickies—bite marks galore—and you loved it. “Look at you Robby, looking so sweet~” you teased, a soft lustful smile adorned on your face. At your tone Bob couldn’t help but groan in pleasure as a response. Your voice, your body that was already up against his—it was almost too much—he loved every second of it. In his tight pants he could feel his cock twitch again. 

Sneak Peak of Upcoming fic!

at a Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x reader Smutty Fic🧎 because I’m too hyper to not share !!

A/N ; Please do not input my work into any ai along with Poe and C.ai! I also do not consent to my work being published on different sites without my consent! I also do not want my work translated without my permission! Ty!

I also have some stuff of Fanboy as well! ^^

NSFW UNDER THE CUT !!

He can’t help how he bites his lip, drawing a bit of blood as he holds in soft pants and whines. He’s sitting on the edge of the couch in your living room. His shirt unbuttoned and messy, his pants already off and littered on the floor by the couch. His eyes closed as he took in the pleasure. It’s been months since he’s had your touch, since he’s tasted you, since he’s breathed in your perfume that defined your scent so nicely. It’s all so overwhelming in such a good way that he can’t help but take it in. His cock twitching in the underwear he still had on.

You’re sitting on his lap, softly kissing up his neck and grinding down with soft movements. His hands are rested on your hips, kneading your soft plushly flesh in his hands, scooting you closer as a whine escapes his mouth. Your shorts hike up your thighs, and your shirt off. “Love you Robby, love you s’much” you mumble with each kiss you leave on his neck. Sucking and nipping along with kissing his flesh. He can’t help but gulp nervously as his eyes flicker open. Lidded they were, filled with love for you. His hair was messy and his glasses were barely holding on, inches away from slipping off his flustered face.

“Honey—B-Babydoll—“ he tries to speak, his voice stuttering within his mumbled tone. Your lips were too intoxicating to him. “Robbyyy” he could hear you whine out to him, your hips continued their actions. Your voice was filled with lust and need. “Sweetheart just—let me have more of you please—“ He couldn’t help but trail on a whimper. Begging to get more of you than kisses on his neck. His hands were still gripping on to your hips, but slowly starting to trail to your ass—yet his hands cradled and remained on your thighs for a good amount of time. The more he spoke, the more his little accent drawl spilled through. 

Pausing for a moment, your lips unattach from his neck as you pull away gently. Your eyes flicker open, admiring the scene in front of you. Bob breathing heavily, his mouth now open. His head tilted just a bit back as it gave you access to his neck that was now littered with wet kisses and hickies—bite marks galore—and you loved it. “Look at you Robby, looking so sweet~” you teased, a soft lustful smile adorned on your face. At your tone Bob couldn’t help but groan in pleasure as a response. Your voice, your body that was already up against his—it was almost too much—he loved every second of it. In his tight pants he could feel his cock twitch again. 

Fellow Top Gun Bob Floyd Enjoyers,, I got something cooking up Fr🧎 and I really hope you enjoy it when I post it tonight 🫣

Very tempted to give a sneak peak—

such a good story Omg @t-horn-n

— 30000 foot butterflies

PAIRING:  tom ‘iceman’ kazansky x reader (gender-neutral) 

GENRE:  fluff

WARNINGS:  none 

SUMMARY:  iceman reveals a part of him that is evoked only in your presence. 

At Top Gun, inflated egos are as common as dust in the air, as certain as the rise and fall of the sun.  Arrogance is breathed coincident with oxygen.  There are no exceptions.  Perhaps there are degrees of self-assured confidence, but it is always present.  Everyone is prideful; everyone thinks that they are the best.  

Everything is a competition. 

Unofficial records of everything are scribbled haphazardly on whiteboards in the locker rooms, copied in chalk in the rec room: the fastest times of every course, the highest kill count from every dogfight simulation, the lists of winners from each volleyball game.  

And, Iceman notices with a considerable amount of annoyance, your name appears quite frequently.  Sometimes, only three or four names separate the occurrence of yours.  Then soon, your call sign seems to emerge from the columns of written letters before his eyes like it is rising from the board, breaking the two dimensional barrier.  Breathless, he sees.  Again, Breathless.  

Breathless Breathless Breathless.  

Inexplicably this evokes an urge in him to win your attention.  It is childish, he knows, but he feels like he will drive himself crazy without your acknowledgement.  

He finds himself wanting to talk to you, evicting an excuse to hear your voice even if only to reply to a snarky remark he makes.  Proximity, he discovers, seems to diminish when you enter a room.  Nearly subconsciously, as if pulled by gravity into the orbit of your solar system, he drifts towards you.  He begins to notice your habits, observe you—not necessarily in a creepy manner—as he watches the skies while on a mission.  

At first, he cannot tell if the sentiments you inspire in him are genuine feelings or more simply infatuation.  The two are often similar enough they entangle together into an indistinguishable knot.  

Then, the distance in your relationship shifts slowly as if life is leisurely changing gears.  It does not happen overnight, nor a day, that he is sure of.  A week?  Two?  He does not know.  All he is certain of is that it is July.  

Heat permeates the tarmac in departing California sun, washes over the boots of a half a dozen odd naval aviators.  Warmth crawls under their pant legs, slithers over their shoulders, then the nape of their necks and causes them to sweat under their camouflage.   

“Careful not to exert yourself too much, sweetheart, wouldn’t want you to get too breathless,” Iceman calls to you as each pilot climbs into their F-14.  

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear.”  A wink.  A smile.  A blue pinprick of the gum you are chewing showing against the white of your teeth.  You disappear behind the frame of your plane and the engine growls as it heats. 

For once in his life, for a rare moment Kazansky Iceman is caught without a witty retort loaded and ready to return fire.  He stands, one foot half in the cockpit of his jet, nearly stupefied.  After weeks of little reaction, nothing more than a chastising shake of your head, what has changed? 

“What’re you doing?” Slider yells from behind him.  “Tongue frozen?” 

Iceman bares his teeth at his partner in crime and slips into his seat.  His muscle memory takes care of his flight routine—takeoff procedures, safety regimes—while his mind is distracted. 

In the sky the world is washed red.  The wings of each F-14 are gilded and soar like golden chariots sent into battle from Olympus.  Every pilot is swathed in perilous conditions.  They are captured in a metal tube thousands of feet above the ground, surrounded by tanks of pure oxygen, highly flammable equipment, a very powerful engine.  Yet, none of them are gripped by fear; instead they feel almost high off the thrill. 

Your plane glides upwards, rising until it is parallel to Ice and Slider.  “Don’t get too cold, Snowman, lest your engine stall out,” he hears over the comm lines.  He grins, knows that you are mimicking his remark from earlier.  And then, in his mind, all he can think is a single word on repeat: Snowman Snowman Snowman.  

A stupidly boyish beams invades his face.  He is grateful, suddenly, that no one can see him and that Slider sits behind him.

“Eck,” your partner complains, emitting a noise that concatenates a false gag and a cough.  “Get me out of this plane.” 

“Take me with you,” Slider chimes.  

You laugh and in Iceman’s ear it is filled with static, occasionally broken by the limits of technology.  Still, he feels drunk off of it.  

Now, Tom Kazansky has always been a by-the-book pilot.  It is a quality that has proven valuable and served him well in carrying him to the top of his class.  It is a characteristic that has fuelled his disliking towards Maverick.  Nonetheless, what he does next is not recommended in any textbook except the one he writes for himself.  

“Hey, Ice, what’s going on?” Slider cries as the plane begins to tilt right and then flips on an axis.  They are upside-down when they pull above your jet.  Slider is still complaining over comms but his voice becomes background noise that neither of you can hear. 

“Close enough for nicknames?”  He smirks down at you.  Snowman.  

It feels like you are nose to nose though several feet still separate the tops of your F-14’s.  Sunlight shines across your skin.  Across his.  You both are bathed in gold.

You match his smile.  Your sunglasses slip onto your forehead.  “Take me out to dinner and we’ll see how close we are.” 

Once more Iceman grins like a fool.  Shivers race up his face, an almost uncomfortable excitement startles in his stomach.  When was the last time he felt like this?  Has he ever?

He is thirty-thousand feet in the air, he thinks.  A million butterflies are trapped within his chest.  It is the altitude, he assures himself. 

— m. list