Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

OKKK, Ima be honest here for a moment -- Im just a horny closeted mf who's wlw and wlm ass LIVES for mlm books, fanfics and ships. Cause genuinely, who isn't? I'm posting here for the first time -- I post very actively on both Wattpad and Tumblr. I've always loved to ao3 community but never thought to post here. But in light on recent events *Binge reading here and realising that people give actual feedback*, I've decided to upload here. Please give your honest opinions and feedback and remember requests are very much open. Thanks for reading my yapping the stuff u actually came for is in the next chapter <3

EDITTTT: This might stray from being just hangster at some point, but while the topic of each chapter changes, it will include some form of hangster. Like there's one where the focus is Icemav, but hangster is most definitely present.

Chapter Text

The low hum of the squadron lounge was a familiar soundtrack, a mix of relaxed chatter, the clink of beer bottles, and the distant rumble of a pool game. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw leaned against the pool table, laughing at something Payback had just said, his head thrown back, the faded fabric of his flight suit stretching taut across his broad shoulders. He was relaxed, loose-limbed from the day’s training sortie, the adrenaline finally bleeding away into camaraderie.

He didn’t see the eyes on him. Not the way Jake “Hangman” Seresin did.

From his perch on a worn leather armchair in the corner, Jake watched. The easy smile on Bradley’s face, the way his hand clapped Payback’s arm—it wasn’t jealousy that spiked in his blood first. It was something far more primal. Possession. A cold, sharp certainty that settled deep in his bones. Mine. That laugh, that unguarded ease—it was for him. It belonged to him.

He uncoiled himself from the chair, a predator with a lazy, deliberate grace. He moved through the room, a shark cutting through still water, his focus absolute. He didn’t break his stride until he was right behind Bradley, his chest a hairsbreadth from Bradley’s back. The warmth of him was a brand even through their flight suits.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Jake drawled, his voice a smooth, honeyed trap. His eyes never left the side of Bradley’s face. “Debriefing the hop?”

Payback grinned, oblivious. “Something like that. Rooster here was just—”

“I’m sure it was fascinating, sugar,” Jake interrupted, his tone lightly dismissive. His hand came up, not to Bradley’s shoulder, but to the nape of his neck. His thumb pressed into the tight cord of muscle there, a claiming, possessive touch that made Bradley’s laugh die in his throat. That’s right. Feel me.

Bradley stiffened. The casual contact was anything but. It was a declaration. He could feel the heat of Jake’s body, the possessive weight of that single hand. “Hangman,” he muttered, a warning and a question all in one.

Jake leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Bradley’s ear. His voice dropped to a velvet-rough whisper, a secret meant only for them. “Careful, my love. Don’t forget who you belong to.”

Bradley’s breath hitched. A flush crept up his neck, hot and undeniable. He tried to shrug off the hand, but it held firm, the pressure intensifying. “I don’t belong to anyone, Bagman.”

“Is that so?” Jake’s chuckle was a dark, intimate thing. He let his gaze flicker to Payback for a fraction of a second, a brief, dismissive glance, before locking back onto Bradley. His other hand came to rest on Bradley’s hip, his fingers splaying over the tough fabric, pulling him back a fraction of an inch into the solid line of Jake’s body. The move was subtle, but undeniable. “I don’t like the way you’re smiling at him, angel.”

The old nicknames, the ones that usually came with a smirk in the debrief room, were different now. They were stripped of all teasing, leaving only raw, heated intent. Sugar. My love. Angel. They weren’t jokes. They were promises. Threats.

Bradley’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He could feel every point of contact like a live wire: the thumb stroking his neck, the fingers digging into his hip. He should push him away. He should tell him to fuck off. But a treacherous heat was pooling low in his belly, a direct response to the sheer dominance rolling off Jake in waves. He was being publicly claimed, and a shocking, dizzying part of him craved it.

“You’re seeing things,” Bradley ground out, his own voice rough.

“My eyesight’s perfect, darling,” Jake purred. He let his nose skim the short hairs at Bradley’s temple, inhaling deeply. “You smell like my cockpit. You sound like my wingman. You feel like mine.” His hand on Bradley’s hip slid lower, cupping the firm curve of his ass through the flight suit for one breathtaking, audacious second. Bradley jolted as if electrocuted, a sharp gasp escaping him.

That was it. The line, crossed. The tension snapped.

Bradley turned, finally breaking the contact, his chest heaving. His eyes, wide and dark with a mix of anger and raw want, met Jake’s. “What the hell is your problem?”

Jake’s smile was a razor’s edge. “You. You’re my problem.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The intensity in his glacial eyes was a physical force. “We’re leaving.”

“The hell we are.”

“Now, Bradley.” The use of his real name was the final command. It brooked no argument. Jake’s hand snaked out, catching Bradley’s wrist, his grip like iron. “We’re going to my car. And you’re going to remember exactly who you belong to.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He simply turned, towing a stunned, flushed, and furiously aroused Rooster behind him, weaving through their confused comrades without a backward glance.

The cool night air hit them like a slap as Jake half-led, half-dragged him across the parking lot. He didn’t stop until they reached his classic convertible, shoving Bradley against the passenger side door, caging him in with his arms. “Mine,” he growled, the word leaving no room for doubt before his mouth crashed down on Bradley’s.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a conquest. Jake’s tongue plunged into his mouth, claiming, demanding, tasting of coffee and pure, unfiltered want. Bradley groaned, his resistance evaporating. His hands came up, not to push, but to clutch at Jake’s shoulders, dragging him closer. He kissed back with equal ferocity, all pretense gone, biting Jake’s lower lip, swallowing his possessive growls.

Jake broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “In the car. Now.”

He yanked the door open and practically threw Bradley inside, climbing over the center console after him into the back seat. The door slammed shut, plunging them into a dim, intimate world of leather and shadow.

There was no more patience. Jake was on him, his hands everywhere, pulling at the zipper of Bradley’s flight suit, shoving the heavy material down his arms, trapping them at his elbows. Bradley’s chest was heaving, his skin pebbling in the cool air. “Jake—” he gasped.

“Quiet,” Jake ordered, his mouth latching onto Bradley’s neck, sucking a dark, aching mark into the skin there. A brand. His hands slid down Bradley’s bare chest, over his abs, dipping beneath the waistband of his briefs. Bradley’s hips bucked off the seat, a broken cry tearing from his throat as Jake’s fingers wrapped around his aching, leaking cock.

“Fuck,” Bradley choked out, his head falling back against the leather seat.

“That’s the idea, sweetheart,” Jake murmured against his throat, his thumb smearing the precum beading at the tip. He stroked him, once, twice, a slow, torturous drag that had Bradley seeing stars. “You’re so hard for me. All that fake indignation… and you were just aching for this.” He quickened his pace, his grip firm and perfect.

Bradley was beyond words, reduced to a series of ragged gasps and whimpers. He was on fire, every nerve ending singing under Jake’s relentless touch. The possessive words, the dominant control—it was unlocking something deep inside him, something that wanted to be taken, owned, consumed.

“Please,” he begged, the word ripped from him.

“Please what, angel?” Jake crooned, his breath hot against Bradley’s ear. He didn’t stop his rhythmic pumping.

“J-just… fuck, Jake, more…”

Jake shifted, finally freeing his own aching length, the blunt head pressing insistently against Bradley’s thigh. “Tell me who you belong to.”

Bradley’s eyes fluttered open, meeting the dark, hungry gaze above him. There was no fight left. Only need. “You,” he whispered, the admission a surrender and a liberation. “I belong to you.”

Chapter Text

The Hard Deck was buzzing like always on Friday night. The squad lounged in scattered chairs around a big table littered with half-empty beers, protein bars, and the occasional stray helmet. Phoenix had that glint in her eye that warned everyone trouble was coming.

“Alright,” she said, leaning over the table, tapping a finger like she was about to deliver a life-altering question. “Out of all of us… who do you think is the most boring during sex?”
The table erupted into groans and laughter. Even Bob muttered something about “why do we do this every week,” but there was no stopping her.
Jake, predictably, didn’t hesitate. His hand shot up mid-sip of water.
“Rooster.”

The room went quiet. Like, genuinely shocked.
Rooster raised one brow and looked at him flatly, unblinking. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Phoenix just stared. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Jake said, leaning back with his usual smirk, hands behind his head. “Bradshaw’s a missionary-only, lights-off, socks-on kinda guy. Very… predictable.”
Coyote nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Bob coughed into his drink. Payback muttered, “Damn, son, that’s cold.”
Rooster, though… he just stared. That slow, quiet stare that made Jake feel like the bravest thing he’d ever done had just been publicly executed.
“What?” Jake said, trying to sound casual. “Don’t act like I’m wrong. You’re… boring. Plain and simple.”
Bradley’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, and then the corner of his mouth lifted in the most subtle smirk. “I’m gonna show you boring,” he said, and Jake almost choked.
Everyone else blinked. “Excuse me?” Phoenix asked, raising both eyebrows.
Bradley didn’t answer. Just picked up his drink and sipped slowly, eyes never leaving Jake’s. And somewhere in that calm, controlled motion, Jake felt a shiver of… something he didn’t want to name.

That night, the squad dispersed. Rooster and Jake ended up alone in the same room, pretending to “prep for the mission briefing,” but the tension was thick enough to slice with a knife.
Jake was sprawled on the couch, smirking, trying to appear totally unbothered, but his leg kept twitching. Rooster leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression impossibly calm.
“You really think I’m boring?” Bradley asked quietly.
Jake’s smirk faltered just slightly. “Uh… yeah. Kind of.”

Bradley stepped closer. The light from the overhead lamp caught his hair at just the right angle. “We’re going to have to fix that, then.”
Jake blinked. “…Wait, what?”
Bradley just leaned in, close enough that Jake could feel the heat off him. “You’re about to learn that boring isn’t even a word in my vocabulary. Ready?”
Jake’s brain short-circuited. He tried to come up with something clever, something cocky—but all that came out was a strangled, “B-bradshaw…”

The next morning, Jake emerged from his room like a man who had survived a Category Five hurricane. His hair was wild, shirt inside-out, and his usual swagger completely wiped off.
Rooster was in the kitchen, casually making coffee like nothing had happened. Smug as ever.
“Morning,” Bradley said cheerfully, tossing Jake a perfectly knowing glance.
Jake swallowed hard. “…Morning.”
Bradley raised a brow. “Sleep well?”
Jake choked on his own tongue. “…Yeah. Uh… great.”

“Uh-huh,” Bradley said smoothly. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who just had their entire worldview destroyed last night.”
Jake’s cheeks heated. “I… uh… coffee? I mean, yeah, coffee. That’s all. Totally normal.”
Rooster smirked at him, poured his own cup, and leaned against the counter. “You look… distracted.”

Jake couldn’t even meet his eyes. Every time he tried, he just wanted to melt into the counter. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, shoving the mug in his hands.
“Sure you are,” Bradley said softly, coming closer. His fingers brushed Jake’s as he reached for sugar. The touch alone made Jake’s knees feel weak.
“You’re ridiculous,” Jake muttered, voice cracking slightly.
Bradley just smirked, brushing his thumb lightly over Jake’s knuckles. “You love it.”
Jake couldn’t argue. He didn’t even try.

Phoenix walked in, coffee in hand, and froze mid-step. She looked between them like she’d just stumbled into a crime scene.
“Guess Rooster wasn’t so boring after all, huh?” she said, smirking.
Jake nearly choked on his coffee. Bradley leaned in close, whispering, “Told you.”
Jake didn’t even respond. He just buried his face in his mug, heart hammering, and tried not to melt right there on the kitchen floor.
And for the rest of the morning, every time he looked at Bradley… he couldn’t stop blushing. He couldn’t stop stuttering. He couldn’t stop thinking that maybe, just maybe, boring had been the last thing Bradley ever was.

Chapter Text

The Hard Deck was doing its usual Saturday night business, a comfortable low roar of local chatter, pool cues clacking, and the rhythmic thump of classic rock. The Dagger Squad was predictably occupying their usual oversized round table in the corner, drinks flowing and morale high.

Except for the low, simmering, nearly audible suspicion radiating from the majority of the pilots toward one Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw.
Rooster, who was generally a creature of cautious, slightly grumpy contentment, was currently radiating a soft, golden glow that clashed violently with the bar’s dim lighting. He was smiling at his phone with a private, soft expression that belonged nowhere near a bar full of drunk sailors, and periodically, he would hum a few bars of a forgotten 70s tune.
Phoenix, ever the squad’s chief inquisitor, leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes narrowed like a prosecutor sensing a weak point.

“Alright, Bradshaw. The jury is ready for your testimony.”
Rooster snapped his phone shut a little too quickly. “My testimony regarding what, Phoenix? The structural integrity of this coaster?” He tapped it nervously.
“Regarding your unnerving, unearned, and frankly, unacceptable level of internal peace,” she clarified, gesturing vaguely at his entire person. “You look like a golden retriever who just found a perfect stick.”

“He’s right,” Bob said quietly, taking a sip of his soda. “His resting heartbeat rate is currently reading 55 BPM. This is a severe deviation from the standard 90 BPM Fear of Seresin average.”
Jake “Hangman” Seresin, who had been lazily polishing off his first beer of the evening, offered a dismissive laugh. “He probably just found a coupon for cheap hair gel. Don’t overthink it, people. Simple pleasures for a simple man.” Hangman was smug. He knew exactly why Rooster was humming. He’d sent the text that caused the humming. They had a date—a non-secret date planned for the next night, and it had taken all of Hangman’s self-control not to reach under the table and hook his foot around Rooster’s ankle.
Coyote, however, was already deep into the conspiracy. “No, no, no. It’s too specific. He’s smiling at something. I’ve seen that smile before. That’s the ‘I’m about to make a terrible life decision but I’m going to enjoy it’ smile.”

Payback pointed a finger dramatically at Rooster. “Confess, Bradshaw! Who is she? Or he? Don’t judge us, man, we just need to know if we need to buy a housewarming gift.”
Rooster sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “There is no ‘she,’ and there is no ‘he.’ I’m allowed to be in a good mood. I just finished my quarterly report.”
The table burst into a chorus of disbelief.

“A quarterly report?” Phoenix scoffed. “That report makes you look like a disgruntled tax auditor. It doesn’t give you that glow.”
Fanboy, who had been studying the phenomenon with the intensity of an astrophysicist looking for a new planet, slammed his hand down. “I have a theory. It’s an old flame. Someone he thought he was over, but they pinged him on social media, and now he’s reliving the 90s angst. It explains the humming.”

“What 90s angst?” Rooster asked, defensively.
“The angst of wearing Hawaiian shirts with a mustache,” Fanboy deadpanned.
Hangman, still in the safe zone of only smugness, leaned back. “Pathetic. If it was an old flame, he’d be moping and drinking whiskey, not… whatever that joyful little mouth-twitch is.”
“See, Seresin gets it,” Rooster said gratefully.

“I get that you’re desperate for attention,” Hangman corrected, still smirking.
Bob leaned towards Phoenix and whispered, though everyone heard him, “I’m taking five dollars on the ‘secret adoption’ theory. He’s training to be a single dad.”
“Bob, you have to choose a love interest,” Phoenix insisted.
“Love interest, secret child, same thing, usually,” Bob muttered, writing something in a small notebook.
The first serious suggestions began to fly, fueled by the arrival of a fresh round of beers.

“Okay, let’s go with the process of elimination,” Coyote announced, taking the lead. “It’s someone local. Someone that would require subtle glances across the room. Like Penny’s niece.”
Rooster choked on his beer. “Penny’s niece is eighteen! Get out of here!”
“She’s twenty-one now, Coyote, check your intel,” Phoenix corrected, shaking her head. “But no. Too much drama. Too much connection to Mav. Rooster likes to fly solo on his private life.”

Payback slammed his empty glass down. “It’s the bartender!”
Rooster gaped. “Mickey?!”
“Yeah! Look at him!” Payback pointed across the bar at Mickey, a kind, burly man with a magnificent beard who was currently wiping down the counter with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. “He’s always slipping Bradshaw extra pretzels! That’s a sign! That’s a flirt!”

“He slips everyone extra pretzels, Payback, he’s a good man!” Rooster protested, his face starting to redden with suppressed hysteria.
Hangman’s smile began to falter. He wasn’t jealous of the bartender, but the way the squad was treating this like a serious investigation into Rooster’s eligible romantic partners was starting to wear thin. He was supposed to be the obvious answer. He was Jake Seresin, the most eligible man in the bar, and he had literally been the source of Rooster's mood for the past three months.
“Seriously, the bartender?” Hangman sneered. “Bradshaw needs someone who appreciates his talent, not his ability to hold a stool steady.”
Fanboy was undeterred. “If it’s not Mickey, then it’s someone who has access to his plane. Someone he can see on the down-low at the base. The new civilian jet mechanic!”

“Oh, the one with the really excellent biceps?” Coyote chimed in.
“Coyote!” Rooster pleaded, burying his face in his hands. “I talk to the mechanic about fault codes!”
“Fault codes, or love codes?” Coyote wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.
Hangman’s eye twitched. Fault codes. This was getting insane. He and Rooster had been exchanging dirty flight puns all day, and yet, here they were, discussing some grease-stained stranger with excellent biceps. Hangman was starting to look less smug and more like a peacock whose tail feathers had been aggressively trimmed.
“The mechanic is a perfectly respectable candidate,” Payback insisted, defending his theory. “Rooster likes things that are complicated and require constant maintenance. Like his T-38.”
“That is the meanest thing you’ve ever said about me,” Rooster mumbled.

“I’m upping my bet to ten dollars for the mechanic,” Bob announced, marking his notebook. Phoenix sighed and matched the bet.
Hangman drained his beer in one long, aggressive gulp. “You guys are idiots. It’s none of those low-stakes, low-quality options.”
“Oh, so you do know who it is,” Phoenix noted, instantly switching her focus to Hangman.

Hangman froze. He hadn't meant to imply knowledge, just superiority. “I—I meant, hypothetically. If it was anyone, it would be someone with a little more… flair.”
“Flair?” Coyote scoffed. “You mean like a celebrity? He’s dating Taylor Swift?”
Fanboy gasped. “He’s dating Wile E. Coyote! That’s why he’s always trying to catch me! It’s all a metaphor!”
The chaos was peaking. Three more beers had arrived. Payback was doing a dramatic reenactment of Rooster discussing fault codes with the 'mechanic with the excellent biceps,' using a beer bottle as a wrench.

Rooster was absolutely rigid, sweat prickling his temples. He looked pleadingly at Hangman, who was now glaring daggers at Payback's bicep impersonation.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Rooster tried to say calmly.
“No, no, I think I’ve got it,” Coyote said, pausing Payback’s wrench mime. He looked around the table with the conviction of a man who has just seen the truth. “It’s not one person. It’s Mav and Penny trying to set him up with their new mutual gardener! It’s a triple conspiracy! They’re using the vegetable garden as a cover for a double blind date!”

“That is actually a beautiful theory, Coyote,” Phoenix admitted, impressed by the absurdity.
Fanboy leaned in close, eyes wide. “What if he’s dating the new jet itself? The plane! The one with the advanced systems! Maybe he finally found something that appreciates his jazz hands!”
That did it. The mental image of Rooster canoodling with an F/A-18 was too much for Hangman. They had suggested a mechanic, a bartender, Penny's niece, and a literal airplane before landing anywhere near the actual man sitting directly across the table.

Hangman slammed his fist on the table. The noise cut through the chaotic din, silencing the entire group instantly. Even Mickey stopped wiping the counter.
Hangman stood up, knocking his chair back with a loud skid that seemed to rattle the floorboards. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth probably cracked. The easy, smug mask was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated, blinding jealousy.

“Are you all seriously this dense?!” he roared, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. “You’ve guessed Penny’s niece, the guy who polishes the bar, the guy who checks the oil, and a literal high-altitude killing machine, and not a single one of you morons has managed to connect the dots to the only logical, beautiful, and most obvious conclusion in the whole damn bar?!”
He stomped his foot, pointing a furious, trembling finger directly at Rooster, who looked like he was about to spontaneously combust.
“The person he’s smiling at! The person who sends him the texts that make him hum that godawful old-man tune! The person who makes him look like a damn golden retriever that just found a perfect stick, is me!”

Hangman took a deep, angry breath and finished the statement, projecting his voice over the stunned silence.
“It’s me, you idiots! I’m dating Bradshaw!”
The silence that followed was so profound you could hear the distant roar of the ocean waves outside the bar.
The entire squad stared, mouths agape. Rooster had gone from red-faced to a ghastly pale white, his eyes darting frantically between Hangman and the rest of the table.

Then, the chaos returned, tenfold.

Phoenix, calm as always, pulled out her phone and started typing. “Bob, hand over the ten dollars. I told you it wasn’t the gardener. I had ten dollars on ‘Seresin’s escalating insecurity leading to public breakdown.’”
Bob groaned, pulling money from his wallet. “I should have known. His smugness was too unstable to sustain.”
Coyote covered his face. “A mechanic! I lost money on a mechanic! And it was him all along! The man who sits across from him at lunch every day!”
“I KNEW IT!” Fanboy screamed, jumping up and down. “It’s the perfect level of flair! High-stakes, high-quality, and completely unpredictable! The secret romance! Oh, this is better than the gardener!”

Payback just stared at Hangman, then at Rooster, then back at Hangman. “Wait. Wait. But… you guys hate each other?”
“We’re professionals!” Hangman snapped, still hyperventilating slightly from the adrenaline rush of his unplanned coming out.
Rooster finally spoke, his voice weak. “I’m going to murder you, Jake. I am going to bury you beneath the… the pool table.”
Hangman ignored him, suddenly basking in the glory of the revelation. He walked around the table, grabbed Rooster’s chair, and spun him around to face the squad.
“Listen up, you uncultured swine. It’s been three months. We were going to tell you next week, but apparently, your collective investigative skills peaked with ‘the jet mechanic’s biceps,’ so here we are.”

“Three months?!” Phoenix asked, calculating. “The sudden switch to non-dairy creamer in the break room, the suspiciously organized tool box… the humming… I should have known.”
Coyote started laughing, a long, mournful sound. “All those times you’ve called each other a menace, a disaster, a walking safety violation…”
Hangman shrugged, throwing a dramatic hand up. “Foreplay, Coyote. It’s called tension. Something you wouldn't understand.”
Rooster slapped his hand away. “Stop talking. Every word you say is making me want to enroll in the submarine program.”

“He threatened me with a mop the first time he stayed over!” Hangman told the squad, grinning proudly. “Threatened to use it as a weapon if I snored too loud. He’s a wildcat.”
“Stop telling them things!”
Fanboy wiped a tear from his eye. “It’s beautiful. The sheer audacity of the hate-flirting. It was right there all along! Like the key to the mystery was inside the lockbox, and we were trying to guess the combination.”
Bob looked up from his notebook, which now had the betting pool results written down. “So, when you said the reason you kept losing at darts was because you were ‘distracted by a force of nature,’ you meant Hangman’s… existence?”

Rooster closed his eyes. “Yes, Bob. I meant Jake’s existence.”
“This is insane,” Payback said, shaking his head. “You’re the two most high-maintenance, irritating pilots in the entire Navy. You’re going to kill each other.”
Hangman threw an arm around Rooster’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight squeeze that immediately short-circuited Rooster’s mortified panic. “We know. That’s the fun part. We’re basically married already.”

Rooster groaned, but didn’t pull away, leaning into the warmth instinctively. “Don’t encourage them, Jake. They’re already preparing a presentation.”
“Too late,” Phoenix said, snapping a quick picture of the two of them. “The PowerPoint is already halfway done. Chapter One: ‘The Humiliation of Bradley Bradshaw: A Love Story.’”
“The wedding colors should be red, white, and a very aggressive, gold-plated bronze,” Fanboy suggested immediately.
“They’re not having a wedding!” Rooster yelled.
“We are so having a wedding,” Hangman corrected him, squeezing his shoulder. “Now, if you all would excuse us, I need to take my golden retriever home before he realizes I just blew up our careful little secret.”

Rooster looked at the stunned, giggling faces of his friends, who were now just roasting him relentlessly. He looked at the infuriatingly smug, satisfied expression of the man who had just outed them in a fit of public, jealous rage.
He sighed, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a soft resignation.

“Jake, I swear to God, if you get me kicked off the program because of this dramatic nonsense, I’m going to make you sleep on the couch for a month.”
Hangman leaned down, pressing a quick, unapologetic kiss to Rooster’s temple. “Worth it. Now let’s go. I think I hear the mechanic coming over to commiserate with you.”
As the squad erupted into another round of groans and laughter, Hangman pulled Rooster out of the chair and led him, slightly mortified but undeniably soft, out the door, already plotting their next shared disaster.

Chapter Text

The stale, recycled air of the hotel room hummed with the quiet whir of the climate control, a pathetic counterpoint to the storm of unspoken words between them. One bed. Of course there was only one bed. Rooster ran a hand over his face, the day’s adrenaline crash leaving him raw, every one of his nerves exposed and hyper-aware of the man leaning against the cheap dresser.

“Relax, Roo. It’s a double,” Hangman drawled, his voice a low, lazy rumble that did things to Rooster’s spine. “Plenty of room for both of us and my ego.” “It’s not the size of the bed, Bagman,” Rooster grumbled, refusing to look at him, instead focusing on the gross floral pattern of the bedspread. “It’s the principle.” “The principle of what? Two grown men, too tired to drive, sharing a mattress? It’s not exactly scandalous.” Hangman pushed off the dresser and took a step forward. The room shrank instantly. Rooster could smell him now—aviation fuel, cheap hotel soap, and that infuriatingly expensive cologne he always wore.

Rooster finally turned, his gaze meeting Hangman’s challenging stare. The sexual tension wasn't just a thing in the room; it was the room. It was the walls, the air, the very gravity pulling them closer. “You know exactly what the principle is.” A slow, predatory smile spread across Hangman’s face. “Do I?” He took another step. Then another. Until he was right there, in Rooster’s space, his body heat a tangible force. Rooster held his ground, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break out and surrender for him.

“All that tension,” Hangman murmured, his eyes dropping to Rooster’s mouth. “All that fire in the cockpit, all that competitive trash talk… you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about this.”
“I try not to think about you at all,” Rooster lied, his voice rough. Hangman’s laugh was a soft, dark thing. He moved fast, his hands shooting out to fist in the front of Rooster’s shirt, spinning them both and pinning Rooster against the wall with a solid thud. The impact knocked the air from Rooster’s lungs. Hangman’s hips pressed flush against his, a hard, promising ridge digging into Rooster’s thigh.

“Liar,” Hangman breathed, his mouth hovering a hair’s breadth from Rooster’s. His scent was overwhelming up close, his intent crystal clear. This was it. The move. Rooster’s initial reaction was pure, instinctive resistance. He brought his hands up, not to push Hangman away, but to grip his wrists, holding him in place. A low, teasing sound rumbled in his own chest. “What’s the matter, Jake? Couldn’t wait for an invitation?”

He felt Hangman’s breath hitch, a tiny crack in the flawless facade. Rooster tightened his grip. The dynamic, so settled for years, began to creak and shift on its axis. “I don’t wait for anything I want,” Hangman said, but his voice had lost its surety. “Maybe you should,” Rooster growled. And then he flipped the script.

With a surge of strength he’d been holding back, Rooster reversed their positions, slamming Hangman back against the wall. The surprise in Hangman’s blue eyes was the most satisfying thing he’d ever seen. Rooster crowded into him, one hand still manacling Hangman’s wrist, the other coming up to cup his jaw, his thumb dragging roughly over that smart mouth. “You wanted to break the tension?” Rooster’s voice was a low, dominant thrum that vibrated through both of them. “Let’s break it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He crushed his mouth to Hangman’s.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. A devouring. It was all the clipped insults and heated challenges of the past year translated into a desperate, carnal language. Hangman melted against him with a shocked, eager groan, his lips parting instantly to give Rooster exactly what he wanted. His free hand came up to clutch at Rooster’s shoulder, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
Rooster drank down the sound, his tongue surging forward to tangle with Hangman’s. The taste of him was electrifying—coffee, mint, and pure, unadulterated want. He released Hangman’s wrist only to grab his hip, yanking their bodies together even tighter, letting Hangman feel the full, hard length of his erection straining against his flight suit.

Hangman broke the kiss, gasping for air, his head falling back against the wall. “Bradley…” “Shut up, Jake,” Rooster ordered, his voice husky with desire. He buried his face in the corded column of Hangman’s throat, licking and nipping at the salt-damp skin there, eliciting a sharp, broken cry. He could feel the frantic rabbit-pulse of Hangman’s heart under his lips. Mine.
His hands were everywhere, tearing at the zipper of Hangman’s flight suit, pushing the stiff material down over his shoulders. Hangman struggled to help, his usual slick confidence replaced by a frantic, shaky need. The suit pooled at his waist, revealing a defined chest heaving with ragged breaths. Rooster’s mouth left his neck to latch onto a peaked nipple, sucking hard until Hangman whimpered, his fingers twisting in Rooster’s hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him closer.

“God, yes…” Hangman moaned, his hips canting forward, seeking friction. Rooster released him with a wet pop, his eyes dark with lust. “On the bed. Now.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Hangman practically stumbled the few steps backward, falling onto the mattress, his eyes never leaving Rooster. The submissive reverence in his gaze fueled Rooster’s fire. He shucked off his own flight suit with impatient hands, his own arousal jutting out, thick and eager.

He crawled onto the bed, covering Hangman’s body with his own, the feeling of skin on skin a searing, glorious shock. He kissed him again, deeper, slower this time, pouring all the pent-up frustration and undeniable attraction into it. Hangman’s legs fell open in silent invitation, and Rooster settled between them, the heat of Hangman’s own erection pressing against his stomach.
Rooster reached between them, his fingers wrapping around both their lengths, squeezing them together. Hangman cried out, a sharp, strangled sound of pure pleasure, his back arching off the bed.

“You feel that?” Rooster growled against his ear, his hand beginning a slow, slick stroke. “That’s what you’ve been playing with all this time.” “Fuck, Bradley… please…” “Please what?” Rooster teased, his thumb swiping over the leaking head of Hangman’s cock, smearing pre-cum down the length.

“I need you,” Hangman gasped, his composure utterly shattered. “I need you inside me. Now.” The raw need in his voice was Rooster’s undoing. He fumbled for his discarded pants, retrieving a small packet from his wallet. He sheathed himself with hands that trembled slightly, his gaze locked on Hangman beneath him—spread out, wanting, his. He guided himself to Hangman’s entrance, pressing against the tight ring of muscle. Hangman’s eyes were wide, his lips parted. “Look at me,” Rooster commanded. Hangman’s gaze snapped to his.

“You’re mine now,” Rooster stated, the words leaving no room for argument. And with a single, relentless thrust, he buried himself to the hilt. Hangman’s scream was muffled against Rooster’s shoulder, his body clamping down around him like a vice, hot and impossibly tight. Rooster held still, panting, letting them both adjust to the overwhelming sensation, the feeling of finally being where he was always meant to be. “Okay?” he rasped.

Hangman nodded, his face a mask of exquisite agony and bliss. “More.” It was all the permission Rooster needed. He began to move, setting a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that had the cheap headboard knocking a steady beat against the wall. Each thrust punched a gasp, a moan, a choked plea from Hangman’s lips. Rooster watched him unravel, mesmerized by the play of ecstasy across his features, by the way his body opened for him, took him, wanted him. He leaned down, capturing Hangman’s mouth in a sloppy kiss, swallowing his moans. “Who’s got you?” he grunted, driving into him again, hitting that spot that made Hangman see stars.

“You,” Hangman sobbed, his nails raking down Rooster’s back. “You do.” “Damn right I do.” His pace became frantic, animalistic. The world narrowed to the feel of tight heat, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the ragged symphony of their breathing. He could feel his own climax coiling, a tight spring in his gut. He reached between them, wrapping his hand around Hangman’s weeping cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts.

“Cum for me, Jake,” he ordered, his voice guttural.

It was all it took. Hangman’s body seized, a broken cry tearing from his throat as he spilled himself over Rooster’s fist and his own stomach, his inner muscles milking Rooster relentlessly. The sensation was too much. Rooster drove into him one last, final time, his own release crashing over him like a wave, pouring into Hangman with a deep, guttural groan that was more feeling than sound. He collapsed on top of him, spent, their hearts hammering against each other in a frantic, slowing rhythm. The room was silent except for their ragged panting. The tension wasn't just broken; it was utterly annihilated.

After a long moment, Hangman’s hand came up, his fingers gently carding through Rooster’s sweat-damp hair. His voice was a hoarse, wrecked whisper against Rooster’s ear.
“So… tomorrow. You want to tell the team, or should I?”

Chapter Text

The Hard Deck was loud, smoky, and, for Jake Seresin, the perfect stage.

He leaned against the bar, letting his full-wattage charm soak up the attention of the brunette waitress who was refilling his drink. He wasn't even listening to her story about her terrible ex; he was merely creating an artistic installation of flirtation. It was a performance piece titled: Hangman is Available and Irresistible.

He didn’t need to look across the crowded room to know his audience was captivated.

“No way, really?” Jake chuckled, letting his fingers brush the waitress’s hand just a smidge longer than necessary.

Across the bar, Bradley Bradshaw’s jaw was a granite monument to barely contained irritation. He was nursing a beer, trying to look preoccupied with a conversation with Coyote, but the slow, rhythmic clench of his knuckles around the glass was a symphony to Jake’s ears.

Jake flashed the waitress a perfect, devastating smirk, the kind that promised something he had absolutely no intention of delivering. He caught Bradley’s eye over her shoulder, and the smirk instantly deepened into a private, satisfied grin that was only for his husband.

Checkmate, Rooster.

Bradley immediately broke eye contact, turning sharply to head toward the restrooms. Jake knew the game: the hunter was about to become the prey.

Jake was halfway down the quiet, poorly lit hallway leading to the back storage rooms when a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder, spinning him around and pinning him lightly against the wall.

Bradley’s body heat was immediate, overwhelming, and utterly familiar. The air changed instantly, the scent of stale beer and desperation giving way to the subtle, comforting smell of Bradley's laundry detergent and expensive aftershave.

“You really enjoy testing me, don’t you, dear?” Bradley’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble, sharp enough to cut glass, but the way he flattened his palms on the wall, boxing Jake in, was all possessive heat.

Jake tilted his head back and grinned, letting the public façade drop completely. His eyes softened from smug challenge to pure adoration. “Only because I know how much you enjoy failing the test, honey.”

He hooked a hand around the back of Bradley’s neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. “It’s getting easier every day to call you Bradshaw in front of the others. But tonight, you looked ready to tackle a civilian just for touching my elbow.”

“I looked ready to remind you what’s waiting for you at home, Seresin. And it’s not the promise of a date with a woman named Brenda.”

Jake laughed, a soft, intimate sound that no one at Top Gun ever heard. “You love the show. You love the tension.”

Bradley kissed him, a deep, frustratingly brief press of lips that was both a threat and a promise. “I love you. Now get out of here before someone sees us.”

Forty minutes later, Jake dropped his duffel bag with a clatter onto the hardwood floor of their shared apartment, the sound echoing in the pre-war building’s high ceilings. The moment the lock clicked behind Bradley, the rivalry, the banter, the performance—it all evaporated.

Bradley didn't even make it three steps into the living room before Jake was on him.

He grabbed Rooster, hauling him in like he was docking a jet, and kissed him like he’d been starving for days. It was a consuming, desperate kiss, full of the accumulated want from hours of public restraint. Jake buried his face in Bradley’s neck, breathing in the scent of his actual, real home.

“God, missed you, my love,” Jake whispered, the phrase sounding worn and sacred, completely incongruous with the man who had just been trading verbal jabs with Cyclone.

Bradley sighed into his hair, the tension draining out of him completely. “I know. Me too, angel.”

The rest of the evening settled into a comfortable domesticity that was their actual life. Quiet dinner, shared laughter over the latest gossip about Fanboy's disastrous dating life, and soft, constant touches. Bradley leaned into him on the sofa, scrolling through his phone while Jake idly traced the strong line of his arm. Loud rivals in public; tender, hopelessly married idiots at home.

The following week, the secret was almost blown by external forces.

Back at the Hard Deck, Bradley was cornered by a new exchange pilot—a gorgeous, smooth-talking Norwegian whose only flaw was that he wasn't looking at Hangman. The pilot was leaning in too close, complimenting Bradley’s flying, and smiling with his teeth.

Jake watched from a distance, chatting with Phoenix, his smile frozen in place. He was suddenly too cold, too still. Bradley, entirely oblivious, was trying politely to extract himself. But the Norwegian was persistent.

Mine. He’s mine. You don’t get to touch my husband.

The jealousy was a sudden, ugly clench in his gut, possessive and ancient. It wasn't the flirting that usually fueled their hallway games; this was real, hot irritation. Jake muttered an excuse and stalked out before he did something stupid, like launching himself over the bar.

When the front door of their apartment slammed shut later that night, the air crackled.

Bradley turned, bewildered, dropping his keys. “What the hell was that? You left without saying a word.”

Jake didn’t answer with words. He covered the distance between them in two strides, his expression dark with a primal possessiveness that made Bradley's breath catch.

“You’re mine, Bradshaw,” Jake growled, his voice thick and low, grabbing Bradley’s face firmly and tilting it up. “You don’t get to look that beautiful and look that available.”

Bradley’s eyes flared with understanding, a slow, delighted smirk spreading across his face. “Jealous, Seresin? After your little display with Brenda?”

“No. Possessive. I want everyone to know you’re taken. I want them to know you’re marked. And since I can’t exactly announce our marriage during morning briefing, I’m going to have to remind you myself.”

He shoved Bradley back against the wall, but it wasn't rough. It was demanding, full of that specific, intense energy that preceded their most emotionally charged, heated nights. The “you’re mine” declaration was repeated against Bradley’s mouth, his jaw, his throat, followed by a torrent of whispered endearments that erased the miles of distance and rivalry they had pretended all day. There was no performance here—only absolute surrender. The only title that mattered was husband.

(Time Skip cause my mental block isn't letting me write any "good" smut)

The next morning, the cover was almost fully blown.

It was a busy day in the locker room, filled with the usual post-flight chaos. Bradley was pulling off his flight suit, preoccupied with a scratchy comms connection he needed to report.

Suddenly, Bob, meticulously packing his gear a few feet away, squinted.

“Hey, Bradshaw,” Bob said innocently. “You got a nice tan line there, but… is that, like, a piece of metal glinting on your left hand?”

Bradley froze. He instinctively tried to curl his fingers inward. The simple, gold wedding band, worn constantly for three years, was glinting exactly where it wasn't supposed to be visible.

At that exact moment, Jake came around the corner, distracted and looking for his forgotten sunglasses. Without even thinking, without registering the room full of pilots, he called out, completely unguarded:

“Hey, sweetheart, did you see my–”

The entire locker room went silent. Bob’s eyes widened, tracking from the ring on Bradley’s hand to the accidental pet name hanging in the air.

Jake stopped dead. Bradley slowly lifted his head, making painful eye contact.

Abort! Abort!

A panicked wave of excuses crashed over Jake. “—sweetheart… pie recipe, Bradshaw! Did you see the recipe for sweetheart pie that I was going to give to… to Phoenix! Yeah, Phoenix! It’s her birthday!” Jake finished, barely coherent.

Phoenix stared blankly. “My birthday is in February.”

Bradley just sighed, the panic giving way to exhausted resignation. He snatched his bag and glared at Jake. “Seresin, you idiot. You almost blew our cover.”

They managed to escape the ensuing awkward silence, high-tailing it back to their apartment. Once the door was safely locked, they collapsed onto the sofa, dissolving into helpless, hysterical laughter.

“‘Sweetheart pie recipe’?” Bradley managed, wiping a tear. “That was Oscar-worthy.”

Jake kissed the ring finger he had almost revealed. “I panicked! And you were supposed to be better at hiding this, angel.”

“You say that like you don’t want everyone to know, babe.”

Jake pulled him closer, settling his chin on the top of Bradley’s head. “Maybe I do. But where’s the fun in that?”

Chapter Text

The air in the Hard Deck was thick—a perfect blend of salt spray from the nearby ocean, stale beer from a hundred prior celebrations, and a sharp, metallic undertone of jet fuel clinging stubbornly to flight suits and hair. Tonight, the atmosphere was particularly charged, shimmering with the post-mission glow that only successful runs could conjure. The Daggers, fresh off a flawless training exercise that had pushed every one of them to the edge, were celebrating.

Music hummed, not quite loud enough to stop conversation but enough to drown out the lingering echoes of turbine whine in their ears. Pool cues clicked with the rhythmic finality of shots well-taken. Behind the mahogany bar, Penny Benjamin, the eternal confidante and unofficial squadron therapist, was pouring a celebratory round with that knowing, patient smile of hers—the one that suggested she already knew every secret in the room, past, present, and future.

Rooster was, for once, genuinely relaxed. His flight suit jacket was long gone, leaving him in a simple, well-worn T-shirt that looked comfortable. He was perched on a stool, knees bumping gently against the sleek, polished mahogany, a cold beer in his hand. Hangman was right beside him—predictably, unashamedly, too close. Bradley’s relaxed state wasn’t just due to the mission success; it was the quiet, constant pressure of Jake’s presence, leaning into his space, an arm casually draped over the back of the stool, a living, breathing security blanket that the rest of the squad politely ignored. The established nature of their relationship meant they could be affectionate but subtle, their comfort in each other an unspoken, undeniable fact.

The rest of the squad—Phoenix, Bob, Payback, Fanboy, and Coyote—were clustered around a table, their laughter sharp and decompressed. But the center of the orbit, as always, was Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell.

Mav was leaning against the bar, his energy still somehow buzzing despite the flight hours. He was teasing Rooster, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the background noise, the bickering a familiar and necessary language of love between them.

“Little too wide on that turn, kid,” Mav commented, taking a sip of his beer, the condensation leaving a dark ring on the bar. “A few degrees off your vector. Gonna have to take your wings back if you’re trying to impress me.”

Rooster rolled his eyes, a theatrical movement he'd perfected over years of dealing with the Captain’s relentless commentary. “Oh, please. You try doing that in a crosswind with a flock of geese playing chicken with your landing gear, old man.”

“I’ve flown through crosswinds that would make you beg for a carrier deck, Bradshaw. And I’ve flown with geese that were better wingmen than you were today.” Mav grinned, and Rooster couldn’t help but return it, even as he reached for his own beer.

They were in that sweet spot of affectionate insult, the kind that was only earned through deep, shared history, until—

—Mav reached for his glass, and the light above the bar, specifically placed to make the Hard Deck’s offerings sparkle, caught something on his left hand.

It wasn't a watch, which was Maverick's usual limit for wrist accessories. It was a simple, flat band of dark, brushed metal—maybe titanium, maybe tungsten, something sleek and subtle that didn't demand attention, yet somehow commanded the entire room's focus when the light hit it just so. It wasn't flashy or gold; it was utilitarian, almost stealthy.

Rooster froze mid-eye-roll. His brain, which could track five variables in a cockpit simultaneously, short-circuited completely trying to process this single, quiet, domestic anomaly on the hand of the man who had defined ‘unattached’ for half a century.

“Wait. What the hell is that?”

The abrupt shift in Rooster’s tone was enough to quiet the table of Daggers nearby. Hangman, who had been lazily tracing shapes on Rooster’s neck, paused, his hand lifting slightly in question.

Rooster didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned in across the bar, his voice dropping to a hushed, incredulous whisper that somehow still carried the weight of a full interrogation. He grabbed Maverick’s hand—gently, but with the urgency of someone who had just discovered the final, lost piece of a map.

“Oh my god. You finally tied the knot?”

Maverick let his hand be examined, a small, utterly private smile playing on his lips, the kind of smile that wasn’t meant for the public, or the press, or even the Navy—just for moments like this.

Rooster squinted at the simple, dark band, his thumb running over the smooth surface. The light caught the engraving again, revealing three small, neat words etched into the interior face of the band.

“Is that—does that say… Wingman?”

Mav chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that was genuinely amused. “It wasn’t my idea, believe me. I argued for something simpler. Something like, ‘Avoidance Protocol Activated,’ or maybe just a skull and crossbones. But I was outvoted.”

“I find that very hard to believe, old man,” Rooster said, his voice husky. He was laughing, but the laugh was thin, underscored by something fragile and emotional. He was trying desperately to keep his composure, but the revelation was hitting him harder than he anticipated. It was hitting the same place where the grief lived, the small, perpetual ache of guilt for all their rough, estranged years. Years where he'd convinced himself Mav was a lone wolf, incapable of anchoring himself, and years where he'd blamed Mav for taking his anchor away. To see this tangible proof of peace, of commitment, of a life built outside the F-18 cockpit, was overwhelming.

He released Mav’s hand, the air suddenly thick between them.

“Sorry I wasn’t there,” Rooster said quietly, meaning it. Sorry for the gap of time that had made him miss this monumental life event.

“You didn’t miss much,” Mav said gently, sensing the sudden emotional depth of the moment. He reached out and squeezed Rooster’s shoulder, a firm, grounding gesture. “Courthouse. Two signatures. That’s all. I was back in the air by 1400. Not exactly a destination wedding.”

“Still,” Rooster insisted, shaking his head. “You deserved more than that. You deserved a parade. You deserved to wear whites. You deserved—everything good.”

Maverick’s expression softened completely. It was that small, fond smile, a look of profound, unconditional affection and approval that he reserved only for the people he was fiercely proud of. It wasn't the smile of a commanding officer or a mentor; it was the pure, relieved smile of a father. “Well, I got the everything that mattered, kid. That’s enough.”

The sudden shift in the conversation's gravity immediately drew the attention of the surrounding pilots. The Hard Deck, which had been a haven of contained chaos, was about to fully descend into it.

Hangman finally drifted over from his languid stance by the stool, looping his long, lean arm around Rooster’s shoulder, proprietary but playful. He leaned down, his voice a low, teasing drawl meant to break the sudden sentimentality.

“Damn, Pops, when did you get hitched?”

Now the rest of the Daggers, scenting drama and gossip like sharks scenting blood in the water, crowded in. The moment Mav had been trying to keep small and private had officially exploded into a full squadron debrief.

Phoenix, always the most practical and observant, narrowed her eyes. “Since when do you wear jewelry, Captain? That is absolutely not regulation.”

Payback slapped a hand down on the bar, sending a ripple through the beers. “Man’s been holding out on us! That’s a felony, sir!”

Mav braced himself against the bar, trying—and failing—to stifle a laugh as the wall of curious pilots closed in. He knew this was useless. Once the Daggers locked onto a target, they were relentless. And the target was clearly his previously undocumented domestic bliss.

“Three years next week,” Mav confessed, the admission only fueling the fire.

Chaos erupted. It was a cacophony of astonishment and betrayal.

Coyote practically shrieked, making Penny spill a drop of whiskey. “THREE YEARS?! We’ve been training with you, flying with you, listening to your geriatric dating advice for three years and you neglected to mention a spouse?”

Bob, ever the meticulous planner and logician, adjusted his glasses, completely bewildered. “Sir, with all due respect—how did none of us notice? The ring is clearly visible. It’s a very clean line, actually. Very subtle. But still.”

“We were a little busy flying at Mach 10,” Mav defended weakly, which only prompted a fresh wave of outraged protest.

“Busy getting married in secret, more like!” Payback countered, throwing his hands up.

The Daggers immediately started demanding details, threatening to plan a vow renewal, and plotting an impromptu, highly unsanctioned party right there at the bar. Mav was protesting, shaking his head with a wide, genuine smile, but he knew it was utterly useless. He was loved, and the Daggers expressed love through the utter destruction of a person's personal space and plans.

Penny, who had been watching the entire spectacle with deep amusement, slid him another beer.

“You really think I can stop them, Pete?” she asked, smirking, already reaching under the bar for a bottle of celebratory champagne that was absolutely not Hard Deck standard stock.

Mav sighed, a sound of mock resignation. “Not a chance, Penny. Not a damn chance.” He looked at his pilots, his family, all laughing, arguing, and genuinely thrilled for his happiness, and his heart felt impossibly full.

The Daggers, once given a mission, did not fail. A few days later, they had absolutely gone overboard.

The Hard Deck was transformed into a chaotic, glittery shrine to domestic secrecy. Balloons—bright blue, silver, and gold, slightly deflated—bobbed near the ceiling. A banner, hastily constructed by the collective efforts of people who were trained to fly jets, not use craft glue, was strung up over the main dance floor. It read: “CONGRATS MAV,” with a massive, glittery question mark hastily added by Payback when he realized they hadn't even started planning the actual ceremony.

Rooster and Hangman had shown up early to help Penny set up, mostly because Hangman insisted on having creative control over the aesthetic.

“Babe, we need more streamers,” Hangman declared, dragging Rooster around by the wrist like the older man was a necessary accessory. He had a natural flair for the dramatic and was absolutely in his element directing Bob on where to place the battery-operated fairy lights. “The ceiling is looking too… available. We need clutter, Bradshaw. We need celebratory visual noise.”

“You’re going to get glitter on the pool table, Jake,” Rooster grumbled, though he was smiling as he tied off a cluster of balloons.

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for the aesthetic of clandestine marital bliss,” Hangman countered, leaning close to kiss Rooster’s earlobe—a quick, casual moment of affection that was utterly safe here. They’d been open about their relationship long enough that these small touches were simply background noise, part of the scenery. “Besides, you’re just jealous I’m a better interior decorator than you are. You tried to hang that banner with masking tape, for God’s sake.”

“It was heavy-duty tape!” Rooster defended, pulling Hangman back slightly by his collar for a slightly longer kiss, mostly to shut him up.

Their affection was subtle but constant, a quiet mirroring of movements and shared laughter, the way they knew exactly where the other was in the room without looking. They were competitive even in decorating, turning the simple task of setting up chairs into a quiet, running contest over who could get the most done while still complaining the loudest.

“Look at them,” Phoenix murmured to Bob, watching them from the corner. “They operate like a single organism when there’s a social event involved.”

Bob nodded solemnly. “They really are two sides of the same catastrophic coin.”

As the bar started to fill with the invited guests—mostly the Daggers, a few other top-flight instructors, and Penny’s regulars—the atmosphere settled into a lively, expectant buzz. Everyone was waiting for the secret groom.

Then, Maverick walked in.

He looked exactly like a man who knew he was walking into a surprise party thrown by twenty-somethings who had too much money and an intense desire for celebratory chaos. He was dressed in clean civilian clothes, a dark jacket and jeans, looking a little overwhelmed but mostly touched by the sheer, unbridled effort. The dark metal band on his hand caught the light again as he waved off the first few who started to cheer.

The room settled, raising their glasses for the obligatory, noisy toast led by Payback (which contained several highly inappropriate jokes about ‘commitment issues’). Mav had just finished his sincere and slightly embarrassed thank you, when, a few moments later, the door to the Hard Deck opened again.

And the already buzzing room went dead silent.

The man who walked in was the antithesis of the Hard Deck's current, frantic mood. Where Maverick was pure, kinetic energy and contained chaos, this man was stillness and calm. He was immaculately dressed in a tailored, neutral-colored jacket, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, his posture military-straight but somehow radiating quiet ease. He didn't stride; he simply occupied the space with an effortless, polished authority. He looked like he belonged on the cover of an Admiral's Digest, not in a chaotic bar covered in cheap glitter.

It was Admiral Tom “Iceman” Kazansky.

The shock was physical. The music seemed to die in the middle of a chord. Every pilot's jaw dropped simultaneously, frozen in various states of holding a beer or a handful of pretzels.

Rooster was the first to process it, the words escaping his lips in a choked whisper that nonetheless felt deafeningly loud in the sudden, absolute silence. He gripped Hangman’s arm so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Oh my god,” Rooster whispered, his eyes huge. “You married Admiral Kazansky?!”

Maverick, who had been watching his husband’s serene entrance, turned back to his squadron, his face splitting into a slow, utterly devastating grin. The smile said: Yes. And I’ve been waiting three years for this moment.

He held up his hand, the simple metal band glinting.

“Three years next week, fellas.”

The Daggers lost their collective minds.

The silence broke into a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and outright disbelief. Phoenix covered her mouth, utterly speechless, shaking her head in silent, stunned respect. Coyote immediately collapsed onto a barstool, laughing hysterically at the sheer, impossible audacity of it all. Hangman, meanwhile, clutched his chest like he’d been hit by a non-lethal missile, his dramatic sensibilities delighted and overwhelmed in equal measure.

“The Wingman ring! It was literal!” Hangman managed to choke out. “Oh, you absolute bastards. This is the greatest plot twist in Navy history!”

Iceman, having allowed the initial reaction to play out with calm, dignified patience, finally walked over, his eyes fixed on Maverick. He reached out and placed a hand gently on the back of Mav’s neck, pulling him into a brief, warm kiss that was completely chaste, yet spoke volumes of their history and commitment. It was the perfect, understated act of domestic partnership, performed right in the eye of a chaotic storm of highly-trained fighter pilots.

The initial, explosive shock eventually gave way to a soft, lingering warmth. Once the Daggers had satisfied their initial need for theatrical surprise, they started circulating, offering sincere, if still slightly bewildered, congratulations.

Rooster was still trying to process the revelation, but his initial feelings of shock had melted into something profound and comforting. He walked over to where Mav and Ice were standing, a beer in each hand, handing one to Mav.

“Sir,” Rooster started, before immediately correcting himself. “Mav.” He paused, looking at the two men—the legendary rivals, the inseparable partners, the two people who had held his world together (and sometimes broken it apart). The guilt he’d carried for years over his father's death, over the brokenness between him and Maverick, over the fear that Mav was doomed to be perpetually alone—it softened now. It didn't disappear, but it lessened, fading into a gentle warmth. Maverick wasn’t alone. He was secure, deeply loved, and anchored to the only man who could ever truly understand the sheer terror and exhilaration of being Pete Mitchell.

“You did good, Mav,” Rooster said simply, his voice thick with pride. It was an acknowledgment that he, too, was finally letting go of the past, seeing Mav not as the ghost of his father’s wingman, but as his own person, finally finding his peace.

Mav returned the sentiment, a low, quiet affirmation just for him. “So did you, kid. You found your people. I’m proud of you, Bradley.”

Hangman, recovered from his near-death experience of revelation, sauntered over, inserting himself seamlessly into Rooster's personal space, his hand resting on the small of Rooster's back. He immediately started teasing, but the genuine happiness in his voice was clear.

“Man, I can’t believe Admiral Kazansky actually put a ring on you, Pops. The man has the patience of a saint, I’ll give him that. Took him, what, thirty years to corner the fastest pilot alive?”

Iceman, who had been observing the interaction with a faint, regal amusement, merely smiled. “Someone had to do it, Lieutenant. He tends to forget to eat when I’m not around. It became a matter of national security.”

Maverick playfully elbowed Ice, but his eyes were bright. He took the opportunity to redirect the banter toward the two junior pilots standing before them.

“Well, at least one pilot in this room can commit to the paperwork,” Mav fired back, glancing pointedly from the subtle gold ring on Rooster’s finger (a much simpler one, exchanged with Hangman in a quiet moment months ago) to Hangman's dramatic, empty hands.

Rooster’s ears turned pink, and he elbowed Hangman back, though he couldn't stop the grin. Hangman, of course, was unfazed.

Hangman dramatically placed a hand over his heart, fluttering his eyelashes. “You wound me, sweetheart. I committed to being his plus-one for the next fifty years. That’s a bigger commitment than a courthouse, Pops. And besides,” he pulled Rooster closer, possessively nuzzling his hair. “I already gave him the key to the kingdom. He just doesn’t trust me with the decor budget yet.”

The night continued that way—a perfect blend of humor and emotion. The Daggers were loud, demanding that Iceman tell them all the embarrassing stories from the academy, a request he met with a cool, diplomatic refusal, though the slight twitch in his lips indicated he enjoyed watching Mav squirm.

Eventually, as the party began to wind down, Ice and mav quietly tucked themselves into the corner of one of the large leather booths. They weren’t talking; they were just being. Maverick was leaning slightly into the cushion, tired but radiating contentment. Ice had one arm draped lightly over the back of the booth, his hand resting on the table. Mav’s left hand, the one with the dark band, settled over Ice’s, the two hands—one scarred and constantly moving, the other polished and still—forming a peaceful anchor. It was a picture of long-fought, finally-earned domesticity, a love that was quiet, confident, and deeply established.

Rooster watched them from across the room, leaning back against Hangman's chest, the younger man’s chin resting comfortably on the top of his head. He watched the peaceful tableau—the man who was his father-figure, finally at rest with his person—and a soft sigh escaped him.

“Goals,” he murmured, the word barely audible.

Hangman shifted slightly, kissing the top of his head, his tone low and comforting, laced with a promise. “We’ll get there, babe. We’ve already got the chaotic banter down. Now we just need the three decades of near-death experiences and legendary rivalry to solidify the foundation.”

Rooster laughed, leaning into the contact, finding his own solace in the loud, teasing, deeply felt love of his own wingman. The two relationships—Ice and Mav’s long, quiet understanding and Hangman and Roo’s loud, competitive affection—were two generations of pilots, two very different but equally strong loves, both flourishing under the same roof of the found family they had all built, one mission, one beer, and one perfectly placed wedding ring at a time. The Daggers were their family, and tonight, they were whole.

Chapter Text

Top Gun wasn’t supposed to feel like a sitcom, but lately, that’s exactly what it was. Admiral Tom Kazansky—stoic, composed, and eternally patient—had learned that running the program with Pete “Maverick” Mitchell as co-commander was equal parts triumph and chaos. And yet, somehow, despite the constant noise, the late-night coffee-fueled debriefs, and the endless parade of pilots who simultaneously idolized and infuriated them, he loved it. They both did.

Their marriage was an open secret across base. They didn’t hide it—Maverick’s ring caught the sunlight every time he gestured too dramatically during a briefing—but they didn’t flaunt it either. It just was. The great Iceman and Maverick, war heroes turned mentors, still going strong after decades. The kind of steady, soft love that anchored the whole damn place.

And if anyone asked how they managed it, Ice would just shrug and say, “He’s worth the trouble.”

The trouble in question was currently standing at the front of the classroom, gesturing wildly at a screen mid-lecture. Maverick was explaining tactical approach patterns, but judging by the smirk tugging at his mouth, he’d taken a detour from professionalism ten minutes ago.

“—and that’s why you don’t pull a reverse split-S at that altitude, unless you enjoy paperwork and explosions,” he said, glancing at Hangman, who looked like he was born to break that rule.

Rooster snorted from his seat. “You’re just saying that because you did it.”

“Exactly,” Mav said, utterly unashamed. “Learn from my mistakes, Bradshaw.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, grin lazy and dangerous. “Aw, c’mon, Pops, you know he won’t. He’s just like you.”

That earned him a sharp look from Rooster. “Excuse me?”

Mav pointed between them, trying not to smile. “He’s not wrong. You’ve got my stubbornness and his—” he nodded toward Ice, who was quietly observing from the corner “—patience. Somewhere between us, you might survive.”

The Daggers laughed, Phoenix shaking her head. “God help us if Rooster ever picks up Maverick’s sense of direction.”

“Hey!” Mav protested.

The teasing continued until the door opened and an aide poked their head in. “Admirals on deck.”

Instant silence. Everyone straightened. Ice stepped forward to greet them, calm and professional, while Mav adjusted his posture to look like he hadn’t just been roasting his students. Two admirals entered, all medals and starch, expressions sharp enough to cut glass.

Ice began the introductions, smooth as ever. “Gentlemen, these are our current Top Gun candidates. Lieutenant Seresin, Lieutenant Bradshaw, and—”

“Rooster,” one admiral interrupted with a faint smile. “Heard a lot about you. Your father flew with Mitchell, didn’t he?”

Rooster’s throat went dry. “Yes, sir.”

The admiral nodded, then looked to Mav. “And I hear you’ve taken him under your wing.”

Maverick chuckled softly. “Something like that.”

Rooster, flustered and proud all at once, blurted out without thinking, “Yeah—uh, I mean, yeah, Dad’s been great—”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Maverick blinked. Ice raised one perfect eyebrow. The admirals looked like someone had just spoken in tongues.

Rooster froze, every neuron in his brain screaming. “Sir—I mean—Captain—uh—Admiral—I—”

Hangman was gone. Absolutely gone. He doubled over, trying and failing to contain his laughter. “Oh my god—‘Dad’?!” he wheezed. “You called Maverick dad?!”

Rooster turned the color of a ripe tomato. “Shut up, Jake.”

Maverick was valiantly trying to keep it together. “It’s fine, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” he said, tone strangled with suppressed laughter. “Happens all the time.”

Ice deadpanned, “No, it doesn’t.”

The admirals exchanged bewildered looks. “Well,” one finally said, “it seems Top Gun’s taken on a… familial atmosphere.”

Ice gave the faintest smile. “You have no idea.”

When they finally left, Rooster groaned and dropped his head to his desk. “I’m never showing my face in this building again.”

Hangman threw an arm around his shoulders, still grinning like the devil. “Don’t worry, muffin, he’s everyone’s dad.”

“Jake,” Rooster hissed, “shut up.”

“Can’t,” Jake said cheerfully. “You’ve given me enough material for months. ‘Hey, Dad, can you pass the flight plan?’ Oh, this is gold.”

Maverick finally broke into laughter, clapping Rooster’s shoulder. “You walked right into that one, kid.”

“I hate all of you,” Rooster muttered into his hands.

Later that day, Mav and Ice were in their office, the laughter still echoing faintly from the hangar. Ice was writing something on a clipboard while Mav leaned against the desk, smirking. “You have to admit,” Mav said, “it was kind of sweet.”

“Sweet,” Ice repeated dryly. “You mean horrifying.”

“Oh, come on. He didn’t mean it like that. I practically raised him.”

Ice looked up at him, eyes soft. “You did. And now he has a partner who calls you dad. Congratulations, we’re grandparents.”

Maverick gasped in mock offense. “We are not.”

“Tell that to Seresin. He’s already halfway to moving in.”

As if on cue, there was a knock. Hangman stuck his head in. “Hey, Pops, quick question—oh hey, Admiral Kazansky.”

Mav groaned. “Jake.”

“Just wondering if Rooster’s grounded for emotional damage or if I can take him out for drinks.”

Ice didn’t even blink. “You break him, you’re flying night shifts for a month.”

Jake grinned. “Yes, sir.”

After he left, Mav looked at Ice with a helpless laugh. “He’s actually afraid of you.”

Ice smirked. “Good.”

That evening, Mav found Rooster sitting out by the tarmac, watching the sunset paint the sky. “Hey,” Mav said, handing him a coffee. “Still mortified?”

Rooster groaned. “That’s an understatement. Hangman’s been calling you ‘Dad’ all day just to get to me.”

Mav sat beside him, smiling softly. “You know, there are worse things to call me.”

Rooster looked up, sincerity replacing the embarrassment. “You’ve always been that to me, you know. Maybe not by name, but… yeah.”

Maverick’s chest tightened in that quiet, proud way it always did when he looked at the kid. “I know,” he said quietly. “And for the record, I’m proud of you, son.”

Rooster smiled, small and real. “Thanks, Dad.”

Behind them, Jake’s voice rang out across the tarmac: “AWWWWWW, FAMILY BONDING!”

“JAKE!” both of them yelled at once.

From his office window, Ice just sipped his coffee and shook his head. “Cute,” he murmured fondly. “Utterly cute.”

Chapter Text

The air in the briefing room was still thick with the residual scent of jet fuel, ozone, and the shimmering afterglow of a successful mission. Jake “Hangman” Seresin was holding court, performing for his captive audience while leaning precariously back on two legs of his chair. He wore a predatory grin, like a shark who’d just consumed the last, finest tuna in the ocean. The demo flight, a high-G, tightly coordinated piece of aerial choreography designed to test both skill and cohesion, had been flawless. Jake was now riding the resulting adrenaline high straight into maximum bragging rights territory.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I was so worried about,” he drawled, tilting his head just enough to adjust his perfectly tousled hair, a subconscious gesture of self-admiration. “The G-forces are clearly getting stronger, hitting what, nine-point-five today? Yet, my jawline remains utterly untouched. A miracle of modern physics and superior genetic structure, really. The maneuver was technically perfect, but the aesthetic execution was next level.”

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, rolled his eyes so hard he felt a crick in his neck. He wasn’t immune to the rush of victory, but Jake’s relentless ego and tendency to turn every debrief into a fashion show were certainly testing his partner's patience. “It was technically perfect because I held the alignment when your wing dipped two degrees in the break, Hangman,” Rooster countered, his voice low and steady. “Try using the stick for something besides showing off your profile, and maybe we’ll talk about miracles.” This only earned him a sharp, delighted, full-body laugh from Jake. The exchange was a comfortable rhythm they had settled into—Jake’s bluster masking genuine respect, Rooster’s eye-rolling concealing intense affection. Phoenix, watching the exchange, shared a knowing glance with Bob. “They’re either going to fight, or they’re going to get an apartment together,” she muttered under her breath.

The easy camaraderie was immediately interrupted when Maverick walked in. He held a thick tablet and looked less than thrilled, his expression suggesting he'd rather be flying than dealing with administrative fallout. He announced an immediate press event scheduled for the early evening at the Hard Deck, explaining they needed to capitalize on the flight’s success to brief a major international aviation journal—likely to secure future program funding. Rooster let out an audible, heartfelt groan, running a weary hand over his mustache. He absolutely hated interviews. He always got the awkwardly personal questions about his father, or the ones requiring painfully earnest, philosophical answers about the nature of courage, neither of which he cared to deliver.

Jake, of course, instantly sensed blood in the water and rose to his feet, a predator closing in. “Oh, poor baby, don’t pout.” He walked over and clapped Rooster on his lower back, his touch intentionally lingering, his thumb tracing a small, circular pattern over the thick flight suit fabric. “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. They love the mustache, Roo. It gives you that tragically soulful, old-school hero vibe. Plus, you’re the perfect contrast to my dazzling, modern brilliance.” Rooster swatted his hand away, a defensive reflex, but the pleasant, irritating heat of Jake’s palm remained imprinted on his skin. He muttered a threat about ground school, which Jake happily ignored, already contemplating his best interview angles.

An hour later, they were at the Hard Deck. The team tried to feign relaxation while waiting for the journalists and camera crews to finish their initial setup. The late-afternoon sun had softened into a deep, hazy gold, which slanted in through the wide, bay-facing windows. It cut glowing strips across the worn wooden floor and illuminated the lazy dust motes dancing in the air. The atmosphere was a mix of stale beer, fryer grease, and sea air. The jukebox hummed a low, slightly out-of-tune classic rock melody—an old song about heartache and open roads.

Phoenix and Coyote were standing near the pool table, nursing beers and conducting a covert conversation. “Ten minutes,” Phoenix whispered, nudging Coyote with her elbow. “Ten minutes, maximum, until he says something that gets us a reprimand for ‘conduct unbecoming of a naval officer’ or makes some deeply inappropriate political statement.” Coyote took a long, steady pull from his beer bottle, his expression resigned. “I’ll give him twelve, but only because Mav is here, and Jake has a strange desire to perform well in front of his new father figure. Rooster just told me to ‘have a little faith,’ bless his heart. He’s the only one who still believes in Hangman’s filter.”

Jake, in his element, was leaning against the main bar, displaying his casual swagger like a meticulously polished, albeit fragile, medal. He occasionally flashed a dazzling, meaningless smile toward the small crew setting up lighting and audio near the patio, clearly ensuring he was positioned within the visual periphery of the cameras. Rooster was settled a few stools down, sipping a soda, trying to look detached. In reality, he was watching every fluid movement Jake made, observing the subtle tightening in his jaw when the cameraman accidentally blocked his light. Rooster felt a small, secret twist in his gut that wasn't jealousy—Jake was an open book, after all—it was more like possessive anticipation of the dramatic spectacle he knew was coming.

The bar continued to fill up, the pre-event atmosphere settling into a low, nervous energy that crackled around the lit interview area. Jake finished his soda and moved silently, effortlessly, behind Rooster’s stool. He paused, his presence a warm weight at Rooster’s back. His hands settled lightly on Rooster’s shoulders, a gesture so casual, so commonplace between pilots, that no one would look twice. But the firm, proprietary weight, the slight pressure of his fingers digging in, was all Rooster felt. Jake leaned down, his breath warm and faintly smelling of mint against Rooster’s ear, and he took his time adjusting the collar of Rooster’s dark polo shirt, turning it just so, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. His voice was a low murmur, vibrating only for Rooster, a secret shared in public. “You look ridiculously good, babe. Like you belong on a recruitment poster, which, incidentally, is not helping my peace of mind.” Rooster flushed instantly, the heat rising beneath the thick fabric of his shirt. He tried to keep his reaction invisible, pushing Jake’s chest lightly with his elbow. “Not here, Seresin,” he warned, his voice tight, his eyes fixed dead ahead. Jake just chuckled, the sound deep, satisfied, and entirely private, before returning to his post near the bar where he could observe the entire room and the impending interview. It was a short, soft moment, a fleeting breath of intimacy, the calm before the inevitable storm was unleashed.

The reporter approached shortly thereafter, accompanied by a small crew. She was young, immaculately confident, dressed in sharp business attire, and possessed a slight, unsettling habit of standing just a little too close when she addressed someone, minimizing the physical distance to maximize intensity. The cameras rolled, the bright professional light momentarily blinding, and the interview began innocuously enough.

She started slow: standard questions about teamwork, the rigorous intensity of Top Gun training, and the strategic planning behind the demonstration flight. Rooster answered easily, giving credit to the team and sticking to the facts. The cameras, however, seemed to constantly pan back to Rooster, focusing on his classic looks and his composed, mature demeanor. Then the reporter began to pivot, shifting the focus away from the F/A-18s and onto the man behind the stick. Her questions narrowed, focusing entirely on Rooster: his calm temperament, his history, and what specific attributes made him such a strong, reliable, and grounded pilot. Rooster handled it with his usual modest professionalism, uncomfortable but controlled, attempting to deflect back to the mission objective.

Jake still hung back near the edge of the lights, nursing a fresh drink—a glass of amber liquid that had barely been touched—and pretending the entire interview was merely irritating background noise. Yet, Rooster, who knew the geometry of Jake’s moods better than the geometry of his own jet, could see the tiny, almost imperceptible twitching in the muscle of his jaw, the tell-tale sign that Jake’s famous filter was wearing thin.

The actual, irreversible shift happened when the reporter’s professional confidence crossed the line into blatant personal boldness. She paused, tilting her head as she looked up at Rooster, a suggestive smile playing on her lips. “You must break hearts all over base, Lieutenant Bradshaw. With that kind of intensity, that quiet confidence, and, if you don’t mind me saying, those looks,” she gestured vaguely toward his face, “I imagine you have trouble keeping the hopefuls at bay.” The line hung in the air, thick and oppressive, like a drop of heavy humidity before a thunderstorm. Rooster forced a polite laugh, the sound strained and tight. He was utterly mortified by the direction of the conversation and the blatant attempt to push past the professional boundary. He opened his mouth to deliver a diplomatic, non-answer about focusing on the mission and unit cohesion. But it was too late.

Jake’s drink stopped halfway to his mouth, the movement freezing so abruptly that a few drops of the liquid nearly sloshed over the rim. His eyes narrowed slightly, focusing on the reporter with the intensity of a targeting laser. The verbal flirtation was annoying, but predictable.

Then came the spark—the tactile, careless contact that was the trigger. The reporter, clearly mistaking Rooster's silent discomfort for shy availability, got bolder. Her left hand landed lightly, familiarly, on Rooster’s forearm, a brief, lingering touch intended to convey instant, private rapport. That was it. That small, careless contact, the claim of proximity, was the last straw.

Jake Seresin set his glass down on the bar with a controlled, almost silent click that somehow still echoed in the sudden quiet. He began his slow, deliberate walk across the bar, his highly polished leather boots hitting the wooden floor in a heavy, rhythmic cadence that cut through the background music and the ambient chatter of the crowd. He was moving with the coiled precision of a viper. His lazy, devastating smile was fixed in place, but it was a cold, dangerous thing—a veneer hiding the protective, territorial storm currently raging behind his intense blue eyes. He positioned himself precisely, unmistakably, slightly in front of Rooster, forcing the reporter to tilt her head back further and break eye contact with Rooster to look up at him.

His voice was clear, perfectly modulated for the microphone that was still recording, and absolutely laced with sugar, charm, and molten steel. “Excuse me, sugar.” He paused, letting the silence stretch, forcing the camera crew to adjust to his sudden appearance and presence. “Are you flirting with my boyfriend right now, or am I completely imagining that highly inappropriate behavior?”

The entire Hard Deck froze. The whirring of the cameras suddenly became the loudest, most intrusive sound in the room. Phoenix’s hand shot up to cover her mouth in a silent gasp of shock, simultaneously realizing she had won and lost a much bigger bet than she’d made. Maverick, standing just outside the light radius, ran a hand over his face and let out a long, slow sigh of pure, paternal exhaustion at his two most talented but difficult students. Coyote, who had just lost the bet on the timing, whispered to Phoenix, his voice full of stunned amusement, “Oh, hell. He actually did it.”

The reporter stammered, her face turning crimson, her hand whipping back from Rooster’s arm as if burned. “I—I beg your pardon, Lieutenant Seresin. I was simply establishing rapport for the piece, exploring the human element of the flight team.” Jake’s voice dropped lower still, losing all pretense of sweetness and leaving only the possessive, simmering threat. “Rapport is when you ask questions, ma’am. That was something else. Because I could’ve sworn you were getting a little handsy with something that doesn’t belong to you. He’s not a public commodity, and he’s damn sure not available. Now, I’m all for confidence, but you might wanna back up and pack up before I forget this is a PR thing and start acting like myself.”

Tension hummed palpably between the two men—Rooster’s entire neck and face were blazing hot with a complex mix of professional fury at the public scene and intense, thrilling, possessive satisfaction that Jake had claimed him so definitively. Jake was a statue of coiled, dangerous protectiveness, his eyes never leaving the reporter until she moved. Rooster finally stepped in, his voice low, his hand instantly finding Jake’s forearm, not to pull him away, but to anchor him to reality. “Jake,” he warned, a low, single syllable of necessary connection that only his partner understood. The reporter, sensing the absolute and professional end of her career in this town, mumbled a frantic apology about wrapping up and rushed away, her camera crew trailing hastily behind her, their equipment suddenly looking heavy and unwelcome. Maverick shook his head, a ghost of a resigned grin playing on his lips, and muttered to himself, “Well, that’s one way to make headlines they won’t be able to ignore.”

Rooster didn’t wait for Jake to gloat or revel in the chaos. He gripped Jake’s elbow with a strength fueled by equal parts frustration and attraction, pulling him roughly through a side door and out onto the small, empty observation deck overlooking the water. The contrast was immediate and sharp: the quiet, steady roar of the surf replaced the muffled laughter, the pulsing jukebox, and the nervous chatter inside. The air was cool and clean with salt and sea foam, smelling of vast, dark openness.

Their argument started sharp, Rooster pulling his arm out of Jake’s grip the moment they were alone. “You can’t just announce it like that! On camera! In the middle of a press briefing! Do you have any idea how much trouble that’s going to be, how much paperwork, how many calls we’re going to get?” Rooster’s fury was a potent blend of genuine concern for the severe professional consequences and a deeper, confusing thrill over the blatant public declaration. He paced three steps away, then three steps back.

Jake threw his hands up, instantly defensive and looking momentarily wounded beneath the arrogance. “What, that you’re mine? She were practically drooling over you, babe! That woman was touching you! It was disgusting. I was merely asserting a pre-established position, for the benefit of the media and anyone else who felt the need to make a move.” He took a step forward, closing the space Rooster had created.

Rooster scoffed, his hands going to his hips, running a tired hand through his hair. “You couldn’t have waited ten minutes? Or used, I don’t know, words that didn’t sound like you were challenging him to a duel for my honor? We had a system, Jake! We were careful!” The argument, fueled by the last remnants of adrenaline and their conflicting priorities, was quickly starting to ease into raw, naked honesty.

Jake deflated slightly, the tension draining out of his shoulders, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping from a shout to a low, raw texture. “I know, I know. But I hate it, Roo. I hate seeing people treat you like you’re just some poster boy they can touch or talk down to. They look at you like a piece of equipment, something desirable but easily obtainable. It makes my hands itch to break something.” He took Rooster’s hands, pulling them away from his hips and holding them firmly. “You’re not a commodity, Bradley. You’re... mine. And I had a physical need for that reporter, and everyone else watching, to understand that distinction immediately.”

Rooster felt his anger dissolve instantly, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming, and terrifying warmth that made him want to collapse against Jake’s chest. He admitted softly, looking down at their joined hands in the dim light, “I liked it. Hearing you claim me. Even if you’re a complete jerk and just tanked my next promotion with your dramatics.”

He looked up, meeting Jake’s eyes, a wry smirk fighting the intense redness in his cheeks. “So, you were jealous?” he challenged, the word testing the air between them, hoping for a confession. Jake gave him a short, cold laugh, stepping so close Rooster had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. He released one of Rooster’s hands only to brush his thumb gently, possessively, under Rooster’s strong jawline, tracing the angle of his face with meticulous care. The cool ocean breeze tugged gently at their hair, a quiet contrast to the heat between them.

“No,” Jake murmured, his eyes holding Rooster’s steadily, sincerely. “I’m possessive. Jealous means I’m scared I’ll lose you because I think I’m not enough. Possessive means I know I won’t lose you, but I need everyone else to understand that you’re not theirs to touch, look at, or even fantasize about. That woman had to know, without a single shadow of a doubt, that you’re accounted for, and that she stepped on sacred ground.”

The distance between them had completely closed, the air now thick with the same specific, undeniable heat that always existed just between them. Rooster felt the tension melt out of his body. He let out a shaky breath, his eyes closing briefly. “You’re impossible, Seresin. An absolute, total nightmare.” Rooster whispered, his own hand coming up to rest on the strong column of Jake’s neck. “Yeah, but you love me for it, darling,” Jake replied, his voice a triumphant, low hum, and he leaned in, claiming Rooster completely, definitively, in a kiss that was perfectly out of sight of the cameras, but visible to the vast, indifferent ocean.

A few minutes later, the two men walked back inside, their shoulders brushing with a silent, comfortable intimacy that hadn’t been present when they’d first entered the bar. They settled back at their stools, Jake’s hand instantly finding the small of Rooster’s back, a heavy, permanent weight. Phoenix lifted her beer glass in a silent, wry toast as they passed her table. “Took him five minutes this time,” she said to Coyote, shaking her head slowly in disbelief. “New record for maximum damage and public declaration.” Coyote, who was already pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, sighed heavily. “He’s hopeless. We should just start a betting pool on when the Command gets the official complaint.” Maverick, still standing near the edge of the room, watched them settle back down, noticing the lingering flush on Rooster’s cheeks and the look of utter satisfaction on Jake’s face. Maverick hid a slow, deeply amused grin in his drink. “Hopeless, maybe,” he conceded to himself, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. “But he’s certainly in love.”

Chapter Text

It started, as most major life crises did, in the debriefing room immediately following a perfect flight. Phoenix was scrolling through her phone, a dangerous glint in her eye, while Jake was draped over an unoccupied chair, pontificating on the aerodynamic benefits of his new haircut. “Seriously, I think I cut a full three knots off the drag just from the improved flow dynamics around my temples,” he declared. Phoenix snorted. “You’re delusional, Seresin. But speaking of flow, I just read a piece about us. Apparently, you have a reputation.” Jake preened. “A reputation for flawless execution? For devastating looks?” Phoenix smiled tightly. “No, honey. A reputation for being a serial hugger.” She scrolled down and read aloud: “‘Lieutenant Seresin, Hangman, is notorious for his tactile displays of approval, an enthusiastic hugger whose aerial aggression is offset by his post-flight, puppy-like affection for his entire unit.’”

The rest of the Daggers burst out laughing. Coyote clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Puppy-like affection! It’s true, man, you do tackle us sometimes.” Jake took the moniker and ran with it, instantly turning it into a performance. Over the next hour, he launched himself at every single person in the room—a crushing squeeze for Payback, a theatrical one-armed embrace for Bob, and a long, drawn-out, mock-tender hug for Phoenix. He even patted Maverick on the back, earning a dubious look. But Rooster? Rooster stood stone still, observing the chaos, and Jake entirely, meticulously, ignored him. He’d pat Rooster’s shoulder, maybe, or ruffle his hair if he was feeling particularly bold, but never a full, arms-around-the-body hug. Rooster chalked it up to their need for discretion, but after Jake gave Omaha a celebratory, two-second bear-hug just for successfully finding his misplaced water bottle, Rooster felt a tiny, irritating sting of exclusion.

The sting quickly curdled into glorious, childish pettiness. If Jake wouldn't hug him, Rooster decided he would out-hug Hangman. The next day, after a simulator session, Rooster launched his counter-campaign. As Coyote successfully landed a tricky approach, Rooster clapped him on the back—hard—and then, with zero preamble, hauled him into an unsolicited, overly-enthusiastic embrace. “That’s my wingman!” Rooster bellowed, performing the perfect imitation of a truly awful sitcom dad. Coyote looked utterly baffled, staring over Rooster’s shoulder at the rest of the team. Rooster let go, beaming with feigned goodwill. Later, he cornered Phoenix in the galley. “Tired day, Phoenix,” he murmured, stepping right into her space before she could object, enveloping her in a massive, prolonged hug. “You deserve this. A full, therapeutic fifteen-second hug of support.” Phoenix laughed into his shoulder, murmuring, “Bradshaw, what the hell are you doing?”

But Rooster wasn’t doing it for them; he was doing it for the audience of one, who was watching from across the room, leaning against the coffee station, drink frozen halfway to his lips.

Jake's initial reaction was disbelief, quickly followed by silent fury. Over the next three days, Rooster’s hugs became increasingly performative and frequent. He hugged Payback when he was visibly reading a document. He hugged Bob twice just because Bob looked like he needed a hug. He even gave an unsolicited, bone-crushing squeeze to a perplexed maintenance officer in the hangar bay. Each time, Jake’s reactions escalated. He progressed from a silent, piercing stare to dramatic, over-the-top sighs that could be heard across the hangar floor. He started using extravagant, flowery language whenever he spoke to Rooster, trying to establish distance. “Would His Majesty Lieutenant Bradshaw care to grace us with his presence at the navigation briefing?”

The climax came after a joint training session. Rooster was walking out of the locker room, having given a very loud, very visible "Good work, buddy" hug to Coyote that lasted a solid twenty seconds. He passed Jake, who was pulling on his jacket, and Jake didn't even acknowledge him verbally. Instead, he simply stopped, dramatically removed his flight jacket, folded it carefully over his arm, and then, with slow, deliberate contempt, picked up Rooster’s own jacket, which was draped over a bench, and walked it—as if it were a fragile artifact—over to the trash can. He hovered over the bin, looking at Rooster with an expression of profound martyrdom.

“Go on,” Jake muttered, his voice dangerously low. “Go hug it. It deserves your touch far more than I do, given how many random bodies yours has been draped around today. It seems I’m simply not hug-worthy enough for the great Rooster Bradshaw.”

Rooster froze, watching the sheer, ridiculous pettiness of the action. Jake was actually threatening to discard his prized Top Gun flight jacket over a hug. This was beyond competitive; this was an emotional cry for help disguised as an act of war.

Coyote, who was witnessing the scene from the doorway, cleared his throat and silently backed away.

Rooster walked slowly toward Jake. He waited until Jake’s hand was actually hovering over the lip of the trash can, holding the jacket in a precise claw-grip. “Put the jacket down, Hangman,” Rooster said softly. Jake’s eyes, bright blue and blazing with wounded pride, darted up to meet his. “No. Not until you admit it. Admit that you’re doing this just to annoy me.”

“Of course, I’m doing this to annoy you,” Rooster replied, his voice losing all its performative cheer. He took the last step, closing the distance completely. “You hug everyone but me, Jake. You’re rubbing up on everyone in this squadron, calling yourself a serial hugger, but you treat me like I’m contagious. What, are we just professional partners when people are watching? Are you embarrassed?”

The question hit Jake like a physical blow. His grip loosened on the jacket, which slid harmlessly to the floor. The wounded pride in his eyes gave way to a sudden, painful vulnerability. He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s not… it’s not the same, Bradley. I hug them because they’re the team. It’s casual. If I hug you, it’s not casual. It’s… a statement.” He looked back up, his voice barely a murmur. “I can’t just launch myself at you after a flight like I do Coyote. It feels too important, too visible. Everyone would know, immediately. It’s too much.”

Rooster felt his heart give a quiet, heavy thud against his ribs. He stepped closer, nudging the jacket with his foot. He didn’t say anything else; he just waited. Jake looked at the floor, then at the jacket, then finally, desperately, at Rooster. He sighed, a sound of profound, dramatic defeat.

He ran a hand over his face. The game was undeniably over.

“Fine,” Jake muttered, the sound thick with resignation and affection. He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “You win. Just… stop hugging Payback. It’s creepy.” He paused, then his eyes flickered to the door before returning to Rooster. The admission cost him everything. “Fine, come here, honey.”

Rooster didn’t hesitate. He took the final step, wrapping his arms tightly around Jake’s torso, pulling him flush against his chest. It wasn't the boisterous, sitcom-dad hug he’d been performing for days. It was deep, solid, and silent, the kind that grounded both of them instantly. Jake sighed into his shoulder, finally relaxing, the stiff tension leaving his body as his arms wrapped firmly around Rooster’s waist, holding him close.

“I love you too, you dramatic idiot,” Rooster whispered into his ear.

Jake squeezed him tighter. “I know.”

Chapter Text

The tension began not with a high-G maneuver or a shouted command, but with a perfectly executed, synchronized laugh. The Daggers were settled around a booth at the Hard Deck, recovering from a highly effective but exhausting day of dogfighting practice. Rooster and Phoenix were sitting side-by-side, sharing a plate of fries and reliving a near-collision during the briefing. “Remember that time he almost put his jet into the carrier hangar when he was looking for his sunglasses?” Phoenix chuckled, nudging Rooster with her elbow. Rooster threw his head back and laughed—a genuine, deep, unguarded sound that always softened the edges of his face. He leaned in conspiratorially toward Phoenix, their shoulders bumping, and whispered, “He still hasn’t found them, by the way. They’re probably filed under ‘M’ for ‘Maverick’s Miscues.’”

Jake “Hangman” Seresin, seated directly across from them, felt a sudden, irrational surge of cold anger. He watched the exchange with mounting hostility. It was the easy way they talked, the shorthand—not the words, but the physical closeness. Phoenix and Rooster had a long history, a closeness born of growing up together on base and sharing a pilot legacy, and it manifested as a comfortable, sibling-like bond. They had an effortless conversational rhythm, mutual inside jokes, and an unspoken understanding that Jake, despite his intimate relationship with Rooster, wasn’t always privy to.

And that was the problem. Rooster was smiling at Phoenix with the same open, joyful, totally disarmed expression that Jake considered his exclusive domain. It was the smile Rooster saved for quiet moments, for post-flight relief, or for when Jake managed to correctly use a metaphor without insulting anyone. Jake gripped his beer bottle so tightly his knuckles turned white. Why did he have to lean in like that? Why was Phoenix’s hand resting so casually on the back of his chair? Didn't Phoenix know that was his chair?

The rational part of Jake’s brain (a very small, frequently ignored section) screamed: She’s Phoenix, you idiot. She’s his sister-in-arms. You have to share. But the irrational part, the possessive, territorial, Hangman part, whined: She gets the easy version. She gets the casual intimacy. She gets to laugh without the risk.

When Phoenix started playfully messing up Rooster’s neatly combed hair and Rooster just batted her hand away with a soft chuckle instead of his usual irritable groan, Jake snapped. He slammed his bottle down on the table, the noise loud enough to cut through the din of the bar.

“Alright, lovebirds, break it up,” Jake announced, his voice sharp and laced with a manufactured sweetness that fooled precisely no one. “We get it, you have a bond. But some of us are trying to enjoy a beverage without being blinded by your… platonic sunlight.”

Rooster stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing in confusion. Phoenix just raised an eyebrow, a clear challenge in her eyes. “Excuse me, Seresin?” she asked, her voice dangerously calm. “We were talking about the time our mentor almost crashed an F-18. Is that off-limits now?”

“No, the topic is fine. The hugging is what’s grating,” Jake scoffed, ignoring the fact that there had been zero actual hugging. “You two are practically sitting in the same uniform. Get a room, or, better yet, get a different wingman to lean on. I’m starting to think I need to submit an HR complaint about workplace over-familiarity.”

Rooster stared at him, his confusion quickly melting into disbelief. He looked at Phoenix, who was now grinning widely, then back at Jake’s rigid, furious posture. Jake was honestly, visibly, green-with-jealousy upset about a friendly elbow nudge.

Rooster began to shake, trying to suppress the laughter, but it was too big. He threw his head back and roared, laughing so hard the booth cushions squeaked beneath him. He grabbed the edge of the table, clutching it for support, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He laughed until his chest ached, the sound echoing his earlier, unguarded joy, only this time it was directed entirely at Jake.

Phoenix patted Rooster's back, now genuinely laughing herself. “Okay, okay, Bradshaw, don’t choke. Hangman, you’re ridiculous. We’re allowed to speak to each other without your authorization.” She leaned over the table, aiming a pointed finger at Jake. “And for the record, I’m the one who taught him how to keep that mustache so pristine. We’re family. You’re the new guy.”

That final dig made Jake crumble. He pushed himself out of the booth, ignoring Coyote’s quiet snort of amusement. He grabbed Rooster’s arm, his previous anger evaporating into mortification, and dragged him toward the quieter back hall near the restrooms.

“Come here, you menace,” Jake hissed, pulling Rooster to a stop against the wall. Rooster was still breathless, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

“What the hell was that, Hangman?” Rooster managed, still chuckling. “You just threw a temper tantrum because I laughed at a memory. Did you really just get jealous of Phoenix?”

Jake’s facade finally shattered. He looked utterly defeated, handsome and miserable and completely exposed. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up for real this time. “Yes! Okay? Yes, I did. It’s insane, I know she’s Phoenix. I know you two are essentially twins. But you have this… easy thing. This automatic comfort. You just look so… happy and relaxed when you’re talking to her, and you don’t have to work at it.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, raw plea. “I know it’s stupid. I just hate when you smile at someone else the way you smile at me. It’s mine, Bradley. That look, that unguarded, full-throttle joy? It’s supposed to be just for me.”

Rooster’s laughter died instantly. He suddenly realized the depth of the insecurity Jake was struggling to hide behind the bravado. He reached up, cupping the side of Jake’s sharp jaw, his thumb stroking his cheekbone.

“Hangman,” Rooster murmured, his voice now soft and serious. “I only look at Phoenix like that because I know she won’t drop me. She’s safe. I look at you like that because I know you will drop me, and I trust you enough to let you.” He leaned in and pressed a light, firm kiss to Jake’s lips. “You are definitely the new guy, Seresin. But you’re the only guy.”

Jake’s face softened completely, his blue eyes warm with relief and affection. He leaned his forehead against Rooster’s, sighing happily. “Fine. You get five minutes of protected time with Phoenix tomorrow. After that, you are legally obligated to laugh at my jokes only.”

Rooster just shook his head, a private, possessive smile playing on his lips. “I can live with those terms.”

Chapter Text

The morning after the squad party feels like a war crime. The Hard Deck had been transformed last night—music, lights, Maverick pretending not to notice the chaos—and now the beach house looks like it’s been through a hurricane named “Tequila Hangman.” Empty bottles line the counter. Someone’s jacket is on the ceiling fan. And Jake Seresin wakes up face-first in regret.

It’s too bright. The world is spinning. Someone’s running a blender like it’s their life mission, and he’s seconds away from throwing himself into the ocean just to make it stop. He groans, rolls over, and realizes his pillow is warm and firm and definitely not a pillow. He blinks blearily up—and meets the amused eyes of Bradley Bradshaw.

Rooster looks disgustingly good for a man who was just as drunk last night. Sunglasses indoors, mug of coffee in hand, hair perfect. Jake, meanwhile, is half in his party shirt, missing a shoe, and possibly dying.

“If you’re gonna break my heart, darling,” Jake mutters, voice gravelly, “at least let me die face-down in a pancake first.”

Rooster snorts, adjusting his mug. “Morning to you too, sunshine. You remember anything?”

Jake groans, rubbing his eyes. “Bits and pieces. I recall karaoke. Phoenix yelling at me to stop serenading the pool table. Me being magnificent. The usual.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip. “So… you don’t remember the part where you kissed me, then challenged Payback to a duel because he called me pretty?”

Jake freezes. “I did what?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rooster says casually, way too pleased. “You climbed onto a table—again, might I add—yelled something about ‘claiming your territory,’ and kissed me in front of everyone.”

Jake stares. “No. Nope. That didn’t happen.”

Phoenix’s voice echoes from the kitchen: “It absolutely did! I have video evidence, lover boy!”

There’s laughter from the rest of the Daggers. Bob mutters something like “iconic” as he passes by with a smoothie, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Jake covers his face with a groan. “This is how my career ends. Death by embarrassment.”

Rooster just smiles into his mug. “You could always just own it, sweetheart.”

Jake peeks through his fingers. “Don’t call me sweetheart in public when I’ve already declared my love in front of command witnesses, babe.”

Bradley’s grin widens. “So you admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

By the time Jake manages to crawl upright, Phoenix and Bob are leaning on the counter like it’s reality TV night. “So,” Phoenix says with a grin, “when’s the wedding? We should probably start planning early.”

Jake glares. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Adorable,” Bob corrects, deadpan.

“I hate this family.”

Rooster pats his shoulder, far too gentle for the amount of teasing in his eyes. “You love us.”

“Not right now I don’t.”

Eventually, Jake retreats to the porch, nursing a cup of water and his wounded pride. The sun is too bright, the air too still, and the sound of waves doesn’t drown out his thoughts. He’s halfway through plotting a move to another continent when footsteps crunch on the deck behind him.

Rooster settles beside him, quiet for a long moment. The easy laughter from inside fades into background noise. Then Bradley says softly, “So. Was it just the tequila talking?”

Jake stares out at the ocean, jaw working. “No.”

“No?”

Jake sighs, turns to look at him properly. “No, babe. That was just me being too much of a coward to say it sober.”

Rooster’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, not yet. “You’ve got an interesting way of confessing, Hangman.”

“I’m nothing if not dramatic.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. The wind shifts. Then Rooster leans closer, eyes warm. “You know what’s funny? I don’t think I imagined kissing you back.”

Jake’s breath catches. “You didn’t?”

“Nope. Definitely happened.”

“Good.”

It’s quiet for a moment, both of them watching the waves roll in. Then Jake grins, breaking the tension. “So what you’re saying is, we’re dating now?”

Rooster laughs softly. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

Jake bumps his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Darling, that’s what the whole damn squad’s gonna call it.”

When they walk back inside, the Daggers are pretending not to watch them. It’s a terrible act. Jake throws an arm around Rooster’s shoulders, smirking. “Alright, listen up! If anyone asks, we were rehearsing maneuvers. Classified mission. Got it?”

Phoenix bursts out laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“-ly charming,” Jake corrects, winking.

Rooster shakes his head, fighting a smile. “You’re impossible.”

Jake leans in, voice low and teasing. “That’s boyfriend, actually.”

The room erupts—cheers, groans, mock applause—and Jake just grins wider, basking in the chaos. The sun is rising higher, the hangovers are hitting harder, and somehow everything feels exactly right.

Because yeah, maybe last night was a disaster. But this morning? This one’s his favorite kind of mess.

Chapter Text

The conference room at NAS North Island was not designed for vulnerability, yet it was precisely where Jake “Hangman” Seresin chose to bare his soul—under the brightest media lights imaginable. The room was sterile, the air thick with the faint scent of recycled oxygen and fresh ink. The Daggers, having executed a flawless, high-octane aerial ballet, were now subjected to the mandatory post-flight press engagement.

Jake, predictably, monopolized the focus. He leaned back on his chair, one foot hooked casually over his knee, his posture a masterful blend of arrogance and ease. His aviators were pushed up, allowing his blue eyes—currently shimmering with a calculated, dazzling emptiness—to engage the cameras. He threw out generic, confidence-laden quotes about the F/A-18's capabilities and the "superior tactical acumen" required to fly it.

Maverick, their mentor, stood near the door, arms crossed, the living embodiment of quiet impatience, ready to shut down the moment any question drifted into genuinely classified territory.

The reporter, the sharp-featured woman in the navy suit, moved in, steering the conversation toward the human element. She held the microphone like a scepter. “Lieutenant Seresin, your piloting style is often described as high-risk, high-reward. You thrive on autonomy. But in a complex world, reliance on others is key. Beyond the technical specs, what is the single most critical factor that keeps a pilot like you grounded and safe?”

Jake paused, letting the silence stretch, calculating the effect. He knew the answer the press wanted: teamwork, the squadron, the mission parameters. He gave them none of it.

“The most critical factor?” Jake drawled, tilting his head slightly. “That’s about mutual, unconditional trust. It’s knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that someone is watching the space you can’t. That someone has a holistic view of the chaos you’re creating. Someone who understands your intent before you even transmit it.”

The reporter smiled, sensing a deeper narrative. “And who is that person for you, personally? Who do you trust most implicitly in the air?”

Jake smiled back, not with his usual theatrical flash, but with a quiet, devastating sincerity that reached his eyes. “That’s an easy one. My co-pilot.”

The simple phrase landed with the soft impact of an ejection seat in water. It was a professional anomaly, a physical impossibility, and an instant declaration.

A heavy, thick silence enveloped the room. The Daggers—Phoenix, Payback, Bob, and Coyote—who had been sharing amused whispers, all snapped their attention to Jake. Phoenix’s jaw was a straight line of pure disbelief.

“Co-pilot, Lieutenant?” the reporter pressed, her eyebrows arched. “You fly a single-seat F/A-18E Super Hornet. You do not have a co-pilot or a WSO in your cockpit configuration. Are you speaking metaphorically? Perhaps referring to your flight lead, or your RIO from a previous tour?”

Jake looked at her with genuine, bewildering patience, as if explaining gravity to a first-year cadet. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his commitment hardening into iron. “No, ma’am. I’m speaking literally. I’m referring to Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw. He’s my co-pilot.” He let the words settle, firm and irrevocable. “He sets the vector, he runs the checks, and he keeps me aligned. Call it whatever you want, but he’s sharing the controls.”

At that precise, disastrous moment, the main door swung open with a resounding thud. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw walked in, unaware of the public execution taking place in his name. He paused, frowning at the strange confluence of silence and intense, focused staring directed his way.

“Did I just miss the part where we signed over our next paycheck to the Admiral?” Rooster asked, confused by the charged atmosphere.

The tension broke. The reporters had their clip, and the Daggers had the opening salvo in the greatest internal joke—and perhaps the greatest professional catastrophe—of their careers. Maverick just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and made the universal sign for Dismissed.

The ready room immediately devolved into glorious, competitive chaos. As soon as the reporters cleared out, the Daggers converged on Jake and Rooster.

Javy “Coyote” was the first to attack, poking Rooster's arm and then jabbing an accusatory finger at Jake. “Did you just use a high-profile press conference to launch a slow-burn relationship announcement, Seresin? You assigned this man a non-existent job title! You fly single-seat death trap! Where does he sit?”

Jake finally rose, stretching languidly, the picture of defiant serenity. He walked past Coyote, ignoring his question entirely, and only stopped when he was close enough to Rooster to make the statement entirely private—yet loud enough for the squad to hear. He looked at Rooster with that unnerving, sincere intensity.

“Rooster’s got my six, always,” Jake affirmed, his voice resonating with conviction. “He’s the only one I trust to hold the alignment when I’m pushing nine-plus G’s. He’s the one I check in with before and after every flight. He sets the pace, he holds the line, and frankly, he’s the only one who can talk sense into me when I get a little too far out over my skis and need to be pulled back to reality. What else do you call that, if not a co-pilot?”

Phoenix stepped forward, her arms crossed, her expression a mix of awe and annoyance at Jake’s sheer audacity. “We call that a wingman, Seresin. An exceptionally dedicated wingman. Or, in your case, a very expensive emotional support animal. ‘Co-pilot’ implies shared assets, Jake. Shared risk. Shared professional—and by extension, personal—destiny. You sound like you’re ready to share a mortgage and maybe a last name.”

Robert “Bob” Floyd, the man of quiet observation, adjusted his glasses, his usual reserved demeanor momentarily replaced by a look of triumphant vindication. “He’s not being subtle, Phoenix. Jake is physically incapable of expressing genuine emotion without using military euphemisms or competitive insults. ‘Co-pilot’ is just his highly-decorated, highly-public way of saying, ‘The only pilot I’m going down with is him.’ It's a declaration of emotional dependence.”

The squad spiraled, fueled by the sheer absurdity and Jake's absolute refusal to back down.

“Betting pool, people!” Phoenix announced, pulling out her phone and setting up a cash app group. “The stakes are now existential. How long until this becomes an official, approved relationship, or until Cyclone threatens Jake with administrative discharge for gross misuse of naval terminology? Payback, you are the treasurer and log keeper. Minimum ten dollars.”

Payback was already sketching out a matrix. “I’m taking two weeks. He’ll get cold feet before then. Too much vulnerability.”

Coyote threw his money down instantly. “One week. Jake has backed himself into a corner and now has to fly the mission. He loves the drama too much to land early.”

Phoenix, with a knowing, victorious glance at Jake, put money on three days. “He won’t be able to resist the satisfaction of winning the argument, even if the argument is about their entire relationship status. He's already 80% of the way there.”

Jake basked in the chaos, thrilled by the high-stakes game. This was the exact public pressure he needed to force the situation to its inevitable, dramatic climax. The only person who hadn't realized the full, dangerous weight of the statement was the man it was about.

Rooster felt completely, utterly blindsided.

When he returned to the ready room an hour later, the squadron was engaged in a deep, conspiratorial, and entirely silent huddle around the coffee station. The moment he opened the door, a wave of immediate, stifled, highly inappropriate laughter washed over him. Every single pilot—even Omaha and Fanboy, who usually avoided squadron drama—looked at him with a specific, knowing, highly inappropriate smirk.

“Will someone please explain why I feel like I walked onto the set of a very badly produced reality show?” Rooster demanded, his voice tight, instantly on guard.

Jake, who had been listening to Payback’s betting strategy with an amused smirk, immediately detached himself from the group. He sauntered over, moving with that proprietary, slow grace that always melted Rooster’s professional composure. He stopped directly in front of Rooster, invading his personal space with deliberate casualness.

Jake reached out, his fingers brushing the gold anchor insignia on Rooster's collar, adjusting it with the meticulous care of a fiancé adjusting a groom's boutonnière.

“Just making sure my co-pilot’s uniform is squared away,” Jake drawled, his voice a low, gravelly purr intended for Rooster only, but loud enough that the squad dissolved into a fresh wave of chortles. He gave Rooster’s collar a light, final tap, and walked away to grab his gear, leaving Rooster standing paralyzed in the center of the room.

Rooster’s ears immediately turned a furious, undeniable shade of scarlet, a reaction Jake clearly noticed and cataloged as a massive victory.

“Co-pilot?” Rooster sputtered, finally recovering, his voice coming out as a strangled squawk of pure embarrassment. “Seresin, you need to go to medical right now. What is wrong with you?”

The Daggers swarmed him, relentless and aggressive in their teasing.

“Did you guys select matching paint schemes for the jet yet, Co-pilot?”

“Did you check your email? I think your shared apartment lease just arrived!”

“Look at him, he’s blushing! He knows he’s the backseater now! He knows he’s tied down!”

Rooster stood there, his face hot with mortification, realizing that Jake had not only lied to the press but had successfully convinced the entire squadron that the term was a genuine, self-assigned, and deeply personal designation. He was furious at the public exposure, but underneath the white-hot anger, the tiny, terrifyingly hopeful voice returned: He called you his co-pilot. He called you his. The internal conflict was a dizzying, overwhelming force.

He waited until the ready room cleared out, Cyclone having issued a terse, weary directive for the pilots to get some rest. Rooster cornered Jake in the shadowy hallway leading to the locker room, pinning him against the cool, cinderblock wall.

The teasing did not stop. It escalated with military precision and relentless commitment, driven by the Daggers’ boredom and Jake's refusal to concede. The breaking point finally arrived on a squad night out at the Hard Deck, a few weeks after the initial declaration. The teasing, far from cooling off, had become institutionalized.

Phoenix, operating as the ringleader, gathered the team around a large table near the juke box. They were playing a ridiculously complicated card game, and Rooster was losing badly, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Phoenix chose that moment to spring the trap. She cleared her throat dramatically, pulling a small, wrapped box from beneath the table. “Alright, everyone, a toast. To Hangman and his co-pilot, who officially hit their one-month professional-relationship anniversary today.”

She placed two items on the table: two large, ceramic mugs. One was bright blue, labeled 'HANGMAN: THE PILOT' with a tiny gold crown. The other was dark gray, labeled 'ROOSTER: THE CO-PILOT (AKA, JAKE'S BACKSEATER)' with a small, hand-drawn mustache.

The bar erupted in laughter from the Daggers, and even Penny, working behind the bar, had to cover her mouth to hide her smile.

Jake grinned, taking it all in stride. He loved the absurdity. He picked up the gray mug and held it out to Rooster. “See, honey? Matching equipment. Now we’re officially bonded.”

That was it. The matching mugs, the 'Backseater' label, the final, casual 'honey' dropped in front of the entire bar. It all converged on Rooster, overwhelming his capacity for professional stoicism. He snapped.

He threw his cards down onto the table so hard they scattered across the floor. He didn't say a word. He just stood up, grabbed Jake’s arm above the elbow with a vicious, tight grip, and dragged him out of the main bar area, slamming him up against the back wall of the hallway near the restrooms—the same hallway where they had their initial, private conversation.

“You think this is funny?” Rooster hissed, furious and flustered, the redness starting at his neck and climbing all the way to his hairline. His frustration was a volatile mix of embarrassment and the terrifying realization that he desperately wanted all of this to be real. “The mugs? The call signs? I’m about two seconds away from getting an official reprimand because of your ridiculous pride, Jake! I told you to stop! I told you this wasn’t funny!”

Jake’s smile vanished instantly. He saw the genuine, high-stakes emotion in Rooster’s eyes—the fear mixed with genuine desire—and he knew the game was over. This was the moment the flirting had been building to, the moment the public declaration demanded a private validation.

“Funny?” Jake echoed, instantly dropping his aggressive posture. He didn't try to kiss Rooster, didn't try to deflect. He met Rooster's eyes with a devastating earnestness. “No, sweetheart. This is not funny. It's necessary.”

“Necessary for what, Jake? To tank both our careers?” Rooster pressed in, his voice vibrating with the need for an honest answer, not another performance. He gestured wildly back toward the bar. “They’re taking bets on when we crash and burn! I can handle the jokes, but you’re forcing this into something professionally actionable. Why? Why do you need everyone to think I’m your… accessory?”

Jake stepped closer, forcing Rooster to take a half-step back until he was truly pinned against the cold wall. The arrogance was completely gone, replaced by a raw, naked need that was more intimidating than any show of bravado.

“I need everyone to think you’re mine because it’s the only way I can keep you safe,” Jake confessed, the words hitting Rooster like a physical punch. His voice was low and rough, stripped of all theatrics. “I need them to know you’re accounted for. When I call you my co-pilot, it’s not a joke about shared equipment, Bradley. It’s the highest honor I can give you. It means I’ve linked my survival—my entire flight plan—to yours.”

Rooster stared, unable to look away. He saw the genuine fear in Jake’s eyes—the fear that Rooster would pull away, that the intimacy they shared wouldn't survive the squadron pressure.

Jake took Rooster’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and brought their joined hands up to his chest, right over his heart. “You are the one who knows when I’m bluffing and when I’m about to break. You run my flight plan, in the air or not. I don’t feel safe unless you’re with me, on my frequency, in my orbit. You’re not just my backseater, you’re my only seat. You’re my co-pilot, in the air or not. That’s the truth I needed the entire world to hear, because I was too scared to tell you first.”

The weight of the confession—the absolute, non-verbal commitment—was too much. Rooster felt the carefully constructed dam of his professional distance shatter instantly, overwhelmed by the surge of love and relief. He suddenly understood the risk Jake had taken, throwing his pride and career into the wind just to force this moment.

Rooster didn't think. He didn't speak. He simply launched himself forward, closing the final inch of space between them. He kissed Jake—a bold, desperate, impulsive crush of lips that was entirely public and completely unforgettable. It wasn’t a soft, tentative peck; it was a deep, hungry, definitive claim that melted Jake's composure immediately. Rooster’s hands tangled fiercely in the collar of Jake's shirt, pulling him in, demanding everything Jake had just offered.

Jake responded instantly, his confession validated, his arms wrapping around Rooster’s waist like a vise, lifting him slightly and backing him harder against the wall. The sound was a low, desperate moan against Rooster’s mouth, a sound of profound victory and relief.

The Hard Deck exploded.

The moment the kiss registered, a cheer erupted that completely drowned out the jukebox. Penny, who had been watching from behind the bar, yelled, “Finally!” and slammed her hand down on the counter so hard the glass racks rattled. Phoenix screamed a triumphant sound that defied description and immediately began recording the entire back hallway from across the bar, her phone aimed like a missile. Payback jumped up, knocking his chair over, and roared, “I CALLED IT! TWO WEEKS! PAY UP, COYOTE!” Coyote, amidst his own stunned laughter, was already fishing his wallet out, defeated but ecstatic. The bar—filled with off-duty sailors and civilians—cheered wildly, recognizing the dramatic climax of weeks of agonizing, beautiful tension.

Sometime later, the chaos had subsided into a low, happy buzz. The two pilots were sitting outside on the worn wooden steps overlooking the dark, quiet ocean, the muffled sounds of celebration still audible from inside the bar.

Rooster was resting against Jake’s side, his head leaned back against the column of Jake’s shoulder. His own heart rate was slowly returning to normal, but his skin was still humming with the afterglow of the massive, public adrenaline dump.

“Well,” Rooster murmured, adjusting his glasses. “I think the entire North Island complex knows that wasn’t a professional misunderstanding now. We’re definitely getting a call from Cyclone in the morning.”

Jake chuckled, the sound vibrating pleasantly against Rooster’s ear. He wrapped his arm tightly around Rooster’s shoulder, pulling him even closer, burying his nose in Rooster’s hair. He was calmer now, the relief of the confession and the definitive nature of the kiss having finally settled his raging ego and heart.

“Probably,” Jake admitted softly, his cheek resting against Rooster’s temple. “But it was worth every single word of the reprimand. I told you, babe. I don’t fly solo. And I’m tired of pretending I do.”

Rooster smiled, turning his head just enough to press a soft kiss to Jake’s neck. He looked out at the dark ocean, the expanse of water reflecting the few distant lights of the base. The fear was gone, replaced by a profound, solid certainty.

“Guess that makes two of us, Jake,” Rooster whispered. He paused, a wicked grin touching his mouth. “You know, I still think ‘Backseater’ is a terrible call sign, but you can call me 'Co-Pilot' if you like. You earned it, you dramatic idiot.”

“Noted,” Jake replied, tightening his grip possessively. “How about ‘My Co-Pilot’ for short?”

Rooster laughed, the sound easy and unburdened by secrecy or professionalism for the first time. He didn't mind the new call sign at all.

Inside the Hard Deck, Phoenix’s voice suddenly cut through the music, yelling a triumphant toast. “To the new Power Couple! And to Payback, who is buying the next round!” Jake and Rooster simply laughed, sitting together in the quiet, safe darkness, their ridiculous, public, and undeniable love finally affirmed.

Chapter Text

The Hard Deck was buzzing that night—music loud, lights warm, waves crashing faintly against the shore outside. The Dagger Squad had taken over their usual corner table, half dinner, half chaos. Penny had just introduced a new waitress, and the moment she appeared, every conversation at the table went straight to hell.

She was stunning. Red hair tied back messily, a constellation of freckles across her nose, and hazel eyes that seemed to laugh before her mouth even caught up. Five-four, confident, with a notepad tucked into her apron and a smile that hit like turbulence.

“Holy shit,” Payback muttered under his breath. “Is that a person or a fever dream?”

Fanboy elbowed him. “Don’t embarrass us. Play it cool.”

“You’ve never played anything cool in your life,” Phoenix deadpanned, sipping her beer.

Rooster was already watching this unfold with a smirk that screamed this is going to be fun. Next to him, Jake lounged in his chair, boots crossed, amusement curling his lips. They weren’t threatened. They were entertained.

The waitress approached with a practiced smile. “Hey guys, what can I get started for you tonight?”

Coyote, ever the gentleman, went first. “Ma’am, we’ll take two pitchers of beer and—”

“—your number,” Payback cut in.

The entire table groaned. Fanboy covered his face. Bob blinked.

She laughed, the sound bright and real. “Smooth. Really subtle.”

“See?” Payback whispered to Fanboy. “She likes it.”

“She pities you,” Phoenix corrected.

Bob cleared his throat softly. “I’ll, um, just have a cola, please.”

She smiled at him—an actual, genuine smile. “Good choice, honey. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she walked away, every head turned to Bob.

“BOB?” Rooster said, dramatically. “Since when do you pull smiles like that?”

Bob turned red instantly. “I didn’t pull anything! She just—”

“She just liked your good-boy energy,” Jake said, eyes glinting. “You’re like a golden retriever in a flight suit.”

Rooster grinned, nudging Jake. “You jealous?”

Jake snorted. “Please. I’ve got you. I’m just waiting to see which of these clowns crash and burn first.”

When she came back with their drinks, Payback tried again. “So what’s your call sign?”

She quirked a brow. “I’m not a pilot.”

“Yeah, but if you were?”

She thought about it, tapping the tray against her hip. “Probably ‘Heartbreaker.’”

The table lost it. Fanboy slammed the table, half in laughter, half in awe. Phoenix looked like she’d just found religion.

“Heartbreaker,” she repeated, grinning. “Fitting.”

Jake leaned over to Rooster, voice low. “Ten bucks says she writes that on the receipt.”

Rooster: “Twenty says Phoenix gets her number just to prove she can.”

Phoenix, without looking, shot back, “Thirty says you two shut up and let me enjoy my drink.”

The flirting escalated. The waitress lingered longer each time she came over—laughing at Fanboy’s bad jokes, teasing Coyote about his Southern accent, humoring Payback’s attempts at charm.

Then she got to Phoenix.

“So what’s your deal?” the waitress asked, eyes curious.

Phoenix smirked. “Keeping these idiots alive.”

The waitress laughed again. “Tough job.”

“You have no idea,” Phoenix said, and there was a beat—just enough of a pause to make the rest of the table lean in.

Rooster mouthed to Jake, oh she’s good.

Jake grinned. She’s better.

When the meal wrapped up, the waitress dropped off the check with that same bright smile. “Thanks for making my shift interesting, boys.” She hesitated, then looked at Phoenix, eyes flicking mischievously. “And you.”

She scribbled something on the napkin, slid it toward her, and walked off with a wink.

For a second, no one moved.

Then—

“NO. WAY.” Payback slapped the table. “Did she just—”

“She did,” Fanboy said, wide-eyed. “She totally did.”

Phoenix blinked, looked down, saw the digits scrawled across the napkin, and—because she was Phoenix—just grinned, folding it neatly into her pocket.

“Well,” she said. “Can’t help it if I’ve got game.”

Rooster actually slid out of his chair laughing, tears in his eyes. Jake’s face went red from holding back his own laughter.

“Gentlemen,” Jake drawled. “In a room full of thirsty pilots, the woman chose another woman.”

Phoenix lifted her beer, smug as hell. “What can I say? Great minds.”

“Great taste,” Rooster added, still laughing.

Penny, polishing glasses behind the bar, shook her head. “You all done turning my bar into a middle school dance?”

Mav, sitting beside her with his usual amused exasperation, grinned. “You’re surprised?”

“No,” she sighed. “Just disappointed they didn’t even order dessert before embarrassing themselves.”

“Technically,” Ice said from the corner—visiting, calm, composed as ever—“Phoenix won.”

Everyone turned. No one had realized he’d been listening the whole time.

Phoenix saluted him. “Thank you, sir.”

The squad groaned collectively.

By the time they left, the sun had long since set, the beach cool and quiet. Rooster slung an arm around Jake as they walked out, both still laughing.

Jake murmured, “You know, I almost feel bad for them.”

“Almost?” Rooster teased.

Jake leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “What can I say? I like watching everyone else crash and burn.”

Rooster smiled, low and fond. “You’re such an ass.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, grinning. “But I’m your ass.”

Behind them, Phoenix caught the waitress’s eye one last time. The girl mouthed, call me.

Phoenix just smirked, lifted her glass, and called out, “To women—”

“—and their impeccable taste,” Rooster added.

Jake raised his glass last. “Amen.”

The entire Hard Deck burst into laughter, the jukebox playing loud enough to drown the surf outside.
And somewhere behind the bar, Penny just muttered, “God help me, they’re never growing up.”

Chapter Text

The echo of running showers and locker doors filled the space, humid and heavy with soap and laughter. Phoenix was perched on the bench, towel over her shoulders, pretending not to laugh as Payback and Fanboy argued about whose maneuver had been cleaner. Coyote was halfway dressed, humming under his breath. Jake Seresin—Hangman—was leaning against the row of lockers like he owned the place, hair damp, grin sharp enough to cut air.

“Face it,” he was saying, “I make pulling six-G turns look like ballet.”

“You make it look like showing off,” Phoenix shot back.

Before Jake could answer, the locker room door creaked open. Bradley Bradshaw strolled in, flight suit unzipped to his waist, shirt clinging to his chest, dog tags resting against tanned skin. The noise level dipped a fraction. Jake’s grin faltered—not gone, just… recalibrated.

“Well, look who finally decided to join civilization,” Jake drawled, straightening.

“Sorry, Hangman, didn’t realize you missed me that bad,” Rooster said, tossing his duffel down with a thud. He passed close enough that Jake had to shift an inch, maybe less. Their shoulders nearly brushed, the space between them alive and electric.

The others kept talking, but every movement between those two seemed magnified. Rooster reached for his locker; Jake leaned just a little too close.

“Careful, darlin’,” Jake murmured low enough for only him to hear, “you keep showing up late, people might think you’re tryin’ to make an entrance.”

Rooster didn’t look up, just smirked as he unzipped his suit. “If I wanted an audience, Seresin, I’d charge admission.”

It was nothing. Just banter. Except it wasn’t. Phoenix glanced between them, brow raised, catching the way Jake’s gaze dropped—fast—to Rooster’s mouth before he forced it back up.

Jake tossed his towel onto the bench and crossed his arms. “So how’s that new maneuver working for you? Didn’t look like you had control on the turn.”

“Funny,” Rooster said, stepping around him—too close again, brushing against his shoulder this time—“from where I was sitting, you were the one chasing my tail.”

Coyote let out a low whistle. “You two gonna keep this up, or should we give you a ring and a referee?”

“Shut it, Javy,” they said at the same time.

The others burst out laughing. Rooster rolled his eyes, grabbing a towel from the rack. When he turned, Jake was still there, leaning against the lockers, eyes bright with something unspoken.

“Gonna keep starin’, Hangman?”

“Can you blame me, sweetheart?” The nickname slipped out before Jake could stop it. His grin wavered. Rooster froze for half a second, towel halfway to his hair, heartbeat visible in the hollow of his throat.

Phoenix made a strangled noise that might’ve been a cough. Bob looked at the floor like it had suddenly become fascinating.

Rooster recovered first. “Sweetheart, huh? Bold move, Seresin.”

Jake’s voice dropped a note lower. “You like bold, don’t you?”

The air tightened. Their banter had teeth, but now it was edged with something softer, hotter. Jake’s hand brushed Rooster’s arm—accidentally on purpose—and the room felt smaller. Rooster’s breath hitched; his towel slipped to the floor.

Phoenix stood. “Alright, I’m officially leaving before someone combusts.”

Payback and Fanboy trailed after her, laughing under their breath. Coyote nudged Bob, who took one look at Jake and Rooster and nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “they need a minute.” The door shut behind them, leaving only the hum of the showers.

Silence. Steam curled in the air.

Jake exhaled, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess it’s just us now.”

Rooster looked at him, eyes dark, unreadable. “You enjoy putting on a show?”

“Only when you’re watching.”

A step closer. Then another. Their shoulders brushed again, deliberately this time. The smell of soap, sweat, and flight lingered between them. Rooster tilted his head slightly, eyes dropping to Jake’s lips before flicking up again. “You talk too much, Hangman.”

Jake’s reply was barely a whisper. “Then shut me up, Bradshaw.”

Neither moved. The distance was nothing—barely a breath—but neither closed it. Just stood there, caught between pride and want, hearts hammering so loud it might’ve drowned out the hum of the lights.

Rooster sighed, half-smile tugging at his mouth. “One of these days, you’re gonna push too far.”

Jake’s voice softened. “I’m counting on it, babe.”

Rooster turned away, running a hand through damp curls to hide the flush climbing his neck. Jake watched him go, grin returning—lazy, satisfied, and maybe a little dazed. The tension didn’t break so much as linger, humming low, promising that the next almost might be the one that tips them over.

Chapter Text

The Hard Deck was buzzing with the usual post-mission energy, a cacophony of laughter, clinking bottles, and the low thrum of classic rock. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw was nursing a beer, trying to let the adrenaline leach out of his bones, when a familiar, infuriatingly smug presence settled onto the stool next to him.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't Rooster. Still trying to fly with clipped wings?” Jake “Hangman” Seresin drawled, signaling the bartender for two fingers of whiskey. He didn’t wait for an answer, his gaze sweeping over Bradley with a lazy, predatory heat. “You look tired, Bradshaw. Long day? You should really rest your legs… maybe on my shoulders.”

Bradley took a slow swig of his beer, the cold liquid doing nothing to douse the sudden spark in his gut. He met Hangman’sProvocativegaze head-on. “You offering a place to sit, Seresin? Didn’t peg you for the charitable type.”

“Oh, it’s not charity,” Jake purred, leaning in closer. The scent of his cologne, something expensive and woodsy, mixed with the sharp tang of whiskey on his breath. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. As long as I have a face, you’ll have a place to sit. Think of me as… premium seating.”

A slow, wicked grin spread across Bradley’s face. Two could play at this game. He turned fully on his stool, his knee brushing against Hangman’s thigh. The contact was electric, a promise of friction.

“Premium seating, huh? You seem like a sweet person, Hangman. Mind if I lick you out and see if the taste matches the packaging?”

Hangman’s eyes darkened, a flicker of genuine surprise and lust flashing in their green depths before being swallowed by his usual cool arrogance. He recovered instantly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Careful, Rooster. You start something like that, you better be prepared to finish it. I’m not a quitter.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bradley murmured, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly threat that was all promise. He let his eyes trail down Jake’s torso, then back up. “You know, I like my coffee how I like my men… creamed. You look like you’d be… extra creamy.”

A sharp, delighted laugh burst from Jake. He leaned in even closer, his mouth inches from Bradley’s ear. His whisper was a hot, dirty secret meant only for him. “Is that right? You should sell hotdogs, Bradshaw. You already know how to make a sausage stand.” He punctuated the line by letting his knuckles brush deliberately against the growing bulge in Bradley’s flight suit.

Bradley’s breath hitched. The sheer audacity, the raw filth of it, sent a jolt straight to his core. He grabbed Hangman’s wrist, not to push him away, but to hold him there, his thumb pressing into the frantic pulse point. “You’re like a goddamn Rubik’s cube, Seresin. The more I play with you, the harder you get. And I do love a challenge.”

“Oh, I’m a challenge, alright,” Jake breathed, his free hand coming up to grip Bradley’s thigh, squeezing the firm muscle there. His eyes were glazed with pure, unadulterated want. “But you’re not so simple yourself. Are you an Oreo, Rooster?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Cause I want to split them and lick the middle. Until you’re begging me to stop. Until you’re twice as wet as you would be if I kissed you in the rain.”

The imagery was vivid, obscene, and absolutely perfect. Bradley could feel the phantom sensation of that clever tongue on him, and a shudder wracked his frame. He tightened his grip on Jake’s wrist. “All talk, Bagman. You’re not a horse, but I’d still let you ride me. Think you could handle it? Or would you bounce right off?”

Jake’s laugh was a low, throaty thing now, stripped of its performative edge and replaced with sheer, hungry need. He pressed his forehead against Bradley’s, their shared air hot and charged. “You’d be surprised what I can handle, sweetheart. Are you a cowboy?” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. “Because I can already see you riding me. All that frustrated energy… you’d look good on top. For a little while, at least.”

“Your top?” Bradley challenged, his own hand sliding from Jake’s wrist up his arm, feeling the corded muscle beneath the fabric. “Or are you finally admitting you’d rather be on your back? You’re not a balloon, Seresin, but I’d still blow you. Until you pop.”

The air between them was thick enough to choke on, a haze of whiskey, sweat, andBare sexual desire. The bar, their friends, the world—it had all faded into a dull roar, a distant backdrop to the primal negotiation happening between two stools.

Jake’s pupils were blown black, his composure finally, truly cracking. He looked utterly debauched, wrecked by words alone. “You must be ice cream,” he breathed, his words stumbling over each other in their rush. “’Cause I want to lick you up. Every. Last. Drop.”

Bradley closed the minuscule distance, his lips a hair’s breadth from Jake’s. He could taste the whiskey on him. “If I buy you another drink,” he whispered, the words a dark vow, “will you be my dessert?”

Jake’s answer was a raw, gasped, “God, yes,” just before Bradley’s mouth crashed against his.

----

The kiss wasn’t an end. It was a starter’s pistol.

Bradley broke away, his breath coming in ragged pulls. The roar of the bar crashed back in around them, a wave of sound that felt obscenely loud compared to the intimate silence they’d just shared. Jake’s lips were swollen, his eyes wide and dazed, looking more undone than any aerial dogfight had ever left him.

He looks fucking ruined, Bradley thought, a surge of possessive pride rocketing through him. And I did that with just my mouth.

“Dessert,” Bradley growled, the word a command, not a request. He stood, his stool scraping loudly against the wooden floor. He didn’t look back to see if Jake was following. He didn’t need to. The heat of the other man’s presence was a brand on his back as he shouldered his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the dimly lit hallway that led to the restrooms and the supply closet.

A hand grabbed his belt loop, tugging him back just before he reached the door. Bradley turned, pinning Jake against the wall with his body, caging him in. The hallway was shadowed, the noise from the main room a dull thrum.

“In a hurry, Rooster?” Jake’s voice was a hoarse whisper, but the smirk was trying its damndest to make a comeback. His fingers played with the zipper of Bradley’s flight suit, a tantalizing, dangerous flick of movement. “What’s the matter? Scared I’ll change my mind?”

Bradley leaned in, his mouth ghosting over the shell of Jake’s ear. “You’re the one who looks like he’s about to change his whole fucking worldview, Seresin. Now, are you coming, or am I carrying you?”

The challenge did it. Jake’s eyes flashed, all false bravado melting into pure, unadulterated want. He reached past Bradley, his hand fumbling for the doorknob to the supply closet. It was unlocked. Of course it was. The universe was finally throwing them a bone.

They stumbled into the tiny, dark room, a chaotic jumble of mop buckets, cleaning supplies, and stacked cases of beer. The door clicked shut, plunging them into near-total darkness, the only light a thin sliver from under the door. The air was cool and smelled of lemony disinfectant and dust.

Bradley didn’t give him a second to adjust. He spun Jake around and pushed him back against a metal shelf, making its contents rattle ominously. He crowded in, his body a solid, immovable weight. Jake’s hands came up to his chest, not to push him away, but to fist in the material of his flight suit, pulling him closer.

“All that talk about me being on my back,” Jake breathed, his voice shaky. “And yet here I am, pinned. You’re full of shit, Bradshaw.”

“Am I?” Bradley’s voice was a low rumble. He slid one hand down Jake’s side, over the lean muscle of his hip, and cupped his ass, squeezing hard. “Feels to me like you’re exactly where you want to be.”

He dipped his head, capturing Jake’s mouth in another searing kiss. This one was different—less about discovery, more about consumption. It was all hungry lips and clashing teeth and the slick, hot slide of tongues. Jake melted into it, a low moan vibrating against Bradley’s mouth, his body going pliant against the shelves.

It was the permission Bradley needed.

His hands went to the zipper of his own flight suit, jerking it down with a sharp, metallic rasp. He took Jake’s hand and guided it inside the opened suit, past the waistband of his briefs. Jake’s sharp intake of breath was the most rewarding sound Bradley had ever heard.

“Jesus, Bradshaw,” Jake hissed, his fingers wrapping around Bradley’s cock. He was already fully hard, thick and heavy in Jake’s grip. “You’ve been walking around with this all night?”

“All my life, waiting for a mouth that could handle it,” Bradley groaned, his hips giving an involuntary thrust into the slick, tight circle of Jake’s fingers. “Think you’re up for the job, or is that ego of yours writing checks your body can’t cash?”

In answer, Jake dropped to his knees. The sight alone—proud, arrogant Hangman on his knees in a dusty supply closet—was almost enough to make Bradley come right there.

Jake didn’t hesitate. He nuzzled against the coarse hair at the base of Bradley’s cock, his hot breath a promise. He looked up, his green eyes glinting in the dark. “You know, I’m getting tan just kneeling here… ‘cause you’re scorching hot.”

Then his mouth was on him.

It was wet and impossibly hot and expert from the very first second. There was no tentative exploration, no nervous fumbling. Jake Seresin did everything with arrogant, flawless precision, and sucking cock was apparently no exception. He took Bradley deep, his throat working around the head, a soft, guttural sound of pleasure escaping him as he did.

Bradley’s head slammed back against the door with a dull thud. “Fuck!” The curse was torn from him, a raw, broken thing. His hands flew to Jake’s head, his fingers tangling in the perfectly styled blond hair, not to guide him, but to hold on for dear life as his entire world narrowed to the sublime suction of that mouth.

Jake worked him with a filthy, relentless rhythm, one hand stroking the base of his cock while the other cupped and rolled his balls. He’d pull off with a filthy, wet pop, swirl his tongue around the sensitive head, and murmur things against his skin that made Bradley’s vision blur. “You taste better than you look, Rooster… and you look like a whole fucking meal.”

He’d dive back down, taking him even deeper, and Bradley could only gasp, his thighs trembling, his grip on Jake’s hair tightening. He was losing control, the coil of pleasure in his gut winding tighter and tighter, fed by every slick slide of Jake’s tongue, every sinful promise he whispered.

Bradley knew he was close, teetering on a precipice made of pure heat and sensation. But he wasn’t going to finish like this. Not yet.

With a Herculean effort, he pulled Jake off him. The pop of Jake’s mouth leaving his cock was obscenely loud in the small room. Jake looked up, dazed, a trail of saliva connecting his lips to Bradley’s glistening length. Confusion and raw need warred on his face.

“My turn,” Bradley rasped, his voice utterly wrecked.

He maneuvered them, turning Jake to face the shelves again. He made quick work of Jake’s pants, yanking them down to his knees along with his briefs. The pale curve of his ass was a stark, beautiful contrast in the dim light. Bradley ran a possessive hand over one perfect cheek, squeezing.

“You said you wanted to be licked up,” Bradley murmured, dropping to his own knees behind him. He spread Jake’s cheeks, exposing him completely. “Every last drop.”

He didn’t tease. He leaned in and licked a long, flat stripe from his balls straight up to the small of his back.

Jake cried out, a shocked, strangled sound, his hands scrambling for purchase on the metal shelves. “Bradley—!”

Bradley did it again, slower this time, savoring the clean, musky taste of him. He focused on the tight, clenched furl of his asshole, circling it with the blunt tip of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to make Jake’s entire body jolt.

“God, you’re tight,” Bradley groaned against his skin, the vibrations earning him another broken whimper. He pressed his tongue inside, just a little, a slow, relentless invasion. Jake was trembling violently now, his knees threatening to buckle. Bradley held his hips steady, his own arousal a throbbing, almost painful ache as he feasted.

He licked and probed and fucked him with his tongue, until Jake was a moaning, pleading mess above him. “Please… oh god, please…”

“Please what, Jake?” Bradley asked, pausing to bite gently at the soft flesh of his ass.

“Fingers… fucking… anything, just… more.”

Bradley smiled, a dark, triumphant thing. He slicked two of his fingers with his own saliva and pressed one against Jake’s entrance, still wet and loose from his mouth. He pushed inside, slowly, feeling the incredible, tight heat clench around him.

Jake’s head dropped forward, a long, ragged moan tearing from his throat as Bradley’s finger slid all the way in. Bradley began to move it, a slow, shallow fuck, while his mouth went back to work, licking and sucking at his rim.

The sounds Jake was making were inhuman, guttural moans mixed with ragged pleas for more. Bradley curled his finger, searching, and found it—that sweet, secret spot inside him. He pressed against it.

Jake’s whole body seized. “YES! Right there, holy fuck, right there!”

Bradley added a second finger, stretching him, scissoring him open as he relentlessly worked that spot with his fingers and his tongue. The room filled with the wet, filthy sounds of his ministrations and Jake’s increasingly desperate cries. He was close, so close to coming apart, and Bradley was the master of his undoing.

“You gonna come like this, Hangman?” Bradley murmured, his voice thick with arousal and the taste of him. “Just from my mouth and my fingers? Gonna make a mess all over these shelves?”

Jake could only sob in response, a wordless, overwhelmed sound of pure ecstasy. His body was taut as a bowstring, trembling on the very edge.

Bradley curled his fingers again, pressing deep, and whispered against his sweat-slicked skin, “Then come for me.

Chapter Text

The cabin, perched precariously on a windswept ridge in the Sierras, was supposed to be a team-bonding exercise. What it actually was, as far as the entire squad—minus two spectacularly oblivious pilots—was concerned, was a forced intervention. They had all been suffering for six months, not from enemy threats, but from the deafening, swirling, utterly agonizing sexual tension between Jake “Hangman” Seresin and Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw. Every smirk, every whispered insult, every competitive jab was just poorly disguised pining, and the entire room felt the static charge of it.

The misery was legendary. It had started subtly during the brief back at Top Gun, escalating to a full-blown crisis during a four-week deployment where they were forced to share a cramped briefing room. Phoenix once caught them arguing about the proper way to tie a shoelace, only to find them later, completely silent, sharing a single protein bar. The squad had developed a subtle, unspoken sign language just to vent their frustrations—a frantic eye-roll from Coyote, a hand over the mouth from Payback, and a universal, mournful shake of the head from Bob.

“I’m telling you, I’m going to lose my mind if they don’t just kiss already,” Phoenix had confided to Coyote the night before, pouring two glasses of cheap cabin wine. “They act like they hate each other, but the minute one of them is out of the room, the other stares at the door like a lost puppy. It’s physically painful to witness.”

The temperature outside was a vicious, soul-crushing 18 degrees Fahrenheit. The promise of the massive, bubbling hot tub was the only thing that had kept Bob, bless his pure heart, from simply lying down in the snow to freeze.

The squad—Phoenix, Bob, Coyote, Fanboy, Payback, plus two perpetually annoyed partners (Jake and Bradley), stumbled out onto the slick, snow-dusted deck. They were bundled in absurd layers, shivering violently.

“Hurry up, you two! I’m going to lose an earlobe,” Phoenix snapped, practically leaping over the wooden bench. She hit the water with a satisfied, dramatic sigh, the steam rising up to greet the sharp mountain air.

“Relax, Ice Queen, the water’s not going anywhere,” Jake drawled, but even his voice was tight with cold. He was deliberately taking his time, avoiding the inevitable proximity to Bradley. He knew the drill: he’d hop in, Bradley would be somewhere, and they would settle into their customary, tense dance of indirect eye contact and passive-aggressive sighs. It was exhausting, especially when the adrenaline rush of seeing Bradley half-naked felt like a flight maneuver gone wrong.

Bradley, meanwhile, was trying to peel off a stubborn thermal shirt, glowering at the frosty air and the confident slide of Jake’s gaze. He muttered, “Some hero you are, Hangman. Always the last one into the fight. Afraid the cold might damage the goods?”

“No, Bradshaw, I’m the grand finale,” Jake shot back, finally shedding his shirt and revealing the sculpted chest that made Bradley involuntarily clench his jaw and subtly adjust his swim trunks. Jake slid into the tub, sinking to his chin with a noise of pure bliss. He settled in the corner farthest from the entrance, exactly three seats away from Bradley, establishing the customary demilitarized zone.

Finally, they were all in. The hot tub was indeed large, a deep turquoise oasis that thankfully accommodated all pilots without forcing uncomfortable contact. The immediate relief of the heat was a narcotic, melting the ice in their bones and replacing it with a delicious, languid warmth. The steam billowed around them, catching the moonlight and turning the scene into a hazy, surreal relief map.

They had brought way too many drinks. Beers, ciders, and several cans of Jake’s suspiciously strong canned cocktail mix—a necessary catalyst to speed up the process of team bonding (or, more accurately, to numb the collective psychic pain of the pining).

“Oh, God. I could live here,” Fanboy sighed, resting his head back against the molded fiberglass. He held his cup of cider like it was the Holy Grail. “My toes are back, people. We have toes!”

“Seriously. I owe whoever booked this cabin a gift basket,” Payback agreed, swirling his beer. “This is the first time I’ve actually felt warm since last April. I vote we just stay here and talk about safe topics, like... the structural integrity of the cabin.”

“Or the history of naval aviation,” Bob suggested hopefully.

“Boring!” Coyote shouted, shaking his head until the water droplets flew. He was already two canned cocktails deep, his natural chaotic energy amplified by the alcohol and the hot water. “We are fighter pilots, not a knitting circle. We need to raise the stakes. We need chaos. We need... a game.”

“Truth or Dare,” Coyote announced, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Classic. Simple. Effective. And it’s only fair, since we’re already drunk in the snow.”

Jake scoffed, adjusting his position in the corner. “Seriously? That’s what high-stakes bonding has devolved into? Playground games? I refuse to participate in any game that doesn’t involve a flight stick.”

“You sound nervous, Seresin,” Bradley muttered from across the tub, his dark hair dampening slightly at the edges. “Afraid someone’s going to ask you to admit you love your reflection more than any human being?”

“Nervous about what, Bradshaw? Having to admit I’m better than you at literally everything? Or confessing that those ridiculous Hawaiian shirts of yours are a fashion crime?” Jake retorted, throwing a lazy smirk across the water, though the heat in his cheeks was suddenly unrelated to the water temperature. God, he’s beautiful when he’s annoyed, Jake thought, immediately chastising himself. Don't be an idiot, Seresin.

“Precisely the kind of tension we need to break,” Phoenix interjected, her eyes narrowing in a calculated, predatory way. She was the puppet master here, and everyone knew it. Coyote was already giving her a knowing nod—the signal had been given.

The game started easy. Payback dared Fanboy to sing his favorite 80s ballad (he chose Take My Breath Away, hitting the high notes with startling accuracy). Phoenix confessed that her biggest on-the-job fear was running out of coffee—a truth that drew gasps of horror from the group.

Then, it came time for Phoenix to issue a dare. She didn't hesitate. She bypassed Jake and Bradley completely and fixed her gaze on Bob.

“Bob. You are going to deliver the next dare. And I want you to be honest about why you choose it.” Phoenix’s voice was unnervingly soft.

Bob’s eyes went wide, realizing the weight of his mission. He had been chosen. The gentle, diplomatic pilot was the designated bomb carrier. The entire squad held its breath. Fanboy was openly watching, his mouth agape.

“Bob, dare Jake,” Phoenix commanded, practically vibrating with suppressed excitement.

Jake crossed his arms, leaning forward with feigned confidence. “Hit me, Bobby. Make it a good one. Something I can really boast about. Nothing physical, though, I just got comfortable.”

Bob looked at Jake. He looked at Bradley, who was suddenly staring intently at the water jets, his hands gripping the side of the tub. He looked back at Phoenix, whose expression was deadly serious with a smirk. He took a deep, shaky breath, the burden of the squadron’s emotional well-being resting squarely on his shoulders.

“Jake,” Bob began, his voice barely a squeak, but gaining surprising conviction with every word. “I dare you to… to sit in Rooster’s lap for the remainder of the game. You don't get off until the game is officially declared over.”

The air thickened, turning the steam into an almost visible barrier between the two rivals. The cheerful sound of the jets suddenly seemed aggressive, loud, and accusatory.

Jake’s expression was a masterpiece of immediate, total malfunction. The smirk vanished, replaced by an open-mouthed, deer-in-headlights paralysis. His carefully curated cool melted away instantly. He stared at Bob as if the gentle pilot had just declared war.

“Wait. What? Bob, that’s not a dare, that’s a—that’s a safety violation! That’s l-like a war crime!” Jake finally stammered.

Bradley, who had just been taking a large swig of beer, executed a spectacular choke, spraying a fine mist of cheap lager and hot tub water across the surface. He was wheezing, his eyes bulging as he desperately tried to regain control. Malfunction level: Catastrophic. He couldn't even wipe his mouth, frozen in shock and mortification.

“You heard the man, Hangman,” Coyote chirped, covering his mouth to hide a massive smile. “The dare is issued. Bob, why did you choose that? Tell him the truth.”

Bob, now flushed a deep, painful scarlet, mumbled into his chest, the words tumbling out in a torrent. “Because you two won’t shut the hell up with the tension, and we are all suffering. Every time you’re in a room, it’s like a passive-aggressive staring contest. We have been suffering for months. We need closure! We need peace! Maybe this will… break it.”

Phoenix clapped her hands, a triumphant grin splitting her face. “Honest. Compliant. Dare stands. Get over there, Seresin, before you die of shock. You've got the rest of the night to figure out your life choices.”

Jake stared at the expanse of water between him and Bradley. This wasn’t a dare about physical discomfort; it was a dare about emotional obliteration. Being that close to Bradley, feeling his heat, the steady rhythm of his heart, the solid weight of his thighs... it was too much. This was the moment his careful facade was going to crumble in front of witnesses.

“This is an attack. A coordinated, premeditated attack on my sanity and my future relationship with all of you,” Jake grumbled, but he was standing up. He had to. His pride was the one thing he would never surrender, even if it meant sacrificing his emotional stability.

He waded across the space. Bradley was still semi-choking, his knees wide, creating a space Jake was now forced to occupy. Bradley’s eyes followed him the entire way, wide and dark, filled with a panic that mirrored Jake’s own.

Jake stopped in front of him, hands gripping the edge of the tub. He inhaled the smell of chlorine, cedar, and Bradley's familiar, woodsy cologne. He took the plunge.

He lowered himself stiffly, settling onto Bradley’s lap. The water level immediately rose, forcing a wave to slosh over the side.

T = 0 seconds.

It was immediate, overwhelming physical contact. Jake was seated facing the others, his back pressed against Bradley’s firm chest. His thighs were sandwiched between Bradley’s, and the curve of his back fit perfectly against Bradley’s ribs. Bradley was a furnace, solid and vibrating. It was intimate, terrifying, and the warmest Jake had ever been.

Bradley stiffened instantly. Jake felt the entire cage of Bradley’s torso go rigid. The silence from the rest of the group was deafening, punctuated only by the gurgling of the jets.

T = 10 seconds.

“Okay, you’re on my feet,” Bradley managed, his voice a low, strangled croak. He still hadn’t moved his hands, which were clenched white-knuckled on the side of the tub.

“Well, you have wide feet, Bradshaw, maybe next time don’t wear clown shoes,” Jake snapped automatically, but the venom was entirely absent. His voice was breathless. He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn't feel quite so much like they were fused together.

Fanboy looked away, unable to handle the intensity. “I think I might need to take a truth now. I’m feeling… emotionally compromised. I’m seeing things.”

T = 25 seconds.

Jake finally let out a long, shaky breath. He felt Bradley’s hand—huge, warm, and scarred—move tentatively, not to push him off, but to settle on his waist, a grounding anchor. The movement was hesitant, but the weight was solid and reassuring, and Jake instinctively leaned into the contact. His whole body relaxed, betraying months of professional distance.

“Bradley,” Jake whispered, the name rough and unfamiliar on his tongue, used outside of an insult. He was desperate to say something, anything, to break the awful, shared tension. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. This is the worst night of my life, and I kind of love it.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Seresin,” Bradley countered, his voice sounding like sandpaper, a low, intimate rumble against Jake’s ear. He leaned his head forward, burying his chin in Jake’s shoulder, inhaling deeply. “If this was the worst, you’d be fighting me tooth and nail. You’re not fighting at all. You’re fitting perfectly.”

Jake closed his eyes, leaning back heavily against Bradley’s chest. He felt the rapid, frantic beat of Bradley’s heart thudding against his shoulder blades. The proximity was unbearable, erasing every logical thought.

“Good,” Jake muttered, his own internal monologue screaming incoherently. “Because I’m already on fire, and I’m too tired to fight anymore. I just want... peace.”

T = 38 seconds.

The hand on Jake’s waist squeezed, a clear signal of mutual desperation. Bradley’s body shifted again, gently pulling Jake closer, tucking him securely into his space in the hot tub corner.

“I hate that I want you to stay right here,” Bradley confessed, the words a low, painful groan directed into Jake’s ear. It was the deepest, most honest thing he had ever said to Jake. It was the dam breaking. “I hate how you make me feel. Like I can’t breathe when you’re talking, and I can’t function when you’re not.”

Jake’s heart stumbled. He twisted in the hold, rotating his upper body to face Bradley, his legs still awkwardly straddling his lap. He was suddenly eye-to-eye with the man he’d been pining for since they ran into each other on the flight line six years ago. The heat radiating off them was blinding.

“I’m tired of wanting you, Bradshaw,” Jake whispered back, his voice thick with a sudden, devastating vulnerability. All the arrogance, all the snark, was gone. Just raw Jake Seresin. “I’m so tired of fighting you, Roo, because you’re all I think about. Every day. Every briefing. Every flight debrief. I just want to kiss you until I forget every stupid thing I’ve ever said to you, and start over right now.”

T = 45 seconds.

Bradley didn't say another word. He just moved. His control was completely gone, vaporized by the honesty and the overwhelming proximity. He grabbed Jake by the back of the neck and the side of his jaw, closing the final inch between them.

It was fierce, messy, and desperate. This wasn't a gentle introduction; it was a collision. Jake’s lips tasted salty, warm, and utterly right. Bradley devoured the space, his desperation matching Jake’s. All the months of tension—the snide remarks, the competitive glances, the accidental brushes in the hangar—were violently compressed into this one, consuming action.

Jake’s arms shot up, wrapping around Bradley’s neck, pulling him down, deepening the kiss until the water churned around them. He could feel Bradley's hands fisted in his wet hair. It was their first kiss, and it felt like a declaration of war and surrender all at once.

The silence of the other pilots was immediately and spectacularly broken by a sudden mass exodus.

“Oh my GOD! They’re kissing! They’re actually KISSING!” Fanboy shrieked, splashing wildly as he scrambled out. “I told you! I told you it was real! Phoenix, you’re a genius!”

“FINALLY! I can feel again! The emotional constipation is over!” Phoenix cheered, scrambling out of the water with zero grace. She grabbed Coyote’s arm, a feral grin on her face. “Coyote, mission success! We’re leaving! Privacy! Now! Bob, get your medal!”

“I need therapy after watching that,” Payback muttered, half-running, half-sliding toward the cabin door. He was dragging a wide-eyed Bob with him, who looked simultaneously traumatized and vindicated.

“We’ll get you a medal, Bob! You broke the tension! You’re a hero!” Coyote yelled, slamming the heavy cabin door shut behind them.

In less time than it takes to check altitude, the hot tub was empty. Seven pilots had entered; five fled, leaving behind a wake of abandoned beer cans and floating condensation. The heavy cabin door slammed shut, muffling the collective cheers and triumphant laughter.

Inside the dimly lit cabin living room, the five pilots immediately collapsed onto the couch, dripping wet and completely hysterical.

“Did you see his face?” Coyote gasped, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Rooster went from zero to completely short-circuited in ten seconds flat!”

“And Hangman! He didn’t even insult Bob! He just… accepted his fate!” Payback said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Phoenix pulled Bob into a massive hug. “Bob, my friend, you saved us all. Six months of planning, and it took a simple, truthful dare to get them to implode. You deserve a promotion.”

Bob, still catching his breath, squeaked, “I just… I couldn’t take it anymore. I swear, the way they look at each other during morning briefs, it’s like a Shakespearean tragedy written exclusively in stolen glances.”

Fanboy nodded seriously. “The pining was too aggressive. This is a public service. We should start a petition to give them all our remaining drinks.”

“No,” Phoenix declared, reaching for a towel. “We are going to give them exactly one hour, and then we are going to pretend this never happened until they tell us otherwise. But we know. We know.”

Jake and Bradley were alone, the steam and the silence wrapping around them like a protective cocoon.

Bradley slowly pulled back, his forehead resting against Jake’s. He was breathing hard. His eyes, usually guarded and steady, were wide, dazed, and absolutely focused only on Jake.

“Jake,” he breathed, his voice still ragged with shock and desire. “You confessed. I—we… you’re actually here. In my lap. We’re kissing. And the whole squad saw.” He sounded utterly stunned by the reality of the situation.

Jake chuckled, a low, shaky sound of pure relief that vibrated through Bradley’s chest. He tightened his grip around Bradley’s neck, pulling him in for another, slightly more measured, but no less intense kiss.

“Yeah, well, you started it, Bradshaw,” Jake murmured, his thumb brushing over the soft stubble on Bradley’s jaw. “I get dared to sit on your lap for the rest of the night, and then you try to kill me with a kiss? That’s not fair play. I’m going to need compensation for the months of emotional distress you caused me.”

Bradley’s lips curled into a slow, utterly devastating grin—the real one, the one the squadron rarely saw, the one that meant he was completely disarmed. It softened the sharp lines of his face and made his eyes crinkle.

“Maybe I was hoping you’d stop resisting,” Bradley admitted, his voice rough with honesty. He nudged Jake closer, burying his nose in Jake's damp hair. “I was going crazy, Jake. Every time you were within five feet, I couldn't focus. I almost messed up an approach last week thinking about your ridiculous smirk, and how badly I wanted to wipe it off with my mouth.”

“Oh, my smirk is what got you, huh?” Jake challenged softly, leaning in and stealing a soft, possessive peck. “You know, I once almost flew into a flock of geese because I was too busy watching a recording of you walk away from the briefing table. We are truly idiots, Bradley.”

“The biggest,” Bradley agreed, his hand moving up to cup the back of Jake's head, pulling him in close again. “Six months. Six months of pointless fighting just to avoid this. I’m an idiot, Jake. A stubborn, prideful, blind idiot.”

“Takes one to know one, golden boy,” Jake whispered. “Now that the tension is broken, what are the rules of this new game? Because I’m not going back to sitting three feet away from you.”

Bradley’s hands moved from Jake’s hair, settling heavily and firmly on his waist, anchoring him. He adjusted their position slightly, sinking Jake deeper onto his lap until the contact felt less awkward and more intentional, a statement of ownership.

“The rule is,” Bradley said, his voice dropping to a husky rumble that made Jake shiver, “we don’t leave this hot tub until we’ve had a proper conversation about how many months we wasted being idiots, and I get to kiss you at least ten more times to make up for lost time. And then we go inside and tell the rest of the squadron that they owe Bob a lifetime supply of beer.”

Jake smirked, his eyes blazing, a victorious hero finally returning home. “A conversation, huh? Sounds like a dare to me. And I always accept a dare, especially one with that kind of payment plan.”

“Take it,” Bradley challenged, and pulled him in for another kiss, one that promised the beginning of a lifetime of delightful, high-stakes chaos, far warmer than the cold mountain air.

Chapter Text

The evening started innocently enough. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw hadn't planned on being at Jake “Hangman” Seresin’s place past dinner, let alone past midnight. They had been ostensibly reviewing maintenance logs—a joint task forced upon them by Warlock—but it had quickly devolved into Jake making sarcastic comments about the quality of the coffee and Bradley quietly stewing.

It was exactly the kind of tedious, low-stakes evening that defined the fragile détente they’d established post-Dagger Squad. They didn’t hang out; they tolerated each other in close proximity until one of them reached a breaking point. Tonight, the breaking point was apparently the weather.

The rain started as a gentle drumming against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Jake’s minimalist, expensive apartment, located in one of the newer high-rises. Within fifteen minutes, the drumming became a frantic, horizontal blast. The wind howled with a startling, almost personal anger, shaking the glass subtly.

“Sounds like a Cat 3 rolling through,” Jake commented, standing by the window with a glass of whiskey, observing the chaos outside. The streetlights flickered, momentarily plunging the living room into shadow before snapping back on.

Bradley, who had already packed up his laptop, sighed and ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Great. I should get going before the causeway floods.”

He pulled his keys from his pocket and moved toward the door. As he did, a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the entire room, followed immediately by a thunderclap that felt less like a sound and more like a physical pressure wave. The power died, pitching the apartment into total, absolute blackness.

“Whoa,” Bradley muttered, freezing in place.

“Yeah, don’t go anywhere, Bradshaw,” Jake’s voice cut through the dark, closer than Bradley expected. “Wait right there.”

Bradley heard the scrape of a match, and moments later, a single, fat vanilla-scented candle on the coffee table flared to life, casting long, dramatic shadows.

“Well, aren’t you prepared for the apocalypse, Seresin?” Bradley quipped, trying to sound breezy.

“Just prepared for a blackout party, Rooster. Happens twice a year.” Jake took a sip of his drink. “Look, seriously. That wind is nasty, and the rain is a sheet. You saw that lightning. The bridge is definitely shut down or about to be. You try to drive, you’ll end up in the surf.”

Bradley walked back to the window. Even by the dim, moving candlelight, he could see debris flying past and water pooling rapidly in the street below. He checked his phone. No signal. He sighed, deflated. Jake was right. The stubborn part of him hated it, but the part that valued his life had to concede.

“Fine,” Bradley grumbled. “I’ll crash on your couch, if you even own one that isn't made of solid chrome.”

Jake smirked, a sliver of white teeth visible in the candlelight. He leaned against the window frame, the casual ease in his posture a sharp contrast to the storm’s intensity.

“Stay with me, Rooster,” he said, and the words, stripped of their usual sarcasm, sounded surprisingly genuine. “The couch is leather, and it’s the worst night you’ll ever try to sleep on one. You’ll slide off and break your neck. You can have the bed.” He paused, then added, trying to sound casual, “It’s queen-sized. We’ll be fine.”

The offer hung in the air, heavy and thick, like the humidity outside. Bradley’s stomach flipped. The unspoken subtext—one bed, close quarters, no escape—was deafening.

“Hangman, I—I appreciate it, but that’s really not necessary.”

Jake scoffed. “Oh, come on, Bradshaw. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly concerned about the appearance of impropriety. We shower ten feet apart in the hangar locker room. We’ve been in a two-seater fighter jet together with less personal space than a pair of goldfish. It’s sleeping. We’re adults. We'll be on opposite sides of the Mississippi. No big deal.”

Bradley knew it was a big deal. Every interaction between them was a carefully maintained boundary, a verbal minefield designed to keep their complicated history and even more complicated current dynamic at arm’s length. To share a bed felt like handing Jake a shovel and permission to dig up every buried feeling Bradley pretended didn't exist.

But the storm outside screamed its refusal.

“Fine,” Bradley capitulated, swallowing hard. “But I take the wall.”

Jake found an old t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts for Bradley, both mercifully oversized. They both went to the small, attached bathroom one after the other, brushing their teeth with a shared tube of toothpaste and avoiding eye contact. The storm continued to rage, providing a terrifying soundtrack to their mundane preparations.

The bedroom was surprisingly plain compared to the rest of the apartment—no chrome, no flashy décor, just deep blue walls and a massive, plush bed that looked entirely too inviting. It certainly looked bigger than a queen, but Bradley didn't feel like arguing semantics.

“I’m warning you now, Seresin, I thrash. A lot,” Bradley announced, stripping down to the provided shorts.

Jake, already stretched out on the far right edge of the mattress, resting his head on his hand, simply smiled his infuriating, lazy smile. “Good. Maybe you’ll finally stop being so uptight. Just don’t kick me in the face, Rooster. My money maker.”

Bradley ignored the jab and approached the bed with the reverence one might approach a live grenade. He pulled the thick comforter up and climbed in on the absolute farthest edge of the left side.

He could feel the warmth radiating from Jake’s body, a subtle heat that was immediately swallowed by the cold air of the room. He positioned himself perfectly straight, rigid, his back to Jake. He might as well have been lying on a slab of stone.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. This is fine. This is purely platonic. This is for survival.

Between them lay the great, vast chasm of shared space. It was a no-man’s-land, a demilitarized zone the size of three feet, yet it felt like a football field. Bradley focused on the faint sound of the rain, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the ceiling, anything but the presence of the man behind him.

Jake, sensing the palpable tension, broke the silence. “Relax, Bradshaw. I’m not going to bite.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Bradley muttered, keeping his voice low.

“Oh, you wound me,” Jake chuckled softly. “I just want to survive the night without falling off my own mattress. You’re the one acting like you’re sharing a hammock with a scorpion.”

“I’d rather share a hammock with a scorpion. At least I know its intentions.”

“Ouch. Too easy, Rooster. Now go to sleep.”

The conversation ended, but the tension didn't. They were close enough for Bradley to register the faint scent of Jake’s body wash—something clean and sharp, like sandalwood and sea air. It was a scent that didn’t belong in a war zone, but definitely belonged in his expensive apartment.

Bradley closed his eyes, fighting the urge to shift, to turn, to seek the center of the bed where comfort actually lived. He stayed fixed on the edge, one foot practically dangling over the side, willing himself into unconsciousness. The storm’s roaring was a persistent, aggressive sound, making sleep feel like a distant luxury.

Hours passed. The storm, if anything, grew worse. The wind sounded like an enraged beast trying to claw its way through the walls. Bradley, already tense, began to shiver. The comforter, wide enough for both of them, seemed to lose all its insulating properties when stretched thin across two rigidly separate bodies.

He was cold. Miserably, bone-deep cold, and the anxiety of being in Jake’s space wasn't helping.

Sometime around 3 AM, a truly violent gust of wind hit the apartment. It was accompanied by the sound of something large and heavy—likely a tree branch—snapping and crashing somewhere close by.

Bradley flinched, a full-body jump, and inhaled sharply. His self-imposed rigid posture shattered instantly. He curled in on himself, instinctively retreating from the sound and the cold.

The movement was tiny, perhaps only an inch, but it breached the demilitarized zone. His shoulder bumped something solid and warm.

Jake was still. Bradley held his breath, mortified, waiting for the inevitable mocking comment.

Silence. The only sounds were the persistent whoosh of the storm and the pounding of Bradley’s heart.

Jake hadn't moved. He was just a warm, solid wall.

It was the cold that won. It was always the cold. The side of the bed that Jake occupied was a haven of collected body heat, and Bradley’s internal thermostat was screaming for relief. Subconsciously, driven by instinct and exhaustion, his body made a series of micro-adjustments.

First, his knees bent, drawing up slightly. Then, his feet slid a fraction of an inch closer to the heat source. The gap between them narrowed, from three feet to two, then to one.

When Bradley finally allowed his eyes to flutter open briefly, he realized that the space separating them had completely vanished. He was spooning the air, and Jake’s back was now less than six inches away.

Okay. Still fine. Still on my side. No contact. He shut his eyes again, burying his face in the pillow, inhaling the same sandalwood-and-sea-air scent, trying to convince himself it was just the room.

But bodies, it turns out, are smarter than aviators. They seek survival and comfort, regardless of social codes or deeply repressed feelings.

A few minutes later, Jake shifted slightly. It was a slow, deliberate movement, accompanied by a small, sleepy groan. He rolled onto his back, then, with the deep, unconscious seeking of warmth, rolled further onto his left side, facing Bradley.

Now they were close. Close enough that Bradley could feel Jake’s breath, warm and soft, ghosting over the back of his neck.

Bradley’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Move! Move back! Say something!

But he couldn’t. He was too tired, too warm, and too acutely aware of the storm’s fury outside. The darkness and the sound made the small, shared warmth of the bed feel like the safest place in the world. He remained frozen, his back pressed against the subtle, comforting heat of Jake’s chest.

Another hour crawled by. Bradley had finally drifted into a shallow sleep. As he slept, he allowed the final, defensive barriers to fall. He unconsciously shifted further back, settling his rigid frame perfectly against the soft curve of Jake’s.

In his sleep, Jake responded, moving his arm. Not in a deliberate, waking gesture, but in the purely automatic way a person secures something warm and comforting against the cold.

Jake’s arm came to rest across Bradley’s waist.

Bradley’s breath hitched in his sleep. His leg—the one that had been dangling near the edge—bent and hooked over Jake’s ankle.

They were tangled. They were warm. They were secure against the indifferent fury of the storm, curled around each other like two life-long partners who knew exactly how the other person fit.

The storm passed sometime before dawn. It didn't sneak away; it was simply there one moment and gone the next, replaced by an unnerving, heavy silence.

The first thing Bradley registered when he woke up was the weight.

It wasn't an unpleasant weight, which was immediately a problem. It was a solid, reassuring pressure across his middle. He felt impossibly warm and strangely relaxed, a deep, bone-weary contentment he hadn't experienced since he was a kid and his dad used to sneak in to check on him.

The second thing he registered was the scent: sandalwood, sea air, and man.

He opened his eyes slowly. The room was bathed in the pale, silver-blue light of a post-storm morning. The silence felt enormous.

And then, the panic hit.

Bradley blinked, trying to process the impossible truth of the situation. He wasn't on the edge of the bed. He was firmly pressed against the center.

A heavy, strong arm was thrown across his abdomen, holding him fast. A muscular leg was draped over his, the crook of Jake’s knee resting right behind his own. His face was buried in the pillow, but his neck was turned just enough that he could see the expanse of Jake’s chest—bare, save for the collar of the t-shirt he was wearing—rising and falling in an even, deep rhythm.

Jake was still asleep. His face, usually set in a smirk or a look of arrogant confidence, was slack and peaceful. His hair was tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead. He looked younger, softer, and utterly, dangerously accessible.

They were tangled, warm, and absolutely, unequivocally spooning.

Bradley froze, every muscle in his body seizing up. He couldn't move without waking Jake, and he couldn't bear the thought of Jake waking up, looking down, and seeing this. The sheer, mortifying intimacy of it was a punch to the gut. The casualness with which they had somehow, unconsciously, ended up in this position was far more damning than any deliberate choice.

It meant that even in their sleep, they sought each other out.

A wave of heat—not just physical, but humiliatingly emotional—rushed over Bradley’s face. He knew he was blushing scarlet.

He needed to escape. Now.

He began the slow, agonizing process of extraction. He subtly pushed his hips forward, trying to ease the pressure of Jake’s arm. The arm was heavier than it looked, a dead weight of muscle. As he pulled away, Jake shifted, his grip tightening fractionally, letting out a soft, sleepy murmur.

Oh God, he’s going to wake up.

With a sudden burst of panicked strength, Bradley shoved himself forward, scrambling out from under the arm. The movement caused the bed to rock and the pillows to shift.

Jake's eyes snapped open.

He blinked once, twice, his sleepy, confused gaze traveling from the ceiling, to the silver light, and finally, down to the space where his arm had been resting. He followed the line of his own arm until his eyes landed on Bradley, who was now sitting bolt upright on the far edge of the bed, knees drawn up, looking like he’d just been zapped with a cattle prod.

Jake’s handsome face morphed through several distinct stages of realization: confusion, drowsiness, and then, mirroring Bradley's own internal catastrophe, utter, spectacular PANIC.

His eyes went wide. He retracted his arm as if it had just been burned, yanking it back to clutch the comforter to his chest. He looked down at his torso, confirming the t-shirt, and then back to Bradley.

“W-what the hell?” Jake stammered, his morning voice a low, gravelly rasp.

“Nothing!” Bradley whispered fiercely, even though there was no one else to hear. “Absolutely nothing! The storm—I—I must have rolled over, you know, thrashed, like I warned you!”

Jake’s eyes, still wide with shock, scanned the now-vast gulf between them. He saw the imprint of Bradley’s head on the pillow right next to his, the place where two bodies had been pressed together for hours.

“You didn’t thrash, Bradshaw,” Jake whispered back, his voice equally strained. “You cuddled.”

“I do not cuddle!”

“Well, someone was playing koala bear with my left flank all night, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the ceiling fan.” Jake ran a hand through his hair, sitting up rigidly now, mirroring Bradley’s position. The easy, comfortable warmth of the shared sleep was gone, replaced by a charged, awkward electric field.

“Look,” Bradley said, his voice dropping slightly. “It was the cold. It was the storm. It was completely unconscious, and it never happened. We are professionals. We are going to go get coffee, we are going to look at the cleared road, and we are going to forget this entire night ever occurred. Got it?”

Jake stared at him for a long, silent moment, the handsome mask of arrogance firmly back in place, but with a slight, almost imperceptible shake to his hand as he adjusted the sheet.

“Got it, Rooster,” Jake finally agreed, a familiar, teasing drawl returning, but lacking its usual bite. “Just try not to miss me too much when you’re freezing on your own side of the chasm tonight.”

Bradley threw his legs over the side of the bed and made a beeline for his older clothes, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and the undeniable warmth of Jake Seresin’s bed. He knew he was missing the point entirely, and that this accidental, deeply comfortable entanglement was something they’d both be processing for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

The air in the Hard Deck, usually thick with the easy camaraderie of pilots and the scent of stale beer, turned brittle. The sudden tension was a physical thing, a cold front that swept through the room, making the hairs on the back of Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw’s neck stand up. He’d been laughing at something Bob said, his hand a warm, comfortable weight on Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin’s lower back, when he felt Jake go rigid beside him.
His gaze followed Jake’s, landing on a man leaning against the bar. He was all sharp angles and expensive casualwear that tried too hard, a slick smile on his face that didn't reach his cold eyes. Ethan.
Rooster’s protective instincts, always simmering just beneath the surface where Jake was concerned, flared to life. He didn’t need the dossier; the way Jake’s mask of cool indifference had slipped into something darker, something genuinely unsettled, told him everything.
The man pushed off the bar and sauntered over, his eyes glued to Jake. “Jake Seresin. Still the prettiest face in any room.” His voice was like oil.
“Ethan,” Jake said, his tone flat, a warning in itself. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I get around.” Ethan’s gaze flicked dismissively over Rooster, not even seeing him as a threat. “Heard you were stationed out here. Thought I’d see if the old times were still… good times. You were always so ready to please.”
The words were a bucket of ice water. Rooster’s body moved before his brain could catch up, his chair scraping loudly as he started to rise. A hand, firm and familiar, clamped down on his bicep. Jake’s grip was iron. “Bradley, don’t,” he murmured, low and urgent.
But the damage was done. The entire Dagger squad had caught the venom in the exchange. The easy laughter at their table died. Natasha ‘Phoenix’ Trace’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Looks like the good times are over,” she stated, her voice cutting through the bar’s noise. “The lady said he wasn’t interested.”
Ethan had the audacity to laugh. “The lady? Is that what we’re calling him now? Come on, Jake. You and I both know what this is.” He gestured vaguely at Rooster. “You’re just with him ‘cause he looks good on your arm. A handsome distraction. But it’s all surface, isn’t it? Underneath, you’re still the same desperate boy, so eager to be fucked that you’d—”
The world tunneled. A red haze descended over Rooster’s vision. The insult to Jake, the reduction of their four months of whispered secrets, of hard-won trust, of deep, abiding love to something so cheap and tawdry—it snapped something fundamental inside him. He was on his feet in an instant, Jake’s grip the only thing holding him back from launching himself across the table.
“You son of a bitch—” Rooster growled, the sound raw and animalistic.
Suddenly, Javy ‘Coyote’ Machado was there too, a solid wall of muscle wedging himself between Rooster and the threat, his own body trembling with the effort of restraint. “He’s not worth it, Roo! He’s not worth your wings!” Javy gritted out, but his eyes were burning with a fury directed entirely at Ethan.
The rest of the squad closed ranks. Fanboy and Payback stood in unison, their usual playful banter replaced by twin glares that could melt steel. Bob, quiet, unassuming Bob, pushed his glasses up his nose and said, with a chilling calmness, “I believe you were asked to leave. It’s the polite thing to do.”
Ethan, finally realizing the hornet’s nest he’d kicked, took a step back, his smug confidence cracking. He was surrounded by a squadron of the military’s most elite fighters, every single one of them looking at him like he was a stain on the floor.
Jake’s voice, cold and sharp as a dagger, finished it. “You need to walk away, Ethan. Right now. You don’t know me. You never did. And you definitely don’t know us.”
The finality in his tone, the united front of pure, unadulterated protection, was too much. Ethan’s face paled. Muttering a weak curse, he turned and practically fled into the night, the door swinging shut behind him with a definitive thud.
The silence he left behind was louder than the music. Rooster’s chest was heaving, his fists still clenched. He felt a gentle touch on his jaw, pulling his focus downward.
Jake was looking up at him, the storm in his green eyes replaced by something awed and tender. “Bradley,” he whispered, his thumb stroking the tense muscle along Rooster’s jawline. “Jesus, Bradley.”
The adrenaline crashing out of Rooster left him feeling hollow, then immediately full to bursting with a different, more potent energy. The need to protect, to claim, to reassure. He cupped Jake’s face, his large hands framing that perfect, beloved face. “You okay?” he breathed, his voice rough.
Jake just nodded, leaning into the touch, his eyes never leaving Rooster’s. The message was clear. Get me out of here.
Without another word, Rooster nodded. He tossed a handful of bills onto the table, a silent thank you to his squad. A network of understanding passed between them all—a look, a nod. They had his six, always.
The drive back to their apartment was charged, silent but for the roar of the engine and the frantic beating of Rooster’s heart. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around Jake’s, their fingers interlaced like a lifeline.
They barely made it through the front door before the dam broke. Rooster kicked it shut and pinned Jake against it, his body caging him in, not with aggression, but with a overwhelming sense of rightness.
“Tell me you know,” Rooster murmured, his lips inches from Jake’s, his breath ghosting over his skin. “Tell me you know you’re everything. That it’s never been about that with us.”
Jake’s answer was a soft, desperate sound as he surged forward, capturing Rooster’s mouth in a searing kiss. It wasn’t their usual playful banter translated into physicality; it was raw, soul-deep, and drenched in the adrenaline and emotion of the night. It was an affirmation.
Rooster kissed him back with equal fervor, one hand tangling in the blond hair at the nape of Jake’s neck, the other splaying across his lower back, pulling their bodies flush together. He could feel the frantic thrum of Jake’s heartbeat against his own chest, a wild rhythm that matched his own.
They stumbled through the dark living room, a tangled mess of hungry mouths and seeking hands, shedding jackets and shirts that fell forgotten to the floor. Rooster guided them backward until his knees hit the edge of their bed, and they tumbled onto the soft comforter.
Rooster hovered over him, drinking in the sight. Jake’s lips were already kiss-swollen, his chest flushed, his eyes dark with a need that went far beyond the physical. Rooster lowered his head, abandoning his mouth to trail a line of open-mouthed kisses down the column of Jake’s throat, feeling the vibration of his gasp beneath his lips.
He worshipped the familiar terrain of Jake’s body with his mouth—the firm line of his collarbone, the smooth plane of his chest, the taut muscles of his stomach—each kiss a silent promise, a wordless rebuttal to every ugly thing Ethan had said. You are loved. You are respected. You are mine in every way that matters.
Jake arched into the touch, his hands gripping Rooster’s shoulders, his breathing reduced to ragged pants. “Bradley…” he choked out, the word a plea and a prayer.
Rooster looked up, his own desire a near-painful ache, but he held himself still, needing to see Jake’s eyes. Needing him to understand. The air crackled between them, thick with unsaid words and the promise of what was to come.
Jake’s hand came up, his fingers gently tracing the lines of Rooster’s face, his touch reverent. His voice was a husky whisper, filled with a vulnerability he reserved for this man, and this man alone.
The knock was sharp, insistent. A stark, unwelcome punctuation to the humid silence of the room.
Rooster froze, his lips a breath away from the sensitive skin just below Jake’s ear. A low, frustrated growl rumbled in his chest. So close. They were so close to washing the last of Ethan’s poison away with the sweat and heat of their own bodies.
Jake’s eyes, which had been heavy-lidded with desire, snapped open, instantly alert. The spell was broken. His hand, which had been clutching Rooster’s shoulder, loosened its grip. “Who the hell is that?” he whispered, his voice rough.
The knocking came again, louder this time. “Roo? Jake? You guys decent?” It was Javy’s voice, laced with a concern that was impossible to ignore.
Rooster squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting the twin urges of sheer frustration and ingrained loyalty. His squad was here. They’d had his back at the bar, and they had it now, checking in. He couldn’t shut them out.
With a final, lingering press of his forehead against Jake’s, he pushed himself up. “It’s Coyote,” he said, his voice still thick with a different kind of need. He grabbed his discarded t-shirt from the floor and pulled it on, not bothering to smooth it down. Jake sat up, running a hand through his thoroughly disheveled hair, his own shirt still lying forgotten by the door.
Rooster yanked the apartment door open to reveal not just Javy, but the entire damned Dagger squad crammed into his hallway. Phoenix stood front and center, her arms crossed, a six-pack of expensive beer dangling from one hand like a peace offering. Fanboy and Payback flanked her, their usual playful energy replaced by a simmering, protective vigilance. Bob hovered just behind them, looking uncharacteristically grim.
“We brought booze,” Phoenix announced, her sharp eyes doing a quick, assessing sweep of Rooster’s disheveled state, then peering past him into the dim apartment to where Jake was now standing by the bed. “And we’re not leaving until we know you two idiots are okay.”
“We’re fine,” Rooster said, the words coming out far more clipped than he intended. He stepped back, a silent invitation. The group filed in, their presence immediately making the small living room feel claustrophobic.
Jake had pulled his shirt on but hadn’t buttoned it, the fabric hanging open to reveal the flush still high on his chest. He leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom, a picture of forced nonchalance that didn’t reach his eyes. “To what do we owe the honor of a full squadron deployment?” he drawled, but the usual smug edge was absent, replaced by a weary tension.
“Cut the crap, Bagman,” Javy said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. He tossed the six-pack onto the small kitchen table and turned to face them both. “That was some serious shit back there. We weren’t just gonna go home and watch TV after that.”
“The guy was a piece of work,” Payback added, his broad shoulders tense. “Never seen someone so eager to have his teeth knocked in.”
“Statistically, his behavior suggests a profound insecurity and a need to demean others to elevate his own fragile self-worth,” Bob stated matter-of-factly, adjusting his glasses. “But the clinical terms don’t make what he said any less vile.”
There was a heavy pause. The unspoken question hung in the air between them all. Fanboy, unable to bear the silence, blurted out, “Are you guys… you know… okay okay?”
Rooster looked at Jake. Really looked at him. The bravado was a shield, thin and cracking at the edges. He could see the lingering hurt in the tightness around his mouth, the faint shadow of humiliation in his gaze. Ethan’s words had found their mark, digging into old wounds Jake thought had long since healed.
He’s not okay.
The realization was a cold splash of water, dousing the last of Rooster’s carnal frustration. The need to protect, to shield, surged back to the forefront, stronger and more vital than any physical desire.
He crossed the room in three long strides, ignoring their audience. He stopped in front of Jake, cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. The room fell completely silent.
“Look at me,” Rooster murmured, his voice low and intense, for Jake’s ears only, yet heard by everyone. “That bastard doesn’t get to have a single piece of you. Not a memory, not a thought. Nothing. He’s noise.” He stroked his thumbs over Jake’s cheekbones. “You hear me? You are the best damn thing that has ever happened to me. It’s not about looks. It’s not about what happens in this bedroom. It’s about you. All of you. The pilot who has my wing without question. The man who drives me insane and centers me all at once. That’s what he can never understand.”
Jake’s breath hitched. The carefully constructed mask finally shattered, and for a breathtaking second, raw, unguarded emotion shone through—vulnerability, love, and a deep, grateful relief. He leaned into Rooster’s touch, his own hand coming up to cover Rooster’s. God, he’s beautiful like this, Rooster thought, all his defenses down, just pure, trusting feeling.
From the doorway, Phoenix let out a soft sigh. “Well, damn.”
“Told you they were solid,” Javy murmured, a note of proud satisfaction in his voice.
Rooster didn’t turn around. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him. He leaned in, pressing a firm, possessive kiss to Jake’s forehead, a silent seal on his words.
When he pulled back, Jake’s eyes were closed. He took a deep, steadying breath, and when he opened them, the vulnerability was receding, replaced by a warm, shaky affection. He glanced past Rooster’s shoulder at their friends. “You all are a bunch of mother hens, you know that?”
“Your mother hens,” Fanboy retorted with a grin, the tension in the room finally breaking. “Now, are we cracking open these beers or what? I need a drink after watching that Hallmark moment.”
The group began to move, fanning out into the living room, giving them a semblance of privacy. Rooster kept his hand on the back of Jake’s neck, a steady, grounding pressure.
Jake looked up at him, a real, if slightly tired, smile touching his lips. “You really meant all that, Bradshaw?”
“Every word,” Rooster said, his voice barely a whisper. He dipped his head, his lips brushing against Jake’s in a promise of what they would continue later. It was soft, lingering, and full of a tenderness that made Jake’s knees feel weak.
But at that moment he knew that if he every fell, he would get up. Just because of the people who surrounded him right now, the people how truely respect him and care for him. The people who truely love him.

Chapter Text

It started because Bradley Bradshaw had no concept of personal space.

Or—fine, Jake corrected himself—maybe it started because the flight harness forced everyone into each other’s orbit. Thick straps over their shoulders, buckles across their chests, metal rings perfectly placed at the collarbone…

Rings that were meant for steadying a pilot in turbulence.

Not for yanking someone closer.

Definitely not for what Jake Seresin was currently using Rooster’s for.

But here they were.

THE LOCKER ROOM — 10 MINUTES AFTER TRAINING

Everyone else had filtered out. Towels snapping, jokes thrown, the usual chaos fading until only two pilots remained.

Jake didn’t mean to stay behind. He didn’t mean to linger by his locker.
He definitely didn’t mean to watch Rooster in his harness like a starved man.

But God.
Rooster in a flight harness? With sweat still clinging to his neck? With his hair a mess from the helmet?

It was unfair. Actually criminal.

Bradley was talking—saying something snarky, probably—but Jake heard none of it because Rooster reached up to unclip one strap, and the harness pulled tight across his chest—

—and Jake completely short-circuited.

Rooster smirked.
“You listening, Bagman?”

“Not when you’re—” Jake gestured helplessly at…the entirety of Bradley. “—that.”

Rooster blinked once. Twice.

Then his smirk deepened. “This?”

He tugged on the harness strap, making the buckle slide and tighten even more.
Jake’s brain turned into static.

“Don’t do that,” Jake said, voice low.

“You mean this?” Rooster tugged again just to be a menace.

Jake snapped.

He crossed the space between them in four long strides, grabbed the front metal ring of Rooster’s harness, and yanked him forward.

Rooster’s breath hitched—hitched.
“You—uh—what are you—”

Jake stared right into those brown eyes, inches away.
“You can’t do that and expect me to stay normal.”

“We’re—we’re not dating,” Rooster said weakly.
Like he half-believed it.
Like part of him wished it weren’t true.

Jake tugged again, slow this time. Testing.
Rooster stumbled one tiny step into him, harness clinking.

Their chests brushed.

Rooster inhaled too sharply.
Jake swallowed too hard.

“Bradley,” Jake murmured. “Tell me to let go.”

Rooster didn’t.

Instead, his hands came up and grabbed Jake’s harness.

Using it the same way.

Pulling him closer.

Harness rings clicked between them.

“This is bad,” Rooster whispered, eyes dropping to Jake’s mouth for half a second too long.

Jake’s voice was barely there. “This is very, very bad.”

“Because we should not—” Rooster’s breath hit Jake’s.
“—be doing this.”

“Then stop me,” Jake whispered.

Rooster didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t break eye contact.

Jake tugged Rooster forward one inch.

Rooster tugged him back the same inch.

They met in the middle.

Shoulders touching.

Breaths mixing.

Harnesses pressing together so tight the metal rang faintly between them.

“Jesus,” Rooster whispered. “Why does this feel like—”

“Foreplay?” Jake offered.

Rooster’s exhale was a shaky laugh.
“A little.”

Jake’s eyes dropped to Rooster’s mouth—just for a beat.

Rooster saw.

Rooster felt it.

“Oh,” he breathed. “So that’s…that’s where we are.”

Jake nodded once, tiny. “Yeah.”

They both leaned in at the same time—

—and stopped a millimeter away.

Hovering.

Not kissing.

Not yet.

Harnesses locked together like a damn docking mechanism.

Jake felt Rooster’s hand slide behind his neck, fingers curling around the back strap.

Rooster felt Jake’s hand fist the front ring over his heart.

One more pull.
One more breath.

One more—

The locker room door SLAMMED open.

“HEY—” Phoenix shouted. Then froze. “Oh my god.”

They jumped apart so fast their harness rings clanged like church bells.

Phoenix stared at them.
Then at the harnesses.
Then at the distance between them—which wasn’t enough.

“Oh, you two are unbelievable,” she said, grabbing her bag. “Harnesses are for safety, not—whatever that was.”

Rooster cleared his throat violently. Jake pretended to adjust his straps even though everyone knew he was lying.

Phoenix walked out, muttering,
“I’m telling the others. This is too funny.”

When she was gone, silence settled again.

Rooster turned back to Jake.

Jake turned back to Rooster.

“Same time tomorrow?” Rooster asked softly, eyes flicking to the ring on Jake’s harness again.

Jake grinned, slow and lethal.
“I’ll bring the harness.”

Rooster stepped in again. Close. Too close.
“This isn’t over.”

“Not even a little.”

Their foreheads touched.

Their lips almost did.

Almost.

Because they weren’t done torturing each other yet.

Chapter Text

Jake Seresin didn’t consider himself insecure.
Or—well—he didn’t let anyone see he was insecure.

He had the reputation: smug, sharp, invincible, annoyingly perfect.
But on the inside?
Jake could fall apart over the smallest things, like a badly tied knot just waiting for someone to pull.

And Bradley Bradshaw never pulled.
He always held the knot gently, softened it, untangled it without Jake even noticing.

It happened every day in ways no one else understood.

Like the haircut.

Jake walked into the Hard Deck that night feeling like a walking disaster. His barber had gone a little too short at the sides, and Jake was convinced—fully convinced—that he looked like a minor side character who died forty minutes into a war movie. Not even the hot one. The one whose name no one remembers.

He kept tugging at the ends of his hair, pretending it was fine, pretending no one noticed, pretending Bradley wouldn’t—

Bradley noticed. Of course he did.

Rooster slid up beside him at the bar, eyes warm and far too observant for Jake’s comfort. “New haircut?” he asked, voice soft and teasing.

Jake tried to smirk. “Yeah. You gonna roast me or kiss me?”

Bradley tilted his head, pretending to consider.
Then: “You look like an extra from Hacksaw Ridge, darling.”

Jake froze.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He knew it. He knew he looked like shit—

Bradley reached up before Jake could spiral too deep and ran his fingers through the short strands, rubbing the back of Jake’s neck the way he always did when he didn’t want Jake to bolt.

“But a cute extra,” Bradley added gently. “Like unfairly cute.”

Jake blinked.

Bradley’s hand stayed in his hair. “Softer than usual,” he murmured. “Makes me want to keep touching you.”

Jake’s heartbeat settled. Just like that. Like Bradley had pressed a reset button inside him he didn’t know existed.

It happened again two weeks later.

Pub quiz. The dagger squad. Jake had gotten every question right so far—obviously—and then one stupid one tripped him up.

“What’s the tallest mountain in South America?” Penny read off.

Jake opened his mouth, said the wrong thing, and the second it left his lips he knew. He hadn’t even finished the word before shame slammed into him like a missile.

He was dumb. Dumb as hell. He could land a jet in a storm but he couldn’t name a mountain. Why did Bradley even—

Bradley, meanwhile, was completely unfazed.
Mostly because two rounds later he confidently announced:

“The capital of Canada is Quebec!”

The entire table groaned.

Phoenix threw a pretzel at him.
Bob whispered, “It’s Ottawa,” like a heartbroken parent.
Coyote facepalmed.

Bradley’s cheeks went tomato-red.
And then—because Bradley Bradshaw was Bradley Bradshaw—he hid his face against Jake’s shoulder and groaned dramatically.

Jake forgot he’d ever been upset.

“You embarrassed?” Jake whispered, stunned that Bradley could even be embarrassed.

“Don’t,” Bradley mumbled into his shoulder. “Don’t look at me.”

Jake laughed helplessly. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, sweetheart.”

Bradley peeked up, eyes crinkling. “See? I get things wrong too.”

And Jake melted. Completely.

Then there were the weeks Jake spent with his family.

He gained a few pounds.
And by the time his plane landed he was convinced Bradley wouldn’t even want to touch him. That he’d gone soft, that he wasn’t the Jake Bradley wanted, that he looked wrong and heavy and—

Bradley saw him coming through the airport crowd and stopped dead.

Stopped, stared, took him in slowly from head to toe.

Jake braced himself.

Then Bradley’s eyes widened.

“Did you buy new sweatpants?” he asked, stepping forward.

Jake blinked. “What—no? These are the usual ones.”

Bradley leaned in, voice warm and low. “Your ass looks really fucking good in them.”

Jake’s brain short-circuited.

Then Bradley hugged him like he’d been gone for a year, not three weeks, hands sliding boldly—deliberately—over Jake’s hips, down to his ass, squeezing once, hard enough to make Jake choke.

“Missed you,” Bradley murmured against his throat. “Missed all of you.”

Jake didn’t think about his weight again for the rest of the trip.

And then there was the steak.

Jake loved barbecuing. The Daggers always said he was born to cook meat over fire while wearing flip-flops and sunglasses at dusk.

But one night, he got too into arguing with Payback and left a steak too long on the grill. Burned it. Ruined it.

He was done for.
A terrible partner.
Useless.
Couldn’t even cook one damn thing right.

Jake’s lungs tightened, panic rising from nowhere, sharp and blinding. He almost threw the whole thing away.

Bradley caught his wrist gently. “Hey. That’s mine.”

Jake stared at him in disbelief. “It’s ruined.”

Bradley shrugged. “Nope.”

“You can’t eat that.”

“I can and I will.”

Jake gaped at him. “You’re insane.”

Bradley smiled and took the plate. “Nope. I just grew up with Mav burning everything and Ice pretending he knew what he was doing. This tastes like childhood.” He grabbed mustard. “Trust me.”

Jake could only watch, stunned and dangerously close to emotional, as Bradley happily ate the whole thing.

Every bite healing something Jake didn’t even realize hurt.

Jake didn’t know how Bradley always knew the exact thing to say.
How he always soothed the exact wound Jake tried so hard to hide, the ones buried under layers of bravado and arrogance and practiced swagger.

Bradley would never say it, but it wasn’t luck.

He simply knew Jake—down to every twitch of his mouth, every shift in his shoulders, every unsteady breath.

He knew the face Jake made right before spiraling.
He knew the silence Jake used as a shield.
He knew when Jake was about to panic, and he stepped in quietly, seamlessly, gently.

The rest of the world saw Hangman.
Bradley saw Jake.

And Jake didn’t understand how love could feel like being seen—completely, painfully, beautifully—but he lived for it.

One night, curled up on the couch, Jake finally whispered into Bradley’s neck, “How do you always know exactly what to do?”

Bradley ran his hand through Jake’s hair and kissed his forehead.
“Because I pay attention.”

Jake swallowed hard, chest too tight to speak.

“And because I love you,” Bradley added softly.

Jake closed his eyes, breathing him in, letting those words settle in all the places he’d once convinced himself no one could ever reach.

He squeezed Bradley’s waist. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I love you too.”

He didn’t say thank you.
He didn’t have to.

Bradley already knew.

Chapter Text

The locker room was quiet in the way only post-flight exhaustion made it — half the Daggers already showered, half sprawled across benches, and the lingering smell of sweat, jet fuel, and cheap soap hanging in the air. Rooster was leaning against a row of lockers, towel around his neck, damp hair pushed back, flipping lazily through his post-flight report. His shirt was still off, dog tags catching the fluorescent lights, sweat drying on his collarbones.

Jake Seresin pretended — for the sake of his own sanity — that he wasn’t noticing any of that.

He was failing.

Jake was trying to lace up his boots. It should have been easy. He’d done it ten thousand times. But today? Today Rooster was three lockers away, humming under his breath, looking unfairly good for someone who’d been slammed through G-forces an hour ago, and Jake’s hands kept fumbling like he’d forgotten how fingers worked.

Phoenix noticed immediately.

Of course she did.

She passed behind Jake, smacked him on the shoulder, and muttered, “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not,” Jake shot back, too fast.

“You’re breathing in sync with him,” she said. “It’s weird. Get it together, Seresin.”

She left him there, flustered, boots still untied.

And Rooster?
Rooster hadn’t even looked up — until he did. Slow, deliberate, his eyes drifting over Jake like he could feel the attention even when he wasn’t facing it.

Jake froze.

Rooster tilted his head. “You good over there?”

“Great,” Jake managed, voice a half octave too high. “Perfect. Never better.”

“Yeah?” Rooster stepped closer. “’Cause you look like you’re losing a fight with your boot.”

Jake scowled. “It’s fine.”

Rooster didn’t believe him. Not even a little.

He crossed the short distance between them — too casual, too confident, too obliviously hot — and suddenly Jake had a six-foot wall of damp heat standing in his personal space. Rooster braced one hand against the locker beside Jake’s head, the way someone might if they weren’t aware that the move made Jake’s entire nervous system light up like the Fourth of July.

“Need help?” Rooster asked, voice low, teasing, soft enough to sound accidental, but Rooster never said anything accidental around Jake.

“I don’t need your help,” Jake muttered, staring very hard at the floor.

Rooster didn’t move.

Jake could feel the warmth rolling off him, smell the salt of his skin, hear the faint rhythm of his breath. He could swear he felt Rooster’s chest almost brush his arm — not touching, just threatening to.

And Rooster… Rooster knew it.

Jake swallowed. “You’re in my space.”

Rooster smiled, slow and dangerous. “Just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“If you’d look at me.” The words were uncomfortably honest.

Jake did look.
And regretted it instantly.

Rooster was close — too close — his hazel eyes warm and amused, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Jake’s breath hitched.

Rooster’s gaze flicked down, just briefly, to Jake’s lips.

Jake forgot how to exist.

Rooster leaned in just half an inch more, enough that Jake could feel the whisper of his breath against his cheek. “Tell me something, Seresin…”

Jake didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His whole body felt like a live wire.

Rooster’s voice dropped, smooth and sweet and lethal at the same time.

“If I leaned in just a little closer…”
His nose brushed Jake’s cheekbone. Not touching — not really — but so damn close Jake swayed.

“…would you be able to concentrate…”
Jake’s heart punched his ribs, hard.

“…or is that too much of a temptation?”

Jake’s brain short-circuited. He inhaled sharply, pulse skyrocketing, every inch of him painfully aware of the one-inch gap between their mouths.

Rooster smiled like he’d just won a war.

Jake’s jaw clenched. “You—”

Rooster lifted a brow. “Yeah?”

“You can’t just say shit like that,” Jake whispered, voice cracking.

“Why not?” Rooster murmured. “You always act like you can handle it.”

Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
Nothing came out except a soft, helpless sound that should have embarrassed him but only made Rooster’s smirk deepen.

Jake forced himself to breathe. “You don’t play fair.”

Rooster hummed. “I don’t recall agreeing to rules.”

Jake stepped closer — barely, instinctively — until their chests nearly brushed. Rooster’s hand flexed on the locker door. He wasn’t expecting Jake to push back.

Good.

Jake used the smallest shred of courage he had left. “You keep leaning in like that,” he said quietly, “and you’re gonna end up kissing me.”

Rooster’s breath hitched — just a little, just enough.

So Jake smirked. “Too much of a temptation for you?”

The shift was instant.
Rooster went still.
Really still.
The joking melted off him, replaced by something darker, hungrier, something Jake had only glimpsed in flashes.

He didn’t move for a long moment.

Then, voice low enough to shake Jake’s spine, Rooster whispered, “Try me.”

Jake forgot how air worked.

Every part of him screamed to close the distance. To grab Rooster’s dog tags and haul him forward. To give in.

Then—

Coyote’s voice cut through the room.
“HEY, LOVEBIRDS! Are you two done eye-fucking or should we come back later?”

Jake jumped.
Rooster stepped back, laughing under his breath like he hadn’t just nearly changed the trajectory of Jake’s entire damn life.

Jake turned away, face burning. “We’re not— It’s not— Shut up, Javy!”

Rooster didn’t defend himself.

He didn’t have to.

He walked past Jake, shoulder brushing just enough to make Jake’s knees wobble, and murmured as he passed,

“Next time we’re alone? I’m finishing that.”

Jake’s lungs collapsed.

Rooster didn’t look back.

Jake stood rooted to the spot, boots still untied, heart on fire, very aware he was absolutely doomed.

And very aware…
he didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

The briefing room is always too small. Too bright. Too full of Jake Seresin.

Bradley Bradshaw sits with his forearms braced on the table, eyes forward, jaw set like he personally signed a contract with God promising no distractions.
Which would be easier if Jake wasn’t three seats to his left — slouched in the chair like he owns oxygen itself, twirling a pen between his fingers like it’s flirting with him.

Phoenix is already side-eyeing. Bob is clearly praying. Coyote looks like a brother who knows his sibling is about to do something stupid but cannot physically prevent it.

Warlock clears his throat, ready to begin.
“Alright, aviators. Tomorrow’s operation—”

Jake hums. Loudly.
“Operation,” he repeats, voice smooth as sin. “Love a good… operation. Especially when it requires going in deep.”

Bradley closes his eyes.
Jesus Christ, give me strength.

Nat kicks Jake under the table.
Jake only smirks wider.

Warlock continues like he has exhausted every form of patience known to mankind.
“You’ll be flying at low altitude—”

“Mmh, low,” Jake purrs, leaning back in his chair. “I do some of my best work low.”

There’s a sound. A choked, dying sound.
It is Bob. Bob is dying.

Rooster doesn’t look. He cannot look.
If he looks at Jake — at that stupid smug mouth, at that stupid pretty face — he will do something wildly unprofessional.
Like kiss him across the table.
Or strangle him lovingly.
Hard to say.

Coyote’s whisper is venom-soft.
“Dude. Please.”

But Jake is on a mission of his own.

Warlock clicks to the next slide.
“The aerial refueling window is short—”

“Ooh,” Jake murmurs, “I love a short window, keeps the pressure up. Really gets the adrenaline pumping, you know?”

Phoenix’s head drops into her hands.
“Seresin, do not make me drown you in your own aviators,” she hisses.

Jake grins like that’s flirting.

Rooster shifts in his chair, finally giving in and turning his head.
Jake meets his gaze instantly — like he was waiting.

God help him, he’s stunning.
Sun-bright. Smug. Eyes like hot Texas afternoons.

Bradley says nothing, but his jaw flexes and his thigh tenses where his hand grips it beneath the table.

Jake catches that shift — sees it, feels it — and something wicked flickers across his face.

Warlock keeps speaking, words fading into background static as every pilot in the room watches the silent standoff happen in real time.

Jake leans just slightly forward, voice a silk drawl meant only for Bradley.
“Trouble focusing there, Rooster?”

Bradley swallows. Hard.
Maintains professional tone — barely.

“I’m focused,” he grinds out. “Unlike some people who apparently think this is stand-up night.”

Jake’s smile goes feral, thrilled, victorious.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers. Sweetheart. “If you’re focused now, imagine how distracted you’d be if I leaned a little closer instead.”

Phoenix hits Bob’s arm so hard the poor man jolts upright.

Rooster’s ears burn. He knows it. Jake knows it.
Everyone knows it.

Warlock: briefing still happening, dear lord send the asteroid.

“And after missile deployment—”

“Yes,” Jake sighs dreamily, “I love a good deployment.”

A collective groan.
Warlock stops. Slowly. Stares.

“Lieutenant Seresin. Do you have something you’d like to contribute?”

Jake opens his mouth — dangerous.
Rooster jumps in before the end of the world arrives.

“He can contribute silence,” Bradley says sharply. “Starting now.”

Jake tilts his head, eyes warm and sharp all at once.
“Yes, sir,” he says — dripping with false obedience. “I’ll be very quiet. Unless Rooster asks nicely.”

Bob quietly writes a will.
Nat considers drowning herself.
Coyote whispers, “Why are you like this?”

The briefing limps forward. Warlock prays. The universe holds on.

But near the end — when Warlock dismisses them and everyone scrambles to escape the sexual-tension warzone — Jake stops beside Bradley. Close. Too close.
Private close.

Rooster feels heat crawl up his spine.

Jake smiles, soft and triumphant.
“Thanks for the save, Bradshaw.”

Bradley exhales — one slow, helpless breath.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

Jake’s eyes flick to his mouth.
“No, Rooster,” he says, voice low like promise. “Killing you would require letting you go.”

Bradley stares. Jake stares back.

Those double entendres weren’t random.
They never are.

Rooster’s voice drops, unsteady but bold.
“What if I don’t want you to stop?”

Jake’s smile turns molten.

“Oh,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough to ruin oxygen forever, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He doesn’t kiss him.

He leaves him wanting.

Because Jake Seresin may be chaos —
but he knows how to make Bradley burn.

Chapter Text

Mornings with Jake Seresin follow a pattern.

Jake wakes up first. Jake stretches like a satisfied cat. Jake yells at the sun for being too bright, complains about the time, demands coffee like life depends on it, and then Rooster rolls over with messy hair and sleepy voice and kisses him quiet.

That is routine.

Except today?

Rooster wakes up first.

And that changes everything.

The sun is barely up, the room soft-blue and quiet, and Jake is asleep on his stomach—one arm under the pillow, face smashed into the fabric, hair a chaotic storm. Rooster pauses, just watching him breathe. Slow. Peaceful. Guard completely down.

He looks unfairly beautiful like this.
Rooster falls in love a little harder.

He slips out of bed carefully—strategic escape—and Jake only mumbles something like “mmm five minutes” and buries deeper into the blanket.

Rooster smiles.
Today? He’s starting with breakfast.

The kitchen is cool, still smelling faintly of last night’s dinner and Jake’s shampoo from where they danced around the counter kissing like idiots. Bradley pulls out eggs. Butter. Bread. Coffee grounds.

He hums while he cooks—low raspy morning voice, Sinatra through honey—and the house fills with warmth and frying butter.

Jake smells it before he wakes.

Footsteps shuffle down the hall. A door creaks. And then—

A sleep-rough voice, heavy with Texas and disbelief:

“…are you cooking?”

Rooster does not turn.
He smiles instead, slow and wicked, flipping an egg like a show-off.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says lightly. “Coffee’s almost done.”

Jake stands in the doorway wearing nothing but sweats slung low on his hips and last night’s hickeys painting his throat. His hair is worse than the weather. His smile is soft, confused, undone.

“This feels illegal,” Jake mutters. “You’re never awake first.”

Rooster shrugs, pours coffee into two mugs. “Figured I’d surprise you. You take sugar, right?”

Jake narrows his eyes.
He knows that tone.
That tone means danger.

“…you’re flirting.”

Rooster finally looks over his shoulder.

He doesn’t hide the slow gaze down Jake’s bare chest. Doesn’t hide the heat in his eyes. Doesn’t hide the way his mouth curls into something lethal.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I’m weaponizing breakfast.”

Jake’s ears turn pink.
He tries to look unimpressed. He fails spectacularly.

Rooster plates the eggs, sets one in front of Jake, and leans across the counter on his forearms—biceps showing, bed-hair fierce, grin criminal.

“Try it,” he says. “Tell me if it’s good.”

Jake swallows, cheeks warm, and takes a bite.
He moans.

Actual, audible moan.

Rooster’s smirk is immediate and devastating.

“See something you like?” Bradley asks, voice heavy-sweet.

Jake tries for dignity.
Does not succeed.

“Maybe,” he mutters. “But I didn’t realize breakfast could be… foreplay.”

“Oh it is if I’m cooking.” Rooster steps closer, slow like honey, brushing Jake’s thigh with his knee. “And I’m not even at the best part.”

Jake blinks. “There’s more?”

Rooster takes a sip of his coffee, then braces one hand on Jake’s chair, leaning in close—mornings on his breath, heat in his smile, voice dropping to sinful.

“I got up early,” he whispers, lips grazing Jake’s ear,
“because I wanted to see you flustered before 9 a.m.”

Jake inhales sharply, eyes wide, caught.

“You—”
He swallows.
“—you planned this.”

“Oh yeah.” Rooster presses a kiss just under Jake’s jaw. “Every second of it.”

Jake’s hand fists in Rooster’s shirt, tugging him closer, breath shaky but smiling against Bradley’s cheek.

“You’re evil,” he murmurs.

Rooster hums. “And you like it.”

Jake, blushing violently:
“…unfortunately, yes.”

Rooster steals a kiss—soft, morning-warm, lingering like sunshine.

Jake melts. Completely.

Breakfast forgotten. Coffee cooling.
Rooster grinning like he won a war...Which he most definitely did.

Chapter Text

The first-class cabin was a cocoon of hushed luxury, but for Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, it was a special kind of torture. The steady hum of the Airbus A350’s engines was a monotonous drone, a stark contrast to the frantic beat of his own pulse. Every tiny shift in the leather seat beside him was an earthquake. Every quiet, knowing smirk from Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin was a direct challenge.

They were barely an hour into their fourteen-hour flight to Bora Bora. Their honeymoon. Their fucking honeymoon. And the man he’d just married was going to be the death of him.

Jake’s hand, which had been resting innocently on his own thigh, drifted up and down, his fingers tracing a slow, idle pattern on the inside of Bradley’s knee. It was a casual, almost absent-minded gesture to anyone who might glance over. But to Bradley, it was a brand. A promise. A demand.

“You comfortable there, Roo?” Jake’s voice was a low, lazy drawl, syrup-smooth and laced with pure, unadulterated mischief.

Bradley grunted, shifting in his seat, painfully aware of the tightness in his pants. “Peachy.”

“You seem a little… tense.” Jake’s fingers inched higher, a millimeter at a time. “All that pent-up energy. Not good for you.”

“We’re on a plane, Jake,” Bradley muttered, his voice a strained rasp. “In public.”

“Mmm. So we are.” Jake leaned closer, his breath warm against Bradley’s ear. The scent of his cologne, something expensive and sharp, was intoxicating. “Nobody’s looking. They’re all watching their screens or asleep. It’s just you and me. Like always.”

His fingers finally made contact, a firm, deliberate press against the straining denim. Bradley hissed, his knuckles going white where he gripped the armrest. God, the man was insufferable. And he was all his.

“Jake…” It was meant to be a warning. It came out a plea.

“I can’t wait,” Jake breathed, his lips grazing the shell of Bradley’s ear. “I don’t want to wait fourteen hours. I want you now. Come on. The bathroom in this tin can is practically a suite.”

It was the worst, most irresistible idea Bradley had ever heard. The logical part of his brain, the part that was a responsible Naval aviator, screamed in protest. The rest of him, the part that belonged entirely to the grinning menace beside him, was already standing up, pulling Jake by the wrist.

The walk to the lavatory at the front of the cabin was an eternity compressed into ten seconds. Every step felt deafeningly loud. They slipped inside, the click of the lock echoing like a gunshot in the tiny, pressurized space.

Then there was only them. The thrum of the aircraft vibrated through the floor, a deep, constant growl. The LED light was bright, unforgiving, illuminating the desperate hunger on Jake’s face.

Bradley didn’t waste a second. He crowded Jake against the folded-up changing table, his body pinning him in place. He crashed their mouths together in a searing, frantic kiss. It was all teeth and tongue and six months of built-up, post-wedding anticipation finally bursting free. Jake melted into him, his hands scrabbling at Bradley’s shoulders, pulling him closer, always closer.

“Need you,” Jake gasped against his mouth, already fumbling with the button of Bradley’s jeans. “Right now, Bradley. Please.”

The ‘please’ undid him completely. Bradley’s hands were everywhere, pulling at Jake’s shirt, yanking his own t-shirt over his head. The confines of the bathroom forced an intimate clumsiness; an elbow bumped the wall, a quiet curse was swallowed by another kiss. It was messy and perfect.

He spun Jake around, pressing his chest against the cool metal of the bulkhead. He mouthed at the nape of Jake’s neck, biting down gently on the corded muscle there, earning a sharp, shuddering gasp.

“Quiet, baby,” Bradley murmured, his voice thick with want. “Gotta be quiet for me.”

He made quick, efficient work of their remaining clothes, the jeans and briefs pooling around their ankles. The lube was in his dopp kit; he’d packed it with a stupid, hopeful fantasy that was now coming true. The snick of the cap was obscenely loud.

He coated his fingers, pressing one against Jake’s entrance, feeling him clench then deliberately relax, pushing back against the pressure.

“That’s it,” Bradley coaxed, working the digit in slowly, the tight, hot clutch of Jake’s body making his head spin. “Just like that. Taking me so good already.”

He added a second finger, scissoring them carefully, stretching him, prepping him with a focused intensity. Jake’s breathing was ragged, his forehead pressed to the wall, a fine tremble running through his thighs. His quiet, hitched moans were the most beautiful sound Bradley had ever heard.

“Ready?” Bradley’s question was a growl, his own control hanging by a thread.

“God, yes. Now, Roo. Now.”

Bradley lined himself up, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against that taut ring of muscle. He pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, breathtaking motion.

The air left Jake’s lungs in a silent, open-mouthed gasp. His back arched, his body stretching to accommodate the sudden, delicious stretch. Bradley held still, buried deep, letting them both adjust to the overwhelming sensation. The plane hit a pocket of mild turbulence, a slight shudder that rocked them together, drawing a choked-off groan from them both.

Then he began to move.

It was a slow, brutal rhythm, dictated by the cramped space. Short, deep thrusts that punched quiet, desperate sounds from Jake’s throat. Each drive forward brushed against that spot inside him that made his knees buckle. Bradley’s hands gripped Jake’s hips, fingers biting into skin, anchoring them both as he set a punishing pace.

The synchronicity was instinctive, born from a deep, intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies. Jake pushed back to meet every thrust, his own cock hard and leaking against the cold wall. The slick, wet sound of their joining was a filthy counter-rhythm to the plane’s hum.

“Right there, babe… oh god, right there,” Jake moaned, his voice a broken whisper. His hand snaked between his legs to stroke himself in time with Bradley’s thrusts.

Bradley leaned over him, chest plastered to Jake’s sweaty back, his mouth finding that spot just behind Jake’s ear. “You feel so fucking good,” he rasped, the words gritted out between thrusts. “So tight. Christ, Jake… my husband.”

The title, new and potent, sent a fresh jolt of heat through them. Jake’s rhythm with his own hand faltered, a sure sign he was close. Bradley could feel the tell-tale tension coiling in his own gut, a heat spreading through his veins.

“Look at me,” Bradley commanded, his voice rough.

It took effort, but Jake turned his head, his eyes glazed with pleasure, his lips swollen and parted. Bradley captured his mouth in a sloppy, possessive kiss, swallowing his cries as his thrusts became erratic, losing their rhythm for pure, unadulterated need.

The climax ripped through Jake first. Bradley felt the violent clench around his cock, the helpless shudders that wracked Jake’s body as he spilled over his own fingers with a muted, guttural cry against Bradley’s lips. The intense, rhythmic squeezing was all it took to tip Bradley over the edge. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his own release crashing over him in a blinding, white-hot wave, his groan lost in the sweat-damp skin of Jake’s shoulder.

They stayed like that for a long moment, entangled and panting, supported by the wall and each other. The aftershocks trembled through them, a slowly receding tide of sensation. The plane’s intercom crackled to life, the flight attendant’s polite voice announcing expected turbulence ahead.

Jake let out a breathless, shaky laugh that vibrated through Bradley’s chest.

“Think we already hit it, _

Chapter Text

The impact isn’t dramatic. No explosion, no spinning out of the sky in flames. Just a rough landing, metal screaming in protest, and a jolt that rattles Jake’s teeth hard enough to make stars burst behind his eyes.

By the time the canopy opens, his left shoulder is on fire and his ribs feel like they’ve been rung like a bell.

“Hangman’s down,” someone says over comms, sharp with concern. “He’s conscious.”

Jake hates that word. Down. Makes it sound worse than it is.

He waves them off as soon as they get to him, jaw clenched through the pain. “I’m fine. It’s a scratch.”

Phoenix snorts. “You’re literally bleeding through your flight suit.”

“It’s aerodynamic,” he mutters.

They bring him in anyway. Of course they do. The med bay smells like antiseptic and irritation, and Jake is still trying to convince everyone he doesn’t need to be here when the medic finally straightens and says, casual but professional,

“Alright. Mild concussion. Dislocated shoulder we’ve already reset. You’re lucky.”

Jake gives a weak grin. “I’m always lucky.”

The medic doesn’t smile back. Instead, he looks down at the chart. “We’ll keep you for observation for a few hours. In the meantime… emergency contact?”

The words hit softer than the impact but somehow land harder.

Jake’s mouth opens immediately.

Then closes.

For a split second, there’s nothing in his head but static.

Emergency contact.

It should be easy. There are a dozen names that would make sense. Coyote. Phoenix. Mav. Hell, even Cyclone would be the professional answer.

But none of those names rise first.

Bradley does.

Bradley, with his stupid earnest eyes and gentle hands. Bradley, who sneaks into Jake’s space like he belongs there. Bradley, who learned Jake’s coffee order without ever being told. Bradley, who knows exactly how Jake pretends not to be scared.

Jake swallows.

The medic looks up. “Sir?”

There’s a pause—too long to be casual.

Jake’s voice comes out quieter than anyone in that room has ever heard it.

“Rooster. Bradley Bradshaw.”

The room goes still in the way only hospitals ever get—hushed and sharp and suddenly too aware.

Phoenix’s eyebrows shoot up.

The medic blinks. “Relationship?”

Jake hesitates just a fraction of a second. “Close contact.”

It’s a careful answer. Vague on purpose. Private.

The medic nods and steps away to make the call.

And that’s when Jake realizes what he’s done.

He hasn’t told Bradley he’s his emergency contact.

He’s never said it out loud like that before.

He stares at the ceiling, heart suddenly hammering harder than it did in the cockpit.

—

Bradley is in the middle of debrief when the call comes.

He never listens to phones during debriefs. Ever. But this time it rings twice—sharp and insistent—and something in his chest twists for no logical reason at all.

He glances at the screen.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

He almost ignores it.

Almost.

“Sir,” he says abruptly, standing. “I—sorry.”

Cyclone frowns. “Bradshaw—”

“It’s important,” he says before he can stop himself, and steps into the hall.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw?” the voice on the other end asks.

“Yes?”

“This is Miramar Medical. You’ve been listed as emergency contact for Lieutenant Jake Seresin.”

The world narrows to a pinpoint.

“What?” Bradley breathes.

“Some injuries from a training flight. He’s stable. Conscious. We’re keeping him for observation.”

Bradley moves without thinking. “I’m on my way.”

He doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Or the drive. Or breaking at least six speed limits.

All he can think is: He put my name down.

Not Phoenix. Not Coyote.

Me.

—

Jake knows exactly when Bradley arrives because the room changes before he even sees him.

The door opens softly.

Footsteps pause.

And then—quiet, disbelieving:

“Jake?”

Jake turns his head.

Bradley is standing in the doorway like he’s afraid to step in too fast, eyes wide, face pale under the tan. He looks like he ran.

Jake swallows. “Hey.”

Bradley crosses the room in three strides. The relief on his face when he sees Jake awake is so naked it makes Jake’s chest ache.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Bradley says, voice tight.

Jake tries for smirk. It comes out crooked. “You should see the other guy.”

Bradley huffs a shaky breath and then—before Jake can brace—his hand finds Jake’s uninjured one and holds on.

Just holds.

The contact is grounding in a way Jake never expects, no matter how many times it happens.

Bradley’s thumb moves over Jake’s knuckles like he’s checking that he’s real. “They said concussion. And your shoulder.”

“Already reset,” Jake says. “I lived.”

Bradley’s jaw tightens. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” Jake murmurs without thinking.

Bradley freezes.

Then softly, “Yeah.”

They sit like that for a moment—Jake reclined against stiff pillows, Bradley perched on the edge of the bed, hand still locked with his.

Finally, Bradley speaks again, quieter.

“They said I was your emergency contact.”

Jake’s throat goes dry.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Jake forces himself to meet Bradley’s eyes. “Didn’t think I’d ever need one.”

Bradley searches his face. “And you picked me.”

Jake exhales. The walls he keeps up on instinct feel suddenly too heavy to hold.

“There wasn’t really anyone else,” he admits. “Not like that.”

That’s when it hits Bradley.

Not the injury. Not the call.

The trust.

He swallows hard, eyes turning painfully soft. “You know what that means, right?”

Jake tilts his head slightly. “That you’d get spam calls if I ever ate it?”

Bradley huffs a tearful laugh. “It means you think I’m… your person. The one they call when you can’t.”

Jake’s chest tightens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess I do.”

Bradley’s grip tightens, trembling just a little now. “You don’t get to scare me like that and then drop something like that on me.”

Jake gives a faint smile. “I landed the jet.”

Bradley leans in until his forehead nearly touches Jake’s. “You landed in a hospital bed.”

Jake’s voice turns rough. “But you came.”

“Always,” Bradley says without hesitation.

Always.

The word settles between them like a promise neither of them is brave enough to name yet.

Bradley carefully presses his forehead to Jake’s, slow and gentle so nothing pulls at injuries. Jake breathes him in—warm, alive, steady.

“Next time,” Bradley murmurs, “you tell me before you put my name on a form like that.”

Jake’s eyes flutter shut. “There better not be a next time.”

Bradley squeezes his hand. “There will be. You’re you.”

A beat.

“Just,” Jake says softly, “stay till I’m cleared?”

Bradley doesn’t even pretend to think. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since the impact, the pain in Jake’s chest eases—finally dulling under the ache of something warm and terrifying and real.

Because maybe having an emergency contact isn’t about disaster.

Maybe it’s just about knowing who you’d want called when you can’t speak for yourself.

And Jake already knows that answer by heart.

Chapter Text

Jake doesn’t even realize the hoodie is a problem.

He grabs it off the back of Bradley’s chair without thinking—because it’s soft, because it smells faintly like coffee and soap and Bradley, because his own jacket is buried somewhere in his apartment and this one is right there. It’s navy, sleeves a little too long, worn thin at the cuffs. Comfortable. Familiar.

He pulls it on and doesn’t spare it another thought.

By the time they reach the Hard Deck, Jake’s got the hood up against the night chill, hands shoved into the pocket, all loose-limbed confidence and easy swagger. The hoodie sits on him like it was made for him—too big in the shoulders, stretching just enough at the chest, hanging low on his hips.

Bradley sees him the second they walk in.

And freezes.

His brain short-circuits so hard Phoenix actually asks, “You good, Rooster?” because he’s stopped dead in the doorway.

Jake glances back. “What? You look like I just stole your jet.”

Bradley’s eyes drop—slowly—from Jake’s face to the hoodie.

His hoodie.

The one Jake stole three months ago after a late night and never really gave back. The one Bradley sometimes finds draped over Jake’s couch, or tossed onto his bed, or knotted around Jake’s waist when he’s warm.

Bradley swallows.

“Is that… my hoodie?”

Jake looks down at himself, genuinely confused. “Oh. Yeah. Hope you don’t mind—mine smelled like jet fuel and bad decisions.”

Bradley should tease him.

He should make a smart comment.

He should do anything other than feel the sudden, visceral surge of possessiveness that grips him right in the ribs.

Instead, all he manages is, “You’re—uh—wearing it out?”

Jake smirks. “What, you don’t want to share?”

“Oh, I don’t mind sharing,” Bradley says tightly.

What he does mind is the way every head in the bar turns.

Because Jake Seresin in Bradley Bradshaw’s hoodie is… a sight.

And the compliments start immediately.

“Nice hoodie, Hangman,” Fanboy says as they pass the bar.

“Looks better on you than it ever did on him,” Phoenix adds dryly.

A stranger at the bar—some off-duty aviator Jake doesn’t recognize—leans over with a grin. “Cool hoodie. Looks real cozy. Bet it’s even better stolen.”

Jake laughs. “You have no idea.”

Bradley’s jaw ticks.

By the time someone actually touches the sleeve to comment on how soft it is, Bradley snaps.

He steps in close—too close for casual space—one hand coming up automatically to the small of Jake’s back. Firm. Possessive. A placement that says mine in a language most people don’t even consciously read, but still feel.

“Hey,” Bradley says mildly, to the stranger. “Hands off.”

The guy blinks. “I was just—”

“And that hoodie,” Bradley continues, gaze steady, voice calm in that dangerous way, “isn’t available for appreciation.”

Jake turns his head slowly. “You okay there, buddy?”

Bradley’s hand tightens just a fraction.

“I’m great,” he lies.

Jake’s eyes flick down to the hand on his back. Up to Bradley’s face. A little spark of amusement lights behind them.

“Oh,” Jake murmurs softly. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Bradley exhales through his nose. “People are flirting with you.”

“They flirt with me anyway.”

“With my hoodie on.”

Jake’s lips curl. “Oh, it’s the hoodie that pushed you over the edge?”

Bradley leans in, enough that only Jake can hear him. “You’re wearing my clothes in public while people eye you. I’m allowed to be territorial.”

Jake’s breath stutters, just a little.

“Well,” he says lightly, “you could always make it clear it’s yours.”

Bradley doesn’t even hesitate.

He shifts closer, chest to Jake’s shoulder, his other hand coming up to rest at Jake’s hip, fingers hooking into the edge of the hoodie pocket like an anchor.

Jake goes still.

Bradley drops his chin to Jake’s shoulder and says, clearly, for anyone watching to hear:

“He borrowed it. He’s mine.”

The bar goes quiet for exactly half a second.

Then Phoenix chokes on her drink.

Bob’s eyes go wide.

Fanboy makes a noise like he just won a bet he never placed.

Jake is completely, utterly frozen.

Bradley realizes what he’s said at the same moment everyone else does.

Too late.

Too honest.

Too revealing.

He pulls back just enough to see Jake’s face—expecting shock, maybe irritation.

What he gets instead is Jake staring at him like the floor just fell out from under the world.

“Bradley,” Jake says softly.

Bradley’s pulse thrashes. “You told me to make it clear.”

“I meant with, like—touching. Casually. Not… that.”

Bradley swallows. “Do you want me to take it back?”

Jake’s eyes search his—no bravado now, no cocky shield—just something warm and terrified and hopeful underneath.

“…No.”

Bradley’s shoulders loosen a fraction.

The stranger mutters something about getting another drink and disappears.

The squad very obviously pretends not to stare while absolutely staring.

Jake shifts closer this time—intentionally—fitting himself into Bradley’s space until their sides press together.

“So,” Jake murmurs, “you gonna stay glued to me all night like a guard dog, or was that a one-time territorial display?”

Bradley arches a brow. “You done stealing my clothes?”

Jake tugs the hoodie sleeve over his hand, deliberately slow. “No.”

Bradley’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Then yes. I’m staying right here.”

True to his word, he does.

Every time someone drifts too close, Bradley shifts with them. Every time someone compliments the hoodie again, Bradley’s arm slips a little firmer around Jake’s waist. When Jake goes to the bar, Bradley goes with him. When he leans back against the counter, Bradley slots in behind him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

At some point Phoenix mutters, “You gonna let him breathe, Rooster?”

Bradley doesn’t look at her. “He’s breathing fine.”

Jake, very pointedly, leans his head back against Bradley’s shoulder. “Can confirm. I’m extremely alive.”

Bradley’s hand slides into the front pocket of the hoodie, knuckles brushing Jake’s stomach.

The contact is small.

It is devastating.

Much later—when the crowd thins and the night settles into that lazy, late rhythm—Jake finally turns in Bradley’s arms.

“You realize,” he says quietly, “you told half the bar I’m yours.”

Bradley meets his gaze without flinching. “You think I accidentally staked that claim?”

Jake’s lips part. “You meant it.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

Jake’s fingers curl into the front of the hoodie—Bradley’s hoodie—right over his own chest.

“Good,” he says.

Bradley exhales, relief soft and dizzying. “You gonna give it back now?”

Jake grins. “Not a chance.”

Bradley smiles fondly, possessively. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep you close.”

Like this.

All night.