Archive of Our Own ^beta

Part 1 - The Hard Deck

The first time it happens, it’s at least sixty-percent Hangman’s fault.

Bradley can’t say he didn’t see it coming. They've spent years circling each other: prodding each other’s weak points, bickering, fighting, fighting so hard it almost seemed like flirting. Pensacola, Corpus Christi, Kingsville. The duality of two opposing forces with a seemingly impossible attraction.

In another world, in another life, Bradley likes to think he would have pushed Seresin into a corner and forced them to have it out, one way or another. But this is the Navy, they’re (arguably) the two best pilots of their generation, and neither of them are particularly good with anything resembling emotional vulnerability. Bradley avoids it like the plague, according to Phoenix. He can only imagine that Hangman—obnoxious and conceited, as he can be—is worse.

Still, if there’s one thing Bradley knows about Hangman, it’s that he usually gets what he wants. If he positions himself just right and an opportunity presents itself, he’ll grab it by the throat and won’t let go. As far as Bradley is concerned, well, there have always been cracks in his resolve. It didn’t take him long to realize that Hangman is the only person who makes irritation and attraction feel indistinguishable.

“Say, Rooster,” Seresin calls, casually leaning against the driver-side door of Bradley’s Bronco like he owns the fucking thing. “Mind giving me a ride home?”

Evidently, the idiot doesn’t know that during their last game of pool, Coyote made an off-hand mention of driving Hangman back to base. Hangman obviously turned down that offer. Now, Bradley is left to question why.

“What? You’ve never heard of Uber?” Bradley replies, keeping his cards close to his chest as he approaches, trying to read something unsaid in Hangman’s body language. It’s been a strange night at The Hard Deck, mostly spent theorizing about the mysterious mission that no one seems to have insight into. The appearance of familiar faces, Seresin’s included, has left nothing but more questions. 

Hangman smirks. “Come now. That’s no way to treat an old friend.”

“Some fucking friend you are,” Bradley mutters under his breath. He fishes his keys out from his pocket and comes to stand in front of Seresin, throwing his hands up in a questioning gesture. “Are you gonna let me drive? Or are we going to be here all night?”

“So, you can move quickly,” Hangman purrs, pushing himself into Bradley’s personal space before sliding around the hood to the passenger side. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says, even though Hangman probably knows a lot more than Bradley would like. As he buckles his seatbelt, he can’t help but be hyperaware of Seresin’s general presence, drawing his attention like a particularly stupid moth to a dangerous flame. His cologne is something smoky and smooth. It reminds Bradley of wood and whisky and humid summers in Pensacola. 

At the start, the ride is uneventful. Hangman makes the odd, irritating observation about Bradley’s driving, but knowing Hangman like Bradley does, he’d expect nothing less. Neither of them are particularly good at small talk, so the conversation veers wildly from theorizing about the mission to petty arguing about Bradley’s moustache and Hangman’s music taste. 

When Hangman leans back in Bradley’s passenger seat and asks where the hen house is, Bradley doesn’t flinch. The puzzle pieces, slowly closing in over years of mutual antagonism and something else entirely, click into place with devastating clarity. 

“Why?” he asks, keeping his eyes glued to the road as if Hangman has asked a question about the weather. “Wanna see it?”

“Sure,” Seresin replies, maddeningly nonchalant. 

In hindsight, Bradley isn’t really sure if Hangman propositioned him or the other way around, and which one of them simply bit the bullet. 

Bradley has long known that Hangman never does anything by halves and always operates at full throttle. Apparently, tonight is no exception.

They’re barely inside his front door when Hangman pounces, kicking the door closed behind him and hauling Bradley in by the front of his shirt. Bradley isn’t even sure who starts kissing whom, all he knows is that it feels natural—as simple as breathing—a mere extension of the vicious spiral they’ve been trapped in for years. 

Bradley pins Hangman against the wall with one hand over his shoulder, licking into his mouth, giving as good as he gets as Hangman’s fingers find his belt loops. First, there’s a tug to pull him closer, before Hangman’s hands find their way under Bradley’s shirt, curling around the small of his back, the contact feeling like a brand against Bradley’s skin. It’s bruising and unrelenting, Bradley’s bottom lip sucked between Hangman’s teeth, before he attaches himself to Bradley’s neck and finds a pressure point instead.

“Don’t give me a fucking mark,” Bradley manages to say, squirming as Hangman scrapes his teeth over just the right spot. “Don’t wanna get chewed out about it tomorrow.”

Hangman snorts against his skin. “Get over yourself, Bradshaw. No one is that obsessed with you.”

“You are,” Bradley retorts, ducking his head to find Hangman’s lips, privately pleased when Seresin follows the nonverbal instruction to kiss him breathless. 

Seresin’s mouth is firm, his tongue teasing as it swipes against the inside of Bradley’s cheek. There’s something about the kiss that feels different to their verbal sparring—just as hungry but with an undercurrent of relief—perhaps a consequence of quenching a thirst that has been slowly driving them insane for years. When Hangman tugs at Bradley’s hips and hauls them together, it draws a very desperate noise from Bradley’s lips that Hangman swallows up greedily. “Really?” he replies, any semblance of affection concealed by his cocky, confident attitude. “Feels like the other way around.”

Later—much later—Bradley will realize that he didn’t see Jake Seresin that night. Their entire interaction was masked by Hangman—laser focused and shooting to kill—determined to evade any semblance of emotional compromise by zeroing in on Bradley instead. Bradley, for his part, was a willing victim. Caught up in the moment, forgetting to engage evasive maneuvers, even with smoke in the air.

Even when Hangman is on his knees, one hand around the base of Bradley’s dick as he swallows him down, Bradley feels like the one who is taking the plunge. He gasps as his hand presses into the drywall, fingers curling against it as he tries to avoid letting the delicious heat get to him too quickly, before—

“Jesus,” he moans, feeling the head of his cock bump the back of Hangman’s throat. “What the fuck happened to your gag reflex?”

He makes the mistake of looking down. Hangman just hums around him, the vibration causing Bradley to feel weak in the knees, which isn’t even the most devastating part. It’s the vision that almost tips him over the edge—Hangman’s grey-green eyes watering in the corners with his saliva-slick lips stretched over Bradley’s dick, swallowed right down to the hilt. It’s something ripped straight out of Bradley’s dreams. He’ll probably never be the same again.

For all the times Bradley has complained about Hangman’s smart mouth, he’s never seen it put to work like this. It feels perfect, pressure applied in all the right places, cheeks hollowed as he sucks Bradley off like he was born to do it. He does this thing with his tongue that Bradley can’t possibly begin to describe, but it’s practised and sure and pushes Bradley right to the brink as one hand flies to Hangman’s hair, fingers scrabbling through the short strands for purchase.

When he chokes out a warning, he half expects Hangman to pull off. When he doesn’t, Bradley stammers out an apology instead, because they might be lifelong rivals but he’s also fucking considerate. Hangman, to Bradley’s surprise and emotional detriment, swallows everything Bradley gives him, then pulls off slowly, licking Bradley gently through the aftershocks.

“I—” Bradley starts, then stops, confused as Hangman gets to his feet and tugs at the collar of his uniform. 

“Well,” he drawls, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Bradley’s mouth. “That was fun.”

Bradley reaches for him, intending to return the favor, but Hangman dances out of his grasp, ducking under Bradley’s outstretched arm.

“You don’t want me to—” he starts, mind racing as he pulls his underwear and pants back up so he doesn’t feel so horribly underdressed. “What about you?”

Hangman smoothes a hand through his hair. It still looks a little messed up at the back from Bradley’s fingers. “At your pace? I’ll be here forever,” he teases, the trademark smirk firmly back in place. “I can take care of myself, Rooster.”

“Okay,” Bradley says numbly, unsure what else to do. His body still feels soupy from his release, like he’s moving in slow motion. “You need a ride back?”

“What?” Hangman asks, his tone light and conversational as he opens Bradley’s door to let himself out. “You’ve never heard of Uber?”

Then, he’s gone. It leaves Bradley breathless and wanting, despite the comedown. 

It’s nowhere near enough.

Part 2 - Dogfight

The only thing that burns more than the aftermath of two-hundred push ups is the weight of Maverick’s words. What’s past is past. Like hell it is. That past is the reason Bradley grew up watching his mom’s sad smiles, her tears on Christmas, the way she receded into herself before the cancer ever took hold of her body. That past is the reason that Bradley can’t remember his dad’s voice. That past set Bradley back an extra four years in a career he’d worked so hard to start. 

It’s an open wound, festering since childhood, not some long-buried thing that Maverick apparently forgot about as soon as Bradley’s father was lowered into the ground.

He drives home in silence, the pent up anger raging in his chest like an out of control forest fire. The only thing worse than breaking the hard deck, getting chewed out for it by Cyclone and hearing Hangman’s derisive comments through the comms is the fact that he did all of it for nothing. He couldn’t finish the job. Maverick still got tone lock.

When he gets home and sees Hangman leaning against his front door, Bradley has no idea how to feel. Most of him wants to tell Hangman to fuck right off; that he’s not in the mood for more commentary on the day’s events. A small part of him is curious. Wants to know why Seresin has returned to the scene of the crime.

“What do you want?” he grits out, shutting the door of the Bronco a little too firmly as he stalks up his front steps. “Why are you here?”

“Good to see you too, Rooster,” Hangman says slowly, the curve of his lips forming that horrible smirk that Bradley somehow hates and also finds achingly familiar. 

Bradley stops in front of him, jaw clenched as he resists the urge to reach out and curl his fingers into the front of Hangman’s uniform. “You never know when to quit,” he says. 

“I don’t know when to quit?” Hangman replies, green eyes flicking to Bradley’s lips. “Could have sworn it was you who almost burned in earlier.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bradley snaps.

To his surprise, it does nothing to deter the idiot in front of him. Then again, fighting seems to be Hangman’s favorite form of foreplay. “That’s it, Bradshaw,” he murmurs, stepping into Bradley’s space so they’re chest to chest. “Let it out on me.”

Bradley pushes him out of the way and unlocks his door. Then, he hauls Hangman inside with him.

They make it past the entryway this time, barrelling into Bradley’s living room while wrecking each other’s mouths, knocking a lamp over in the process. Bradley shoves Hangman in the chest, practically throwing him onto the couch, and Hangman’s momentary shock is covered by a breathless laugh when he hits the cushions. 

When he reaches for Bradley—attempting to pull him in by the fucking dog tags, no less—Bradley swats his hands away and sinks to his knees, wrapping his hands around Hangman’s thighs to pull him closer to the edge of the couch. Hangman’s legs fall open, inviting as he is obnoxiously expectant, unbuckling his belt without needing to be asked.

Bradley wants to say something about it, ask where the fuck Hangman got the audacity to assume he was getting a blowjob, but there’s absolutely nothing subtle about the way Bradley’s hands curl around the swell of Hangman’s ass. Instead, he tugs the offending material of Hangman’s underwear along with his pants, and immediately gets to work. He’s got something to prove now.

Hangman, for all his posturing, is considerate when it comes to oral sex. He’s careful, legs tensing, clearly making a concerted effort to keep his hips still as Bradley licks and sucks at his shaft, pulling out the repertoire of tricks he learned during clandestine hook ups in high school and college and hasn’t used since. He hopes he hasn’t gotten too rusty—he wants to return the favor, after all—and Hangman clearly knows what he’s doing if his prior performance is anything to go by.

“Shit, Rooster,” he gasps, head thrown back on the couch cushions as his hand cups the back of Bradley’s head. The column of his throat is exposed—vulnerable—and Bradley can’t describe why he finds it so fucking hot, but there’s something about unravelling Seresin’s carefully constructed persona which turns him on.

In a strange way, doing this for Hangman—letting himself be a conduit of pleasure—slowly eases the tightness in Bradley’s chest. The anger bleeds out of him with every pass of his lips, every firm lick to the underside of Hangman’s dick, every swirl of his tongue around the head, until his mind is blissfully empty, cured of the hatred and filled with another type of purpose. The firm muscle of Hangman’s legs feels grounding under his fingertips, flexing against his grip. The choked up noise he makes when Bradley swallows him deep, jaw aching as he stretches around Seresin’s cock, is like a balm for the soul.

“Fuck, sorry,” Hangman pants, hips bucking slightly into Bradley’s mouth as Bradley tries valiantly not to gag. It’s extremely rare to get an apology from Jake Seresin, and the erratic movement signals something else—that Hangman’s resolve is fraying, dancing on the edge—knotting the noose, only to find that it’s slipped over his own head.

The anger might be gone, but Bradley’s still Bradley and the guy in front of him is still the same asshole he’s been trading insults with for years. There’s a certain je ne sais quoi to their rivalry that begs a constant challenge. “Come on, Seresin,” he says, licking over his slit to a particularly strung out moan. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

Bradley’s all about equity, so when Hangman spills into his mouth, he swallows it all. It’s not unpleasant, anyway. He wants to do it, wants to drain Seresin of all the restless energy that finds its way under Bradley’s skin. He wants to find all of Hangman’s soft spots and exploit them, leaving a memory of his lips branded in Seresin’s mind. At least, that’s what Bradley tells himself.

The whole exercise must do something for him personally, because he doesn’t fight Hangman when he hauls Bradley into his lap, makes quick work of his pants and jerks him off until he’s made a mess of their uniforms. They don’t kiss, but Bradley’s forehead remains pressed into the crook of Hangman’s neck as he chases his release at the altar of Seresin’s firm hand. 

“You messed me up, Bradshaw,” he drawls afterwards, looking at their stained uniforms like it’s not his own fucking fault. “Very inconsiderate of you.”

“Don’t act like you aren’t desperate for my dick, Hangman,” Bradley chokes out, because he almost never starts their fights, but he sure as shit never backs down either. 

Hangman bites his lip, the curve of it betraying something that almost looks like a genuine smile. “You feel better though, right?”

Bradley pauses, stares at him for a moment, then nods. He feels uncomfortably seen. “Right. Yeah.”

“Good,” Hangman says, dropping his head back against the couch as if he’s exhausted. “Then let’s keep doing this. Don’t do dumb shit, like challenging Maverick to a race to the ground.” 

The mere mention of Maverick’s name makes Bradley’s stomach churn. He wants to tell Hangman to mind his own fucking business, but instead, he leans in to kiss the hinge of his jaw. 

It doesn’t soothe the itch.

Part 3 - You Know I’m Right

“You’re not going to kill him, are you?” Coyote asks, giving Bradley a once over as he clears his throat. It’s a fair question—Bradley just tried to throw a punch in the middle of the classroom, after all—but Jake fucking Seresin is the one who put them in this constant dogfight, and now Bradley has to end it.

“No,” he says firmly. “I just need to talk to him.”

Coyote arches an eyebrow. “You? Jake? Talking?” he asks, disbelief evident in his tone.

“Yeah, miracles never cease,” Bradley says through clenched teeth, knowing that the talking is probably going to sound a lot more like yelling. “Look, if you’re not gonna tell me where he’s staying, I’ll get it out of someone else.”

“I’ll tell you,” Coyote replies, calm and considered. “But you better leave him in one piece, or you’ll answer to me.”

Hangman, for all his faults, is annoyingly talented at predicting Bradley’s every move. When Bradley knocks on the door of his temporary housing, adrenaline still pumping hours after their altercation, it opens almost immediately. 

It’s only once they’re face to face, Bradley realizes he doesn’t know where to start. 

“You gonna say something?” Seresin asks, expression unreadable. The Hangman mask is impassive and seemingly impenetrable. 

Bradley laughs bitterly, suddenly aware that he isn’t sure what he’s trying to achieve. Telling Hangman to leave him alone is about as futile as asking the sun not to rise. He’s always going to be on Bradley’s six—or Bradley on his—as long as Bradley is in the Navy. If he’s honest with himself, Bradley isn’t sure whether he’d survive without Hangman’s looming shadow. In a fucked up way, Jake Seresin is a constant in his life, as reassuring as he is irritating. “I don’t know why I even bothered,” he admits. “Not like you’re gonna apologize.”

“I won’t,” Hangman confirms, infuriating as always. Bradley’s fingers itch, curling into his palm. “You need to fly faster, Rooster. If no one else is gonna tell you that, I will.”

“And you thought that the best way to inspire me was to what?” Bradley goads, stepping closer. Hangman doesn’t step back. “Bring up my dead dad? That’s low, even for you.”

Something in Hangman’s jaw twitches. It’s a chink in the armor Bradley didn’t expect to see, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t intrigue him. When Hangman speaks, there’s something rough threaded through the words. “I’ll take it to hell if it means you survive this mission.”

Bradley frowns, trying to put two-and-two together and coming up blank. He knows Hangman is gunning for team leader, he’s said so many times. But having Bradley as his wingman doesn’t make any sense. Coyote, sure. But there’s no way Maverick would send in two pilots who famously hate each other, and Hangman wouldn’t want him as a wingman, either. Bradley would never keep up.

“You said I’m not cut out for it,” Bradley argues, feeling as if Hangman has pulled one of the cobra maneuvers Maverick uses, suddenly on the offense when Bradley started on his tail. “What changed in two hours?”

Hangman gives him a long look, then shrugs and steps back into his house, beckoning Bradley forward. For all his good intentions, Bradley obeys the command. He’s been stuck in Hangman’s orbit for years, the attraction as immutable as gravity. “Just fucking fly faster, Bradshaw,” he says, ushering Bradley through the house as he closes the door behind him. “Learn to take the shot.”

Whatever Bradley was expecting when he turned up at Hangman’s place, it certainly wasn’t this.

“Was it something I said?” Hangman teases, naked and stretched out across the bed, the military-issued sheets crumpled around his body. He’s beautiful—like something out of a Greek tragedy—basking in the muted afternoon sun that filters through the thin curtains. Bradley threw them shut as soon as they started taking their clothes off, and before he knew it, he was straddling Hangman’s hips, sitting in his lap and considering an offer he’s only heard in his dreams. 

It’s not often he gets Hangman to shut up like this. Still, Bradley’s half convinced he misheard the initial request. “You want me to what now?”

Hangman squirms under Bradley’s touch, vulnerable and bare while Bradley still has his underwear on. It’s a heady feeling, and somehow, he knows it’s by design. There’s something like regret written into the way Seresin is letting him call the shots; tolerating Bradley’s slow, idle exploration of his body, one finger tracing the contour of his hip bone. 

“What about that question did you not understand, Bradshaw?” he asks.

“Well, I get the mechanics,” Bradley says drily, shifting forward to blanket Hangman’s body, kissing the underside of his jaw before migrating down his neck. He sucks a bruise into a pressure point, knowing he’ll get away with it because Seresin’s feeling just a little bit guilty. “But are you sure you want me to—”

“Hold on,” Seresin interjects, turning his head so Bradley winds up kissing his nose instead. It’s strangely intimate. He fixes it by pinching Hangman’s side. “Cut it out!” he yelps. “I’m trying to ask you if you’ve—You’ve never?”

Bradley ignores him momentarily, preferring to capture Seresin’s lips in a slow, all consuming kiss. “Chill out, I’m not a virgin,” he mumbles against Hangman’s lips. “Just haven’t done it many times. With a guy, I mean.”

“Oh,” Hangman says. Bradley pulls back, pressing a palm into the pillow beside Hangman’s head as they just stare at each other for a moment. “How many times are we talking?”

Bradley lets out a breathless laugh. “You asking for my body count, Hangman?” 

“Maybe I am,” Hangman presses, arching an eyebrow. “In this arena, specifically.”

“A couple,” Bradley says, unperturbed by Hangman’s scepticism, hurtling towards a decision faster than he ever has in his life. If this is about teaching him to take a shot, he’s learning quickly. “But you could show me how you like it. It must be really difficult, if you’re involved—”

Hangman laughs at the heavy sarcasm, yanking Bradley in by the dog tags and flipping him on the sheets before throwing open his nightstand drawer and rifling through it. “Well, Rooster,” he snarks. “This is called lube—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bradley groans, ridding himself of his underwear. Vaguely, he wonders how the hell he ended up here—trading insults with Hangman, laughing with Hangman, contemplating putting his dick in Hangman—when three hours ago he wanted to start a physical fight. There’s something about the way Jake Seresin turns his world upside down and inside out that has always made Bradley feel off balance, and he has a feeling it’s only going to get worse.

As it turns out, it does. It gets much, much worse.

The prep is eye-opening, for starters. Seresin insists on doing it himself—something about being faster and more efficient, thrown in with some insults about Bradley’s speed and general aptitude—but Bradley can’t help but be transfixed by it nonetheless. A very significant part of him wants to plead his case with Hangman, wants to help, wants to feel Seresin’s rim under his fingers, stretch him out slowly and watch him come undone, but instead, he’s relegated to the responsibility of kissing every inch of skin he can reach. 

“Ready to earn your keep, Rooster?” Hangman rasps against Bradley’s lips a couple of minutes later, wiping his fingers on the sheets and tossing a condom packet at Bradley’s chest. “Suit up. Let’s get this show on the road.”

It’s an awful idea, Bradley thinks, as he scoots out from under Hangman’s body. It’s far too intimate—far too personal—even though Hangman’s on his hands and knees so Bradley can’t see his face. There’s something about sharing someone else’s body that screams tenderness, and before he can really take stock of what he’s doing, Bradley finds himself tracing a finger down Hangman’s spine. It’s slick with the little beads of sweat that have collected on his skin, and emboldened by the way that Hangman arches against him, Bradley lets his fingers drop lower, circling his rim.

The low moan it elicits makes Bradley’s breath catch in his throat, and when he dips a finger in to feel the heat, Hangman presses back against him. “Fuck,” Bradley whispers, almost reverent, curling his finger experimentally. “Holy shit.”

“Get on with it, Bradshaw,” Hangman insists, impatient as ever. “Chop fucking chop.”

“As you wish,” Bradley replies, although he feels slightly dazed as he removes his finger and lines his dick up instead. He grits his teeth and tries to go slow, scared he’s accidentally hurting Hangman because there’s no way that anything this tight could feel good on the receiving end. Then again, Hangman has never been scared of pain, and he’s never been one to shy away from a challenge, so while Bradley is stuck drowning in the intoxicating sensation, Seresin is already moving like he’s two steps ahead.

Which is the same problem they’ve always had, really. Jake Seresin has a fire under his ass for no good reason. Bradley is stuck in his wake, trying desperately to keep up.

“Jesus Christ, Rooster,” Hangman says, sounding a little strung-out. “You gonna fuck me sometime this century?”

“It would help if you stopped trying to ruin the moment,” Bradley fires back, gripping Seresin’s hips and thrusting against him. A strangled sound leaves his lips as he sinks into the feeling, consumed by hedonistic euphoria and an overwhelming desperation for more. He has no idea how he’s going to last long enough to make this good for both of them. 

“Again,” Hangman demands, rolling his hips as Bradley slams back into him with a punched-out moan. 

“Oh my god,” Bradley grits out, pulling out halfway as he spreads Hangman’s ass with his hands before driving back in. “Give me a break, Seresin.”

Hangman ignores him, arching against Bradley’s touch, the muscles in his back tensing. “C’mon, Bradshaw. Faster.”

A small part of Bradley’s brain wonders whether this is some weird training exercise Hangman has come up with to try and get him to speed up on the course. Bradley decides he doesn’t care. He’ll happily do this kind of training every single day if Seresin wants him to.

Somehow, he manages to settle into a rhythm that is of an appropriate pace, if the bitten-off noises Hangman makes are to be believed. It’s dangerous—pushing Bradley right up against the edge—and he tries to keep himself steady as he pants for air and tries to push down the dangerous swell of heat in his gut. Hangman, for his part, gives as good as he gets, rocking back against Bradley and moaning like a fucking pornstar, his head hanging heavy between his perfectly toned shoulders. 

In hindsight, it would have been polite to give Hangman more warning, but Bradley’s still learning the full repertoire of ways Hangman drives him fucking crazy. The way he sounds, for one thing. His perfect ass, for another. It fits into Bradley’s hands like it was carved out for him specifically, which feels a little existential if not incredibly dangerous. Without thinking, he briefly brushes his thumb over Seresin’s rim, stretched around Bradley’s dick. Hangman practically wails in a way that Bradley has never heard before, and it’s too much, too hot, too all-consuming for Bradley to resist.

“Fuck,” he gasps, feeling something snap as he comes with another thrust of his hips. “Holy shit. Fuck, sorry.”

“Stay there,” Hangman tells him. As Bradley tries to fight his way through the haze of his orgasm, he watches Seresin jerk himself off until he comes a moment later with Bradley’s surname on his lips, spilling onto the sheets beneath him. 

Once Bradley has extracted himself and disposed of the condom, and Hangman has bitched about Bradley’s inability to bring him anything to clean himself up with like they’re not in his fucking house, they lie side by side, silently processing it all. It’s been a hell of day—fighting and fucking—culminating in a giant wet patch in the middle of the bed. Somehow, all of it adds up to a very complicated situationship that Bradley doesn’t know how to talk about.

Luckily, Hangman isn’t one for mincing words.

“Better?” he asks, looking at the ceiling and patently avoiding Bradley’s gaze. It’s as good of an apology as Bradley’s going to get. He decides to take it.

“Well,” he says slowly, “I don’t feel like punching you in the face anymore.”

Hangman snorts, carding a hand through the front of his hair. “Just promise me you’ll speed up,” he replies, a little firmer. “Fly like you have something to come back for.”

“Is that what this was?” Bradley teases, since he’s not sure he can cope with the prospect of that statement containing any kind of sincerity. “An incentive?”

Hangman sighs, rubbing his hand over his face instead. Bradley has the distinct impression he’s dancing on Seresin’s last nerve. “If that’s what it takes, sure.”

Bradley falls silent for a minute, unsure of what to say and content to share Hangman’s space. “You have a real fucking weird way of apologizing,” he says eventually, because he can’t help himself.

Hangman hits him over the head with a pillow in retribution.

Something in Bradley’s chest aches.

Part 4 - Burn In

“I fucked up,” Bradley says morosely, standing on Hangman’s doorstep. He doesn’t ask if he can come in, but it’s implied. Turning up at each other’s place has become somewhat of a routine.

“Is that supposed to surprise me?” Hangman asks, because being an asshole is his natural resting state. Still, it’s delivered with a little less venom than usual. Bradley guesses he’s probably read his emails and received notification of an upcoming funeral. “What did you do this time?”

Bradley grimaces. “You’re such a dick,” he says, because he doesn’t feel like relaying the whole conversation with Maverick on Hangman’s front porch. “Don’t know why I bother.”

Seresin rolls his eyes, opening his door wider. “Come on, slow ride. I’ve got beer.”

Bradley isn’t sure how he feels about that nickname but he trails after Hangman anyway, losing himself in the memory of what happened the last time he walked this hallway. It was only three days ago, but somehow it feels like another lifetime. In the intervening period he tackled Hangman into the surf during dogfight football, flew an insane, high-G climb out and watched Coyote almost burn in while Phoenix and Bob had to eject. The whiplash of being wrapped up in this mission makes him want to claw his eyes out, and that’s putting aside the Maverick of it all.

“So you said some shit,” Hangman summarizes after Bradley tells him about the fight, lounging on one end of his couch as Bradley perches on the other. He thinks it’s strange that they’re so consciously leaving space in the middle, like they’re just two dudes hanging out and not at all likely to tear each other's clothes off later. “Who cares.”

“I care,” Bradley insists, wondering why he’s trying to have this conversation with a man who is famously limited in his emotional range. “It was a dick move, especially now that Ice—”

“Well, yeah,” Hangman interjects dryly. “You could learn a thing or two about timing, I’ll give you that.”

“I didn’t know, obviously,” Bradley argues, taking a long sip of beer. He doesn’t miss the way Hangman’s eyes track his throat as he swallows. “Still. Not my finest moment.”

Hangman rolls his beer bottle between his hands, watching with quiet appraisal. Bradley hates it when he does that, like he’s consciously trying to strip back Bradley’s walls and get under his skin. “Maverick will forgive you,” he says eventually, like he can make the future bend to his will. “Give him a day. He’ll be back on your ass about missing that shot.”

“You missed too,” Bradley snaps. Then he runs a hand through his hair and sighs, tipping his head back to look at the stark, white ceiling. “I don’t know,” he adds. “It was kinda hypocritical of me to tell him that no one would mourn him if he burned in. Not like I have a wife or kids or a white picket fence either.”

The silence hangs thick for a moment, and when Bradley looks back, he finds Hangman’s hardened gaze, something in his jaw flickering ominously. Ordinarily, the self deprecating remark is something that Hangman would use to his advantage, but instead, there’s nothing. Bradley gets the distinct impression he’s said the wrong thing. He opens his mouth to make amends—a joke to break the tension—but as per usual, Hangman beats him to it.

“I would,” he says firmly.

The raw honesty in his voice throws Bradley for a loop. “What?”

“I’d mourn you,” Hangman repeats. “God, Bradshaw. For a smart person, you’re such a fucking idiot sometimes.” 

Bradley has no idea how they end up in Hangman’s shower of all places. He doesn’t have other clothes to change into, so the process of cleaning himself is rendered practically useless. Still, with Hangman’s slick, wet body pressing against him, he supposes he might be missing the point. 

“I hope you’re not expecting me to get on my knees in here,” he says, resting his head against the tiles in a way that he hopes is inviting. It allows Hangman access to his neck, which is never a bad thing. Bradley’s given up on caring about the bruises. This mission is too dangerous for his instructors and his peers to care about anything other than flying fast and shooting straight.

“God forbid you do any work,” Seresin murmurs against Bradley’s skin, soothing the scrape of his teeth with the press of his tongue. He’s apparently forgotten their last encounter, in which Bradley put in a substantial amount of cardiovascular effort. “Don’t know why I keep you around.”

“Our knees are way too old for tiles,” Bradley argues, letting loose a gasp as Hangman presses their hips together. “We’re over thirty.”

Seresin laughs sharply, the sound of it muffled against Bradley’s mouth as he gets pulled into a slippery, messy kiss. “Over thirty,” he says, once Bradley has migrated to his jaw. “Should I install a handrail for you in here, Rooster?”

“I’ll push you over if you’re not careful,” Bradley threatens, without a shred of intent. 

Hangman simply hums and reaches around Bradley with one hand, pumping liquid soap out of a dispenser in the wall cavity. “It’s hypoallergenic,” he says with an arch of one wet eyebrow, as if Bradley is precious about lubricant.

“You’re fucking insane,” he replies. “Get your hands on me.”

“Guess you won’t be pushing me over,” Hangman croons, taking Bradley in one hand and jerking him off methodically as Bradley tips his head back against the tiles again. “Probably for the best. Don’t wanna ruin my good looks.”

“Your looks were never the problem,” Bradley grits out, melting into the sensation of Hangman’s hand on his dick, the roughness of his calluses, the way he flicks his wrist in just the right way.

“No?” Hangman presses, dragging Bradley’s earlobe through gentle teeth as he thumbs the slit, then massages the sensitive spot underneath the crown. Bradley’s back arches off the wall with a soft cry. “What’s the problem then?”

Bradley has the common sense not to look down. He knows the vision is going to ruin his stamina; knows he can’t watch the head of his cock disappearing into Hangman’s fist with every perfect stroke; knows he can’t bear being under the heat of Seresin’s gaze, demanding and annoying and so fucking gorgeous, even under the cheap overhead lights. “Your dumb, idiot mouth,” he gasps, completely invalidating his own point as he allows himself to be drawn into a desperate kiss. 

Hangman lets him enjoy the perfect heat of the water and the sinful pressure of his hand for half a minute longer before he has the audacity to let go. Bradley isn’t proud of the strangled sound that leaves his mouth in response—halfway between an insult and a strung-out moan. When he opens his eyes, Hangman licks his lips, presses a soft kiss to Bradley’s mouth and sinks to his knees.

“You better be grateful for my dumb, idiot mouth after this,” he tells Bradley, his back being pelted by the water as Bradley tries to remember how to breathe. “Especially because I’m willing to taste soap for you.”

“You don’t have to—I was just—” Bradley flounders, and then yells something nonsensical about Hangman’s tongue when he swallows Bradley down to the hilt on the first pass.

Somehow, it makes him want to cry.

Part 5 - What It Takes

It takes thirty minutes for Hangman to turn up on Bradley’s porch. 

“Maverick’s team leader,” he says, like Bradley hasn’t received the exact same email with the exact same orders to board the exact same carrier at 0500.

Bradley frowns. There’s something off about Hangman’s expression, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. “I know,” he replies numbly. The fated mission has long been a lead weight on his ankle, dragging him down to his own personal hell the entire time he’s been training for it. He wants to go; wants to make the cut; wants to prove himself, but still. There’s a bleak finality to it which clouds his thoughts, strangling most of his happiness in its chokehold.

“Are you gonna let me in?” Hangman demands, jaw clenched. Bradley has half a mind to shut the door in his face just for being so bossy, but instead he rolls his eyes and makes a sweeping gesture like Jake Seresin is an esteemed guest and not the guy that he fights with on some occasions and fucks around with on others. 

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Bradley asks, leaning against a wall as he watches Hangman pace his living room like a caged animal. Watching him makes Bradley’s brain feel like it’s trying and failing to complete a complicated mathematical equation. “I thought you wanted to go on this mission.”

“I do,” Hangman insists, turning back to Bradley with a fire in his eyes that is as shocking as it is slightly scary. “Of course I do.”

“Then what the fuck is your problem?” Bradley asks, trying to keep his tone conversational as he crosses one foot in front of the other.

“My problem?” Hangman counters, his voice somehow sounding more threatening despite it getting softer instead of louder. It’s got a venomous quality to it—a quiet warning—like a coiled snake ready to strike. “C’mon, Bradshaw. You can’t be that dense.”

Bradley scoffs. “Gee, thanks. Just what I wanted to hear before we ship out for certain death.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Hangman continues, his gaze turning slightly incredulous as he crosses the expanse of carpet between them, getting right up in Bradley’s face like he does when he wants to show off his most insufferable side. “I’m not flying this mission, Rooster. Not now that Maverick is team leader. But you sure as hell are.”

“You don’t know that,” Bradley argues. Maverick hates his guts, for starters. Sure, Hangman’s no team player, but he’s made it to the target on time more than once, and he will fly like his ass depends on it. Begrudgingly, Bradley has to admit that on a head-to-head, Seresin is the slightly better pilot. He just hasn’t learned how to play nicely with his wingman. 

Hangman glares at him, green eyes boring into Bradley’s like they’re ablaze with a perfect, raging fire. “Yes, I do,” he says, finality lacing his tone. “Maverick is going to pick you as his wingman, Bradshaw. The sooner you face that reality, the better.”

“So what?” Bradley sneers, confused by the anger and the viciousness in Hangman’s voice, extra confused by the way that they’re standing so close and somehow not kissing. “You’re jealous? Is that what this is?”

For a moment, Hangman just stares at him. Then he laughs bitterly, stepping away like he can’t stand being in Bradley’s presence. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What?” Bradley yells as he steps forward, stretching the metaphorical elastic band as tight as he can, trying to make Hangman snap. “Am I wrong?”

“Yeah, you’re fucking wrong,” Seresin yells back, before rubbing a hand over his face like he can’t understand how he ended up in this situation. The feeling is mutual. Bradley has never wanted to take up residence in Hangman’s brain more. “God, I wish you’d just keep up for once in your stupid fucking life.”

“Then help me,” Bradley insists. He’s desperate, he realizes. The manifestation of their longstanding attraction; their new, somewhat confusing friendship, is the one good thing—the one bright spark—this mission hasn’t been able to take away from him. Now, it’s all going up in flames. “Don’t wash me out, Jake.”

Hangman’s face crumples, like Bradley might as well have hit him. “We’re out of runway, Bradshaw,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “And I’m not ready to watch you crash and burn.”

This time, they don’t make it to the bed, or the couch, or any surface of structural integrity. Instead, it’s half-clothed and hurried—two people on borrowed time—Jake’s spit-slicked hand around both of them as Bradley comes with his mouth pressed into the crook of Seresin’s neck. 

After they’re cleaned up, Jake follows him wordlessly to bed, collapsing onto Bradley’s forest green sheets even though it’s barely five in the evening. They lie there for a while in silence, Jake’s head on Bradley’s chest as Bradley cards his fingers through the soft strands of Jake’s hair, trying to commit the sensation to memory. He thinks he gets it now—Jake’s anger; the frustration that might be more like fear—but he finds that there’s still so much left unsaid. Realistically, a lot of those things Bradley hasn’t really come to terms with in his own head, but with the uncertainty of the mission laying before them, it feels cheap to try and work it out now.

After all, there’s a strong possibility that one of them won’t make it back alive.

Even if they did, Bradley barely understands a world in which it—they—could work in any capacity. The potential problems seem almost insurmountable: their careers, for one, their abrasive personalities, for another. Getting closer to Jake would mean accepting a world in which Bradley continues living in the shadow of the legacy that chewed him up and spat him out—accepting a life in which another person he cares deeply about is just as likely as he is to die in a fiery inferno, or a bird strike, or G-LOC, or blunt force trauma during a freak training accident. 

Jake, for his part, doesn’t ask Bradley any further questions. It’s almost as if the non-confession has shut him down and closed him up, protecting himself from further damage. Instead, he just plays with the hand on Bradley’s outstretched arm, thrown out underneath him. It’s casual, yet somehow intimate, blunt fingernails dragging against the sensitive skin of Bradley’s palm.

“I should go,” he says after a while, propping his chin up on Bradley’s bare shoulder. “Throw my things together, say my prayers, you know.”

“Okay,” Bradley replies, even though he wants to say something else entirely. He wants to tell Jake to stay, convince him to lay in bed until they have to leave, fuck as many times as they want without consequence. Navy carriers have little to no privacy, so it’s not like they’re going to get another chance. 

When they kiss, it’s soft. Precious, somehow. Nothing like the rough, wanting game they usually play. It makes Bradley’s heart ache with everything that’s left in the wake of their constant back-and-forth, lost in Jake’s devil-may-care attitude and Bradley’s inherent stubbornness. 

I finally get it, he wants to say. I want you too.

Instead, he lets Jake slip out of his grasp, trailing him to the front door, watching him get in his truck. He tries to think of something to say; poignant, parting words that inspire some semblance of hope. Instead, he just watches Jake drive away, swallowing down the taste of bitter disappointment.

There’s always a next time, he thinks. Until there isn’t.

Part 6 - Gave Them Hell

The aftermath of the mission finds Bradley almost as irritated as he was during training, albeit for a very different reason. He’s bruised as hell, mottled and beaten up over his shoulders from the ejection and being stuck in a backseat while Maverick did some truly insane flying, but even then, there’s no way he needs this much medical clearance. 

Psychologically, maybe. But there’s nothing a Navy shrink can do to magically dispel the demons that cloud the edge of his consciousness. That shit is going to take a while. There’s going to be a whole host of nightmares, a whole lot of calls to Maverick and hopefully, a few trips to Jake’s for welcome distraction.

Maverick, he can deal with. In fact, the mission seems to have forged amends between them in ways Bradley never thought possible. The five days spent on the carrier, stuck in medical with his godfather, have been enough to heal the wounds of two people who are not particularly good at talking. Somehow, without a shred of emotional insight shared between them, they’ve managed to reach some kind of common understanding. Forgiveness, even.

Bradley supposes it might be inevitable once you’ve hurtled into the jaws of death together and lived to tell the tale. Talk is cheap, and all of that.

Jake is another story. Aside from a relieved smile and a handshake of all things, Bradley hasn’t seen him at all. He’s staunchly avoided the medical bay, even though basically all of the daggers have dropped by, and Bradley’s more than a little suspicious about it.

Avoidance, after all, is Bradley’s modus operandi. Seresin doesn’t get to claim it as well.

Jake’s truck isn’t in the lot when Bradley finally gets cleared to drive home. He’s tempted to high-tail it over there and demand an audience, even though he’s still suffering from an adrenaline crash and desperately needs a shower. Logic wins out, in the end. He thinks Jake will appreciate the lack of dried sweat and old clothes.

In the end, Jake beats him to it. Bradley really shouldn’t have expected anything different.

“Hello,” Bradley says, cracking a smile as he opens the door and finds Jake standing there, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He looks uncharacteristically nervous, the impassive Hangman façade ruined by the way he’s raking his bottom lip through his teeth. Perhaps Bradley just knows him better now. In any case, he’s fucking endeared. “Here for another handshake?”

The mask cracks, making way for an expression of disbelief as Jake chokes out a laugh. “You’re something else, Bradshaw,” he replies, sounding relieved as he reaches out to press his palm into Bradley’s chest, guiding him back inside his own house. “You’re welcome, by the way. Fucking saved your ass and this is the thanks I get.”

Bradley swats Jake’s hand out of the way and grips the front of his white t-shirt instead, kicking the door closed in a way which rattles the hinges before shoving Jake up against the inside of it. “Don’t tell me you don’t love it,” he says, releasing the t-shirt so he can cup Jake’s gorgeous, flushed face in his hands. “Don’t lie to me.”

Jake grins into the kiss that Bradley presses into his lips, knocking their teeth together slightly. It’s not their best—desperate, a little giddy like they don’t know what to do with each other—but there’s a fervor to it that feels grounding rather than combustible, solid like the floorboards under their feet. “Stop smiling so much,” Jake tells him, hooking his fingers into Bradley’s belt loops as he pulls him closer. “You’re ruining it.”

“And here I was thinking you’d be happy I’m alive,” Bradley hums, nudging Jake’s cheek with his nose as Jake makes a frustrated noise. “My mistake.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he groans, his words punctuated by the little kisses he peppers all over Bradley’s face. It’s frantic and sweet and makes Bradley’s heart flutter dangerously. “Don’t ever do that shit to me again, Bradshaw. Could have killed you myself when I heard you’d gone back for Maverick.”

“I had to,” Bradley insists, shivering as Jake moves to kiss the column of his throat instead, zeroing in with ruthless precision on a pressure point. “It’s what my dad would have—”

“You know what that did to me?” Jake interjects roughly, hands migrating to Bradley’s ass. There’s a possessive grip to his fingers that makes Bradley’s head feel like it's stuffed with cotton candy. “Thought I was never gonna see your stupid face again. And don’t even get me started on that fucking fossil you two somehow got into the air—”

Bradley swallows down a laugh, threading his fingers into Jake’s hair and coaxing him into a passionate kiss that makes his toes curl into the floor. This one is messy and needy, Bradley’s non-verbal attempt at guiding Jake towards a fantasy life he can’t articulate yet but desperately wants. The smell of Jake’s cologne—smoky, woodsy, seared into his brain since the first time they did this—feels like it envelops him in warmth as Jake whines into his mouth.

It’s kinda fucked up that a near-death experience seems to get them going. Then again, Bradley’s never claimed to be normal about Jake Seresin.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t find that a little sexy,” he goads, because he really can’t help himself. He drops a hand from Jake’s face and reaches back, threading their fingers together as he pulls Jake away from the door. “Getting that Tomcat airborne was no mean feat. You know being a backseater isn’t genetic, right? That was raw skill.” 

Jake snorts, taking the bait. “Did you forget the part where Maverick flew that thing like a bat straight outta hell?”

“Why?” Bradley teases, tugging Jake up the stairs. “You wanna kiss him for his efforts too?”

“Bet you’d love that,” Jake sings, as intelligent as he is outright irritating. He’s too smart to fall for all of Bradley’s hooks, and sometimes, he casts it right back into Bradley’s face. “He’s a bit old for me, but it could be a sugar daddy situation, or something.”

“Fuck off,” Bradley snickers, shoving Jake onto the bed because he can. The forest green sheets are just as he left them, beautiful against Jake’s tan, golden skin. He failed to appreciate how good Jake looks in his bed, he realizes. It’s like he’s seeing the potential in a whole new light. 

“Bradshaw,” Jake calls, his smirk somehow softer than before—gently teasing, rather than outright mean. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning his fingers as Bradley crawls over the top of him obediently. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous of Mav,” Bradley insists. “Ugh, that is—Can we stop talking about him?”

“You know,” Jake hums, kissing Bradley’s jaw like he can’t bear to be separated for more than a minute. “You did surprise me with your accuracy. That was really something.”

“Shooting blind? That’s what did it for you?” Bradley asks, pushing Jake’s hair away from his face with one hand before allowing himself to be flipped over onto his back, even though the bruises on his skin have something to say about it. 

“Sounded like a fucking great shot,” Jake tells him seriously, thumb tracing at Bradley’s bottom lip as he blankets Bradley’s body with the comforting weight of his own. “Never knew you had it in you.”

Bradley grins, gently biting Jake’s finger in retribution. “Liar. You know my accuracy in the air is good. Just wait until you see what I can do on the ground, baby.”

“Stop,” Jake drawls, although a pink flush colors his cheeks almost immediately. Bradley mentally catalogs the pet name under ‘things which make Jake Seresin hot under the collar’. He’s going to use and abuse it. 

He plasters on an innocent expression. “What? Was it something I said?”

Jake arches an eyebrow. “Don’t go soft on me now, Bradshaw.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bradley says, reaching up to card his fingers through the short hair on the back of Jake’s head. “You know I’m crazy about you, right?”

Jake turns his head and blows out a breath, trying valiantly to hide his ridiculously bright smile with limited success. “With this face?” he says, barely resisting as Bradley hauls him in to kiss the grin off his lips. “Who wouldn’t be?”

Months ago, if Bradley Bradshaw had to describe Jake Seresin in one word, he certainly wouldn’t have used the word ‘sweet’. There are a lot of other ways he’d describe the man currently in his bed, naked and half on top of him, their legs tangled together as they make out like horny teenagers. Words like ‘competitive’, ‘obnoxious’ and ‘infuriatingly hot’ are just as true now as they were back then, but everything Bradley thought he knew about Jake Seresin has been colored by their interactions over the past few weeks, and Bradley finds himself eager to learn more. He wants to understand all of Jake’s rough and imperfect edges, just as much as he wants to be the beneficiary of his very specific talents.

Flying, being one of them. Sex, being another. 

Still, even when half-tangled in Bradley’s sheets and licking into his mouth, Jake has the wherewithal to put Bradley’s pleasure front and center, apparently. Which is extremely sweet, no doubts about it. 

“Jesus, Bradshaw,” he says, pupils blown wide as soon as Bradley asks the question. To his credit, he manages to ignore the fact that Bradley’s hand is inches from his dick as he exhales deeply, one hand pressed into Bradley’s chest. For a moment, he just stares, like looking into Bradley’s eyes is going to help him achieve telepathy. “Do you remember that near death experience you had five days ago? Think you should slow down a bit?”

“Jake Seresin is telling me to slow down?” Bradley asks, smirking at the corresponding and exaggerated eyeroll he receives in response. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Hold on now, sunshine,” Jake drawls, and god, the horse has bolted when it comes to pet names because now they’re throwing them out left and right. In the past ten minutes Jake has tried out several devastating options which have left Bradley breathless, and although he’s somehow always known that Jake has a possessive streak, he didn’t realize he’d like the consequences of it quite so much.

“Like hell you’re playing ‘Slow Ride’ on that fucking jukebox again,” Bradley teases, bucking his hips into Jake’s thigh suggestively. “Gonna have to find a new song for us.”

Jake snorts. “Think anyone would get suspicious if I flipped it over to ‘Sexual Healing’?”

Bradley pretends to seriously consider it. “I was thinking yours could be ‘Patience’ by Guns N’ Roses, but if I’m moving too fast for you—” 

“You know that being too quick is generally considered a bad thing in the bedroom,” Jake quips, leaning over Bradley to kiss him deeply. Bradley responds by cupping the swell of Jake’s ass in his hands and grinding his hips down, his thigh – slightly damp with sweat – sliding against Bradley’s cock and drawing an intoxicating sound out of both of them. Jake presses his forehead into Bradley’s cheek and shivers. “You’re a fucking tease, Bradshaw.”

“Do something about it then,” Bradley murmurs, knowing Jake can’t resist a challenge when it’s spelled out so clearly for him. “Help me out here.”

Jake lets out a frustrated sigh. “It can wait, Bradley,” he insists, driving his point home in a way that Bradley knows is very intentional. He can’t remember the last time he heard his first name fall from Jake’s lips. “We don’t have to do everything right this second.”

In Bradley’s opinion, they absolutely do. He just came back from the dead. He should be doing it all. He’s got half a mind to ask Jake to be his boyfriend for real, just because he’s alive to do it. He has no idea what that would even look like, or whether it would be a terrible idea. Historically, Bradley has been pretty bad at relationships and he has a suspicion that Jake might be even worse at them. There’s also a fairly strong risk they’ll wind each other up so badly that they crash and burn in a matter of months, but he has the opportunity to work all of it out, and perhaps that’s a blessing he shouldn’t take for granted.

One step at a time, however. First, he has to convince Jake to fuck him stupid.

“You’re not gonna hurt me any more than ejecting from that F-18 did,” Bradley argues, ducking his head to litter the underside of Jake’s jaw with kisses. “And it’s not like I have to haul any serious Gs anytime soon.” He decides not to mention the fact that when it comes to fucking before exposure to heavy G-forces, Jake doesn’t seem to take his own advice too seriously.

Jake frowns. “It’s not supposed to hurt like that, Bradshaw,” he says. “It’s supposed to feel good.”

Bradley slaps the back of his hands against Jake’s shoulders in a ‘what the fuck?’ gesture. “Failing to see the problem here, Seresin.”

Jake gives him a pleading look. “You only just got out of medical. You’re bruised all over.”

“Yeah, and I asked the nurse and she said it was fine,” Bradley lies, dropping his hands to Jake’s ass again because that thing feels fucking perfect in his grasp.

Jake chokes out a laugh and presses a kiss to Bradley’s mouth. “Honest to god?” he mumbles against Bradley’s lips. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

Bradley hums, caught up in the heat of Jake’s tongue against his own. “I specifically asked if Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin could—”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Bradley Bradshaw,” Jake tells him, patting his chest as he hops off Bradley’s body with the kind of agility Bradley can only dream of. When Bradley raises his eyebrows he makes a little spinning gesture with his finger. “Turn your ass over on your side and hand me the lube, Lieutenant. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

“Ranks do not belong in the bedroom,” Bradley mutters, stretching to reach the lube that Jake somehow managed to knock to the ground while they were in the throes of making out. He tosses it over his shoulder as he settles back in the middle of the bed.

“You’re only saying that because you’re scared you’re gonna have to address me as Lieutenant Commander someday soon,” Jake teases, uncapping the lube with a popping noise. When his slick fingers ghost the back of Bradley’s thigh, Bradley tries not to flinch. “Relax, baby,” Jake whispers, kissing the shell of Bradley’s ear as he traces the curve of Bradley’s ass, then circles his rim. “Just let yourself feel.”

There’s a whole lot of feeling involved in everything that transpires over the next few minutes, and although it’s initially a little strange, it never feels bad. Jake has apparently embraced the virtue of patience for once in his goddamn life, and combined with his unquenchable thirst for being the best at everything he does, well, Bradley’s never been more appreciative of his competency. The way he coaches Bradley through it—his voice husky and affected as he gently kisses Bradley’s neck and shoulders, all the way up to his temples before scraping his teeth against the hinge of his jaw—is pure heaven. The experience is punctuated by pet names and pressure points, and Bradley’s hands curl desperately into the sheets as he rocks against Jake’s fingers, losing all ability to think straight.

Time goes hazy, moments of clarity scattered amongst Bradley’s delirium when Jake crooks his fingers and brushes just the right spot. Vaguely, Bradley recognizes that all of this might be a very bad idea, because stroking Jake’s ego is probably bad for humanity and he’s too far gone to have any real control over what he’s saying. He thinks he calls Jake ‘honey’ at one point. Then, ten seconds later, a ‘smug ass motherfucker’. 

“They should hang a picture of you in the fucking Louvre, Bradshaw,” Jake purrs, sucking a bruise into the base of Bradley’s neck as he works him open with three fingers. “So damn gorgeous like this.”

Bradley arches against him, exposing the column of his throat, and Jake—the vampire that he is—decides to take it as an invitation to inflict more damage. “C’mon Jake,” Bradley whines, lit up by the shocking pleasure and the corresponding sting of Jake’s teeth. “Please.”

“Almost,” Jake murmurs, the raspiness of his voice doing something to Bradley’s sanity. “God, look at you. So fucking perfect.”

“Need you to stop talking and get in me,” Bradley says through gritted teeth, which is not at all indicative of how much he’s enjoying himself, but is also the truth. As far as Bradley’s concerned, telling Jake Seresin to shut up also counts as doing community service.

Jake hums softly in response, nosing at Bradley’s cheek before kissing the sensitive spot behind his earlobe. It’s annoying, Bradley decides. He’s so fucking strung out and he needs the release. “You say the sweetest things, baby.”

Bradley presses his mouth into Jake’s jaw as he turns his head. “Gonna have to ask you to get off your perch.”

“I will,” Jake promises, stealing Bradley’s response by curling his fingers and reducing Bradley to a whimpering mess. “Just need to know you can take me.” 

When he comes back to himself, Bradley groans and says, “You’re not that fucking big,” because Jake might be slowly taking him apart at the seams, but he’s also the guy who will bicker with him all day long. They’re oil and water, in some ways. Magnetic, in others. 

Jake laughs, although the sound of it is a little frayed. “Alright, tough guy,” he teases, licking Bradley’s earlobe as he withdraws his fingers and wipes them on the sheets. “Turn over. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Bradley goes to turn onto his hands and knees, before Jake guides his shoulder back onto the bed instead, prompting him to roll onto his back. “Unless you’ve got a preference,” he adds, green eyes searching for something in Bradley’s own. “I wanna watch you.”

“You’re the boss,” Bradley replies, before he can truly appreciate the implications of that statement. ‘You give Hangman an inch, he’ll take a mile’ as Nat used to say. Bradley won’t be asking her to provide her opinion on his current predicament. Dogfighting SAMs and surviving Coffin Corner are one thing. Knowing too much about this specific part of Bradley’s sex life might actually kill her. 

Jake smirks. “Could get used to hearing that.” Then, he rolls a condom over himself, applies more lube and shoves a pillow under Bradley’s hips, before manhandling his legs in a way which would be funny if Bradley wasn’t having an out of body experience. “God, Bradshaw,” he huffs. “Are you suddenly made of jello?”

“Your fault,” Bradley reminds him, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of Jake’s wrist. “Hurry up.”

When Jake presses in, Bradley finds himself wondering why they’ve never done this before. Obviously, the answer is timing but if he thinks back to Pensacola and Corpus Christie and Kingsville, he starts to question why he never took the risk. Perhaps it wouldn’t have worked, he thinks. Perhaps they were too young and headstrong to notice that the constant competition and verbal sparring could have been something else entirely. Perhaps Bradley was right to wait until this one, fateful moment.

The feeling of having Jake in his arms, watching him carefully as he bottoms out and breathes into Bradley’s space, feels thrilling in a way Bradley can’t describe. It’s dizzying—a combination of flying fast and being grounded at the same time—anchored to reality by the brush of Jake’s lips against his browbone. 

It’s not until Jake asks permission to move and Bradley tells him in no uncertain terms that he should, that he realizes how incredibly intimate it is being able to see the pleasure written into every line of Jake’s face. He looks nothing short of breathtaking in the early-evening glow, exposed in a way that betrays the vulnerability of their predicament—stripped back and raw—lost in shared desire. His hair betrays the messy, desperate beauty of it, ruined by Bradley’s fingers. Honestly, Bradley doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more perfect man.

Swallowing down that sentiment is difficult, especially when Jake is driving into him steadily, drawing out noises that Bradley has never heard himself make before. To make matters worse, Jake’s wrecked expression is intoxicating in its own right, and if Bradley’s not careful with his feelings he’s going to say something very, very stupid. It would make things easier if Jake’s aim wasn’t as devastating in bed as it is everywhere else, but Jake fucks like he flies, which means he’s on time and on target and has Bradley writhing in the sheets, letting praise drip from his mouth like he’s never had a bad word to say about Jake Seresin, ever. 

“Should have known you’d be like this,” Jake confesses through labored breathing as Bradley tosses his head back into the pillows and moans. “Like something out of my dreams, Bradshaw.”

The part of Bradley’s brain which is still grounded in reality begs him to make a sly comment about the frequency at which he must inhabit Jake’s subconscious mind, but he’s so fucking wrecked he thinks he might die if Jake gets any better at what he’s doing. “Yeah?” he pants. “You imagined fucking me?”

“Always wanted to,” Jake says breathlessly. “Always wanted to see you come like this.” 

“Make me,” Bradley challenges, because he has a death wish, apparently. “C’mon Jake. Give it to me.”

Jake swears under his breath and drives back in, stars exploding behind the back of Bradley’s eyes as he does. “Fucking unbelievable,” he moans, and it doesn’t sound nearly as much like an insult as it has in the past. “Touch yourself, baby. Show me how much you want it.”

Bradley doesn’t have to be told twice, although whether that’s a consequence of his military training or simply his desire to push Jake to his limits is anyone’s guess. In any case, the firm strokes he pulls over his dick combined with the relentless pressure of Jake’s thrusts are are enough to have him practically sobbing, begging for it, until the tight coil of heat in his abdomen snaps and he goes careening over the edge, Jake’s name on his lips as he does.

There’s ringing in Bradley’s ears for a good couple of seconds after he spills into his own hand, but he thinks Jake calls him ‘sweetheart’ as he chases his own release, fucking Bradley through his orgasm until he chokes out a warning and then practically collapses with a wrecked cry. There’s a shared softness in the silence as they catch their breath, Jake’s presence blanketing Bradley like he’s everywhere all at once, the feeling of his body tattooed into Bradley’s memory, as permanent as ink.

“Holy shit,” Bradley says, because his soupy brain can’t string together more than two words. “That was—”

“Yeah, something like that,” Jake agrees, sweat beading on his collarbone. It looks bare without his dog tags which—unlike all of their prior encounters—are now tangled with Bradley’s on the nightstand. When Bradley looks over at them, he can’t help but smile. Maybe he really is going soft, because something about taking them off—having them lay haphazardly on the furniture—really feels like putting their house keys together in the same bowl. 

God, he’s so fucked.

Jake gives him a look. “You good, Bradshaw?”

“Think you’ve ruined me for everyone else,” Bradley says, trying to smother the depth of his feelings by tipping his head back onto the pillows. He probably shouldn’t say shit like that, but he could be saying worse, and it’s hard to hold back on the truth. Also, Jake deserves the praise. Just this once.

Jake leans forward, pressing a kiss into Bradley’s neck before he pulls out carefully. “Good,” he says, stretching his arms above his head as Bradley openly stares at his ass, watching him walk towards the ensuite bathroom. “You’re mine now, anyway.”

“So,” Bradley says later, head in Jake’s lap as they sprawl on the couch half-watching a trashy reality show where hot people reject other hot people. The other half of the time they’re ignoring the TV in lieu of making out.

“Are you about to say something serious?” Jake asks, fingers idly stroking Bradley’s hair. “Or are you gonna try to convince me that this show actually has a plot?”

Bradley snorts. “Not my fault you love being wrong,” he quips, avoiding the very conversation he was trying to start. 

Jake stares at the TV and sighs. “If you’re gonna ask me whether I plan on seeing anyone other than your idiot ass,” he says, beating Bradley to the punch as per usual, “I’m definitely not.”

“No?” Bradley presses, trying not to sound too hopeful. 

“No, Bradshaw,” he says firmly. “We have a whole month of leave and it would be a waste if we didn't spend it perfecting our technique. Plus, against my better judgement, I’ve decided I like you too much.” 

Bradley snorts, pinching Jake’s thigh in a horse bite as he yelps. Secretly, he lets loose a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “And after the leave?”

“Who knows,” Jake hums, dropping his gaze to Bradley’s face; brushing a finger over his cheekbone. “Ever heard of phone sex?”

“On a carrier?” Bradley asks, sarcasm lacing its way through his tone. “Good luck to us.”

“We can get creative,” Jake insists. “You know, there are these things called voice messages, and—”

“God, I hate you,” Bradley says, scrambling out of Jake’s lap and pushing him down on the couch instead. If the ache in his chest is anything to go by, he feels something else entirely, but it’s way too soon to say anything that reckless.

Jake grins, goading him into a kiss like he knows exactly what’s on Bradley’s mind. “No you don’t,” he murmurs. “Never really did.”